My 15 year old son does not know how to clear a search history. He has denied the acknowledgement of any female in his life as attractive. Some quick snooping resulted in that little liar pants inadvertently, introducing slutload.com into my life. I had to take the boy aside to level with him. You know the drill, "the images (and graphic,badly lit video) you are seeing is not real life."and " You are seeing women objectified." Most of all," real people don't do that all the time! O.K. maybe for birthdays, Kwanzaa, or a really kinky Groundhog Day, but that is not REAL!"
So how to explain the bible study I am doing right now? We are studying the book of Ruth. I wish to be an inclusive Diva. So for all of you unchurched heathens who can name all the houses of Game of Thrones, you pasty agoraphobic virgins that can tell me the difference between Night Owl 1 and Night Owl 2, or name ALL the Kardashians, but not the books of the bible, I offer a catch up link below.
http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ruth+1&version=NIV
I know you did not read that, don't lie to me. I don't even need the ability to check your search history. I also know you do not want to sit through an explanation. Let me sum up.
Naomi= ultimate down on her luck Jewish mother in law and widow
Ruth = widow of her son who chooses to leave her pagan ways and country Moab, behind and, out of loyalty, go with her mother in law to Bethlehem.
Boaz= the distant male relative of Naomi's who marries Ruth, thus keeping Naomi's family tree from dying out and providing a living for the ladies
King David= Ruth's great great grandson
This woman, back when women had a value lesser than that of Ikea furniture on a humid day, become a big deal. In order to drive the understanding of the story home, the author of the study has been very detailed in giving us a back history as to why Ruth didn't just start temp-ing for an ad agency and speed- dating. She was a Moabite. There are many peoples in the bible that have -ite at the end of the name of their nationality and it's usually not because they are Awesome-ites. The Moabites have a beginning that have the makings of an adult film that no one wants to watch. No one, I want to hang out with, that's for sure.
We start at Sodom and Gomorrah, which, I haven't had enough carbs for the energy to explain at the present time. That handy website I have sent you future hell -dwellers to, up there has a search feature. I assure you, not pretty. Anycrap, after God destroys it, all that is left is Lot and his two daughters. Well, whilst hiding in a cave the biblical Snookie and J-Wow are freaked out that they will never bear children resulting in much needed, protection and stature. Instead of waiting for the smoke to clear, or E-Harlote.com to come along, they sedate their father, seduce him and conceive children from him. One of them, oh, for timeliness, let's say, Snookie, names her son Moab, the ancestor of the Moabites.
Seriously. Your feeling a bit more inclined to click back to the link, now aren't you?
My precious angels, if you want to feel better about yourself as a human being, drop that remote and scream, "Get thee behind me, Toddlers and Tiaras!!" There is no better proof in God's mercy than the assholes in the bible. The ladies in my group have read in the last few weeks about holy yuckies such as gang rape, homosexual rape, incest, and what seems to be a merciful post-mortem wife swapping. The Old Testament makes you need a mental Silkwood shower at times. And yet, we are discovering that God can take a woman from a reviled people such as the Moabites, ancestors of incest and lead to Kind David and eventually Jesus himself. No better comeback, I can imagine.
This brings me to describes the decoupage of women in that room. Some are Steel Magnolias. They are all sitting at one end of the room reminding us how "mature" they are, ans how much life experience they have over us.The Tin Foil Magnolias are at the other end, after dropping the Tissue Paper Magnolias off at the nursery, feeling quite shushed. At first I felt besmirched. I need not remind you that a Diva, besmirched, can be a not Awesome-ite thing. After yet another example from one of the "Mature" ladies in colorful reading glasses about , " the good old days", that the Tin Foils were not present for, I was more than mildly tempted to remind her that one interpretation of "more mature" was, "you will, airplane crashes aside, most likely go home to Jesus before me, Madam."
Then a beautiful thing happened. More and more frank reactions to the content started to spill out, as did the giggles. You see the truth behind the story of Ruth is that, she came to the hometown of her mother in law, as less than a human being. Tin Foil doesn't even begin to cut it. Tissue paper didn't exist. I guess they wiped with leaves or something. She could have gone home married someone else, moved on. But she chose, like the Tin Foils and Steels did today to love and respect where this woman came from. This meant marrying a man she barely knew to provide for her mother in law.
