*Please note: At the time I posted this, I was performing stand-up regularly. The following has a satirical voice and includes hyperbole. Proceed at your own discretion.
The other day, I took my kiddos out to lunch after our first day of soccer camp. The agony of getting three kids to make their dietary choices, all while the line behind us grew exponentially before my eyes, finally ended and we got ourselves seated. Of course, when I sat down, the oldest was all hunched up in the corner of the bench in hopes of keeping as much of his body from making contact with the table. Upon inspection, I found two bread crumbs and a piece of lettuce on the table from the previous customer.
“Mom!” he stage-whispered. “The table is filthy!”
Sigh. It was going to be one of those lunches. Little did I know, lunch was going to have way more “filth” than some wilted lettuce as we attempted to “eat fresh.”
So here I am, trying to feed my children a wholesome meal, when the conversation from the next table gets a little louder. And louder, and louder, until they might as well have been sitting with us. Heaven knows, I’m used to being cramped while dining.
At first the 10 year old looked at me. Then, I saw the 6 year old’s ears perk up. When the 4 year old stood up on his seat to peer at them, I knew I was in trouble.
The story we were listening to? Yeah, it went like this:
Twenty-something woman (A): “So this one time I was in this strip-joint out on 82nd [SE Portland] and the strippers were like they usually are. You know, some are decent and some just have no rhythm.”
Second twenty-something woman with pink reptile skin stiletto heels peeking out from her long jeans (B): “Oh yeah. I know what you mean. Some of them just can’t dance for anything. I mean, where the f@ck do they get their talent?’
Twenty-something man (C): “I mean, gawd. Some of them just look so skanky I almost can’t stand to open up their g-string to put my money in there.”
(A): “Yeah, I only pay the hot ones myself. If you’re not hot, I’m not paying you for your crappy dancing.”
(C): “And no way I’m paying for a lap-dance if I even think there’s going to be pube-lice or something.”
Twenty-something who looks a bit like Marion-the-librarian (D): “Pube-lice? People can get that? Oh dear….”
(A): “The worst was the one-armed stripper tho. You should have seen how bad she sucked at the pole dance. Just watching her stump waving around, I had to order a double just to keep my buzz going.”
You know people, I’m all for freedom of speech and all that. But the next time you’re out having a turkey and cheddar on 9-grain for lunch, you might want to think about how your conversations are going to lead to other conversations. Namely, the one I got to have with my kiddos out in the van on the way home.
“Um Mom, what is a stripper and what’s a pube?”