Poetry Friday: The Word is DANCE, Pt. 3

The start of something much larger than I am today:

Tango

“Two? Four? Ten?”

She hated when he did this.
She couldn’t stand the way he looked at her, his blue eyes blazing from an inner fire, spotlights of his inquisition.

Like Klieg lights, it blinded her.

Most times he could keep the queries under control. He didn’t really want to know. Not really. But when the days were gray and cold, and the air around them too expansive, his mind would wander through the forests to those dark places. Places of doubt. The secret places where sticking a toe in to check the warmth led to slipping down the bank to the cold murky depths.

“I’m not going to tell you,” she said to him quietly. “It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re together, and that’s all that matters.”

She hated this dance. She’d much rather lead him by the hand to the bedroom, lay him down, nuzzle his neck and declare her passion for him. Slowly undress him. Smiling. Lower her body onto his. His hands clutching her thighs in that way that always made her come.

But that’s not what he wanted.
So that’s not what she wanted.

“I’ll make us some lunch,” she said, padding barefoot to the kitchen, trying like hell not to make her hips sway too much.

That’s not what he wanted.

She got out the stock pot, the veggies, the knife, and set to work. He could see her from his perch in the living room. She really was beautiful, he thought, too beautiful for me. How many more? What were their names? What did they look like? Why did she choose me? When will it end.

Poetry Friday: The Word is DANCE, Pt. 2

The haikus:


My fuzzy feet slide
Wooden floor to kitchen door
Doing the pee dance


Shhh…kids are sleeping
Sexy man dance in my bed,
The toy box is out


Hot shower making
Cold body dance wet fire
Why are you still dressed?


Hips out left right shake
Hold my dancing ass to cross
Icy parking lot

Poetry Friday: The Word is DANCE...Part 1

I'm half-expecting to be called any second now, with the news that school is closed and handsome Sergei has to be in court and I need to slog home through our 2-4 inches of expected snow to be with the kids for another Snow Day. I've tried to keep up a cheerful countenance, but I'm not in the mood. I'm foul and disgusted and inert and smoldering. I am HATIN' on this Winter like a bitey dog. I'm tired of never seeing the sun. I hate not being able to MOVE my gorram body through the streets. Nothing is shiny shiny except the ice, thwarting my every step.

All the more reason to Dance, isn't it?

Today's Poetry Friday Word is DANCE. Feel free to use it in your blog post today in whatever two-step bends your ankle...poem, photo, story, lecture series, song styling, sonnet, haiku, x-rated snow sculpture....

I'm posting videos here now, with something else to follow. Soon as I have more coffee and shake the Ever-Lovin' Hate of Winter from my head.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


"When We Were Kings" (if you haven't seen this movie...GO...WATCH...Norman Mailer: "I'm gonna dance and dance".)




Genesis (totally 90s cute + Weird Al)

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, pant pant

The sky is falling on me today and I don't even have time to pee...but I woke up with a song in my head today that just won't leave, pushing itself to be the Poetry Friday WORD for this week.

Well okay then.

The word is DANCE.

Feel free to use the word in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever fashion trots yer fox...poem, story, song, photo, recipe, tattoo, favourite outfit of your youth, sexy prom remembrance....

This is the song that won't leave. Lookit the hair, man, the hair!

Silverman versus Kimmel in Celebrity Eff Match

WARNING: Thinly veiled swearing, sex, and erotica. Thin. Like onion skin. Or fishnet stockings.

I heard about Sarah Silverman’s video, but never watched it…until a few minutes ago.

I then heard that Jimmy Kimmel retorted…even better. (The celebrities, OMG, the celebs....)

I ended up watching both videos at work, stifling gasps of laughter that nearly exploded my lungs, waving my hand in front of my face to quell the tears.

Best thing I’ve seen in a while. And to think, I nearly blogged on how bored I was today.

Sarah:




Jimmy:

I Assess the Essence of the Mess

1) My boy won an Oscar last night…mmm…delicious...and now a mad deafening crush.

2) My other boy has a new cd out and I haven’t yet bought it, what the hell is my deal?



