Show me the way to go home....

I totally had a not so little drink about a few minutes, as well as an hour ago, and it's gone straight to my head.

I've spent the past three days moving. I went from my shithole of a duplex (where I was living alone, if you don't count my giant dog) to a glorious house that's about 6 miles away.

I'm so cliche that this is it. I officially fucking hate moving.

First of all, how do houses (or apartments, or whatever) manage to get so full without your knowing? I feel like my apartment spent the four years I was there finding random shit, and pulling it into closets, nooks, crannies, and cupboards. Once I started actually inspecting the contents of the ENTIRE APARTMENT much closer than usual, I realized that there was just no other explanation.

I imagine it went something like this:
I leave for work, or some other random, out-of-the-apartment activity.

Living Room: "HAHAHA!!! Now she's gone! I can do whatever I want!!! Where is that stack of 15 Vanity Fair magazines her parents saved for her? They'll look great hidden behind the coats in the front closet."

Bedroom: "SAVE SOME FOR ME! I have a closet too, you know. And I can only tangle so many hangers on the floor of it until I need to add some other dynamic to the whole scene."

Kitchen: "You guys think you're cool? I managed to bust the bulb in my fridge, and shove the bag of bell peppers to the far back, bottom shelf! Not only that, but I've been encouraging the fridge to make horrible, barky sounds in the middle of the night, just to add insult to injury!"

Living Room: "Dude, come on. I have an entire SOFA here to shove shit under."

Bedroom: "Yeah?! Well, she keeps all her clothes here! I have t-shirts that she hasn't even SEEN for over TWO YEARS!"

Bathroom: "I managed to roll a couple Q-tips off of the sink."

Living Room, Kitchen, and Bedroom: "Oh, SHUT UP Bathroom! You're such a pill! Go spread some toothpaste on the mirror, you loser."

After four years of that shit, it's no wonder that I had so much miscellaneous crap in all corners of the place.

I'm so over moving.

It's raining cats and dogs. And rain. Minus the cats and dogs.

That's right. Atlanta is getting soaked. I love the rain, mostly because it cools everything off. I get really pissy when I'm too hot. It makes me lazy, too. And feel all gross and sticky. When I'm too cold, however, it motivates me to get up off my ass (until I find a big, fluffy blanket and a giant sweater that is in no way attractive but is so comfortable I don't give a shit, and then snuggle up with Lucy and nap).

And there's your Atlanta weather report.

In other news, work has been interesting as of late. It's great, because work is always going to be interesting. It's owned/run by open-minded, easy going, unconventional people, and they're all stellar. I take for granted the fact that I don't have to worry about saying, "shit!" if I drop something on my foot, and that I can bring my 130 lbs Great Dane to work to play with the owners' basset hounds, and that everyone here (well, the Fab 5 at least) supports and encourages everyone else. Plus, the damn place is a zoo, and there's always something going on at the complex.

All of this hilarity is creatively motivating for me. I haven't been painting as much anymore, but I have been trying to sketch and play with color and all that nonsense. And when I say "nonsense," I really mean it. My random little doodles are in no way the work of... well... I wanted to say "a master", but they're really not even student-caliber.

Despite the amateur nature of my little doodles, they're occasionally amusing. So it was no surprise the other day when I had a spark of inspiration, and grabbed my pen for a 5 minute sketch break.

What happened next was terrifying. For some reason, what I imagined in my head was WAY less bizarre and creepy when in my head than it was once on paper. I swear to god that there's a story surrounding this, um, thing. But that's not important. What is important, is that you say hello to MissBeard.

The Beatles sound nothing like a flat tire.

I suddenly realized that I promised to share the story of my first flat tire here. So here you go.

I was maybe 18 years old. My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It was champagne colored (which is a fancy way of saying "old lady gold" colored), and it was a manual. It took me far too long to learn how to drive the bastard, so once I figured the transmission out I was constantly driving somewhere.

