To discuss turning me into a tiny dancer

So I'm kinda sorta becoming a dancer.

I suppose it was inevitable. I watch "So You Think You Can Dance" with a thoroughly furrowed brow. I enjoy dancing at the club.*

* Which is sooooo easy for a straight guy. A) Step behind girl B) Bend her over a little bit if you're a gentleman, or a lot if you have mommy issues C) Shake her booty into your crotch while raising one hand in the air, possibly fist pumping if you are in Jersey, possibly smacking her butt if you're a douche.

I took dancing classes when I was a kid, and by dancing, I mean I dressed up like a flaming Indian. I watched Bing Crosby dance with Danny F****** Kaye in "White Christmas."** I even started dating a dancer recently.

** Quote attributed to Clark W. Griswold

Now I have to be, like, a real dancer. In "Music Man," I have to be one of the featured dancers in all the group numbers, and since my "Macarena" training in middle school gym class has done me as much good as pre-algebra in the aforementioned school, I have to work a lot harder just to get basic steps.

I've been spending weekends and many weeknights learning choreography (that word always makes me think of Danny Kaye's really random "Choreography" dance number in White Christmas, speaking of which).

I've had to do a chassé. I had to learn what a chassé is. And mostly, I've had to figure out how to get my feet and hands to do what I'm telling them to do, an accomplishment you'd think God would have made easier for humans, but evidently God didn't enjoy "Center Stage"*** or "Flashdance." God did, however, enjoy "You Got Served." Of this, I am certain.

*** Very underrated movie. It's also the major film debut, I believe, of a certain actress who later starred in the biggest blockbuster of all time.

So I'd like to hear from you, dear online friend, about any embarrassing dance-related experiences. Please make me feel better.

To discuss being mistaken for a Will instead of a Grace

A gay guy I recently just met through theater pulled me aside recently.

"So, I'm usually good at these things, but ..." he said.

I knew exactly where this is going. I've seen enough Jennifer Lopez movies ... which, come to think of it, might be the reason for this:

"Which way do you go?" he asked as diplomatically as possible.

"Yeah, I like women," I replied, unfazed.

"OK, that's cool, it's just you always dress nice and have your hair done all nice and everything," he said.

After I told him he's not the first theater guy to ask me that - it is theater, after all - I again told him I'm a fan of boobs and whatnot; I did appreciate the compliments, though.

As I got in my car and the interior light turned on, he noticed the magazine I had just got in the mail that afternoon, laying on the passenger seat.

No, it wasn't Maxim. Or even Esquire. Either would have helped me out. It was Vanity Fair, which this month features a cover with two soccer guys in nothing but underwear.

"Yeah, that's not helping my case, is it?" I said.

Later, when I told Capricorn about it, she laughed and said there are several things not helping my case. To name a few:

* I do musical theater

* I color coordinate

* I read Cosmopolitan

* I watch Bravo reality shows

* I have a special place in my heart for the remake of "A Little Princess."

* I use the phrase "special place in my heart."

* I like to sing along to "Chicago" showtunes.

However, I do not like penises, and that's a requisite.

I do wonder, blog readers, if you've ever mistaken someone for the wrong sexual preference. And better yet, have you ever asked them? Or just found out eventually?