I think I'm gonna buy a scimitar. I love my saber, it was my first sword, and it has withstood all the abuse I have given it. Dropping it, bumping into things with it, even losing the guard off of it right before a show. (It still balances perfectly fine!) I am equally as rough with my cutting shears at work. Sa'dia breaks mirrors, I break shears!

There's just something about that vicious curved scimitar blade that gets me. Since sword has become my specialty(I swear, it's what everyone tells me, and I'm not tooting my own horn. It's what people consistently compliment me on) I think it's time I get a flashier sword. Some dance scimitars are very sharp. I mean, these are real weapons. I keep my sword under my bed. I shit you not. I will impale anyone who comes near my family!

My newfound upper-body strength is enabling me to do things I have not been able to do before. Like balance the sword on my fingertips, and twirl it while still controlling and balancing it. I got lots of "ooos and ahhs" at my last couple shows doing this. Some of the audience members were pretty surprised when they lifted it and realized how heavy it is. When I first started dancing with it, I just balanced it on my head and trotted around the room. Now I use it as a fully integrated prop, and not just a shiny thing on my head. I would like to do a double sword at some point. Thus the need for more weapons!

Robin and I were chatting over coffee this morning, and I asked her to critique my dancing, as I believe that is the only thing that helps us grow, is to be honest with each other, both with praise and constructive hints. She said my hands and arms are great, my articulation during layering needs to be upped a notch, and I need to flirt with the audience more. Of course! But then she said "Your sword is amazing. I've not seen anyone use it so much and do so much with it." paraphrasing!

So it's fun for me. I don't get scared about it falling anymore, I know it, it has become a very intimate thing. Not to get too Freudian, but it's almost become a symbol and a source of outward expression of the struggles I've been through. It's very organic for me. I like how I feel when I am holding that sword. I don't have to flirt, I can be a little dangerous, a little seductive, a little dark. It feels like me. Maybe it's my barbarian roots coming out. But I have decided I will always be the "sword chick". I used to roll my eyes whenever Yasmine would ask me to perform with it, because it seemed like that was all I was doing. Now I know that it was a compliment. And I've come full circle. I hadn't touched it for months, and  then completely improvised a sword routine that knocked people's socks off. 

I guess I realized it too when people were disappointed when they would come see me dance, and I didn't do a sword  routine. I guess I wanted to be admired for my dancing alone, and not just for being able to use a prop. But seriously, guys, you know as well as I do - after seeing five classical Egyptian cabaret routines in a row, it all kinda starts looking the same. Especially to a crowd of non-dancers who aren't always able to appreciate the nuances of our art

So variety is the spice of life.

Being a trick pony isn't so bad after all : )

I spent part of the afternoon today at the studio practicing my choreo for Hips Noir. It looks good, there's quite a bit of floorwork(no sword though!), and I have determined that Indian-style crawling floor circles really require knee pads. I got my new  fly pants in from Firefly style, and they look hot! With the fringe I got, my costume is looking better. I am hoping for the best, and that October 11th will go without a hitch. My routine is fairly athletic, so I had considered changing the choreography because of some circumstances, but decided that this would not work. It is a very emotional choreo for me, and has to evolve to it's full potential.

So goes my first foray into true fusion...

It's kinda fun experimenting with the arms and posturing of tribal fusion. Again, I'm not trying to be something I'm not, but I am enjoying all the drama that fusion offers. It's a controlled freedom to do some things that I can't do in cabaret style, and I'm enjoying stretching my limits as a dancer.

So it's been almost two months since you died.  I think I'm getting better, and then little triggers happen. They happen with Clayton too. I'm getting used to the little triggers. The way my garage door sounds when I open it reminds me of another garage door. I can't look at a dump truck without thinking of Clayton. I can't hear sirens without thinking of you.

Today it was bunker pants.

By some strange twist of fate, our dressing room today in Carthage for the festival was at the firehouse, in a training room. So I walk into a place full of men like you, cooking their meal in the mess, listening to the radio, watching tv in their lounge.  And it was the bunker pants scrunched down around the boots. Boots like you always stepped into, that hit me like a hammer, and the lump started to rise in the back of my throat.

Why don't your kids have your gear? I am angry about that. I am angry about a lot of things, but I am furious that Andy does not have his dad's helmet and his dad's flag. I am angry that you are gone, that you left so many people hurting. I get so pissed off at you both, you fucking proud-ass men who thought it was a choice you had.  Huh.  I wonder what you two talk about, in some kind of strange ether. You both claimed to have loved me. Sure. That's why you chose this.

I am pissed off that I was ignored and cast aside like so much scandalous garbage after you died. Like I didn't know you for eleven years, like I didn't give Andy his first haircut, and remember Sydney's first steps. Like our relationship was fiction. Your best friend. Sure. We're all mad at you. But we still love you, and want you back. You bastard.