It was a lovely day in Atlanta. There was a cool breeze, and my senior year of high school was coming to a close. I was driving down Briarcliff Rd, headed away from school and toward home, more than likely. I had a Beatles song ("I Want You" from Abbey Rd) playing louder than my now 25 year old self would be able to enjoy. I love that song because of the bass line, and as I was listening to the bass kick in I heard an unfamiliar, "WHUB WHUB WHUB."

I listened for a minute, and then begrudgingly turned the song down. The "WHUB WHUB WHUB" continued.

I turned off onto a side street, pulled the E brake, and got out to investigate. The rear passenger tire was so flat ("How flat was it?") that it could be confused for Calista Flockhart's chest. Or pancakes. Or Otto after K-k-k-Ken c-c-c-came to k-k-k-kill him.

Being the little go-getter that I am, I decided to change the bastard myself. I had a spare tire in the trunk, and all the tools I would need to handle the job (despite the lack of a smartphone to coach me with its incredibly useful internet access).

As I pulled all the crap I would need out of the trunk, I suddenly figured out why a spring/summer day in Atlanta had such a lovely breeze. It was bringing rain. Or, rather, it brought the rain, which chose to pour down upon me at that very moment.

I looked up, scowled at the asshole clouds and their shit timing, and continued to search the trunk for the jack. I found it, went around to the side of the car, and started to try to change my tire.

I positioned the jack, figured out how to lift the tail end of the car with the hooked, hangar-esque rod I had, and raised that flat tire off the ground. Then I went to actually remove it, and realized that the lug nuts had last been put on the car by the Hulk. It was physically impossible to get them off.

Believe me. I sat crouched there for what seemed like hours, in the flash-thunderstorm, trying to convince myself that I just needed to twist a little harder. I was so determined to prove that I could handle a simple flat tire, and prove that I was an "adult" at 18, and prove that I wasn't afraid of a little rain, that I would've succeeded were it not for those high powered drills that shops use to put the lug nuts back on wheels.

I eventually gave up, frustrated, and managed to half-trip over the curb. Which then caused me to step in the most poorly-placed anthill in the history of ants. In flip flops, no less. And (still) in the rain.

I escaped the anthill with only a few bites on my foot. I got back into the car (gently, so as to not disturb the jack that I had entirely forgotten about/given up on), and searched for my old, flimsy flip phone.

I called my dad's office (he refused to have a cell phone, so it was the only way to reach him), and got his voicemail. So I called home, and got the answering machine (I assume Bec was out picking up Mara from school). I then sat in my car, in the rain, scratching the new ant bites on my foot, and I cried tears of frustration that rivaled those of a 3 year old coming down from a sugar buzz.

After a few minutes, I forced myself to put an end to the itchy, soaking wet pity party I was in the midst of throwing. I grabbed my shitty Samsung and called my grandparents.

Grandpa and Gram lived outside of Atlanta by anywhere from 30-45 minutes (depending upon the time of day.... You know, Atlanta traffic and all that). But they had always shown me that I could call on them no matter what. When my mother would promise to show up and then just find something better to do... when I was confused and emotional and needed to spend a night or two away from Daddy and Bec... when I needed to learn how to drive and Gramps would pick me up at 8am on Saturdays, trusting me to drive his truck around the city... when all I wanted was to build a couch fort and have chocolate malts and watch movies all night with Gram and Ida... they were always in my life, picking up any pieces that I dropped and making me feel loved despite that.

Gramps answered the phone on the third ring.

"Middletons," he said (which is still his greeting when answering the phone).

I sniffled, and tried not to be too upset so as not to worry him. "Gr-Gramps? I have a flat tire, and I tried to change it but can't get the lug nuts off, and it's raining, and ants attacked me and no one will answer their phones and I don't know what to do and-and-and...."

I lost it and just started sobbing.

I could hear Gramps on the other end of the line, trying really, really hard not to laugh at my emotional response to this hysterically ridiculous horrific chain of events.

"Okay, okay, tell me where you are."

I did.

"I'll be there in 35 minutes. Just stay there, stay out of the rain, and try not to step in anymore ant hills."

So I sat in my car, calmed myself down, and finished the Beatles song (well, finished the album) I was listening to back before I could even imagine a scenario such as the one I was living.

