The Broad's Side

I could never be a stripper… Not even when I was younger and hotter. I’d love to have you believe that there’s some moral code behind it, but the truth is that I find a vast majority of men repulsive. Being proficient as an exotic dancer demands that you trick yourself and other people into thinking you actually have some sort of attraction to the repugnant loser you may be grinding on. I can’t do it. I’ve never even been able to shamelessly flirt with someone in exchange for a beer if I’m not into him. It doesn’t feel right to mislead someone in that regard.

It’s not even necessarily about physical attraction. In order to earn a healthy motor-boating session with me, the guy needs to be intelligent enough to carry on a conversation, have a killer sense of humor and preferably have command over the basics of the English language. I can’t imagine anyone likes a stripper quiz before you pretend to reverse-cowgirl him while he’s still wearing jeans. That would be uncomfortable for the entire bachelor party, I reckon.

As a result of my scruples, I have a strange level of respect for women who can pull it off. I had the occasion to frequent one of these establishments on a Sunday afternoon a while back. Save your judgments. It’s not like I would have been in church otherwise. A friend of mine was throwing a 40th birthday party for her female boss, and the objective was to embarrass and humiliate her after she was half in the bag.

To say that it backfired is an understatement of epic proportion. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my adult life. The boss loved it and her inner lesbian was unleashed full-throttle. It was borderline pornographic and obscenely unattractive. It’s exactly why drunk people should never engage in any form of sexual behavior on camera and/or in public. At one point I thought she might have dislocated her shoulder or pulled a hammy because of the painful look on her face. The dancer who was subjected to this had to be dead inside to pull it off. How she managed not to laugh, I can’t wrap my mind around.

At one point, I had to walk away. I decided to make polite small-talk with the stripper on deck. It went something like this, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you while you’re eating your nachos… naked, but could you point me towards the restroom?” She half-heartedly motioned towards the ladies room and continued to scarf down her family size platter of loaded nachos. Less than five minutes later, Kandi, or whatever her stripper alias was, appeared on the main stage to entertain the masses. I found myself oddly fascinated with her size 2 frame and her magical ability to camouflage the fact that she had eaten a week’s worth of food in one sitting. I realistically thought if I stared hard enough I might see a half-digested triangle floating around beneath the stripper belly chain. After she completed her stint on stage and windexed the pole off for the next performer, she came over to our table. She clapped enthusiastically and asked, “Who’s the birthday girl?” in a shrill little voice, as if she was addressing a table of children or mentally challenged helmet-wearers. I thoroughly expected her to launch into one of those birthday songs they sing at Applebee’s right before they bring out a brownie they try to pass off as birthday cake. At that exact moment I knew that I could totally pull off being a stripper… if I was a dumbass.

Did you get my message?

At the risk of sounding snobby, I can’t begin to imagine why someone wouldn’t respond to me. First off, I’m hilarious behind the wheel of my blackberry. My texts are well crafted and highly entertaining. If you think otherwise, you can suck it. You can understand my bewilderment that I dated a guy recently who wouldn’t respond (sometimes for days) after I sent a message. His name is Carl, but his parents spelled it with a K for some reason. No, he’s not a Kardashian. I asked.

When my texts hung out in space with no acknowledgement, I had absolutely no idea it was because he didn’t want to talk to me! My first instinct was to blame Verizon. It was fairly obvious to me that his phone had broken and/or the network was down. After a follow up text, it started to cross my mind that this was an intentional lack of response, so I went into MF mode at the flip of a switch. After I called a girlfriend and unjustifiably referred to his penis as a thumb and criticized his skills in the sack, I started to feel a little guilty. What if something horrible happened and I’m calling him an A-hole and mocking his manhood as he desperately clings to life? Oh my God… what if he’s on his death bed and all he really wants is one last conversation with me, but he doesn’t remember my name or phone number? Hey, it’s not a far jump from the cell phone signal being lost to the vision of a disfiguring car accident resulting in traumatic brain injury with a healthy dose of amnesia.

