Happy Feet

”You must have chaos within you to give rise to a dancing star.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

 I will admit that the majority of guys I have dated I met in dance clubs (quit scoffing and let me finish!). There is a good reason for that.  In order to tell you though, I need to back up a bit… 

When my parents met they were both dancers.  My mother taught kids to dance at a studio in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. My father taught adults at a studio in New Jersey.  They met at a competition at which my mother was asked to judge and rest as they say, is history.  Prior to having kids my parents traveled doing competitions and exhibitions around the U.S. and Europe. 

The picture here is of my parents dancing at an exhibition.  Doesn’t that look fun??

About a year after my high school graduation I moved to Boca Raton, Florida. While Boca Raton is known for its incredibly wealthy residents, I was young and usually pretty broke.  I was 19 years old but was able to get into clubs because Florida was in the process of changing its Liquor Law to 21. I had made the “grandfather clause” by less than two months. (Why Yes. Yes, I will drink to that, thank you very much!)   It wasn’t so much about drinking as it was about dancing, though admittedly the two usually went hand in hand.

In south Florida in the late 80’s there was a “Ladies Night” every night of the week except for Friday and Saturdays (there may still be but I have since moved on).  This meant that ladies (and I use that term loosely) could get into the club for free and buy a drink for $1.  It made buying drinks for the girls incredibly cheap for the guys (even the broke ones), which made the night even cheaper for us! (Have I ever told you how much I love being a girl??)

On Fridays and Saturdays there would be a cover charge to get into the clubs but often, you only really needed to afford the cover and one or two drinks and the rest of the night drinks would find their way to you on their own (alcohol infused serendipity!).

So that is how I met many of the men that I dated in Florida. I met them in the clubs (and the really odd jobs that I worked, but that is for another blog).  It has always been my opinion that if a guy can move well vertically, he can probably move well horizontally too. If he has rhythm on the dance floor, chances are that it doesn’t go away in the bedroom and if it does, just throw on a little music to remind him why he’s there.  Most of the time this is true but there are always your disappointing anomalies. Unfortunately, one needs to learn that the hard way….or the not hard way, whichever the case may be.

Strangely enough, at the time that I started clubbing, I didn’t even know I could dance. Of course as a kid I enjoyed dancing around in the freedom of my bedroom, (singing into a hairbrush or crying over the heartbreaking words of whatever song) and at the occasional middle school dance; but I had no idea how much I would love it. In Florida I would go out dancing four or five nights a week except Sunday (because God said I needed to rest that day…and there were no good places to go on Sunday).  That is, of course, unless I had overdone it the night before in which case I would stay home on the floor of the bathroom swearing I would never drink again until the next day when I would feel better and do it all over again.  Most of the clubs were pop/ hip hop clubs (none of that “garage crap” they started playing later) but sometimes we would mix it in with salsa or reggae clubs. The one thing about Florida is it is incredibly rich with culture.

What I still cant believe is how the hell I was able to stay out until 1 or 2 am. night after night and be at work the next morning by 8.  I then worked until 5, went home, grabbed dinner (usually pasta because clubbing and clothing were more important than proper nutrition), took a quick nap then got up and got ready to go out around 9 pm.  If I met a guy I would be up even later of course (if I slept at all) and go to work and do it all over again the next night.  It must have been all of the exercise I got from dancing (and stuff).

 And now: a couple of pictures from the past:

This is me to doing a shot called a “blow job” as taken by the cute bartender. Yes, that is a shot glass sticking out of my mouth as you were not allowed to touch the glass with your hands (seriously, who comes up with this shit??).

This is me in one of my typical outfits in Florida (yes, the boyfriend has been cropped).

Those were my favorite pair of jeans.  They were ripped in all the right places (of course by me, my scissors were my best designing tool).   I couldn’t get away with wearing them in clubs as you had to dress up but I could wear them to other bars like the reggae bars (those guys don’t give a crap, Mon).

Apparently, large eyebrows were in then (think Brooke Shields).

My dad was a huge ladies man (shut up, I know what you are thinking) and he was living in Boca at the time too.  I remember one time I was walking out of a grocery store in these jeans and a similar cropped shirt and a guy whistled at me.  I turned around angry because I thought it was rude (I know, I know. I asked for the attention and then when I got it I got mad -  it’s a girl thing) and realized that it had come from my own father.  We were both absolutely horrified when we saw each other and then my dad burst out laughing (he had a very warped sense of humor).  I just kept walking, shaking my head the whole way to my car.  

Gross, but true.

And proof that Nietzsche’s quote must be pretty accurate.

