Non-Adventures with Harmonica

Welcome to The Harmonica Chronicle.

I haven't posted in a while. My blog is not defunct, but it's not exactly funct either.

I am addicted to MySpace (myspace.com/harmonicavirgin) and Facebook now. Look for me there. I'm up to some new hi-jinx.

Adventures with Mr. Z

I am going to tell you about my dog. But bear with me, it is not that kind of dog story; I promise it will not leave you feeling fuzzy and sentimental and faintly nauseated, like you had just read a Mitch Albom book. I am telling you about my dog because my dog is cool.

Let me introduce him briefly. Mr. Z (his stage name) is, to put it succinctly, a big dog. Last time he went to the vet for an unspeakable problem involving his digestive system, he weighed 79.7 pounds. He would have weighed 80, but the other three-tenths of a pound was vomited all over the CDs. He is half German Shepherd and half Husky, and, although he has one scary ice-blue Husky eye, his other eye is fully German-Shepherd brown. Genetics split him down the middle. This means that one side prefers seal and the other, wienerschnitzel. However, both sides are generally disappointed because all they are offered is dog kibble in various shades of brown. Mr. Z's hobbies are shedding, snorting, and snacking out of the cat box. On occasion, he will take in a session of crotch-sniffing. He is fiscally conservative, but socially liberal. He enjoys jokes that reference his species. His favorite one is, "What did the dyslexic agnostic insomniac do at night? He stayed up and doubted the existence of dog." He told me that this joke is paw-pular among his friends.

Mr. Z also has some annoying habits. For instance, he is overly concerned about my weight. I know this because every time the delivery guy comes, which, you know, is not that often, when you think about the ratio of the number of delivery meals to the number of days in a year times three meals a day (you figure it out; see prior post re: learning disability, anyway, it's a big number), he barks and growls maniacally and lunges at the door. I know that he is simply trying to prevent me from consuming large amounts of cheesy bread given my propensity to gain weight quickly, but sometimes, it seems like he's trying to maul the terrified driver. After the driver leaves, Mr. Z reiterates his concern by nosing up to the coffee table and eating my pizza off of my plate while I'm distracted by Gilmore Girls. Plus, he occasionally pees on the floor, and sometimes, when I'm crying, instead of comforting me and offering me his furry body in which to nestle, he sneezes in my face. Life with Mr. Z is not always a walk in the park.

But, walk in the park we must. An average walk with Mr. Z requires a 25-minute constitutional around the neighborhood, with plenty of opportunity for adventures, mishaps, and mayhem along the way. Mr. Z is oblivious to his freaky appearance, but when he is on a walk, he has an effect on young and old alike. Invariably, small children see him and squeal, "Look! Look mommy! Look at the big dog! He has one blue eye!" The fascination is cross-cultural. Small Latino children have been heard to say, "Mama! Mama! Mira el perro grande! Mira el ojo azul!" This can be roughly translated to mean, "Mother, my dominant paradigm of symmetrical ocular appearance has been subverted! I am frightened! Please buy me a Slurpee." Adolescent boys, posturing as tough as they must in a rough-ish neighborhood, stalk down the street, arms taut and muscular by their sides, fists pulled. But the second they see Mr. Z, their eyes widen and they withdraw slightly in fear and astonishment. When I say, "Don't worry, he's nice," they retort, "I wasn't afraid!" But I know better, and I hope they'll tell their rough-ish friends to leave me the hell alone on my evening trip to the bodega for some barbecue chips and Fanta.

I'm sure I could sic Mr. Z on them, but I'm not sure if Mr. Z will sic. He is a fairly passive dog. One cannot play tug-of-war with him, because when you tug back, he gives you his end of the rope, as if to say, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were playing with that. Here, take it. I'll have my turn later." I was actually disappointed in him one day when my cat hissed at him, and Mr. Z, I swear to you, swatted at the cat. It was so weak, and such un-big-dog-like behavior that I almost sent him to his bed for being a traitor to his kind. Later, I tried to train him in Growling and Snapping, but he would only give the desired response for Snausages and hugs.

One cold day last winter, I was accompanying Mr. Z on his afternoon walk. The requisite activities had taken place: he had peed all over a variety of bushes, poles, and other upright objects (I love it when he pees on fire hydrants; it's like he's fulfilling some sort of cultural role), scared several mothers with small babies (which is just stupid; he only enjoys babies covered in ketchup), and acted like he didn't know what I was talking about when I admonished him for squatting on someone's lawn. I picked up his poop with the plastic sleeve the newspaper comes in and mused about how sacks of shit really do steam. Walks with Mr. Z are always a learning experience. One time, he taught me, by attempting to take a piss on it, that Mercedes Benz SUVs are ostentatious.

