Sassafrass

Yes, I was in Vegas. No, I wasn't blogging.

I meant to. No, really. Seriously. Stop laughing. I honestly intended to pay the twenty bucks a day to keep you updated on all my hijinks in the first real vacation I've had on this side of single living and only the second I've had since *cough*fiveyears*cough*. But then I went to Vegas and inhaled all that second-hand smoke and got all relaxed by $8 bottles of beer and all overstimulated on the ding of slot machines and the lovely shh-shh of vinyl rubbing 22-year old ass just barely contained by said vinyl, and then...well, clearly it was ovahhh.

Not ovahhh as much as a fun and funny and sparkly and spendy long weekend with one of my best grrrls, Mack, for the wedding of one of my favorite guys (and by guys, I mean boyyyz, which is what I hear all the vinyl-assed kids in Vegas are saying these days).

We hit a show, had a great dinner, got some sun, and did more walking than one should on vacation.

I am sure this will lead you to ask: What is the appropriate number of pairs of shoes a respectable shoe whore should take to Vegas?

The answer's after the jump. More hijinks to follow. As soon as I find the pics of Mack in her brand new vinyl skirt.

It always comes back to the boa

Lil E is tucked away in the suburbs with his dad for a blissful weekend of Scooby Doo and chicken nuggets and I have some time for me. I have plans -- drinks and a party with my grrrlfriends and working on some writing projects that have been whispering to me for weeks now.

But tonight, I looked back a little to a time before everything changed. I went to a burlesque show my former teacher does with several other women on Friday nights. It's called Lipschtick and pairs the burlesque numbers with comics for what her site says is a bit of "honey meets funny."

Really, the funny was just sort of funny. But the burlesque...well, it got me thinking.

It made me really miss how good I felt shimmying and stripping off satin gloves in one of the best workouts and hours of empowerment, courage and delight I've ever had in a big room lined with mirrors.

I want to go back. The logistics aren't that easy. The teacher has her own studio that's tricky for me to get to at the times I'd need to be there. But I need something. And not just to tone up my thighs, but to get me back to the feeling that was sinking in a year ago. The feeling that shaking it serves a purpose -- me. It feels good.

I've been working so hard on all the internal stuff and I think it is time to take some of that freedom, wrap it in a boa and fishnets and get to work on all the rest.

I'm not sure how I'm going to do that yet, but I've taken a good ankle-strapped step forward. I'm thinking about it.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming

Is it possible to have major let-down and intense freak-out stress all at once? Oh yeaaaah, it's called motherhood, right? Or maybe, it's called being a mother-writer-blogger-wife-sassy layday trying to squeeze a vacation in once in a while. Just when I felt I was catching up on sleep/blogspiration/laundry/email after BlogHer, we shipped the kid off to Camp Grandma & Grandpa and headed to Vegas with two of our BFF couples.

I am sure you are all fidgety with curiosity: How was Las Vegas?

My answer: Ehhh.

I realized about an hour into our vacation that I don't love casinos, which is not the best revelation to have when you are about to spend four days in Las Vegas. But to me, casinos are loud and depressing (again with the dichotomies) and put me into an overstim that is very similar to the first time I showed Lil E a Baby Einstein DVD (which quickly - thank the goddesses -- was replaced by American Idol).

Perhaps it is because we are on a pretty tight budget around here since the total disappearance of Miss Noncommittal Lazy Pants, Bruce's thrice weekly cash-wielding, crying out for therapy more than crunches client has disappeared into the northern 'burbs, most likely in a puddle of underdeveloped biceps and Egg Beaters (not that I'm bitter about clients who never call their personal trainers back, JACKIE!*). We shouldn't have counted on the income but we did, and so that led us straight to the casinos with very little to gamble.

But not gambling was not really the issue. Gambling bores me. I'm good for twenty minutes and then I'm ready for a detox, preferably in a non-smoking bar where they make excellent lemon drops.

