blaugra

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I don't know if this Feb. 29 thing is nationwide or not.  I honestly can't find anything about it beyond my dentist who got a letter from her daughter's school, and the high school girl I know at the coffeeshop, who explained it to me something like this -

So, there's this gang, OK?  And they were talking about 2/29 being a total party day, and basically they're trying to make 4:20 on 2/29 be even bigger than 4:20 on 4/20.  And the school district said that attendance was optional.  You can read all about it on MySpace.

I said, NFW I hate MySpace.  And WTF?  4:20 is two hours after school lets out, why do you need an excused absence for that?  And what's up with the threats of violence I heard about?  Is that different?

Oh yeah, that's totally different.  That won't go down.

Allegedly there are klusters of kids who want to pull off high school massacres en masse just because it's a leap year and so school security is being beefed up and parents were told that students could stay home if they were scared.

UPDATED:  There is actually an explanation in this article because what I gleaned from the gossip is untrue.  Fancy that.

And this shit, which is a reaction to so much shit going on in kids' families and the entire the world, this shit has totally fucked up our schools.  It's the war at home, people! 

Dammit, now I'm all pissed off with nowhere to go! 

Your thoughts?

It's the same *clap clap clap* old song *clap clap clap*

Last night was D's annual work post-Christmas/employee appreciation party.

Also known as 3-hours-of-awkward-dancing-with-white-people-to-the-same-old-set-list.

Last year, it was at a cool ski resort and I wore inappropriate footwear.  This year it was at a country club, and I think I've finally got the magic formula.

And it's not just wearing logically comfortable shoes.

First, I pulled three random pieces of clothing out of my closet, and they magically went together.  A pair of cropped pants from last summer, a nice black top from Target from 4 years ago and a black meshy short sheer top thing with black and blue sequins.  I made my hair really big and applied a lot of deep blue eyeshadow and bronzer to extend that just-got-back-from-Mexico glow (which on me is like the faintest tint of beige) threw on my red patent Payless shoes and the dark blue satiny trench coat I just got on clearance at Target. 

I felt like a million bucks.  Or, at least, $97.

Then I made myself a large vodka-kahlua martini.  Which was just vodka and a splash of kahlua in a pretty blue martini glass.

Because I'm a lightweight, I was freakin' hammered. The deal was that I would have a pre-cocktail hour drink to help me play the role as the trophy wife, and Salty D. would drive to the party, and then I would sober up in time to drive home.  What I didn't realize was that even though I ate a handful of Triscuits with my vodka, I would get SO hammered.

On the way to the country club, we listened (and I sang along) to the entire Andrew W.K. CD.   If you don't have that in your collection, I'll just tell you that the song titles are, basically, "It's time to Party"  "Party Hard"  "Party Til you Puke" and "Fun Night."   So by the time we pulled up to the country club I was in fine form.

For instance, upon seeing the boss's daughter talking to a guy, I said, "Heeeeey you two!  How's yer family!"  and the man was not her husband.  I have talked to these people many times.  She was like, "Oh, my HUSBAND is over by the cheese table.  This is Matt from Sales."   Oh.  He kind of looked like her husband, I said.  D. pulled me aside.  No, Matt looks nothing like her husband.  Oops. 

Then I became ravenous and ate my way through all the passed hors d'ouvres.  "Would you like a scallop wrapped in bacon?"   "Yes.  I would LOVE another one of those."   And let's just say I never have to see another scallop wrapped in bacon again.

After an hour of open bar during which all the employees and spouses get as tanked as possible, the head of the company gives a slide presentation of the company's year in review.   Very detailed.  I tried to be interested but that only lasted through the first five minutes.   I started giggling.  Then I decided our table should show more enthusiasm for the progress of the company, so I started to say things like, "Wow!"  and "That's incredible!" and then during the employee recognition awards, I applauded waaaaay too heartily and shouted along with the workers, "Way to go, Chip!  Yes!!!"

There's a woman who wins the same award every year.  She assists a good deal of the company's male-dominated sales force.  Every year she acts surprised.  This year when she went up to collect her award, I leaned over to D's assistant (a female) and slurred, "Looks like she spent another year usin' those kneepads."  How klassy.