The pinnacle of the bonding came when that wet blanket of an author informed the Steels and Tins that Boaz was not some handsome, athletic man. He probably had other wife, no teeth, and a walking stick. Grrrrr.
Well, we could not stand for this. Southern women do not often have need for the truth to ruin a perfectly good story. We started to name Hollywood stars we would cast in our head as Boaz. You had your Clooney and Ryan Gosling on the Tin end of the table. Cary Grant was parried by the Steels.
Then, the bridge was built. Miss Linda on the Steel side,lit up with the Holy flame of male classic awesomeness.
Tom Selleck.
A solemn hush fell up the now united Mag's.
So let it be written, so let it be done.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Jesus died for your sins, put on some damn hose
My dearest minions,
As bluebonnets surround the 'hood and I begin to threaten to show my pale, bubbly legs out on the greenbelt trail, the annual question surfaces, " What the crap am I going to wear to celebrate my Lord's resurrection?" I was raised in the Baptist tradition. This meant that, on Easter Sunday, we went the full Un-Monty. I am talking gloves, hat.... the works. While I don't know if my huge, fluffy head can pull off a hat even ironically, and me showing up with gloves might give my pastor the impression that I was campaigning for a "Mimes for Jesus" troupe, the new dress WILL happen.
Now I know, in this world of American Idol worship music and casual, "come as you are," attutude, this may ring a bit off topic as far as salvation is concerned. Little blessings, I refuse to take criticism from lifetime Christians who show up to the house of the God looking like they just mowed the lawn AND ran a 10K. Add to that, the attitude of "if you don't dance to this groovy music and raise your hands like Christ just scored a touchdown, you don't have the SPIRIT, I do!"
Well, my sweaty, scrunchy-wearing, body issue-laden, sisters, my Spirit will be found at White House, Black Market this Lenten season. Amen
I don't get it. Most of us run around all week in exercise clothes looking all homeless as it is. We all look like we have cedar fever limping up and down the aisles of the HEB. I have visited other churches in the last decade, in which Easter Sunday looked like a sad funeral at Chico's. Don't you want to shake the surly bonds of mommy jeans for one chance, just one chance that, time make take our thighs, but it will never take, OUR KITTEN HEELS!!!!
Where has all the fabulous gone?
I feel I should point out that all peoples, new to the faith and with serious church issues are not being called out here. Serenity shouldn't be stymied by an A-line skirt, I will give you that. Any financial barriers to dressing up are not to be even approached. The Diva is a kinder, gentler, Diva that has no desire to mock the unfortunate or wounded souls among us. The beotches that have been attending Sunday school since conception and show up in jeans and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, "because it's cold!" Well, I am coming for ya, for three reasons;
1) We live in Austin, the one mildly nippy Sunday followed by a Monday hot enough to swim, will not kill you.
2) "Wool blazers were made for a reason." Diva 4:11
3) If my Lord ( not sure He's still yours, sweat pant, slouchy, sinner) could suffer under horrible torture and take upon Him the sins of humanity, that we might dwell in His house forever, YOU, Bertha, can consecrate yourself for His worship with some Walmart slacks and mascara.
A side category in the men's department (although in the Hill Country, we have given up with the introduction of Formal, hunting gear) is the Youth Minister. It is the individual's job to make Jesus seem ultra hip, and thusly approachable for the Justin Bieber crowd. So go ahead, sir wear the groovy necklace, layered shirts, jeans and sensitive boy-band Christian hair. I have respect for the fine line you must tread to be somewhat cool, whilst avoiding the look of a guy on "To Catch a Predator." Good on ya.
This Easter Sunday, let the Peace of Christ descend upon you all. The Grace He has is unending. Salvation is is there for you even at the last breathe of your life. His forgiveness is unconditional.
I am a judgmental Diva who will be scoring your shoes and accessories.
