The thing about dancing when you are over the age of 24, is that you just don't realize how you look. This is why it is best to dance when you've had a few drinks. However, it is dangerous that too much liquid courage leaves one feeling too brave.
If only you could see yourself - you may decide you are not, in fact, the dancing queen you think you are. I think I am smoov (with a v) when in fact I look like I may have systematically lost my balance. Let's not forget it is common place to judge one's bedroom talents against his or her dancing abilities. Apparently, I lay there and flop about now and then. This may be a very accurate rating system.
There really are only three kinds of people on the dance floor:
1) Good (generally young, because youth fades much like coordination)
2) Bad (look around)
3) People who stand around.
Note to the standers: it is always best to shift your weight from side-to-side to help with appearances. A good nod can be very accommodating. I find the occasional chest pat to be effective in making it appear you actually do "feel the beat."And, if you are brave put a hand up in the air, not two, two is a sign that you can no longer operate your motor vehicle. But one says, "I am having a good time and the music moves me."
I'm just making a helpful suggestion. You wouldn't leave the house with out checking your teeth and hair in the mirror... maybe check out those moves you think are so special in a full length first.
You go girl, no really go... you look like you're having an epileptic fit.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
no doubt, exercise is dangerous for your health
The older I get, I realize I keep hurting myself when I am trying to get myself into "shape." Sadly, this shape is broken. What's the song in that commercial? "Hands, feet, ankle, knees and toes" ... all broken, aches, pains. What a mess. Then I spend a whole week recovering from the injury that had me motivated to get into shape.
But, yesterday was just the worst, THE worst (well almost as bad as the treadmill episode). Here I was at the YMCA trying to do my work out. I got myself hauled up onto rowing machine. Have you seen this thing? It's a death trap that you sit on, pull a bar toward you that is tethered to a damn bike wheel. It's a disaster in and of it's self.
So, I get comfy and begin to pull the bard. Eureka! I enjoy this thing. I can feel my back working and my shoulders and I have an immense feeling of satisfaction. Keep in mind it is like minute 1:04 at this time. By minute three I think I am Olivia Newton John. Am picturing new wardrobe will have to buy and how people will ask, "what are you doing? you look great." I'll smile and reply, "Oh nothing, I'm just a rower."
When, SUDDENLY, I feel my body hurling backward and I see my leg rise up. This can only end badly for your humble narrator. I feel seat fly backwards as it has before but this time with more intensity. I realize at this fateful moment that... being lazy... I had put my feet into the foot harness but neglected to tighten the fasten. Well, I mean why would you? In my defense I didn't intend on any astronaut training today.
So, the leg goes up which throws off my balance and my ass flies off the back of the seat that abruptly stops at the end of the track. And, it was one of those moments where things happen in slow motion like right before you crash your car and you see it happen and you know you're going to collide and you realize it was because you didn't hit the brake or use your damn blinker.
In that moment, as I fall off the back of the machine sideways, I have no explanation for this but I thought it best to utter the word "fuck" loudly. Not in a loud tone, or even a scream. It was more of a disappointing but authoritative tone. But, honey, it was loud. You forget these things when you have ear phones on , and others do not.
It is at this time I realize there are children near by. And, there are parents near-er by. Adults give me the stink eye. I could be injured. No pain, only injury is my pride. It is inappropriate to say four letter word so loudly at YMCA (the C stands for Can't cuss). Of course, it's not so easy to get up and run away from my scene, because my left leg is still positioned safely in the foot harness.
But, yesterday was just the worst, THE worst (well almost as bad as the treadmill episode). Here I was at the YMCA trying to do my work out. I got myself hauled up onto rowing machine. Have you seen this thing? It's a death trap that you sit on, pull a bar toward you that is tethered to a damn bike wheel. It's a disaster in and of it's self.
So, I get comfy and begin to pull the bard. Eureka! I enjoy this thing. I can feel my back working and my shoulders and I have an immense feeling of satisfaction. Keep in mind it is like minute 1:04 at this time. By minute three I think I am Olivia Newton John. Am picturing new wardrobe will have to buy and how people will ask, "what are you doing? you look great." I'll smile and reply, "Oh nothing, I'm just a rower."
When, SUDDENLY, I feel my body hurling backward and I see my leg rise up. This can only end badly for your humble narrator. I feel seat fly backwards as it has before but this time with more intensity. I realize at this fateful moment that... being lazy... I had put my feet into the foot harness but neglected to tighten the fasten. Well, I mean why would you? In my defense I didn't intend on any astronaut training today.
So, the leg goes up which throws off my balance and my ass flies off the back of the seat that abruptly stops at the end of the track. And, it was one of those moments where things happen in slow motion like right before you crash your car and you see it happen and you know you're going to collide and you realize it was because you didn't hit the brake or use your damn blinker.
