What Dreams May Come

...because I'm a geek

2005-11-14T02:05:00.000-05:00

This week I will be taking my yearly mental health vacation. Where, might one ask, would a stripper-doula-mom go to get her head back in the game? Why, a sci fi convention, of course. It is my week to geek out with other geeks, some geekier than I, and others not. No, I don't dress up (that in and of itself is a story, and I'm still paying off the therapy bills). So, I will be in sunny LA CA safely ensconced in a hotel with some of the sci fi genres hottest men...what could be wrong with that? Reality is overrated, anyway.

Not too long ago I was at work when I teased a customer for putting a dollar in front of an empty chair.

"Is that your invisible friend?" I asked.

I should have seen this answer coming from the egg shaped head, the bad hair cut and the wire rimmed glasses perched rather precariously on a bird like nose.

"Yeah," he replied, "Harvey."

Although he could have just been a Jimmy Stewart fan, I was betting my very fine ass (it is, I've been told...honest) that he wasn't. I graced him with a huge "hey, we're part of the same club" smile and said "OH! You're a scaper."

You know when you're in trouble when they look at you OVER their glasses (something I never understood, really. If you see better without them, why are you wearing them.) The problem is, he was suddenly looking at me like something in a petri dish. That had just learned to speak.

Apparently, exhibiting an IQ was tantamount to farting on stage, so despite my very fine ass and it's sister attributes he rather tersely replied "Yeah", took his beer and left the stage. How dare this naked heathen enjoy the same show?

I'm used to a variety of responses when the ol' IQ points start to pop out. Some men take it in stride and we can spend a whole shift having a rather enjoyable conversation, sometimes even in the middle of a lap dance. While thankful for these interludes, I often can't help but wonder if these guys get off on talking politics inter-coitus, too. Maybe only the republicans...

Then there are the guys who are surprised. "You want to go out after work?"

"Thank you, no. Really, I don't get out much."

"Then what do you do for fun?"

"I surf the internet, watch the sci fi channel, sometimes if I'm feeling really crazy I'll do both together."

There's that pause as they seem to almost physically have realign their thought processes to include a stripper with a brain. While I realize there are a lot of dumb people out there with computers, owning and using one IMPLIES a certain level of intellegence. They either get over their surprise and move along mentally, or they seem to get stuck in neutral. Then they have to quiz me.

"Oh, so...you're like, smart."

What I want to say is "Yeah, smarter than you even before you started drinking 6 beers ago." Unfortunately, they might have a $20 (or more) with my name written on it so I have to nod and smile. "Smarter than some, not as smart as others."

What I love are the math questions. Frankly, I'm not a math person. I majored in English and slid through the math department by the skin of my teeth. But they ask something stupid like "So then, what's Pi?" Dude, you don't even know what pi is unless you're stuffing your face with it.

Then there are the guys who just kind of mentally check out, and go back to discussing my bra size. Odious, but easily dealt with.

I've never actually offended anyone before, though, for liking the same show. And like owning a computer, watching Farscape implies a certain level of intellegence. It's a smart show. You have to keep up or you'll get lost. It's not technobabble, but more like plotnobabble. There are so many convoluted twists and turns in the plot you can spend a whole week thinking about the thoughts, ideas, concepts thrown at you last Friday before you catch up to the next Friday's episode. It's smart tv. It's like saying you like Jeopardy in the scifi world.

So, I will be geeking out with other geeks this week, and thinking about those poor unfortunate souls not imaginative enough to geek out with me. Next time, don't bring up Harvey, if you don't want me to get the reference.

Peace,
Lil

Adventures in housekeeping

2005-11-08T23:46:00.000-05:00

Anyone ever notice that Swiffer pads look like giant Always maxi pads? Seriously, it makes you wonder what that person was smoking on the day they looked at their sanitary napkin and thought "hey, I could clean the kitchen floor with that". On the other hand, that could be the very definition of being premenstrual.

Peace,
Lilith

spam and blogs

2005-10-23T01:06:00.000-04:00

Someone please explain to me why there are folks out there who have nothing better to do than spam blogs? There is a special place in hell for you people, I swear! Get a life, get job; hell, get a sex toy and step away from the keyboard for a while. Now, some might tell me the same thing because, well, I don't actually have a life, either. (Actually, as a stripper I'm contractually obligated not to have a life, and as a mom I'm contractually obligated to never have had a life, so really it all works out...) However, my no life having activities don't infringe on others attempts at getting a life. I'm not shoving my blog under your nose screaming read it! READ IT! READ. THE. DAMN. BLOG! No, I hope you're all here because you want to be, except you spammers, who can graciously eat my g-string and choke on it, cause that's what you get for trying to stuff your crap down MY throat.

Peace,
Lil

I'm Baaaack...

2005-10-13T13:20:00.000-04:00

I'm not really blonde. Honest. But somehow I managed to not only forget my password, but my user name and the rest of my account information, too. I even forgot what blog I was using. Well, duh! But, I got the kinks worked out (I think) and all systems are go. More will be forthcoming.

Peace,
Lil

2004-09-05T06:01:00.000-04:00

There is no title for this because I simply can't think of one that adequately conveys what I'm feeling, what this post is about, or does justice to the subject, if there is one. Frankly, I like living in my own little world and tonight my reality check bounced. Hard.

Beslan. Does the name ring any bells? I don't generally watch the news unless someone calls and tells me to, and even then I usually pump them for the information as I can generally do without the mental polaroid CNN leaves me with. But tonight I stopped for diapers and paused a moment to browse the newstand as I left the checkout line. Some poor little blonde thing clinging to a shoulder with decidedly unchildlike look left in her eyes. I made the mistake of reading the story and left Stop and Shop crying like I haven't cried in years. If you don't know what I'm talking about, google it. Don't look at the pictures, just read the article. I'm not going into details here.

