What the Hell is with this Class Part II: The First Day

The next day beings with my normal routine--coffee, Facebook, CNN and packing my son's bag for daycare. I pray nothing goes wrong with him today; that he won't wake up with a fever, diarrhea or a missing limb. I just want to get through the first day of class. Naturally, he wakes up covered in a thin layer of snot. This has been a daily occurrence since the beginning of fall allergy season. Although it's nothing new, on this day I feel a twinge of guilt dropping him off at daycare smiling and waving goodbye to his little booger face.

The car ride gives me time to daydream about my fellow classmates. I'm sure I've already got them pegged. There will be a group of young twenty-something ladies giggling together preparing to wow grooms on honeymoons or soon-to-be grooms on dance floors. There will be a couple of women who "look good for their age" out to prove to themselves that after bitter divorces they can get back in the saddle again. There will be a loud Black or Hispanic chick who keeps the class laughing and then there will be one odd ball--that'll probably be me. I'll be the one with dog shit on my shoe.

The lower level of the building is dark and smells like a damp basement. I am told to wait by the mirrored double doors for my instructor, Maria. Soon she appears, ushers me in and flips on the lights. Part night club, part aerobics gym, part nursery school the space runs the entire length of the building. Black lights, dance poles, couches and baby bouncers--it is the most perplexing space I've ever been in. The amount of baby gear including ride on toys and a crib assures me that I'm in a mom friendly place. Maria puts on some music and we make small talk--we're both moms with kids around the same age and we both have some dance experience, etc.

Apparently today's class, one of six, is going to focus on pole dancing. I explain that my goal is to perform, I take it seriously, I consider it art, yadda, yadda. I'm told that most people don't take this class. Most women go right into the beginner pole dance class looking for a way to spice things up for their husbands. Up until this moment I had not factored my husband's happiness or our sex life into the equation at all. I decide to table it for now but will definitely have to sort that one out later. After a few stretches at the pole, I notice no one else has shown up--are they all late? It's just going to be me. No hot divorcees, no loud girls, just me. Ok I've got a private tutor, all the better for me.

We begin with moving around the pole, "walking sexy" and simple turns. Maria moves effortlessly through space pointing out the importance of hand position and grip before one's feet ever leave the ground. I can walk and turn; however, my hands keep getting tangled like ribbons on a May Pole. Moving on to actual spins, Maria demonstrations are quiet and fluid. On my attempts I'm proud to actually get off the ground and gain some rotation. Heavy, awkward and afraid of falling, I subconsciously add a little hop right before spinning. This causes the insides of my calves to bang against the pole with the full force of my weight and instead of "swinging" I'm kind of crashing. It's a common beginners mistake and I am told it will be corrected once I gain more confidence. Make no mistake, this is serious business. Foot position, hand grip, weight distribution and muscle strength are absolutely critical--and that's not even worrying about making it look good. Maria's story about landing incorrectly as a beginner and breaking her foot was not doing much to help my confidence either.

My outfit isn't doing me any favors right now. The layers of "sassy" fitness wear are feeling more like a snow suit--and I'm trying to complete my Olympic routine on the uneven bars. I bring up my weight. At first glance I think I probably have a good 40 pound advantage over Maria but as she sheds her warmer layers, it's more of a 60 pound advantage. Completely unaffected by my comment, she simply offers that it is a muscle to weight ratio and that there are plenty of voluptuous ladies who are avid dancers. To prove her point further, she flips through an industry magazine and in fact, shows me pictures of large ladies, elderly women and yes, men, pole dancing. I take her at her word; however, I have a lot of YouTube research ahead of me.

By the end of class I'm sweaty and dizzy but also excited and hopeful. Maria feels that I will be able to put together a basic routine to music that includes floor work, removing clothing and some pole dancing--ambitious for six weeks but she seems confident. It's kind of a sidestep from where I really want Bunny to go but it will at least give me a point of reference in developing the act I think I really want. My homework assignments for the Thanksgiving week are to practice "walking sexy" in heels--do I even own a pair anymore?? Between mouthfuls of sweet potato and stuffing I am also supposed to practice sexy dance and movement. I'll see if I can work that in while washing dishes with Grandma and setting out the pies.

While starting for home I can already feel my hands, shoulders and back pulsing with red-hot pain. By the time I walk in the house, I'm exhausted. I can feel bruises blossoming on my knees and calves. I lay on the couch for the spare twenty minutes I have before picking up my son from daycare, close my eyes and contemplate a good spot in the house to install my pole.

