Archive for the ‘Events You Would Have Loved’ Category

“Operation Lemonade”

Tuesday, July 13th, 2010



Bastille Day 2010


July 14th marks the 220th anniversary of Bastille Day. It was the rising up of the common people against the French monarchy and the beginning of the French Revolution. The peasants stormed the Bastille, which literally translated means “the stronghold.” It is a celebration of a united France, free of tyranny. Bastille Day also marks the one-year anniversary of my own form of independence, and the inception of what I call “Operation Lemonade.” What is “Operation Lemonade” and what does it have to do with the French you ask? Hold on. I’m getting to that…..


It was a little more than a year ago that I drove from Nashville to the DC area. My Honda Pilot was packed with summer clothes, a fairly alarming number of could-be-intimidating-4inch heels, my sewing machine and my bike. My life condensed down to 152 cubic feet. Nice. DC seemed just as good a place as any to start over, so I just pointed the car and started driving. After settling into my new digs (which took all of about 45 minutes given the lack of quantity), I began to look around for something to do in order to meet people and re-establish myself. I decided to make Bastille Day 2009 at the French Embassy my induction into the DC cultural scene. Two things I would like to mention about Bastille Day 2009; A: I was stag (This was not by design.) and B: I was highly intimidated (This would only be natural given “A.”). This becomes important later….

This past Saturday evening I again set my sights on the French Embassy. Two things about Bastille Day 2010; A: I was stag (This was absolutely by design) and B: I was completely un-intimidated. I was comfortable, in fact (noteworthy, given “A.”). I was dressed a little garishly, if I am honest. Gone was the black “safe” dress of last year. Nope. I was brazenly wearing an ensemble that looked as if a color-wheel had vomited on me during the drive over. But it was purposeful. Indicative of my shift in mood and spirit in comparison to one year ago. I was feeling rather brave. And who better to take it out on than the French?



Gigi and Charles keeping me away from the French pastries.


Most people would have started the evening off with a glass of fabulous French champagne, but I am not most people. When I entered the embassy I made a B-line for the dessert table. Chocolate gives me courage. Oh whatever. It just makes me feel really good. I did not even look up until I was balancing a crepe in one hand, and a pots de crème in the other. (Typing that last sentence gave me more pleasure than I care to admit.). I was surveying the landscape. Checking out the beautiful cocktail attire. Looking for familiar faces. Wondering if I should hit another dessert table or find the Champagne before they started pulling out the cheap stuff.


It really is interesting to go to one of these events solo. It helps to have some semblance of a strategy. Who will you talk to? Will you look ridiculous circling the silent auction table 14 times (but who’s counting) in a staged effort to look occupied? Should you ask someone to dance or follow protocol and wait to be summoned by a gentleman in need of a partner? Do you fake interest in the artwork until someone else seconds you opinion, or lack thereof? I’ve been solo at nearly every event I’ve attended over the last year, and I still have to have a pre-event pep talk with myself in the car before going in. But you know what they say, 90 percent of success is just showing up. And show up, I do.



Stan Weinstein, "Photog Extraordinaire"


Thankfully, while stalking the “Romantic Wine and Cheese Basket” after 3 warm-up passes around the silent auction table, a conversation unfolded organically with the person eyeing (allegedly) the “Relaxing Massage Package.” And then the pump was primed. The rest was easy chatter, a few more trips to the pate-choux table, and dancing with whomever happened to be standing nearest to me (usually without warning and always without permission).


So what does this have to do with lemonade? Everything. When I came to DC, I did so with my tail between my legs. Oh sure, I put on a brave face, but I was scared. I cried every day at the loss of familiarity in anything. One day I decided that enough was enough. I hate clichés like the four that I will shamelessly use on you within this story (fair warning), but they usually exist for a reason. Make lemonade from the lemons of life. If you think it’s a ridiculous notion, then you’re right. If you think it’s the best way to improve a bad situation, then you’re right. If you think you need to add Vodka, then you’re….(Just kidding. Making sure you were still with me.). It’s all about attitude. You make your own way, and failure to recognize this doesn’t mean that you are immune to its effects. It just means you are unaware of your own undoing. I finally decided I had to grab life by the horns or get trampled in the bull-run. I chose option 1. And I’ve never looked back.

But here’s my addendum to the cliché. Make really great lemonade. The kind that sells for 6 bucks a pop. The kind of lemonade that is distinctive because you’ve added your own flair. Why be average? Now that’s cliché. I have no children, no real obligations to speak of, no one to answer to, and a job that allows for flexibility and freedom. These factors alone make my lemonade slightly different from most right off the bat. Not better or worse. Just different. So, I’ve decided to add a bit of verve´ to the bulk order of lemons that life has dropped off in my driveway. Add sugar. Stir.



