Kids, I need to take a shower. The lack of full-time job has compromised my hygene. I've got to get back on a regular schedule. I admit this because there's no sense in walking around with wavy smell lines and clouds of dust (think: Pig-Pen) radiating from my hair, underarms and lady parts. It's shameful. It's rude. It's soo not cute. Wearing the same outfit for three and a half days is borderline offensive. Seriously, someone needs to give me a citation.
I pretend like the greasiness from my hair is 'shine.' When I reach over to pick something up, the scent of stale deodorant wafts into my nostrils. I feel the wind breeze through my boyish-length leg hairs when I walk around the house in shorts. That's IF I get out of bed and out of my sweats before 3 p.m. I need an intervention. Where are my friends and loved ones sitting around me, tearfully choking on their words as they read heartfelt letters expressing concern for the cleanliness of my coochie? Where are Ken, Jeff and Candy? Where is my gift?
It's okay. I can kick this habit on my own. I'll do better; I promise.
That is in my Cher from Clueless voice, just to let you know!
Isn't it funny when you say sorry to someone and they're saying sorry back to you, but the two of you are sincerely apologizing for two different reasons? I digress, however, and I know this sounds confusing; let me give an example.
Picture a new couple on a dinner date at home. Boyfriend and Girlfriend are sitting having a great evening despite nervousness & jitters until all of a sudden, Boyfriend leans over and throws up on the beige dining room carpet. Boyfriend is embarrassed and between dry heaves yells out, "Sorry! I got sick! " Girlfriend, on the other hand, is less concerned about the vomit and while hunting for carpet cleaner and a steamer yells out "Sorry! I undercooked the chicken, so you might have food poisoning!"
So there, you have it; mutual "sorries" for two different reasons. I say that to say this: I had that happen to me the other day and I felt like I wanted to talk about it!
Elvita is a very nice woman. She, my coochie & I have a special relationship. It's because she was kind, caring at a time when I was spread eagle on her table. But that was the end of her sweet spirit.
That lady pasted, rubbed and ripped like there was no tomorrow, and in her broken English, told me that I was to blame for my pain & suffering! Shame on her! Okay, so maybe some of my coochie sadness was my fault because I, as a result of my laziness, was going for the "Bohemian" look. She didn't have to call me out though. I don't care if it was only her and me in the room together.
Ladies, please stay on top of your grooming. Don't get lazy like me; let this be a warning!
"ONE MO' 'GIN...HEAD DOWN!!"
Don't act like you don't know the rest.
I had the luxury and excitement of attending a Stripperobics class and do hoodrat stuff with my friends this past weekend. Our instructor was awesome and I was ready to do some damage on the pole. What I ended up with, however, was some damage on the pole.
I was so pumped about this class. I was ready to be upside down just like the pole professionals I saw in my favorite Ludacris video, "P*ssy Poppin'." I thought I was going to swing, dive, and roll around like the sexy, in-control woman I thought I could be. Oh, no ma'am.
Everything was going as planned until the first 20 minutes of the class. I hurt my neck trying to arch my back like a Halloween cat while spinning counter-clockwise. Next came my knees from humping the ground, then my arms from trying to climb, and last, my shoulders and ribcage from trying to do my beloved move: an upside down split while sliding down the pole into a sultry saunter on the ground. Not I; I fell on my butt, on my side, and again on my hip. If I had been about 87-years-old, I would have been done for.
Oh, but wait! There's more!
I had every intention of taking care of some errands the next morning, but when I sat up in bed, my body said, "Girl, bye!" and I instantly knew I was wrong. It was so bad my mother had to help me take off my shirt so I could take a shower, and even then, in the midst of her helpful spirit, I was giving her FEVER! All day, I walked in choppy steps around the house like I was an 87-year-old lady.
That's why this post is so late, I'm just now getting feeling back in my arms and hands and the pain in my ribcage and shoulders has finally dulled. And to think, I was an advocate of wearing my heels; such a shame.
That's what I get for trying to be like them girls in the videos!
I enjoy seeing the miracle of plastic fantastic. It's something about the way skin looks so shiny and taut after a procedure that just gives me a jolt of energy. I love how breast tissue stretches to accommodate a cantaloupe-sized saline bubble.
Middle-aged women are the most susceptible to the wonders of augmentation, lifts and tucks. They don't care if the world is afire as a result of global warming as long as their eyelids don't droop. What's the point of an older, more sophisticated lady having perky DDs that would rival her 23-year-old granddaughter if she has osteoporosis; the bragging rights of slender hips if she has poor circulation; or the value of full lips if she has dentures?
My favorite has to be oversized bouncing ball type breasts on women older than 51. Some women go beyond reclaiming what's rightfully theirs and cross the line into porn star territory. I've seen breasts so big that the strip of skin between the breasts that should be attached to her sternum has permanently pulled away from her chest. That has to be my favorite surgery result; a close second to pillow-y swollen upper lips.
Surgical enhancements are situations that easily go very wrong. But who cares as long as the patient loves the outcome and I can laugh, well, only as long as gravity doesn't get the best of me.
I've been to the bathroom twice in 30 minutes. I know you don't care to know the intricacies of my bladder impulses, but this is excessive. I'll admit it: I am the shameful owner of an overactive bladder. I can't even have a beer, much less water, with my friends before my bladder starts pressing on the front of my abdomen. I can't concentrate on the valuable things my drunken friends have to say during important impromptu meetings at important places...like the corner booth at our favorite local Cheers. My bladder makes me look like an uncaring friend. A selfish friend. A 'wants-to-get-away-from-her-friends' friend. I'm tired of my bladder ruining my relationships.
I try to shush my gotta pee moments by crossing my legs, walking in a circle, or if it comes down to it: discreetly holding myself. Ok, not very discreetly. In efforts to calm my full bladder, I also refuse to throw my head back in laughter for fear of letting a little water drip out of the faucet. I try to time myself so that a trip to the bathroom comes at a 'natural' time...like getting ready to leave the place, a time that is not in the middle of an intoxicated explanation on the value of Lil' Kim in feminism.
I've failed horribly in my efforts and I've missed the best/funniest/most shocking parts of conversations about things that I wouldn't have remembered anyway.
