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Miss Buttocks

Since our electricity in Annapolis goes out every time our neighbor sneezes too hard, we thought it would be a nice idea to get stranded at my brother-in-law Gary’s house for Super Bowl weekend rather  ending up huddled together wondering what each other tastes like with a nice Chianti. Of course, Mike would have died as a member of the Donner party due to the fact that he is physically incapable of eating meat without red wine, so I’m thinking I would have been the survivor as long as I distracted him from his hunger until the Cabernet was gone.

When we arrived in Pennsylvania Friday, Gary’s two kids, twelve and eight, were still at school, so we rolled to the local bar “Tailgaters” to get in a little Kid-Free fun before the snow started. This is where I continued antagonizing Gary by pointing out to him that I was pretty sure his youngest daughter was going to grow up to be a pole dancer.

That’s TERRIBLE! You’re saying. What a thing to say about an eight year old! But you have to understand she —  let’s call her “Crystal,” — has a wild streak a mile wide. She’s very funny and tough in her own little eight year old way, headstrong, and just a little bit nutty. Quick example – when she was younger Gary pointed a praying mantis out to her and said, “See this bug? You don’t see these all the time, isn’t it pretty?” Your typical six year old girl would stare at it with wonder… maybe name it “Greeny Paws” or something.

Crystal looked at it for a second, then smashed it with her bare hand and giggled maniacally.

Future serial killer? Possibly. But I think mostly she did it to make her father laugh.  Which he did, because Gary’s a sick bastard. The two of them are certifiable. Let’s just say there is no wondering if Crystal is the mailman’s kid.

Anyway, all that aside, the real point is it drives Gary nuts when I imply his daughter is destined to be a stripper, and that is 60% of the reason I do it. The other 30% is that she’ll probably grow up to be a stripper. 10% is because she might grow up to be a serial killer and I’m trying to make him feel better by insinuating that she’ll only be a stripper.

So later, when the kids came home from school, I thought it would be funny to ask Crystal what her dancing name would be. I didn’t say “stripper name” – I didn’t imply ANYTHING to do with dancing for money. I just said “If you were a dancer, what would your dancer name be?”

She immediately replied, “Miss Buttocks.”

So put another check in the “future stripper” box. Check!

Later in the evening, after a few cocktails (me, not Crystal) I thought it would be funny to teach her to twirl around the columns they have in their living room in a vague pole dancing style. I taught her a quick routine that soon had her mother, her older sister and me crying laughing and Gary fuming. She was a natural.

Check!

Her mother, Heather, said Crystal couldn’t remember her spelling words but amazingly she remembered every move of the new pole dance.

Check!

I pointed out to Gary that, instead of a college fund, maybe he could start putting money away with a stripper supply store – like layaway for future pole dancers. Maybe invest in Fisher Prices’ new “My First Pasties.”

As we wiped the tears of laughter from our eyes Crystal moved on to practicing her gymnastic moves. She is, in fact, a very talented little gymnast. Right there in the living room she did a backbend-handspring thingy that landed in a complete split.

“She,” I said, shaking my head in awe at this sight and patting Gary soothingly on the arm. “is going to make a LOT of money some day.”

Amy Vansant

Amy Vansant

Author Amy Vansant enjoys long walks on the beach, anything to do with her Labradoodle Gordon and frantically getting nothing useful done.
Amy Vansant

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