OK, so I missed another day of blogging...big whoop. Do I have to be so perfect all the time?! I was up till 2:00 am last night dancing salsa. As you can see, I'm working hard to become a salsa Godess. Actually, it was not my choice to stay out that late. I was exhausted around 9:30 pm, but such is the fate of anyone who chooses to be the designated passenger. I had a few good dances last night...but, unfortunately, a few atrocious ones. One guy smelled very bad, I just wanted to bolt, but my codependency kept me there. I need to learn to say no.

Just for today, I can be imperfect.

When I first started dancing salsa (way back in August) if a guy initiated certain moves, I was shocked at what seemed to amount to someone trying to dry hump me on the dance floor. My thinking was, "You could at least take me to dinner first..." I wasn't quite ready to accept the blatant sexuality that is "SALSA" (quotations and caps are my written attempt at a spanish accent). However, as I have become initiated into the culture of salsa, my squeamishness has diminished to the point where I can see that it's not JUST about dry humping...

The truth is that salsa is a physical expression of the music and dancing to the beat is serious business (more bad news for white men everywhere). Not surprisingly, there are SOME GUYS who use salsa to get some action (and I'm not naming any names). It's taken me a while to learn to distinguish between those who are trying to cop a feel and those who are in tune with the spirit of salsa, AND trying to cop a feel...(ok so there are some nice guys out there, but they are usually totally out of step with the beat...). The truth is, the reward for being a good male salsa dancer is being able to get away with all forms of sexual harrassment on a dance floor...all in the name of art.

Just for today, I can dance salsa.

...and it was a schoolnight, too.

Lately, I find myself dancing with a short Latino guy who doesn't miss a beat. It's an aerobic workout just to keep up and after a few songs I am drenched with sweat (last night, I didn't properly dry my hair and so I had this crazy rock-star/Muppet-head thing going on, as well). I don't know his last name, or what he does for a living, but if this keeps up any longer we're going to have to get married. It's just way too much fun and my husband would never approve. Good thing he's nowhere in sight...

Just for today, I can dance salsa.

What is going on? I can't seem to stay home. I'm out running around every night of the week like a 20-year-old. I didn't do this when I was 20 (so maybe that's why). I'm supposed to be putting children to bed and reading cookbooks at night while my husband watches sports recap (do husbands do that?...how would I even know?!). Not cavorting with salsa dancers till all hours of the night on schoolnight after schoolnight...! This is so much fun, it's got to be bad for me...

Just for today, I can have a fun life.

My "salsera" friends and I preface every activity (mundane or otherwise) in life with the word "salsa." We are"salsa buddies," take "salsa naps," get a "salsa buzz," have a "salsa affair" (without leaving dance floor), and have a "salsa birthday." Like all rituals in sub-cultures it doesn't truly make sense lest you live it with the commitment of a rock star (without the bottoming out on reefer and rehab part...).

Anyhoo, last night I had a salsa birthday till 1:00 am (take that one married people!...sure, domestic bliss can never compare to a night of salsa madness, but I have to say, it's gettin' pretty damn close...unless married people are like totally lying...).

Little did I ever imagine that I would be spending my prime years with 23-year-old Latino busboys who take full advantage of their salsa powers to do things on the dance floor I would normally put off till the tenth date in normal life. Nor did I think I would feel the junior high school abandonment when my favorite salsa partner has gone five dances without looking for me. But with all that said...35 feels pretty good.

Just for today, I can not have a boyfriend.

My therapist thinks that one of the reasons why I get depressed is that I'm unable to "tolerate" (her big word) excitement. Basically, I fear happiness (so lame). Somewhere in my psyche, I believe that too much fun is dangerous, and that I'm morally obligated to live as if I were an impoverished invalid (the stupidest neuroses ever...).

Last night I was out at one of my favorite salsa clubs having a ridiculously fun time. I say "ridiculous," because unlike anything I've ever pursued with such fervor, there's no long-range goal with salsa. It's an end in itself, an experience that defies planning, logic, or explanation (so very not me). So, I was having a wonderful time when the thought came into my head, "time to go home." It seemed a rational thought because it was 11:00 pm on a schoolnight, but I was also having an unusually good time...and you only live once (well, maybe not...but I can't wait to come back as someone with a cooler life).

So, I said good-bye to my dance partner, grabbed my coat and was almost out the door when Smokin' Salsa Stud asked me to dance. What?! Me?! My Inner-Junior High Child came out and glowed. Salsa is all about the business of finding a better dance partner than yourself. This was like winning the lottery. I managed to dance without offending him with sloppy footwork. Afterward, he asked me why I was leaving so early (in Salsa culture 11:00 pm is like two in the afternoon). When I told him that I had to "work in the morning," he looked at me like I was crazy. Work, a good night's sleep...these are not reasons to not dance salsa. Missing a limb, maybe. But even then you can always move your hips. Without meaning to, I had let him in on my grandma-ish ways.

As I was driving home I wondered if I had left because it was late and I was tired, or if dancing with Smokin' Salsa Stud is really is too much for me to handle. And what does that say about the rest of my life? If I have trouble embracing the love and passion I feel for salsa, how will I ever accept other kinds of love...? It's not about staying way past my bedtime, but the timing of how I show up for my life. I have to stay on the beat, and not just in salsa.

I didn't fall asleep till after 1:00, anyway.

Just for today, I can handle a joyful life.

If you told me a few years ago, that I would be spending my mid-thirties at salsa clubs three nights a week, I would have said that I must be crazy if only because that surely could not be good for the ever darkening circles under my eyes. I know I'm supposed to be worrying about my biological clock and trolling Internet dating sites for a guy whose resume fits the West LA demographic, but...well, anyway...

Just for today, life is different than expected.

In my entire life, I have never experienced anything so all consuming, gratifying, and mysterious as my passion for salsa dancing. If the FBI had any inkling of how much fun it is, it would surely be illegal. In the past six months, my life paradigm has taken a complete 180. While life used to be a dark, confusing wilderness of external pressure to acquire crap and look good (job, marriage...you know the drill), now it's nothing more than a mere structure to support the salsera lifestyle. While there used to be such things as ambition and drive in my life, now there is the time and space between my presence at salsa venues. Goals? To become a good enough salsa dancer so as to attract the best partners. Priorities? To eat, sleep, and rest well enough to dance as many nights a week as possible. Relationship...? No comment (it's not an option anyway). Books? Movies? Theater? Only, if I'm REALLY tired. Shopping? Salsa outfits. Drinking? No, screws up my salsa. Coffee? Yes! How else could I function at work? ! Money, fame, fortune? Oh, you poor folk who still buy into that...

I know, it sounds crazy (even to me). But I guess I've never been in love before because nothing has possessed my life in the same way, brought so much fun and joy, and allowed me to feel so fulfilled (not to mention helped me burn so many calories). So, I'm leading some weird vampiric life with my whole "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" approach to the work week and don't have much to say to non-salsa friends...at least I'm happy.

Just for today, soy salsera.

I'm planning on writing a screenplay based, in part, on my salsa experience (I'll think of a better name, but "Slutty Dancing" works for now). It's the story of one woman as she navigates the fun and perilous world of salsa dancing in search of her true self, a sluttier wardrobe, and boundaries on the dance floor (or something like that...).