3) How could I miss a Sex Show? How could I? (slapping my head repeatedly)

4) I realized yesterday afternoon that my credit card bill hadn’t come. And I knew my bill would be due soon and I wouldn’t remember to pay it, ‘cause like most folks, I pay what I get in the mail. I called them today and they said the bill was mailed out two weeks ago. And due next week. I think this is a GIANT conspiracy. Wanna know why? This is the same credit card company who, last year, said they didn’t receive my payment (which I mailed two weeks before the due date)…upped my percentage rate to ridiculous heights…told me I needed to pay the NEW amount…which I did…which was TWICE what I usually owed due to the increase in percentage rate…and THEN, yeah, THEN they FOUND my first payment. “Found”. As in, during that one month I should have paid X, but I paid X times 3. Conveniently located my payment, my butt. Credit cards are evil, and that’s why I’m working like hell to pay it off. And that’s all I have to say about that.

5) Plus I have to fight the dental insurance company, who is refusing to pay for a procedure that Girl-child had done two weeks ago, even though their coverage booklet said they DO cover it, and the rep I spoke with said she couldn’t help me but if I sent in three documents to the Appeals Board, maybe (MAYBE) in 6 weeks I’d hear something. Bah.

6) On a positive note, I got a shipment from Gary today. Which makes me giddy as a drunken frat boy.

Poetry Friday: Tattoo...Part 3...The Act

I haven't seen "Miami Ink" on tv in a while, but I still have a crush on Chris Garver, a most amazing tattoo artist who worked on the show (and probably still has his own tat studio in H'wood). Here's video of him tat-ing his friend Tim...the detail is really amazing. (The buzz of the tattoo machines sends ripples of satisfaction down my body, mmmm....)

Poetry Friday: Tattoo...Part 2...the drumbeat

The tables were still sticky from
root beer and
onion ring grease,
the customers mostly gone
mostly home
She came by
with a wet towel
as
He drove up
whistled at her curvy hips
in brown polyester
Sat down on the stool
at the carhop window
pattering out a tune
waiting for her to finish

Come with me
comewithme
ComeWithMe

She scurried to rinse to
sanitize the glasses
the ice cream machine
the hot dog kettle
clean the soda lines
He beat his tattoo
class ring thumping on the
nailed leather
of the stool only his legs fit

Come with me
comewithme
ComeWithMe

She snapped shut
the windows over screens locked
against burglers and vermin and time
washed her hands
grabbed the bag of burgers
her purse and lip gloss
paycheck and bank deposit
turned out the lights
He strummed harder,
matching the tempo of the rhythm
below his belt
maybe tonight
maybe tonight she'll

Come with me
comewithme
ComeWithMe

Poetry Friday: Tattoo...Part 1...the photos

We girls love showing some skin. The Girl-child and me. We've both been known to streak from bedrooms to bathrooms, shake our bare bottoms in the hallway, expose bare shoulders for kissing, and bend necks for nuzzling.

For a few days now, Girl-child has sported a fake tattoo on her cheek.

For a few years now, I have sported real tattoos on my shoulders.

Girl-child flutters like a butterfly.

Me...I'm a bee...chewing up honey and ready to strike.


The Girl:


The Mona:

Poetry Friday: The Word is TATTOO

Irrelephant is a Magic Man, dealing words from his streetcorner like packets of powder out of his crisp raincoat..."Psst...hey buddy...c'mere a minute...lemme give you just a taste o'this...."

TATTOO is the word Irrelephant has offered up to the gods of Poetry Friday. There are several meanings to this word...a drumbeat...an image under the skin...the act itself.... Feel free to sprinkle this word liberally over your blog post today, however it travels down your fingers...poem, story, photo, clever arrangement of post-it notes, song-styling.

I'm breaking my own post up, utilizing as many facets of the word as possible. Stay tuned for parts, pieces, parts. And please go see Irrelephant...he has taken the word and run, sprinted, marathoned with it. Groovy, baby.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow...Lookee Here!

The handsome, talented, cunning, rapacious machine of burnin' desire, the one named Irrelephant, has graciously offered up the Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow! I don't want to spoil the surprise here, so go to his post NOW for the Word! (A most excellent and visual word, if I must say.) Please feel free to use this word in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever fashion inks its way into your psyche...story, poem, photo, butter sculpture, recollection of that busty college babe you once knew, dirty limerick, song of sixpence....

