One Awkward Question: Have you high fived your boobs today?

So a few years ago, I asked my mom if she would be upset if I became a stripper to pay my way through college. She laughed and said she wasn't really worried about it, I'm so ungraceful, I'd never end up on the pole. (Incidentally, she also told me I'd never make a good nun, on account of being so self absorbed. That's totally true, but ouch, Mom.) So when a Groupon offering discounted stripping lessons showed up my inbox I finally had my opportunity to prove my mom wrong. Or at least have a good story to tell. Armed with two adventurous friends, a lot of wine, slutty heels and an extra back-closure bra (it was mandatory), I spent last Friday night at Teaser Class, learning Basics of Floor and Wall. It was THE WORST! But also...the best? Let's break it down.

DISCLAIMER: This post is about to get a little NSFW, and sort of horrifying - at one point it discusses blow jobs and Stevie Wonder, in the SAME SENTENCE so if you're like, a relative or a colleague or just a normal, sane human being who doesn't feel the need to learn what "Barbie Legs" means, this might be a good time to stop. Or at least pour yourself a drink.

So the group (about ten 20-something chicks) all donned "Hi, My Stripper Name Is" name tags. My friends picked "Storm" and "Porsche." I was "Chablis" (wine!) and, at first, things weren't tooo weird. We practiced posture (Feet, shoulder width apart, hands on hips, pelvis and titties: outward) and a basic, figure-eight hip-swivel inexplicably called "The Robert."  (A Google search does not reveal the identity of this mysterious "Robert" but did uncover some really great Twilight fan fiction, if that's what you're into.) And then we were instructed to sensually "high five our boobs" and rub all up and down our torso regions while making "predator face" - which is sort of like smeyesing (TYRA!) but meaner. Apparently the best stripper faces have evil eyes, but a sassy smirk. It's like the mullet of facial expressions. But like, sexy face mullets. I don't know! I got like, a C- on this part, tops.

So, hah, thennnn we put those extra back-clasp bras over our clothes and were taught how remove them, provocatively: back turned to the audience, you take it off with one hand and then whip it to the ground. Yes! Fun/sexy/not even that hard. Done!

Not done!

So then, back still turned to the imaginary audience, we were instructed to pinch, rub, tweak, whatever, our nipples (Ack! I think that's the first time I've every typed "nipples"), to make them hard. "You have to match your audience," the teacher instructed. "You have to be a pair. Like salt & pepper. You can't have salt & salt, or pepper & pepper, you have to MATCH. He's hard, you're hard, everybody get hard" and (hahah stop reading this!), I understand the basic sexy mechanics behind this particular move, and I'm not sure what you guys are into, who knows, but for me, standing in a line, in a room full of chicks, everyone flicking their boobs over their t-shirts was legitamately the most awkward moment I'd ever intentinally signed myself up for on my unending quest for attention. Until "The Reverse Head," that is.

Pause while author refills, chugs and re-refills her wine glass.

OK so the "Reverse Head." I saw this move written on the board and thought "please let them mean head-on-your-neck heads and not you know...head." Of course not! Why would we do something sexy with our on-our-neck heads when we could pull out our chairs and simulate oral sex on an imaginary man? I mean, REALLY. (Hahah seeing this written down on the screen is ridiculous - what am I doing with my life? I'm just going to keep typing reallyfast and maybe it won't seem so insane?)

Ok so "The Reverse Head" is actually like, pretty mean, I think. So you sit your man down in a chair, and then you slowly sliiiiide down so you're near his bathing suit region and you slooowly take off his belt and unbutton his pants, and unzip his fly (so we were actually "unbottoning" imaginary buttons and "unzipping" imaginary flys, why god why) and then: you channel Stevie Wonder. Like:

Stevie Wonder.

Our teacher stood in front of the class, swaying her head back and forth: "You have no idea how many worlds have been rocked by Stevie Wonder." Please don't tell us!

Stevie, it turns out, actually does put the "head" in, um, head. Once your man is all unzipped and what have you, instead of, you know, giving him a beej, you lean down and rub your forehead back and forth, across his Stevie Wonder.

