I'm sorry to disappoint, but I am not afraid

I really don't like to disappoint people, but I often do these days.

You see, I know a lot of people who live outside the city of Milwaukee — family, friends, coworkers — and, when I tell them where my husband and I bought our house, it's obvious what they are thinking.

Aren't you afraid?

Some people actually ask the question, in one form or another: Don't you worry about break-ins? Aren't you concerned about your daughter walking to school? What if your car is stolen?

Crime, apparently, was supposed to scare us away from Riverwest. (For those of you who aren't familiar with the neighborhood, we're located southwest of the intersection of Capitol Drive and Humboldt Boulevard. For those of you who do know the neighborhood, we're at Keefe Avenue and Bremen Street.)

But there's often a deeper meaning behind the questions, revealed in my personal favorite: Who will your girls date?

I've been in Milwaukee long enough to know what many people really want to ask: Aren't you afraid of the blacks (and/or the Latinos)?

In a word, the answer is "no."

Pricks come in all shapes, sizes and colors

I fear very little, not even "the criminal element," whatever its skin color. I suspect my lack of fear stems from growing up with my old man.

My father was a prick. He was an alcoholic who failed at court-ordered rehab more than once. He was a wife beater and whore. He drove drunk. He refused to pay taxes. After my mom divorced him, he was a deadbeat dad. He stole. He was lewd. He lied. He kicked our dog.

In short, he was a bully and a criminal.

And he was as white as white comes, living in the predominantly white rural Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

I remember him once telling me to stay away from "the injuns." (In the U.P., the largest minority is Native.) When he told me why, with alcoholism topping the list, it occurred to me that he was really describing himself. I have yet to meet a Native — the term preferred by the Natives I've met, when tribe isn't known — as big a prick as my father was, drunk or sober.

In fact, the person I feared most as a child was my father.

Desperate people do desperate things

As I grew, I started putting the pieces of my father together. His formative years were pretty rough on him, I learned, and he did his best with the tools he was given by his family.

Alcohol was his therapy. Anger was his release.

Living in the U.P. didn't help. Jobs are scarce in the U.P., with high-paying jobs rare, and men who cannot provide adequately for their families often feel useless and frustrated. Alcohol is the preferred way to self-medicate in the U.P., and frustrated men make for violent drunks. (Obviously, this can apply to women, as well; I happen to know more men who suffer the affliction.)

It can become a vicious cycle, when children are involved. My brothers both started out down the wrong path when they were young; they both have juvenile records, thankfully for nonviolent offenses.

It's a cycle I recognize in Milwaukee, concentrated because there are so many more people living here.

I checked out the 2003 study titled "The Two Milwaukees: Separate and Unequal," by Marc V. Levine, professor and director of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Center for Economic Development. Levine found that unemployment among blacks in Milwaukee was 16 percent in 2000 — 17.9 among black men. Ouch.

The U.P. is no stranger to double-digit unemployment rates, either. Three of the rural counties in Michigan finished 1999 with unemployment rates of more than 10 percent for the year. Monthly unemployment rates were nearly 20 percent in winter months, when farming, logging and mining operations came to a halt.

That means, speaking in terribly simplistic terms, that roughly one of every 10 working adults I knew growing up was unemployed at any point of the year — two of every 10 in wintertime. And that's just those who filed for unemployment benefits. Many adults I knew in the U.P. didn't bother; they worked under the table or went into an illegal trade.

My old man had a reason for being a prick. Not an excuse, but a reason.

Home bittersweet home

I know what you're thinking: If life is miserable because of unemployment to the point that you're self-medicating, why not move?

I know that answer, too, although I don't necessarily agree with it. Again being overly simplistic: Home is where the heart is.

My father knew that he could survive in the U.P., no matter how tough the going got. He knew how to lie, cheat and steal his way through lean times and, more importantly, how to stay one step ahead of the authorities. And he had friends and family in the U.P. who enabled him.

Milwaukee has neighborhoods with very similar vibes to them. Even with all hope gone of good factory jobs returning to the city, Milwaukee is still home to those who once worked in the city's factories.

And I will not discount the fact that, like Michigan, Wisconsin does provide for its poor with relatively generous social welfare programs. I am, after all, a welfare child, with six years of Aid to Families with Dependent Children benefits on my resume.

I couldn't have survived my father without it.

Survive my father I did, as did my brothers. And, despite the facts and figures that tell us we, too, should be pricks, we are not. (One of us has his moments, but he's still falling short of our father's standards.)

In summary: My father, someone I least expected to be a prick, was indeed a prick. My brothers, who statistically speaking should be pricks, are not pricks. Hmmm ...

I have to give credit where credit is due. My father taught me that it's wise to judge everyone individually. If you don't, the pricks will blindside you — you could wind up married to one! — and you'll miss the chance to get to know the genuinely good people all around you.

