Pants Off Dance Off (PODO).

Here in Moscow, there is a saying that started...oh, somewhere. Somebody once said "pants off dance off," and it stuck like, well, like my shower curtain if I may say so without getting too graphic. Now, whenever we're having a really good time, or proposing to have a really good time, someone describes it as "Hey, PODO!" But it's never an actual pants off dance-off, it's just become a bit of slang, meaning "to have a really good time."

Do people say this off the Palouse, too?

Through the magic of the internet, I have done some credible academic research (Wikipedia--putting that graduate degree to WORK), and it turns out that PODO is a strip tease show that airs on something called "Fuse." Here's the real nugget of info that you'll probably need in order to function: it was hosted in its first season by Tila Tequila; in its second season by Jodie Sweetin (Stephanie Tanner of Full House); and in its third season by Willa Ford. What a list! What ladies!

In case you don't remember:

(You'll notice the lack of PANTS, as if foreshadowing where her career would go.)

(She looks like a lovechild sprung from the loins of Whitney Port from The City and Quinn from Glee.)

(I apparently have a lot to say about this video.)

I bring all of this to your attention because, um, I wanted to. And also, because today I've had pants on the brain. It's Pants Day here at the Spider House--the day I wash all of my pants. Or, almost all (I save a pair to wear, of course). I'm curious as to other people's pants washing habits. See, I have plenty of clothes, but only so many pants. I operate under the assumption that pants don't need to be washed like other items. Especially jeans. I mean, right around day ten or eleven is just when they start feeling really perfect and lived in. So, then, once every six weeks or so, I have to do a mega round of laundry because every pair of pants I own is due for a washing.

Should I be washing my pants more? Am I normal??

Here's what's probably not so normal: because of my height, and the relative length of my legs, and also--if I'm being really honest--a potentially expanding hip/thigh/butt region that causes my pants to hit higher on the ankle, none of my pants go in the dryer (ever). (When I lived in Spain, my little senora refused to understand this, which is why I walked around like a huge American high-water wearing dork and now I don't have a hot Spanish husband.) It's imperative to maintain the precious length of the pants by hanging them to dry. So, on Pants Day, my apartment looks like this:

Pants,

Pants,

PANTS!!!

On every door, on the back of every chair, hangs a wet pair of pants, looking like so many bodies that somebody de-footed and then chopped in half. And today, as I went about hanging them all, I thought to myself, "I wonder if I should tell my soon-to-be-roommate about this, or just let her find out for herself next Pants Day?"

Kendall

Just who do you think you are?

(this is how I cop 'tude. Baditude.)

Yowza. Yowza. Yow. Za. I'll tell you what, Slog. Right now, I don't even recognize myself. Who am I? For the past five days, I've done nothing but surprise myself. I mean, you hit twenty-seven, and you think you've finally got the beginning of a semblance of what makes you tick, and Blammo! You're not who you thought you were. To wit:

I've been in Utah for the past five days. I don't go to Utah. I've never been there in my life. And I went for a blogging conference. What? I don't even blog?!?! I slog once in awhile, but you could hardly count that as qualification for attending a conference. While in Utah, I did all sorts of things that I DO NOT DO.

1. I ate drive thru. And liked it. Oh, I liked it. Hamburgers, french fries, chicken wraps, you name it. If you can order it through a hilariously outdated speaker in a lit up menu-board from the comfort of your car, I will eat it! I had no idea.

2. I counted stake centers. In Utah, you'd be wasting your time playing "Slug Bug" (everyone drives SUVs), but turns out, I've got quite an eye for spotting stake centers (brick meeting places for the LDS church--if you didn't know). (LDS is Mormon for Mormon--if you didn't know). (I know--I know lots of things.)

3. I wore a laminated name tag. It had the name of this slog on it. (The name of the slog is too long, btw. Nobody could read it, and if they read it, they probably didn't remember it. And if they read it and remembered it, then they came up and asked, "Oh, what sort of stuff do you do?" and I had to say, "No, no. The title is ironical. I don't do anything.")

