Terena Scott's Blog, page 19

Night Clubs and Friendship

Have you ever been to a fancy nightclub, the kind you see on TV filled with young and beautiful people dancing to electronic music, overseen by a DJ who is worshipped by the crowd? I have. I hated it.

To be fair, I probably hated it because I was there just three weeks after I’d been dosed, so my tolerance for drunk, hip people was low. And it really wasn’t my scene; what the hell was this middle aged babe doing in a club filled beyond capacity with gorgeous 22 year olds? I was invited by a much younger friend who has spent a lot of time dancing to ear shattering music under black lights. I love new experiences, so I decided to go for the adventure. When I was younger, I was too broke to go out, especially to a dance club to hear a new DJ. So there I was, wandering a brand new club in high heels and a woman’s tuxedo, feeling 80 years old.

The club was a maze of dance floors with a raised area for the DJ to create his magic. A long, well lit bar crammed with people screaming for drinks was the most visible landmark. The rest of the club was dark, illuminated only by hundreds of multi-colored lights that swam across the ceiling, the floor and the crowd in time to the music. The girls wore the uniform of the hip and cool: clinging short dresses and platform high heels. The boys dressed with more variety, but every one looked rich. Several Go-Go dancers performed on blocks, waving light wands that changed color.  The moment you stepped into the room, you were punched in the chest with music and confused by the swirl of movement.

As we shoved our way through the crowd (it was too crowded to actually dance), I saw roped off VIP areas adorned with scantily clad young women. Many were passed out on velvet couches. People kept dancing and drinking, ignoring the girls who were so messed up they could actually sleep despite the primal thump of the drum machine. Why didn’t anyone help them? One girl had her short sequined dress pulled up over her hips, exposing her tiny lace panties. Why didn’t someone pull her skirt back down? Where were her friends? Her date? Her mother?

That’s when I knew I was waaaaaaaay too old for an ultra hip dance club. Every one of these girls could by my daughter. That boy with his arm slung over the shoulder of that girl wobbling on too high heels could be my son. If he were, I’d kick his butt for not taking better care of his date.

Later, when I asked my friend why no one helped those passed out girls, she just laughed. Why should they? It’s every girl for herself in a club like that and if you’re dumb enough to get that messed up, you’re on your own.

I felt so sorry for my young friend. When I go out with friends, I know they all have my back. On the night I got dosed, three friends came to my rescue; no one left me lying on the floor. My young friend has actually been left on a couch, passed out and unable to defend herself, while her friends laughed at her. When she went out with me and my friends, she was shocked by how much we cared for each other. Her feet hurt and a friend of mine helped her. I drank too much, and another friend held my arm so I wouldn’t fall down. If anyone had thrown up that night, at least two friends would have come to the rescue. That’s just what friends do.

When I was young, I had wanted to go to clubs and party and dance all night, but I had to work to pay for college. I envied the cool crowd with their gorgeous clothes and spending money. But maybe that world wasn’t so cool. The people are lovely, the music intense, the decor beautiful, but the attitude is cutthroat. Going to a club is like playing a vicious game of King of the Mountain with the winner being whoever is most beautiful and can drink the most without falling down.

I think I’ll hang out with friends my own age, preferably in the wine bar like the middle aged chick I am. Being young and hip is far too dangerous.

The rules to keep from getting dosed in a bar

To the man who dosed me in a bar,

You are a prick. I hope someone doses you sometime so you can understand how terrifying the experience is. And then I hope someone drags you out to the street by your cock so everyone can laugh at you while you freak out in the cold. Hopefully you’ll get hit by a car.

Sincerely,

The woman you dosed two Sundays ago. 

While visiting friends in San Francisco, I was dosed by a stranger in a bar. I was out having drinks, celebrating a few days of relaxation away from the stress of life at home. My husband sat only two bar stools away from me. And while no one was looking, a man dropped a drug into my gin and tonic.

