…this song is dedicated to you. It’s called “Take It Off” by The Donnas. (This post has been updated at mamazilla’s request to include a picture of me from the old (original) EXIT days when I danced in a cage on Bondage a Go-Go Nights, circa 1991. I did not actually “Take It Off” — that was at Berlin, back when they had Women’s Obsession Nights dedicated to lesbians and featuring well, me — “Manila Monroe.” )
Several bloggers I know have written posts similar to this one. It’s been mainly women bloggers writing these and marking them private, which is understandable. Past lovers are listed, the situation(s) described, and maybe a note written to the person telling them what they think of said person now.
I’m not going to write a similar post because there’s no way I’d be able to remember how many men I’ve slept with, and it isn’t just because of the ECT. There were plenty: several one-night stands, “play dates” with guys who already had girlfriends, you name it. Even if I could remember the exact number, I’d need more than just my fingers and toes to count all the guys.
Most of this happened between the ages of 20 and 23. Go ahead and call me a slut. I suppose I was. All of this occurred before I was diagnosed with bipolar and borderline personality disorders (BPD) in 1994, when I was 24. One of the DSM-IV criteria for BPD is this:
4. impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating).
Once I was in treatment and on the proper medication, this behavior stopped. Before that, I had the idea in my head that the more men I slept with, the more attractive I was. I grew up with both parents telling me I was ugly, and especially that my lips were too big. In Mrs. Monahan’s eighth grade reading class, this guy Mike drew a picture of a giant pair of lips with a teeny, tiny body attached to it and wrote my name on it. This drawing was passed around, and as you can imagine, elicited many snickers and “furtive” looks my way. I saw the picture. I did nothing about it.
To this day, I am very self-conscious about my lips, but at least I only have sex with my husband.
They’re really hard to find. Especially good ones. I know this to be true, because I used to be a drummer, and bands were always looking for one. I was a much better drummer than a goalie (for now!), but just over a week ago, I was asked by another team (equivalent to our Blue team) to sub in their game tomorrow night. Since they aren’t playing against us, I agreed in order to get as much game situation experience as possible.
I was forthcoming with my coach and teammates about this. My own team’s game this weekend isn’t ’til Saturday, which I can still play in, but we all agreed to give our back-up goalie a chance in the net. This means that for tonight’s practice and Saturday’s game, I will once again be playing right wing.
However, a few nights ago I received an e-mail from the other team to say they no longer need me on Friday. I notified my coach and our back-up goalie to see if I could play the net this Saturday, but we had already agreed otherwise, and fair’s fair. I’ll admit that I’m a little disappointed that I won’t be playing goalie for my own team this weekend, but it’ll be fun to play my old position, though I’m very much out of practice. Still, I surprised myself and did all right at the pre-season scrimmage, so it should be fun.
Some of my old winger highlights include scoring a goal against Bowling Green in the first game of my first season at Ohio State back in 1999. Brian had just walked into the game as I scored–we weren’t quite dating yet, and I was surprised that he showed up! I think I may have only played one other game as a forward. At least the one I remember was playing Michigan against whom I got a shot on goal! I didn’t score, but it was Michigan! They’re really, really, REALLY good, and my team played at an even lower level than Tigers Orange! Most of our team members had never even worn skates before! Well, the Ohio State club team’s a completely different story now.
Anyway, I guess this is all a testament as to how well I’m really doing. I should remember this when I begin to feel down and depressed (like right now). I mean, it wasn’t all that long ago that I could barely even make it out of the house, let alone skate.
I wasn’t allowed to go trick or treating until I was eight years old. Before that, we lived in the city and my parents were absolutely convinced that I would end up with poisoned candy or an apple with a razor blade inside it. Talk about excessively overprotective. By the time I turned eight and my parents were expecting their second child, they bought a house in the suburbs.
