Resolution Number 1

OK, I have a New Year’s Resolution.
Not that it’s necessary, but I realize that I have one.

It’s to not comment or make fun of how people look and stand up to defend fat girls, old ladies, people with wrinkles. Cuz I R one.

It’s also to point out that ‘that ain’t sexy, that’s unhealthy’ when someone calls a BMI of 16 hot. Not letting little girls get a message that they have to destroy their health to be sexy. Or that it’s OK to poke fun at someone because of their looks.

It’s been on my mind for a while, not feeling comfortable at certain pictures posted, not getting into the joke. Also seeing excellent dancers trashed on You Tube by cretins, and occasionally by the well meaning dancer. But more disturbingly, by teenage girls who think a size 10 is obese as they struggle with their own body image.

Thanks a ‘effin lot media.

Sometimes speaking up causees others to say something. Sometimes it causes a flame war, but either way, I don’t feel like a jerk for being quiet. It’s a win win.

Then I read this http://danceswithfat.wordpress.com/2012/01/17/rolls-not-trolls

And thought, “OK, that puts the nail in it.” So no more.

Granted, that’s pretty obvious. Don’t be cruel. But sometimes you catch yourself wanting to say something snarky about the person with the bad plastic surgery, or the person wearing something too tight, or with a really weird wig.

Of course, that’s self inflicted, so it’s OK.
Right?

I don’t know anymore. That bad plastic surgery job could be post trauma reconstruction, or they could be the victim of a monster doctor and are waiting for the settlement to get the mess fixed. To tight clothes could be their baggage was lost in flight and a friend loaned them something to wear until their money and clothes arrived. The weird wig could be gift. Or they lost a bet.

And that really ‘large’ woman could have lost 100 pounds and be at her healthiest and best size ever. She could be more cardio fit, have better blood pressure, blood glucose levels and overall, be better off than the person posting the ugly remarks.

So I’m going to tell the world to STFU (not that it will listen, I’m doing it for me).

Really it’s more about glass houses and rocks.
I’m not getting any younger, much skinnier, or less wrinkled. So ….
It’s also about life being short and if they’re harming no one, then who am I to care?

What you give out comes back to you.

It’s also about learning to look a little deeper than the surface. That fat dancer is very good, better than most and she is so happy with a beautiful smile. That weird couple with the odd clothes and clearly deviant lifestyle seem to be very kind to each other and that is rare today. That woman with the ugly face is clearly loved by her grandkids and they see her as beautiful.

And so forth.
There is enough ugly in spirit floating around without me adding to it.

So I’m going to stand up for the weird, the ugly, the fat, the just plain odd. Someone out there loves them. What good comes from the negative?

However, if they are a rotten person, mean, unkind, whose fundamental beliefs go against everything I believe…… I will point that out. :)

One Year Today

I gave myself permission and I took a year off.

From writing, from blogging and keeping up the web page. My heart wasn’t in it.
But I promised that I’d write today.

I just didn’t expect to be so sad.

I woke up this morning in bad mood and as I puttered around, I marked the time.
One Year Ago Today:

11:00, making a heart cake with the intention of taking at least half of it over to Danny. In the process discovering that the pump at the well had died again.

11:15, tried calling Danny, but not expecting an answer so I called Jay, laughing about bothering him on a Sunday morning, that the well and pump were still giving us fits and Danny was for sure not answering his phone.

11:30, getting the call from Jay that he’d found Danny. I remember turning off the oven and running out the door, through the hedge, down the trail and thinking “Shark bite time”.

That period of time after a tragedy that you’re numb, just functioning and frantically processing. Making mental lists of who to call, what to do. In this case, answering questions by police officers, filling out pages of questions, taking business cards politely and them asking why.

In between, yelling into the voice mails of relatives that they needed to call back ASAP. It was Sunday morning, people had their phones off. Gradually the word got out and neighbors flooded the yard before the police cars had left. One of Danny’s friends arrived and broke into sobs.

Me leaning through the car window comforting him, grateful that I was still numb. Him asking why.

