Monthly Archives: June 2012

Magic Mike: A Delicious Review

Excuse me while I catch my breath. I saw “Magic Mike” at midnight last night and I’m still recovering. As soon as I heard there was a Channing Tatum stripper movie being released, I knew I would see it at midnight on opening day. What I didn’t know was that the movie would be great. I’m not talking about great in the sense that it involves gyrating, almost-nude men who we’ve all been ogling on shows like “White Collar”, “True Blood” and whatever the hell Alex Pettyfer was in. I mean well-written, thought-provoking and genuine. I was almost disappointed that it was more than just eye candy. I thought I’d be able to write a scathing review about how they rested on their pulsing genitals and didn’t bother with a storyline. Steven Soderbergh robbed me of that right. He, along with screenwriter/producer Reid Carolin and the (loosely based) life story of Channing Tatum, created a movie with depth and substance. And plenty of pelvic thrusts.

Oy.

The theater was packed with women. There was one man who I could see, huddled in the back corner trying to blend into the wall. As soon as the opening credits started rolling the crowd got rowdy. There were shouts and clapping and other typical “Woo Girl” noises. It was amusing. At about two minutes in, we were treated to the nude rear end of Mr. Tatum. The estrogen in the room was palpable. I almost got pregnant just from the hormones in the air. Shortly after the butt shot, there were some female breasts bared. The lonely man offered a meager “wooo”, but was met with only laughs. The uterus-squeezing scenes kept coming in deliciously choreographed group and solo routines. I was impressed. And a little turned on.

The first half of the movie is all fun and games, chiseled abs and butt cheeks. There are moments that made me cover my face for lack of any better reaction and I’d watch them again and again. The film uses humor and dirty realism to create a non-cheesy atmosphere. Sure, they’re strippers and they’re great looking, but that takes hours of primping and pumping. Watch for an early scene with “Big Dick Richie” and you’ll know what I mean by pumping. Slowly throughout the movie the audience is given glimpses into the seedy underside of the industry. I know. Seedy underside to stripping?! I’m shocked. The hoots and hollers from the audience subsided and morphed into a shared sense of appreciation and a quiet urge to say, “aww”. Interspersed with the dry-humping and peeks into Magic Mike’s failed aspirations are plenty of laughs. I know what you must be thinking but I’m serious. This movie is good.

One of the laugh-worthy moments

Matthew McConaughey’s Dallas, the owner of Xquisite and purveyor of the “Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa” came off as an exaggerated version of McConaughey himself. He dripped of the possibility of contracting an STD and said “alright, alright, alright!” about 47 times throughout the movie. Would you find him sexy? Maybe. But you better do it from behind a sheen of Penicillin. His body looks amazing but his posture is terrible and his flexibility is just off-putting.

Dallas teaches “The Kid” how to gyrate

Channing Tatum’s “Magic” Mike was indeed the star of the show. His dance ability is insane and takes the awkward right out of male stripping. Until you realize he’s wearing a thong, that is. He has the ability to make a face that will melt the pants right off of you. If that doesn’t work, I’m sure his literal body vibration could do the trick. He’s just…yeah. This role was honestly the best I’ve seen from him. It seems ironic that his best acting comes from a role that most of us assumed was superficial and hunky at best. The emotion was there. The disappointment and desperation were there. The rapid-fire air humping was there. What other man can pull off smoldering and sexy while wearing a banana hammock? Certainly not Matthew McConaughey.

Not for me…lol

If you’re wondering why I haven’t mentioned Alex Pettyfer it’s because I found his performance a little inconsequential. Sure, he’s hot. He has a great body and he didn’t look terrible while he danced his clothes off. I’m sure others found him to be panty-dripping in the movie. He’s just not for me. I prefer to stare at Joe Manganiello’s ridiculous upper body and focus on whether or not he was rocking a prosthetic.

I mean…

One top critic tagged the movie as “better than it needed to be”. I couldn’t have said it better myself. This movie would have been successful with the plot of “Showgirls” and half the star power in the cast. The fact that they went for the real deal means I won’t have to be embarrassed to admit that I will probably see it a few more times on the big screen. And so will you.

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Is This Crease Taken?