Think about it: I could have decided early in life to write off (white) men because of my father's behavior, but then I would have missed out on 19 years of marriage to my wonderful hubby. And who knows what might have happened to my brothers ...

You have nothing to fear but fear itself

Once I shed the fear of my father by getting to know him, I had no fear of people left in me. Fear has been replaced by curiosity and an insatiable sense of adventure.

Instead of waiting to be attacked by the pricks of the world, I make it a practice to seek out the good people — including those who, statistically speaking, should be pricks but are not. I enjoy finding gems in the rough, so to speak :)

Yes, someone has broken into our garage here in Riverwest. But our neighbor interrupted the thief, and our daughter was able to recover half the stolen stuff a ways down the alley. If we had never moved to Riverwest, we would still own a men's mountain bike, but we wouldn't know our neighbor is utterly trustworthy, either.

Yes, my daughter was once accosted walking home from school, back when we lived on the East Side. But a group of complete strangers came to her aid, defending her from a man easily twice her size. Had we never moved to Milwaukee, she wouldn't have gone through the trauma, but she wouldn't know the kindness of strangers, either.

And, yes, my daughter has dated the son of a confessed Latin King with a felony criminal record. But no harm has come to her; in fact, I suspect she is safer in his house than in ours! If we hadn't enrolled her in Milwaukee Public Schools, she never would have met the boy, but she wouldn't have seen first-hand how far an apple can fall from its tree, either.

If, in the course of my adventures in our new neighborhood, I do run into more genuine pricks, I'm not going to give them any ground in my life. There isn't room; there are too many good people hanging out around me :)

Oh, and no, our cars have not been stolen. Sorry to disappoint!

Do NOT attemp this with manicured nails

I remember singing along to "I'm a Woman" by Peggy Lee as a child: "I can bring home the bacon (and) fry it up in a pan ..." I suppose I owe her a li'l credit for the fact that I grew into a feminist in theory, if not in practice.

I readily admit that (a) I don't bring home enough bacon to feed my family without the hubby's help and (b) I'm not much interested in frying what little bacon I do bring home — or cooking anything, really, unless it's pre-prepared. (I guess I would qualify as a poor starving feminist, if I were on my own ;))

And, no, I cannot do everything a man can do even better than he can do it — unless I have the proper tools, that is. Take, for example, changing a flat tire.

Yes, I can change my own flat tire. I just did tonight. Tire irons and car jacks are our friends, ladies — never mind diamonds. And, with grease under my fingernails as I type, I'm proud to tell you that I needed no help with the tire ... until it came time to pay for the replacement :)

Hey, look out for that curb!

My hubby cringes every time he looks at or thinks about my car. See, I consider my car nothing more than one of many tools I own, albeit a pretty expensive one. It gets me from Point A to Point B without having to wait at a bus stop. Love it!

And I use it like my hubby uses his wrenches: I beat on it. I brake too hard, corner too quickly, go to the carwash too infrequently, and generally drive too fast. (I can't remember, in fact, the last time I drove the speed limit ;)) Things break on my car. Often.

My car, the tool, allows me to feel free, strong and independent, at least while I'm driving. But I have this strange weakness: Curbs kick my ass. (In my defense, I learned to drive in a part of the country where curbs didn't exist.) Tonight, I hit one on the way home. Don't ask how; I won't tell.

I couldn't pull over right away, as I was in a merge lane, heading northwest on Main Street out of Waukesha onto Bluemound Road toward Brookfield. Many of you know that stupid lane, I'm sure; it's the one that looks like a freeway entrance ramp but acts like a parking lane.

Anyway, after the blow-out, I had to pull off the main road onto the frontage road, where I could safely change the tire. I correctly guessed I would shred the tire, but I've always figured it's better to be safe and get off a major road than to try saving a tire that may not be salvageable. (Yes, this is experience talking: This was my fourth curb-induced flat tire. Again, don't ask!)

And then I acted out a porn scene: I got dirty after getting on my hands and knees.

Learn from my mistakes — or face the laughs

I'm a bit rusty, so it took me about 45 minutes to change the tire. Yes, I know: Guys — and some women, I'm sure — can do it faster. But I got it done.

This might be a good time for a PSA: Gals, don't make the same mistakes I've made — at least not while there are guys watching!

Tonight, the plastic thingy that pretends to be a hubcab proved too much for me. See, I didn't pull out my owner's manual right away. (I know what you're thinking: That's a man mistake. But I figured that if I was going to do a job a man usually does, I should do it like a man would do it: without ever cracking the instructions :))

I didn't realize the plastic thingy has attached lug-nut covers that screw off just like the nuts themselves. I quickly tired of wrestling with the stupid thing and ripped it off, breaking three of the nut covers off. Oops. Gentle with tools I am not! (My hubby will undoubtedly cringe when reading this ... perhaps for more than one reason ;))

The next step went well — this time. Once upon a time, I foolishly jacked up the car before trying to loosen the lug nuts. Guess what? The tire spins when you do that. Who knew? Now I know to loosen them while the car is still solidly on the ground.

