The GPS tried to kill us...again.

To be fair, the GPS didn't so much try to kill us as it tried to make Chris go crazy so that he killed us. Clever GPS. It started out so innocent...

"Let's go eat enchiladas and go to Value Village," I said. "MMMM....enchiladas," Chris said.

After consuming an entire Mexican village worth of food, I google Value Village. I opt for the one that seems closest. We get into the area where the Value Village is supposed to be, but no VV in sight.

Chris: I thought you knew where it was.

Me: I know approximately where it should be. What, you need EXACT directions?

Chris: Apparently you do.

Me: How long have you known me?! My motto is,"It's Around Here Somewhere."

Chris: *grumble, grumble*

Me: It's like an adventure!

Chris: *stabbing eyes out*

Me: Fine. That's why we have the GPS.

Or so we thought....

GPS: Go 300 feet and make a right.

Chris: Wait...there's no place to turn.

GPS: Recalculating. Go .2 miles and turn left.

Chris: Ok...no...that's a one way!

GPS: Recalculating! Turn right then make a right.

Chris: ?

GPS: Recalculating. Recalculating! RECALCULATING!

Me: The map is spinning. That can't be good....

Chris: *rage* *anger* *vein in forehead throbbing*

Me: Uh, honey? You ok?

GPS: TURN RIGHT THEN RIGHT RECALCULATING!!!!!

You know when the Hulk is totally about to Hulk out? Yeah, it was kinda like that....
Chris takes the GPS and hurls it into the back seat. There is silence. I wonder if I should say anything (probably not). Then...

GPS: Recalculating.

I couldn't help it. I busted out laughing. It was so goddamned funny! Gales of hysterical laughter. Then Chris broke up too. Pulled over on the side of the road dying laughing. He actually had to get out of the car and climb into the back seat to retrieve the (apparently possessed) GPS. We re-entered the address and it seemed to be working fine.

Chris: This Value Village better be good.

GPS: Arriving at your destination on the right.

Me: Oh, you mean the Value Village that is now a Grocery Outlet?

Hulk angry.....

Objectify me....please!

I've had this post buzzing around in my head for a while now, and I think it's finally ready to come out. At the last burlesque class we were talking about costuming and finding those last minute things like stockings or pastie glue. Holly was saying that many of the local adult stores will give discounts to sex workers for those kinds of items. "And burlesque performers are considered sex workers." Now, I have no problem with that label. In fact, anything that let's me start out a conversation with, "So ever since I became a sex worker..." is fine by me. But it started me thinking about the negative connotation of the term "sex worker" and, in general, about the reactions to women choosing to take their clothes off.

When I talk about burlesque, something I hear a lot is "Well, it's not like you're stripping." Except that I'm taking my clothes off. For a crowd. So it is stripping. And what's wrong with that? There's all this discussion about how burlesque is an art form, a show, something that is elegant and classy. And that's true. But it can also be dirty, funny or grotesque. And let's not forget that the whole point is to end up with less clothes on than when you started. The common argument is that stripping, or any kind of sex work, is demeaning to women because it promotes them as sex objects. And I say again, (pause for shocked gasps) what is wrong with that? Not that demeaning women is ok. Ever. But why does being seen as a sex object automatically have to be demeaning? Burlesque and stripping are both about being sexy, making your audience think sexy thoughts about you, and being a sex object. For that time, at least. I can want people to see me as a sex object while I'm on stage, and not necessarily when I'm off. And that's really the problem, isn't it? If I'm a sex object at any point in time, then I must be one all of the time.

We live in a society that wants everything packaged neatly in a little box. Everything is either black or white, no grey. You're either pro-choice or anti-choice. You're either gay or straight. (What, bisexual people are just indecisive?) You're a virgin or you're a whore. You're completely male or completely female. No in between. Why? Why is that? It's so artificial. I'm no one-trick pony. I AM A COMPLEX PERSONALITY! It's more fun that way. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. I'm not advocating hypocrisy here, I'm just saying you can be a bunch of different (sometimes conflicting) things without being any one of those things exclusively. You are greater than the sum of your parts.  In the realm of sex and sex work, this is a hard concept for society to grasp.

The other argument I have heard about why sex work is demeaning to women is the one that goes, "Women in the sex industry are being abused and taken advantage of, therefore, women should not work in the sex industry." I'm speaking more about women who strip and/or prostitute at this point, rather than burlesque performers. But why should I hold burlesque somehow above stripping/prostituting? It's still all sex work. I resent the notion that women aren't smart enough or savvy enough to determine what situations are safe for them. I resent the notion that women who want to take off their clothes or in any other way sell sex must have low self-esteem or an unhealthy view of sex or sexuality. I don't deny that in some cases, maybe many cases, this is true. Women are being exploited and taken advantage of. Women are turning to the sex industry because of skewed body image and emotional issues relating to sex. But there are also healthy, empowered women making the choice everyday to embrace their sexuality in whatever way feels appropriate for them. And if that means taking off your clothes, then so be it.

