And now for something completely different…

The story of how I became an accidental stripper.

Ok. It’s a sunny Sunday morning and my kids are at their dad’s for the next hour and I’m sitting on the couch with a cool breeze drifting through the open windows, and I’m feeling a bit reflective. On my life. On where I’ve been. On where I am. On the fact that my roof ain’t gonna abide by many more of the downpours we saw yesterday (thanks credit approval bullshit. A newly single mom rebuilding her credit is clearly a great threat to you, and so, yes - make me wait for a year with a leaky roof to “vet” me, sounds awesome)… but I digress.

I have a lot of stories. Who doesn’t, right? So, let me tell you a very quick story about how I was once, as I like to refer to it - an “accidental stripper.” I know the word “accidental” doesn’t actually technically apply, but ”accidental stripper” sounds funnier to me than “unaware stripper”, so anyway, that’s how I refer to it.

You see I was a stripper I did not know that I was a stripper.