Saturday, 21 January 2012

Don't Stop

First pole dancing class completed. Let me break it down for you.

First, I surprised by some of the girls in the class. A few were very "plain" for lack of a better word, but you could tell they were the "a lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets" type as the class progressed.

Everything about this class is sexy. Even the warm ups. When you walk, you are instructed to sexy walk, dragging one foot behind you, swinging your hips, and touching yourself, running your fingers through your hair and down your body. Anyone that knows me, knows that this initially sent me into a fit of laughter. When we were doing some kind of wrist/hand warm up, all I could think of was "jazz hands". You know, from that cheerleading movie.

The class began with floor work. Learning the sexy cat pose, cat arched back, bicycle legs and..well....leg spreading. We were taught hip circles and grinding, even how to get up off the floor sexy manner. Everything is about sticking your butt out. Sounds pretty cool and empowering, right?  Now, picture Betty White with arthritis doing it.  That was me.

Every time I did a hip circle, something in my body cracked. Lowering down into a squat, my knees were threatening to give out.  I was in pain 47 seconds into the moves. My arms and legs were shaking, and I was seeing spots. ( I fixed that, I grabbed an A&W teen burger on the way home) I pretty much resembled a female version of Napoleon Dynamite way out of her league.

Carrying on from the floor work, we learned how to flow from the floor over to the wall and to basically have sex with the wall.  Ok, not really, but we did learn a routine up against the wall to Janet Jackson't "Don't Stop".  From the wall, we made our way to the pole.  Walking around the pole, doing fancy pole turns, more f*cking squats against the pole, and then eventually, a pole hold, where you slide down.  Remember in gym class where there was a bigger kid that struggles to climb up the rope? Yup, me. I was grasping that pole, legs flailing, for dear life. Nowhere near sexy, my friends.  And when we were supposed to seamlessly slide down, my sweaty hands made a screaching sound as I dropped to the ground like an uncoordinated bag of bricks.

We ran through our routine a few times, from the floor, to the wall, to the pole. The more we did it, and the more I couldn't feel my limbs, I actually got the hang of it.  The whole room is covered in mirrors, and as I continued, I watched myself and was somewhat impressed. I couldn't believe it was me. And I think I got the pole hold pretty much down. Haha, pole hold made me laugh, because I have the mind of a perverted 15 year old boy. Anywho...

All in all, it was actually super fun, and as funny as it sounds, empowering. I had to remind myself not to "sexy walk" out to my car. Next week we learn the fireman pole spin! I'm going to take some muscle relaxants and a few roofies before class. 6 more weeks to go!  How lucky am I to have a willing participant to watch and critique my routine practices as well?  What a supportive boyfriend!

I may have to rename this blog "Aches & Pains of a Pole Dancer".  Maybe I should just keep enrolling in different classes in blogging about them. Bonsai Art Pruning?  Porn Directing 101?  Gymnastics for Seniors? Let me know what you think!

Friday, 20 January 2012

Pole Star

A friend and I have enrolled in pole dancing classes. Do not laugh.
No, I have no plans to take up stripping or exotic dancing as my new vocation.  Pole dancing is apparently a great full body work out, and as per my previous blog, strengthens your arms and legs immensely.  And if they teach me a thing or two about being sexy along the way, bonus!

In preparation for my new fitness class, I watched some "pole dancing gone wrong" videos on YouTube. Hilarious.
Guaranteed these classes will lead to some humorous blogs. I am not the most coordinated individual to grace the Earth. First class is tomorrow afternoon.  What does one wear to pole dancing classes? Hmmmm. I'm thinking a glass or three of wine will need to be consumed before class.

Sunday, 15 January 2012

Just The Tip

It's kind of a long and nonsensical story of how myself, my lover and our friends (another super cool couple) ended up at a strip club last night. In pervert's row, I might add. (Sorry Mom. I know, I'm gross and going to hell)

I think of myself as a reasonably confident and secure woman. I'm not jealous of other women. If my boyfriend decides to leave me for a stripper, well, then he's a douche and good riddance. So I had no issues with going. I actually find them entertaining and impressive.

