sistawendy | Entries tagged with dancing

Saturday: The afternoon in Wallingford for practical reasons - hey, I needed those socks from The Sock Monster - followed by dinner at the Blue Glass with the Tickler. The original plan was for us to go dancing afterward at the Psyops night (nice groove, eventually) at nearby Substation, but she caught something at Folsom. In fact, her other sweetie S messaged me that she just tested positive for strep (!) so no snogs with the Tickler for me.

Sunday: Buying notions for my Halloween costume. Eetz & Folsom stories with J & R in the otherwise sadly empty Teachers' Lounge. Hey Seattle people, they have good food, cocktails, and decor. Go there.

Pretty mellow, which is just what I needed.

Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Katamari Damacy. I blame Xia.

The Siberian Siren wanted to have girl time and talk about relationships because lesbians, so on fairly short notice we made plans to get together at my place after her tango class last night. I cleaned my Lake Place as best I can in an hour and picked up some dried fruit to nibble. Of course she called and of course she wanted a rain check because the guest dance instructor was a cute butch and more dancing was about happen elsewhere.

I laughed. I've seen how wibbly she gets about butches who dance. Later, I ate too much dried fruit.

Current Mood: amused
Current Music: ODESZA, "My Friends Never Die"

Another Thursday, another tango practice with the Siberian Siren. This time, though, she did not steer a refrigerator (i.e. me) around the dance floor. Instead, she left that to her pal the tall, slender, and oh-so-gay instructor Davis, for whose time we split a quite reasonable fee. He's a he. He has a beard, even.

And he's quite the instructor, with several excellent exercises and insights. I'm getting better. The SS has made noises about the two of us getting with Davis at her brother's place. That sounds way dirtier than it is: the SS's brother has hardwood floors and is seldom home.

I danced with two other men, both strangers, and no women. I'll confess to feeling a little weird about that, but one of them taught me a thing or two as well.

Speaking of women, there was another dancer with amazing moves and red shoes who gave the Siren a run for her money in the prettiest-woman-in-the-room competition. Femme, of course. The SS didn't even know who I was talking about. This isn't the first time I've encountered a woman who's so into butches that she's nearly blind to all others.

Current Mood: tired
Current Location: my desk at the Lake Place
Current Music: The Rocky Horror Picture Show, "Rose Tint My World"

Went to practice tango with the Siberian Siren again last night. I'm getting better, slowly and painfully, but that isn't what this post is about.

There was a woman from Argentina who was there to teach a class. Even I could tell by looking that she was easily the best dancer on the floor. She's about my age. She has longish salt & pepper hair and was dressed butchly. In other words, she's exactly the type that makes the Siren go adorably wibbly.

I had to give the SS a pep talk just to ask the Argentine to dance. ("If I had a hole in me for every time I'd been shot down, I'd look like a cheese grater.") I reminded her that once upon a time I introduced myself to a certain gorgeous little redhead at a charity do, and with much less innocent intentions than the Siren had just then.

The Siren got her dances. There was an astounding amount of apparently physics-defying fancy footwork, especially by the Argentine. I watched the SS zen out, and as she walked off the floor, she was glowing, i.e. perspiring. I found it inordinately amusing that this seductress extraordinaire kept wibbling on the way to my car as we headed home.

I've posted three times in two days. That's probably because it's the first day of spring, and it's sunny. Aw to the yeah.

Current Mood: amused

But first: work has finally stopped texting me in the wee hours of the morning, just in time for me to stay up way too late. (See below.)

On a related note, there was a looong project in January & February that involved a fair amount of work at home on my laptop's non-ergo keyboard. I've been feeling some RSI in my right wrist ever since. This past week has involved a similar amount of work from home. I got desperate for some comfort and bought an MS Natural 4000 keyboard and a trackball mouse. I didn't follow the right procedure to get work to pay for it, but did I mention that I was desperate? I've been popping vitamin I like candy.

But I came here to write about self-indulgence.

Friday night: went to

neuro42's Pi Day expecting something fairly mellow that I'd leave early.