I’ll never forget my first time trick or treating. I went with the neighbor boy, Alvin, and I was wearing one of those cheap costumes–you know the kind–the plastic, one-piece type that you step into and tie at the back of the neck, and the mask that comes with a weak piece of elastic that’s stapled to each side of the face. I was Spider-Man! (Yeah, I’ve always been a tomboy. Can you tell?)
It was so cold that I had to wear my winter coat over my costume so unless I had the mask down, you couldn’t even tell who/what I was. On top of that, it was pouring rain, so of course I had to wear my hood. Despite the awful weather, I had the time of my life! I was maybe 13 when I stopped trick or treating, but every year that I went it was always raining.
Today, though it’s a little chilly out there, it’s bright and sunny, and for a Halloween, it’s a gorgeous day. I hope the kids have a great time. I’m also relieved that we live in an apartment, so we don’t get trick-or-treaters. I’m too fucking lazy to get up to answer the door every time it rings. :[
i have decided to take my hockey training more seriously. well, serious for a complete amateur, anyway. Brian and i did go to the gym this morning, and about an hour or so after i took him to work, i grabbed my goalie pants, leg pads, and skates, and did not procrastinate about getting my ass out the door to go to public skate.
a rat hockey (pick-up game) session just ended as i arrived. there were maybe three or four people left hanging around, and i recognized one of them–the ex-boyfriend, Tony, with whom i ran away to Colorado in 1991. more on that later. as an aside, i didn’t play hockey when we were dating.
anyway, he and another player, a woman named Wendy who actually plays for one of my team’s opponents, invited me to the next rat hockey game, which is this Friday at 8:30am. a bit too early for me, especially since i have practice late on Thursday night, but they’ll be playing again next Tuesday.
the entire exchange between Tony and me was completely innocent–he’s been married for several years now and has a baby. i really believe that he and Wendy were sincere in inviting me to join them for hockey. who knows? maybe they’ll know a goalie who can give me some pointers or something. however, the history between Tony and me is important because it was one of the seeds that was planted and that bloomed into my life as it is today. still, running into him today was unsettling.
anyway, i had the ice to myself, and although i didn’t stay the entire hour-and-a-half, i did practice my T-glides, which, according to Wikipedia, is:
A technique used by goaltenders to move in a lateral direction. To perform a t-push, a goaltender directs his/her outside skate in the desired direction, pushing with both legs, covering the five hole. This method of lateral movement is most effective when the puck is close to the net.
considering that the Tigers don’t have a goalie coach, for me it was a start. anyway, if you’re interested, you can read the story about Tony and me below, and a somewhat abbreviated version of how i got to where i am today, not in hockey, but in life in general.
in 1998 i lived in a teeny, tiny studio apartment in Chicago. we’re talking like, dorm room size–i’m not even kidding. at the time only Basil and Hopper lived with me, and at that point in my life i had been smoking for 12 years. i was never a heavy smoker–just a half pack a day of Marlboro Lights, box, please. on the weekends i tended to smoke more, sometimes up to a pack-and-a-half, especially if i had a paper to write. it was my senior year of college, you see.
one day, maybe night, i took a look at my cats. or who knows? maybe one of them looked at me, the way Basil did when i took this picture a few days ago, and i made the horrible realization that if they ever got lung cancer, it would be entirely my fault. when i worked at an animal hospital, there was a cat who was often treated for asthma, yet his owners continued to smoke. i didn’t want to be like them. never mind my own health; i was, and continue to be, concerned about my cats’ well-being.
i didn’t do it cold turkey or start smoking a brand with lower tar and nicotine, like i had in the past, when i made a few half-hearted attempts at quitting. instead, i stopped smoking inside my apartment. since my place was at the end of the corridor, i was near the fire escape and smoked out there. the most difficult time was when i was on the phone. cordless phones are nice, aren’t they? eventually, i quit buying (it was $2.45 a pack back then) and just bummed from my friends at school.