WHAT?!?????!!!! Seriously what? "No, babe. I just pretended I was gonna suck you off. Instead I thought I'd just rub my sweaty forehead all over your schlong and then just walk away. You loved it, I know you loved it. Did you notice my predator face?" (OMG! Serious question: Is this where the term 'giving head' came from? Like, where it originated? Have I been doing it wrong? Please advise!)

So this is what we did! In class! I thought it was an aerobics type class, sort of, and there we were, kneeling over an empty chair, channeling blind music legend Stevie Wonder in what has to be just the weirdest cock-tease move of all time.

Author drains, and refills her wine glass. Again. You should do the same. I still have to explain the Barbie legs. And the butt clap.

And we're back. With Barbie Legs. For this one, you lay on your back, sort of propped up on your elbows, I guess, with your legs spread eagle and you swivel back and forth at the hips, like a Barbie, and I was actually having fun with this one, until the teacher informed us that the ultimate goal of Barbie Legs is The Butt Clap. I guesssss if you do it fast enough/good enough (??) eventually your butt cheeks will slap together and you will give yourself a round of applause, using your anus.

SERIOUSLY?!?! STOP! I have no words for this situation. Is this a sexy thing? I mean, if I were about to become intimate with another human and they started CLAPPING with their ASS? I don't even know. I do not know.

So then we wound down with some aerobics and some casual wall move which involved bringing your hand to your "oval office" (yep, think about it) and scene. Stripper class was over.

And guess what, Mom (please don't be reading this, mom)? I fucking killed it. After class, the teacher told me I was great (!!!) and invited me to take more classes and thennnnn partipate in the year end showcase, which is like a piano recital, I guess, except with strippers, not pianos, and, best thing ever, is open to "friends and family." (Hah, family. "Hey grandpa! Don't forget my stripper recital?!")

You're all invited!

One Awkward Shower Scene

Despite a dedicated passion to being as lazy as humanly possible, the straining buttons on my favorite jeans finally inspired me to join a gym. All the exercise stuff is honestly not as bad as I'd imagined.  Mainly because all cardio machines come equipped with a little private television set, allowing you to shed your rolls while still keeping up with those krazy Kardashians. But! Do not let the adorable tiny televisions fool you! The gym is a veritable house of horrors. Awkward moments lie around every corner and NO ONE is safe. Perhaps you'll accidentally hit the pause button on your treadmill, mid-run, and be flung into the handlebars. Or think a guy is checking up on you when, really, he's gaping at his own rippling six-pack. Or you'll  spill your entire water bottle onto a pile of yoga mats. Or get the draw string to your gym shorts stuck on the handrail of the stairs as you're trying to make an exit. Or perhaps you'll have a personal trainer,  one who barely speaks English. His idea of discussing your fitness goals will involve literally poking at your love handles and upper-boob/armpit fat, grimacing in disgust.  A month later you'll run into him and he'll say "oh hey, you look . . .better."

But all of these atrocities are no match for the harrowing den of bodies known as the locker room.

I'm no prude and don't have big issues with nudity. Or at least I never thought I did. I mean, last night my roommate found me cooking in my skivvies and simply said: 'I see no-pants season has arrived." But I really think there's a line between lounging on your couch in your boyshorts and prancing around the lavatory with your bush on display. I mean, I understand you need to change into your sports bra. Fine! By all means, casually face your locker, slip from one brassiere into the other, and go on your merry way. You need to towel off post-shower? Who doesn't?! Quickly and efficiently pat down one half of your body while keeping the other under wraps. It is common courtesy. Please DO NOT blow-dry and straighten your hair while wearing only a hip-length golf shirt and the glory of God's creation. And, yes, articles of clothing do contain physical mass. But I honestly don't think a bra and panties is going to tip the scales. Please, please, PLEASE do not weigh yourself in the nude.


