Confession: I try to catch Namaste Yoga on FitTV whenever I can.
Disclaimer: I try to ignore all the “energy leaving your body through the third eye” mumbo jumbo and treat it as nothing more than a visualization for relaxing. It works OK for me. I really enjoy doing the exercise and listening to the voice of the instructor. Her voice really soothes me and sort of makes the whole thing work.
I’ve mentioned before, and our posting habits pretty well reflect that while Kate is an early bird, I’m a night owl. Grace is a little of both, but mostly a night owl. She stayed over last night, and while channel surfing I flipped past FitTV sometime around 0:dark30, and something new was just coming on: Shimmy.
Shimmy is sort of yoga meets belly dance, so being such a fan of Kristine, I had to jump right in. Kate’s used to our doing Namaste at odd hours of the dead of night, so it rarely elicits more than a muffled appreciation of a particular body position Grace and I might be in when she peeks from behind her tousled locks of obsidian satin hair with one half-opened eye. (That is unless she’s in need of some attention.) For whatever reason, last night was a little different.
Over at Celluloid Blonde, Sulya got that as her stripper song.
This is a delayed post, just to give you something dreamy to wake up to.
I love the ’80s stuff. Great song for strippin’, too. I so need to install a pole in the bedroom now. Def Leppard and a stripper pole. What else does a girl need in her bedroom?
You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little
Tease a little more
Easy operator come a knockin’ on my door
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet
Little miss innocent sugar me, yeah
Oh baby. Sugar me. Two lumps, please. Maybe three.
As you read this, we are currently sitting in the front row, fidgetting. I expect that just about now, Pastor is preaching about fornication and soaking his hanky right through.
It’s a beautiful day to be all breezy under your dress.
T’was Grace that brought us safe thus far…
and Grace will lead us home.
M. needs a name. We can’t use hers, but we sure as hell can’t go around calling her “M” all the time. M is James Bond’s boss. As much as I admire Dame Judy Dench, it’s just not fitting.
So I’ve been up all night. I’m tired, but not cranky. I’m giddy. I’m happy. I’m silly. I’m horny. (YES AGAIN!)
Kate and I took a bit of a break a little bit ago from blogging, and reading, and general birthday silliness to catch a small cat-nap.
(Kate must own stock in Victoria’s Secret, btw.)
The door bell rings. Kate and I wind up in a very loud wrestling match to fight for the door.
Now, we’re not exactly dressed. Not naked, but not dressed. I’m in a new little white lacy teddy, and Kate’s in a new matching red one. (Both of which are birthday presents for me.)
Look, it’s our house. Don’t like how we answer the door? Don’t ring the doorbell.
Anyways, Kate cheats and uses some Marine Corps Kung Fu Judo Ninja move to get to the door first, and while I’m sprawled on the floor, she answers it.
It’s a woman’s voice. I didn’t quite catch what she said, other than “birthday”.
Kate turns to me and says, “It’s for you.” with this raised eyebrow smirk thing going on.
So we were awakened from our nap by a Hellacious Thunderstorm…
The rain was coming down as hard as I’ve ever seen it. Kate and I, being alone for the week with Ruthie et al out of town, decided to take the mature, respectable, intelligent course.
Confession: I try to catch Namaste Yoga on FitTV whenever I can.
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