Set Fire To The Third Bar
There wasn’t any sleeping occurring on my part last night, thanks to the snores and screeches of my fellow bedroom mates — one human, one not. I stewed for hours, unable to do anything but lie there watching Tivo’d episodes of Top Chef (Seriously, Ariane? SERIOUSLY?) and Dirty Sexy Money, which has officially jumped the shark. But oh! THAT IS NOT ALL. There was 27 Dresses! Again! Still bad! Followed by the original Cathouse documentary that spurred the series, which I’ve talked about before, but oh my God. Love.
It goes without saying that the last time I glanced at the clock, it was 3 a.m. and yet? WIDE AWAKE.
Like most HBO sex-related series, Cathouse is anything but sexy. The “working girls,” as they like to be called, are a bit past their prime in most cases, and favor cliche accessories like clear plastic platform shoes and the most unsexy cheap lingerie you can imagine. I genuinely worry about these women smoking in such flammable garments, which they do often. Seriously. One false move, and they’ll ignite like a pile of briquettes.
Incidentally, I’d forgotten that the original documentary features a negotiation between a customer, a prostitute and THE CUSTOMER’S MOTHER. HIS MOTHER. HIS MOTHER BOUGHT HIM THE PROSTITUTE. And there the girl was, all rubbing up on the dude without any underwear on WHILE HIS MOTHER WATCHED. (He was, mercifully, clothed.) And then later? When the deed was done? HE DESCRIBED WHAT THEY DID FOR THE CAMERAS IN FRONT OF HIS MOTHER. USING WORDS SUCH AS THE ONCE-GENTLE EUPHEMISM FOR CAT. AND A SYNONYM FOR “SNACKING” ON SAID EUPHEMISM.
IN FRONT OF HIS MOTHER. WHO LAUGHED.
I have a pretty high threshold for being disturbed, but man, that was probably responsible for keeping me up for a few extra hours. Even more so than Dennis Hof.
Hey, speaking of flammable garments, as I’ve gathered wee items for my girl, I can’t help but notice that they all meet some sort of flame-retardant guidelines for infant wear, and further, I cannot express how much this disturbs me. There’s something slightly irrational at work here, but imagining flames – FLAMES! — in close enough proximity that my daughter will need a FLAME-RETARDANT SLEEPER is enough to send me into apoplectic fits. It’s horrible. I can’t even look at the labels on her clothes anymore, as it leads me to imagine crazed people resembling Malcom MacDowell in A Clockwork Orange brandishing cigarette lighters as they hover wildly over my daughter’s crib. You know, if she had one yet or anything. (She has a swing and a bassinet. Oh, and three sleepers. STILL.)
By the way, I made some serious progress on the giant mess of tasks I’d outlined the other day and surprise! I feel a lot less anxious. I can’t wait to see what my doctor says when I see her again and she smacks me down for not going to hypnotherapy and I explain that no, um, I was stressed for real reasons, lady. REASONS I MOSTLY WORKED THROUGH. By the way, it goes without saying that I am fully expecting this woman — the ONLY woman in the practice I don’t like, much less totally adore as I do the others — to be the one on call for the birth of my daughter. I don’t want her to see my lady bits or greet my baby before I do. I should also add that she was wearing a supersparkly see-through gold sweater, and for some reason, this explains a lot, especially here in Vermont, where I was pretty sure such clothes were illegal. Or should be, at least.
And finally, I’ve been meaning to ask you: Am I the only person who gets upset at phone calls at home before 9 a.m.? Whenever I mention this to people, they’re usually horrified, as though I am still ASLEEP at 9 a.m. when really, my God, I should be AWAKE (the perils of working from home — everyone thinks you sleep ’til noon). But that’s not it! Of course I’m awake, and usually have been for several hours. It’s just that, work from home or not, mornings are CHAOTIC, especially if you have to leave the house for a job, and for some reason the pre-9 a.m. call is so INTRUSIVE on the morning, which should be spent getting ready for work, commuting or otherwise preparing for the day. Plus, like calls after 9:30 p.m., it seems to screech “EMERGENCY!”
After 9 a.m., fine. Before 9:30 p.m.? Also fine. But outside of those hours, and you’re asking me to PANIC.
Hi! I’m EIGHTY.
Hey, happy Friday/weekend! Woo!
*Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright. I was listening to it earlier, and Adam started pantomiming cutting his own wrists, announcing that it was the most depressing thing he’d ever heard oh my God, make it stop.
33 comments November 20th, 2008