Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I don't really have much to report about last night. I had fun! It looks like Grisly Adam has a girlfriend, Apple Guy continues to send mixed signals despite our "break-up," and I may never master the devilishly simple eight-count swing out. But none of that got to me! Well, at least not for too long. Because the fact that I was actually successfully tossed through the air multiple times by my practice partners- in conjunction with one other critical piece of intel- really made my night...
The Chief never showed up.
I don't know how, why, or where the heck he was, but, beyond not wishing any harm befell him, I was thrilled he took the night off. New people approached me to dance! I felt like a kid out past a dirty-ol'-man-imposed curfew. I felt young and vibrant and free. And here's a news flash: I AM young and vibrant and free!
I guess we can all use a reminder every once and a while.
Sincerely,
Sara
P.S. Omigod. My first PS! Just thought I'd let all you diaries enthusiasts know that I'll be hitting the studio twice a week beginning next week. That means two entries a week. Double the blogging; double the neurtotic, sassy fun!
4.24.2008
4.10.2008
Nobody Puts Peggy In the Corner
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
Last night was not without its triumphs. I wore one of those trendy shorts onesies with footless tights and heels. HOT! Unfortunately, the ensemble’s magic worked best on The Chief, whose response to the outfit was to call me a “tramp!” True story.
Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal were in attendance, along with Apple Guy, who danced quite a few with me. Mr. Apple and I did some of the best dancing of our swing lives last night. But my best turn was with the mysterious Grisly Adam. Let’s face it. I have a bit of a crush on the shy but steady bearded boy who’s just a little bit behind my swing level, giving me an edge of confidence that puts ideas in my head. Grisly only comes out of hiding occasionally, looking like it took all of his nerve to come and ask me to dance. This could be because (a) he covertly dances with his girlfriend most of the night and only looks for some other partnerless girl when she goes to the bathroom, or (b) because he thinks I’m super cute! I have nothing more to say on the matter other than he peaked my interest last night, so today I’m hoping for option b.
I actually don’t want to talk about myself right now though. Shocking, I know. I do want to talk about one of my favorite people in the whole swing universe, Peggy. I met Peggy a little over a year ago when I started working for her, and it was love at first sight. Peggy is a fashion icon to the girls in our workplace. Every day she breezes in looking like a vintage fashion plate from the 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s, often wearing a hat of her own crafting. Peggy is not only fabulously beautiful and fashionable, but she is also truly unassuming about her glamour. She’s bighearted, modest, mischievous, witty, sensitive, sincere, and a terrific dancer to boot! Simply put: She is dazzling inside and out.
So why would someone this amazing have any trouble getting someone to ask her to dance?
That’s the question Apple Guy and I were faced with last night when we found ourselves once again walking to the subway together. (Please try to keep in mind that he is admittedly only attracted to Asian women before your minds go running to a seedy romantic gutter in which they do not belong!) On our familiar walk, Apple Guy mentioned that last week (when I was scarcely speaking to him) he asked Peggy to dance with him for the very first time. Originally, he asked her if she was just taking a rest on the sidelines on purpose, as most advanced follows, such as herself, are on the dance floor all night long. However, much to his surprise, she responded that she, in fact, rarely got asked to dance.
Enter the rakish, handsome, exceedingly popular swing teacher, “Woody Bellagamba.” AKA: Peggy’s husband. I know, I know, Woody and Peggy’s combined names may seem too quaint a bit of assonance to bear for all the days of this blog. Trust me; there was just no getting around it.
Now, Woody Bellagamba is 100% extraordinary in his own right. He’s a marvelous professional swing dancer with his own flair for vintage fashion. In sexy opposition to each other, at first glance, Woody is a rougher, roguish, definitively male answer to Peggy’s lady-like demeanor. They’re like a grown-up version Sandy and Danny from Grease, minus the singing and camp. Whereas Peggy excels in all things ballroom, Woody prefers the down and dirty, fast-paced world of lindy hop. They’re the Green Acres couple of the dance studio. Hold on a minute while I think of another old school film or tv reference to better explain how I see their relationship. He’s Mork; she’s Mindy. He’s the Ghost; she’s Mrs. Muir. He’s Oscar; she’s Felix. He’s Scarecrow; she’s Mrs. King. He’s Rock; she’s Doris. He’s Cagney; she’s Lacey. If Mary Tyler Moore could date the Fonze, you’d get Peggy and Woody. Get it? It works. It’s hot!