People often ask me why I homeschool, and my answer never seems to be the same twice because there are just so many reasons. Tonight when the subject came up I said "Ever feel like no matter how right you do everything, someone else can still come along and screw it all up?" It could be teachers. Other kids. Terrorists with guns. Life is so precious in these uncertain times that I can't imagine leaving my children to somebody elses hands 8 hours a day when every second seems to count. There are days when that big yellow bus looks so damn inviting, like when the girls confuse the hardboiled eggs with the fresh ones. 12 times. But then news stories like this put it all into perspective and I'm thankful I have the luxury of being able to stay home with them. I'll take my clothes off until I need a walker to shake my ass for that dollar if it means I have another day home with my girls. If it means I'll never have to schlep down to the school to check under a sheet for their bodies or worse, find them there.

In the mean time, I'm left wondering "why?". Children are the most apolitical of creatures; left to their own devices color, creed, and gender don't mean more than a cosmic attempt at making our landscape more interesting. Less homogenous. So how can anyone be so unabashedly cruel to children in an attempt to make a political statement? Dude, you're aiming too far down on the food chain. You got a beef with the president...go to the president. These kids weren't even old enough to vote in the election you're so pissed about. Of course, what kind of world are we living in when nothing says a happy childhood like a well planned assasination...

No peace here tonight...
Lil

The Ballad of Lucy Jordan

2004-08-18T02:01:00.000-04:00

The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan

The mornin' sun touched lightly
On the eyes of Lucy Jordan
In her white suburban bedroom
In her white suburban town
As she lay there, neath the covers
Dreamin of a thousand lovers
'Til the world turned orange
And the room went spinnin' round

At the age of thirty-seven
She realised she'd never ride
Through Paris in a sportscar
With the warm wind in her hair
And she let the phone keep ringing
As she sat there softly singin
'Pretty nurs'ry rhymes she'd memorised
In her daddy's easy chair

Her husband he was off to work
And the kids were off to school
And there were on so many ways
For her to spend the day
She could clean the house for hours
Or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked down the shady street
Screamin' all the way

The evenin' sun touched gently on
The eyes of Lucy Jordan
On the rooftop where she climbed
When all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtseyed to the man
Who reached and offered her his hand
And led her down to the long white car
That waited past the crowd.

Apparently Belinda Carlisle has a version, but I'm partial to Marianne Faithful, myself. Her voice has that lovely, ethereal quality that lends itself nicely to a woman slowly going insane. I've never actually READ the lyrics before. In my mind Ms. Jordan hadn't been led quietly away, but the man offering her his hand was Death. Maybe I was influenced by the Thelma and Louise soundtrack, where I first heard it. Regardless, it's one of my favorite songs, so I thought I would share.

Peace,
Lil

more parenting politics

2004-08-14T11:21:00.000-04:00

I stumbled across a blog a few weeks ago http://mamaduck.blogspot.com while looking for an actual picture of a mama duck. Ahhh, the vagaries of Google. I've since visited a few times because I find mamaduck's observations of her toddler son amusing. Today I found links to another blog and a message board at Mothering.com. Mamaduck was rather offended at moms ability to bash other moms so of course I couldn't keep my mouth shut (or my fingers off the keyboard) and had to chime in.

The whole subject in question was an AP (attachment parenting) moms board whose thread had become "Things you Won't Find on an AP parenting forum". I found it all faintly amusing, since most of it you wouldn't find on ANY forum. "Baby seal clubbing mamas here", "Should I allow my teen to get botox before the prom"...most of them were pretty over the top. The few that struck home seemed to REALLY strike home, like "Can I get my epidural in the parking lot". I have to say, I identify with the AP moms...I had a homebirth, I believe in child led weaning, I co slept with my baby the first year and a half of her life and my kids have never cried it out. I'm not perfect, but I strive to be the best I can be. The gold standard I hold myself to are those ideas that lay the foundation for AP parenting. Unfortunately, the non AP moms were in a tissy because they took it as a personal insult. I have to say, unless you're out there clubbing baby harp seals, who cares?

They whine about the derision of other women, they preach that holier than thou moms are teaching their own children disrespect, and I just have to say....change the channel. If you don't like what's being said, there's a million and one other forums for you to visit. You have a back button, a close window, and google. Use them. I've seen forums where the mainstream moms are having a good joke at the expense of the mom who has a toddler hanging off her breast like an albatross, and as an AP mom I just don't go back. They'd be miserable if they ever had to breastfeed longer than a week, and I'd be miserable if I ever had to offer my child a bottle, there is no middle ground there and I'm not going to try to find any.

It was suggested that these AP moms who were having a good chuckle at the expense of some serious hyperbole are just insecure about their own parenting choices and so, they have to make fun of everyone elses. ...shrug... Maybe, but I think the only insecurity is the same insecurity every parent has, and that's "am I good enough?" It's not about comparing yourself to Jane Doe down the street, or June Cleaver on tv, it's about comparing yourself to yourself, and that can be the most frightening comparison of all. If you can manage to find a little humor in there, by all means, laugh it up. Everyone else can take the stick out of their bum and tune in elsewhere.

That being said, we're all in the baby poop up to our elbows. Why can't we all just get along?

Timeline

2004-08-13T01:06:00.000-04:00

Everytime I visit AirGuthrie, I try to follow the threads back in time but somewhere around 1992 they start getting tangled and hazy. It's like trying to weave with Coke bottle glasses on and a good buzz going. The threads are there, I just can't connect them.