that was it. i don’t know how, except for my own conviction and commitment to my cats, but by November of that year i had quit. up to a year later i occasionally had a social smoke when i was out with friends, but nothing more than that. i haven’t had one since, and Basil and Hopper, now 10 and 11, will be around a lot longer. heh. and so will i.
i was reminded of all this when i came across Stop It! while blog surfing yesterday. the blog is for people who want to quit smoking, and is a place to post ongoing experiences. since it’s a community blog, you have to register to have posting priveleges, but it doesn’t cost a thing. however, the blog is also a challenge. here’s the catch: if you slip, you donate $10 to the ASPCA. how cool is that?
you can see more pet pics at this week?s Friday Ark. if you post your own pets? photos, leave them a trackback or comment and you?ll be listed there, too.
Brian had the day off yesterday so we went ice skating in Millennium Park. I have now crossed this off of my 43 Things list. The outdoor rink is only open November through March, and I was afraid I’d have to wait ’til later this year to accomplish this goal.
It’s free to skate, but skate rental is a whopping $7. Fortunately, we have our own skates. My regular skates desperately need sharpening, but I’ve been too lazy to find out what the nearby pro shop’s hours are, and the skate rental place charges $8! Well, that may be the going price; I have no idea. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had to pay for sharpening. I wore my goalie skates instead.
I was disheartened at how awful I was. It’s been at least a year since I’ve been on the ice and the last time it was only for a few minutes. And the last, last time was in 2001. I shouldn’t have been falling every few feet while skating backwards. I was a frickin’ goalie once upon a time! “Was,” being the key word. And skating forward? Pfft. No balance.
Part of the problem, as the skate guard kindly pointed out, was that my skates weren’t tied tightly enough. You shouldn’t be able to insert your fingertip under the laces. My regular skates have waxed laces that make them a lot easier to tighten. Anyway, once I — OK, Brian–fixed this, I was flying like I flew before. Not as confidently as I would have liked, and I think part of this was because I was wearing goalie skates, the blades of which are shaped differently from regular skates. I’m really, really rusty. Embarrasingly so.
Heh. This was me in another life. I’m the short one on the left, folks, not the tall redhead. Heehee. That’s my friend Julie, another grad student at the time. This was taken in the locker room before our game against Michigan. I wasn’t really a goalie; I was a forward. However, we didn’t have anyone else to play, so (what the hell possessed me?) I volunteered. At this point, the only goalie equipment I had were my glove and blocker. Notice that the brand isBrian’s. I didn’t own my own pads. I was using the club’s pads that were a million years old and way too big on me. For one thing, they were for men, and all of my hockey gear is in boys’ sizes. I did get my own pads eventually. I also have a goalie helmet, but I didn’t like it as much as my regular helmet because I couldn’t see anything below my chin.
The first of two seasons I played for Ohio State was the first year we had a women’s Division I team instead of just a club team. There was no organization at all. According to the team’s snazzy new web site:
Following the formation of the varsity team were slim years for the Ohio State women?s club hockey team. The 2000 season was the last year the team participated in the CCWHA. The team remained independent playing a sporadic schedule with little funding. Kate Nushart says of it, “we were just a group of girls who enjoyed playing hockey together–we had no direction and no focus.”
the 1999-2000 Ohio State Women’s Club Hockey Team CCWHA tournament at Michigan State
Apparently, the team’s budget is now $30,000. Know how much ours was? $1500. In my second season I was the club’s vice president and in charge of raising funds from local businesses. We had a few donations for raffles and stuff, but nothing great. Now, they have a frickin’ booster assocation! I wouldn’t be able to play now anyway, because the team is only open to undergrads. During my time, it was open to all students, faculty, and staff.
Our coach was a grad student himself — a PhD student at that, so he was unable to travel with us to games. Yep, we sucked. We didn’t win one game, and it wasn’t just because I was a new goalie — the rest of the team wasn’t great either, and entire games were played in our zone, meaning that I saw action for the entire frickin’ game. But boy, was I in shape. And you know what? We had the time of our lives!
