Last night, after several hours of unpacking and arranging, Andreas and I decided to celebrate by watching a DVD. I was excited and happy and did the Ning Dance, which consists of me pulling off a little jig (heavy on the elbows and knees) and singing, “Ning-n’ning, ning, ning!” (Ning is a pet name for Andreas. Sometimes we do a call and response where I say, “Ning!” and he says, “Nong!” and then we know we’re both present and accounted for. Other times I just call him Meine Ningeth der Nongeth.)

The Ning Dance always worked fine on our carpeted floors in LA, but now that we’re back on hardwood, I need to compensate for my socks.

As it was, last night’s dance went like this: “Ning-n’ning, ning, nIIIIIIIIIIIING!,” the last syllable coinciding with my legs going out from underneath me, and the execution a smooth, graceless slip and assplant on the floor. Andreas, numbed by years of my antics, was only half paying attention, but slapstick must be right up his alley, because the fall was a big hit.

Note to self: get some traction socks.