See you on the morrow!

(And Thanks, Irrelephant...you rock, and rock hard! Hmmm...rock...hard...suddenly I'm thinkin' dirty....)

Poetry Friday…? I’m here for an argument!

I am hoping to pass the Poetry Friday torch to a fellow blogger this week, a blogger of an “irreverent” sort, but haven’t heard back from said blogger to see if they can do it this week. I got a late start, I admit it. I don’t want to dis them and post a Word for tomorrow, not after I’ve dangled the carrot of honour in front of their faces. If I don’t hear back from him soon (HIM, yes, I said it, so check your email if you’re a guy), you can count on tomorrow’s Poetry Friday being Poetry Friday Slam, or Potpourri, or Hot Dish. Hmmm…Poetry Friday Hot Dish…I sort of like that…that mixed-up casserole mystery meal so prevalent in the Midwest, meat and noodles and sauce topped with crushed potato chips or tater tots. Ya gonna eat yer tots? So yeah, we may be winging it tomorrow…weeeee!!

Me and the spouse got down and dirty last night, and I’m running on 4 hours sleep and not complaining about it one bit. No sirree bob, not complaining. Although the stupid dreams are continuing. At least last night I wasn’t yelling and mad at my kids in the dream, but mad only at Daniel Day-Lewis (the real one, not my Boy-child in some shape-shifting form as in the other night’s dream). At one time DDL was on my Fantasy Boyfriend list, before it was a proper list. I was mad about him in the 80s. I saw him on stage in London when he played Hamlet in 1989. And last night he invaded my dreams in some rhythmically complex way, a black and white movie thumping with music, and DDL with long hair and moustache, arguing with me about something.

Hmmm…maybe I’m just feeling argumentative?

I signed up yesterday to take a Cardio Striptease class with some fellow Soccer Moms. It overlaps my Bellydancing class by a week, but I don’t care. I don’t think you can have Too Much Sexy Dancing, can you?

I Drink Your Milkshake

For the last week or two
Or maybe longer,
Yes, longer,
I’ve had these Epic Dreams
That last Too Long.
When I wake up I’m still dreaming
And I have to shake the images off like a wool coat
Next to my bare skin
All prickly
Hot
My mouth dry like
Newspapers.

Two nights ago I dreamt that the kids and Sergei and I
Were at a diner
And Boy-child was at the counter
With me
Asking for sausage
When I asked him if he also wanted toast
He didn’t answer
Didn’t look at me
I asked him again, “Do you want toast with that?”
Nothing
A million miles away
I sighed, “okay
No toast then”
Boy-child then became Daniel Day Lewis
Complete with moustache,
And stabbed my hand repeatedly with a fork
Chanting
“I drink your milkshake.
I drink it up.”
…
He left to sit
And he was Boy-child again,
Sweet smiling cherub
The dream went on, full of
Mixed up housing
Cars that turned into tree limbs
Hills where I could run or fall.
…
And I woke up breathing like underwater,
Angry and confused


This morning I woke up
Breathless and hurt
Because Girl-child had not thanked the dream’s party host
And I tried to make up for her lack of enthusiasm
And the host was pissed
And Boy-child threw a wad of paper at a
Stranger
Passing by
And I was at the Country Music Awards
On roller-skates
With kids in tow
Not caring who Trace Adkins had
Slept with
Just wondering
How the hell
I could get home.

Maybe I need to drink some warm milk
before bed.
Maybe that would chase away these dreams
Where I’m mad
At my kids
Which makes me mad
At myself
In real life.

Prude

I went to dinner with some fellow soccer-moms last Saturday, and we decided as a group that not only were we taking a Cardio Striptease class starting next month, but that one woman in our group HAD to throw a sex-toy party and invite us.

A couple of the moms said they'd attend, but that they'd never bought anything like that, and would they be embarrassed?

Wuh.

Well?

First of all?

I can't believe these women, in their early 40s or later, have Never (ever? never?) had a sex toy. Maybe it's me, maybe it's my childhood experimentation with barbie dolls and stuffed animals and a general sense of self-absorption and some quiet time alone in my bedroom to explore my yoni. I loves me some sex toys (I keep 'em in the 'special toy box' in the top of the closet, yo, so's the kiddos don't find 'em), and most of my good girlfriends do too.