Pianist Dana Kristina-Joi Morgan. We met while admiring the artwork. (Photo by Stan Weinstein)


My challenge to you, my friend, is to take a look at your life’s challenges. What’s holding you back? Perhaps the obstacles that you face are just opportunities for growth in new areas. I know they are, in fact. If I had not suffered what I have, I would never be in a place to do half of what I’m doing now. Sure, part of me would like my “old life” back, thank you very much…but I can’t look in the rear view mirror. I decided to take all of the things that look like they should be on the “Cons” side of the list, and turned them into “Jet Stream Girl.” Now that is some pretty crazy lemonade, my friend. But I had to do something productive with where my life had taken me. I don’t feel like getting trampled in the bull-run again, so I better start running…

So here’s the dealio. A: I’m still stag. And that’s OK. I have chosen it for myself for the time being. The night is still young, after all. I have learned over the past year that all of those fabulous events that I attended by myself served as a training ground. When you have no one else to rely on, you have no one else to blame for the outcome of your evening, your year, or your life. There is no one to buffer your shortcomings. You have to own them. Being alone forced me to start conversations at the silent auction table, because quite frankly, I’m not fooling anyone. Being alone forced me to need people. It forced me to open up again. To crave connection. I had to feel my own “aloneness” in order to appreciate the special people that have been folded into my life as a direct result of “A.” And yeah…there’s a B. You know what? I’m not scared. I wouldn’t have asked for the last few years. I wouldn’t have asked for the all of the blankity-blankin lemons. But just to get one more cliché in for you…what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. And I am one strong chica today. I am braver than I ever thought I would be. What choice do I have? What better choice do any of us have?



Erich Wagner at Bastille Day 2009.


So bring it. Bring. On. The. Lemons. I can take it. On Bastille Day and every day, baby. I’ve got my own “strongholds” to storm, and I’m doing it. I’ve got my own independence to celebrate. Hooray for big ol’ brave me. And you too. Ummhmm…I see you out there. I’m feelin’ ya. Way to own it and smack it into something worth seeing. Way to work the lemonade. Shaken, not stirred. I’ll take a little bit of that and an order of pots de crème on the side. And that, my friend, is “Operation Lemonade.”


A special “shout out” to my dear friends from Bastille Day 2009, Erich Wagner and Shalev “Stan” Wienstien. What a splendid beginning…

A second “shout out” to my new friends of Bastille Day 2010: Peter, Charles, Gigi, Sanjaya, Michel, You…the frenchman with the tacky boa and the cigarette dangling from your mouth rather poetically. What is your name, what is your name? Ugh. Write me and tell me your name, and I’ll make it right. You know who you are…

Click Here to read about what happened as a result of Bastille Day 2009.

Click here to find out more about who I am and why I started Jet Stream Girl.





I'll take that shaken, not stirred...




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Dancing with Myself (and other acts of bravery)

Monday, June 14th, 2010

Here I sit at Starbucks. I am exhausted after “chain smoking” social activities over the last three days. I have worn my beloved 4-inch heels over the past 72 hours and so now my feet reside in flip-flops as a peace offering to my body. The people around me are watching me wiggle my toes as I conduct a test every now-and-then to ensure that I still have feeling and full movement in my “little sausages.” All good.

So here’s the re-cap:


Ambassador Jaliya Wickramasuriya's residence

Thursday June 10


Dinner at the Ambassador of Sri Lanka’s residence: This was a wonderful event sponsored by the DC International Club that brought together a diverse group of culture loving junkies like myself. The ambassador put on a wonderful spread of Sri Lankan food (which is similar to Indian food).  There was a traditional Sri Lankan dance demonstration on the terrace, and Ambassador Jaliya Wickramasuriya spoke a few words as well. Being that I’m always going “stag” to these events, I had the dubious task of mustering up all of my bravery and social acumen in order to keep from looking like a wall post. I am happy to report that I was able to reach within the deepest bowels of my “social reserve” and pull out an actual personality. Thankfully, the other guests were interesting and gracious, and made easy work of navigating the room.

Not only did I mingle, I gave an impromptu performance of Ray Charles’ “You Don’t Know Me” while being accompanied by the in-house musicians. It is one of my favorite songs, and now perhaps it is the Ambassador’s as well. Or maybe not. I’ll ask the next time I see him around. I have video footage of this spectacle…..so stay tuned for some cheap entertainment.