Next time: Class Two--Floor work??

What the Hell is with this Class Part I: The day before

So there was a little misunderstanding with the scheduling of the class. I've been waiting trepidatiously, checking email by the hour for the last three weeks trying to figure this out. The other day it finally came together. For those just checking in, I'm taking a six week class in strip tease, lap dance, floor work and pole--Stripping 101. Aptly named. Here's a little about the goings on the day before my adventure.

I am a person that needs to know the expectations and culture of a place much in advance of getting there. I generally do no like surprises and pride myself on being well-prepared in all situations (I would have made an awesome Girl Scout--don't quite know why I fought my mother tooth and nail on that one) maybe I can attribute it to motherhood but it's more likely due to my general social anxiety and fear of being late for things. Having a game plan of sorts is a comfort to me. I like to test the Ph before dipping my toe in--I'm cautious and I respect rules.

So the day before class I reviewed some "instructions" from the website.

No jewelry of any kind. Not a problem, check.

No body lotion--it makes the poles slippery. Ok, check.

Layer clothing so when learning to strip you don't end up naked. Wow. Ok, check.

Hhmmm....clothing...the website says something about "flirty" work out clothing. I don't think my plain white t's and oversized sweatpants are going to cut it as being "flirty".

I decide a shopping trip to the nearest boutique is in order. Looking the part is going to help me feel like I know what I'm doing. I'm walking in completely green, t an inappropriate outfit will shake my nerves. I'm like that everywhere. I get worked up if I'm going to a new restaurant and don't know what the dress code is. Like I said, I'm big on social rules.

So I head out, two-year-old in tow, to my closest fashion house, Kmart. I'm not kidding. Unless I want to drive about 45 minutes in one direction or another, my choices for a quick outfit are Kmart, Wal-Mart and Fashion Bug. I could stretch the radius a little further and end up at Target, which I do enjoy, but not today.

List in hand, I head straight for "Ladies Undergarments" where my choices are Joe Boxer, Hanes, Maiden Form. This is going to be tough but I like a shopping challenge. My eye goes to the rack of cheap gaudy Christmas inspired lingerie--it may be worth a shot or a laugh at least. As I dig through the rack, not sure what I'm looking for, my son starts babbling in my ear. I mutter"It's for Christmas" thinking it will in some way pacify him. "MOMMY! BRING IT HOME FOR CHRISTMAS! GET THAT FOR CHRISTMAS, MOMMY"! at the top of his lungs, echoing throughout the department sending up a neon sign that some mom is looking at lingerie with her two year old. Awesome. He attracts the attention of a little old lady and they become engaged in a deep conversation about the small boo-boo at the end of her nose, how she got it, and her lack of a band aid. Fine, I think, let her occupy him for a minute. She's so engrossed that she doesn't notice what I am intently studying just over her shoulder. I realize that this really is in no way what I am looking for; also made clear by the absence of a single pair of bottoms in an XL--a requirement for my ass. I decide it's just as well--it seems a lot of us curvy ladies are planning on getting busy this holiday season. After a good half and hour to forty minutes, an eternity by two year old standards, I decide on my wardrobe for class and get home.

I get naked in front of my bedroom mirror and decide to create this outfit in reverse--starting with the least amount of clothing I am going to feel comfortable in in front of others. I don't really anticipate having to get down to the nitty gritty on day one, but you never know. I work my layers--deep cut sports bra and black briefs with lace embellishment. Yes, I nod to myself, this is doable and my chach is covered. Next layer--black lace tank top and some kind of mini girdle thing I can pass off as booty shorts, ok. Another tank top and high cut cotton shorts over that, and finally a pair of black fleece pants and off-the-shoulder-sweatshirt thing just so I don't freeze on the way there. Looking in the mirror at this final layer I resemble the 20/30-something moms walking together in the mall, sipping lattes and gossiping on their way to Pilates. The type of moms who pretend they don't see me from behind their Channel sunglasses as I give them the "what up, other mom" smile and nod. The look says casual but sassy, it says I actually give a shit about my appearance today; however, I feel like I'm ready to go play in the snow--all layered up and a little scratchy.