On the way back, he sniffed the ground in about 700 places, which I allowed him to do; after all, he was just reading his pee-mail. After one such sniff, he peed on the spot he had found so interesting, and then turned around and sniffed the same spot where he had just peed. I'm not sure what the purpose of this was; maybe he was spell-checking? Then we had our usual run-in with the woman who lets her cats outside to roam free, yet gets upset with me when Mr. Z barks at them. Generally, she admonishes me with, "That was another close call!" and I respond by walking away and flipping her off over my shoulder. During all of this, I was still encumbered with the steaming sack of shit, because I had not yet encountered a trash can. We had just about gotten home when Mr. Z decided that he would like to scratch his back on a hollyhock bush. The bush happened to be at the edge of a yard, but he wasn't doing any damage, not even trying to pee on it, so I let him go for it. He enjoys scratching his back on conifers, mostly, but on occasion he will go in for a member of the genus Alcea.

Mr. Z was smiling his dog smile and enjoying the feel of a particularly spiky leaf when I heard a shout: "Get that dog off of Barbara's lawn!" I looked up, and a man in his 60s was standing on the stoop of a neighboring house. I ignored him. He shouted again, "Get that dog off of Barbara's lawn! Don't you let that dog crap all over Barbara's lawn!" I ignored him again, because Mr. Z was not on Barbara's lawn; he was simply enjoying her shrubbery. "YOUNG LADY!" he shouted. "If you let that dog crap on Barbara's lawn, I'm going to call Barbara!" I finally responded. "Go ahead and call Barbara! And while you're at it, why don't you continue acting as a living stereotype of an old man, shaking your fist and shouting 'You kids get off my lawn!'" At this, the man stifled a smile, but continued shouting. "I SAID, get that dog off of Barbara's lawn!" By this point, Mr. Z was nowhere near the lawn, but was inspecting a McDonald's wrapper about five feet down the sidewalk. Realizing that he had lost, but feeling as though he needed to continue the discourse so that I may receive my comeuppance, he began shouting across the way: "BARBARA! BARBARA! There's a dog out here crapping on your lawn!" Barbara did not appear. I suspect that Barbara wouldn't have even given a shit, no pun intended, because her car's vanity license plate said "C'est la vie," with an apostrophe carefully entered in Sharpie between the C and the E. Her apparent dedication to this philosophy may have been why she did not come to the door to witness a dog not shitting on her lawn. However, the man continued to yell at me repetitiously about crap and Barbara and lawns. Finally, I shouted at him, "Listen. My dog is not going to shit on Barbara's lawn. He has already gone, and I have a fucking steaming sack of shit here to prove it." I wielded the bag high in front of me. Yet, the man insisted on repeating his declarations. I wondered if he had a string in his back and if this was maybe an old man version of a Chatty Cathy doll. Finally, I threatened to come up his stoop and shove the steaming sack of shit right in his face if he didn't shut up. This did not deter him. I stood my ground. We glowered at one another. He decided that he needed to get in one last word, "Young lady, you watch your language," he admonished. "I ain't no lady," I growled, and headed towards our yard, far away from Barbara and her non-shat-upon lawn. The Guardian of Barbara's Lawn went back into his house to, I imagine, finish watching Oprah and gum a zwieback.

Sometimes Mr. Z comes back into the house after a walk looking depressed because his outdoor adventure has ended until the next walk. When that happens, I give him a big spoonful of peanut butter, which entertains him for the next half hour as he attempts to get it unstuck from the roof of his mouth. Sometimes he glares at me while he's painstakingly licking his peanut buttery chops, as though I have played a mean trick on him. I remind him that sometimes, life just hands you a steaming sack of shit, and as long as you're not on Barbara's lawn, that's okay.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I Don't Like It. Period

A friend reported that her adolescent daughter had just gotten her first period, and asked for ideas regarding how to celebrate this momonstrous--I mean, momentous--event. I told her to first tell her to go to her father and make him apologize for contributing an X chromosome, because it's his fault she became a girl in the first place. "Y?" she should ask him. "I want to know Y!" After he has explained that, at the time of contribution, the letter X, or rather three of them in a row, was what he was thinking about, she should immediately make him go and buy tampons.

