I am in Holden, Alberta. This remarkable town has a population of 300. Lucky me - the entire population is in the bar tonight! However, for some reason, no one is putting out any cash-o-la so business is slow.
This town is so small and desolate, I don’t have the internet! If that’s not bad enough I don’t even have cell reception. So here I am blogging away in my "text edit" program. I will just copy and paste this bitch into my blog.
It is my first time here and the management consists of an older man and woman. The man is sweet. After getting off the road and arriving 2 hours early, he insisted I come down for dinner. He handed me a menu and within ten minutes he had my order in front of me. The best meal I have had in 2 weeks: perfectly cooked eggs (over easy) 4 strips of bacon and home-style hash browns (the chunky potatoes. yummy!) He reminds me of an uncle; a gentle soul. I’m referred to as sweetie or dear. He greeted me in the lobby of an ancient hundred year old hotel, with warm hands and a warm heart.
The woman, who may be somewhat bipolar and cock eyed, can’t decide if she likes me or not. Upon arrival I was given "the cold shoulder" but before my first show she was very affirming and warm telling me "you will do great". Then, after getting off stage to the raucous hoots and hollers from the small crowd with 55 bucks in my pocket, she proceeded to ignore me.
Even though she didn’t seam to be paying attention to me, I had a strange feeling that her one cock-eye was on me the whole night, even though she was preoccupied with the drunkard at her bar ordering his 20th bottle of Kokanee. People with a cock eye always intrigue me. With their wandering eye, they can delve into a conversation with one person but are still aware of their surroundings.
I am working with two other girls. I won’t name names but lets just call them “Bambie” and “Veronica”. Bambie enjoys talking about Veronica’s drug habits, even though they have only known each other for an hour. I don’t disagree that Veronica seems slightly sketchy; sniffing away and making multiple trips to the bathroom, (let’s seize this opportunity and use the appropriately termed “powder room”.)
Bambie seems slightly sketchy herself, talking at an incredible rate of about one hundred words per minute, saying “I hate strippers” and “I am going to school full time” and “I work a full time normal job” and “I am engaged to a marvelous man in Florida” and “I was so done with this industry 3 years ago” and “This is not me” and “This is not my life” etc. etc.
Is this woman present? Like here on earth? What bubble is she living in? We are here, in this ancient hotel in Holden, Alberta rippin’ it up for these cowboys. I’ll admit that sometimes I lose my self in a daydream of a different life or foreign lands. It doesn’t last long as I am quickly jerked from my reverie from the loud, growly, drunken slurs and cheers of the small town crowd.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Be It Resolved that getting a boob job is a better way to enlarge your breasts than breastfeeding.
Most people are probably not aware how similar boob jobs are to breastfeeding, at least when it comes to cause and effect. You want big boobs? Pump out a little suckler and in no time your depressions will become swollen double Ds. Throw down a few grand and a surgeon will cut you up, inject some fluid and call you Dolly Parton.
Trouble is, what's the best method? Sure breastfeeding doesn't cost you anything, unless you count the cost of the child itself, which runs at around 1 mil these days. Now, if you are think you might only want big knockers for a short period of time, perhaps breastfeeding is the way to go. If you're like me, once you ween your little one, your luscious grapefruits will soon become bananas. I believe that breast augmentation (what a lovely euphamism) is reversable, but you will probably have to pay for that.
Jaclyn and I have an intimate relationship with the boobjob/breastfeeding comparison. While I was nursing Nathan, Jaclyn came to stay with us to recover from her surgery. We were both up in the middle of the night, swollen mammories and shared ice packs. Yes - a boobjob will keep you awake for the first couple days after the surgery, which is not the case with breastfeeding (unless you have strong tranquilizers.)
Don't get me wrong - I'm pro-breastfeeding. There are all those lovely benefits (weightloss, hormone highs, appetite of a pot-smoking hippy, etc), but perhaps it is not the ideal way to grow your titties.
Trouble is, what's the best method? Sure breastfeeding doesn't cost you anything, unless you count the cost of the child itself, which runs at around 1 mil these days. Now, if you are think you might only want big knockers for a short period of time, perhaps breastfeeding is the way to go. If you're like me, once you ween your little one, your luscious grapefruits will soon become bananas. I believe that breast augmentation (what a lovely euphamism) is reversable, but you will probably have to pay for that.
Jaclyn and I have an intimate relationship with the boobjob/breastfeeding comparison. While I was nursing Nathan, Jaclyn came to stay with us to recover from her surgery. We were both up in the middle of the night, swollen mammories and shared ice packs. Yes - a boobjob will keep you awake for the first couple days after the surgery, which is not the case with breastfeeding (unless you have strong tranquilizers.)
