I took a programming class in college and have had this inside joke url ever since
I will be first against the wall.
The bougiest statements made during our South Dakota camping trip:
1. Oh! I love a stilton!
2. Ah yes! Was that in Chamonix?
(Jamie astutely pointed out that there’s nothing inherently despicable about loving cheese, but put “a” in front of its name, and you’re officially rich.)
Image by Kristy.
“Oh hey, I found out some good news on the internet today,” I said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“So for the past two years I’ve had this clicking sensation come and go in my sinuses, kind of near the bridge of my nose. It’s this vaguely annoying pressure and movement thing, and it clicks, and it just happens every so often, but it’s weird.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I’d read a story once about this woman who had a similar sensation maybe and it was a cockroach that had climbed up her nose and couldn’t get back out. So for the past two years whenever my nose clicked, I thought, ‘oh, it’s the cockroach that lives there now I guess.'”
” . . . uh huh.”
“But tonight I finally broke down and Googled it, and it turns out, it’s just allergies! And, the cure is using a Neti Pot.”
“Well. Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Sooo . . . aren’t you impressed? I’ve lived the past two years of my life assuming I had a cockroach living in my face, and I managed to not even Google it.”
“I feel like,” he said, “that’s actually insane. To even assume that.” He paused. “Like . . . certifiably.”
I got my hair cut today. Children were chasing each other around the salon, tripping over the chairs. My mohawked fully tattooed stylist paused mid-chop, smiling divinely.
“Have any kids?” he asked. I get asked this a lot now. It’s weird.
“I don’t.”
“Husband?”
“Nope.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Uhh . . . well. That’s complicated.”
He shook his head. “Guys are just jerks,” he said. “There are so many beautiful women I see come in here, so many wonderful clients I have, and the guys are just assholes, you know? They don’t stick around. They need to grow up, see what they have right in front of them.”
“Oh,” I said. “No, no, it’s not like that.” We made eye contact in the mirror, his eyebrow raised. “I’m the jerk,” I said.
“We joke that you can always tell by the length of the nails.”
I looked down at my own, which had become long (and thus, dirty) simply out of neglect. “But I’m mostly straight,” I said, “and my nails are mostly short. I mean, they’re long now, but that’s not on purpose.”
“Adrianne. Think about it. Our hands are our dicks.” She made a hand gesture to illustrate something I’d certainly never experienced. I choked on my coffee and squealed like a seventh grader.
“That’s . . . that’s a very good point. You know, in porn, where they have the obligatory lady-touching-herself scene? And the chick has this ridiculous manicure, with the long acrylic nails that have, like, jewels glued onto them? I can never watch that shit. It actively turns me off. I won’t want to do it for hours.”
A child skipped by our booth, dragging a small white dog by the claw of a stuffed lobster.
“Seriously! That’s so horrifying! Why do they do that?”
“Well, in their defense — I read this book once, A Smart Girl’s Guide to Porn. And the author said something about these women being professionals, obviously, and the nail tips not being sharp, and how they’re not hurting themselves.”
“Ah. I think I read . . . part of that book too.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t very well-written.”
“No. I think that’s why I only read part of it, then gave up.”
“Heh, right. Such a shame. Anyway, so, there’s that I guess. But still, it’s so visually unappealing. It looks painful regardless. I wish they wouldn’t.”
A long, thin elderly man with stooped shoulders and cowboy boots slowly clacked over to our table. “More coffee for you girls?”
“Oh, no thanks!”
“Yeah, I think we’re fine.”
“So I had this fantasy, about [X,] the other day. It really weirded me out. We did [scandalous!], and then [extended scandalous!]. Oh my gosh.”
“You did [scandalous!] with [X]?!” I yelled.
“I know, right? Sometimes I don’t know where my mind comes up with these things. It goes on, like, tangents.”
“I almost never think about faces.”
“Really?”
“Well it’s kind of a funny thing, you know, thinking about men masturbating –”
Suddenly her growing wide eyes met mine.
She whispered: “Adrianne!”
I stopped, and looked around.
You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. The child was sitting on the floor, slowly petting the now-sleepy dog. His grandparents hovered over their toast, sipped heavy mugs of coffee, careful to move their silverware silently on the plates. Linoleum peeled. A faded cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe gleamed in the corner, some kid’s model airplane suspended forever above her. In front of us, a set of grey heads were nearly motionless, frozen in their seats like terrified mannequins.
Without our voices barraging the air, the silence preserved the diner like hardening amber.
“Oh god,” I whispered, “. . . were we really being that loud?”
“Uh, yes. Yes we were.”
“And we were just talking about –”
“I think we forgot,” she whispered back, “I think we just acted very, very city.”
The most surprising thing about the strip club was how similar it was to any other club. The music was loud. It was difficult to talk. The women were dancing and the men just sat there. The women were smiling and the men just sat there.
“Seriously?” I cried. “That guy is getting danced all over by that gorgeous near-naked woman, and he looks like he’s in some angry coma? What’s his deal? That doesn’t even seem polite. There are boobs in your face! Smile about it!”
“I think it’s a power thing for the guys,” Macon said.
“Yeah, this isn’t like burlesque, Adrianne.”
“Well I’m going to look interested,” I declared. “Because I am. Those people are naked, and they are doing crazy things with their butts.”