I got my first period when I was 11, the night before a Very Important Spelling Bee. My mother, who was very Catholic, seemed to regard the human body as something sinful, and appeared to be resentful about my blossoming body, as though I had intentionally willed my breasts to burst and my thighs to develop a soft roundness. Really, all I wanted to do was focus on my spelling bee career, and I was annoyed at this crampy, bloody distraction. I was also very fearful that my mother would embarrass me or become angry that I was now, in a biological sense, fully a woman at such a young age. "Mary didn't have her period until she was at least 15," she would snipe accusatorily, "and that's only because God wanted her to! What's your excuse?" I reluctantly tried to muster up the courage to tell her, but she was sacked out on the couch, Johnny Carson blaring on the television. I spoke briefly to Johnny and Ed, desperate to tell someone of this unfortunate development. "Hey, guys, I just got my period," I whispered. "HEY-O!" exclaimed Ed McMahon, and the audience exploded into hysterics. Mortified, I ran from the room and into my bedroom. However, I lived in a trailer, and through the millimeter-thin wall between me and the living room, heard Johnny announce, "In honor of this occasion, we have Joan Embery here from the San Diego Zoo to discuss the menstrual cycle of the bonobo. It is weird, wild stuff." I cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I was crampy, cranky, and nervous. Too worried about my mother's reaction to steal her supplies, I had fashioned protection out of a hundred sheets of toilet paper and fastened it to my underwear with Scotch tape. To my horror, every time I took my turn at the front of the stage, I could feel my makeshift pad move dangerously out of place. "F-U-C-K" I spelled silently to myself. The last thing I needed was a bunch of sixth graders and their proud parents to witness my bloody backside. I took a powder on the Most Important Spelling Bee of My Life, misspelling "harridan," a word from the list that I had practiced many times. This is one of the many trials of being a woman--you sacrifice your career to stay home with the potential of having a kid. I moved carefully throughout the rest of the day, and decided when I got home that I would indeed swipe my mother's Stayfree. I suspect that she was in denial that I had transitioned from an innocent babe into a debaucherously developed devil, because it took her a full year to notice that her pads were depleted much faster than they should have been. She first accused my older sister of taking them, and after her staunch denial, confronted me in the hallway. "You got your period," she said. "Why didn't you tell me?" I briefly considered telling her about the nervousness, the shame, the potential that God didn't want me to bleed. Instead I grumped, "I didn't feel like it," and stomped away. That was the end of any acknowledgment that I had a uterus until we had my sex talk. This also occurred in the hallway. It consisted of "Don't let boys touch you down there." I said, "Ma, I'm 15. I'm trying to get boys to touch me down there." This time, she was the one who walked away.

I won't even discuss the dirty look I got when I said I wanted to use tampons. But it was worth it. Oh yeah, OB.

So anyway, back to this celebration thing. Said friend reported that her menses are a time for introspection and reflection. She explained that her period represents the Goddess in her. I love the woman, but in my clinical opinion, she is 100% a nutter. I see this Goddess stuff as cognitive dissonance, a way of comforting oneself about a horrible thing to endure by telling oneself that it is a really cool event that underscores one's Significance in the Universe as Woman. It's almost as if she sticks a rose in there--okay, wait a minute, thorns, ouch; let's say she sticks a water lily in there every month and sits spread-eagle on her doorstep to display to everyone the Beauty that is Feminine Flow. This cognitive "Goddess" nonsense overrides the mess, the odors, the staining of your favorite underwear (some of us have "period underwear," which sounds like they are starring in a Merchant-Ivory film), the anxiety that one must acknowledge the existence of that horrible word "panty" in order to buy panty liners. We are told by commercials and magazines that we are dirty during our periods and must use feminine hygiene products like sprays, yet we are also told that we cannot use them because they are bad for our vulvic health. We sit, dismayed, disgruntled, and defeated on our panty liners and pads, which remind us of a Swiffer refill. We agonize over our use of bleached tampons, about which many an alarmist e-mail forward has warned us of tainting our. . .taints with dioxins. Then when we go to the hairy hippie health food hovel to purchase some "natural" tampons, we are taken aback at the price of keeping one's vagina as pure as the springs from which Evian is drawn. Staring at one's bank balance, we decide that it is okay if our yonis rather resemble a municipal water supply.

