Self-Plagiarism

I'm "re-purposing" this comment I just made on my fabulous friend Joan Kelly's blog to be an entry on my own, because I love this story. I mean, it's my story about my life, but I'm allowed to love it, right?

Another comment on the blog reminded me of when I was working at the strip joint in Boston (lo these many, many years ago) and this bachelor party of Harvard guys came in. I don’t know how their college affiliation came up, except the general fact that Harvard men think the sun shines out their ass and that everyone must be terrifically impressed by their prestigious alma mater that their dad probably bought them into anyway. But I digress.

So I’m trying to get one of them to buy me a drink, as that was pretty much my job description at the time (I graduated to dancing a bit later), and thinking this will get me some traction, I say, “Oh, well I go to Wellesley.” Which was perfectly true, except that I was taking time off for what one of my friends on the faculty referred to as my “Junior Year *as* a Broad”. The guy’s response was hilarious. He totally didn’t believe me, because anyone who was working there was clearly an entirely different species from a woman who might occupy his rarefied world. So he quizzes me about different places on the Wellesley campus, who’s the President, la la la, all of which I of course pass with flying colors as I am indeed a proud Seven Sisters student.

When he finally managed to convince himself that I was, shockingly, a member of his social class come to some horrible and disgraceful pass, he became very concerned, and started lecturing me on my life choices. “Where will you be in 10 years?” he asked me. “Search me,” I replied. I did in the end get him to buy me an overpriced cocktail, which was all I cared about.

Now I wish I could tell him, “Well, after 27 years, I’m still laughing at you, you pompous ass.”