Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (63 page)

Naturally, we turned to our resident New Age Guru, Thalia, and her magic crystal to find out the sex of our unborn babies. While we were at it, we also wanted to know how many children we would birth in our lifetimes. The crystal hung on a string and Thalia held it still over my palm. She asked it the burning questions I wanted answered. The cosmic forces then caused the stone to swing a certain number of times indicating the number of children and in a certain direction (clockwise or counterclockwise) indicating the sex of the children. “You’re going to have two children—a boy and a girl,” Thalia predicted. The crystal indicated that Leslie would have two boys. This process was all the rage with the married girls. Before long, ultrasounds confirmed the crystal’s predictions: Our first-born babies were boys! 

Not really knowing what to expect when expecting, I decided to continue dancing until my fourth month of pregnancy. Most days, I was so tired that I felt like I was run over by a truck.   I’d sleep until noon, eat breakfast, do errands, and then nap from about four until six o’clock. Then it was time to get ready to head to the theatre. Unfortunately, my “morning sickness” arrived in the evenings while I was doing the show. Sucking on candied ginger between numbers helped me combat the nausea. Luckily, I never got really sick during the show, but I was always a little concerned about the possibility that I would turn green smack in the middle of a number and have to dash off stage. I was also terrified of my little guy getting squished from people landing hard on my stomach during the soldier fall. In addition, I worried about how quickly I would plump up with a belly bump. After all, our costumes left little to the imagination. As luck would have it, I took maternity leave just before wardrobe would have had to alter my costumes to make room for baby. By this time, my ballooning breasts were absolutely bursting out of my opening number bikini top. Even though Vegas audiences tended to prefer and celebrate big bosoms, I was too self-conscious to flaunt mine. (Remember how I claimed I could never dance pregnant like Momma did?) All in all, I fared fairly well performing with a bun in the oven.

During my final show before taking maternity leave, I was given a proper Vegas send-off: a little song-and-dance extravaganza we fondly called “Big Butts.” Instead of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” our traditional farewell song for exiting Rockettes was Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back,” a tune touting the sexiness of curvaceous women. (I didn’t have a lot of “back” at the time, but I did have more than enough “front.”) This was a wild, emotional, celebratory tradition everyone expected and enjoyed. Right before the second show, we’d all gather in the Big Dressing Room in our opening number bikinis. The girl leaving (in this case, moi) would stand on a chair, and we’d all dance with total abandon, twirling towels and shouting the lyrics loudly. It was a touching goodbye.

Ron and I took the opportunity to visit family and travel for a few months in England, Paris, Scotland, Michigan, and Florida. We then returned to Vegas so Ron could resume working while I became homebound with child. Ron had easily scored a job as a used car salesman. It helped pay the bills, but these Vegas salesmen took used car sales to an entirely new level of shadiness. Ron was the only one at his dealership without a parole officer, and the stories he heard at work of meth labs and salesmen stealing the cars they were supposed to be selling made the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. He found them highly entertaining, however, and couldn’t wait to go to the office to see what would happen next. I stayed home and nested, preparing for baby.

Our beautiful son, Kieran, was born in Henderson, Nevada, eight days after his due date: Christmas day! He was the best Christmas present ever. One of Ron’s coworkers at the car dealership, who was a bookie in his off time, kindly presented Kieran with a birthday gift: He had bet on a football game on Kieran’s behalf and had won him $50. Albeit an unusual baby present, it seemed befitting for a bookie. The instant I gave birth, my life changed forever. Suddenly I was on mommy duty 24/7, always at Kieran’s beck and call. And he called a lot. Poor little thing had terrible colic and screamed for hours each day. His only comfort came from motion, so I bounced him much of the time. My days and nights became consumed with this precious, tiny, needy creature.

