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Posts Tagged ‘tango’

Last night was the big Tango Alternativa Winter Wonderland Milonga and Masquerade Party. It was fabulous. White lights, sparkly snowflakes all under a blue light. Most everyone wore white–white wigs, white ties, white boa!  The place was packed and the dance floor swirled in a bluish glow. The diehards were still dancing when I left at 2:30a.m.

The outfits were fun and the fabulous 1940’s vintage hat I purchased from LittleGreenSquirrel was a huge hit! (which was great since the dry cleaner wrecked my dress and left me scrambling to create a look for the hat-a combo 60’s psychedelic dress in pink flowers over black ankle skirt, with black sash and scarf–a wild Mary Poppins.  And I glowed pink!

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Another great milonga care of Tango Alternativa, d.

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I went dancing last night and it should have been a lovely evening, but it was so disappointing and the very reason I left tango before. Maybe, I need a new gig. Salsa is usually fun. Maybe, I’ll take up golf.

Women preparing to go to a fancy dance:

Shop for a pretty new dress, dry clean an old one, buy new makeup to match new outfit–stockings, jewelry, shoes, purse, wrap/coat too. Iron, bathe, shave legs, wash hair, lotion, powder, pedicure, manicure, make-up, blow dry, spray, tousle, style, last touches on makeup then stockings, bra, slip, dress, adjust everything, heels, jewelry, earrings, perfume, stock purse–mints, money, lipstick. Don’t forget hostess gift–wine, present, food, etc.

What most men do to go to a fancy dance: Shower, maybe. Put on clean clothes, maybe, go.

What women do at the fancy dance: smile, be congenial, make ridiculously small talk, smile some more then wait as patiently as humanly possible for a man to ask her to dance. Wait some more.

dream

dream

What most men do at the fancy dance: dance as often as they like with any number of a plethora of waiting women, or non of them at all, eat, drink, ignore the plethora of beautiful waiting women.

What women end up doing when the waiting becomes so internally dreadful their own heart may truly break for all the preparation they’ve done and for the lack of notice they’ve received: walk, sneak out, try not to run for the door, holding their heads as high as humanly possible for how horrible they feel, drive home in tears vowing never to return again or to let themselves be foolishly swept away with hope and possibility.

What men end up doing when the dancing becomes exhausting, their bellies full, they go home drunk and happy, sleep soundly, vowing to return again and again because this is the sweetest deal they’ve ever come across: beautiful waiting women–younger women, even!–dancing with them, old stodgy coots, because they’re it at this gig! No younger men to compete with, few men at all! What a find! Little input, huge return! What a score!

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It’s nearly 1:00 a.m. and I’m just back from tango class. It started at 8p.m. but this is tango and sometimes things linger, the music gets louder, the wine comes out, the craziness gets started and the men start seeing who can hone the better moves with the better woman. It came down to an English man trying to play quarters, me flicking a beer bottle cap across the length of the dance floor and all of us back in our dance shoes and pushing the tango to it’s very limits. This of course is when the tango gets really good. Ambitions are down. Everyone is laughing, throwing dares, all worked up, sweating, panting and dancing like our lives depend on this very moment, which it actually may.

It was good. My knees are good. HE is good. My moves are getting better again. I am starting to feel again like a dancer not just a woman who sometimes dances. It may not be true, but it feels true and that’s all that matters.

I danced the last dance with the roguish bastard (he stepped on my toes, left scuff marks everywhere. He did it on purpose. I punched him in the arm. We are like two school children. He pulls my ponytails, I throw sand on his shirt.) When I dance with him I forget how old I am. I forget everything. EVERYTHING, accept that moment, with him, embraced, dancing.

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It’s such a  Monday today. Usually I like Mondays; I really do. Quiet returns as all working folk head back to their offices, but today I am beat. Apparently my old life (late-night reading or weekend Milongas [tango dances], sleeping in late) no longer agrees with my knew self-employed working life–the one where i spend my days crocheting, buying, shooting photos, e-mailing, posting, etc, etc, etc. It sounds easy enough, but the work day never really ends. It just keeps on going, like the Energizer Bunny, until I drop.

I thought my social life really needed attending to so I went to a Milonga Sat. night. I lasted 1.5 hours. And the party was really just beginning as I snuck out the door. It made me terribly sad. It really did. I was blue all day Sun.  Other people have an amazing capacity for 50 hour work weeks then burning the midnight oil on Sat. I honestly don’t know how they do it. I fear I am missing an energy gene, low genetic batteries. 

And worse, they all look so happy, playful, woo-hoo! We are partying now!  (these are not young 20-something folk either. Not even 30-something, most of them) So what is it? WHaT is IT?

***

Meanwhile, I’ve been busy with my Etsy shops. Business is picking up. Two special orders for crocheted items which is surprising considering it’s nearing summer. Well, it is here. The order was from Norway. Anyone know what it’s doing in Norway? Not me.

So, this was my check in. Not very glamorous, but there it is. I’ll leave you with this: Me sipping tea in my latest wrist warmers on a cloudy day last week. They are rather long with knots curving around the arm. I’ve named them “Camelot.”