And I Thought I Had Issues...

 So after the immense success of the free dating site, I decided that perhaps going with a site that required money might find better results (and literacy).

I had been the on the pay site for a short time when I met a local guy that seemed really cool.  He did not approach me in an overtly pushy way with an immediate need to get my number or go on a date.  Instead he started with something short and witty that had nothing to do with us dating.  I replied with something witty and back and forth we went for a while.  Smart guy.  He didn’t immediately try to saddle the wild mare and get kicked in the head for it.

After a few weeks of back and forth banter, a date was made. We met at a local restaurant just blocks away from my mother and sisters' homes (safety first!).  This is a huge first step for me. If you haven’t figured it out yet, it is my nature to be cynical as hell and I had no idea what was going to walk through the door. I am well aware that people can post pictures from 10 years ago (or someone else), but I was actually pleasantly surprised.  He was my age and appeared to be showered, he had teeth and no noticeable nose hairs, that kind of thing. 

The first hour of our date we got the basics out of the way and somehow found ourselves in a discussion about evolution.  I know, I know, my friends thought that was nuts too. In my own defense, anyone who knows me knows that I love deep conversation (among other things) with a well-armed opponent.  Somehow the topic came up and he made a quick comment in passing that he didn’t believe “that life came from a speck of dirt” and kept right on talking.

Wait a minute…wait a minute…WHAT??

Now, I don’t profess to know everything about everything. Ok. I kind of do, but not about the big things.  In my opinion, when it comes to deep concepts like religion, no one religion is better than another; none of them are right while others are wrong (except for the ones that want to hurt people). It’s the same with the big concepts such as evolution.  That being said, in order for me to give someone's opinion any credence at all, they had better be able to back it up.  So, while I actually believe in a combination of evolution and creation (something had to start the Big Bang); I had no problem that he didn’t believe in evolution.  But, I needed to know more. 

“Sooooo….,” I started my question, trying to choose my words carefully, “You believe that God put a man and a woman and all of the animals on the earth at pretty much at the same time?” 

“Yes,” he replied.

“What about the dinosaurs? Do you believe that man roamed the earth dodging the dinosaurs? When did the dinosaurs come into play? Why did all of the dinosaurs die and man didn’t? And while I agree with your statement that life doesn’t come from a speck of dirt, it’s been proven that with water, light, currents, etc., you can get life”, I retorted, firing questions one after another without waiting for his answers (out of the machine gun that is my brain). 

He just looked at me.  Uh-oh.

He quickly stated that he didn’t know how all of that happened or when, but he still doesn’t believe in evolution because you can’t get life from a speck of dirt.  Alrighty then.

I decided that a first date was probably not the best time to have this conversation and the date continued and ended pleasantly enough with us making plans to get together again.

A week or so later, we went out again, this time for a full-blown dinner.  It was the longest hour and ½ of my life. I was actually ready to run out the door before my dinner was served but I was starving, so I stayed.

Prior to even ordering, I found out that he is a raging homophobe (me thinks thou doth protest too much) who thinks that gay people are a product of environment and are not born that way.  I could not disagree more and I cannot tolerate people that cannot tolerate people.  My response to that was “What about the kids that are raised with no gay people in their lives? Did they eat too many Fruity Pebbles as a kid and that ‘gave them the gay’?”  (Sarcasm: my go-to anger response.)  Amazingly enough, he didn’t have an answer for that (are we seeing a pattern here?).

As we go to order dinner, it got much, much worse.  Like a gentleman, he tells me to order first.  I do so and then he orders something that I had not seen on the menu and that sounded much better than what I had ordered.  I suggested that I might change my order and he said adamantly, “You can’t.”  I looked at him with my head cocked to the side as a puppy might look at someone that is making a strange noise.

“I’m sorry?” I asked a bit surprised.

“It is a pet peeve of mine when people order what I am ordering at a restaurant”, he elaborated.

My head cocked more.

He continued, “If you had ordered what I was going to order, I would have changed my order. I let everyone order first so that I can order what no one else is having.”

“Oh! So you can share,” I said smiling, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh No! I don’t share,”   he replied. (Hello? Selfish much??)

My response was quick and succinct: “You do realize I will never order first again, don’t you?”  

(Excuse me, waitress, can you please tell the chef to hurry the hell up with my dinner??!!)

So at this point, I already know there will be NO third date with Rainman and it was just a matter of wolfing down my food and getting the hell out of there.  And then, we had this little conversation:

Me: “So, do you like animals?”

Him: “I like dogs, but I don’t like yours.”