…to the untrained eye!
Actually, they’re smoldering in any light. But when you see Woody cutting a rug all night with every lovely swing enthusiast tart on the floor, while Peggy waits in hope of a partner on the side, you start to wonder. Now don’t get me wrong; they do dance together. Because it draws on their combined dance fortes, they dance a particularly mean Peabody. But whether Woody is aware of it or not, he’s like a rooster in a hen house when it comes to our little dance studio. All the women want him. Hell, last time I checked, I wanted him! (Don’t worry, Peggy. It’s a purely figurative lust.) So, while Woody happily swings with all of his students, Peggy, who is also clearly adored by her own male following, has a huge, invisible, rubber stamp on her hat that says:
Property of Mr. Woody Bellagamba. Hands off!
It’s sad, but true. You can look at her perfect porcelain features, but there’s a general sense that you can’t touch ‘em. Apple Guy couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing when he first approached her last week. And such is Peggy’s plight. She follows her husband to many a dance function within their charming swing community, and often watches him dance with the rest of the ladies in attendance from afar. But even though Apple Guy and I felt distressed when we realized that Peggy was not getting all the dance happiness she deserves, it didn’t diminish one ounce of the delight we each felt in being or, in his case, becoming her friend. I told Apple Guy about how Peggy started taking advanced ballroom classes with a competitor of our regular dance studio- someplace where there wasn’t so much social red tape to wade through. We both thought- Good for her!. Even Apple Guy, who barely knows her, can see that Peggy is a particularly amazing woman. Her qualities are, in fact, sometimes intimidating. And to all those cowards who let some preposterous idea about Woody (who, I must admit, I adore) or fear of a beautiful woman stop you from asking such a fine lady to dance, I say you made the right decision. Seriously, well done.
She’s way too good for you.
Love,
Sara
Last night was not without its triumphs. I wore one of those trendy shorts onesies with footless tights and heels. HOT! Unfortunately, the ensemble’s magic worked best on The Chief, whose response to the outfit was to call me a “tramp!” True story.
Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal were in attendance, along with Apple Guy, who danced quite a few with me. Mr. Apple and I did some of the best dancing of our swing lives last night. But my best turn was with the mysterious Grisly Adam. Let’s face it. I have a bit of a crush on the shy but steady bearded boy who’s just a little bit behind my swing level, giving me an edge of confidence that puts ideas in my head. Grisly only comes out of hiding occasionally, looking like it took all of his nerve to come and ask me to dance. This could be because (a) he covertly dances with his girlfriend most of the night and only looks for some other partnerless girl when she goes to the bathroom, or (b) because he thinks I’m super cute! I have nothing more to say on the matter other than he peaked my interest last night, so today I’m hoping for option b.
I actually don’t want to talk about myself right now though. Shocking, I know. I do want to talk about one of my favorite people in the whole swing universe, Peggy. I met Peggy a little over a year ago when I started working for her, and it was love at first sight. Peggy is a fashion icon to the girls in our workplace. Every day she breezes in looking like a vintage fashion plate from the 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s, often wearing a hat of her own crafting. Peggy is not only fabulously beautiful and fashionable, but she is also truly unassuming about her glamour. She’s bighearted, modest, mischievous, witty, sensitive, sincere, and a terrific dancer to boot! Simply put: She is dazzling inside and out.
So why would someone this amazing have any trouble getting someone to ask her to dance?
That’s the question Apple Guy and I were faced with last night when we found ourselves once again walking to the subway together. (Please try to keep in mind that he is admittedly only attracted to Asian women before your minds go running to a seedy romantic gutter in which they do not belong!) On our familiar walk, Apple Guy mentioned that last week (when I was scarcely speaking to him) he asked Peggy to dance with him for the very first time. Originally, he asked her if she was just taking a rest on the sidelines on purpose, as most advanced follows, such as herself, are on the dance floor all night long. However, much to his surprise, she responded that she, in fact, rarely got asked to dance.