Selah
As bluebonnets surround the 'hood and I begin to threaten to show my pale, bubbly legs out on the greenbelt trail, the annual question surfaces, " What the crap am I going to wear to celebrate my Lord's resurrection?" I was raised in the Baptist tradition. This meant that, on Easter Sunday, we went the full Un-Monty. I am talking gloves, hat.... the works. While I don't know if my huge, fluffy head can pull off a hat even ironically, and me showing up with gloves might give my pastor the impression that I was campaigning for a "Mimes for Jesus" troupe, the new dress WILL happen.
Now I know, in this world of American Idol worship music and casual, "come as you are," attutude, this may ring a bit off topic as far as salvation is concerned. Little blessings, I refuse to take criticism from lifetime Christians who show up to the house of the God looking like they just mowed the lawn AND ran a 10K. Add to that, the attitude of "if you don't dance to this groovy music and raise your hands like Christ just scored a touchdown, you don't have the SPIRIT, I do!"
Well, my sweaty, scrunchy-wearing, body issue-laden, sisters, my Spirit will be found at White House, Black Market this Lenten season. Amen
I don't get it. Most of us run around all week in exercise clothes looking all homeless as it is. We all look like we have cedar fever limping up and down the aisles of the HEB. I have visited other churches in the last decade, in which Easter Sunday looked like a sad funeral at Chico's. Don't you want to shake the surly bonds of mommy jeans for one chance, just one chance that, time make take our thighs, but it will never take, OUR KITTEN HEELS!!!!
Where has all the fabulous gone?
I feel I should point out that all peoples, new to the faith and with serious church issues are not being called out here. Serenity shouldn't be stymied by an A-line skirt, I will give you that. Any financial barriers to dressing up are not to be even approached. The Diva is a kinder, gentler, Diva that has no desire to mock the unfortunate or wounded souls among us. The beotches that have been attending Sunday school since conception and show up in jeans and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, "because it's cold!" Well, I am coming for ya, for three reasons;
1) We live in Austin, the one mildly nippy Sunday followed by a Monday hot enough to swim, will not kill you.
2) "Wool blazers were made for a reason." Diva 4:11
3) If my Lord ( not sure He's still yours, sweat pant, slouchy, sinner) could suffer under horrible torture and take upon Him the sins of humanity, that we might dwell in His house forever, YOU, Bertha, can consecrate yourself for His worship with some Walmart slacks and mascara.
A side category in the men's department (although in the Hill Country, we have given up with the introduction of Formal, hunting gear) is the Youth Minister. It is the individual's job to make Jesus seem ultra hip, and thusly approachable for the Justin Bieber crowd. So go ahead, sir wear the groovy necklace, layered shirts, jeans and sensitive boy-band Christian hair. I have respect for the fine line you must tread to be somewhat cool, whilst avoiding the look of a guy on "To Catch a Predator." Good on ya.
This Easter Sunday, let the Peace of Christ descend upon you all. The Grace He has is unending. Salvation is is there for you even at the last breathe of your life. His forgiveness is unconditional.
I am a judgmental Diva who will be scoring your shoes and accessories.
Selah
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Well......CAT HAIR!!
Today is my grandmother's birthday. We lost her two years ago. Well, not LOST, lost.I know where she is buried in Littlefield. But, people always have to say things like that when someone dies. Lost, gave up the ghost, gone to be with her Lord, passed on. But none of those seem to fit. It was like she just stopped. She was done. Life had become too empty for a woman who wanted nothing but to have love. It was hard getting it right for some of us. Filling that hole for her was a herculean task. We have many stories of holidays and special occasions completely nuked by one of her " got the vapors" moments. By that, I mean Maw Maw would let go of bodily fluids until we had to call an ambulance. Take that, Aunt Kathy's stuffing!
Getting it right seemed to be a quest for her. That woman's house was immaculate. I remember her taking vacation from the dress store she owned, to in particular do some "in depth cleaning". Nothing like bleaching grout to celebrate ones spring break.
The Vicki and Maw Maw would have clashes, but it was putting two negative sides of a magnet together. The tension was there, but no chance to connect. I have often wondered what my mother's reaction to such a complicated relationship would be when it's time on earth had ended. I never imagined what mine would be. I almost didn't consider myself a participant among the women in my family. I always felt invisible, awkward. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Didn't feel a part of the "gang". I didn't even look like any of them. I was delighted when my closest cousin and I had begun to resemble each other, but it was a bit scoffed at.
