Not Surprised

"Good morning Julia!

I'm emailing because I want to apologize for missing class again this morning (Tuesday.) It's killing me. I get my braces off in three weeks, and was scheduled months ago for a whole series of appointments for final corrections on my teeth. I didn't realize, til two days ago, that it was interfering with SO much if my class time with you, ESPECIALLY since I missed the first week if class, coming back from my summer work.

I know we talked oh so very briefly about this last week, and I understand that there really isn't much I can do in terms of make-up classes, but I am dying for any opportunity to keep learning from you, and the Alexander Technique. I would be more than willing to come to Miami University to sit in on any classes you might find acceptable educational supplements to the work I'm currently doing with you at CCM, or, even, do research and write some kind of paper as classwork. I'm mildly concerned about my grade in the class with you at CCM, but moreso just want to get my hands into anything that will further my understanding of the Alexander Technique.

Any ideas?

Allyson WestCCM Drama Senior, Tuesdays, 9-11 am"



Hi Allyson,

As I told you in the hallway, I contacted Richard to see what policies are in place and how he suggested I handle your request. His response was that I should stick to my attendance policies and that your grade should reflect your "lack of care in priorities and planning." At this point you have 3 absences which would give you a "C" in the class. Please make every effort to attend the final two classes or your grade will drop further. Much as I would love to offer extra time outside of class to all of you, my schedule at Miami prevents me from doing so. See you next week.

Julia

Boys in Dresses

Everyone in my department, mostly, is in final techs, opening weeks, or just one week out from their season debuts. In other words, everyone in my department, mostly, except me, is absolutely insane.


I've been dealing with it in an interesting way. While everyone is flying off the handle, I yell at them not to sit next to me, keep my nose in my journal, and try not to be such a sourpuss. I kinda try.

Not to make it any easier, the weather here in Cincy has been off the handle for the past two days. Today, especially, we're having thunderstorms and massive, pouring amounts of rain. Know what it's like in the Wizard of Oz when the storm is blowing and suddenly everyone is frantically running around trying to get the horses and cattle and pigs in the barn?

That's my class.

Except each of us is our own farmer, horse, cow, and pig.

Please, someone, pray for me. :)

Weird Things at CCM, Volume 1

1. My hair and outfit right now. Now doing it for me.


2. An alien mannequin.


3. Ben Cramer looking this good in a dress.

Zombiehand

Mikayla and I made use of our ten minute lunch break last a few Tuesdays ago, to run to her house above Clifton Natural Foods and get some soup. She got some soup, I ate my apple.

There's a lot of construction going on in Clifton right now. Yes, it's pretty annoying, but meh, what can one do? Well, one can certainly plan to leave for school earlier, or one becomes frantic and stressed trying to make it to 9 am Movement on time. One can remember to breathe through said metaphorical stress so that one doesn't show up discombobulated and upset. And one can certainly just recognize that construction exists as a way of improving and better-ing the world.

ANyway, Mikayla and I are paused, right up by the walk signal in the photo above, loving our lives and chatting away. We're both feeling quite posh, quite city-sophisicate, and probably looking pretty cute, too. Let's pretend Mikayla's wearing short black, military boots, and I'm in leggings and a tunic. Cuties!

We're waiting for the light to change, standing on a construction grate. You know when there are BIG, GIANT, GAPING HOLES in the road, and the construction crews have to place giant metal/maybe steel slabs over them so that cars and people don't tumult down into the expanding crevices? Yep, we're standing on one of those, completely oblivious to the world around us.

The walk signal changes, and we go. We step. We both look down, and we freeze. My breathe disappears. The hairs on my head stand up. Mikayla throws her arms out in front of her and we both jump centimeters in the air before our fight or flight kicks in.

There's a hand on the pavement.

Not only that, but it's moving.

A HAND.

A HUMAN HAND.

My brain cycles through fear, frantically. Within a millisecond, I've taken in the hand, the lack of body, the whole, horrible, morbid kind of reality that comes with seeing disjointed human parts.........and then.......the world starts......coming back into place. And I see the big construction man laughing his ass off.

And I breathe again.

Turns out, Construction Man A and Construction Man B have a plan they use CONTINUOUSLY on unsuspecting college students. B stands in the giant holes in the ground, shoves his hand up through the cracks, and just waits to catch simple, sweet, unsuspecting girls such as us off guard. Both A and B get incredible laughs from this.

Frankly, so did I. I love being the fool.

Happy Halloween Everyone!

Hey You

Hey you Loyal Thirteen Readers--can we get some comment action up in the heezy?

Alexander Technique

This quarter in Movement, we're studying the Alexander Technique with Gulia Guichard. It is blowing my mind.

Here we are, with the efficient use of cuddling.

Women

I cannot get over my fascination with women.


Nor would I want to.

