Flirty Girl Fitness

It honestly took me fifteen minutes to stop laughing after doing the “Flirty Girl Fitness” DVD. It was very fun, hilarious, actually- unless you really are a stripper, then I’m sure this is all old hat to you! As for me, I am a novice to the strip-tease world, the hip-hop-booty-shaking world, and generally the dance world, other than my reigning favorite form of exercise: bellydancing.

"The Pussycat"...with attitude...she told me to!

Now, one would think that a bellydancer would easily pick up these moves being thrown out by the “Flirty Girls”, but no. I didn’t. At all. The first DVD, called “Booty Beat” (try to contain yourself, here), is a fun, heart- pumping dance routine. If you’re 5’10″, hair down to your waist, a 34D, size 2, perfect abs and tan, like all of the “Flirty Girls” are, then these moves look super duper sassy and hot! However, if you’re like me, and have at least 10 lbs. to lose, and this is your first intro to moves like “the Booty Bump”, “the Pussycat”, and the “Spank”, you might at first feel a little silly doing all of these moves. God knows I did! But, as ridiculous as I felt, I found myself laughing and smiling the whole time- which is a great bonus to just sweaty, plain ol’ cardio. The only downside to any “pole-dancing-stripper-routine” DVD is that you can’t do it while you’re kids are around. The last thing I need is my Daughter doing “the Bootie Bump”, or my Son trying to copy “the Party Girl”! So- if you go for it, do it while the kids are napping or at school- as for me, I’m not doing it in front of anyone but the cat until I have some of these moves mastered!

"Hip Thrusts"...I can do that!

"The Party Girl"

After I finished the “Booty Beat” DVD, I was feeling all sexy and empowered, and I thought I would move onto the “Chair Dance” DVD. Be forewarned here, friends- do not attempt the chair routine until you have mastered the art of being stripperrific, are super flexible, and can feel really sexy doing some seriously crazy-slutty moves! Do not do as I did, and skip straight to the chair routine- get the first one down for a few days, then move on. Learn from my mistake….

So, I put on the chair DVD, and the skinny, tan, flat-as-a-board abs, perfectly endowed instructor purrs, “You’ll never look at your kitchen chair the same…” Allow that to be a warning, Ladies! So, I continue on with the DVD, “walk unassumingly around the chair, sit with your back arched…” So far so good. “Do a sexy stretch….” I can do that alright…”Stand up to the side of the chair, kick your left leg over the back of the chair, straddle, and sit”….I’m a dancer, right? So, I just follow along….except, I realize midway through kicking my left leg up and over the back of the chair, that it was not going to clear the top of the back of the chair. So, not only did I topple over the back of the chair, I lost my balance, landed on the now upside-down chair on my hip, and have a huge bruise on my ass to show for it. Notice, there are no pictures of the “Chair Dance” workout…nor will there be. The “Chair Dance” is intended to be somewhat of an ab/core workout, but mostly for you to learn the art of  chair dancing, in order to show it to your significant other. I wouldn’t dream of making such an ass out of myself in front of the Husband, until I am a Master Chairdancer! Then, I can graduate, and move up the ranks to “Poledancer”.

The 10-foot Pole...Seriously

 It’s then and only then, I will graduate from bashing myself on an overturned chair, to breaking my neck trying to climb upsidedown on a pole in my living room…..Stay tuned!

The End!

I get my fix first thing in the morning, usually before I pour my morning coffee. I get another hit before I get dressed- must have a little more. Then usually at least one more time, before I leave the house. I’ve done it at work, once or twice- just a quickie, though. I would do it at Starbucks, at an airport, even in my car, if I had the means to do so. I do it while I’m writing- I even do it in front of my kids. (Bubble popping sound)- I’m doing it right now….must keep in touch with someone who I haven’t seen in 22 years, since we were in fifth grade together, but for some reason, I feel compelled to talk to her about her daughter peeing in the potty for the first time, on Facebook!

