Lessons of the Day

Today I learned:

1) I can no longer get away with eating half a scone and a few pretzel fish all day and expect to dance my li’l heart out at 7 p.m.  (Like I used to, back when I was 34…)  After the first turn combination during jazz , I felt so dizzy I actually had to scope out potential puke-spots in the studio (hmm, potted plant or recycle bin?), and though at first I thought, “Bun in the oven?”  I quickly remembered that I had forgotten to eat anything with any sort of vague hint of nutrition all day.  I limped through class, trying to “snake” and twirl and wiggle my hips, all the while thinking, BANANA.  BANANA.

2)  I also learned that I should always listen to my mother.  Dropping off Moo to play at my mom’s house, I told my mom I was heading out to Scottsdale to buy jazz shoes, because I need them for all the new dance classes I’m taking.  “Don’t you already have jazz shoes?” she asked.  But Moo was doing something cute, and all I heard was, “Donnuh hah juh shoo?”  So I drove 45 minutes to Barry’s Capezio in Scottsdale, because they’re the best dance store in town, tried on five pairs of jazz shoes, bought the cheapest pair (of course), drove 45 minutes back home, ate lunch, started cleaning the house, and was in the bathroom, deep in Comet when I suddenly thought, “Hey, wait a minute, don’t I already have a pair of jazz shoes?”  So I dug deep in the closet, and - yes.  Yes I do.  In fact, I have two.  (Now three.)

Anybody need a pair of size 7 Capezio jazz shoes?

Adieu, Pierre

I believe I’ve made my last visit to Pierre’s House of Pain (a.k.a. ballet class).  My last class with Pierre started out well – when we started plie-ing, Pierre pulled me off the barre and asked me to dance at the center barre instead.  Hooray! I thought.  Pierre wants to show me off as an example!  Then he whispered, “That barre was getting a little crowded.”  Oh.

But then things improved, as Pierre suddenly approached and asked if he could touch me.  Mon Dieu!  I said you betcha, Pierre, and he proceeded to correct my center placement (like, the place in your body that allows you to twirl and leap and oh, everything) in a way that, in one moment, improved my dancing tenfold.  But 15 minutes later, there I was scowling and miserable once again, as Pierre asked us to do a complicated center routine that exactly one dancer could do well (and she was obviously a professional, slumming it in the adult class just for giggles).  I’d had enough of feeling so discouraged, so I packed away Pierre’s invaluable piece of advice in my memory and silently bid adieu to his perfectly toned buttocks.

Then two things happened:

1.  I learned that Phoenix Theatre is having a summer dance program!  Last week I went to their musical theatre dance class, expecting the teacher to make up a dance to a Broadway tune a la Tyce Diorio on SYTYCD.  Instead, she’s actually recreating original choreography, so I learned the Jerome Robbins choreography to “Cool” from West Side Story, something I would never get to dance normally, since I am not a man, and also kind of old.  In addition, the teacher made us do about 200 sit-ups and 20 (non-girly-style) push-ups.  Who does that??  Ow.  But my sleeveless tops and bathing suit appreciated it.

2.  My friend Leslie (who has embarked on a quest of her own) told me about a jazz class at this new(?) studio called Sway, which is a dance studio MEANT FOR ADULTS, something I have dreamed about since moving to Phoenix.  I went last Tuesday and felt like I’d found a new dance home.  I felt really comfortable with the level of difficulty, and oh joy, we did a dance to “The Way You Make Me Feel,” my favorite MJ song to dance to, so I feel like I got to say goodbye to MJ in my own way.

In one week I went from suffering through a miserable ballet class to finding two dance classes I love.  Ballet is wonderful exercise, but there’s very little joy in dancing ballet (at least for me).  When I dance to Michael Jackson, or pretend I’m a member of the Jets, dancing to “Cool,” I feel – well, like that wise Billy Elliot once said, I feel like I sorta disappear.  And I’m just there.  Flying like a bird.  Like electricity.

