Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

Let’s talk about your Hard Limits; my safety word is “Mercy.”

The husband and I got a sitter and went to the Dublin Burlesque festival. It was AMAZEBALLS! I promised you all a photo of me in my outfit, and as soon as I pry them from my husband’s cell phone, that’s what you’ll have! I was REALLY proud of my outfit!! But anyway, we went, and while I applaud ANYONE with the courage to get up and essentially strip in front of a crowd (that includes actual, self-identified “strippers”), I must say that there were only a handful (b-cup at best. HA!!….sorry) of acts that I thought were actually good.

Ok, I should redefine that. There were several acts that were “good,” but not necessarily to my taste or style. Fair play to them, it takes all kinds. But there was ONE dude who, I think maybe he thought they were casting for Magic Mike? I’m not sure. It was bad. It was like, “$30 bachelorette party male stripper” bad. I mean, he was a good looking dude, and I don’t even mind if that’s your kink, buddy. Run with it. If you get off by being on stage and stripping: a big ol mazal tov from (probably) the only Jewish chick in that crowd. But damn… at least be GOOD at it.

HE STRIPPED DOWN TO BLACK TIGHTY-WHITIES! REALLY?! I mean… at least be creative with your undies. Or at least have a good act!! Whatever. The only boylesque act I saw, and mama was disappoint.

So… what did *I* do with the bulk of my night (other than watch many lovely ladies strip down to their pasties)? Oh, I was on the HUNT! I was supposed to meet up with one woman who was coordinating the show. I met her when I first walked in and introduced myself, but of course we could only exchange brief hellos before she had to run off and help set things up. She told me to come back and find her after the show, and we would talk about getting me into performing. So, like the crazed bloodhound I can be when there’s something I want, I looked for her periodically throughout the evening. Finally, I stood against the wall watching the show. A really nice woman in a kick-ass outfit stood next to me.

“Hey, are you enjoying the show?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am. I just really wanted to meet with D before the end, and I have to leave soon… and I can’t seem to find her.”

“Oh? What did you want to talk to her about?”

“Well, I really want to try to perform.”

“Oh, then you don’t want to talk to D…. you want to talk to me. I run all shows in Dublin.”

…………..I’m not even making this up. She literally said those words to me, and I kinda lost it. My head may or may not have exploded at this point. I AM fairly certain that I grabbed her hand, shook it furiously (I was SLIGHTLY intoxicated), and introduced myself as, “that American chick who SUPER wants to perform!”

So, I was told to email both of my contacts today or tomorrow, at which point I will be added to the women who “kitten” for a show. That means I’ll assist the performers in getting ready, and clearing the stage of *ahem* garments when the performers are through. That will, hopefully, give me more insight into how a show is done and what is expected from performers. Then, I get to audition.

But first, I have to let the club owners know what I am, and am not, willing to wear.

That’s a loaded question to a woman who openly admits to being part of the fetish scene. No gimp suits? No ball-gags? No 4″ heels, and I absolutely will NOT dress like a pony. Those are my hard limits. Otherwise, why would I be getting into burlesque if I’m overly concerned about what I’m wearing? The whole goal is to take it off by the end of the night, anyway. Hmmm…. should probably wax though, huh?

I guess we’ll see how it goes! Wish me luck, kids!!

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And then, the tidal wave of shit hit me in the face… like a… a shitty similie.

I’ve sat down to write this a dozen times, not because it’s emotional, but because I’m easily distracted and there’s been a lot to distract me lately, both good and bad.

If you’ve read all my posts, then you have a tremendous amount of spare time to devote to feeding my ego, and I thank you for it. But also you may have realized something: at one point, I was both unemployed, and pregnant. This was not a coincidence.

For anyone reading who is not in the US, please don’t think that what I’m about to write is par for the course here, but…. I was fired for being pregnant. I can say that, because MY CASE FINALLY SETTLED!!!! It was over a year of litigation and pushing through the rough times and the expenses, but finally, they blinked.

I don’t know if I can go into the details of my case, but suffice it to say, they were blatant about why they were letting me go. And the foolish woman that I was, I thought, ‘Surely, the man who owns this company is a man of honor, and once he finds out what happened, he’ll settle the case, and maybe even fire the people who did this!’ but I was wrong. What I DID get in return was 9 straight hours of a deposition, which is essentially being asked the same 5 or 6 questions in different ways. For 9 hours. But then, finally, two weeks ago, my lawyer called me and said that they were willing to settle.