Enter the rakish, handsome, exceedingly popular swing teacher, “Woody Bellagamba.” AKA: Peggy’s husband. I know, I know, Woody and Peggy’s combined names may seem too quaint a bit of assonance to bear for all the days of this blog. Trust me; there was just no getting around it.
Now, Woody Bellagamba is 100% extraordinary in his own right. He’s a marvelous professional swing dancer with his own flair for vintage fashion. In sexy opposition to each other, at first glance, Woody is a rougher, roguish, definitively male answer to Peggy’s lady-like demeanor. They’re like a grown-up version Sandy and Danny from Grease, minus the singing and camp. Whereas Peggy excels in all things ballroom, Woody prefers the down and dirty, fast-paced world of lindy hop. They’re the Green Acres couple of the dance studio. Hold on a minute while I think of another old school film or tv reference to better explain how I see their relationship. He’s Mork; she’s Mindy. He’s the Ghost; she’s Mrs. Muir. He’s Oscar; she’s Felix. He’s Scarecrow; she’s Mrs. King. He’s Rock; she’s Doris. He’s Cagney; she’s Lacey. If Mary Tyler Moore could date the Fonze, you’d get Peggy and Woody. Get it? It works. It’s hot!
…to the untrained eye!
Actually, they’re smoldering in any light. But when you see Woody cutting a rug all night with every lovely swing enthusiast tart on the floor, while Peggy waits in hope of a partner on the side, you start to wonder. Now don’t get me wrong; they do dance together. Because it draws on their combined dance fortes, they dance a particularly mean Peabody. But whether Woody is aware of it or not, he’s like a rooster in a hen house when it comes to our little dance studio. All the women want him. Hell, last time I checked, I wanted him! (Don’t worry, Peggy. It’s a purely figurative lust.) So, while Woody happily swings with all of his students, Peggy, who is also clearly adored by her own male following, has a huge, invisible, rubber stamp on her hat that says:
Property of Mr. Woody Bellagamba. Hands off!
It’s sad, but true. You can look at her perfect porcelain features, but there’s a general sense that you can’t touch ‘em. Apple Guy couldn’t help but feel as though he was trespassing when he first approached her last week. And such is Peggy’s plight. She follows her husband to many a dance function within their charming swing community, and often watches him dance with the rest of the ladies in attendance from afar. But even though Apple Guy and I felt distressed when we realized that Peggy was not getting all the dance happiness she deserves, it didn’t diminish one ounce of the delight we each felt in being or, in his case, becoming her friend. I told Apple Guy about how Peggy started taking advanced ballroom classes with a competitor of our regular dance studio- someplace where there wasn’t so much social red tape to wade through. We both thought- Good for her!. Even Apple Guy, who barely knows her, can see that Peggy is a particularly amazing woman. Her qualities are, in fact, sometimes intimidating. And to all those cowards who let some preposterous idea about Woody (who, I must admit, I adore) or fear of a beautiful woman stop you from asking such a fine lady to dance, I say you made the right decision. Seriously, well done.
She’s way too good for you.
Love,
Sara
4.03.2008
Chief No Like Cowboy Girl
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
The trouble with having a secret blog about people at swing class is that if you welcome a reader of said blog to join your swing community… well, you’re just asking for trouble.
Sounds like something I would do.
Okay, so I invited a hot lesbian co-worker to swing last Friday. Double entendres aside, I think she had a lot of fun. In fact, I know she did, because she signed up to take swing class regularly this month. So, as we were leaving the studio on Friday, I teasingly mentioned that she might be in next week’s blog entry. The look on her face was something akin to homicidal terror. Not much was said, but the message was clear: Don’t you dare!
My first blog conflict-of-interest dilemma! I both hope and dread it is the first of many. I feel more like a lady-gumshoe-reporter-tough-cookie-Rosalind-Russell-type with a real ethical writing issue to grapple with on Thursday morning when my head clears after a night of swing.
