I didn't have time to blog some of the important events that happened before I left and in order for you to have the proper context to enjoy my adventures I have to fill you in (as I learned on my vacation even cold beer has context).


The wednesday night before I left I went to Reverend Jen Miller's open mic at Collective Unconscious. (Reverend Jen has starred in the film Elf Panties, which I am wondering if I can add to my netflix queue, and is rumored to have played a role in the most expensive Toxic Avenger film.) She once paid me the compliment of telling me that my set about Paris was "hot" and when a woman who stars in a film called Elf Panties tells you that, I listen.


The set I did was based on this post, which didn't get as many laughs as I expected, but I could feel the audience empathize with me. When I said Vampire Hunter D vanished, I actually heard the audience groan with sadness. Afterwards many people complimented me, and when you add that I did it with no emotional support, the fear of seeing the asshat (until I realized that wednesday is rehearsal night for him and so I was safe), and only half a beer in my system it was quite an accomplishment. When the mic ended I was abducted by a bunch of performers to attend Midnights with Moonshine. There some of the performers who I thought of as Ivan's friends asked me if what I said at the beginning of my set was true (I went into my monologue by saying "Sometimes life imitates a bad comedy premise, and my boyfriend just broke up with me" partially because two or three people had already asked me if Ivan was coming and so I thought I could use the monologue to end any and all questions about that.) And I said yes, and then he paused for a moment. "I'm really sorry," he said, "but you really need a guy who speaks better English" another pause "and is taller." Now when someone tells me that I need a guy who is taller, that's entertainment. "Yes" I told him, "it was kind of sad how we would both look longing at the top shelf of the supermarket." What shocks me is how easily his "friends" have turned against him once they know we aren't together. I mean even the Buddhist would defend me, I guess being a depressed alcoholic Russian doesn't breed a lot of brand loyalty especially when there is a bodacious tata possessing girl in the equation. Still I managed to enslave a few of male performers, which is never a bad thing.


Two Lawn Chairs and a Milk Carton


Thursday during my dance class my improbably hot dance teacher (for those of you who saw the comp. pictures he was the one molestering me while I was wearing the bunny slippers) asked me to go have drinks with him later. Oh sure I have to pack and clean the apartment and go grocery shopping, but you have to understand I have lusted after this guy for a year. The things I want to do this man aren't even legal in New Jersey. Hell, they aren't legal in Thailand. This is not a man I can say no to in any language...ever. So tired and overwhelmed by stuff as I am I say "Sure" and he agrees to call me later.


Will someone PLEASE explain to me where the hell Russian men got the idea that being depressed about not being in their homeland is sexy? Please, I have to know.


We go out for drinks, and he is asking all the "hot sex later alert" questions, do I have a boyfriend, what time do I have to get up for work, was my last boyfriend a russian, do I live alone, and I'm freaking out about the condition of my apartment, but still, I love this man. Seriously all muscly and snuggly oh do I love this man. Still I'm thinking "I can't do this. I really can't. He's my teacher. I have to deal with him professionally twice a week." But he's leaning in so close, whispering into my ear, translating russian jokes which are so desperately not funny, and I can't hear half of what he's saying, but I'm laughing out of nervous energy-he's touching my shoulder, my hand, his arm around my shoulders-so close- I can see the tattoo on his arm, his shirt is tight, and I can't help but wonder what he looks like without it-he's kissed me so many times on the cheek I can feel the kiss in advance soft but passionate-insistent without being overwhelming. We sit on my front step and all of the sudden the depression about the homeland-I have no friends, I can't talk to people, American women are awful, well except you, but you are not like American women (what the hell am I like an American bald eagle?) and I'm thinking "What is this? the Volgagrad idea of foreplay? Shmuck has read Crime and Punishment a few too many times." I was thinking I was going to have to fend off passionate embraces and yet as usual I become the free shrink and end up fending off a fugue state. And I hate to say it I'm so sick of emigrant angst I could puke hot blood from my eyeballs. I'm sorry but I've just heard it a little too much to have any sympathy anymore-have a shot of stolichnaya and get the fuck over it already. (That is the Russian version of Richard Pryor's advice "Have a coke and a smile and shut the fuck up.")Finally he apologies, kisses me on the shoulder and walks home at two thirty in the morning. I'm left on my doorstep, arms open, hands upturned towards the sky, looking at the stars thinking, "What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just happened?"


But it doesn't matter because I need to go in and sleep for three hours so I can wake up and get my ass ready to be Pantless in the Poconos.