Could I Have This Dance

Occasionally, someone strolls into my life and just fits right in and becomes an instant friend. Today I get to introduce you to one of those people. Briton of Punk Rock Papa is one of the kindest bloggers on the internet. He is always quick to help out if you need something or to just send a “how’s it going?” message. He makes me laugh, and hearing him talk about his wife,  his twin toddlers, and brand new baby boy warms my heart.  Please give a warm welcome to my new friend, Briton. 


What an honor to be here!

After talking to Mandi, I ran out and bought some shoes to dance and groove in. Then I realized, I can’t dance!

Much to the dismay of probably every follower of Mandi’s, I am not the cool gay Briton she danced with in Kansas City.

My insecurity is rising and anxiety from being in over my head is swelling to a burst of full-blown panic attack.

I must find something interesting to share with the one or two people who haven’t yet exited the screen when they realized I am not Gay Briton from Kansas City.


When my wife and I found out we were having twins, I almost fainted. Tunnel vision set in. My life flashed before my eyes. There was no way I could handle two babies at once!

Eight months and a scary emergency C-section later, there I was! Holding two of the most handsome babies to ever grace the world with their beauty and life. (I’m allowed to be biased; I made these little guys with my skilled unprotected coitus). I assume parents everywhere know that feeling when they first hold their offspring – the swell of happiness and love that fills your chest. It’s a really spiritual moment, even for those not spiritually inclined. You feel the bond, like an invisible umbilical cord, between you and the child.

I didn’t sleep for a month after my kids were born. Absolutely terrified of SIDS, I would get out of bed intermittently and jab my kids in the stomach with a finger to make sure they were still alive. If I was working, the wife would get a “poke the babies” text.

Flash forward six more months. (We are at around seventh months of life for those not very good with counting)

“Killian and Nicolas Underwood?”

Here we came around the corner at the doctor’s office. Dad and kids. It should be noted that I was *carrying* the kids by the front of their winter bear suits. Here we come, Papa Bear and his Cubs, arms and legs wildly dangling.

The look on the face of the nurse at the pediatricians office said everything.

Shock quickly turned to laughter. The kids and I are rather popular at the doctor’s office. We laugh and joke and hate the nurses who give shots. Usually when we’re called in, I’ve got one kid tucked under my arm, newspaper-style, and I’m dangling the other one upside down.

Why do you care, why does this story matter?

Rewind! (I know, bear with me.) (See what I did there?)

After finding out we were expecting twins, the first place we visited was the bookstore. From What To Expect When You’re Expecting to Twins, Multiples, we got All The Books!  Even found some dad books for me to read!

And read, I did

By the end of the first book I had to check and make sure the author wasn’t Stephen King.

The second book had me calling a doctor asking for a prescription to quell my parent anxiety attacks.

SIDS! Sidebumpers! Cradle Cap! OH MY!

The first month of parenting I leaned on these terrifying books. They are the cousins to the whole “if you have unprotected sex you will get an STD and die!” style of teaching. Their motto is, “If you don’t do this, your child will die of SIDS!”

After the first month, I was ready to purchase bubble boy suits for the kids.

I can’t remember the exact moment I realized I had been worked up into a frenzy. I just remember it happened after about a month of sleep deprivation and being alert to every possible sign of baby sleep apnea. I had to dial back. I couldn’t live in fear that my Nemos might run into something bad at the drop off.

Flash forward! (Hop in my DeLorean. We are going Back to the Future!)

My kids are almost two. We have a blast. All my friends have largely fallen off the radar, so my kids take up that space and time. From wrestling to running around, I simply love fatherhood. Even snuggling up and watching Kipper the Dog is time well spent. I still poke my kids occasionally to make sure they’re breathing, but I don’t have nearly as many heart attacks as I used to.

And the best part?


