10 Reason You Want to Quit Your Job and Become a Stripper

1. You don’t have to wear clothes to work. In fact, you are tipped to take them off.

2. You don’t have to get up early in the morning.

3. You have people telling you all day every day how sexy and/or gorgeous you are.

4. You can buy many many many items off of the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

5. You get to wear awesome shoes. And glitter.

6. Strippers almost always smell amazing, and have very soft skin. (I know this because girls are allowed to touch.)

7. If you don’t like a customer, you can tell security that he’s a creeper, and they’ll kick him out. (I wish I had security like that at my work.)

8. You can afford to buy lots of candy. And a Ford Mustang.

9. You get to shove your boobies in people’s faces daily. (You may not understand the thrill, but having them serve a purpose other than getting in the way would be lovely.)

10. You get to call yourself whatever you want. (Princess Mystique has a nice ring to it. Who else is named after royalty AND an X-Man?)

A Sparkly Housekeeper

I don’t know if it is a normal habit of people unsatisfied in their current careers, but I spend a shameful amount of time looking at the job ads on Craigslist. I generally look under the restaurant listings, as I am more likely to make the most dollars flashing my smile while catering to people stuffing their faces. However, during my perusal of Craigslist, I’ve sent my resume to a bank, a law firm, a nanny agency, and a plethora of other odd jobs. I’ve even considered applying at the Fantasy French Maids agency I discovered is in my town, but I wouldn’t want to put all the other French maids out of business, so I refrained.

I’ve found in my scrolling of hopeful jobs, that I seem to gravitate to the housekeeper type positions. Perhaps it is my unintentional goal to become Mrs. Doubtfire, or maybe I just don’t want to deal with the pain of having to work constantly with fucktards. Either way, I began imagining myself as some wealthy person’s maid, and I was not at all repulsed by the idea.

How fuckin’ weird am I? Most people dream of having a mansion on a hill with a yacht parked in the marina that they can drive to in their Porshe. I’d be content cleaning that fucking huge-ass house for $15- $20 dollars an hour. At least until I finish writing my bestseller and get my own castle. I wouldn’t even mind wearing a frilly, bust-enhancing maid’s costume while I did so.

Is this what I aspire to? Picking up after some arrogant CEO and his children who are being raised by a nanny? Yay me. (Sense the hint of sarcasm.)

The Concept of Caring

I had a talk with an employee the other day, and it was brought to my attention that the fact that I “don’t care about my job may have a negative affect on my employees.”
Now, to be fair, he was only quoting me about the “not caring” part. Because since I have been in my powerless position of power as Head Pizza Slut, the fact that I get none of the benefits to do all the work has made me somewhat of an underachiever as far as making my store “all it can be”. I believe my exact words were something along the lines of- “If my boss had found somebody better than me, he probably would have replaced me by now.”
It’s true, this is a terrible attitude to have, but after numerous conversations with my Boss With the Gorgeous Blue Eyes, he has confessed that he would rather have my half-assery as a faux general manager with my full amazing personality and specific set of job skills, than a manager giving his complete dedication with half as much personality and less multi-tasking ability than I. (At least until June) In other words, I don’t completely suck. Hence, I have come to the conclusion that I needn’t strain myself, as I will be getting paid the same amount of dollars despite my performance.
While there are those who may balk at such an attitude, I must point out that I have been begging for a demotion for the last six months- ever since I realized that I could have the same amount of pay with a quarter of the responsibility by just being a plain old server. So when my co-worker told me he may have to call my boss about my attitude, I said, “Please do.”
I decided long ago that in order to be the “manager” that I “should” be, I would have to work 80 hours a week for at least six months to ensure that everyone was trained and performing their duties to my satisfaction. While I have the work ethic to support such a commitment, I do not have the desire- at least not for pizza. Put me in a bookstore, or a shoe store, and I will gladly “care” enough to want to be there 700 hours a week. Hell, I wouldn’t even need any other employees in that case.
When I made this confession to my boss back then, and explained that my efforts would best be used elsewhere, he understood. Yet he has failed to replace me with someone more “caring”. And so, I am convinced he is resigned to my position on the matter.
In the end, I have composed a list of things more worthy of my caring efforts than giving away free pizza to unsatisfied customers: (because I have to give them free food, even when I KNOW that shit wasn’t fucked up)
1. Finishing my book(s)- I know it’s getting annoying that you all haven’t had a chance to run out and buy my best-selling novel that hasn’t been finished yet.
2. My family- ‘Twould be lovely to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to the zoo or for he and I to start the band we’ve wanted to for the last THREE YEARS….
3. Bloggery- because, after all, I have fans and shit.
4. Exercising- or baking cupcakes. (I lean toward the latter)
5. Becoming amazingly and ridiculously famous- I’m sure this would come with the publishing of my book(s).

