I do not understand the weather. It's nice for a day or two and then, wham, it cools right off and turns to crap. What's the deal? I'm still wearing long jeans, a cardigan, socks, and shoes to work to stay warm in the breeze of the fans. Shouldn't I be in shorts and a t-shirt by now? The mailman, Pat, and Kevin, the Assistant Instructor, are wearing shorts, have been for a couple weeks. How come I'm still cold?
June 17--Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus. Venus hated dancing naked this time of year. It was bad enough in summer when it was suffocatingly hot on stage under the lights, but it was the worst in winter. The crowd was thinner in the winter because of the seasonal layoffs so tips were low but even worse was the cold. Venus had pale pale skin that looked transparent and her red gold hair was long, so long it hung down below her bottom. But her mantle of hair couldn't protect her from the icy drafts that blew from everywhere in the old theater. Some days she felt like her goosebumps were bigger than her nipples. Even the heat of the lights and her dancing weren't enough to keep her warm. She stationed her friend Edna in the wings with a blanket to wrap herself in when she went offstage. She needed to talk to Harry about getting some heat backstage, blue-lipped and shivering women just weren't sexy.
A militant stripper. My kind of woman.
--Barbara
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