He slid against me and leaned on the bar, as if wanting to order a drink, and when I saw him every alarm bell in my body rang. His pupils were so dilated he didn’t look human anymore and he didn’t blink. He just stared at me, then he stroked my thigh. Shoving his hand away, I glared into those frightening eyes and said, “No.” He smiled. I turned my  back to him so I continue the conversation about Prague with the gentleman on my left, a funny guy who was friends with the man my husband was talking to. I sipped my drink, chatted more, and then realized that I was touching the funny guy’s bare arm. He was so warm… so soft… leaning against him I felt his t-shirt against my chest. Suddenly, he was gone. I gripped the bar and stared at the people around me. Where was my husband? The scary man was still standing beside me, smiling.

“I’m so tired,” I said, and then lay my head on the bar. Someone’s hand reached inside my blouse and squeezed my right breast. I started to cry.

After that, everything is a blur, like a bad dream you can’t wake up from. You feel everything, every touch and sound and breath, but you can’t shake yourself awake, or make the fear go away. I remember being outside on the sidewalk with my friend holding me, but the scary man was still there. I told her he was touching me. Then I remember trying to walk back to the apartment where we were staying. I remember waking up because I was crying and screaming and I couldn’t stop. My husband was there but he couldn’t calm me down. Far away inside of me, I knew I needed to stop, but I kept screaming. Suddenly I was up and screaming louder, accusing my husband of letting a strange man touch me. And then my husband was gone but my friends were there and one friend took me to the hospital. The screaming finally stopped, but not the terror.

In the morning, I was calm and well enough to go home, so the hospital released me, saying I was exhausted and had experienced a break down due to alcohol. My husband picked me up at the ER and we drove home, silent and shaken from a night of chaos. What had happened? Why had I lost it so badly? Did I just have a nervous breakdown?

My daughter has a disability and is medically fragile, so every day is stressful. Add to that losing my job, marriage trouble and constant pain from a neck injury, and it’s no wonder I’m prone to hysterical weeping, especially if I drink too much. But this was different. This time when I cried, I was out of my head and ready to kill myself.

The next day, I explained to my daughter’s aid what had happened and she said, “You were dosed.”

“What? How? What are you talking about?”

“You were dosed. Someone slipped something in your drink when you weren’t looking. Probably that creepy guy who was grabbing you. You have all the classic signs.”

“But… I’m too old to be dosed. I could be that guy’s mom.”

She laughed. “No your not. You’re hot. And besides, you gave him the opportunity. Other people probably had their drink covered.”

And then she told me about the times she’d been dosed, how her friends had been dosed, what to do if you get dosed, and how to prevent it from happening.

But I still couldn’t believe it. Why would anyone want to dose me? I’m not a naive 21 year old girl; I’m an intelligent, savvy, full grown woman who doesn’t take shit from men. They tested me for drugs in the hospital and they didn’t find anything. The idea was crazy!

When I told the story to my friends under age 35, they all said, “Sounds like you were dosed.” I told my friends over age 35 that people thought I’d been drugged, and they all said, “That makes a lot of sense.” I went online and read about rape-drugs and side effects and how to protect yourself from being drugged, and even though my brain just couldn’t accept that someone would do it, I realized my friends were right: I had been drugged by the creepy guy.

The most disturbing thing about this, other than the experience itself, is how nonchalant my friends under age 35 are about getting dosed. Being dosed in a bar is as ordinary an event as getting a phone number from someone you meet there. Since it happens so often, everyone knows how to protect themselves. Unfortunately, I’m 46 and don’t go to bars very often, so no one taught me the rules. But here’s what I know now.

The Rules to keep from getting dosed in a bar.

