I thought the freedom of not having a job would be fun. It's not. I am getting desperate, panicky, and thinking about tricking myself out at Bone Daddy's or Twin Peaks. I haven't slept in weeks and I get irritated when my gainfully employed pals can't join me for a walk around the mall at 1:30 in the afternoon or for a late lunch at 2:15. Or, better yet, when they can't stay up past 10:45p.m. because they have to be up at six to be on time for work at nine!
Blasphemy, I say!
Not having a job has its perks. I don't have to worry about asking off in order to do hoodrat stuff with my friends; I can wake up when I feel like it; and I can come and go when I please! You know, now that I think about it, this lavish life (I mean, minus the inflow of cash) sounds a lot like freelancing. Maybe I need to take that up!
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!
I swear, I need to stop wearing cheap shoes. And I'm not being snobby when I say cheap, I mean cheap like, $6.99-unboxed-held-together-with-a-ziptie-on-sale-at-the-juniors'-store cheap. I was trying to be 'Girl U So Cute' in a casual dining restaurant in my fashion frugal teal high heels.
Walking from my booth to the bathroom wasn't a problem; I even got a little swagger in my step on the way back to the table.
So when I stood up to leave and grabbed my to-go container and that's when I felt the ball of my foot slide across the wood laminate flooring like I honoring MJ with a Moonwalk. My heel skid to the left, to the left. And, I almost fell. Thank Jesus from Nazereth that I didn't bust my butt in the middle of a crowed restaurant on a weekend night!
Let this be a lesson to you ladies given to you at my expense.
"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!
For some reason, Christians and heathens alike want to know how Jesus Christ looked. Was he white, black, or God-forbid, for some people, middle-eastern? Was he chubby, skinny, or beefy? Was he black like Wesley Snipes? Well, I think I’ve got a pretty good description for you of how Christ's swagger might have been all those years ago. And I gather he closely resembled motivator to the chunky, none other than Richard Simmons!
Don’t try to poke holes in this well-crafted theory by angrily saying that I’m blaspheming God in human form. But, if you want to get technical, think about the Biblical description. Hair like lamb’s wool? Check. Feet like brass? Check ('cause Richard’s got a tan like nobody's business). Voice like many waters? Well, not that one, but, you know his squealy voice when you hear it! Those are only the physical characteristics. And, for the convenience of you naysayers, I’ve hastily created a crude little features and technical specifications comparison chart. Take a sip of the living waters:
Revelations also mentions a little gem I discovered--that Jesus has his name on his thigh. How do we know this? Because the Bible tells us so! I don’t know if this tattoo is revealed via a flowing white robe or red striped short shorts, but either way it goes, J.C.’s showing a little leg.
Jesus has the desire to motivate us to be in the best shape we can, he wants us to stay positive, and press toward the mark of the prize of the high calling. Sound like someone we know? Rev. 1: 17 notes, “And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not;” If that doesn’t sound reminiscent of Sweatin’ to the Oldies, then I don’t know what is! (Don’t believe me? See Rev 1:1-20 & Rev 19:16)
