The powdery white stuff is on its way! No, silly, not booger sugar…I’m talking about snow! In the state that I currently reside, we had about 400 feet of snow last year and they are predicting that this winter will even be colder and bring more snow.
Good God…why do I live in a place that is hardly fit for year round habitation?
The cold and the snow are an easy excuse to spend your nights and the majority of the weekend on the couch wrapped up in a Snuggie like a pig in a blanket.
Here’s a suggestion (free of charge, of course)…grab a friend, neighbor, spouse, cousin, significant other (you get the idea) and go see some live music. Even if you live in the sticks, you should be able to find some dive bar that supports the local arts by providing live music. Indulge in a libation or two. Dance. Sit back and watch other people try to dance.
Last weekend, my husband and I did just that and went to see a friend and his cronies play 80’s cover music at a nearby bar. It was fabulous! I had my new favorite drink…tequila gimlet. Ok, I had a couple of them and the next morning I felt the same as I did back in college after doing several tequila shots right before Mingles (the dark, loud, lights flashing, make-out on the kick-ass dance floor bar that we would clamor to only after spending the majority of our night at some dumpy bar drinking cheap tap beers) closed for the night. I guess I am just not that young anymore!
By the time we left several hours later, numerous people at the bar had monikers, kindly given to them by my husband.
There was:
Camo-boy. This early 20’s beatnik was already smashed by the time my husband and I arrived which was only about 8:30. He wore a camo-style jacket out for the night (serious fashion faux pas even in Minnesota) which he chose to never take off. Perhaps he was too hammered or perhaps he was afraid of losing his precious hunting coat. We lost sight of camo-boy shortly after he was trying to pick up some fairly decent looking cougars.
Fat Jesus. Yes, this boy strongly resembled Zach Galifianakis. I believe Fat Jesus originally accompanied Camo-boy to the bar but was not nearly as shit-faced. Do you think it would be harder or easier to pick up chicks when you resemble Jesus? Hmmm…that’s one to ponder.
Skinny Jesus. A few tables away perched a Skinny Jesus on a bar stool, consuming a beer and sporting ‘Jesus-type’ sandals. As if a man’s feet aren’t ugly enough…why would they choose to slip them into a hideous pair of sandals? Why?
The Pickled Parrot. And to complete the night, there was The Pickled Parrot. He was the loner at the bar who wore his 80’s mesh baseball hat and proceeded to whistle (very loudly, I might add) to the live music. Whistling at a bar…really? I find whistling rather peculiar and I think it is like some other activity that you do by yourself (use your imagination) that should be done only in the privacy of your own home!
10.20.2011
Ooo...la...la
Slacks…britches…pants…trousers…dungarees…jeans.
Oh my, who doesn’t love a good pair of jeans? I remember as a teenager wearing Levi’s 501 button fly jeans. There was a big tag on the back, right hip that gave the dimensions (I think I have been in real estate too long) of the jeans. W27 L34 - ie Waist 27 Length 34. I thought it would even be cooler (because I was already so cool sport a Members Only jacket) to take a ball point pen and scratch out the waist measurement. Now why on earth would I do that considering I was as skinny as a stick of macaroni back then?
There were also Sasson jeans. “Ooo…la…la…Sasson.” Gloria Vanderbilt’s. Calvin Klein’s. “Nothing comes between me and my Calvin’s.” Guess and Gerbaud.
My favorite pair of jeans were Guess. They had pockets, both in the front and back, that were shaped like big ½ moons and were lined with some cool, soft leather. God, I loved those jeans! They were expensive at the time - a pricey $60. I know that because I bought them myself after many summer hours of serving Skittle Scrambles and Fried Chicken Steak to the locals at Country Kitchen.
I made one very crucial mistake, however, when I purchased these beautiful jeans. I bought them right before I left for college. Sure, I heard the horror stories of girls leaving for college and coming back for the Holidays carrying an extra 15 pounds on them. Oh, the “Freshman 15”…that won’t happen to me…I thought! I would resist the tempting all-you-can-eat ice cream bar located in the cafeteria…I wouldn’t drink fattening beer or eat late at night after consuming copious amounts of said fattening beer. I will participate in the nightly aerobics class instead.
Well all that went to Hell within the first few weeks of college. There is just something about being on your own for the very first time that you feel you can do whatever you want without any ramifications.
