GET MORTIFIED

I'm in a show tomorrow night, Mortified, where I will read from my shameful and angst ridden teenage journals. I just might recite a deep and moving love poem or two. It's sure to be deliciously embarrassing. But I bet there will be a microphone!!

Stay tuned for my reviews.

Sassing It Up In Dubai

Let me get this out of the way, since it just happened. I was watching Oprah in Dubai (I'm in Dubai, not Oprah) and it was the Australian episode where she takes her show down under. At the end of the show, Australian celebs like Keith and Nicole, Olivia, and Russell, walk on stage and sing Peter Allen's, "I Still Call Australia Home"

I've been to cities that never close down,
From New York to Rio and old London town, But no matter how far or how wide I roam, I still call Australia home.

They unfurled a giant Australian flag over the heads of a kabillion member audience and the Qantus Choir was singing back up. I was almost in tears. A sense of pride washed over me and for a moment, I actually felt like an Aussie. I had to have a sit down to remind myself that Australia was not, in fact, my homeland.

I feel better now.

I started teaching Pilates three days after I arrived a little over a week ago, and I've wasted no time in bringing my special brand of humor to the ladies of Dubai.

I believe it was my third Pilates Mat class when I casually called a woman of French persuasion 'Frenchie', when I wanted to get her attention.

For whatever reason, I felt an instant closeness to the clients and I've been letting the sarcasm and brashness fly with reckless abandon. Both of the Pilates studios are all female, which lends itself to a supportive sisterhood kind of vibe. That, and no one cares if their socks match their shorts. I'm speaking of myself of course.

If you permit me, I'd like to illustrate, through the retelling of actual scenes, my innate ability to embarrass myself in Dubai just as I do in Jersey. I like to think that my, 'what's on my lung is on my tongue' attitude, knows no geographical borders.

Pilates Reformer Class
Me: "Let's find our neutral pelvis. This might be politically incorrect but imagine that you're balancing a Martini on your pelvis. Don't spill it." Laughter from the class. In case you don't know, Muslim's don't drink.

Mat Class
I caught my reflection in the mirror (Okay, I actively looked at myself in the mirror) in the middle of instructing the class, paused and said, "Wow, I really need to get a tan." Laughter. A woman in the back row casually said, "It's not about you." It was funny. I replied, "Yes, it is. It's always about me. You guys are just my audience. This is my stage."

Later in the same class, I asked the women if they felt their abdominals during an exercise. Silence. I said, "You guys have to give me feedback. It's like a review. Think of it as reviewing my show." Again, laughter.

 
Prenatal Class
ME: "So, do you all have other children?" The Pregos all nodded in the negative. "So this is everyone's first then. That's so exciting! Pregnant pause (Pun intended) I mean if you're into that sort of thing." Laughter.

Holy crap. I'm on fire.

In my head, the equation I live by is this: Laughter = Encouragement = Keep Going. Even if it means that I'm probably going to push my luck and inevitably insert my foot so deep in my throat, it's going to come out my arse.

Until then, I'm performing 18 shows a week!

Pass the Beano

The owner of the Pilates studio, Janice, asked me to train a friend of hers last week and I was flattered that she thought of me. When I saw her, I said, “Hey, thanks for the referral. I’m training Scott tomorrow. He had to change his original time because of an audition.” Yes, I said this with sarcasm, a bit of disdain, and some minor eye rolling. I don’t know what my motive was, other than I felt like doing a bit of performing and to have some fun. I'm beginning to think that it is that difficult to simply answer a fucking question or have a conversation with someone, sans the dramatics?

Janice smiled, “Well, he’s a very successful commercial actor.” Uh, oh, here we go.
“Oh, who isn’t? I did commercials.” Janice seemed interested and engaged.
“You would be great in commercials.”
“If I had a dollar every time someone told me that. I did the commercial thing. I used to audition all the time for a couple of years and then, well, it started getting stupid. The auditions got more inane. I’d go in and have to frown in front of the camera, or crawl on the floor like a mouse looking for cheese. And then my dignity kicked in and I stopped.”

Janice was laughing and hanging on my every animated word, which for me, as a comedienne, was like shoving a coke whore’s face into a pile of white dust. It made me want to work harder and longer to sustain the high. “One of my last auditions was for Beano. I was so over it by then and didn’t care anymore so I had some fun.

I had to stand with my pretend friend, holding a cafeteria tray, commenting on the food that we passed while in line. The director yelled, “action”, and I made a fake fart sound.” (insert actual fart sound) It wasn’t the cliched, and childish lip and cheek fart sound. Mine was more sophisticated and deeper, almost baritone sounding, and more convincing. I thought Janice was going to fall of the Trapeze Table she was sitting on. “What? It was for Beano. I thought it was totally appropriate.”

I’m not proud of it but my story promptly started a five minute conversation, with other trainers weighing in, about why people think farting sounds are funny and the farting games available online. I extricated myself from the high brow confab that I’d started and slithered away. My job here is done.

A Tall Drink of Water

Having lived most of my life on stage, where I was told I belonged (I think it had something to do with my loud speaking voice) whether it be an actual stage, in a writer’s room, or doing my best Sonny & Cher impersonation (playing both parts) in front of my parent’s friends in our living room, stepping ‘off the stage’ has never been easy for me, and it’s now become troublesome and sometimes embarrassing in light of my new career as a Pilates instructor.

