My life is not a movie ... or maybe a really trippy one?

Last week was a whirlwind of hustling for me and I’m finally getting a chance to breathe (Oh, Irony, you silly thing, you. I’m writing this from my desk as the “real” work continues to pile up).

I feel a little like Dolly, except I’ve been working more like 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. everyday. (Or maybe more like Ru Paul? You better work.)

I have a day job. It’s do-goodery and makes it so that I can look at myself in the mirror most mornings through puffy eyes and say “You’re OK, kid.” But, I live on the very edge of my means because I love to travel, go out, and shop, so I gots to get down and dirty entrepreneur-style from time to time.

Last week, with the help of Martini, I managed to bring in a few hundred dollars of easy money plus a Mexico Fiesta Extravaganza excursion by whoring it up, I mean, pouring vodka into the mouths of some dudes, smiling a lot, and enduring a timeshare spiel. (which they said was not a timeshare and then proceeded to tell us how they specialize in “week-long stays in luxury condominiums.” Come on. Am I wearing plaid pants, bifocals and a fedora? Fool me once …) I could not recap this as well as Martini did, so if you’re interested, see her post.

I found myself pretty much cracking up all week at how hilarious it was that I was popping the caps off of countless bottles of mini Coronas and mixing up margs with this broken arm in tow. On Friday, for the more sophisticated of the two bartending gigs, (and by sophisticated, I mean a bunch of 30 year olds in jeans and tees shooting guns, drinking Bud Light, and playing poker. Oh, how I wish this was a joke.) I actually shoved my arm into the long sleeve of a slinky black dress. This was so awesome to me because, of course, I looked super hot with my Transformer like arm at my side all night. I actually stuffed the tips from the evening into my splint as a way of holding them. Can you say class-ay? I was pulling ones from weird places all night (oh! Too easy.)

Saturday was finally for relaxing! I had been looking forward to Phoenix Pride for weeks. I love being outside, drinking, meeting new people, drag queen shows and lots of PDA, so I could think of nothing better to do with a Saturday afternoon. I wonder, though, why so many puzzled looks came my way when I said I was going. Lots of “I thought you were straight” looks and some direct lines of questioning. I thought Pride was about supporting the idea that people can love whoever they want. I’m all about that. And day drinking.

Also, I feel I know a lot about the community, but lately I’ve been exposed to all these new terms I know nothing about like “webalow” (thought that was a boy scout) and “docking” (Hoist up the John B. Sail?) There should be a manual – A Straightees Guide to the Gay Universe?

I walked around for who knows how long with my full left butt cheek sticking out of my dress until a sweet girl came over and said “Honey, I don’t know if this is on purpose or not, but your ass is hanging out.” Apparently the hem got stuck up under my purse. The best part was that I was wearing a thong and it made me look like I had Barbie crotch. In any other situation I might be embarrassed (that’s not true. I can think of lots of times when similar things have happened sans embarrassment) but since it was Pride and every other person was wearing chaps, Speedos or diapers, I felt OK with myself.

Quick wardrobe change and a martini later and we were off to a local food and wine festival (done and done). Arizona is the greatest this time of year because you can literally live outside in a sundress or swimsuit all day and night. We met up with this guy I met when I was an extra on this Lifetime movie. (and no it’s not Hushed Rapings.) He was the Assistant Director in charge of staging the extras. I blew his scene by not going on my cue. It was amazing. I think I’m in the running for an Oscar this year.

We hung out at the wrap party and I thought he was super nice. Unfortunately, he looks like a shorter, clothed version of Ron Jeremy and I wasn’t feeling the date vibe. However, his friends were a hoot and we had a blast at the festival singing and dancing all night.

Enter his cute friend.

Why do guys think they get to pee all over you and mark their territory with no regard for whether you like them back? Said cute friend told my friend he “couldn’t talk” to me because “he was already in trouble” with Ron Jeremy for flirting with me. Do I get no say? I’ve never even been on a date Mr. 70s porn.

I have been stranded out here in No Actionville for far too long to put up with this stuff. I could start riots. I could throw bags and bags of Lipton into my swimming pool. No forced celibacy without representation! (huh?)

In other news, I am now sure that my twitchy eye is directly related to my job. After a very scientific study wherein I noticed that it didn’t twitch all weekend and today it looks like my heart rests behind my right eyeball instead of in my chest cavity, I have drawn an obvious and highly data driven conclusion. It’s either this or I actually have Alcohol Withdrawal Syndrome. The latter would be more convenient because I need a job but I could drink there if I had to – you know, if it was like a medical condition or a weekday or something.

Ah, booze. Seriously. Liquid Lunch Mondays. I could campaign on that and have a much better chance of being the first woman in the White House.