Montana...or a slightly flatter state.

The things I do for Oola. So we get invited to a strip club. Not exactly my thing, but she really wants to go. And some friends were going that I would have paid many singles to see get a lap dance, so the amusement factor was definitely there. The place was actually very classy--a nice bar with half dressed woman. Now as a woman there really is only one thing you can do at a strip club: determine whether a particular stripper has real or fake boobs. So I spent the greater part of the evening doing that with the other women I went with: too perky = fake; diagonally-pointed = real, etc.

My friend Greg, a very modest sort of fellow, was given a lap by a girl named Montana. Montana was a bit of a misnomer; she definitely had not had boob enhancements, because her boobs were very, very tiny.

I was given a lap dance by a girl named Heather. So one of the big dilemmas that women face in strip clubs is: where do you look? I mean, in polite society you are taught to look people in the eyes. But obviously that is not the point here. I think I got through it alright, though I giggled a lot.

The waiter called Dave.

So, Jessica and I don't often agree on men. She likes the dorks ('cause she's a big dork herself). I like a man who is a) rich and 2) gorgeous. I don't really care if they have a lot going on upstairs because, let's face it, we really don't need them to talk. But my sister and I did agree on one guy: the waiter called Dave at Fuel. He was really gorgeous. I doubt he was very well endowed (he was a waiter in a bar) but I'm sure he was well stocked where it counted. Jessica liked him because he was cute and he always dressed up for 80's night (even his hair...he always kind of did this flock of seagulls thing). But tonight, we died a little bit....he has a girlfriend. Which is okay in some respects....Jonathan thought he was gay. So at least he plays on our side. But the girl was a stick insect, and Jessica can hardly compete. I told her it doesn't really matter: she wasn't going to do anything about it anyway, and he's still nice to ogle.

Gams of snowy-white

So I think that all dressing rooms should have a sign that says "Warning: your legs have not seen the light of day in six months. Do not stare directly at them without the proper precautionary eyeware." The first bathing-suit-trying-on session of the season is always a little bit of a shocker. You're still at your hibernation weight, not as careful with the razor, and as pale as an uncooked chicken leg. And standing there in my black socks, every bathing suit somehow reminds me of my grandfather.

Needless to say, a suit did not get purchased today.

Oola bought three.

Deaf. (In one ear)

So I have an ear infection of some sort. I woke up this morning (thirty-eight minutes late, because I couldn't hear the alarm) to silence and pain on one side of my head. Think back to when you were a kid and you used to get ear aches. They are really awful, one of those pains that makes you feel completely helpless, like a toothache or when your braces get tightened. There are some pains that you can do something about (rub a muscle cramp, take a pill for a headache, etc.) and there are some pains you know are going to end (shot in the arm, tattoo on the ass, etc.). But there is nothing really that cures an ear ache, except maybe a heating pad, but you can't carry those with you to work and to school. (Oola says she would, but I reminded her that she doesn't have a job or a school to wear a heating pad to.)

The honk.

So I have a unique laugh. Actually, it's less like a laugh (haha or heehee) and more like a honk. Not like a car horn, unless you think of those old car horns. (hhhhhhhhhhhnck) It's more like a goose, but not as high-pitched as a goose. Maybe a very masculine male goose, or a female goose on steroids. Anyway, it doesn't come out all the time. I've gotten very good at supressing the urge to honk. Ever since elementary school, when I would regularly get in trouble for disrupting class with a honk. So of the people I know now, very few of them have ever experienced the honk.

So Oola and I took Dad to see Colin Mochrie and Brad Sherwood from Who's Line for his birthday. The two of them are so funny; Oola should not have worn mascara. She looked more like Tammy Fae before the night was over. Anyway, Brad Sherwood starts singing the Muhnamana song from the Muppets. Well, the honk that had been building up inside of me finally rose to the surface and came out like a flock of disgruntled trumpeter swans. It was so loud Brad Sherwood looked out into the audience and said "What was that?" So now it's back to hiding the honk again. But it was worth it to make one of the funnier men in Hollywood laugh.

Oola's introduction to the World Wide Web.

So I have a twin. Her name is Oola. Oola and I are as different as two people from the same egg can be: I have a great job and I am in law school; Oola loves showing her tits for beads. Oola recently discovered the concept of a blog and decided that she and I should have one. I have a feeling that she will get bored with this, just like the hamster we had in sixth grade that she left alone in the little plastic ball that rolled down the stairs and died. I kind of like the idea of a blog, too, so we may keep this around for a little while.