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We're engaged! [Photo by The Crystal Image, Lawrence, Kansas]. by AnnaUndercover

"...life is like a song..."

-Etta James

[Ring custom-made by Niche Jewelry, Olathe, Kansas.]

A car crashed into a karate studio last night (I have pictures!), and the redeeming value of Olathe PD's unblinking eye of Sauron is now clear.

...

If you live, work, and date in three separate counties, two things are certain:

The laws of entropy will compel piles of crap in your car.

You will socialize with local traffic enforcement eventually.

One night at 2:30 a.m., I saw the dreaded flashing lights.

“Hi,” said a Lawrence police officer.

“You have a tail light out,” he said politely. “May I see your license and insurance?”

He frowned at the papers I gave him.

“This is your title. Where’s your insurance?”

Helpfully, the remaining document in my glove box confirmed that I could enter Cameroon in 2007.

“I swear I have Geico,” I squeaked. My hand volunteered my Blackberry. “Shall I phone them right now to confirm?”

I bowed my head in shame as he ran my license in his cruiser.

“I’ll let you off with a warning,” he said, sounding sternly parental when he returned. “Take care of that tail light tomorrow, and print proof of insurance off Geico.com.”

Grateful, I apologized profusely and promised to fix things tomorrow.

His flashlight wandered to the piles of extra shirts, school books, and shoes in my back seat.

“Your car is a mess,” he said.

Maybe twenty minutes later—

“Hi,” said a blond ambassador of Olathe PD, approaching my window with his flashlight.

“I have a tail light out,” I blurted. “I’m sorry. I work at night, but I can fix it tomorrow when the stores are open.”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “What are you doing?”

“I just got off work at a bar. I’m driving to my boyfriend’s house,” I explained. It was now 3:00 a.m.

“I was just pulled over in Douglas County.”

“No, you weren’t,” he countered automatically. “Were you?”

"What?"

I'd just jazzercised for eight hours.

I had no idea how to respond.

“Your license is out of state,” he continued. “How long have you lived in Kansas?”

He shined his flashlight over the heaps of t-shirts and books in my back seat.

“What’s all this stuff in the back?” he probed.

“I, uh, I’m moving?” I faltered.

“Insurance, please.”

…

He ran my license.

“Will you step out of the car?” he said.

“What?” I said in disbelief. “Am I being arrested?”

“No, I’m just going to explain the ticket,” said Officer Blond.

I unbuckled my seat belt and followed him to the sidewalk in disbelief.

It bewildered me to be standing under a streetlight after 3:00 a.m. at the center of a red and blue light show.

I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket.

“Do you mind if I search your car?” he asked.

“What?” I sputtered. “Um, well, I guess.”

He opened my driver’s side door and kneeled on the seat inside.

“Wait!” I yelled suddenly, vaguely recalling the paranoid rants of hippies in college.

“Do you really need to search my car?”

“If you have nothing to hide, then what’s the problem?” he said.

…

A new bulb and one Geico printout later, my other tail light bid an alluring ‘come hither’ to Olathe’s finest.

“Hi,” a vigilant Olathe officer greeted me one late afternoon.

It was daylight, and he still nabbed me.

“Your tail light appears to be out.”

“I know,” I said, ready this time. “I tried two new bulbs, but they didn’t work. I think I have a short.”

He took my license and the Geico printout to his car.

Seeing the Cameroon paper in the glove box again, my thoughts floated off to Africa.

I was jerked back to Kansas when he jumped back in front of me.

“What’s wrong?” I practically barked in surprise.

“I have to take off,” I think he said, quickly returning my ID and leaving.

He sped off, lights and sirens blaring.

…

Not long after—

“Your tail light is out,” another Olathe officer announced at my shoulder.

“I know. I’m just going to my boyfriend’s house,” I reprised, now in park at the edge of his driveway.

I pointed to his front door.

My blinker was patiently ticking.

“Sorry, but I’ll need your license and proof of insurance.”

I handed her my ID and opened the glove box.

Too bad we weren’t in Cameroon.

The last guy had taken off with my precious Geico printout!

“Sorry, but it needs to be with you in your car,” she said firmly.

Her partner’s flashlight nosed over a fresh heap of t-shirts behind me.

“I have no choice but to write you a ticket.”

Sigh.

