My mother is a pole dancer.
I have mentioned the fact that she and her buddies take a pole-dancing workout class before, but it bears repeating after the conversation we had at brunch recently.
I don't remember how it came up, but I think it was when I asked if, during their recent bouts of home improvements (brought on by several floods -- oy, don't ask), she was planning to put a pole in her house.
"Ohh, I'd LOVE to," she gushed.
My father grinned a nasty grin.
I laughed and said something about how much HE would appreciate it.
"He's never seen it, and HE NEVER WILL," my mother said, smacking her smirking husband soundly on the arm (I do come by that trait honestly, it seems).
Meanwhile, the looks on the faces of Roo-girl and Z-man could be described as pricelessly appalled.
"It's a great workout," she insisted.
"I know," I said, laughing at my children's horror.
"I can spin around the pole two to three times," she added. "Not bad for an old broad. But I don't go upside down ..."
(wait for it)
" ... anymore."
I have since gouged out my eyes in an attempt to eliminate the image now burned on my retinas.