vote for creamy

My booty-shaking friend, Creamy Stevens, has been honored with a Golden Pastie nomination for said booty-shaking abilities.

If you don't mind, kindly take a moment to vote for Creamy as "The Best Booty Shaker in Burlesque." I realize many of you have never seen Creamy shake her booty but shake it she does, I assure you.

Look, here's Creamy...

Okay, so she's not exactly shaking her booty in that photo but still, doesn't she just exude a master booty-shaking vibe?

I think so. If you do too (and you KNOW you do), please click here to vote. The awards will be handed out at on September 2 at this year's New York Burlesque Festival.

Congrats and good luck, Creamy!

poppin' a [re]cap in your asses

I had a rather eventful weekend. The highlight was, without a doubt, the New York Burlesque Festival. I attended Friday night's opening salvo and, my oh my, I had quite the time of it. I was positively dumbstruck by the amount of stunning, fashionable women twirling their pastie-clad boobies around.

Leading the charge was the illustrious Creamy Stevens, aka The Roommate of The Lovely Jess. Not only is she stunning, but she's got a killer act. J'adore Creamy Stevens. Go see her perform with Starshine Burlesque every Thursday night at Rififi. She and the entire troupe will not disappoint.

I took a few pictures of the festival. CAUTION: While there are no nips to be found, I do suggest using discretion before clicking on the link if you're at work.

Most of my Saturday was spent in Jersey. It was quite the contrast and come-down from Friday night's flesh fest but I'm getting some work done on mah teefs and needed to visit my dentist (two more visits and I'm done. RAWK!) Fortunately, his office is five minutes from my sister's so after having my choppers poked and prodded, I headed back to her house for some BS and a bout of ball-playing in the backyard with The Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece. I was hating life afterwards thanks to my allergies but the memory of that little girl's incessant and infectious giggle as we played keep-away was far more therapeutic than 10 mg of Loratadine.

Oh and I also taught her how to snap the tops off dandelions while singing, "Mama had a baby and its head popped off!" It's really important to hand down traditions to the next generation, you see.

The Younger Sister, she of the ill-timed keg stand, also stopped by on her way to a wedding "down the shore." We sat around drinking coffee, knoshing on bagels and discussing... the wonders of the Dyson vacuum cleaner. We're either a) getting old or b) at a loss for good conversation topics. But in true McDimple fashion, we made it interesting. Now, none of us are lucky enough to own one of those expensive bad boys but that did not stop us from cooing over its new roller-ball technology (that makes it easy to swivel around corners) and, of course, its superiority over its "hopelessly clogged" competitors. The McDimple Girls sweat the Dyson.

The Niece then approached me with a box of colored chalk and requested my presence outside to decorate the sidewalk. She was SO on. I excitedly followed her and we quickly filled the walk in front of her house with pictures and letters.

Playing with chalk is fun. When I was a nanny, I drew an elaborate construction scene on the path near the 79th Street Boat Basin. People stopped to watch me draw as my two charges encouraged me and offered suggestions. They and passers-by were thrilled with my rendering. I felt all cool and crap.

Whenever my niece asks me to participate in a creative activity, I jump at the chance. I love that she's able to express her imagination and energy through art. And I seize the opportunity when she shows interest because when she doesn't have a crayon in her hand, that creativity is sometimes expressed through mischief. Truthfully, it's kinda funny but she's becoming increasingly destructive the older and smarter she gets.

So outside we went with the chalk. I'm LOVING the fact that she's a budding artist. She takes amazing pictures with my camera and her drawings get better each time I see her. For example, on Saturday she drew a whale and it was really good! And then she drew another whale and made the eyes heart-shaped to signify that this whale was in love with the first one. The Younger Sister suggested she attach the words "Hubba Hubba" to firmly cement (if you'll pardon the pun) their attraction. I then had her draw two whales mouth-to-mouth and taught her the universal cartoon word to depict kissing: SMACK!

So, before long, the entire sidewalk was littered with pictures of humpbacks macking on each other. It was quite the scene. I'm pissed that I didn't have my camera with me as I'm sure pictures of soft-core whale porn would make my blog traffic soar. Actually, that sentence alone will no doubt do it.

my first trip to a nudie bar

My head hurts today thanks to lack of sleep and one too many beers last night. Jess, Pete and I watched the kick-ass band The Witching at The Pussycat Lounge into the wee hours. We all agreed that it was a fabulous -- and fucking strange -- night out. Jess recounts our odd encounter with an ATM in the shady back room of a nearby deli. Had either Jess or I ventured in there alone, odds are we would have been sold into slavery and never seen or heard from again. Sketchiness abounds in that place.

So I've never really been to a girly bar before. I don't know that I'll ever go again. Yuck. It smelled like disinfectant, which I guess is better than NOT smelling like disinfectant but it bothered me somewhat that Pine-Sol needs to be so liberally applied during business hours. I don't think they're mopping up spilled beer, you see...

I don't understand that whole ogling of women business. I also would love to know what the dancers think about as they sit and wiggle on a mirrored surface. Prior to my entering the establishment, I entertained the notion of dating one of these women. My theory was that a stripper would take to me because I'm practical and grounded. Not a sugar mama, mind you, but rather a consistent force of stability... and you know, a guaranteed rockin' romp in the sack, if I do say so myself. But when I entered, I was immediately put off by that dead, vacant "I don't give a fuck" look in their eyes. I don't care how they make their money if they like the work but that sort of detachment scares me. I think I'll set my sights on burlesque dancers since they're self-aware and 'cause I think pasties would be fun to play with.