One year ago today, or probably last night, my brother ended his life.
Some time he woke up, in some kind of pain… of the body, the mind, the soul and….
In a hallway, with his back propped up against a door, with a shotgun.
After 49 years.

All day I’ve been looking at the clock, I can remember what happened as the minutes ticked by…..
Now as I write this, is when my half-sister and husband arrived with cases of water and KFC, her breaking into
heart wrenching tears over and over. Me comforting her. Her asking why.

It wasn’t a surprise.
He’d tried before, talked about it many times.

The why was in some ways obvious…. too much alcohol and in tractable pain, a vicious circle.
Which came first??
Toss in not being able to drive and work.
Toss in decades of battling depression.
Toss in having a childhood from hell.

We all shared similar memories and fought many of the same demons, though the abuse varied some from child to child.
All four of us formed a web of commonality. The strongest thread being that of like parents, blood kin. And of dealing with a mercurial father who was in turns physically, emotionally, mentally, sexually and even spiritually abusive. And a mother who did nothing to protect or save us, but declare her own victimhood while minimizing ours.

Caught between a monster and an equal victim. Learning to survive and even find happiness in spite of adults who were insane, a threat to our survival and a God who was totally oblivious, not matter how much one prayed. I often said we were so close because we’d survived the same war.
Except Danny didn’t fully survive.

And to quote Alexis when got home for the funeral “Dad won.”

But that is another story….. with a moral quite simple–
Love your children and let them know it, don’t hurt them, protect them from monsters, even if that monster is the other parent.

From there, threads of our web grew thinner, shared by 2 or 3.
Love of growing things and social issues– Alexis and I.
Strong political views- Alexis and Danny
Veganism- Marvin and Alexis
Sleepy heads and love of animals– Marvin and I.
Love of the farm and managing it- Danny and Marvin
Totally embracing being country and love of food— Danny and I.

Danny and I also shared darker memories that the others didn’t. Either due to being born later or simply being able to selectively forget. But we didn’t.

The night terrors when the morning seemed centuries away, were every fear, pain, horror and misery crept in and sat on your chest. The insomnia, self contempt, depression, fear, anger and anxiety. All results of not surviving our childhood totally intact.

When I was a little girl, I’d pray for Danny. He seemed to be hurting the most and the most hurt by what was happening. I continued praying, though my prayers shifted and changed from him finding happiness to his pain ending.

And a year ago, today, it did.

So, I’ll remember the best things I can.
Danny like us all, found bits of happiness in his life and those are the things I’ll tell about him.

He never met a stranger.
No one worked harder than he did.
He loved working out of doors.
There wasn’t any piece of machinery he couldn’t drive.
He’d give you the shirt off his back.

He was far smarter than people realized, having a surprising grasp of all aspects of current events, finance and the world in general
He was the ultimate believer in rights of the individual, understanding how it felt to be viewed as less because you were different.

He adored kids and would play with them for hours.
He believed in family first and always.
He adored our sister in law and our niece and nephew were the most important people in his life.

Sometimes I wish he was still here… but then I have to remember how much pain he was in and I let it go. I regret that he missed Alexis wedding and the birth of his newest niece.


Rosa, that I’m sure he would have spoiled as rotten as he did the others.

Emily with wagon

Like buying Emily John Deere everything, starting with a wagon.

Emily with tractor

And not stopping with a tractor either.

Emily and Buddy


He loved my dog and treated him like a best Buddy…right down to buying him hamburgers and ribs when he picked up his own take-out.

Us and the Gator


He bought Emily a Gator for Christmas and she’s the envy of her neighborhood Dads ;)

Truck with Stacks


Danny was known for his truck with it’s stacks. Now when I see Jay driving it, I smile.

Old House


The Old House that our Grandparents built around the 1900′s and it’s still standing. Danny would go sit there and enjoy the quiet.

Play Set


He drove all the way to Atlanta to help put together a play set for the babies. He drove to Atlanta frequently, when he could, to see them, play with and spoil them rotten.