And you couldn't even leave a fucking note! Didn't your kids, all of us deserve a reason? Instead, guess guess. He was sick, he must have been terminal, blah blah BLAH. He was overwhelmed with the divorce. Ha. That one is funny. You would have told anybody to go fuck themselves over that one.  I know. Stacy knows. Jimmy knows. Betsy and Robin know. Everyone knows where the lies end and the delusion begins. You had never been happier than when you shut the door on THAT situation, unless you were such a damn fine actor.

And you did have us fooled, in a way. But not really. I knew you.

But I didn't know this dark place. I hope you see it. I hope you see the pain. Part of me wants to punish you.  For leaving things in such a mess. But see, I'm stronger. Your kids' mother is stronger than you ever gave HER credit for. Damn fine women you had in your life.

So you chose it. Where do we go from here? I take my therapy, I take my happy pill, I pray, I throw things, I hate it that the two men that I trusted most in this life decided to bail. Yes, I'm angry. Furious, even. I have to fight my way through it. I am a warrior. I have picked up my sword again, and started to dance with it. It is appropriate. It's time. You didn't know me. Not really. No one has the power to destroy my spirit. It is I who is Invictus.

I love you. I miss you.

Only you would understand the irony in that.

Disclaimer:

This blog will reveal the uppity, condescending, sarcastic bitch that I truly am. Read no further if you still have illusions of my purity and sweetness. I also wish to say that I have nothing against blonde and tan people. I know quite a few who are not like the stereotypical bimbette I am about to extrapolate upon.

Typical  morning at Ozark Fitness. No makeup, hair in a tangled mess on top my head. Gym clothes that are decidedly unglam. I'm here for the workout people. Not to catch a fella.

Enter Muffin Rosebottom. My nickname of course. I have seen her a few times. A very few. She is the little petite pink package of platinum blondeness which is my antithesis. The Betty to my Veronica if you will. She giggles. She walks! She talks! She dresses in head to toe PINK!!!!

Perfectly matched pink yoga pants and tshirt just tight enough over the tatas to reveal her braless state. They defy gravity, so why? She laughs as her buff young trainer dude walks her through her program, despairing over the reps.  Finally, she tires after two sets and I do not see her until...

I come out of the shower.

I make my way into the dressing room, and nearly have to brace myself as I see a horror that still shatters my brain. Cue the slasher music from Friday the 13th...

She has spread her delicious PINKNESS over every surface in the vanity/sink area. There are pink towels. There are pink hair utensils, pink makeup bags, pink, pink, I LOVE PINK! it screams.

And here comes the pink diva herself, wrapped in a pink heart shorty robe, her preternaturally brown legs peeking out from beneath the hem. Her overly blonde hair making her look like a negative. I slowly slink over to the only remaining clear counter space, and begin applying my makeup. I am dressed in gray and black, the dark cloud to her pink lining. Apparently I have wandered into some rose-colored Barbie nightmare. I don't belong here. It's just wrong.

I am smirking by now. She is pulling on her teeny tiny jeans and her teeny tiny pink tshirt, and now she is taking her teeny tiny pink Chi iron and doing her hair. I am putting out very hostile vibes, I can tell. This woman is my age, at least, and dresses like a teenage murder victim in a horror flick. I take some satisfaction in realizing that she would be offed first. And I, being the smart cookie with the chip on her shoulder, would survive!

Undoubtedly she is looking at me through similar eyes. "Poor thing," I can hear her tsk tsk. ""She would probably be so cute if she would just tan. And bleach her hair. Tragic, just tragic. Doesn't she realize that guys like blonde and tan??"

So I finish up my makeup. I gather my things, and with a roll of my eyes, exit the pink dungeon.

And nearly run into her trainer on the way out. He surely doesn't recognize me. I have on makeup and my hair is curled. And in my pencil skirt and just snug enough sweater, I know I look good. I smile, he smiles back. And that is all.

The nicest thing about being a girl?

Not having to fit into a box to be what "society" deems attractive. If blonde in pink makes you comfy, then by all means, be blonde and pink and tan(not healthy!!)  But if you are pale, freckled, and quirky, embrace it.  All those little things that make you "you", are what make you beautiful. And I hope my blonde, tan daughter realizes that she is stunning the way she is.

I have felt the pressure to fit into what society deems beautiful. My curly red hair, my narrow hips, my small bosom, isn't what many people find ideal. I have considered plastic surgery, I have thought about changing.  Losing the weight revealed what my true body shape is, and although it isn't as curvy as I would like, in the right places, I am learning to embrace it. I love my strong legs. For the first time in my life, I love my arms. I dance without a tummy cover now, because I like what I see.  It isn't perfectly flat, but it's pretty. 

