Squeezing, Sneezing and Asking the Kids When They’re Leaving

When your exercise routine traumatizes the kids!!!

So THIS post is going to be one of my short blog posts, as I’m almost embarrassed to write it, but I have to share this with you all.

With Trump currently being the head idiot in charge, and life feeling out of control (you know being single, trying to date, going through menopause, trying to move up stay motivated at the job, trying not to kill anyone. The normal stuff), I’ve started to find ways to enjoy the things that I CAN control, like for instance, going to the gym, getting my body tight, reading more, working on my mental, and emotional health, smudging (sage), keeping my energy positive and……. working on my Kegel muscles. I’m single, want to find that right one, cause it seems that his ass has gotten lost on his way to find me (where are Dorothy and Toto when I need them to guide HIM to me?). And I want things to be right and tight. Plus they are good for combating incontinence, and at this age, a hard sneeze or laugh could end in a pissy mess!!!! KegelsFunny

Let’s get right to it……

I recently invested in some “kegel eggs”. These ones are like a 6-week program. There are 3 purple eggs (in varying shades) and three egg harnesses (1 by itself, and a double harness). So the lightest shade egg is lightweight. You start off with that one, put it in one of the harnesses and wear it an hour daily for 7 days, then move to the darker purple egg, it’s heavier, wear it for 7 days, and then the darkest one (which is weighted the heaviest) and wear it for 7 days. Then you move to the double harness, and put two in at a time (feels like porn after a while), but HEY, I’m bored, down for testing it out, ain’t getting none, so let’s see if I can eventually lift a brick with this COONTA!!

Week one went Great, gotta focus, try not to sit down, as I don’t want to cheat, I want to stand up, flex these muscles and keep it in. A few times I forgot and there was a slight slip, but I was able to suck it right on back in there without hesitation. Alright West Virginia (that’s what I call my va jay-jay, long story), I see ya girllllll, flexing on ’em. WE GOT THIS!!!

Plot twist BYTCHES…..

Week 2, grandbabies at the house, but I’m not going to let my hard work from week one go to waste. So I get up, early Saturday morning, slip in the heavier one while the kiddos are still sleeping, and go to make breakfast. All is well, I’m humming along to the radio, moving around, proud that I’m focusing, but not as hard as I did week one, and all seems to be going well. Babies wake up, we dance around a little laughing, (me not as hard cause I’m still getting used to this thang). I started mixing up the eggs to scramble, (irony, but not those eggs, real eggs), lil salt, lil cheese lil pepper….. HA, a lil pepper. Yeah, that wasn’t a good idea. Pepper makes me sneeze. I feel the sneeze coming on, and the kids are still running to and fro and laughing and playing, and I’m trying to hold the sneeze in. But it happens.

Now keep in mind, these kegel balls are shaped like eggs. So, just as MISS JADA, (granddaughter) comes running in the kitchen, I let out a sneeze that was probably the hardest of my life. And it happens…..

And it happens…..

The egg pops out and rolls across the floor. It rolls for about 15 miles before it stops, and I’m hoping that they don’t see it, but it’s loud and it’s rolling. Kinda reminded me of the scene in “Poltergeist” when the mom is running down the hallway, that starts off about 12 steps, but it turns into 1,494 steps. It won’t stop rolling. And when it does, because it’s an egg, it does this weeble may wobble, but they don’t fall down long asssssss, Dramatic assssssss stop. And Jada and I lock eyes, with our faces agasp, for what feels like 35 minutes. And she looks at me, then she looks at it, then she looks at the grandboy (who’s only 2, and headed to pick the egg up), and she looks at me, and she looks at it, and she looks at him, and I’m blinking my eyes quickly, trying to figure out if I’m awake or not, and this is all happening in slow motion. As I run 15 miles to try to reach the egg before he does. And Jada asks *in her most innocent voice* “Nana, you laid an egg”? To which the 2 y/o who barely speaks, repeats after her. I’ve been trying to get him to talk forever, and this is what he chooses to say as his real first sentence with me? And my legs give out. And I ask for death right there. I prayed and asked God to please take me now. My life flashes before my eyes and I told him (God) I’d lived a long enough life and to please, just put me out of my misery. But he didn’t, and I looked at her, and words wouldn’t come out. They were stuck in my throat.

So I RAN….