What I want to know is, why are we questioning women who work in the sex industry and not the industry itself? Or why do we question the women and not society that makes sex out to be wrong or bad?


Ok, confession here. I started this post on Wednesday, full of righteous anger and indignation. I had more to say, but just needed a break from writing. Then never had time to get back to it that day. And then Thursday happened. I'm not saying that the rest of what I was going to write isn't important, I feel that it is.  I'll give you the short version. I had a whole diatribe about how we need to implement a paradigm shift in how we think about sex in general. How we need to stop blaming the women who want to be sexy and start valuing sexuality. There was a lot. But I'm not angry anymore. And here's why....

Thursday was THE BIG SHOW! The debut of the first class of the Rose City School of Burlesque. And it was amazing! I feel (almost) speechless. I don't know what I was expecting, but the amount of support in that room was mind blowing. We were all nervous. The show was at eight and we had all been there since about five. We took our pictures and ran through a couple of rehearsals. We helped each other get ready and troubleshoot issues with music, costumes, or routines. We talked about our worries and fears. We cheered each other on.

And then it was show time. Peeking out from behind our curtain, we saw a packed house. That in itself was crazy. All these people just for us! That's when the nerves hit. We all reassured each other that we could do this, this crazy idea we had to take off our clothes. The first of us stepped up, opened that curtain, and totally fucking nailed it! Home run, out of the ballpark. The crowd was roaring, screaming in delight. Back behind the curtain, all she could say was, "That was the best fucking feeling EVER."

Then, it was my turn. I step out from behind the curtain. The lights are bright. I straighten myself, and channel the most bad-ass part of my personality. And then I strut. Through the crowd, up to the stage. I can see Chris and my friends in the front row. I step up onto the stage, back to the audience. I look over one shoulder, wink, and slap my ass. And the crowd goes wild. The rest of my routine is a blur, but what stands out the most is how exhilarated I felt the whole time. It's impossible to feel insecure or self-conscious when the crowd is hanging on your every movement. When they scream and yell at every bump. When they go crazy at every glove dropping. When someone yells, "You're so hot!" from the back of the room! And then it's over. And all you want is to go out there and do it again.

Afterwards, people would come up to us and tell us how amazing we were. How sexy. How great we did. Total strangers stopped me on the way out to congratulate me. They hoped they could see me perform again. It was surreal. And totally gratifying. How can this not be empowering?!

The number of people that came to our show, and the level of support they showed all of us, amazed me. The support of my classmates and teachers made me able to get up there. In the face of such overwhelming goodwill, my righteous anger dissolved. Yes, there are those who would look down on me for doing what I did. Yes, we live in a society with a totally fucked up view about sex and sexuality. Yes, we still need to do what we can to educate people. But what I experienced on Thursday night made me realize that the new burlesque scene is doing just that. There are a hell of a lot of people that get it. And yeah, some of it is because we live in Portland. But it has to start somewhere.

I am SO doing this again.

None of Your F--cking Business, That's What...

Last week my friend Jessi was visiting from Canada. So, being the good host that I am, I of course forced  her to come along on my Burlesque Costume Excursions. Deep into Outer South East we ventured, making our way to the elusive Joann's Fabrics. I had crafted a set of pasties and I needed to cover them with some pretty fabric. I found some I liked and proceeded to get in the line for fabric cutting. When my number was called I handed my fabric to a 50ish man with a ponytail. Out of all the little old ladies cutting fabric, he was the only man. I only actually needed about six inches worth of fabric, but figured a yard would give me room to make a few prototypes. And you never know when some extra fabric will come in handy in a costume. Just one yard of fabric and then I was out the door. But no, I had to get the nosy guy.

Me: One yard please.

Him: Just one yard? What are you making?

What went through my head at this point went something like this: What did he say? Did he just ask what I was making? Why? Crap. I can't say "pasties". Uhh. Uhhh. Say something! Anything!

Jessi told me later that I looked like a deer in the headlights. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, making frantic "hurry up" gestures. Now normally I'm pretty quick on the draw. A witty comment, a lie, something should have rolled right off my tongue. Not this time, however. This time, what came out of my mouth was....."A hat?"

FAIL!!! Wow, that was lame. What was even better was, according to Jessi, I also made the accompanying "i don't know" shrug. So clearly, I was lying. And badly. As we exited the store, the hilarity of that exchange hit us. Doubled over with laughter, all we can say is "A HAT!" Really, a hat? That's the best I could do? Of course a list of more probable, or a least, funnier ideas came to mind almost instantly.