Survivors of the Same War

Our last ‘Family’ picture with all of us together.

Horsing Around


Last New Years week, him playing on the floor with the kids, though it hurt him a lot.

Last Christmas


And the rest of us, hanging out and talking until after dark.

Favorite Christmas Light Shows

Things I Just Don’t Get

1. Cruises: Fair enough, I hate crowds. But I know that I can get away from them in an hour or so. However, a cruise!?!? Where you are stuck on a ship with a few thousand strangers in the middle of the ocean…..

With no hope for escape, much less quiet or privacy? Sounds like one of Dante’s Rings of Hell to me.

2. Teddy Bears: OK, I don’t hate them, I think they’re cute for little kids but as a gift for an adult woman? Does he come with a chocolate center or a bottle of vodka? Then what’s the point?

Only in the front seat of my new Lamborghini would I understand the gift of a teddy bear.

3. The beach in summer: There is no appeal to me. It’s hot, sandy, windy and crowded. I burn, no matter how much sun block. I hate wearing a swimsuit in front of strangers and so forth.

However, the beach in winter is wonderful. Cool, windy but perfect for kite flying, unpopulated and I don’t burn (much less need a swimsuit).

4. Traveling: Yes, I’ll be the first to say it, I am a Hobbit, and I hate traveling. HATE IT! I like being in new places and seeing new things etc, but the actual act of getting there is pure misery for me. Either by car, train, plane or boat. I’ve yet to experience any method of travel that didn’t have me regretting my journey within a few hours. The upside is nothing makes me happier to be home than traveling.

So, until a transporter is invented that gets me to new and wonderful places instantly, I’ll only do my traveling by nessessity.

5. Movies: I can count on one hand the number of movies I have sat and watched all the way through in the last month year lifetime. Movies are utilitarian parts of multitasking but alone can’t hold my attention. Only when I’m totally exhausted and unable to do anything else do I sit and watch without interruption. They’re what I put on while reading a book, surfing on the web, cleaning house, working on projects. They are not something I stop and sit and watch as ‘entertainment’. That act alone is misery and worse when there is someone who keeps saying “sit and watch this movie with me”. I just don’t get it, my watching it with you isn’t going to change the story or outcome of the movie?

As for going to the movie theater? I haven’t been in 12 years. Part of that is the crowd thing, the other is the experience is creepy—or as one friend put it, sitting in the dark hearing strangers eat is like being in a barn full of rats.

All I Want Is One Good Showdown Fight

and a chapter or two of groveling.

This discussion has come up more than once: The too-quick to forgive heroine who borders on a doormat. Linda Howard has a few of those- the heroines in “Angel Creek, “A Game of Chance” and “Lady of the West”.

Kleypas has are recent one with Poppy in “Tempted at Twilight.”

There are others and I’ll add them as I remember them.

Now the hero’s crimes vary from cutting off the water supply to the heroine’s farm, to deceitfully manipulating scandal that forces a break-up with her beau and her to marry him instead, to lying about his identity, getting her shot and almost killed to outright hitting her.

In each of these cases, the issue was never discussed or brought to light adequately for the reader. OK, maybe a sentence or two of internal remorse from the hero, maybe a bit of the same from the heroine, but never the nasty, no holds barred, screaming banshee, beat the issue to a bloody pulp catharsis that the reader needs. The kind of fight we know we’d have with our SO’s if something like that happened to us.

At least we’d like to think we’d do it. Demand an apology, explain the loss of trust, express in words the hurt and anger; or best of all, put forth the aspect that it would be better to walk away from him and the relationship than to stay.

Make it clear that the heroine demands his respect and that he must re-earn her trust —and both deserve a higher value than he has given.

Instead, in all the above…the couple either ignore the issue and move on, discuss it with a ‘well, that happened- won’t happen again’ or the heroine decides to ‘love him anyhow’.

Okey dokey. I don’t think so Louise.