I will give any girl credit that can contort and hold themselves up on a pole using only her leg muscles. I cannot even touch my toes. Sad, but true.
The strength that those girls have blows me away.  It's kind of like watching Cirque du Soleil, but with naked performers.  What was fascinating to me is out of the three strippers I watched last night, not one of them had an ounce of cellulite anywhere that I could see. Perhaps it was the lighting, but I had a seat right upfront and, um, personal, so I am thinking it is the pole work that attributes to their fantastic shape. Clearly I need to invest in a pole for my house.  And, I am highly competitive, so if cracked out, uneducated "Destiny" can do it, I sure as hell can too.

Their faces were a different story, but I am thinking the men that go to see these entertainers aren't too concerned about the facial region. Or their feet for that matter, because I saw some pretty gnarly toes as well. I also noticed they all had really bad tattoos.  I will also add that I was extremely proud that I had bigger boobs than stripper number two, because that almost never happens. Moving on.

What makes me sad is the degrading activity of when she spreads out a blanket, rolls up a piece of paper, and encourages men to hurl coins at her. Tips, as I call it. My first thought is: Sick! Money is so so dirty. Who wants that touching their vag?  Second, all the credit I just gave her is gone.  Girl, you are stark ass naked and asking guys to throw money at you! Coins for that matter.  Do you not see what is entirely wrong with this picture?  I desperately wanted to throw a robe on her, take her home, ask her what the hell went wrong in her life, and then show her where to find the job ads.  I honestly do not believe that any of those girls actually enjoy doing it. And as for the stories you hear that these girls are doing it to put themselves through med school? Come the fuck on.  I have yet to meet a doctor that looks like any of those girl or with a body like that.
As degrading as it is though, I would feel even worse not "tipping" them, so I chucked loonies at the stripper. I have a magnet now of her to prove it. I felt like we really connected. Maybe we'll go shopping together one day and I can buy her a sweater. With a high neck.

Some girls have questioned last night's activities and couldn't believe I let my boyfriend go and watch other naked women. And the fact that I went with is just bizarre to them. Well, let's think about this for a second. She can make sexy eyes and shake her ass in his face all that she wants. He's going home with me. He may have to help me take my boots of because I am so out of shape I can't bend over, but that's neither here nor there.  I think of it as men like strippers like we ladies enjoy shoe shopping. Whatever turns your crank, baby.

In conclusion, I recant the evening with one end thought and goal: I am going to master working the pole.  In sweatpants.

Tuesday, 10 January 2012

Allow Me to Slap You

I realize the title of this blog is "Rantings of a Wine Hag".  The definition of ranting is: To Speak or shout at length in a wild, impassioned way.

I do rant. I do complain. We all do. What I cannot stand is people who constantly complain or bitch about their lives and the trivial shit that we all have to deal with.  Sure, everyone has a complaint or something that bugs them. That's normal. But to constantly be a Debbie Downer and actually LOOK for something to complain about is disgusting to me.  Yes, everyone hates and grumbles about Mondays. You burn the dinner that you so carefully planned and prepared all day.  Shoveling snow sucks ass. There definitely are some sucky times in life.  I think what some people are forgetting is there is a huge difference between crappy situations and instances, and just being plain ungrateful, insensitive and ridiculous.

Facebook is a complainers paradise. And a great source of some of my rage: 
 "Wahhh, I sneezed 6 times today. I'm dying!"
 "Boo,  my plane ride returning me from a luxury vacation in Fiji was soooo long." 
 "I couldn't find a job for over a year, but now that I have one, I hate going to it." 
 "I had to brush snow off of my Porsche Cayenne."

I don't know if they just feel too much pressure to have a status update and complaining is their default option? Honestly, I'd rather see someone declaring they are about to get shit-faced drunk (like moi) or discussing how many bowel movements they have had that week, than see some petty, ignorant, bitchy comment like "The line up I had to stand in to buy my new iPhone was so long. FML".