I should qualify my boredom by telling you I grew up in a gambling family. When we played Hearts with my Grandma Alice, we were all expected to pitch in our pennies. If we won, we celebrated. If we lost, we lost. And if we cried or complained, according to Grandma Alice's father's rules, the cards went into the fire in the woodstove (or the junk drawer, in our case).

I grew up betting on the Kentucky Derby and if necessary, by round-robin phone calls minutes before the horses hit the gate. We heard many stories of my grandfather's ability to count cards effortlessly and how my mother spent much of her childhood at the track. Even though my parents have scaled back the gambling habits of their parents' generation, we still place wagers on the Oscars and pull out jars of change for card championships at the holidays.

The slots and craps and blackjack and roulette, though, just don't trick my trigger. To make matters more uninteresting, I just did not get why it was entertaining to walk the long, scorching strip to see hotel after hotel.  After the initial ooh and ahh over rain from the ceiling or a leg of the faux Eiffel Tower sticking out in one corner, everything seemed swallowed up by the familiar bad cocktail uniforms, whirls and dings, tables and overstim.

Here's the good part: We were with our friends and they are amazing. We laughed and had drinks and told stories and used short-hand that only the six of us understand.

We lazed by the pool and hit the steam and sauna spa in the hotel. We ate one of those crazy Brazilian meatgasm dinners and saw a mediocre  comedy show that was saved by Jimmy Schubert (who's he again?) and April Macie (if you saw April Macie on Last Comic Standing a couple of seasons ago, know that she's much funnier and much raunchier live).

We also had a blast at a little pub in New York New York where the dueling piano act is hilarious and rockin' and goes great with one or five Coronas (the beer here's only $5.50 a bottle...bargain!). Here's how much fun we had dancing and singing at the tops of our lungs for 3-1/2 hours until my blisters throbbed and my voice was nearly gone (oh effin' yes, more blisters, even in the cute flats unpadded flats from the depths of Miss Thang hell I bought just for the occasion):

So it's not the most attractive of poses, but dude, we were singing Journey. What else was there to do? It was like a requirement to get all Rockstar: Supernova-ed like that.

Check out my Bizarro Mother-In-Law. I don't mean that as an insult, I mean it as the strange coincidence of my MIL look-alike  (in the floral shirt) planted right next to our friend (in the red shirt) at the bar all night long. Crazy, right?

We did not make a burlesque show after all, but Bruce and I made a deal when we hobbled home one night while our friends cruised on to more casinos that we'd be sure to get to Lipschtick and soon. I'm a little disappointed that I missed all those feathers and sheer-rhinestoned costumes that gives my inner seven-year old a little thrill, but I will be just fine. After all, I may just become that dancing grrrl myself, and wouldn't that be a kick?

* Of course, that's not her name, people. And either is Miss Noncommittal Lazy Pants. Stop looking for clues. If you think I am talking about you, stop reading immediately and CALL YOUR TRAINER!

Where are my pasties when I really need them?

Just when I'm beginning to get past my BlogHerxhaustion, Bruce and I are leaving for our very first adults-only vacation to (cue the lights)Vegas, baby.

Not to worry, I've purchased a pair of adorable flats (I know! How adult of me, right?) so as not to become one giant throbbing blistered Band Aid on the strip (ewww). 

Lil E's off to Camp Grandma & Grandpa.  We will be there with our married people BFFs and I'm hoping not to freak them out too much by mentioning the va-va-Vegas shows that my burlesque teacher told me I must see. I've gotten that look when I mentioned packing my laptop into my carry on. So it looks like you may just have to wait for boozed up, glitterati, boas, smoldering hot,daddies over-casinoed and mommies poolside pictures, sweets.

Until then, I will leave some Lifetime Channel-like programming for you to enjoy.

Like a junkie who hasn't even gotten a taste yet

This is so cool. It's like the Amazing Race meets playgroup, all ending up at a political, product-reviewing scrapbooking workshop.

This makes me all amped up and also gives me the "am I going to need to diagram this sentence?" sort of jitters.

Holy shit! How did I not know this blog existed? I am clearly the most boring blog-searcher evah.

