tattooed strippers for the win

I finally got to go to the Sinferno Cabaret at Dante’s last night, and I’d just like to say, if I wasn’t all flabby and lacking in any sense of rhythm, I would totally want to be a go-go dancer. Except that I would need more tattoos, obviously, and possibly some piercings. Oh, and I think I’d need to be about ten years younger. But then! Then I would totally do it.

(Let’s face it: if I’d have gone to that place before I had the kid, I would probably have been all over it. But – alas! – I no longer have the preternaturally perky boobs and cute little flat belly. It’s a shame.)

This was the first time I went out – like, at night, to a club, where they check your ID and stuff – since a brief sojourn to Dakota last time I was in Santa Cruz. And that was a little bit lame, since none of my friends came, but last night was a freaking blast. I totally didn’t expect it to be, because – well, let’s just say I thought there would be rather more righteous indignation aimed in the direction of my flaky alcoholic friends and less grooving out while girls in various stage of undress had money stuffed into their waistbands. Good times, good times.

I don’t think it occurred to me how much I miss my friends. Well, it sort of did, but it hasn’t really been at the forefront of my mind, you know? It’s so nice to be out with a bunch of people who you’ve known forever and you don’t have to worry about. Also? Some random girl in the bathroom told me I looked hot, and the ridiculously cute cocktail waitress ran her hand down my arm as she walked past. I AM SO NOT JUST A FRUMPY MOM-PERSON WITH ANXIETY ISSUES.

Today I have post-club voice, which means I sound hoarse and sexy. Whee! I should go do a poetry reading or something. Yeah. I’ll let you contemplate that train wreck while I go have some more coffee.

One thought on “tattooed strippers for the win”

  1. so glad you got out and had a good time! I’m reading your Tweet sidebar, and want to remind you that the Kid will, eventually, stop. Says the mom of a kid who has taken uber-frustrated non-verbal screaming to a whole new level which I call “The Inner Two-Year Old”.

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