Pierre et Suzanne

Two more ballet classes down! 

I had the Pierre Experience again last Tuesday, where he showed signs of a sense of humor (“It’s okay if you’re on the wrong leg.  You only have two legs – you’ll figure it out eventually!”) and even admitted that he wasn’t teaching a beginning-level class.  He explained, in his delightful Stueyesque voice, that he just wants us to keep moving, and we should keep up as best we can.  That’s all fine and dandy, but when you have about five people shuffling cluelessly across the floor everytime we danced a new combination, I’d say that’s a sign something’s not quite right.  But even though I was stuck at the front of the barre again, I did much better, and Pierre even smiled at me – twice!  Maybe it was my newfound sense of I-Will-Not-Let-You-Win-This-Standoff-You’re-Completely-Unaware-Of,-Pierre! or maybe I just got my ballet legs working again. 

I’m starting to find Pierre fascinating.  At one moment, he’ll be laughing at himself for momentarily forgetting the combination, and then the next moment he’s shouting, “WILL NO ONE HELP ME MOVE THIS BARRE?” I think I might love him.  Once, after my group had finished our pirouette (turn) combination, Pierre looked in my general direction and said, “It’s very disappointing to see you do a single pirouette.  Especially someone of your training – what a waste.  Please, you must always try double pirouettes.”  This is the problem with not wearing glasses in dance class – I have no idea if he was talking to me or not.  I have definitely had some training, and I suppose it shows, but then I looked to my right, and saw another girl who also definitely had some training.  I didn’t even know if I should nod or not, so I just gave Pierre a vaguely affirmative expression.  The next time around, I did double pirouettes, and I heard a loud, “YES!  Very good!”  But of course, the other girl was dancing right next to me.  Either way, I’m never doing a single pirouette in Pierre’s class again, and I suppose motivation, even when caused by extreme near-sightedness, is always a good thing.

Then Saturday I went to ballet yet again (coupled with Moo’s frequent demand that we “eggersize,” a.k.a. I do sit-ups while she dances to Beyonce, I’m getting in great shape!), and discovered Pierre’s antithesis – the easy-going, normal-sized Susanne.  Suzanne greeted almost everyone in the class by name, asked about their kids, and cranked down the thermostat (always a big plus in a dance teacher – some teachers seem to consider dance class an opportunity for torture-by-sweating).  I didn’t even realize she was the teacher until she signaled the pianist to begin playing.  Suzanne reviewed every combination multiple times and kept the pace easy-peasy.  I must admit, it was a sweet, sweet feeling to be the best one (along with a few others) in the class.

Between Pierre and Suzanne, I think I should be able to develop a fairly healthy ballet ego, and maybe even a flatter stomach.

Glissade, Jete, Glissade, Jete

I went to ballet last night for the first time in over a year, and I came home wincing and angry.  I’ve attended Ballet Arizona’s adult classes off and on since moving back to Phoenix, and my most beloved teacher, Joe, got fired for some unknown reason when I was pregnant.  (Too funny?  Too freckled?) After I got too big to bourrée, I took a break from ballet until last year, when I started attending regularly for awhile.  But they just haven’t been able to find that Joe magic again.

The last class I attended was taught by a member of the Ballet Arizona company who clearly thought it was far, far below him to teach a bunch of hopeless adults.  He lazed around the studio, trying to keep from rolling his eyes at us and every so often showing off his incredible extension, remarking, “You know, like that.”  That last day, I was unable to make it through class because my inner thighs were completely destroyed from doing the Mommy Crab Walk while helping Moo learn to walk.  When I gave up just a few combinations into the barre, Monsieur Snob saw me limping out and drawled, “Remember to stretch…”  I couldn’t figure out if it was an admonition or a helpful suggestion for rehabilitation.  Either way, I couldn’t stand the guy and stayed clear of ballet, nursing my sore muscles, which improved as Moo got her sea legs working.  With my two shows, I got some great exercise, but as soon as The World Goes Round ended, I fell victim to that familiar self-delusion: I’m in great shape!  I can eat anything I want!  Weee, I’m going to bake banana bread and blackberry turnovers every week!  Then, suddenly:  big ol’ tummy, flappy arms.