Leslie’s son had been born five days before Kieran, and we decided we’d return to work when the babies were about three months old. Wowie, was that too soon! Being a new mom, I didn’t realize how challenging going back to work would be. By the time I gave birth, I had gained thirty-eight pounds and been out of the show for about six months. Having to get back in bikini shape and develop the stamina to do a couple hundred kicks a night while recovering from childbirth and getting adjusted to caring for an infant was a lot of pressure to put on myself and my body. Thankfully, I had Leslie by my side to muddle through it with me. We busted our behinds to lose the extra pregnancy weight, pushing our babies in their strollers for miles and miles around Sunset Park. In my apartment, I also did aerobics and kickboxing videos, sometimes with Kieran in a baby backpack strapped on to me to stop him from crying (the motion soothed him). On days when we needed to get out of the house, Leslie and I would meet at a coffee shop with the boys and discuss all our baby issues. Having a friend to share new Mommy-hood with helped a lot. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without her.

When I finally returned to work, I felt chubby and self-conscious, because I was definitely not back to my pre-pregnancy shape or strength. Stuffing myself into that opening number bikini was pure torture, physically and emotionally. Thankfully, after a couple of weeks, the weight fell off. My first week in the show was especially nerve-wracking, because I had to be a swing until my regular spot opened up again. Luckily, I only got called in to cover the Infanta spot in “Bolero.” There was no way I was going to learn everyone’s tracks when I was only swing for a week. It was probably best that I wasn’t dancing too much right away, because my tendons and ligaments hadn’t returned to normal yet since giving birth. I snapped my Achilles tendon simply walking around my apartment complex in medium-high heels and had to go to Pilates and get acupuncture to help it heal. (My Achilles heel was my Achilles heel.) Probably not the smartest idea, I stayed in the show and continued dancing even though I was hurting for quite a while.

If I thought doing twelve shows a week was taxing pre-pregnancy, doing it while raising an infant made my previous fatigue seem laughable. I danced two shows a night, got home around 12:45 a.m., and tried to catch a couple hours sleep before Kieran woke up to be fed and cared for. Some days he was up for the day starting as early as 5 a.m. He wasn’t one of those babies who slept all day. He required constant attention and stimulation. Any time he actually slept, I had to avoid the temptation to get something done (including taking a shower) and instead dropped everything and took a nap myself. Adjusting to the needs of this little angel, who kept me on my toes night and day, was a challenge like no other.

*******

Just as I was learning to cope with and somewhat manage both baby and work, we got word that there was going to be a major renovation to our show, thanks to Maurice Hines, the Rockettes’ biggest fan. After performing with us, his creative juices began flowing and he became inspired to add more sizzle to his beloved Rockettes. Maurice’s master plan included revamping “Bolero” and creating a new number to “Luck Be a Lady” from
Guys & Dolls
, with Maurice singing and the Rockettes, his “sidekicks,” dancing backup. Exciting!

Most rehearsals required an afternoon or two of our time, but Maurice’s grand vision was going to mean
weeks
of daily rehearsals in addition to our nightly performances. Maurice’s magical touch was sure to turn our production into a tour de force, but the impending rehearsal schedule threw a huge wrench in the works for me. With Ron working during the day, I had to find childcare. I wasn’t keen on having a stranger in charge of my newborn, especially since he needed extra loving patience. Plus, now I’d have to pay for a babysitter. My solution was to fly my mom out from Detroit to stay with us until the process was finished.

Substantial overhauls like this one left us camping out at the theatre, day and night. We practically
lived
at the Flamingo. Surviving it intact required tremendous physical and emotional fortitude. And plenty of coffee, donuts, bagels, and cream cheese at our disposal at all times. So essential was this convention that we had an official Bagel-Donut Dictator—the persuasive Mac. Mac toted a clipboard with a list of names; when it was your turn to buy bagels or donuts, she showed up at your spot and dictated your duty with supreme authority. You didn’t have a choice. Mac’s system was all very organized and you were expected to do your part. Capiche? I don’t know what would have happened if someone had mutinied and refused to buy bagels and donuts. Since the contracts were a minimum of six months, I guess no one thought being ostracized for that long was worth saving the $20. The girls descended upon the treats like vultures to a carcass.