4. I attended panels about niche blogging (my niche is: I've got no niche), turning your blog into publishable writing (fat chance), and blogging about faith (I've got faith in television, and fast food, it turns out--and I'm too scared to contemplate anything further). I took notes that said things like "nepotism is your friend," "write to your ideal reader" (that's you!) and "you must be as a duck." I don't totally get that last one, but I love how it sounds.

5. I karaoked, sober, with a new group of friends who do not, on principle, partake of the fire water. It took about three hours for me to screw up the courage (my new friends were brave enough right out of the gate), and I waited until the bar was virtually empty, but the two people that were left were profoundly moved by our interpretation of Ace of Base. (Because all that she wants is another baby...)

6. I (courageously!) hit on a sizable, ukelele-wielding musician after he finished his set at the Blogger Orientation Party. His set, so we're clear, was played in a half-lit conference room full of about sixty or so women, all of us hopped up on sugar, many of them pregnant, almost all of them married. As a token single woman, I was encouraged (read: hazed) to approach this tall drink of water. I tried to be especially suave, but our exchange went like this:

Him (genuine): Nice to meet you. You should friend me on Facebook. Send me a message.

Me (so, so witty): Nah, I'll just stalk you instead.

--Pause.--

Me (back pedal): I mean, like on the internet. You know, through social media.

Him (cool as cucumber): Well, if you decide to really stalk me, I'd prefer you come with an axe or a machete. No chain saws.

Me (lost): Well, maybe a double-bladed axe. Or a calicula.

Him (lost): Caligula?

Me (panicking): Calicula.

[That's a weird axe that they used in Fiji in ancient times, I read it in a book once. FYI.]

Me (again): I just wanted to say you did a good job, and now this got all creepy and violent.

Him: It did. But nice to meet you anyway.

(FAST EXIT.)

New Blogging Friends: So?!? Did he fall in love with you or what?

Me: Yes. Sparks flew.

And throughout each of these strange new undertakings, there was a voice in my head asking me, "Who are you, Kendall? What on earth are you doing here?" And I said to the voice, "Voice, I've got no flipping idea, but it feels good." Because I was taking a vacation not just from Idaho, but also from myself. And here is the weird turn-about that I took away from all this blogger-blather:

It is unexpected, but sometimes I feel the most like myself, when I am doing things that I've never done, or wouldn't normally do, or have no business doing at all, and I just roll with it. Being open to whatever unlikely opportunity presents itself is something fundamentally authentic (a big word at this ole' conference) about me.

So, if anyone finds themselves with a free ticket to, oh, anything, ask me. I'll probably want to go.

Open-mindedly,

Kendall

BUS-ted.

(This is from a google image search for "people on busses." I've got no idea who they are.)

(My bus did look just like this. But empty.)

Last week, I did something I've never done before here on the Palouse: Public Transportation. Public transportation is not often needed when you live in the sort of town where you can park your car and forget it for days on end. But friends needed to borrow my car for the weekend--and on account of them always being willing to loan me money, or their baby when I really need to cuddle her--I said YES. I said, "I'll have no trouble getting a ride home from Lewiston." And I thought I was telling the truth. But then, I did have trouble getting a ride home from Lewiston.

So my dear, patient boss (who, at this point, probably would not be surprised if I asked her, "Hey, Mary, can you show me how to tie my shoes? It's so tricky!") explained how to catch the bus in Lewiston to get home to Moscow.

Apparently, you sit at the only bus stop on campus a little before 5:20, and when the only bus comes by...you board it. This made me very nervous. I convinced myself that maybe the covered bench that said "Bus Stop" wasn't actually the real bus stop. (It's too easy.) What if the real bus stop is actually that sign-less shady, grassy spot on the other corner of campus, and I'm sitting in this old, out of use bus stop like a total schmuck? (This really is how my mind works.) Then, I worried that I might get on the wrong bus! I consulted the transit map posted at the Bus Stop. I confirmed, again, that there is only one bus and it says "Moscow" when it is headed North, or "Lewiston" when it is headed South. I was already in Lewiston, so I felt pretty confident that I should board any bus that said: Moscow.

