"I always thought the saddest feeling in life is when you're dancing in a really joyful way and then you hit your head on something."*

   I know what makes being a stripper so hard: it’s the dancing.

   Every time I see a scene in a movie or television series that takes place in a strip joint, I start watching the dancers' moves to determine what the budget was on said movie or TV show.

   If the budget is low, or it’s a half-hour comedy, the strippers will be terrible dancers. That’s because they aren’t really strippers, they’re extras who’ve agreed to get semi-nude in the hopes of one day getting their S.A.G. card.

   If the budget is high, the dancers will probably get naked and the dancing will be phenomenal because they’ve either hired real strippers for the scene and maybe shot on location in a strip club or they hired a stripper to train a famous actress to dance convincingly: Demi Moore in Striptease or Natalie Portman in Closer are good examples. Or Jessie Spano a.k.a. Elizabeth Berkeley in Showgirls, if you like (and I know I do).

   But if you watch an actual stripper dance, you can see that they are quite good at what they do and very unselfconscious about their movements and the exposure of their body parts. Especially if there’s a stripper pole involved because good lord, that looks tough (but I heard that their shoes are magnetic, so that probably helps a little bit).

   But I don’t think the nudity is really what keeps the majority of women (or men) away from stripping. I think it’s the dancing. Taking off your clothes is easy: we all do it every day. But dancing around while you’re taking off your clothes is hard: it probably feels silly and forced. And more than that, if you’re a bad dancer, you probably worry that everyone is judging your moves rather than focusing on your exposed vagina/penis. (Though I’m pretty sure they’re doing both.)

   I would like to see a stripper that is not a dancer. And I’m not talking Gypsy Rose Lee: she had a burlesque routine going on and while it wasn’t quite dancing, it was pretty darn choreographed. But what about a stripper who just comes out onto the stage, sits on a chair, and takes her (or his) clothes off? There could still be loud music playing so it’s not totally dead in the room, but no dancing or crawling around like a tiger. Just walk in, take your clothes off, and take a bow. Maybe stand there for a minute so the crowd can soak it all in like a solemn moment at a memorial service. Then flash some jazz hands as though to say, “Ta-da” and pick up your clothes and saunter back out. Or put your clothes back on and saunter out. A reverse strip tease! Wouldn’t that be something? It could be “performed” to the song “Eye of the Tiger” or “Working for the Weekend”** to give it some real oomph.

   In other (unrelated) news, my parents both called me in regards to my previous post. I felt guilty because I thought they were worried that I was sad and that they were calling to make sure I wasn’t in need of some professional psychiatric help. Or calling to make sure I wasn’t so crazy depressed as to run out and start stripping and crying at the same time (like Coco in Fame).

   Well, they were, in fact, worried but they were only worried about my battle with the diarrhea. Ah, they know me so well. Because, you see, I’m a product of their collective gene pools and they know how I feel about regularity because they feel the exact same way. And in an odd sense, that cheered me up much more than anything else has in the last few days. You will also be relieved to know that things have cleared up in my intestines. But now I have a cold.

Here's how much my Momma loves me: she sent me a huge supply of facial tissues. To use whenever I want! Like a rich person! Unfortunately, they're currently being put to use on this cold. But look at all the extras I'll have when I'm well!

   And when I was putting away my groceries this afternoon, I dropped the grocery bag with only one item remaining in it: a bottle of red wine. It shattered into a quadrillion pieces and bled through the bag and all over the floor and crept behind the fridge to get at the power cord. And when I moved the bag to the sink, it splashed all over the counter and the cabinets. It looked like a goddamn murder scene. When I started cleaning it, I ran out of paper towels and started using kitchen towels. I decided to just throw the kitchen towels away because I have nowhere to put them until I next do laundry and I’ll be damned if my clothes hamper is going to smell like a distillery the way my kitchen does. Also my floors are incredibly sticky. But good news: I did not electrocute myself while cleaning the wine away from the refrigerator cord. AND it’s much, much cleaner under my refrigerator. It was gnarly under there, I’m not gonna lie.