Last night brought me back to my usual watering hole in search of a cold beer and some air-conditioning. At this bar, they need to prepare for high-capacity so they jam as many bar stools (with backs) across the bar as they can. This does not allow for any space between seats. If you don’t know your neighbor, you will after you unpeel your thigh from theirs. Fast friends. The closeness of the stools also makes it difficult to get in or out of your seat. Any time I have to use the bathroom, put a song on the juke or just air out my underknees it turns into an Olympic sport. Sliding the stool out without disrupting the lives of those around you is an undertaking. I generally start by shoving my knees against the bar and slightly dislodging my stool from the kerfuffle. Then, I stop for a moment and meditate on my choice to say “kerfuffle”. Once I have jiggled free, I push the stool out from the line, completely blocking the flow of walking traffic. Then, I unstick my thighs from the shellacked wood and hope to the Gos that my skirt hasn’t tucked into my underwear.

Really pack ’em in there!

Apart from the physicality of getting in and out of the seat, the vicinity of the stools to one another also makes it extremely difficult for those who weren’t fortunate enough to get a seat at the bar. Not difficult to order, mind you. The bartenders are consummate professionals and they can take an order from a mile away with Journey blaring into their ears. They’re that good. The difficulty comes in gathering the drinks you purchased. Last night, a very blonde man whispered in my ear while basically rubbing his five-o-clock shadow on my shoulder in an attempt to grab his Coors. What he said was something along the lines of, “I’m not trying to be weird, I just need my beer”. I probably could have just handed it to him.

With a sudden urge to empty my bladder I embarked on another “get off this stool” journey and headed to the bathroom. My hand instinctively fluttered to my backside to be sure there was no cottage cheese on the menu for the other patrons. I was intact. My skirt was still pointing in the right direction. I successfully peed (yes!) and headed back up the stairs with my friend the bartender at my rear. I wish she wouldn’t have been since she decided the best way to handle that situation was to lift my skirt up and giggle. A few times. This is all in good fun until someone realizes I’m wearing granny panties and makes sure to throw that into conversation at least once every ten minutes or so. It’s true. I was wearing granny panties. Although, I think they’re just regular panties that are in a size most fit for someone’s grandmother. All I know is that when I struggle to climb down and around one of the bar stools, if my skirt gets caught up in the fight at least my bum is covered.

Mine do NOT extend above sea level.

So, that was 500 words on the state of the bar stools at my favorite bar. This is what it has come to. This wouldn’t be happening if someone agreed to send me to London.

 

Does Anyone Know a Spice Girl?

My money woes have been no secret. I am poor and I complain about it a lot. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have hopes and dreams of being able to do spectacular things that only one with a money tree would be able to pull off. Because I do. For instance, I would LOVE to go to London to see the opening of the new musical based on the repertoire of the Spice Girls. See? Doesn’t that sound like a life-altering pilgrimage? I agree.

The Spice Girls were my absent “big sisters” during my formative years. They taught me about makeup, hair, platform tennis shoes and slutty, slutty skirts. They taught me about “girl powa” and “zig a zag, ah”. They taught me that you should pick a trait about yourself and then stick to it firmly. I would be Sarcasm Spice. Posh Spice (Victoria Beckham) is still the most fabulous person alive. Try and disagree. I still listen to their music on a regular basis and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Spice Up Your Life

So here’s what I’m thinking:

Someone somewhere needs to tell someone who has power and money that I should travel to London to see the opening of the show. It is my destiny. I will write about my mis-adventures and make the world laugh. I will drink too much and aggravate soccer hooligans. I will speak with my best British accent and offend the entire country. I will shamelessly stalk Prince Harry and probably get arrested. I will do all of this for the greater good of humanity. And I’ll need to bring a friend. The slot has already been filled, so don’t bother plying me with presents or compliments. Or do. That seems better.

90s pop music on stage in musical form is my entire reason for living. Someone somewhere must know a Spice Girl. Make it happen. Soon. My passport expires next year.

Jimeny Cricket and Swunderboob

I know that Monday follows Sunday. I know it in theory and went to bed at a respectable hour last night in anticipation of waking up early for work. What I did not anticipate was the degree to which my back was sunburnt and a tiny (but incredibly loud) visitor in my office all day. The combination of those two things would make for a strange start to the week.

