I got up at 5 AM.
Went to work.
Was finished by 9.
Because I’ve learned I’m a much happier person if I work only 35-40 hours a week.
And I had clocked 32 hours before today.
So, I came home.
And decided to get ready for my lunch appointment.
I had to be pretty because it was a business thing.
Trying to get another therapy contract.
So . . . another shower is in order.
I put on a terrific (if I do say so myself) burned CD.
Turn it up and jump in the shower.
Get dried off.
Put on undergarments.
Decide to dance around the house to the music for a little bit.
To let my hair semi-dry on it’s own before subjecting it to the heat of a hair dryer.
So, there I am.
Black lace, boy-short panties.
That you can see straight through.
Matching push-up bra.
To accentuate the area.
Thus making the male client focus more on my chest than my price negotiations.
It’s a strategy.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a horrid person.
But if it saves me some cash, I’ll subject myself to it.
I’m shaking it for all it’s worth.
Dancing around at 90 miles per hour.
Head whipping around like I’m having a seizure.
Singing, at top volume, with the music.
Local H - Bound for the Floor.
I’m in the middle of screaming:
"And you just don't get it, you keep it copasetic.
And you learn to accept it, you know you're so pathetic.”
And I pause the dancing because I think I just shook a hip out of place.
Anyway, so I look up and
There’s my brother and some hottie guy standing in my kitchen.
Laughing their asses off.
And I scream: “Bloody fucking hell!”
And tear to my bedroom to grab a robe.
Apparently they had come over to borrow the Super Nintendo.
They let themselves in the back door with the maid’s key.
Because “Ringin the bell wasn’t working. You had the music too loud.”