Men do not understand these trials. On our first visit to Target, my boyfriend refused to abide having a box of tampons in the otherwise empty cart. He told me I had to hold them until he found something else to put in there that he could hide them under; something suitably manly, like an air compressor. Gloria Steinem, in a famous essay entitled "If Men Menstruated," opined that men would hail their periods as a monthly display of masculinity, and would actually regard "men"struation as a competitive sport. I strongly disagree. I think that those pathetic men who complain that there are no "Men's Studies" classes would rise up and whine that they have to have sensitive balls; do they really have to deal with periods too? They would not say that menstruation represented the God in them; they would report on the staining of their new white Calvin Klein boxer briefs and how nobody in the board meeting had a manpon that they could "borrow" (I am opposed to the use of the word "borrow" in the discussion of menstrual products. That's just gross). I think men would react to menstruation the same way women do; however, there would have historically been no abandoning of men in menstrual huts, and tampons would often have a front-of-store display.

Okay, I have to admit that there are a couple of good things about menstruation. One, your period lets you know that you are not pregnant. And you can convince your clueless male gym teacher that you can't swim for six weeks because you have your period, when really your self-esteem is so low that you won't be seen in a swimming suit in public. Not, you know, that I did that or anything. Sorry, Mr. Luoma.

Of course, I am a bit of an androgyne. If I possessed more femininity, I might be more in favor of menstruation. In the early days of my psychology residency, the director offered feedback that my life would be more difficult because people expect certain things of women, and that I lacked a certain "feminine effervescence." I waxed about egalitarianism, the empirical studies that reported greater intelligence in androgynes, and the feeling that one could be assertive. I declined to tell him that I was having a feminine effervescence right there in my pants, and glided off, femininely, to secure a tampon.

Are You Rich? A Free Quiz.

You and a friend are sharing your most embarrassing secrets. You:

a) laugh about when you got pantsed during recess
b) recount the time you snored in a meeting
c) reveal that your parents attended a state university

When purchasing a new home, your first consideration is:

a) can I afford the down payment?
b) will it require a lot of maintenance?
c) how will the Acura look in the driveway?

An acquaintance asks you if your jeans are "Seven." You respond:

a) Seven? No, they were $19.99! Did I miss that sale at Target?
b) I'm not telling you my pants size!
c) No, these are Marc Jacobs; I put my Seven jeans on our Halloween scarecrow last fall.

You own a Land Rover. You:

a) can't afford a Land Rover.
b) can't afford a Land Rover.
c) go 3 mph over speed bumps because you "don't want to damage the chassis."

Last Valentine's Day, you:

a) had a romantic dinner with your significant other
b) watched TV; Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday
c) broke up with your long-term boyfriend because he got you a cheap gift

Your greatest hope is for:

a) world peace
b) to get out of debt
c) an engagement ring from Tiffany

When you exercise, you:
a) go for a jog
b) lift weights
c) pay $150 an hour for a personal trainer to push the buttons on the treadmill for you

You are asked where you live. You respond:
a) down by the river
b) in Rockville
c) North Montgomery County. Okay, well, egg-shoo-ally, we live in Potomac, which is kind of embarrassing, you know, because of all the rich people. But the schools are great, and we only have a big house because we plan to have more children. And we really need that BMW convertible because Tom, you know, has to take out business clients. We're not rich or anything; we're. . .comfortable, and we just have certain lifestyle needs. But I think your neighborhood in South Arlington is absolutely *charming,* just charming, you know, with all the diversity from the ethnics.

When you drink a Miller Lite, you:
a) sigh with a feeling of refreshment
b) peel the label; it's such a weird habit and you don't know why you do it
c) laugh with your friends about "beverage slumming." If your wine class teacher knew you were doing this, she'd have an absolute fit!

You don't close your curtains because:
a) you can't afford curtains; you have plastic blinds from Wal-Mart
b) you feel open and free when you can see the starlight through your window
c) you want your neighbor to see that you have a SubZero fridge and LeCreuset cookware

A few years ago when they were popular, you wore a trucker hat because:
a) you were a trucker
b) you borrowed it from your dad, who is a trucker
c) as a Harvard grad without student loans, you enjoyed the irony

After you visited New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, you remarked:
a) "I feel good that I provided food aid to the victims."
b) "Cleaning up the debris was a devastating yet spiritual experience for me."
c) "My daughter's sailing team's boat at Tulane was destroyed. Things are rough all over."

You were chagrined at your last "trailer park party" because:
a) you invited too many people and they wouldn't all fit in your trailer
b) you wouldn't host a "trailer park party;" that's so distasteful and mean
c) you discovered that one of the invitees actually grew up in a trailer park and you were annoyed that you were forced to confront your bigotry

If all of your answers were "a" or "b," you are a normal person. If all or most of your answers are "c," it means you are rich. Sadly, the "c" answers are drawn from real experiences, including the one about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, inspired by a man who wrote to the Washington Post to complain about the travails of his daughter, who was unable to take part in sailing events and whose expensive private college was shuttered for a time due to the hurricane. His attitude was that the problems of the poor were getting too much attention. And, I mean, aren't they? When there are issues like not having a Whole Foods within walking distance?