Always keep control of your drink. Don’t leave it on the bar, or on the table, at any time. If you have to pee, take your drink with you! Want to dance? Finish your drink first.
If you do set your drink on the bar or a table, cover it with a plastic cup or the coasters bars give you. That makes it harder for someone to slip something into it.
Never take a sip of a drink from someone, even someone you know. Do not share drinks.
If someone wants to buy you a drink, go with them to the bar. Don’t drink anything that has left your sight. Someone hands you a beer? Only drink it if it is still unopened.
Do no go to bars alone. If you’re on a date, reread all the rules and FOLLOW THEM.

The other thing I discovered is that hospitals do not routinely test for “date-rape” drugs. And many of the drugs pass through your system so quickly even if they do test, they might not find anything. The hospital I went to tested my alcohol level and checked for standard recreational drugs, like cocaine and pot, not Ketamine or GHB.

It’s a bizarre comfort to know I was drugged and didn’t just lose my mind one night. However, it is frightening to realize how violated I was and I’m thankful my friends were there to help me. What would have happened if I’d been alone?

For more info, here are some links I found:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Date_rape_drug

http://www.medicinenet.com/date_rape_drugs/article.htm

http://goaskalice.columbia.edu/rohypnol-roofie-and-rape

http://teenadvice.about.com/library/weekly/aa062502a.htm

Forget Resolutions: What do you want to learn in 2014?

Have you ever looked up the definition of the word “resolution”?

Resolution: The act of finding an answer or solution to a conflict, problem, etc. : the act of resolving something (from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary).

Did you know the word is a noun, not a verb?

How many resolutions do you make each year, and how many are you able to keep?

I stopped making resolutions several years ago because I got tired of setting myself up for failure. I kept promising myself that I would learn to cook and eat better, but so far all I’ve learned to cook is steak. Not veggies or quinoa or curry or even meatloaf, just steak. I gave up promising to get in better shape or be more organized because by March my running shoes were still clean and my date book was empty. But now I wonder if I was making resolutions wrong. If a resolution is a noun and not a verb, then maybe we need to think of a resolution as a tangible thing and not as a goal. Maybe a resolution is more of a transformation than simply the number of hours you log at the gym.

Instead of making resolutions that are about losing weight or earning money, what if we ask ourselves, “What do I want to learn this year?”

I want to learn to be kinder to myself, so I will look for ways to do that. Perhaps I will stick with meditation or read more books or spend more time with friends. Perhaps I’ll do all of that. Perhaps eating more veggies will make my body happier. The point is, rather than beating myself up for not meditating four times a week and eating more broccoli, I will praise myself for all the ways I try to treat myself gently. Rather than telling myself I’m a loser for not getting to the gym, I will tell myself that going to the gym is important because it makes my body happier.

Resolutions are a tool to help you, not hurt you. If resolutions make you feel guilty/angry/lazy/stupid, then they are worthless. Forget resolutions. Think deeper and ask what you hope to learn in 2014. Then find the tools to help you. If the word “resolution” is a noun, why are we treating it like a big, angry, scary verb?

Take Our Poll

 

2013: Do you know anyone who didn’t have a difficult year?

I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had a difficult year. Relationships shattered; jobs vanished; housing collapsed;  finances withered. Even health seemed difficult to maintain in 2013. What is it about this year that caused even the toughest amongst us to cry “Uncle!” Just like so many this year, everything in my life cracked. I lost my job, had surgery on my shoulder that didn’t resolve the pain, my daughter was ill, stress quadrupled, and my marriage suffered. At the end of this year, I feel emotionally and physically battered to hell, and I know damn well I’m not alone.

Is there a single person anywhere who doesn’t feel like 2013 was the equivalent of a treck to Mordor?

Why was 2013 so hard? Astrologers blame Mercury. Politicians blame the economy. Conservatives blame the collapse of social norms. Is it the hang-over from the “Great Recession”? The crazy weather? Toxic chemicals in our drinking water? Hormones in our food supply? What is causing so many of us to suffer?