I ran into my room, with the now sticky egg (don’t ask), in my hand. Slammed the door and locked it. Ran into the bathroom, threw the egg in the sink, as I ran hot water over it, washing my hands, looking myself in the mirror, and wondering what I’ve become. Who am I? What kinda grandmother does this? Wait…. The kind trying to get her groove back. I won’t let these little munchkins make ME feel bad for trying to get them a good granddad. I’m doing this for THEM. “Yeh, this is more for them than me”….is the pep talk I gave myself. And just as I was headed to the door to unlock it, and face them, I heard them knocking, and Jada asks, “Nana, you in there trying to hatch your egg”.

I called their parents and asked them to come pick them up, explained that I’d been reading “Jack and The Beanstalk” to them *dodges lightning*, so if they say something about me laying an egg, it was me getting into the character of the goose who laid a golden egg.

I spent the rest of the weekend in the house, with the blinds and curtains closed, under the cover, watching the gospel channel on cable.

“Lint Balls” & Alcohol

50 Shades of WHAT THE?…..


As I’ve gotten older, whenever the weather warms up I tend to shed clothes, mostly underwear. I really DESPISE underwear all of the time. I literally “know why the caged bird sings”. There’s a certain sound mines make when released from their cotton, silk, lace, or spandex prisons. You probably don’t want to know what the sound is so I will spare you the details.

I’ve always loved the way a sundress feels against my skin. So free flowing. It makes walking feel like sitting in a rocking chair, on grandma’s porch, in the country, on a nice breezy spring evening, sipping tea…the sound of crickets chirping in the background soothing your soul. Away from all of the noise and hustle and bustle of the city….back and forth, and back and forth. I’m sure you get the picture.

I recently learned as spring has approached, and me being in the “Spring” of my life, so to speak, that before opting out of underwear, I need to be sure I’ve opted IN to a Brazilian wax or at least a Schick.

Let me paint a not so nice picture…

I come home 1 day, feeling good, mid-afternoon,  it’s warm outside, but I am cool because I have on a little dress…cotton, kinda short, free-flowing,  and I’m feeling SEXY!!

I make my way to the kitchen,  singing, snapping my fingers, dancing, stopping every now and again to do a lil twirl,  ’cause life is AMAZING. I go to the cabinet, take out my fave wine glass, dance my way to the fridge and grab a bottle of wine. I pour myself a glass, take the bottle and head to my bedroom, excited about the mid-day “Law & Order SVU” marathon that’s on.

In my bedroom, I have a chair that sits next to my bed close to my oscillating fan (cause I’m always hot). I turn the fan on, prop my foot up on the bed and let out a sigh of happiness as the 1st sip of wine slides down my throat, and the air from the fan hits the right “spot”, and think to myself “if Heaven feels anywhere near close to this, then I need to get right with the Lord,  ’cause that’s where I need to BE”.

All is right with the world, and I decide to check my lady “bird” out after my 2nd glass of wine, since I am sitting there, with my foot propped, and the wind is hitting it, and it’s singing, and I’m doing nothing else, and it had actually been a few months since she and I had really just seen one another.

Welp, all hell broke loose…

When I looked down, I saw what I thought were little white pieces of lint, but how? I was sans undies,  so where could they have come from? Whatever…”just brush them off girl” is what I told myself. But they weren’t moving.  So I went to pick them off “OUCH” *spills wine*! WHAT THE HELL?! They’re stuck to my lady “bird”. So now I’m a little discombobulated, as clearly I’ve drunk too much wine because I’m seeing things. I hop up, run to the bathroom, where there is better lighting, grab my hand mirror and prop my foot up on the toilet. As I look closer, I see those lint balls better, but let me grab my glasses because they’re not looking like lint anymore. So I grabbed a flashlight to get an even better look because this can’t be what I think it is.

With my glasses on my face,  mirror in one hand, flashlight in the other, foot propped on the toilet, and my lady “bird” in full view, there it was, right there, staring at me. Don King’s hair was growing out of my “bird”! WHY ME JESUS?!?! I just proclaimed I was going to get my life right so that I can spend eternity with you, and THIS is what I get???

And the crying started….


Hey girl, it’s Kita, I think I’m rebirthing Maya Angelou, head 1st. I see her hair!!! .


I called everyone in my phone who I thought cared about me, most hung up when they realized what my hysterics were about. Only 2 friends let me vent it out, and I later learned they weren’t listening with concern, they were amused. And what I thought was the sound of them crying with me, was them laughing themselves to tears

So there I sat, alone, with my bottle of wine, that’s now half empty, crying, with my hands on “bird” because I never knew how course gray hair felt, and I was devastated yet intrigued. I have 3 strands on my actual head, and I remember when I discovered each of them (1 when I turned 30, 1 when I turned 40, and 1 when I turned 45). So how could I be full blown Betty White below? Just makes no sense.

