Night at the Bashful Weiner

I introduced you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle, back when I shared my Night at the Dusty Beaver.  Poodle is always ready to go out and enjoy fun with our close group of friends, so when he invited us out to a drag bar, how could we resist?

He had to talk the straight guys in our group into going because they were totally not digging a drag club as a site for a fun evening out.  However, Poodle lured them with the temptation that there would be lots of lesbians there.  "What straight man doesn't like lesbians????" He asked.  They really had no argument for that, so, off we went, complete with Poodle sporting his pink, feather boa for the occasion.

For the purpose of this post, I will call this drag bar The Bashful Weiner. (I'd hate to offend any of the performers or patrons with my critique.)  Having never been to a drag show before, I expected the performers to look like Bea Arthur or George Foreman in evening gowns for some reason.  I could not have been more wrong.

The first performer was wearing the equivalent of a banana peel and two Band-Aids.  He/She was toned and tight as a drum balancing effortlessly on five-inch heels.   I was shocked.  Totally shocked.  Ladies, there is absolutely no excuse for us to look like shit when a MAN can make himself into that attractive of a woman. 

I was surprised at how entertaining the show was with the different performers singing, dancing, and cracking jokes.  One performer, however, brought us to an uncomfortable place.  He/She came out onto the stage in a wheelchair.  I thought, okay, so here's a disabled drag queen.  Not expected, but hey, good for him/her.

He/She proceeded to flail around to the music then suddenly -- BAM! -- he/she was face down on the floor.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" I felt sure this was an unfortunate accident for the performer.  But, then he/she began to gyrate on the stage and eventually was up -- on two stocking clad, perfectly functioning legs -- dancing.  I'll be honest.  I really didn't know what to make of that.  I was shocked, dismayed, relieved, confused.... So I ordered another drink and kept watching.

Poodle didn't lie about the lesbians.  There were a shit-ton in attendance.  But, he stretched it when he intimated that a straight man would enjoy observing these ladies in this habitat.  By my estimation, all of them (except for perhaps one or two) looked either like Justin Beiber, complete with side-swooped hair and oversized trucker hat or lumberjacks on furlough with their wallets chained to their jeans for safekeeping.

As I was looking around, I caught the eye of a burly looking gal with a mullet who winked and gave me a nod.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" Then, I got a little insulted because I knew I could do better if that was the side my bread was buttered on. 

As the night wore on, Hubs and the other straight guy in our group had to go to the restroom.  Poodle had warned them earlier in the evening to "watch their backs" if they had to go in there because things had been known to happen.   One got up and said, "Hey, man, you need to go?"  The other quickly stood up, stretched and said, "Yeah, man.  Let's go."  This was the only time in my life I have ever seen two straight men go to the bathroom together.

They returned a few minutes later, laughing and ready for more beer.  Thankfully, there were no unusually friendly guys in the men's room.  They were laughing at the fact that there were flowers in one of the urinals. They'd never seen that at Hooters or at a ballgame.

It was quite an enlightening night.  One to check off my Bucket List -- or at least my Fuck-It List -- for sure.

Furries

Do you know what a furry is?  (Furry as a noun, not as an adjective.)  Well, in case you don't, let me tell you.

A furry is someone who likes anthropomorphic (humanlike) animals in art, fiction, cartoons, costumes, etc.  The degree that someone participates in this subculture can range from a hobby to a full-blown fetish.  Whereas one furry might just enjoy collecting cartoon memorabilia, another might get his rocks off by dressing up in a rabbit costume and bumping uglies with someone dressed as a goat.     

Many furries like to dress up in animal costumes and may even enjoy role-playing in what they refer to as their animal "fursona."  They create a whole character for themselves and go out in public.

Why the hell do I posses this knowledge?  After witnessing a number of oddly attired people on the street the same evening we experienced the Night at the Dusty Beaver, I did some research.  I wanted to know what the deal was with these folks.  (That was a wildly educational night all the way around....)

Apparently there was a furry convention in town.  (Yes, that's a thing.)  People were walking around in costumes that ranged from furry tails to full mascot-type get-ups.  We saw this at a neighboring table during dinner:

Gives a new meaning to "chasing tail."