The Winter Solstice is here, and this year it holds more meaning for me than in past years. The darkness feels stronger, literally and figuratively. The days are cold and the nights too long and all I want to do is curl up in my bed and sleep until Spring. Usually, I love the Winter, but this year it feels that it will never end, even though technically Winter hasn’t even started yet. If only the sun would shine warmer, then maybe we could all get past this miserable year and start again. We could go outside and breath in the Winter air and know that the sun’s warmth is closer, the daylight will lengthen, and soon it will be time to plant the garden again.

Feeling completely discouraged, I hung two strands of colorful lights on my house yesterday in honor of Solstice. You can’t light bonfires anymore (at least not in town), so holiday lights are the next best thing. When the sun set I plugged in my lights and instantly my home felt more cheerful. The shadows glowed with red, green, blue and yellow light, and suddenly I felt that although 2013 tried hard, I wasn’t beaten.

I have no idea if 2014 will be a “good” year, or not, and I’ve given up hoping it will be better. I just know that I will still love and fight and dream and cry and eventually find a small bit of peace. I know that I have more to learn and more to do. I know that there will always be struggle, and sometimes the struggle will be more than I can manage.  I’ll lose a few battles, but I will not give up the fight. I know that ultimately I will continue to love and be loved. I know joy will find me when I am saddest.

Time to plug in my holiday lights again. Happy Solstice, dear friends.

The Day of Giving: Are We Giving to the Right Places?

image from Press Democrat, Health Report shows Lake County’s Death Rate Twice the National Average. http://www.pressdemocrat.com/article/20130904/articles/130909815

The Day of Giving falls after the four days of extreme shopping, and though I’m happy there is a day acknowledging the need for charity, it angers me. I don’t have a problem with charity itself, I have a problem with where much of the charity goes. Too much charity in the United States feeds the myth that we are the country of wealth and there are no poor people here. Well, maybe there are a few, which is sad, but they are much better off than the poor starving children in Africa.

Bullshit.

First, let me acknowledge the fact that there are millions of people in the world who need help. Millions of people are starving, living in refuge camps, dying of treatable diseases, living in war zones… I am not negating any of that. People do indeed need our help, and I don’t want to take away any of the support given to desperate people in Africa and Asia. But just sending money “over there” without a thought to the needs of the hungry children in our own nation perpetuates the fantasy that there is enough support here and no one lives in squalor like they do in Afghanistan.

Again, Bullshit.

When I worked for Easter Seals in Lake County as an early interventionist, visiting families with young, special needs children (under 3), teaching them the skills needed to help their children thrive.  In the 2 years I did this work, I met many families living in trailers with broken windows and blue tarps covering their falling roofs, families who had to choose between heat and food, families in need of medical care without access to a doctor. There were large families who lived together, ten people crammed into a two bedroom house, because that was the only way they could afford housing. One little girl I worked with cried when her color crayons melted from the summer heat because she lived in a house without electricity; there was electricity available, but her family couldn’t pay the bill. Most of these families lived in the City of Clearlake, the largest city in Lake County (pop. 15,000), which still has dirt roads, poor sanitation, and mercury contaminated drinking water.

Whenever I hear someone living in beautiful Sonoma County talk about how sad it is that children are starving in Africa, I want to shout, “What about the children starving just one hour away from you?” To those who sponsor children in Mexico, is there a way to sponsor a child in Clearlake? Or Detroit? The schools could use new text books, heat, and repairs. The clinics could use more doctors. The roads could use pavement.

It is important that we try and help people in poverty all over the world. But when it’s time to send money overseas, lets not forget the hungry child who is probably living two blocks away from you.

Forget “permission” to rest, I’m being forced to rest.

diagram of shoulder impingement from orthogate.com

Four weeks ago, I had shoulder surgery; no rotator-cuff tears, thank goodness, so I’m healing fast. I was trying to rest before the surgery, but my idea of rest was organizing 8 months of paperwork and staying up late editing manuscripts. Then came my surgery and suddenly, I was slammed hard into bed, wacked-out on pain meds with my shoulder in an ice machine. My body demanded rest, or else! So I lay there and slept.

