Frank Talk about Stripping

Wow! I had forgotten the many fun categories of post I used to write for this blog! One of my favorites is "frank talk." Way too often, people beat around the bush about things like stripping.

You might not believe this, but I'm a woman of a certain age, and I've never stripped before. I've painted, spackled, and even done light carpentry. Never stripped.

But you get to a time in life when everything must go. The old is dingy, and the new beckons. That's when stripping becomes not only preferable, but absolutely necessary.

I spent this whole weekend stripping. It was a rocky experience. I'm a novice, after all! You can't master these techniques overnight.

One of my downfalls was that I watched a ton of YouTube videos about stripping. Every one of them made it look hella easy. That paper was coming off in long, sweet swathes, and all the vloggers were either ruggedly sexy (men) or sassy and blonde (women). Both genders made stripping look like a stroll in the park.

It isn't.

I stripped for four hours on Saturday and three on Sunday. I worked up a sweat both days and got my arms soaking wet on Sunday. The only feedback I got from Mr. J was that perhaps I should try some chemicals from the basement.

Can't say I made much progress towards being a master stripper. However, some stripping was done, and my technique had improved a little bit by 5:00 on Sunday.

At the rate I'm learning, I'll be stripping for quite some time. Anyone who wants to help me, or even keep me company while I'm stripping, is welcome to contact me. As with so much in life, stripping is a lot more fun in the imagination than in real life, and it always looks better when the professionals do it.

Have you ever stripped? If so, can you give me tips?

Frank Talk about What Ifs

I wasn't intellectually honest in my post below about the concert The Spare and I attended. This is because I didn't want to link Spare's experience to the name of the band. Now I'm going to talk about the tricky wicket of getting flirtatious with famous people.

Starting with me.

When I was a young woman, I spent a lot of time at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. It was summertime, and I loved the Orioles. The team had a very charitable policy for students: $1.85 for an upper box seat. I went to every home game in 1979 and quite a few in 1980.

I lived on the second floor in a Baltimore row house. On the third floor lived a Baseball Annie who was 85 years old. I thought she was senile when she told me that Brooks Robinson took her out to lunch. Then one day I saw Brooks drop her off in front of the house! That's when I knew that the Baltimore Orioles club was really treating this poor old lady like gold. I'll never forget it. Sure wouldn't happen in these times.

About mid-summer, 1980, my elderly baseball friend said she'd gotten seats for us to go to a game together. The seats were Row 1, Seats 1 and 2. We were further allowed to go and stand by the locker room door before the game, where dear old Esther bear-hugged every single player except Frank Robinson. I was nearly speechless to be up-close-and-personal with every single Baltimore Oriole.

You probably know that baseball players arrive at the ball park hours before the game starts. They have to get dressed and warm up. So Esther and I were way, way early for the actual game. When we arrived in Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, The Kansas City Royals were warming up on the field.

Some of you old-timers might recognize this pretty boy. His name is George Brett, and in 1980 he was just about the best baseball player in the world. Damn if he didn't know it, too. He was not modest.

Back to my tale: Dear old Esther and I settled into our box, and before I knew it, George Brett was looking at me about as much as he was looking at the baseball. Then he smiled at me. Then he came over to the fence. He was super sweet to Esther and then turned his attention to me. Where did I live? Baltimore. What did I do? Student. Where? Johns Hopkins, right up the street. Did I like baseball? Oh yeah. So, what was I doing after the game? Would I like to go to a party?

George Brett, top of the heap in baseball in 1980, had just asked me out on a date.


I respectfully declined, pointing out that I would have to see Great-Granny home safely. He persisted, but politely. He told me to think about it, he would be at the Belvedere Hotel, I could drop by and find him any time.

I had no boyfriend, but I was pragmatic. I wasn't keen on mixing it with a ball player. Some girls were. The bored gods know that half of my friends would have jumped at this opportunity.  Both then and now, I placed more emphasis on romantic love than on sexy stuff.

I've always wondered what my life would have been like if I partied with George Brett.