Finally, Gramps pulled up in his sparkly, green truck. As he got there, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. For a brief second I felt like Daffy Duck in those old cartoons, except for the fact that Daffy's grandfather never showed up to give that raincloud a talking to. Then Gramps got out of the truck, put the donut on my car, and followed me down the street to Sears.

Maybe it was because I was a broke, soaking wet, ant-bitten high school student... or maybe it was because he just loves me to death... or maybe it was even due to the fact that I managed to provide such unexpected entertainment... but Gramps pulled out his wallet and bought me a set of new tires (which was a HUGE deal, because he is very, VERY... careful with his money). He waited with me, to make sure they were on the car and safe and ready to go, and then he went home. And so did I.

I've since had to change a flat tire here or there, and managed it okay on my own. But despite the rain, and the poor timing, and the douchebag ants that had to bite a girl when she was down, I'm glad I couldn't get those stubborn, asshole lug nuts off that day. I love my grandfather, and damn it, he loves me too.

And that was the story of my first flat tire. Sorry it ended so mushily, but it always makes me feel loved, and that reminds me to be grateful. Sleep well, darlings. Or don't. You know, whatever.

<3
-L

Red clearly means go

For the record, I fucking hate cyclists.

I understand that hating an entire group of people (without personally knowing everyone in that group) is... um... fuck. I feel like there's a word for just general prejudice that applies to a specific group.....

We're just going to go with "nonracist racism". Because I don't really give a damn what color their skin is, or where they're from, or who their parents are. If they're on a bicycle, wearing spandex jumpsuits and helmets designed to make them look cool (but really only make them look even more douchey), then I hate them.

There's a reason for this, too, beyond my impatience when stuck behind one of them. Let me tell you a story.

Yesterday I was driving home from work. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cyclist. Because I work 9-10 hour days, and was in no mood to drive 15 miles an hour all the way through my neighborhood, and there were no cars in the oncoming lane, I sped up and went around that self-righteous asshole. I ended up just missing the light I was trying to make about a half mile away. So I sat there, waiting for my light to turn green. As the opposing light turned yellow and I slipped Honda into first gear, preparing for my green light (because you should STOP at red lights, and GO at green lights, according to the RULES OF THE ROAD) that son of a bitch peeled around my car, and jumped in front of me. He made it to the other end of the intersection as my light turned green.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am totally down with sharing the road and all that jazz. But I am NOT down with people on bicycles pretending that they're cars, and holding up traffic, and being all pompous and spandexy, if they're just going to ignore the rules when it suits them.

They aren't called The Rules of Driving a Car. They're The Rules of the FUCKING ROAD. You know, that thing that they're riding their wheely, leg-powered, banana-seated nonsense on? Yeah, that's right, cyclists. YOU'RE ON A ROAD. ACT LIKE IT.

I mean, Jesus, they could at least have the decency to stop at a fucking red light (unless a Marta bus is nearby and decides to teach them a lesson... but that would be the last red light they sped through).

You know what? If the cyclists REALLY just insist on never stopping for red lights, that's fine. I can learn to live with that. All I ask is that they ride on the sidewalk, where things that don't have to stop for red lights (like pedestrians, or joggers, or stray dogs) tend to hang out.

The most frustrating thing is that I can't just give the assholes a friendly bumper tap to prove my point.

Jerks. 

Thank god I haven't been murdered by a stalker in an orange Pontiac Vibe.

Yeah, yeah, it's been forever since I've written anything, god how could I be so negligent, I feel so guilt-ridden, blah blah blah....


Moving on.


I have an interesting, disconcerting, weird story to share. A few nights ago, I loaded my art crap and my 120 lbs dog into my car and proceeded to drive 30+ miles in order to visit with some friends of mine. About 2 miles from my house, I came to a red light. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cat-shit orange Pontiac Vibe. When the light turned green, the guy in the car just kept fucking with his GPS phone dick whatever, so I flashed my brights at him, as if to say, "Hey, distracted guy, I sometimes get distracted too, which is why I'm not honking my horn. But, you know, the light is green now and I'd like to spend as little time as possible with my Great Dane in the back seat, panting on my right ear, if you don't mind." 