Now I'm a pretty open minded gal, but I just don't get this whole deal.  People dressing up in animal costumes to get their freak on?  Adults who like sexualized, animated creatures with human features like big boobs or muscles?  That'd be like someone looking at Bambi's mom as a MILF.

Totally. Creeps. Me. Out.

Check out this furry at the same table as the dude with the tail:

Not really even sure what that thing is....  A visually impaired wolf?
(That's me keeping it on the down low behind the star.)

At the very least, it has to be hot as hell inside that costume.  How would you enjoy dinner?  Would you order beer in a bowl?  Fellas, how would you like to see that step up to the urinal beside you?  Hubs wondered if he would hike his leg.

The whole furry fascination is just beyond me.  Hell, I can't even stand to see a guy with a hairy back.  (No offense to all you bears out there, but it just doesn't do it for me.)

It's a damn good thing I don't have children because I don't think that I could let them enjoy Disney World if I'm constantly on the lookout for Pluto humping Donald during a smoke break.  Also, now I can't help but think that the inside of those costumes is sticky.... 

Subject Lines

I will be the first to brag on Hubs for being great at pretty much everything.  (Are you sensing a BUT coming up?) BUT, he is not so great when it comes to answering my emails.

The problem isn't that I inundate him with correspondence.  Quite the opposite.

Hubs works very hard to fund my pleasure (Shout out to my Hubs, Woot!  Woot!), regularly getting over 400 work emails a day, so I limit my correspondence to only the very necessary.  No cutesy junk or forwarded bullshit.  Strictly an exchange to give or request information in lieu of a phone call.  For example, "Dinner at Mom's" or "Need your SSN." 

However, when I have conveyed or requested more than one tidbit of information in a single email, I noticed that Hubs would only respond to one.  Over time (because I'm nowhere near as loaded up on smarts as Hubs) I figured out what was happening.  He was only reading the subject line of my emails! 

When confronted, Hubs confessed, "Usually whatever you put on the subject line tells me what I need to know." 

How do you know if you don't read the whole thing?!

Desperate times. Desperate measures.  I knew what I had to do....  NEVER put the actual subject on the subject line.  Here are some examples of subject lines I've used to successfully correspond with Hubs now that I know the deal:

• Chewbacca Dandruff
• Jalapeno Cleanse
• Holy Guacamole
• Maternal Psychosis
• Chartreuse Pompadour
• Evidentiary Propagation
• Histrionic Patella
• Sonuva Squid Shooter
• Moronic Embolism
• Elusive Weedwhacker
• Carburetor Antithesis
• Stranger Danger
• Molting Podiatry
• Homogenous Aristocrat
• Contrary Lobotomy
• Cranial Nomenclature
• Pancreatic Potitus
• Matrimonial Pony
• Angular Constipation
• Blazing Tricycles
• Testicular Modification
• Amphibious Progeny
• Tangled Testicles*
• Gestational Syphilis
• Ostentatious Hobo

*Note:  If you decide to use this technique, stay away from words like shit, damn, asshat, asshole, bullshit, porn, testicles, boobs, hooters, tits, penis, cock, fuck, motherfucker, etc. because those tend to end up in the SPAM folder.

The Art of Seduction

I read.  A LOT.  Everything from popular fiction, nonfiction, Christian, to smut.  I can't read that much without noticing some trends.

Ever since Fifty Shades of Grey came out, it seems "romance" has been replaced more by getting tied up and spanked by someone you call Sir rather than having a relationship evolve from attraction to an emotional and mental connection.  Now don't get me wrong.  These books are fun to read, but sometimes I just have to laugh.

I can't tell you how many times I've read about a woman biting her bottom lip and that resulting in a man's "member" getting harder than a diamond in a snow storm. The guy always says something like, "If you don't stop biting that lip, I'm going to do it for you."  This usually garners a wide-eyed gasp from the timid nymphette and then there are animal noises.

Biting my lip has never resulted in Hubs jumping across the table, ripping off my clothes and pounding me until I walked funny the next day.  A more realistic exchange would be something like....

I gently nibble my lip in contemplation as I study the menu.

Hubs:  What's up with your lip?

THAT is reality, people!

