Friday Confession

I almost never dream about my husband, yet always dream about two specific exes. Last night I was escaping from Husband with one of them and my teeth were slowly coming out of my mouth, one at a bloody time. I gathered them up and stuck them in my pocket.

It's Been A While, So Here's A Meme

I picked this up from BPD in OKC. She's having a rough time lately, so if you could visit and send her love, it would be most appreciated.

5 Things Found In Your Bag
1. Journal, which, if you can believe it, gets updated less than this blog!
2. Cigarettes and multiple lighters.
3. Pepper spray.
4. Pocket knife.
5. About 17 pens.

5 Favorite Things In Your Room
1. The screen I made to hang all of my crazy dangly earrings on.
2. A picture of Husband and I kissing once we were officially married.
3. Bronzing lotion (I don't tan).
4. My box of vintage scarves (almost 100).
5. My sleep mask.

5 Things You Have Always Wanted To Do
1. Skydive or bungee jump.
2. Spend the night in jail (just to see what it's like).
3. Publish a book (no self publishing either!).
4. Be a mom.
5. Design clothes.

5 Things You Are Currently Into
1. Working out (can you even believe it? me neither).
2. Vanilla low-fat yogurt mixed with a spoonful of strawberry jam.
3. Street fashion.
4. Reconning clothing.
5. The Husband.

All I Wanna Do Is Dance!

After this weekend, I think I've found a new profession ... stripping! Before you start shaking your heads and wagging your fingers, listen to the story of my magical Friday night.

Since last night had not been very good to Husband, and I asked him what he wanted to do to feel better and have some fun. He said he wanted to go to the strip club. Initially, I was not fond of the idea, but I changed into an appropriate outfit, purple short sleeve sweater with purple and brown plaid kicky pleated skirt and a matching lingerie set consisting of white and lacy bra, panties, garter and thigh high stockings topped off with my dangerously high faux ostrich purple stilettos. Mee-yow!

We called up various male friends, none of which could come because they are either 1) pussy whipped like it's going out of style or 2) dumb. So Husband and I made the 45-minute trek alone, passing a joint back and forth and listening to Led Zeppelin. I was still filled with dread and asking myself all sorts of questions I couldn't answer - what's it going to be like? am I going to like it? can I stand seeing Husband with his face between a pair of perky tits? My stomch was butterflying and I was a little jittery from one of those 5-Hour Energy Drinks. So when we arrived at the Beehive, there was no turning back.

We opened the door up to reveal a beige colored room with some porn and some toys - typical, non-descript adult entertainment fare. We paid Husband's admission price (I got in for free!) and opened the door to where the real action was. of course, the room was dark and mostly taken up by a semi-circle shaped stage covered in the same black and white checked flooring I have in my kitchen. There were a dozen or so office conference room type hairs surrounding the stage. Only a few of them had inhabitants: a spiky haired guy about my age wearing two cuff style bracelets and a t-shirt that read "Off Duty Ninja;" a shiny bald frowning biker in a tight white t-shirt with pinker than pink skin; a duo who could have been father and son but later revealed they were only friends; and two gray haired middle aged guys who could have been my dad (or your dad for that matter).

The girls weren't super model beautiful, but intriguingly real and honest looking and all the prettier for that fact. They had hokey names like Onyx and Savannah, but when they started talking to me, I could tell that they were being genuinely real, a refereshing feeling.

We watched a girl dance (who it was I don't remember, I was so full of adrenaline) and then Husband and I asked a few if they ever allowed customers to dance on the stage. Using a stripper pole has been a dream of mine ever since I discovered what they were for. Savannah went and asked, then gave me the full go. After a few more songs, I jumped onstage with Onyx, who played the Rolling Stones "Paint It Black" on the jukebox and we both started waving or hair, bumping our butts and grinding down the length of our bodies. I worked the pole, I seductively put my head in Husband's lap and I made my first dollar as a stripper by pulling the bill out of Savannah's mouth with my boobs. I even flashed my nasty bits to a lucky few customers.

What a rush! I have never exprienced anything like what that dance felt like. All of the girls came running up to me, telling me what a good job I did and trying to get me to start working there. I had a smile plastered on my face the rest of the evening.

So why did all those girls like me so much. Well, it's proven that two girls are better in any guy's eyes than one, so they probably worked on me a little bit so that the men would get more riled up. But I think another reason is the kind of compliments I gave each. Instead of filling their heads with the vapid and vulgar comments they were used to hearing, I told them the truth. Diamond, the banging black girl who could clap her ass in a neverending myriad of ways, had hair that smelled amazing. Heather came out in striped knee-high socks and a hockey jersey - adorable! Porsche was the sexiest and breathed in my ear a way that not even Husband has done for a while. I respected these girls - respected their career choice and understood the amazing empowerment and power it gave them. And I think they could sense that, especially coming from a scantily dressed girl looking to learn how to work the pole. Watch out - I may have to change this blog's name to something like "Confessions of a Stripper." You never know.

