Archive for April 3rd, 2007

For a Dancer

My completely batshit insane hairdresser now thinks I’m even more insane than he is, and I’m kicking myself for giving him the upper hand. First, I completely (and completely accidentally) blew off an appointment last week, leaving him irate and with the thinly-veiled promise to “get me back later” accompanied by an ominous hollow laugh. He then rescheduled me for what I thought was this evening at 9:30 p.m. (I know), which I dashed off to at the last possible second, leaving a lovely evening with Carol – one of my favorite people – and her utterly charming dad (I am in love with him. In love!). When I arrived, Squiggs looked at me with utter confusion, because my appointment was actually on Friday night at 11 p.m.

A Friday night haircut. At 11 p.m. Right. And seeing as that wasn’t possible, because that hoses not only my Friday night, but Adam’s, because we usually watch movies on Friday nights, and they are rather sacred these days, I opted to reschedule for Friday morning instead.

Friday morning at 7 a.m, that is. Jesus. So while most of you will be sleepily hunkering over hot cups of coffee, or maybe rousing young children from their peaceful slumber, I will be in the hairdresser’s chair being regaled with wildly inappropriate sexual innuendos and getting a penis thwapped in my ear, and what better way to kick off a weekend, I say?

Speaking of sexual innuendo, or rather, overt sexuality, have I ever mentioned my affinity for Cathouse: The Series? I love Cathouse. Love. It’s all so…ridiculous and sad and pathetic and all the things that prostitution is, but it’s so utterly compelling I can’t tear myself away. These women take their jobs so seriously, and they honestly believe it has some sort of future in prostitution, like what, I cannot actually fathom. The things they dream about are often so inane that it’s clear that they have the collective IQ of a potato (“I love unicorns! And ben-wa balls! I totally bet that heaven has lots of unicorns and ben-wa balls. That would be totally awesome!”), which I find surprisingly shocking and endearing, given the fact that I’m talking about women who make a living wearing clear platform high heels and fringed chaps.

I might also add that I have the same affinity for G-String Divas, a fact that I announced at the dinner table with my dad and entire extended family, to my brother’s endless amusement and Adam’s horror, as I talked WITH MY DAD all about how strippers are fascinating beings, just FASCINATING, and really, they’re just trying to make it like everyone else. I did, however, draw the line at my outright adoration with a loud “OH COME ON NOW!” when stripper Jordan pleaded her case to the camera, explaining that exploiting her body for money was no different than working in an office because most people sleep their way to the top in offices, so why shouldn’t she at least get paid for it? Because stripping is just like sleeping with your boss for a promotion! What’s the big deal? Oh, Jordan. I love you.

I should mention here that one of the girls in my sorority was a stripper, a few hours away in Albany, and actually stripped her way through college and the stories she had were utterly riveting. The customers! The lap dances! The bizarre fetishists! The ah, Special K that she did on a regular basis to come down from the coke she did to stay alert during the drive home. Good times.

Not that all strippers do this, because although the drug use wasn’t really my deal, I will admit to a certain…admiration for her dedication to at least use her stripping powers (and rock-hard abs) for good instead of evil. And last I saw her, she was getting married to my ex-boyfriend on The Knot’s on-demand wedding channel. So at least, you know, she hung up the g-string. I assume. Then again, I can’t be sure about that.

The truth is, I have no problem with porn, strip clubs and/or legal prostitution. I don’t go all Camille Paglia about it, but it certainly doesn’t keep me up nights. And Isabella Soprano? Love her. Oh, I love her so.

I can’t help it.

*Jackson Browne. Don’t make fun, man, because I love him. LOVE. (Although the lyrics aren’t really apropos.) (Clearly, I don’t care.)

18 comments April 3rd, 2007


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