Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Myra's School of Pole Dancing

Myra's getting ready to run another promotion. One of those, "Haul your friends in here and blackmail them with whatever you've got on them until they sign up and we'll give you a T-shirt" deals. My friends are either already dancing their little hearts out, have been and refuse to go back (for various ridiculous excuses like 'the surgeon told me I can't yet'), or they live out of town. I won't be getting that T-shirt (or whatever), and I suspect that most of the current students face the same dilemma.

But I have a better idea for Myra. Change the name to reflect what we really do in there. Women go to Jazzercise to let their hair down and dance. We shimmy, we bump, we grind... we shake what our mamma's gave us. And we take these talents home with us. Our husbands are lucky men. If the sign on the door said "Myra's School of Pole Dancing," the men of Greer/Taylors would be signing their wives up in droves.

Now, granted, their may be some fallout from local churches. Greer/Taylors is definitely a conservative area. And, as I have said before, Myra is a Christian woman, as is... well, everybody that I personally know. So the sign would have to reflect the fact that we use our skills only for the entertainment of the men we are legally married to. Maybe, "Myra's Christian School of Pole Dancing and Marital Therapy."

We might need to play with it a little bit. Y'all let me know what you think.

Note: In response to several questions, I would like to add that at no time do we remove any of our clothes while Jazzercising. Well, except for the occasional sweatshirt. This is completely wholesome pole dancing.

Peace, out...

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Deadlines, Commitments and Ailments, Oh My!

I confess...I have been very, very slack in the exercise department for the last two weeks. My VOLUPTUOUS figure has not graced the dance floor all week this week, and last week was spotty at best. But, as always, I have many reasons (not to be confused with excuses).

First off, I had several deadlines for submitting stories that came all at once. And, since I am trying, oh so very hard to become a PAID writer, I must submit. I mean, the blog is great, but it well, doesn't pay much, and most agents and editors like to see publishing credits before they'll take on your novel. So, there were deadlines...

And, there were commitments. And, by this, I don't mean that I was committed to a mental facility, although, one could make an argument that such a thing is in order. Thus far I have successfully avoided the men in white coats. But I have had other things on my to-do list, like fluff the house umpteen times so a realtor could show it. Did I mention our house was on the market? I can't remember. Anyway, here's how this works: They call, I clean and try to make the house look like no one lives here, then I have to leave and go elsewhere for an hour or two so they can show it. It's really fun when I spend several hours getting the house ready, drive around for a couple of hours--because, after all that house cleaning, I'm sweaty and icky and not fit to go in anywhere--and then they don't show up.

Under the ailments category, somehow week before last I did something to my knee, my right foot and my neck. Probably this was due to the transition from vacation to trying to make up for vacation a little too abruptly. Perhaps I should have eased back into Jazzercise more gradually. Bodysculpt followed by a regular Jazzercise class two days week before last was the culprit, I think. My body was not ready to be sculpted.

Anyway, I didn't sleep hardly at all last night, and I when I did, I had a horrible nightmare. I was in surgery (some chest or abdominal thing was being cut on). I got straight up from the operating table and went to Jazzercise in my hospital gown. The Queen of Pain was there, and she cracked on me severely because I had missed a class while being cut open and stitched back shut. She was not impressed by my REASON. I slunk out of there in shame. I'm not sure what to make of the dream, but I think my body is going in to dance withdrawal. I've got to get back on track. I'm thinking the score right now is Demon Diane 103, Susan 4.

But today, there's this deadline...

Peace, out...

Monday, September 18, 2006

Spa Day

It occurred to me that in all the excitement before vacation, I neglected to tell y'all about my spa day. Well, I told y'all I was going for my pre-vacation spa day, but I never told y'all about my experience at one of our local establishments of bliss and beauty.

I was all signed up for a Day of Beauty. This package includes all the usual services: waxing (all the relevant body parts--although you will not catch me getting a Brazilian wax), massage, aromatherapy scalp massage, Dead Sea salt rub, champagne lunch, facial, manicure (with paraffin treatment), pedicure (also with paraffin treatment), makeover and shampoo and style.

Now, all of this pretty much takes the whole day. And they start serving you that champagne early. (It was five o'clock somewhere, right?) And you know, I never turn down champagne. I sipped and they refilled my glass. We repeated this process frequently throughout the day. Now, as the day progressed, there were certain, optional services that were offered, for a modest additional charge, to compliment my package and make sure I was completely relaxed and thoroughly waxed, buffed and polished for my husband's vacation pleasure.