Some may take issue with my assertion that some rich people are bigoted towards poor people, particularly trailer park dwellers, because this whole quiz may make me seem bigoted towards rich people. However, I cannot afford to live in a big fancy glass house, so my stone-throwing has not been prohibited by common maxims. Also, the balance of power has the scales tipping in favor of the rich, who are weighing them down with overstuffed Saks bags. Given that monitoring of those in power is a cornerstone of democracy, such protests by rich people towards the criticism of poor people make them seem rather like Marie Antoinette. "Let them eat that icky cake made from cheap Jiffy mix," they sniff unsympathetically and with a hankering for gourmet brownies.

A final query:

You answered "c" to several of the above items. Are you rich?

a) Yes
b) No

If you answered yes, congratulations! You are rich. If you answered no, I'm terribly sorry. You are rich. If there is occasion to deny that you are rich, you are rich.

Department of Bladder Adjudication

Urination is a topic not normally discussed in polite society. However, I have serious doubts that those of you who read The Harmonica Chronicle comprise any part of polite society. And anyway, birds do it, bees do it, let's all do it, let's talk about pee.

The reason that this topic is so frequent and urgent, and sometimes burning and painful, is that, as a woman, I experience urinary emergencies on nearly a daily basis. No matter my fluid intake; I can consume a bottle cap's worth of Fresca on a road trip and, an hour later, will be squirming in the car begging the driver to find the nearest Sheetz, at which point I will dash from the car into the store, not even stopping to admire the lovely and full-stocked displays of Doritos and other roadside snacks. I save that for after going, when I very sensibly purchase a Diet Coke or a bottle of water to accompany me until we reach our destination two hours away. Naturally, the cycle begins anew, but, like after giving birth, the experience of urination after a near breakdown in the urethral seal releases a feel-good hormone that makes you forget the whole anxiety-provoking, whimpering, and crotch-holding experience ever occurred. It almost makes you want to have to desperately pee again. It's like Bladder Heroin, Horse for the soul.

This is probably why, on a two-and-a-half hour trip to Philadelphia to negotiate several parking and towing tickets, I chased the dragon and consumed at least a thimbleful of soda, not thinking about the likely consequences. Somewhere in space and time, a urinary Cassandra shook her head in prescient fear and bewilderment.

The Department of Parking Adjudication is a dirty and non-descript room with plastic chairs and a series of tiny, dingy offices. As I sat there in the main room, I could feel that telltale pinch and tingle in the general vicinity of my bladder, telling me that I would soon have to urinate. Given that my appointment was at 11:00, and the Department of Parking Adjudication notice very strictly admonished that one must make one's appointment on time or have it cancelled until further notice, I very reasonably assumed that the Department would keep up its end of the bargain and honor its appointment time with me (one of my foibles is thinking the best of both people and large bureaucracies). I decided I could wait until after my appointment to pee.

However, as the clock neared 11:30, I realized that the situation was now urgent. I got up from my seat and asked one of the "workers" if I could use their restroom. "No," the employee said very sternly. "We have no public restroom." I decided to reason with her. "But I really have to go to the bathroom," I said. "If I go somewhere else, there is a chance that I will miss my appointment." "That's too bad," she said, her sternness morphing into a certain degree of schadenfreudous glee. "We have NO PUBLIC RESTROOM." My reason turned to utter desperation in the blink of an eye. "Pleeeeassse," I whined. "I REALLY HAVE TO GO." "This," I declared, "IS AN EMERGENCY!" "NO!" she nearly shouted. "Okay, then," I pouted, "I'll just soil myself right over there on that chair." The evil woman shrugged. "That's your choice."