Dancing on the rooftopFriday June 11

Rooftop Latin Party: This event was also sponsored by the DC International Club, and it boasted a great band (Gibraltar) and 400 people doing their utmost to not fall into the pool while navigating the great view of DC’s “Embassy Row.” Again, I was by myself so I looked for other solitary figures and then I used corny lines to force them to speak to me. God forbid I have to stand there and look as alone as I actually was.

Thankfully, social networking is a bit like the swine flu in that it spreads rapidly and in nice concentric circles once you get the ball rolling. In no time I had made new friends and found familiar faces from the night before (isn’t that convenient?). The dancing began as the sun surrendered, and I was able to work on my salsa skills, which are a little rusty. They’re non-existent, actually. I also honed the art of dancing with myself while trying to make it look like I was dancing with other people. Quite tricky, I must say. If any of you need advice in this area, drop me a line. I’m a pro.

Not to be undone by my musical performance the night before, I did acquire (a nice word for “steal”) a tambourine from the band and became the unofficial guest percussionist. Thankfully, for some reason I can actually play the tambourine fairly well. AND I can play it while continuing to dance by myself while making it look as if I’m dancing with other people. I know. Amazing. A poor quality video documents this feat on my Facebook. Check it out.

Perusing the PoloJune 12

America’s Cup Polo Match: Well…what to say, what to say? This event was hosted by Tareq and Michaele Salahi, the now infamous couple who “crashed” Obama’s first State dinner. I met the Salahis last year at this very event, and they were very gracious towards me, as they were this year as well. I would be remiss however (and you wouldn’t respect me if I didn’t tell you the truth) if I didn’t mention that the fallout from that little brouhaha had clearly taken its toll on this event. Several news agencies have written about it, so I won’t reinvent that wheel, but the lack of government support, sponsorship, and overall attendance was certainly felt.

Having said that, it was still a beautiful day filled with great hat and people watching. I met some very interesting people, as I always tend to do. I had some lovely friends at the event, so I could sit down and take a break and just be me. Let my “fancy hat” guard down. The Salahis did their darndest to put on a brave face, and honestly…they did a great job of acting as if nothing had happened. I have this habit of rooting for the underdog, as I have been there myself (though never to that extent). There was a part of me that just wanted to take the Salahis and hug the living daylights out of them. And I would have been sincere in my actions. Perhaps I could have actually done so if it weren’t for the scads of people lined up behind them, all of them smiling while simultaneously wielding knives. We all need a “do-over” now and then, so who am I to judge? I’ll always root for redemption. Every time.

There was an “after-party” that I wouldn’t actually classify as an after-party. Last year’s vivacious group of hundreds of polo lovers had dwindled down this year to a scant handful at a local bar. Thankfully, the quality of the guests made up for the quantity (Am I clumping myself into the “quality” corral? Maybe.).  I wrapped the evening up with a dear friend at the Russian House, formerly the Russian embassy and currently a great DC hot-spot with blaring music and an extensive vodka list. Naturally I had to have a sample of the Christiania vodka, hailing from Norway, my ancestral land.

So now I sit reminiscing over the weekend. Second cup of over-priced/over-sweetened coffee. Looking at the pictures. Looking at my toes. Testing them for mobility. It’s all good.










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Viva la Tango

Wednesday, May 12th, 2010

Before the recent explosion of interest in ballroom dancing, there was Antonio Banderas in “Take the Lead.” The movie was far from being a box office hit, but I’d like to think that Antonio was a catalyst for the myriad of reality dance shows that clog our televisions today. Do you recall the watershed scene? That sinewy woman all wrapped up, in and around his body as if she were clinging for her very life during their demonstration of tango to a classroom of awestruck mis-fits. His deft and skillful arms holding her possessively to himself and then dipping her slowly. Sensually. I know it changed my life. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but it certainly made me shift in my seat a few times and forever altered the way I view ballroom dancing.


My tango debut


Fast-forward several years. I am at a party at the French Embassy and I am dancing to the music with all the enthusiasm that one can muster while bound in a cocktail dress and teetering in four-inch stilettos. A photographer catches my movements on film, and after reviewing his work decides that I would be a great candidate for the tango. He arrives at this conclusion because as he later confides in me, “You dance with passion.” If I had to guess I’d say it was more likely the effects of the French wine, but whatever the case, he asks if I would be interested in meeting an acquaintance of his. This acquaintance happens to be an authority on the Argentine tango and is looking for a new partner for an upcoming performance. I brood over the proposal. (My friends will tell you that I am a bit of an adventure junkie, so why not?). Flashbacks of “Take the Lead” fill my head. With this in mind, I say, “Yes” to my dubious future in tango.

