Pole Dancing

I knew that would get your attention, ya perverts.

You guys have been blogging your asses off while I've been wallowing in self-pity. Yes, I've been wallowing, but, in my defense, I have a good reason this time. A really good reason. I'm not going to share it here because I try to maintain a certain level of levity on this blog. I may, however, share it with you in an upcoming post at The Well-Fed Spirit, a blog designed to feed your soul.

Shameless self-promotion, anyone?

I'm trying to catch up with everyone, but considering I follow 48 blogs and each of you has written at least one post in the past five days, I just don't know how I'm going to manage it. Guess I'll pop some microwave Orville Redenbacher, put P!nk on repeat in the background, and get to it...eventually.

Since I've been MIA, I thought it only fitting that I tell a story closely related to sex, a second cousin, if you will. I had to do something to make sure I don't lose any of my 92 followers. Ninety-fucking-two! That is awesomenesssssssss. Who remembers when there were just twelve of us? I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Simple Dude at Simple Dude in a Complex World. He mentioned me on his blog right after his BONing, so throngs of new people dared to trek over here to the bitchy side and some of them even stayed. Welcome to all of you! I am humbled, really. SD, your check is in the mail. Someday I'll tell you about the lengths I was prepared to go to in order to have Simple Dude follow my blog. I was a big fan of his blog, but he, sadly, was not a fan of mine. I devised a complex plan on how to change that and then...he became a follower. Just one more day and I would have begun the I ♥ Simple Dude campaign. Just like a man to make his move too soon.

I'd like to tell you about the time I enrolled in Pole Dancing classes.

You see that one girl on the floor? Now you know how I did in the class.

Blame Teri Hatcher. Her skinny ass was on Oprah gyrating and talking about, "You can do it, too!" and I, somehow, got the idea that I could do it, too. I don't think I've ever been more wrong about something in my life. I had this vision of myself effortlessly sliding down a stripper pole, flipping myself upside down, doing a split on the side of it, defying gravity with the sheer power of my thigh muscles. Did I mention that I hadn't done a leg lift or squat in about five years? You remember that episode of the King of Queens where Doug begged Carrie to take pole dancing lessons and when she finally gave in, she was horrible at it? Yeah...no, I wasn't that bad. But I wasn't far from it.

Let me give you a poles-eye view of the pole dancing room. There are mirrors covering three of the four walls. That's so when you try to flip your big ass upside down and your cellulite hits the pole before you do, you can see it clearly. Nice. There are about 10 poles scattered over a room that's maybe 30 square feet. The bowels of hell can't even compete with the temperature in there, and saying it smelled like ass is an understatement. It smelled like hot ass in a shit storm on a Tuesday in Shitsburgh, uh, Pittsburgh. Sorry, I'm still pissed that they knocked my team out of the playoffs.

Oilfield Trash, not one word from you. This is my house and in my house, the Ravens rule. Now go make Mrs. Hyde a sammich, biatch!

Oh, shit. Did I just start a fight with a guy who eats homeless people for breakfast? I should really learn when to shut the fuck up.

So excited was I to wrap myself around a pole, I didn't even mind the stench, and neither, apparently, did the nine other women in the class. It was taught by a former stripper named Champagne. Or Merlot. Alize? Shit, I don't remember. For sixty minutes, she patiently coached ten women in varying degrees of unfit the sensual art of pole dancing. It was the most fun I'd ever had breaking a sweat. I broke so much of a sweat that every time I jumped up on the pole, I'd slide right down to the floor. While everyone else was hanging on to the pole in mid-air, my feet were firmly planted to the ground no matter how many times I dried the pole or my sweaty hands. So as long as we didn't have to climb, I was good.

At the end of the class, we had to do our own thing. She played music for about three minutes and we had to show her what we'd learned. You should have seen us tossing our hair from side to side, twirling our hips, kicking our legs. We looked like a group of giant babies learning how to walk. On crack.

But that shit was fun! I think every woman should try it at least once. At least that way I won't be the only Teri Hatcher victim. I liked it so much that I signed up for the premium package which included a pair of six inch clear stilletto heels and a year's worth of classes. I've never gone back, though, and the only time I've worn the clear heels is when my husband wanted me to try them on "just to see how they look." That was about five or six years ago.

I wonder if my contract is still good?