Lonely dance parties, beheaded statues and monkey relatives

This past Tuesday I was really productive and hard core cleaned my room. I vacuumed. I organized dishes. I dusted the microwave and fridge. I even washed my sheets and blankets. The blanked my friend Abbie made me for Christmas is now super soft and even more cuddly than it was before and it makes me super happy and a little less sad that I am twenty years old and failing to mingle with creatures of the opposite sex. 

To make these somewhat boring tasks more fun, I basically blasted the Frozen soundtrack a gazillion times and started dancing around my room while vacuuming. If my door was propped open and my blinds were up, people walking by or in the dorms across the street probably thought I was completely insane, but you know what? Sometimes you really just need to have lonely, one-person dance parties to boost your self-esteem and add validity to your father-like dance skills and voice that can totally get you to Broadway.

So there I danced and sang. I am obsessed with the Frozen soundtrack even more than I already was. I wished that I sounded even remotely as good as Idina Menzel and Kristen Bell. And by good, I mean my singing voice is like a wailing baby and their voices are, well, God send. Then, I switched to my Broadway playlist on Spotify and jammed out some more while I waited for laundry to finish, and well let’s just say that if my voice was good enough, I totally could have been Amanda Bynes’ understudy  in Hairspray.

I also FaceTimed with my mom this past weekend and she recounted the events that transpired during my family’s days cooped up in our house because of Snowpocalypse:

There’s a cabinet in our kitchen that apparently my mom hadn’t cleaned out since last year because of Grandma’s stroke so she decided it was going to be a project for one of the snow days. Now, this cabinet is no ordinary cabinet. When it opens, it has a turntable in it so more stuff can fit in it, so it’s pretty deep. Well, my mom basically had to climb in the cabinet to make sure she was cleaning it thoroughly. Since it is a larger cabinet, it took her a little while longer than a normal one would. But that’s not even the funny part. She was cleaning it with Windex, so after she got out of the cabinet (which she was inside of for probably 10-15 minutes) she was very disoriented and had to lay down for about a half an hour. Now, imagine my mom laughing her ass off telling me this story and going “HANNAH I WAS HIGH ON WINDEX I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF. I. WAS. HIGH. ON. WINDEX.” Basically my reaction to her telling me this story was like if I were a dog, and a human is doing something silly, and then dog’s head just kind of cocks to the side in confusion.
Then, she proceeded to tell me the story of the snow. Basically, they got around five feet of snow…my sister Maggie told me that it was taller than her (she’s only a little bit shorter than me, and I’m 5′ 2.5″). On our front porch, we have a statue of the Virgin Mary right by our front door. She got buried in the snow, and then when the snow she fell over. But, before my dad could go pick her up, it snowed again. He was able to go try and prop her up because the snow wasn’t THAT bad again yet. When he came in, he had the head of the Virgin Mary in his hand. Yes. Mary, the mother of God was beheaded in Snowpocalypse 2014. So my mom is sitting there, laughing and telling me this story, all while holding the head of the Virgin Mary. Literally, a stone head. In her hand. I basically just stared at my mom’s face on my iPad thinking WHAT IS MY LIFE, and then started laughing hysterically.
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My mom also began to organize our photo boxes. There’s probably  around fifteen of them, and she sent me a text on Tuesday with a picture of me as a kid with a monkey on my lap. Her caption was, “See, here’s proof you are adopted and related to monkeys.”  See, for the past twenty years of my life, my family has had an on-going joke that I was adopted from monkeys. It’s always been an annoying and funny joke, but I about died when my mom sent me the photo. Apparently my family has been telling the truth for the past twenty years. I am related to monkeys. At least it explains my craziness.
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So basically, I am an excellent singer and dancer who should put on  performances for beheaded statues and my primate relatives. This is my life ladies and gentleman. This is my life. And, I am perfectly content with it.
(Side note: I am not, in fact, related to monkeys. I am a normal human being. Well, as normal as a human being can be.)
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