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Well. It is 10:50 p.m., yesterday was another late night and I have yet to blog, even though I had one glorious hour after another of weekend freedom to do it in. Instead, I danced, napped, made lots of music and even bickered with Joseph Villaseñor a bit. I’d say it was a Sunday well spent!
Last night, Joe and I drove to Ashland for an initial suss-out of the salsa scene. We departed from Shasta a bit early to grab a bite and ease our way into town. An hour later, I passed up not one but all three of the Ashland exists and didn’t notice until we reached Medford, a city I can say little about other than that it has a shopping mall, a Costco and it’s close to Ashland . . .
I grumbled to myself for a moment as we pulled off the freeway, then shrugged it off to synchronicity. “There, we’ll take the old highway back to Ashland and maybe we’ll see something good.”
We drove along discussing musical tastes and listening styles, and Joe’s sexy surfer friend Mario. A raccoon hobbled across the highway and I squealed with delight. In the four weeks that Joe and I have been driving to and from dancing I’ve seen a raccoon, a fox, a bear and two shooting stars. At first I was sure these events were synchronistic, too. Now I wonder if it might have anything to do with the fact that I’m rarely out after dark otherwise.
Soon we were passing a dusty old building bearing the sign, “Roscos BBQ: Soul Food!” I read it out loud and Joe responded, “Wanna go there for an appetizer and a beer?”
We flipped a roundabout U-turn and parked behind the deteriorating building. Getting out of the car, I noticed the flashing lights and bumping base coming from inside. “Woah, Roscos is hoppin’! This night is getting better all the time.”
After finding ourselves sandwiched between crowded tables and a side door we mistook for the front, Joe and I eventually made our way successfully into the restaurant. Men and women covered the counters, tables and floor. Faces turned toward us for a once over, then went back to continue conversations. A wailing Linda Lovelace and band egged on a bobbing bee-bopping dance crowd. Joe and I both share a love for randomness, spontaneity, and varied experience, so we made the decision relatively quickly to stay and embrace whatever else Roscos BBQ would have to offer.
On my way to the bathroom I nabbed us the one empty booth in the place, setting Joe’s jacket on top of the table. On my way out, I saw no jacket, no Joe and a strange man sitting there instead. Joe materialized out of the crowd moments later, rescuing me from a state of minor confusion, and explained that there was a waiting list. “But we can join these guys if we want to.”
One of the “guys” Joe pointed to had “Hey baby’d” me as I lay Joe’s jacket on the unavailable table, but his face seemed friendly and his intentions benign. Plus, the chance to break bread with four 200 plus pound black men in the middle of Jackson County is not one to be had every day! So, we took our seats.
“Where you all from?” Man #1 asked us. When we returned the question, inquiring if they were from the area, he shook his head in mock disgust and responded “Heck no! Don’t you two watch football?” Then led us into a charade about the four of them being a mix of NFL coaches and stars. Joe and I continued to banter with our new friends until a steaming plate of ribs, baked beans and coleslaw arrived. I’ve always said I could be a vegetarian as long as I could still eat pork ribs and these tender, juicy sauce smothered ones only made me want to strengthen my stance.
We also struck up a rapport with our waitress, Leilani, who gave me her phone number in case I ever wanted to dance hula with her. Joe and I ended up explaining the dynamic of our dance-partner relationship, and as we left Leilani eyed him with her hand by her ear in a hang ten position–otherwise known as a sign for “Call me!”
Upon arriving at Tabu, Joe and I discussed the other bit of information Leilani shared with us: “I know the bouncer there, J.P.! Tell him Leilani says hi and maybe he’ll let you in for free.”
“You have to do it.” Said Joe. “I’m not good at schmoozing.”
I’m not either, but with a, “Hi J.P.! Leilani asked us to tell you she says hello,” and a smile, J.P. skirted the question of a cover and asked us only for I.D.
Inside, things were a smidge anticlimactic, I’m afraid. I had a startling realization hit home: the majority of scenes in the dance movies I love are of the dancers practicing and making mistakes–not dancing effortlessly around in one another’s arms.
So, rather than have an evening like I’d envisioned as Tessa, dancing queen of the club, I was basically Jennifer Gray in the beginning of Dirty Dancing, when she walks into the dusky nightclub and bumps around on the dance floor with Patrick after declaring, “I carried a watermelon!”
But, as is my usual way of settling the dust, I tell myself there will always be other nights. Besides, I do believe they’re all perfect in their own right anyhow.
Uh oh. Only 20 minutes to write this time. In 22 I need to eat dinner, then jet out the door to my new-w-w JOB! Which I am officially hired for, by the way. Tonight I’m on for four some hours of register training with Sean. Phew.