Four days later, I was out of that bed and working my butt off in PT, pushing the limits of pain. “What pain is bad pain?” I asked.

“Let the pain be your guide,” my PT said.

“It always hurts, so when do you know to stop?”

“If you feel a sharp, jabbing pain, stop.”

Oh, that kind of pain, I thought. But if I push through it just a bit, I can get past that being-stabbed-with-a-stiletto-blade-pain and stretch further and get well faster. How else will I get strong again?

Which is how I ended up back in bed with my ice machine, crying like a ten year old girl with a broken arm. “But I need to get better! I hate being so weak! I hate asking for help! I want to do it myself!”

For some insane reason, I was forcing a year’s worth of PT into 3 weeks, thinking that if I worked harder and ignored the pain, I’d be back to normal faster than anyone ever has been before. I am that psycho in spin class who will work so hard she throws up just to prove that she’s the fastest person on a stationary bike.

Yes, I’m an idiot.

My body is forcing me to rest. ”Relax”, it says, “Lounge. Listen to the pain, and slowly do your exercises. Give it three months before you push it so hard. Or else!”

Or else what? I ask my defiant body.

“Or else I will shove you back into that bed where you won’t be able to do anything but watch reruns of General Hospital and beg for mercy.”

Ok, ok… I’ll listen. I promise.

When the body commands, the ego must obey.

I know I’m not the only person who pushes herself so hard (I’ve seen you other crazy people at the gym). How do you make peace with an injury, or your physical limitations? How do you care for yourself? What does your body do if you don’t?

 

 

Permission to Rest

When was the last time you gave yourself permission to rest? I mean lie on the couch with a good book kind of rest. Or take a leisurely walk with no particular destination in mind, without the dog, kind of rest. If you’re a parent, the “slow days of summer” is a myth, one you wish you had the time and money to live in. But now the kids are back in school, the days are still hot, the sun still bright, and the garden is bursting with produce. Before you roll up your sleeves to vacuum the last of the sand out of the mini-van, think about what rest means to you.

For me, rest is stopping all outgoing energy, including creative energy. Trying to care for my daughter while writing two books and editing another, running Medusa’s Muse, and marketing books, all while injured, was crazy making. I resented my daughter at home all the time, resented the heat that kept us in the house most of the time, resented the hours spent trying to manage the everyday chaos of home and family. My lap top sat idle, my stress load increased, and my sense of claustrophobia got so bad I started throwing out every book and knick-knack in my bedroom (throwing out books? unheard of!).

While grabbing one precious hour of writing time at the cafe, I opened my lap top and heard a loud “crack”. The hinge on my computer had snapped. Carefully I tried propping the screen up, but it kept slipping backwards. I wanted to cry. My husband, a computer tech, examined it and pronounced it unfixable. My most important tool and toy had just died.

Without money to buy a new laptop, I was forced to stop working. No more editing or blogging or revisions for me. But a funny thing happened while I was being depressed, I also felt a surprising sense of relief. Writing was impossible for several weeks, so during that time I found art projects to do with my daughter, read one of the books I’d been longing to start but had “no time,” and nurtured my pumpkin patch. My heart rate slowed and the tension in my neck relaxed. All of my self-imposed deadlines fell away.

Once I had the cash, I bought a new laptop. My daughter started the 12th grade. My days were still busy, but I had the ability to concentrate on writing again. Claustrophobia was replaced with an opened mind filled with fresh ideas.

We artists spend all of our energy on our art; even when we’re taking care of our children or working at our jobs, more than half of our brain power is spent imagining new ways to create. Rest for me is not simply about relaxing my body, I also need to relax my mind and let go of the need to keep writing. The world will not end if I’m unable to write a new play by Christmas. At least I hope not.

And I gotta say, I am madly in love with my new MacBook Air.