And then we danced.  The set list by the DJ was the same as always.  The chicken dance, the electric slide, Mony Mony (aka Hey! Hey What! Get Laid, Get Fucked! - but I don't do the singalong part.  That's going too far, even for me).   

I caught up with D. at the bar.  I said, "Hey!  There are lots of real hand towels in the bathrooms!  And Q-tips!  And cotton balls!  Nice place!"  Like, why would women need cotton swabs at a party? I initially thought.  Then I found myself using them to wipe up the blue eyeshadow that started to migrate down my cheeks after the conga line.

Salty D. said, "This is like Caddyshack."

 

anti-brainiac

I get a call today, and it's some broad who saw my name somewhere and she wants to "reconnect." 

The following conversation is completely true, I have only changed all the real proper names to fake so you can't tell who I'm talking about.

So she said, "Are you on the board of We Make Homeless People Take Showers Once A Week?"

Me:  "No, I've never heard of that organization."

Broad:  "Oh.  Well, you see, years ago, I knew a Laura Doodoohead, we were on the board for We Make Homeless People Take Showers Once A Week together.  And I thought it was you. "

Me:  "Well, maybe you know me from the organization We Teach High School Dropouts How To Dance and Sing So They Have A False Sense of Pride About Their Bleak Future?"

Broad:  "No, that's not it.  Are you the Laura Doodoohead whose father is the inventor of rapid release douchebags?  Because they changed my life. I'm actually getting choked up just talking about it."

Me: "Awwww.  No, that's not my dad.  My dad didn't invent anything.  Although I do know there's a Laura Doodoohead in this area who is an attorney.  I'm not an attorney, though."

Broad:  "Oh, yes!  That's the Laura Doodoohead I thought you were.  I was wondering why she made such an odd career change from attorney to what you're doing.  That other Laura Doodoohead is more than just an attorney!  She's a handles scientific patents for her father, she's brilliant, a real brainiac!"

Me: "Yeah... that's not me."

Broad:  "Um, oh, well, you're really smart too!  And even though you're not that Laura Doodoohead I remember, I'd still like you to come to our event, which will benefit the organization Cats Who Have Only Two Legs and Need Wheelchairs.  It's going to be a great ladies' luncheon at the country club! "

OK, this broad doesn't even know me and now I'm known in charity event circles as "The Other Laura Doodoohead, Not the Rich Brainy One." 

Fuck that broad and her cats in wheelchairs.  Cats should not have wheelchairs. 

Stripper Diaries. The Final Chapter.

No, this wasn't a "strip club" per se, because the dancers showed up in their little bikinis and just kept them on.  So there was no strip teasing.  Although, I'm not sure what was goin' on in the back room.

I've been to male strip clubs.  Totally different experience, I mean, aside from the obvious differences.   I've been to those with groups of girlfriends, and we were usually celebrating something and the guys were just there to entertain and make us scream and giggle.  We knew that most of them were gay.  We didn't want to touch them, and we didn't talk to any of the dancers even when they would come around to our table and hump the bachelorette's leg and pour a test tube shot down her throat.  We treated the men like objects.  We weren't looking for a human connection.

So I guess I was so surprised at all the conversation going on at the go-go bar.

I'm trying to watch the performers on stage do a little something to Billy Squier's My Kinda Lover, and another young woman working the room approaches me.   

She looks like a protege of Dita Von Teese.

I think Dita is glamorously gorgeous.  Although, I question her marriage to Marilyn Manson.  I knew it would be doomed.   

So this is where burlesque and strip/go-go/exotic dancing starts to get all blurry.  With Dita.  And protege is standing in front of me, blocking my view of the Billy Squier Dance Troupe.

"Hi, I'm Diana, what's your name?"   Here we go again.  I look at her - face like Dita, pale skin, no frosted lipgloss or bronzing powder like all the other girls there, just red vampy lipstick and black eyeliner.