I've been researching a plethora of dance movies (via Netflix) and have found three thematic features common to this genre: 1) the struggle between dancing from the heart vs. society's dictates (this includes women embracing their sexuality through dance) 2) an inter-racial love story that crosses social classes, makes others uncomfortable, and to which dance proves a transcendent force and 3) a really crappy script. The genre seems to badly suffer from a relentless lack of irony (i.e., "Nobody puts Baby in the corner!"...need I say more?).

In addition to the first two elements, I hope to inject some of the less touted, but equally predominant challenges and joys of salsa dance culture, such as: Stiletto Impalements (spike heels that cut right through the cartiledge...one of the most perilous aspects of salsa for women), White Men Who Can't Hear The Beat (but who feel strangly compelled to enact an array of mime facial expressions...another perilous aspect of salsa for women), Cheap Slutty Dresses (And Clothes) that fill up your wardrobe (even if they turn you into a glitter-spraying machine), Weird Older Asian Twins who gyrate in a convulsive spasm, Financially Prosperous Single Women (who can't imagine finding a guy who would be worth giving this up for), Salsa Rapists and Other Freaks who use the dance to enact bizarre sexual rituals...and much, much more (could "Lord of the Rings" been any scarier?...didn't think so).

Just for today, I can write a new dance movie.

Occasionally, I get asked to dance by really great dancers (aka, "salsa ninjas") and it's a rare opportunity for me to raise the bar on my salsa. I have to try and focus on not getting nervous and doing something stupid like punching said person in the face (it's a dangerous salsa world and besides getting pillaged in the foot by spiked heels, sometimes people get whacked in the face...by me). It's a threat I'm willing to live with, but would warn others about.

Anyway, one particular great dancer happens to be blind in one eye. He's a wonderful dancer and a great spirit and his eye is not something that seems to hinder him in the least bit. So one night he asked me to dance and in my excitement I executed the faux paus of injuring him in the most insulting way (so ashamed)...I poked him in his blind eye...! Of all the things I could do (step on him, hit in the face with my flailing arm, spiral out of control), it had to be this very creepy unconscious Freudian way of being very rude.

Talk about sabotage...

Just for today, I'm aware of my salsa sabotage.

Last night I was introduced to a new salsa dance move which I'll call, "Hump The Guy Against A Wall." I'm not sure how it goes (call me a prudish novice, but I would have needed some serious alcohol to participate) but I believe it entails the guy standing up against the wall while the woman performs some kind of stripper action on him (in the name of art). What transpired was the poor guy leaning against the wall and while I shook my head no (on the beat). I have to say, I did admire his spirit. I wish I could pursue my writing career with the same unflappable energy and fearlessness towards rejection.

Just for today, I can learn new dance moves.

I've been living a very vampiric lifestyle this weekend, dancing till 4:00 am and sleeping all day (courtesy of the Salsa Congress...I don't know why it's called that...it sounds like they pass laws or something). I'm fine today, but yesterday I thought I might keel over from salsa exhaustion. If this is how I die, then so be it. So long as I'm not dancing with someone who's off the beat, which wasn't always the case last night. However, if I find myself dancing with a lot of beginners then I can only blame myself for not picking up on the cues. The way to tell if a stranger is a good dancer, according to my salsa friend, is by the way he asks you to dance. If he's seasoned and solid, he sort of grabs your hand from the side with a knowing look, like, "you know you want to dance with me." There's no asking involved. If he's a beginner he gets right up in your face and says, "Hi, my name is _____, would you like to dance?" This is a guide book waiting to happen...

Last week, Salsa Guru came over to try to set my salsa straight. He's reminds me of the Morgan Freeman character in...any movie, mixed with Mr. Miyagi from Karate Kid, all wrapped in the body of 25-year-old Latino male. Since he's a shaman, I let him break down the truth of my errant salsa ways with deep humility. Salsa is serious business. You don't just get out there and do whatever you want, not if you want to dance with good dancers. Anyway, Salsa Guru has a way of putting things that perfectly encapsulates the spirit of salsa. The best gem of the evening was when he told me to dance like a conceited stuck-up bitch. I've waited my whole life for someone to give me permission to do that...he rocks.

Just for today, I am a developing salsera.

It was close to 4:00 am and I was exhausted from the last four days of dancing for hours on end, but it was the last song of the night and I had already sweated (I'm a sweat bath...doing anything with my hair is useless) and panted through the last three songs, so, there was really nothing to do but go for it. It was one of my favorite salsa songs (Sonido Bestial by Bobby Cruz and Richie Ray), but I didn't know it was the extended remix version. If you have to die dancing salsa, that would be the song. I was dancing with Don't Miss A Beat for six minutes of serious, aerobic high speed salsa when I didn't think I had anything left in me... the last few minutes reminded me of the final sprint in the 1600 in high school...but a lot more fun.

Just for today, salsa hasn't killed me.

Tonight about 170 lbs. of weight came down on my toe and rammed the nail into the skin (serious pain). I still finished the song (because I'm committed). But, boy, this some dangerous shit.

Just for today, I still have my toes.

I've noticed that my body's ability to tolerate lack of sleep and a steady supply of processed food seems to have greatly improved since I started dancing salsa (yet another benefit to this hobby). After dancing till 4:00 am three nights in a row, a paltry four hours of sleep is solid rest, and the amount that I sweat on the dance floor (it's like someone turned on a shower on the inside) seems to detoxify my body daily, thus, increasing my body's ability to thrive on coffee, frozen quesadillas and dry cereal (I'm not saying that Frosted Flakes is a breakfast of champions, but if I'm going to let go of my Inner-Food-Nazi, I may as well go for the gold...but I'm not picking up those red vines...that stuff is poison). That aside, the toe injury on Monday, while not permanently damaging, did yield some dramatic repercussions. After spending the entire night iceing my foot and dreaming of Advil (I left my supply at work), I woke up feeling kind of light headed, only to soon find myself passed out in the middle of my apartment.

I never thought making sure that I don't hit my head when I faint from a salsa toe injury would be a reason to get married (and it's not), but a cat (which I don't have) might not know to dial 911 (at least not right away). Like I told Cool Accountant Lady in the kitchen yesterday (home to many deep conversations while the microwave heats up my quesadilla), I never had any fantasies regarding the institution of marriage...rather, when I was ten and my mom took me to the iron-on store in the mall (what happened to those? would someone let me know when they come back?) I personally chose an iron-on t-shirt that read, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle...I was 10!). To this day, I believe that most people are looking for no more than someone to split the cable bill with, and keep them from their own company (do I sound cynical? whatever...). I would like to actually like the personhood of the person. So I guess I'm left with yet another reason to find a live-in companion whose only job is to make sure I don't injure myself. How I've made it this far in life is a mystery ...it must be all the love and support of the termites and/or the spirits that inhabits the apartment next door (they're cool with me)...

I'm not weird, I have very unique attributes that become heightened by sugar.

Just for today, I'm still alive.