I’m squeezing in this blog post because I was asked if I forgot to blog last night. I was just that touched that I decided to alter my plan to fully recharge my battery and only half refuel for the sake of keeping ya’ll informed (well, Mom informed. She’s the one who asked :} ). So now I’m lying on my back in the ever so elegant “legs up the wall” position, typing with Mom’s laptop perched atop my belly, leaning against my thighs. Now that’s what I call dedication!
Dad is cooking spaghetti in the background. Probably, since he’s rushing around to get it done while I still have time to eat it, I should be helping. Or at least keeping him company with some pleasant chitchat. But after a day of training my replacement at the gallery and a night of being trained ahead of me, I feel I must eek out my energy wisely.
And again I find myself worrying that I’m going to bore my reader by going on about the same topics. How to reconcile this dilemma? Anyone?
Oh well, here I go about dancing again: I found a restaurant an hour and fifteen minutes away that has a Salsa band and dancing on Saturday nights! I used to drive an hour every weekend for church; now instead I’m off in high heels to wiggle in the dark to Latin beats . . . and I somehow don’t think God would mind. You see, when I dance I truly connect to deeper parts of my being and to the Divine, and that’s about the point, in’t it?
Joseph Villaseñor and I will be going to Tabú, the blessed restaurant, together this weekend. Last Saturday we had a rather in depth conversation about the nature of our relationship (status: dance partners in crime). We discussed jealousy, commitment and the potential that having a basically platonic yet spicy partnership could have for our fun on the floor. I also promised Joe there would be little danger of me getting mad at anything he might do–other than leave me sitting in the wings at Tabú if the ratio of male to female dancers turns out to be typical. My hopes are set higher!
He and I concluded with a promise to maintain direct and open lines of communication; and I’d say that’s a good policy to apply to all relationships, be they muy picante or not.
Adios, mis amores!
New blog goal: To get my writing time down to 30 minutes or less for nights when I’m either exhausted or in danger of it in the morning.
Start time tonight? 9:46 p.m. Bedtime last night? 3:45 a.m. Blog time remaining? 29 minutes and counting. . .
Last night was dance night again, hallelujah! In celebration (and recovery) today, I suggested to Mom that we rent either the original Dirty Dancing, the remake: Havana Nights, or Shall We Dance.
She and I walked to the video store, Mom in a t-shirt and me decked out for snow in a hat, sweatshirt and wrist-warmers. We oohed and ahhed at the turning leaves; golds and yellows, pinks and reds and brilliant oranges. We tried collectively to remember what it is that affects the vibrancy of the colors each fall and got as far as “I think it has something to do with an early frost. . .”
With Savannah in tow we passed by Berryvale’s glass doors. “You might be working there soon!” said Mom. Royce waved from inside.
Shortly thereafter we entered Couch Critics (otherwise known as “Potatoes”) to a chorus of barking dogs leaping against the inside of a white truck parked out front. Mom whispered to me, “There’s that smell in here again! Patchouli and body odor and weeds!” I told her she would like today’s previous blog.
Perusing the selection, of the movies I’d mentioned we came across “Shall We Dance” first; but with one look at Richard Gere’s smirk and silver hair and then J-Lo (no further explanation necessary) we put it down and moved quickly on to rent Havana Nights.
Although the film was mediocre as anticipated (contrary to the review on the cover, it did not hold a battery-operated candle to the original), we had fun ogling the young Latino lead, Javier; and I got lost in a daydream of the next time I will get to go dancing again.
The only drawback is that now, after watching Javier and Katie jive and gyrate amidst clumps of sweaty Cubanos, my stakes for ultimate dancing satisfaction are getting higher. Rick and Peggy’s Open Floor dance classes are splendid, sure, but how can they compare to that Cubano calor? (translation: heat).
I guess for now, at the ripe young age of 23 and fresh out of recovery (from heartbreak, that is), hormones are ruling the scene and I’m liking the looks of that Dirty Dancing. Now, if only I can find myself a partner with passion, moves, and a back like Patrick Swayze (bless his soul!), I’ll be on my own way to Heaven.
It’s 10:14 and I even had time to edit! Thank you and good night.
I’m losing steam on blogging. Blah. Perhaps it’s because I really wanted to be out dancing tonight, but I couldn’t talk anyone else into it. Plus, it appears I need even more downtime than I’d planned. I’m still tired. Blah again.
Jocela sang a great song lyric at her show Wednesday night: If life’s so short then why are the nights so long?
And getting longer. We’re working our way well into October and the sun is setting around 6:30. It’s time to get out the knitting needles and board games, that’s for sure! Not to mention the dancing shoes . . .