This morning when I attempted to get dressed (nope, no shower) I realized that wearing a bra on my charred back would literally kill me. I’m not one of those girls who can just flounce around with a cute halter and nobody would be the wiser. I have breasts. Big, jiggly breasts that need to be contained. They’re not big in the “bouncy trampoline girl” sense but more a scary, floppy way. Needless to say, a bra is necessary even inside my own home. Today, however, I had no choice. I had to go outside sans boulder holder. I chose to wear a black cami underneath my oversized off-the-shoulder t-shirt and threw on a giant summer-scarf to try to camouflage the fact that my ladies were hanging out somewhere a few inches south of where they generally live. Between the hunched shoulders and the constant readjusting of the flowy scarf, I think I may have gotten away with it. What I didn’t get away with was the skin on skin contact that doesn’t happen with the support I’m used to. It’s weird. I don’t like it and I’m sure you don’t like reading about it. But now we’re even. Swunderboob. That’s what’s happening, in case you got lost somewhere in this last paragraph. Swunderboob.

Yeah. Kind of like this.

I know what you’re thinking at this point, “was the tiny visitor a kitten that followed you around all day in search of a meal, a la South Park”? No. No it wasn’t. But that was a good guess. It was a cricket. An incredibly opinionated and  incredibly rude cricket.

This cricket greeted me as I walked in with a few gentle chirps and a deceiving silent period. Then, when I least expected it, it came out from its hiding place and proudly bellowed with its hind legs (or however crickets make noise…I’m not a scientist). I realized then that this creature had taken up residence inside my office and wasn’t on the other side of the wall  like I had first suspected. It sat there, two feet from my desk just glaring at me and chirping at the top of its lungs. I’m not a monster (and it wasn’t a spider) so I thought I would simply catch the little guy and gently place him outside. Wrong. Every time I got near him he waltzed back into the crack from whence he came. He didn’t even have the decency to hurry or pretend as if he was scared by me. He just smirked smugly and sauntered, only to return again once I had settled back into my chair. To put it simply, this cricket was a jerk. This scenario played out at least five more times throughout the day until I threw up my hands in exasperated defeat. Not knowing what else to do, I put a paper cup over the crack. I haven’t seen him since. My guess is that he thinks it’s night time and that there isn’t anyone to annoy. Stupid jerk. 

Google-Image thought this is what I meant by “Rude Cricket”

So, floppy boobs and rogue crickets have taken over my office today. I’m looking forward to getting back into the privacy of my own apartment so that I may flop in peace. First, I have to go to the grocery store. I’ll make sure to avoid the frozen foods aisle.

I Sit Upon a Grassy Knoll (and Judge)

Every summer, Grand Rapids has a weekly free outdoor concert featuring a Blues band of some sort. It’s called “Blues on the Mall” and it is hilarious. I go every week (I’ve just decided) to watch all of the people make idiots of themselves. Some of them by simply existing. I’m sure the music is ok too.

Last night was the second week of the people-watching festivities and a routine has already set in. My sister is the best person to catch the crap I talk, and she likes to throw it back at me. We’re pretty great at making fun of people. We’d be happy to let strangers make fun of us as well, it’s just that nobody tries (within earshot). We got to the site of the debacle and had tacos on our minds. First stop was the taco truck for the mouth-watering deliciousness that I look forward to every week. 

What The Truck

We grabbed some friends along the way and headed to the grassy knoll where the cool kids and goths (I had no idea goths were still a thing) sit. Much to my chagrin, there were two ladies in sparkly spandex shorts and belly baring tube tops attempting to entertain bystanders by hula-hooping. Hula-hooping. They strutted around, sort of gyrating and barely keeping the hoops around their soft midsections while I stared in disbelief that they were real. I mean…they were wearing sparkly spandex shorts.

Hula-Hussies in Action

They seemed to attract the attention of about every terrifyingly grisly/possibly homeless old man who hobbled past them, and they seemed to enjoy it. One of these men thought he’d give the hoopers a run for their money and show them a thing or two about rug cutting. He gyrated them right out of the water and provided about 15 minutes of entertainment. His best move was when he appeared to be scooping his testicles out and sharing them with the crowd. It was breathtaking. His one visible eye gleamed with pride and he eventually moved on or fell over or something. The hula-hussies capitalized on the eagerness of the crowd to video-record the dancing man and made sure to constantly be in the frame, sort of moving the hoop around their legs or arms or wherever isn’t interesting at all.