Sadly my Guess jeans started getting tighter and tighter and pretty soon trying to fit into my jeans was similar to trying to shove a marshmallow in a piggy bank. Eventually the once cool leather tore. Not having the heart to retire the jeans quite yet, my mother (the consummate master of anything to do with the fabric store) replaced the leather with some more substantial fabric (no not kryptonite…I said fabric, people!). Eventually, much to my chagrin, I was no longer able to strut around campus in my beloved Guess jeans.
Even though jeans are as close to the perfect clothing article as a Speedo is for Michael Phelps, there is one place that, I feel, it is completely unsuitable to be wearing jeans yet I have seen them worn here more than once.
I am talking about the gym. In the past couple of weeks, I have seen grown men (yes that’s plural) working out in jeans. I will cut one guy, who was wearing jean shorts, a little bit of slack but not much because he was still at the gym for goodness sakes!
I mean, I am no fashion expert but really…jeans to the gym? Stop it!
Oh my, who doesn’t love a good pair of jeans? I remember as a teenager wearing Levi’s 501 button fly jeans. There was a big tag on the back, right hip that gave the dimensions (I think I have been in real estate too long) of the jeans. W27 L34 - ie Waist 27 Length 34. I thought it would even be cooler (because I was already so cool sport a Members Only jacket) to take a ball point pen and scratch out the waist measurement. Now why on earth would I do that considering I was as skinny as a stick of macaroni back then?
There were also Sasson jeans. “Ooo…la…la…Sasson.” Gloria Vanderbilt’s. Calvin Klein’s. “Nothing comes between me and my Calvin’s.” Guess and Gerbaud.
My favorite pair of jeans were Guess. They had pockets, both in the front and back, that were shaped like big ½ moons and were lined with some cool, soft leather. God, I loved those jeans! They were expensive at the time - a pricey $60. I know that because I bought them myself after many summer hours of serving Skittle Scrambles and Fried Chicken Steak to the locals at Country Kitchen.
I made one very crucial mistake, however, when I purchased these beautiful jeans. I bought them right before I left for college. Sure, I heard the horror stories of girls leaving for college and coming back for the Holidays carrying an extra 15 pounds on them. Oh, the “Freshman 15”…that won’t happen to me…I thought! I would resist the tempting all-you-can-eat ice cream bar located in the cafeteria…I wouldn’t drink fattening beer or eat late at night after consuming copious amounts of said fattening beer. I will participate in the nightly aerobics class instead.
Well all that went to Hell within the first few weeks of college. There is just something about being on your own for the very first time that you feel you can do whatever you want without any ramifications.
Sadly my Guess jeans started getting tighter and tighter and pretty soon trying to fit into my jeans was similar to trying to shove a marshmallow in a piggy bank. Eventually the once cool leather tore. Not having the heart to retire the jeans quite yet, my mother (the consummate master of anything to do with the fabric store) replaced the leather with some more substantial fabric (no not kryptonite…I said fabric, people!). Eventually, much to my chagrin, I was no longer able to strut around campus in my beloved Guess jeans.
Even though jeans are as close to the perfect clothing article as a Speedo is for Michael Phelps, there is one place that, I feel, it is completely unsuitable to be wearing jeans yet I have seen them worn here more than once.
I am talking about the gym. In the past couple of weeks, I have seen grown men (yes that’s plural) working out in jeans. I will cut one guy, who was wearing jean shorts, a little bit of slack but not much because he was still at the gym for goodness sakes!
I mean, I am no fashion expert but really…jeans to the gym? Stop it!
10.12.2011
Fortyish
Sometimes I forget my age.
I mean I still get greasy hair (what’s with that?), I have small boobs that look like I am still pubescent, I rock out to 80’s music and I still get an occasional zit. But then I am quickly reminded that I am officially 44 years old when I sneeze and pee myself. Not a complete, wet-my-pants pee but enough to bum me out.
I also noticed that I seem to be hard of hearing lately. My friend, who happens to be my neighbor, came over the other day to just chat. After conversing (or as some people say conversating which really isn’t a word) for a while she asked if she could use my biffy. There is always that sheer panic when someone wants to use my toilet unannounced. I hope the last person in there remembered to flush everything down as I have unfortunately been met with a surprise every now and then.
Upon finishing, my neighbor ran out of my bathroom yelling, “I have to go…my undies are on fire!”
“What?” I asked concerned.
“My UNDIES are on fire!” she yelled again as she ran out my front door.