Which reminds me . . . I may have snagged yet another dance partner tonight at the Artists’ Reception at the gallery (what a relief polygamy is widely accepted on the dance floor)!
I didn’t stay long (I’ll admit for largely spiteful reasons. I like savoring the thought that people will ask my ex-boss, “Where’s Tessa!?” and she’ll be forced to explain my absence. It’s not very noble, but oh well. At least I’m honest), but in the few moments I did linger after my shift I was engaged in conversation by a certain Nikolas Allen and he invited me out swing dancing!
I’d seen Nikolas just a few days prior when he came by the gallery to submit work to the show, and actually thought I may have scared him out of conversation in the future. During a casual conversation about artwork and dancing, I decided to mention all the eligible bachelors I attract working in the gallery. Minutes later I made a grossly flirtatious comment to Nikolas in response to his idea to hang a string of free condoms from his piece “NO LOVE!” (featuring a photo of a young couple from the 50′s with the words “Sorry Bobby; No Glove, No Love.”). Ugh. Thankfully, since he still extended the invitation tonight, it appears my tackiness didn’t too far outweigh my charm (or at least my affinity for dance) . . .
Ha. If only Lauri had been there to witness that interaction. Yesterday, after watching me train the new co-op member, she commented dryly, “You flirt with boys.”
“Oh? Was I flirting?” I’d responded.
“Yeah, and you flirted with Tony on the phone the other day, too.” She sounded oddly miffed, and I’m going to bank on jealousy as the cause. See, I’m quite sure my boss is an 8 on the enneagram (ironically, 8 is often referred to as “the Boss” or “the Challenger”), and that makes me, at 2, her heart point. If a person has not gotten in touch with his/her heart point it can be highly uncomfortable to have that inner child mirrored back at them. On the inside, Lauri is really just a little girl who cries and wants to be loved. Since she probably hasn’t embraced that aspect of herself, it would make sense that I, the quintessential (quinTESSAntial) lovey, flirty, cry-y female, would easily push a big strong 8′s big strong buttons.
In any case, I’m grateful for people who see beyond my weaknesses and limitations and still love me. Or ask me out dancing, anyway. . . Hooray!
I’m still sans internet at my temporary place of residence, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to read today’s post. . .
I’m blogging from a cushioned adirondack chair on Carl and Kathy’s front porch. It’s the loveliest of autumn days with birds conversing and wind fluttering the leaves like gentle tambourines–which conveniently reminds me of Nothing Personal, the band playing (I just mistyped “band” as “bland.” What would Freud say?) at the Black Butte Saloon’s Grand Opening last night.
Yesterday turned out to be the most glorious of days! I do not exaggerate. After returning home from blogging and conversing at Seven Sons, I popped a documentary on mythologist Joseph Campbell and the Hero’s Journey into the DVD player and lay down. Snuggled up under a feather down blanket, the gentle monotone of the documentary narrator’s voice lulled me quickly to sleep as intended. Upon waking, I made some tea and toast with honey, finished the documentary and took Bodhi for our evening stroll. It was just after this that things began to get good 
As you may or may not already know, I have been taking a ballroom dance class on Monday night for the past couple of weeks. The class is instructed by Peggy and Rick, a couple that has been teaching and demonstrating ballroom dancing on cruise ships for 16 years! Peggy and Rick are, to me, surreal. Although I have had the pleasure of running into them outside of class, I have never witnessed them dressed in anything but their dance attire–snug pants for both, with Peggy’s billowing around her heeled shoes, button-up fitted blouses and a vest to match for Rick. Although they both appear to be working their way well into the second half of life, Peggy’s hair is long and blond with perfect ringlets that dance when she does. She and Rick are both exceptionally well mannered and compliment one another beautifully on the dance floor and off.
It turns out, Peggy and Rick do not limit their dance instruction to cruise ships and my Monday night community college class. No, no, every Saturday evening at the McCloud Dance Hall (yes there is such a thing, complete with gilded ceilings and hardwood floors) Peggy and Rick offer a beginning and an intermediate class, followed by two hours of Open Floor Dance. Last Monday, after learning the Tango and ChaCha, my dance partner Joseph and I agreed to give Saturday’s Open Floor Dance a whirl. We did, and it. Was. Splendid!
Despite that the once “thriving” logging town of McCloud consists of only about three streets, Joe and I had some trouble locating the Dance Hall. When we finally arrived, Peggy glided towards the door to welcome us in flowing black pants and a white fur coat. It was just past 7:15 and the intermediate class on Bolero (a smoother rendition of Rhumba) was already under way, so we agreed to practice on our own until Open Floor began.