Authors who do get it right or at least learn from past mistakes are—
Linda Howard in “Loving Evangeline” (the book, not the gosh-awful, WTF was that, Made for TV movie that bore zero resemblance to the book). Here, the heroine tells the hero to take a hike at the end of the book because he was a cold bastard. YAY!

OK so they do get back together, but only after said cold bastard has gone off and marinated in his misery a bit. Realized what a screw up he was and how he threw away the best thing he ever had.

Works for me.

Another favorite of mine is Christina Dodd’s “That Scandalous Evening” which has probably my absolutely favorite grovel scene ever because… he actually is on his knees groveling! On the docks! While she ponders getting on a ship to sail to Italy, leaving him and his perfidy behind!

Double YAY! For his kneeling and her leaving.

The scene goes on for several pages, she gets to vent and is seriously about to leave him. Granted, it’s not chapters long because it’s at the end of the book, but it’s enough. You really do believe he’s sorry and remorseful and won’t do it again.

Which I think is the issue with the above mentioned books without said scenes. You never totally believe he won’t do it again because he hasn’t been scared enough at the prospect of loosing her— she came back too easy (Game of Chance, Tempted at Twilight) or never even acted angry (Angel Creek) or was angry/hurt enough in the first place (Lady of the West had her hurt, but she was also busy trying to get him to understand her side of things).

The books leaving you feeling unbalanced, like there was an injustice that was never dealt with, that a wrong was never righted. That the heroine never placed a high enough price on her self worth, selling herself too cheaping for love. It is because major deceit/mistreatment/crime was given a pass, meaning an even worse incident is almost certain to happen in the future. Call it experience, or human nature, or simply we know what can and will happen when woman is a doormat.

She’ll get walked on again, just worse the next time.

It’s hard to believe in a HEA the issues of remorse, forgiveness and trust have never fully been worked out.

So give me more scenes like the one in “That Scandalous Evening” and I’ll believe the HEA no matter what the hero does (almost).

My Few of My Favorite Things

In no particular order.
1. Sleep.

2. Chocolate, raspberries and whipped cream.

3. Shiny!!

4. Camels

5. Boxes

Searching for Ormonde Jayne

Let me preface this with I have a moderate genetic Anosmia meaning my sense of smell is limited. Not totally lacking, I’ve discovered, just like a black and white movie. Scents do record as being present but not all of them and often not in detail.

Some do register is ‘good’ and I can place them either with a food (vanilla, citrus, green) or ‘flower’ smell. Others register, but not as good or bad. It’s like looking at a black and white picture, except with scents. So while others can smell a fragrance and pick out various notes, I can pick out one basic theme of citrus, or sweet, floral or sometimes ‘dark, odd, off’. BTW, my sense of taste is almost hypersensitive, so my eating has never been affected.

I’ve also learned that my sense of smell improves in the bathroom, hence my fascination with soap. Maybe it’s the combination of warm moist air, an enclosed environment, cleared sinuses and being encompassed in a fragrance. Even moreso was that often there was a name to go with that fragrance and I could cognizantly train myself that “this is what ____ smells like.”

I’ve been doing this for years, discovering much to my joy that fragrances like “Angel” or L’Occitane’s “Citrus Verbenna” I could pick up on without reading the label. I can smell the vanilla in “Shalimar” and the roses in “Fantasia de Fleurs”.

It has taken effort though but it’s been worth it.

And probably my biggest reason for entering into soap making: So I could have soap, bubble bath, even shampoo that smelled like my favorite scents and expensive perfumes in the volume and combinations I wanted. However, without paying the ridiculous prices that everything I liked seemed to cost. Plus being able to put into them the things I could smell.

So I began researching fragrances, first finding sites like Basenotes and Fragrantica to expand my understanding. This was more fun than a trip to Disney; the process of learning all the components of a fragrance and perfume making. Why some are considered world class and others as trash. What combinations work and what are horrendous.

This is the process that taught me there are two ways to scent a product: Essential oils or absolutes- which are extracted or derived from the source itself. Or fragrance oils which are created/synthetic versions of the fragrance.

