Shake Yo Tailfeathers

About 4 years ago, for Christmas, my kid sister and I both received a Carmen Electra Striptease Workout DVD. In our stockings. On Christmas Day morning. My dad was really eager to "see those videos!" I received Disc 1: Strip Your Way to Fitness. I don't remember which one my sister got, but I do remember her telling me how she tried to do the chair dancing and it embarrassed both of us when she demonstrated what she had learned. Now, these DVDs came out in 2003, and we received them in 2006. That means they were probably on sale for like 3 bucks a piece and my mom saw them in Target and thought they'd be a cute and fun addition to our stockings.

The first time I tried to strip, I failed miserably. Not only did I sweat profusely in my apartment, but when I tried to take my jacket off, I fell. That was all it took for me to pack up shop and declare I would never be a stripper again! When I moved back in with my parents, I took up pole dancing. I only went to 4 or 5 classes, but look, pole dancing is freaking hard and it's no wonder strippers have abs of steal. Clearly, if you saw me, you would know that I am no more cut out to be a pole dancer than I am a stripper with no jacket.

While looking for ways to burn at least as many calories as I stuffed in my face today, I remembered I had the aforementioned DVD. I'm an avid runner, yogi, swimmer and weight lifter, so there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to conquer this stripping thing once and for all. So, after a chug of water, and a few "you're a hot vat of burning love" and "you're a sexay machine" to myself in the mirror, I decided to give it a whirl.

This time, I made it through the stretching, managed to take my jacket off (hollaaa! sexay has arrived!!), and onto the next routine. About halfway through the second routine, you have to really shake your hineymo. Carmen even says something about the more dramatic it is, the sexier it is. Ever the drama queen, I shook my hineymo so hard it's a wonder I even have a hineymo anymore. I also managed to watch myself in the window pane, and I'm not really sure I would call what was happening in my living room sexay. After shaking it left, shaking it right and shaking it all around, you have to walk slow, then fast, then turn around, all the while being sexay by running your hands up your torso and through your hairs. Forget being sexay, I was so busy trying not to be dizzay that I found myself tripping over my feet. The real kick back to reality was when the routine calls for you to smack your hineymo, squat down (don't forget to rub your legs on the way down), and come back up (still rubbing your legs) and smack your hineymo again, only this time on the other side.

Now, if you're like me (which hopefully you're not, because that means you have absolutely zero chance of being a stripper either), your legs are so sweaty that when you rub your legs while squatting, it's hard to maintain control. On the way back up, you're more concerned with drying your hands on your shorts than you are with rubbing your legs on your way back to your hineymo. Luckily, I didn't make it though this too many times. I had the shakes so bad, I almost felt like a stripper (only, I'm pretty sure our reasons for the shakes are different). My legs were shaking, and sweating, my hineymo was red and hurt from spanking myself, my palms were clammy, my stomach hurt from doing a sexay stomach roll, and my head still hurts and has whip lash from shaking it all around. Not to mention there's a fabulous chance my back is broken in at least two places from my fall.

I'm afraid that stripping may have conquered me yet again. I subsequently feel really badly about myself now that I know I am not a stripper by nature. I love shakin my tailfeathers, but I might need to keep my feathers on from here on out. I really hope this doesn't cause problems for me at the nudist colony dance off next month.

you get into MY car, billy ocean

It’s good to point out that in my life time of driving (after I finally passed my permit test), I’ve had several speeding tickets (note to future drivers of America: don’t let the four Germans you have crammed in the back seat of your Sunturd speak to the police officer on your behalf), expired tags (I swear I didn’t know they mailed those babies to you), an illegal license plate (I rightfully blamed that one on the DMV), a collision at a red light (you should have let me over, jerk), , parking tickets galore (no parking? No problem!), a collision with a construction barrel (not nearly as harmful as one would think), a collision with a mailbox (still makes me laugh to this day that I somehow convinced my mom she should go apologize to the owners for me for the fact that their mailbox was now 20 feet on the other side of the road and to tell them awesome job on filling in that pot hole in 20 minutes flat), etc. My attorney actually fired me because I wasn’t a paying client and he didn’t even do traffic infractions.

A few years ago, despite all of the aforementioned facts, I decided to purchase this little red race car. Now My little red race car was just what I needed at the time. My car was breaking down and my emotional breakdowns were getting worse with each call home to my dad to come help me. Dad and I went shopping (he was ONLY there for a good deal…we all know how I would have gotten taken advantage of) and when I laid eyes upon that beauty, I had to have her. And so it was. But loving her hasn’t come easy. She drove herself into a wall 4 days after I got her (I told her to stop looking at hotties in the rearview mirror), she got rear ended at a red light (karma’s a bitch when your car is a hoochie), and she tried to commit suicide by throwing herself into a ditch and having to be towed out by a Chinese angel. So, as it is with the time I got kidnapped, we’re lucky she’s alive.