For the next 2 weeks, anyone who’d listen learned more about me than they probably cared to know, even strangers. I had questions and concerns and I needed feedback!!!!

With a gray “bird” and no eyelashes, I’ll never get a man now!!! Maybe I’ll get a belly piercing, I hear men like that nowadays!

Hot Flashes, and Eyelashes

When you’re trying to be “HOT”, but not literally……


As a single woman in Atlanta, you realize how FIERCE the competition is, so it’s human nature to want to “step your game up”, if you will. There are women out here who’s bodies look like something fresh out of a 90’s Mystikal video, and the only thing I can “Shake Fast” is my fist, at erratic drivers on i285, in a geriatric manner. A sistah’s better body days are probably long behind her, and as a member of generation x, I’ve come to grips with that.

The makeup ability of these youngens is also very intimidating. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on makeup….well maybe not hundreds, closer to fifties of dollars, and countless hours on YouTube tutorials, only to end up standing in my bathroom mirror looking more like a Barnum & Bailey circus act, than “America’s Next Top Model”, (“I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU, WE WAS ALL ROOTING FOR YOU”!!) I have concluded the people who pull off flawless made up faces are wizards, witches, voodoo priests, and sorcerers, because it seems nearly impossible for an average woman like myself to do.

I guess I’ll start small, get my eyebrows fleeked out (do people still say “fleek”?), and maybe get some lashes. Never thought I would glue small hairs to my eyelids. The thought of anything that I wasn’t born with being that close to my cornea, always freaked me out. I shutter at the thought of contacts. But hey, let’s enhance what we can, within reason.

So, I found myself standing in the lash aisle of a beauty supply store so ENORMOUS, it would make Walmart blush. It had an ENTIRE aisle dedicated to lashes. Let me say this… menopause has made my patience as short as the grey strands on my vagina (that’s an entirely different blog post).

Looking around at dozens upon dozens, upon dozens of lash styles, lengths, brands…human, fake, mink, GOODNESS, can I just be great without all of this? I just want to be great momma. And don’t get me started on the glue, and the different tool options to put the lashes on with. And then the lashes are numbered, they are NUMBERED!! Arrgggh, sweat started pouring down my back, because I sweat now, out of nowhere, it could be 10 degrees outside and I sweat just because I have pores, I sweat thinking about sweating, I’m actually sweating now…maybe it’s a flashback of sweating that has caused me to sweat, or could be a hot flash, I can’t tell now days. Anywho, I pick a pair, pretty reasonably priced, and the number is 132. Got the glue, got the lash “installation” tool. YAYY!

Once home, armed with a bottle of wine, my number 132s, my glue, my lash tool, a magnifying mirror, some trap music (I hear it makes putting on makeup easier), and YouTube, I think I’m ready. Now all I have to do is figure out how I’m going to see how to put these lashes on my eyes, without my eyeglasses, because, oh yeah, menopause has come and made my vision worse (menopause is the Obama of my life, I’m going to blame it for everything). Of course I start sweating as I contemplate how this is going to work. Okay, just breathe, and put your glasses on long enough to see how to put the glue on the strip of the lash. This may actually work. Imagine how your grandmother used to look trying to thread a sewing needle. That was me, trying to paint glue onto the strip of these tiny hairs.

Now let’s pull YouTube up on the phone and look out of our peripheral at the girl on the screen, after we take our glasses off and close one eye……. Listen. I ended up with one set of lashes sideways, and the other pair darn near on my eyebrows. And that was after constantly patting sweat from my face so they’d stick.

After several attempts, a few bottles of wine, a bottle and a half of glue, 6 pair of lashes, and a trip to see my pastor (don’t ask), I decided to go let someone else put them on. They turned out cute, but I ended up pulling them off, as well as my real lashes one night after a bad hot flash where I thought someone had poured a bucket of water on me and dropped my bed into the pits of hell, and I was on fire!!

Hot Flashes and eyelashes not being able to coexist is a hard thing to accept. Although standing in the mirror, naked…both body and eyelids…and your tiny gray pubic hairs peeping from the part of your vagina that you are able to see under your stomach, while you’re sweating, you pretty much have no other choice but to let it go,  and find something else to enhance. Hmmmm maybe I should get my tongue pierced. I hear that men are really turned on by that now days.