So I returned to ballet last night, hoping for a new teacher, and happily I discovered a long-limbed, elegant, grey-haired fellow, let’s call him Pierre.  Unfortunately, I arrived a few minutes late, so I didn’t have to warm up, and I got stuck at the front of the barre, which meant there was nobody in front of me to follow.

Normally that wouldn’t be such a problem, except that it turns out I was way out of shape, and way out of practice.  Also, Pierre seemed to be teaching the class to the two advanced students poaching the beginning/intermediate class.  Ballet has never been my strongest suit in dance, and I have never been able to remember all those damn épaulement positions – effacè, croisè, ecartè – even though I’ve been tested on them many times.  Pierre had us do complicated combinations at the barre, constantly changing directions and adding in lots of  port de bras and blah de blah.  I struggled to keep up, and at the end of one combination, in which I was supposed to have released the barre and balanced in arabesque but sort of forgot what the heck I was doing, and OH GOD my aching muscles, Pierre came up to me.

“I need to see you release so I can tell where you stand technically,” he said.

“Oh – okay, sorry!” I said.

And then I thought: “????”  What the heck is going on?  Why does this feel like an audition, and why am I so concerned with impressing Pierre, when I am here for me, because I love dancing, and I need to exercise?

I wrestled with that question for the rest of the class.  I pushed my body far beyond it’s out of shape limits, at the same time reprimanding myself, “Just do what’s right for your body! You’re here to have fun!”

But there was no fun in that room, no joy of dancing.  Just Pierre quizzing us, “Where does the line of the arabesque end?”  Apparently, it ends with an alien eating out your intestines, since that is the gesture Pierre provided as an answer.

When class finally ended, I stalked out, convinced I’d have to resort to Jazzercise.  But today, my muscles are delightfully sore, especially my booty – and you know you’ve had a good workout when both booty cheeks ache.  So I guess I’ll give it another try, do my best to remember why I’m there, and perhaps just review those épaulment positions.  (And yes, I did have to look up how to spell all those ballet terms.)

That’s Entertainment

Big theatre weekend for me – on Saturday night, Herbie and I miraculously made it to Katy-Molly’s performance of Man of La Mancha at Desert Stages, even though I was a lazy slug and waited to get tickets until they were sold out.  Herbie and I got showed up anyway, got on the waiting list, got tipsy next door at Coco’s and finally made it into the tiny theatre-in-the-round at the last second, although we didn’t get to sit together.  I sat in the front row, where (happily) I had the best possible view to watch Katy-Molly twirl beautifully, and (unhappily) smelled like sweaty actor by the time the show was over.  VERY small theater.

Then last night my Mom and I went to the Celebration of Dance performance and got to see dear beloved Mary the Director, who functions as sort of an Ambassador of Dance in Arizona.  The annual show consists of a wide variety of dance companies, schools and soloists who audition to take part.  We saw everything from belly-dancing to break-dancing, and I loved every second.

Some Lessons Learned During my Theatre Weekend:

1.  Don’t sit in the front row at Desert Stages Theatre.

2.  DO sit anywhere else - they do amazing things in a teeny tiny space.  Wonderful, creative staging!

3.  I know virtually nothing about the Spanish Inquistion.

4.  I wish I had a cool Spanish name like Aldonza (even though she’s a desperate trollop).

5.  Belly dancers have AMAZING bodies.  Am seriously considering belly-dance lessons.

6.  Celtic dancing – not as boring as you’d think!

7.  Apparently I have very firm opinions about dance.  Dear modern dancers:  are you running off stage and on stage, throwing yourself on the ground, doing small stacatto isolations, grabbing your head/knees/stomach, then running off stage again?  I’ve seen it before.  THINK OF SOMETHING NEW.  Please.