Maybe it's my general liberal attitude towards sex...you should live together before you get married, and why not sleep together before the ring goes on your finger...you wouldn't buy shoes without trying them on first, right?

Oh yeah...and it's okay to masturbate. It's almost necessary. To find out what you like. To never have to depend on someone else to fulfill that desire. You won't go blind. You're not a slut. Yesh, you will still want to jump your significant other. And you'll have a much healthier sex life.

I'm sort of looking forward to the soirée...to see how the non-toy women react. To see what happens when the host breaks open those shrink-wrapped packages and out emerges Big Blue, with the variable speeds and the realistic vein-age. To act as Instructor when Ruth leans over to me, blushing, and asks, "Bu...but...what do I DO with it?" And I get to tell her in graphic detail what she can do, and should do, as soon as she gets home with the thing.

Poetry Friday: The Word is TIME

Friday I ran out of TIME.

And TIME slipped away from me this weekend.

sigh

For y'all who post Poetry Friday, I'll be getting with you to have you contribute the Word for a while, as events Beyond My Control seem to be getting in the way....

Time One

Someone bring me mirror/so I can look at my cash....




Time Two

And then Robt Downey Jr went on to be a druggie...go figyah....

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow...Word Up!

Fellow Mother-of-a-Fifth-Grader and I were lamenting the lack of time.

Time to play,
time to rest,
time to do all the little things you want to do
every day
and can't do anything about.

The people around me are stressed. Work, homes, kids, pets, money, food...the litany of To-Dos never ends. Even with our 'space age' inventions, things that were supposed to save us time, we still don't have time to save.

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is...TIME. Feel free to use it in your blog post in whatever fashion pushes your snooze button...story, poem, photo, recipe, favourite 80s band, itch you long to scratch....

I was talking with Cool Sis this morning, work is hell for her too, escaping yet another layoff at Giant Internet Company, and working hellish hours. We got on some tangent or other, and this song came up. I found the video and sent it to her, and made her laugh. The video is...well...just a piece of heaven! I mean, ANY video with codpieces, dancing cops, and Levar Burton can't go wrong!

Wave your hands in the air like you don't care!

Uno!

Best in Show, baby!

I love these dogs. We had a beagle a few years ago, but had to give him to a nice German woman when we were never home to care for him. My first ever dog was mostly beagle. Snoopy is a beagle.

What's not to love?

This video made me all ferklempt, I started watching it (at work, with headphones on), and when they announced 'The Beagle' won, I choked up, and a sob escaped my throat, and my eyes welled up. After I watched the thing three times, with similar happy tears, I took off the headphones and realized that it was veeeeery quiet at work, except for me, gasping for joyful air over some dog. Maybe the guys will just think I was eating a really good lunch.

(This isn't the exact video I was watching...the good one is here, go down and launch the video...they won't let me embed it in my html, the buzz-killers....)

Plus One/Minus Two

When I got in my car this morning and turned the key, my car whined sickly, like my kids when they have fever and body aches and I make them sleep instead of watching Spongebob all afternoon. Whined and then turned over, screeching with the frozen oil attempt to lubricate. My car has a thermometer on the panel, right next to my odometer, to measure the temp outside. It said 1 degree Fahrenheit.

10 minutes later, as I pulled up to work, the thermometer said Negative 2 degrees Fahrenheit.

Which I don’t quite understand.

It's morning. We're heading toward spring.

We should be starting to tilt toward the sun, correct? Even if the sun isn’t over the horizon yet? How in. The. Hell. Could the temperature drop three degrees in a matter of a) 10 minutes, and 2) 7 miles?

Sergei and I have discussed the crappy situation Michigan is in with losing jobs and no money, and Sergei thinks we should invite some businesses from the southern states…you know…the states that have no water…to come to Michigan, bring some jobs to replace the auto industry ones, plug our natural beauty and proliferate rain and snow, and beautiful Great Lakes. I think he’s on to something. Money in our state would be nice. But for me, cynically, in a schadenfreude known only to us Northerners, I just wanna see how freaked out those Southerners get when they have to drive on snowy roads. As long as I'm at a safe distance.


