Sea Hag Confidential (2012 -2014) was a lifestyle blog offering salty tales and rigged up remedies for shipwrecked sirens. An assortment of anecdotes, personal essays, reviews, and social criticism. Messages in a bottle from margins of gender and cultural identity.
Results and reflections
I published a new article every two weeks for a series of years. This provided me with a self imposed deadline to regularly produce new work.
Practiced developing VOICE; in this case a sassy, irreverent, empowered, funny and brutally honest “Sea Hag” -- an ironic nod to the crone, spinster, old maid, and overly emotional woman tropes.
Opportunity to speak to issues facing women as we age; a topic I’m passionate about.
My readership hits jumped by 75% after an article I wrote was reposted on I4U News; a sight that promises the "Latest Trending News and Topics for Geeks."
In 2013 Sea Hag Confidential was accepted by BlogsByWomen; a directory of over 3,076 other women bloggers. At the time it was one of the fastest growing women’s communities on the web.
Below are a few selections from that publication
Some very affirming reviews from my readers
“The story of your life always reads to me like a novel... i am sure I am not the only one who appreciates how you craft the details.”
“ … I do enjoy the discomfort of sitting through your casual rendering of truth through pitch-perfect writing.”
“Your writing is always a gift.”
“I don't hate laughing out loud!! Thanks.”
Snow White & The Huntsman; An Old Classic Gets a Bad Facelift
I wanted to like Rupert Sander’s pretty new take on the fairy tale classic Snow White. As the film begins, Snow White and The Huntsman delivers what the trailer promises; visually striking CG effects, supernatural battles, some dazzling costumes, and a plucky new take on the ever pure and demure original Housewife, Snow White.
With mixed success, Kristin Stewart’s Snow ditches dated damsel in distress for warrior princess power. Like any modern girl, she’s leading her own armies and handling monsters with a well placed glance – all this without much help from her non committal grungy huntsman Chris Hemsworth. Ladies, you will identify. Though our leading man may be down to storm the castle (literally in this case), this degraded prince is no shining knight on thundering steed. He’s a drunkard hung up on his X. How many times have we dated this guy?
But if you’re hoping for some sexy scenes between Stewart and her rogue with a Scottish Brogue Hemsworth, forget it. To be honest, there’s more chemistry between Snow White and the bridge troll. Even the iconic kiss between the damaged Huntsman and sleeping Snow involves so much discussion about his ex, it plays more like a bad threesome between the star crossed pair and his dearly departed wife. Awkward.
Charlize Theron easily steals the show as vain, Evil Queen Revenna, but the skin deep tale doesn’t give her much to work with. She looks stunning plucking out bird hearts and eating them like bonbons. She shines sucking lovely young virgin essence like a morning bong hit. In fact, the film’s only real heat is generated primarily by Theron’s icy queen being spied upon taking her daily milk bath by her creepy, bowl cut sporting, albino brother. But while there seems to be an undercurrent of incest here, with a PG-13 rating, this medieval maelstrom is no Game Of Thrones, and the promise of any chainmail and bodice ripping between siblings (or anyone else for that matter), remains unrealized. Boring.
There is some fun to be had when Snow White and the Huntsman finally cross paths with that famous pack of puckish dwarfs, but a short stint in fairy land is not magical enough to illuminate a flat screenplay. Thus, as the plot veered away from revision, and began to plod through epically cliched material like so much marsh mud, I found myself yawning my way through the third act. The story moves laboriously into expected resolve, and reads more like an exposé of other (better) recognizable films; Lord Of The Rings, Never Ending Story, Princess Mononoke, Joan Of Arc, etc. There’s no magic in this bad apple – but be warned this film will put you to sleep!
The End? Not quite. Look just beyond the surface wrinkles of this poorly executed summer movie, and a deeper message is revealed. Snow White is the ultimate tale of female anxiety regarding aging, and allows us to interface with our own hidden fears that what makes us worthy as women is looking young and beautiful.