The cherry on top of this Hell sundae is sharing a gym with people you know. And I don't mean your pals or your swim team or your mom. We're talking co-workers, folks. I'm going to go on record right now and say I would be perfectly fine not ever knowing which people sitting across from me in the conference room go brazilian, which keep it natural, and who has the biggest areolae.  Today I sauntered into the locker room, confident after a relatively embarassment-free workout, only to find the director of another department in my company standing naked as the day she was born, lotioning up her legs. There was bending involved. I now need to quit both my gym AND my job. Excellent.

And there you have it. Despite the alleged health and wellness benefits, the emotional strain of the gymnasium will probably kill us all. We're better off staying home, watching televisions on couches in the privacy of our own homes. I mean, there's still a big risk of seeing a stray set of boobs, but at least you know they're probably just Khloe's and, at this point, that's hardly startling.

One Awkward Cry for Attention

According to the highly scientific calculator which tracks how many people have viewed this blog (answer: not many), how many times (answer: again, not many) and how they came across the link (answer: I paid them to read it), it seems that this here blog has been accessed 7 times in the past two days via the blog tag "boobs." Since I'm desperate for more readers, I'm going to capitalize on this opportunity. Boobs are mostly awesome, especially mine, especially the left one of mine, but can sometimes be awkward. Like when they're lopsided (see previous sentence) or when you're cold at work and things get a little pokey, or when you're jogging in a red one-piece bathing suit to save a drowning child and they're like bouncing at your face and you can't even see the drowning child anymore, or when you're a stripper and your nipple tassel like, flies into the crowd and blinds someone, or maybe if you had an extra third boob (is that possible??) or at least a couple additional nipples.  

Anyway, boobs are both awesome and awkward and if you found this blog because of your interest in boobs, I welcome you and thank you for stopping by.

One Awkward Morning; or, Of Mice and (Garbage) Men

So. Friday morning I awoke earlier than usual and after jamming to what I can only guess was a Rhianna song on my shower radio (she's popular, right?), I decided to treat myself to a healthy, home cooked egg-white sandwich in the company of my man: Matt Lauer. Someday, we'll share breakfast nude, and in bed (or nude, and at a diner, if we're feeling frisky), but until that day I'll have to settle for just watching him on tv. Clad in boxers, a tank-top, and fuzzy slippers, sandwich and coffee in hand, I made my way to the couch to discover (gasp!) Matt and I have company. A mouse.

The good news is, the mouse was cleanly stuck to a trap. The bad news: he was still very much alive. And he was thrashing, and squeaking for dear life.

I sprung to action. And by that, I mean I screamed like a little bitch and ran around the apartment, squealing louder than the trapped mouse. I then put on bright yellow rubber gloves, grabbed a broom and some trash bags and got down to business. After much maneuvering, I managed to get the straws of the broom stuck to the trap and swing it in into a waiting trash bag like some kind of, I don't know, lacrosse stick? I'm getting tired.

Still panicking, the mouse still squeaking, I decided the only thing to do would be to run outside and toss the mouse into one of the corner trash cans. (And, yes, the mouse was still alive. Yes, this is "cruel." If you're concerned or offended by this, you're going to want to find another blog. Which I'm sure will be hard considering how hilarious and frequently updated this one is.)

Anyway! This is the good part! So, in a wild frenzy, I grabbed my keys and ran outside, heading for the trashcan on the street corner, just as the garbage men pull up to said trashcan. The trash man jumped off the truck, you know, trash man style and I just sort of stood there, holding the bag out, sheepishly, "it's a mouse." He took it from me anyway. It was at this time that I remembered that, not only was I still wearing rubber gloves, I was also wearing slippers, little boxers and a tank top sans bra. The garbage man visibly looked me down, and up  and slightly back down, finally settling his eyes on my boobular region and drawled "Nooo problem, miss. You have a great day."

Ew sir, ew. It is 7:30 AM, I'm wearing rubber gloves and carrying a live mouse in a grocery bag and you're getting a hard-on? Men! Am I right, ladies??

On the other hand, I suppose it was sort of flattering. I wonder if he's on OK Cupid?