Since I was just telling this story and it’s still fresh on my mind, I guess I will tell the tale of my 27th birthday when Ben and I accidentally ended up in a strip club. For three hours.
My 27th birthday was easily my best birthday ever. Ben had planned a day of secret adventures around Portland. It was really easy to surprise me because I have no sense of direction whatsoever, so I will have no idea where we are until we are pulling into a parking space. My sense of direction is so bad that Ben used to stop the car a few block away from our house and ask me where we need to go to get home. Then he would humor me and drive all over the place until I either gave up, or we hit the Canadian border. In my defense, the streets were all identical and named after trees. Why can’t they just number the goddamn streets? Or better yet, just make the signs colored shapes and animals like they do with the halls at my kid’s school. “Hello, Police Man. My name is CarolAnn, I’m 28, and I’m lost. Will you please help me find my home? It’s on the corner of purple rhombus and turquoise hippo.”
We started out the day at The Grotto, looking at a bunch of really cool looking old statues of Jesus, and whatnot. I find this quite ironic, considering where we ended up later that night.
“In the Grot-to!” -Elvis Presley
”Eyyy! Peace be with YOU, brotha!” -Jesus Christ
Later on we had dinner at Portland City Grill, where I had the most amazing ginger lemon drop known to mankind. After dinner, we stepped outside and I immediately had to pee. Ben suggested we walk thirteen miles to the Ross down the street, (Ew, no thanks) But I said “No, there’s a bar right here across the street.” We asked the guy manning the front door if there was a cover charge, he said no, but only customers can use the restroom. So we were just gonna stay and have a drink, then go on our way. As we are heading in, I tell Ben to order me a Long Island and I head strait for the ladies room. So Ben sits down at the bar and orders our drinks. He ends up making eye contact with a chick across the bar and gives her a friendly nod, to which she responded by shaking her boobs at him. That’s when Ben looked behind her and saw the naked chick on the pole. Whoops.
We decide to find a table and sit down. Ben chose a table far enough away so that he could still see the boobies, but the strippers couldn’t hear him weep softly to himself while he repented for his sins. This is probably for the best because I get the overwhelming urge to compliment the strippers on their performance, which I think is against proper strip club etiquette. I really don’t know, though. We recently visited a strip club for a friend’s birthday (not by accident) and when one of the girls got done dancing, I told her “Good job. Way to be hot”. Call me old fashioned, but I feel like sometimes the best payment for a job well done, is to just say thank you. At this friend’s birthday party, we also met the hottest worst stripper ever. She looked like if Katy Perry had just woke from a coma. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were only half open, but she had an amazing rack. She told us that she’s been a stripper for 12 years and how she was tired and wanted to go home because she had to work from 2:00 to 11:00 the next day. Silly strippers. I don’t mean to say that being a stripper isn’t real work, but I’ve had to clean semi-liquid poop out of a bath mat before. Talk to me when you’ve stayed up all night cleaning someone else’s puke out of your bed, your hair or the outside of the toilet (Bailey had the flu and was refusing to puke. Needless to say, that was a losing battle because she spewed everywhere but in the toilet). And let’s not forget the time I got up in the wee hours of the morning to change Ava’s diaper, and she peed all over the changing table, so I picked her up so I could one-handed-mop up the mess, and she took this opportunity to projectile vomit into my hair and down my back. It was even on the back of my legs. What I wouldn’t have given in that moment to have a job that consisted of getting drunk, and dancing around naked from 2:00 to 11:00. These are things I already do for free at home.
Anyways, back to my birthday. Ben had ordered me a Long Island Iced Tea, which in and of itself, is enough to do me in. And he had ordered a vodka and Redbull for himself. He had like half a sip of his drink, and then decided that it wasn’t agreeing with his stomach. I drank both of our drinks. I couldn’t let it go to waste! I mean, there are sober kids in China, for God’s sake. So, after we had our fill of boobies, vodka, Redbull, and whatever magic they put in a Long Island, I just wanted to go home and get weird. Unfortunately Ben said we had to go see a movie at 11:00. He was teasing me about being a lesbian for wanting to cut the night short after hanging at the strip club, but I explained that I was intoxicated enough that I could watch homeless people open-mouth kiss and be good to go. That’s just one of the many great things about alcohol. Another great thing about alcohol? That look of shame and embarrassment on Ben’s face when I do my Single Ladies dance for unwitting people who didn’t really want to watch me dance in the first place.
Seeing the movie instead of rushing home for some sloppy drunk lovin’ wasn’t all that bad because afterwards Ben and I went to Voodoo Doughnut for some bacon maple bars. It was like I was in drunk people heaven. I Hasselhoffed the shit out of that bacon maple bar, and I don’t even care who knows it.
“This… is…… a mess.” -David Hasselhoff
Well, friends. That’s the story of my best birthday ever. I find it hard to believe that it can be outdone. It was THAT great.