A trick for you tiny folks: Most of those lug nuts are applied with machinery. They're on too tight for anyone — man or woman — to loosen with a simple arm twist. Attach the tire iron to one of the screws so that the handle is roughly parallel to the ground. Then stand on the iron and gently bounce to loosen the nut, being careful to brace yourself in case you slip off. (Oh, and remember that it's lefty loosey, righty tighty :))

Once those lug nuts are loose, you can jack up the car. It's really quite easy: You put the jack under the car in a spot where the frame is solid and straight and turn the li'l handle. Of course, finding a spot where the frame is solid and straight is the trick here ... I'll explain in a bit.

Once the tire clears the ground you can remove the lug nuts totally (if you haven't already) and pull the tire off. This part usually stumps me.

See, on older or well-used cars, the tires often rust in place. Pulling won't break them free. Kicking them won't break them loose. Lying under the car — a serious no-no! — and kicking them from behind won't budge them, especially when the car and the ground are both frozen in mid-winter. Trust me on this one.

I once walked to a corner repair shop and asked to borrow a sledge hammer so I could loosen a damn flat tire. The guy refused to give me one but was kind enough to walk back with me and use the sledge hammer himself. I was pleased it took him three swings.

Tonight, the tire came right off, lickety split. I was pumped! But ... then ... the bloody car slid backward off the jack, in slow motion. And I was powerless to stop it. Aaarg! (Remember that bit about finding a spot where the frame is straight? Oh, and the part about how dangerous it is to crawl under a car elevated on a jack???)

I'm fine. I think the car is OK. The pavement has a couple gouges in it.

I started over with the jack. Jack is my friend. Jack takes freakin' forever to go from six inches of elevation to flat and then back to six inches of elevation. But he does the heavy lifting, so I can't complain. Much.

Read the instructions!

I finally decided to get out the owner's manual at this point. See, I pulled the space-saver spare tire from the trunk and then realized I had no idea which side should face inward toward the car. And those space-savers look quite a bit different than the real things. Ummm ... ?

I read every part of the manual regarding tires, and guess what? There is no instruction regarding what direction to turn the tire before putting it on. (However, the manual does tell you how to find a secure spot for the jack, surprise, surprise.) I'm writing Chevy!

In the meantime, I figured it out by checking the curve of the lug nut holes and comparing it to the real tire ... You'll see what I mean when you get to that point.

Buttoning up is pretty easy. Put the lug nuts on finger-tight before lowering the car to the ground, for obvious reasons. Then tighten them the same way you loosened them, with the tire iron acting as your lever and your weight as your strength. Remember to tighten in a star-shaped pattern: This ensures the tire is mounted flat, not tight on one side and loose on another.

Fortunately, I didn't have far to travel on my spare. Tires Plus was less than a mile down the road. Figures!

The guys at Tires Plus were great. They didn't say anything about the heap of trash on my car floor, the freshly spilled yogurt on my steering wheel, or the plastic hubcab I destroyed.

And, with perfect businessman demeanor, the guy who gave me my bill offered me the phone when I told him that, ah, I was at my daily limit on my debit card and couldn't pay myself ... so I'd need to call my hubby and ask to use his debit card.

I swear, though, that he was laughing as I left the building, after almost forgetting my keys. Oh, yeah, folks: You need your keys to start your car ... ;)

In total, the experience took an hour and a half of my life. The good news is that there was no bacon waiting for me to fry it when I got home ... 'cause it simply would have been too much for me!

Pop goes my cherry, at the ripe age of 37

First, get your mind out of the gutter: I have three teenage daughters, you can see from my profile, so I lost that cherry ages ago :)

I finally got drunk for the first time the other night, during my first-ever male revue.

Yes, I ended a run of sobriety that lasted 37 years, four months and seven days surrounded by nearly naked men, after more than 19 years of seeing only one man naked.

What can I say? When I make up my mind to do something, I do it right!

Unfortunately, my oldest is disappointed in me for drinking — "Mom, how could you, after all these years?!?" — and believes I "cheated" on her pops by checking out other guys.

Ummm ... Who's the grown-up here, missy?

Irresponsible me

It's been a long summer. We bought a house; my oldest moved out with her boyfriend; my middle one started college; and my baby started high school.

So, when the gals at the office suggested a Girls Night Out at the Airport Lounge strip club in Milwaukee — where they host a male revue every Saturday night in the basement, aka the Cockpit — I jumped on it. (The idea, I mean ;))

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not at all straight-laced. I grew up in da U.P. (the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, for those not native to the area), where drinking is a sport, lifestyle and food alternative. My folks, no matter how poor we were, always had a fridge stocked with beer.