Modean going home to Jesus crushed me. This happened in a selfish, human way. Someone I knew intimately was no longer here, reminding me that one day I will also, take a dirt nap. Even as a wine drinkin' Baptist, that sometimes scares the shizzle out of me. A gift, though, started to come out in the year afterwards. I found programs to all the shows I had done in college in her trunk. Along with it, was a story I had written for a high school U.S. history project. I had written the story of my grandfather's minesweeper being sunk by a kamikaze. The man died when I was two, cancer begun by the smokes in his military rations. A strange, John Wayne- like presence I will not come to know until aforementioned dirt nap.
I sat in her guest bedroom filled with family pictures, running my hands over the hope chest I had played on since birth. Breathing in her perfume that permeated the house, I would never smell again, I realized something.
I was seen. She SAW me.
Then I found her pictures used in advertisements for her petite dress store( Just Petites Just For YOU). Beotches, I tell you now, that woman was FABULOUS. Girl made 80's shoulder pads and city shorts a thing to behold. Looking at her beautiful face, tilted at the EXACT right angle, those pageant feet ( if I have to explain that, we are not as close as you had hoped), I saw my foundation. The birth of my attitude in those 7 by 5's was there. No matter what we went through daily with her, good and bad, she had IT. A magic that drew us all in. A romance to her existence , that was inherently" getting it right".Coming out of nothing, bringing a newborn The Vicki home to a dirt floor, being widowed at 45, she had risen like a glamorous Phoenix time and again. My love of beauty, elegance, and desire to be MORE, comes from her. Good crap, that woman evoked her own Doris Day lighting on her eyes.
As she lay in her bed the last few days, she would mumble something about finding the "gate". My cousin Jonathon heard it. It was explained that, as she waited for Paw Paw Rex to come home from the war, he told her to watch the east gate, he would be coming for her. She was hanging clothes on the line when she, at last saw what she ached for. She ran most of the way to grab on to the love that was almost lost in the Pacific. Paw Paw told her, before he died, that he would be waiting there for her. When she took her last breath, my aunt said, " I will say it, Mama is running across that cotton field to meet Daddy."
So The Vicki asked us all to wear somethingof her's in honor of Modean's birthday. All of those meticulously kept clothes in great smelling closets. It killed us to give it all away. We divided up what we felt drawn to. I am proud to say, that today I have been lovingly supported by the woman who started my path of divaness's Wonder Bra. Shut up. You try to get into a petite woman's Evan Picon suit after eating $6.99 prime rib in Vegas for a week.
Bloated is as bloated does.
This brings me to the most important life choice, the Modean's language. She has left me with a verbal palette that would make Van Gogh tres jealous. She would often threaten to , "slap the slat" out of us. I did not know where my "slat" was located, but I felt it important to protect it from Abuela- induced trauma.
Well, hell I will just itemize the best of Wanda Modean Clayton with bullet points up in here.
*As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair
*snatch you bald headed ( more Abuela assualt)
*glad you got to see me!
*Doll-baby (her generic greeting)
* Well, Shit fire and save matches
* as ugly as a homemade bar of soap
* my personal fav, Well, CAT HAIR!
I know we put people who have left us on a pedestal. Don't care. All she wanted was 24-7 love. She will get nothing from me for eternity but that. I go into my closet and touch the amazing clothes she left behind for me. Of course she told me that if I had them altered she would, once again, reorganize my slat. I don't know, maybe it's a bodily fluid?
I accept the source of my fabulousness. I feel when I am onstage, so connected to her, so SEEN. I also gladly look foward to someday, running across that beloved cotton field, when my Maw Maw will take me in her arms and ask why the hell I spilled wine on her Wonder Bra.
Happy Birthday Maw Maw.
Getting it right seemed to be a quest for her. That woman's house was immaculate. I remember her taking vacation from the dress store she owned, to in particular do some "in depth cleaning". Nothing like bleaching grout to celebrate ones spring break.
