Good riddance to Nasty Cat and all that he stands for.

I know I've written a lot about my living arrangements as of late, a bit too much so in fact, but I felt as though, at the very least for myself if not for you, my fellow readers, the story was in need of some closure. Thus you need not wait with baited, yet disgusted breath any longer, because I'm sure you have been, for I give you the final (I promise, last one) installment of the yellow brick house.

I'll try and make this as concise as possible (Mostly to prove to myself that I can. I always find it funny that a large portion of my posts are a little bit long and wordy. What was that? You don't really find that terribly funny at all? I guess just talk to me and when our conversation ends in 2 minutes because I have nothing left to say, you'll see the irony. Ah, I digress.). Please compare and contrast, but mostly just contrast the following two photos:

My OLD house when I returned from home in Washington, in which time a whole new level of calamity and repulsion occurred:

Ew, but alas, goodbye old, and HELLO new! Ahhhh, finally. Relaxation.

I like it hot, hot, hot.

I've been working on a couple of different posts the past couple of days, and, wanting a really knock out awesome of a post, I was not fully satisfied with either one of them. After last night, however, all things are set aside until my first clubbing experience is relayed (yes, I've now gone completely out of control :)) A Latin club, in fact. Because I'm such a Latin dancer?

Okay fine, I'm no dancer by any means. Especially when it comes to that whole hip shaking thing. It's been a slow learning process, but I can just barely get by in Latin dancing these days as long as the steps are simple and the partner is a strong male leader who knows what he's doing.

With this in mind, some friends of mine talked me into going to Pirate Island, a supposed fun land of Latinos and dancing. I get there to find out, lo and behold, it's a club. New experience for me, I like new experiences (that's what I've been trying to tell myself lately). I get to the front door, where the ginormous bouncer dude gruffly asks for some ID. Hm. Right. ID. This is a club. I sheepishly mutter that I left it in the car as I begin to turn around to go get it, until Gruff Bouncer Dude pathetically looks at me and chuckles disparagingly, "You're over 18? Go on ahead." Wow, does my naivete really show that much? Whatever, I walk in.

I start out the night dancing with a nice array of fellows. One such fellow continues to ask me to dance on multiple occasions, but he doesn't really know what he is doing, I don't know what he's doing, or myself for that matter. Turns out when neither of the dance parties know what's going on, a rather awkward drawn out moment of time is created. Needless to say, I avoid him the rest of the night.

One particular fellow approaches me and swiftly whisks me onto the dance floor, and that's about where the whisking stops. It's difficult to whisk when my right foot immediately turns into an extra left foot. This weird Latino waltz dance thing is no salsa, or merengue, or anything I've ever attempted. All I know is that a lot of unnatural little up and down bouncing motions in addition to some fancy footwork are involved which are attempting to take me all around the dance floor. Whatever that is. I glance up to see my friends continuously laughing at me from their booth. This doesn't seem to help matters seeing as this requires me to look up from my awkward feet, and the next swift movement I'm accomplishing is a stumble and some stepping-on-his-foot action, in addition to some tripping in other fashions.

Most of the time the fellows smirk and slightly chuckle at my feeble attempts to be a Latin dancer. Once in a while, when I am really feeling it and actually accomplish something correctly, and maybe with some style even? I would receive a nod and smile of approval, and if I'm really lucky, they'll encourage me with a surprised "good job." My friend keeps trying to tell me that for a white girl, I actually do really well. Pah. Funny joke.

At one point in the night, I find myself suddenly dancing with one fellow, whose busting out some major dance moves, and quite literally dances circles around me. This kid is not fooling around, and this goober of a gringa attempts to shake what her momma gave her and groove with the beat. Either I am surprisingly really not as bad as I've always envisioned and he is satisfied that I can keep up, or the entertainment factor is just too good to give up (I have my suspicions), because one dance leads into another, which leads into another, which leads into another. I find myself in a spiraling trap of dances seeping into each other. I can hardly tell when one song ends and the next begins thanks to the astounding similarity of beats in Latino music, and my inability to speak or understand any changes of Spanish lyrics. I am stuck.

At various points, Certain Young Fellow keeps trying to converse with me and ask me various questions. With his thick accent. Over the loud, pulsing music. Something about where am I from, am I Mormon, where do I live, yadie yadie yada, I have no idea. Stop trying to converse with me amidst this insane music. And what?! I don't speak Spanish?! Something about his name? What was that? Carlos? No? Pedro? What? Pedralsko? Bah. Impossible. Just smile and nod. Pretty sure he sees right through that one, but whatever. Either way that becomes my tactic for the rest of the night.

Lesson of the night, the smile and nod tactic does not always work to ones advantage, since next thing I know I'm being led off the dance floor to the bar area. Oh dear, this could be bad. What was it I just unknowingly agreed to with the oblivious smile and nod? I haven't seen anybody with any kind of alcoholic beverages of any sort, but, uh-bu...he speaks to the tender of the bar. 2 waters. Complete relief. Dodged that bullet, and why yes, I am quite tired and thirsty, thank you.

He continues to keep trying to talk to me, but it's all just going over my head. Can't understand a word. Appropriate, normal responses are kind of impossible due to the complete lack of understanding of the question to begin with. I'm mainly just trying to figure out how to break away and find my friends again. Next thing I know I'm being questioned if I came with a boyfriend as Young Fellow's phone is being thrust into my hands wanting something about a phone number. Completely in a daze, not sure if I heard right, or wondering what exactly to do, I cowardly type in my 10 digit number that will, quite actually very much connect him to my very phone indeed. Why did I do that. Why didn't I just tell this completely unfamiliar probable girl-phone-number hoarder who I'm not even exactly sure of his name no? I was caught off guard I guess? My naivete overtook me once again maybe? I don't exactly know, but I still find myself in a state of utter confusion and uncertainty, and I'm finding a great deal of humor in it all really. I guess all I know is: first comes the passing of the phone numbers to complete strangers, then comes the skanky clubbing clothes. Watch out world, this gringa is burning up and taking the world of clubs by fire. Oh wait, that's just my sunburn I've collected.