I saw this the other day.
A middle-aged woman parked and got out. She was tanned. She was bleached. She was blown-out. She was plucked. She was blingity-bling-blinged. I couldn’t figure this one out.
I needed my BFF Chile. Back in my City Days, we’d spend countless hours in bars, swigging Bud Light from bottles and making up stories about strangers. The only rule was, you couldn’t choose your own stranger.
For her, I’d choose rockabilly hipsters, argumentative couples, and women sitting alone. Her stories pretty much always involved a cruise of some sort. And bongo drums.
For me, she’d choose sad old men, big boobed bimbos, and buttoned-up business men. My stories pretty much always involved a stripper pole. And dirty mattresses. Apartments filled with cats. Run of the mill stuff.
If Chile were here, she say the Call Me Lady was an aggressive Mary Kay Consultant, trying to earn enough points to win a pink Caddy. And take her husband on a cruise to Mexico. Where, after three days of mind-numbing shuffleboard tournaments, she’d get drunk on pina coladas and have illicit sex with a smelly bongo player.
I’d disagree. Clearly the Call Me Lady is an escort. My first inclination would be to say this was the madam, but I’m pretty sure the madam would have INCLUDED HER PHONE NUMBER SOMEWHERE.
Or maybe she’s just really good at suggestive sign language. All I know is somehow there’s got to be a stripper pole.