You might think the O in OG stands for Old, it really stand for original. Maybe that’s what age does to us. We are not getting old. We are getting original.
Welcome to this month’s blog hop of Use your Words.
My words are:
dragon ~ swipe ~ banana ~ Washington ~ four
They were submitted by: http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com
I am just switching my blog from blogger to wordpress, and I’m not used to WordPress yet. I also have a pretty horrid headache from last night’s adventure to the karaoke bar. So anyway, don’t expect wonders today. Just be happy you can’t smell my dragon breath.
I never go out to the bars anymore, not since the onslaught of reproduction. I just simply had no time for it, and the idea of being anything less than highly productive the next day just wasn’t going to work for 2 toddlers and a baby. As they got older, I exercised some of the freedoms one night and hit the club, and that’s when I realized I was, indeed, old. I felt like a cougar of dance moves and attention whore-ism.
Before I had kids, I’d hit the club at least 3 times a week. I preferred the club, anywhere where white people were the minority. Anywhere they played hip hop you won’t hear on the radio stations. Anywhere a good bar fight would give me a better rush than the booze and weed. I think it’s safe to say I was probably a wild child, but I prefer to consider myself a free spirit.
And before you people are like, “That’s so racist she wants to go to black bars over white bars,” well it gets worse. It really is racist. White people just can’t dance, and being stricken with the crackerfied genetic mutation of whiteness, I have to rely on watching black people dance while I dance in order to get the rhythm anywhere near close enough.
I remember the rush of going to the club back then, in my prime, size 3 hottie who spent 2 hours perfecting my make-up like my face is a work of art… And I was a very classy dame back in the day. I wore simple outfits, like black pants and some dress black shirt. I rarely showed a lot of skin just because I didn’t want to look like everyone else. Sometimes, I danced more like a dude than a chick just because I’m worth more than a good twerk. Men eat that shit up. Dignity trumps whore. And confidence is the best thing you can wear in public.
I really did used to walk into the club and all eyes were on me. I one time saw a woman slap her husband for checking me out in a very obvious manner. I loved it. I normally don’t like being the center of attention, and most of my home videos of me growing up is my father yelling at me to get out of the camera because he’s taping my sister (I was doing things like cleaning up trash, not performing, and my cleaning got in the way), but the club was my time to shine.
I was also inclined to treat men the way they treated us women. They were a game. I even got so bad about it, I wanted a challenge. I’m a playa at heart. Getting a guy to buy you and your friends drinks was easy. Getting a guy to have sex with you, I mean they’ll fuck a half open banana, like there’s just no challenge in that. The game is different when the gender roles are reversed. I had made guys beg to dance with me before I danced with them. I attempted screaming random things at them that had nothing to do with the conversation when they started asking for my phone number, like having an obsession for their shoes where that’s all I will talk about, or screaming and pointing, “Liar cheater loser queer,” as all men are one or a combination thereof. Before you jump on the, “I don’t like your use of the word queer,” it’s meant that the best ones are usually disappointingly homosexual. Anyway, I got to a point where I started trying to get shirts. I’d ask all men with an interest in me to take off their shirt, right then and there, right off their back, and give it to me for keeps forcing them to continue the night shirtless. I have so many freaking shirts from random men laying around my house still… reminding me of the glory days when I was a hottie.
Women slapping husbands just hasn’t happened in years. I’m no longer that girl. I’m now the frumpy old lady. I’m not even MILF anymore. I’m old. I know I’m still beautiful in my own way, and sexiness is a chemistry you ooze it has nothing to do with age, but I’m not the center of attention anymore. I’ve really avoided going out for this reason alone. It’s too depressing.
But last night was a little bit different. I wasn’t at a club. I was at a karaoke bar, and I can’t sing. My singing makes dogs bark, horses whinny, and prisoners riot. The people at this bar consisted mainly of people my own age, which totally leveled the playing field for the most part. I actually had fun.
My friend Erica is the singer, the one who dragged me out to these shenanigans. She even payed for all my drinks, which is good because I was driving and when I start having a good time, my debit card at the bar starts screaming, “Swiper no more swiping!” The fact that she wanted to buy my drinks kept me in check because I wasn’t trying to abuse the kindness. And last night, I know this is embarrassing because I already admitted to a hangover, but I only had four drinks. Vodka. Two Erica bought me, and two a random guy bought. Because I didn’t eat at all yesterday, I had a little buzz that kept me pretty happy most of the night.
Yes, I just said some guy bought me drinks, knowing I’m married, knowing he isn’t going to get any from me, he bought me drinks. I know this is something I felt pretty entitled to back in the day, but I’ve been buying my own drinks for years now. So, not bad for an old frumpy housewife.
It gets better.