Look at these girls. Look at these ladies. Look at these women.

Aren't they incredible?

I study books and photos of women. I think about what it is to be them, and I imagine them. I create them. I recreate them. I honor them.

They honor me.

One of my current projects is a whole book full of every monologue I've ever done. I use a spread per monologue, and lay out the text next to images or photos of this character. It makes the women speaking in plays incredibly accessible to me (plus, it's the most fun organization I've ever done.) :)

Antigone

Two years ago, I began a journey as "Antigone."

I selected her death monologue as mine for my final Boards.......wow, if that isn't ironic. Thankfully, I did not actually "die" at that particular Boards, and I am, in fact, still in school, and finishing quite splendidly!

Sitting with a character for two years does odd things to a person though.....especially, when, in the space of that two years, one finally puts "acting" together, gets her act going, plays for intent, and rejoices in the opportunity to act, in general.

After two years of sitting with Antigone, I've finally processed how to become her. And Acting Class, Greek Tragic Styles, could never be better!

Mikayla and I are doing the Antigone/Ismene scene. I'm onstage, open scene. I'm cleaning off dust, cleaning off blood, cleaning off the hours I just spent darting off to the desert plains to bury my brother. In bursts Ismene, all fire and upset. "Where have you been?" She demands, and I avoid. I've been burying my brother. My brother. My favorite brother. His hair is blonde, his eyes are blue, and he has been everything and nothing to me my entire life.

Two years ago, when rehearsing this "death" monologue, I would walk around Ohio depressed and upset for days at a time. I would call my favorite brother and check on him, coo him, love and coddle him. I was mourning his not-really death.

But now, I live. I breathe. I bring fire and sunshine and passion and life. I cannot wait to get into acting class. Every day, I leap at the chance to do any kind of acting (and when I say "leap," I do, in fact, literally, mean LEAP.) If someone needs a guard, I'm the first out of my chair. If some scene needs a reader, I'm already up on stage. I am being selfish. After four years, I am being as selfish as I possibly can to get some more time, some more practice, some more love up on stage. I will act because I choose to. I will work because I want to. I LOVE what I do.

Legs McGee

A few nights ago, I received a letter from a friend that I don't actually see that much. "Allyson," it somewhat said, "I'm so unhappy. My birthday is today, I just got rejected, and basically, things suck. Can we hang out?"

Immediately: "Of course! Absolutely, my pleasure."

So we did. I suggested salsa dancing at the Mad Frog, on a Monday night. Internet, I'm not gonna lie, it takes a pretty organized person to pull off salsa dancing at a dive bar on a Monday night. Not only did I swim my way through all sorts of three hour classes, but I had the sanity and mind enough to bring with me everything I needed for the day. And by "sanity," and "mind-enough," I mean that I did not actually try on my salsa dancing outfit before shimmying into it in the darkness of my car, and wound up masquerading as Legs McGee for the entirety of the evening.

I'm not gonna lie--my legs are pretty great. They get me places, they support me, and they've never failed me when I needed a little tap dance or a swift, little kick to somebody's extremities. They are, however, quite ALL-ENCOMPASSING. If you were to see me every day, day in, day out, rolling around in jeans and sweatpants, and then, all of a sudden, you're hit with the sight of me in a sassy, flirty, DELICATE little skirt, legs o' muscles long and thick parading around, you might just have a heart attack. Pleasing? Yes. Jaw-dropping? Probably.

I do not have the tiniest, skinniest little legs. I do not have the legs of models, of frail, wispy women, legs that say, "I walk the block, and wear ballet flats most days, and every once in awhile I get myself to yoga." I have legs of power. I have legs that run and jump and pound and play. I have legs that climb trees and pick up babies and fill out a pencil skirt. These legs are made for walking, for growing, for moving, for conquering. I use them. I sit, I stand, I bend, I tower. I loooove these legs. And I usually encase them. So, last night, when I got home and shot a glance of myself in the full-length mirror in the room next to me, I understood immediately why the turn of last night's events went the way they did. I understood why Ashley and I were immediately invited to sit at a table of four men when all the seats were undeniably taken. I understood why the professors at the table next to ours were listening to our conversation and making appreciative, meaningful eye contact with me. I understood why the waiter was so undeniably kind, and why I was indeed bold enough to hand him my number:

Power is evocative.

Unknowingly, I was unquestionably bold, last night. I had a great time, I had a small heart attack when I saw those legs o' millions at the end o' the evening, and I loved my body all the more for being so incredibly encompassing. Way to go, parents--you've made me to fit together.

Headshots

The Biggest Thing in the Life of the CCM Drama Senior, as of late, has been the Korbee Headshots. Tom Korbee, a CCM alum in LA, is also *SHAZAAAAAM!* a photographer. And he looooves CCM Drama students. So he comes here, gives us a discount on his photog skills, and makes bank as we all scramble to make time with the Korbster.