Wear your Gatsby best and see the world premier of my comedy play, “Prince Charming”.

a depression era comedy that will leave you laughing, and guessing, till the very end.

The first read through of my play was last night and the best part was that my actors had no idea how it would end! I’m so excited about this event. Hope you can come.

It’s 1933 and Ellen Hunt is broke. The vast fortune she married her deceased husband for has vanished and the lovely widow is now alone and about to lose her gorgeous mansion. What’s a daring and beautiful socialite to do? Marry off her only son, George, to a wealthy girl, of course.

Luckily a wealthy girl is available, the beautiful Lydia Ellsworth, who just so happens to be madly in love with George. With George returning from college that evening, Ellen thinks that all she needs to do is get Lydia and George alone together. But when George arrives home with a fiancee of his own, Ellen’s plans are dashed. Susan is lovely but poor, not what Ellen has in mind for her son. How will Ellen get rid of Susan and make sure George falls in love with Lydia, all while ensuring no one, not even George, discovers the Hunt family fortune is gone? It will take all of her manipulative powers to save the family from scandal and ruin. With fast paced dialogue and an ending no one would expect, “Prince Charming” will leave you laughing and believing in the power of love.

June 26, 7:00 pm at the Ukiah Player’s Theatre

1041 Low Gap Rd, Ukiah, California. $5 at the door.

You know I’m working on my book if I’m not blogging

Or at least that’s what I’d like you to believe…

I actually am working diligently on the second edition of What You Need to Know to Be a Pro; the Business Start Up Guide for Publishers, so my blogging and other writing activities have been put on hold. Creating the second edition has been a fascinating process because so much has changed since I first started publishing. Five years ago, ebooks were just emerging. The Kindle was barely functional and the Nook wasn’t conceived yet. Only hard-core techno geeks read ebooks, or pirates who stole manuscripts off of hacking sites.

Today, more books are sold via the Kindle than paper books on Amazon.com. The iPad has created a revolution in interactive books, and the Nook is gaining in popularity. My press, Medusa’s Muse, released its first ebook, the memoir Traveling Blind: Life Lessons from Unlikely Teachers, by Laura Fogg. This was the first book I published, so it seemed fitting that it was the inaugural book in our ebook start-up.

Because e-books have changed the publishing world, the 2nd edition of What You Need to Know needed a chapter on ebooks, which the first edition did not. Plus, technology has changed, so I’ve expanded the section on websites and the internet. Five years of experience has broadened my understanding of publishing, so I have a lot more information to share with start-up publishers.

I’ve been researching and revising and writing new chapters and creating exercises and lists for the “business book”, so that means I haven’t had much time to write new posts here or keep up with my favorite bloggers. It’s worth it; the 2nd edition of What You Need to Know is going to be excellent. I’m very proud of this little handbook of mine. Can you tell?

Not My Precious Books! Decluttering your library, courtesy of Houzz.

I have stacks of books all over my house. The reason they’re stacked up on the floor is because my book shelves are so packed several shelves have broken. And still, I can’t part with any of my treasured novels. Will I read them again? Probably not. But books are a work of art and just having them around makes my home feel peaceful. 

This article from Houzz.com helped me re-imagine ways to show off my precious books, and yes, maybe even get rid of a few.

#hzroot2374488 a {text-decoration:none;} #hzroot2374488 a:hover {text-decoration:underline;} #hzroot2374488 .hzexpand a {color:#ccc;} #hzroot2374488 .hzexpand {background-color:#222;color:#eee;}'Not My Precious Books!' — Pain-Free Ways to Declutter Your LibraryHouzz - Kitchen Remodel, Bathroom Remodel and More  »Browse Accessories And Decor on Houzz- For Example:Candles And Candle Holders · Home Electronics · Indoor Pots And Planters · Magazine Racks · Mirrors · Paints Stains And Glazes · Vases · Waste Baskets ·