The best part of dancing salsa has been the people I've met...and within that group the women (i.e., Saleras). I don't know what's more fun, dancing with a variety of crazy characters, or talking about the guys you've danced with your friends. There's nothing like sharing a horrible dance experience with your friend to take the sting out of it (the guy smelled, groped you, yanked you, danced horrifically off the beat, accused you of being horrifically off the beat, burned his eyes through your skull because he wants your attention, did perverse moves in the pretend name of dancing, or just acted like you were the worse experience of his life...). Besides bad dance experience (which, I think tops the list) wardrobe malfunctions (aka, pulling a "Janet Jackson"), salsa flings, ladies styling, and info on where to buy shoes and clothes are fodder for some serious femal bonding. I may have met more men dancing salsa, but I've bonded more with the women (thank God).

Just for today, I am grateful for my salsera friends.

I've been in a salsa slump. It happens. Nothing in life can remain consistently awesome. Here are the signs:

1) Not feeling salsa-y (Salsa Guru told me that I was dressed like a "Grandma" on Saturday night...)
2) I spend my Ladies' Stylin' opportunity trying to mitigate my eternal wardrobe malfunctions (making sure top covers boobs, bra isn't at my waist, etc.).
3) Experiencing "who cares?" vibe.
4) Being drenched in sweat no longer feels sexy, but a sign that I have some kind of glandular problem.
5) Losing all sense of social decorum in declining unappealing dance offers ("Are you @#$ kidding me?!")
6) Rather than be inspired by awesome dancers, I wonder how they keep their hair in such a perfect bun (anything I put in my hair flies out at some mysterious moment).

Just for today, I can have a salsa slump.

Last night, a girl at the salsa club had a seizure and they stopped the music (literally), cleared the room and called an ambulance. After the drama died down (the girl was fine), it was business as usual and the DJ commanded us to come back in and dance like we were kids in grade school being directed back to class after a fire drill...those salseros are so serious...(I was the first one back on the dance floor).

Salsa Guru has given his stamp of approval on my recent wardrobe purchases. I informed him that it's not hard to build a good salsa wardrobe since salsa clothes seem to fall in the under $20 Marshall's/Ross bucket. If it's something you wouldn't be caught dead in at work (or even around work people) or that a 13-year-old girl without proper parenting would cherish, it's appropriate salsa gear...slutty, flashy, cheezeball...

Salsa Guru did offer some hope in the Relentless Salsero School of Dancing Philosophy (all men dance salsa to get girls in bed) when he told me that as salseros improve they take a stronger interest in dancing (than in women) and adopt a, "Let them come to me..." attitude. I told him most guys seem to think they're already there...

Just for today, I am a salsa addict.

A few months I ago I became friends with Super Precise Salsero who, after the initial honeymoon phase of dancing together, decided that he needed to help me with my direly needed salsa edu-ma-cation (he and Salsa Guru both). It was all good at first because I try to be open to critique, but after a certain point it became a dysfunctional relationship. Nothing I did could please him. I couldn't "get it" (stay on the beat to his satisfaction) and he couldn't accept the white girl in me who still listens to the Immaculate Collection (not that I'm ashamed of my love for Madonna). After one particularly hellacious dance, we decided to have an amicable salsa divorce (in the middle of the song...so embarrassing). However, with time and space we both realized that maybe we should give this dance relationship another shot. He's a good guy and a great dancer, definitely not a Fellini Character [my friend calls odd weird salsa guys F.O.F.'s (Fellini On the Floor)]. Now we're like a divorced couple staying together for the kids (salsa), he keeps his mouth shut and I count like a mofo. If I screw up, he smiles politely and says nothing, because forgetting to close the refrigerator is not such a big deal (have I wrung this metaphor dry?)...

Just for today, I can dance with Super Precise Salsero.

Whenever Salsa Guru bestows a dance upon my "off-beat" self he often tells me that my main problem is that I lack Patience. With all his talent and experience, Salsa Guru is very comfortable standing in judgement of other dancers. In exchange for his mentorship and everything he has taught me, I tolerate his personality, and so our relationship survives. Still, as much as I hate to admit that a 25-year-old has mastered some aspect of the maturity, I have to say that he's right. I'm not patient with salsa and I'm not patient with life. For all his youth, the guy dances with the patience of Yoda pulling the space ship out of the swamp. What I have come to learn is that annoying people usually speak the truth (that's why they're annoying).

Relentless Salsero ("Relentless" for short) left a message on my voice mail last week identifying himself as "Your Future Husband." Ten years ago, I would have gotten chills (just being honest here). Today, I don't put anything past Latino men (just being honest here, again). Still, I admire his persistence and I think I could stand to have some more of that - albeit, directed to more worthy pursuits than getting someone into bed 9he says he wants to marry me, but I'm old enough to identify *#%@ when I hear it...).

Just for today, I can appreciate the qualities of the Salseros in my life.

According to my friend, Salsa World, as we call it, is a playground for single people with rhythm. It probably goes without saying that it's also the playground for your run-of-the-mill Salsero Player (pronounced "playa"). But I'm going to say it anyway.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. I have many, many, wonderful Salsero dance partners (not all Latino) who I enjoy on the dance floor, but who would hardly make a suitable date in the 'secular world' (as Jewish Salsera calls it). Trust me, I've tried. In a single night I've been told I'm loved and adored by multiple guys who claim to be willing to do anything to spend time with me. Lunch date? Maybe next week...they seem to get busy when it comes to things like daylight and prolonged conversation about life, goals, vital statistics...so boring. What's the point? Why get personal when you've got a Salsa World filled with scantily clad women performing sexual moves...?

Don't get me wrong, not all Salsero men are so flagrantly predatorial and Salsa, while being a creative expression of sexuality, is not necessarily a place to find easy sex. For one thing, the Seasoned Salsera knows the deal and is not easy. By 12th grade, did you really want to date anyone in your class?. Any girl/woman who has developed some mastery of Salsa has survived her fair share of the onslaught of male sexual attention/aggression and she's so over it. As a rule, the best shot a stymied Salsero has at gettin' some play is from the fresh crop of women coming out of the Beginner dance classes. Wide-eyed and intoxicated by the magic and sensuality of salsa, perhaps rebounding from a bad relationship (or maybe that was just me), or just plain bored, beginner dancers will find a slew of charming, friendly men, great dancers, even picky ones, who are more than happy to "teach" them how to dance. Usually, these relationships are akin to any student/teacher relationship sullied by the mutual desire to exploit (sex/learn salsa). The relationship progresses or deteriorates to the extent that such needs are satisfied or not. Egos blow up and deflate. People move on...hey, it's Salsa World...

However, for the experienced, and technically astute Salsera, the chances of having a more mutual, higher quality relationship with a Salsero are far greater, if only on the dance floor. A true Salsera isn't really there to be hit on. She has far better things to do. Salsa is the ultimate Godess sport. In her element, the true Salsera not only knows, but feels that her true power and her beauty come from within. While dancing she's in touch with her deepest sense of herself in the most natural and authentic way.

Only Relentless types (they could be seasoned or they could be beginners) are really going to have the patience to pursue a skilled Salsera and convince her that they aren't like "all the other guys who all say they aren't like all the other guys, even though they are" (Relentless Salsero; 06/21/07).

Not that she cares. She's too focused on dancing. When it's good, it's better than sex. And you don't have to stress about diseases or changing partners.

Just for today, I am a Salsera.