Well, of course I’m going to write about her! She was an integral part of my dance experience last night. A compromise had to be made. So, whether the lady in question understood the terms fully or not, in exchange for getting to choose her own blog name, I’m writing her in! And her name is… (drum roll, please)…
COWBOY GIRL
That name could not be more appropriate to the role she played in my dancing life this past week. The title says it all, folks.
On that fateful Friday that Cowboy Girl came to take a free introductory salsa / swing class, she brought a friend, who we’ll call “Tonto,” to join in on the fun. Cowboy Girl, Tonto and I were having a ball delving into the unknown world of salsa. Cowboy Girl was really serious about learning the dance, while Tonto was kinda-sorta-maybe serious about getting a date with the coat check boy. As the swing class began and all of our mutual priorities briefly aligned at the introduction of something new, I found myself in the middle of a Sara sandwich, with a slice of Tonto and Cowboy Girl on either side. We were literally a swinging threesome when I looked up to see none other than The Chief staring at me from across the bustling room of beginners. I was a little incensed by the unnerving, cocky grin dancing across his face. Let him wonder about my compromising position, I thought. I was there to have fun with no strings attached for a change.
Soon after we began the swing portion of the evening, our lovely swing teacher recognized that I was an advanced dancer and took me as her partner to illustrate the moves she was teaching. I like to call this token gesture of flattery being the “Vanna White” of the class. So, there I was turning blank squares into vowels and consonants with my bare hands while the Chief bore his eyes into my skull for the entire class. I tried not look at him, and every time I did casually peek over at the ubiquitous Chief, there he would be, practically undressing me with his beady, elderly eyes. Remember when I thought we could just be friends? Boy, was I wrong!
Just before the class ended, I was trying to plan my escape from dancing with The Chief at the top of the impending practice session. I decided I would simply barrel toward Cowboy Girl as soon as my Vanna duties were over. When I cast a furtive glance in The Chief’s direction to see if my plan stood a chance, he was gone. Perhaps he’d given up on me after all. A wave of bittersweet relief washed over me. I spent the rest of the evening delightedly swinging with my newbie dance partners without incident.
On my own that night, long after swing had ended, I received a text message from The Chief. All it said was:
new bo?
I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was still open to his advances. In the end, I didn’t respond at all.
Last night’s regular swing schedule was lovely for the most part. Cowboy Girl signed up a femme friend we’ll call “Gal Pal” to take a month of swing class along side her. We all had great classes and practiced on into the night. I paid no special attention to, but did not entirely ignore Apple Guy, much to Peggy’s vexation. Apparently, some people think Apple Guy and I still have a chance. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, ladies. I danced with some terrific partners and even deluded myself into thinking a good number of them desired me. (This blog has truly affected my head.) The only problem to speak of last night was The Chief.
The man just won’t quit! He couldn't help noticing that Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal made a very cute couple. Suddenly, Cowboy Girl was no longer a threat in his mind. Some pal you are, Cowboy! The Chief then stole at least five too many dances from me even when he was too tired to lead them properly, and asked me out on a date again to boot! When I declined, he started to give me the third degree about my plans on the night in question. Thankfully, my whole posse made their exit before there was a throw-down.
When I think back on my relationship with The Chief thus far- at first thinking our camaraderie was wholly innocent, then pushing past any awkward discomfort to forge an unconventional friendship, and now feeling loathsome and trapped by his sheer presence- I am full of regret. Wouldn’t the poor Chief be sad to know what a joke I think his advances are now? I feel bad for him. He’s so lonely and he’s convinced himself that I’m his dream girl... or at least his dream lay. I have to remind myself to be flattered. At least I’m somebody’s dream girl, right?
Yours truly,
Sara
The trouble with having a secret blog about people at swing class is that if you welcome a reader of said blog to join your swing community… well, you’re just asking for trouble.
Sounds like something I would do.
Okay, so I invited a hot lesbian co-worker to swing last Friday. Double entendres aside, I think she had a lot of fun. In fact, I know she did, because she signed up to take swing class regularly this month. So, as we were leaving the studio on Friday, I teasingly mentioned that she might be in next week’s blog entry. The look on her face was something akin to homicidal terror. Not much was said, but the message was clear: Don’t you dare!