She had white pants on because it was in between Memorial and Labor Day so I looked at her arse as she ran across the street and into her yard. It didn’t look like her undies where on fire. But I thought if she did have a bad case of the hemorrhoids maybe I wouldn’t notice by just looking at her fanny. I personally don't have any experience with hemorrhoids but once a friend told me that she had such a bad case of them when she was pregnant that her buttocks actually got stuck to the bottom of her bathtub. I guess they acted like suction cups. Ouch!
Later when I saw my neighbor, I asked why her undies were on fire…I mean I like to know those things as long as you don’t get too graphic.
She laughed. “Oh my God, not my undies, you Ding Ding! My ONIONS! My onions where on fire! I left them frying on the stove!”
Whew…I was relieved for her!
I think my husband, who is also 44, is having problems with his hearing too. The other day, I asked him to let the dog in. A few minutes went by and I looked out the window and she was still out. So I asked him, “Why didn’t you let Millie in?”
“Because she didn’t want to come in,” he answered with his head in the refrigerator.
Now I know that isn’t true because she was now whining outside the window, so I decided that I would just have to do it myself. I guess I sent a boy to do a man's job!
There she was, her chain wrapped around a rock, waiting for me to rescue her.
“Silly head,” I said to my husband as I came into the kitchen with the dog happily running alongside me, “she couldn’t make it to the door because her chain was wrapped around a rock!”
“Did you say you wanted to suck my cock?” he said with a smirk on his face.
HAHA…he is definitely experiencing some very serious hearing problems!
I mean I still get greasy hair (what’s with that?), I have small boobs that look like I am still pubescent, I rock out to 80’s music and I still get an occasional zit. But then I am quickly reminded that I am officially 44 years old when I sneeze and pee myself. Not a complete, wet-my-pants pee but enough to bum me out.
I also noticed that I seem to be hard of hearing lately. My friend, who happens to be my neighbor, came over the other day to just chat. After conversing (or as some people say conversating which really isn’t a word) for a while she asked if she could use my biffy. There is always that sheer panic when someone wants to use my toilet unannounced. I hope the last person in there remembered to flush everything down as I have unfortunately been met with a surprise every now and then.
Upon finishing, my neighbor ran out of my bathroom yelling, “I have to go…my undies are on fire!”
“What?” I asked concerned.
“My UNDIES are on fire!” she yelled again as she ran out my front door.
She had white pants on because it was in between Memorial and Labor Day so I looked at her arse as she ran across the street and into her yard. It didn’t look like her undies where on fire. But I thought if she did have a bad case of the hemorrhoids maybe I wouldn’t notice by just looking at her fanny. I personally don't have any experience with hemorrhoids but once a friend told me that she had such a bad case of them when she was pregnant that her buttocks actually got stuck to the bottom of her bathtub. I guess they acted like suction cups. Ouch!
Later when I saw my neighbor, I asked why her undies were on fire…I mean I like to know those things as long as you don’t get too graphic.
She laughed. “Oh my God, not my undies, you Ding Ding! My ONIONS! My onions where on fire! I left them frying on the stove!”
Whew…I was relieved for her!
I think my husband, who is also 44, is having problems with his hearing too. The other day, I asked him to let the dog in. A few minutes went by and I looked out the window and she was still out. So I asked him, “Why didn’t you let Millie in?”
“Because she didn’t want to come in,” he answered with his head in the refrigerator.
Now I know that isn’t true because she was now whining outside the window, so I decided that I would just have to do it myself. I guess I sent a boy to do a man's job!
There she was, her chain wrapped around a rock, waiting for me to rescue her.
“Silly head,” I said to my husband as I came into the kitchen with the dog happily running alongside me, “she couldn’t make it to the door because her chain was wrapped around a rock!”
“Did you say you wanted to suck my cock?” he said with a smirk on his face.
HAHA…he is definitely experiencing some very serious hearing problems!
10.05.2011
21 years
Twenty-one years ago on a warm and sunny autumn day, much like today, we both (happily) said “I do”.
And quite a ride it has been, my friend! A whopping 7,665 days; some better and some definitely worse, some richer and some poorer, some in sickness and some in health but through it all, I still love & adore you and think you are the funniest man alive! Here’s to us…
And quite a ride it has been, my friend! A whopping 7,665 days; some better and some definitely worse, some richer and some poorer, some in sickness and some in health but through it all, I still love & adore you and think you are the funniest man alive! Here’s to us…
9.28.2011
The Name Game
Whenever I hear someone poking fun of someone else’s name I am quick to educate them that the person didn’t name him or herself. That is usually done by the parent or parents of the child or, in the case of Orenthal James Simpson, yes the infamous OJ Simpson, the aunt of the child. It turns out, in fact, that his nickname OJ is very fitting if you are referring to his apparel of choice these days – Orange Jumpsuit.