The Vicki and Maw Maw would have clashes, but it was putting two negative sides of a magnet together. The tension was there, but no chance to connect. I have often wondered what my mother's reaction to such a complicated relationship would be when it's time on earth had ended. I never imagined what mine would be. I almost didn't consider myself a participant among the women in my family. I always felt invisible, awkward. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Didn't feel a part of the "gang". I didn't even look like any of them. I was delighted when my closest cousin and I had begun to resemble each other, but it was a bit scoffed at.
Modean going home to Jesus crushed me. This happened in a selfish, human way. Someone I knew intimately was no longer here, reminding me that one day I will also, take a dirt nap. Even as a wine drinkin' Baptist, that sometimes scares the shizzle out of me. A gift, though, started to come out in the year afterwards. I found programs to all the shows I had done in college in her trunk. Along with it, was a story I had written for a high school U.S. history project. I had written the story of my grandfather's minesweeper being sunk by a kamikaze. The man died when I was two, cancer begun by the smokes in his military rations. A strange, John Wayne- like presence I will not come to know until aforementioned dirt nap.
I sat in her guest bedroom filled with family pictures, running my hands over the hope chest I had played on since birth. Breathing in her perfume that permeated the house, I would never smell again, I realized something.
I was seen. She SAW me.
Then I found her pictures used in advertisements for her petite dress store( Just Petites Just For YOU). Beotches, I tell you now, that woman was FABULOUS. Girl made 80's shoulder pads and city shorts a thing to behold. Looking at her beautiful face, tilted at the EXACT right angle, those pageant feet ( if I have to explain that, we are not as close as you had hoped), I saw my foundation. The birth of my attitude in those 7 by 5's was there. No matter what we went through daily with her, good and bad, she had IT. A magic that drew us all in. A romance to her existence , that was inherently" getting it right".Coming out of nothing, bringing a newborn The Vicki home to a dirt floor, being widowed at 45, she had risen like a glamorous Phoenix time and again. My love of beauty, elegance, and desire to be MORE, comes from her. Good crap, that woman evoked her own Doris Day lighting on her eyes.
As she lay in her bed the last few days, she would mumble something about finding the "gate". My cousin Jonathon heard it. It was explained that, as she waited for Paw Paw Rex to come home from the war, he told her to watch the east gate, he would be coming for her. She was hanging clothes on the line when she, at last saw what she ached for. She ran most of the way to grab on to the love that was almost lost in the Pacific. Paw Paw told her, before he died, that he would be waiting there for her. When she took her last breath, my aunt said, " I will say it, Mama is running across that cotton field to meet Daddy."
So The Vicki asked us all to wear somethingof her's in honor of Modean's birthday. All of those meticulously kept clothes in great smelling closets. It killed us to give it all away. We divided up what we felt drawn to. I am proud to say, that today I have been lovingly supported by the woman who started my path of divaness's Wonder Bra. Shut up. You try to get into a petite woman's Evan Picon suit after eating $6.99 prime rib in Vegas for a week.
Bloated is as bloated does.
This brings me to the most important life choice, the Modean's language. She has left me with a verbal palette that would make Van Gogh tres jealous. She would often threaten to , "slap the slat" out of us. I did not know where my "slat" was located, but I felt it important to protect it from Abuela- induced trauma.
Well, hell I will just itemize the best of Wanda Modean Clayton with bullet points up in here.
*As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair
*snatch you bald headed ( more Abuela assualt)
*glad you got to see me!
*Doll-baby (her generic greeting)
* Well, Shit fire and save matches
* as ugly as a homemade bar of soap
* my personal fav, Well, CAT HAIR!
I know we put people who have left us on a pedestal. Don't care. All she wanted was 24-7 love. She will get nothing from me for eternity but that. I go into my closet and touch the amazing clothes she left behind for me. Of course she told me that if I had them altered she would, once again, reorganize my slat. I don't know, maybe it's a bodily fluid?
I accept the source of my fabulousness. I feel when I am onstage, so connected to her, so SEEN. I also gladly look foward to someday, running across that beloved cotton field, when my Maw Maw will take me in her arms and ask why the hell I spilled wine on her Wonder Bra.