1. A jaunty cape for my cat, Mr. Oliver Angus McWhiskers.

2. A satin tea cozy.

3. A replica of Scarlett's green dress from Gone With the Wind...for Barbie.

4. None of your fucking business, that's what.

Yeah, that would have been great....

The Pastie Files

I can't believe tonight is the final night of class. It's down to the (under)wire now people. Tonight we present our ideas for our routines. Music, dance, costume-whatever we have in the works. I feel ready to get my ideas out there. I've got my music picked out and a rough estimate of how my routine is gonna go.  Entrance....no idea....take off gloves.....no idea........take off skirt.....no idea.....take off corset.....no idea....BIG FINISH! Maybe I should insert jazz hands in there somewhere. Or not.

 I have some of my costume done, but the majority still needs work. I do have a really cool corset though. It makes my waist super tiny. Or course that's after someone exerts about 1,000 lbs of pressure on the lacings! Suck it in! (foot up on the back) Pull! I bought if off of ebay of all places, cheap from Hong Kong. The seller actually sent me two by accident, and not wanting to fuck up my karma I wrote her to tell her that. The email I received in return was priceless. "Thank you for your honest. Since you already get it, how about I sell you cheap? Five dollars?" Uh, thank you, but no. I then told her I would be happy to send it back, but I wasn't paying shipping costs. The reply-"Oh, shipping cost too much. You keep, give to your friend. Give me good rating." Awww, she thinks I have friends.

So at the beginning of this class, I had a moment of total insanity excitement and bought three corsets which resulted in a temporary ban from ebay by Chris. But my question is, why do all corsets come with a generically sized, matching G-string? Do people wear them? I'm sure as hell not going to. They are not flattering. But if you buy enough corsets, what do you do with them? Weave them in to a sail for a boat? Some kind of net? Or maybe we should start a G-string drive for strippers who can't afford them.

The other thing I need to get is pasties. Kind of an important part of the costume if that's all that's between the audience and my naughty bits. I never knew how many types there were. It's like a pastie wonderland out there! Hearts, flowers, stars, aces, skulls (yes, skull pasties) oh my! The best thing I saw-black pasties with FLASHING red hearts hanging off of them. Oh, yeah. From a company called Elegant Moments. Ohhh, yeah. And in the "Customers who bought this product also bought"-A Live Butterfly Garden? Really? Pasties and butterflies? Whatever.

I also FINALLY mastered putting on false eyelashes. Waaaaay harder than it looks. I've been struggling with that for weeks, but a great tip about using tweezers to place them has paid off. Thanks Miss B! As long as I don't poke myself in the eye. Thanks corneal abrasion! When I actually got them on straight for the first time I let out a cry of triumph and ran into the living room.

Me: I'm a woman now!

Chris: You weren't before?

Me: Look at my eyes!

Chris: They're magical.

Me: AHHHHHH!

Needless to say, it was a powerful moment.

So now it's time to put it all together. We have our last class, then two weeks off before the big graduation show. Stay tuned....

Why you don't buy a GPS from Tony Soprano...

Picture, if you will, an innocent night out. An unfamiliar location. A GPS, gone....MAD! This is the chilling true story of The GPS That Tried to Kill Them. Or tried to kill two people. That were we. Or us. Crap, now I've forgotten both which person I'm writing in and proper grammar, apparently. Great. Hey, I went to public school when George W. Bush was governor of Texas. It's a fucking miracle I can write or speak at all. Anyway....


After a rousing night of watching hot chicks in fishnets try to kill each other (i.e Roller Derby), we were on our way to a bar for a couple of drinks. I guess I should have specified that the hot chick were on skates. That would have made the "i.e. Roller Derby" more obvious. As it's written I could have been talking about Foxy Boxing. Which also would have been awesome. But I digress, as I am wont to do...(this one time...No!) So we're in Sellwood. Which is not an area I'm that familiar with. So we take out our trusty GPS and plug in the address. We're driving along, chatting, having some laughs when I realize that we have followed the GPS into a, shall we say deserted, area. By a river. Near some woods. What next? Is the GPS going to tell us to get out of the car? Maybe walk a little further into the woods? It will make us feel safe and comfortable. Maybe offer us a drink, ask how the family is. Then accuse us of squealing to the Feds! No, no we'll protest! You've got the wrong guy (and girl)! It was Jimmy the Snitch that talked, I swear!

GPS: Make a right in 25 feet.

Me: Where? Into the woods? Ok, whatever...

GPS: Exit the car. Take GPS receiver with you.

Me: Wow. This better be a great bar. I don't even see a parking lot.
(walking through woods. dark, dark woods.)

GPS: Did you really think you could get away with it?

Me: What? Huh?

GPS: You shoulda known better than to rat on me!

Me: Well shit. I knew we shouldn't have bought this from that mobster. Fell of the back of a truck my ass! This is why you get a warranty!