I peel it all back off and take a hard look at the materials I have to work with. Not too bad. I'm not crazy about the stretch marks across my belly but from a distance you can't really see them. My butt is another story. It's like the summer cottage or the pool house, related to the main building but definitely it's own entity. There is not much I can do about these cheeks--I inherited them from my mother and grandmother, the ass God chose me to have. I don't really have a problem with it. I reach in the back of the underwear drawer to pull out the lone thong I own. I do not like thong underwear. Quite frankly, unless I'm wearing a short skirt, which I don't even own, if panty lines are going to be an issue I'd rather not wear undies at all. I keep this pair around in case of an odd fashion emergency. It's metallic silver. I put it on and am instantly uncomfortable. I get a rear view in the mirror, dance around a little, and promptly decide that Bunny will never be wearing a thong in performance. I just don't like the shape, or perhaps lack there of, it creates around me. Bunny will stick to booty shorts or high cut briefs or something flashy, but no floss. I stick them back in the way back of the drawer, throw my sweats back on and head downstairs to check my dinner simmering away in the crock pot.

Tomorrow will either be a good day or a bad day depending mostly on the amount of courage I muster up. That is, unless, the runny-nosed blonde boy smashing play dough on the kitchen floor does something to sabotage it. Like, for instance, gets sick and can't go to daycare or gets sick at daycare and I have to pick him up early. Of course I would cancel and stay home with him but after all this anticipation the idea of having to wait until after Thanksgiving to at least see what this is all about is a thought I can't bare. I give the Mexican beef a stir and start the salad.

Myth, Legend, Grandmother

My Grandma raised three children in a little shack at the Jersey Shore, in the fifties. She was a stay at home mom, volunteered at church, walked her kids to school and made her husband's life as comfortable as possible. A humble, dry Methodist who sewed her own curtains and aprons and who's hair was kept in a tight permanent at all times. She was a Den Mother for boy scouts and girls scouts-- a quintessential All-American housewife and now a quintessential, All-American, grandmother and great-grandmother.

She has always been absolute magic to me. As I became a wife and then mother, she elevated to God-like status in my mind. After making the decisions to stay home with my son, my new mission was to recreate the wife and mother she was--or who I thought she was. I quickly realized I was falling short of the mark. You can't be Roseanne and Martha Stewart and Donna Reed; you're one or the other or the other, for that matter. What I've come to realize is without the challenge of a "9 to 5" job, I started to pour a lot of energy and expectation into my new role at home. I guess that is natural. I expected get "paid" by the house running like an episode of Leave it to Beaver and for me standing proudly at the helm smelling like fresh-baked bread and looking like a Banana Republic ad. Add on top of that a creative personality with no real creative outlet other than arranging throw pillows and convincing my baby to roll over and you've got a recipe for a big fat mud pie--at least in my case.

Any parent of a young child, working outside the home or not, I think would agree that at about 85% of the day is structured around meeting the needs of that child. From the time you get up, what you buy, what you eat, how much money you can afford to make, what time you can leave your office and still make it home for dinner--you are always working for that child. It's the nature of things and I'm not saying it's a bad thing. Parenthood is a great motivator.

The dilemma was that most times when there was laundry piled everywhere, dinner wasn't on the table and I hadn't showered in two days I was convinced that my Grandma was sitting at her kitchen table saying "tisk, tisk..." certainly her house was never like that. Think about it--three kids, no car, no microwave, DVD player, washer and dryer, computers, "Mommy & Me class" .....

What was wrong with me? Why wasn't I "getting it right"? When I was small my mom stayed home with me for a while and I always remember our house being immaculate and my mom painting on pieces of slate and picking string beans from the garden and being a perfect hippie. But I didn't want to go back to work. I didn't miss that at all. I wanted to get a promotion at my "new job" so it would finally feel like a "fit" for me.

Around the same time as all this was going on, my Grandma, in her eighties and in great health, became increasing vocal about her own mortality. She had nursed my Grandfather through illness and he passed over ten years ago, she nursed her sister through illness and she died two years ago--friends and family old, sick and dying. I guess that is what happens; after a while, your circle gets smaller. She started talking about her plans to ensure no one be burdened with her care, what she wants to happen to her possessions, and giving things away while she could still remember the story attached to them. It was alarming to me. My Grandma, synonymous with grilled cheese sandwiches and Christmas morning, keeps reminding me she's gonna croak. She's not always gonna be strolling down the boardwalk towards me. It was really scary. Instead of embracing the idea and trying to spend more time with her, I avoided her. It was hard at times for me to see her or talk to her because I always felt like it could be the last time. I was already feeling like I fucked up being this Donna Reed mom on a daily basis, how was I going to do without my idol?

