So I am rocking it on with a bottle of Ezy Off BAM. No, not in that way….
Guitar solos to Madonna. You can so! Not long ones, but I was in the groove *snort* after a bit o’ Lenny Kravtis. Work with me here.
Dancing around the bathroom, plastic gloves, bottle of the foremetioned BAM! and bra and panties. Cause that shit is strong people and I ain’t ruining another shirt.
Scrubbing and dancing, dancing and scrubbing. With the occasional Belly Dancing move.
Getting my cardio done with some uber strong fumes melting my eyelashes.
So the music is up loud, the washing machine and the dryer on in the next room. I am getting down with the dirty. My arse sticking up in the air leaning into the bath.
‘But I made up my mind IIIIIIIIm keeping my bay-bee, ooh, I’m gunna keep my bay-bee oooooh…..’
‘Hello!!?? Anyone home?????!!!!’
Fuck. Me. Dead.
Don’t know what is more embarrassing being heard singing ‘Papa don’t preach’ at the top of my lungs or being sprung in mis matched underwear.
And it was one of my biatches. Standing in the doorway. Now if it was a bloke I could have distracted him with my deflect-a-boobies. But no, a chick, so her eyes went straight to my fat wobbly bits.
Note to self. Lock the fucking front door when cleaning the bathroom in underwear.
Or singing Madonna songs.
(wow, 2 posts in one day….)