Madam I'm, Adam

Yesterday morning, I walked Clara in the Bugaboo to Randall's Supermarket to get some half and half. I can't drink coffee without it now, since Clara was born. Must be some evolutionary thing going on there -- the half and half shielding her from the violence of full-on caffeinated breastmilk. I'm hungry as I'm walking to the store, so when I get there, I'm looking for something to appease my hunger. The Apple Fritter will do. I pick one out, along with two croissants, and head to the check out line with my breakfast items.

One thing I hate about the Randall's near my house is there are NEVER enough checkers. The store has 11 checkout ailes, but no more than one or two are ever open -- the same one or two, too. It's like the other checkout aisles are ghost ailses. And they don't have a DIY U-Scan machine either, so one has to wait and wait and wait, no matter how many items one has in her basket.

Yesterday morning -- Sunday morning -- I had to wait and wait while two young ladies checked out with a mountain of stuff ahead of me -- Crest toothpaste, boxed Waffles, a log of Jimmy Dean sausage, a case of Diet Coke, packages of cheese, Jello pudding cups, Lucky Charms, Lean Cuisines, bobby pins, hairspray, etc. The young ladies looked like they might have just gotten off work from a gentleman's club. One of them had long, long blond hair that smacked of Barbie. She wore black wide-leg pants, a chiffon variety, with a big rhinestone belt buckle, a black plunging halter top, black stiletto sandals with three rhinestone circles adorning the top part of the shoe. She weighed not more than 97 pounds. The other girl was a brunette, wearing short pink shorts, a baseball tee that had ambercrombie in cursive across her tiny little breasts (perky, no bra) and pink slippers. She had nice muscle tone in her legs. I wondered if they looked as skinny when they were on stage. Like maybe the stripper stage adds 10 pounds, like the t.v.

They appeared to be on their way home, this Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m.

The young ladies discussed the Blue Laws in Texas as they waited for the checker to finish her work. "Not all states are like Texas about alcohol, are they?" the brunette asked the checker.

"No alcohol before noon on Sundays," the checker answered.

I might have piped up and added, "In California, you can buy Sky Vodka and Johnnie Walker at the supermarket 24 hours a day, 7 days a week," but I didn't feel like talking.

After they were gone, the checker gave me a "knowing" look, as in "did you see those ladies? We know what's going on there, don't we?"

I felt guilty letting this checker think that I held the same disapproving attitude toward the young ladies that she did. I might have told her that I've no real problem with strip clubs except that the owners are mostly sleazy men who have no real respect for women. I might have told her that one of my fantasies is to own a strip club and be the best owner/madam in Houston, TX, the sex-industry capital of the U.S.A. I'd treat my women so well, making sure that they were respected and honored as the sacred goddesses they are. (Somebody has to do this work!) I would provide them with excellent health benefits, including mental health coverage, should they want or need it. And I would provide child-care services at a facility next door to my club, which would have one qualified and loving caretaker for every two children.

But I didn't feel like talking. It was too early in the morning, and I hadn't had my coffee yet.