I thought the hula girls had moved on with their lives and decided to leave our area when a few of their friends joined them, enticing them to stay and play. The girl who ran up and hugged them each enthusiastically looked like she had crawled directly off of an Urban Outfitters ad. Only sluttier. The guy(?) who accompanied her was wearing denim stretch-capris. I wagered a few of my friends that they were definitely Bubblegum brand. From Kohl’s. I had an identical pair when I was 14. He’s sooooo ironic.

Apart from a Billy Idol lookalike, a socially awkward guy who wandered up to a tree, did a single pull up then wandered away, and several women who were WAY too big for what they were wearing, the dancing man was the highlight of the evening. At one point, some woman came and sat down in our group, chatting with a friend of mine as if they were life-long lovers. She explained a new STD phenomenon called the “Blue Waffle”, flashed her trashy-white thighs through the zippers (yep, zippers) on her skirt and promised to return. It was then that I looked down at my phone and saw a text from my friend that said, “I do not know this girl AT ALL”. Now I’m mad that I wasted precious minutes pretending to be nice to her for my friend’s sake. That was valuable snark time that I’ll never get back. But, at least I know how to steer clear of a Blue Waffle. Don’t wear skirts with multiple zippers. Or any visible zipper at all.

I think there was also some sort of Blues band…

Hot Boxing in the Sweat Lodge

Yes, I know what hot boxing is and no, I wasn’t actually hot boxing anything. BUT…it was pretty darn warm in my apartment last night. And every night for the rest of my life, apparently. My aunt very kindly gave me a window-unit air conditioner that she bought from a friend. I believe it is from the 1980s, but beggars can’t be choosers and I was definitely grateful. With the help of my mom, I put the A/C in my “kitchen” window with the hopes that it would cool down my whole apartment. I was wrong. It cools the square foot immediately surrounding the unit, but that’s about it. But, it was better than nothing. Right?

When I got home from work yesterday evening I was greeted with a glaring 92 on my thermostat. Not ok. Having just sweat through my clothes on the drive home I wanted nothing to do with stagnant air for the rest of the night. I decided to set up shop directly in front of the A/C. I put a camp chair about a foot in front of the window, set my laptop on top of the garbage can and watched Netflix like I was barefoot and pregnant. Even sitting directly in front of the air flow, I was only slightly less uncomfortable. I couldn’t even eat my entire BLT (which I had been craving ALL day) because of the heat. Eventually, I gave up and decided to jump in the shower. I stood under the refreshingly cool stream of water for what seemed like forever, pretending it was a waterfall on the “Lazy River”.

Once back in the reality of my sweltering apartment I knew I had to make a change. I decided that the A/C would be better used in my bedroom so that maybe I could get some sleep at some point this week. I struggled to remove the haphazardly placed pieces of cardboard and inched the unit off of the windowsill. In doing so, I spilled about a gallon of residual rainwater all over my bamboo floors. It felt wonderful. I finally succeeded in heaving the unit into my bedroom window, stuffed some towels around it to insulate and turned it on full blast. Nothing. Just a weak stream of semi-cool air. NO! I settled in to give it some time to cool the small room and tried to focus on my Netflix.

It was bed time. Sleep was not happening. After peeling off ALL of my clothes and sprinkling water on my exposed skin to catch any semblance of a breeze I had had enough. It was time to get creative. It was time to ghetto-rig. I heaved my naked body (yum, right?) out of bed and grabbed my unused window fan from the closet. Using the trash can as a stand I bent over the contraption working furiously (and still nude) to secure the long, thin fan with my leopard-print duct tape. It worked. And I was still sweaty. But, the breeze was palpable and the sweat provided a nice relief once it met the recycled air. I was able to snooze just a bit before the whole rig came crashing down and woke me with a start. So much for my innovation.

Ghetto-Fan

Copacafana82 and Premature Middle Age

About six months ago, I purchased tickets to a Barry Manilow concert. I know what you must be thinking and yes, I am THAT cultured. They were offering a certain nosebleed section for $10 a ticket ($20 with those pesky service fees) and I couldn’t resist seeing an icon for that low, low price. I suspect that was the intended reaction. Last Thursday, the concert finally took place. I was accompanied by a couple of friends and we of course opted to pregame downtown before the show. I’m running particularly low on cash these days, and had saved up all my pennies for this occasion.

There we were, out on the town at an embarrassingly early hour, two hags and a fa – uh…fanilow. After downing a few stouts and a $5 stuffed burger at Stella’s, we made the requisite pre-concert stop at Gardella’s. (Apparently I’m name-dropping in this blog). Next to us at the bar were a few lovely ladies who had “fanilow” written all over their middle-aged faces. I’m not making fun. They seemed legit. We played “Copacabana” on the juke, downed some shots of Rumple and headed to the main event.