Now someone could easily surmise that being born in the late sixties and having a name like Kiki, that my parents were total, peace-love-and-Bobby-Sherman type hippies living in some kind of commune when I was born. On the contrary…my mother was a teacher who stayed home to raise her three children and my father was a pilot for a major (at that time anyway) airline. Not only that, but my brother actually gave me the nickname, Kiki, when he began to talk but had a hard time with the name Kirsten. I completely understand since even most fully grown humans can’t pronounce my real name correctly.
There is an umlaut (you know a double dot) over my “i” which is there to indicate a vowel sound different from that of the actual letter. So the kir part of my name rhymes with dear. Hmmmm…come to think of it, maybe my parents were a couple of closet hippies!
Parents need to be extra careful when naming their child. A car is not necessarily a good name for a person (Porsche), nor is a brand of shoe (Timberland) or a piece of fruit (Apple). Also, naming your child Shithead but pronouncing it Sha teed might have some later repercussions. Or naming her La-ia and pronouncing it La Dashia (yes, pronouncing the dash) is not recommended for it is just wrong.
Also, I highly recommended that you do not give your son the middle name Wayne. Besides the most heinous murderers like John Wayne Gacy and Elmer Wayne Henley there are scores of other murderers sporting Wayne as their middle name. If you don’t believe me, check it out on the googles.
So I have been Kiki since I was just a toddler but I didn’t learn the meaning of my nickname, in Filipino, until my mid-thirties.
Upon being introduced to a particular middle-aged women, she shook my hand and giggled.
“What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Kiki,” I politely replied. And then I spelled it for her as I often do but I'm not sure why I feel the need to do that.
Apparently something was very amusing to her.
“Do you know what Kiki means in Filipino?” she asked in between snorts.
I shook my head.
“It means pussy,” she said as she pointed to her underpants area. Then she began to whisper, “Pussy...as in slang for a women’s vagina...not a pussy cat,” she further explained even though I didn’t really need further explanation as I completely understood what she meant by pussy when she started pointing at her vagina.
That’s just swell!
Note to self…if I am ever in the Philippines, make certain to only use my real name.
Now someone could easily surmise that being born in the late sixties and having a name like Kiki, that my parents were total, peace-love-and-Bobby-Sherman type hippies living in some kind of commune when I was born. On the contrary…my mother was a teacher who stayed home to raise her three children and my father was a pilot for a major (at that time anyway) airline. Not only that, but my brother actually gave me the nickname, Kiki, when he began to talk but had a hard time with the name Kirsten. I completely understand since even most fully grown humans can’t pronounce my real name correctly.
There is an umlaut (you know a double dot) over my “i” which is there to indicate a vowel sound different from that of the actual letter. So the kir part of my name rhymes with dear. Hmmmm…come to think of it, maybe my parents were a couple of closet hippies!
Parents need to be extra careful when naming their child. A car is not necessarily a good name for a person (Porsche), nor is a brand of shoe (Timberland) or a piece of fruit (Apple). Also, naming your child Shithead but pronouncing it Sha teed might have some later repercussions. Or naming her La-ia and pronouncing it La Dashia (yes, pronouncing the dash) is not recommended for it is just wrong.
Also, I highly recommended that you do not give your son the middle name Wayne. Besides the most heinous murderers like John Wayne Gacy and Elmer Wayne Henley there are scores of other murderers sporting Wayne as their middle name. If you don’t believe me, check it out on the googles.
So I have been Kiki since I was just a toddler but I didn’t learn the meaning of my nickname, in Filipino, until my mid-thirties.
Upon being introduced to a particular middle-aged women, she shook my hand and giggled.
“What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Kiki,” I politely replied. And then I spelled it for her as I often do but I'm not sure why I feel the need to do that.
Apparently something was very amusing to her.
“Do you know what Kiki means in Filipino?” she asked in between snorts.
I shook my head.