At one point, a guy they called, “Larry the White Guy,” who happens to be black, got up and sang. I can’t remember what song he sang, but it was a romantic one. A slow song from the good-ole-days, and as he was singing, he kept making eye contact with me. He’d frequently hold his hand out at me, or point at me… I was like, “I swear he’s singing this song to me!” At one point, he even stopped in the song and was like, “Yeah that’s right” while staring and pointing at me. This guy can sing better than Obama, so I was lost in the song anyway, and I caught myself at some point just staring deeply into each others eyes as he was singing to me. After the song was over, he came down, introduced himself, and explained that I was his inspiration for that song. Completely.
Then the guy who bought Erica and I a couple drinks gave Erica his phone number. I can’t collect digits anymore on the account of being married, though last time I went out, I managed to get a chick’s phone number.
During one of Erica’s songs, a guy massaged my shoulders and neck. Now that, I felt pretty pimping. Given, in my Glory days of my youth, my best random back rub from strangers was at a beach when a German and a Jew (a guy from Germany and a guy from Israel) gave me a back rub at the same time. But this is enough to tell myself, “I still got it. Just a little.”
But then these young whippersnappers were there. Three young ladies who couldn’t be over the age of 24; in fact, they looked and acted like seniors in high school, and choir students at that. My guess is they graduated last year, together, and was at that bar just because their 21 year old friends could buy them drinks.
As my friend and I started getting into the night, dancing randomly to crappy music, whether it be with the bartender, the karaoke guy, my friends’ kids’ old football coach…. These girls, you can tell, they either got jealous of the attention we were getting being the only two people in the bar dancing, which takes confidence to be the first one to dance, something these little whippersnappers lacked, or they wanted to “show us up,” but either way, they started dancing. Twerking. And in ways that reeked of a desperation for attention. I used to make fun of girls like that. The fun part is getting that kind of attention without shaking your ass and doing lesbian stuff with your friends. Wait…
So when Erica and I were doing the lesbian hug thing while dancing, that was only because she was really drunk and I had her laughing too hard she couldn’t stand up. I told her the story where someone we know was out drinking with me and another mutual friend one night, and she was wearing a very short dress that was probably supposed to be a shirt but she wore it as a dress. Getting out the car, she was concerned… She was going commando in that thing, and she wanted to make sure her tampon string wasn’t hanging out. Yes it was that short. So she adjusted herself in the parking lot, and my other friend, who is a take no shit kind of girl, was like, “That’s so fucked up, I can’t believe you are doing that.” So to get back at the high mighty of it, the one girl stuck her fingers in our friend’s face saying, “Smell my fingers.” She then chased our friend around the parking lot for a few minutes with that. I’ve never seen my friend run so fast, not even when another friend of ours dressed up as a clown and chased her around the house as a prank. See… that’s funny. That’s falling on your best friend drunk kind of funny. I seriously doubt the tweens at that bar had a story like that… not yet anyway.
So as they are twerking, including the ground, making eye contact at us like we are old enough to be George Washington’s date and they are totally showing us how it’s done, I’m like, “They girls think they are so fly, but can they butterfly?” No. That’s our generation, and our dance moves required more skillz than humping something like a constipated dog. In other words, if we removed all clothing and inserted a man into the pie hole, our dance moves are going to make him scream God’s name faster than the twerking generation. Having confidence in where I come from, I jumped back at it. Shit, these girls are showing no one nothing.
I don’t know if there is a name for the crackerfied R&B I was doing, but I don’t think I was bad. The rugrats stopped dancing at points, tried again at points, but all the men with them kept staring at Erica and I. So of course, now I get all eyes on me, and what do I do?
First I step backwards and trip over a step. I shook it off like a Taylor Swift song and carried on like a good soldier. But no. I can’t stop there…
Second, I dropped it like it’s hot. I probably did better dropping it than I ever have in the history of dropping it, but then I was stuck. I couldn’t get back up. Like the old lady in that commercial, “Help! I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”
The humbling nature of old age is finally what got these girls and us on the same page. After something that embarrassing, I became a charity case to talk to and be included with the “cool people” just a little. Those girls are probably talking to each other right now, “Those old ladies gave it one helluva shot.”
So I may be old and frumpy, but I still was serenaded in ways nobody else at the bar was, and I was the only one to get a back rub. I still didn’t have to buy my own drinks. Despite the inability to get back up, I can still at least drop it like it’s on fire. I still have it, a little.
Check out everyone else who is USING THEIR WORDS!
http://www.BakingInATornado.com Baking In A Tornado
http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/ Spatulas on Parade
http://stacysewsandschools.blogspot.com/ Stacy Sews and Schools
http://followmehome.shellybean.com Follow me home
http://batteredhope.blogspot.com Battered Hope
http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com/ The Bergham’s Life Chronicles
http://www.eviljoyspeaks.wordpress.com Evil Joy Speaks
http://themomisodes.com The Momisodes
http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com Someone Else’s Genius
http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/ Confessions of a part-time working mom
http://www.crumpetsandbollocks.com Crumpets an Bollocks
http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/ Sparkly Poetic Weirdo
http://eileensperpetuallybusy.wordpress.com/ Eileen’s Perpetually Busy
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