So we talk for a little bit and I remark, "You're very pretty."  I mean it as a general compliment.  Her hair and makeup were GREAT, very pin-up girlie and cute.  I'm not even thinking that she's selling her goods and looking for a buyer.  She's like college-aged and I'm like a house mother.

Diana:  "Oh thank you!  So are you!  Are you two boyfriend-girlfriend, or ..."

Me:  "Yeah, we're married.  This is my first time at a place like this."

Diana: "Really?  And how are you enjoying it?"

Me:  "Um, it's good.   The dancing is very impressive.  Did you dance on stage tonight?'

Diana:  "Yes, I did." 

Me:  (I start hitting D's jeans pocket so he would give up some more singles to give this girl because I'm running out of topics) "Oh, that's nice."

Diana:  "Can I interest the two of you in a lap dance?"

I hit D. again.  "Naaaah..." we both shake our heads and scrunch up our faces.  Then I feel really bad because I don't want her to think that we're turning HER down, we just don't want a lap dance.  I want to say to her, "Honey, it isn't you!  If there was anyone in this place that I'd buy a dance from it would be you!"  but I don't.  D. wasn't responding to my obvious hints, so I decide to just grab the money that I know is in his pocket.  Mental note: next time, carry own money to strip club.   

I hold out a dollar bill for her.  She sticks out her little natural chest and says, "Put it in my top" and in the middle of her chest is a bright tattoo of a lockbox and key.  "Great tattoo!" I said as I quickly popped the bill into the string bikini without touching her.   

Diana:  "Thanks.  It's the key to my heart." 

Good God.  And she took the dollar bill out of her top and put it into her purse and pranced away.  This whole experience, all 20 minutes of it, just reminds me of the Raisins episode of South Park.

I looked at Salty D. and said, "Enough. Let's get outta here." 

The amount I tipped the go-go-girls that nite was the same amount I tipped our Ukranian maid at the motel. 

   

Stripper Diaries. Chapter One.

I have never been to a strip club to see exotic dancers. I like burlesque, but burlesque is different from go-go dancing for dollars.  At least to me it is.  I could be wrong.  Maybe I've gone over the deep end.  Thoughts?

I finally convinced D. to take me to a strip bar in the middle of the raucous biker weekend in Wildwood.  It was a $5 cover for each of us. I promised him it would be worth the Hamilton so that I could finally have this experience. 

I guess I was expecting, like, the Bada Bing or something - seedy, smoky, scary.  But it was a small place, not smoky, mostly bikers, about 25% female patrons, with a couple chippies on stage, pole dancing to bad music.  Unlike the fictional Bing, the dancers were what I would call fully clothed - bikini tops and bottoms and shoes.  And unlike what I had heard or seen in the movies, all the dancers were attractive with very nice hair.

So we belly up to the bar, and an affable woman in slight french maid attire greets me like she's been waiting all night for me to show up.  She hugs me and welcomes me.  Aww, that's so sweet.  Thank you, I say.

D. and I moved to an excellent vantage point so I could check out the scene.  Lemme tell ya, this was the most un-sexy place I have ever been.  This was SO FREAKY.  I'm watching the two dancers on stage and half the crowd basically ignoring them.  If I were up there, shakin' my booty like my life depended on it like they were, I'd be so pissed if I didn't have the full attention of every man and woman in the place. 

Then a girl approached me, wearing a striped bikini and high heeled shoes with the lucite heels - total stripper shoes.  Love it.   

She said:  "Hi!  I'm Jordan!  What's your name?"

I said, "Laura," because that's my name.

Jordan:  "Hey, would you like to donate to my plastic surgery fund?"

Me:  "Why do you want plastic surgery?"

Jordan:  (pointing to her small bosoms) "I can't do much with these flat things!"

Me:  "I'd be so happy to be your size!  You look great!  I've had surgery to reduce mine."

Jordan: "Really???!  Wow, can I touch them?"

My first conversation with a professional go-go girl and I immediately start trying to build up her self-esteem and I share intimate secrets with her.  Which I'm now sharing with you because, what the hell, I've already told Jordan, whom I've known for 30 seconds. 