The pros and cons I worked out over time. Obviously, essential oils are more expensive. However, for some, there is no viable substitution. They’re best suited for perfumes and toilettes and so forth, where there is direct skin contact and pure fragrance is important. Most of the time, essential oils need to be diluted by a % with a carrier oil to be used directly on the skin. Some swear by them for aromatherapy.

Fragrance oils (in my opinion) are well suited for items where there is secondary transfer as in soap, lotion or shampoo or they’re used in a non-body manner (berger or oil lamps, linen sprays etc). They are much less expensive and can handle the chemical reactions that can occur in mixing.

Lye is notorious for morphing fragrances and colors in cold process soaping. The thought of dropping $50 a gram Attar of Roses in lye with a ph of 13 makes my palms sweat. Not so much ethanol or perfumer’s alcohol. Maybe it’s because I know I can drink the alcohol and survive. Not so much the lye.

Same for my poor Rose Absolute.

Even many of the ‘created for soap and candle making’ fragrance oils do change and morph during saponification, some changes mild, some drastic enough to render the finished soap nothing like the original intent.

Better to face that tragedy having only spent $5 in fragrance oil than $50 in essentials.

I’ve also learned that in the land of fragrance, there is a lot of smoke and mirrors. A lot of hype.

That a lot of it is mystique and showmanship. As with Ormonde Jayne’s “Woman”, the scent that put her and her shop in Mayfair (UK) on the map. That story of the perfume alone hooked me.

Reviewers described the fragrance as being like a walk in the woods with the smells of the trees, grass and flowers enveloping you. As a woman who lives in the woods, who loves taking walks through the trees, a chord was struck. The components are not amazing or unusual. Cardamom, coriander, grass, violet, jasmine, vetiver, cedar wood, amber and sandalwood. Oh! And one surprise element: Black hemlock. Not the little scrubby plant used as poison, but instead, as I discovered, it is a tree, a mountain hemlock or Tsuga Mertensiana.

Now talk about your showmanship. Linda Pilkington (the nose of the company) admitted she was looking for unique scents and the name intrigued her. The end product has become legend of sorts in perfumery.

Out of curiosity, I tried to find the components and all were easy finds. EXCEPT for the Tsuga Mertensiana. I found a black spruce that left my end product reminding people, oh so cheerfully, of laundry detergent.

So far, the closest I’ve come is in a spruce of sorts, a Tsuga canadansis essential oil that has gotten good reviews from friends as smelling ‘almost there’ to the Ormonde Jayne perfume.

Not that I want to duplicate her perfume. I just want to make a soap that smells like that bottle of wonderful stuff I finally got my hands on!

I’m working on building and filling out my essential and fragrance oil collection. I’m still trying to hone my Ormonde soap recipe, hoping to get something that smells as good as the perfume. Other things I’ve found in the fragrance oil and used in soap with good results: Tom Ford’s Black Orchid, Paloma Picasso, Lolita Lempicka, Angel, Jickey, Bulgari Black to name a few.

With vendors, there are advantages and hard to find items with each. So far,
Majestic Mountain Sage, Sweet Cakes , Save On Scents, Snowdrift Farm , Day Star , Coastal Scents ,
Camden Grey ,
Brambleberry and of course, EBay have been wonderful sources for fragrance as well as other soaping supplies.

I’ll keep you guys posted if I come across any others.

Meth, Fireworks, Explosives and Soap

Soap making. Sounds so…
Archaic? Wholesome? Old fashioned? Odd?
For me, I remember watching my Grandma Zip in an ratty old housedress and apron, stirring the soap cauldron in the back yard, and my memory was of was of a nasty hard bar that took off a layer of skin and could get the dirt out of any piece of laundry, including Granddaddy Zips post dairy work overalls. Nothing special there.

That was then, now…. check the boutique prices on luxury soaps and you’ll discover that someone has figured out that homemade soap also a way to make big bucks.

At $2 to $4 an ounce it’s more expensive than steak. The soap we use now is all chemicals, so a handcrafted soap from from fats alone with the addition of lye, color and fragrance seems as wholesome as Mom and apple pie.