Friday Confession

The place I most often have sex is my shower.

"You Can Wipe Your Ass With This Excuse."

Husband often says that being married to me drove him crazy. He's kidding of course, but he has a point. Whether it's the stressors of marriage or being married to a crazy woman, Husband has become anxious. After a trial run of about five SSRIs, he's finally found one without any sexual side effects (yay!) that helps him around crowds of people and with his temper.

But as we all know, life usually handles us many more stressors than we can handle. Husband's typical work schedule is four-ten hour shifts. There is almost always the opportuinity to work overtime on Fridays and even Saturdays, if you would like, but Husband prefers to keep it to 40. This is fine by me; I'd never want to get addicted to those extra overtime wages because you don't know when they can shrivel up and Husband usually straightens up the house or does a home improvement project on his day off. Swell.

But lately, the powers that be at his job have been screwing with him, demanding he increase his quota by 50 percent or more (as if that's a real possibility?), forcing him into working overtime and other insane crap (remember this lovely incident?). So Husband, because he's clever, did the smart thing. He went to his doctor and got an excuse that he could not work over 40 hours in a week due to medical reasons. he turned it in to his boss, who obviously didn't read it until last night, because today, all hell broke loose.

Apparently, Husband was cornered by his boss and one of the shop owners. They demanded (in front of a bunch of his co-workers) to know what his medical excuse was and started screaming at him. He asked them to stop screaming because he can't stand to interact like that. They didn't, he had a panic attack and started tearing up (I've only seen Husband cry once in the four years we have been together). Eventually he told them the reason, then he left and came home.

Can you even believe that bullshit? I'm so angry right now, I could scream. I'm waiting for a call from an attorney, because I always thought it was illegal for an employer to demand to know you medical information. And Husband! He's such a wreck. What's he going to do?

Nothing Like Nine to Five

Have you noticed how the hours at work slide by so slowly, like that last bit of syrup in the bottom of the bottle? You wait and wait, shuffling papers, making calls, but it's that afternoon hour when you can finally punch out that is on a loop in the back of your mind?

Maybe it's just me, but lately I hate my job.

Most people's jaws would drop in shock if I ever revealed this bit of knowledge. "But Maybelline, you write for a living! How could you, of all people, ever get tired of that?"

I'll tell you what: It's easier than it looks.

I don't spend my days reworking and editing the next great American novel. Instead, I vomit up formulaic dreck that appeals to our 50-95 year old subscriber base. It's all "this Anytown business is swell and this Anytown person is brillant and don't you want to live in Anytown forever so you can eat at this Anytown restaurant every Friday?" Additionally, we also work on custom projects now, including a much reviled (by me) membership directory which I have to craft 12 scintillating articles for, with the manadatory inclusion of facts and figures over a decade old. The things I write for work I would never write for myself and I would surely sadistically haunt the individual that would dare include them in a "Collected Works of Maybelline Jones" coffee table book created after my dramatic demise and death.

I'm wore out ... I think. Or maybe I'm secretly sick of all this shit. But what else is a 25-year-old woman with an English degree (actually two) and no other marketable skills supposed to do to put soy milk on the table? Blog? Ha!

Friday Confession

Probably from too many terrifying childhood games of Boody Mary, I'm scared to death of darkened bathrooms.

Miss Rap Supreme Is The Best Show Ever

Give me a count, one, two, three.
Thow your hands up and move with me.
Now my skin might be white, but my soul is brown
Even if I can't dance and barely get down.
I'm still a sister, waiting to represent,
Ready to immortalize my hands in cement.
Writing and rapping it's the same damn thing,
Just one's a little louder and requires bling.
Now don't get down on me, cause I'm the epitome
Of what it means to struggle, to fight, to steam.
Just because my problems are in my own head
Don't mean they can't bring me at least a little cred.
Because I'm living in the U.S. of Insanity
Swallow a handful of pills to be able to act socially.
I might get hurt, get shot, get stabbed
But it will only be by my very own hand.

Friday Confession

Fat people gross me out. I think I'd rather kill myself than end up morbidly obese.

I Smell Presidential Ice Cream

Anytown has become a regular stop on the campaign trail for both candidates and theri supporters alike, which is kind of nice considering our only 22,000 or so population. Obama did it, so did Bill, schilling for wife Hillary. And today, Chelsea Clinton is speaking (as I type) literally outside my office door.

I didn't check out her speech at all, I had a seminar to attend at the local Chamber of Commerce. So I was walking along and who did I run into?

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(wait for it!)



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THIS GUY!



Of course, now he looks more like this:



But I was hella excited anyway. I mean, I just watched him on the mother of all TV shows the other day, Law and Order. And that about sums up how I feel this political season, when I'm more excited about the Goonies kid being in Anytown than any presidential candidate or family member.