While my instructor is Latin, the only other similarity he has to Antonio Banderas is his accent. He is 5’5 on a good day; I am 5’9 everyday. Exaggerating this obvious inequity is the fact that I am a staunch believer in wearing the highest possible heels at all times. I would wear them on the treadmill if I could. His frame and stature are reminiscent of this one particular kid in junior high that was incessantly being stuffed into various lockers by the football team. I feel (and probably look) like Attila the Hun when standing within a 10 feet radius of this guy.

All of this withstanding, my instructor is kind and encouraging, and he takes his time easing me into a dance that I have never previously attempted. He is good at what he does, and he needs to be in order to work with me. Although I can “shake my groove thang” with the best of ‘em, I have never had formal dance training, and it shows. Immediately.

Apparently, I DO like to take the lead, which is of course, anathema to proper dance protocol. How can I NOT take the lead given my advantage in mass? It is Darwinism in its purist form. To break me of this annoying and somewhat emasculating habit, my instructor tells me to dance with my eyes closed. He starts the music again. This time we are barely touching. Not really touching at all, actually. I am sensing his movements. Following the wake of his body. Like a horse being broken in a small body of water, I am forced to surrender control. I stop anticipating his next step. Instead, I give in to the music, the cadence, and the artistic whim of my instructor. It is passionate. It is moving. It feels as sensual as I had hoped it would, only better. Better because I never actually thought I could do it…but I can.



Dancing at the French Embassy



For reasons I will never fully understand, my instructor thinks that I am some kind of tango prodigy, and I nervously await the inevitable day when he realizes the faulty logic of this conclusion. Strangely, that day never comes, and he continues to push the envelope of my dancing prowess. On a side note, I must tell you that he has quite the affinity for my long legs. His thoughts regularly involve my inseam, and so he generously introduces kicks, lunges and shamelessly dramatic poses into my repertoire. It seems a bit showy if you ask me, but I have never had such fun. My thighs and buttocks quiver for days post lesson as a result of throwing my legs higher and plunging them deeper in a flashy display of pure tango drama.

Two months of lessons finally culminate into an actual performance. We are to dance alongside a fantastic jazz trio. There are several other female dancers far more qualified for this task than I, but my instructor gently nudges me onward with words of encouragement. The evening of the show, there are about 300 people in attendance. They have paid 25 dollars per ticket and I feel some sort of responsibility to them. They could have stayed in and ordered pizza, for heaven’s sake. I have told absolutely no one within my “sphere of influence” about this performance. This is typical behavior for me, as I tend to prefer humiliating myself in private.

The lights flicker. The last of the ticket holders take their seat. The cello starts a slow and melancholy whine. The piano follows, and soon the violin answers. This is My Tango. I enter stage left…dramatically following my partner. I approach him as a lover scorned. He places a kiss on my hand while never releasing his steely gaze from my face. We take our first step together. A long deliberate stride, and then I slowly make my desires known to him by sliding down his body while suggestively fanning a leg behind me. He pulls me closer and we dance for a moment until I kick my leg in defiance. I orbit around him. He grabs me and pushes me down into a deep lunge to exert his dominance. I yield. He pulls me back to himself and we continue our tango until at last the instruments crescendo in a dramatic and clanging final note. In the end, I am safely back in his arms.

There is applause. I can’t believe it, but there is definitely applause.

I have not strapped on my tango shoes since that watershed evening. I knew as I left the building that I wouldn’t. Even so, no one would ever accuse me of cruising through life on autopilot. I walk (and sometimes dance) through life with my eyes scanning the horizon for opportunities to be better than I am today. And I always find them. You will too if you are truly open to the tertiary paths that run parallel to the route you have laid out for yourself. Just before writing this final paragraph, I viewed the clip of Antonio Banderas’ fiery performance once more. I wasn’t half as good as that lucky woman tucked away in his arms, but I did dance with passion.

Looking back, the experience was thrilling, but I am happy that to have it over and done. Was my performance perfect? I offer a strong and resounding “NO.” I pray to God that I never see the video footage (If you find it, don’t tell me. I beg of you…). However, I have this philosophy about life. It is certainly not revolutionary, nor is it unique to myself in any way. It is simply this: “Live Large.” Do everything. Try things you never envisioned yourself doing. Put yourself out there and risk it. Taste every morsel of life, because we only get one shot at this thing…so we may as well make it a buffet. I think life is a dance that requires you to let go. To feel the cadence. To trust your self although the next step is not known. This is Your Tango, baby. Take the lead…

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