An obsessive, bionic, Japanese speaking snoop?

1992 (24 yrs old) Donna (left) and me (right) on Halloween in the dressing room. Note the poster of Eric on the door.

On the heels of gal pal Dalai Lina’s post today, I’m going to share five things about myself that you don’t know – then ask you to share a little about YOU.

Here’s me:

1)

In 1992, I was obsessed with The Real World (season one)‘s Eric Nies (notice him on the dressing room door behind me). Obsessed. He was hot, fun and totally unattainable, just the type of man I liked.

After The Real World wrapped, Eric parlayed his 15 minutes into a “VJ” (video jockey) role on MTV.  When a contest to guest host with Eric for a week was announced, I quickly entered. The rules stated we could enter as many times as we liked, so that’s exactly what I did. I hand wrote thousands of post cards and mailed them to the MTV corporate offices in New York. Convinced I would win, I drove around the island dropping off hundreds of entries in different post boxes, thinking I had a better chance of winning if the mail was spread out. I had all the dancers in the club filling out these post cards during their time off stage.

I didn’t win, but it was an incredible display of my tenacity and passion; not to mention a lesson in life being incredibly unfair.

2)

In the third grade, I was a bit of a track star in school. When a fellow classmate asked me “how can you run so fast?”, I couldn’t help myself. I told her I was bionic. Her mouth gasped open, and to prove my lie, I said “watch this…” and proceeded to walk up to the hand-powered, wall mounted pencil sharpener and grinded that pencil within an inch of its life. She promised to keep my secret under wraps and was thrilled to know a real-life Bionic Woman.

3)

I’m left-handed, but do everything else with my right hand. I’m also dyslexic and have the worst hand writing known to man. I should have been a serial killer. Or a doctor.

4)

I speak Japanese. When you grow up in Hawaii, the second language is Japanese, so it makes sense. Thanks to a summer job at Häagen-Dazs in Waikiki, I still know how to say “A dollar sixty-nine”, “big cone, or small cone?”, and “I’ll be with you in a moment”.

Years later in Northern California, I worked as a store manager at Ann Taylor. When a group of Japanese tourists walked in the store, I greeted them and chatted a little in Japanese to them. They were stunned!

Angela and me. Love the Milli Vanilli shorts.

5)

I’m a recovering snoop. When Robert and I lived together, I snooped all the time. You’d think the fact he was a drug dealer would’ve scared me, but I didn’t care. I wanted to catch him in the cheating act, because I knew he was playing around, and I thought if I had proof, it’d help me leave him.

When I discovered a love letter and photo from a stunning blonde, Angela, I immediately phoned the number she left. After introducing myself, Angela invited me for a drink and I curiously accepted. We learned a TON about Robert and decided to confront him together. Later that night, you could’ve knocked him over with a feather when he came home to see Angela and I sitting on the couch, hamming it up.

I kicked Robert out and Angela moved in. It was the beginning of a life long friendship, and I consider her to be one of the most amazing women I know.

It’s been years since I’ve played detective. When you surround yourself with people you love and trust, there really is no need to invade someones personal space. My motto is, if I feel like I should be checking your phone or emails, I shouldn’t be dating you in the first place.

So there you have it. Five random facts about me that you didn’t know.

Can you think of any you’d like to share about YOU?

Christine Macdonald

It’s a Jungle Down There

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10-stripper-movies.w529.h352Nobody dreams of becoming a stripper. Little girls aren’t playing with Barbies sharing visions of clear heels. They don’t swing on the monkey bars thinking about the pole, and there certainly aren’t any high school career aptitude tests that prepare us for Champagne Rooms and table dances.

With the ink on my high school diploma barely dry, I made my stage debut in 1987. At just 19, I was a mere hopscotch and skip from Easy Bake Ovens and Lee Press On nails.

Angela and I were hanging in our neighborhood stomping grounds on the beach in Waikiki cultivating our cocoa-buttered tans. Walking back to our towels after a quick dip in the ocean, we sauntered back to our spot in front of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel (famously known as the Pink Palace). Just as we were adjusting our each chairs, not realizing we were clearly showing off our g-strings and freckles, we were approached.

“You ladies want to make an easy hundred!?” Smelling of body oil, this dude was textbook Strip-Club-Promo-Guy.  I was so distracted by his curly-haired mullet waving in the breeze and neon green Speedos that were suffocating his wet, hairy skin gleaming in the Waikiki sun.