Which brings me to my next rant. To those of you that consistently use "FML" (f*ck my life), I suggest you take a good hard look at your life before you say that. I wonder what acronym starving children in Africa have? The homeless person trying to find somewhere warm and out of the wind?  Or even the person that has been unemployed for 2 years and struggling to keep their house. I'm sure they would gladly take your place in 40 minutes of traffic.  The woman struggling to beat breast cancer for the second time would in a heart beat take your sniffles and flu bug than sit through another round of chemo.  And don't even bellyache about being broke while you type from your $1200 MacBook Pro.

The weather is going change, people. We don't need to write a book on it. It's too cold, it's too hot, it's too windy.  You will never be happy, ok? Bring a speedo and a parka with you everywhere you go. And while we're on the subject of a speedo, yes, ok, fine. You are fat. Are you happy now? Is that the validation that you needed?

I am not, in any way, trying to say what is an acceptable complaint and what isn't.  I am not the bitching police.  I would just like to urge you to think before you speak.  If someone says "Gee, that movie really sucked", I am not going to fly into a fit of rage and remind you that not everyone owns a television. Come on. Let's remember what the foundation of this blog is - wine and my thoughts, mostly rants. Remember, I don't like many people, so this is not intended to make me look like Mary Sunshine.  
I need a reminder at times to check myself and that it could be much worse. Honestly, if my biggest complaint in life is the assholes that don't know how to walk in the mall....I have it pretty damn good. 

To the serial complainers: Your life may not be so shit stained if you look at it from a different perspective.  Or, unfortunately, you just might be a really miserable awful person, and in that case, I am going to unfriend you.

Tuesday, 3 January 2012

Working Girl

Going back to work after 2+ weeks off should be illegal.  It is no good for anyone.

It was a spectacular vacation, filled with lots of relaxation, food, drinking, friends, family, and sweatpants.  Christmas was wonderful, as was New Years.  Yesterday, I was feeling very productive and optimistic about the new year.  The Christmas tree and decorations came down, I made pancakes for breakfast, dusted, washed and swept floors, all before noon. I was feeling good and ready to go back to work.

Then the cold harsh reality of  it all set in this morning.

One of my "hopes" for the New Year (I don't do resolutions. I know myself all too well. That's why I call them hopes) was to go to bed earlier during the week.  Usually, this hag stays up until midnight or 1 am on work nights. I then hate myself and my life the next morning. So, promptly at 10pm last night, I scampered off to bed like a good girl.  At 10:30 pm I was still laying there, wide awake, completely annoyed by my boyfriend's  existence and his audacity to breathe.  I got up, ate a bag of cheezies and spent a few hours wasting my life away on Pinterest.  Goddammit, I love Pinterest.

I awakened one hour later than I planned on this morning, in quite a beast-like fashion. I laid there and went through a good half dozen scenarios as to why I couldn't go to work. I moaned, groaned and even sobbed a little, screaming at my adorable dog that this was somehow all her fault. She licked my face in return, and made it clear she needed to be let outside.  So, I ponied up, let the little brat out, took a shower (fingers crossed that I used soap. I don't even remember) and dragged myself into the office.

The most useless dumdum on Earth sits at my desk today.  I don't remember how to spell. What's grammar? I am referring to everything as "it" or "things".  Vacation vocabulary and work vocabulary differ greatly for me it seems. I am a cavewoman.  I find myself just staring off at nothing. My mouth may be partially open too. I fear now that if I am to ever quit working, I will start wearing a fanny pack, visor and shower sandals out in public to trade coupons.

Let's not even discuss my appearance today. Let's just say I only put mascara on one eye and this shit show of an outfit rivals that of Sophia from the Golden Girls. And smooth brushed hair is SO last year.

In conclusion, I am a big, dumb bag of disgusting today. It can only get better from here, right?