“It means pussy,” she said as she pointed to her underpants area. Then she began to whisper, “Pussy...as in slang for a women’s vagina...not a pussy cat,” she further explained even though I didn’t really need further explanation as I completely understood what she meant by pussy when she started pointing at her vagina.
That’s just swell!
Note to self…if I am ever in the Philippines, make certain to only use my real name.
9.22.2011
Craptastic!
That which does not kill us makes us stronger.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Oh, so true, Freddy...so true!
You know how they say that moving and the loss of a family member are the most stressful things you can go through? Well, allow me to, as concisely as I can, paraphrase what has transpired for my family in the past three years...
2008
March – After 3 ½ years I quit my job in the real estate industry
April - I got a great job in the publishing industry (yes I quit one job before I had the other one - I know...pure STUPIDITY!).
July - The new company that I was working for was involved in a corporate hostile takeover (cross that off my list of things to do before I die)
September - The hostile-takeover company was raided by the FBI and it turns out the owner was running a billion dollar Ponzi Scheme (cross that off my list as well).
October - We sold our home that we painstakingly remodeled every inch of for the past six years. At this same time (because moving isn't stressful enough) my beloved Gramma was hospitalized for a mild heart attack. Several days later, upon moving her from the hospital to a interim nursing home, she suffered a stroke. About two weeks later, my son was involved in a household accident that severed three tendons, a nerve and a main artery in his wrist. He was hospitalized for several days and underwent surgery and six months of physical therapy.
November - After a month of my Gramma's declining health, she passed away at the age of 98. I absolutely adored her and I will miss her forever! We brought our four-month old puppy, Millie, home. She was a very welcome distraction for all of us despite the crazy puppy behavior.
December - I got another new job, this time in advertising.
2009
June - We put our new house on the market, which was always the plan since we essentially did a 'house swap' with our previous house and we were too far from our kids' school. On the day that we were listing our home, my husband called and told me that he just got laid off. Two days later my son was back in the hospital with some different health issues. As if things weren't crazy enough, during my son's five days in the hospital, the ad agency laid me off as well. In the first week that our house was on the market, we got an offer with a closing date in three weeks. The end of June we moved into a friend's duplex for the summer.
July thru August - Our son was back in the hospital 4 more times.
September - Another move. We rented a cool home on a lake, closer to school with the agreement that the owners could put the home on the market in the spring.
2010
May – Our landlords put the house on the market and it sold with a closing date of mid-June.
June – Another move into a home just 1 mile away with the possibility that the owners could get transferred back after being in Canada for 4 years. Not having many options at this time, we rolled the dice.
July - I got a call from the company that I quit working for in April of 2008 informing me that my job was available and inquiring if I was interested in coming back. Hells to the yeah...where do I sign?
2011
January - Our son enrolled in a college 1200 miles away (that's an 18 hour car ride). We also received an official 90-day notice that the homeowners were, in fact transferring back and we would need to vacate the home the end of March.
March - The day before we were supposed to be out of the house, we got a call from our son, who was once again in the hospital (yes, 1200 miles away!). He had emergency surgery on his large intestine; apparently he had a piece of his pancreas lodged in there. Now how in the world does that happen?! For three weeks, we lived at my in-law's (incredibly generous people) and during that time my husband flew out to be with our son and then they both came home so our son could recover for an additional week and then we sent him back to college.
April - We moved (yes, AGAIN) out of my in-law’s basement and this time we signed a lease for a whole year. YAY!
May - Our son came back from college to spend the summer with us and he is healthy. YAY!
June - After 2 1/2 years of my husband running his own construction/remodeling business, he got an offer for a fabulous job with an excellent company. YAY! The catch - it's in a different state that is five hour drive away.
June 26th – My daughter, my baby, turned 17 years old and my husband left for his new job.
That pretty much sums up the past 3 years for us; 5 houses, 6 moves, 3+ jobs, 7 hospital stays, 1 death and bunch of everyday incidentals.
During these extremely difficult years, I have learned many things: that I would do anything not to have my children experience pain (there were so many times that I had wished that it was me lying in that hospital bed, instead of him), that I love my husband more now than on the day I said "I do", that home is where your family is and the stuff that fills your home is not important and that no matter what you are going through, you have to pick yourself up every day, keep going and be strong. Sure many days I felt as if a donkey kicked me right in the solar plexus but as REO Speedwagon so eloquently sang…you got to, got to, got to, got to...keep on rolling!
Friedrich Nietzsche
Oh, so true, Freddy...so true!