My first blog conflict-of-interest dilemma! I both hope and dread it is the first of many. I feel more like a lady-gumshoe-reporter-tough-cookie-Rosalind-Russell-type with a real ethical writing issue to grapple with on Thursday morning when my head clears after a night of swing.
Well, of course I’m going to write about her! She was an integral part of my dance experience last night. A compromise had to be made. So, whether the lady in question understood the terms fully or not, in exchange for getting to choose her own blog name, I’m writing her in! And her name is… (drum roll, please)…
COWBOY GIRL
That name could not be more appropriate to the role she played in my dancing life this past week. The title says it all, folks.
On that fateful Friday that Cowboy Girl came to take a free introductory salsa / swing class, she brought a friend, who we’ll call “Tonto,” to join in on the fun. Cowboy Girl, Tonto and I were having a ball delving into the unknown world of salsa. Cowboy Girl was really serious about learning the dance, while Tonto was kinda-sorta-maybe serious about getting a date with the coat check boy. As the swing class began and all of our mutual priorities briefly aligned at the introduction of something new, I found myself in the middle of a Sara sandwich, with a slice of Tonto and Cowboy Girl on either side. We were literally a swinging threesome when I looked up to see none other than The Chief staring at me from across the bustling room of beginners. I was a little incensed by the unnerving, cocky grin dancing across his face. Let him wonder about my compromising position, I thought. I was there to have fun with no strings attached for a change.
Soon after we began the swing portion of the evening, our lovely swing teacher recognized that I was an advanced dancer and took me as her partner to illustrate the moves she was teaching. I like to call this token gesture of flattery being the “Vanna White” of the class. So, there I was turning blank squares into vowels and consonants with my bare hands while the Chief bore his eyes into my skull for the entire class. I tried not look at him, and every time I did casually peek over at the ubiquitous Chief, there he would be, practically undressing me with his beady, elderly eyes. Remember when I thought we could just be friends? Boy, was I wrong!
Just before the class ended, I was trying to plan my escape from dancing with The Chief at the top of the impending practice session. I decided I would simply barrel toward Cowboy Girl as soon as my Vanna duties were over. When I cast a furtive glance in The Chief’s direction to see if my plan stood a chance, he was gone. Perhaps he’d given up on me after all. A wave of bittersweet relief washed over me. I spent the rest of the evening delightedly swinging with my newbie dance partners without incident.
On my own that night, long after swing had ended, I received a text message from The Chief. All it said was:
new bo?
I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was still open to his advances. In the end, I didn’t respond at all.
Last night’s regular swing schedule was lovely for the most part. Cowboy Girl signed up a femme friend we’ll call “Gal Pal” to take a month of swing class along side her. We all had great classes and practiced on into the night. I paid no special attention to, but did not entirely ignore Apple Guy, much to Peggy’s vexation. Apparently, some people think Apple Guy and I still have a chance. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it, ladies. I danced with some terrific partners and even deluded myself into thinking a good number of them desired me. (This blog has truly affected my head.) The only problem to speak of last night was The Chief.
The man just won’t quit! He couldn't help noticing that Cowboy Girl and Gal Pal made a very cute couple. Suddenly, Cowboy Girl was no longer a threat in his mind. Some pal you are, Cowboy! The Chief then stole at least five too many dances from me even when he was too tired to lead them properly, and asked me out on a date again to boot! When I declined, he started to give me the third degree about my plans on the night in question. Thankfully, my whole posse made their exit before there was a throw-down.
When I think back on my relationship with The Chief thus far- at first thinking our camaraderie was wholly innocent, then pushing past any awkward discomfort to forge an unconventional friendship, and now feeling loathsome and trapped by his sheer presence- I am full of regret. Wouldn’t the poor Chief be sad to know what a joke I think his advances are now? I feel bad for him. He’s so lonely and he’s convinced himself that I’m his dream girl... or at least his dream lay. I have to remind myself to be flattered. At least I’m somebody’s dream girl, right?
Yours truly,
Sara
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