He was gorgeous. A physical specimen of unparalleled magnificence. Would that experience have altered the way I looked at a more ordinary (albeit 100 times brainier) Mr. J? Or, would I be sitting here now, teetering on crone-hood, fondly remembering a fun and angst-free night with a gorgeous athlete?

What if? I just do not know.

Back to the present.

Spare and I went to a concert together. This band is meant to be experienced on your feet. They usually play in venues with no seating. But this time they were in a theater with cushioned, stuck-to-the-floor seats. It just felt weird from the get-go.

Of course, the very energy of this band had everyone up on their feet from the second beat of the first song. Spare and I started grooving, back in Row H.

Then Spare pointed at Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, and said, "Come on, let's get closer."

No denying it, when you get down to the edge of the stage with this band, you feel like you're just another member of the outfit. There's 20 people on the stage, all playing and/or singing at maximum energy. So Spare and I just got the groove on, and before we knew it, the band's leader jumped off the stage and started high-fives ... and Spare got one.

But it wasn't the headliner who was staring at Spare. It was a musician, the closest one to us where we were standing. This musician was male, young, and playing a violin.

Spare turned around and said to me, "I think that guy is looking at me."

Understatement.

Moving on. The show ended with no encore, which is very strange for this group. Sometimes they play two. Maybe it was the venue. Anyway, Spare and I lingered, disappointed, until it was clear that no encore was forthcoming. Then, I saw a friend and went over to say hello to her. We talked about three minutes. THEN I saw a half-finished water bottle on the stage. I said to Spare, "Watch this!" And I went down to the stage and snatched it. By that time, the young violin player had returned to the stage.

He hopped down and shook my hand. He shook Spare's hand. Then we started talking, because I have about a million questions about this band, and he commenced to answering them. It was clear he was focusing his attention primarily on The Spare. And he sure looked young, probably not much older than her.

Was Spare facing her George Brett moment? Well, let me tell you: It was on the tip of my tongue to invite this young fellow out for a cheeseburger and a beer, but before I could alter her destiny, Spare said, "Oh, nice to meet you!" and started for the door.

When we hit the inhospitable pavement of Broad Street, I said, "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Leave! He clearly wanted to talk to you!"

She couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe that some musician would find her attractive. Yes, it is Ripley's. The girl doesn't know her charms.

Well, you see, I was also conflicted. There's not much difference at all between a musician and a baseball player, except that one is built like a god and the other creates god-like music well enough to be paid. Why should I ever want Spare to do something I didn't want to do when I was her age? Actually, in fairness, the musician was far more sweet and human, and humble, and affable... but he still was in town for one night, moving on to DC in the morning.

I teased Spare the whole way back to her apartment, which was a short six blocks from the venue. We were laughing about it, mostly, with her still amazed that I would think any male would find her attractive. Oh well, I left her on her Locust Street stoop and hopped on the El.

Was I trying to re-live my own youth? Shouldn't I be looking out for Spare's welfare? Oh! I beat myself up on that El! What the heck? No such thing as angst-free flirtation, right? What kind of mother would I be if I started encouraging friendships with wandering minstrels?

You know, there's something to be said for this younger generation. By the time I got off the El and descended to the Snobville sidewalk, Spare reported that she had established an Instagram conversation with the stripling performer, which continued at a safe and prudent distance through the wee hours. All of a sudden the 21st century is looking a little more appealing.

Life is funny. We get these "what if" moments. Some of them are life-altering, and some of them just leave you wondering.

One thing I do know. It's Spare's life, and I had best mess out. She's bound to come to her own "what if" moment. Or a dozen of them. Regrets are the spice of life.

Frank Talk on Showing Your Tits

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," land of the squeeee and home of the rave! From every mountaintop, let Glee Don King!

Can you tell this teacher has a day off school?

On Halloween, my daughter The Spare wrote a lovely blog post for me. It brought tears to my eyes. So I picked a pretty picture of her (tough choice, there are so many in my files) and posted it with her entry.

A male commenter said, "Great post. Show us your tits!"

I removed the comment.