Don't get me wrong - I'm pro-breastfeeding. There are all those lovely benefits (weightloss, hormone highs, appetite of a pot-smoking hippy, etc), but perhaps it is not the ideal way to grow your titties.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Hello!!! I would like to take this opportunity to introduce myself.
Some May know me as Jaclyn, others may know me as "Jac The Ripper"
I am 23 years old. I live in Vancouver B.C. Although more than 50% of my time is spent in foreign exotic locations such as Calgary, Red deer, Fort McMurray , Grand Prairie, Nisku, and Holden Alberta.
You may ask "What do these places have to offer a 23 year old female?" After all 70% of the population in such regions are "oil riggin pigs" And my answer to you is "MONEY!"
I am a "Stripper" (my mother prefers to call me a exotic entertainer but I dont feel the need to over-glamorize what I do)
Thats right. I travel to small towns and provide these "oil riggin pigs" with their exotic entertainment. I strip down, get naked, peel it all off, and I rip it up, Night after night after night.
I should tell you "Jac The Ripper" is my stage name. It is a condensed version of "Jaclyn the Stripper". Get it JAClyn THE stRIPPER?
By day I am just Jaclyn, born and raised in small town Whitehorse, Yukon. I grew up camping hiking skiing and other outdoorsy activities....
"God only Knows" how I wound up here in my Nisku hotel room, blogging about Stripping.
Its time for me to wrap it up. I am on stage in 15 minutes.... Oh decisions.... Should I wear my Race Car costume my "Elvis" or my dominatrix?
It was very nice to meet you all!
Much love and kisses
Jaclyn aka JAC THE RIPPER
Be Nice To Nathan
Lately, I seam to spend every evening asking my husband why I find it so difficult to be nice to our 3-year old son Nathan. He is intelligent, sweet, loving and cute as can be. So why do I feel like I’m being followed around by my own personal red-headed version of Jar Jar Binks? My husband tells me that only something produced by my own genetics would know so intimately which buttons he needs to push.
Take the other day as an example. It was after lunch and Nathan was poking his head up over the window sill, looking out at the decaying late winter vegetation.
“Mommy, why is there a muffin crumb up in that tree?”
“That’s dead leaves Nathan.” I replied, my hands deep in sudsy water.
“Why is it dead leaves Mommy?”
“Because its still winter sweetie.”
“But why is it still winter mommy?”
“Because its February.”
“But why is it February Mommy?”
“It just IS Nathan.”
“But why, mommy why? Mommy, you’re not saying anything. Why, Mommy, why?”
Ever seen a 3 year old have a temper tantrum over the fact that a bunch of dead leaves in a tree was not a muffin crumb? I have.
Earlier that morning, I woke up to find Nathan standing on a chair pushed up to the counter, six previously unopened one liter juice tetrapaks before him. He was carefully tasting from each one in turn.
“I’m having my juice mommy,” he joyfully announced as a stream of liquid cascaded down the front of his jammies and pooled around the bottom of the chair.
When I signed up for his parenting gig four years ago, I never expected that I might be irritated by my own progeny. Frustrated, yes, worried, yes, but irritated? Irritation is reserved for the obnoxious offspring of “other people”. You know, the ones who obviously don’t discipline their children properly or why would they be screaming for the box of fruit loops in the grocery isle? Irritated by my own child, never! Or so I thought.
Now I stand, watching my 3 year old holding his uneaten sandwich over the floor, like a cheesy ransom note, while I say, “Nathan, please don’t drop your sandwich on the floor.” Guess what happens next. And screaming for the fruit loops? Can we say grocery store melt-down? Everytime.
The day would go on, my mood and temper rising up the ramp of impatience like peanuts on the conveyer belt to the crushing machine, when finally I am broken like a stale cracker under a bare foot. I yell at him over something minutely meaningless, like him forgetting to flush the toilet. Much screaming and yelling in sues, with Nathan inevitably spending much of the rest of his day in “time out”.
At the end of the day, when I am tucking Nathan into his bed, he reaches for me, wrapping his thin alabaster arms around my neck and whispering in my ear, “I love you mommy.” I almost cry, thinking of how many times I said the word “No” that day. Finally, I feel the knot in my eyebrows unfurling.