Or at least that’s what I thought.
That was until I started gathering my ingredients to try my hand at it, motivated by curiousity, a bit of nostalgia and the desire to see what all the fuss was about.

I hadn’t realized that Red Devil Lye was no longer on the shelves until I entered the world of soap making. It’s been outlawed in most states because it’s a component of crystal meth. HOLY COW! That bit of knowledge alone makes me know that anyone who uses it is certifiable.

I discovered that I had to order lye online, after filling out forms and swearing that no, I’m not making illegal narcotics. I’m a good person not up to nefarious activities. I don’t have burners and stills all over my house. All I have is a crock pot and some digital scales…. and my oven. OK….even a hazmat suit for mixing but….

All I want to do is make soap. Maybe shampoo. On hell, maybe even laundry detergent!

I gathered the basics before I began and the more exotic items I ordered online. Cocobutter, shea butter, almond oil, argan oil, palm kernal oil and on and on. Bulk caster oil. Bulk glycern. Other things I buy in the grocery store, again, causing raised eyebrows when I check out with a cart of nothing but coconut oil, olive oil and lard. I almost wanted to say “I’m thinking that if I mix the monosaturated fats with the saturated fats when I cook, they’ll cancel each other out.”

But it would have flown over there heads.

Anyhow, I order my first shipment of lye from The Lye Guy and proceed to make soap. My first few batch was fair. My second batch however was pretty good! And soon, I was whipping up soap every weekend. Discovering that, YES! It was better than anything you could buy. Tailored to be wonderful for my skin and in any fragrance I wanted.

ANY
FRAGRANCE
I
WANTED! (that’s another story but the biggest reason those boutique soaps cost $$$).

Soon, after my soap dish by my bath tub was as big as a mixing bowl, and I’d given as much away to friends and coworkers as I possibly could, I set up an Etsy Store

Then I decided to stretch my wings and try cream soap.

The recipes are hard to come by and the forums for this type of soap are secretive, closed and almost inpossible to join. Seriously, I could become a member of the Knight’s Templar or the Illuminati with much less hassle. I didn’t give up and found a few recipes and found that most of the ingredients were the same as regular soap.

However, instead of lye (sodium hydroxide) soft, liquid and cream soaps require potash (potassium hydroxide). Which is, for some reason, just as hard to come by as lye. But that wasn’t the best part. Cream soap also requires stearic acid.

Yep, used in making fireworks.

Granted, it wasn’t as hard to find or get, my best vendor being an Ebay store with firework supples. Yippee!!! Quickly, I’d mastered cream soap making, adding french clay for a really fabulous shaving cream.

But then came the next step. The last frontier of soap making weirdness (at least that month). Homemade detergent. Ah HA! I thought. Nothing odd here. Just premade soap grated and sodium carbonate.

Wait.
Carbonate. Not BI carbonate.

Drat.

Off again, discovering that no, you couldn’t find good old sodium carbonate (aka Washing Soda) in the store that easily. In my state, it appears not at all.

Why? It appears it’s a component in making nitroglycerin. So off again I went on the net, finally finding sodium carbonate from the same fireworks vendor that I got the stearic acid from. YIPPEE! (again).

I made my from scratch laundry detergent and first load of laundry, I was hooked. NOW I know why Grandma Zip swore by it. No more dingeys. No more ring around the collar. No more clothes smelling funky even though they’ve been washed.

Anyhow, inside my kitchen cabinets look like I’m either having the mother of all fish fries or I’m planning to blow a hole in the earth. Or maybe want to start my own spa. Friends have teased me that I might get a visit from the Sherrif. Fine, he’s welcome to come….. I’ll just give him a bag full of soap and send him home with a bottle of stuff that’ll get the stains out of his shirts.

Yes, we’ve become a whimpy nation, right down to how we get clean!
Ya see, I’m just making soap.

Tarkan: Hup

You’re welcome girls :)

Culture Clash

I actually considered using a video of “Torn between Two Lovers” to set the mood, then I realized I hated the song.