…

Helplessly in orbit of the assiduous Olathe PD, I was glad they were on the scene last night, where (witnesses allege) a car drove right into a karate studio at 151st and Mur-Len.

A car sits inside a karate studio at 151st and Mur-Len on November 5, 2010. by AnnaUndercover

A better view. by AnnaUndercover

Things appear to turn out all right. by AnnaUndercover

A Fark.com headline suggests we did better than Texas:

A Fark.com news headline from November 5, 2010. by AnnaUndercover

[It reads: "If you want to remove your truck from the storefront you just crashed into, make sure no other vehicle is behind you. And remember, when pulling forward after backing into said vehicle, the store is still there."

The link on the left names Texas as the location of this far worse reported debacle.]

So thank you, Olathe, for holding things down.

I promise to print multiple copies of my Geico insurance card, conquer my tail lights, and clean out the back of my car.

Also, I may or may not re-read “1984.”

(But I do like the good things you do).

A year ago, I hit ‘publish’ and announced that I loved my job as an exotic dancer, and it remains as true today.

To celebrate, I offer a toast to another woman who proudly breaks the rules.

Yay! by AnnaUndercover

Proper etiquette is commensurate with human rights in some corners of New England, and at seven I thought this was law.

Naturally, there would be zero room for error at a family wedding we all had to attend—especially in my grandmother’s yard.

A generous swath of middle class heaven apportioned devotedly to a pageant of fruit trees and flowers, every inch was manicured and arranged for this very special day.

Salad fork. Dinner fork. Dessert fork.

Don’t eat too much food.

Nice girls don’t hog all the cake!

Stationed at the dessert table, I stared dolefully at the remaining fluffy, frosted goodness.

My Aunt Charlene walked confidently over to my side.

“Do you want another piece of cake?” she asked with a tilt of her head and a smile.

She looked stylish with her fists on her hips in a pink cocktail dress, her hair swept prettily in front of one shoulder.

She reached over and picked up a piece with her hands.

Her hands!

My eyes went wider as she fed it to me with her fingers.

It tasted equally as good!

She laughed proudly, legs apart, looking cocky as her fists returned to her hips.

“I can do that because I’m your Aunt Charlene!” she said with authority.

She spun on her heel and walked away.

Thank you, Aunt Charlene, for a memorable introduction to being 'so bold.'

Girls, girls, girls!

They're at your local strip club, and they're not just on the staff.

They're here, they're queer, and a lot of them are hetero, too.

A gaggle of four giggling teenage girls that visited me weekly at the Outhouse last winter.

("Omigod," the 18-year-old would gush. "I have such a crush on you!" I never knew what to say).

It's true that women enjoy the exotic arts, and over the summer, one such woman boldly went where no man had gone before:

My adorable little birthday girl customer sent me a message on Facebook! by AnnaUndercover

I do, in fact, know her wonderful, sweet husband from another club.

(Awww)!

Charming, bubbly, and aesthetically pleasing to behold, I'm calling her "Pixie" on here. She is my favorite of all my female customers, and you can bet I worked for each one.

A simple "hi" does not impress them, and she'll get bored and leave unless you're funny and quick.

They very much enjoy the stage-side show, and that's where they tend to participate the most.

Men buy more dances, but women are far tougher to land as regulars, so I'm somewhere between proud and lucky to have three or four right now.

I always do my best, but this message made me, like, clap. :) by AnnaUndercover

Yay! by AnnaUndercover

Especially when their girlfriends come, too! (With one husband/birthday boy in tow, this time).

The wife crossed the club to get me. "I'm getting him a dance!" she said.

"Yes, ma'am!" I responded, saluting her.

Gleefully, she took her seat as I took mine, and the music began.

Abuse ensued.

"Hahahaha!" the girls laughed as I slammed down hard into his lap.

(Isn't that what every birthday boy deserves?)

Several punches and purple-nurples later, the girls clapped as I curtsied. Women tend to enjoy it when I beat up the man they brought with them.

"Omigod!"

A 21-year-old (had to be) girl was exclaiming a few tables from Pixie's group when I walked over, later. "Omigod, I love you. You are so cute. I want a dance right now."

Yes! Score. People like their little geishas to reflect their tastes, so it's lucky when you fit the bill exactly.

"Of course I'll give you a dance, sweetheart!" I said with a mischievous grin.