I guess there are only so many different ways you can describe the act of knocking boots, but every time I read that the man's "cock sprang free" (I shit you not.  I've read this more than once.) I mentally hear the cartoon sound effect of a bouncing spring, "BOOOOOOOINGGGGG!"  That ruins the hot and heavy for me.  Other words used way too much are thrust, pulse, throb, and growl.  Why not go ahead and throw in hammer or bang to mix things up a little?

As crazy as some of those descriptions sound, I just finished a book where I read this very sentence: 

His erection stood out proudly and my mouth watered.

What. The. Fuck.  I laughed out loud at that one! 

Now that's nice and all that his boner was proud rather than self-conscious and shit, but REALLY????  Her mouth watered???  I call bullshit on that whole scenario.  Supposedly, a woman wrote the book, but that totally sounds like a man's fantasy to me.  Now had he pulled out a proud, cream cheese iced, cupcake from his pocket, THEN I can see the whole mouth watering thing. 

I think I can write a better seduction scene....

We sit quietly, not even side-by-side, but in the same room.  I gently drag my finger across my iPad to align three like candies while he brazenly swipes his iPad screen, searching, searching for something more.

Suddenly!  The dryer lets out a loud BUZZZZZ! breaking the silence.

He looks at me.  I play coy and pretend not to notice.

He rises from the sofa.  Then, in a deep, penetrating voice, he says, "I'll get the clothes out of the dryer."

 Ho. Lee. Shit.

Excuse me while I take off my clothes....

Now THAT is a man who knows how to please a woman!

I need a cigarette.

Airport A-Hole

One of my favorite sports is people watching.  There's no better place to do this than at the airport.  Hubs and I were recently in a small, tropical locale waiting for our flight home.  I settled in, kept my eyes peeled and didn't have to wait long for the show to begin.

A lady was totally losing her mind because she lost her $400 pair of sunglasses.  If she said it once, she said it a dozen times, "$400 pair of sunglasses!"  Yeah lady, we get it.  You spent a shitload of money on a pair of sunglasses.  She immediately accused the man who helped her carry all her shit into the airport of taking them.  "He took them!  I know he did!"  Off she went.  I didn't see this ending well.  I imagined security would soon be pulling out the rubber gloves and digging in her ass for those "$400 sunglasses" if she got too obnoxious.

She insisted, "I'm not leaving this country without those glasses!!!"  (Enjoy your stay, beeyotch!)

While we listened to her drama, Hubs noticed that she left her bag in her seat while she stormed off in a huff.  He suggested that we alert someone of the unattended bag and report that it was making us nervous. (I love that man!)  We sat there laughing as we imagined the scenario going down....

"Yes, officer, the lady who left it looked VERY suspicious.  We think SUNGLASSES may be a code word of some sort between her and her companion.  If she gets mad when you ask her about it, I'd say she's up to something.  Especially if she mentions that they cost $400."

We laughed and laughed as the folks around us no doubt wondered what the hell was so funny.

If you ask me, the lady's first mistake was bringing a $400 pair of sunglasses on vacation.  I have a $12 pair of sunglasses that I bought for travel over 15 years ago.  I swear, I could toss those babies over the side of the boat then find them during a dive.  Cheap sunglasses are like a damn boomerang.  You can't lose them!

But this lady was totally losing her shit over these glasses.  Turns out, she quickly  found them and was a new woman.  I wonder if she apologized to the people she accused....  I doubt it.  Some folks tend to always jump to the absolute worst conclusion.  They shoot the messenger then go on their way.  You know what I call someone who does that?  An asshole.

If you can afford to spend $400 on a pair of sunglasses, you should be able to afford to lose a $400 pair of sunglasses. No matter what your socioeconomic status, if you go full asshole on hardworking people after YOU are at fault, then you are an arrogant asshole.  Think twice.  Choose your battles.  Don't ruin someone's day or quite possibly cost them their job with your arrogance. But, if you do, apologize.  Profusely.  Make the effort.  Money doesn't buy class. 

Nice Catch

My sister, Nice, her husband, "Jeir" and two kids stayed with Hubs and I over the weekend.  Our niece "Drama" is about to turn five and our nephew "Roo" is eight months old.  (I have given them aliases since I will one day rely on them to sneak contraband into the nursing home for me.) 