At some point during my massage, when the lights were low, the music soothing and I was on my, I don't know, third? glass of champagne, the therapist noted the knots in my neck. She recommended that I have my ears candled to clear out the congestion in my ear canals and the tubes in my neck...I think that's what she said. Anyway, I was very relaxed and said, okay, fine...sure, why not?

Now, normally, I would not lie still for someone to put a long stick in my ear and light it on fire. But, as I said, I was quite relaxed, and in a somewhat suggestive state. Also, she did put a flame-retardant shield on my head so my hair would not catch fire.

After she did both ears, she cut open the hollow candles to show me what had purportedly come out of my ears. Let me tell you, if this was on the up-and-up, it's a wonder I could hear at all.

After we got back from vacation, I Googled ear candling, just to see what I'd come up with. Apparently, this process is supposed to clean the ears and the mind. The massage therapist did not mention one single thing about vacuuming my brain.

In case you were considering having this done, the internet consensus is that ear candling is ineffective in removing ear wax, which is actually good for you. regrettably, there is no established way to measure whether your mind is actually cleansed or not. I personally did not feel as though my mind was any cleaner after the process, and I think my vacation activities clearly demonstrate that this was not the case. Nor did I come across anyone in my research who testified to having had their mind cleansed.

On a positive note, the only real dangers reported are having your hair set on fire (which, as I said, I was protected from by my diligent therapist), getting your ears burnt or infected, obstruction of the ear canal, and punching a hole in your eardrum. However, there is concern expressed on some websites that ear candling will vacuum your brain slap out of your head.

To be fair, I did find a few souls who subscribe to the opinion that ear candling is quite beneficial. One of them claims that, "It cleans the whole head, brains and all - they're all connected you know." And the massage therapist did have a certificate from, umm... somewhere...stating that she was licensed to perform this procedure.

It is somewhat disconcerting, though, to read just a few of the titles of the websites that result from a search on ear candling:,,,, and my personal favorite... (what the ?).

Anyway, y'all be careful what you let them do to you at the spa, especially if your package includes champagne.

Peace, out...

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

A Little Too Real to Be Fiction

My sister sent me this story. I don’t forward emails…it’s just one of those rules that I live by that I occasionally break when I feel like it. This one smacked of reality, so I thought I’d post it. Let me state, for the record, that I do not condone drunk driving, do not personally believe that folks from Tennessee are any more prone to drinking than the rest of us, and do not consider “Hillbilly” a slur anymore than say, New Yorker. It’s all just geography.

Anyway, with apologies to any one from Paris, Tennessee, who might not see the humor…
From the county where drunk driving is considered a sport, comes this absolutely true story.

Recently a routine police patrol parked outside a bar in Paris, Tennessee. After last call the officer noticed a man leaving the bar so intoxicated that he could barely walk.

The man stumbled around the parking lot for a few minutes, with the officer quietly observing. After what seemed an eternity in which he tried his keys on five different vehicles, the man managed to find his car and fall into it. He sat there for a few minutes as a number of other patrons left the bar and drove off.

Finally, he started the car, switched the wipers on and off--it was a fine, dry summer night--, flicked the blinkers on and off a couple of times, honked the horn and then switched on the lights. He moved the vehicle forward a few inches, reversed a little and then remained still for a few more minutes as some more of the other patrons' vehicles left. At last, when his was the only car left in the parking lot, he pulled out and drove slowly down the road.

The police officer, having waited patiently all this time, now started up his patrol car, put on the flashing lights, promptly pulled the man over and administered a breathalyzer test. To his amazement, the breathalyzer indicated no evidence that the man had consumed any alcohol at all! Dumbfounded, the officer said, "I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the police station. This breathalyzer equipment must be broken."

"I doubt it," said the truly proud Hillbilly. "Tonight I'm the designated decoy."INT00077692

The Mother of All Stupidities

Let the record reflect that I went to Jazzercise four days last week, and took two body sculpt classes. That's six classes total. This week, so far, I've been to three (Jazzercise on Monday, Body Sculpt and Jazzercise yesterday). Today, it's raining, and, while I probably won't melt, why take chances? Besides, I have work to catch up on.