Another employee, who seemed to possess an amount of sympathy equivalent to that which one could float in a contact lens, reported to me flatly that I could use the restroom at the mall next door. "But," she warned, "If you're not back in time for your appointment, we'll have to reschedule." I had made my appointment in June, after the "system" hanging up on me several times after 10 minutes on hold and a series of certified letters. It was now the middle of September, and we had taken a two-and-a-half hour trip up from DC for me to reduce my (in my opinion, fraudulent) fees from over $200 to a more reasonable sum (I *honestly* did not get those tickets. Really). However, I had to pee so bad that I decided to chance it. My gait encumbered because I had to keep my legs close together in order not to burst, I hobbled over to the security guard to ask him where the mall restroom could be located. "It's just through that door," he pointed, "But I 'm about to lock the doors for lunch, and once the doors are locked, you can't get back in until 1:00." "Not let me back in until 1:00!" I practically shouted. "But I have to PEE! This is a HUMAN FUNCTION, and you're telling me that even though you will be standing in this very spot when I return, you will refuse to let me back in, as though I committed a voluntary default on my appointment." "Yep," he confirmed. This was getting surreal. I momentarily forgot my bladder as I briefly considered that perhaps I was getting Punk'd. I looked for cameras, but the only ones that were spying on me were the standard issue security cameras mounted on the wall in the Lair of Evil, or as they called it, the Check-In Desk. "You can't get back in," he repeated stubbornly.

I seriously, honestly, very nearly started crying. My eyes filled with tears as I considered the trials of trying to get this appointment in the first place and how we made this trip specifically to come here. I limped back to my seat and tried not to sob, my legs crossed and my hands as politely located as they could be near my crotch, given the circumstances. The Evil Bitch (and I do not use that term often or lightly) behind the counter nudged her co-"worker" and seriously, I am not making this up, pointed at me and laughed. If there hadn't been a complicated series of locks on the door leading to the office niches, I would have gone back there and peed right on her Payless shoe.

I had planned a cogent, almost lawyer-like argument to make with the Parking Adjudicator (aka Satan's Minion) that I thought would reduce my fines to zero; however, I knew that I now would be reduced to a shaking and stammering puddle of (oh! don't say that word puddle! Anything having to do with water will make me pee!), okay, a blob of (oh! a blob is a liquid! A viscous liquid, but a liquid nonetheless!), alright then, a tree stump of defeat and anxiety. When I was finally called for my appointment at noon, I followed "Rafael" (I doubted they used their real names for fear of retribution) with my papers to his dank office-like hole and fairly whimpered through my now pathetic explanation. "Okay, then," Rafael opined, "We'll reduce your fine to $60; you can pay in the next office." I didn't want to delay my escape any further and agreed to the punishment.

The fee-paying portion of this hellish journey occurred, thankfully, rather quickly, and, with receipt in hand, I made a beeline for the restroom in the mall across the street, veering through oncoming traffic in a Frogger-like manner. However, the security guard had, I am sure purposely, misguided me about where the bathroom was, and I tore through the place looking for a department store that would have a restroom. In Strawbridge's, I found my rapture, but I first had to make my way through a labyrinthine series of swimwear and petite separates. I found the restroom. I peed, and it was good.

This is not the first time that I had a remarkable urinary emergency. One Independence Day, we, as a group of utter imbeciles, decided that it would be a good idea to take in the fireworks on the National Mall. I had laughed heartily at my roommate because she had taken a backpack, in which she had stuffed emergency provisions, including a towel and toilet paper. "Toilet paper!" I guffawed. "What, are we going to TP the Washington Monument?" "You'll see," she snapped, "and you'll thank me for it." After the fireworks, I of course realized that it had been a mistake to smuggle a vodka tonic to the festivities in my opaque Brita bottle. Struggling through the massive crowd, I needed to find a restroom immediately. However, all of the businesses on the routes that fireworks-attendees would be likely to take had signs in their windows warning that there was no public restroom. Figuring that I could just purchase something at Starbucks and win access to the toilet, I decided (again, very sensibly) to get a beverage. When we got there, I discovered that everyone had the same idea, and the line snaked down the sidewalk. I suddenly understood what the towel was for as I dashed into an alley, dropped trou, and squatted behind a dumpster. As my flow reached the point of no return, I was startled by the skittering and screeching of rats running between my legs and over my shoes. I screamed. This, of course, attracted my male roommate, who came running around the corner to see if I was okay. He viewed me there, vulnerable and exposed, squatting with vermin congregating in my midst and nearly up my keister.

We never spoke of it again.

Of course, there are other stories too, like the time I was 13 and an emergency propelled me and my parents to seek a toilet in Times Square when it was still full of porn. I urinated in a toilet that was sunk into the floor, surrounded by posters of naked women in compromising poses and substances of unknown provenance on the floor. And then there was the scary time I begged to be let into the back room of a 7-11, with my emergence from the restroom prompting an employee to block my exit from the back and leer at me menacingly. As short as I am, I can be forceful, and I got him to move out of my way; however, I learned that my small bladder could get me raped or killed.

