Danger Monkeys

Saturday night at the Indian Restaurant with Fuzzy Monkeys. First belly dancing night in two months. Low attendance, cover charge, bastard boom box. We had enough in the company account to pay then an even C, but our pants were down way too often for my happiness.

And their knees too for that matter. One costumer bra refused to stay poinned. It popped twice back stage, then an annoying third time during her abortive entrance. She exited with one hadn to breasts and the other trailing her hip tie-dyed veil behind her. And this was the one who had a theater background and understood "calls." *sigh*

The boom box hated burned CDs, the audience hated the new cover charge, our friends stayed away in droves. Samira's pseudo-beau showed late, with his sister, brother, nephew, due to dad having a heart attack earlier in the day.

Arries was stuck at hostess. I thought she would be great at it. But she hated it. Two tables said ther were not there for the show. WTF are they gonna do? Look at the window? Someone complained about the amount of flest shown. These weren't Turkish costumes, just regular bedlahs. Some newbie must have a problem with fleshy women working their money maker. Jerks.

So I bought dinner for dancers since the restaurnat was losing money on us. Owner Man was nice and only charged me half the cost of 5 dancers buffets.

Went to QFC and t5ied on some shopping therapy at a grocery store at 10pm. Not as successful as I had hoped. Skanky people and me in my molting green sweater. I called LOML and indulged in me favorite "entertaining while at the store" addiction. I am lucky that LOML finds, or at least pretends to find, me hugely humorous while at the store. (Though I must admit that hanging with the retirees pre-Thanksgiving and measuring out turkey bowling lanes was most appealing to this warped mind on mine.)

So after moping about a twenty lane store where I have a hard time buying stuff that I can score gleaned to be hard, I did find the high cocoa content chocolate and internationally over-sugared foods. I wandered about, most likely freaking out the aromatic, maybe a bachelor, could be a homelss guy in a duster because I showed up in his aisle more than once. I explained my hapless sitch to LOML and ended up at the sugarless-probably-kill-you-with-aspatame-anyway ice cream. I was not suicidal enough to go for the real ice cream, but I did settle for the sugarless crap.

I made it home and sunk into a hopeless state. Couldn't even open that damn sliding door. I made it upstairs, changed into my flannels pjs, moped back downstairs, popped in the first episode of "Firefly" and ate more than half of the kill-yah butter pecan ice cream.

As I lay under the blanket in my sucralose-induced stupor, I was grateful that I could be depressed without guilt.