We were a bit late getting to the arena, what with all the shots and burgers and re-applying of “anti-chaffing” stick to my inner thighs, so there were no lines to stand in. We waltzed through the doors and started the trek to our nosebleed seats. Once we got to the tippy-top of the arena we were stopped and told that we would be relocated to a lower section. Score! Evidently Mr. Manilow hadn’t reaped the sales-results that the arena had hoped for, and they wanted to consolidate all of us fanilows to avoid any “empty seat awkwardness”. It didn’t work. At least not for me. I still felt bad for the old chap. I had never been to a show there (and I’ve been to a few) where there was NOBODY in the upper bowl. Awkward. I was worried that the show would be terrible and that I’d have to rip Barry a geriatric “new one” in this blog.

Young Manilow

It may have been the alcohol talking, but I ended up having a great time at the show. Not great enough to stay for the whole thing, but surprisingly good. My friends also enjoyed themselves. One of them, claimed to be going as a joke and only knew “Copacabana”. By the second or third song he was a converted fanilow. Some phrases he could be heard saying throughout the show were, “can’t we just go on the road with him?!”, “I definitely love Barry Manilow. How gay am I?!” and my favorite, “Wouldn’t it be the best if he, like, died tonight? I mean…that’s national news!”.  That declaration followed Mr. Manilow mentioning the famous “GR Lip Dub”. What better to follow that local gem than a dead music icon?! Nothing. That’s what. The entertainment came at me from all angles at the show. My friends were hilarious but Barry’s reactions to the scads of old women in the audience were better than anything I could have hoped for. These women were insane. Following hearing aid-splitting screams and some old photos from the 70s, Barry suggested that he was Justin Bieber before there was a Bieber. It was an analogy that wasn’t necessary for the age-group in question, but I appreciated it. Barry’s shining moment (for me, anyway) came during his self-proclaimed “most romantic song”. The lyrics were, “…when can I touch you…?” to which one audience member replied (screeched) “RIGHT NOW!!” The crowd laughed, Barry turned red and got a bit flustered before exclaiming, “I’ve still got it!”. Amazing. If it weren’t for the empty seats and the lingering scent of “White Diamonds”, I’d have started to believe I was at a Justin Bieber concert. Which would also be fine with me.

Still got it

Once I had heard all four songs that I knew, I suggested we cut out early and avoid the slow-moving crowds of white tennis shoes. It was a work-night and I had to be up early the next morning so I made the responsible choice to go back to Gardella’s and drink more. With “Mandy” reverberating in my head I started bugging my friends to go do karaoke with me. Nobody wanted to go. I wasn’t about to let loneliness stop me, so I posted a forlorn status on FB, secured another karaoke-enthusiast and headed over to the gay bar, promising to keep my hand on my pepper spray for the duration of the walk. There were other Barry fans at Diversions so I sang “Copacabana” alone, and later did a Grease medley with my friend. Before I knew it, the night had come to an end and we headed outside to make the endless walk back to my car.

Once outside I ran into a local radio DJ. Being such a stickler for first impressions, I decided to tell him that I didn’t like him at all, and that I would never listen to that station because I’m a grownup. I’m a charmer to a fault, I suppose. He took it in stride and offered to walk me to my car since he was also going in that direction. After chatting for what seemed like an hour (no idea how long it actually was) he had completely changed my mind about him and now I’m pretty sure I’ll stalk him to be my new BFF. I’m a little annoyed that I have one less stranger to hate and I was the walking dead at work on Friday, but I had a good night.

“Copacabana” will be my inner monologue for the rest of my life, but it was worth it.

Left Lane Closed Ahead

When 5:00 rolls around, most people are giddy about the end of the work day. The end of my work day is bittersweet, however, and today is no exception. I know that I have to get into my sweltering 90s-mobile and get on 131 N with everyone else in the greater Grand Rapids area. Normally, this isn’t that big of a deal. Normally I can assuage the heat exhaustion by blasting some tunes and enjoying the gale-force gusts of wind that come with driving 80 mph with the window down. Normally.