I got my photos in a week or so ago, and here they be, maties!

Headshots are tricky, I'm not gonna lie. First of all, am I willing to bring this girl with me to every audition? Secondly, this photo is a matter of type. It is not, by any means, just a way for me to look as pretty as possible. Geez Louise, if that was true I'd insist on wearing something silky and wrapping myself in fur. Sheesh. No, dear reader, I had a hard-core type I was playing out. Try this out: You are looking for a solid, capable, dusty American Woman. She must be rural, western, able to break a man down and build him back up again. Think Jessica Lange meets Annie Oakley. She's engaging, direct, radiant, energized, and bright.

Who ya gonna pick? Oh! Allyson West?! Of course! Brilliant.

That's what I'm showcasing. How'd I do? Sandi Logan comes on into town Friday, and I'm handing one of these to her. Which it actually will be....I'm not really sure. Wish me luck!

The Moustache!

I feel blessed to go to a school where moustaches like these are sometimes a requirement. Thank you, Chekhov's "Three Sisters," for giving me the greatest enjoyment of my life. Oh, what is that....a "#1 Dad" t-shirt? Oh, it's a sweater? Just sweet, sweet icing on the cake.

SO MUCH BRACES

I love nothing more in the world than taking photos with other victims of Adult Braces. Simpatico to the X-TREME.

The Most Amazing Photograph I have Ever Taken

Hey there, Blogoworld. When I was but a wee babe in Texas, before moving on to the great big world I like to call "college," and "Cincinnati," I did, in fact, have a wee babe photography business.

I don't call what I do now photography, by any standard. That usually implies that the, so-called, "Photographer" actually has a "camera," and "knows how to operate it." But I'm not gonna lie, sometimes my skills are a little bit impressive.

Like this:

That's Baby Lily, the most angelic human bumble baby to ever exist.

The Fine Art of On-the-Road Flirting

If you are driving in this car, and pass me on the highway, I would suggest not wasting your time. You are too creepy for words. You and the body in the back do not even have a chance of getting my number.

If you are driving this car, I will absolutely not take you seriously. Unless, of course, you look like this:

Allllllllways worth it.

If you happen to pass me on the road, and you are, in fact, driving the Mystery Machine, the license plate says, "Zoinks," and you are a group of cutie college-aged boys, sure, by all means, flirt away. Your car makes me laugh, and therefore, I love it.

Exercise: It Can Always Get Better

The thing about being in Hawaii for four months, was that my legs got strong. Quickly. Everyone has GREAT legs in Hawaii. It makes sense, doesn't it? If you're not on your surfboard, you're in the water. If you're not walking, you're biking. People are active, people travel, and everyone naturally gets the exercise they need (mostly.)

Not only that, but the landscape is PERFECT for whipping your ass into shape. I, myself, walked .7 miles up a mountain for three months every day just to get home. The ocean whips and flips your body around, and there is just no way of simulating the power of nature in our modern day exercise machines and pristine gyms. No way. Mother Nature will knock you on your ass every time.

But I try.

So, I'm trying to find a way to recreate the kick-ass legs I developed while in Hawaii. I want to make them stronger! I've been jogging, bicycling, and the other day, I went to this football stadium:

...and I walked the stairs. Well, actually only about half the stadium, by the end of it. I walked down, turned around, ran halfway up, then mercifully pulled myself up the remaining ones. It actually wasn't too bad....I thought......then my calves wouldn't stop quaking for the rest of the evening. :)

The work out itself wasn't enough to target the areas I'm trying to reconnect with, and the time spent there was a little bit boring. Until, that is, I saw a big red mat laying on the field, and a group of three boys tossing a football. Of course, I marched my little rear straight down those steps and asked one of them to do this, for me:

He was happy to oblige, and I finished my work-out with a great deal of self-satisfaction. :)

The Pain, the Misery, the Braces!

Two years ago, my mouth looked like this.

Pretty good, right? Sure! I was pretty, my teeth are white, and after all, teeth and smiles are more about expressing than simply just being beacons of perfection. In fact, I've seen tons of beautiful, amazing smiles that have absolutely nothing to do with perfect teeth.

Nonetheless, I got braces.

Twenty years old, I began my trek with braces. Sure, I would have liked to have gotten them as a child. Sure, I did have to answer this question indeed to the many people who didn't even dream of the possibility of not having money as children. But we didn't. My family absolutely did not. So, here I am, paying for these braces, and kind of falling in love with them.

My 21st birthday came and went. Still, the braces. I consider myself more of a woman, and still, I see a funky girl looking at me in the mirror. SO MUCH BRACES.