Call this  and this research.  Or the best homework of all time. (Curvalicious ladies doing strip-tease?! What a confidence surge).

Don't get too sick of BlogHer and burlesque talk yet, kittens! I have so much more to go on and on and on about. Just you wait.

Burlesque, week six: The nightie is off for good

We've moved on from the choreographed dance just in time for me to actually remember all the steps. There's no time to waste picking boa feathers from your sticky neck! We are on to thigh-highs.

We did our normal warm-up full of excrutiatingly sensual moves and floor work and then turned our attention and the last half of the class to the removal of thigh-highs during a performance (private or otherwise). We learned a few tricks for extending the leg to make a beautiful line and what to wiggle to make all that derobing look appealing (and not like you're falling into bed after a long day of breastfeeding and dishwashing and you absolutely can't bear to have those soy butter stained socks on for another freaking minute).

Obviously, you have to take your shoes off to take your stockings off.  And once the stockings are off, there must be careful tip-toeing to ensure that the leg looks just as long and lovely as it did in heels. This sounds easy, but after posing with a taut leg and pointed toe and then doing lots of tippy-toe sashaying and shimmying, this mama had sore old calves for days!

The good thing is, this is fabulous, real-life know-how. I mean, how many times have you taken care to wear scintillating panties and then ended up yanking them off and throwing them in the hamper at the end of the night? (Go on. Everyone nod your head with understanding). With a little ba-da-boom music, a slick little posed thigh-high removal and a sling shot of the lingerie to the hot papa in the front row, honey, all that pulling on, yanking, sucking in and primping could definitely be worth it. Something to ponder while you're wearing those boring old Barely Theres.

Although I was a little sad the dance was stripped, I was happy and sweaty and satisfied to learn how to pull off and fling around those chubbers-roll-pinching thigh-highs while seated seductively on the floor or from a very-balanced stance, should I ever choose to wear them and then of course, take them off.  And I have to admit, I feel quite pleased with myself for having those skills under my garter belt.

Speaking of garter belt...that's up in two weeks. Meow!

Burlesque, week five: Fanny-tastic

I'm not afraid to go to class anymore and I can't fully express what a relief this is.

Sure, I still wish I was a flat-bellied little porcelain-skinned mama with minuscule pores and no visible signs of birthing. But at least this week I had more confidence. Oh, and a sweet little nightie -- shimmery pale blue with little yellow lacy details winking at the decolletage, all flouncy and flirty -- that I found on the hoochie rack at Sears.

Yes, Sears. And darlings, it was way on sale. I was feeling very bargain burlesque, which I guess is better than the alternative of feeling droopy-drawer yoga pantsish.

This week, Miss Fanny Tastic taught the class and I just loved her style. It was fun to shake it up a bit and we worked more on our boa-flouncing, glove-peeling, nightie-tossing dance. She also showed us a few new moves that I loved. My favorite was an arch lift, which you begin by laying down on the floor, one knee bent, toes pointed, arms outstretched. Then you pull yourself up to a seated position, arms behind you and thrusting out the girls, neck bared and head back. I am sure I am painting a picture that scares the hell out of you, but imagine if you will sitting up in bed but a bazillion times more seductive (erase all thoughts of fraternity t-shirts you stole from your hubs that are now stained with mother's milk and PlayDoh). Glorious.

The best part of it all is how high I feel when I leave. It's not just the feathers sticking to my sweaty shoulders or that I remembered all of the choreography at last. It is that surge of endorphins, that my heart is racing, that my thighs are sore and my abs are exhausted. That I eventually stop looking at all the skinnies in class and start focusing me, right in front of me in the mirror. And that I got all of that by doing this one thing, taking this one hour out of the week for myself.

Of course, the lingerie costumes don't hurt a thing either.

Burlesque, weeks three and four: Hypnotic booties and babydolls

Forgive me. My preoccupation with all things potty has prevented me from posting on more important issues, like how fiercely I'm shaking my ass and my search for a babydoll nightie for burlesque class.

