My life as someone else

I love to dress up. Hell, I love to be someone I'm not. I'm sure I've said it before but whenever I go somewhere on my own, especially flying, I tend to create an alias. Whether its a english traveller from Manchester, an immigrant from Santiago, Chile or a southern belle. I just enjoy pretending. When I wait tables I tend to throw in an accent for extra flair. And when I'm answering phones at work I pretend I'm a mother of two. When I'm flying, I dress more sophisticated and bring my laptop to look like I'm on a business trip. And when I'm out dancing I make up a name and give out my brothers number. The real story is that the real me is not who I want to be. I fall under the category of the free spirit. I'm pretty irresponsible, discombobulated and flaky. My memory is lacking, I have no time management skills and I'm extremely unrealistic. I keep screwing up in the same areas of life, and feel like I'm in a downward spiral. There are soo many times where I feel like I am outside of God's grace. Sure He forgives sins, but those are the screw ups of good people or even generally good people. I, do not fall into that category. My only hope is though I am not, I know I am. I didn't come up with that p.s Louie Giglio did. His books got some great views on God, who is more than generally good. He's got it all and a bag of chips. One thing Louie talks about is Moses. When he was talking to God through the fiery bush, Moses was all "no God, can't do it, I'm just a silly bitch. I do bad stuff, I suck at almost everything and I'm probably not worth your time". That was paraphrasing of course but you get the gist. And God didn't say, " o sure you are Moses, your kick-ass", God said, "I'll be with you and I'm the shit" (again, paraphrasing). Kinda encouraging! Sure I need to get a handle on my lack of time management and I should probably pony up and grab a hold of some maturity but regardless I've got this bitchin' God whose with me.

My life as pimp juice

Here's a little jam my sista friend and I wrote on the fly. Check us out on youtube, afternoon delight by livinala.

Yo its Jay Dizzle
they call me lil' Jill
our jams are real fly
cause we ain't on the pill
we ride low in a bug
and flow like thugs
we don't pop it or lock it
but we definitely drop it

We rolled down to Mickey D's
(yes just like that)
And skipped out on our friends
Wendy and Jack
Loaded up on sweet tea
and yes'd like Kiki

YESSS YESSS (see yes dance on youtube for reference)

Now here's the part
where it gets real tight
playas thugging around
and almost got in a fight
we was dropping moves
like they do in da clubs
we turned our ear and hear...

weeoweeowee weeoweeowee weeoweeowee
we hear a cop car
weeoweeowee weeoweeowee weeoweeowee
it was a cop car

We gave a smile and a wave
and headed for home
Our mama was cookin'
sweet pasta and scones
mmmmmmm gdnight
mmmmm sleep tight

My life as a smushed sweet and sour packet

I'm an old fashioned girl, I like my hot dogs plain and my men cavalier, I like my jeans worn in, orange juice in the morning and can be completely satisfied by the McDonald's dollar menu. You could say I'm a McDonald's enthusiast. I've got a usual for almost any hour of the day. My senior year of college I roomed with four other girls who shared in my enthusiasm. McDonald's brought us together with nightly chats and long car rides. I regularly stock up on sweet and sour sauce packets, just in case I get some bland chicken or run out of spices at home. These packets generally bring me a lot of joy, but on more than one occasion I've forgotten them in my purse and suffered an explosion of sorts. One of these said explosions occurred a couple weeks ago at the airport. It was my last day in Lynchburg, I left the house I'd lived in all year along with my wonderful roommates. While checking my luggage I was blubbering like a little girl, explaining to ALL of the airport attendees that I'd be leaving forever, also trying to prove that the girl I'd been hugging for 20minutes was one of my best friends, not my lesbian lover. Still crying I make my way through the security line. My bags had barely made it through the machine as it started to beep. The kind gentleman asked if he might look through my purse. I nodded as he cautiously opened my 2007 navy blue Guess tote. He put his hand in this mysterious blue bag and immediately jerked it out. The gentleman looked at me in horror, his hand covered in a light brown paste. I, still crying, try to pull myself together, apologize for the strong smell of sweet and sour sauce and the sticky mess that he was now covered in and grab for some paper towels. The gentleman gives me a sad sort of look, pats my arm and says, "I'll clean it up honey". As a slight side note I'd like to inquire as to why all of the attendees in my life refer to me as Honey, Sweetie or Missie. My Alltell guy, maintenance men, the guy that takes my money at McDonald's and even the postman. Anyways, the security guy not only had a few sweet and sour packets explode on him but was now cleaning up the residue that had deflowered my purse. He even washed off my dr. pepper lip chap! He finished up and sent me down to my gate, liquids and all. I sat down, got myself something to drink and took out my leftover baguette from panera. I'd enclosed some butter packets (whats bread without butter?) in a little bag. As I opened said bag, I fixed myself a lovely little snack. As I went for a bite, the now melted butter slopped right onto my dress. Now smelling strongly of sweet and sour sauce, still sticky and now greasy from the butter, I boarded the plane, met the really cute guy sitting next to me and talked for the next five hours. Poor guy!

My life as a hostess hauler

Everybody loves a good hostess snack, whether its a ho-ho, twinkie, powder donut or zebra cake. Our friend Chris had ransacked a hostess factory and gave us some of his proceeds. It was another girls night and six girlfriends had piled into Lola (my small white bug). We filled the back with hostess snacks and headed down to Tempe. Not sure what the evening would hold, the six of us rode around town, windows down, munching on tasty cakes. Arizona summers are hot, and our hostess snacks were melting, so at a stoplight we offered some donuts to the fellas in the car next to us. In return they gave us their phone numbers and invited us to a party. My car was getting choclafied so we had to get rid of our snacks. We threw around hostess snacks like nobodies business. Every passerby was gifted with the joys of hostess. We quickly became known as the donutgirls. We were invited to numerous parties and gatherings. BUT the donutgirls didn't make any appearances, giving out free donuts on ASU's campus was ten times more entertaining. The evening progressed and the donutgirls were in demand. For just a night we were downtown Tempe's local heroes, giving munchies to those who had the munchies and providing carbs for those who needed to hold in their liquor!

My life as a texas wannabe

I love Kentucky Fried Chicken. When I'm feeling country I eat KFC extra crispy. The other day I was out with my Texan friend Jake. We were in his big truck with sweet tea, a bucket of extra crispies listening to "a little bit of chicken fried" by the Zack Brown Band, on our way to the driving range. Good day. He got a call from his mama (who he called pretty lady) so I pretended I was a southern belle trucking through our little country town with the summer breeze in my hair and my cowboy lover on my arm. Reality is, I'm from Canada, we're in Lynchburg, I don't own a cowboy hat, the breeze was more of a rushing wind from the highway and Jake, bless his heart, is neither on my arm NOR my lover. But I did have sweet tea and KFC! A couple of weeks ago I went to a wedding in Texas. I've decided that Texans are part of a club. They eat deep fried Twinkies, kolaches, and gravy with their chicken nuggets. They two-step, wear cowboy boots and have Texas flags flown proudly. Not gonna lie, I felt left out. There were all these rules about line dancing and shuffling my feet, rules about what kind of boots to wear and songs I've never heard. Men asked you to dance and held you in their arms opposed to coming up behind you and grabbing your bum. Its a whole new world down there! So I've decided, I will move to Texas, cook me up some grits, buy me a truck and boots, and marry a country boy. All I need to do is listen to a little more Sugarland, grab an accent, drink a little more sweet tea and purchase those boots!