4 Margaritas Later. . .

Despite the fact that Sex and the City is one of my all-time favorite TV shows and I tend to relate many of my adventures to the girls in the show, I don't actually do the party scene very often. In fact, I do it so rarely that it really is a big event just to get me out there. But this past week had been full of subconscious emotional stress and deep down there was an inexplicable desire to go out and burn off some steam in an environment completely out of my normal realm of reality. It was that same reckless abandon that sent me to some random masquerade a few years back. So when one of my single Facebook friends announced her desire to gather some friends for a night of dancing in Portland to celebrate her birthday, I responded immediately in the affirmative. At least this time I had some idea, however slight, of who I would be going out with.

Since I go out so rarely, I'm very conscious of my drinking limits. Especially since I usually have to drive myself home. But this time I would be going along for the ride in every sense of the phrase. That was good planning on my part since I would be so far out of my comfort zone (a group of unfamiliar people in a crowded party scene expecting me to dance and talk and pretending that I'm not at all uncomfortable or shy) I knew I would need quite a bit of alcohol assistance. I was curious to see what would happen when I passed my usual stopping points.

We started the night at a 10:00 pm show at Harvey's comedy club. Being a Saturday night it was incredibly full. So much so that the seven of us were forced to scrunch around a tiny table and spill over to another table that luckily had a couple empty seats and very gracious occupants who didn't mind shuffling around a bit so our overflow could at least be close to our overcrowded table for two. This brings us to Margarita #1. Apparently this is what it takes to keep me from hyperventilating in the crush of people surrounding me. It's also what allows me to find tolerance (and chuckles) for the crude humor coming at me from on-stage. You can never be sure with Harvey's what kind of comedians you are going to get, but you can usually bet that Friday and Saturday nights are going to be less "family friendly" than during the week (not that any are appropriate for children. It's still a club and you have to be 21 to go in anyway). The comedians were funny (if a little embarrassing to my prudish side which hadn't yet had enough tequila to put it to sleep) and we all had a lot of fun laughing (which is the point of going to a comedy club, after all).

Next we walked a couple blocks down to a club called Embers. When we walked in, we were greeted with strobing colored lights on the dance floor and the boom-ba-boom-ba-boom of dance remixed 80's music. My first thought was of an episode of Sex and the City where the girls go to Stanton Island and dance to 80's music after judging the hot firefighters competition. While the others wandered the crowd and looked for a table, I headed off to the bar and ordered Margarita #2. This one was to allow me to talk to the strangers I was spending the evening hanging with. This is also usually where I stop in my normal world. It's just enough to loosen me up enough to forget I'm shy, but not so much that I can't drive home at the end of the evening. But I wasn't driving that night, so that didn't have to be a factor for once.

You know, it's really hard to sit and get to know people at a dance club. I suppose I should have realized that I wasn't going to be allowed to hang out at the table and chat. Eventually one of our group left us to check out the drag show in the other part of the club and Dee Dee (the birthday girl) dragged the rest of us out to the dance floor. The second I stepped out on the floor, a new song started and I cringed. Of all the dang-gum 80's songs to greet me on the dance floor. . . I stood there for a few seconds, trying to get my body to pretend to dance along, but I realized very quickly that I didn't have enough alcohol in me to bust a dance move to the dreaded sounds of "Love shack, baby, love shack. . . " so I gracefully swung my hips toward the bar and picked up Margarita #3.

Okay, usually this is the point where bad ideas seem like good ideas, which is why I don't make it here very often. Luckily, this situation didn't lend itself to much in the way of "bad decision making" so I was pretty safe. But apparently #3 is also where my prudish side calls it a night and goes to sleep and I'm left determining that the idea of watching a drag show with everyone else seems completely logical and normal (not to mention, a hell of a way to celebrate a girlfriend's birthday!). So, off to the other side of the bar we headed.