Nuh uh. It was a sardine scene with many righteous homemade pies and weird alcohol. (I remembered that I had a tiny bottle of Icelandic caraway schnapps in my bag that Mrs.

ionan had given me a couple of days earlier. It's like drinking a sandwich, but that wasn't the weirdest drink there.) Met a Burner, and did that thing that we do: talk too much about Burning Man.

Last night:

aaminahlefae's housewarming party out in West Seattle. Nice! Digs! There's a dance studio; our esteemed hostess is a teacher of belly dancing and doyenne of the local scene. The master bedroom is purple with a wrought iron bed frame. They have a balcony on the upper story with a view of Puget Sound. Serious money. I overheard that inheritance paid for it, but it looks like money well spent.

I thought, 'It's a housewarming party with the neighbors there. They're a straight couple with a young child. I'll stay a couple of hours, then bounce and go clubbing.'

Nuh uh. I didn't count on the combined freakitude of the hostess and her flirtatious, belly-dancing friends.

At the last party where I saw

aaminahlefae, there was a small, stunning, raven-haired woman there with a trans girlfriend. Le sigh, right? Well, last night she was there sans girlfriend, remembered me, and I got the whole story from her. The girlfriend wasn't a girl when they started out, and post-transition had acted crummily enough that they broke up. Here I was thinking Diminutive had a taste for trans women, only to learn, now that she's available, that whatever taste she might have had has likely been destroyed, at least temporarily. Le sigh for a different reason.

By the way, Diminutive is quite the dancer and costumer. Indeed, the dance recital, if you want to call it that, didn't suck in the slightest.

Cards Against Humanity played by Goths with enough alcohol on hand. 'Nuff said.

Stayed up until 3:00 chatting with the hostess on her lovely, wrought iron bed. No, there was no funny business, you perverts, but we both learned... things we never suspected about each other.

It was also lovely to see the Lovelies,

demonique, and

durtro93, People In Black from way back who I wish I saw more often, but all of us have busy lives anymore.

Current Mood: pensive
Current Location: my desk at the Lake Place
Current Music: Cibo Matto, "Lobby"

The diminutive Siberian Siren once said about leading much larger dance partners that it's like steering a refrigerator. I invited her to do so last night at the beginners' tango practice night ("practica") at Dance Underground on Capitol Hill. She was game, despite her protestations of not being that good a lead at tango.

It's a good thing I didn't have much ego invested in my tango abilities because if I had, she would have crushed it. The SS broke the dance down into very small bits and I practiced much of the time against a wall. She was superbly patient about it, but clearly, I have a lot to learn. At least I did learn some last night.

It's a far cry from my instructor E, who's a fantastic lead and not much shorter than I am. With her everything happens magically - that's how it feels - and I'm left wondering how. Now I'm pondering the relative merits of E's holistic teaching and the SS's more analytic approach. You can't be a good dancer if you have to think about it, which argues for E, but in order to get there you have to know how to move the parts of your body, which the SS excels at teaching. It's been pointed out to me that the SS might not be used to applying the force necessary to steer this particular fridge, and E most certainly is.

The SS insists that I invest in some dance shoes. I was the only one on the floor in my stocking feet, because Fluevog Kona boots, while beautiful, will wreck a dance floor. The Siren spent some time pointing out various options on the feet of other dancers, natch.

Here's the deal with beginner's night: if you're not a beginner, you don't have to pay $6 provided that you volunteer to dance with beginners and wear the appropriate name tag. The SS did, so I got a few breaks. It was a little hilarious watching her dance with men who were two heads taller than she is. (I'm only one head taller.) She said dancing with men felt like a "duty". Way to stay gay, girlfriend.

There were other people from my class who I could have danced with, but I refrained because, hey, you dance with them what you brung, right? The SS later said I needn't have bothered, so that's a lesson in etiquette learned.