We pass along this hidden message to females from an early age. As girls, we all grow up with the same archetype of perfect femaleness; the pretty princess. Whether she was the humble nature lover (Snow White), or the hardworking and under appreciated urban girl (Cinderella), she was always bright, light, lovely -and as such - destined to be swept away by her Mr. Wonderful. We also recognize that her nemesis was nearly always another woman (or women); most often of the matronly variety – inevitably jealous of her allure and attempting to thwart her happily ever after. Thus the stage is set.
As women, those messages from our youth are reconstituted and reinforced in the media. We’re all the subjects of pop culture’s reflections, whether conscious of this or not. A trip to any super market is enough to send a lady into a shame spiral, as the cult of women’s magazines and gossip rags drum out a battle cry against our sagging butts and faces. They delight in focusing our attentions on new fantastical serums promising alchemical anti aging affects. What a movie imagines as swords and sorcery; life imitates with Botox injections and scalpels. Plastic surgery, once an unspoken taboo, is sold as a nearly mandatory right of passage for aging celebs trying to stay relevant in a youth obsessed culture. Thus we recognize that our world is every bit as seized with a nagging youth and beauty occupation as Snow White’s Evil Queen. Just like Revenna’s magic mirror, the reflections of our society act as an ever present reminder, and demand for us women to appear ever youthful, ever fair.
Having spent the vast majority of our lives staring into this cultural mirror, haven’t we found ourselves just a bit warped? At the end of the day, can’t we empathize with Snow White’s Evil Queen just a little? For the chance of winning back some of that youthful luster, how many of us wouldn’t suck just a little life essence from some sweet pretty thing (imagine the new young cross trainer your X has started dating). Isn’t there a narcissistic and insecure lady hag lurking inside of every woman; worrying endlessly about her waning beauty and jealously warding off displacement by a younger and more vivacious rival? Don’t we gobble down tabloid tell alls of beautiful stars being cheated on and left for nannies, starlets, and strippers, because watching our pop princesses try and fail makes us feel just a little better about our own predicament? Don’t we spend our hard earned money on products and clothes and makeup because deep down we really do fear that our worth lies only in our beauty. Isn’t there some truth that we, like Snow White’s villainess, understand that we shall inevitably lose that power, despite all our best efforts, and doesn’t it drive us just a little mad? Those of you spending your pay checks at Sephora, raise your hands. Any lady who has peaked inside the cover of a tabloid and taken a guilty pleasure in seeing who’s thighs are covered in cellulite can now come into the light. All you PMS induced head cases Facebook stalking your past boyfriends take pause. You might deny it in mixed company; but we hags know, we’ve been that woman.
At the end of Rupert Sander’s new telling of Snow White and The Huntsman, our heroin is victorious, but at what price? She has gazed into the looking glass of her nemesis and realized that she too will not always be the fairest in the land. In a fairy tale fit for a modern age, there’s no happily ever after with a waiting prince. The Huntsman seems to be heading back to his humble life in the forest (or maybe just out for another beer as the case may be) as our Princess takes on the formidable task of becoming something more; a just Queen. She’s gained power and experience, but what she does with the rest of her story seems to be up to her.
So, what do we do with this information? If Snow White teaches any truth, it’s that obsessing about our outer image is a tragic waste of time. The writing is on the wall; we can’t turn back the clock. There will always be someone younger and more beautiful, and even Snow White herself will one day grow old. But regardless of our age, what we can do, is aspire to gain the purity of spirit represented in the character of Snow White. We can do this by letting go of bitterness, engaging in some active deprogramming of our beauty myths, and staying young at heart as long as we possibly can. Even if the reflection’s not as kind as it once was, and your Mr. turned out not so right after all, we can still brighten ourselves by lightening our load and not getting caught up in the BS. And what about when our inner hag gets the best of us? – as she’s bound to do. I recommend to stay off Facebook, hide your mirror, and try not to kill any virgins.
From Red Light to SpotLight; Pole Dancing Goes Mainstream
Once upon a time, pole dancing was dared only by a thonged lady named after an exotic spice. But times have changed. This once taboo art form is wowing audiences, from Burlesque shows to dinner theaters. Even appearing as an exercise option at your local gym. Increased visibility has meant a whole new female-based audience, excited to watch and learn this serpentine skill. Tempting ladies from all walks of life to give the brass snake a whirl. Even me.
