Two things…wait…three.
One.
I’ve discovered a wonderful new diet. I like to call it the CSI diet. (granted, there are other things contributing to my lack of appetite lately, which are not blog-worthy fodder. But I swear, the pounds will just fall off you. I know, because I’m a trained nutritionist. I’m also a trained assassin. But don’t tell anybody)
1 Quiznos smoked turkey sandwich
1 glass grapefruit juice (this may be substituted with a good bottle of Guinness or a nice Oregon hefeweizen. None of that Budweiser bullshit though [sorry Brian])
60 minutes CSI (which, if necessary [read: Monday night] may be substituted with 60 minutes CSI Miami, but may NOT be substituted with 60 minutes CSI NY. We all love NY, but we all don't love CSI NY [sorry Gary Sinise])
Place self in front of television with sandwich and choice of beverage. Turn TV on. Choose CSI episode from plethora of Tivoed episodes (note: Spike airs CSI all freaking day apparently; if you have a season pass, make sure you have some space. If you’re lame and don’t have cable, insert Netflix CSI DVD. If you’re lame and don’t have Netflix, you might want to take a long look in the mirror and ask yourself why you’re not in therapy) Play episode. Raise sandwich to mouth. Take bite of sandwich. Watch Grissom poke and prod mutilated dead body and make quirky comment about his entomological fascination. Look questioningly at sandwich. Look back at dead body on TV screen. Put sandwich down. Take swig of drink and suddenly realize you really aren’t all that hungry.
Ok, to be honest, CSI doesn’t actually make me all that queasy. But it occurred to me tonight, as I ate my umpteenth meal while watching the damn show, that it might not be the best dinner companion.
Two.
I love strippers. I especially love strippers on my birthday. There’s something a little odd, however, about the combination of family and strippers. I was lucky enough to spend my birthday, the first in years, with my parents and my brother (as well as a number of friends). It was a lovely get-together, during which my father (who children believe resembles Santa Claus but I believe bears a more striking resemblance to Obi-Wan Kenobi) jokingly referred to my mother as his “bitch.” In a really endearing manner, mind you. I hugged my mother lovingly and proceeded to drag my brother and some friends to Magic Gardens, which is the Coyote Ugly of strip clubs. Here I say “drag”; my brother lives a block away from the place. Which makes it sound like he lives in a really classy neighborhood. Anyway, strippers and family, it’s that dichotomy of naughty and heart-warming, much like the cracked out eye-contact one of the strippers kept giving me all night.
A few points:
In Oregon, they take it all off. And serve alcohol. You wish you lived here.
Going to a strip club with your older brother is weird. Fun, but weird. Probably weirder for him, though, as I was the one up by the stage.
Magic Gardens does not, however, have a pole. it's really much better with a pole. [insert joke here]
Three.
wait...i forgot what three was. alas.
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2 comments:
Your blog acts as an epiphany. I need therapy or a quick dose of netflicks. This is something I have been contemplating for months but have been unable to commit. I have issues that can only be dealt with in a prone position on a leather couch...
you just need to get laid on a leather couch, my dear. ;-) as do i.
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