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be the perfect host/ess
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Well, I guess we did see Steppenwolf, George Jones, and the taping of Speedvision’s Trackside. Then there was a point of interest in Myrtle Beach. Aside from the Branson-on-the-beach atmosphere and the biker convention, there was a man sprawled out in a beach chair on the sand. He was so sprawled-out that his unmentionable was hanging out of his shorts pretending to be a sea creature washed ashore. I didn’t notice this until it was too late. I already had it recorded on my video camera. rule 6 Calories, fat grams, cellulite, flab, fine lines, bad hair, workout regimes, inadequate boobs, blemishes, spider veins, bloating and thighs do not exist; therefore, no complaints about them are allowed.
rule 7 While sharing our charm with the masses is indeed our objective, men with mullets, with funky teeth, wearing tank tops or with gun racks in their trucks are to be avoided at all costs. No participant of this trip is to be left alone with a strange man no matter how strange she is herself. reality 7 You’d think we’d revel at the chance to be chirpies at every local bar along the way. Sad thing is, no one, not one set of XY chromosomes even caught our attention (except for the firemen.) This was a girls’ road trip, and we meant it. don't stop now: there's still more!
---------------------------> lounge . nourish . host . laze . home .
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reality
6
Yeah, right. What happens when three women put on
swimsuits? Thighs suddenly induce nauseating remorse over the occasional
Krispy Kreme or dollop of chive dip. Underarms morph into cruel,
flapping flotation devices from another planet. Teeth somehow get
crooked, butts inadvertently swell and breasts either slide into armpits
or reunite with their long lost cousin, the flabdomen. Funny thing
is that ten years from now we’ll look at these pictures and marvel at
how great we looked.