A Google search brought me to S Factor. An establishment receiving national attention via the holy trinity of daytime divas; Oprah, Martha, and Ellen. Couldn't be bad, right? The website promised pole dance training, infused with yoga, ballet, Pilates, & striptease. But also "…the awakening and cultivation of (your) own soulfully sexy Erotic Creature." Feeling wild, I schlepped my $400 bones across the counter (gulp), bought myself a pair of candy red patent leather platform heels, and signed up for the level 1 eight week series.
Somebody's Gonna Cry
Who would have thought I'd be spending Saturday mornings in a dimly lit room bumping and grinding like a North Beach stripper? But here I was. Along with a motley group of ladies. Awkwardly following the 45 minutes warm-up, a bizarre combination of basic exercises accompanied by random moments of hair tossing and self groping. OK! Just past 10 a.m. and I'd already reached second base with myself several times. As the music moved from Lilith Tour style fem-pop to hardcore rap, we attempted to lure our "erotic creatures" from their hidey-hole. Moving our bodies as if treading through molasses. I wasn't sure what I looked like, but if the other ladies were any indication, I was glad we were engulfed in near darkness. Quite sure, my face was as red as the bulb illuminating this strange show.
Our stocky, freckle-faced teacher - who bore a striking resemblance to Punky Brewster - snaked a hand down her body. Slapped her ample ass. And cheered us on toward sex-positive self-approval. "I want you to be open to a full range of experiences and emotions here ladies," she instructed. "Some women cry. This can be a very cathartic experience…."
Cry? I looked around at my level 1 sisters. Who amongst us would meltdown first? I tagged the girl in the corner, whose hair was as straight, coarse, and stiff as her hip grinding. Then slapped my own ass on command with the others. Yep. Now I felt really dumb.
Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Who's The Stiffest Of Us All
"…There are no mirrors in this room" our instructor pointed out, "So we have to be reflections for each other. That means when you see something great, show your encouragement. We're here to support each other. And when you see something that looks kinda weird…. well….. clap for that too."
When the forecast called for weird, that was no joke. Our S Factor walk -- meant to be the sultry strut of a jungle cat -- looked more like seasick babies traversing the deck of a rocking ship. Learning our first tricks didn't go much better. Names like The Firefly and Peter Pan summoned images of winged, fairy-like magic. But with each attempt to soar and flutter, we generally thud, slid, and puddled around our instrument. Shuffling away like embarrassed children.
Of course, S Factor anticipates meager beginnings. While the lack of mirrors is a common Yelp complaint, I'm glad the only reflections given were those offered by my humbled S Factor sisters. Obligated to offer encouragement, if not condolences. Yet regardless of how often and thoroughly we train wrecked each successive ring around the rosy, our teacher yipped with excitement. "You look amazing, ladies!" she lied. And although nobody cried that day, Miss Stiff As A Board never returned. I imagined her weeping silent, ugly tears in her car after class. And enrolling in a watercolor workshop the next day.
Biker Babes Make The Best Friends
As the weeks went on, we added striptease to our level 1 accomplishments. Learning the finer points of taking off your dress in front of strangers might be the ultimate ice breaker. I'll admit, after several weeks of intimate sessions with this small group of ladies, I felt a special kinship to them. Something like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants…. or the opposite of that, I guess.
During the break, emboldened by this sense of sorority, I sidled up next to the class loner - a brawny woman who looked as if she'd spent the better portion of her life on the back of a Harley - and complimented her vast assortment of platform stilettos. The women - who towered over me by several feet - nearly growled her disdain for me and my unsolicited opinions of her shoes. I reasoned that her "erotic creature" was some sort of terrifying bear, and vowed to steer clear of her from here on out.
As class reconvened, our teacher announced excitedly that today we would begin lap dance week. "Now ladies," she leveled with semi stern conviction, "I'm going to require everyone here to partner up for this activity. I know some people feel a bit strange about this, but it's important for you to experience what it's like to actually have a real person in the chair when you learn these moves. Try it, and if it's really just too uncomfortable for you, after today, you can practice on an empty chair. But at least once, everybody here will dance for a fellow student."