Too skinny, too fat. Too blonde, too tan. Too white, too black. Where does it end? Who dictates these things? This blog is getting deeper than I intended it to, but I suppose I have to go there. I have a daughter. It concerns me. Yes, she fits the ideal. She is naturally thin, naturally blonde, with huge blue eyes,and she tans like a berry in the sun. But what does that mean? Will people, like me, automatically assume she is a vapid airhead because of how she looks? Isn't that just as hurtful? Must every smart, self-assured woman be a brunette?

Whoa.

I have no answers. I love fashion, I love beauty, I love glamour.  My daughter will see those things in me, because I have no wish to disguise it. I want her to remember me preparing for the shows I perform in with a nostalgic sense of magic. I remember watching my own mother get ready to go out, and smelling her perfume and hairspray. It was so glamorous, and in those moments, she was as real as she was when she was cleaning my vomit off the floor. But it was a different real, and it was, in a way,a better real.  Because she was beyond being my mother in those moments.

So... maybe I'm not a good feminist. But just let me say that there is a quiet sense of power in being feminine. And one which shouldn't apologize for liking nice things, dressing up, and flaunting with confidence the best attributes that make you gorgeous.

So I apologize for judging you, miss Muffin Rosebottom. You may be a cancer survivor, you may be making a statement with your pink. Or not. Perhaps you just like the color. And that's fine too. Maybe I'll even smile and give you a compliment next time we cross paths at the gym. Hey, at least you use flat iron spray before you Chi your hair. Bless your heart.

I will be dancing at Gem of India on Sunday, September 21st, and the 28th at 2PM. You must pay to see me. Yes! You must buy a ticket before you step into the bigtop. Admission is 15 dollars in advance, 20 at the door. I promise I will make it worth your cash. But you still should tip me. What can I say? I'm hungry. I will not, however, juggle anything or grow a beard...

Actually, it is a new program that we are doing with a new community theatre. New! There will be musicians and actors involved, you know those shady charaters that were the social pariahs of the Renaissance. It is sure to be a grand affair.

The reason for my circus comments concerns the well-intentioned, if laughably aesthetically unpleasing flyer/poster for the show. I have been photoshopped. My hair and Betsy's is the color of Ronald McDonald and yes, we are posed in a fashion reminiscent of Charlie's Angels.  Don't know how I feel. Apparently there are also life-sized cardboard cutouts of myself and my fellow Sarrab sisters in Gem of India at this very moment. Wow. I am in league with Nascar greats and wrestling stars. Yasmine was stolen. Someone walked out with Yasmine. WTF? How do you walk out to your car with a lifesize cardboard woman and not get noticed?

No one better come after me. I will take off my Ronald McDonald shoe and slap them upside the head.

It's not that I'm ungrateful. I think this is a wonderful opportunity. And I love a good spinach paneer. I do not however like the phrase on the offending poster.
"Audience will have opportunity to ask PERSONAL questions of the performers."

Pause.

I can imagine.

"Do you wear deodorant?"

"When was the last time you had sexual intercourse?"

"Does wasabi make you grow onions out of your ears?"

I know I am being overly facetious, but please.

Robert(our manager/director)needs some artistic/promotional direction. Tasteful, yet stimulating. Attention-getting, yet not tacky. I am quite terrified to see the cardboard me, and have avoided it thus far. I don't translate well in two dimensions.

In any event. This is publicity, and could turn into something very good. I am excited, please come out to see myself, Zaheera, or Yasmine dance at the Gem. I'm sure it will be an unforgettable experience. And if you tip me enough, you might get to take me home. That is...my facsimile.

.

Just thought I'd update all about the upcoming performances of Troupe Sarrab, for September. We're going to be a little busy.




Sept. 19-21 - The Sarrab girls will be performing for the Community Theatre.

The show will be held at Gem of India. The cost is $15 advance - $20 door. You can purchase tickets from Zaheera, who is performing Fri night, Yasmine performing Sat night and Hadassah Sunday afternoon. We will also be performing the following weekend, as well, Sept. 26-28. Come join us for a good time. Dinner will be on your own.

Sept. 20 - Carthage Missouri Festival of Friends. Performance time 5:30pm.


Sept. 21 - Cider Days. Walnut St. Springfield. Performance time TBA later.


Sept. 27 - Global Dance Collective Student Showcase. Show fee $5.
00

On a side note, I will be performing at Hips Noir, hosted by Red Moon TribeAt 7 PM, Saturday October 11th. The show will be at Ground Xero, and admission is 5 dollars.

Phew!!

Busy Busy Busy!!!

You can never tell someone "I love you" too many times. It is the strongest three letter phrase in the English language. Don't save it for the holidays.