Progressively, my teeth start straightening out, and my jaw expands. I wear a mouthpiece called an "FR," and I stuck up with having rubber bands tying my mouth into pieces all over the place. No big deal, right?

Right.

That is, until, this past orthodontist appointment where I was given TWICE the amount of bands in my mouth. Dr. Diers, the most brilliant man on the planet as far as Orthodontics is concerned, has made teeth his passion. He looks at my mouth, prescribes a triple, Stage 3 band alignment with wrap-arounds, and I lay, passively, quivering to discover what he means. Rubber bands are used to pull the bite together. Specifically, moving the teeth around repositions the entire bite of a mouth, and the bite is something that we absolutely want to have aligned correctly. I have three triangles, on each side of my mouth, PULLING my mouth shut. Tightly. I have two bands running crosswise across the length of my mouth, pushing my teeth together, and I have a connector band on every. single. bracket. forcing my teeth to move and look prettier.

My dear friends, I may be about to collapse! Let's get this straight: I love these braces! I love them so much! If you have never had the opportunity to flash a mouthful of hardware at people, you should certainly do everything in your power to go out immediately and sign up for the next dishing out of braces. It's wonderful! Everyone loves talking to a Braces Girl and Braces Girl loves talking to them!

Truthfully, I did think Adult Braces was going to cut down on my romantic prospects, but Lordy, did it ever not. I was even told by one suitor that my braces made me seem kinda serious. (Sure, anyone who has their mouth practically stitched shut 24/7 is going to give off a serious air, aka, the just-not-talking vibe.) Not only that, by I never cut, sliced, or nipped any of said suitors that turned into said kissers. :D

Here's to braces, my friends! Soon, soon, they will be gone, and I shall be beautiful. In the meantime, let us enjoy the pain while it lasts so that we may remember it, and be better because of it, when it is gone.

22 Appreciates Dirty Humor as well as any 12-Year-Old

We're currently covering Greek Tragedy Styles in Acting. We begin, of course, with reports on the Greek Way of Life. Starting off with a bang was the entertaining presentation of the very capable John Ware and Kevin Macku.

Let's get one thing out in the open about John Ware: He may be the most adorable human being in the world because of his devoted and entirely unassuming nature. Not only that, but he's modern in the very best version of the world, so having him say, "So Zeus was like, "Dude, Ephestias, crack my head open," and he did, and like, out popped Athena, hot as fuck and completely sheathed in armor," is just about the funniest thing I could ever ask for in an acting class.

Class was great! Everyone was joking around, and I really just could not stop laughing...for the first two hours. The last hour drug on, but so it goes as one adjusts to new schedules. I also learned that Greek Mythology has a way of making me into a second grader, and believe me, I know what Second Graders are like (Chester himself just passing into Third.) So, apparently, the myth of Uranus is that his son, Kronos, cut off his penis, threw it into the ocean, and bam, Aphrodite was born. Are you kidding me?! I was giggling and looking around at everyone during this entire schpill! How is this not the most hilarious thing in the world? Why don't we all know about this? Kronos CUT OFF HIS PENIS, and then, the drops of blood from his...ahem....member, splattered across the world and created the Furies. EEEEWWWW. And Aphrodite? Girl, come on. No wonder you're the goddess of love and lust. You came from a Penis. I wouldn't even think of questioning your position in the world.

I'm still currently searching for Showcase scenes, so if anyone has any suggestions, I would love to hear them. Mikayla and I are doing the Antigone/Ismene scene from "Antigone," for Acting Styles, and I'm PUMPED about it! I'm not kidding--Antigone is my girl. I did her final monologue for Final Boards during Second Year. I walked around in a tragic state for days leading up to that performance. I kept imagining the aforementioned Favorite Brother Jared as Antigone's dead body bro, and it was killllin' me.

What are Boards, you may ask? Well, dear Internet-er, Boards are the most terrifying thing on the planet. Basically, you perform a scene and a monologue for the faculty at your school, and if you pass them, your progress is deemed acceptable, then you stay in the program. If you do not, regardless of your class work, you are CUT, baby, CUT.

Sure, there ARE a lot of factors that lead up to one being cut, and other being retained, but as someone who was almost cut, and had it come as a complete surprise, I absolutely hate Boards. Even the times when I succeeded wildly at Boards, I would go and disappear and be sick for the next day. Even my Dad had nightmares about Boards. I would tell myself they were wonderful, that everything was wonderful and fine and beautiful in the world, and still, I would find myself hyperventilating and twitching the entire time we were assessed. TERRIFYING.

Flirting in Bars with Boys

Here's the thing about me: Call me pretty, and I love you a little bit already.

Seriously, knowing that my natural chemical make-up and a degree of effort (depending on my mood) gives you pleasure, and I'm practically floating on Cloud Nine!

Here's another thing about me: I am a pretty bad flirt, but a fascinating conversationalist.