Yes, this has all been a big build up so I could follow up on Mandi’s awesome dance post with ANOTHER post about dancing. We have the most fun kitchen dance parties! Nothing like two toddlers and a dorky dad moving and grooving during lunch time. So, on a late night in Kansas City you might be able to catch a ride to dance at the gay bar with Briton. You can also, if you’re inclined to do so, come catch an afternoon kitchen dance party in New London.

Either way, life should be fun! Whatever you’re doing – from dancing late into the night, to shimmying around a kitchen with toddlers, live in the moment  – and enjoy it.


Briton “Punk Rock Papa” Underwood is a proud Parent, Writer and Original Bunker Punk. His passion for writing is second only to his passion for parenting. Co-founder of the Original Bunker Punks, Punk Rock Papa enjoys helping people’s thoughts, stories and emotions be heard. You can find him on his personal blog or on the Original Bunker Punks writing about what he loves, the people around him.

To learn more visit: Punk Rock Papa, Original Bunker Punks

Connect with Briton:

So You Think You Can Dance…Behind The Scenes

Back before kids and staying at home and momhood, I worked. Who knew? On any given day, I got to the office by 8:00. Two cups of coffee and 100 phone calls later, I lunched with clients, high powered executives at some of the nicest restaurants in Dallas.  I worked, and I was great at my job, which is how I won this strange contest between my office and our sister office in Kansas City. It wasn’t a company based contest. Basically, we (my boss and I) made a bet with the team from Kansas City that we would make more money in a month than they would. They met our challenge and said that if we did, they would fly us to Kansas City for a weekend and pay for us to have a good time. Winning a trip to Kansas City? That’s what I thought, but I had no kids, so why not take a flight out to spend a weekend in a city that I’d never seen? Done. We won.

Fast forward to six weeks later when my boss, Joie, and I arrived in Kansas City. My first order of business was to get some Kansas City barbeque. We didn’t. We met up with the losers from Kansas City who were required to buy us dinner and then take us out for drinks. We ate at some weird upscale restaurant where I ended up tasting things that I didn’t know were cookable. Like flowers. They were delicious, but what I really wanted was some fall off the bone ribs. Whatever. Tomato, tomahto.

We finished dinner, which included at least two bottles of wine. Heads spinning and still light since the flowers weren’t so filling, I suggested dancing. Surely there was a place in Kansas City where a girl could spin around on a dance floor. Our loser colleagues weren’t up for it but pointed us in the direction of this quaint little club. We walked down the hill in what is called the Plaza, following the crowds of twenty somethings over sprayed with cologne and sparkling with glitter lotion.

We stood in a short line at the door waiting for a bouncer to deem us acceptable for entrance. I’m cute and blonde, and Joie had a really nice rack. I knew we would get in, so as we waited our turn, we discussed the plan. See, I always have a plan when I go to straight bars. Even back when I was young and dumb and single, I had a plan.

1. Be adorable so that all drinks are paid for by random people admiring your cuteness.

2. Never ever tell said admirers your real name or profession

3. Never leave with someone you meet at a bar

I schooled Joie on the plan. “I’m Grace.”

“What?” She asked.

“Tonight, if anyone asks, I’m Grace. That’s my name,” I said with conviction, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Joie.”

“No, stupid, what name are you going to give if anyone hits on you?”


“No, not Joie, what’s your middle name?”


“Hmmmm. Pretty, but not adorable. You’re Ellie.”

“I’m Ellie.”

“Yes, you’re Ellie, and I’m Grace. Got it. What’s your name?”


“Good girl.”

We moved up in the line a little but were still not to the door.

“When someone asks us what we do, we’ll play it by ear. Just follow my lead.”

I was an expert liar in bars. Once I convinced a man that I was a professional surfer. I’ve never surfed a day in my life, but the Saturday before, I was hungover and sat on my couch eating cheese-its watching a surfing competition all day, which made me an expert. And apparently a professional. Another time, I convinced a guy that I had a fake leg. He so badly wanted to touch my leg all night. I laughed internally every time he glanced at my thigh.