(This is just stupid enough to make me laugh. Plus, I loves me some Zach Galifianakis.)

Poetry Friday: The Word is HIT

Words words words…

…are escaping me today.

Escaped me last night.

Fickle sand through fingers
Mercury drops on the floor
Post-bath 2-year old running slippery naked through the house.

Can’t grasp it.

The Poetry Friday Word for Today is HIT. Feel free to use it in your blog post today, however it whacks you upside the head…poem, story, photo, sculpture, movie quote, audio of your favourite band from the 80s….

I’m going all music today. Until I get some words that fit.

Have a good weekend, y’all!


Number One: Sugarcubes, "Hit" (very sexy and danceable)



Number Two: Ray Charles, "Hit the Road Jack" (sexy and bounceable)




Number Three: Bronski Beat, "Hit That Perfect Beat" (lurved them once upon a time)

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, and I crashthunk

Today is another Snow Day, the third in 9 days (well, to be precise, 7 school days). I'm Done with it, I'm tired of snow, I'm exhausted and blah and stressed, I purposely brought home work from work last night, knowing full well the schools would close, and I'd be home with the kids, placating them with tv and snacks after spending the morning in the snow, so I could get some work done.

That was a long run-on sentence.

I left work early yesterday afternoon to give myself ample time in the snowy, slushy streets. Two blocks from work, I encountered a guy on a bicycle in the right lane. (What? The? At this time, sir, I would advise you to use the sidewalk.) I went around him, and back into the right lane. Gave myself plenty of time to stop at the stoplight. Lots of space between me and the car ahead of me. Sitting, idling, the wipers whooph-whoophing.

Bam.
Beep.

The girl in the car behind me stopped, but with no room to spare.

She hit me.

I put the car in park, got out (avoiding the traffic that was now snaking around us), and examined the damage. Two rips in my bumper where her Special Plastic License plate scraped my car.

Fuck.

This was a new car.
My first totally New car.
That Sergei bought for me.
I was doing nothing wrong.
I had the damaged car...hers, not even a scratch.

It could have been worse, of course. She could have not stopped, we could have been hurt, the car could have been totaled. But. Still.

My. New. Car. Sergei's. New. Car.

I called My Love while the girl was giving me her insurance and license information (of course she was a student at Local University). I hated to tell him. I had to tell him.

We're neither one happy campers.

So.

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow is HIT. As you are all smarty pants, you know this word has multiple meanings, so feel free to use it in your blog post tomorrow in whichever form and with whatever method you choose...story, poem, photo, experience at the Grammys, macrame plant hanger, recipe for crab-stuffed flounder.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I really must get back to work. Manana, amigos.

Underpants. Girls Underpants

1) “Underpants” is a funny word. It makes kids giggle. And grownups to ask, “Where? Where underpants?”

2) When were underpants invented? Anyone? Cavemen? Did Jesus wear underpants? George Washington? Montezuma?

3) It only recently occurred to me that when I’m sorting laundry, by the end my hands are prolly covered with Underpants Cooties. Eeew-yuck.

4) I never come to work Commando. I did go Commando after my surgery last summer, for weeks. It felt weird to put underpants on afterwards, I mean, why? I didn’t have to use them as a cargo-net back-up catch for menses…I don’t particularly like when my panties peek up from my pants if I bend over just right…they just get in the way of spontaneous half-asleep wake-up sex. Are they really so attractive that we feel we need to wear them?

5) Actually, those boxer-briefs are really sexy.

6) Thongs and I don’t get along. Maybe if I had a better, tighter ass I’d change my mind.

7) It wasn’t until I was in high school, helping my mom fold the laundry, that I discovered that men’s underpants had an front opening to make it easier to whip it out and pee. What a gyp. Dropping trou just to pee sucks.

8) Shiny underpants of man-made materials make my cooter sweat.

9) I have worn men’s boxers as shorts.

10) Farmer Ted held 'em up, but John Cusack rocked the place.

Git me ma day-um bagul

1) Damn you Patriots. Damn you.