Of course the GPS didn't really kill us. We got to it first....

Burlesque and the art of LOOK AT ME!

I am in LOVE with my Burlesque class! The kind of love that frolics with unicorns in fields of flowers under perfect blue skies. Yes, that kind of love. Let me re-cap the two classes I've had so far... We have four amazing instructors and 10 (including yours truly) eager students. We spend a lot of the first class talking about the history of burlesque and just getting to know one another. We talk about how we decided to leap off of this particular bridge and a little about what we hope to gain from this experience. (world wide fame and adoration)
The students are mostly in that 25-35 year old range, normal Portland gals, different body types, different backgrounds...and then one somewhat older woman. She seems nice enough, kind of has that earth goddess, granola, patchouli vibe goin' on. She's talking about how, in her search for a creative outlet, she recently "came out as a clown". Um. Ok. Do clowns "come out"? Out of where? I really hope not a closet. Cuz' that's pretty disturbing scary fucking terrifying creepy. Maybe they come out of a clown car...

In class two we talk about the theatrics of burlesque. It's not all about shakin' your tail feathers, there's a lot of acting going on. We practice conveying different emotions and personalities using body language. Seductive vs. innocent. Flirty vs. cold-hearted. The way you walk, the way you make eye contact or don't, the way you set your arms, shoulders, hips. All of this can change the mood of a routine. This is the first time we're having to really DO anything in front of the class. Right away I'm noticing how almost everyone gets super shy and embarrassed all of a sudden.
(not me, I love an audience)
Our Drama Queen instructor, Sadie, sits us all down for a Drama Mama chat. Her point is that everyone has issues that come up in these classes. Body, self-esteem, shyness, the list goes on. Getting past all of those things is part of the reason people are here. She also makes a good point about how so many women grow up with all of that "seen and not heard" bullshit. It's time to stand up and shout "I deserve your attention!" All of these are good, valid, pertinent points. Personally though, I have no idea what she's talking about.  That's not entirely true perhaps, but I mean, come on, I'm a Leo and an only child for cryin' out loud. I was BORN an attention whore. If anything I have to constantly remind myself it's not always about me. It should be though. What? I'm NOT the center of the universe?
I have body issues and insecurities. I still get nervous before karaoke. But I love that spotlight way more than I'm scared of it. And I don't embarrass all that easily. I think that has something to do with the fact that I do potentially embarrassing things pretty much on a regular basis. You make a fool out of yourself enough times and I think you get desensitized or something...

Our next class is hair and make-up. So stoked for that one! I went out and bought a pair of super glam false eye-lashes. I'm just glad I'll be trying them for the first time under professional supervision. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye...

So I'm taking my clothes off....in public

The glare from the stage lights. The sparkle of rhinestones. The hush that comes over the crowd as the music starts. The bump. The grind. This is burlesque, and this is fucking awesome. I have always had an obsession a fascination with retro style. (Come on, who isn't turned on by Dita Von Teese) The elaborate hair, the swoopy eyeliner, the seamed stockings. And all the pretty, pretty, PRETTY underthings. Those of you who know me are aware that I don't put too much effort in to my appearance. It's not that I don't like to get dressed up, but I don't wear heels and I don't even own mascara. But I wish I did. So here I am on a Saturday night. Sitting in a packed auditorium watching a parade of gorgeous women take their clothes off. It's like a Vargas gallery come to life. And I love it. I wish I looked like all of these women. Confident, graceful, bedazzeled within an inch of their lives. I want to do that. So I'm gonna.
(Pause for shocked gasps)

Starting this Thursday (as in tomorrow, eep!) I will be attending a six-week course at the Rose City School of Burlesque. Topics include the history of burlesque, creating a burlesque persona and various acts, music, hair and make-up (thank god), and dance. Then at the end of the class we all take our new found sexy skills and have a performance. In. Public. Well, the public of our friends and whoever we want to invite. But still. Public.

I said before that I felt 2010 was going to be a good year. Part of that, for me, includes a certain amount of re-invention in my life. Yeah, yeah there's the old stand-by of lose weight, eat better, but I want more than just that. I want to do something that I've never done, but always wanted to. Something that scares the shit out of me, but is so unbelievably exciting as well. Something that allows me to buy corsets off of Ebay like a mad woman.

So tune in faithful readers for a running account of how to be a burlesque beauty. Look forward to intense discourses on proper corset fitting. A treatise on pasties, perhaps. A composition on false eyelashes. An ode to the stocking.
At the very least, I'll finally learn how to walk in heels.

And now for your viewing pleasure, a video of the wonderful Holly Dai who started the Rose City School of Burlesque and is one of the instructors. The red-head announcing her is Sadie LeGuerre, also a well-known performer and instructor.