8.  Also – Dear dance studios of the world:  Please do not make your young dancers pull stupid faces.  They look like blowup dolls.

9.  Finally, someone else who believes that ABBA’s Chiquitita is long overdue for a dance tribute!

10.  Tap-dancing lives!!  I have a big, big crush on Mike Wittmers, who tore up the floor to a version of Sting’s “Walking on the Moon.”  He was by far the favorite dancer of the evening, receiving round after round of rousing WOO’s, especially after he danced with the sexy belly-dancer during the curtain call.

 Biggest lesson learned – Phoenix is brimming over with talent.  After my last few theatre outings, I am convinced that the Valley (and its sister cities) is filled with incredibly skilled dancers, actors and singers.  It makes me wonder why so many of the professional theaters still bring in outside talent from LA, when they have so many wonderful options right here in town.  Buy local!

Greedy Bitch

Apparently, I’m never satisfied.  First, I just wanted to be in a show.  And I got in a show!  Then, I just wanted to be in the big dance number in the show.  And I got in the dance number!  And now that’s not even good enough, and I want to be in the big whoop-dee-doo portion of the dance number, instead of standing in the back doing boogie-woogie fingers.

I am a greedy, greedy bitch.

I know that not everyone can be in the big dance portion.  I know someone has to be in the back – that’s even what I told my fellow ensemble girl when she complained to me about also wanting to dance more.  And I know that the director promised all these other girls they’d be dancing, and he made no such promises to me.  So I have no reason to complain.

But-but-but! I can dance the shit out of that number!

My new favorite person in the world, Gina, pulled me aside during a break and told me I should just ask J the director if I could be included.  I hemmed and hawed, then rehearsal started again and the director wandered over near her. 

“Hey, can I be in this part of the dance?” she asked. 

“Sure,” he answered, and she trotted up to join the chosen few.  Then turned around to me and mouthed, “Loooooser!”  Complete with a finger-L squarely on her forehead.  I adore her. 

She tried to convince me again later to just ASK him, and I explained, “I just don’t have that thing you have.”   You know, that thing that allows you to open your mouth and say what you think.  I need to be drunk to do that.

By the time rehearsal ended, my body would be contained no longer and INSISTED on at least doing a couple turns.  I needed to spin like McCain needs to stop calling me his friend.  So I waited until everyone was stacking chairs in the other room, made sure no one was watching (although perhaps I secretly hoped someone would walk in and see), did a quick prep and performed five (!) perfect pirouettes.  Probably the best turns I’ve ever done.

Nobody walked in, of course.

So I packed up and went home, and the next day I did some more turns for Moo, who told me, “Nice, Mommy!  Niiiiiiiice.”  And whaddaya know?  Then, I actually did feel quite satisfied.

Dancing with Myself

Coming home from rehearsal last night, I called Herbie to see how his night went with Moo.  He was rather distraught because they were having a wonderful evening, until Moo tripped and fell on her face while tottering along carrying two giant pumpkin buckets.  It broke Herbie’s heart to see her go from happy, pumpkin-lovin’ baby to wailing, red-faced wreck (and it doesn’t help that lately when she cries hard, she holds her breath to the point where she almost passes out – very disturbing).

Trying to console him, I said, well, I guess she has to learn that in life, sometimes you fall on your face.

…Like when you send the director of the show you’re in an email asking if you could possibly be in the big dance number, and you don’t receive a response.  And then you go to rehearsal and you’re left hanging like a loon there, too.

I thought it was a rather self-deprecating, witty email – I didn’t think I was asking too much – just asking.  I did think I’d at least get an answer.  

Maybe I’m actually a really terrible dancer, like those people at the ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ auditions who think they’re Baryshnikov when they can’t even hold a candle to Charo.  