Salsa Guru and Evil Flash Programmer are competing for the My Favorite Person Award. Don't feel bad if you're not in the running as the honor seems to require the recipient to possess some sort of anti-social traits guaranteed to annoy the unsuspecting, well-adjusted person. However, since I am not unsuspecting, nor well-adjusted, every time I have a prolonged conversation with either of them, I am forever changed. That is the sign of a special relationship.

Last night Salsa Guru told me that while my salsa dancing has greatly improved, it could stand to be "angrier." Putting aside the fact that I'm not sure what Angry Salsa looks like, I found it an interesting comment because he's about the tenth person in recent years to suggest that I Express My Anger. The irony of this feedback is that it is often given by the same people who would be on the receiving end of my would-be wrath (I'm picturing some Greek God with thunderbolts...). Were I to follow through on their suggestion, chances are they would either have a cow-like tantrum (shaming me to silence) or wilt like abandoned puppies, thus, causing me to feel like the Princess of Darkness. Bound by Chains of Guilt and Fear, I have found it best to communicate via Stuart Smalley-style "I feel, when you..." verbiage with all the power and intimidation of Elmo.

Since my relationship with Salsa Guru is based on a mutual understanding that neither one of us is trying to snow the other with weird manipulations, I trust his feedback. Actually, he later qualified his original statement by saying that "angry" is not the right word. According to SG (I'm too tired to write out his name), it's more about coping an aggressive "salsa attitude" (for more edu-macation, read blog below). Salsa Guru wears a red bandana with a cap to express his personal 'tude. While I'm kind of into the idea of Angry Empowered Salsa, I think the average club is way too hot and crowded for a leather jacket and a Harley...(sigh)...I need a life.

Just for today, I can find ways to express my anger.

I told Salsa Guru the other night that I wanted an action figure of him and he looked at me like I had just suggested he dismember his tool...I had no idea that action figures were so emasculating to their subjects...

Just for today, I can say the wrong thing.

Between Relentless and Socially Inappropriate (more on him below) I have gotten an earful lately about How Men Really Are (do I have a sign on my forehead that reads, "Seeking To Be Jaded?!!"). It seems that because I enjoy the brotherly company (at least, that's how I see it) of men who lack boundaries (and I, apparently, lack boundaries of my own) I have been given a floor-to-ceiling Malibu-mansion style window into the psyche of men seemingly incapable of having a relationship with a woman that precludes ushering her in (and soon out) of the bedroom (am I making myself clear?).

Socially Inappropriate is a gringo (i.e., brave) salsa dancer who once asked me if girls get hot and sticky "down there" when they dance...hmmm, so uh...gross? Like the name implies, he claims "honesty" as a foil for a perverse outflow of an interior monologue that like a David Lynch film straddles the line between amusing and repulsive [kind of like Relentless...what, is this some sort of new age courtship?...as phony as roses and chivalry are, at least they don't make you puke...at least not right away].

Listening to these guys is kind of like watching a horror movie (not a David Lynch movie, more like Night of the Living Dead). I'm trying to cover my eyes, but it's really tempting to peek out. Were I interested in anything other than dance partners who offer undeniable entertainment, I would run like the wind, but like a cultural anthropologist studying the mating practices of a species that seems incapable of successfully procreating, I'm gathering data and taking notes. Sure, the idea that Men Are Dogs, isn't a new concept, but as a writer...really, this stuff is writing itself...

"All men are motivated by one thing," said Socially Inappropriate to me on Sunday night. (Do I even have to say it?) "And that is pussy."

He then proceeded to tell me about how his last fling wasn't "enough" for him to consider as a serious relationship. Hearing that from someone who uses words like "shy-gina" really brought full closure on all the relationships where men have made such blanket "It's Not Me, It's You" proclamations (how come I don't meet the "It's Not You, It's Me" guys? Do they live in New York?). Because I'm not the slightest bit interested, and, therefore, not blinded by hormones, co-dependence, or the emotional baggage of a distant father, I can see clearly what a crock this line about his affair really is (can't believe I just ended on a passive verb...my college writing tutor would rip me a new one). Wow, rejection really is God's protection (usually, I hate that expression). Stay strong, sister! You've been mercifully spared...

From talking to Relentless about his thirty-odd years of single-dom and ten years in Salsa World, it doesn't come as any surprise to hear that most Latino men are hell-bent on embracing some archaic 19th century/third world/ghetto (however you choose to define "backward") attitude towards women, all in the name of creating some kind of wannabe imaginary harem. Really, Hombres, don't you realize that you live in the US of A? This is where Sex and the City was written, filmed, and televised to a wide audience. This isn't fucking Mexico where men get away with murder (literally) and treat women like cattle...I mean, we've got jobs and power and education everything...my family isn't expecting a dowry, and I'm fairly certain I don't need to be an a polygamous family to keep a roof over my head. The steady clash of cultures is interesting, to say the least...

In all fairness, Latino men have to survive in white America and all men did come out of a woman who may or may not have had all her marbles...but still...

Just for today, I'm so over it...

Jewish American Salsera (JAS) is an independent, financially successful woman who, in her own words, has "landed" in salsa world to her surprise and confusion at an age when she thought she might be doing other things (like driving children to soccer practice and obsessing about college tuitions). Since that is not the case, she frequently finds herself dancing, socializing and cavorting with men she otherwise might only communicate with as they take her plate or hand her the car keys. She's not a snob, just a product of American education and privilege. She's attractive, she's single, she's got nothing better going on than salsa world...which short of domestic bliss is pretty hard to beat.

The Animal (or maybe we should call him El Animal) is a salsero who looks like his namesake. In her words, he looks and dances "primordial." He's frequently drunk and sometimes a likes to throw his partners in the air (I can attest that it's terrifying). He loves JAS, she's his "favorite."

El Animal scared JAS at first, but now he's starting to grow on her. Thrown together by a mutual passion for music in a city where the two might only cross paths in the service industry, this odd couple seem to be developing a nice, weird, sort of platonic, salsa dance relationship.

If you live in Los Angeles the lines between classes are generally pretty cut in dry. Salsa World, however, is magical, to say the least...where else would these two come together? A playground that possesses the same sort of innocent openness of childhood, in this pretty hard society, Salsa World it's a pocket of love and acceptance that seems to widen the more time you spend in it.

Just for today, I love Salsa World

Despite total exhaustion, an ER-worthy spike-heel injury on my foot, a hygenically-questionable sweat-induced slime state among the dancing population (it's gross until you find yourself in the same state), poorly-ventilated steam-room-style atmosphere, steady dehydration resulting from the gallons of sweat exhumed (not sure if this is the correct use of the word "exhume," I think it actually refers to cremation...I'm too lazy to look it up so I'll chalk it up to the general degeneration of reading and writing skills in our society) from my pours (but great for my skin) and the bartender who ignores me (water drinkers aren't exactly their favorite clientelle), and poor-to-dangerous dancing conditions that include a sardine-packed club with a stone floor...still, I can't say NO.. I hear a song I love, a great dancer grabs my hand...it's all over.

When I was a kid, my father used to take me on Extreme Backpacking trips that involved long hikes that inevitably led us off the trail and into often treacherous, rocky, terrain. We got lost. We got bitten. I collected rocks and dreamed of five-star hotel rooms and ballet lessons (whatever seemed "normal" to me). Have I ever mentioned that I hate Nature? (There's a reason why I live in the city). Eventually, I realized that I had a choice in the matter and, along with everyone else my father knows, refused to go on hikes with him...but by then it was too late. I was already indoctrinated into the Extreme = Challenge = Fun mentality that tows the line between interesting and self-destructive.