So, we’ll get right to the mood.  How do I reconcile being adamantly politically conservative-libertarian, semi-pseudo-Christian with my passion for teaching and performing belly dance?  I’ve gone weeks, months, heck, probably even years without considering the cultural clashes. 

But then BAM!  It happens. 

Like the NYC Mosque situation (HATE IT!), someone being horrified about belly dancing at weddings (ANNOYED WITH THEM!) and my own moment of “OK, now how DO I explain this” (~~sigh~~)…..and I find myself back to where I was in the beginning.  Making peace with a dance often linked to a culture that is part of a belief system and political movement that I find abhorrent. 

A dance sometimes lumped with sleaze and stripping, skanks and tramps. 

Even odder, a dance paradoxically considered either that of the too sexy for words Belly-Barbie OR the uber-empowered Religion Despising, Liberal Leaning,  Man Hating Ball Buster  (WTF?!?!)

I ponder a while and then return to the initial appeal.   The things I like, things that mesh so easily into my world.  Why I came, why I stayed, why I will remain here.

There is the femininity of the dance that is so appealing.   Whether it is in the sweet country cuteness of Saidi or the bit more earthy flirting of Sha’abi, or the breathtaking expression of Classic Egyptian or the Bad Girl Fun of Havasi.   There is the Spit in Your Eye attitude of the sister dance Flamenco or the wonderful energy and hidden athleticism of the folk dances of Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt etc. each can be as demure or as overt as desired.  It’s the wealth of expressive avenues that make this dance a continuing adventure for a woman.  It’s also a folk dance that doesn’t require perfection of body or limits by age, but challenges your body, mind and spirit.

So, I can dance and be feminine until I’m too old, fat and senile to move. 

There are the costumes of course.  No, not the skimpy two piece bedlah (though I still wear them, with belly cover and vest).  But better yet are the Beledi dresses, the Khleegy ‘big dresses’, the various folk costumes, the abso-frickin-lootly too cute for words Meleya Leff dress, the I’m a Princess Ghwazee Coats.  This is all before we even think about Tribal bling.

It’s the sequins!  Fringe!  Velvets, satins, brocades for the shiny-affected.  Or the more earthy cotton, tassels and shells for the more nature oriented.   “Big girls playing dress-up” I hear and it’s true and even better if you’ve mastered the dance that matches the costume.

OK, so we have feminine, old fat lady dancing in a cute costume.  Triple check.

There is the physical challenge of the dance that is the same if not more than of western dances.   It’s a dance like any other, complete with levels of advancement, drills and repetition and muscle memory.   It now has so many styles and levels I can’t begin to go into it, simply to say….I’ve had years in all forms of dance: ballet, tap, jazz, modern.   Belly dance kicks my butt more than anything else.   Simply because it demands I use every last muscle of my body.  Not just my arms and legs.  I have to work with one part of my body while releasing another.  I need to be able to isolate not just one section of my body from another, but literally one muscle from the one sitting next to it.   The dance is deceptively simple, but it can also be excruciatingly demanding.  Ask my students after class how hard they’ve worked or ask me when I stop sucking wind.      

Granted, because it’s a folk dance it doesn’t have universal vocabulary that other classic dances have.  But thanks to forums, blogs, video sharing, workshops, teachers creating their own standards etc, that is changing rapidly. The dance is not only becoming more uniform, but expanding in technique.    I foresee in the near future a standardization of the dance like all other dances complete with vocabulary.

So, we have “Feminine, old fat lady in cute costume dancing a complex dance”  What’s not to like?

Which leads to another aspect of this dance that is appealing.  That is its not group dependent.  It celebrates and allows for each individual to shine in their own range (sound familiar??).   Carolena Nericcio tells the story of how when she as a 14 year old girl, she was asked out to a square dance by a boy she liked.   She was excited, made a dance outfit and then on the night of the dance, waited expectantly for him to arrive.   Only to be stood up.