"Me next!" said her girlfriend. "Next song," she commanded.

"And then me," said a shy, blond tomboy at the end of their tables.

$30 in about 12 minutes? Good deal.

It was (almost) all women, all night for me last weekend, and I had a stage-side line of all female tippers more than once.

Early in the night, they almost tip-toe toward the stage with the same sheepish, mischievous grin, cautiously excited to cut loose in the windowless privacy of a strip club.

Tip in hand, it was her first time at a strip club, and she grinned up at me with a girlish thrill on her face.

"Am I really doing this?!" her wide eyes and incredulous smile seemed to say as I knelt by the edge of the stage.

Her nervous excitement made me giggle as I played with her hair and swayed gracefully, inches from her face.

She started to relax, and almost closed her eyes.

"You smell amazing," she half-mumbled, almost deliriously, and smiled, seeming embarrassed at what she said.

I took her tip and hugged her.

"Thank you, sweetheart," I purred. She smiled up at me with sparkling eyes.

Aw.

For a few moments, the dance, the music, the make-up, and lights--the whole production--was exclusively hers, and she loved it.

From "Pixie," that Sunday:

:) by AnnaUndercover

46 Mommas are going to shave their heads on Tuesday to raise awareness for childhood cancer research, and Karla Knudson of Lawrence is one of them.

Using beauty-obsessed Hollywood as a platform, they will “Shave for the Brave” to spotlight the surprising fact that pediatric cancer research is underfunded.

Ms. Karla Knudson ^^ Momma Extraordinaire by AnnaUndercover

“I can’t believe I’m going to shave my head!” Karla laughed over lunch on Monday.

Even so, she is determined to go all the way for her cause, and the excitement in her voice was palpable as she declared she wouldn’t even leave any peach fuzz.

“I’m going completely bald,” she said excitedly between bites of pizza at 715 Restaurant.

As you might imagine, her passion for the cause is as personal as it gets: on February 7, 2009, Karla’s 11-year-old daughter was diagnosed with Burkitt’s Lymphoma—the same day as her father’s birthday. Seeking support, Karla used social media to connect with other moms of children who have fought or are fighting cancer, and 46 Mommas was born.

Ultimately, the group aims to raise $1 million for childhood cancer research through St. Baldrick’s Foundation.

46 children and adolescents are diagnosed with cancer every week day.

“We don’t want any more mommas to hear a doctor say, ‘your child has cancer,’” writes Karla.

Please join me in giving to 46 Mommas through St. Baldrick’s Foundation here.

“Shave for the Brave” takes place at 4 p.m. PST (6 p.m. CST) this Tuesday, September 7th. If you’re in Los Angeles and can lend your support in person, head to the Center Court of Hollywood and Highland Center. For more information, please do check out 46mommas.com.

Happy September!

There are women making a difference, and women having fun.

Some women are helping other women have that fun. :)

Completely unrelated to our charity post above:

Lesbians, lesbians everywhere! I’ve always had a niche market in couples and women, but last Friday was a memorable one.

We had a bunch of little groups of young women—gay and straight—definitely living it up.

Aaaand they were all over me at one point. Sometimes there’s a reason for it—a special outfit, a good trick—this time, I think it was just luck!

I was excited to see a beautiful blue-eyed blond who’s bought dances from me before. An absolutely classic beauty, you expect this super-feminine persona when you first meet her, but as soon as she opens her mouth to speak, the girl will dominate the crap out of you.

THE CRAP.

Possibly my new regular. We’ll see!

I’m exhausted, so this is where we’ll end today.

Things I Promised People I’d Put in My Next Post:

The faaabulous Ms. Sarah K. S. discovered yet another reason why Lawrence is awesome: free foot massages from, er, slightly inebriated friendly people on New Hampshire Street. :)

Everyone, be nice to toll takers. Say hello, smile if so moved, and definitely say thank you. They're real people and they have feelings.

Whoever is driving around in a rusty SUV with no rear view mirror: You almost crushed me twice this summer. Get a mirror. I want to live.

Real post next week. :) xoxo

Airborne as I erupted from my customer’s lap, I cried out with passion:

“Noooooo!”

I was seized with panic, mid-lap dance, at his sudden confession.

Made clear by this admission, the 20-year-old boy beneath me was not a normal customer, but a poor, bleating lamb astray in a land of $20-dances.