I am damn unlucky when it comes to matters of the heart. Which is ironic, given the fact that my heart dominates me completely.

Walls are good things. They keep good things/people in, and bad things/people out.

My child deserves a mom who smiles even when that's the last thing she feels like doing.  So I smile.

Some people aren't interested in hearing the truth. They don't care about it, nor do they want it. So a delusion is a grand lie we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better. Have at it. Still doesn't change the facts.

That I will continue to be a loving person, even when I am shown the cold, hard facts of life. 

That I like my curly hair and I am sick of fighting with it.

That my daughter shows me that innocence and purity still exist. She is the best part of me.

That life, no matter how difficult it is, is still beautiful. I will always choose it. It's not about me, anyway.

That maturity and age have nothing to do with one another.

That your choices do not define who you are.

That Guinness is, and will always be, the perfect food group.

That laughter, truly, is the best medicine.

That it's not a crime to smile.

Or rejoice.

In the

small

things.

I was laying down with my daughter tonight, getting her to sleep. She reaches over and strokes my cheek, and says.

"You're beautiful. My mama is strong. I'm so proud of you."

The exact words I always say to her, she tells me, just when I need to hear it the most.

Wow.

Minuet

If we move in together
will i still be a slob
will things get ordinary
will i piss you off
'cause I don't cook
throw my clothes on the floor
and i mix the darks and whites
oh baby your kisses are pure
and the sex lasts for hours
you want me the less I shower
i'm a sight for sore eyes
in your old tighty whities
but you love me anyway
i thank god for seeing the light
and not going out with some lawyer type
'cause your a poet
a renaissance man
a little boy with
really strong hands
so many things going through my mind
sometimes it gets scary
but when you're on my side
the world may be chaotic
the skies may explode
but we'll be okay
baby- this much I know
and the minuet between the heart and
the breath
is my lullaby
and the minuet between the heart and
the breath
rocks me every time
and the minuet between the heart and
the breath
saves my life
as I lay upon your chest
i'm satisfied
i'd like to have babies with you
like to have maybe two join a carpool and
sing the kids to bed they can
have your coloring and
my movie rental addiction
they can be antisocial just like us
and they can choose their very
own religion they can climb into
bed in the middle of the night and
sleep in your arms, hypnotized
so many things going through my mind
sometimes it gets scary
but when you're on my side
the world may be chaotic
the skies may explode
but we'll be okay
baby- this much I know
and the minuet between the heart and
the breath
is my lullaby
and the minuet between the heart and
the breath
rocks me every time
and the minuet between the heart and
the breath
saves my life
as I lay upon your chest
i'm satisfied
alright- everything;s gonna be
alright
alright-everything's gonna be alright
so if all the things we want
are just out of reach
we move to the midwest
and you start to teach
i'm a woulda, coulda, shoulda
a one hit wonder
i'm pretty sure we'd be okay
'cause if the skin on your chest
still feels that way
from the sandalwood oil
that you dab in the middle
       I think maybe, maybe
       baby...
we'd miss it- a little

Idina Menzel

What kind of man knows this stuff?! Yes, Virginia, romance still exists...

I have had an opportunity present itself that I am considering. A job change. It would mean a complete career shift, into social work, an area I have always been interested in. I am full of thoughts right now.

A client of mine, who has been in SW for years, works for the Drug Rehab center for convicted drug offenders in Fordland. It is a one year program which attempts to rehabilitate offenders before sending them back out into the public. These men are hardened criminals, murderers, etc.

She loves her work. I have always been interested in criminal pathology, and with my experience with living with, and dealing with mentally ill people, she feels I would be more qualified for the job than many. Even my former therapist, whom I saw for over a year, very highly recommended me to enter into the counseling field.

My big caveats are two-fold. I would have to attend a four week "boot camp" with the dept. of corrections in Jefferson City. I would only be home on the weekends. My daughter would not see me for days at a time. Given the events of the past year, I don't know if that would be wise. Her abandonment issues are strong.

Also, the pay is marginally less than what I make as a stylist. I would have steady pay, however, and with today's economy that means a lot. As it stands now, my income can fluctuate by hundreds of dollars per week. I would also have insurance. And it would be an excellent foot in the door for other social work jobs, which is what I am considering going back and getting a degree in.

Any thoughts?

I think I'm up for the challenge. Gayle told me some funny stories, such as humbling these big thugs by having them sing the theme song from Barney, hop on one foot and talk baby talk. Image-breaking. I think with my dominatrix tendencies, this could be an interesting career! Plus, validating to think that I am trying to make a differene in the world. Yes, my job now does that, and I am a shear-wielding counselor/bartender. But I have been craving change and this could be just what I need.