In that moment, as I fall off the back of the machine sideways, I have no explanation for this but I thought it best to utter the word "fuck" loudly. Not in a loud tone, or even a scream. It was more of a disappointing but authoritative tone. But, honey, it was loud. You forget these things when you have ear phones on , and others do not.
It is at this time I realize there are children near by. And, there are parents near-er by. Adults give me the stink eye. I could be injured. No pain, only injury is my pride. It is inappropriate to say four letter word so loudly at YMCA (the C stands for Can't cuss). Of course, it's not so easy to get up and run away from my scene, because my left leg is still positioned safely in the foot harness.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
my life, chapter one
the first half of my life, chapter one
in 450 words or less....
I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.
By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.
The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.
High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.
College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.
I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.
--stay tuned for chapter2---
in 450 words or less....
I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.
By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.
The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.
High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.
College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.
I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.
--stay tuned for chapter2---
Saturday, February 5, 2011
How to Meet a RICH Man
Honey chilrun, I keep getting asked this same querstion all the damn time. All my little nieces, gram-babies, cousins, all want to ask me- motherbarry, how do you meet yourself a rich man? It's simple, honey!
Ok, so I am talking to this sweet little girl last night and she says she is trying to find herself a sugar daddy. Do you know what she is doing? She is going to trendy bars and clubs. Let me tell you something honey- them there places are for players and playboys. You don't want to be played. If you go to the trendy places you will find men who pretend to be rich, homo-sexuals and sluts. That's all you get. Get out the bar!
Here is what you do- get yourself a copy of Road & Track Car Buyers Guide. Then, bring your ass down to the local expensive car dealership. Do not screw this part up- it is tricky! Try to find a Porsche dealer. Don't go BMW or Lexus- they have too many cheap cars. Try a Porsche place. You will be amazed. Go and park your Toyota Corolla far away and walk up into the service department and hunker down. Bring a book, bring your homework, freaking knit- be prepared to wait it out. Men hunt for deer this way- you are looking for your prey.
Now, here is the thing- a nice Porsche dealer has a nice customer lounge complete with leather couches, flat screens, complimentary snacks and a latte machine! Make yourself at home and wait for the rich men to come in to get their over-priced boy toys fixed. And, for God's sake- look good but don't look like you fell out of a nightclub.
Now, for the trapping... when you see a nice man come in make eye contact. Ask him what time it is- this way you can see his watch. Also, very important. Hopefully, you can strike up conversation about how you're waiting on your Porsche to be repaired. Now, most importantly- have that Road & Track near by so you can reference the Porsche models. Ask your new man which Porsche he drives. If he says Boxster- say politely it's nice to meet him and move along. You need a man with a more expensive model, be prepared to wait this out a few days if necessary. If a dealership employee questions you- tell them you are waiting to pick up your boss when he/she drops off her Porsche and act very bothered. If necessary tell them you have cramps- nothing sends someone away faster than the threat of a woman with cramps.
Ok, so let's say you find a man and he has the right model... let's say he says TURBO. Then you know it's "go time"! So, casually ask him what part of town he lives in as you complain about the wait time. Suggest to him that you could split a cab? Then - bam- you're on your way out the door. You always let him be dropped off first and you just happen to remember that your wallet is in your fictional Porsche at the dealer. If he is any kind of gentleman he will give you some cash to cover the ride. Then you tell him you simply must repay him and make plans for drinks! See- you've met a rich man.
Bonus: you get to see where he lives. If there's a minivan in the driveway do NOT call him. Repeat DO NOT call him.
Well, I am exhausted from all this tutoring. If you like this let me know, I can take you to the next chapter: old sugar daddies vs middle-aged ones who is better?
Ok, so I am talking to this sweet little girl last night and she says she is trying to find herself a sugar daddy. Do you know what she is doing? She is going to trendy bars and clubs. Let me tell you something honey- them there places are for players and playboys. You don't want to be played. If you go to the trendy places you will find men who pretend to be rich, homo-sexuals and sluts. That's all you get. Get out the bar!
Here is what you do- get yourself a copy of Road & Track Car Buyers Guide. Then, bring your ass down to the local expensive car dealership. Do not screw this part up- it is tricky! Try to find a Porsche dealer. Don't go BMW or Lexus- they have too many cheap cars. Try a Porsche place. You will be amazed. Go and park your Toyota Corolla far away and walk up into the service department and hunker down. Bring a book, bring your homework, freaking knit- be prepared to wait it out. Men hunt for deer this way- you are looking for your prey.
Now, here is the thing- a nice Porsche dealer has a nice customer lounge complete with leather couches, flat screens, complimentary snacks and a latte machine! Make yourself at home and wait for the rich men to come in to get their over-priced boy toys fixed. And, for God's sake- look good but don't look like you fell out of a nightclub.