The guy blinked his hazard lights at me, waved nicely (a.k.a. waved instead of shooting the bird) and moved on toward the interstate onramp. 


It took about four miles of highway for me to notice that this same guy had managed to get directly behind me in his gross, orange hatchback. I noticed because he flashed his lights at me. Again. I thought to myself, "Self, this is a bit odd. But, you know, he could have accidentally hit the brights. I've done that before," and went on listening to Dave Ramsey tell me how to fix my finances on the shitty talk radio station we have here in Atlanta (I love Dave Ramsey [despite his religious nonsense] and Clark Howard, but the other programs this station airs just make me feel argumentative and ornery). 


A few more miles pass, and then I hear a horn on my immediate right. I look over, and it's the same motherfucker, with an ear-to-ear grin, waving at me enthusiastically. I give him my best "I don't really give a shit about whatever it is that you're doing, and thought you should know that you look like a jackass" face, and continue driving. 


He then pulls behind me, flashes his lights, and then turns on his right turn signal (while still flashing the lights) without changing lanes. I keep driving. My thought process was something like, "I have another 20ish miles to go, as well as a 120 lbs Great Dane leaning her giant, toothy face out of the back passenger window. There's no way anyone would go that far out of their way just to harass someone, ESPECIALLY someone who has their giant dog with them."


Boy, was I wrong. 


The light flashing continues. The Pontiac Dipshit keeps pacing me on one side or another, and waving his hand like an over-enthusiastic kid waving at Mickey Mouse, before falling back behind me. I try speeding up, and then cutting cars off in order to get him off my tail, but he almost runs two cars off the road in order to maintain his position. 


I became increasingly aware of this maniac's presence, and of my inability to shake him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a fucking stunt driver. I maintain two to three car lengths between me and the random bastards in front of me. I never go over 80 mph, because that's when the You're Extra-Speeding fines and whatnot kick in here in Georgia. I check my blind spot twice before changing lanes. 


My safe driving skills are going berserk, but I am determined to get this bastard to back the fuck off. 


I finally make it to my exit (after changing highways, varying my speed between 45 mph and 79 mph, and attempting to get off at the wrong exit before swerving back onto the interstate). The son of a bitch pulls up next to me at the offramp red-light, and rolls down his window. My windows are already down, because otherwise the entire car ends up reeking of dog breath because Lucy is accompanying me. 


"You drive pretty fast," he says with an odd, maniacal grin. 


"I do. Because I'm not interested. Back the fuck off," I respond (probably not the most clever retort, had he been armed or something, but I was livid that someone had made me feel so helpless and I figured that were he going to shoot at me, he would've done it already), before rolling up all the windows on the passenger side of the car (much to Lucy's dismay).


I turn onto the main street, and the dickwad follows like a lost, mentally handicapped Rottweiler. I then take a somewhat unnecessary turn, and he follows again, flashing his lights and trying to signal me to pull over. I make another turn, onto the street that will lead me to the neighborhood. When he follows that turn, I start freaking out.


I call the friends I was going to meet. No response. I know for a fact that there are 2-5 people there, 2 being the worst case scenario. I have to decide what the fuck I am going to do about this potentially homicidal, maybe-rapist lunatic.


I make up my mind to do one of two things. I decide to try to lose him in the somewhat confusing neighborhood. If that doesn't happen, I'll bypass the house and use my handy-dandy iPhone to find the closest police station. 


I take a left into the neighborhood and immediately floor it. It was fairly late at night, and I'm familiar with the area, but there are a lot of twists and turns and blind curves. I try not to go above 50 mph, and I make my turns and end up at the house I was headed to. I turn out my lights, roll up the windows, and wait. I force myself to count to five, and then grab my shit, open my door and the back driver's side door (because Lucy still doesn't have thumbs), and yell at Lucy to get inside. She runs up to the front door of the house with me, and we burst through it, me slamming it behind us. I quickly inform everyone of what happened, and tell them that I'm worried that the psychotic son of a bitch may be roaming the neighborhood, looking for my car. They grab a sledgehammer and a baseball bat (which are conveniently stashed by the front door, along with a crowbar and a 9-iron), and stand with me on the front porch for a few minutes, waiting and listening for the sound of a poorly-constructed Chevy engine carrying a discontinued Pontiac chassis. 


