What she said

I love it when friends call me on my shit. Especially when the shit I’ve been meaning to talk about is fucking awesome. So when the subject of this story called me out on my very public (Facebook) post of , “you just know I’m gonna blog about this”, I was nudged, ever so lovingly, do to so.

It’s been a few days (fine, weeks) since this thing happened, but c’mon. When have I ever let time stop me from laying it on you? I’m writing a goddammed book about shit I lived through in the 80s and 90s, for fucks sake.  What’s a handful of weeks, compared to the decades of soul-searching it’s taken me to find my balls, and actually write about it?

But this isn’t about my story. It’s not even related to me, except that it serves as a reminder and inspiration to stand up, walk the walk, and not take anyone’s shit. As much as the (recovering) narcissist in me would love this to be about me – it isn’t. It’s universal, so pull up a chair.

This has been swirling in my brain for a while, and as I was playing with my laptop keys, The World had other plans. There was a catastrophic hurricane affecting my friends (and millions of strangers), then a nail-biting presidential election that caused me to fall into a vortex of Twittergasms, not to mention inhale an entire box of Mac and Cheese. When that dust began to level, my birthday weekend quickly came, and I headed out-of-town. And on the actual day of my birthday, I learned my recent mammogram result was abnormal, so I had an ultrasound on Monday, and meet with the biopsy bitches today. Talk about a blog-buzzkill.

But fuck it. Today, before getting felt up, I’m making the time, and inducing this little fucker of a story. My posting contractions are less than a minute apart, and this baby is coming.  “It’s a Blog” balloons are blanketing the Interweb as we speak.

Every now and then it happens. You witness something that reminds you of the person you want to be. Or maybe forgot you could be. Or are. The person inside yourself, who perhaps you knew as a kid, but somewhere

Christine Macdonald


His name was Duke. A delicious, twenty-something tall drink of London with dirty blonde hair, emerald eyes and sun-kissed abs. I usually dug the Mario’s and Antonio’s of the world, but with Duke, I made an exception. He was the precursor to David Beckham, only without the tanorexic Spice wife, four kids and bank roll. I’m not even sure he played soccer – football – whatever. But that accent. The cocky attitude. As soon as he said my name, I was all in.

As if his royal dreamyness wasn’t enough, he was the hottest new waiter at the club. If he wasn’t already shagging my friend, he would’ve been perfect. Fucking hot guys. Always gay or married.

Duke and Maddie weren’t technically married, but they shacked up just days after they met. She chose “Madison” as her stage name, honoring her mid-western roots, and if possible, was even more stunning than her English prince. It’s fascinating to watch two beautiful freaks of nature meet for the first time. It’s like they know – they’re born with winning lottery genes – but only really appreciate it when locking eyes with fellow ticket holders. So annoying. Even more so, when they end up being really cool. I wanted my aesthetically gifted friends to be assholes, just so I could hate them.

But I adored Maddie and Duke. And as much as I lusted after his piping hot, witty, heavily accented bounce-a-quarter-able-ass, I never broke the Stripper Sisterhood code of: Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Fellow Pole Dancer’s Penis.

So we became tight friends. I looked up to Maddie, who was a couple of years older and

Christine Macdonald

Why writing this memoir is a pain in the ass

Original post on Kathy Pooler’s website: A Memoir Writer’s Journey.

Do you have the courage to bring forth this work? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes. – Jack Gilbert

Stretching my body to the morning, my eyes, they start to focus. The corners of my mouth curve up when I realize the seconds that linger today are allowed. Minutes pass. My smile becomes a sigh; I turn over, breathe in the quiet space, and celebrate by drifting off again.

Weekends are good to me. They don’t judge when I sleep past 10:00, never require hair and make-up, and the dress code is always casual. Being single and without children, these days are my own, allowing simple pleasures that I cherish. A fresh mug of coffee. A cozy bed. The safety in my solitude. They breathe a tender silence, allowing my mind to dream – and dream, it does – once I am fully awake.

After turning on my laptop (and my brain is finally up), I’m quickly reminded that dreams take work, and that writing this memoir is kind of a pain in the ass. I can hear you now, “why bother writing one, if you’re just going to bitch about it?” If I were the brilliant, literary genius-type, I’d throw you a clever reply. But let’s be real. I’m a drug addict, ex-stripper, recovering narcissist writer, wrapped in a riddle of self-deprecation and vanity. I’m a hot mess who’s been through some shit – from abuse to overdosing. I bother because I’m compelled. And the deeper I plow, the more crystallized my reason: I’m giving purpose to my past, through words I long to say, about a time I can’t forget.

If you told me twenty years ago, I’d be writing a memoir in my 40s, I’d have shot vodka out of my nose, unsuccessfully trying to reign in the laughter. There’s no way I’ll make it to 40. Then I’d read through my

Christine Macdonald