P.S. To be clear, another employee has pointed out that I’m “the worst boss ever. For the company, that is. I’m great for the employees.”

A Regular Whore

It should be well-known by now that money matters not to me one iota.

I know that it cannot buy happiness.

Or love.

It cannot give you a hug, or get you to work, or give you super powers. (Although it can most certainly make you powerful.)

On the other hand:

I believe the lack of money is the root of all evil.

If you lack it, you cannot pay your bills, and then the Demon Bill Collectors start calling.

If you lack it, you cannot buy fabulous shoes that set you apart from all the other bums also trolling the aisles at Walmart.

It was said once in a Book I read one time that “the love of money is the root of all evil.”

I know I shall not be going to Hell for loving the money, because I surely don’t.

So someone PLEASE please PLEASE tell me why when my pretty boss where I’m a Pizza Slut offered me $2 more dollars an hour not to take the fabulous job at Crafts Direct and to stay miserable where I am, I took it. I am certainly a whore now, because I feel as if I just got paid to be fucked in the ass.

 

Who Says You Can’t Be Something You’re Not?

I have been to the Rennaissance Festival.

Talk about sensory overload.

It has been a long-standing wish of mine to attend a Rennaissance Festival, considering that everything princess-like and fairy-tale-ish appeals to me so. (Men with long hair may also be mentioned in that list.) So this year, I made a point to finally go to a land where men are cads and women are dressed like courtesans. (As opposed to real life, where men are assholes and women are dressed like sluts.) Upon hearing of the new addition added to the fair, the Mermaid Cove, there was no way I was missing it once again.

My friend Delightful and I arrived to the dust-cycloned fields of Rennaissance Parking, and I was secretly already berating myself for wearing my stilletto suede ruffled Rennaissance-inspired boots as we tramped through the dirt to purchase our tickets. Upon entering the gates and being thrilled at the many faux medieval accents I’d already encountered, I was immediately over-whelmed by men in leggings and busooms of women that were on the edge of escaping their barely-there entrappings. My overwhelmingness of eye-opening tittilage (haha) was quickly distracted by a vendor selling sparkly and amazing crystals.

I found soon enough that although medieval Rennaissance fair was equipped with modernized biffys, the stench of shit was just as barbaric. This was due to the fact that about 40 biffys were situated in a circular fashion behind a wall that allowed the smell of human waste to rot in a not-so-lovely enclosed area. Blech.

At one point, I wondered if Delightful was preturbed by my ever-increasing lack of concentration. “OH! A man playing a lute over there! Oh! We must go see what all the cheering is about! Oh! Look! A puppy!” (Not very rennaissancey, I’ll admit)” Look at that accordian player with the creepy eyes! He most certainly IS making eyes at me!” At least Delight burst out laughing when I made eyes back at the grungy accordian player, so perhaps she was mildly entertained. (For the record, the accordian player was seen on several occassions throughout the day, but I cannot say with certainty that he was stalking me, as it IS is job to roam.)

We laughed at the wonderfully crass Washer Wenches while enjoying frozen oranges that dripped onto our cleavage. We oohed and aahed over the many decadent and ornate costumes that walked by. And then we stood in line for a good 45 minutes to adore the mermaids.

Now, there are many people who might say such myths as Santa Clause and Mermaids and Jesus are just that. While I do wonder if the original Santa is, in fact, still alive, I very much do believe in mermaids. You may laugh, but have you ever thought- where did the idea for mermaids come from if they didn’t exist at some point? Perhaps they were not exactly how we envision them, but for goodness’ sake, people believe in dinosaurs.

I am quite aware that the mermaids I saw at the Rennaissance Festival were not true ones (because I could see their knees through their less-than-authentic tails) but as I watched them wave prettily and beckon to men, I thought, “What the heck? That’s exactly what I do every day!” The realization that I am essentially a mermaid with better shoes was quite exciting. Then I thought to myself, “I used to dream of being a mermaid. My mother told me that wasn’t possible, but look! These girls are mermaids, and their mothers probably told them they couldn’t be either!”

So I have come to the conclusion that I WILL, I WILL be a mermaid. Auditions are held in May and June. I can’t wait.

 

P.S. If anyone has suggestions on how to audition to be a mermaid, feel free to comment.