   The best part: the wine was shattered inside a bag, so I didn’t end up stomping through glass and adding real, live human blood to the crime scene. The worst part: none of the wine was salvageable. 

The remains of the wine. It would've been weird if I'd taken a picture DURING the catastrophe, no matter how artistic.

   I’d like to philosophize about the wine debacle moment. I think that when I’m feeling blue I create more drama for myself through the sheer powers of negative thought. I’ve heard people say that the opposite is possible as well, but how do I begin to dig myself out of this trench of self-inflicted poopiness?

   Which leads me, albeit sloppily, back to my initial thought: I would love to see someone stripping without dancing. I think that would really make me chuckle and put my life problems into some legitimate perspective (hey, at least I'm not a stripper!). And yeah, that’s probably not going to happen, so I just gotta ride this out like the Great Shit Storm of 2006-2007,*** and know that things will eventually get better.

*The quote is Lena Dunham, my imaginary BFF. 

**Lover Boy's classic "Working for the Weekend" is also the song in a great stripping scene from S.N.L. featuring the late Chris Farley and the late Patrick Swayze. Such a good sketch. Such great actors. For serious.

***I may talk about the Great Shit Storm at some point, but suffice it to say I had a run of really bad luck during this time that lasted about 6 months. It was so bad, I almost joined the Church of Scientology.

"Hey lady, nice legs!" "Are you being serious or are you making fun of me?" "Naw, I'm being serious!" "Oh, well, thank you!"*

    Ever since I moved into my new apartment, other people have been moving out. I don’t think it’s necessarily because of me (narcissist), but it is curious.

    But what else is interesting/highly irritating, is the fact that the building management has been systematically gutting each apartment and putting down hardwood (a.k.a. laminate) floors, so there’s been a great deal of extremely loud construction work.

    And here’s the thing about construction work in Los Angeles (or pretty much any other job in Los Angeles from farming to medicine): it’s usually performed by Latinos (hey, they’re not a minority here!). And this is why that is awesome: Latino men almost ALWAYS take the time to pause what they’re doing and admire the females as they walk by. Almost any females. Even me!

    So I take a little time out of each day to walk past the various apartments in a skirt or shorts so that they can stop their work and stare at me. You’re welcome, Latino men of L.A. But more than that: thank you. Muchos, muchos gracias.

    It’s funny, because I don’t have great legs or big boobs, but men from Latin America are so damned appreciative of the ladies. All the ladies. I feel like maybe I should spray on a tan and move to Guatemala or El Salvador. Do you think I’d get to feeling too good about myself?

    I know, women (even Latinas) say the “machismo” thing is off-putting; that sometimes the way they treat women is no better than the way you’d treat a prize-winning pig. But seriously: I don’t really care. Besides, the Latino men I know personally are just flirtatious and sweet, not condescending or patriarchal.

    I used to go to salsa dance clubs in the Valley with my friend Lucia. She and her husband, Jose (one of those amazing, wonderful Latino men I mentioned) would drag me along to these clubs where I stood out like an extremely white, extremely quiet, sore thumb. I don’t speak much Spanish (very close to nada, actually) and I’m white for even a white person. (Just a notch above albino, actually. When I buy foundation, I have to buy the palest shade they sell, and even that makes me look “painted”.) But despite how I looked or spoke, these perfectly friendly, delightful men would come up to ask me for dances. They didn’t grope me or treat me like a piece of meat. They simply salsa-ed their heinies off while I did the “Marcia Brady Dance” (which I think my Aunt Mel invented—it’s that thing of swinging your thumbs back-and-forth in unison with your feet). They never judged me or made me feel like I couldn’t dance (and I can’t). Some of them even asked me for my phone number (which I gave out indiscriminately, and then never answered...not their fault.  It just seemed awkward. I’d had numerous cervezas on each occasion and couldn’t remember what any of them looked like). 

Salsa 2000 in North Hollywood. More exciting inside.