What an experience that turned out to be! I had been dragged to a gay bar a couple times in my past, but I've never actually come face-to-face with a drag situation. I was rather impressed with the level these guys go to. I marvelled at their make-up techniques and their ability to fill out the evening gowns. And I had to admit, some of them were rather pretty. As they danced and lip-synced to Beyoncé and the likes there of, I wondered if it was a heightened sense of self-confidence or an extreme under-development of such that caused these guys to shave their legs and don the sparkles and wigs. No matter; we all make our place in this world in our own ways. I wasn't there to judge. So instead, I clapped and whistled and cheered with the crowd. Thanks to my location in the group (slightly separated from the others, using the small table to my left instead of the long table they surrounded), I seemed to garner a lot of attention from the lovely "ladies" on-stage. A few even came down to where I sat and sang and/or danced a little for me. Whether it's because tequila is a better sleeping agent to my sense of embarrassment than vodka or because they kept themselves fully dressed, I was amused to discover that I was less uncomfortable than the night I had an almost naked guy shaking his groove-thang at me at the bachelorette party last March.

Eventually, it was time for the "Last Dance" which apparently is the closing song for all drag shows. By that time, I had finished with Margarita #4 and it seems that is the magic number to get me out on the dance floor.

By the time we returned to the dance floor area of the club, they had moved out of the remixed 80's and into something more contemporary. And we danced. And danced. And danced. I'm not sure how they talked me into it, but there was even a little cage dancing going on (I hear rumor that there are even pictures documenting the event, but since I haven't seen them, I can't confirm that yet). But I did manage to snag one of the photos proving that I did actually get out and bust a move or two.

Dancing takes a lot of energy and made us all very tired and thristy. But seeing as I was feeling a touch of vertigo from my sky-high-heels already and knew I needed to still make the walk back to the car, I opted for water at that point. Probably a good idea. While out on the dance floor, I had closed my eyes and had a brief vision of myself as the Northwest version of Charlotte after one-too-many Stanton Island Ice Teas. I was afraid that one more would have me hanging out the minivan window as we crossed the 205 bridge, screaming "You hear me Portland: I'm getting married this year!!!" (And yes, for all the many of you who have never seen Sex and the City, there is a fantastic episode reference there).

When we finally decided we were done, we made our way back to the car. As we passed a different bar or club or something, we walked through the middle of a group of people standing outside smoking and talking about who-knows-what. As I stepped past one of the guys, he looked at me and said "What's the capital of Montana?" as if he was trying to prove a point to one of his buddies.

Without pausing I replied "Who cares? We don't live there."

He laughed and said "I know, right?" I tossed him one of my flirty smiles and kept going.

Suddenly I heard him calling after me. I turned around and said "yes?"

"You have a fine booty."

"Thanks," I grinned at him. "I work hard on it."

Such an interesting night. Makes me curious as to what would have happened after #5. . .

Games of the 90's

Do you remember Pogs?

Random, I know. But strangely, I remember them quite clearly. For those of you whose foggy noggins are struggling to recall the memory of that particular 90's fad, let me help:

It's a game played with colorful milk cap-type pieces. Players would contribute a determined number of discs ("pogs") to a pile. They would stack all the pogs one-on-top-of-another all facing down. Then they would take turns trying to turn the most number of pogs face up by bouncing a heavier game piece (called the "slammer") on top of the stack. The player kept the pogs that landed right side up during their turn and when there were no pogs left, the player with the most won.

I personally didn't play much with the primitive game. When pogs started becoming "the thing", I was in junior high and therefore busy trying to survive by perfecting my invisibility talent and hiding in the paperback worlds of the written word. I did, however, own a few of the colorful discs, mostly thanks to the generosity of my younger brothers. I remember they had a whole bunch of different colored pogs and every once in awhile I'd humor my devoted subjects by sitting and letting them proudly show off their somewhat extensive array of useless milk caps. I was a pretty nice big sister and would try to take interest in the silly things that my brothers were into without making them feel that I thought they were silly or childish and they loved me so much that they drank up any attention I would give them. Every now and then, one of the boys would end up with a pog that would capture my eye because it was sparkly, or pink, or had the cutest kitten with big blue eyes on it. All I had to do was show a little affection for that particular pog and it was instantly offered by my idolizing little brother and added to my reluctant collection of "cute" and "girly" pogs they probably didn't want in the first place.