I think it all started with Wendy. But then I try to remember where Wendy came in and I get lost. I have a mildly off kilter recollection of Wendy, Mic, and perhaps Monica and myself driving around in a van one Spring weekend, and I get the distinct feeling that was the beginning of the end for me because I can't go back any further. Or maybe it was the beginning of the beginning...a sleeping, a dreaming, a waking and all else before was simply another life. Where did I meet Wendy? I get the sneaking suspicion Steinmetz may have had a hand in that, since Wendy was friends with Mic, and he and Mic were, well, more than just friends. But it's more supposition than factual. It could have been Monica, dropping a smaller bomb in my life than Guthrie's (you get this sense of a woman lobbing emotional hand grenades at people and then lighting her cigarette off the blast).

I knew her from NOW, and it could have been her doing that drew me into the sordid life of the 'set back' table; that in and of itself an aptly named diversion for the actual effect it had on everyone's lives. Two steps back, turn around, take a hard, sharp left and find the OTHER direction your life is now going in. Disorientation and liberation.

Mic and Guthrie were cousins, Steinmetz and I were just friends, and if you start doing Bistro math in a weird incestuous way you come out with the equation that we were all just destined to meet. I trust the Universe has a plan. The Powers That Be always send you what you need, they just don't always include the instruction manual. I think back to who I was, where I was going, and where I ended up and I have to say I'm kind of thankful for the bumpy ride. I wanted to be Anais Nin, but ended up Roseanne Barr with a better figure and less money. Where I was going would have left me somewhere in the middle of The Ballad of Lucy Jordan. Am I mixing metaphors? Someone should just take my computer away after midnight. Not enough caffeine in the system...I really should look into an intravenous drip.

I must go ponder the who, whats, and wheres. And if anyone has anymore of a clue than I do, please by all means chime in.

Why I Should Have Adopted a Dog Instead of Having Kids

2004-08-09T11:51:00.000-04:00

You don't have to give birth to a dog.

A dog will piddle on the newspaper, and generally won't wet where they sleep. This in and of itself should be the number one selling point...

You can put a collar and leash on a dog in public, and no one will call the authorities on you.

While a dog doesn't particularly WANT to wear clothes, they aren't expected to, either.

While a dog may drink out of the toilet, they won't use the water to wash their hair, mop your floor, or make mudpies using the kitty litter.

If a dog is going to eat your lipstick, they at least have the decency to eat the whole thing. They don't use the other half to paint murals all over your house.

You can leave a dog in a cage with some food and water all day. This is much cheaper than daycare, or even being a stay at home parent.

A dog won't expect to breast feed until it starts college.

A dog doesn't even know how to flush the toilet, let alone flush your socks, underwear, or their own chew toys.

Dog toys are never recalled.

While some dogs may have peculiar eating habits, they won't use their food to decorate you, themselves, or your new $40 tablecloth.

You can pay someone to bathe your dog.

And the number 1 reason to have children instead of a dog: You'll never able to love an animal like you do your own child.

As Time Marches On, We Must Come to Realize it's Marching Across Our Face

2004-08-09T09:31:00.000-04:00

I have a toiletry fetish. So far it hasn't inhibited my ability to work or to carry on normal relationships (did I say 'normal' relationships? I meant normal for me...) so I haven't had to seek out professional help for it yet. But if you walk into my bathroom you may feel like you've just entered the outlet store for Bath and Body R Us. I have pots and tubes and bottles of creams and soaps and lotions. I have Walnut Shell Foot Scrub and Sea Salt Body Scrub and Dead Sea Face Wash with my French Lavendar Shower Wash. And that's only the beginning. You see, once I'm scrubbed and polished and clean then I need to moisturize, tone, and soften. My feet have their own lotion, my legs, my thighs, my belly and my butt get a liberal application of body firming cream, along with the scent-of-the-day for my shoulders, arms, neck and face. And on top of all that I throw on Bath and Body Works Lemongrass Sage, just cause I like the smell. I'll stop here before I go into perfume and make up, and all the little pots and potions I have for my back, my knees, and the host of bruises that tend to pop up like spring blossoms all over my legs.

Part of this fetish is common sense peppered with a dash of vanity. Going back to dancing at 33 has made me realize I'm not 22 anymore. I can't get away with a paint roller and some foundation. 8 hours a night 4 nights a week in a smoke filled room is going to take its toll on my complexion, not to mention my skin elasticity (for me, aging gracefully means going down swinging). Couple the same amount of time in thigh high boots with a 5" heel and now my feet and back are joining the fray screaming "We're too old for this shit!". So I humor myself and my various body parts with a little, if not a little excessive, pampering.

So, imagine my delight in running across a 10 pack of shower gel at Burlingtion Coat Factory. It's like the Baskin Robbins party pack of cleanliness. And it's cheap (and I mean cheap by inexpensive, not cheap like I'll go around smelling like a dime store whore for the next month...a girl with an addiction has still got to have standards, after all). Cheap is good. Cheap in this quanitity might satisfy my jones long enough to keep me out of Bath and Body Works for a month. My bank account would appreciate that.

At home, the shower is running and I'm drooling over 10 flavors of shower gel. Do I want Rain, or Plumeria? Night Orchid? Maybe I should choose by color. Or just close my eyes and pick one. Being a practical sort of girl, I finally decide to just grab the one nearest the end and begin wrestling with the box. I swear, this thing was child proofed (which means I probably should have just called one of my kids to bust it open). As I stand there a moment and debate the possibility of busting out the power tools, I notice it. A warning label. On a box of shower gel. "This item is intended for use in the shower only, and is not for internal consumption." Huh?