Happy Birthday Maw Maw.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Have Neuroses, Will Travel.
I have become Grandpa Cooper. My friend Celeste told me today that her Grandpa has not left his house in 35 years, because he is afraid that no one will be there to pick the paper up out of the yard. I am often gripped by the fear that I should stay home and watch my children ( and border collie) develop. I am starting to drift away from that theory, now that the teenage boys are a bit sick of me. But, I still have the girl, the collie and the guilt to keep me company. I have never been a world traveler. I have to admit that my comfort zone is very small. I don't even dare to go into a different HEB than my neighborhood one. For craps sake their Pinot might be in a different place and what the hell would I do then?
My name is Diva and I fear change.
I had a pep talk from Celeste about Vegas. When I read that thefts happen at the 5 star hotel I will be visiting, I started crying, afraid that somebody was going to beat me to death for my Target earrings. No, she said to me, you have to push yourself. So here I go. Won't gamble, though.
Yes, that's right. You can take the Baptist girl out of Lubbock, but....... My Shana was stunned. I told her to shut her pie hole and let me stick to at least one moral. So, I will go. I may get Shana to come read Goodnight Moon to the border collie, as my little blessings will be their bio father at that time.
Maybe that will make me feel better.
My name is Diva and I fear change.
I had a pep talk from Celeste about Vegas. When I read that thefts happen at the 5 star hotel I will be visiting, I started crying, afraid that somebody was going to beat me to death for my Target earrings. No, she said to me, you have to push yourself. So here I go. Won't gamble, though.
Yes, that's right. You can take the Baptist girl out of Lubbock, but....... My Shana was stunned. I told her to shut her pie hole and let me stick to at least one moral. So, I will go. I may get Shana to come read Goodnight Moon to the border collie, as my little blessings will be their bio father at that time.
Maybe that will make me feel better.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Evacuate the Dance Floor, ya'll
I don't go dancing anymore. The 'thritis has got me in it's clutches. Also an unfortunate incident where I saw fit to fling myself offstage during a show last year, left me in crutches and messed my back up. I do miss it so. I used to go all the time. My dream, in high school was to sneak into THE PLANET. What a mysterious, beer soaked, black-lit, Depeche Mode thumping forbidden temple it was. It was quite the status symbol to show at Monterey HIgh School with the remnant of the ever so recognizable stamp left on your hand.
There are many songs out there on the interwebbings and Youtubes that contain a pretty young thing describing herself dancing in a club. At your leisure check out Kelly Rowland or if you must Will Smith's female telling of such. What a seducing tale they weave. Proclaiming that everyone in the club it having a petite mal seizure in their precious places at the mere glimpse of the dancing Greek Goddess that you are flippin the hair and cutting loose.
Right.
We all know what that girl looks like. Much like that one bra-less old hippie lady with the bootie bag and broomstick skirt letting her best Isodora Duncan jam at the Jazz brunch while you are trying to choke
down your migas, I 'm afraid that the scene looks different on the other side. I was once that dancing queen, letting the ameretto sours help me find my inner rythm, dancing alone on a table, feeling sexier than Tawny KItean doing the splits on sportscars. God, forbid, you have a sober friend with you. Said a-hole would recount how you fell off the table and didn't actually realize it, or dry humped one of your professors. No, such things are better left in the void of Saturday night. Let that one, drunk girl have her lone moment feeling like a sexy beast on the platform. Might be the best part of the week.
I always felt better about the quality of my moves after that first nip, anyway. I started going to country bars later in college when it finally dawned on me that the gay guys at the Planet where NOT going to ask me out. I was astonished to note that a drunk cowboy couldn't walk to the bathroom, but could two- step at an alarming speed. This confirmed an earlier sighting of the other team; a drunk gay man can do a backwards roller- skating routine to Xanadu that will straight up move you.
Sweet and precious drunk dancing, me , my physical therapist, and a bottle of anti- inflammatory loverlies are coming for you. In more comfortable shoes, I'll give you that. But, oh, it will be broughten.