ETA: The SS remarked that once upon a time, queers made up a much smaller fraction of the attendees. They'd call each other ahead of time and arrange to go as a gang. We were both pleased to see that's no longer necessary. There were a couple of gentlemen dancing together who met even the Siren's high standards; we've met them, natch.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: The Presidents of the United States of America, "Kick Out the Jams"

The Siberian Siren's birthday (observed) this year was at her main squeeze L's crew Shameless's annual Valentine's Day night, this year at the Monkey Loft. The highlights:

Solid groove. Duh.
L got a photographic birthday cake for the SS. I'd never seen anything like that before.
A tradition at this event is the smashing of a Valentine-themed piñata filled with condoms, lube, and cheap sex toys. The SS and her auxiliary squeeze A picked up a few of these off the floor. One of them was, as A & I immediately saw, a set of cock rings. The SS, despite her considerable experience in other areas, didn't know what they were, such is her ignorance of men. The SS wins at lesbian. (When I told my mom this story, she said, "Don't you ever get tired of things that are so obvious?" No, Mom, I don't. Sex-positivity gets a bad rap these days, but there's a lot to be said for the real thing.)
I got the SS a present that (ahem) she & I can both enjoy. Or she & somebody else, of course.

A few weeks ago my tango instructor invited me to a queer milonga out in West Seattle at the home of a friend of hers. What's a milonga, you ask? A tango party, naturally. The house in question has no front entrance due to a steep slope, an outsize living room with recently installed hardwood floors, and a sweeping view of Puget Sound that was entrancing even at night. There was:

The Russian hostess, who knows the SS. (The SS was invited, but declined.) She asked me how I knew her, and when I hesitated ever so slightly over how to word it, she said it was OK if I didn't tell her. I guess she really does know the SS. Hey, we met at a charity event. Really.*
Drinking - Hello, party full of gay people.
Another trans person in a crowd of fewer than twenty!
Kids and a giant dog.
The scraping of the rust off my basic tango skills.
The picking of my jaw up off the floor after watching other people's not-so-basic skills. I accused them of telepathy, but they all firmly denied it.
Flirting with some of my former classmates, et al. Yeah, surprising as sunrise.

Speaking of the Bang, I've been logging the practice time and feeling pretty good about the results. I may be as ready as I'm going to get by the time it happens.

Today: zappy got this >< close to removing the last of the hairs from my neck. Maybe in my next six-hour session Ms. Zappy will be able to clear me. It would be nice not to have to shave even if only for a day or two.

*Bang for the Buck in 2012 at the CSPC.

Current Mood: bouncy
Current Location: the IKEA chair at the old place

In what I consider a non-trivial accomplishment, at last night's tango lesson I managed not to make myself sore. I also discovered that with a good lead - e.g. the cute, motorcycle-riding instructor - I can more or less do the dance. It all feels like magic, really. If this continues, I might not be terrified to dance with the enthusiastic and vastly more experienced Siberian Siren. The SS has compared leading larger partners like me to steering a refrigerator, but I hope she'll indulge me; that should minimize the potential for injury.

I just had my first of three dates in five days, drinks at the Wildrose with a woman who turned out to be less Goth-looking than I expected. She's a little socially "phobic", she says, and was raised - just barely - by hippies. Ten out of ten for humanity, but in terms of engagement, chemistry, and having things in common, I'm a little skeptical. She's... interesting to talk to, but I'm not sure I can build a relationship on that.

A note to all you code monkeys out there*: If you're not going to script your deployments, at least document them completely. If you can't even manage a copy & paste into some obvious file somewhere, you're too anti-social to be doing what you're doing for a living. If there were any justice, you'd be ~~killed and eaten~~ forced to work with COBOL or, heaven forbid, Microsoft Access.

*Even if you prefer a more dignified title, I know better. Way better. The metaphor works on a great many levels, especially the social.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Location: my desk at the Lake Place
Current Music: my upstairs neighbors' stationary bike

Email from Mom today, in its entirety:

There is a tornado watch here. Got to go.