Eventually it was decided that everything was okay, and we all went back inside. I would be lying if I told you that every engine I heard for the next few hours didn't have me staring out of the front window, holding my breath (when you're worried and paranoid, all engines sound alike). 


Never in my adult life have I felt so threatened. I have no idea if this person intended to hurt me because I flashed my lights at him at the red light, or if he was just looking for an excuse to murder/rape/stab someone, or if he was just interested in getting my number and completely socially inept, or what. One thing that I do know, however, is that I will never again leave my house without my asp.


Let that be a warning to you, loves. People that willingly buy orange Pontiac hatchbacks are morons, and ought to be avoided (unless you have one, and love it, in which case DON'T EVER FOLLOW ME FOR 30+ MILES LATE AT NIGHT AGAIN, OR I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU). 


<3

Snow Day; it's more than just a shitty movie from the mid-90s.

Late Sunday night, as I was up working on art and getting my shit together for the start of classes at GSU, I had an amazing view of the gathering snow from my front window. I smiled, because my furnace was fixed, I had food in the fridge, and my dogs were safe at home. "What could go wrong?" I thought to myself.

Monday morning, the snow was about 6.5" deep. It was the most snow I had seen in Atlanta since 1993. The sun came out, melting the top of the snow so it refroze into ice. Then I let the dogs out. Because Lucy is so giant and built like a deer, the scene in the back yard went almost exactly like THIS. It was one of the most hysterical moments of her life. She loved it, though.

Then I went out to check on the car. Because I live on a hill, there was no way in hell I was going to attempt to move my car. It would have been like trying to climb up a slide wearing only socks (and don't deny it, you know you've tried that at least once in your life). So I made some food, and settled in for the day.

Tuesday, classes were canceled. My car was still surrounded by ice. It looked as though no one on my street had even tried to leave their place. People getting cabin fever all around Atlanta started attempting to venture out. A lot of them failed, and ended up abandoning their cars on the interstate. I managed to get out of the house and down the street without busting my ass, and went for a long walk to cool my claustrophobic nerves.

By Wednesday, the whopping 10 snow plows we have here had cleared a lot of main roads and interstates. Unfortunately, neighborhoods and maybe 40% of surface streets were still really dangerous. In an effort to keep me from going completely mad, a friend of mine braved the ice and drove the 30 minutes to my house. He had to park a few streets down, but I didn't care. I grabbed the dogs, a backpack of clothes, my art supplies, and high-tailed it out of there.

The roads are now less insane, but people here in Atlanta seem to want to continue driving like they're half-drunk, half-retarded, and entirely lacking an awareness of common rules of the road. Morons.

So now, until next time, I'm going to go paint some more, maybe eat something, and take solace in the patches of grass that I can FINALLY see outside.

Oh, and for all of you bitching about the snow, realize it only sucks because it kills our roads. Were we prepared, the snow would have been AWESOME. Plus, Lucy's ice-capades more than made up for the inability to use my car. Crazy giant dog.

GSU has aced Pain in the Ass 1001

I was so, so, so very excited about finally going back to school.  I'm still excited, sure, but I'm also starting to realize that there's just no winning when it comes to the quality and competency of institutions for higher education.

Don't get me wrong.  My professors are fabulous.  The classes are going to be entertaining, at the very least.  But good Christ, I have never seen more slack-jawed, clearly dumbfounded people in my entire life.  Walking through the courtyard is like getting a backstage pass to a Neanderthal convention.

When did 18-22 year olds turn into such blathering idiots?  You know, I ask because my biggest concern is that I'll discover that I was JUST LIKE THEM, and I fear the only option I would have left would be to turn to Seppuku as a means of salvaging my honor. 