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Goodmorning,

I’ve been up since 7am. For me that is EARLY. Normally, I am so good at crawling back under the covers, blocking out the day, hiding until I need coffee. But since I’ve been “working” on my Etsy shops, I’m anxious to get up and get busy.

It’s odd, really, maybe like the flu it will pass. We’ll see.

I went thrifting yesterday. Check these out:

 Ruby Slipper

I’m selling them, of course ( dahlilafound. etsy) but who wouldn’t want just one night in these? They need a ballroom, of course. And an organza gown, a man in tux, the works. (sorry, the photo isn’t cropped. I have to go do that photo magic still. *blush*)

I haven’t been dancing in over two months and it’s rather sad. Last Fall that’s all I thought about–tango–until I injured  my knees–plural.

Now, I’ve lost that passionate desire, like losing a lover, truly. I mourned for weeks, then gave in and left it. Now, dancing feels awkward and forced. The wrong partner, the wrong music, the wrong me.  Maybe, with spring or summer. Last year we danced and danced then ran outside onto the city street to find a breeze. Yes, tango is summer.

Anyway, these shoes need a lovely, if not tall, dancer. (they’re a size 11!)I hope whoever she is she finds them and waltzes the men into circles.

Coffee time, d.

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Saturday evening. I’m deciding if my knee is dance worthy. The new studio is not quite as cozy as the old one, which I loved in a seedy, downtown, slummy sort-of-way. Above a liquor store and a teensy bistro, it was a hike of stairs nearly wheeze-worthy. Nestled between art studios, it overlooked the street–horns, sirens, bus fumes…it was the best. 😉

The new studio has no view, is freezing and rather gray. It’s a work in progress, I understand, but it isn’t grabbing me. Worse of all, the floor sticks. Newly laid, it doesn’t have that smooth patina yet. One good sacada and I’m back on the couch, knee packed with ice. And yet. . .

It’s good to get out in the winter, especially since I’m apt to hole up, drink tea, watch old movies, basically hibernate until Spring. I could do this, easily, but it does make re-entry difficult–like dancing, practice or lose it. I could go either way. Pride and Prejudiceis on TCM, Zephyr’s nestled in–after sneaking atop the washing machine earlier and eating a bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies! (I called the vet–choc. being dog-deadly–he ate about 8 cookies–w/raisins, flax seed and pecans [they’ll move thru him quicker]. She said watch him, but he’ll probably be fine. It wasn’t baker’s choc. [highly deadly to liver function]. Of course, if Zephyr is going to get ill, attacked by bees, fight w/coyotes, etc, etc, it’s always a Saturday night, like tonight. The Murphy’s law of dogs. For now, he seems fine).

If I go dancing I have to: shave, re-do my do, make-up, dress. It sounds like a lot of trouble. I could wear jeans–there’s no studio heat after all.  A light powder dusting and lipstick would suffice; hair. . . it’s dark. 😉 Hey, Alternativa emphasizes casual. No fishnet stockings in this crowd. It’s practically considered gauche, which is silly, but typical. Even “casual” has a standard. And sometimes a girl just likes to wear fishnets. Whatever. . . I never heard a man complain about fishnets.

G’night, d.

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Today I was out in the world, a place I don’t always like to be. It’s evening now and I am happy to be back home. Yeah, home. Zephyr is a big furry curl upon my bed. I’m nestled in at my desk, Anna Nalick on the play list. As soon as I’m healed (knee injury–slow recovery) I ‘m dancing w/C to “Breathe (2 a.m.)”.  Ah, C. . . C is savory, and has ruined me for dancing w/anyone else.  Sigh.

Tango dancers (not me, not C, not anyone I know, but lovely.)

 Meanwhile, I craft. . . crochet, sew, button, cook, bake and walk. And when I’m good I do yoga and try breathing. . .

I’m reading Appetites: Why Women Want, (how apropos) by Caroline Knapp. She was a brilliant woman, (she died in 2002) insightful, elegant on paper and terribly wounded. The quintissential story teller of the secret lives of women. (No one wants to read the underbelly according to Martha Stewart.) You want an eloquent voice who was there, and Knapp was. Her bestsellers, Drinking: A Love Story, then Pack of Two: The Intricate Bond Between People and Dogs were amazing, but Appetites is sending me through the roof. In a nut shell, it’s about how women have learned to deprive themselves of what they really want–love, compassion, understanding, comfort, power, sex–by trading these in for more socially acceptable desires–food, alcohol, shopping and sex.  (note: sex is on both lists. You secretly want sex, so you ravenously eat; you yearn for love but settle for sex.) Of course, it’s more complicated than that, but it’s pissing me off.

Excerpt: “The great preoccupation with. . .food, shopping, appearance, in turn, is less of a genuine focus on hunger–indulging it, understanding it, making decisions about it–than it is a monumental distraction from hunger.”

So, basically all the women you see perusing malls, glutting on cinnamon rolls, maxing out their credit cards are starving for something else entirely. . . and I understand this completly. Sigh. . .

Not that anyone cares, now, but the sun came out and I shot lots of photos. So more Etsy scarflettes and scarves to post.

d.

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