“A hundred bucks?” Angela chimed in, dissolving my amusement.

“And all we gotta do is enter a dance contest?” She threw one of her looks. She had the exact persona of a gal who intentionally touches the wall marked “Wet Paint” out of sheer excitement that she was breaking the rules.

“Yea, you gotta dance, but in a bikini and white tank-top. Its a wet t-shirt contest. If you win, it’s an easy hundred bucks.”

Sign us up!

A few hours later we made our entrance to the club. Walking through the velvet drapes upon opening the dark-tainted double-doors, I immediately felt like a grown-up.

The room was dark and smelled of stale beer. Traces of sand decorated the floor and Jon Bon Jovi’s ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ serenaded my entrance. Angela arrived before I did and was already working the room for voters. The contest winner was chosen based on audience applause, so the girls were all over it. I was too scared to hobnob with the young military boys so I ordered a Bud Light and found the dressing room past the tiny stage in the back.

“You here for the contest?” A tall black woman with dreadlocks and stoned eyes greeted me.

“Uh huh.” I pushed out the words in-between excited breaths.

“Well okay honey, put your name down. You got a t-shirt?” She handed me a clipboard. Her marathon-long pink nails mesmerized me.

“Yea.” I nodded, pulling out my Hanes men’s tank top to prove my preparedness. She smiled, directing me to an empty locker while greeting another girl who walked in after me.

Before I knew it my stage name was called.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, coming to the stage we have the sensational Stephanieeeeeee.” I chose my middle name because it was easy to remember.

Cloaked in a beer buzz and adrenaline, I worked my shit on stage. My Wife Beater tank was soaked and you could see straight through to my b-cups. No shame, just showmanship.

On stage I was flawless. I worked my Tawny Kitaen hair and pretended to have porcelain skin. I was worlds apart from how I felt off stage; the scar-faced Freddy Kruger girl they bullied in school. On stage I was home.

The audience loved it too and, to my surprise, I won the contest. I left the club that night with a crisp Benjamin and a new job.

Working at the club was a little different than shaking my moneymaker for a contest. Like all the girls I had to double as a waitress. There was a small fry-cook stand next to the back stage where you could feast on greasy fries and chicken wings while you watched the girls strut their stuff.

Because food was involved, wearing pantyhose on the floor was required by law. It took a certain skill to master the assembly of wearing sheer hose underneath a g-string. I rolled each side down, belly to butt crack, then fastened the nylon to the tiny patches of Lycra/Spandex covering my business.

So there I was – loving my new career as a showgirl on stage: Fabulous Stephanie. Perfect everything. Hip popping, Aqua-netted head rolling, kick ass money making Steph. I was having a blast. Bending over, taking a tip, head up, and moving on. The customers seemed like they were flocking to me, staring at my ass and smiling.

Cha ching baby, I’m a rock star.

After Mötley Crüe sang their last note I saw Angela upside down through my legs. She waved my attention and I walked off stage to meet her in the dressing room.

“Honey, come here.” She sounded serious.

“Take a look.” Angela placed my back to the floor length mirror and made me bend over, looking at my ass through my legs. Holy shit. Fuck. I was blown away. I never shaved or groomed my pubic hair. Ever. Add to that fact, the visual of my pantyhose smashed up to my g-string. It was like a scene from Alien – only hairier. A bushel of pubic hair, flattened out like a dead spider under my pantyhose. It looked like my privates were robbing a bank.

“Oh my God.” I couldn’t believe I was on stage bending over with my Bank Robber Business for the world to see. And I was smiling, asking for money! And I thought the customers were smiling because I was hot. I needed more than a razor. I needed a cocktail.

I took the rest of the night off – sneaking out the back exit so no one would see me.

After running home in shame, I turned on the TV and ran a hot bath. I grabbed a pair of scissors and a hand mirror and started lady-scaping immediately. In the background I heard Sigourney Weaver speaking. I stood up, scissors in hand and walked in to the bedroom. There she was. Ellen Ripley in all her bald glory.

I took it as a personal omen that Aliens was airing and decided to pay homage to my little freak show on stage by shaving myself completely.

If it was good enough for Sigourney, it was good enough for me.

Christine Macdonald