Other than the completely oblivious student body (for the record, I'm generalizing. You know, like saying "the general public is a mass of greedy, bovine-esque bastards," despite the fact that I know quite a few people that are the opposite), my GSU experience, 2nd edition, is just like the last. There are the same, completely insane hobos wandering around downtown Atlanta. There are the same horrendously-dressed "business women" that don't know how to apply lipstick but can down four Philly Cheesesteaks in 14.6 minutes. There are the same drivers, in newer cars, still trying to pretend they're NYC motorists, honking and yelling and all that, but lacking the guts to actually commit to the role by running someone over. The heat and humidity, the odd-smelling train to and from campus, the cops pretending to look busy despite the traffic light above their heads CLEARLY doing all the work. All the things that you'd have to spend considerable time downtown on a regular basis to notice... well... they're still there. Atlanta hasn't changed.  And while I love Atlanta, because it is my home, I still can't wait to (one day) find myself living in NYC.

At least the motorists there have some balls.

Atlanta summers: quenching your thirst all season long

That's right. Atlanta summers suck. There are a lot of reasons why. By "a lot", I mean "two". Heat and humidity. Because guess what.... People were not made to breathe water. Well, unless you count Kevin Costner in Waterworld, who had those gills behind his ears, remember?  It always made me think if you were to chop off his body his head would have looked like a Kevin Costner Shark, because then his gills would have been right where a shark's gills are (I had to double check this fact, because I see more sharkbears [see: below] than sharks, and they're not the same, anatomically) and his hair would be a little brunette tail, and his ears would be his flippers. And yes, I know that "flippers" isn't the right word, but I can't remember what they're called and I know it starts with an f so flippers is close enough. And I don't even know the difference between flippers and the fish version of flippers, and think that the difference is probably just something that people made up so they could be pretentious and condescending to people that don't care about the proper terminology of fish appendages. And I have something that starts with an "f" for those people, and it isn't flippers. Or the word for the fish version of flippers. Anyway, the problem with Kevin Costnershark is that it took basically forever to grow those gills because evolution is pretty much globally recognized as the slowest way to change anything about anything. And I don't have 200 million years to wait for gills like Kevin Costnershark's, so instead I'm just going to bitch about attempting to breathe water anytime I leave the air conditioning, with much _thanks_ to the "can't cut me with a knife" Atlanta humidity.

I find myself gasping in saunas and steam rooms, too, because the heat and moisture suffocates me and I freeze and can only think about the 2 minutes I have left before I either drown standing there, or get enough liquid in my lungs to give me pneumonia and kill me slowly and painfully. And none of this would have happened if I hadn't been so clever and gone into the sauna/steam room in order to avoid the elliptical. Because everyone knows that the more you sweat the better your workout was, so I figured why not skip the workout entirely because I can sweat way more in the steam room or sauna than I can on the elliptical and curse you Mom and Dad for raising me to be so clever. YOU JUST DROWNED YOUR DAUGHTER WITH A STEAM ROOM. YOU CAN'T DO CPR WITH YOUR MIND, DAD (unless you're that brain from the old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoons... but then you'd be busy being experimented on in a government lab somewhere and have no time for saunas or first aid training anyway).

I'm usually about 6 minutes into my internal monologue and 30 seconds away from dying with the expression of a goldfish on my face before I decide that I'm too young to die and anticlimactically swim walk out of the "What Hell is like Underwater" simulation otherwise known as those hot rooms at the gym. I'm certain that the weather in Atlanta during the summer is what they modeled steam rooms and the Everglades after. I'm also certain that there's really no good excuse for sucking in humid, hot Atlanta air like you ran a marathon while opening your eyes as wide as you can to try to get all the air you can, despite not being able to breath through your eyes (ew, gill eyes). Plus, people don't often understand the I-can't-breathe-water-unless-I-look-like-a-goldfish face, even with brilliantly crafted excuses....

"I'm practicing my goldfish impression so that I can lure my cat down from that tree without calling the fire department."

"You know, the 'plastic bag over my head' expression is what all the models are doing in this month's Vogue."

"My next client has a choking fetish and I'm just getting into character."