That is, unless it’s summer, when I actually need to have my heat-exhaustion assuaged. Then, of course, there is construction. More specifically in my way is “left lane closed ahead”. This sign strikes terror and anger in me every day when I happen upon it. I know it’s there. I know when to expect it but I still maintain hope that maybe, just maybe they’ll be finished. Of course, we all know that they’ll take their sweet time doing whatever it is they’re doing and possibly finish up by the time snow falls again. And then we’ll all have to go slow to avoid slipping on a snowflake.

Construction Season

So, every evening at 5:00 I join the slow-moving throngs of day-jobbers in rush hour traffic. I guess we should call it “idle hour” traffic (badum?). Those gale-force winds that trick me into thinking it’s not “what’s that rash?” hot in my car don’t come into play when my foot doesn’t even touch the gas. Instead, I get the sun reflected off the black top and magnified through my windshield until my business-casual thigh could fry an egg. Forget passing the time by making eyes at my fellow commuters. My hair is plastered to my forehead and whatever mascara managed to survive the work day is sliding off the sides of my face. Slowly, I begin to resent the other drivers. They have their windows up and smiles on their faces. They have air-conditioning and XM Radio and I’m stuck with the smell of new concrete and the most annoying afternoon DJ I’ve ever heard. Ever. Time passes, “banter” ensues and I seriously consider calling in an Anthrax scare. I realize that Anthrax isn’t a thing anymore and turn back to hating the other drivers.

My hatred is eventually exacerbated by the inevitable dickface who ignores the “Left Lane Closed-One Mile” signs that fruitlessly attempt to speed things along. He’s got places to be and  jager-bombs to take, bro. He doesn’t have time for merging respectfully. I can’t stand entitled drivers so I take things into my own hands. I bravely ease my car out so it’s half in the left lane and half in my appropriate lane as yet another cue that the idiot drivers should merge when possible. They don’t. They look at me as if I’m the crazy one and swerve around me. Now, out of ideas and holding back my inner vigilante I begin looking around for a little solidarity. Of course, the other drivers don’t mind a little traffic jam. They have temperature control and “Coffee House Rock”. It’s just me out here. Lone wolf.

Luckily, before I’m able to completely lose my mind I see the tops of buildings and a slight reassurance that there is an end to this mind-melting drive. I’m about to reach my exit. Before I do, I see the billboard that stares me down at the end of every day’s drive. It says “Make Ludington your beach”. Today, like every day I wonder if they intend it to be the lamest billboard of all time: “Make Ludington your beach”. Or, if it’s a clever play on words: “Make Ludington your beach“. It’s something to ponder.

I think I’ll go climb into my freezer now.

Natural Habitats and Mean-Spirited Observations

We all have places in which we feel at home. Comfortable enough to be ourselves and laugh at others who aren’t. Or, others who are themselves, but their selves are such a caricature of a personality that it’s just hilarious. I was fortunate enough to find myself in my own natural habitat, observing many out-of-towners who were not. Unfortunately, I was alone and without someone to bounce my witticisms off of. (I hate that previous sentence but I’m too lazy to figure out a different way of saying it.) So I texted myself little reminders and smirked like a cocky idiot all evening. You’re welcome.

Yesterday was a long work day and as is my usual coping method, I headed to my favorite bar after work. I did not realize that there was a concert at the local arena (Pink Floyd). If I had known, I would have avoided the entire downtown area at all costs. However, since I was already there and had already found parking I decided to stay. I quickly scanned the floor to see if any of my kindred regulars were in attendance but I was alone. Alone among the “pre-concert-goers”. Given the projected fan base of Pink Floyd, you can imagine the age group I was dealing with. Sure, there were a few twenty-something stragglers with hippie sandals and red, squinty eyes but the majority of the crowd was 40+. This is not typical of this particular bar. It was not their natural habitat.

I had a great vantage point from the end of the bar and was able to shroud myself in “don’t talk to me” vibes while I observed. The group of men nearest me looked to be in their early 40s and were excited about life. They ordered drink after drink and attempted to make small talk with me. I shot them “the eyebrow” and buried my attention once again in my phone. I wasn’t even doing anything with it. I was just arbitrarily dragging my finger across the screen. Don’t act like you’ve never done it. Two of the men appeared to be twins, although one was definitely “the fat one”. Each of them stared at me unabashedly. Right in the eyes. Even when I was clearly looking back at them, once again using the eyebrow to indicate impatience. Stared right at me. For long periods of time. Both of them. I heard one of them say that he was happily married about seven times, and then I watched him sidle over to the middle of the bar and pounce on two small town cougars. It was at this point in the early evening when I stopped trying to conceal my amusement.