The funny thing is that as Grandma got more comfortable with the impending end of things, she started opening up about her life. Family stories retold with more honest details, explanations as to why this happened or why so and so "went away for a while" etc. She told me the reason she never drove was because my Grandfather didn't want her to--basically forbid her to. It was a pain in her ass to have to lug three kids on the bus to go grocery shopping or to beg rides from friends. She always wanted to be more involved in her children's education but felt she wasn't smart enough to help them with their homework--so sad because she's actually very bright. In those days, you listened to your mother, doctor and school teacher when it came to raising your own children--with very little voice of your own. My Grandmother has a great sense of humor and has always had a lot of friends but my Grandfather never really wanted to go out and socialize so unless she was at the beach or at church, she didn't have a social life. She had several miscarriages that caused her a lot of deep emotional pain and no one ever wanted to talk about it. She was, in truth, not perfect and seemed to have moments of sheer frustration, loneliness and resentment as all mothers sometimes do. All this made me wonder--everybody wants to hearken back to a "simpler time" in this country...how simple was it?

Whenever I would start to think about taking some time for myself to explore my own thing like burlesque or getting a part-time job or anything for that matter, it would make me feel kinda guilty and ashamed. Well, in truth, a lot guilty and ashamed. I was embarrassed by wanting some time away from the little blond menace tugging at my pant leg constantly. I thought that since I was not bringing a paycheck into the house then money should not be spent to meet my personal wants and needs. It wasn't "my money". I was going to have to ask for money. If I wanted time out of the house then I should have stayed working--this is what I asked for and burdened my family with. Ugly, backward, sad, fucked up mentality. The person who spends the most time in the house should never leave the house??? And I'm a college-educated, intelligent female raised by a working single mother.......it's tough stuff to admit to because it feels so almost, third world? I guess?

These conversations with my Grandmother saved me from myself. My absolutely whacked out idea of perfection, the idolatry with very little substance behind it, all of it. These days she owns her own home (she knocked down the little bungalow), has a rich social life and is very involved with her grandchildren. There's a glint of self-assuredness in her eyes and an ease with which she does things that lets me know that she is just fine. Unfortunately, it took her a long time and a lot of sacrifice to get to this place in her life. That is a sacrifice I am no longer willing to make. I cannot wait for my son to go away to college to have my own life. Obviously that is not going to work if I want to keep my sanity.

Considering that the 40's and 50's was her heyday, I really want to tell her about the whole burlesque thing. I would like to get her take on it since she would know all about the popular entertainers of the time and because the Jersey Shore was such a hot spot in those days. There would have been a lot of different acts coming to perform in her area--big names too. She might have benefited from a little "tassel time" in her "mommy" days too. I am going to leave it alone for now, though. I'd rather hear about what is going on with her than tell her about me wanting to pole dance anyway.

I'm getting used to the idea that she is not always going to be here. I have to respect her choices and her desire to control whatever aspects of her life she can at her age. It finally dawned on me that all this talk about what she wants done, etc., is not for her--it's for me. She is trying to ease me into this the same way she eased me into riding a bike. She can only hold on for so long and then has to let go and let me ride on my own. Otherwise neither of us can go very far.

Thanks,

Bunny

Next Time: What the Hell is up with this Class?

PSP: Magnetic lingerie? - Magnetic lingerie

PSP: Magnetic lingerie? - Magnetic lingerie

Just sawthis and thought it was interesting based on a comment I made in my last post. I don't know...maybe I'll be investing in a set....or maybe I can take the hardware off of something at Victoria's Secret and attach the magnets myself for a lot cheaper. Hhmmmmm...I feel a craft project coming on. Think I could sell them on Etsy? Maybe I'll make them as Christmas gifts.

MTV inspires a young Bunny to strip, sort of.

MTV and I grew up together. As a preschooler in the very early 1980's, my dad was laid off quite often and we spent a lot of quality time together. One of my most vivid memories as a three or four year old was watching MTV. It was new and my parents were into it so it was on in the background most of the time.

The first time I saw Boy George come across my television screen stopped me dead in my tracks. I was completely mesmerized by this beautiful, foreign creature making eyes at me. He was the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen, so different from my Mommy. It took me a little while to realize that he was, in fact, a "daddy". This only intrigued me more. The idea that someone could be so beautiful and interesting and be "playing pretend" was an amazing revelation that blossomed my curiosity. I loved Boy George even more for being a "daddy" but for wanting to be a "mommy". It gave me permission at an early age to be a weirdo. Since then, I have had a fascination and respect for drag queens as true artists. Their level of skill, attention to detail and commitment to the craft of impersonation is truly a marvel to me. I just love the over-the-top bordering on grotesque tongue in cheek spirit of what they do. They are as visually stunning as any piece of art.

