1/14/08

I'm not sure how to tell the story of the weekend. First off, John had to work Saturday so I knew he and I were not going to the shop. Gregg wanted to strip and crush the brown 210 on Saturday but was stuck with the rug-rat all day. I called Ray to see if he’d received the threaded inset thingies for the Seven’s roll hoop, but he hadn’t. So, with all of those things happening, or not as the case may be, I was at a loose end Saturday morning. I helped mom move some stuff around the house until we decided on a plan. Now, I had gone in for new contacts earlier in the week and the eye doctor prescribed, wait for it, BIFOCALS! Well, not bifocal contacts, but bifocal glasses for when I'm not wearing my contacts. Bi-friggin-focals! I'm forty-two for crying out loud. That’s not old enough for bifocals. Well, I gave in and went back Saturday morning to get fitted for the grand-pa glasses. Mom rode along since we were going to the Road Kill Café (not the actual name but I don’t remember what it’s really called) for lunch afterwards. I waited for about half an hour while they searched for my records again. Oh, I guess I could tell the rest of the contact lens story first since it is sort of pertinent now. Tuesday afternoon was when I went in for the original contacts. She did the exam and sent me home in a pair of lenses. I was not happy with them. I lived with it until Thursday when mom convinced me to go back and complain. It took a full half hour for them to find my records so the doctor could experiment. She had me try on at least eight different pairs of lenses, some with the same prescription plus astigmatism correction, some with slightly different prescription stronger without astigmatism correction, some with the stronger prescription and astigmatism correction, some weaker prescriptions without, some weaker with, and so on until we found a pair I “liked.” She sent me on my way and, again, asked if I wanted to get the bifocals. I resisted until Saturday, as I said. So, it is approaching noon on Saturday and they still haven’t found my records. Mom is waiting in the car so I tell the folks I'm going to grab some lunch and will be back later. Mom and I go eat at the Road Kill and I drop her off at the house. I go back and see that they have found my records and they put me in line. Does one of the cute girls grab my file when the time comes? Of course not, I get the hairy legged dude. We look at frames and I see a pair with the little clip on sunglasses. They look all right so I choose them. He does some measuring and stuff then takes the prescription and the frames to the back. They call me to the counter to say they will be ready at 1700 h and I can get them around 1730 h, or so I thought. Turns out he was saying they close at 1730 h so I'd better damned well be back before then. I paid up and went home. For some reason they gave me a $2.00 bill. I'm still confused about that one. I wasted the afternoon waiting for 1700 h and then headed back. I walked in around 1720 h or so and was the only one in the place. It was then that I fingered out the “be back before 1730 h” part. Oops. Well, they had my glasses and fit me to them. I had to stop and shake my head when putting them on for the first time. The only thing I could see coming at me were those lines. Yeah, I could have paid an extra $100.00 for no-line lenses but I didn’t. I put them on and she asked how they felt. They were snug so she took them and did some more bending. When they fit fine I began looking around. I couldn’t see where it transitioned at first but found it soon enough. They seemed to work so I thanked them and left. At home, mom and I ate some dinner then Pat called. He wanted to go out so he said he’d call me back when he heard from our friend Rob. He finally called back around 2000 h and cajoled me into going downtown with him. I took a shower while he was on his way to pick me up. We went to the Flying Saucer and each had a few beers. None of the other folks he had called and was expecting showed up so we bailed. For some reason we stopped off at the strip bar formerly known as New Orleans Nights. We found a table and watched nekkid women for a while. Before long, a really wasted stripper decided to join me at the table. She was decent enough looking to, well look at, but wasn’t an “A-list” stripper by any stretch. She asked if she could dance for me and, being the magnanimous strip club patron I am, I said she may. I like to throw the “Junior Varsity” girls a good paycheck when I go. I figure they don’t usually get a “high roller” buying multiple dances like the real lookers do as often. To further confirm my hypothesis, she keeps grinding on my unit and telling me what a “Monster” I have in my pants. I laugh each time she says it but she won’t hear anything I say about its microscopity. I stop her at the $100.00 mark and say I need to go to the cash machine before she continues. She says she needs to pee anyway so we head across the bar. Pat says later that he thought she was taking me to the parking lot for some “boom-chicka-wow-wow!” She didn’t. We both pee and I get some cash. I “pay” for the dances she’s already done and we head back to the table. When her time to go on stage comes up I try to escape by telling her Pat is my ride. I'm tipping her onstage at this point. She asks where I live and says a cab would only be ten bucks. I ask if it would be “worth it” if I stayed. She said it would. She makes me “pinky swear” that I'll stay. I consult with Pat and we decide he'd take me home and I might return in my car. I find her at the second stage and tell her the new plan. We decide to meet at the bar at 0130 h when I got back. I got back and was at the bar at 0130 h but I couldn’t find her. She finally staggered up and we found another table. She did some more halfhearted dancing for me and finally collapsed, more or less. She asked what time it was and I told her it was ten minutes to two. “I want to dance some more for you,” she said, “but I really don’t want to puke on you.” I ask if she wants me to take her to the dressing room so she can hurl but she declines. When the lights come up and they start throwing us out, I do take her to the dressing room door where I pay for the last round of dances and she gives me a phone number. She says, “Call me and leave a message then text me.” Well, I'm not convinced it really is her number and don’t want to wake up the grandmother who really owns it at 0230 h on a Sunday morning. I decide to go ahead and text it though. I say, “Hey, this is Tim from Saturday night. Call me back if you feel like it.” I left it at that not expecting to ever hear from her again. Well, guess what, I haven’t heard from her again! Not that I would have pursued anything if she did call, she is a “B-list” stripper after all. So, after a couple hundred bucks I wound up fondling a couple boobies and making out a little with a stripper, which is really about all I ever expect going in so it wasn’t a bad evening. Sunday’s story isn't as long, but I'll save it for tomorrow anyway. Besides, it is noon and I'm getting hungry. Have a day. Oh, an interesting coincidence: while at the Flying Saucer Pat and I had some Brie cheese; the dancer’s name: Brie. Pretty kooky eh?