I noticed these women immediately when they came in and knew they would offer some form of entertainment before the night was through. They were dressed to the nines for their special night out to see Pink Floyd. “Nines” meaning extremely low-cut halter tops, too much makeup and honest-to-god glitter. Glitter. I didn’t realize you could even buy glitter anymore, unless it came in a roll-on tube with her teenage daughter’s Taylor Swift CD. They were both sunburned and had used too much face powder to try to deny it. They were a mess but weren’t letting that stop them from throwing out the giggle-vibes to the enthusiastic-twins. Taking a cue from the creepy brothers, I was now openly staring at the debacle unfolding before my eyes. They were whispering, giggling, leaning in and flipping their crispy-blonde hair. All of their best moves were showcased and I almost felt privileged to see it. During one of the lean-ins I caught a glimpse of Tammy’s upper arm. (There’s an 85% chance that her name was actually Tammy.) There, etched into her doughy flesh was a tribal arm-band tattoo. With a butterfly as the centerpiece. Tell me her name isn’t Tammy. I scoffed, of course, but chalked it up to a white-trash 90s mistake. After all, I have tragedy-comedy masks on my hipbone (where a bone presumably is) from 2003. Then I noticed that it was glistening. Not glittering like her browbones, but glistening. As if it had a sheen of Bacitracin to protect it from infection in its infancy. It was a NEW butterfly-tribal-armband tattoo. NEW. I can forgive the Nick Lachey’s of the world for their ridiculous tribal armbands because they were slaves to the aesthetic trends of the 90s. I cannot and will not forgive a modern choice to tattoo that on one’s body. I just can’t. It wasn’t even done ironically. Not unless she was living her entire life ironically. If that was the case then she’s the best hipster I’ve ever seen. Ever.

Guess which one is Tammy

Growing bored with Tammy and company (and a little nervous one of them might try to fight me, trailer park-style) I turned my attention to two gentlemen who had been standing on my left. One looked normal enough, although he was wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt to a Pink Floyd concert, which is an obvious indicator of dorkdom. The other was an older man, probably in his 50s, with an overgrown bowl-cut sitting underneath his dirty trucker hat. He had 80s-style glasses, a pedo-stache and the biggest pot-belly I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure he was wearing Wranglers. I said a quick hello and put a napkin over my wine to indicate that I would be back to my seat after I went to the bathroom. The molestache man leaned over to me and said, “Don’t worry hun, I’ll watch your drink for you” in a soft, breathy voice. I’m sure the irony was lost on him.

I should have cut my losses and gone home after that, but then people I know and like started trickling in and I lost my will to make good decisions. People I like rarely make good blog-fodder so I’ll leave you with only the early portion of my evening.

Seeds of Resentment

I just casually glanced down at my left arm and noticed that it was quite a bit darker than my right arm, or any other part of my body for that matter. It was just an innocent observation, but now I’m irritated.

My left arm is darker because it hangs out the window of my 90s car. It hangs out the window because my A/C hasn’t worked in over a year. The rest of my body pales in comparison (badum!)  because I work in a cement-block office during peak sun hours and, let’s face it, I’m not what you’d call a “beach person”. Pale fat looks exponentially worse than tan fat, but I don’t want to bare my body to Ra until I’m better looking sans clothes. Ra is the Egyptian Sun God, in case I’ve lost you. You know him.  He’s the one whose eye you can see tattooed on shoulders and wrists galore. Just go to a place where shirts are optional and I guarantee you’ll see one “eye of Ra” before you leave.

Nice ink, man!

 

This post has no actual point other than my irritation with not being able to get a tan. I’d go “fake tanning” but I hate everyone who works in those places. They might be great people once you get to know them. They might. But I can’t look at them long enough to find out. Tanning-salon people. I’m not prejudiced…I have a cousin who works in a tanning salon. She’s terrible too. She always asks me when I plan to get a tan and when I plan to get a man. She’s married with children and evidently needs condescending rhymes to communicate with me. This has potential to go on a tangent, so I’ll close for now. Tanning-salon people. Hmph. Or, wait. No air-conditioning in my car. Hmph. And…stupid day job. Yeah, a combination of those three. Hmph.