First of all, I am sure that a few of you have been wondering about what happened to this post as it made a brief appearance in y'alls readers this weekend. Yes, I meant to post. Just not at that time. Remember how I am prone to write stuff days, sometimes weeks, in advance. I just kind of hit the wrong button. But on with it all...
A few weeks ago, I mentioned exotic dancers in a post. That same week Hilly wrote a whole post about them. In my comments to her, I said that perhaps I should share a story. So now I'm sharing.
My first exposure to dancers was through a college roommate. If there was a Chippendales review in town, then she was there. And after we became roommates, I'd tag along. That same year I dated a guy who belonged to a certain fraternity.
This guy announced after a month of dating that he had been watching me for a year. I know this because he was able to describe outfits that I hadn't worn in about a year. Over this time, he had decided what kind of house we would have when we were married -- and the names of our children. I was going to say, "And for some reason," but I know the reason. When I met him, I was barely hanging onto life. I was looking to others for my reason to stay around. And so we "learned" how to be cruel to one another off and on over a two year period. I say "learned" because I know that at least on my part it was not something new. I may have not exhibited it previously but I knew long before I met him how to be cruel to another person.
This is not the story though. I mentioned this guy because his fraternity had an annual Chippendales night as their big fundraiser. I still joke to this day that that was the only night each year that all of the guys in the fraternity got laid. Really. Right before I left the place, I headed to the bathroom. To see some chick who had one of the brothers pinned to the floor while her friends were trying to drag her off of him saying, "But she has a boyfriend." Yeah. Right.
A few years later I ended up in a summer school program in England. The first Friday night found me and a few classmates walking through the West End. We'd pass by clubs and they would say that ladies didn't need to pay the cover. Well, our group of six was half female. And the female half? We were adventurous. We eventually told the guys that if they paid for a round for us in a pub, we would go with with them to their strip club of choice.
I remember our shock upon entering the club. They had a one drink minimum. And that two pound pint? Was eight to ten pounds in the strip club world. And then the girls started dancing. And the first chick had totally not taken care of her bikini line. Ewwww. I would have had more drinks if they had not been more expensive. But I had had enough drinks to warrant a trip to the bathroom. And while I was in the stall I got to hear the chicks talking about the cheap bastards in the club. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I stepped out of the stall. After about twenty minutes of this, during which we got to witness the girls literally clean out a German tourist's wallet, my guy friends decided that they had been cheated. One headed back up to the door to complain. The door guy was not there but the roll of entrance tickets was. My friend ripped off a long strand of the tickets before returning to find us. When we finally made it back to the dorm, all six of us were wearing a "boa" of these tickets. I'm sure the other students with whom we met up in the lobby after they were returning from a night at the theater and four-star dining thought that we were extra classy. I know this much. Our story is probably much more interesting today than theirs.
The last time I set foot in a strip joint is the most memorable by far though. It was during the height of my partygirl days in San Francisco. Every Friday night after work, I'd head to North Beach. To this old Italian bar. I still think of it as one of the safest places in the City. I was seated at the bar next to an older guy. He looked at me and asked, "Sweetheart, why you look so sad?" Now at this point the bartender, who I knew well enough to call "Uncle," had told me to not talk to this guy. Something about his fear that one day I would end up dead in an alley. Whatever. (Jade on the other hand used to ask me why I always told these guys that I understand Italian. I told her because I've seen the movies. First to go? The accountant and the girlfriend. Just didn't want folks saying things in front of me about which I shouldn't know.) I told the guy, "Some guy just insulted me." And then I pointed out the guy to him. I caught the offensive guy's eye as I pointed and smiled really nicely. Because I can be a bitch like that. The nice guy sitting next to me said that no one should ever insult me.
As the evening progressed, we started talking about smoking -- specifically cigars. Turns out his friend owned a place with cigars. So we decided to head on over. Turns out the place was a strip joint. All that mattered to me was that they had Jack and cigars. The girls were a wee bit classier than my previous encounter but I didn't really notice that much.
