Things I was thinking about
Stripper Poles
I was discussing stripper poles with Ryan. I’m not sure how we got to this topic, but lately I have been trying to avoid serious conversations to the point that if I hear you say, “Whitney...I have this problem...” I will say “awww,” but I will be thinking about karate chopping you in your Adam’s apple. Anyway, stripper poles are relatively non-threatening topic. I think I said that I didn’t understand the appeal of stripper poles. Whenever I see one (on TV of course) I have never thought, “wow, it would be wicked fun to dance all sexy on that.” On the contrary, I tend to want to put on a fireman’s hat, cut a hole in the roof, and slide down while making European siren noises. You know, “eeee ooo eee ooo” not the American “weeeooowwwwweeeeooowwww.” Then Ryan was all like, “what if we combined the uses of metal poles and our firemen slid down the poles in lingerie as they went to put out fires?” And then I smiled at him and told him that I married him for brilliant ideas like these. Now, when my house is on fire someday, I very much hope that the firemen show up at my house in red panties and a push-up bra. I would probably still say “hey, why the panties bro?” And he would be like, “who are you to question MY fireman wardrobe choice and also please move out of my way because your house is on fire.”
Before I get to the actual story, I need to introduce you to two of my favorite people.
This is my mother.
This is my mother in the 90s when she had a “bouf.”
This is her killing me when she finds out I have posted hideous pictures of her after she specifically said, “don’t you dare post hideous pictures of me on your (stupid) blog.”
I love my mother dearly. Together, she and my father have blessed me with copious amounts of hair, the ability to bottle my emotions with minimal explosions, untamable anxiety, the need to drink least two lattes each day to function, and the desire to be involved in insane shenaniganary. Most importantly, my mother has bestowed upon me her feistiness. I can’t think of a less gay word to describe my mother, so I’m going to go ahead and dub her as “fierce.”
This is my sister, Kelsey, “Seestor.” Apply a Russian accent as you feel appropriate when reading “Seestor.”
No words could possibly encompass the vastness of Seestor’s madness. I think I’ll sum it up with this: Once she fake died for 40 minutes. You think I’m kidding you because no one possibly has the stamina to do such a thing, but she did. And I am proud. She didn’t even take a break. I was in the basement when I heard her screaming and shrieking so I emerged from the basement to watch. I watched for awhile as she fell/flopped on the floor/whatever furniture she found herself around as she dramatically threw herself about the living room. I was secretly hoping that she would knock herself out by flopping onto the corner of the coffee table or something, but that failed. Eventually I got bored and left, but she continued her death scene for another half an hour.
All this to say, Kelsey is, without a doubt, the most hard core person I know.
Actual Story!
When I lived at home and Kelsey was still in high school, “bedtime” was my favorite part of the day. We shared a bathroom (the room with sinks is connected to a separate shower room) and it takes Kelsey about 3 1/2 hours to take a “quick shower,” so we almost always ran into each other. She is usually yelling at me, “why can’t you flush before you open the door!?” then I would verbally insult her which leads her to randomly grab one of my body parts with angst. One glorious evening, as Kelsey and I were brushing our teeth and taking turns making faces at each other in the mirror using only our eyebrows, the door burst open and in came my mother holding up the “stop in the name of love/stop it’s Hammer time” hand as she scream “SSSSTTTTTOOOOPPPPPPPPP!”
“Holy expletive,” I thought. “She has either replaced our toothpaste with cyanide to kill us off, or she has added some kind of acid to melt our teeth and make us all gummy like some ninety year old woman named Ruth. Either way, she is now rushing in here, currently regretting her decision. But it is too late; I am going to die/be gummy.” This is a warning to my mother: If you ever do try to disintegrate my teeth with an acid or some type of weaponized Mountain Dew concentrate so that all I have left is gums, I will gnaw on your leg when you least expect it. This will be uncomfortable for both of us, but mostly for you. Beware, woman.
Then she made some crazy eyes at us and said:
My mother began to calm herself down, and as she did, I stared at my mom, slightly curious about why she feels that our gums didn’t deserve to be cleaned by a medium-grade bristled toothbrush, which I gotta be honest, I had no idea existed. If I knew that there were different levels of toothbrush, I long ago would have purchased myself the “you will bleed profusely, but your friends will think you’re cool” level and watched my mouth bleed as I flexed in the mirror. Then the dentist would call me things like “dedicated” and not “irresponsible for only flossing your teeth the morning before you come to visit me, the dentist.”
This is basically the end of my story, I just really wanted you to see how my mom looks with crazy eyes.
-Whitney