Another early influence was the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. For some reason, PBS was showing a lot of Gilbert and Sullivan back in the day and I was immediately hooked-- my mom just went with it. The Mikado was my favorite at the time. The costumes, makeup and sets took me to a far off place-- sometimes even a little frightening to a small child. But here again, I got interested in Kabuki as a result--another type of performance art that can be subtle or over-the-top and challenging. Also an art form where not all is as it may seem---"daddy" is often pretending to be the "mommy". See a theme here? I mean, come on, I should have been watching Sesame Street. It's no wonder I'm interested in dressing up just to take it off in front of other people.

So all this led to my parents involving me in community theater at the age of five--which has been such a blessing for me. I really aspire to be like my parents in that respect. They always nurtured my interests and got involved in whatever I was doing. One of the earliest shows I was in was a community production of Gypsy; Arthur Laurents, Stephen Sondheim and Jule Styne's musical adaptation of the life of burlesque star Gypsy Rose Lee. I had a very, very small part in one of the opening scenes as "Balloon Girl"--a sweet little girl dressed as a clown covered with balloons. The scene takes place during a kiddie talent audition and Momma Rose will stop at nothing to get her two little starlets, Louise and most importantly, Baby June, into the show. By the end of the scene Momma Rose pushes "Balloon Girl" off into the wings, popping her balloons with a hat pin. That was it. That was my moment. Just as an aside--covering a "costume" in balloons and then popping them one by one to reveal what's underneath is a traditional burlesque act. It's difficult to cover a g-string and pasties with balloons but as I understand it, magnets are somehow involved.

The very best part of being in that show was the crew of kids around the same age who were in the same scene and then had nothing to do until the curtain call. So we all hung out together watching rehearsals but most of the time we went out on the front steps and did our own version. No one ever wanted to be Momma Rose or Herbie or Louise for that matter, we all wanted to be the burlesque strippers. They appear three quarters into the show right before Louise makes her reluctant transformation into Gypsy Rose Lee. They had great lines, great costumes, got lots of laughs and did an awesome musical number touting their individual burlesque acts. So about six or eight of us young girls, no older than seven or eight, would all fight to take turns doing our best impersonations of their number. We took it pretty seriously, we thought we were pretty good. I'm sure none of us understood the adult theme of what we were doing. To us, "sexy" or "stripper" meant funny, bold, outspoken woman who got to wear the best costume and have the best song. I actually thank God for that. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the most conventional way to introduce to the concept of sexuality to little girls but when I think about women we've become--we're doing pretty damn good for ourselves.

The opportunity to do the show a second time came many years later. I was cast in another community production, in the same theater, but now in the title role. The seven year old inside of me was doing cartwheels while the eighteen year old was a little besides herself. It came at a time when I decided I really wanted to study theater and wanted to act. I was already familiar with the show and thought it would "be a lot of fun". What I didn't anticipate was the hard work. I had been in tons of plays by that point and had taken dance and voice for many years. I never practiced outside of rehearsal or class for anything, ever. It just came naturally to me--or so I thought. At the same time, I was in the middle of all the body hang ups high school girls have while developing a sharper understanding of "sexuality" and all it entailed.

How was I going to do a strip tease in front of a live audience if I wasn't even comfortable in a bathing suit at the beach? I did a lot of dumb stuff to try to lose weight--unsuccessfully. I started to feel even more self conscious about my body and as the weeks of rehearsal went by, we had not blocked the strip tease sequences at all. Focusing on the character as a person, not just as lines and movements, I started to see some of her in myself. It was scary. I didn't know what to do with that. I didn't know how to use it towards my acting. I felt like everyone was counting on me to be good and I had no idea what I was doing. I should have asked for help. I should have insisted that the strip tease get rehearsal time every night so I felt more comfortable. I didn't. I didn't want to let on that I was scared and didn't want to let down the seven year old inside of me--she was slowly pulling the covers up further over her head. Someone should have reassured me a little. Someone should have given me positive feedback or coached me in some way--but there were costumes to sew, parents to please and ad space that needed taking care of. There was just not enough time. Where was Boy George when I needed him?