Just for today, I can dance Extreme Salsa.

There's a moment in every partnered salsa dance between which the leader (male) executes a move and the woman (follower) receives the information by the leader and moves in accordance with that information. In the beginning, when both leader and follower are learning, these moments are long, awkward, lumbering. It's, generally speaking, challenging for American women to follow. Sometimes, it's challenging for American men to lead. However, as dancers become experienced and skilled, these moments shorten in duration and lose the akwardness. As dancers become artists, these moments become graceful and what make watching dancing so attractive. However, there is a level of experience, skill, grace, creativity, in which sometimes, these moments cease to exist altogether and the experience becomes a (Warning: big English Major word) symbiotic flow where there is no moment between...it just happens. There is no leader, no followers. Just two dancers, with one mind. Like instinct.

This is where I want to live. All the time.

Just for today, I can trust my instincts.

Salsa Guru was the first person I spoke to this morning. I would normally wait till I've had my coffee before I even think about salsa, and I thought I could get him off with the momentary "can't currently have relationships with non-Verizon users between the hours of 7:00 am and 9:00 pm Monday - Friday" state of my cell phone bill, but Salsa Guru is a Verizon carrier (hey, can I get some free minutes for this plug?).

Somehow the conversation got around to the "level" of my salsa. I wasn't thinking about how to get the next "level" in my salsa career (I never knew there were levels to dancing, never knew I wanted to attain them, nor that I would be pursuing any of this at age 35...and I still don't know if I am). But I was talking to Salsa Guru without coffee, and last night we were both at the same tiny underground club with about ten other people till 1:00 am (did I mention that I'm unemployed and single?) and, like him or not, he is Salsa Guru...offering salsa instruction is like breathing.

"Don't smile when you dance." (He's told me this before. The classic salsera is supposed to own her power with stoic nonchalance).

"What if I'm happy?"

"Look as if you're in the military for now, and later you can add some 'flavor'." ('Flavor' = 'personality').

Then the conversation went to whether or not I'm worth the investment of his Yoda-like mentorship. The issue is my age. All the women/girls he has "mentored" were under the age of 20 when he worked with them. After that, I'm not sure what happened. They became Godesses and he was left with the reputation akin to a great Acting Coach, Socrates, Mr. Miyagi...

"It's easier to teach someone when they're under 25," he said.

"True. But if it's something I want to learn, I don't see why I can't."

"But it's just not as easy. You have to have the fire."

"You're saying that I have no fire?"

"No. But you have to want it more than anything."

I don't know if it's "Fire" so much as "parents who take care of all my shit" that really makes up the difference between me now and at age 20. At age 20, I didn't think about things like health insurance, rent/mortgage (haha...I still don't have a mortgage), IRA's, cell minutes, tune-ups, tax receipts, cable bills, organic vegetables, dirty dishes, etc. The logistics of survival take up so much space in my head, I have to flee to Latte Land to escape (though, I can do my laundry there if I so choose).

"Just practice a little everyday."

Like I don't already. I have the damn Fire, fucking Salsa Guru. It just gets put out every now and then.

Just for today, I can make sure The Fire doesn't get put out.

Between Salsa Dance Team guerilla-style rehearsals and performances [we never know where or when we're performing/rehearsing until we get the text message five minutes before we're supposed to be somewhere...I've been instructed not to "think" about such details as we are on Latino Time (i.e., whenever it happens)] and my ever-growing List of Holiday Shit To Do, and Internet searches on Jennifer Love Hewitt (ok, so I'm not that busy), and getting angry with all the flack she's getting for being a human female with a changing metabolism (thank God there's no media when I gain twenty pounds), my days seem to go by (could this sentence be any longer?) as an Unemployed Salsera (of course it can).

I don't know why I thought that if I didn't have a job I'd have all this free time, but there is no such thing as empty space, only vacums...

This weekend I danced with Surgeon Salsero. He likes to dance the night before he's going to open somebody's body up and start re-organizing their innards (why didn't I go into surgery? I'm good at organizing...oh, yeah, that med school thing).

"If I were having an organ transplant would I want my surgeon out till 2:00 am the night before?" I asked him.

"Absolutely," he answered. "It relaxes me. I even play salsa in the operating room."

Little do his patients know that the vibration of salsa is being injected into their organ (or someone else's organ that's now in their body). Having known some surgeons, I can say there are worse things he/she (so politically correct) can do the night before an operation than dance...

So many interesting people from diverse backgrounds dance salsa. It's become my unofficial, currently unpaid occupation to know them.

Just for today, I am Unemployed Salsera.

I've been out dancing salsa for the last five nights in a row. This morning I realized that salsa is great for the arms, legs, heart (the physical as well as the emotional one), soul, and spirit. But it doesn't do a lot for booty flab (at least not mine).

A few nights ago, a group of Salseros/Salseras took Salsa Guru out for his birthday to his favorite Cuban place and then went out dancing. He had sprained his ankle, so he spent most of the night teaching us moves, steps and 'tudes ("dance like you're a stuck-up bi-otch"). It turns out that I'm not the only who has suggested that he get edu-macated. But, as my therapist would say, he's "attached" to the struggle (she says that about me all the time), i.e., this image of himself as a child of the ghetto (I'm sorry, El Segundo is not the ghetto). He consciously chooses to say things like "militry" instead of "military." I never recognized before how easy it is to invent excuses to not move to the next level in life.

Yesterday, the plumber came and snaked my kitchen sink for fifty feet. About twenty years of black sludge came out so that my sink would drain. I can certainly relate. I think it's just that time of year.

Just for today, I'm ready for a break.

My Salsera Girlfriends have taught me so much about salsa, life, and love. Just as each one has her own unique dancing style tailored and fitting to her personality, each has her own approach to relationships and life.

Tonight, I was talking to Assertive Salsera about the State of Love Affairs or S.O.L.A (which means single in Spanish...sorry, clearly, frustration is beginning to deteriorate my sense of humor) and she offered me the following advice.

"First, you gotta make it happen, girl," she stated. In the past I would disagree, but am not currently in a position to really argue.

"Second, I'm giving you till Sunday," she added. "You need a deadline."

Yes, if it weren't for deadlines nothing would ever get accomplished, I'm just used to applying them to writing projects, bills and Christmas trees (I took my down...so sad). She then offered the following formula for securing a boyfriend:

"This is what you do. You go out salsa dancing and then at the end of the night you ask a guy (ideally one you like...but you gotta ask somebody) if he wants to go to Norm's or Denny's with you and have some desert. You can go with a group if you want, just make sure you sit next to him. You each order your own desert and then you ask him if you can try some of his. When he says, yes, you ask him to feed it to you....the rest is history."

I have to say, this approach couldn't be farther from my ideas of meeting a life partner. Why don't I just sky write my intentions? It would feel less forward.

Also, not that I have anything against Denny's or Norm's, but for whatever reason, neither establishment has entered my mind as a the backdrop for the inception of a lifelong relationship.