Perhaps it is my behavior that needs to be nudged in the positive direction. The next day I stick little post-it notes all over the house with the words, “Be Nice to Nathan” written in washable purple ink. One on the bathroom mirror for those nights that he screams while I comb his hair, one on the fridge for when he decides to grab the box of cheerios from the pantry and make a run for it. I put them everywhere. Little yellow reminders of the hug at the end of the day. Telling me, this moment is fleeting, chose your words softly, as he will only be my little 3 year old Nathan once.
Take the other day as an example. It was after lunch and Nathan was poking his head up over the window sill, looking out at the decaying late winter vegetation.
“Mommy, why is there a muffin crumb up in that tree?”
“That’s dead leaves Nathan.” I replied, my hands deep in sudsy water.
“Why is it dead leaves Mommy?”
“Because its still winter sweetie.”
“But why is it still winter mommy?”
“Because its February.”
“But why is it February Mommy?”
“It just IS Nathan.”
“But why, mommy why? Mommy, you’re not saying anything. Why, Mommy, why?”
Ever seen a 3 year old have a temper tantrum over the fact that a bunch of dead leaves in a tree was not a muffin crumb? I have.
Earlier that morning, I woke up to find Nathan standing on a chair pushed up to the counter, six previously unopened one liter juice tetrapaks before him. He was carefully tasting from each one in turn.
“I’m having my juice mommy,” he joyfully announced as a stream of liquid cascaded down the front of his jammies and pooled around the bottom of the chair.
When I signed up for his parenting gig four years ago, I never expected that I might be irritated by my own progeny. Frustrated, yes, worried, yes, but irritated? Irritation is reserved for the obnoxious offspring of “other people”. You know, the ones who obviously don’t discipline their children properly or why would they be screaming for the box of fruit loops in the grocery isle? Irritated by my own child, never! Or so I thought.
Now I stand, watching my 3 year old holding his uneaten sandwich over the floor, like a cheesy ransom note, while I say, “Nathan, please don’t drop your sandwich on the floor.” Guess what happens next. And screaming for the fruit loops? Can we say grocery store melt-down? Everytime.
The day would go on, my mood and temper rising up the ramp of impatience like peanuts on the conveyer belt to the crushing machine, when finally I am broken like a stale cracker under a bare foot. I yell at him over something minutely meaningless, like him forgetting to flush the toilet. Much screaming and yelling in sues, with Nathan inevitably spending much of the rest of his day in “time out”.
At the end of the day, when I am tucking Nathan into his bed, he reaches for me, wrapping his thin alabaster arms around my neck and whispering in my ear, “I love you mommy.” I almost cry, thinking of how many times I said the word “No” that day. Finally, I feel the knot in my eyebrows unfurling.
Perhaps it is my behavior that needs to be nudged in the positive direction. The next day I stick little post-it notes all over the house with the words, “Be Nice to Nathan” written in washable purple ink. One on the bathroom mirror for those nights that he screams while I comb his hair, one on the fridge for when he decides to grab the box of cheerios from the pantry and make a run for it. I put them everywhere. Little yellow reminders of the hug at the end of the day. Telling me, this moment is fleeting, chose your words softly, as he will only be my little 3 year old Nathan once.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The First Blog
This is a blog about Jaclyn and Emily, two sisters. As I'm the scientific one (Emily), I feel the best way to summarize our relationship is in point form:
Similarities:
Brown Hair
Five Fingers, Five Toes
Unconscious habit of tucking thumb into fist
Love of Sushi
Differences:
Blood Type (one of us is adopted)
Occupation (Stripper and Mom)
Height (midget and Goliath)
Skin Type (Whitey McWhite and Dark Coffee Bean)
The idea is, we can use this blog to post tidbits about our differing lives. I can blog about motherhood, and Jaclyn can blog about stripping.
We also have a radio documentary that was made for CBC Radio's now defunct program Outfront. It is called "My Sister is a Stripper" and can be found at the following url:
www.cbc.ca/outfront
Follow the links to "Past Shows" and look us up at the beginning of April, 2009.
Similarities:
Brown Hair
Five Fingers, Five Toes
Unconscious habit of tucking thumb into fist
Love of Sushi
Differences:
Blood Type (one of us is adopted)
Occupation (Stripper and Mom)
Height (midget and Goliath)
Skin Type (Whitey McWhite and Dark Coffee Bean)
The idea is, we can use this blog to post tidbits about our differing lives. I can blog about motherhood, and Jaclyn can blog about stripping.
We also have a radio documentary that was made for CBC Radio's now defunct program Outfront. It is called "My Sister is a Stripper" and can be found at the following url:
www.cbc.ca/outfront
Follow the links to "Past Shows" and look us up at the beginning of April, 2009.
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