With our plan in motion, we made it into the bar, each ordered a vodka drink and scanned the room. Typical night club, bass thumping from the floor to the ceiling, lights swirling around us, and people everywhere. A song that Joie loved came on, so she pulled me to the dance floor. I love a good dance partner. Someone who can follow my lead without having to say a word, and Joie was perfect. She and I danced like we had been dancing together for years and not in the rubbing each other’s bodies and humping backs kind of way. It felt like slow motion, as if the crowd parted so that we could take over the floor. We spun and swayed and dipped to the music all in perfect harmony with each other. She was fabulous, the ying to my yang on the floor. It looked like something choreographed by a professional. I may or may not have high kicked over her head. More than once. We were fabulous.

We danced until neither of us liked the song and then headed back to the bar to refresh. There, we met a foursome of thirty-somethings. Four guys. We sat down next to them, breathless, laughing, when one of them said, “Can we buy you a drink?”

Joie stepped in. She’s so much nicer than I am. “No, thank you. You’re so sweet to offer though.”

And then it happened, “I’m Matthew,” one of the guys said and reached his hand out to shake mine.

“I’m Grace. Nice to meet you. This is…” Joie interrupted me.

“I’m Joie.” I looked at her annoyed. She was so terrible at this game. Luckily the bar was loud, and our new friends didn’t hear, so I reintroduced her as Ellie. Crisis averted.

We had the customary small talk conversation. They were impressed by our dancing and even asked if we danced anywhere professionally. This was a first for me, so I ran with it. I looked at Joie with big eyes, willing her to follow my lead. “Actually, we work for So You Think You Can Dance, behind the scenes,” I said and took another long drink of my vodka. The thing about telling stories to strangers is that when you say it like you believe it, they almost always will. And they bought it. The show had only recently started, following in American Idol’s lead. Joie and I were huge fans of both and even had parties in my living room where you had to audition to participate, so she fell right into the fib and fed them all kinds of garbage, and they ate it up. Every Single Bite.

We left the club feeling ten feet tall even if we had only convinced a foursome of drunks we were professionals. It felt good. We decided to call it a night and headed up the steep hill to our hotel. I could see it from where we walked but with all of the dancing and the heels now uncomfortably tight, I began to regret the high kicks and low squats. My legs ached, and the hill to the hotel got steeper with every step.

“I can’t walk anymore,” I said to Joie.

“Sure you can,” She slurred as we slowly made it up the hill. Then I stopped. I hit my wall. My feet hurt, my legs hurt. I was tired and more than a little bit buzzed, so I sat down on the sidewalk in my very expensive tailored to fit pants.

“I really can’t. I need a cab.” Joie, my hero, hailed a cab, and shuffled me into the back.

“Cash only,” the driver said before either of us could tell him where we were going, which was not even a quarter of a mile away.

I looked at Joie who looked at me. Neither of us had any cash. I sighed, a big heavy defeated breath and wobbly climbed out of the cab, and then I saw it. A beacon on the street. In shiny neon letters I saw ATM.

“Cash. There. Be right back. Don’t move,” I said to Joie and the driver. A burst of energy hit me as my feet carried me the ten feet to the ATM. I swiped my card, typed in my code, requested my cash, and waited. “Beep, beep, beep,” The ATM sang. I looked down and read, “Out of order.”

I banged my palm on the machine and then laid my head on its cool outside closing my eyes. Joie saw my disappointment and waved the cab driver away. Then she convinced me to keep walking. My legs felt like concrete blocks, heavy and exhausted. I complained with every step.

Two young well dressed guys walked out of an ice cream parlor in front of us. They must have heard my whining because one of them turned around and said, “Huuuney, are you okay?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t even make words at this point.

“What’s the matter?” He asked and started walking toward us.

I summoned all of my strength to tell him that I was tired and couldn’t walk up the hill to our hotel.

