and scene!

I finished my acting class! And I lived to tell the tale! And I didn't suffer from incontinence! Not even once! Well, maybe just a little bit!

Did I battle a bad case of nerves? Yes. Near-crippling anxiety? Definitely. But I dealt with my jitters in the best way I could and made it through. My instructor, ever the dapper charming gentleman, kissed my hand after the last class and encouraged me to continue. I even had a gaggle of boys buzzing around me after the last class asking for my contact information. Where were all these boys back when I thought I was straight? Where?!

Most of the people in my class are taking courses in the spring semester and expressed disappointment that I wasn't doing the same. I'll probably go back but I'm going to take a wee breather first to give me time to figure out what I want to do. I was really good at the improv exercises so perhaps I'll continue down that road. Maybe I'll take scene study so I can learn how to analyze and really sink my teeth into well-written plays. Maybe I'll even learn a thing or two about writing my own. The possibilities, as they say, are endless.

In the meantime, I'm going to enroll in something with a little less wear and tear on my nerves: knitting. Yes, knitting. Oh, and I'm resurrecting my desire to take karate lessons. The dojo I originally went to was a bit too big for my liking so I found a smaller one in my neighborhood that seems promising (thanks to the Brooklyn Heights Blog!)

Maybe somehow I can incorporate the knitting needles into the ass-kickings I'll soon be doling out. I can tie them together with some yarn and fashion a pair of pointy nunchucks out of them or whatever. Or, at the very least, I can knit some mittens or a nice scarf as an "I'm sorry" gift to those I've beaten senseless. Hi-yah!

karrrrrrrrrrrate chop!

I went to my introductory karate lesson last night and I really liked it! In fact, I'm going back later in the week to take my first real class.

I can't wait to get my gi so that when I punch and kick, it makes that crisp snapping sound like my instructor's did. The capri-length track pants and t-shirt I was sporting last night didn't make a satisfying noise whatsoever. I too want to make that cool flapping sound.

I know it's going to be a challenging regimen and will totally kick my ass but I need it. I'm up to the task. Dude, I did push-ups and crunches. And!!! I didn't suck wind afterwards!

And the most shocking thing of all!! Are you ready? I didn't freak out in the locker room when I got a load of some chick holding a very long conversation right near my locker... sans shirt and bra! Her boobs were gesticulating right along with the rest of her. That's precisely the sort of thing that would normally send me into a grossed-out tailspin but I calmly blocked out the bouncing titties, packed up my gear and vacated the premises.

Now, I usually loves me some boobies but I really don't care to see them in the women's locker room. Of course there's going to be the inevitable and totally understandable flash of nip. That's fine. However, talking about the pot roast you cooked last night while your girls are wobbling to and fro is just NOT necessary.

Oh and while I have the floor, I might as well tackle another touchy related issue. Lest any of you straight girls ever wonder if us dykes are leering at you pre- and post-workout, allow me to definitively state for the record that uh no, we're not. I want an eyeful of your sweaty cooter about as much as I want a yeast infection and a concurrent case of The Clap. Don't flatter yourselves, bitches.

While there may be a lesbo or two who welcomes the chance to size up some jugs wherever and whenever possible, I think I speak for most when I say... cover that shit up!

In fact, might I direct your attention to a brilliant article written by The Lovely Jess on this very subject? The piece is tres informative and should be tacked up on gym bulletin boards the world over, if you ask moi.

Locker room etiquette... learn it! Or else I'll consider your nudity an act of aggression and break your nose with the new technique I just learned.

hi-yahhhhhhh!

I'm tres excited because I just enrolled in an introductory training class at SEIDO Karate. I want to whip my ass into shape... and learn how to bust shit up. You know, like bricks, wooden planks, noses, that sort of thing. And I guess that whole business of learning how to focus and be disciplined will come in handy as I'm driven to distraction quite easily and at lightening speed, let me tell you.

I foresee many Karate Kid references in my future. Although, since I can barely eat with the things, I can safely say that I will not try to capture flies with chopsticks. I may try macking on Elisabeth Shue though. If that husband of hers gives me shit, I'll just have to crane kick him.

Um, I think maybe I'm missing the point of martial arts. Watch me become the William Zabka type. I'll form a gang and pick on people and resort to dirty tactics and cheating during competitions and people will be rooting for my downfall. Actually, that's kinda hot...

I just have to say that Billy Zabka was really typecast back in the 80s. He always played a monumental dick (see his portrayal of Greg, the bully whose preferred form of torture was the atomic wedgie, in Just One of the Guys and his turn as Audrey's loutish boyfriend in European Vacation as proof). But! As it turns out, Billy was a mild-mannered Bible thumper in real life. I remember reading that in like Tiger Beat or Bop! or whatever back in the day and just being blown away. Who knew teen rags were capable of such shocking exposés?

my left foot

A rather unfortunate incident befell me on the downtown R train on Saturday. I realize that by telling this story, I'm going to get crazy traffic as the result of some fucked-up search terms but I'll deal. I relayed this story to Jess and she did a quick mental inventory of all the weird New York stories she's heard and said, "You win." Are you ready?