I had won. I WON. I won’t be rich, but that was never really the point. The point was that they had broken the law, and they should be penalized for it. And I won’t tell you how LITTLE they are NOT being penalized, but hell, at least I won. And that’s not nothing.

Anyway, then work sucked my fucking will to live, and my boss is mad because I made two mistakes on a spreadsheet that no one looks at.

Did I mention this was a complain-y post? Well, it is.

On the bright side you guys, I wrote a short story and the first draft is almost done. Then I’ll edit that shit, and work toward getting published. Because while you sonsofbitches are amazing and you’re all each my special little snowflakes, mama needs to make some money off of writing. After all, winning your case isn’t like winning the lotto… sadly.

Whatcha been up to? Who’s pregnant? What did I miss??

12 Comments »

You’re Making Me Uncomfy in My Uh-Oh Place, and Other Workplace Tales

First off, I’ve been sick. So to all the lovely people who have commented and not had a response/ stalked me and didn’t think my heart was in it this time when I turned the sprinklers on you: my apologies. I have, what I can only surmise to be, Ebola-Strep-Plague-Cold-Influenzitis. It is very rare. I blame Max.

Anywho, if you haven’t been following me on twitter because, for some reason, you actually WORK during normal business hours, allow me to catch you up on all the glory you have missed…

Dear Workplace Colleagues,

I get it. When working in a high-stress, faced-paced environment, we tend to make close friends, have inside jokes, and sometimes say things that seem a bit off-color, until you know the reference (then they REALLY get inappropriate!). That’s cool. It’s all in good fun! But I think it’s time we put together a list of things you can and cannot say to me while I’m being paid to spend time with you. I really didn’t think this had to be spelled out, but okee dokee, here we go!:

1) STFU about your hysterectomy. I’m sorry (maybe?) that you had one. Yes, that DOES suck. But I don’t know you that well, and I DON’T want to hear the details. Are you buying me drinks? I amend this rule: You are allowed to discuss the removal/ black market sale of your internal organs ONLY when purchasing me copious quantities of alcohol. Like Bailey’s. I love that stuff.

2) You are never, EVER allowed to say “We work hard, and we play hard” to me EVER again, unless by “work hard” you mean you put in over 18 hours a day, and by “play hard” you mean you run marathons in Mongolia. I’m from New York, I know Wall Street people. Your two-Cosmo evening doesn’t impress me. Keep it pushing, playa. 

3) “I’m not a micro-manager” – Every micro-manager, EVER. 

4) “You know what’s so funny, Hannah?”

“No?”

“I have the HARDEST time not getting a little spray on the toilet seat when I sit down to pee.”

“…………………………”

That sounds like A) a medical condition; get your junk checked, and B) None of my business! I don’t want to look at you during a meeting and think, “I wonder if she managed to hit the target today!” No. Just…. just NO!

5) “Last night, my girlfriend/boyfriend/favorite farm animal…” if the rest of that sentence isn’t “tried this FABULOUS restaurant that you’re going to love. Here, let me give you the info!” then so help me, titty-fucking jesus, I will cough on you. Right. On. Your. Face. Which brings us to…

6) “Ew. Are you *sick*?! Why don’t you go home?!” No, I sneeze because periodically, during the day, my nose gets bored and I like for her to do some serious cardio. And I’m WORKING because if I try working from home, you’ll cut my hours. I get PAID by the hour. Mama isn’t nearly as cute when she’s POOR. Then, she ends up starting crazy ass blogs and shit, and forcing people to be her friends. WHO WANTS THAT, I ASK YOU?!?!

And now, onto the lighter side. Here is a list of things you absolutely CAN say to me at any point in the day:

1) You’re getting a raise.

2) I’m going to get you your favorite drink.

3) We’re going to toast to your raise with your favorite drink.

4) You look *so* pretty today.

5) Yes of COURSE you should blog at work! I can’t believe you even asked me that!

…I think you see where this is going, workplace colleagues. You have your guidance. Go forth and do great things!

 

28 Comments »

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