The one game we did win was in spring quarter of 2000. Our season was over, but we formed an intramural team. We beat a team of guys, and they were not happy! Bwahahaa! We also played as a team in intramural softball. We won a lot because the other teams never showed up.
I hadn’t realized ’til just last week that I have three recurring dreams:
one in which i’m naked in public;
the second in which I’m still in college or grad school, and the only class I need to graduate is some horrible math class that I’m failing miserably — even though I finished grad school in 2002;
the third is me playing hockey again. In every single one of my hockey dreams, I’m back playing right wing.
I had the hockey dream again last week. I don’t know what it means, but I’ve decided to sell my goalie equipment at the start of this year’s season. I’m thinking that I might start playing again in one of the many local women’s teams. If that’s the case, then I have a lot of training ahead of me — as a winger.
While we were skating yesterday, Brian told me that I shouldn’t dwell on my performance, that I should be proud that I finally put my skates back on and accomplished one of my goals. As someone currently going through a depression, it’s so easy for me to see the negative side of things, to be so critical of myself, and, as regular readers know by now, so hard for me to see the big picture.
Last week, I could barely make it out of the house. Yesterday I was back on the ice. There’s got to be something to that.
although i studied classical piano in high school, my absolute favorite keyboard instrument was the harpsichord, and we were lucky enough to have one at school. the harpsichord is similar to the piano, but smaller in size. its tone isn’t as full or rich; rather, it sounds like guitar strings being plucked because that’s exactly how the instrument operates. the notes don’t resonate like a piano’s; they’re short, as if each tone is interrupted by the harpsichordist taking a breath. as a result, the keys feel different when pressed. unlike piano keys, you can almost feel the harpsichord’s hammers plucking each of its strings. the instrument’s sound, as well as the tactile sensation when playing it, was what attracted me to the harpsichord. for anyone interested, i recommend Scott Ross’s recording of Domenico Scarlatti’s Complete Keyboard Works.
well, someone took it upon himself to build a harpsichord made completely of LEGO bricks. you can even play it, but it doesn’t sound anywhere as beautiful as a real harpsichord. LEGO does have its limits, after all. you can see the LEGO harpsichord here, as well as listen to a short recording of the builder playing it.
thank you very much to April who sent me the link, and who knows how much of a LEGOmaniac i am! but it doesn’t stop there. she also sent a link to a lifesize Han Solo encased in carbonite, also built entirely with LEGOs–about 10,000 of them! check it out here.
it’s all true. i also can’t believe that he didn’t stop me, but he didn’t. though i was high, i know and remember that i definitely hit him. i had run my car into other things, also at about 5mph or less: a sapling in a friend’s front yard; various poles, because i once had difficulty backing out of parking spaces adjacent to poles.
i still remember how it felt against those hard, solid objects, but not as clearly as i remember hitting a human being. it’s something that i can’t forget because it impact felt different.
and didn’t i say that most people have a similar story? it’s not that uncommon, and it’s not that unbelievable. the only embellishment is the very end, where i passed Wendy the pipe when she got in the car. in actuality, maybe i did, maybe i didn’t. i don’t remember, but it sounds like something i would have done–be stupid enough to not only drive around stoned, but have the dope on me as well. i don’t think Frey had to “cinematize” (which is how The Smoking Gun describes it) his own drunk/high-hitting-someone/something-with-your-car story and still make it believable.
in the summer of 1989, i lived in Texas and had just completed my first (and what turned out to be my last) 2 semesters at the University of Houston. because i lived in an apartment instead of the dorms, i had difficulty making friends, especially since i was shy. at the end of spring semester, i found a job as an admin at a small telemarketing company. i also moved in with a high school friend who was originally from Houston and had just moved back from Chicago. between these two events, i finally had a circle of friends, and although we were different in very many ways, we had one thing in common: we were big-time stoners.