I looked around at my choices, the clumsy blond sorority girl with the long legs. The busty soft butch with tattoos. There were several ladies in that room I would actually pay for a lap dance. And then, I landed on Ol' Mama Grizzly, giving me the scowl of death from across the room. Anyone, god, just not her.
Of course, no sooner had I made my earnest prayer, our linked names were rolling off our instructor's cruel lips. Moments later, I was grinding on her lap. Trailing my hair ever so lightly across her face. And using her body like a slide at the park. The whole experience was a blind rush of embarrassment and terror. I was sure any moment she'd crush me with her massive arms. When it was over, I was grateful I'd escaped intact. But after that day, when practicing our tricks, I found the grumpy grizzly had become a big sweet teddy bear. Suddenly I had a new pal offering constructive tips and assistance. "I'll spot you this time," a gruff voice would suggest. Had she not nearly doubled me in size, I suspect she might have even let me borrow a pair of her shoes.
Queen For A Day
Perhaps my favorite S Factor experience came the day our teacher asked for a volunteer; someone to sit in the chair and be the audience while the rest of the ladies performed the finale routine. My arm shot up! And before I knew it, there I was. Like a Queen on a throne. Watching a room full of women do their best version of our sexy choreography, all for me. Whether my classmates pulled off seduction or managed only comedy, the spectacle was enormously entertaining. As I watched, the entire group was instructed to crawl slowly towards me on their hands and knees. I leaned back in my chair and decided that this was worth the price of admission. I mean, c'mon! How many people can say an entire room full of women have given them a lap dance? Scratch one more off the bucket list.
Putting The Spin On It
So how'd it all turn out? After my 8 weeks were up, I still knew next to nothing about pole dancing. As for my erotic creature? She seemed lost and not found. I'd come to suspect S Factors "gurl power" curriculum focused more on building self-esteem than the foundation of reliable dance technique. Each session provided scant time to perfect our serpentine tricks. Considering the lack of mirrors, classes of 8-10 ladies, and only two poles on which to practice, I wasn't sure I felt like I'd gotten my money's worth.
There's definitely something to be said for a safe place where we gals are encouraged to both growl and grope ourselves simultaneously -- and without judgment. But I wondered how many of my future children's college tuitions I'd have to pilfer to actually learn how to twirl around the brass the way our instructors did. At these prices, I'd actually have to become a stripper to foot the bill. But let's face it, I'd never get the job.
So before you roll your eyes, get red-faced at the thought, or run to your next lesson, my advice is this; make sure you check out the spot before you sign on the dotted line. The popularity of this new fad means there are lots of options when it comes to pole dance studios. But style and focus vary significantly from place to place. To ensure you pick the best fit for your personal expectations, it's worth trolling through the sometimes loathsome whine-o-sphere of Yelp reviews before committing.
Takeaways
My stint as an amateur pole dancer had indeed given me some new perspective. As products of this culture, we women wield a double-edged sword. We are both praised and rewarded for our sex appeal. While simultaneously taught to regard our sexuality as something lurid. Broadly, we have lost our permission to create, cultivate, and truly own our "soulfully erotic creature" -- whatever that means to us. The process by which we attempt to reclaim that power - whether within our relationships, through therapy, meditation, or even taking pole dance classes - can be awkward and time consuming. But the efforts are worthwhile. This kind of work can help us connect more deeply to ourselves, and to other women. A double plus in my book. I may not have left S Factor as a fantastic pole dancer, but I definitely had an experience I'll take with me.
Listen. The pros make it look easy. But ladies, I'm gonna give it to ya straight. There's a reason strippers are getting rained on by dolla dolla bills. The answer is very scientific; bitches be hav'n mad skilzz yo! The art of dance seduction and strip tease takes guts, grace, and glamour. Pole dancing itself takes strength, training, and practice. So to all those badass babes out there working their magic on a pole - whether the club is of the sport or gentleman variety - I tip my hat. And who knows, maybe next time date night rolls around, it will be your idea to go to a strip club. Or better yet, maybe next time you go to a club with a pole, you might have a trick or two up your own sleeve.