If there is one thing I have a real problem with (and I only have ONE problem), it’s traffic cops. When I evaluate why I am so mad about traffic cops, it really boils down to the fact that I don’t feel like I deserve tickets. Ever. I know a lot of people who do. But not me. A few weeks ago, I drove with Natalie to Miami. We stopped in West Palm Beach to pick Deb up who had flown in for the weekend from NYC. Natalie and I had gotten a late start but we felt badly confessing this to Deb as she was laying on a bench in the airport people watching. At 11 o’clock at night. Because it was late, and we were still far away, I decided to pull out one of the trustier tricks I keep in my back pocket. BRIGHT LIGHTS FOR ALL. I realize most drunkards drive with their brights on to see the popo. While I do not condone drunk driving, I do have to admit that they make a good case for driving with your brights on. I’ve been driving with my brights on for years. My lead foot just always seems to get caught on the switch when I put it in the car. Bright lights to spot the popo and 20 miles over the speed limit and I was golden. We turned Mandy Moore up as loud as she could go (oh hey, you take what you can get when your ipod is broken) and made our way to the airport. Only, we got stopped. By something called a dual stalker radar. Personally that name is offensive. I don’t need ANY stalkers, but definitely not multiple stalkers. After some smiling, and some cooing, the officer gave me a ticket for 9 over and told me to slow down. Not to let a ticket ruin our fun, we turned up Billy Ocean’s Get Out of My Car and pulled in to pick Deb up. She was welcomed with the dance you see in the picture. By this point I’m pretty sure it was 1 am. Poor Deb had been laid up on a bench for 3 hours, and Natalie and I on the side of the road. Talk about the start to a great weekend!

Well, I am proud to say that 131 buckaroos, and a traffic class online later, I am cleared for safe driving again. When you take traffic school online, you can let it play it the background while you clean your bathroom, make your dinner, change the cat litter and talk on the phone. Then you get SIX tries to pass the test. I only know this because I failed it 3 times and each time it gave me one less try. AND, because I attended this funny and catchy traffic school, I get free tickets to a stand-up comedy show. In Palm Beach County. I’ve got plans that night but I bet if I time it JUST RIGHT, I can do both. I mean, it didn’t take me that long to get to Palm Beach the last time. Anyone wanna ride wit me?

Dolla Dolla Bill Yo!

One of my fave Wyclef songs (you may wonder why I have multiple fave Wyclef songs) is “Sweetest Girl.” It’s a song about a hooker who lives for the bill. Well, know who else lives for the bill? EBAY.

See I'mma tell you like you told me
Cash rules everything around me
Singin' dollar dollar bill y'all (dollar, dollar bill y'all)
Singin' dollar dollar bill y'all (dollar, dollar bill y'all)

A few years ago, I got a notification from Ebay that they had revoked my registration because I shared a home address with a fraudulent Ebay seller. I wanted to call them up and tell that it was malarkey, but, I did share a home address with a fraudulent Ebay seller. See, my brother sold a bunch of stuff on ebay once and got the orders mixed up and sent the wrong things to the wrong people. Naturally, they got upset. As in a bunch of George Constanzas went crazy on Ebay, and coupled with the fact that my brother already had a bunch of complaints stacked against him for selling patches at inflated prices (yes, you read that right), Ebay decided to revoke his membership for a period of time. And then they revoked mine since I had the same address as him. I was so mad. I had worked so hard to have lots of stars and have a great online rep. My brother just laughed at my case and hung up the phone. For some reason, things like this don’t bother him. At all.

I took matters into my own hands and created a NEW Ebay profile so I could sell some stuff (like everyone, I think I have some awesome shiz to sell and like my mama always said: one man’s trash is another woman’s treasure). I haven’t built it quite back up to the stature that it was, BUT, I’m getting there. Until earlier this week. I received ANOTHER notification from Ebay (really? Is it someone’s job to just send out emails telling people how much they stink at being an Ebay member?). It says: Your account has been put on hold because the US $1.06 balance on your eBay account hasn't been paid.

See I'mma tell you like you told me
Cash rules everything around me
Singin' dollar dollar bill y'all (dollar, dollar bill y'all)
Singin' dollar dollar bill y'all (dollar, dollar bill y'all)

Really? My account has been suspended because I haven’t paid ONE DOLLA BILL? I don’t even know what I owe them a dolla dolla bill for, but this just really chaps my hide. I have a REALLY hard problem believing that Ebay is hurting so bad in these tough economic times that my dolla dolla bill is really going to make such a difference. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem paying a dolla dolla bill if I owe it. But on principle, I don’t think I’m going to pay it. Not right now. I’ve got some fabulous dresses I’d like to sell, but I really don’t feel like I should have to pay a dolla dolla bill. Wait. I don’t feel like I should have my account suspended because I owe ONE FREAKING DOLLAR. I could understand if I owed ONE MILLION DOLLARS. Or even ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. But I own one. Uno. Ein. ONE dollar. One.single.solitary.dollar.is.controlling.my.future.as.the.greatest.ebay.seller.of.all.time.

