Overdue TMI

I promised a tale of TMI if my peeps donated to my Pie in the Face efforts to give the orphans in Kyrgyzstan a Christmas to remember. Actually I promised a little TMI if ya'll got me to the $300 mark. But you guys rock and put me to my goal of $500! For all you wonderful, big-hearted and sexy mofo's, this one's for you!

But in particular, this post is dedicated to Frank, not just because I'm sure he'll enjoy the confession-ridden, fleshy goodness of this post, but because he's awesome... and about 41 kids on the other side of the planet would certainly agree.

I've been really trying to search the archives in the ol' noggin for a good TMI story and it was much harder than I anticipated. Our dear friend Jenksy wows us with incredible adventures of TMI every Thursday (and oh how I count down the week days). He makes it look so easy and yet I was coming up empty handed. I was quite disappointed with myself, and at the same time a bit proud that I had no tales of vomiting on a date or peeing myself at a gas station (NTTAWWT). I started to think, "hey, maybe I'm far more classy than I give myself credit for! Why, I'm downright lady-like!".

And then I came across an old picture.

While in college in Fort Lauderdale, I worked and lived at a riding stable. It was awesome; 20 acres, 51 horses and a 2 1/2 bedroom house to myself. Granted, the house was kinda a piece of crap and I had to kick my former roommates out and living where you work really means you never get a day off (never mind ever calling in sick), but apart from that it was great. And I also got to move my horse down with me. Awesome.

Rent on the old crap shack was $400 a month, board for my horse was $100 a month and grain, vet and blacksmith was extra... and of course there was the expensive of college and books too. Oh yeah, and food, electricity, phone... blah, blah, blah.

Unfortunately my job at the riding stables paid $201 a week. Actually, it paid $250 a week but my boss took out $49 a week for taxes. Sadly, for two years he must have forgotten to pass along those with holdings to Uncle Sam because I have a big ol' blank spot in my work history with Social Security and by the end of my service at the farm, the IRS was all over my boss, who decided to solve his financial woes by hanging himself... but I digress.

So $201 a week. I worked 6 days a week, weekends were 12 hour work days, but they gave me the flexibility I needed for school. And I really did love the job and my co-workers.

But you don't have to be a mathematician to know I was po! Happy... but really, really po.

And then I learned about a little thing at a local bar called "Dressed To Kill" Fridays. It was simple, woman came dressed to kill, and lady with the most killer outfit, or whatever, went home with $500.

Lucky for me, my best friend in college always dressed like a hooker. Her daily outfits consisted of skin-tight pleather with no lack of skin exposed. But it worked for her as she started dating our Audio Engineering professor... and had a 4.0 GPA. But again, I digress.
So she took me shopping at a stripper clothing store (and in Ft. Lauderdale, there's plenty of both!). She helped me select an outfit fashioned primarily of vinyl, with matching boots, and I was in business. Oh wait, that sounds wrong. No, not that business.

So Friday came around and we melted into our plastic-y outfits (hey, it's Florida! Vinyl doesn't *breathe* well) and headed over to the local dive. We didn't really know what to expect. Would we be required to do a cat walk? Perform a talent (shut up!)? Or answer questions like 'how would we bring about world peace?'?
Nope. In fact we ordered a drink (the first and last drink I ever paid for at the dive) and played Buzztime interactive bar trivia for a few hours until the owner announced that the lady in the red vinyl shorts had won! CHA-CHING!!!!!! Easiest freakin' money EVER! two weeks worth of pay for hangin' with my homegirl and enjoy all the free drinks the bartender offered us. I collected my envelope of cash and went right home to peel off my sticky outfit to sleep.

And every Friday night I'd show up again, play trivia, a game or two of darts (after a few weeks I earned the name 'dart girl' - damn those guys would always be dropping their darts. I was always nice enough to pick them up) and enjoy free drinks. Around 11pm I'd go home with my $500 cash.

Easy money, baby!

What? You expected (more) sex? scandal?

Would you settle for a picture then?