How does one follow up cigars at a strip joint? Playing pool. By the time our pool game ended, I realized that I was quite intoxicated (OK. Maybe I realized it when I was puking in the ladies room at the strip club but the night was young. And my stomach was empty.) and explained that I should probably go home. Especially since I had not eaten much that day.
"You should have told me you were hungry. Next time I'll buy you dinner."
And then he called the bartender over to get a cab for me. And pressed some money in my hand. I tried to give some of it back because it was more than what I knew that the cab ride home would cost. He wasn't having any of it. After reaching home, I briefly thought to myself that if he had given me five dollars more, I could have broken even for the evening.
The next week I was out with a friend and her coworkers. One of her coworkers had grown up in San Francisco and knew all kinds of interesting types of people. She mentioned a former classmate who had been acquitted on a hit. I told her that her classmate had the same last name as the guy I had met the previous weekend. When I told her the guy's full name, she said that he was the uncle of her classmate. And that I had not been mistaken in pegging him as a made man.
Every now and then I wonder about the guy who insulted me. Because I haven't seen him since that night. Oh, but he probably just moved out of the area. Yep. That's it.
Ummm. And now maybe you understand just how wild and out of control I was back in those days. Because stuff like this? Kind of normal back then. But I had a lot of fun.
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Monday, September 15, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
A partial equation
In thinking over my post about hormones and what not, I realized that I left out some key components to the equation. It was not just the surge of certain hormones that led to the 5150s. Instead it was a combination of three things -- hormones, lack of sleep, and poor eating. I know that I cannot necessarily control the first but the others I do. And this is probably why now in my life I have such an in-depth relationship with food, so to speak.
I normally sleep four to six hours a night. While I can survive on four hours a night for a few days, the practice starts to take its toll by the end of a week. In all of the times during which I felt suicidal, I had been sleeping four hours a night for at least three to four weeks. Almost hand-in-hand with the irregular sleep patterns went poor eating. Actually that first time, the poor eating was not necessarily of my choosing.
That time I had just lost my part-time job; they told me that they decided that they needed someone who could work full-time. Fortunately I was able to go back to one of my old supervisors and to get my old job back. (I was in college at the time.) My job paid for my monthly expenses outside of rent. And some of my books. My dad paid for tuition, rent and some of my other expenses. It was the beginning of the term and both were due. When I called my dad to ask where the check was, he said, "In the mail." I waited a couple of days and checked the mail. No check. I called to ask about the money and was told, "Oh, I forgot to mail it the other day. I'll put it in the mail today." This went on for weeks. (My father later told me that he was being audited by the IRS and so he didn't have much available cash. I told him that I wish he had told me this then. I guess he was ashamed. I was starving.) I was so broke eventually that Emerald and her roommate, my neighbors at that time, laid down a rule. Anyone hung out with them had to meet a minimum weight requirement. Every night they would knock on my door at dinner time to let me know that dinner was ready. (This is the point at which Emerald became my best friend for life. And in later years we bonded even more over her insecurities. She is one of the most beautiful women I know but she always felt inferior to me. Because I was the skinnier, more fair-skinned of the two of us. And that's probably part of my anger at the world. That they can't see how wonderful she is because of their narrow views of beauty.) Most days it was the only meal that I had. If they hadn't been feeding me, I probably would have lost even more weight. When I returned home, I weighed 110 pounds. I'm 5'10". Picture that in your mind. A year later my mother told me how frightening I looked when I stepped off the plane. (I told y'all that my mother had been there for me in some really bad times.) She made me go to a doctor immediately who told me that five more pounds and I would have found myself in a hospital hooked up to an IV.
You would have thought that that would have been enough for me but I kept going through the cycle until I did a full year of therapy. And it was shortly after this that I realized the combination of events. I also learned a great number of tools to help me cope when things are bad. So first and foremost, I make sure that I am eating well and that I'm getting adequate sleep. The latter can be a bit more challenging since I have suffered from insomnia since high school. But somewhere along the line, I bought into what the first therapist said -- I really wanted to live and I was just trying to ask for help because I didn't know any other way to ask.