I am at home now, safe and sound, with a bathroom paces away and a water-filled Nalgene bottle at my side. It is one of the most comforting feelings in the world, to take in a beverage and know that you will be safe from the vicissitudes of restroom policies and generally mean people. As you can probably guess, you'll have to excuse me now. I gotta pee.

Goth-illas in the Mist

INTRODUCTION

On occasion, I find myself with the opportunity to attend a gathering of non-like-minded individuals. That terminology is not to imply that I do not like the individuals in question; rather, it usually means that they are much cooler than I am. At these times, rather than try to fit in, I take the position of cultural anthropologist and vow to only make polite conversation and observe the proceedings in a detached manner for later consideration. Unfortunately, when the gathering you are attending is called "Fast, Loose, and Out of Control," polite detachment is impossible. These people are fast, they are loose, and they are decidedly out of control. They suck you in with their frenzy, fishnets, and friendliness, and these are just the men. The women, besides having the above-listed attributes, are also so beautiful and sociable that one feels compelled to do anything to be near these slack-jaw-inducing sirens. My fascination, coupled with the group's immediate acceptance of someone who did not look the part, is how I became Fast, Loose, and Out of Control. Well, I'm actually not cool enough for that. I was more like Quicker, Not Quite Securely Attached, and On the Verge of Loss of Inhibition.

Names have been changed to protect the participants, who, despite their debaucherous tendencies, hold responsible day jobs (doctor, computer programmer, research psychologist, and the like) and whose clientele would probably prefer not to know about their penis piercings and stomping gyrations to goth-industrial music. Oh, and I didn't make any of this up.

PRE-BACCHANALIA

Many people meet with their friends for a drink at a nearby bar before they head to a club. Such was the case with these people (I say "people" loosely; some would rather be zombies, or Mapplethorpe photographs), who imbibed lagers and girly drinks with cherries at the bottom of the glass. The difference was that their conversations turned to who was posing for what Suicide Girls photo session next week and their activities tended towards the adjustment of tall industrial boot buckles and gentle slapping of cohorts. Bianca, who is a sweet and intelligent girl when the lights are bright, takes joy in mild public sadism when the lights go dim. She expressed silent violent pleasure in the rough tightening of Raquel's corset strings, jamming her foot in her lower back and pulling on the tethers until Raquel bucked with pain and her cleavage busted out in a satisfactorily sexy fashion. I gazed on in intimidation and admiration in my mall-bought v-neck t-shirt and jeans while I swilled a Cosmopolitan, hoping to get drunk enough to be that fascinating. The most I could do at that time to fit in was make sure my belt buckle was centered. It was not. I am that big of a dork.

Clothing adjusted and empty beer bottles slammed on the bar, Anthony, who was graciously sponsoring my foray into the seedy side, drove us to the club. After acquiring TV parking right in front of the club (cool people always get TV parking), we proceeded to the check-in point. A sign at the door declared prohibitions on visible genitals and nipples, as well as public sex. The bouncer checked Anthony's ID, frisked him, and waved him in. He checked my ID, but, disappointingly, did not frisk me. Confused as to whether I was authorized to enter, I aked him, "Am I cool?" He replied in his "being a bouncer gives me the only power I have in life" tone, "I don't know if you're cool, but you can go in." Annoyed at the immediate calling-out of my dorkiness, I stomped up the stairs and entered the dim den of iniquity.

FAST, LOOSE, AND OUT OF CONTROL

After my eyes adjusted to the dark smokiness, I noted a beautiful woman clad in lingerie and garters languishing motionless on a couch, looking euphoric. Knowing that exotic dancers were sometimes hired at these parties, I figured that that she was a performer paid by the promoters to hang out and look sexy, like a perverse decoration. I asked Anthony, "Is that performer supposed to look like she's been smoking opium or something?" He replied tersely, "I know her. She's not a performer, and she's strung out on heroin. She's a total mess." I rolled my eyes. At least I was in-the-know enough not to do heroin, for chrissakes. Heroin chic is so 1993. Bolstered by my non-opiate-abusing hipness, I proceeded to the bathroom.