It may not be my cup of tea (it's just not very Pisces) but I did love hearing it and do think that there may be something there for me to learn..

Just for today, I can learn from Salsera friends.

Last night, the salsa club was insanely crowded. For those of you not privy to this experience, it's like dancing in an elevator sized sauna at the aerobic speed of a basketball game during a fast break (sorry, but that's the best I can do). Like a roller coaster ride at a theme park with questionable security measures, it's both fun and scary. Much more so for the girl (or "lady") who, if she's doesn't have a trustworthy partner, could get thrown into God knows who or what...it's amazing that there aren't more injuries (though, my friend did show up with a black eye from over the weekend...).

To make matters worse, there was a piece of hard wood paneling that had come off the floor. Since that was the only clear space on the dance floor, a few of my partners had me dancing over that. After one slightly unsteady dance over broken wood (with an awesome dancer), Salsa Guru pointed to that area and said, "That's where the good dancers dance."

Salsa dancers are not unlike extreme sports enthusiasts in that there is a sort of pride taken in being able to dance under any and all conditions. In a way, it speaks to the ethos of salsa culture in which dancing takes precedence over any extenuating, possibly dire circumstances. Like the musicians onboard the sinking Titanic, if the world were crashing down in some apocalyptic catastrophe, salseros would still find someway to keep dancing. You could call it the anti-depressant of hyper people, or a music-inspired muscle of resilience, a refusal to cave into cynicism or negativity. It's both positive, and a little crazy.

On most nights, embarking on most aspects of salsa dancing is an act of faith (spinning, dipping, etc.) for me. Even with great dancers, there are no guarantees that you'll end up intact at the end of the song...but, like any avid extremists, it feels like a small price to pay in the big picture of my life.

Just for today, I can keep dancing.

I don't know the origins of the Dance Movie, but I suspect it's a modern phenomenon. I can't think of anything before Saturday Night Fever except musicals, and those were all films in which the fact that the characters were singing and dancing was never acknowledged. The Dance Movie inevitably features characters whose lives and loves are transformed through the act of dancing. John Travolta moves out of his class and neighborhood, Jennifer Grey publicly displays her attraction to Patrick Swayze, Jennifer Beals gives up her job as a welder (I wasn't really convinced by her welding anyway), etc. Usually, characters change culture and classes and the whole thing culminates in some big finale where the main character kind of screws up at first, and then shows her stuff, and everyone claps, and her enemies love her.

I think the world would be a better place if we regarded our lives as a dance movie. Dancing publicly would be the barometer by which we gage our success. It worked for African and Indian tribes...

Just for today, I can see my life as a dance movie.

Last night, a guy asked me to dance who seemed like a Beginner Salsa Dancer. In general, I try to be generous with dancing with beginners because I know what it feels like to want to dance with people at a more advanced level than myself, and it's even harder for guys who have to lead. However, it was late and I was too tired to risk the possibility that a) the guy is a creep or b) attempts moves that lead to pain for me (pulls my arm, drops me on my head, etc.). After a plethora of bad experiences, I have decided that dancing isn't something I do for charity, and I'm the one who pays the price when I choose to say "Yes," to people I don't know [which I do because a) I want to be nice b) want to be generous and c) I really want to say "No," but the guy is too persistent]. This is what is called Boundaries. Not everybody likes it, including the guy last night who, when he saw me dancing with someone else came up to me and said, "You're a bad person!"

What am I going to do. Sit and wait for the next song so that a guy doesn't get his feelings hurt? I can't spend my life on Bruised Ego Detection Alert. Frankly, I'd rather be a "bad person." It's one step closer to my goal of being a full-fledged bitch. Because, like Tina Fey said on SNL, "Bitches get things done." And, the corollary to that is being too nice is a big waste of time. I'm 36, and I can't waste any more time.

Just for today, I'm a bad person.

"I love the sweat, it's so beautiful," said this guy I was dancing with last night. The interesting thing is that I wasn't really sweating that much, at least for me. I don't know if he's seen me in rare form, but it's not a pretty site. On a hot night, I look like I just jumped in and out of the ocean, only fully clothed. It's hard to believe that my body can contain that much liquid. One time I weighed myself before and after salsa dancing and it was a 2 lb. difference. Sometimes, it gets to the point of ridiculous and I have to stop dancing before I turn into a walking sketch show of someone with a serious glandular disorder.

Just for today, I can be a Sweaty Salsera.

The downside of being a Sweat Drenched Salsa Slime Beast is:

1) Must do a LOT of laundry
2) Can only dance with other Slime Beasts because like water, SDSSB's seek their own level.
3) Can only attract men who find the the SDSSB look sexy or "beautiful."
4) Constantly thirsty [though, I started bringing the magical (i.e. alkaline) water with me to the clubs and it seems to keep me more hydrated].

The upside of being a SDSSB is:

1) Detox like a mofo
2) Skin looks great
3) Sweat works like really great hair gel if you don't wash your hair the next day
4) Good way to gross out unsavory characters (unless they like SDSSB look)

Just for today, I can look at the positive side of being a slime beast.

I spent a beautiful afternoon and evening dancing on the promenade in Santa Monica and practicing my Lady Styling moves as seen on multiple YouTube videos. My friend deemed us YouTube Salseras.

Whenever I think I'm hitting Salsa Burn Out (no more salsa), or a Salsera Slump (can't think of anything to do for my Ladies Styling), or Salsa Purgatory (the same shit over and over again), I always go out and re-experience how much fun it can be to spend hours dancing around friends. Salseros are pretty cheap-o people (no offense), but still, it's very inexpensive fun. Especially, when I think about how much money it costs to go out and get drunk. Salsa is free, fun, a work-out, and you don't get a hang-over (just get tired).

Just for today, I can enjoy my vida salsera.

Last Sunday, I told Relentless Salsero why I've been avoiding him like the plague. For 36 years I've relied on my Avoidant Persoanlity to deal with relationship problems. I figured that if it was good enough for my parents, it's good enough for me.

However, it's starting to get a little old to expect everyone to interpret my non-verbal cues. I also don't know any other way to deal with Lost Coffee Shop Creeps (aka, Schizophrenics Without Meds according to fellow Bitter Coffee Shop Writer). I have to say things like, "Go away, please." Large Blond Guy, who, according to Coffee Shop Manager, gets here at 6:00 am and leaves at ?? pm, starts a conversation with me anytime my line of vision falls within a ten foot radius of him. It gets to the point where I'm afraid to look up from my computer. Bottom line, I'm all growed up and I need to start acting like it.

So, I figured I'd start with the person I've been most recently avoiding, Mr. Relentless.

Plus, Relentless has always been big on honesty. So, here goes:

"Your constant sexual aggression is totally alienating me from you," I told Relentless.

(You go, girl!)

"I'm not going to change. This is who I am," he responded.

"I'm not asking you to change. But if you want call me to go out to dinner or work out, I want to let you know why I'm not going to call you back. I'm just being honest."

After that the conversation devolved into something like third grade banter ending with his request that I not tell anyone else about our conversation in case he wants to "pursue" her (of course I won't tell anyone, but I will write about it in my blog). I've always admired Relentless' integrity about his sleazeball nature, but, in the end, hanging out with him left me feeling like I'd just been run over by a snail brigade.