The new session of Personal Torture started Monday, and I am somewhat concerned about my personal safety, as I previously committed to The Queen of Pain that I would re-enlist. However, having wisely spent all my pocket money on Bushwackers at The Beach Bar, day trips to the British Virgin Islands, and over-indulgent meals while in St. John, I have no money left for Personal Torture. Sad but true. I subscribe with wild abandon to the "sha-la-la-la-la-la live for today" philosophy.

Anyway, to make up for the lack of torture in my life, I took a sucker bet. Demon Diane bet me she could get in fifty classes before me, starting on Sunday. She stipulated that she wouldn't count the classes she taught or her Personal Torture, and told me she was taking two weeks of vacation. Sounds like a no brainer, right? I mean, how could she possibly win that? So I took the bet.

What I did not stop to consider (and here's where the stupidity comes in) is that Demon Diane has an obsessive compulsive exercise disorder. She's a size four, who (the last time I checked) was going to Jenny Craig). She exercises in her sleep. She will crush me. As The Queen of Pain herself wisely inquired, "What was I thinking?"

I'm up to 3 classes. I'll bet she's at about, wait, if she took every class but hers, she's probably at eleven by now...

Peace, out...

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Here's A Cheer For Pot Stirrers Everywhere!

I live in Greenville County District 18. I voted for Tony Trout 4 times in the last election (I think--but I may have lost count). Three times in the primary and once in the general election. He is one of a handful of politicians large and small that I voted for and am still happy with. (That is not to say I would change my vote in other races if I could--only that I'm not completely satisfied with some of our other public servants.)

Tony has been stirring pots ever since he took office and I just love it! This country was founded by boat rockers, pot stirrers and rebels of every stripe. And like most folks who challenge the status quo, he has gotten his share of bumps and knocks. I say, "Way to go Tony! Keep right on looking under rocks. And if you ever need a citizen to request any information that the County Administrator won't cough up (but according to his quote in yesterday's Greenville News would still be available to Jane Q. Public under the Freedom of Information Act) give me a call. I'm in the book. I'll be glad to inquire."

It has been my experience that when folks are trying their hardest to make you look bad, you're asking questions they don't want to answer. Questions that probably need to be asked. And it takes considerable stockpiles of grit to live in the Greer area and shine the light in some of the places he's been poking around. Keep up the good work!

All y'all in Greenville County District your local Councilman.

Peace, out...

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Four Weeks With No Dancing Makes One's Clothes Tight

Y'all may have noticed that I haven't mentioned Jazzercise in a while. That's because I haven't been in a while. This was brought to my attention this morning. Now, I did drag my VOLUPTUOUS self (I only gained 4 pounds on vacation) out of the bed this morning and haul it in to Body Sculpt (with Myra, The Caring and Nurturing Alien) followed by a Jazzercise class with Wendy(who is fast morphing into an alien--that girl is getting so skinny even her chest is flattening out). I thought I had gotten away clean--having been AWOL for 4 weeks, I was not eager to encounter Casey, The Queen of Pain.

But, as I was leaving the building, sweating...I mean glistening brightly in the sunlight, here she came across the parking lot like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. The look on her face would have stopped a lava flow. It was cold...cold. We're talking cold as the strawberries in the very bottom of your grandmamma's deep freeze since three summers ago. And Casey is much more intimidating in street clothes and makeup than she is than in workout clothes, bare-faced, with her hair uncombed (which is saying a lot).

Fortunately, Carol and Alyce were standing there with me, so I was not dismembered and buried behind the building. Also, I had really, really good REASONS. (Family member undergoing surgery, vacation, vacation and...umm...brief vacation recovery followed by more vacation--Labor Day weekend is always family weekend in a mountain cabin.)

The Queen of Pain was not particularly impressed with any of the exercising I did while on vacation--snorkeling, hiking, and beach lolling. And I even told her how I used my Jazzercise technique of singing to get air in my lungs as I hiked up from Salt Pond Bay where we'd been snorkeling. (I sang Bye, Bye Miss American Pie all the way up that hill, and Jim still let me in the Jeep and gave me a ride back to town.) My sister informs me that, at the gates of Heaven, two people will get to go to the front of the line and go straight in: my Aunt Ruth's maid, Francina--this is a whole nuther story--and Jim. I'm not sure what to make of that considering Francina's quality of life.

Anyway, Casey and I have reached an agreement: She will let me live, and I will not be missing any more classes between now and Christmas.

Y'all hold me to that...