It is a global obsession, and I have fallen prey to it! Three years ago, I was very content in my little world of a handful of friends and my family, until one night, I went to a bar to hear a local band play, and after, they said “You can hear more of our new music on Myspace!” What the hell is that, I wondered? So I asked my sister, who is eight years younger than I, and way more hip what it was. Like a crack dealer, she snuck me into her room upstairs at my parents house, locked the door behind us and said, “Dude- check this out…” Then she pulled up her Myspace account, and showed me all these pictures of long lost friends, bands and music that she loved, tons of pictures….my first question was, “You can just look someone up by their first and last name?” “Yeah, TRY IT…” she said in a low, convincing voice. My fingers trembled as I entered the first and last name of the first ex-boyfreind to pop into my head. Voila! He appeared- picture and all- pictures of him, his wife, their kids. Holy cow! This is fun! I started typing in the names of all of my ex-boyfriends, and one by one, got the scoop on all of them, what they were up to, whether or not they were married, whether or not their wives were hotter than me- if they upgraded or downgraded ( I know I’m not the only one who does this…don’t judge)! And like that- I was hooked!

Just when I really started getting into Myspace, and had even dared a couple of times to play drunk Myspace (kinda like drunk-dialing, but not as dangerous, ’cause you can’t really talk to anyone), and started friend requesting all these ex-boyfriends…I do not recommend operating a Myspace page while under the influence, by the way. I would run into people at the mall or around town, and feel super cool and uber-trendy when I could tell them “find me on Myspace- we’ll keep in touch!” I would change my song every day or so, I would “pimp” out my page with graphics and codes and glitter, send comments, post pictures- I had become a Myspace whore.

Then one day, I saw a comment from a gal I worked with that said, “Peace out, Myspace- I’m moving on to Facebook!” Facebook- what is that? Some Myspace knock-off, no way! I’m staying true to my roots, I’m sticking with Myspace. Oh, sure, I took a little peek and I was totally bewildered by the “status” the “posts”, the applications and getting “Poked”- yeah, don’t think I want to be “poked” by some creepy dude I blew off in highschool- thanks, but no thanks.

So, as my friends started to drop off Myspace like flies to jump onto the Facebook bandwagon- I was steadfast. I kept answering the “all about me surveys”, posting pictures, changing my music, until one day I realized that the people I really wanted to keep in touch with were all on Facebook now. That I went from trendy Myspace girl to not-cool girl who’s not yet on Facebook. Nobody wants to be the not-cool girl, right? So, I did it- gave into the peer pressure, and opened a Facebook account.

At first, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I posted a bunch of pictures into what I thought was an album, that ended up instead on my “wall”. I would send my friends messages, instead of writing on their wall, and they would bitch at me, “You never wrote me back! So, I figured you didn’t want to go to girl’s night out…” “WHAT? I totally wrote you back! I messaged you!” I would exclaim. “Noooo- you write on the wall- it’s faster” they explained. Oh. Not a cool girl quite yet.

After a couple of weeks, I got the hang of it. I was posting my status daily, finding friends, suggesting friends, even drunk friend requesting ex-boyfriends! After a month, I even closed my Myspace account- “Myspace- that’s for amateurs”, I thought to myself. I’ve had people friend request me that I went to Sunday school with when I was seven, and a girl that hated me in high-school- even slapped me once, were now my “friends”. Some, I had to reach into my deepest depths of memory, past all the haze caused by years of partying in L.A., to try to grasp who this person was, but I would always add them, even if I couldn’t remember how on earth I knew them, ’cause I’m an equal opportunity friend adder.

BUSTED! I’m supposed to be writing a book review, but I’m playing Facebook instead!

I even walked the uncharted territory of adding people I work with, my bosses and co-workers. I struggled with this one. Do I want them to know that my status is “Kristin is recovering from a blaring headache from a bottle of red wine she drank last night.” Or, do I lie on my status, censor myself, ignore my whole First Amendment right to my freedom of speech? I finally figured, “I’m a bartender, I’m not curing cancer- it’s not that big of a deal if my boss knows I tie one on once in a while.”