Lil E is holding out. No, literally. Holding out. He's mastered the fine art of not going to the bathroom at all until we put him in a Pull Up for naps and night time. We can occasionally convince him to sit on the potty but this boy's iron will is working wonders over his bladder. Can you believe this? I actually get excited when he has an accident. Excited. And not just the fake-cheering over a tiny tinkle that earns an M & M. Oh la la.

So on to the good stuff... I am loving the burlesque class. Although I still get a little nervous and am still very aware of all the skinny minnies without mama bellies in the class, I am embracing it more every single week. And according to last week's revelation, that means I am embracing myself a bit more too. And darlings, that can only be good for women who give their bodies over to human growing, birthing, breastfeeding and kid carrying.

Last week, we added nighties to our dance routine. That's right, loves, props. Sexy props.

I brought a sweet little nightie that I got for my wedding.  I thought it would be fine until I saw the babydolls that other women were pulling on over their exercise clothing. They were all sheer and flouncy and feathery and rrrrrrowl. Of course, my nighty worked just fine but when you are strutting your stuff, the visual is very important. I felt plain. I want pizazz.

I also want dance heels. All of these props certainly aren't necessary but they light a little fire that makes the pain of jiggling my hips for an hour feel really good. I am also practicing a little bit (if only in the shower), feeling more confident (not only that I can do the moves but can remember them and can do them with some va-va-voom)and really wanting to see how I look (yes, in the big studio mirror) and feel when I give myself over completely -- shoes, gloves, feathers, fishnets, flounce and all.

So far, I haven't found a nighty that is more of who I want to be in this class. But I will. Before next week, when we do a full review of all the components of the routine, from the improv at the intro to the nightie flung to the floor.

The started the nighty flinging this week and Michelle, my teacher, told us not to worry if it gets stuck as we hike it up or if we're having other removal troubles.

"Whatever you do," she said, "don't stand still. Move your ass! Circle it! Scoop it! Shake it around!"

And then in some of the best advice I think I've heard ever, she said, "Your booty's mesmerizing! When your ass is shaking, nothing else matters."

And oh, how it felt invigorating -- after a bit of tease on the left and tease on the right -- to shake my own money-maker, slide my nightie up over my head and finally, with drama, twirl and toss. It felt phenomenal.

Can you believe this is exercise? It is challenging in many ways and as I head home, I feel lit up inside for just trying it all. It is fabulous, fabulous fitness.  Even with a plain old nightie and butterflies in my stomach. Imagine how empowering it will be once I'm really dolled up.

Burlesque, week two: My A-HA! moment

My burlesque teacher headed off to Las Vegas for the Miss Exotic World pageant (oh yes, darlings, for which she indeed is the reigning 2005 champion), so our class was canceled for the week. When she told us this week, I had a panic moment. I was having a blast and feeling my jiggly bits firming up already and I want to keep that motivation going. She told us we could come to another beginner class held on another night, so we wouldn't miss a week of all that boob-groping, ass-padow-ing goodness.

Heading to my second class, this time one night early, I felt my nerves bump up again. And again, I soothed them enough to get to the studio by cranking the volume to a little "Sexy Back" over and over and over again. Once again, JT may be saving my sex life. Or at least my ass. Either is good.

Inside the studio, I did the same scan for women who's body and anxiousness I could relate to and relax around. Instead, I found a small crowd of svelte women from the advanced class gathered around my teacher. They were a cha-cha little clique, all fish-netted and leg-warmered in their burlesque confidence. And even worse, I could hear them talking about staying for the beginner class. I couldn't help it. I was crushed.

Even with some other true beginners around me, it was clear I was the big grrrl in the class, and no boa would be floofy enough to cover that up. For all the work I've done and believe in to empower women and fight the fucked up body image crisis in this country, I made the matter worse by beating up on myself for participating in it in that moment.

Thank God for the music. When the music started and the thrusting, posing and shimmying began, those women who's bodies and confidence intimidated me became my focal point. I watched how one woman pointed her toe as she swiveled and turned. I watched how another woman dipped her shoulder and winked simultaneously. I absorbed it all.