Granted, that was taken out of context; it was the last of a long tech support exchange - Mom has reason to believe she's been unintentionally using her neighbors' wireless network. (My mom the wardriver?!) But still, how many people get emailed about a tornado watch nearly three thousand miles away?

Ah, the stuff of my childhood nightmares. I'll take earthquakes any day.

I'm making cornbread stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner at (ahem) a certain gathering. Aspiring eX is making some for her own gathering. I have no iron skillet. She offered to make the cornbread for me, and I accepted. Can I get an "Awww"? Well, I thought it was very sweet of her.

The Siberian Siren invited me to blues dancing on the Hill tonight. Oddly enough, I'm not feeling hugely enthusiastic. Luckily, it's a regular thing.

Current Mood: tired
Current Location: my desk at the Lake Place
Current Music: an ear worm from the '80s

I had a fascinating drive home with the Wendling from driver's ed on Wednesday night. This time he didn't terrify me, but I got another flash of insight into the workings, or more precisely non-workings, of his nervous system.

He bravely decided to drive the same route home we'd gone when he nearly hit that Beemer on Saturday. Once again we were in one of two left turn lanes, only this time I pointed out to him the helpful dotted lines painted in the intersection.

There's more than one curving dotted line in the intersection because there are two left turn lanes facing north and two facing west. These lines intersect, naturally, but m'boy was confused about where each line began and ended. He was unable to follow them with his eyes. He couldn't make out the pattern of curvature which defined each line; it was as if he was seeing them as isolated rectangles of white. Guten Tag, Herr Dr. Asperger.

I reiterate that nothing immediately scary happened on that trip, but it doesn't bode well for his future driving if he can't do the low-level feature extraction on what he's seeing. I asked Aspiring Ex how he did at mazes, and she said, very well when he was younger. Hmm.

You know the Tom Waits song "Tango Till They're Sore"? Well, I did that last night. Being a taller-than-average woman, I have a tendency to slouch when trying to talk to most other women. It turns out that I do that when I'm dancing with them, too, and our instructor didn't call me on it until most of the way through the class. My back is not happy. She's 5'8", so I imagine she might have done it at some point as well.

There was a monthly beginner's tango night at Dance Underground on 15th, but I was too sore & low on sleep to take advantage. Le sigh.

I've scheduled a second date with Cat Lady after Thanksgiving. More news as events warrant.

I bought a pair of leopard print stretch velvet leggings, and finally it's cold enough to wear them. I am comfy, pettable, and spotted.

Current Mood: sore
Current Location: my desk at the Lake Place
Current Music: Tom Waits, "Tango Till They're Sore"

After a little gentle prodding from

cupcake_goth, I went to my first queer tango class last night in the U-District. Queer women, some of them cute, were danced with. No bones in anyone's feet were broken. Fun was had. I didn't suck any worse than average, I don't think.

Afterwards, the (seriously cute) instructor invited whoever was interested to the pizza & beer joint across the street. We compared notes on the South, of which we're both former residents, and of course lesbian dating & relationships. Oh, and the instructor rides a motorcycle. That's right: I tango'd with a cute dyke on a bike. I win Thursday night.

The class is four weeks, one hour per class, $60. I think it'll be time & money well spent.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Location: my desk at the Lake Place
Current Music: KEXP

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May 2025

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News flash: Nun has quiet weekend.
girl night with the Siren, the un-story
dances with dudes
Amor omnia vincit.
a weekend of self-indulgence
I am a refrigerator to be steered.
dances with queers
tango victory and other romantic tales
The excitement never stops in Florida, on Capitol Hill, or in the kitchen at my old place.
potpurri of body parts: my son's brain, my back
Tango!

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Entries tagged with dancing

News flash: Nun has quiet weekend.

girl night with the Siren, the un-story

dances with dudes

Amor omnia vincit.

a weekend of self-indulgence

I am a refrigerator to be steered.

dances with queers

tango victory and other romantic tales

The excitement never stops in Florida, on Capitol Hill, or in the kitchen at my old place.

potpurri of body parts: my son's brain, my back

Tango!