With the reactions I get, it would seem that people don't love their cats, read Vogue, enjoy hookers, or are aware of the fact that WE CAN'T BREATHE WATER, which isn't good because it's making up 79% of the Atlanta air at the moment (according to my random estimates current, and accurate, very scientific tests). When those excuses don't immediately come to mind, there is one thing that you can always use as a strange behavior scapegoat: performance art. No one questions art, because that means they clearly don't get it and must practically be neanderthals, so they just stand there and watch or stare with a look of "I totes understand and appreciate the emotion the artist is trying to convey," as they nod and hold their chin with their hand. Honest to god, as soon as you say "I'm in the middle of a street show! You can watch! It's called 'I can't breathe water, oh my god I'm dying and now I'll make this face as I skip-walk to my car and crank the a/c'," they stop looking at you in horror and confusion and start nodding and "getting it".

By the way, writing is a form of art. If you don't get it, you obviously didn't have parents as well-educated and aware as mine. It's true. Though you're probably also still alive because of your dumb parents, so point for you, I suppose.

 P.S. This is a sharkbear. It's art, too. Also, nature's most ultimate killing machine.

Oh, The Clermont Lounge.

Last night was a huge first for me. I went to The Clermont Lounge (okay, so that wasn’t a first. I’ve been there a few times….though usually I go with my dad. Wait, that doesn’t make this better). Well, I ended up there at the tail end of an awesome, monthly figure study for Dr. Sketchy’s (the reason Daddy and I attend a strip club together, on occasion) which usually consists of 20-30 people with cigarettes and cocktails, situated with their creative implement of choice (sketch pads, spiral notebooks, easels, paint, graphite, oil pastels, charcoal, markers, whatever) around a beautiful burlesque model that would still be too hot to strip at the Clermont if her teeth fell out and she gained 50 lbs. It’s good times.

There’s also a dancer that’s always there, and she’s heavy and older, but she’s well-proportioned and is absolutely hysterical (as she took off her top, she looked back at the three of us and whispered, "I need my Geritol,"). She looks like a 40 year old Bette Midler, and has the cutest little, black, Mary Jane kitty pumps. I’m not sure if anything in that sentence other than the phrase “Mary Jane” is an accurate way to describe shoes, but I figured they ought to sound every bit as cute as they looked. And I think that’s right, anyway. Maybe. Probably not. Chances are most people weren't looking at her shoes, or I would've asked. Thanks a lot, nudity.

Despite missing the art class, Shana, Ariel, and I decided to sit down at the bar and have a drink. I thought to myself, "Self, Shana has the strange ability to get you more drunk than you're used to. So just have one sex on the beach, because it's late and you're already tired. Plus, work with a hangover sucks almost as much as sleeping through your alarm and missing work with a hangover." Well, after the first drink (that Shana kept picking up when I wasn't looking) I went ahead and bought one more. Two drinks shared between two people equals one drink each. It's basic math. As I finished that drink, the three of us were bought a round of shots. And then I was bought another drink. And then we were bought another round of shots. And then I was bought yet another drink.

Now, I am aware that I’m not an extremely unattractive person, but I have never in my life had a stranger buy me a drink. Ever. And ESPECIALLY never had the bartender drop off a drink and say, “This is from the guy over there,” while pointing at some wanna-be frat boy who is doing his best to look suave, like they do in really bad romance movies where the girl thinks the guy is totally lame and then he woos her after she splashes the drink in his face and they ride off to be happy and free on his private jet because he's also a secret millionaire.

I felt like there was some giant joke being played on me, or something. But then the trashy, 5’1”, 190 lbs stripper that was onstage crushed a beer can with her boobs, a move their #1 stripper (named Blondie) is known for, and I was distracted and forgot to worry about why I had two drinks and a shot waiting eagerly to be downed by my suddenly thirsty face.

The moral of this story? If you let your friend cut your hair quite short, and then go to the sleaziest strip club you can find, guys will buy you drinks. And when you start to feel self-conscious, backwoods dancers will crush an empty PBR can with their tits, just for you.

And nothing calms an anxious mind like a smushed can of PBR glistening with stripper boobie sweat.