See I'mma tell you like you told me
Cash rules everything around me
Singin' dollar dollar bill y'all (dollar, dollar bill y'all)
Singin' dollar dollar bill y'all (dollar, dollar bill y'all)

I used to be the sweetest girl too.

Strong Eagle and Morning Dove

My big brother is in law school (so we like the networking feature of law school). You’ve heard me mention his blog several times before, and I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty funny and he sometimes has good ideas for me to expound upon. In a recent post, my brother recounts his experience meeting the Chief Judge of the Middle District of N.C. (pretty impressive, huh? Well, just in case you missed it, our dad is a pretty important fella and people know him and yes, he does have many leather bound books. And yes, his office smells of rich mahogany). As soon as he was introduced, the judge said “let me tell you a story about your father” and proceeded to tell my brother the story of how my dad swung from a vine during an Indian Princesses retreat years ago. Now, this brings back many memories for me, as I am the Indian Princess at the center of this story (of course, when are my stories centered around anyone but me?)

The YWCA used to offer an Indian Princess program, which nowadays is probably considered completely un-PC and totally racist on many levels, but I mean really, do we care that much? It is similar to that movie with Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Tim the Tool Man Taylor about Indian Guides, only for girls. The point I think was that fathers and daughters could do outdoorsy things (ie manly) together to bond yet the girls would still feel like girls (ie princesses). I don’t really know. I do know, however, that my dad was given the Indian name Strong Eagle, and I, Morning Dove. Actually, I’d appreesh if everyone would start calling me Morning Dove from now on. It’s a majestic name, and I think I can locate the necklace if need be. We were given, and this is NO lie, brown felt dresses to wear – dress for lack of a better word as it had a hole cut out of the top for our heads and it just draped over us, sort of like a sandwich board, only felt and soft - and headbands and get ready, FEATHERS to wear in our headbands. I distinctly remember receiving a yellow, an orange and a red feather for my head. We also had bracelets to wear and necklaces made out of buffalo teeth or some other animal that Indians are known for hunting. We would sit around at meetings, dressed in our garb and do who knows what. I honestly don’t remember anything about Indian Princesses except what I have told you, and what I am about to tell you (also, Indian Princesses is where I was not allowed to jump on the trampoline at a friend’s house because Strong Eagle didn’t want his dove to get hurt. So yes, I was in college before I ever really jumped on a trampoline).

The aforementioned retreat was at Camp Cheerio, a camp in the beautiful mountains of NC. I remember having a pow wow (yes) but I do not remember any hunting for wild boars or buffalo while we were there, so unfortunately, we did not bring home any meat for our wife or papoose. The thing I most remember has made an impact on me that has honestly affected me my whole life. Now, at Camp Cheerio, all of us were in a cabin together. The dads stayed on one side and the princesses stayed on the other. I was like 6 at this point and everything made an impression on me. It was literally freezing that weekend, and all of the dads were walking around their side of the cabin (with no doors mind you) in their tighty whiteys before bed. I’m not sure why this wasn’t considered inappropriate, but at this point in time, it was not. Then you have my dad, who was wearing slippers and a full set of pajamas. For as long as I’ve known my dad, he has worn full pajamas. As in button up long sleeve and long pant pajamas. And slippers. He has ALWAYS worn slippers and if he can’t find his slippers, he’s worn penny loafers. Now, as a 6 year old, you can imagine what a sight this was to behold, especially in the midst of about 15 other grown men who are wearing nothing but tighty witeys in the freezing cold. Who were the real men here? When we got back to the homestead, all I could do was tell my mom how embarrassed I was that my dad wore that getup in front of other people. True to my dad’s form though, he was not concerned because he had been the warmest of all the men in the freezing cold, and he had slept the best. He apparently also had the best exercise that weekend since he spent it swinging from vines when he should have been hunting timber for our forest fire (http://leerobertson.blogspot.com/2010/09/lunch-with-federal-judge.html).