After dinner, it was bath time for the kiddos.  I talked to Nice while she ran water into the tub and got Roo undressed.  Lawd, that boy is a chunky monkey.  (It's too bad that chubby legs and fat feet become unattractive as we get older.) Not being able to offer anything to the process, I decided to go downstairs and leave Nice to it.

I made it less than five steps before Nice shrieked, "Oh no!  No!  No!"

I dashed back into the bathroom.  "What happened?!?! What's wrong??!"

Nice was holding a soaped, slippery Roo out of the water with his little bum facing us. 

She yelled, "He's pooping!!!!"

Sure enough, those southernmost cheeks were squeezing out a nugget.

I yelled, "Oh no!  What can I do?  What can I do?!??!"

Nice yells back, "I don't know!!!"

Things kind of happened in slow motion from here....

I had immediate access to a red Solo cup (don't judge) so I lurched forward, thrust the cup under that little butt and caught that turdle before it hit the water.

There was a pause, then Nice and I began laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants!

Hubs and bro-in-law wanted to know what the hell was going on.  We explained and the first thing Hubs asks is, "Why didn't you just hold him over the toilet?"

Well. Shit.  I didn't even think of that.  (Hubs --  The Voice of Reason)

I've had a lot of things in a red Solo cup, but THAT was a first!

Feed the Children

As you know from reading my blog, Hubs and I do not have children.  However, we do have children in our lives.  Children we love dearly.  Two of these who have been in our lives the longest are our godsons.  Since they will likely choose my nursing home one day, for blog purposes, I will call them Bert and Ernie. Bert is the oldest at 10 1/2 and Ernie just turned 9.  We've known them from the time they entered this world and they have enriched our lives greatly.

Hubs and I have taken these kiddos lots of places and done lots of fun things.  However....  There is one activity that is always a source of contention -- EATING.  You parents who are responsible for providing daily nourishment for your offspring, I admire the shiz out of you for not going totally batshit crazy at the challenge of this endeavor.

Bert and Ernie are extremely picky eaters.  EXTREMELY.  No crusts is a given.  "Toasted" is tricky because consumption depends on the proportion of dark to light on the remaining bread.  Pizza is usually the best bet, but what if the crust is too thick or too thin?  Houston, there will be a problem.  Hotdogs are typically okay, but heaven forbid they are grilled with those delicious charred marks.

Both boys have a history of whining, "I don't like that."  The item for consideration may be something they've eaten for years, but much like a tsunami, their changes in taste evolve without warning.   Hubs and I always ask them to at least try some of whatever we are having in hopes of cultivating their palletes, but you'd think we'd asked them to try fresh dog dookie given the reactions we get.

Ernie is notorious for fake gagging and crying.  Like a match to gasoline, this sets me on fire.  I once made him eat a few bites of mac-and-cheese and he totally lost his mind.  It wasn't even homemade, for heavens sake!  Even I know kids won't go for that, but Kraft?  WTF???

Bert and I once had a come-to-Jesus meeting outside a nice, Italian restaurant when he refused to try the fried cheese he asked for.  Apparently, it was a different SHAPE than the fried cheese he'd had before. OMG.  I explained that we would never ask him to try something that wasn't good, that it would taste the same as what he'd had before, blah, blah, blah, but he totally shut down, complete with tears.

Hubs and I were determined, though, to take them out and teach them to enjoy dining at restaurants.  Our only rule was, "Make your decision carefully, because if you order it, you eat it."  We'd even get them to start thinking about their order on the way to the restaurant.  Surely that would make for a pleasant evening....

We took them to the local Sonic (which has since been closed because they were apparently cooking up meth along with the hotdogs) for a casual meal.  Bert had decided on a hotdog and Ernie chose a corndog.  It was a nice evening, sitting outside, so we naively hoped for the best.  When Ernie's corndog arrived, he started to pick off the crust. 

"What are you doing?"  I asked.

"I don't like this part."  Ernie replied.

I have to admit, Godmom lost her shit.  I leaned over, looked Ernie in the eyes and slowly said, "NO.  That is what MAKES a corndog.  You said you wanted a corndog.  YOU.  WILL.  EAT.  THAT.  CORNDOG."