Therein lies the story:

Going to a bar is great fun. Pua, Seana, and I all went to Varsity, and we just sat and chilllllled out. Girls' night are so fun. They're so easy. Regardless of how comfortable some men can be, they will never, and can never, be a girl. A girl is a girl is a girl, and I love it. So. Girls. Pretty girls. Loving their lives. Sitting in a bar.

No surprise, pretty soon, David sits down.

Now, the Terrified Male is one I have much sympathy for. Imagine this. You are masculine. You are hairy, burly, and big. You and your ape brothers are standing at a high table, hooting it up, downing some pansy Heineken or something, awkwardly making conversation, all just really surveying the landscape for the ladies.

Suddenly, a flurry of motion catches your well-trained eye. Your attention is drawn to a booth, a center booth (wherein, in fact, three very attractive ladies ARE sitting, because the smoking hot bartender from Ireland just pulled them out of the back booth and put them prominently on display in the middle of the establishment,) where you notice a haole red head, talking animatedly, using her hands, a Hawaiian goddess of lavish beauty, luscious lips, lascivious eyes, and a keen, quick-witted brunette. The three are laughing. They're playing. Their drinking "Hop in the Dark," a Black and Tan. They're having a good time.

"Go. Go," your fellow male brethren grunt, poking you in the chest. You go. Stoic, stocky, short he-man that you are, you go, and suddenly, you've squeezed your square hips into their booth and the three of them are staring at you with six doe-eyed wonders. You're lost. What is this?! You've stumbled into a lair! A lair of beauty! Of pretty! Of perfume! There's so much hair! So much curve! Oh no! What is it?!

You gulp.

You breathe in.

You hold your breath.

And you sputter.

"I'm David."

Actually, you are terrified. The Ladies, not so much. After all, they ARE ladies. This just happens. Youth, hope, love--you've got it all, and they have indeed pushed you into wondrous acts of bravado before. After all, we're all just looking for a little connection, right? Right.

Now, meeting a man in a bar holds very little appeal to a woman like me. But if you were indeed that haole animated red-head, and you did, in fact feel quite sexy in that blue minidress from Modcloth.com, you're going to understand his bravado, understand his intention, his bravery, and you have decided to celebrate his risk, his chance, his enjoyment in possibly learning someone new.

You, dear Reader, as that red-head, are going to sit up on your knees, lean diagnally, dramatically across the table, disregarding the sticky spilled beer, and you're going to start asking this Terrified Male about his life. You are demanding answers.

He likes it. He loosens up. He has not failed, in fact. Eventually, his face stops flashing and twitching into signs of panic, and his shoulders loosen and drop down to their normal position. The girl is asking about your work, your job, then your family, your home, your life. The other two just sit, waiting, quiet and content. This one, though! Wow, this one is alive!

Finally, you, oh stoic male, you muster up the courage to pose a question: "Are you ladies interested in meeting some guys?"

The red-head looks to her friends, then back, and shakes her head. "Not really!" she practically chirps. She continues the conversation right where it left off. You're stunned. There are stars in your eyes, Young Terrified Male. This red-head is practically dancing in her seat, look at here there, twitching and moving!

"Do you want to dance?"

Of course, she does, of course, (if you know me at all,) she says yes. So you do. She's good, you tell her so, and she laughs, a deep, lovely, womanly laugh--full of womanhood, wild and wonderful. She flips her hair, slinks her hips. You decide you like her. She's cute.

"You're cute!" you say. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, but thank you. I've got work early in the morning."

"You're responsible! I like that."

Then you both laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh because here, here, you have found an honestly nice, compassionate soul. Your life is not changed, your life is not different, but tonight it is indeed sweet; it is indeed pretty, and you're both a little bit of a better person for risking your heart tonight.

Lust List!

Have you seen these? Their from Versace, and I love them. They're also two hundred dollars, so I only wear them in my dreams.

These are far more reasonable, and in fact, I plan on having a pair within the next year. Look out, Miss West, yer abowt t'git real loud!


OH, chambray. Are you the fabric of my soul? Probably.


New Mexico, New Mexico, these are mini stone animals, and I'm in lo0o0o0ve with them.




And for the new vegetarian on the block, Gourmet 5-Ingredient Vegetarian! I love it!

First Day of School

Hey all!
I made it back to Cincinnati yesterday morning at 3am. Everything is great, so far, and I'm looking sooo cute in sweaters.

Here's the thing:

I pump myself up to walk into school. I walk confidently.
I carve out time to take care of the business I missed, coming back from Hawaii so late, so I stride my self over to the callboard to jot down important dates, and I see....TA DA! The annual celebration of Fourth Years leaving the school! Horray! Every year, the head of the department puts up photos of the Fourth Years as a lovely piece of comedy, and I've looked forward to the day when my face will be up there as well.....wait............?????......where is it.