In the bathroom, however, my cockiness dissipated with a temporary burst of anxiety as I realized that the bathroom was co-ed, the urinals were out in the open, and there was no door on the stall. I would have to potty in front of that dude with his pants around his ankles and a tattoo of a cobra snaking around his thigh, ending with a fang-baring head on his ass. Despite my misgivings, I recognized an opportunity to shed some of my uncoolness and be blase about the whole thing. I proceeded to pee and pretended not to be appalled by the empty roll of toilet paper. With an expressionless face, I copied the (very visible) girl before me and used the shake-it-til-you-make-it technique of urethral cleansing, previously only employed in the privacy of a closed-door stall. Realizing that a crowd was gathering that was all too willing to engage in conversation with someone actively urinating, I pulled up my pants and went to wash my hands. I paused with trepidation at the lack of soap at the sink. There was not even an empty dispenser to indicate that once, patrons of this establishment washed their hands after voiding. I made a mental note not to shake hands with anyone and headed toward the bar, where Anthony, who would babysit me unti I got drunk enough to talk to random people, was standing.

Deciding what to drink, I found out that in the limited selection of available beverages, you could get a Yuengling for $3.75, or you could get the "The Special" for a quarter more. "The Special" is a Yuengling and a shot of Jim Beam on the side. It is the alcoholic's version of the Extra Value Meal. Never one to pass up a bargain, I ordered two. Becoming unmoored from my slight nervousness, I asked Ray, an acquaintance, where his girlfriend was. "She's recovering from surgery," he reported. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I offered. "No, it's okay," he reassured me. "She got implants." I congratulated him; he shrugged and said philosophically, "Breasts don't make the woman." In an ironic twist that surely explained the surgery, I later found out that their relationship was on the rocks because he was spending all his time coked out at the tittie bar.

The sum of two Specials and a beer was a not-gentle loss of inhibition. I allowed a scantily-clad Marlboro representative who was scouting around the club giving away free cigarettes to scan my driver's license, at which point I signed a computerized certification that I was a regular smoker aged 21 or older who would like to receive "special offers and coupons for cigarette products." I am not a smoker. I am vehemently against smoking. But they were giving away free Zippo lighters for sharing your personal information. One year and a move out of the state later, I am still receiving these "special offers and coupons." "The Special" really has an effect on your judgment. But hey, free Zippo.

After procuring my Zippo and calling my boyfriend at 1:15 am to crow about my new acquisition (he was neither impressed nor glad to hear from me), I slurred to a goth girl in the midst of conversation, "Some days I wish that someone would say or do something really shitty to me, just so I could punch them in the face." She heartily agreed, and we bonded over our secret tendencies towards violence. At that moment, I fantasized that I could someday be a Bianca, with blunt-cut bangs and my foot up someone's ass, tightening corset strings. The girl asked me through her black eye makeup and pasty face if I would like to join something or other, an organization to which she belonged. At that point, inebriated and glad to be (in my mind) free of my uncoolness, I readily agreed to join. She said she would contact me the next day. I was a bit confused as to what I just got myself into, but toddled off in search of Anthony to tell him that I had made a new sexy friend.

Misguidedly confident, I joined Anthony and Bianca on the dance floor. Peggy Lee blasted from the speakers, and I smoothly gyrated with the others to "Fever." At least that's what I thought I was doing. In reality, I probably looked like the drunk cousin at some chick's wedding, jolting on the dance floor as though I was being electrocuted. Fortunately, the attention was not on me. It was on the several nearly naked ladies, who were not paid performers, simulating sex on the dancing platform. One of them had dispensed with the nipple tape requirement and compensated for the reduced weight on her body by grabbing and donning a man's hat. The idea was for her to look hot, but it was actually the creepiest display of public sexuality I had ever seen, even worse than in any movie in which Rodney Dangerfield scores a chick. She should have left the performance to the paid dancer, who had kept a crate of implements nearby so that paying customers could spank her with a plastic spatula.

As "The Special" wore off, my interest in the whole affair waned, as did my chemically-induced confidence. Anthony, who was tiring of the scene as well, drove me home. I lurched into my apartment and toppled into my bed (after polishing off some leftover Chinese) for a sleep that was much, much too short. After slamming off the alarm clock and throwing a spoon at the cat, who was disdainfully knocking hairbrushes off my dresser, I squinted through my pounding headache and made a stunning realization. I remembered through the fog the night before, talking to the violent chick, and readily agreeing to participate in her organization. I whispered to myself in wonderment and sudden understanding, "I think last night I joined the roller derby!"

EPILOGUE

I did not join the roller derby. Fortunately, the only binding contracts made at Fast, Loose, and Out of Control are those signed with Zippo-toting Marlboro representatives. Now that I have moved, I don't speak with Anthony as much, although I can't wait to attend his next party, which will likely feature burlesque dancers and fire breathers. I am still a dork.