Just as I began picking out my funeral attire so I could cement my position as the sexy girlfriend at his inevitable calling hours, I finally received a response from him. The message? “Hey. What’s up?” Well, if that didn’t just send me into a fit of fury. That’s all you’ve got? What’s up? You’ve got to be kidding me! Why aren’t you dead? I’m willing to recognize the fact that it’s slightly appalling to harbor resentment because someone did not, in fact, meet his untimely demise. With that being said, it’s preferable to the knowledge that he’s just a horrible person. He had his chance to kick the bucket in a positive light, without the unfortunate reputation of an ignorer. Now I have to acknowledge, yet again, my disastrous taste in men.

The message here is simple; if you’re a man, you need to realize that ignoring a woman is a terrible decision. We will run the gamut of emotions and try to get inside your head. We don’t have the capacity to shut that down. We don’t think it’s possible that you’re busy or that your brains are smaller so you forget things. We think you hate us if you don’t respond. Or you have met a tragic fate. Please quit it! I, for one, would rather be called every name in the book or be punched in the ovaries than be ignored.

For the women; don’t tolerate ignore mode. If someone doesn’t give you the attention you deserve or laugh at your text message masterpieces, he’s an unworthy turd of a man. Don’t let some jackass string you along like that. There’s plenty of guys out there who are really good at basic communication, and spell their names right.

Here’s the deal… I actually know someone personally who accidentally had a baby. I’m not talking about accidentally getting pregnant. Nope. This broad gave birth to a full-term infant without having a clue she was preggers. How is this possible, you ask? Hell if I know. I was approximately six minutes pregnant, and I had already figured it out. I’ve had a difficult time wrapping my brain around the concept of having a human chilling in your womb for nine months without realizing this tenant is there.

My daughter kicked the shit out of internal organs that I’m fairly confident are important. Getting karate kicked repeatedly in the small intestine is a lot different than the feeling one gets after too many chalupas from Taco Bell. I’ve never seen what appears to be a foot or an elbow jutting out of my abdomen after a trip to Hometown Buffet. I was as complete Pregnasaurus, wreaking havoc any chance I got. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard to be oblivious to someone living in your body.

The story goes a little something like this: Prego is home alone one night when her stomach starts to feel a little off. Evidently, she feels like there’s a turd of majestic proportions brewing. I don’t know what kind of digestive system you need to have when labor pain simulates your typical Sunday night poop patterns. Who knows? Maybe it’s normal for a small hand to protrude out of her treasure trove during doo-doo time. This chick obviously gets down on all fours, naked on her living room floor and yanks a child out of her cave. She calls 911 and walks around naked, carrying the baby with the umbilical cord still attached until help arrives. When I heard this, I couldn’t help visualizing a Grace Jones type of scene, where she roars and screams “afterbirth” while stomping around like a crazed monster-woman type of creature.

Prego is a Facebook friend of mine, so imagine my shock when her posts took such a dramatic turn. One minute she was discussing Halloween costume options and the next she’s talking about her son. WTF? She works at a daycare center, so I briefly wondered to myself if she’d just decided to snatch a kid one day. The baby ended up being the guest of honor at his own shower. So much for any of those dreadful games where you guess the date and time of the birth, etc. I’ll admit that I briefly took her out of my Facebook contacts because reading about all of this made me fear that I’d suddenly turn stupid just for being a part of it at all. I don’t know if ‘dumb’ is contagious, but I’m not willing to take any chances. Maybe that’s not fair, but there’s no way you can convince me that any normal woman could go through an entire pregnancy without a hint or two that something’s amiss. Nobody’s boobs grow three sizes for no good reason.

There aren’t many people who would describe me as sappy or emotional on any level. This is precisely why I’m so horrified by something that happened to me over the weekend. Let me preface it by saying that alcohol was definitely a factor. A HUGE factor. I dropped a four letter word via text after about eight hours of drinking… on a Sunday. Well, that can’t be all that bad, right? Think again, friends. When that horrible word happens to be ‘love’, it doesn’t get much worse. I can’t even express the level of sheer terror I felt when I saw that text this morning. I’d actually be less surprised to wake up in a bathtub full of ice with one of my kidneys missing. I let out a horror movie worthy shriek, and I’m surprised 911 didn’t dispatch someone to my residence. It’s such a kick in the ass because I don’t even have those feelings towards the recipient. What the hell is wrong with me? What if I suddenly start saying that to everyone, like my mailman and the cashier at Target?