Let me think..…how do I put this kindly?   FUCK. YOU.  

Not only had he never met my dog, he assumed, (wrongly) based on a picture (in which she was NOT sitting on oversize chair) that she was a small dog.  She is a 60lb. dog!

CHECK PLEASE!!!

Amazingly enough he had no clue that he was DTM (Dead to Me) and was talking about what we might do on our third date.  I have an idea.  Let’s go to a pig flying competition.

I Am What I Am

 I have decided to take a break from my dating stories (though I have an awesome one to tell you) to talk about the subject of morals.

I have none.  The end.

Yes, I am just kidding but it has been brought to my attention recently by a concerned friend that this blog can possibly be making me look bad (i.e., a trampy).  My mother expressed concern recently too that I might regret writing this blog someday when I am a grandmother (coming from the woman who asked if 17 was too young to buy her granddaughter a vibrator).  The funny thing is anyone who knows me knows I have never pretended to be anyone other than exactly who I am. 

When I was in high school, I was very against being labeled in one particular crowd. Each day I would wear a different outfit that put me a different group.  I would wear docksiders and an Izod T-shirt one day like a “preppy”, ripped jeans with bandannas wrapped around my leg the next day like a stoner (we called them “heads” back then).  The next day I would wear a football jersey and sneakers like a jock and after that a lime green mini skirt and safety pins in my ears like a punk rocker and so on.  I really didn’t care what people thought about me as long as I wasn’t labeled a conformist.  Not much has changed. 

 Guess what? I have had sex.  Have I had a lot of sex? As I know better than to talk about numbers, let’s just say it’s somewhere between Mother Teresa and Gene Simmons.  Of course, society has been saying for hundreds of years that when a guy has multiple sex partners he is virile - a rock star, if you will. When a woman does it, she is a slut. Even in the Bible men have multiple wives (rock on, Noah!) while women were to be subservient.  Ummmm…screw that.

This is 21^st century. Is it still the case that women are to be there to serve their men and are not to enjoy sex?  I don’t think so (but this is my argument so I might be a little biased…and happy).

Today's media is full of women that enjoy sex without necessarily being in a committed relationship, and many of these women are strong and intelligent with powerful jobs.   Take for example, two of the women from the popular show Sex in the City: Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha Jones.  Carrie, the endless romantic, had lots of sex but all in the name of finding true love.  Samantha had lots of sex, all in the name of having lots of sex.  Is one reason better than the other for having lots of sex? I don’t think so.

Moreover, many medical studies indicate that having more sex makes you live longer: 

“Sex not only helps by keeping close human contact in your life, it may even add 3-8 years to your life. While not a great deal of research has been done among older adults, it seems that people who have frequent orgasms do, in fact, live longer. This makes some sense -- an orgasm releases chemicals in your body that cause relaxation and pleasure. These chemicals, if released often enough, may counteract the negative effects of stress.” - Mark Stibich, Ph.D

I don’t know how you feel about it but what is the point of having sex if you don’t enjoy it?  If you do enjoy it, why would you not want more?

 It’s kind of like a massage (and for the purpose of this example, not the “happy-ending” kind).  If you get a massage and it hurts and it is terrible, you will probably not get another.  But, if you get one and it feels terrific and you are happy and relaxed afterward, you would be an idiot not to get another…and another….and another….

Back in the day, I used to liken myself to a big game hunter.  I may have been promiscuous but I was also very selective.  It was a challenge to see if I could get the sexy lead singer of the band, the hot DJ that had all of the girls watching him or the adorably shy bartender (apparently, I used to be very competitive).  Did I make men buy me expensive meals, jewels, gifts, etc.? Hell no. I actually prefer sex before dinner.  Who wants to have sex when they are all full and bloated? Personally, I have found that food tastes better after sex.

My sister used to say that I usually ended up falling in love with the broke musician or poet that I would allow to move in and ended up supporting him for a while.  This was actually very true.

All of that being said, I do have my boundaries.  I have never been with (nor wanted to be with) a married man (that I know of) and I do not date men already involved in a relationship.  I am not judging anyone that has; it’s just not for me (it doesn’t help the trust issues).   I would also like to note that I never cheated on my husband for the 5 minutes that we were married.  Another plus is that I very rarely lie. Mostly because my memory sucks and I can’t remember what I said; but it keeps me honest.  

The last topic I would like to cover in this particular blog is that someone recently asked me how I can write a blog about dating and sex when I have an 18 year old daughter?  Fortunately for me, my daughter is NOTHING like me.  She is somewhat of a prude in that she is very private about private things, she never swears (can you fucking believe that??) and she has had the same boyfriend for 2 years.  She also has no desire whatsoever to read my blog and I have no desire for her to read it. So, we’re good.

