Dirty Little Secret

Saturday night I went out to the burlesque show at the Plush Room, Dirty Little Secret, with a bunch of the Burlesquercise girls: Sweetcheeks and That Mike Guy, MonikaBOOM and her Mike guy, and Lily le Rouge was my charming date. Being the kind of girls that we are, we decided that we couldn't go to the show without a Dirty Little Secret of our own, so we all dressed up in our frilly underthings and stockings with nothing over it but our pretty coats. Of course, our secret was out once we arrived and removed our coats! The show was top notch, and we all had a wonderful time. Everyone was fabulous, and the whole setup was very professional and polished. My mood was also aided somewhat by the liberally flowing champagne that Lily was pouring, and everything was rosy.

Until the next morning when I got up and got ready to go to a modeling gig I had in North Beach... and realized that my purse was nowhere in the house. My purse was gone! Of course I retraced my steps and put in phone calls to everywhere I'd been that night. No one knew anything about my purse. I had panic attacks all that day and the next and have hardly slept a wink. It seems somewhat incomprehensible that I could have just spaced out my purse, even with too much champagne in my system. Keeping a tight grip on my purse at all times goes beyond security blanket obsession. If I set it down for even a second, I start to panic and look around for it.

Beyond the inconvenience of losing cash, ID, phone numbers, papers and personal effects, I just feel so violated when I think of some unknown person rooting through my things. It's like I've been carrying around my underwear drawer on my shoulder for ages, and now some crackhead out there is pawing through my things, pawing through my identity. For a woman almost no one calls by her legal name, that really hurts.

So I went to the DMV yesterday and some new ID is on the way. I cancelled the debit card and put a stop-payment on the check for my dance studio. The inconvenient details are being taken care of. Everything will be okay. The sky is not falling. The world is not coming to an end. But I am still crossing my fingers and toes that I will receive a phone call sometime soon from someone saying they've found my underwear drawer and when can I stop by and pick it up? You never know... there are at least as many decent people in the world as there are crackheads.