     But white men here are too self-absorbed to stare or whistle or even glance up from their Pabst Blue Ribbons at a bar. The men in LA (the white ones, anyway) are far too busy looking at themselves in the mirror (or the storefront, or the silverware, or the sunglasses of whomever is sitting across from them) to pay any attention to a woman who isn’t famous. They're mostly concerned with their huge muscles (though then they're usually gay) or their tiny skinny jeans (in which case, they're still gay or they're straight but I feel like an elephant standing near them). Neither of these scenarios helps the dating scene. It’s infuriating. And sad.

    So, I guess I’m going to Pollyanna the situation. That is: I’m going to be happy for the construction in my apartment complex, as it gives me a chance to interact with some truly friendly, appreciative men…

    And maybe improve my Spanish. (Estoy aprendiendo español.)

*Quote is from an interaction that actually happened to Gabe at a gas station. Love it.

"The best things happen while you're dancing. Things that you would not do at home come naturally on the floor."*

Judy Garland in Easter Parade, 1948.

I am in a foul mood.

What I would like to do more than anything right now is watch a musical—preferably Easter Parade or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

Both of those movies (and musicals in general) cheer me up and you want to know why? Because nothing can ever be too terrible in a world where people randomly break into song and entire towns seem to have spent months painstakingly rehearsing intricate choreography.

Millie teaches the brothers to dance. They pick it up really quickly. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, 1954.

But I’m at work and I couldn’t pay these kids to watch a musical. They’re far too grounded in modern filmmaking—they can’t stomach a black-and-white film or special effects from before 1995. Once I showed them Willow and they admitted that the special effects were pretty good “for an old movie.” Good grief. 1988 is not old, first of all. Anything born at the same time or after me is young. So that’s practically brand spanking new!

I admit that I do tend to like “old” movies more than most people of my generation (outside of filmmakers and cinephiles, of course), but that’s merely because I wasn’t allowed to watch anything new until I was a teenager. I actually thought movies were only made in black-and-white until I was about eight.

The lengths I would go to for some quality time in front of the television as a kid would embarrass most people. But I grew up in a very Catholic, somewhat bizarrely strict house where we were forced to pride ourselves on the “higher” pursuits: reading, classical music, homework, struggling to learn Greek or the history of Ireland at the dinner table, attempting to be entertained by conversations. You know: boring, Jane Austen-type crap.

My sisters and I were allowed television only on weekends, and then only at strictly predetermined intervals. It was annoying, to say the least, because I’ve always adored TV. I managed to stay entertained anyway because, at one point in time, kids played outside. We had stuff like bikes and these things called “balls” and sometimes we even played this weird game called “tag.”

Today kids play on their iPhones and don't know how to read books printed on paper--they can only maintain focus if the stuff is printed online. Weird.

Wow, maybe I am old.

You know what’s funny? While I’m writing this, the kids I nanny are outside playing basketball and screaming and running around. Wow, I’m a really superior caretaker, yes? But it is sort of ironic—now I’m the one abusing technology while they play in the fresh air.

Anyway, when I started my freshman year at college, my roommate brought a 14-inch TV and I was beside myself, mindlessly watching any show that happened to be airing. I thought things like Cheers and Who’s the Boss? were new shows. I had no idea they’d been off the air for 15 years. It was a very exciting time.

Who's the Boss?

But I maintain that my favorite part of watching any movie or television show is the escapist element, and nothing meets that need quite like a good musical. It’s somehow more impactful when a character expresses him- or herself in song. Or when you can tell people are falling in love because they’re dancing together on a bridge in Paris. Or on a rooftop in New York City. Or on a soundstage on the MGM lot. And sometimes their costumes change IN THE MIDDLE OF A SONG. It’s like magic!

And when you’re in a foul mood or feeling sad, there’s nothing like singing a torch song with Judy Garland or Marni Nixon to get you fully into that truly self-pitying, pathetic mind set that feels so bad it’s good. (“Look at how tragic I am, world! It’s sooooo SAD!”)

Man, I could really use some magic today because I am a grade-A, cranky bitch and I’m taking it out on everyone around me.

But the kids have decided to watch Elf tonight. And that has some magic, too. Nothing could be too terrible in a world where Ed Asner is Santa Claus.

Ed Asner or Santa Claus? Or both?

*"The Best Things Happen While You're Dancing" by Irving Berlin, from White Christmas, 1954.