Also, I don't know why Jordan wanted to feel me up.

Me:  "Sure."  Whatever.

Jordan: "Here, feel mine!"  Wow. They were flappy.  Maybe she's right, she needed to do something with that bikini top, maybe some of those flesh-like inserts.

Me:  "Where were you when I got mine done, I could have shared with you!"  ah, the common banter between full-figured and small-figured women.

Jordan:  "I know, right?!  So how's it going for you tonight?"

Me:  "GREAT.  It's my first time in a bar with dancing like this!"

Jordan:  "Awwwww!  Yay!  Are you shy?"

Me:  "Yes."  (actually no, but I don't know how to answer her question.)

Jordan:  "Ohhhh, c'mere, gimme a hug!"   Whatever.  I hug her. 

D. gives me a few singles and I take that as a sign that I was to pay her so she'd go away.  I guess our bonding is over.  So I handed her two dollars and she said, "Put 'em in here and wish me luck!"  and that of course was her bikini top.

She walked over to the couple next to us and started up again. 

I said to D., "So, guys pay to get in here, they buy drinks and then they pay women for conversation???" 

He said, "Yep."

Huh. 

You know, some people feel badly for women who work in strip bars.  I don't.  These chicks know exactly what to do to rake in the bucks.  Men are the total pathetic suckers who fall for it.   

And then, amazingly, Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher" starts up and two new girls walk on stage and start going wild.  They're very bendy.  They must have callouses on their hands from swingin' on those poles so much.  I wonder if any strip clubs use the uneven parallel bars on their stages in place of the vertical poles.  I hope to hear some Motley Crue tonite, too.

In these shoes? I don't think so.

Why don't I ever learn?  NEVER WEAR HIGH HEELED BOOTS TO A SKI RESORT.   DUH.

So, we went to a party at a local ski slope.  I'd never been there.  The thought of a real snowy mountain in my area was laughable.  I expected there to be a few losers who couldn't make the drive to the Poconos, having some cocoa in a knotty-pine 1960s chalet. 

But, as often happens, I was waaaay mistaken.

We were going to a party at the resort's hotel, and we were directed to park at said hotel.  No parking.   Because I was the designated driver of the night, I drove around and around the parking lot but to no avail.  Oh, I may as well act it out:

D:  WHAT are you DOING?

Me:  I'm looking for a PARKING SPACE.  What do you think?  Do you see any?

D:  Well, OBVIOUSLY there aren't any.  Now hurry up, it's only open bar for one hour!

{oh, did I mention we were going to his company's annual party?}

Me:  Well, what do ya want from me?

D:  Go down to the skiers' parking!  Gosh!

{Meanwhile, because it was like the first cold weekend of winter, every snow boarder from a six-county area was tearing up the slopes, or whatever it is that snow boarders say.

Anyway, the parking lot, all gravel, consisted of long single-lane rows that you drove down and if you couldn't find a spot, you had to back up to the main lane into traffic because everyone was looking for a spot.}

D:  There's a spot!

Me:  Are you sure?

D:  Yes - go GO GO!

Me:  Gawdammit, there's a Mini Cooper hidden in there!  Shit!  Now I have to back up...

D:  WHAT are you doing? Turn the wheel!  Watch out for that car!  {clunk}  HONEY!

Me:  Stop criticizing me!  That's not helpful! I'm totally stressed out! 

D:   You just hit something!

Me:  Aw, shitmotherfucker!   Oh wait, it's just one of those orange spikey things, it's not a car.   OK.

D:  Oh my God.  NOW what are you doing?  You're driving like a shmeckl. 

Me:  I'm still trying to find a spot!   Stop asking me questions!!  I'M  FREAKING  OUT!  {at this point I'm screaming at him with the windows rolled up and snow-boarders are looking at me.}  Help me for godssakes!!!

D:  Do you want me to drive around the parking lot?  Get out of the car.

{so we switch, and of course he immediately finds a spot.  It's a half-mile walk over big chunky gravel to the hotel.}

Me:  SHIT.

D:  What?