You have to really think about this a moment. Seriously. On many levels. First, for there to be an actual warning on the label like this probably means there is the possibility of some moron out there who may have, at one time, bought their ice cream topping in the bath and beauty aisle. Like Jeff Foxworthy once said about cautioning women against having sex while in labor "They wouldn't have a warning if someone hadn't tried it....ok honey, how long we got between contractions? Yup, I think that's enough time...". Secondly, if the person actually exists (and lets hope they haven't reproduced yet) who WOULD eat shower gel, what purpose would a warning serve? Chances are they can't read above a 1st grade level anyway. If you HAVE to put a warning on there, it should say "Don't Eat." Keep it simple. Of course, a warning like that might be too simple and the same idiot would die of starvation.

There's a job I want to get paid for. I want to be the person working in the marketing department who has to come up with a warning label for someone actually dumb enough to eat soap.

This is your homework boys and girls: come up with a warning label. Make us laugh. Now, I'm off to stuff my naked kids into some clothes and maybe clean something. The domestic goddess waketh.

Don't Confuse Them with the Facts

2004-08-02T10:11:00.000-04:00

Somehow, a few years ago I landed a pretty decent gig teaching parenting classes at the local hospital. These are the same classes I often refer to as the 'don't shake your baby classes'. It's all stuff a monkey who can read can figure out, but these folks think the information is more valuable if they shell out $100 to have somebody tell them how to do it. What I often get in my classes are the 30-something professionals who want the 'formula' for a perfect child. These folks generally tend to walk a way a bit disappointed when I emphasize over and over that parenting is about making the choices RIGHT FOR YOUR FAMILY. At which point I generally present them with their choices.

Some stuff there usually isn't much wiggle room on: you ALWAYS use a car seat in a moving car (I am the resident car seat Nazi, and I will be the first to either stop a complete stranger and show them how to use a car seat correctly, or call the police when I see a baby on somebody's lap in a moving vehicle.) Diapering, swaddling, bathing baby are all pretty straight forward. But then you get into the murkier areas and suddenly parenting isn't as cut and dry as some of these students insist it should be.

Where baby sleeps, whether or not they're circumcised (or by whom and when), vaccinated, breast fed or bottle fed can all be emotionally charged topics. And I emphasize, as I cover each one, that there is no RIGHT way to do it since no one has to live with your family but you.

This has led to mixed evaluations, and as my supervisor has told me; the 'feelers' love my classes, but the 'thinkers' say there aren't enough facts. Ironically, when I have an unusually large class I can't teach through discussion and have to lecture. Which means I get evaluations back from the feelers saying "most boring class I've ever taken" but the thinkers are just tickled pink. I'm not a politician, I'm not out to make everyone happy. I just want to present the information and let them do their own thing with it.

This finally has led to a couple significant issues. The first occurred last winter when presenting information on vaccinations. Today, the average child receives approximately 47-49 vaccinations by their 2nd birthday. They received diptheria, pertussis, tetanus, prevnar, polio, hep B, MMR (measles, mumps, rubella), chicken pox, HiB, and perhaps the optional flu shot. The standard schedule is set up so that they can receive up to 7 antigens per vaccination (their 2 month visit could potentially include one shot each for the DtaP, polio, hep B, HiB and prevnar) with subsequent boosters. Although it is standard for me to briefly cover the suggested vaccination/autism link, ironically in this class someone brought it up first. I told them studies had been done proving a link, and studies have been to disprove those studies. What has never been done, however, is a study to prove vaccinations are 100% safe and in fact Congress has a fund set up for families whose children have been adversely affected by vaccinations. This fund has actually paid out billions of dollars over the years. I told them if they had reservations about the vaccination schedule, they should discuss it with their care provider and choose a course of action that best suits them and their needs. They can choose not to vaccinate at all, selectively vaccinate, or vaccinate according to a different schedule. They needed to keep in mind, however, that choosing not to vaccinate has its own set of consequences, such as not being able to send their children to public school unless they receive a religious exemption.

Well, apparently someone in my class has a mother who is a school nurse who decided to take it upon herself to call my supervisor and explain that I was teaching "erroneous and injurious" information, and that I was essentially telling my students to lie since the only religious exemptions she had ever seen were for Christian Scientists and Seventh Day Adventists. Well, I don't know what religion any of my students are, so the error of that train of thought is obvious. I also know that as a Unitarian I could choose to claim a religious exemption if the issue ever came up, so I don't think this woman is the voice of authority on religious exemption.

Long story short, I explained to my supervisor that I never said 'don't vaccinate your kids', which actually would be hypocritical of me anyway since my own kids are vaccinated (selectively vaccinated, but vaccianted nonetheless). I ended up eating my pound of crow and passed out the AAP party line about how vaccinations are making us all healthier. *cue retching sounds.

The culmination of the story comes when my supervisor calls me about a week or two later saying she read an article in the NY Times about how themerisol (a mercury derivative used as a preservative...yes, you may have been injecting your children with mercury) in vaccines has potentially been linked to autism and some muckity muck is funding further research. On the one hand I felt vindicated, on the other I was downright pissed that she would think I would teach out of my ass without any kind of substantiation.

But wait, it gets better. During my last series of classes P. calls me and says that should it ever come up in my class, the new party line about residents is "Of course Y. is a teaching hospital, so if you have any reservations about your care you need to discuss them with your healthcare provider." This over the previous "Of course, Y. is a teaching hospital, but you have the right to refuse care, even from your own dr." Apparently, a dr. somewhere complained about us empowering his patients and threatened to send them all to our competitor. At which point P. threw the patient bill of rights out the window and our classes have gone from educating to indoctrinating the patient.