Ernie apparently knew that I was close to the edge because he ate that fucking corndog.  After eating it, he looked at me pensively and announced, "I'm not eating the stick." 

I had to turn away not to laugh.  It was confirmed in that moment that it's a damn good thing I ain't nobody's mama.

Night at the Dusty Beaver

Before I begin my story, let me introduce you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle (not his real name).  He is a hoot.  Ladies, if you do not have a gay boyfriend, you are missing out.  Poodle knows the best restaurants, the best places to shop, what's hot, what's not and makes a mean sangria.  I love people who are who they are -- no pretense.  What you see is what you get.  That's my Poodle.

When Poodle learned that Hubs and I had never been to what he considered key landmarks in the big city, he quickly remedied that by planning an evening out for a group of us.  Our evening began with a late dinner at a wonderful restaurant.  From there, we went to a type of establishment I'd never visited before -- a strip club.  Not just any strip club, but a historical landmark in the city known for its "mature" performers and seedy atmosphere.  For the purpose of this post, I shall call it The Dusty Beaver.  (I'm not going to state the real name of this establishment just in case any of your grandmothers work there, bless their hearts, and my comments offend.)

Even in the wee hours of the morning, there was a line to enter The Dusty Beaver.  The place was packed.  Standing room only.  The crowd could not have been more diverse.  Young, old, gay, straight, any demographic you can imagine. Music pounded, lights pulsed.  I was taking it all in.  Then it happened....  I caught my first glimpse of a performer.  Ho.  Lee.  Shit.  There was an older lady strutting her stuff practically buck naked up on the stage.  Things only went downhill from there.  She got more naked, as did those that followed. 

Now if you are picturing an older lady who has done much to maintain her skin and physique, let me stop you right there.  That was not the case.  Time, gravity, and slowing metabolisms had not been kind to these ladies.  Some even looked like their asses and the backs of their legs had been beaten with a bag of nickels.  Yet, there they were, smiling, dancing (kind of), and giving their all to a cheering crowd. Lawd. 

An old lady came shuffling out dressed as a little girl, complete with polka dot skirt, crinoline making it poof out, and a bow in her hair.  She didn't dance so much as remain upright.  Her signature move appeared to be that of a toddler boy learning to pee in the yard.  She'd stand with her legs spread, hold her skirt up, and thrust her hips out.  Classy.  Let me just preface the following by saying that what has been seen, cannot be unseen:  She lifted her skirt, pulled her enormous granny panties to the side and illuminated her old muffin with a light.  What. The. Fuck.  I was speechless.  Frozen.  Much like a train wreck, I couldn't tear my eyes away from this unbelievably horrible sight.  Poodle was laughing his ass off at my horror.

Then, out comes the next peformer.  I shall call her Chocolate Pancake.  She took off her top and I just knew she was going to trip over those long, flat ti-taes.  (I'm certain I don't have to be proper and call them "breasts" when I saw them in a seedy strip club.)  A small busted gal myself, I was dumbstruck.  Poodle said, "She's a 36 long!"  Chocolate Pancake quickly divested herself of all clothing.  (I thought she left on some type of textured thong, but to my abject horror, that was not the case.) Then, just when I thought I could not be more shocked, it happened....  Chocolate Pancake solicited an empty beer can from the crowd, put it where the sun don't shine, gave a wiggle, then pulled it back out, smashed flat.  What. The. Fuck.  I tried to rationalize.  "Hey, maybe she's just recycling.  That's it!  She's just doing her part for the environment."  Nope.  She did it again.  Okaaaaaaaay.

Apparently the rest of our group had seen enough, too, so we extricated ourselves from the crowd and made a break for it.  On our way to the car, Hubs said that he's not sure when he'll be able to get it up again after seeing all that.  (Sounds like I'll be able to finish that book I've been reading.) My time at The Dusty Beaver now just lives in my night terrors.  But, I did learn two very important lessons:

1. Moisturize.  Moisturize.  MOISTURIZE.
2. Always wear a bra with proper support.

 










 

The Hall Pass List

In case you aren't familiar with the premise, a Hall Pass List is composed of people you could hook up with if the opportunity presented itself with no repercussions from your spouse or partner.  These are people you would not encounter normally -- celebrities, models, famous atheletes, etc.  A Fantasy F--k List, if you will. 