Me:  I wore the most inappropriate footwear for this parking lot. 

Not only was it nearly impossible to walk on the rocks in pointy-toed pointy-heeled boots that were getting destroyed by pointy stones cutting into them, but I was walking like my 90-year old grandma.  And my feet were killing me before I even hit the dance floor.

D: Do you want me to carry you?

Me:  No!  Just hold onto me.  Isn't there a shuttle or something?

D:  I don't know.  But hurry up, we have to get there during the open bar cocktail hour.  We're late.

Me:  It's freezing.  I feel ridiculous.

D:  You are ridiculous.  Walk faster.

Later, my one drink for the evening in hand, I was marveling at how unexpectedly chic and sporty this resort was.  And one of D's co-workers said to me, "Wasn't it fun, taking that limo shuttle up here from the lower parking lot?"    WHAT?!

The only time my husband and I ever scream and yell at each other is when we're parking the damn car.  So you'd think we would better prepare ourselves.

The party featured a DJ, the same one they hire every year, playing the exact same set of music.   Here it is, from memory:

• Unchained Melody
• The Twist
• Sugar pie honey bunch (whatever that song is called)
• Old Time Rock and Roll
• You Shook Me All Night Long
• Electric Slide
• Cha Cha Slide
• It's Rainin' Men
• Mony Mony
• {and, we're gonna slow it down for you now....} Wonderful Tonight

I had a very hard time dancing to this stuff, not only because it's the same tired playlist but also because the soles of my feet had small puncture wounds from the gravel.   But, aside from the slow stuff and the line-dancing numbers, the dance floor was a huge gaping void in the middle of the room.  Meanwhile, the DJ was dancing by himself, with all his fancy blinky choreographed lights and woooOOOOOOOOOooooo siren going - which was all kind of sad with an empty dance floor.

During the Cha-Cha Slide, we saw some 10-year old snowboard boys watching from the lobby and doing the dance better than any of the adults.  So another girl and I brought the kids in to the dance floor.  They were very very giddy.  You know how it feels to crash a party.  And the kids knew how to do the Charlie Brown part of the dance and everything.   Just as the song had ended, I saw two banquet managers hustling over to talk to the kids, "Are your parents here?  Where are your parents?"   

So I stepped in.  "They're with me." 

"You're their mother?"

Yeah. Like I'd be the mom of three very different looking 10-year old boys.   "Yes.  I invited them in here, and I'm taking them with me.  Come with me, boys." 

Anyway, the party usually includes some kind of inappropriate comment from one of the bossmen.   I look forward to this.  This time was no different.  As we departed, bossman gives me a big hug - BIG - (oy, what I do for my husband's career...) and then says to D., "Now, don't go makin' any babies tonight."

snickerdoodle, anyone?

I don't know about you, but recently I have been deluged with requests to reduce my emissions, stop emitting... you?  No?  It's just me? 

Seriously, I just read this bit from the other coast.  Seems that the Puget Sound smelled like cinnamon and vanilla throughout the holiday season, due to the sewage flushed by all the people who had been eating snickerdoodles, snowballs, shortbread and macaroons. 

Aaah, the flavors of Christmas.

EEW!  I know it's part of nature's cycle, but still. 

So, what about other holidays - how are the fish and ferry riders effected by, say, July 4th?  (Hot dogs.  Deviled eggs?!) 

While the article seeks to impress upon us the impact of every crappy thing we do, it just made me realize that this is an opportunity to manipulate nature for our own enjoyment. 

As a community, we can unite to create a more pleasantly-scented river, lake or sound, whenever we want.  The smell of thousands of people's poop can overcome any industrial dumping!   

First, we democratically elect a special subcommittee of our county council or whatever.  Because every important initiative needs a sub-committee. The subcommittee will be called POOPSIE - People Overseeing Odiferous Power Selection to Incite Emissions.  The POOPSIE will determine when we need to have sweetly smelling streams. 

Then, POOPSIE mandates certain community-wide regulations during these times, along with incentives for the public.   For instance, all Taco Bells will close for a week, and bakeries will have extended hours.  There will be apple pie a la mode eating contests with huge cash prizes at every diner.  That's a lot of contests in this area, people. 

