Musings of a Chicago-Born New Yorker

Back To Being A Working Girl

The husband and I are back from the honeymoon and back to work. I was looking forward to coming back to work. In a magical world, an alternative universe, I’d be able to alternate between this job I love and the time spent on my honeymoon. Maybe every two weeks I’d switch back and forth.

But in reality, that’s not possible. So I’ll just relive our honeymoon in my head. Lots of good food. In Chicago, we ate everything. The best seafood, the best steaks, the best brunch. We ate dinner twice a couple nights that week. In New Orleans, we ate gumbo for most meals, and po’ boys for the others. So much food. I gained more than 10 pounds. I weighed myself, so I know.

Starting next week, I’ll get back on the bandwagon with my New Year’s Resolutions. I told the husband I would keep gaining weight, but he responded that I was too much a fan of my body to let that happen. I guess we’ll see if he’s right in a couple weeks.

On my to do list right now is to file the paperwork to change my name. New ID, new passport, new SSN card, new checkbook, new credit cards. It’s just so much! Thank God all our bills are in his name, that would be a huge hassle. It was nice to come back to work and see they’re already using my new name. Luckily I have direct deposit so I don’t have to try and cash a check made out to new me with old me’s ID.

To finish, I will tell a great story from our honeymoon. No, it’s not about all the sex we were having. Now that I’m married, I feel no shame to discuss my sex life. Yeah, buddy!

Down in New Orleans, on Mardi Gras, we left Bourbon Street to go to Frenchman’s Street. There were a lot of bars there with great live music. One of the husband’s friends was playing a gig there and we stopped through. He had his saxophone with him and the friend called him on stage to join in and play.

While the husband was on stage, a very sexy Italian looking man comes up to me and starts giving me something like a lap dance. While they were playing pretty standard, if funky, blues, the crowd was dancing. They were dancing like they had strobe lights and glow sticks, which was almost as amusing as this man giving me a lap dance.

After he spent several minutes in my lap, I was worried that it might bother the husband. When the man started doing a salsa-like dance, I commented that he looked like he could dance salsa pretty well and that my new husband was Honduran and so I was learning Latin dances too. He commented that he was Dominican and that’s why he had so much flava. Interesting info about him, but I was just patting myself on the back for squeezing so much into a sentence. Nothing like a half-truth to saw “scram”.

He decided to give me some space after removing the world’s largest Mardi Gras beads from around his neck and placing them around mine. A girl who was dancing very procovatively came over to him. She was wearing standard Mardi Gras clothing: a feather covered bra and panty set with matching headdress. She was giving the full court press and he wasn’t going.

I was confused as to why he wasn’t more interested in her after I just said I was married. Shortly after that, the husband finished and we dashed off to catch a cab to get back to Bourbon street before midnight when the cops would push everyone off the street.

As we left the bar, we saw the man making out with someone, but we couldn’t see who. As we got closer to the door, we saw. He was making out with a very attractive 20-something, well-dressed man. I was so surprised to see him sticking his tongue down another man’s throat.

When I think about the last time I saw two men making out in public in the south, I realize I’ve never seen that. I kind of always thought of the south as so oppressive to cultures that weren’t churchgoing white folk. Perhaps there’s some sort of live music Mardi Gras exception. I don’t know. But I was both surprised and pleased by what I saw. And on a selfish note, I was happy there was no reason for the husband to be jealous, not that he ever really gets jealous anyway.

At that moment, I wanted to call Rick Santorum and tell him he was losing. But I figured he’d find out soon enough.

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