BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

Okay, on the honeymoon, hung-over but my airport card is working (frickin' finally!!) and I promise from the deepest part of my jaded tar stained heart that I will never not blog again!!  Been busy getting married and such ..... Will post more later.  Off to explore Austin, slather myself in barbecue sauce and continue our 2 week drunk.  

I'm The Queen Bee Bitch

The Kid had a baseball game yesterday.  When it comes to his activities I am torn, I want to go and support him but I loathe his mother and would rather give myself a pine needle pap smear than be in her presence.  So as Bunny, Dude and I walked across the parking lot to the field my stomach turned when I saw her fat ass sitting right next to Hubby.  Usually if I am there she knows to sit far far away from me and to not even attempt anything neighboring on eye contact but as we were late she probably figured she was safe and that she could play queen bee.   Silly cow, you're life will be so much easier when you realize that I am always the queen bee and you are merely the shit in my honey.

Bad Mommy:  Ugh, I am not going to sit by that bitch!

Bunny:  Oh, which bitch Mommy?

Bad Mommy:  Her, The Kid's Mom.  She is not a good person and she's mean.  She's a total bitch but don't tell anyone that.

Bunny:  Don't you think they already know?

A proud Bad Mommy high fives Bunny

Well thank god we have a biffie outside our front door now.  We can lock the kids outside and kick it without worries.  At least the city is good for something.

I need to preface this blogity blog by saying that some of my best friends are strippers and I mean that honestly.  I have friends and they are strippers.  I don't mean it in the whole "yeah, some of my best friends are black/Jewish/gay" way that other people do, usually after they've made some horribly bigoted joke or comment.  I love them all the way down to their Lucite heels and I admire them on a daily basis (and they are hot and I get to see them purdy near naked everyday which is a good thing since I am kind of pervy, shy but pervy none the less.)  I am in awe of their ability to handle themselves and their bodies and for the sheer fact that they walk around at work in their underpanties and not just any underpanties, but t-bars as we call them 'in the biz.'  Wearing a t-bar pretty much mean that you've got a glorified piece of dental floss riding up your butt-crack all night and this is why I love these ladies.  Sometimes, on the right day, with minimal food and no pre-menstrual cycle in sight, I might feel kinda not ugly in a pair of bootie shorts, key-word MIGHT, but never have I felt anywhere near anything remotely in the neighborhood of sexy whilst walking around with my bare ass-cheeks bebopping along behind me.  Never.  And so, to my lovely strippers friends, the words that are strewn about below are in no way a reflection upon you.  You are all glorious femalian creatures and all of the others are whores.

You're pretty enough to be a dancer or

You should be a dancer or

Why aren't you dancing or

When do you go on stage or my personal favorite

wait for it, wait for it.....

Wanna come back to my place for a gang-bang? (Which bizarrely enough I have had the pleasure of hearing more than once.  Damn, I love my job!)

It never fails, every night while slinging over-priced drinks to a bunch of douche bags at the tittie bar I have to hear it.  At this point in my *cough cough* career I think that the next time I have to hear any of those asinine "complements" I am going to put someone's receding hairline thru the mahogany bar.  I don't know if every guy that comes in pays cover and then checks his brain at the door or if they are all retarded enough to think that they are going to get somewhere with me after they open their fucking mouths and that shit falls out.

As a waitress in a strip club there are certain skills you need to learn and number one on that list is the ability to put assholes in their place and to either make them feel like the dirty old men that are so they cower in fear when you walk by and hand you money so you will leave them alone or make them think you are the smartest and wittiest person they have ever met and so they will hand you money because a witty smart person like you should be rewarded for having to be in the same room with people of such normal intelligence.  It usually depends on what they are drinking.  Domestic beer and rail-pour guys make up the first category, while import beer and top-shelf guys are in the second (and guys that come to a strip club and drink wine you don't have to worry about, they're just there so their wives can see a credit card charge from a strip club and so they can look at the guys who are looking at the girls.)

Here are some of my favorite from the pool:

"Why aren't you dancing?"

-Because my daddy loved me or

-This place doesn't have enough insurance or

-I forgot to shave my vag.

"When are you going to dance?"

-I start dancing about a quarter after you've left or

-I only dance on Sundays.  (FYI we are closed on Sundays because the owner is all churchy, funny I know, but that is another story all together.  But, I did have some poor smuck who was so intent on seeing me bobble around on stage that he did come down on a Sunday.  That was kind of sweet in a weird stalker kind of way and I kind of felt sorry for him until he told me that I could make it up to him by "sucking his balls dry."  Lovely.)

"You should be a dancer"

-(Domestic guy response): Well, you should be a diaper cuz you're full of shit.

-(Import guy response): I used to be but then none of the other dancers made any money, so now they all pay me to not dance.

But my all-time favorite is the "You're pretty enough to be a dancer" comment.  This is the one that makes me want to start pissing in their drinks.  "Pretty enough" gee really?  That's a great self-esteem booster because tonight most of the girls have all of their teeth and only 3 of them are pregnant.  I think that they all put their weaves in and maybe if we turn the lights down real real low then we won't be able to see their moustaches.  These guys act as if I took a demotion to waitress.  Like being a waitress only happens after you failed miserably at your audition, or that you couldn't keep your third leg tucked into your t-bar.  Because really, the strippers are walking around naked and since I have clothes on that totally makes me the gimp that they let out of the basement for happy hour. 

But after all this bitching I do love my job, it's just the customers I can't stand.  So come check me out on Sunday down at the tittie bar, I'll be dancing all day and sucking dudes dry-you can't miss me, I'll be the one that's not there.

 

dude is actually pretty good at soccer-if he'd just stop grabbing all the other boy's bits.

bunny is not good at soccer.  she would be just as happy wearing the outfit and jacking around on the sidelines.  she's all about the outfit though.  you can pretty much get her to do anything if there is a special outfit involved.  she'll probably grow up to be a stripper, that or one of those people who stand along the streets wearing a statue of liberty costume at tax time.

I spotted the ever-elusive bunny fairy.

worship me

Although this blog is mainly for my own sanity and to get the crazy thoughts outta my head so I have room for the normalish ones, it is also because Danielle and Hubby have been telling me WRITE WRITE WRITE!  I am totally out of practice, extremely rusty and very generous with my commas right now but I am doing this in an attempt to get back at it.  If I wrote as much as I read I'd be in good shape.  I pick up these books or click on other blogs and I want to be these people, to be able to say what they say with ease with which it seems to flow.  At 32 years old I am still finding my voice.  It is a different voice than when I almost got suspended from high school for writing erotic poetry and reading it to the school board, it is a different voice than when I wrote short stories for Terry Davis' Creative Writing class in college, its a different voice than my articles in Static Magazine that caused more than a few arguments between my mother and I ("really Jordan, the whole world doesn't need to know you wanna fuck Tony Soprano. I mean Jesus Christ some things are private!")  The purpose of my writing isn't to be famous or rich, it isn't for people to pat me on the back as I walk down the street or make shrines to me on my front porch; the purpose, I think, is to make people see.  To make people see that I am far more crazy than I appear and far less serious than I let on.  So I invite you to come here while you're hiding from work, stealing time for you lunch, taking a time-out from the kids or unwinding from the day with a beer and a smoke (god bless you!) and allow me to hurtle my cacrazy notions and random thoughts at you.  All I ask from you in return is a comment here and there, to me or to other people that are reading, to let me know I'm not alone (and that Danielle and Hubby aren't the only ones reading.)