There are many songs out there on the interwebbings and Youtubes that contain a pretty young thing describing herself dancing in a club. At your leisure check out Kelly Rowland or if you must Will Smith's female telling of such. What a seducing tale they weave. Proclaiming that everyone in the club it having a petite mal seizure in their precious places at the mere glimpse of the dancing Greek Goddess that you are flippin the hair and cutting loose.
Right.
We all know what that girl looks like. Much like that one bra-less old hippie lady with the bootie bag and broomstick skirt letting her best Isodora Duncan jam at the Jazz brunch while you are trying to choke
down your migas, I 'm afraid that the scene looks different on the other side. I was once that dancing queen, letting the ameretto sours help me find my inner rythm, dancing alone on a table, feeling sexier than Tawny KItean doing the splits on sportscars. God, forbid, you have a sober friend with you. Said a-hole would recount how you fell off the table and didn't actually realize it, or dry humped one of your professors. No, such things are better left in the void of Saturday night. Let that one, drunk girl have her lone moment feeling like a sexy beast on the platform. Might be the best part of the week.
I always felt better about the quality of my moves after that first nip, anyway. I started going to country bars later in college when it finally dawned on me that the gay guys at the Planet where NOT going to ask me out. I was astonished to note that a drunk cowboy couldn't walk to the bathroom, but could two- step at an alarming speed. This confirmed an earlier sighting of the other team; a drunk gay man can do a backwards roller- skating routine to Xanadu that will straight up move you.
Sweet and precious drunk dancing, me , my physical therapist, and a bottle of anti- inflammatory loverlies are coming for you. In more comfortable shoes, I'll give you that. But, oh, it will be broughten.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Innapropriate Dress
As my beloved spouse and I get ready to travel to Vegas, I am jumping with delight at packing the innapropriate dress. Oh how I love you cleavage spelunking,butt grabbing , non The Vicki acceptable garment. Oh how being caught with you in my 'hood would scar me for a least a week, emotionally.
To that point, there is a woman in aforementioned 'hood that told my bestie that it was wrong for married women to wear aformention cleave -exposing garments, so as not to tempt other women's husbands. It is usually unwise to tell my gaggle of beotches NOT to do something. We know run around that flat-chested harpy with our tatas looking like a baby's bottom. We have become quite the experts in counting the times 40 year old men give in to tit-glancing. It's the little things in life like that that bringing us such joy. Besides, of course finding out who is frightened of me here. I like to keep the intimidation levels at a certain per capita. Keeps my schedule free. Honestly, try it. If you look like you might drown your kids to steal their Adderall, everytime you are at the schools, you WILL NOT be asked to participate at the bake sale.
So here we are, about to not be scene by anyone I know. The facebook cutoff will be quite early, then straight to girl greek chorus texting. I am letting the baby feeders loose people. My Ocean's Eleven fantasies are about to come true. But let's face it, Julia Roberts walks like a newborn fawn in that movie. Perhaps I will bless all ya'll with packing a Cindy McCain suit and let the Harve film me descending that staircase like the lower paid unhorsey diva that I am.
I am all in.
To that point, there is a woman in aforementioned 'hood that told my bestie that it was wrong for married women to wear aformention cleave -exposing garments, so as not to tempt other women's husbands. It is usually unwise to tell my gaggle of beotches NOT to do something. We know run around that flat-chested harpy with our tatas looking like a baby's bottom. We have become quite the experts in counting the times 40 year old men give in to tit-glancing. It's the little things in life like that that bringing us such joy. Besides, of course finding out who is frightened of me here. I like to keep the intimidation levels at a certain per capita. Keeps my schedule free. Honestly, try it. If you look like you might drown your kids to steal their Adderall, everytime you are at the schools, you WILL NOT be asked to participate at the bake sale.
So here we are, about to not be scene by anyone I know. The facebook cutoff will be quite early, then straight to girl greek chorus texting. I am letting the baby feeders loose people. My Ocean's Eleven fantasies are about to come true. But let's face it, Julia Roberts walks like a newborn fawn in that movie. Perhaps I will bless all ya'll with packing a Cindy McCain suit and let the Harve film me descending that staircase like the lower paid unhorsey diva that I am.
I am all in.
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