And during these last couple of years was the first time that I have really felt like I wanted to live. Because one of the ground rules that I set down was that it had to be on my terms and not someone else's. Because I finally started to truly believe what others had been trying to tell me -- I am a wonderful person. And that I always have the power to define myself.
Oh, and these are for Jill. Because I know how much she loves to see B&N.
Oh, and I've come to realize something recently. I used to get upset when Boris would try to eat Natasha's food. What I have noticed is that she will sniff the food and then walk off. Boris will then eat a few nibbles from her dish. When she returns and sees that some is gone, she then eats the food. Silly me didn't realize that Boris is the royal taster.
I normally sleep four to six hours a night. While I can survive on four hours a night for a few days, the practice starts to take its toll by the end of a week. In all of the times during which I felt suicidal, I had been sleeping four hours a night for at least three to four weeks. Almost hand-in-hand with the irregular sleep patterns went poor eating. Actually that first time, the poor eating was not necessarily of my choosing.
That time I had just lost my part-time job; they told me that they decided that they needed someone who could work full-time. Fortunately I was able to go back to one of my old supervisors and to get my old job back. (I was in college at the time.) My job paid for my monthly expenses outside of rent. And some of my books. My dad paid for tuition, rent and some of my other expenses. It was the beginning of the term and both were due. When I called my dad to ask where the check was, he said, "In the mail." I waited a couple of days and checked the mail. No check. I called to ask about the money and was told, "Oh, I forgot to mail it the other day. I'll put it in the mail today." This went on for weeks. (My father later told me that he was being audited by the IRS and so he didn't have much available cash. I told him that I wish he had told me this then. I guess he was ashamed. I was starving.) I was so broke eventually that Emerald and her roommate, my neighbors at that time, laid down a rule. Anyone hung out with them had to meet a minimum weight requirement. Every night they would knock on my door at dinner time to let me know that dinner was ready. (This is the point at which Emerald became my best friend for life. And in later years we bonded even more over her insecurities. She is one of the most beautiful women I know but she always felt inferior to me. Because I was the skinnier, more fair-skinned of the two of us. And that's probably part of my anger at the world. That they can't see how wonderful she is because of their narrow views of beauty.) Most days it was the only meal that I had. If they hadn't been feeding me, I probably would have lost even more weight. When I returned home, I weighed 110 pounds. I'm 5'10". Picture that in your mind. A year later my mother told me how frightening I looked when I stepped off the plane. (I told y'all that my mother had been there for me in some really bad times.) She made me go to a doctor immediately who told me that five more pounds and I would have found myself in a hospital hooked up to an IV.
You would have thought that that would have been enough for me but I kept going through the cycle until I did a full year of therapy. And it was shortly after this that I realized the combination of events. I also learned a great number of tools to help me cope when things are bad. So first and foremost, I make sure that I am eating well and that I'm getting adequate sleep. The latter can be a bit more challenging since I have suffered from insomnia since high school. But somewhere along the line, I bought into what the first therapist said -- I really wanted to live and I was just trying to ask for help because I didn't know any other way to ask.
And during these last couple of years was the first time that I have really felt like I wanted to live. Because one of the ground rules that I set down was that it had to be on my terms and not someone else's. Because I finally started to truly believe what others had been trying to tell me -- I am a wonderful person. And that I always have the power to define myself.
Oh, and these are for Jill. Because I know how much she loves to see B&N.
Oh, and I've come to realize something recently. I used to get upset when Boris would try to eat Natasha's food. What I have noticed is that she will sniff the food and then walk off. Boris will then eat a few nibbles from her dish. When she returns and sees that some is gone, she then eats the food. Silly me didn't realize that Boris is the royal taster.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Who's on second?
"No, what's on second."
"That's what I want to know. What's the guy's name on second?"
"Exactly."
No, this is not a post about Abbott and Costello, although I love them. Just like I love The Stooges. With this last one, I was able to be rated as "truly one of the guys." There was this whole discussion about the Stooges elements in the Lethal Weapon movies. So this paired with my understanding of characters in comic books, suddenly made me "truly one of the guys." Don't even get me started about cars. Or the debate about the designated hitter in the American League. Or why pitchers should also go to bat. I still love my A's though.