The show opened. It was good by community theater standards but I was never happy with it. The talents I had relied on to define much of who I felt I was had let me down . Melodramatic? Perhaps a little. It was good because I learned that no matter what you're doing, you have to do the work yourself. No one is going to hold your hand all the time--not even the people who love you most. Considering I was just about to devote a lot of time and money to these talents, the self doubt that creeped up on me did not serve me well. It help set into a motion a habit of constant self-critiquing and over-analyzing--one that my seven year old self is really sick and tired of.

So that, in part, is the story of how I came to love burlesque and why this project is so important to me now. I haven't watched MTV in years--it's a shame we've grown apart. I think they stopped playing music but I do have to give it some of the credit. So I am doing this for the seven year old me, the eighteen year old me and of course, for Boy George whose painted face was the catalyst for so much growth and so much lovely nonsense in my life.

Thanks,

Bunny

Next time: Myth, Legend, Grandmother.

The Project

After a couple years of diaper changing, toddler chasing and finding cheerios stuck in my hair I've been yearning for a new challenge--one that does not involve "time outs" or playdough. Not that I don't find being a parent challenging. I love my life. I love my son and the opportunity to stay home and raise him. I am fortunate to have a supportive and involved husband and father to my child.

However, for a while now most of my identity has centered around connections to others: daughter, sister, wife, mother and I have, admittedly, lost myself a bit. I will give credit for it where credit is due, to me. I turned 30 this year, yeah 30. Initially it wasn't a big deal but it has become a year of turning points, a year of self-discovery and personal growth. I guess it is a milestone whether you like it or not! So in this spirit I am embarking on a new adventure--one that is exciting and scary but will be fulfilling in many ways. I hope you'll take the ride with me! Don't worry, you don't have to sell AmWay.

Soon I will begin a six week course in strip tease and pole dancing--yeah, I am dead serious and yes there is a class for that. I'm not talking about Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Strip Pole either, although I'll have to double check NetFlix for that one. My ultimate goal being to learn as much as I can about the art of Burlesque through various opportunities and develop a piece that I will perform at a Burlesque show. If I am good at it, which I hope to be, I want it to become an ongoing "side project." I know what you're thinking--she's lost it, holy shit, what pact with the devil spawned this ridiculous idea?--and I wouldn't blame you. That's fine by me. I could have decided to take up scrapbooking, latch hook or blogging--ha ha ha. I chose something else and in many ways it chose me. Let me just say a couple of words about burlesque for those who may not be familiar.

The word burlesque more or less means to parody, lampoon or poke fun at something. This usually refers to a literary work or theatrical performance that mocks a classic work. It got its start in Great Britain in the mid 19th Century, came to America and by the early 20th Century intersected with Vaudeville and became a cabaret of comedians, skits, singers, magicians and strip tease. In later years the focus became more about the strip tease and the strip tease became more revealing. In the last decade it has made a cult comeback made evident by the upcoming movie Burlesque starring Cher and Christina Aguilera--which, by the by, has absolutely no influence on what I want to do. Quite frankly, I think that movie is going to suck, but I digress. I would also like to mention that there is no "full frontal" nudity in burlesque--a g-string and pasties is most often as far as performers go. I chose the name for the blog because I want to chronicle the process of stripping down (no pun intended) my own preconceived notions of what/who I am and who/what I have the potential to be if I take the opportunity to explore it.

This "project", as I like to refer to it, has nothing to do with a quarter life crisis, a political statement or comment on my happy marriage and healthy, monogamous sex life. I'm not even going to address "body image" it's an old, boring conversation and if you know me, you know what I look like--nuff said. What I will say--and this part is important so please pay attention--I am going to be deliberately vague about places, names, people I encounter along the way in an effort to respect their privacy and the privacy of my family; most of whom do not know I am doing this, many of whom I don't plan on telling, and when it comes to the few I do want to know, I would like to tell them in my own way--whenever I figure that out.

The goal of the blog is not only to keep a kind of diary of my progress but to explore issues of balancing parenthood with art and the importance of self expression, telling the stories of those I meet and trying to answer the age old questions--is it art or is it pornography? How do you know if you're an artist--does the audience dictate or does the creator? And, ya know, I think it's gonna be hilarious because anything I try to do turns itself into a sitcom.

I'm looking for your support and interest, so if you're into it--stick around. Oh, one favor I do want to ask is that if you wish to leave a comment please do not refer to me with my Christian name, please only refer to me as Bunny--it goes with the whole privacy thing. And let's keep all related conversations and ideas in this forum--rather than any other social networking forums we all belong to. Cool!

Next up: Mtv inspires a "stripper" at age 8

Thanks,

Bunny