On a typical rehearsal day, we would roll out of bed, groggy and sore from the night before, and stumble into the theatre. Seeing the sugary glaze glisten on a box of fresh Krispy Kremes assured us that we would make it through the day. We bedraggled Rockettes would be plopped down on stage, still wiping the sleep out of our eyes, and cajoling our weary muscles and brains into waking up when Mr. Hines came flitting into rehearsals, assistant choreographer David at his heels, sporting his baseball cap and toting his steaming cup of Starbucks coffee, gesturing grandly, smiling broadly, and calling out, “How are my divas today?” He was caffeinated, energized, and brimming with grandiose ideas of making the Rockettes spectacular enough to befit the name
The Great Radio City Spectacular
. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you had to admire his passion for his art. And for us. We were lucky to be ladies working with this remarkable and appreciative guy.

Maurice had such a flamboyant, improvisational style all his own, however, that it was nearly impossible to translate his grooves into our rigid, precision-dance moves. Stylistically, we spoke two different languages. Like a master musician, off the cuff, he’d spontaneously create some show-stopping dance riff. We’d all stand and stare with our mouths agape, stunned by his showmanship and simultaneously not having the slightest clue how to begin trying to match him. This was not how Rockettes were used to working. His assistant had the excruciating task of trying to break down Maurice’s motions into tiny fragments we could duplicate in such a way that we all looked exactly alike doing it. Transforming his free-flowing, jazzy pizzazz into precision-dance felt like trying to box in a butterfly. To top that off, keeping us in height order was a mathematical nightmare. The Rockettes couldn’t be moved around willy-nilly because returning us to height order for the requisite final kickline would then be like solving a Rubik’s cube. Formation changes took considerable preplanning. It was a painstaking process, and we had to be alert and focused at all times if we were going to absorb the groove of this Grand Master Dancer.

After an intense day of rehearsing plus our regular performances, by the time we neared the end of our second show, we were either loopy and slaphappy or monstrously grouchy or both. If we were really lucky, someone would make Jell-O shots to be passed out right after the finale of the last show. Often it was my dear friend Heidi, who became famous for the fantastic margarita Jell-O shot she created using lime Jell-O, triple sec, and tequila—another reason she quickly became one of my best friends. She was a gorgeous blond with stylish, short hair and a flawless body including that coveted six-pack. I should have been jealous of her, but instead I just thought she was the cat’s meow. She grew up on a dairy farm in Grand Island, Nebraska. “Who ever heard of an island in Nebraska, let alone a ‘grand’ one?” I’d tease her. When standing next to her in the wings waiting to go on stage, I would pretend to milk a cow, quietly making udder-squirting sounds.

Heidi and I started our own private wine-tasting club. Every Thursday, we would stay at the theatre after the second show, drink wine, eat cheese and crackers, and chit-chat in the dressing room until about 1:30 or 2:00 a.m. It was easier to hang at work since we lived on opposite sides of town—too far to drive that late. One memorable night, we walked out to the employee parking garage to head home and couldn’t find Heidi’s car. Being tired, we figured she had just forgotten where she’d left it. After doing several laps around the garage, we enlisted a security guy to drive us around. Sure enough, her car was AWOL. The man escorted us to an obscure, stark, plain, closet-sized room in the bowels of the casino to fill out a report with security. It looked like an interrogation room where casino goons would rough up patrons suspected of card reading and cheating the house out of money. About a week later, Heidi’s car turned up, stripped and trashed. Apparently, a couple of teenagers had taken it out for a joy ride. Vegas. Good times.

Anyway, Heidi’s margarita Jell-O shots were a big hit after a drawn-out, devil-of-a-day at the office. The Rockettes relied heavily on caffeine, sugar, the occasional slurp of gelatinous agave liquor, and lots of laughter to help us survive rehearsal marathons. Thankfully, through all the trials and tribulations, Maurice didn’t give up on us or his grand vision. We all persevered, and the final product was a smashing success.

The bonus prize was that Radio City sent new costumes! Actually they were used, pink and silver “Singing in the Rain” costumes, but they were new to us. I think they were hand-me-downs from the
Radio City Spring Spectacular
. Even more fun was choosing whatever color short-haired wig we wanted to wear with the hat. I went peroxide blond. The Rockettes convened on stage in our new costumes and took group photos to commemorate the special occasion.