And then I turned back to my teacher, pulling her glove off with her finger and making eyes at herself in the mirror and I had the A-HA!

Burlesque, baby!

For over a year, I have been hovering at the edge of fitness. I've been contemplating it, scheduling it and then bailing out at the last minute.

I haven't been inactive, but I've stuck to the easy stuff, to the activities I know, like yoga and walking. I found a yoga class I've loved, that has been good for my body and even better for my spirit. I've loved it. And out of that, I've come out my hibernation and, as the weather's warmed, returned to long walks through the neighborhood with Lil E. In the back of my head, though, there has been something pulling resistant me toward something more daring, more challenging, more risque. Something that's been calling me to burlesque.

I've ignored that call session after session, bailing in the hours just before the first class would begin. I used every excuse I could muster up to keep myself out of the studio I really wanted to be in. Isn't that crazy? How we can talk ourselves out of something we know we will love because of our bodies, our endurance, our fears?

Last week, I finally gave in. I talked it up to my friend Pokey and to Bruce and to myself so I would be less likely to let the class pass me by again.  Pokey, in her infinite wisdom and grrrlfriend support, told me to see it as an experiment, take it an hour at a time rather than build it up as stepping over a life-changing threshold into the dance studio. Bruce just smiled and pointed at the door and told me to just go.

I packed a banana, a bottle of water and my checkbook and headed to Arabesque, a belly dance studio on the northwest side where Michelle L'Amour teaches burlesque classes. Michelle is smiley and friendly and a porcelain-skinned, lithe little goddess. The moment I saw her wink into the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the class behind her, I sensed she had a gift for entrancing. The instant I heard her say, "OK, Ladies, touch your boobs!" as she slid her hands down her own torso, I was hooked.

Before that, I was waiting nervously in the lobby for class to begin. The tape playing in my head said that I wouldn't have enough grace or coordination, that I was still working up my endurance since my surgery months ago and that I would be the biggest woman in the room. As I looked around, I saw women who looked like me, anxious and of all sizes and I felt that finger-wagging tape slow down.

Inside the studio, I befriended a woman who admitted she'd just called her boyfriend to "talk her down" and I watched a woman in her late 50s, with big glasses and in a tennis skirt and a crop-top, baring a belly that had clearly once housed babies. She was posing in front of the mirror with the same confidence as the petite woman I overheard say she was a dance major in college. I felt in good company.

The class was full immersion, like French in college when the professor came in hammering away with jusqu'a and c'est las in a way that both overwhelms and intrigues. I thought of this as we did a long hour of isolated body work and floor work that called my underused abs into action, and I remembered that even though I felt as if I was drowning those first weeks of French, I eventually rose to the surface and spoke with near-fluency that thrilled and challenged me.

Keep at it, keep at it, I replaced the words on the tape. It helped that I decided not to look at myself in the mirror and instead, fix my gaze on my teacher. I am not a choreography grrrl anyway, so it helped to watch her every move. And by switching my focus from the body I've been so unaccepting of in the mirror, I could choose to believe I was as graceful and adept as I wanted think.

Then came the boas. Ahhh yes, there were boas. And elbow-length satin gloves. There was showcasing and sauciness and even when I was getting the drum-driven, music-timed steps wrong, I was having a blast. I booty-bumped and hip-scooped and sashayed to my heart's content. Ninety minutes later, I was sweaty and sore and my heart was racing. Even better, my body felt on fire and I was so proud of myself.

I've been to just one class and I am ecstatic to go back this week. I am not sure burlesque will be the answer to all my body image issues and I don't know if it will sculpt my body into the temple I hope it to be. But I know burlesque will work me hard and I will work it as much as I can in that moment.

For now, I've answered the call, feathers and gloves and strip-teasing and spirit-pleasing and all, and it feels so good.

I'll keep you updated on my journey into burlesque here and on That's Fit. To learn more about burlesque or (gasp) even take your honey or your grrrlfriends to a show, check out Michelle L'Amour's Lavender Cabaret site for events and lots of lovely information.