And no, this post is not about being one of the guys either. Although I have spent many years doing that. I guess it's what happens when you are one of the few girls in a mostly male family. And if you're from my mom's family, shut up. I know that your generation is mostly female. Not the same for mine. One of my first major lessons in life was when making a fist, make sure your thumb is on the outside. Otherwise you might break it when you swing. And nothing like the weight of a roll of quarters in your hand when you're swinging, especially if you are a slender girl. Not that I ever actually did that. I just use the quarters when shadowboxing.
No, instead this post is a revisit to my second love. I also realize that I forgot to mention my third love in the previous post -- movies. Yep. You've got it. My boyfriend came in fourth. Maybe that's why he turned cold. Nah. He just has commitment issues. Even greater than mine -- if that is at all possible. Reminds me. I need to drop him an email. See if he is wishing death upon any children yet. Yep, he has rejoined the workforce and is also a teacher. He is also the guy who remembered from my casual mention that red vines are my fave movie candy. That's why I kept him around back then.
So onto the real topic. Last night I was de-stressing at home. This means sipping on a glass of red wine while listening to tunes on my headphones. Why headphones, you ask? Because I want to block out Boris's wailing. Not that he did any that I could tell.
Tuesday night was all about bringing out my East Bay roots. Well, to start of with. I kind of get a sense of getting grounded in who I am. (This is helpful because I went to the hairdresser on Tuesday after school and now have a slightly new hair color. This I could live with but she also insisted upon lightening my eyebrows. This will take some getting used to as I keep looking in the mirror and not recognizing my reflection.) I started off with Too Short's "Blow the Whistle." My kids have tried to do the whistle part in class. I've cut them off with, "There will be no Too Short in here." You should have seen the stunned looks I received. Followed by, "How do you know that song?" I swear that teaching is what keeps me young in some ways. Another popular song in my classroom is "London Bridge." I have one male student who likes to sing the chorus. Oh, and he jumps out of his seat to do it with a lot of pelvic thrusting. Did I mention that I teach ten-year-olds? It's really quite disturbing.
As I listened to song after song, I thought of my dating life. Drummer Boy is history. I have not heard from him in over two weeks. Oh, and his band is playing locally tonight. Will I be there? Nope. And I thought of Musician Boy from earlier this year. After a couple of weeks, he finally stopped trying to contact me. But this love of musicians goes back further. I spent the last half of undergrad in an on-again, off-again relationship with a bass player. He was in a cover band and only sang lead on two songs -- "Ask Me" by The Smiths and "Great Balls of Fire" by Jerry Lee. At shows he would look at me on the second one. And so many women hated me for dating him. Thing is that I had met him at least a year before I started dating him. A common friend who was also in ROTC had introduced us. Unfortunately at the time he looked like the engineering geek that he was in some ways and I was dating this really hot pre-med student who had just been accepted to Chicago. Geeky engineering student or the suave Beer Doctor? Seemed to be a no-brainer at age 20.
I also mixed in some latin music as well as some Dirty South stuff. Tonight I booked my ticket for Mexico to visit my mom for Christmas. This will be the first Christmas that we have been together since 1994. And the Dirty South stuff? Well, I have to get ready for the family reunion (my dad's side) in DC next summer. And yes, I know that DC is not part of the Dirty South but most of family who will there are from the Dirty South. Just can't figure out those Falcons fans.
Oh, and as far as the kids are concerned, staying in this past weekends seems to be just what I needed. I have found that even though I cough occasionally, I seem to have the same energy now that I had during the first week of school. I even managed to change the seating arrangement in 20 minutes yesterday. Because the kids have personal stuff in their desks, this means actually carrying desks across the room. It was so much easier when I taught middle school. *sigh*
"That's what I want to know. What's the guy's name on second?"
"Exactly."