“We can take you,” he said and opened the door to his red BMW offering us a ride like we weren’t two single girls on a street in a strange unfamiliar town.

Joie started to decline, but before she could even utter the n in “no,” I had buckled my seat belt.

She hesitantly climbed in the back seat. “You’re crazy,” she mumbled as the two boys in front asked us where we were going.

I shook my head. “I can take them,” I whispered to Joie as the driver pulled the car away from the curb. While we drove the very short distance to our hotel, the two boys talked to us, asking constant question after question. We ditched our charade and just went with the truth with these two. Trust me, they were not interested in either of us. They were together, and it was obvious, and I fell in love with both of them. Britain, a short dark haired boy (maybe 22) was funny and very flirty, where Tyson, tall, lean and blonde, was more reserved and conservative. They mentioned they were going to a gay bar in a different part of town. Now that I wasn’t walking, my energy returned, and at the mention of a gay bar, my ears perked up.

Joie shook her head at me and mouthed, “We are not going to a bar with them.”

I smiled and kept talking to my new best friends, passing them my lip plumper as we exchanged easy conversation. When we arrived at the hotel, they let us out and hugged us like we hadn’t just met. Joie and I started through the revolving door, and as we did, she said, “It would have been fun to go dancing with them.” I looked at her. She looked at me, and we kept going until the revolving door led us back outside to the parking lot. We sprinted after the BMW, yelling, “We’re coming with you!!” They heard us, stopped, and for the rest of the night until the wee hours of the morning…I danced.

Kansas City offered me one of the best nights of my life, but I still have yet to try the barbeque.

Because You’re Not Going To Want To Miss This

Anyone who has ever read anything on this blog knows how I feel about a good book. Escaping into someone else’s words might very well be my favorite thing to do, and when I find a great book that I love, I can’t stop talking about it.

Today I get to introduce you to a writer who spins a good tale whether it be a horror story, a blog post, or as it turns out in this particular case,  a book that I think is going to be excellent, and good news: it is coming soon, and I am taking part in the…drum roll please…


Memoirs of a Dilletante

COMING SPRING 2015 — official date TBA

Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two is the second collection of reminiscences, following Helena Hann-Basquiat, a self-proclaimed dilettante who will try anything just to say that she has, and her twenty-something niece, who she has dubbed the Countess Penelope of Arcadia.

Speaking of Arcadia, this volume delves into Helena’s childhood, as she revisits what she calls the Arcadia of the mind — that place that keeps us trapped and holds us back from our potential. Some of her most personal stories are included here, interspersed with hilarious stories of misadventure. It’s not a novel, really, and it’s not a memoir, by the strictest definition. But most of what follows, as they say, is true. Sort of. Almost. From a certain point of view.

Discover Helena’s tales for the first time or all over again, with new notes and annotations for the culturally impaired — or for those who just need to know what the hell was going through her mind at the time!

Cover art by Hastywords.

Helena is going to be running a crowdfunding/pre-order campaign at Pubslush, a community focused solely on indie writers, and has set up a profile there to launch Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two.

For more information, and to follow the progress, Become a Fan at

If you just can’t wait and you want a taste of Helena’s writing, follow her blog:

If you just can’t get enough Helena, or you want updates on further goings on, release dates and miscellaneous mayhem, follow Helena on Twitter @hhbasquiat



The enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.

She’s written cookbooks, ten volumes of horrible poetry that she then bound herself in leather she tanned poorly from cows she raised herself and then slaughtered because she was bored with farming.

She has an entire portfolio of macaroni art that she’s never shown anyone, because she doesn’t think that the general populous or, “the great unwashed masses” as she calls them, would understand the statement she was trying to make with them.

Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.

In 2014, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, several e-books which now make up Volume Two, as well as a multimedia collaborative piece of meta-fictional horror entitled JESSICA.

Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One is available HERE in e-book for Kindle or HERE in paperback.

Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell.

Find more of her writing at or or connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat.