Sitting at my favorite deli, waiting on my favorite salad. I walked in wearing my tank top bearing the logo and name of the company I decided to contract with — a bachelor/birthday/strippers-for-parties service. I’ve gotten priceless looks, ranging from OH HELL YES to EW THEY EAT LIKE HUMANS? I’d really like it if people would just keep to themselves. Especially the busboys, who are so busy sweeping every single crumb anywhere near my table that it’s irritating.
I had a photo shoot today with the company and met the owner. I really like him; he’s smart, knows the business, up front about expectations. The shoot was classy and well-thought out in a beautiful park instead of hotel trash. I, unfortunately, woke up with snot dripping out of my face and watery and red eyes from allergies. One eye is probably infected. I’ve got bruises all over. He assured me he’s great with photoshop, and I assured him I’d taken two forms of allergy medications, an antibiotic, and eye drops. Turns out, he’s great with a camera.
I think we’ll get along well. He’s a no-bullshit-about it kind of guy—and makes his expectations for being on time, being presentable, being well-mannered, and staying away from hard drugs and getting drunk well-known by firing without rehire anyone who crosses the line. I like these rules. I like the girls—they’re some of the best dancers in my city, and we all get along well. I actually feel pretty excited that I was chosen to work with the long-legged, beautiful, poised girls in the company. These are the girls I make the most working alongside in the club, The Gazelles. I don’t feel much like a Gazelle, but I suppose someone likes me enough to ask me to work for them.
Onward to salad-eating and work. And then hopefully home early from a half-night and some extra sleep tonight. I could really use it.