What I want to know is when a supposedly independant program suddenly started catering to the OB's and not our own students? To be fair to P., she is in the inenviable position of trying to make all parties happy. She runs a program that provides childbirth education, breast feeding education and support, Smart Start for the newly pregnant, Dancing thru Pregnancy and After Dance, and a host of other classes while dancing on the fine line of making hospital, physician, educators and patients happy. Unfortunately (and this is where I get bitter) somewhere along the line patients and educators have been handed the sticky end of the lollipop. Theoretically, the program could be shut down at any time if one more dr. complains. Don't confuse them with the facts. Well, why bother sending them to classes at all, then. Hand them a copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and be done with it.

Ultimately, I'm on probation and P. has taken over my next series of classes. Her definition of damage control, I guess. What I want to know is, does she expect to teach ALL the classes? The funny thing is (not funny haha but funny odd) is that what prompted her take over my classes was a completely unfounded complaint. I stopped discussing vaccinations after the last debacle. I don't teach childbirth (yet) so that little hotbed isn't even in pervue. What prompted her to take them over was someone called and complained "How many days do we have to spend diapering a baby." I cover that in 20 minutes in my first class and then it's done, I simply don't revisit it. I'm sure even a chimpanzee can figure out how to change a diaper without Cliff's Notes and any additional instruction so I don't understand where the complaint came from. Pinch me on something worthwhile, like circumcision (if it's illegal to circumcise a girl, why is it normal to circumcise a boy...hey, it's my blog, not class. I don't have to be unbiased here), co sleeping (do you know crib companies actually have lobbyists), breastfeeding (the world average for weaning is 4.2 years, human breast milk changes with the growing needs of the baby and doesn't 'mature' for at least 24 months...so why do people who extended nurse get called 'disgusting' and 'perverts'--I was actually labeled as 'disgusting' by my sisters family after 6 months, but that's a whole other story), refusing newborn procedure, or any number of other issues I could have piqued somebody the wrong way with. I mean, if I'm going to get bagged, I'd like to at least have done some damage first.

Thankfully, my inner bitch was quiet that day and in a moment of pure diplomacy (I don't have many) I asked to observe the series to see "what you do differently that I could improve upon." Yeah, it's getting deep in here. I'll let you know how it goes.

And that, folks, is the politics of parenting. I now return you to your regularly scheduled lives.

Lilith Redeemed

2004-07-31T10:06:00.000-04:00

I'm currently reading "The Search for Omm Sety". It was in the QPB catalogue but since I'm cheap I just checked it out of the library. Good story but poor presentation. Dryer than Abydos. Reader's Digest version: Englishwoman experiences accident as a child and wakes with memories of Egypt. She grows up remembering a time and place she's never been, and goes on to claim she is the reincarnated lover of a dead pharoah. It's the biography of a rather interesting life. Whether she spoke true or had a tenuous grip on reality at best, Dorothy Eady (aka Omm Sety) made enormous contributions to Egyptology that can't be discounted. What I found most interesting, however, is the authors notes on reincarnation.

In a discussion about the nature of the soul, he explains that the word 'daimon', before being demonized (literally) by the Catholic church, was a Greek word referring to the good nature of the soul. The best parts of the soul were the daimon. So if my chosen namesake is the mother of demons, its redefinition really gives her a new light, doesn't it. Denying Adam and striking out on her own wasn't such a bad gig afterall, was it? I think I need to research this further. (Nothing like a little light summer reading).

Stripper Etiquette

2004-07-30T09:19:00.000-04:00

Believe it or not, there are certain rules of conduct between dancers, between customers and dancers, and between dancers and management. First and foremost, you never cut in on somebody elses paycheck. It takes a lot of work to talk up a guy and finally convince him that he wants to actually see you naked for $20. There's usually a fair amount of negotiating and mental eye rolling as they try to bargain for a better deal. This usually involves haggling for a reduced fee ($10? Do I LOOK like a K mart blue light special) or getting something for nothing (a blow job? a $20 blow job? no, but I'd be happy to kick you in the balls for free). There's lots of nodding and smiling and pretending your IQ is about 50 points less than it actually is. You know when a dancer has had one too many when she sandwiches herself between you and Joe Cool at the bar and pretends not only that you're not there, but you've never existed. Unfortunately, men have the attention span of a gnat so most of them don't even notice. No one owns their customers, not even their regulars. But it's just plain rude to make a preemptive strike while you're still in negotiations.

Now, the rules of conduct between customers and entertainers is more theoretical than practical. It's based more on how a guy SHOULD act more than how they DO act. (Reference aforementioned blow job.) Even knowing this, however, I am still downright puzzled by man's behavior when presented with Busch and boobs. I don't even understand what prompts a man to shell out $20 a song for a lap dance (some sticking around for 10 songs or more) but that's one of those vagaries of life I can overlook so long as it keeps paying my bills. What keeps me awake at night is what guys think they can get away with for $20. The most harmless, but probably the most disgusting is The Snoopy. This is the guy who thinks that after several drinks, a pack of Marlboro's, and a cheap sausage pizza he has free liscence to lick you up and down. (Guthrie, not a word from you....that was different!) I feel like Lucy, if she ever grew up and invested all those nickels in a G string. ACK! Somebody disinfect me! Aside from the pure revulsion of it (I usually try to bury myself in my hair so they get a mouthful of frizz control hair spray), what makes them think that if I let them lick me, the guy before them didn't too? It's a hygiene nightmare. Why do dancers where so much perfume? We're disinfecting.