“I must save you from this pricey peril!”

Snatching his innocent wrist, I leaned into a full sprint and charged heroically toward the VIP-area exit.

Launching after his arm, the floppy-haired lamb dragged behind his rescuer with startled blue eyes.

“Come on!” I shouted urgently.

The cape of truth and justice streamed behind my stiletto-ed figure like a rippling emblem of financial sobriety.

We flew to the exit, and the doorway broke into a zone of economic relief--the main floor--where lap dances cost only $10 per song.

I flung the bewildered blond to budget-conscious safety.

Whip-lashed ahead, the boy stumbled into a cluster of cushioned cocktail chairs and spun around to stare at me in consternation.

Chest heaving from our wild retreat, my eyes stayed with his as I fell to my knees before him and clasped my hands in desperate fear of Suze Orman’s wrath, shouting piously:

”I can’t take money from the fries-guy at McDonald’s!”

...

“...Yeah, I work at McDonald’s,” he’d admitted, to my abject horror.

They might be the only words powerful enough to disarm a bloodthirsty, sales-driven predator.

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t sell you any more $20-dances if I know you work at McDonald’s,” I (actually) said, perched in the boy’s lap on a VIP-area couch.

I cringed at the mental image of him slaving behind a broom for minimum wage.

“Um, OK, well, that’s nice,” he said. "But I really, really don’t care.”

What....?

He shrugged as he blinked, staring at me without expression.

“I want a lap dance, and you have the most amazing butt ever, so just give me a dance."

Mmmm.

shut_the_hell_up.jpg

"You're sure?" My conscience made me press.

"Yes," he said, obviously annoyed.

“Okay,” I said, flashing a rare fake smile.

Under 20 minutes later, I shook my head and walked away with 80 of his hard-earned dollars.

Tips from the last time I charged my camera's battery.

Day_3_Club_032.JPG

It took a team of lumberjacks to restrain her.

Colossal, blindingly white, and straining the thick, steel cables taught, the Great White Butt tested the strength of the seasoned, burly men as they strained, veins bulging, to overpower her fight against the human anchors below.

"Land sakes, men!" boomed a barrel-chested, mustachioed foreman.

"Hold her fast and bring her down!"

From their position at the helm of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, the men, giant among the gawking on-lookers, were ants under the conjoined orbs above, a gluteal leviathan, swaying and threatening with her massive girth.

"Heave her! Heave, now!" the foreman bellowed madly, standing firm on his prosthetic legs, adrenaline swelling and surging through his body, weathered by years of pursuing this mighty beast.

But the Great White Butt heaved first, whiplashing the crew onto their backs in the street below.

In that instant, the foreman fell forward, charging through his fallen men to grab the cable that would pull her to him at long last.

"Ahab! No!" The first mate yells after him, reaching toward him as he lay helplessly in the street.

But Ahab looks back at him suddenly, meeting the terrified gaze with pure possession in his eyes, demon-driven for decades to hunt, find, and kill the Great White Butt.

In his distraction, a cable flies back and snaps, lightening-fast, around his ox-like neck.

"Nooooooooo!" the first mate screams.

Bug-eyed and cycling wildly as he rises with her through the air, the Great White Butt bolts powerfully away, dragging Ahab to his death and soaring to freedom in the wild blue yonder.

"You!"

A beautiful, raven-haired girl jumped in front of me moments after I walked in to work last night.

"What?!" I asked, genuinely surprised, but excited to have the attention of one of the club's pristine, princess-like dancers, whose beauty and pole skills outrank mine by quite a bit.

"I know something," she said, sparkling as she smiled and pointed at me.

My eyes bugged out.

"What--Uh, did you tell anyone? Um--Well, what are you talking about?" A terrible liar in the first place, I'm the worst when nailed without warning.

I knew exactly what she was talking about, and I froze like a six-year-old caught sneaking cookies in the middle of the night. I worried if the secret got out, my (also secret) new club might not be very excited about it.

"I know about you," she said, still grinning.

"About what?" I asked, cracking a smile back at her. I liked this girl, and had a good feeling that she would be safe...

"Do you write a blog?"

"Yes," I said, smiling as I monitored my volume. "But it's a secret. Did you tell anyone else?"

I looked around. I don't want my little corner of the internet to complicate the job I love so much.