I will admit that things were a bit clunky at first. As it turns out, I become slightly neurotic about getting things right (I believe it’s my ET1-Perfectionist wing flapping) and as a result I, well, nag. Luckily, Joe took my hopefully constructive criticism in stride; soon I was wrapped within the newly firmed frame of his arms and we were moving in time to the music.
When 8 o’clock rolled around, Joe and I strode confidently out to the center of the dance floor to join the four other couples. For the first five or six songs, a mix of Fox Trot and Tango, ChaCha and Waltz, there was a lot of, “Frame! No, no, this way! Be serious, will you!” But then a salsa number hit the speakers and with a smile, Joe lay down his hand.
He spun me, teased me and twirled me, all with a sultry gleam in his dark Latino eyes. Breathless, when the song ended I said to him, “Well baby, you won me over with that one!” And from there on out it was like an barrier had been removed and our bodies could finally communicate.
Open Dance ended with “a last Waltz” around 10 o’clock. Tired as we were (and reclusive as we both are these days), Joe and I agreed to drive onward to Weed, California to experience the Grand Opening of the Black Butte Saloon. As we pulled up moments later in my silver VW bug, people washed in and out of the bar doors. Exchanging glances, we showed our ID’s and stepped onto the scene.
I had expected to recognize a good portion of the population in attendance. On the contrary, the bar was filled with cowboys and women spilling out of their tops, the likes of which I’d not seen before. Still on a high from our success on the ballroom dance floor, Joe bought us a each a token drink and gleefully we ventured deeper inside. At the back of the refurbished saloon, the female lead of Nothing Personal was wailing away to something akin to “Sweet Home Alabama.” I tossed back my Vodka tonic (who has time for drinking when there’s dancing to be done?) and Joe and I began to tear it up in a whole new way.
We played until almost 2 a.m. Although not technically employing our newly acquired skills, our dance chemistry did not dwindle. I accepted only one dance with another, a high school peer, and afterward quickly sought Joe out again. I could not get enough!
We finished the night off dancing Tango to the jukebox until the bartender turned off the music and began yelling last call. ‘Twas a pity indeed; alas, I have tomorrow night’s class to look forward to for certain and, if I’m lucky, many more nights like last to come!
“A moment on the lips, forever on the hips!” I’m eating day-old cheesies and they’re so delectable it doesn’t even matter. “Worth the calories!” as Mom would say.
I just arrived home from Ballroom Dancing. Tonight we danced the Foxtrot and Rumba. The Rumba is so delicious and sensuous. Quick-quick-slow–HIP! Quick-hip-quick-hip-slowww–HIP! Ok well, imagine it without Peggy’s punctuated instruction and perhaps you’ll get the idea.
Hmm. . . what to blog about today . . . Well, I got an email from “my most recent ex” (as I described him in yesterday’s post) this afternoon. It’s been over three months since we’ve had any real contact.
When I saw the message in my inbox, I waited a good many minutes before opening it. I was trying to really settle into the feelings of the experience. . .
I’m going to pause the story briefly to mention the enneagram once again. I’ve brought it up a few times and as it is the tool for spiritual growth I find most intriguing these days, elaborating on the concept bit by bit seems an obvious necessity.
The enneagram is a sort of personality theory claiming that everybody is a particular “ennea-type.” There are nine types total and each corresponds directly with it’s number. I, for example, am a 2.
I’ll stop the summary there for now. We’ll get back to it in the future, I promise, and in the meantime you can always do your own research on the enneagram online. Oh, the beauty of the internet.
To get back to the email, this time from an enneagram influenced perspective: You’ll recall that “I waited a good many minutes before opening it” and tried to “settle into the feelings of the experience.” That’s because as an ET2 (enneatype 2) I know that I am inclined to over-amplify feelings (emotions and 2′s are like fire and gasoline, says Carl), while at the same time not really accessing them.
So, I got the email, then I got the feelings and for a little while, I felt them. My pounding heart, flushed chest and neck, scrunched up face, thoughts and fantasies straining to run wild but withheld by spirit with a better grip, thankfully. . . and then I read it . . . and I felt things some more and stared into the distance and greeted gallery visitors (oops, I was at work) . . . and then two Kimberlys came in to visit and I was gently distracted.
I confess that now my inclination is to lean into the belief that a perfect romance awaits me just around this corner (logically, a 2′s deepest desire). Instead, I’ll try to stay “on balance” as is taught in Ballroom Dance and glide on with the steps as life leads me through them, making every effort not to get ahead of either one of us.
I’ll let you know how that works out.