For example, Jennifer Aniston has been on Hubs' list from day one. She was nearby filming a movie not too long ago. If Hubs had run into her and she wanted some of that, he could've given her some.  I couldn't have said a word.  No judgement.  Hell, I'd have been proud for him.

We each are allowed five people on our list.  (The number is up to you.  Make up your own rules.)  Hubs keeps five at all times plus he has a waiting list.  (Hang in there Sofia Vergara.  You are on the verge!)  I've been surprised that Hubs has kept Marisa Tomei on his list all these years. When I've asked why he hasn't switched her out for someone more current, he said, "I'm loyal like that."  Good to know.

Jon Bon Jovi was the one and ONLY person on my list for years.  Many, MANY years.  However, JBJ started playing fast and loose with his ranking when he did the Advil commercial.  But, I stood by him (I'm loyal like that) and convinced myself that he was just capitalizing on his notoriety as a mature celebrity. Who can't use a little Advil?  Not so bad.  At least he wasn't using "You Give Love a Bad Name" to pitch meds for venereal disease.  So, JBJ maintained his reign as the lone star of my list.

But then it happened....  He created a fragrance for Avon.  Shit.  Why Jon?  WHY?!?  Couldn't you at least create a high end fragrance?  He'd backed me into a corner.  Left me no choice.  I had to make the cut.  I love his music, but that's all there can be between us.

That left an open slot for a new one and only on my list. (I am apparently far more discerning than my Hubs.) I considered Channing Tatum, but after seeing him in Magic Mike, I was wary.  That guy can move and thrust like nobody's business.  I'm over 40.  A wild night with that young buck could break a hip.  Sorry, Channing, but safety first.

After much deliberation, I did select a new one for my list.  He's young, fit, can lift heavy things and would be handy for getting things down from the top shelf.  I am going to keep him a secret for now to make sure he is the ONE.  Stay tuned.... 

Who would top your list?

Bon Jovi Baby!

The Hubs and I saw Bon Jovi live in concert last night for the umpteenth time.  Those guys never disappoint!  Even after 30 years in the biz, they turn it out. No opening act. Just three hours of everything from the greatest to the latest. A fantastic show!  Hubs likes their music and I do too, but I loves, loves, LOVES me some Jon Bon Jovi.  *Insert wistful sigh*  In fact, JBJ was the ONLY person on my Hall Pass List for many years.  (I will save the evolution of our Hall Pass Lists for another day.)

Before getting my large adult beverage and finding our seats, I made a pit stop so I wouldn't have to during the show. I am pretty sure the ladies room was a time portal back to 1985.  Wow.  I was amazed at the (misplaced) confidence some folks have with their body image. 

Is the Skank Bedazzler a product I've missed????  Also, many chicks were encasing their bundt tops ("muffin" doesn't cover it) in sausage like casings disguised as brightly colored and/or animal print ill-fitting tops.

Despite the best efforts of quite a few 40+ aged women who hoisted their more-than-ample bosoms up around their necks and trotted right down in front of the stage in their 6" Stilettos, the concert was at no time stopped for Jon Bon Jovi to jump down and proclaim, "I gotta get me some of that!" Shocking.  I know. 

Out of 18,000 people, we actually recognized a lady who'd sat near us at the last Bon Jovi concert.  Her level of totally s%#! faced-ness was apparently seared into our memory because she was exactly the same last night.  JBF (Just Been F#%*ing) hair....  Loose tank top....  Unsupported bosom....  Full-body undulations totally devoid of rhythm....  Tourette's-like outbursts when anyone attempted to squelch her spirit.....   Classy.  Hubs and I hoped she at least got tanked up BEFORE the concert.  If not, she surely had to take out a second mortgage to get torn up like that on the arena-priced drinks since our TWO were $40!

It was a fun night of music and people watching.  Kind of like one of those Mastercard commercials. *Insert pleasant male voice over*  Primo Bon Jovi Tickets, $$$.  Jumbo mixed drinks, $$.  Giant booster shot to your self-confidence?  Priceless!

Before anyone gets bent out of shape about any of my observations, let me just say one thing about everyone referenced.... Bless their hearts!