It's not.

Of course it's not.

No worries, this is just how Life at CCM goes.

Hawaiian, Decoded

So you're female in Hawaii? Wow, what an experience! Congratulations on stumbling upon the Hawaiian Male Phraseology Translator!

You say:

I've been here a week!

He hears:

I've not slept with anyone here!

You say:

I'm visiting from the Mainland...

He hears:

Boooooty Call!

You say:

...for a month!

He says:

Score!

You say:

I'm leaving in two days. :(

He hears:

I want to make it worth it.

He says:

Let's get coffee.

He means:

Let me touch your boobs.

You think:

I love coffee!

He says:

Can I walk you up?

He means:

Can I touch your boobs?

You shoot a smile, realize the evening has gone quite farther than you're willing to let it go, you're starting to get the Big Picture, and you are, in fact, Allyson West, just too young to read between the freaking lines sometimes.

You say:

No worries, Buddy. I got it.

You leave.





Geez Louise, these boys would be more successful if they would just tell a girl what they were up to. Then if she wanted to, they would, and if she didn't, they wouldn't waste their time trying not to be confused. Gross.

Top Three Songs for Shaving your Legs

3. "Pretty Woman," Roy Orbison

At some point in my past, there was a boy who was hopelessly, devotedly (hopelessly devoted?,) and forever in love with me. He sang me this song. Always, always, I was delighted, happy to sashay my way around into his heart, and moreso, because man, oh man, does it feel good to be female.

"Pretty Woman, give your smile to meeeee"

Oh, yes, absolutely! What could I want more than submerging myself in a bathtub, flipping my legs up, finding all the curves, following them, and then pretending to flirt with Roy Orbison who is somewhere in my bathroom falling over his tongue over me? I'm positively giggly and flirty and sassy and lovely. I need a ponytail. And some pink bubblegum. Check. Now I'm ready to meet Bobby at the Homecoming Dance.

2. "Santa Baby," Eartha Kitt

I don't think I desired anything more after hearing this song when I was eight, and fully capable of understanding what sexy sounds like, than to drape myself in diamonds and a Tiffany Blue velvet gown lined in white faux fur and sit atop a Tiffany Blue painted porsche, surrounded by lavish, velvet wrapped gifts in order to tell my lover that I absolutely wanted nothing more than him. Oh, and one little thing; a ring, noo, I don't mean on the phone, thank you very much for getting the hint.

Let's be honest: The fantasy has advanced a bit. Now, I'm sure I could dress myself up entirely in ribbons and walk as if I hadn't a care in the world around my flat strategically untying them. But the first one? The second-grade fantasy? Hey, that's pretty advanced for an eight-year-old. Talk about Catholic repression...

1. "All that Jazz," Catherine-Zeta Jones, Chicago

There's a disclaimer I'm adding to this Top Number One Song to Shave your Legs to. Here's why: You might not actually get your legs shaven. If you're like me, you may get about two swipes up half your leg, before you start sassing your legs around. You might get to the knee before your hips are moving, and the water's splashing all over the tub. And if you're superbly like me, you might not even get to your thigh before you're already out of the tub, jazz-handing your way around the flat, using the futon as a kick stand and vaulting off of it into the air for the high points in the song.

You may forget that you're completely naked, and that the windows have no curtains on them.

You may remember that you don't actually care because there's a huge mango tree there anyway.

You may rewind the song and do it again. Yep. Rewind that baby.

In which I find myself in High School.

There's something to be said for chillin out. It's not something I do so very often. I'm at school, I'm at work, and I constantly, actively plan to have my life keep me busy. That is, actually, before I went to Hawaii, where the culture and atmosphere kept me chillin' out. Every morning, I would wake up, slowly roll out of bed, watch the sunrise over the ocean, water the yard, stretch, shower, dressed, oh and at some time I'd go to work where I also just spent the day selling sunglasses and talking with anyone and everyone passing by. It was quite easy. Quite lovely.

And here, back on the Mainland, I've obviously slipped back into my "Normal Life" of being busy, or being bored.

OR HAVE I?

I'm at Melissa High School today, spending time with the Mom at her new work. Honestly, this means that I'm sitting in on an entire day of high school english classes, and being surrounded with the riveting minds of the future.

I'm kind of bored. :) It's still kind of fun. So far, I've been most entertained by this:

"Leave me alone. I am NOT a leprechaun!"

Buoyancy

Dear People of Hawaii,

You absolutely blow my mind. You know, I've heard a lot of people talk about "culture shock," when going from Hawaii to the mainland, and here it is, dear lovelies: it's the lack of family. Lack of Ohana.