And, at the risk of sounding like a cliche, I have to say it: I have many friends who drink. I've spent a lot of time in bars, good, bad and ugly. I'm a top pick when it comes to selecting a designated driver.

The hubby and I have also been to more heavy metal and hard rock concerts than the average joe: We tried counting one night, and we got up to about 100. As you can imagine, I am no stranger to lewd and/or drunken behavior.

While I may sometimes act the part, I have never been drunk, stoned, high or otherwise inebriated myself. Oops! Addendum: Until this past weekend.

And, somehow, I managed to miss out on all the bachelorette parties involving sweaty, beefy, nearly naked men. How, given what a fan I am of the opposite sex, I'm not sure ...

No ding-dongs sighted

My oldest couldn't bring herself to say the word "penis" — or any of its common nicknames — in front of me and her dad, so she opted for "ding-dong." (Yes, she is straight-laced. When you have somewhat wild parents spawned by insane relatives, you have to rebel by going clean ;))

No, I didn't see any.

I did see butt cheeks, though. And six-pack abs. And thighs. And delts. And pecs.

Up really, really close. In live and living color. (Yes, I'd go back — in a heartbeat!!!)

And, I have to say, it was a pretty pleasant "first" experience.

The crowd was small — maybe three or four dozen women, by the end of the night — and the room intimate. The men danced on a slightly elevated stage that was shaped, as one of my coworkers pointed out, like a pair of balls. (For my daughter's sake, I won't clarify what kind of balls ;)) Two circles, really, each with a stripper pole in the center.

A bar ran round the two circles, so we were sitting about a foot away from the stage. And the men.

It's not a place to go if you're seriously shy. The guys are more than willing to jump over the bar to sit in your lap or stand over you while gyrating — in some cases, uninvited.

But I can honestly say I wasn't uncomfortable.

It helped that my girlfriend Ann bought me four Bailey's Irish Creams ...

But I was having fun even before I started drinking. Everyone was laughing at what was clearly a stage show. The actors engaged the audience, yes, but there was no real intimacy. No eye contact. No personal conversation. No groping — by the guys, anyway ;)

And Ann, a veteran of the strip-club scene, was a blast. She'd never been to a male revue, either, despite her numerous to strip clubs with her guy friends. Let's just say that she smoked many a cigarette by evening's end ...

(Yes, watching my coworkers was a blast, as well. However, I don't have their permission to blog about them, so I'm going to stick to Ann and me :))

Our only disappointment was the fact that we had a woman waiting on us. Where was our sweaty, beefy, nearly naked male waiter?

Boys, feel free to apply for the job ;)

No thinking allowed

Here's the part where I get serious, so stop reading if you're not interested.

In all honesty, I probably won't go back anytime soon. Here's the problem with being sober: You observe, and you think.

At least one of those strippers, Ann pointed out, was young enough to be dating my daughter. Ewww! Thank you, Ann, for pointing out that I'm a dirty old woman. (I already knew it, of course ;))

Not that big a deal, the feminist in me argues. And I agree.

But another used his Marine uniform as his costume. Yes, I checked: It was a real Marine uniform, which he wore while in service not so long ago. I started to think about why he was on that stage, and ... well, that's a buzz kill.

Ann reminded me that a lot of strippers choose their jobs, freely and willingly. She knows women (and now men) who enjoy the exhibitionism, the control, the attention ...

But what about those who don't enjoy it? Who see it as a means to an end: a decent paycheck earned with few job skills. Who are driven to it by demons from past — or present — lives?

Exploitation is exploitation, whether the exploited is male or female, the exploiter male or ... me.

That's where the Bailey's helped. I stopped thinking and started giggling about half way through the show. Phew!

But, I have to admit: Just as some strippers like the control they feel on stage, I dislike the lack of control I felt while sloshed.

Certainly, I couldn't have gotten home on my own. I was too drunk to drive, and I spent all my money in singles, so a taxi was out of the question. (Ann called her boyfriend to pick us up, and we could have called my hubby; no worries. But that's not the point ... ) I couldn't even buckle my seat belt once I was in the car, for Pete's sake! (I swear it was broken :))

I used to worry I would misbehave if drunk. I didn't. I was too giggly to be turned on by the show — sorry, guys! — and too enamored by Ann to wander off on my own. And, frankly, I didn't go to the show looking to get ding-dong. I went to hang out with the gals, not cheat on my babies' daddy.

This all makes me wonder about folks who use being drunk as an excuse for bad behavior. I still knew right from wrong... and, even with my inhibitions lowered and temptation waving its ding-dong a foot from my face, I did right.

Sorta right.

Or horribly, horribly wrong, if you ask my oldest ;)