One of the things I love the most about The Dictator is her dancing.
No, she's not a great dancer or anything. She doesn't have rhythm or anything. But I love the fact that The Dictator will dance anywhere, and at any time, she damn well pleases.
I just love that.
Yesterday, when I got home from work, I took The Dictator out for a long walk. We decided (or, rather, I decided, because I'm bigger than The Dictator and so she has to follow me) to buy some burgers and fries for dinner from The Burger Inn, about a 20 minute walk from our house.
Yes, The Burger Inn is one of those hidden gem take-out restaurants that has the cranky old smelly men flipping burgers. But so yummy. The burgers, I mean, are so yummy. Not the men making the burgers.
I put in our order and, as we waited for it to be ready, over the loud speaker the song Sweet Home Alabama started to play loudly.
And The Dictator's hips started to move. And she looked up at me with that look - you know those adorable eyes.
I knew what she needed. She needed me to say, "It's Ok. You can dance." So that's what I did. I said, "It's ok. You can dance."
And The Dictator started boggying and and galloping in circles and kicking her legs and, I'm not sure, attempting to do the splits in the air or something.
Whatever she was doing, she was dancing like no one was watching. But they were.
Even the two all-dressed-in-black Mod girls with eyebrow piercings who were also in line, who probably hadn't cracked a smile in two years, started laughing (not at her, but with me...at her.)
And The Dictator kept saying, rather, yelling to me, "Dance mommy! Dance like this! Shake your bottom! Like this Mommy! Like this!" as she shook her hips.
I almost cried tears of embarrassment. Joking. I almost cried because it was so fucking cute.
Don't get me wrong. Sometimes I feel like dancing too. And I'll dance around my living room and put on bad strip tease shows for the fiance.
But if I danced like The Dictator dances at restaurants or on the street, I'd be taken away and institutionalized. Which would suck.
So The Dictator and I have started to have "dance parties," where I'll blast the radio and we'll dance around her bedroom. The only other person allowed to come to these parties is "Ruby the Dancing Dog," as The Dictator says.
I don't know. Sometimes a gal just has to dance. And, sometimes, I want to be two years-old.