I boarded the Brooklyn-bound train at Cortlandt Street for a rather short hop to Court Street. A very clean-cut young man got on at Rector Street and sat diagonally from me. Beyond the usual brief once-over, we paid each other no mind.

The train pulled into Whitehall Street and the doors opened and closed. The young man arose from his seat and headed toward the doors to exit even though they had already shut. I assumed he spaced out and missed his stop and was just standing there calculating how to minimize embarrassment and return to his seat without much fanfare. It's happened to me, I admit, and I know it's a bit humiliating. I thought he'd follow standard procedure and sheepishly return to his seat until the next stop.

I thought wrong.

I can't quite say he did the polar opposite of the expected behavior because, well... he just didn't, okay? Instead, he knelt down on the subway floor and struck a pose somewhat reminiscent of downward-facing dog. Normally I pay this sort of thing no mind but then he got on all fours and started sniffing the floor and under the seats like a bloodhound.

So I ruled out yoga.

Given the current climate in the city, I thought maybe he was looking for the best place to plant his explosives. The thought left my mind as quickly as it entered and I turned my head and gazed out the window at the black nothingness of the subway tunnel. My stop was next and I was not about to make eye contact with the crazy insane sniffing man if I could help it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was now flat on the ground and slithering dangerously close to me. He looked up at me with a really creepy smile on his face. I considered getting up and moving but instead, I stayed put and mentally plotted just how I was going to haul ass off that train and out of the station the minute the doors opened. In my pretend scenario, I think I may have even executed a few potent karate punches and kicks to the face, ribs and groin respectively. I'm quite the bad ass in my imagination, you see.

And then he touched one of the toes on my left foot. My head snapped in his direction and I said firmly, "Don't touch me, please." And again, he flashed his creepy smile. I'm not easily frightened but this sent a chill down my spine. I looked the other way and counted down the seconds until this hellish ride was over.

And then, all of a sudden, he lunged at my feet burying his head into my left foot while sniffing and kissing my toes!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you read that right.

I screamed and kicked and grabbed his head by the ears to pry him off. He held his ground while I tried to shake free from his suction-like grip. I looked to my left and saw two men and yelled for help. They came running to my defense and yanked the toe sniffer off me just as the doors opened. I quickly thanked them and jumped off the train.

I looked back and he was still lying on the floor of the subway car looking up with that creepy smile on his face. I yelled, "YOU FUCKING FREAK!" before the doors closed and ran upstairs. I saw a cop and proceeded to tell him what happened. Naturally, I prefaced the story with, "You are NOT going to believe this!" The train was long gone so there was no way to catch him. Besides, I'm sure if I took this to court, a defense lawyer would argue that my feet were asking for it since they were "parading around half-naked in a [really cute] pair of black leather flip-flops [from Banana Republic] complete with a shade of pink nail polish reserved for floozies and trollops [Revlon: Blushed, in case you're interested.]"

For the time being, my feet will remain incognito. Yesterday, I wore my "Polish Man Sandals" to the protest. They're thick-soled with a brown oiled-leather upper. I call them that because if worn with black socks, pleated shorts and a wife beater, I could easily resemble the Polish men in my old neighborhood. With that said, the sandals are cute but just not in the way to set off perverts or heterosexual men. They also offer comprehensive coverage similar to the toe-engulfing mules I'm sporting today.

I've never quite understood foot fetishes. Feet really hold no appeal for me. Even when pedicured and well-groomed, they are a rather unsightly appendage, in my humble opinion. Although, I'm rethinking mine now. Are mine unusually attractive as far as feet go? Did my ten little piggies cause this seemingly normal young man to do the unthinkable? Or would he have buried his face in any old pair of feet, regardless if they were clean or really gnarly? Good questions all.

While I'm not into it, I don't judge those who like to nibble, suck, sniff or partake in any other activity involving feet. Whatever creams your Twinkie, dudes. But with that said, I firmly believe that there is a time and a place for said foot play. You know, maybe NOT on the R train or any other form of mass transit, for example. I also think it's important that the owner of the toes be a willing participant in the event. Call me overly sensitive but I'm not fond of the idea of a stranger's lips cupped around my unsuspecting toes. Haven't you heard of asking first? What would Miss Manners think? Unless, you know, Emily Post is into that sort of thing...

>> Update! The dude was caught!

>> Click here for yet another tale of an underground fixation with my feet