No one else was in earshot.

"No," she said. It was the ballet and a few other details that gave it away, she said.

She promised to keep it a secret.

I smiled and hugged her. I was so grateful for her discretion and glad my secret hobby could continue.

A bouncer approached, and we dropped the conversation immediately.

I grinned, and felt a kind of sisterhood with her in keeping the secret together.

It was a crap night for tips, but I danced gleefully, all night long.

A picture of my (happy) foot from last night, because I can't post a smile for you. (I'm a ninja; sorry! Also: Shoes purchased by a happy customer, and worn proudly all night).

Shoes_May_26_2010_002.JPG

In the latest sign of the apocalypse, it is possible to earn VIP status at the 23rd Street Taco Bell in Lawrence, Kansas.

This is very bad news if you report to work with no pants on, and people show up to watch.

"Oh! It's you!" the all too familiar voice said through the speaker.

It was 3:01 a.m. last Saturday, and the drive-through guy was telling a long line of customers they were now closed.

"Here's a drink," the smiling teenager said when I pulled up. I grinned, thanked him, and started to drive away.

"Wait!" he yelled. "We have quesadillas for you!"

"Yay!" I said, unable or unwilling to decline the free snack. I smiled and accepted the bag. "Thanks, guys!"

Total sweethearts.

As I drove home, I had a bite of the yummy, cheesy goodness, pictured my butt, and wished that evil didn't taste so good.

But it did taste good, and over the past 12 months, I gradually ate more and more of it at the 23rd Street Taco Bell drive-through.

So...

I weighed 117 pounds when I moved here in May 2009, and now, um, I don't, anymore, and this is bad.

"Do a trick! Do a trick!" an excited customer demanded of me recently. In keeping with strip club etiquette, he tucked $3 in the side of my black Victoria's Secret underthings for his request.

"Thank you," I purred, smiling through worried, clenched teeth. Could I pull off the one (cool-looking) trick I know? Even though I hadn't done push-ups in forever?

Eh. Why not?

I hugged the pole and swung my legs up high, stretching my stilettoed toes to the ceiling as I snaked my legs around the metal fixture and squeezed, hard, to support my weight. I hung upside down, looking 'up' at the floor. Ready!

My legs unfolded to a graceful pose, my arms absorbed all my weight, and I slid down into a crowd-pleasing, topless... Semi-slow-mo...

...face-plant.

Awesome.

Yeah, I weigh 136 pounds now, and I looked super sexy flailing my legs around with my face smooshed into the floor.

A good laugh later, I sat with customers in the soft red chairs by the stage and wistfully watched the Barbie-shaped princesses rocking the pole like demons in front of us.

Sigh.

"Get out of here with your big blond hair and your crazy acrobatics!" I gawk silently, watching them monkey up and down the poles on all three stages.

"You're fat!" a regular customer teased, interrupting my admiration.

"Shut up," I said, unbothered by anyone's opinion, teasing or not. (Thank you, stripping, for testing and affirming my bulletproof self-esteem).

At any rate, he'd paid for two of my $55 parking tickets, despite the extra poundage, so who was he kidding? (Hi, Lawrence PD! No hard feelings). He (and every other guy in Kansas) is obviously not tired of watching me dance around in my underwear.

I don't actually look fat--I'm not visually offensive, but after years of competitive ballet and jazz, this adult triathlete never thought they'd know what 19 pounds of fat looks and feels like during such a physical job.

Below: I salivate behind the lens.

Despite what my boyfriend says ("You're not fat!"), I have to lose the weight, says the American Heart Association. I'm overloaded with 19 pounds of unnecessary calories, and I've doubled my risk of developing Type II Diabetes, as well as my risk for post-menopausal breast cancer.

So I have a plan. Twenty days of healthier food and jogging around the local high school track, and I should be looking much better, inside and out.

But it will require push-ups.

UGH.

Below: A new wall decoration.

The requisite groceries are in the fridge.

IT IS SO ON.

On that note, I'm going to bed.

My new day starts when yours ends.

Lawrencians in a similar situation can collaborate and find support on the new Lawrence Journal-World health site.

PSA: Please message me if you, personally, have a three-, four- or five-bedroom house for rent around 151st Street in Olathe, KS, which I will forward to a party who will get in touch with you. (Include phone/email). It's an urgent matter.