This isn't to say there aren't some men who behave themselves like gentlemen, keep their hands at their sides and their tongues firmly in their mouths at all times. It's just unfortunate they are eclipsed by the guys who don't understand "Don't touch". These are the guys who think your breasts are detachable and if they're quiet enough, you won't notice them trying to stick their hands down your G string.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"What you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

"Stop trying to grab my crotch."

"I'm not trying to grab your crotch."

"Oh, my mistake. Must be the fucking leprechaun in your pocket that's trying to grab me, then!"

Seriously, how stupid are we supposed to be? Actually, that brings to mind one night back in college after a very thorough drinking session. We're all lying about in that state between sleep and passing out when Kat's voice comes from the other side of the room "Corey, get your hand off my breast." Pause. "Sorry, I thought that was your knee." Uh huh. I bet he's one of THEM now, too.

Well anyway...more later on domestic servitude, redefining 'clean', and the politics of parenting.

Toddlers with Taste

2004-07-20T22:50:00.000-04:00

Ahh, the joy of parenthood. I went and taught my class for two hours tonight (I teach parenting classes at the local hospital) and in those two hours left my children in the ...ahem... capable hands of their father. I came home to find my youngest, age two, faintly resembling one of those wild aborigines who dread their hair with lime. Apparently, she had gotten into my make up while I was gone and my dear husband had used...are you ready for it? TOOTHPASTE to try to get it out. Now, I don't know what it is about children, or perhaps my children in particular because my oldest daughter also has this particular skill, but how can they find the one $30 lipstick in a bag full of CVS specials? It's like adding insult to injury. If it wasn't bad enough that I had to clean the "Svelte Purple" (who comes up with these names anyway) stick figures off my bathroom wall, and the "Royal Jade" handprints off the procelain AND the trim, the fact that I'm sponging up about 60 bucks with my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser causes me to grind my teeth and remind myself that beating your kids is a crime. Besides, even if I didn't have the letter of the law to stop me, there's always those big brown eyes looking at me with that shit eating grin that says "look mom, I'm Picasso."

"And here we have 'Tableau au Porcelain' . You'll note the creative use of color and line, in a vibrant in your face kind of palette."

"I'm sorry sir, but shouldn't that be "ON your face"?"

"But the use of negative space is--"

"That's not negative space, that's where she ran out of lipstick."

"Oh."

Of course, Picasso would send his kids out to pee on the sculptures to age them faster. You never hear that at the art gallery. I wonder how it affects the price. I suppose it depends on the buyer's particular fetish, wouldn't it? Well, we have plenty of "Still Life in Piddle" around here...gotta love potty training, too. Which, actually, is how she gained access to the lipstick. There are just some mediums that shouldn't be encouraged.

We're all equal in death....and inebriated

2004-07-18T11:55:00.000-04:00

I went to my 15 year class reunion last night. When asked "but why, in Heaven's name, would you want to do that!" my response had to be "it's not about seeing THEM again, it's about BEING SEEN".   My 10 year was so gratifying I decided a repeat was in order.   Keep in mind, high school put me 15 pounds heavier with glasses, braces, and a hinge on my jaw to correct the overbite Mr. Ed would have been proud to have. I was the girl who couldn't get a date unless it involved some sort of sports team hazing with "the ugly chick".   When my one link to coolness graduated (a friend who was a senior while I was a freshman...a vital necessity in my precarious social position) I was pretty much left in the tribal Siberia of high school cliques.

In retrospect, I can see now this forced me to develop true friendships and not just socially beneficial acquaintances. But tell that to the 14 year old who's crying in the bathroom because yet ANOTHER rendition of "All I Want for Christmas are my Two Front Teeth" has been sung in her general direction at lunch time/break time/gym class. By the time I graduated I was actually rather cute, having had that unfortunate overbite corrected and my braces removed. I grew the GI Jane hair out past my shoulders (yes, I had boy short hair in the era of Madonna dos) and had a fairly large posse of damn good friends. These weren't the "I'll hang with you cause your hair and clothes are right" kind of friends, these were the "come get me at 3 am before my mom kicks my ass" kind of friends. These were the friends who could be trusted with your car keys and your birth control prescription. These were the friends I WANTED to see at the reunion.

But we're not here to talk about them (well, we are. Just not yet). I want to mention the 'other' folks. The captain of the football team. The captain of the basketball team. The miscellaneous testosterone driven frogs devoid of any emotional prince. The day before my 10 year reunion I had just come off an 86 hour labor. Not mine, thankfully, but in my role as doula I had attended this mom day and night for four days while living on saltines and coffee in the Labor and Delivery kitchenette. I must have lost 5 lbs. right there. I was still quite tired and didn't have the inclination to fuss with my hair so it hung loose and curly red down my back. Aside from the various life lessons dancing has taught me, I've also learned how to slap on some damn fine make up. I looked not just good, I looked goooooood. And what happened? I walked in and heads turned.  THIS is what I ponied up $25 for.

The little gaggle of class of '89 sports heros, collected near the door, stopped and looked at me. Not recognizing me immediately, a couple eyes glanced behind me, waiting for the familiar face that would be my spouse to come in. Of course, none did. One of them broke from the pack and wandered over while I perused the name tags.

"Hey there? You with somebody?"

"Nope, just me. Going stag tonight."

"You didn't marry one of my classmates?"

"Nope." Looking, looking...

"Should I know you?"

I pick up my name tag, complete with thumbnail yearbook photo attached and wave it at him. "Yep."

Cue to jaw dropping. Yeah, it was worth it. The rest of the night half of them fell over themselves to buy me drinks. Couldn't give me the time of day 10 years ago, but now they were ready to shell out cold hard cash to get me liquored up. That's never a bad thing, and it slapped some much deserved spackle on a still slightly cracked ego.