No, this is not a post about Abbott and Costello, although I love them. Just like I love The Stooges. With this last one, I was able to be rated as "truly one of the guys." There was this whole discussion about the Stooges elements in the Lethal Weapon movies. So this paired with my understanding of characters in comic books, suddenly made me "truly one of the guys." Don't even get me started about cars. Or the debate about the designated hitter in the American League. Or why pitchers should also go to bat. I still love my A's though.
And no, this post is not about being one of the guys either. Although I have spent many years doing that. I guess it's what happens when you are one of the few girls in a mostly male family. And if you're from my mom's family, shut up. I know that your generation is mostly female. Not the same for mine. One of my first major lessons in life was when making a fist, make sure your thumb is on the outside. Otherwise you might break it when you swing. And nothing like the weight of a roll of quarters in your hand when you're swinging, especially if you are a slender girl. Not that I ever actually did that. I just use the quarters when shadowboxing.
No, instead this post is a revisit to my second love. I also realize that I forgot to mention my third love in the previous post -- movies. Yep. You've got it. My boyfriend came in fourth. Maybe that's why he turned cold. Nah. He just has commitment issues. Even greater than mine -- if that is at all possible. Reminds me. I need to drop him an email. See if he is wishing death upon any children yet. Yep, he has rejoined the workforce and is also a teacher. He is also the guy who remembered from my casual mention that red vines are my fave movie candy. That's why I kept him around back then.
So onto the real topic. Last night I was de-stressing at home. This means sipping on a glass of red wine while listening to tunes on my headphones. Why headphones, you ask? Because I want to block out Boris's wailing. Not that he did any that I could tell.
Tuesday night was all about bringing out my East Bay roots. Well, to start of with. I kind of get a sense of getting grounded in who I am. (This is helpful because I went to the hairdresser on Tuesday after school and now have a slightly new hair color. This I could live with but she also insisted upon lightening my eyebrows. This will take some getting used to as I keep looking in the mirror and not recognizing my reflection.) I started off with Too Short's "Blow the Whistle." My kids have tried to do the whistle part in class. I've cut them off with, "There will be no Too Short in here." You should have seen the stunned looks I received. Followed by, "How do you know that song?" I swear that teaching is what keeps me young in some ways. Another popular song in my classroom is "London Bridge." I have one male student who likes to sing the chorus. Oh, and he jumps out of his seat to do it with a lot of pelvic thrusting. Did I mention that I teach ten-year-olds? It's really quite disturbing.
As I listened to song after song, I thought of my dating life. Drummer Boy is history. I have not heard from him in over two weeks. Oh, and his band is playing locally tonight. Will I be there? Nope. And I thought of Musician Boy from earlier this year. After a couple of weeks, he finally stopped trying to contact me. But this love of musicians goes back further. I spent the last half of undergrad in an on-again, off-again relationship with a bass player. He was in a cover band and only sang lead on two songs -- "Ask Me" by The Smiths and "Great Balls of Fire" by Jerry Lee. At shows he would look at me on the second one. And so many women hated me for dating him. Thing is that I had met him at least a year before I started dating him. A common friend who was also in ROTC had introduced us. Unfortunately at the time he looked like the engineering geek that he was in some ways and I was dating this really hot pre-med student who had just been accepted to Chicago. Geeky engineering student or the suave Beer Doctor? Seemed to be a no-brainer at age 20.
I also mixed in some latin music as well as some Dirty South stuff. Tonight I booked my ticket for Mexico to visit my mom for Christmas. This will be the first Christmas that we have been together since 1994. And the Dirty South stuff? Well, I have to get ready for the family reunion (my dad's side) in DC next summer. And yes, I know that DC is not part of the Dirty South but most of family who will there are from the Dirty South. Just can't figure out those Falcons fans.
Oh, and as far as the kids are concerned, staying in this past weekends seems to be just what I needed. I have found that even though I cough occasionally, I seem to have the same energy now that I had during the first week of school. I even managed to change the seating arrangement in 20 minutes yesterday. Because the kids have personal stuff in their desks, this means actually carrying desks across the room. It was so much easier when I taught middle school. *sigh*
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