Now, for the trapping... when you see a nice man come in make eye contact. Ask him what time it is- this way you can see his watch. Also, very important. Hopefully, you can strike up conversation about how you're waiting on your Porsche to be repaired. Now, most importantly- have that Road & Track near by so you can reference the Porsche models. Ask your new man which Porsche he drives. If he says Boxster- say politely it's nice to meet him and move along. You need a man with a more expensive model, be prepared to wait this out a few days if necessary. If a dealership employee questions you- tell them you are waiting to pick up your boss when he/she drops off her Porsche and act very bothered. If necessary tell them you have cramps- nothing sends someone away faster than the threat of a woman with cramps.
Ok, so let's say you find a man and he has the right model... let's say he says TURBO. Then you know it's "go time"! So, casually ask him what part of town he lives in as you complain about the wait time. Suggest to him that you could split a cab? Then - bam- you're on your way out the door. You always let him be dropped off first and you just happen to remember that your wallet is in your fictional Porsche at the dealer. If he is any kind of gentleman he will give you some cash to cover the ride. Then you tell him you simply must repay him and make plans for drinks! See- you've met a rich man.
Bonus: you get to see where he lives. If there's a minivan in the driveway do NOT call him. Repeat DO NOT call him.
Well, I am exhausted from all this tutoring. If you like this let me know, I can take you to the next chapter: old sugar daddies vs middle-aged ones who is better?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
love is like a bad analogy
Oh children, it's that time of year when everywhere you look is love- especially if you look at the grocery and the Walgreens. It's a sea of discount chocolate in paper heart boxes, and those damn "be mine" valentines that have taunted me for years. Love is like those damn candies, you think it's cute and sweet but then it sours, it doesn't last long and you think, God I want to spit this out but I hope nobody is looking.
Infatuation is an ill-fitting sweater (usually cheaply purchased at H&M) that you think you simply must have but is best discarded after wearing it out a time or two, because after the wash the next day you realize it doesn't really fit you ( I know what you're thinking...i'm not maya angelou but i should be)
Infatuation is an ill-fitting sweater (usually cheaply purchased at H&M) that you think you simply must have but is best discarded after wearing it out a time or two, because after the wash the next day you realize it doesn't really fit you ( I know what you're thinking...i'm not maya angelou but i should be)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Potty Humor: I blame Oprah
Do you ever look at your poop? I blame Miss Oprah- I'm always looking for that damn S shape that Dr Oz says we need.
Have you ever thought... what the hell is that? when did i have sesame seeds? Oh my God, that sesame seed was left in my colon from 1973. Let's be honest, poop is part of the human experience. It's right up there with love and food for me. I don't take pleasure in it but I can certainly take pain. Nothing worse than being at the mall and having to poop. Nothing worse than being in public and having to go after I ate Taco Hell. I'm just saying, we've all been there. You could hear my screams coming from the airport bathroom and that's the horror from the cleanliness of the facilities.
And the worst thing is constipation... it is like walking around with a basketball, no... a basketball made of led in your stomach
and no matter how hard you push, sometimes I imagine it's like labor, or how many laxatives, which then I imagine what it's like to be a supermodel nothing happens... then finally it's like a miracle and you feel lighter and your clothes fit better and you think- damn how much did that thing weigh?
Well, I know this is gross and crass but I had to get it off my chest.
Today's post is brought to you by the letter "S" and the number 2
Have you ever thought... what the hell is that? when did i have sesame seeds? Oh my God, that sesame seed was left in my colon from 1973. Let's be honest, poop is part of the human experience. It's right up there with love and food for me. I don't take pleasure in it but I can certainly take pain. Nothing worse than being at the mall and having to poop. Nothing worse than being in public and having to go after I ate Taco Hell. I'm just saying, we've all been there. You could hear my screams coming from the airport bathroom and that's the horror from the cleanliness of the facilities.
And the worst thing is constipation... it is like walking around with a basketball, no... a basketball made of led in your stomach
and no matter how hard you push, sometimes I imagine it's like labor, or how many laxatives, which then I imagine what it's like to be a supermodel nothing happens... then finally it's like a miracle and you feel lighter and your clothes fit better and you think- damn how much did that thing weigh?
Well, I know this is gross and crass but I had to get it off my chest.
Today's post is brought to you by the letter "S" and the number 2
Sunday, January 16, 2011
(the) hangover club
Oh chuldrun, I am hurting behind this in a bad way. Have you ever woke up on the Sundee morning and you still drunk? That's a bad, sad and turrible place to be. I'm halfway in a party and halfway want to grab the turlet and hold on fur dear life and stuff. Now, don't go getting all preachy on me. I know it is damn Sundee and the lord Jesus is looking down on me with shame. But, fret now Christian brothers and sisters I got the Joel O on the tv. Missing service is like a snow day for me... if snow came out of a Jim Beam bottle.