Hawaii is Ohana. Family. Togetherness. Giving. Receiving. Always going above and beyond for your neighbors, and always being appreciated for it. Hawaii is support, tenderness, opportunity, and love.

Hawaii is the thousands of kind acts that are keeping me fed and afloat while I make ends just barely meet. Thank you, my Ohana, my Hawaii, for keeping me at the surface.

I'll see you again soon.

All my love,
Allyson West

Trevor

Dear Young Men of the World, particularly "Trevor," who took me out last night,

Yes, you may ask me for coffee. Yes, you may take a night time walk with me, tell me about your life, and share a photo essay of your favorite photographer with me. Heck, I've probably even showered today, so your compliments about how nice I look/smell are even justifiable and appropriate. And yes, you may indeed walk me to my steps. Thank you.

However. No, you may not put your hands on my hips and/or thigh area. You may, maybe, may in fact touch my shoulder as we walk outside in public, but you may not, in any way "casually" nuzzle said shoulder with your slobbery lips, AND/OR TONGUE. GROSS. I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU. You may not put your hands even near my breasts, and actually, why don't you just stop thinking about them now. You especially are not allowed anywhere near my neck, and please to God, do not throw away any dignity to ask for "just a peek, please, just a little peek?" while gesturing to my bosom.

When I am finally able to wrap my head around such an invasion, remove your flobbery tendrils from my personage, and direct you with a stern push back to your vehicle, I would highly recommend you actually go instead of asking to "just hold me."

Once you do leave, please do so quickly and efficiently and not as if your second chance is right around the corner, 'cause, baby, it ain't. I'm already upstairs, journaling you off my body, dreaming of days when companionship was much sweeter.

With little respect,

Allyson West

aka

Allyson the Great

Potty Hands

I'm learning American Sign Language, and, of course, this leads me to looking up the terms I use most frequently. The list keeps running, and I cannot wait to get my hands on a book of conversational sign language.

Here's the thing, andI'm not gonna lie--this list includes some not nice four-letter words.

The big surprise though, comes of course from the fact that I'm proving to be more embarrassed "saying" some of these words in ASL than I am verbalizing them in English.

They are incredibly literal.

It's one thing to let a sound fly out of your mouth--heck, we arrange and re-arrange sounds all the time. Language evolves and transcends, means one thing, means another, and changes drastically according to the generation. But placing my hands opposite on top of each other, jiggling them up and down a bit, and moving on to something equally literalized, and I'm blushing in my sweet, red, chipmunk-y cheeks.

Potty hands are turning out to be much messier than a potty mouth.

This Skirt Gets Me Dates

Instance Three

I ride into the University 7-11 on the moped (affectionately referred to as "Scootie,") and she's running like a charm, all silk and butter, especially after the 2-2 Birthday tale. I pull in to the pump, park, and notice another bike already parked and waiting at the pump. It's not my turn. I slide off Scootie and wait. A man walks over. He's 33. I don't know this yet.

"Hey, you're exquisite. How are you?"

It's obviously a line, but I'd like to think that it's not. He's not so great, a bit creepazoid. Short, bald, shaved head, and a studded black lip ring. Fit, though.

"Very fine, thank you," I say. All business and stuffing, as usual. I'm not gonna lie--people, men in general, just take me by surprise. It doesn't take much to catch me off guard, and I believe in the human race so much that I always assume everyone has the best intentions when it comes to me and my welfare. Nay, this is not the case, and yay, I am slowly learning it sufficiently.

He starts pumping his gas, and I go back to my life in my head. I take my shoes off, and spin around. The skirt flies out from me, twirling and twirling, and yes, Jacin and Seana, I am wearing a slip underneath so don't worry about him seeing my underwear. The concrete feels warm and good under my feet. They ache so much now that I'm standing all day at Sunglass the Hut. I stick my arms out, tilt my head back, and calm myself down from the day, spinning and twirling in bliss.

"Hey," he says. "That's pretty. You look about as good as I feel. Why the pirouettes?"

"I like it. The skirt's good for it. See?"

I spin for him.

Of course he comes closer, starts talking. "Where you from?" he asks, and when I answer, "Texas," he whistles low and shakes his head. He lika da western woman. We compare notes, and it comes out that I'm leaving in a week. He's apparently got two full-time jobs, no lady, and is living by himself in paradise.

"Look, I ain't got time for games, but your smile is exquisite, and that sweet twang is music to my ears."

He's abrupt, quick, fast-paced. He's talked me up in a storm the past four minutes, and by this point, my head is swirling and I'm about ready to start giggling. He's gone before I get the chance. He heads inside, pays for my gas, hands me his numbers, and drives away.

"The ball's in your court, Lady."

