"A Funny Thing Happened While I Was Bellydancing..."
Story by Athena Najat, edited by Zaina Brown
"I don't know how that got in there!"
No matter how well-prepared I think I am, things can go wrong. Really wrong.
Take this well-paying surprise birthday party in Brooklyn, for instance. Nothing was going my way that day. I had gotten stranded with my car in the shop. Luckily, my parents lent me their spare, ancient Buick, so I could get from New Jersey to the show. I struggled to drive the huge sedan, and gave myself plenty of time to make it to the venue and find a parking spot. Of course, I got caught up in ridiculous traffic. The client called me numerous times to see how far I was. I made it to the area and parked on a residential street. As I got out of the car, rushing and struggling with my long skirt, bag, and props, an intimidating fellow came toward me, telling me not to park in front of his house. I pleaded rather desperately, pointing out I was clear of his driveway, and promising to return in half an hour. He continued yelling at me, so I decided to find another spot.
As I got to the venue, the client was impatiently waiting for me at the front door. I reached for my phone, but it wasn't there. It must have dropped from my lap in front of the angry man’s house! The client graciously left the party to look for my phone with me. We checked the car first, but nothing was ringing there despite him dialing my number. We retraced my steps, and he bravely rang the angry man's bell to ask if he'd picked up my phone off the street. After that, there wasn't much left to do. The phone was a goner.
I made a laborous mental shift into performance mode. I was counting on the happy party people and dance endorphins to make me forget my troubles. This show better be special! I had a brought along hip scarves for the audience participation songs for an extra touch. I handed the colorful bundle to a waiter, who would place them on a corner table.
Finally, I began my show. A few minutes in, the sound system popped and died. I continued smiling and playing my zills, and got the audience to clap through the awkward silence. To move things along, I handed out a few hip scarves. The staff brought in a crappy boombox to rescue the rest of the show. The mood was great, regardless of sound quality.
As I was dancing with a guest, she started laughing hysterically at her friend behind me. I turned to join in the fun, and saw a man with something familiar-looking on his head. I had to do a double-take for my brain to process the information.
Yes. He was wearing my underwear on his head. I gasped.
Apparently, a rogue pair of sparkly, black panties had snuck inside that bundle of hipscarves in my bag. Along with the coined scarves, it had waited on the table for someone to dance with it. At least it was clean.
I couldn’t think of an inconspicuous way of playing this off. I considered pretending the panties weren't mine, but even I wasn't buying it. So, I removed my underwear from the guy’s head, and playfully shook my finger at him. Don't wear my panties again, you naughty thing. I stuck it under my belt, where it poofed a little, like decorative piece of the costume.
Somehow, I survived this epic night. And I still do this for a living.
Want more funny stories? Check out parts one, two, three, and four of the blog series.
Take this well-paying surprise birthday party in Brooklyn, for instance. Nothing was going my way that day. I had gotten stranded with my car in the shop. Luckily, my parents lent me their spare, ancient Buick, so I could get from New Jersey to the show. I struggled to drive the huge sedan, and gave myself plenty of time to make it to the venue and find a parking spot. Of course, I got caught up in ridiculous traffic. The client called me numerous times to see how far I was. I made it to the area and parked on a residential street. As I got out of the car, rushing and struggling with my long skirt, bag, and props, an intimidating fellow came toward me, telling me not to park in front of his house. I pleaded rather desperately, pointing out I was clear of his driveway, and promising to return in half an hour. He continued yelling at me, so I decided to find another spot.
As I got to the venue, the client was impatiently waiting for me at the front door. I reached for my phone, but it wasn't there. It must have dropped from my lap in front of the angry man’s house! The client graciously left the party to look for my phone with me. We checked the car first, but nothing was ringing there despite him dialing my number. We retraced my steps, and he bravely rang the angry man's bell to ask if he'd picked up my phone off the street. After that, there wasn't much left to do. The phone was a goner.
I made a laborous mental shift into performance mode. I was counting on the happy party people and dance endorphins to make me forget my troubles. This show better be special! I had a brought along hip scarves for the audience participation songs for an extra touch. I handed the colorful bundle to a waiter, who would place them on a corner table.
Finally, I began my show. A few minutes in, the sound system popped and died. I continued smiling and playing my zills, and got the audience to clap through the awkward silence. To move things along, I handed out a few hip scarves. The staff brought in a crappy boombox to rescue the rest of the show. The mood was great, regardless of sound quality.
As I was dancing with a guest, she started laughing hysterically at her friend behind me. I turned to join in the fun, and saw a man with something familiar-looking on his head. I had to do a double-take for my brain to process the information.
Yes. He was wearing my underwear on his head. I gasped.
Apparently, a rogue pair of sparkly, black panties had snuck inside that bundle of hipscarves in my bag. Along with the coined scarves, it had waited on the table for someone to dance with it. At least it was clean.
I couldn’t think of an inconspicuous way of playing this off. I considered pretending the panties weren't mine, but even I wasn't buying it. So, I removed my underwear from the guy’s head, and playfully shook my finger at him. Don't wear my panties again, you naughty thing. I stuck it under my belt, where it poofed a little, like decorative piece of the costume.
Somehow, I survived this epic night. And I still do this for a living.
Want more funny stories? Check out parts one, two, three, and four of the blog series.