Needless to say, he's not thrilled with me right now. I don't think being honest is a good way to become popular. But it does give me a lot more to write about.

Just for today, I can be honest in relationships.

Last night, I went to a dinner party at the home of another Happily Married Couple who, as commonly happens, nvited on a single guy to joing because that's what Couple Friend(s) do. It always feels very awkward for me, and reminds me of They Shoot Single People, Don't They? (Sex and the City, Season 2).

After talking to Jewish American Salsera, I wondered if it's just me.

"We've been ruined by these salsa creeps," said Jewish American Salsera. "And now we're not fit to date normal American men."

I have to say that spending time with married couples, usually, makes me appreciate my salsa life all that much more.

Just for today, I appreciate being a Single Salsera.

Ever since I started dancing salsa, I have problems I never had before. Like, what's a good snack at 2:00 am? Where can I get grape flavored G2 (lighter version of Gatorade) on sale? And, where do I store my salsa shoes?

I've developed quite a collection of salsa shoes. I'm really hard on my shoes and I dance four days a week. While many pairs don't look or smell that attractive, they are still worth keeping. My Shoe Repairman told me not to keep shoes in my car because the heat melts the glue and allows them to wear out faster. I can't keep them in my closet because there of that olfactory quality that I would prefer not to expose to my clothes.

I have an old milk box built into my hallway that's become my unofficial Salsa Shoe Closet.

Just for today, I can deal with salsa shoes.

Today, I watched a World Champion Salsa dancer drop a girl on her head. It could have been her fault, but I doubt it.

Last Wednesday, I got thrown into a Salsa Gang Bang scenario. It sounds pretty awful, but it's actually when a bunch of Salseros take turns dancing with a girl. Normally, they are all guys that I normally dance with. However, this time all these guys I had never seen before were showing up and the song was two things destined to kill a Salsera: fast and long. I was, literally, dancing as fast as I can.

Why? Because I'm crazy.

When World Champion Salsero jumped in, I went with the flow even though he was very aggressive, and flipped me over. I was relieved Serial Monogamist Salsero stepped in. However, I overheard World Champion yelling, "Castigala!" which translates to "Punish her!"

WTF?!

Needless to say, when I saw him today drop the girl on her head, I realized that he wasn't kidding.

In all fairness, mysoginy isn't a mentality relegated to Salsa World, but, like toxic mold, it's omnipresent even when you don't see it.

I was still proud of myself for keeping up.

Just for today, I can keep up with the Salsa Gang Bang.

Today, I called my Eyebrow Lady to make an appointment and Persian Hair Stylist (they work together) answered the phone. He informed me that her husband is in the ICU. My Eyebrow Lady married her husband when she was 16 and is now in her early 60's. She always tells me that he's her best friend in the world while she plucks my eyebrows, and then I tell her how I can't meet anyone I like. Then she'll tell me that my skin is looking dry and asks me how long it's been since my last facial.

A few weeks ago, a Hot Salsa Teacher Guy asked for my number under the pretenses that he was going to inform me about the whereabouts of some salsa show (never happened). He texted me the next day, asking me a bunch questions about my life and work, and then I didn't hear from him for a few weeks. I've long since realized that guys in Salsa World are not normal men. While in the real world, I would conclude that a guy who calls or texts me might have some interest in me, I treat a guy in salsa who does the same like a puppy dog who thinks I'm the most exciting thing in the world for 30 seconds, before another animate creature approaches. It's not personal...they just like anyone with breasts and a VJ (it's actually very democratic).

A few weeks ago, I woke up early to the sound of my cell phone making the Text Message sound and I saw this text:

"Hello Miss... Just thinking of you this morning. Hope ur well."

Since I hadn't heard from him, it seemed a bit odd...but, again, I'm no stranger to odd. Later that day, my friend mentioned that she received a text from him as well at 7:00 am. When we compared phones, we noticed it was the exact same message.

Since, I apparently have time and energy to waste on the habits of lost causes, I texted him the following response.

"How many women did u send this to? At least two that I know of."

I can't say this went over well, as he's ignored me ever since. Apparently, pointing out the obvious has minimal power to inspire change, not to mention it's not bringing me any closer to one day caring for my long-term partner (or vice versa).

Just for today, I can try to manage my time better.

I need a new line of work, and I've been thinking of selling salsa dances...with me, that is.

I read an article, recently, about clubs in New York where working class men pay women to dance with them. Just dancing, nothing else (at least, according to the article). Shoot, I thought, I've been doing this for free. I mean, I won't sell all of them. Just to the guys that I wouldn't want to dance with. I was thinking of charging two dollars a song, and then I remembered that there are some painfully long salsa songs. Long songs with off-beat dancers = $10. I think it's a deal.

Just for today, I can explore new forms of income.

I have the same conversation with Salsa Guys all the time. Salseras are a different story; we actually talk. But with the guys it's always the same drill...

"Where did you go last night?"

Translation: Did you have a date or is your tail still on the market?

"Where are you going tonight?"

Translation: Do I have the opportunity to chase your tail tonight or wait till another time?

"Where are you going tomorrow night?"

Translation: I'm working on other tail at the moment...maybe we can postpone.

Yes, I'm that cynical.

Just for today, I can translate questions asked by Salsa Guys.

I had lunch with Jewish Accountant Salsero. I like to hang out with him because while he's Jewish Accountant on the outside, he has a pure salsa cream filling.

"Better watch out if you dance with that guy..." he said to me the one day. "You might get fucked in the ass."

What?! Jewish Accountants aren't supposed to say the word "ass."

Jewish Accountant Salsero is in his mid-50's. Today, we were talking about relationships.

"The problem is that guys your age all want to be with 35-year-olds," I said.

"Yes, but they all want to be with 23-year-olds," he said. "It used to be," he added.

"But now my priorities have changed," he said. "Now I just want someone who knows what Yardbird was."

"What's that?"

Some rock musicians from a hundred years ago.

Just for today, I can talk relationship with Jewish Accountant Salsero.

"And then he writes, 'w/ psycho grlfrnd..."

"He was telling me the same thing about you!"

"What an a-hole!"

"I can't believe he lied."

I'm sitting in the back of The Girlfriend's SUV while The Ex-Girlfriend and The Girlfriend compare text phone messages from The Guy they both "love," are wasting precious moments of their life obsessing about, and who is, inadvertently, keeping me from my pillow.

"I want to confront him while you're there....because otherwise, he'll deny it," says The Girlfriend.

"I think getting a certified therapist in the mix might be a good idea..." I chime in. "But actually, I have to wake up kind of early tomorrow...."

"I'm so sorry you have to hear this..."

No, really, it's OK. I'm all for girlfriend's and ex's getting together and straightening out What's His Face. I would just rather it be done a) at a reasonable hour and b) without me in the car. In other words...dump the loser and drive me home!

This is why car pooling to salsa clubs is a bad idea.

Just for today, I can learn to avoid Salsa Drama.

I never knew any Israeli people before I started dancing salsa. Now that I have met them, I understand why. I could never before stand to be around anybody that direct...I was way too sensitive.

"I don't like it tonight," said Israeli Salsa Mafia Leader. "The band is no good."

We were talking to the club promoter.

"Hey, don't hold back or anything. Tell us what you really think," I joked.

"You don't step back on your one. That is why you have trouble following me."