2) I needs me a t-shirt that says, “I Survived the Hannah Montana 3-D Movie”. For Girl-child’s birthday party this year, Sergei got tickets for her and 3 friends (and me, as chaperone) to see said movie in all its glory. Hundreds of screaming girls (and their frantic mothers) lined up in velvet ropes, throwing popcorn at each other, running back and forth to the bathroom and chanting overandover again, “Do we get free refills on frozen coke?” (The answer: No.) We stood in line 2 hours. The movie lasted 1.25 hours. The girls had a blast, but I needed a drink. (Sergei had one waiting for me when we got back to the house…and THAT’S why I married me a prince.) We predicted that the initial “one week only” run would be extended, owing to demand and Disney’s unending and bloody-fanged greed. And that’s exactly what happened…”keep it in theatres until it runs its course”. Yeah, or until you suck every tween girl’s piggy bank dry. I loath you, Disney Corporation. Pucker up and kiss my dimpled heiney.

3) I bought myself “Writers Market 2008” from Amazon. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to do with it, other than leaf through it and dream. So far I am not inspired. The only idea that comes to mind for an article to write and sell involves bodily functions and the words “poopy poopy pants”. Nope, still not inspired.

4) Saturday night I dreamt I was sitting outside with the kids, when we saw two finned rockets drop from the sky. They descended closer and closer, and I pulled the kids close while deciding (panicking, actually) which way to run and hide, when the rockets lifted up and burst confetti out their nosecones. Then a parade came from the sky, parachutes carrying stunt people on snowmobiles, elephants and tigers and lions being dropped in my helicopter, Anthony Edwards coming toward us with a parachute in his hand, jumping up 4 inches, and try to dive off the curb…he landed with a gentle thud on the top of a truck coming up from the subway in front of us, smiled, and went on down the line to jump and land in front of another crowd. Penelope Ann Miller came by wearing a red dress, and she tried to scramble down a ladder into the sewers, but we yelled for her to Stop!, and she did, smiling, and moved on. Airplanes buzzed the crowd. Satellites left their orbits and swooped above us. Jets so silver against the sky they were almost invisible caught our eyes, then disappeared. I didn’t trust it. Since I was little I’ve had dreams that satellites and spaceships landed in my neighborhood, and there was always something ominous about it. Scary and foreboding. This parade of space junk meant something bad was happening, something veiled under the banner of “parade!”, and I kept my arms around the kids, looking for a place for us to hide.

5) Poopy Poopy Pants.

Poetry Friday: The Word is BIRTHDAY

I'm tardy, blahblahblah, snow day on Friday, birthday party on Saturday, Super Bowl Sunday, yaddayaddayadda, here I am.

Poetry Friday!

Birthday!

Here we go!



John Bailey

It was the accent.

More than anything else.

It was the way his tongue flipped words in tantric circles, smoothed out the creases of a sentence, lifted a simple question into a curvy inflection that whispered in my ear.

“Can I take you out to dinner?”

It was my 21st birthday, and John wanted to make it special.

I borrowed Julie’s favourite sweater, squirted Halston on my wrists and neck, and propped myself up on heels. John arrived at my dorm room exactly punctually precisely at the appointed time.

He was wearing a suit.

I didn’t know college guys owned suits.

John was from London.
John was well-mannered.
John was my crush.

He drove me to Fancy Restaurant. Opened all doors. Gave me his arm. He ordered a bottle of wine and for most of the meal, I sat speechless. I had never before felt like the center of someone’s attention, so pampered and special.

I smiled so much my cheeks ached.

We languished at the restaurant until they started turning off the lights. John drove us back to the dorms, turned the car off, and reached for me.

We kissed a good long while.

Then, in his gentlemanly way, he escorted me to my room.
Kissed me again.
Said goodnight.
I closed the door as he walked away.

It was much later that John and I were intimate.
Once.
Because
for all his manners and genteel qualities,
For all his polite grace and witty dry humour,
John
Couldn’t
Get
It
Up.

The embarrassment embedded itself in his skin.
He blushed every time he saw me.
We were friends.
Good friends,
Just friends,
Who watched Monty Python til the wee hours
And told achingly bad jokes
And brightened when we entered a room together.

John Bailey took me out to dinner
On my 21st birthday.
John Bailey
Make me a queen
For a night.