Essentially the bottom line is this, in the eternal words of Popeye:  I am what I am. And I couldn’t be happier about that. This blog was created to make people laugh and to share some of my adventurous, nutty dating stories with you.  If you find me shocking and over the top, all the better because remember, my grandkids will think I’m a rock star that will clearly live forever.

If my boobs could talk...

If my boobs could talk I think they’d have a lot to say.  I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get a word in edgewise…

Yes, this blog is about breasts.  To make it wittier I could name them something cute like “the twins” but this presents two problems.  One: they would be fraternal twins at best, as one is larger than the other and; two: my sisters are twins and that would be creepily confusing. For the purpose of this blog, I will call them “The Girls”,  though I don’t really do that in real life.  It’s a little too cutesy for my taste.  I would probably go with something a little more substantial like “the linebackers”, but that just doesn’t have the same flow.

As most young girls do, I began to develop in middle school.  Around the 8^th grade, someone started a rumor that I stuffed my bra.  Having been the youngest of four children and quite used to being teased; I knew not to show that it bothered me (that cute little kid in the movie Jerry McGuire had it mostly right: dogs, bees and other kids smell fear).  So when some smart-ass kid would wave his hand in the air while yelling to the teacher “it’s STUFFY in here”, and the teacher would agree while opening a window; I would laugh right along with everyone else.  It affected me. It was 20+ years until I could purchase a padded bra again (Nipples! Get your nipples here!!). If my boobs could talk, at this point, I think they would have said, “Don’t sweat it, Kid, they will love us in high school”.

I can understand why women get breast augmentation surgery.  There is an odd level of confidence that comes with having large breasts. I assume the same could be said for a man knowing he has a large penis. We could analyze this topic for hours as to why that is, but I don’t feel like it.  The point is, The Girls have served me well.

When I was 16 years old, and pretty much fully developed, I took a trip to Florida to visit my dad. He took us to a waterpark that had drink bars throughout the park (because alcohol and swimming is such a good idea).  I remember ditching my dad and sauntering up to the bar in my finest bikini (The Girls prefer to see what is going on out there). I ordered a beer with a confident smile and sure enough; I got one. I was beginning to understand the power I had been given; the bartender didn’t even look at my 16 year old face when he served me (The Girls were pleased).

I hate to say it (but you KNOW I will) having large breasts has opened many doors for me, both literally and figuratively. They have been a blessing and curse over the years, specifically when it comes to men. I cannot tell you how many times The Girls have been asked by a guy if he can buy me a drink.  My favorite response (and one I used often) was “they aren’t thirsty, but thanks anyway.”  (The Girls might disagree).  Sometimes it’s hard to determine if someone is really interested in speaking to me, or if they are more interested in finding out what The Girls have to say.   One might say this “curse” is actually what I deserve considering I usually have them on display in some way, shape or form, and I guess I would have to agree. However, if I were to wear looser clothing, they make me look heavier than I actually am (hey, this is MY excuse and I am sticking with it). And besides, The Girls wouldn’t be able to see this big beautiful world. 

Obviously having large breasts attracts the infamous “boob man”. If he is cute, I guess I am ok with that so long as he doesn’t actually expect them to speak…and he stops touching them at inappropriate moments.

In my mid-20’s I was living in Colorado and was hired as a legal secretary at a very conservative law firm. Needless to say, it didn’t last long.  I am not conservative in the least and while my immediate boss loved me, the owner of the firm was less than impressed by my outspoken personality and style. I was ultimately fired but not before my boss got me a replacement job with a larger-than-life criminal attorney from Texas.  Rowe was on his 5^th marriage at the time to yet another stripper that he met, bought a boob-job, and took her out of the strip club for a better life.   Rowe was clearly a boob-man.  Needless to say, I got the job. I would like to note here that I was a good legal secretary. My boobs may have helped me to get the job but had I not been good at it, I never would have kept that job for the years that I did as there was no inappropriate behavior between my boss and me.  Apparently, he just liked looking at large breasts, even at work.

I once dated a guy that informed me, as we were about to get intimate, that he was a “leg man”. Before I could stop myself (and this happens often), I blurted out “Well, what the hell are doing with me?!” The whole thing was not great. It wasn’t him as he was actually pretty good; but I was so distracted on what angle would make my legs look 6 inches longer than they actually are, I couldn’t enjoy it.

Hey Idiot, way to ruin what could have been an awesome hour of your life.