as a favor for my friend Jim, i agreed to pick up his girlfriend one afternoon in downtown Houston, where she worked at the Enron Building on 1400 Smith. i was nervous because i didn’t know my way around the downtown area, it was rush hour, and i was completely baked. the sunshine reflected from the many glass buildings towering over me only added to my confusion.
i crept around the block of one-way streets looking for Wendy, who was waiting for me in front of the building. a policeman stood on the street, just outside the entrance to a parking garage on my left. as i approached him, he gestured for me to continue forward. or so i thought. well, i did exactly that–kept on going and ended up running into him.
my dad once told me that he didn’t care what i did as long as i didn’t get caught. however, if i ended up in jail, he wasn’t going to bail me out. this was going to be the first time, i was sure. not only was i stoned out of my mind, i hit a cop with my car! and not a cop sitting in a squad car–it was a cop standing on his own two feet on the street!
i was only 19 years old. my life would be ruined. my parents would be disgraced, not only within their Filipino-American community, but within the entire Natividad clan as well. i had been the family black sheep since my pre-teenage years, and now, i had cemented my destiny as the Natividads’ least wanted.
to my relief, the policeman didn’t crumple to the ground. i wasn’t driving fast, maybe 5 miles an hour, probably less. he merely lost his balance. once he regained it, he gestured for me to continue forward, and this time he exaggerated his arm motions, so there was no mistaking what he wanted me to do. he didn’t ask to see my drivers license. he didn’t order me out of the car. he didn’t even say anything to me through my wide-open window as i drove past him.
seconds later, Wendy was sitting beside me. as soon as she shut the door, we rolled away. and i passed her my pipe.
i’ve shared this anecdote for a number of reasons. first, i’ve been kicking around the idea of a new category relating moments from my past so readers can get to know me better. that category is called “Back in the Day.” some of the posts that will fall into this category may be mundane, while others, like this one, are almost difficult to believe.second, i was inspired to share this story after reading an article to which Gladys from The Story of Why provided a link in a recent post. the article, entitled “A Million Little Lies”, was published on January 8, 2006, on The Smoking Gun (TSG), and exposes James Frey, author of the bestselling memoir and Oprah’s Book Club selection, A Million Little Pieces, as a fraudulent writer. TSG states that the book’s turning point is an incident during which Frey, drunk and high on crack, writes that he unintentionally drove onto a sidewalk and hit a foot patrol officer with his car.
this episode, as Frey describes in his memoir, ensues into an altercation involving himself, the patrolman, back-up officers, and 30 people who witnessed the police beating him with billy clubs for refusing arrest. (i’m not going to discuss how or why this event is crucial within the memoir’s structure because that isn’t my point here.) according to the police report TSG located, what actually happened was that Frey drove onto a sidewalk on which there was indeed, a policeman, but nearly hit a pole, not the officer. that incident, the factual or the fictitious version–it doesn’t matter–provided me with the spark to write my own hitting-a-cop-on-foot-with-my-car-while-fucked-up story. i mean, every former substance abuser has one. right?
ironically, i was going to name the “Back in the Day” category “True Stories.”
so, do you really believe i hit a cop with my car while i was fucked up?
…this song is dedicated to you. It’s called “Take It Off” by The Donnas. (This post has been updated at mamazilla’s request to include a picture of me from the old (original) EXIT days when I danced in a cage on Bondage a Go-Go Nights, circa 1991. I did not actually “Take It Off” — that was at Berlin, back when they had Women’s Obsession Nights dedicated to lesbians and featuring well, me — “Manila Monroe.” 
)
I didn’t own my own pads. I was using the club’s pads that were a million years old and way too big on me. For one thing, they were for men, and all of my hockey gear is in boys’ sizes. I did get my own pads eventually. I also have a goalie helmet, but I didn’t like it as much as my regular helmet because I couldn’t see anything below my chin.