What I found amusing was she wasn’t hurt about being stood up, but missing the chance to dance.  This is when she decided not to wait on anyone else to dance.  This may be the root of the attraction for many.

It’s not a social dance, in the sense you don’t need a partner, or even a special place to do it.    It’s also a dance usually associated with females (though it’s a folk dance) and its one of the few dances where body type, size or age doesn’t matter.   It’s an individual’s dance, the dance of an introvert (though an extrovert does just fine).

Granted, in researching this dance, you’ll find many women talk of feeling empowered, improving their self esteem etc (which is true).    But it’s bigger than that.  It’s simply the joy of dancing within a movement vocabulary that feels more natural to your body.   Dancing in itself is wonderful, but to find a dance where you’re OK as you are is a double blessing.

So, now we have “Feminine, old fat lady in cute costume dancing a complex dance, solo.”   

Then there is the music…. Oh. My. Goodness.

I will not lie.  In the beginning– I hated the music! 
HATED IT!

BUT, but, but I was told, “You’ll learn to love it.”  I thought they were crazy. It all sounded the same.  It sounded like cats being murdered in the back of a cement mixer, with drums beating out random hits accompanied by really, really CHEESY Lowery organs.   But, I loved the dance and told myself “When I get really good at it, I can dance to music I like”

BTW, the dying cat is a mismar and there’s a joke to go with it….“What’s the difference between a mismar and an onion?  No one cries when you chop up a mismar.”

However, it grew on me as I listened to more and more music, as I learned to differentiate between instruments.

I learned to differentiate by rhythm and I learned to play zils!  OK, maybe that was my Crossing the Rubicon moment. 

In learning to play zils, I was forever hooked, discovering that I am a rhythm addict.  Keep your melody, I don’t wanna hear your lyrics…. It’s the rhythm.  Which is the core, the root, the exceptionalism Middle Eastern music and dance.  Gone are the boring drum machine beats divisible by 2 or 4, or the consistent waltz tempo 123.  In their place are beats and patterns as complex and stunning as any melody.

Except better. 

OK, so it was the rhythms that hooked me.  But little by little, I was won over. First by classic Egyptian and Olm Koulthum.  I still remember the chills I got when hearing Enta Omri (You are My World) for the first time.  I also realized that this was written in during the Golden Age, when Egypt was striving to make its place in the world and westernize.     It’s beautiful and yet sad, on so many levels.

I was won over by the cute bouncy bubbliness of Lebanese classics.  I grew to recognize and love the infectious happiness of Saidi.   I fell in love with Turkish Pop and then grew to really like the dancing to the Karshilima.    I knew I was converted when I heard the original “Habibi El Einie” and thought “This is so much better than the pop version.”

Now?  I love the music, and Western music often pales in comparison to the complexity.    The rhythms especially you don’t hear on the top 40 radio.   The sliding between sharps and flats sound of the maqam, the number of changes in the in one song from vocals to instrumental to taxim to tabla to beledi can make a 5 minute song breathtaking journey.

I found the lyrics vary, some remind me of the bubble-gum pop of my youth.  Silly and goofy, sweet and saucy, sometimes a teensy bit suggestive, but never sad.   Others can be absolutely gut wrenching in their depth of meaning and passion.  Or beautiful and poetic.  Or simple and sweet.  I wish we had more in our culture. 

Understand, there are things I wish we had that other parts of the world have.  It doesn’t mean I love America less, or think there is anything wrong with our culture.    I just wish we danced more.   I wish some didn’t associate core dance movements with sex.  I wish we listened to more world music.  I wish we had the textiles and fabrics and clothing options.     I wish we had Mohammed Saad movies over here.  I wish we had Tarkan too.

So instead of fretting, I dance at home with my friends, educate anyone who goes down the raunch and sleaze path, share all kinds of music with friends and family and buy dance gear online.  I watch Mohammed Saad on Youtube, wishing for subtitles and I drool over Tarkan.

So, now we have “Feminine, old fat lady in a cute costume dancing a complex dance solo to beautiful music, while playing zils and drooling over Tarkan.”    What’s not to like?

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