Now I'm having second thoughts. Not because The Spare would ever show her lovely tits to a drooling mass of testosterone, but because said d.m. of t. has his rights to free expression, and if tits is what he wants to see, he ought to be able to make the request.

I don't object if some women want to show off their bodies for the entertainment and (I love this word) titillation of men. It's a broad and wide world, and people should have the right to make these judgments on their own. For some women, it's a lot of fun, showing off the tits. Others (including Spare, Mr. Commenter) would rather haul off and deck you in the balls eyeballs just for asking. It's a personal preference.

In my youthful days in the sun, I earned many a wolf whistle when I walked past a bunch of construction workers or other lusty males. To me it was sort of like a compliment. Sure, they wanted to see my tits and the rest of me too, but that didn't bother me. Now, if they had grabbed me and tried to get a gander at my anatomy, that would have been different. But whistles and cat calls? Hey, to me it just meant I looked good.

Spare hates being cat called and wolf whistled. And as a resident of Philadelphia, she gets an ample amount of it. She thinks men who do that sort of thing are crude and stupid. And she isn't blind to a fine specimen of male, let me tell you ... but she'll be the first to tell you that she gets awkward, not bawdy, in the presence of a prince. Not gonna hear, "Yo! Show us your abs!" from that gal.

Ladies, if you've got tits and want to show them, rock on! If you've got tits and want to show parts of them through corsets, low-cut shirts, or sheers, rock on! If you'd just as soon keep your tits carefully ensconced in a t-shirt, covered by a hoodie, covered by a North Face ski jacket, rock on! Stand up for your rights.

Gentlemen, I realize it is difficult to distinguish which clothed females would show you their tits and which wouldn't. For your own safety in this day of empowered women, err on the side of caution. Especially in Philadelphia, where even the shortest, perkiest, best-groomed young woman can channel the local mentality and blister you with curse words that would make a stevedore cringe.

And at the risk of losing one of my three readers, just know this: If you see tits on this site, they'll be attached to an ancient bored goddess. For fresh and lively ones, take your tastes elsewhere.

Frank Talk on Effective Parenting

Wow, what a boring title! Who would want to read on? Well, reader, give me three more lines and trust that I am telling the unvarnished truth.

The other day I was talking to a woman, a bit younger than myself, who has a 19-year-old daughter, same age as The Spare.

This woman was mad at her daughter. It seems the daughter dropped some Molly. The mother said, "I'm okay with pot and alcohol and mushrooms, you know, natural stuff. But I draw the line at synthetics. I told her if she took Molly again I would take her car away."

It's hard raising children, isn't it? Doesn't get any easier when they hit the late teens.

I wasn't sure how to respond to this woman's parenting struggles, especially after she described a trip she and her daughter took to Peru in which they drank hallucinogenic cactus juice and hiked in the Andes. But I admit that this did sound like the kind of mother-daughter bonding that can lead straight to club drugs.

As it happens, I'm mad at The Spare just now myself. It seems she has bought yet another dress from the thrift store. I said, "I'm okay with last week's shorts and the earrings and the beach bag, you know, the bargain stuff. But I draw the line at dresses. Spare, if you buy another dress, I'm going to take your makeup away."

You see? I'm just as bad a parent as the next gal. I can be angry at crossed lines. I can issue dire threats. And you know what? Spare's issues are my fault, because she and I often go to the thrift store together. This is just the kind of mother-daughter bonding that can lead to bargain-hunting at the mall.

When it comes to raising children, there's no easy answer. Where do you draw the line? Well, as for me, I let society draw the line for me. I know it's a cop-out, but telling my daughter not to smoke pot because it's illegal just makes things so much easier. Ditto for the booze, but in that case Spare has had ample opportunity to watch me partake ... and I made a botch of that often enough that she'll opt for Pepsi.

There's not much margin for error these days when it comes to growing into productive adulthood. Life is a minefield where even the best and brightest sometime get blown up. Sometimes, no matter what you do, your beloved child becomes alcoholic, drug dependent, or dangerously experimental. Why make it easier by showing her how to do it?

As for me and my house, we will follow the Goodwill.