When I say this has affected me my whole life, I am not lying. This Dove has thought of Indian Princesses EVERY SINGLE time she has seen her dad in his sleeping attire (and when you shack up with your folks for over a year, that becomes an ordinary thing). A lot of kids get their dad’s neckties, and socks and golf accoutrements for Christmas. We get our dad slippers and pajamas. I grew up thinking my dad was the weirdo for not sleeping in tighty witeys (which is weird to even think about tighty witeys and your dad in the same thought anyway) but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how actually, my dad was the smartie because he a) had no shame and didn’t care about being in with the cool kids, sitting around drinking beer in his underroos (again, I’m not sure this would be considered appropriate these days) and 2) slept SO soundly and warmly, like a bear in hibernation (that’s a nice Indian reference, eh?) and no one else did.

They say it’s what you get out of an experience that matters the most. That’s really well and good, but I’m pretty sure the point of Indian Princesses wasn’t for me to have an image stamped on my brain of a bunch of grown men in tighty witeys and one lone, though strong, Eagle in a full on sleeping suit. Wait. I still have my outfit! So, I guess I got a little more out of it than I thought ;)

Tagalicious.

I can recall countless games of Tag growing up, which I hated because I ALWAYS got tagged and you’re it-ed and, let’s face it: I just ain’t Mugsey Bogues. I could NEVER catch anyone to tag them. This would be funny for about 2 seconds and then I would get tired of being It, so I would just stop. And the game would end. Eventually people stopped asking me to play tag. But don’t worry. My feelings were definitely not hurt. But with the age of the Internets, a new form of tagging evolved. You can now be tagged in pictures, wall posts, and blogs. At first, I loved being tagged. As in at one point, over 2,000 pics of the Mere Mere were tagged on the Facebook. But then I got all weirded out, and de-tagged roughly 89% of said pictures. I left the notes I had been tagged in tagged though. I mean, who doesn’t love talking about themselves. While I understand Toby Keith wants to talk about himself more than myself, I am using my most recent tagging experience as another channel for you to learn more about The Mere Mere. My friend Becky of http://houseofsykes.blogspot.com asks the following questions. And I have answered. Please, get excited and get ready for this experience into my soul.
1. What's your favorite form of exercise (whether you exercise or not)?
I like any type of exercising. I want to be a cage fighter but my dad has a problem with “women getting hit in the reproductive organs.” I did kick box for awhile so you probably shouldn’t mess with me. My roundhouse kick pretty much karate chops Chuck Norris’ roundhouse in the face. I like to run, but I have terrible shin splints, so these days I swim and yoga. I’ve been a swimmer my whole life, including a stint as a synchronized swimmer in college (and no, when one drowns, the whole team doesn’t have to drown too) so I can say I really enjoy it. I wrote a book when I was in first grade about being an Olympic swimmer, and clearly, my dreams have come true. Yoga, well, we all know my sentiments on that. I can 100% without a doubt say that I despise yoga. But, I do not despise the way I feel afterward.
2. Are you an early bird or night owl? What do you like best about that time of day/night?
I am afraid I am just a bird. It hurts my feelings to get out of bed in the mornings, and I get sleepy at night. I love to sleep. But I love being awake too. I don’t feel like I’m moody, but apparently, in the mornings, when your feelings are hurt first thing, it causes you to be in a bad mood until lunch time, when it’s time to let your vittles fill your mouth. What I like best about any time is that it is time!
3. What's the greatest lesson you learned from your parents that you actually apply today?
let your vittles fill your mouth. you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. if you lay down with dogs, you’re gonna get fleas. don’t count your chicken before they hatch.
Did you choose the right major in college? If so, what was it? If not, what would you change?
I did. I always knew I wanted to be an English major. Not because I wanted to teach, though I did toy with the idea, but because I wanted to read and write. My fave classes in college were Chaucer and British Romantic Poetry. I did my thesis on The Critical Reception of F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby in 1925 and Present Day and honestly, if you want one of the most exciting reads of your life, let me know and I will loan you a copy of my thesis. I LOVED being an English major.
HOWEVER, if I weren’t an English major, I most undoubtedly would have been a math major. This is because the ONLY math I have EVER understood in my life is logarithms. But please, don’t ask me what they even are because presently I cannot remember. My math teacher, when I finally made it to College Algebra my junior year (of college...it was COLLEGE algebra, hello), suggested I think about taking more math since most math majors don’t understand logarithms. um, excuse me? that makes no sense and is stupid.
5. What kind of driver are you? Slow and cautious? Calm and assertive? Aggressive? Road rager? does the fact that I got kicked off the school bus for defacing school property and throwing things out the window say anything about me? or the fact that I to this day still shake my fist at anyone who doesn’t do as I feel they should whilst driving? And sometime, I feel like the best revenge is just to flip someone off. But I probably shouldn’t admit that.
6. If you're sad, what's the one thing that can always make you happier?
I would like to say it something like flowers and poems and songs and cuddling, and while those things DO make me happy, pretty much free cash and some McDonalds will do it 100% of the time.