Herbie hounded me all last night to talk to the director, but I don’t think I can do it.  I already spoke up through my email - although I suppose sending an email isn’t exactly making your voice heard - but I can only be so brave.  I’ve been pushing my brave button a lot in the last month, and I think I’m at my limit.

I don’t even know if I’m supposed to be at the dance rehearsal tonight.  I guess I’ll just show up and see if he sends me home or not.

In the meantime… I know it’s kind of pixelated, but oh my God, the moves!  They are LOCO!

Okay, and a nod to the master…. (also kinda pixelated but I cannot resist all the rubling going on!)

 

I’d like to think I’m kind of a cross between the two.  I do like to shake my titties, such as they are.  But I also enjoy a good pirouette (although I cannot do 11).  I’d say my greatest strength (perhaps Herbie can back me up on this?) is shakin’ my ass.  And come to think of it, I suppose there is not a lot of ass-shaking in a 1940’s period musical.  Darn.

Gotta Dance

Yesterday when I came home, I pranced around the house waving my pink script.  But tonight when Herbie asked how it went, I just said, “I dunno,” and flopped on the couch.

Everyone seems very nice, yes.  But they’re all just so… confident.  Self-assured.  Very, like, “ah-haha-ha-ha-ha, isn’t the theatah so deeVINE?”  I just feel so out of place – like I should be fetching them coffee instead of reading lines with them.  And as a rather self-deprecating neurotic-type person, I just don’t know how to interact with the confident form of the species.

Also, I am dying – DYING – to be in the big “Too Darn Hot” dance number that opens the second act.  I’ve got the first line after the number, so I’m pretty sure J the director isn’t planning on having me dance… but I just GOTTA.  I know I’m no spring rose and I can’t do what those teenagers can do, but dammit I can shake what my momma gave me like nobody’s business.  I mean, look:

 

Doesn’t that look like a hell of a lotta fun?

I think I’m going to have to beg the director.  I guess first I’ll have to get beyond showing up to rehearsal, sitting quietly, and then running out the door afterwards without talking to anyone. 

All of a sudden, I just want to dance!  I’m not past my prime, right?  I just need three more hours of stretching than the teenagers do.  And Advil.  Aaand maybe a chiropractor.   … Damn teenagers.

You Have No New Messages

As time ticks on, I feel more and more certain I won’t get a call.  Dance didn’t matter to them before, so why would it now?  And now I know that it was a mistake to try singing in my higher register, which I’ve never done in public before - why the hell did I choose my first audition to challenge myself like that??  I should have belted in my lower register, where I’m more confident.  For those of you who aren’t terribly familiar with singing parlance, higher register basically means, “tra la la lalalalaa!”  And belting means, “DA DA DA DA DAAA!”  I’m sure you’re totally clear on that now.

But anyway, as my imminent rejection draws closer, I’m realizing that I had forgotten just how crappy rejection feels.  It feels, like, really crappy.  Maybe even shitty.  And I hate how I traipse around the house keeping the phone right by my side, even though deep down I don’t think it’s going to ring.

I guess maybe there was a little part of me that hoped my deeply prejudiced loved ones, Herbie and Rosalind, were right and I’d get cast right away.  Maybe even a lead role!  So silly.  It’s funny how even in the midst of great self-doubt, you can imagine yourself as the next stage superstar.

Shoot.  Guess I’m going to need to learn to handle rejection better – I mean, I’ve only been rejected at auditions like three times – professional actors face rejection every day!  Jeez, get a spine, woman!

At least Moo is napping, or pretending to nap, which is the best excuse I can think of to go grab a nap myself.  And hope to be awakened by a ringing phone.

So I Think I Can Dance? (Dance, Dance…)

I recreated the dance portion of the audition for Herbie - check it out:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZOWIE! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 KABLOWIE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My God, I WAS brilliant, wasn’t I!”