Evening weirdos,
I don't know what to tell you about this one. I went to see a live production of The Full Monty this weekend. Totally local theater flaky, totally wack set design. All I know for sure is that I saw some butts. I saw. Some butts. And butts that you wouldn't necessarily want to see, except that half the other women in the theater were acting like it was Chippendale's and they hadn't seen a butt in 10 years.
And Lordy, there was a bachelorette party sitting behind us. They came in tipsy and got tipsier as the show went on. The BTB was of course wearing her veil, and it had little glow in the dark penises on it. At one point in the show I heard the sound of things hitting the ground, and she distinctly said, "My penises are falling off!" I thought I was going to die laughing.
What is it about stuff like this? Of the six 90%-naked men on stage, how come when the underpants came off my eyes went straight to the fat guy? It was like looking at the sun. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. I couldn't.
Lord, the random traffic I'm going to get for this post.
When I wasn't busy gouging my eyes out this weekend, I spent a lot of it writing. I started having these random thoughts about my belly dance class and decided to write them down in case I wanted to do something with them. The working title is "The Dork Who Wanted To Belly Dance." Along with the obvious thoughts about being an uncoordinated person trying to learn a very complicated dance form, I've been writing about the fertility ritual origins of belly dance. Of course that got me thinking about all the various ways the female body is characterized in our culture. (Speaking of butts.)
I'm fancying it a kind of Salon.com-esque type deal, but I of course know that getting it placed with such a respectable pub means bribing the teach into letting me ask her probing journalistic questions on the topic--which I HATE doing. No one told me when I decided to be a writer that I would actually have to interview people. But unless you're a lucky-assed famous person, no one cares about your road trip, wedding memoir or hairplug debacle, so you have to bring in somebody with some creds. Sigh.
What am I even worrying about? I have maybe the nicest person in the whole world for a teacher, so of course she'll be cool about it and not yell "Hey tape recorder dork" at me. Like people on the street do.
Argh.
Oh yeah. Minnie got out of the yard the other day. Stupid garbage man left the gate open. She ran down the street, came back when she saw me opening the car door, jumped in the car, and asked me where we were going. She had this look on her face.