Nobody will be able to hide from the POOPSIE mission.  Social workers will troll the streets to make sure that vagrants are eating stale Entemann's instead of discarded french fries and chicken wings.  Because runoff is important water pollution too.

But rather than being sentenced to gorge on chocolate chip cookies for a week, the community will have a huge-ass celebration, capped off by a delightful Sugar-n-Spice Regatta on the River!

Behold, the power of the poop.  Sweet.   

sno-globes

I collect snow globes from around the world.  The tackier, the better.  A friend of mine - and I mean friend in every Facebook sense of the word - was going to Saudi Arabia over the holidays and I implored her to pick up a tacky snow globe in the airport for me.  It didn't occur to me that an airport in Arabia may not sell snow globes.  What do they know from snow? 

She said sure, but she didn't think they'd have a SNOW globe, per se. 

I said that's OK, a glitter globe would be fine.  All the better, really.  Very disco.

And she said, "really?"

I said, "I will pay you for it, plus a handling fee! Pleeeease!"

It also didn't occur to me that she wouldn't want to buy a snow globe.  I mean, who wouldn't want to?

I have snow globes from Moscow, Venice, Bruges, London.   The Spam Museum in Minnesota.  LaJolla, Cali.   Chicago, NY, Vegas, seeeevvvveral cities in Florida, and Pennsylvania, and lots of random places in between. At last count I had 80.  They're the only thing I deliberately collect.   

I dust them, at most, once per year.  Which would drive my mother crazy.

Often when one packs her sno-globes for travel, one places it in her carry-on bag.   But now... now.  With the liquid ban, it's likely that snow-globes get confiscated at the security checkpoint. 

This also didn't occur to me when I implored my Saudi friend to bring one back.

Snow globes are explosively fantabulous, but, not the bombs to be concerned with in-flight.

I hope that this friend did not try to bring back a snow-globe from Saudi and then have to be thoroughly and embarassingly searched in every nook and cranny while cursing my name the entire time.  IF she remembered to buy one, I reaaaaally hope she bought it in a cheezy gift shop next to her gate.      

germany fucks up again

Worried about a shrinking population and a birth rate at a post-war low in 2005, the [german] government in September introduced the law to encourage working couples to have children.

Because the master race has to be stronger, right? 

Women are holding their babies in to get a cash bonus on January 1.   Yeah, does that feel good honey?  Is that pain worth $30,000?

China restricts population growth. Plenty of kids to adopt around the world.  And Germany just wants more Germans.

Is this a racist rant?  I don't care.  Germany, you piss me off.  So there.

weird game

Jane tagged me with a meme.  As if I needed another reason to talk about my idiosyncrasies.

Here are the rules - Each player of this game starts with the "6 Weird Things about You." People who get tagged need to write a blog entry of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog!

6 Weird Things About Me:

1. I love ears.  I like touching other people's ears, animal's ears, and I looooove when they touch mine.  Yes, even the animals. 
2. I am obsessed with recycling cardboard but I must recycle it asap. I won't throw away a cereal box, rather,  I will drive to the recycling center with it, along with a pizza box and a shoe box.
3. I always check my teeth after I eat for food lodged in between.  If possible, I will do this while still at the table, looking at my teeth's reflection in a knife blade.  Even at a classy restaurant, because I have no class.  If the knife doesn't work, and I'm with friends, I may say, "As a friend..." and then grimace at them so they can spot any pumpernickel pieces or poppy seeds for me.  They love it.
4. I truly want a fancy shower cap for Christmas, and my family just laughs and thinks I'm kidding.
5. I sing, in my horrible singing voice, when I'm working on something.   Lyrics such as "Why are you messing with me you fuckin' printer?" and I don't care who hears me.
6. I hate when my nails grow past my fingertips.  There's no need for that.

And....I'm going to tag Joanne, Crunchy Blue Commando, Jen14221, Daily Piglet, Kull and Chris Ives.   Games are fun.