Don’t get me wrong, the guy in question is pretty awesome, but we’re more on an “I like your shirt” level than anything else. Ironically, it’s the first time I’ve dated someone and been completely comfortable with not knowing where it’s headed. I don’t need promises or labels; I just genuinely like to hang out with this dude. It’s been so laid back and easy… until 9:08 pm last night. Now I’m in an unusual predicament because once it’s out there, it’s nearly impossible to take back. I really need to pull out all the stops to dig myself out of this hole. This calls for drastic measures, indeed. Perhaps I should sleep with one of his friends or threaten to run him over with my car.

Generally, I only use that word when it’s followed by a harmless noun, such as football, cheese or Nickelback. As far as actual humans go, there’s only one person who’s earned that and she lived in my womb for nine months. The thought crossed my mind that there was a possibility I didn’t even author that text. It certainly doesn’t sound like something I’d say. Ever. There are a number of people who owe me and might think it was hilarious to jack my phone and spread the love. Just last week, I was having drinks at the Winking Lizard with a male friend of mine. We opted to leave because a 10 year old girl’s soccer team crashed the party. I couldn’t resist nervously shoving him out the door as I announced, “You know you’re not allowed to be in such close proximity to pre-adolescent girls.” He’s certainly hatching revenge. What better way to do that… spread vicious misconceptions that I have feelings. Anyone who’s been on the receiving end of one of my dirty texts, whether it’s intentionally sent to them or not, could likely vouch for the fact that I live in an emotional vacuum. If it’s not funny or obscene, I don’t really see the point most times.

When all is said and done, I hope this guy realizes that I’m not picking out my bridesmaid’s dresses or forwarding my mail to his house at this point. I can tell you this: my relationship with tequila has just come to a screeching halt. Leave it to me to get cock blocked by Jose Cuervo.

Fat Tuesday is the culmination of the Mardi Gras or ‘carnival season’. Mardi translates to Tuesday in French and Gras means fat. Fairly simple, I guess. The name comes from the tradition of fattening up a calf with the intent of slaughtering it on the final day of the carnival. Good times. It’s also sometimes referred to as ‘Pancake Tuesday’, due to the fact that the older people who don’t party their asses off are evidently making pancakes in an attempt to use up all of the fatty, forbidden crap that will be given up the next day. I assume they’re talking about using up fats, eggs and dairy products. Nobody gives up Bisquick for Lent, right?

If I understand it correctly, it’s essentially the day of the Jackass. You’re encouraged to indulge in all of those crazy things you intend to give up to kick off the Lenten season. People eat all types of unhealthy, artery-clogging foods and throw margaritas at their faces in record speed. Makes perfect sense on some planet, I’m sure. We’re like squirrels saving up for a 40 day self-imposed hibernation. I’m personally not into giving up things to cause myself any level of irritability. Selfish? Possibly. All I know is that I work my ass off, and if I want to eat a shit-ton of chocolate… game on! You may have guessed that I’m not all that religious. Sure, I was raised Catholic, but even as a kid I thought it was ridiculous to give up Hostess cupcakes for 40 days. What exactly does this prove? Hardly the same when you consider the parallel… now, is it? I’m a firm believer that Jesus would really want me to keep going about business as usual. Haven’t we all made enough sacrifices?

I’m not exactly sure how the boob flashing was introduced into the occasion. Perhaps these young ladies have vowed to give up their whorish ways until Easter. I’m not sure I want to get inside their heads on this one. I’ve experienced a number of Fat Tuesday celebrations here in Cleveland, and I can promise you that it’s NEVER the attractive girls flashing their goodies in exchange for a 10 cent string of beads. The same chick who’s vowing to give up McDonald’s Quarter Pounders is the one hoisting her shirt over her head. The fear of inadvertently glimpsing giant, mis-shapen nipples hovering over a poorly healed C-Section scar is enough to keep me planted on my couch. Maybe they were on to something with that tradition of slaughtering cows at midnight.