There’s not a great need for voice projection when you’re in your client’s face, or crotch, cueing positions and movements, or busting out a rendition of All That Jazz, while giving someone a hamstring stretch. And yet, this doesn’t seem to stop me. The Pilates studio is not a stage, I know this, but old habits die hard.

I was at the studio the other day, talking to another trainer about belly scooping and postural alignment, or some such thing, when the owner of the studio, Janice, called me over to the front desk, where she was standing with a few other people. “Dani. Dani, can you come over here?” She smiled and with a bit of fun sarcasm in her voice said, “Do you have any availabilities to train a new client? It says in the computer that we have to contact you.” I looked over. Any normal person would simply walk to the desk, nothing more, nothing less. But because the world, which now includes the Pilates studio, is my stage, and normal has never been my forte, I started talking before I got to the desk.

“Available? I don’t know. You know how booked I am. I’m very popular you know. I’ll have to check.” And then I decided to play on the contact reference and made that assinine, I point to my eyes with two-fingers and then point to Janice’s eyes, as if to say, “I’m watching you, you’re watching me.” What? Janice took the bait and mirrored me with her two-fingers, which only encouraged me to continue my stage work. This wasn’t going to end well.

A very tall woman, who I had never seen before, was standing at the front desk. She must’ve been 6 feet tall. I’m 5’3 and three quarters (I totally grew half an inch since I started Pilates) I was in socks, and could’ve walked right between her legs without ducking. Janice looked at me, “Dani, this is Thalia. She wants to schedule a private session.”
I looked up at Thalia and with the confidence of Shecky Green in his heyday, I shouted, “Weeeeelllll, aren’t you a tall glass of water!” In the middle of the ‘Weeeeelllll’, I regretted ever learning how to talk. I've never ever used that phrased in my life. And if I'm correct, it's usually reserved for men. I couldn’t look at Thalia. I was too mortified to see her reaction. I did, however, look over at the manager behind the desk and Janice, who both smiled but quickly pressed on with scheduling and pricing.

Suffice it to say that I won’t be training Thalia. Although nothing was said out loud, I think everyone thought it best that she go with another trainer. One who can hold their tongue and not see every goddam moment as an opportunity to grab the microphone.

Music In the Subway Sounds good to me… or does it?

I had an appointment on the upper west side yesterday, (that’s code for therapy), and I got on the wrong subway. I’m not always paying attention, especially when I’m reading a book and thinking about what parent I can blame for what during my therapy session. 

I accidentally got on the E, instead of the C. It didn’t hit me until 53rd and Fifth Avenue, that if I didn’t get off at the next stop, I’d find myself in Queens. I don’t have anything against Queens, even though my ex-husband lives there, I just wasn’t in the mood for another borough.

It wasn’t the first time I got on the wrong train. And I’m pretty sure it won’t be my last. While I zigzagged through the subway labyrinthine, I came across a couple of subway musicians. 

I saw the first one at the Port Authority station where I boarded the E instead of the C. I see this man every time I’m in that subway station and yesterday it dawned on me that each time I see him, he’s singing the same song. To say that his repertoire is grossly limited is a gross understatement.

But it got me thinking about getting myself out there and performing. I’ve got a guitar and I could sing the only song that I know how to play, which is an original that I wrote called, Tom Cruise’s Braces. Sure it’s a bit dated (Tom had braces in 2002) and most people aren’t even aware of this little factoid but if the 42nd St. troubadour can sing his oldie (I believe it was from the Bob Marley collection), then why couldn’t I? 

I fantasized about the exposure that I would get. There must be a million people passing through the subways on any given day. If I could play and draw a crowd around me, it would certainly be a lot cooler than performing for five drunks at open mic night. Why not do a subway gig? I’ve tried everything else to get some desperately needed attention. 

I spend so much time in the subway getting lost, I might as well make a few bucks while I’m down there. My brother once suggested that I sing in the subway. Of course he also suggested that I bring my picture and resume to the ABC offices and, “Just tell them you want to be on television.”

Then again, not everyone wants to hear subway musicians. People are tired, hot, or frost bitten, cursing the subway delays and just want to get home without getting sneezed on by a homeless woman. Or they want to get to their office without being pushed onto the tracks by the rush hour crowds that slowly edge them over the yellow line. 

But most importantly, the majority of the crowd that would be forming around me wouldn’t be inebriated, like they are in the comedy clubs. (pause) Forget it. I’m sticking to above ground establishments. 

The second musician I encountered was at the B train at Rockefeller Station. I listened to the violinist and frankly I could’ve done a better job, and I’ve never even held a violin. All I’m saying is that a little practice goes a long way. Sure you’re playing on a smelly stage, competing with screeching trains in the bowels of New York City, but that’s no excuse for sounding like you just picked up the violin for the first time. It’s a competitive world, even below street level. 

The subway musician Susan Cagle was discovered at Penn Station, after years of practice, and she recently released an album on Sony BMG. She has a song called, Dear Oprah, which she got to sing to Oprah on Oprah. 

This got me thinking again. Maybe I should take my guitar out of its case and sing Tom Cruise’s Braces in the subway. Who knows, maybe I’ll get discovered and then be asked to serenade Tom, Katie and Suri at a party at the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center.