Then out of no where, WHAM!  “Charlene would like to add you as a friend”. *Gulp* I only know of one Charlene…my Mother. Now, I am close with my Mom, and I love my Mom, but if she’s my Facebook friend, she’s gonna know all kinds of crap that I might otherwise omit from casual conversation. For example, if she asks how my night was out with my girlfriends, I would tell her, “It was fun! We had some drinks, we were safe, took a cab.”  But, if she was my Facebook friend, she will see pictures of my drunk ass dressed all slutty singing “I Touch Myself” at karaoke, or the occasional cigarrette in my hand in pictures snapped before I could quickly hide it behind me… all evidence that would certainly out me from being the sweet little wifey-poo and mommy dearest that I would like for her to believe that I am! Now, I’ll really have to censor myself! But, she’s my Mom- she gave birth to me, I can’t NOT add her- how disrespectful is that? But if I do, then Facebooking is no longer fun, and every time I post a picture or a status, I have to wonder “what would my Mom think about this?” After half a day of agonizing over my decision, I decided to add her. Thankfully, she seldom checks her page, hasn’t even uploaded a picture yet, and definitely doesn’t get on enough to catch all my updates, so, it’s really not a big deal.

Yesterday, I received a message from my cousin, asking if I received a Friend request from my Grammie. Are you kidding me? I type her name in the “Friend Finder” and sure enough, my 78-year-old Southern Baptist, heart of gold, pure as snow, knows the bible from cover-to-cover Grammie is on Facebook. Now that would definitely put a damper on my Facebook party! The woman has never let alcohol touch her lips, or sinned in her life, and I’m gonna let her see status posts about ”Kristin is still voiceless after singing ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’, and twisted an ankle while doing cartwheels on Main Street while she was out with the girls last night”- I THINK NOT! So, for now, I’m in Facebook undercover spy mode- adding a hyphen in between my two last names every couple of days, taking it back out, changing my location once in a while, and so far, sweet Grammie hasn’t found me yet! But, if she does, believe you me- I will be forced to jump ship, and give into the enemy, at which time, you can chose or chose not to “Follow Me”.

A continuation of “Do Not Drink and Shop”, including a review of the “Smooth Silky Leg” product:

I am so excited with my new little purchase, that the minute we walk into the house from a long exhausting day at the fair, I hurry, help get the kids to bed! “Kiss, kiss, love, hug, rock-a-bye baby, I love you, go to sleep!” And I lock myself in the bathroom, take a nice hot shower, dry off completely, then rip open the box and instructions for my little device that promises to set me free from the hassle of shaving, waxing and buying razor blades…the Smooth Silky Leg miracle in a box.

I carefully read the instructions, distracted by envisioning my whole body as smooth and perfect as the quarter-sized patch on my arm that the demonstrator defuzzed a few hours before, all for the bargain price of $20…then I slide the little mitt onto my hand, perch my right foot onto the toilet seat, like some deranged flamingo, and start my little circles. “Just like ‘wax on wax off’ on Karate Kid!” I remember the little hottie demonstrator telling me, it’s only dawning on me now that my buzz has worn off, that she’s not even old enough to have been born when Karate Kid came out! I shrug it off, and continue my little circles- a few to the right, then a few to the left. The hair on my legs is not really coming off like the hair on my arm did at the fair…maybe I need to rub harder? I know that the box said that “minor irritation” may occur by rubbing too hard against your skin, but I’m thinking that I’ve gotta be doing it too soft, or the hair would just erase off like it’s supposed to, right?

Fifteen minutes later, I only have a 2″ by 5″ patch finished on my right leg, the hair is off, but my leg is as pink as boiled shrimp, and I’m convinced that the hair only came off because the top four layers of skin on top of my legs came off too! Now, one would think that I probably should have decided at this point that this little trinket is not for me. But, no. I am stubborn as hell, I hate to quit, and I always make it happen if I want it to happen. And damnit- I want legs like that bimbo bitch demonstrator’s, and she uses Smooth Silky Leg, so so will I!