(So I failed in my duty as big sister in causing physical pain to my younger sibs at every possible opportunity in order to keep them from growing up into wimps, but I did discover the knack for getting what I want with the right amount of charm and sweetness. And they grew up tough enough, even without a daily beating from their big sis, so it's all good. . .)

I know what you are thinking: "that's an interesting little story, but where did this sudden flash of 90's nostalgia come from?"

Yeah, I wondered the same thing Monday night when out of the blue I heard the word "pogs" and was suddenly showered with memories of a toy I had long ago forgotten about.

It was after class. A few of us were left in the classroom, some just chattering for the sake of making vocal noise and some gathering up our stuff and trying to clear our heads of the morbid tales we had just finished discussing. The instructor was putting his stuff away and listening politely to the random chatter trying to make itself heard. I was tuning out the distracting noise and searching my brain for the hole that leaked out my most recently learned word, the Finnish word for umbrella (I found it eventually: sateenvarjo) when I heard the word that brought me back into the room. How the conversation got on the old toy from the 90's is beyond me, but suddenly I was aware of the conversation going on around me.

"I was only 5 when they were popular, so I didn't get them," announced the girl to my left.

"I remember going on vacation and all the kids in town had them," said the guy who always sits in the back of the room. "So I bought some and was excited to take them to school with me, but when I got there, everyone already had them. I was amazed at how suddenly they appeared."

My instructor chuckled at the memory of them. "I remember them, but I don't get them," he said. "I mean, I understand collecting baseball cards. And I can even kind of understand collecting those Magic cards because there's a game of some kind to go with it. But those milk cap things. . ."

"Well, there's a game to Pogs," I piped in. Sure, I didn't play them, but remember I had little brothers who did, so I understood perfectly well what they were and how they worked. I figured it would help to relate them to something closer to his generation. "It's kind of like playing marbles. You collect your set, you play against someone else and their set, and you keep the ones you win."

My instructor seemed satisfied with my explanation, but the girl to my left looked baffled. She glanced at me and then over at the instructor. "You old people and your games. . ."

Really???

True Blues

"Laugh and the world laughs with you; weep and you weep alone; for this sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own." -- Ella Wheeler

I'm feeling down. I'm at a loss for words at all the wrong times; times when people wish I'd be sharing; times when I need to get things done; times when I just want out of my head for a second to rest.

Some nights I find myself gazing up into the dark sky, searching for an escape, wondering when I stopped believing that simply wishing on stars could magically make everything perfect.

It's the seasonal blues that always come on around this time of year. It doesn't feel quite as bad as it has in the past (yet), but it's still that all too familiar pain of depression in hyper drive.

The worst part of this kind of depression is when well-meaning friends ask "Why?" There is no why to this feeling. No reason for the sudden flood of tears as I'm driving my car down the road. No discernible cause for the complete exhaustion that plagues me throughout the day. No purpose to the self-imposed isolation that traps me inside myself. No one can fix it, so I reject all the kind intentioned offers of those around me until they become tired of trying without response and I instead reach out to the ones who caused me the most pain in their time.

It's a frustrating cycle that I can't seem to break. It's like I'm drawn to the exquisite pain of the shattered hopes and broken dreams to escape the emptiness my current situations leaves me feeling. It's the emotional equivalent to cutting. Bleeding my heart just to make sure it still feels something, anything, and deepening the scars that probably would have healed over time if I could have just left them alone.

"See that scar there? Yeah, I got that one in college. Look how far it runs. And that one there, the one that has the look of a wound only beginning to heal? Yeah, that one runs so deep that it's taken YEARS to start healing. Oh, check out my newest one. It's roughly scabbed over, but that's easy enough to tear off. Watch how quickly I can make it bleed again, with the simple touch of the send button...."

I wish I could talk about what's going on, but I'm not sure where to speak up. My family wants to send me back to a counselor, but I'm resisting. I just don't see how paying someone to tell me that everything that goes through my brain is wrong, wrong, wrong can be helpful. I've already got people in my life who can do that and they don't cost me money I don't have to spend. Besides, I never know what to say anyway. Like I said, no one can fix it and I don't know for sure that many people can truly understand it.

So I'm left to struggle inside myself with this enemy I don't understand and fear I won't be able to beat again....