The culmination of the evening came when Jeff, high school all star sports everything and number one little teen girl wet dream stopped by my table at the pub we had all finally adjourned to. I sat there sandwiched between the President of the class and another fellow who had never been particularly cruel to me, but who had only been on the periphery of my circle of friends. I smiled and wiped the condensation off my bottle of beer, the empties dinged together as I brushed them aside to offer him a place to sit. Mr. President and J. got up, perhaps to offer us some privacy. My horrible little girl crush hadn't been a secret then and perhaps they thought I still held a candle, a torch, a frickin Olympic flame for this guy. "We're going to shoot some pool, want another beer?" Ah, Mr. President, how diplomatic of you, offering me an out. But no, I wave them affably away, not yet. I'll catch up. They nod and smile as they walk off...some of us have moved on. Some of us have not. I'm still not certain what camp I'm in. Either way, Jeff had been a bit of a topic of discussion all night because his wife was a dead ringer for his high school girlfriend. "Hey, I thought Jeff and T. broke up in the 11th grade." "They did."   Oooooooh.

"So," he says, squatting in front of the table, ignoring the two recently vacated seats. This is like a sports huddle. "You don't remember me, do you?"

O yeah, I remember. And none of it's good, and most of it I should send him the therapy bill for. And for one brief moment I'm fully in touch with my inner bitch and we agree. This isn't a time to nod and smile and be nice, cause 'be nice' might have ultimately gotten us through high school but this is a different show. The players are the same, but goddammit, I got a better script this time.

I nod and smile. I raise my beer and meet him blue eyes for blue eyes over the rim. "Yes. I remember you, Jeff." His smile gets wider. He thinks he's in like Flynn. Wife or no, she left him when we decided an afterparty was in order and she's probably fuming in some hotel room somewhere, or bitching to her inlaws about her insensitive husband. Jeff is still stuck in 1988, the glory days, and he thinks he's got a sure thing. Yes, I remember you. "I just don't care anymore."

There is a moments delay before the meaning of the words catch up to the rest of his brain. Something in his eyes shifts and with that I get up and join Mr. President and friend at the pool table. It's done. It's a lie, of course, because I do care. I was god for a moment, watching Prometheus get his liver pecked out, and you can't not care about a feeling that supreme. But the caring is DIFFERENT, and THAT's what matters. Cue music "I Will Survive".

But this post was supposed to be about the 15 year post mortem, so I should probably get back on topic here. Music fading in background, cue Ferris Bueller voice over: with a history like that, how could I NOT give myself the opportunity to play god again?

More later...

Clothing Removal Technician

2004-07-15T11:27:00.000-04:00

Finding a name for what I do is not as easy as one would think. Within the industry, a "stripper" is quite a different animal than a "dancer". If you call yourself a stripper, you are accepting all the stereotypes that come with it: dancing is simply a prelude to prostituition, which pays for your coke/meth/crack/heroin habit, your IQ has bottomed out in the negative number range, and you can hold more liquor than Babe Ruth at his worse. Stripping is a lifestyle. Dancing is a job. Of course, if you call yourself a dancer, those not in the know suddenly start having visions of you in the Nutcracker Suite. The trully romantic are seeing Degas, a choreographer, and perhaps an MTV video somewhere in your life. These are the sort of folks who seem to be trully chagrined when you say "no, no. EXOTIC dancer." They pout like you've lied to them somehow.

So then there is the "adult entertainer". The problem with this definition is that it encompasses everything from stripper to porn star. So, I have settled for the most PC term I could find; I am a clothing removal technician. Yeah, let them wrap their narrow minds around that one...

I have been a clothing removal technician off and on for 12 years now. Too long for an industry that has a short shelf life, but it got me through college, it's kept my kids out of daycare, and most recently it's saved our house from foreclosure. It's a job that travels well (though I've never done it outside my home state, some women work a 'circuit'), and it's disposable. You can leave a club and know there are 16 others you can work at. If "Ivy" got fired on Friday, a quick glance through a baby name book can get "Lolita" hired on Monday in the club next door. Although, back in the day, you practically have to be freebasing puppies to get fired from a strip club. These days, clubs like to think they have standards. The problem is that they don't have enough women to get away with having standards.

The club I am currently working at is supposed to be a rather upscale place (I'm not sure who sets the standard for this, but I'd like to get a look at their criteria). Unfortunately, it's the women the that draw customers to a strip club, and without us it's just an overpriced bar that some moron plunked a stage in the middle of. Poor design, that. The owner can't seem to get this into his head, and he's been in the business awhile since I used to work for him when I was in college. He keeps cleaning house for simple infractions like being late and not taking your top off before the second song. So we went from 16-20 of us on a Friday night to 8. Admittedly, one Russian woman got fired for giving a blow job in the lap dance area, but her infraction was more of a matter of lack of discretion than the actual act itself.

Exotic dancing (a misnomer, I've always thought; 'exotic' is The Dance of the 7 Veils. What I do is pretty much in your face, down and dirty. Think Dirty Dancing if Jennifer Grey were nude...) anyway, exotic dancing has changed a lot in the past 12 years. We used to get paid. Yes, an actual bar wage depending on how long your shift was, how upscale the bar was, and depending on whether you were a house girl or an agency girl. Ususally it was between $50 and $90 for a 6-8 hour shift. Not a lot of clubs did lap dances, so you made all your tips on stage. Then lap dancing killed the shift fee. Even the most dingy, divey bar could pull a chair over to a dark corner and charge $10/song for a table/lap dance. So the bars started to cut back on the shift fee. After a while, we were working for tips only. Then the clubs caught a clue and started charging US to work. We can thank those golden girls who could walk out with a couple grand in their pocket and not keep their mouths shut about it. Every club has one or two, the type of women who are probably peroxide blonde and have hinges in the place of joints. Unfortunately, the rest of us suffered for their customers largesse.

