The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Sometimes life takes you on a trip. The kind where you look around and really, truly have to remind yourself that its real. When you are overwhelmed, overjoyed, excited, anxious, and have a really dumb grin plastered on your face. And you meet people and you know they just "get it". Chasing dreams, chasing love. With no apologies, no regrets, and no hesitation. I got wrapped up in this world where that is their reality. And I loved it. And I'm inspired. Not just to be a dancer, be a teacher. But to dream huge, and know in my soul that I can have it. Believing in myself, my abilities, that I can achieve it all.

It's a small, small world

Vegas is not really a small city. But it seems that the dance community is very small indeed. 6 degrees of separation does not even begin to exist, it's more like 1 or 2.

Why do I know this? DRAMA, duh!

It all started because I know a man, fairly well known, and we like to hang out occasionally. Date, if you will. He has a thing for dark-haired dancers. Who have mutual friends. And the stories just keep going. Every person that has heard the story has something to add. It's gotten to the point where I'm hearing stories about her, and people think that she is me. Or I am her. Or something like that. Too much fun!

It's acually kind of funny, because the he-said, she-said just never gets old. And it's been a while since I've been really, truly amused by drama.

Dancer Dichotomy

One of the things I noticed when I moved to Vegas was that it is a very, very big deal what you do for a living. People will ask you this in the first four minutes of meeting you. Without fail. It actually is kind of wierd.

I made the mistake a few times of telling people that I am a dancer. The other times I get into trouble is when someone introduces me as "Jenn, the Dancer". And I am, but it always needs to be qualified. If you say that you are a dancer in this city, people assume you strip. Which to me is kind of funny, because Vegas has a disproportionately high amount of always employed, highly trained dancers. Dancers in LA and NY just don't have the same kind of opportunity that we do here. Of course there is Hollywood, Broadway, and the music industry. Vegas just always has something happening. Always.

So. I am sick of qualifying myself. Here are all the different kind of dancers in Sin City that DON'T strip.

1. Showgirls.
Girls working in the shows on the strip. Long contracts, great pay. The dancers in Celine Dion used to be the best on the strip. So right now there are a ton of freaking amazing dancers looking for jobs. They'll get snapped up soon. People always ask me if I audition for these. I don't. I didn't come here to dance on the strip. I think doing the same show night after night would be numbing. Zero creativity. Great dancers, but just not for me.

2. Go Go dancers.
Every club has them. Some casino pits do too now, like the Pussycat Pit at Caesars. This is fun stuff. I actually do this occasionally for extra $$$. Skimpy, but far from naked. In fact, I think fishnets count as pants. Easy job. At the club for 3 or 4 hours, only actually work for 2 hours. 20 minute shifts. As long as the DJ is good, it's a great gig.

3. Studio- trained dancers.
These are usually the dance teachers. Maybe have a go go or promo gig on the side. Maybe too old to be a showgirl. The lucky ones are in Celine, Cirque, or maybe one or two other shows that feature real, honest to god, make you cry its so good dancing.

4. Burlesque
Fourty duece, crazy girls, Fantasy, Bite. A few others. Not strippers at all, just happen to dance topless. And it's a show, so no one can put dollars in your g-string, no hustling for lap dances. I've seen a few of these. It's art.

5. Ballroom Dancers
me! Teachers and competetors. Teach for a living, train and compete for the love of the sport. There actually aren't very many really good ballroom dancers in Vegas. Under 25 really good ones for sure. 2 good studios.

So, the next time someone asks me what I do for a living, I'm either going to proudly say "I'm a professional ballroom dancer".

Or tell them I'm a janitor.

Happy Anniversary...Continued.

So. We pick up a year ago today....

7am
Drop my mom off at the worlds smallest airport in Grand Junction, Co.
This is possibly one of the saddest moments, ever. Ever. We're both crying. It takes me the next six hours to compose myself.

8am
Start the "Vegas or Bust" Playlist on my ipod. Cruz, by Christina Aguilera, is on it like, seven times. And each time it makes me sob. Choking and heaving type of sobbing where I have to pull over. "Wide Open Spaces" from the Dixie Chicks and "Rocky Mountain High" by John Denver don't help the situation much. Not quite sure what I was thinking when I made that list.

10am
Utah is gorgeous.

12 pm
I hit the 200 or so mile stretch where there is nothing. No gas station, no rest stop. Nothing. My mom gave me a bag of tangerines to eat on the way. I have three.

