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?

Award Whore

It's been five days since my last post and in that time, I've won two blog awards. You mean I don't even have to do a damn thing to win an award? Nice. I didn't actually win them per se. My awesome blog friends have given them to me because they think I'm hot shit. I guess that's tantamount to entering a beauty contest where your mom is one of the judges. That's fine by me. It's about time I had an unfair advantage over something.

The first award was from the source of my second guest post on a blog. Semi True Torystellar from Can U Relate granted me the Tanned Hide Blog Award

Because some crap should not be put up with. I love it! And if you get to spank an ass in the process, all the better. Somebody was checking out my blog when they created this award. This blog is the birthplace of inspiration for many. You're welcome.

The second one is from a newcomer to A Bitch Called Mom, Kara over at Visions Unto Myself.

This is, by far, my favorite because it involves cupcakes that I didn't have to bake myself. Now that's somebody who thought to herself, 'what does this bitch really need in her life?' The answer is both simple and straightforward, although my husband still can't manage to figure it out. Say it with me, moms....LESS WORK. Or better...PERSONAL CHEF. Or best of all...GORGEOUS MAN BEARING CAKE.

Thank you, thank you, thank you ladies for believing that I am award-worthy. Just in case you're wondering what the hell you were thinking giving an award to a bitch like me, let me ease your minds by saying you had no choice. You might want to pay better attention to the subliminal messages strategically placed on my page from now on. I won't say you're gullible or anything like that, but...

Speaking of cake...

Is it just me or does food taste like crap when you're PMSing? Every damn thing I put in my mouth (minds out of the gutter please) tastes like metal right now. It's gotten so bad that I've taken to eating on paper plates with plastic utensils and consuming all beverages from plastic bottles or cups. Is this some freaky pregnancy spin-off?

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I couldn't eat sugar. To answer your question before you get a chance to think about asking it, no. Neither my doctor nor my nurse midwife instructed me to stay away from sugar to preserve the health of my baby. They didn't say I was damn near diabetic or anything drastic like that. I couldn't eat sugar because every time I tried to eat something sweet, my mouth would be flooded with the taste of metal. Needless to say, it was disgusting. I mean I couldn't eat anything even remotely sweet. Not cake, not pie, not cookies, not corn flakes sprinkled with sugar. Nothing. The thought of having sugar anywhere near me made me nauseous.

As a result of my sugar drought, I only gained 10 pounds during my whole pregnancy and five of those pounds belonged to the baby. And I was a sweet person. I don't think I yelled at my husband or oldest son (the oldest daughter wasn't adopted yet and the youngest son was still a baby) for the entire 37 weeks. I also didn't curse out: cashiers, trash guys (more on them in an upcoming post), my father-in-law (whom I curse out at least twice a week), or Verizon tech support, not that they would understand me anyway. If you think that statement is racist, it's because you don't know our history. I actually had a conversation with one guy that went like this:

Guy Who Lives In India: Verizon Tech Support, how may I help you?
Me: Hello. I can't connect to the internet.
GWLII: I'm so sorry to hear that, Ma'am. I can help you take care of this problem. Garble, garble, crunch, crunch?
Me: I'm sorry. I didn't understand you. Can you say that again?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't understand you. Will you repeat that?
Me: I didn't understand what you said.
GWLII: Please repeat that, ma'am.
Me: If I can't understand you and you can't understand me, how are you going to help me with my computer?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you repeat that?

Dial tone......

I'm not going to start bitching about outsourcing, but if you must outsource, can you hire the people who speak the language of those they're meant to help? I'm just saying. If Indian companies were outsourcing to America, do you think they'd hire my non-Hindi speaking ass? I understand that some people read another language better than they speak it. I can read Spanish way better than I can speak Spanish, but still I'm not getting a job taking donations for Telemundo.

I digress. Oh, I was saying what an absolute pleasure I was to be around during my last pregnancy due to a lack of sugar.

Hold the phone! I think I just figured out this whole bitch thing.

No, wait. I lost it.



Oh, yeah, I guess I'm supposed to take off my hooker heels and put on my pimp hat, so here goes. I entrust the Tanned Hide Award to the following blogs:

Crazy Ramblings of a Tired Mom
stupid stuff i see and hear
The Journey

Neither of them put up with much bullshit.

And the warm and fuzzy cupcake award goes to:

Secret Pleasures (these are cupcakes of a whole 'nother kind)...