I went to work!

It’s been like a month since I’ve worked. I’m surrounded by very industrious full time working people. My sister even works more than full time and goes to college more than full time. When my mom called me the other day and said, “oh, you answered. I thought you’d be at work.” I started to feel a little guilty about my laziness. Because it’s not like I’ve accomplished anything measurably valueable to the dominant culture.

So I decided I’d stick around and work for a couple weeks before I take off into the woods again. Then I decided that was stupid, and I’d just work until I made two months worth of money.

That’s how I ended up at work last night. I didn’t go barefoot, it’s not the kind of place where I could get away with that. I could definitely pull off some ballet slippers tho. Some woman has taken my normal stage name since the last time I was there, so I had to go by a strange new name. I miss my old name. But that was made up for by the awesome DJ who has the rare ability to look at the songs I like, find what they have in common, and pick out other music that’s also fucking great even though I’ve never heard it before. As awesome as dancing barefoot to Shania is, there’s something about six inch heels and Depeche Mode that I would miss if I never did it.

I managed to dance for all very cool people.

A cowboy turned private investigator up here from California who paid me double the going rate for dances. We had instant rapport because of horses and all the places we’ve both travelled to for work, and also because he used to live in a bus too.

A drug and alcohol counselor. We had instant rapport because we both have bachelors degrees in psychology and I knew some of the gossip from the agency he works for. His story sounded familiar and I thought I might have danced for him before, but I wasn’t sure. Until I danced for him. He got as many as he could afford and said, “I remember you now, you danced for me before. You’re really good.”

Then my goddess-nephew’s grandparents’ neighbor who used to work with my mom’s husband. His daughter used to dance.

“Really?” I ask.

“Well, she hasn’t told me yet. But she told my son and I got it out of him cause I knew she was lying. I think she’s not doing it anymore though. It was in Atlanta.”

I told him if she was dancing in Atlanta she was probably making some serious bank doing air dances.

We had instant rapport because we’re practically related (the bartender asked if we were related when she heard us talking about people and he said, “not blood, just bush relations, yanno”). You’d think all our almost-related-ness would make him be really cool, but he was actually a tad bit creepy. The kind of creepy I wouldn’t even notice if I hadn’t spent so many years being a stripper, but still. Creepy.

Then I met a sweet young guy who came to Alaska to be a chef, and now he’s a big important chef guy travelling around supervising other chef guys. I did nineteen dances for him, broken up by a couple times when I had to go on stage. Holy wow, nineteen dances in a row makes me realize just how out of shape I am. Especially at this club where you’re not really allowed to just sit in the guys lap and wiggle around if you get tired.

I got sooo tired that I was all shakey and hungry while I was dancing for him, but I wasn’t going to miss out on a single twenty dollar bill so I just kept going. We didn’t stop until the music stopped and the lights came on. He thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and I think he was a great customer.

Now I’m a quarter of the way to my money goal. I was going to go to work tonight, but family fun is taking precedence.