I had a wonderful, exhilirating (look I've tried to spell this word 5x and it still is in red typo squiggles, my bad ok) exhilirating, facsinating evening. I felt like Katy Perry in that damn firework song. My heart was beating like the lyrics of a Taylor Swift song. Alas, childrun I woke up alone and all I can think is I need me some damn friend chicken. But, don't you worry about me honey I am not having a problem. I am determined to make this headache a happiness headache. The headache pain is directly in correlation to the amount of fun had the night before.
Let me give you a glimpse into last night:
- said by one of your mama's friends: " there was this child in the restroom. And he's just standing around I am like what does he want? He's too young to be a attendant. I'm done doing my thing at the urinal and this child says 'that's awesome'... well I'm feeling pretty good about myself, a little creeped out but a compliment none the less- but unsure how to respond to this situation of bathroom admiration. Then I realize that there is a tv built into the mirror in the bathroom and that must surely be what he considers awesome."
You can tell it was a night. But your mama is no alcoholic. The difference in a drunk and an alcoholic is if everyone has a good time or if anyone ends up crying.
Completely off topic I need to share some things I have learned (no worries this is prior to the anyone consuming Jesus Juice)
Rules of the road updated:
- The turnabout is basically a free for all. Yield signs are a mere suggestion. People drive through the turn about as fast and furious as they can like they are fleeing a burning barn for their life or like I imagine a cab driver in Kuwait
- You can park your car just about anywhere if you leave your hazzard lights on. No need to pay these ridiculous parking lot attendants, pull up in front of the restaurant and leave your blinkers on. If you plan to stay a long time pop your hood and pull to the side street with your blinkers on. No one will dare get involved
- Most important rule of all- the golden rule of driving is ... if you hit it and IT could possibly die it has the right of way. I may or may not have yelled that at some lady in a Hyndai (now I know she has bigger problems driving a car no one can rightfully pronounce but heiffer needs to not run up on folks trying to get across the street).
- Last rule- when in doubt use your horn. I am a horn blower, the worst kind of driver but I have been known to use my vehicle as a weapon and the horn says " i mean business" well it does to me, most people see it as an invitation to give me the damn bird.
ok i must go and get me some fried chicken chuldrun. I will see you later and remember be good because Jesus is watching and he keeps score. Actually, Santa clause is watching too, maybe they just trade off shifts?
I had a wonderful, exhilirating (look I've tried to spell this word 5x and it still is in red typo squiggles, my bad ok) exhilirating, facsinating evening. I felt like Katy Perry in that damn firework song. My heart was beating like the lyrics of a Taylor Swift song. Alas, childrun I woke up alone and all I can think is I need me some damn friend chicken. But, don't you worry about me honey I am not having a problem. I am determined to make this headache a happiness headache. The headache pain is directly in correlation to the amount of fun had the night before.
Let me give you a glimpse into last night:
- said by one of your mama's friends: " there was this child in the restroom. And he's just standing around I am like what does he want? He's too young to be a attendant. I'm done doing my thing at the urinal and this child says 'that's awesome'... well I'm feeling pretty good about myself, a little creeped out but a compliment none the less- but unsure how to respond to this situation of bathroom admiration. Then I realize that there is a tv built into the mirror in the bathroom and that must surely be what he considers awesome."
You can tell it was a night. But your mama is no alcoholic. The difference in a drunk and an alcoholic is if everyone has a good time or if anyone ends up crying.
Completely off topic I need to share some things I have learned (no worries this is prior to the anyone consuming Jesus Juice)
Rules of the road updated:
- The turnabout is basically a free for all. Yield signs are a mere suggestion. People drive through the turn about as fast and furious as they can like they are fleeing a burning barn for their life or like I imagine a cab driver in Kuwait
- You can park your car just about anywhere if you leave your hazzard lights on. No need to pay these ridiculous parking lot attendants, pull up in front of the restaurant and leave your blinkers on. If you plan to stay a long time pop your hood and pull to the side street with your blinkers on. No one will dare get involved
- Most important rule of all- the golden rule of driving is ... if you hit it and IT could possibly die it has the right of way. I may or may not have yelled that at some lady in a Hyndai (now I know she has bigger problems driving a car no one can rightfully pronounce but heiffer needs to not run up on folks trying to get across the street).
- Last rule- when in doubt use your horn. I am a horn blower, the worst kind of driver but I have been known to use my vehicle as a weapon and the horn says " i mean business" well it does to me, most people see it as an invitation to give me the damn bird.
ok i must go and get me some fried chicken chuldrun. I will see you later and remember be good because Jesus is watching and he keeps score. Actually, Santa clause is watching too, maybe they just trade off shifts?
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