I take the mitt off my hand, march into the kitchen, pour a rather generous glass of Cabernet, stomp back into my room, and shut the door- liquid determination by my side. I finish the leg that I started, in record time of 47 minutes, and decide that I need a change of scenery (the Cabernet has worked it’s magic on my inhibitions by this point). I have very sensitive skin, and am always plagued with red, bumpy skin after I shave, especially THERE (I have discussed this issue in a former post titled “the Brazilian Wax Incident” feel free to refer back to it to laugh your ass off at yet another of my painful attempts to have a perfect bikini line, or rather no bikini line).

So, I sit on my bathroom floor, indian-style, and start on my inner thigh with the finger-sized mitt, which I read was “specifically designed for delicate areas such as the lip, eye-brow, or bikini area”. And away I go with my little circles, “Ouch”, I’m thinking- “this hurts, and it’s really not supposed to…” Little circles to the left, little circles to the right….wax on wax off…and I’m distracted by singing “You’re the best…. around…no ones ever gonna keep you down” from the Karate Kid soundtrack, as I do my little drunken circles all over my nether regions…then the wine really kicks in and I’m onto “Glory of Love” from the Karate Kid II soundtrack, “I am a man…” I’m singing in my bathroom, with the fan on, at the top of my lungs, “who will fight for your honor”…little circles little circles, “I’ll be the hero that you’re dreaming of”…damn I sound good in here, “Eat your heart out, Peter Cetera!” I say. Aloud. No, really.

I’ve been sitting in the bathroom, singing all of the score and soundtrack to both Karate Kid movies, while sandpapering my “area”, oversized glass of Cab is empty and has even served as a microphone during my rendition of “the Moment of Truth” by Survivor (also from Karate Kid), when suddenly, the door clicks open, and the Husband is standing there staring at me….reality comes to a screeching standstill before my eyes…embarrassment disguised as being a bitch kicks into high gear, “WHAT?” I hiss. “I fell asleep on the couch, and I woke up to this loud singing, and you’re in here…what are you doing?” “Remember, I bought that hair removal thing? At the fair…the hot girl with the awesome legs…” “You’re doing it now? It’s 1 A.M.” Really? Am I that drunk that I have been in here doing “wax on wax off” to my pelvic region and right leg for nearly three hours? Nooo….but the look of bewilderment on the Husbands face tells me it’s true. “Is it supposed to make your skin so red and bumpy like that?” He asks, genuinely concerned. “Well”, I stammer, “the hair wasn’t coming off when I did it soft like the girl did, so I just did it a little bit harder…” I realize the instant the words came out of my mouth how moronic they must have sounded to my Type A, follow every single instruction to the letter and by the book Husband. “Maybe you should give it a rest for tonight and finish tomorrow,” he suggests. Yeah- he’s probably right- it’s going to be way less fun without the singing and bathroom accoustics, and it is late. I’ll pack it up for now, finish in the morning, and off to bed I went.

The next morning, I was still a little foggy from my Cabernet-induced slumber, and I stumble into the bathroom, look at my reflection in the mirror, and as soon as I see the girl in the mirror staring back at me with scathing red bumps and welts down one leg, and all over her bikini area, I am reminded of the night before as gently as one would be if they walked dead on into a brick wall. “OH MY GOD!” was all I could say as I surveyed the damage that this stupid-ass little mitt had done. Apparently, I am allergic to one of the minerals that make up the “superfine crystals” A.K.A. fine-grit sandpaper, that are used to sand off your hair. The combination of rubbing in circular motions and “exfoliating” as I removed the hair, opened my skin and pores up to receive more of the mineral that I was allergic to, and I ended up with painful welts and hives all over my most sacred parts, and up and down one leg. All in all, it took about 5 days and two tubes of Cortisol to calm the angry allergic reaction, and I have vowed to myself that my search for being hair-free will never venture further than the handle of a razor. Ever.