Instance Two

I'm working at Sunglass the Hut, having a pretty boring time, but making up little games about what kind of person would want to wear the different sunglasses, and still enjoying my life. I start humming a bit, and then, this incredibly stunning bevy of blonde boyhood walks by. Oh my sweet Jesus, boyhood be damned, he's older than me, I absolutely know it. He's tan, blonde, and sweet, sweet piercing blue eyes.

Let's just be clear here for a moment--I NEVER expect the cute ones to be interested. I've been told, quite unfortunately, that my girlish figure is long gone, which I absolutely refuse to believe. All that being said, it IS true that my curves are quite advanced for a woman of my age, and I just don't get the appreciation from the cutie patooties in early to mid-twenties, that I do from "mature" men near their thirties on up.

Blue Eyes Heart Attack shuffles up to the display case, and ambles around a little bit. I size him up, and decide once and for all that he's definitely not interested. He's way, way too cute. So I flip around and go back to my business on the other side of the kiosk.

Here's the thing: I do indeed have a favorite brother, and said Favorite Brother's coloring happens to be blonde, blue-eyed, rosy cheeks. And while I have ABSOLUTELY NO SEXUAL ATTRACTION to said favorite brother, I cannot help but see a parallel between my comfort with this brother, and my general pattern of fondness for anyone who looks remotely like him. Thank goodness, this guy, Andrew (as I soon learn,) looks better.

So, of course, I'm wearing the skirt. I finally turn around to talk to Andrew, who has been standing there long enough for me to know he means sunglass business, and we start chatting. He needs glasses. He is indecisive. AAAAAHHHHHH. The big one, the big answer, that explains a lot of things to come: Andrew is shy. He stays at the kiosk, and it's slow, so we start trying on pairs and pairs of sunglasses. He truly cannot make up his mind, which is never a problem for me, because I absolutely adore telling people what to do. Twenty minutes pass. I make for another customer, expecting Andrew to walk away, and to my surprise, he absolutely does not. In fact, he repeats the entire "trying on" process one. more. time. from. the. beginning. with. feeling. my. dear. I get back to him, and he's still there, ready for another round, and another string of questions.

We talk about his glasses, his needs, his family, his life. He answers all, loosens up, and I'm really just being nice, as anyone would, at this point (I like gumption.) He finally decides to take down the information of a brown lens Maui Jim, and I suspect it's precisely so that he can have a good reason to come back to Sunglass the Hut, soon. "I'm Andrew," he says. "You're an excellent conversationalist, and you're beautiful when you spin. Can I see you again?"


Instance One

His name is Jacin, and we've been together all day, pretty much. He doesn't offer up much, emotionally, doesn't hand me any risks or openings, and I'm pretty bored. He met me at rehearsal, and let me choose whatever I wanted. I, of course, chose a walk, because I LOVE WALKS. So we're at a creek, no shoes, and then, now, we're late for dinner, which he invited me to, and he's calling his hanai parents to tell them we're on our way.

I'm still bored, but, I absolutely was thrilled to agree to go, and for reasons unknown, I've got a lot of faith in this Jacin fellow. Dinner is delightful, and, in fact, his hanai mother invites me to go snorkeling the next morning with them at the North Shore.

So, now, Jacin and I are up at his house, and I'm spending the night (I carry my toothbrush and bathing suit with me already.)

"You make me nervous," Jacin says. He's grateful for the companionship, but not really tripping over himself to get to know me, (which could, indeed, be my own fault.)

"You make me nervous," I type again, getting back to the point.

"Why?"

He pretends not to hear me, and I take a subtle note that he thinks pretending not to hear me is sufficient for avoiding well-articulated questions. Jacin heads across the room and pops open a bottle of Crios.

Five glasses and whatever was left that I drank out of the bottle later (oh--this is between the two of us, by the way :P,) the statement surfaces again.

"You make me nervous."

This time I wonder if it's an apology.

"Why?"

Jacin walks to the bathroom, flicks on a light there, flicks it off, and comes back out, swishing his hips the way I eventually come to recognize and love as a sign of confident capability. I refuse to let the question drop this time.

"What about me makes you nervous?"

"Well, for one thing, your skirt."

Jacin's still "playing it cool," still "keeping it suave," but I detect a solid honesty in this response, and my heart thrills. Here is some open-ness. Here is a bit of a risk. Here is what I absolutely call communication. I laugh, delightedly, absolutely glad that I stuck around for this heart, stand up, twirl, and curtsy gracefully onto the floor, leaning against the fridge.

"Why do you want to know?" Jacin sends back.

I answer, truthfully, "Because if I could find out what about me is specifically setting you off, setting you against, then I could change it. And if you could be more comfortable, and I could facilitate that.....well.......(and Dear Reader, here, I truly am at a loss for explanation)....well, really, what more could I want?"

Jacin breathes in, deep, and laughs out loud. He tilts his chair back, his head back, and "Wow," he says. He looks my way, and moves a little closer to me.