Book Reviewers, Wake Up

Please never make me read the phrase "wry wit" or "sardonic wit" ever again. Those phrases are dead to me. Come up with a new adjective. For everyone's sake.

Coffee

In my mind, it's almost winter. I don't care that the sun is beating down outside and heating my car up to about 100 degrees, making me sweat my balls off and mocking me for my optimism in wearing a three-quarter sleeve t-shirt. My family is in the cold right now, and so in order to feel any part of home, I'm reduced to surrounding myself with cliches of the season. And frankly, I don't care. It will be winter in my world. And that's why the special, special Winter Blend coffee from Trader Joe's is now taking up residence in my kitchen cabinet.

Oh, it's glorious, even as it sits in dregs getting cold in the travel mug next to my computer. It smells like cinnamon and cloves, like what I'd be drinking in front of a fireplace in order to stay warm if I inhabited my happy little fantasy place where the leaves are falling, it smells clean and cool (instead of hot and smoky, thanks L.A. fire) and there are more natural colors represented in the outdoors than brown and a green that kind of chokes on itself.

If I keep the shades pulled, by the way, I can forget where I am altogether. Just me and the flies, and the scent of Winter Blend.

Thank god for reality TV

Seriously, there is nothing that you could put a camera on that I wouldn't watch.

Don't Know Why

I can't figure out what to do with my life. I've been stuck between nothing and nothing for months now, going neither here nor there while nothing, and at the same time everything, catches my interest.

Indecision is a curse. Every option is completely equal until my mind is reeling, I'm having hot flashes, my head is pounding and it feels like there's a sponge inside it absorbing liquid until it presses against the inside of my skull with such force that it threatens to crack. I should be able to stop, turn and point to something and say, Yes please. But I can't.

Don't know how I got like this, and I don't know why.

Tim. A.K.A., the Fat Bastard.

"Hey everyone, this is Tim!" My manager yelled it out to us from across the room. We were sitting around the bar doing shots of tequila (I was drinking whiskey, fuck that tequila shit), and there was no one else in there but us six dancers, the bartender, and the bouncer.

Until Tim.

Fat and quiet, he was wearing a Dodgers jersey, a baseball hat, and shorts. he sat at the corner of the bar by himself for 20 minutes until I decided to capitalize.

"Hey, Tim. Nice to meet you."

Two Hours Later: I'm leaning against Tim, staring down at my black shoes. I rather enjoy the look of my feet, with their perfect pink-red pedicure, clad in brand new black platforms, tapping quietly back and forth against the red velvet couch. It looks like precious, careful erotica. I love that these are my feet.

He's massaging my back. I'm letting him, although my stomach is turning as his thick hands paw at my flesh. I don't know why I'm crossing this line...oh WAIT. yes I do.

"Are you sitting with Tim?" DJ had asked 30 minutes ago, during a break in our lap dances that Time had taken to go out and smoke a joint. "I'm surprised you're out yet, he usually comes in and gets 20 dances or so."

"You were with Tim?" The bartender had gone down the same road. "Definitely stay with him, he's got money."

MONEY. That is why I am letting this beast of a man paw at my flesh, my back, my feet (yes, he wanted to rub my feet). I've seen other girls let customers do this, all the fucking time - do they enjoy it? Are they as nauseated by it as I am? I see their customers' sincere, fat faces, their drooly little smiles, as if they're massaging a girlfriend, someone they know and love. Could anyone possibly enjoy this display of intimacy with someone they don't know? Cause I sure as shit can't.

It's just like getting a regular massage, only he's paying you to do it. It's a great deal.

I try to continue to focus on my feet, how perfect they are. My eyes trail up my body to my tiny pink and black striped bikini bottom. Not as perfect as my feet - the bottom is getting a little stretched out, leaving a tiny gap where someone could potentially see down it, the one day I don't wear a thong....I glance up at Tim. His hand had been strategically placed just so on my hip, just to where if he moved it around a tiny little bit it moved the bikini bottoms around as well...

"Get your hand off of there. Stop moving my bottoms around."

"What are you talking about? I'm not moving anything around."

"Yes you are. You're moving my bottom around so you can see down it. Stop doing that."

"OK." He moves his hand. He's pissed.

Shit. This might have been a good customer. Shit!

"Should we do one more dance?" I try to be coy and friendly like I have been with him all along, until my little boundary-setting debacle.

"Sure." Now he's being an asshole, acting like he's angry at me. Actually, really angry at me, as far as I can tell.

Fuck him.

"OK, let's do it."

I'd rather have set my boundaries than get more of his money. That was the right thing to do. FUCK.

I try to give him the best lap dance I can muster. It's not enough, and he leaves after two more.

Fuck it. I'd rather be able to sleep tonight and to face myself tomorrow morning than to make an extra hundred bucks and not be able to wash him off me for the rest of the week.

The People in the Court

Without really meaning to, I've had People's Court on all day today as background. Who knew it was on so much? The guy right now is trying to claim that his yoga instructor is a legitimate enough medical professional to have diagnosed his injured shoulder and then nursed him back to health, to the tune of $100 a session.

I don't know, if you haven't watched this show recently you should get in there and check it out. It's pretty entertaining.

OK Fine

She didn't make an ass out of herself. It's true. But there was still a drinking game, and I think that's all that matters.

Bring it

Who's excited for the debate tonight? I am! I plan on popping some corn and settling in to watch Sarah Palin make an ass out of herself. I'm trying to think of an appropriate drinking game...maybe every time she fails to be able to provide an example of something? Every time she says "drill"? Maybe it'll have to be impromptu...either way, may you all stumble home drunk and amused (rather than terrified) at evening's close.