1pm.
Ipod dies. I don't have a charger. Thank god I have a few decent cd's with me. And the broadway soundtrack to Aida. I'm really glad no one could hear me belt this stuff out. I'm a fab singer when no one is listening. Eat a few more oranges.

3pm
Gas station in the middle of I don't even know where. So antsy, I run laps around my car while it fills up. Realize that it's 60 degrees out, take off millions of layers. After the December blizzards, it felt like the freaking tropics. More oranges.

5pm
VIVA LAS VEGAS. I see the strip for the first time as a local, and feel like a tourist.

5:05
Get pulled over. ONE MILE from my exit. Ten minutes from the end. Seriously? Seriously?! For expired licence plates. I manage to drive 1200 miles with no incident, and get pulled over here? Cop hands me a $200 ticket (which reminds me, I still need to pay that. There's probably a warrant out for my arrest. Need to get on that.) And then gives me directions. Nice guy.

Jerk.

5:30
Pull up to an empty house. New roommate gets home, I've met her once, for like, ten minutes. Other roomie, who was a good friend, won't get home til much later. My tongue has been eaten away from all the acid in the damn oranges and hurts like hell. Good news is I don't have scurvy.

New roomie takes me to Target, shows me where the studio is.


The rest of the day is just unpacking. Uneventful. But, this is my one year anniversary in Vegas. Mazel Tov to me! It's been a good year. I've met some really amazing people. Some really icky people. Created a pretty great clientele. Been on a few adventures. Ducks are almost in a row.

This week: get Nevada licence and plates. (I should have done that 11 months ago...)

And pay that ticket.

Happy Anniversary to me.

I remember exactly how my day went a year ago today:

8 am.
woke up early. Continued to clean my house and finish packing. Took a load to the dumpster outside

11am
Managed to lock myself out of my condo. Minor nervous breakdown ensues. Massive hysterics.

12pm
Mom and Ray finally show up with a key. Ray is superman and manages to fit four boxes, bedding, a computer, a tv, a vacuum cleaner, three bags, me, and my mother, into my car.

1:30pm
Finally on the road, my mom is passed out 15 minutes in.


4ish pm
Stop in Vail for potty break and coffee. Bitter, bitter cold. And the parking garage smelled like pot.

5ish
Stop for a break in, I shit you not, "no name", Colorado. It was actually a very pretty valley. It deserves a name.

6:30 pm
Arrive in Grand Junction, Colorado. Check in to, um, actually, I can't remember the hotel. But it had those memory foam mattresses. v. comfy.

7pm
Find a restaurant to eat at. A local brewery type place. It reminded me of Tommyknockers in Idaho Springs.

I loved this day. Driving, being with my mom. It was definately a bit of an adventure.

Journey continues tomorrow...

Taking Stock

The past couple weeks have been, well, rough.

I've totally rearranged what I thought were solid plans. I really thought I was set to pick up and leave, try again in a bigger, better city.

And then I took a lesson that kicked my ass. And then my teacher proceeded to kick my ass mentally too.

So I took a good hard look at what I'm trying to do out here, where I'm going, where I want to be, WHAT I want to be. And I can do it anywhere. Including where I am. All I need is a partner. Someone who is talented, tall, ambitious, musical, articulate, and passionate. But I'm not picky....

So that's my new goal. Find myself a good dancer to tear it up with and convince them that they need to move to Vegas. Easy, right? Yeah, right. For every guy that is a semi-decent dancer, there are ten girls better than him begging him to dance with her. I swear, it's easier to find a boyfriend than a dance partner. But I'm determined. It will happen. It has to.

It's official....

I am akward. And that's not a good thing, because dancers are on the list of people who should not be akward.

I did a photo shoot for some new headshots. Cute outfit, hair was behaving, makeup was done up enough to look undone. And I was awful. And I felt dumb. I didn't know what to do with my hands. Or how to stand. Not good, considering I make my living teaching people how not to look like a jackass when they move their bodies.

Ugh. I'm hoping that out of the 600 or so shots they took that I can find like, maybe three that show me being pretty, but not too cute. Fierce, but not porn-star sexy. The best part was when he told me to smile big. So I smiled big. And then he said it looked fake. Um, sorry? Followed by "it's ok, have fun! We're just having fun here!" No, not fun. So I tried to fake having fun. And then I felt even dorkier.

America's next top model I'm not.

So now I've teased my hair up to Amy Winehouse proportions and I'm going to shake my ass at Body English for a few hours and hope that my day of akwardness has ended.


J