This is pretty much where I quit three years ago. The intent was total retirement. I sold my costumes, cancelled my bookings, told the agency I was no longer available for stag parties. I was tired of bringing home $40 and paying out $80. The money was no longer compensating for the level of idiocy I was having to deal with (more on that later) and it was time to bow out gracefully.

But, men plan and god laughs. I'm lucky that at 33, after two kids and 6 years of breast feeding I'm still cute enough to get paid to take off my clothes. Lap dances have gone for $10 to $20, and I'm lucky enough to be working in a club where the house fee is only $40. It's good to have money again. Whatever cancer was eating away at our revenue when I quit three years ago has since seemed to run its course and there is money to be had in nudity again. I am now on the one year plan. There's no pension, no retirement plan, no workmans comp in this business. If I'm still a house girl after 30 (and I am still a house girl) that's all I'll ever be. I'm not getting the boobs and the resume to become a feature, who get paid a couple grand for 4 shows a night before moving on to the next club. (Please someone explain to me why men will pay extra to SEE a woman who's done 300 guys at one time...is this like the same morbid curiousity that prompts someone pay outside the general admission to see a side show freak? Or are they hoping to become number 301?)

Anyway...back to the one year plan. If I'm still doing this after a year, anyone who sees me on the street has my permission to slap me and tell me to get a life. The closer I get to 35 in the business brings me one step closer to the Botox clinic and some serious reconstructive surgery. Remember those two kids I keep mentioning? I have a belly like a shar pei. It's amazing what a well placed costume can hide, but not forever.

For now, my resume reads "clothing removal technician". Which is why I'm really not out there passing my resume around. I wonder what would happen if I posted it on Monster.com. Hmmm, now that could be an interesting diversion for a rainy day....

Why Lilith...

2004-07-14T11:23:00.000-04:00

It's called plausible deniability. For most of the life of the internet I have been known by a completely other name, and if there is any 'professional' accountability in cyberspace, a nom de plum for my nom de plum is in order. Most of my close friends know the whole story, or at least enough of it to put the pieces together, but for those few who stumble over my blog quite by accident and probably shouldn't be reading what I'm writing, Lilith gives me the liberty of saying "uh uh, not me." It's hard to be honest for an audience.

But why Lilith? She was framed. Eve was the dumb blonde, but Lilith I like to think was the red head who said "uh uh, not me" and got the hell out of Dodge while she could. The myth reads that she, being the first woman, refused to lay beneath man and so chose to cast herself out of Eden rather than submit to Adam. Frankly, I don't buy it. What man has EVER said they prefer to do all the work? What man in the history of the world, having the woman on top in all her naked glory has said "Sorry, this isn't working for me..." So, somewhere in the annals of time the first feminist got a bad rap. The myth further goes on to read that Lilith became the mother of demons. Well, if you've ever met my kids, you might say the name does aptly fit me.

I do have to clarify, my kids aren't bad all the time. It's not like their the Bundy's or anything, they're just kids. The problem is, they're too smart. Children should never be born smarter than their parents and I'm currently bearing the weight of the eternal maternal curse: "I hope your kids turn out JUST LIKE YOU!" D'oh! The problem isn't so much MY childhood, I was a good kid who stayed in her room with her nose in her book (it wasn't until college I took a big step off the deep end). The problem lies in the fact I had my HUSBAND's kids. If you haven't reproduced yet, beware what gene pool you take a dip in...find some nice unassuming person with a boring childhood, or at least one whose parents didn't curse them.

Did I mention I have three extra kids today? That makes 5 kids in the house and frankly, I'm waiting for all four walls to come crashing down around my ears at any moment. I have to put the baby in protective custody. My little one keeps pushing her down for no other reason than she can. Ok, well, maybe I have one trully demonic child...but the jury is still out til her teen years.

Hot Mama's Hot Spot

2004-07-13T12:09:00.000-04:00

I need a life. I think I used to have one (if Guthrie is to be believed, there might even be proof of it somewhere). But somewhere along the line it seemed like a good idea to spawn some young and I think that was the beginning of the end. Don't get me wrong, I love my kids more than I love myself, my spouse, or any misbegotten past but sometimes when I'm pouring their breakfast cereal while thinking longingly of that first cup of coffee that's only a few more minutes away, and listening to them fight over identical bowls and spoons I start wonder if it wouldn't have just been easier to stay drunk for the past 10 years.

I had aspirations that didn't involve folding 16 loads of laundry a day, taking death defying walks through lego strewn living rooms at 3 in the morning (anyone who doesn't think these seemingly innoccuous toys shouldn't be classified as a medeivel torture device obviously hasn't stepped on one in bare feet between bedroom and potty at OMG in the morning), and my writing career involved more than the weekly grocery list.

So what happened? Somewhere between college, the strip club, and stealing somebody's husband my life took a hard sharp left and I woke up one morning one Burkenstock short of being a hippy. I'm trying to work through the details. This confuzzlement has nothing to do with the hazy effects of one too many (or in my case a pitcher, a case, a dime bag too many) but an unusual clarity. I'm not used to clarity and something that presents itself in that sharp relief deserves a bit of time for scrutiny.

These days, Hot Mama's Hot Spot has more to do with hot flashes than porn. Well, there might be a little bit of both. We'll see what comes.