The Cube Life

As you know, I work in a cube now. It’s quite an adjustment. I’m aware that my neighbors can overhear my phone conversations. And the problem isn’t that I make a lot of personal calls while at work, maybe a couple a week (personal admin stuff), it’s that I’m afraid I’m going to say something wrong when I’m ordering something from a vendor (“Yeah, well….your prices SUCK!”) and one of my co-buyers will correct me. I fear being corrected.

And here’s why.

When I was 23, I was teaching ballroom dancing in Houston. How does one get into teaching ballroom dancing?

Slight tangent:
My then boyfriend Matt, my buddy Bob and I were hanging out at our local bar, the Vapor Room. Oh, I have so many stories from the Vapor Room. Anyway, one particular night, there were two or three dance instructors there, teaching swing dancing. This was at the height of the swing craze and the Ernie Savage Revival, a big band, was playing. I guess the manager of the Vapor Room thought having swing lessons would be a cool and profitable idea. And it was. Bob and I got up with group, boys on one side, girls on the other, and learned the basic rock step and turn. I say woohoo!

Well, Bob and I met while dancing at another club, so we were no newbies. We started improvising and Bob starting throwing a kick in there and one of the instructors eventually came over and asked if we’d ever thought about teaching dance. We were dumbfounded. Really? Teach?

We ended up going to the studio to talk with the manager and find out the details. Bob quickly declined when the manager told him he was going to have to cut his hair. Bob’s hair was down to his waist and very red. Dancing wasn’t worth it.

I, however, had nothing else going on. I was going to the University of Houston in the mornings, working at Coldwell Banker as a receptionist in the afternoons and drinking and partying at night. So, my schedule was open.

I continued to go to school in the morning (when I actually got up and went to school) and working in the afternoon (I’m very responsible. Never missed work. Even with the worst of hangovers) and then I’d go to the studio after work and take all of the classes and work with the other instructors to learn the dances and how to break them down and teach them.

And I’ll let a secret out of the bag.

Dance instructors have to start somewhere. Most of them have no idea how to foxtrot or tango when they start. So they take the classes and learn when they aren’t teaching. If you’ve ever taken dance lessons, chances are you’ve had a new teacher who learned that traveling box step mere minutes before you arrived for your lesson. It only takes a few months to get up to speed, but those first few weeks of teaching are stressful.

And here’s the example of why I hate people overhearing me.

I was in my third week of teaching dance. It was around 4pm so the studio was pretty empty as most students didn’t come in until after work. I was teaching my surgeon, who was brand spankin’ new, a foxtrot step. I forget what the step was, but I had just learned it the day before, when the manager was teaching all of us instructors some fancy moves. So, I was all pleased with myself, showing him this new step, talking very confidently because I had JUST learned it and I remembered every detail. And I taught it very well. The surgeon caught on quickly and by the end of his lesson, he had it down.

During his hour long lesson, the other instructors were practicing with each other over on the other side of the room. They were very good at congratulating the surgeon when he did well, but they never corrected me. They never threw in any tips or suggestions on how to perform this move. They just observed and gave praise.

After the surgeon had left, the other instructors erupted in laughter. I, being the newbie that I was, didn’t get the joke. I did good! The surgeon did good! Just what was so funny?

They told me I had taught the step very well, and they weren’t laughing at my ability. They were laughing because that step I had just taught my brand spankin’ new student was a Silver level step.

My surgeon was only at the Bronze level.
The first level.

The steps we had been learning with the manager of the studio the day before were advanced steps. For advanced students. And for teachers.

So now I had this student who know four steps in the foxtrot and one of them was a Silver step, which was going to bite him in the ass at the Friday night student dance party. He was going to pull this fancy move on another Bronze level student and she wasn’t going to know what the hell to do. Thus, making me look like I didn’t know what I was doing.

Fantastic.

At the surgeon’s next lesson, I had to fess up and apologize. I told him that I had gotten carried away because he was doing so well, and had inadvertently taught him an advanced step. He didn’t know enough to think I was an idiot; he just thought I was THAT good. And he felt very special that I had taught him a Silver step.

Now, when I’m on the phone with a vendor, I always expect one of the other buyers to listen patiently while I completely break all of the buyer rules and then erupt into laughter when I get off the phone, and tell me, “Raechelle! You can’t promise to bake the vendor cookies! That’s a conflict of interest! Sheesh!!”

So far this hasn’t happened.
But the fear is still there.

Wedding Dresses, Girls Night, Cowboys and A Coffee Date

It's been a busy weekend.

Saturday, I met up with Nichole to do some wedding dress trying on. She's getting married in November. Aren't I a good friend? I may have accidently found a few that I would choose for my wedding. So I'm ready. Just need the proposal.

After that, we grabbed some lunch, then I headed to Target. And the stars were against me. It was absolute hell. Between the traffic, the construction and the asinine amount of people, I was ready to kill someone after 30 minutes. I came home with shampoo, Windex wipes and the movie "Once", because I am absolutely addicted to it.

I napped for an hour, then it was time to get ready for the monthly girls' night dinner, this time in my neck of the woods. Rosita's (mexican joint) at Greenlake. Since I hadn't had a margarita in about eight months, I treated myself to three of 'em. Good times.

After dinner, we hopped across the street to the Little Red Hen. Boy howdy, I gotta start hangin' out there more often. I danced my tush off. Then the gals decided the keyboard player wanted me, so they gave him my number. Turned out he was married. Fantastic.