Can I tell you about this bus, that I did eventually successfully board? Well, it has twelve seats. Total. How many of them were occupied on this, my rush hour commute? One. Mine. I was worried that the bus driver would then try to talk with me, but good news! The bus shakes like that taxi cab that transports Bill Murray through space and time in Scrooged. Were I made of cream, I'd have been butter by the time I reached Moscow. I'd been churned.

With no music, no book (tooooo shaky), no talking to anyone (so loud!), I had the strange experience of being an entirely passive passenger. I had no responsibility! I was bored! There weren't even any other passengers to watch. When on public transportation, there is little to do but marvel at public transportation, and also to marvel at the fact that public transportation is, to me, worth marveling at.

But a girl can only marvel so long at the smell, the heat, and the sounds of a bus. I started reading every posted sign I could find. I saw bus schedules on which someone had written, "Obama and Biden" and then crossed out letters, writing over them so it read "Osama bin Laden." I saw a sign that said in jumpy bubble letters: "Anyone can ride the bus, Everyone should." Right next to it, a sign read: "The bus driver has the right to refuse any rider for reasons he/she sees fit. These include, but are not limited to anyone: apparently under the influence of drugs/alcohol; possessing offensive body odor; carrying communicable diseases; a danger to himself/herself or others."

Apparently not just anyone can ride the bus.

Then I thought: I wonder how many people in the world have, at some terribly low point in their lives, exhibited all four of those "grounds for refusal" at once? Probably a whole, whole lot. And of those people with body odor, communicable disease (yikes), and the potential for self-harm, how many of them have mothers, fathers, sisters, husbands, children who worry for them? How does a person become the odorous, dangerous, drunk type of bus rider? There must be a story for each and every one of them. They were babies with sweet-smelling heads. They were little kids who got nervous about school. Then, obviously, something changed: addiction, or illness, or tragedy. But they each have a place they're coming from, and a place they're trying to get to.

On crowded public transportation, I always watch like a hawk for that unsavory type of rider--and I stay well-enough away. But, probably because my bus was empty (I've got a heart, but it can be small and lazy), I was temporarily able to suspend judgment on all those people that bus drivers (wisely) refuse. And it felt nice, I felt lighter, to have put judgment away for even a little while. (At the end of the ride, a woman boarded who was a total mouth-breather, and I found myself, once again, a judgmental little wench.)

The good news for this slog is that I've got my car back, and once again I spend my drives singing terribly to songs on the radio. I haven't gone all bleeding heart for good, or anything.

How does your foot taste?

(If you don't like feet--sorry! I can assure you these ones are very clean. And, have you noticed, crossed feet are heart-shaped? Awwww.)

I have an outspoken student who occasionally says things he doesn't really mean to verbalize, and usually some other student will say, "Hey, how does your foot taste?"

I could tell you how feet taste. I still remember, from my early (early) childhood when I went through a minor (minor) toe-sucking phase. It was mostly just a celebration of the discovery that I could get my foot so near my face. But that isn't what the expression means. It means, how does it feel to say something stupid?

I could tell you that, too. To me, saying something stupid feels: right. It feels like coming home after a long trip, and settling into your slouchy futon. Real familiar and comfortable.

From Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, I talked to one person and one person only: the woman who works at the video store (she's essentially my drug dealer, and FNL is the drug). Today, it occurred to me that I hadn't spoken to anyone I knew in days, and I was craving social interaction. So, I marched right out into the world, and I said some dumb things. Not majorly dumb, just foot-in-mouth dumb. What surprised me is that, as soon as I felt the familiar flush of confusion and embarrassment about minor, awkward miscommunication, I realized that that was the very feeling I had been missing. I was home! My foot was back in my mouth, where it belonged. I was out in the mix, and making a bit of a mess of it.

Sure, there are people who always say the right thing at the right time, but they're not very interesting. And I bet they can't get their feet anywhere near their faces.