You know how they say that moving and the loss of a family member are the most stressful things you can go through? Well, allow me to, as concisely as I can, paraphrase what has transpired for my family in the past three years...
2008
March – After 3 ½ years I quit my job in the real estate industry
April - I got a great job in the publishing industry (yes I quit one job before I had the other one - I know...pure STUPIDITY!).
July - The new company that I was working for was involved in a corporate hostile takeover (cross that off my list of things to do before I die)
September - The hostile-takeover company was raided by the FBI and it turns out the owner was running a billion dollar Ponzi Scheme (cross that off my list as well).
October - We sold our home that we painstakingly remodeled every inch of for the past six years. At this same time (because moving isn't stressful enough) my beloved Gramma was hospitalized for a mild heart attack. Several days later, upon moving her from the hospital to a interim nursing home, she suffered a stroke. About two weeks later, my son was involved in a household accident that severed three tendons, a nerve and a main artery in his wrist. He was hospitalized for several days and underwent surgery and six months of physical therapy.
November - After a month of my Gramma's declining health, she passed away at the age of 98. I absolutely adored her and I will miss her forever! We brought our four-month old puppy, Millie, home. She was a very welcome distraction for all of us despite the crazy puppy behavior.
December - I got another new job, this time in advertising.
2009
June - We put our new house on the market, which was always the plan since we essentially did a 'house swap' with our previous house and we were too far from our kids' school. On the day that we were listing our home, my husband called and told me that he just got laid off. Two days later my son was back in the hospital with some different health issues. As if things weren't crazy enough, during my son's five days in the hospital, the ad agency laid me off as well. In the first week that our house was on the market, we got an offer with a closing date in three weeks. The end of June we moved into a friend's duplex for the summer.
July thru August - Our son was back in the hospital 4 more times.
September - Another move. We rented a cool home on a lake, closer to school with the agreement that the owners could put the home on the market in the spring.
2010
May – Our landlords put the house on the market and it sold with a closing date of mid-June.
June – Another move into a home just 1 mile away with the possibility that the owners could get transferred back after being in Canada for 4 years. Not having many options at this time, we rolled the dice.
July - I got a call from the company that I quit working for in April of 2008 informing me that my job was available and inquiring if I was interested in coming back. Hells to the yeah...where do I sign?
2011
January - Our son enrolled in a college 1200 miles away (that's an 18 hour car ride). We also received an official 90-day notice that the homeowners were, in fact transferring back and we would need to vacate the home the end of March.
March - The day before we were supposed to be out of the house, we got a call from our son, who was once again in the hospital (yes, 1200 miles away!). He had emergency surgery on his large intestine; apparently he had a piece of his pancreas lodged in there. Now how in the world does that happen?! For three weeks, we lived at my in-law's (incredibly generous people) and during that time my husband flew out to be with our son and then they both came home so our son could recover for an additional week and then we sent him back to college.
April - We moved (yes, AGAIN) out of my in-law’s basement and this time we signed a lease for a whole year. YAY!
May - Our son came back from college to spend the summer with us and he is healthy. YAY!
June - After 2 1/2 years of my husband running his own construction/remodeling business, he got an offer for a fabulous job with an excellent company. YAY! The catch - it's in a different state that is five hour drive away.
June 26th – My daughter, my baby, turned 17 years old and my husband left for his new job.
That pretty much sums up the past 3 years for us; 5 houses, 6 moves, 3+ jobs, 7 hospital stays, 1 death and bunch of everyday incidentals.
During these extremely difficult years, I have learned many things: that I would do anything not to have my children experience pain (there were so many times that I had wished that it was me lying in that hospital bed, instead of him), that I love my husband more now than on the day I said "I do", that home is where your family is and the stuff that fills your home is not important and that no matter what you are going through, you have to pick yourself up every day, keep going and be strong. Sure many days I felt as if a donkey kicked me right in the solar plexus but as REO Speedwagon so eloquently sang…you got to, got to, got to, got to...keep on rolling!
9.14.2011
How It All Started...
Kiersa;
So I came home to pee (again) and grab a bottle of wine to bring to the party even though the host doesn't even drink and a name came to me...
Bangs on a Fivehead
See, I asked my stylist for bangs last week because instead of a forehead (fourhead) I have more of a fivehead.
Kiki
So that, my friends, is how Bangs on a Fivehead was born. Buckle up and enjoy!
I love 80's music and this is the best song EVER...
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