Tangent:
Have I told you about my love of cowboys? Case in point:

Those last two are from Tootsie's Lounge in Nashville. Steve and I were having a wild night. Met up with a couple from Iowa and drank a lot of jack and cokes. And I was grabbing every cowboy who walked by. Steve wasn't helping matters by taking photos. The next morning I woke up with a hole in my favorite blue jeans and neither one us had any idea how it happened. Crazy. Thank goodness I'm out of the phase, right? You'll be happy to know that I did not kiss, nor hug, any cowboys last night. Although I did make eyes at a few.

This morning, I had a coffee date with a Match guy. He's very funny and nice so it was pretty painless. No biggie. Really.

After coffee, I toodled around Ballard for a bit, came home, watched a movie, fell asleep for three hours and have done absolutely nothing productive at all. Blah. Apparently I am not the party animal I used to be. Again, probably a good thing.

Suddenly, I'm Outgoing!

I took a ballet class with Jamie tonight.

Yes, really.

An adult, level II/III class. And it kicked my ass. The warm ups were somewhat easy. I remembered all of the poses (did I tell you I took ballet at the Unviersity of Houston? That and algebra. I needed two classes to actually be enrolled. I ended up first at the bar. And I failed algebra.) and could do the plies. But, oy the keeping up part. I can never remember where my arms need to go. Up, side, front.....ack. It's hard enough remembering where my leg is supposed to go.

I got through the first couple of exercises okay but had no problem just stopping and staring at the other dancers' feet to see what they were doing when I was completely lost, which was most of the time. The exercises would normally end with a balance stance. And I got balance. I can balance like nobody's business. So, I'd just wait for that part to roll around.

Jamie, however, was amazing. She hasn't taken a class in I can't remember how many years, but she stuck in there until the bitter end, when they were doing hops and quick, triple time kicks. Amazing. I didn't even pretend to keep up at that point. I just stood off to the side, balancing (cause I'm awesome) and watching.

Every time she'd look at me, I'd just mouth "I want child's pose..."

The next class will be ballroom dancing. I need to be in my element for a change. Either that, or I'll make Jamie sing at an open mic.

Dancing Queens

I went dancing Saturday night with Rachelle and Val. It's been a long time since I've got out to a club to dance. And it was quite a shock.

We got to the club, which was in Pioneer Square, around 9pm. For reference, Pioneer Square is where the Mardi Gras riots were my first year here. Mom immediately called me (because it made national news) and begged me to move home. I don't go to Pioneer Square very often. Little too rowdy for me. But we were there early, we parked pretty close to the club, and it wasn't too hoppin' yet. We did have to walk through Occidental Park, which just scares the shit out of me.

Ah, the club scene. I felt pretty hip. Had on my semi-fitting jeans (because I still don't have any jeans that aren't too big for me), new black clingy shirt and new black patent leather heels. I blended well. So did Rachelle and Val. The youngsters started pouring in around 10pm and the people watching began.

And because I now think in blog postings, some notes:

* I started checking out the guys and I found myself looking for wedding rings. Ha. Married guys don't go to these clubs. Married guys go to the pubs in their neighborhoods where they can stay close to home in case their wives call them or their kid gets sick.

* Girls grope other girls alot for attention. I was assuming the gaggle of chicks at the bar were gay, but Val pointed out that no, they probably just wanted attention. And the best way to get the attention of men? Make out with other girls. Duly noted.

* I am too short and not chesty enough to attract the attention of a bartender. I had to use the 5'9" well endowed (and proud, judging by her itty bitty tank top) blond standing behind me. She was happy to help.

* Music moves people in some very strange ways. One guy had little LED lights (like you'd attach to a key ring) in his hands and was putting on his own laser show on the dance floor. He had rhythm. I'll give him that. Which is more than I can say for over half of the other dancers. On woman, who had the body of a ballerina (complete with her hair in a bun) literally strutted back and forth like a chicken. She had her shoulders pulled back, and her head would jut forward to the beat. Just hypnotizing. Apparently the robot is not dead. At all. And one cute, young boy was doing calisthenics in the corner. He worked up quite a sweat. I'm sure the people who were watching me have all kinds of comments about my dancing, but remember, I'm secure and full of myself these days, so I'm okay with what everyone else thinks about me. I know I got rhythm.

* People pay money to stand in a loud, crowded club and talk on the phone. Or text. I wish I had actually taken MY phone in so I could have gotten a photo of all of the people on their phones. Wait....is that irony?

* No matter how thin I get, I will never, ever wear some of the things I saw the women wearing there. A skirt that is so short you can see the little curves of the bottom of their butt cheeks. Men, do you really find this appealing? If so, alright. I'll work on it. But I can't guarantee the same results.

* Clubbers worship DJs much like I worship Bob Schneider or Patty Griffin. At one point, everyone on the dance floor was facing the DJ booth, screaming and yelling like they were at a concert. The DJ would do....something.....with the music, I have no idea, but apparently it was quite impressive, as the crowd cheered again. I just looked at Rachelle and mouthed "WTF?"

After a while, Val motioned me to come down from the second level, where I was watching all of the activity. She asked if I was ready to leave. I said "Sure, you guys are ready?" Val replied with "Rachelle's knees are hurting and I have to get up early, so we're outta here."

It was midnight. We are not young pups anymore.

I took some Aleve before I went to bed. It seems to have warded off any of the aches I was dreading this morning. Still might take an epsom salt bath tonight.

But I'm looking forward to doing it again soon.