Did you know that Milli Vanilli was stripped of its Grammy almost 20 years ago today? If you're finicky about details, it was actually 19 years and 1 day ago. I don't see why it was a big deal. Does any pop star actually sound like the album with all its digital remastering and sychronizer magic? I mean, really, remember Smelly Cat?
Not that this little bit of cocktail party chatter has anything to do with this post. But next time you're at a cocktail party, tweet up, PTA meeting, or Trader Joe's check out line, start humming the chorus of Girl You Know It's True and see what sort of reactions you get. The foot tapping will start things off, with the head bobbing shoulder popping to come. The famous white man's overbite will soon follow. If everyone is a wet rag, blame it on the rain. Meh.
Cabin Fever
3 ounces Rain Organic Vodka
splash orange liqueur (like Grand Marnier)
Freshly squeezed lemon juice
sugar cube and mint leaf
Add all liquid ingredients to a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake it like K.C. and the Sunshine Band. Shake. Shake. Shake. Put sugar cube and mint leaf in a martini glass. Strain and pour cocktail shaker contents into glass.
Sure fire way to add sunshine to your day. Cheers to a breaking fever!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Bring Sexy Back, One Girls Weekend at a Time
Reporting for duty after a much needed vacay from reality. Reality doesn't suck, but it sure does suck the life out of me. Sometimes it's nice to steal away and forget that my name is Mom. Sometimes I like to be Ilina again. You know, the woman who wears dry clean only clothes, tall leather boots, carries all her belongings in a pocket, wears red lipstick, and has runway posture. Life with children can be shackling. Come on, I know you've thought it too. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me explain that I wouldn't trade my life. I love my family and cannot imagine life without my Bird and Deal (Mac Daddy too, natch). Seriously, folks, all that goes without saying, but I can't deal with the holier-than-thou freaks out there who are ready to pounce. Allow me to extinguish your fiery words of contempt.
No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.
Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.
What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.
Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?
The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."
And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.
No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.
Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.
What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.
Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?
The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."
And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.
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