Be careful what you joke about with Israeli Salsa Mafia Leader.

I used to think they were weird. They were always in a clique, always dancing rueda, always taking over the salsa club....sound familiar? But now that I'm friends with them, I'm like one of the family.

"I'm watching you," said Israeli Salsa Mafia Leader. He always watches my footwork so he can correct me. It's his way of showing that he cares.

Just for today, I can connect with people of different cultures through salsa.

I went through what could be called a Free Spirit Shopping phase of salsa clothes. I bought things I might never have thought I would wear, and low and behold, I never did wear them. I eventually found that I like dancing in jeans and a tank top, and those aren't hard to come by. However, I realized that dresses, tops, shoes I bought had a home, it just wasn't with me. So began the the diaspora of my salsa clothes and shoes.

I gave my flamenco dress to Courtney, the tank-top to Yuki, the three inch gold heels to Michelle. I figure salsa gave me so much, it's the least I can do.

Just for today, I can give back to salsa.

(See, I'm blogging every day...so committed).

I was really tired early in the week and couldn't figure out why. Was I coming down with cancer? Chronic fatigue syndrome? Was that dead fish stench coming from the ocean a sign that the oil spill has killed off all ocean life and now emitting noxious fumes? I thought back to my past week to see if I had done anything tiring. Let's see, I went dancing on Thursday night, swimming on Friday, dancing on Saturday, and dancing on Sunday night (did I mention I dance salsa like a man/woman dying of thirst at the 7/11 soda dispenser?). Why would I be tired?

I refuse to be human. More importantly, I refuse to stay home. But I really refuse to be tired.

But then today, I realized something amazing; even the USA Soccer team gets tired. These guys could pump my car tires with one pulse beat. And, yet, they looked kind of straggly (if that's a word) out there today (God bless them and their awesome bodies). Of course, I haven't been winning any World Cup Games lately. But still...we (humans) aren't machines.

I hope the USA team recovers emotionally and physically.

Just for today, I'm resting.

Four years ago, I threw down $110 on a my first pair of suede salsa shoes. Those shoes announced to the world that I was a salsa dancer, and separated me from the throngs of women in ergonomic disaster. Since that day shoes of all shades, fabrics, quality, and price ranges have made love to my feet...but you never forget your first. I've had them re-soled and re-sueded about five time.

Four years and twenty chiropractic visits later, I threw down $10 on my first pair of flat jazz shoes. Sure, heels are sexy. Chronic back pain?...not so hot.

Just for today, I'm dancing in new shoes.

"When I see people in wheel chairs watching us dance, I feel bad for ever feeling sorry for myself," I told Salsa Guy Who Is Sometimes Cool.

"Whenever I see old people watching me dance I feel like I'm dancing for them," he replied.

Self-pity, fear, anxiety and dread notwithstanding, dancing salsa can only be described in terms used by one discovering the fountain of youth. (And if you live in LA, you know how much that means.) Dancing in the summer, however, is nothing short of magical. Live music, warm nights, full moons, chill vibe.

Just for today, I am grateful for salsa in the summer.

Beginning the process of becoming a salsa dancer (or a "salsera) is not unlike falling in love. In those first months Salsa, or rather "Salsa!" can do no wrong. Music, dancing, excitement, men...during the work week, no less. No, I didn't see "The Bachelor," boring work people. Yes, I was up till 2 on a weeknight. So what if I look like a meth addict from the neck up? My new legs make-up for the Dark Circles Under Eyes Tired Look.

If nobody else, "Salsa!" understood my needs and expectations (constant fun with no obligation or necessary maintenance). Salsa loved me unconditionally.

But like any relationship...things changed. Salsa soon became the flawed boyfriend who redeems in the sack. Not quite someone with whom I can share that New Yorker piece, but still fulfills the human need for connection. And then came the day when even that wasn't worth the application of eyeshadow. The Bitch Salsa Stage. If the music reeked of any commercial Marc Anthony flavor, or my partner wasn't a meticulous fellow "On 2" geek, and the floor wasn't made of eco-friendly bamboo, and free of any spike heel threats within at least ten feet of me (basically empty), I was one non-botoxed brow muscle from dancing with a scowl. Bitch Salsa didn't fly with many guys, but that was OK because they appeared to me to be off-beat, shoulder wrenching, attention-seeking flash mongers whose interest in any dancer was furthering their own hierarchy on the Salsa Food Chain. All the particulars of Salsa Culture that had once seemed charming or anecdotally funny, the Halloween-style get-tups, sweat sprinklers of spinning girls, spike-heel injuries, or guys that were stuck in salsa purgatory, suddenly, struck me as intolerable...I shot a humorless glances at the weirdos...holy shit who are these people? Salsa, once a fantasy world like Disneyland, contained all the reality of a junior high school dance. Injured back. Broken heart. Salsa Bitch Attitude. Must unplug from the Salsa Matrix.

I stopped going out.

And then things changed again. I had been dancing "On 2" for a few years, but it was only around this time of total "Fuck you Salsa!" disillusionment (the brink of divorce) actually, started to dance...to the music. Yes, I danced before, or thought I did. But I entered the environment, not the music. I didn't really hear the music the way a musician might. It wasn't until post-recession, post-acupucture, post-post, that it occurred to me to go out to dance...fucking dance, Salsa Bitch.. My vanity crushed, and my sequined mini-slutdress lost in my closet, that felt humbled to the sounds played by musicians who were following an ancient art.

Salsa still fulfills. More than ever. But it's more of a marriage where I give back with focused attention and respect. Looking less glittery, but feeling fuller. Salsa is family; life-giving, unwavering, and imperfect.

Just for today, I'm a Salsa Geek.

Possible new title for my book. Not sure...too subtle?

I'm not sure it matters. Unless my book includes a step-by-step analysis about how to find a husband, it won't see the light of a printed press. Every book about partner dancing (that I can find) somehow has to do with finding your husband, boyfriend, boytoy, love of your life. If not in the dancing community, than as a byproduct of opening your chakras and unleashing your uber-girly docile Goddess (but not the angry kind) by virtue of following a man...(puke).

Am I the only one who discovered other things by dancing? Like, how to scowl and be a bi-otch, so that guys I don't want as partners wouldn't ask me to dance. Or, how to expunge my case of Nice Girl-itis so that guys I didn't want to talk to wouldn't bother me with boring come on lines. Ok, so these may not be husband landing sk-eeels. But still...being a Bad Girl (not that kind....ok, maybe sometimes). Just admit it, Bitches. (It's my goal to add this word - "Bitches"- to every blog post).

Ok, so you got a husband, but now where do you go when you wanna get all Serena Williams on someone? (Girl is Bad. Ass.)

Just for today, I can think up new book titles.

"Salsa is a sexy dance," says Guy I Just Met.

"Yes. Yes, it is," I reply.

"Have you noticed that?"

"I'm sorry. I don't want to be rude, but I can't talk about salsa anymore. I spent two years writing a book about this dance. I didn't publish it. (I'm getting around to it) The point is that I spent a lot of time thinking about this subject matter. So, I might not be the right person to talk about it with at a salsa club."

And that is how I completely alienated a would be reader for my non-existent book. No wonder I'm not a celebrity.

Just for today, I can learn to be less honest.