twerkriottwerkriot

I have something to say… Something that I haven’t spoken of in a long time. When I say what I have to say, it’s going to send shockwaves through the entire Facebook community. Residents of central Pennsylvania will feel the earth tremble. Old men will clasp their hands against their hearts, pregnant women hold their bellies while their little ones kick the shit out of their innards. Children will dance and teenagers will Snapchat their reaction.


Yiayia. Friday.
Let the Twerk Riot commence.

It was that exact Facebook status update of mine that turned this extended weekend into a Twerk Riot weekend.

Until this weekend, it was called “Yiayia Friday.”  Everyone knew about Yiayia Friday.  My mom (Gabriel’s Yiayia) kept Gabriel at her house all afternoon and into the evening.  She would also cook.  Because nobody loves on babies and feeds people like a Yiayia does.

N-o-b-o-d-y.

Yiayia Friday never stopped, but last year, when everything changed…  Yiayia Friday evolved.  Or devolved, really.  One of the joys of being home alone, all alone on Fridays was the absolute freedom to dance like no one is watching.

If you read my very first Transformation Tuesday post about RuPaul and how I had been singing, dancing, and Lip-Syncing For My Life, ALL my life…then you understand how valuable Yiayia Friday was to me.

Get the back story here.

Yiayia Friday was not about laundry and housework and peace and quiet.  Yiayia Friday was a WEEKLY PERFORMANCE.  A mood lifter.  A happy boost.  An afternoon of spontaneous cardio.

YIAYIA FRIDAY WAS EVERYTHING.

And then everything changed.

In a tragic twist last October, Hurricane Sandy flooded my husband’s office building in New Jersey, and the spare bedroom in our house became his temporary office.  And then, he was laid off in February, so he was home for good.  And while I didn’t often work on Fridays, I worked a ton of other days, and I spent many a Friday resting and relaxing.

Ron always said there was nothing stopping me from having my usual dance party, but I disagree.  You can’t dance like nobody’s watching if you worry that someone in your house could secretly be watching.

And let’s be clear here:  there’s a difference between dancing like someone is watching and dancing like no one is watching.  There’s a difference.

On Friday morning, when I woke up to more beautiful rain hitting my roof, I realized how phenomenal this day was going to be.  Not only did Gabriel have preschool, AND Lunch Bunch (kid-free from 9:00-1:00!), he would be spending the afternoon at Yiayia’s, and…RON WAS IN NEW YORK FOR COMIC CON.

I had the whole house to myself.  ALL DAY.  And I wasn’t dog-tired from working my ass off at That Place I Won’t Speak Of.

Do you understand how fucking epic this was?  Don’t you see that this wasn’t your average Yiayia Friday?  This was no typical dance party.

My hands were trembling.  My heart was pounding so hard out of my chest.  I felt a loss for words…and breathless, too.  I had accepted the idea that Yiayia Friday, authentic Yiayia Friday, didn’t exist anymore.

And yet there I was….experiencing a flashback to the way life used to be…before everything changed.  And when my ass started bouncing, I knew this was so much more than the old Authentic Yiayia Friday.

THERE WAS GONNA BE A MOTHERFUCKING TWERK RIOT UP IN HEE-YARRRRRR!!

I took Gabriel to school and then rushed back to my empty home to begin making a playlist, pull my hair back into a pony tail, and put on a sports bra and yoga pants, both of which supported me while allowing for a decent amount of “wiggle” room.

And I twerked.  Oh my God, did I twerk.  I twerked while I did the laundry.  I twerked while I cleaned the upstairs bathroom.  I twerked while I went through the mail, and I twerked while I made myself lunch.

When I wasn’t twerking, I was krumping…with a little reggaeton thrown in, plus some hip hop and grinding, too.

Don’t even laugh.  I’ve been dancing all my life.

twerkinforjesus

 If there’s any message I want to get out there….it’s TWERK, dammit!  Especially to the Moms out there!  I see you in my cul-de-sac.  I watch you jog, and then stop and go into your random squats in the middle of the sac.  I see you doing your lunges, looking like a stupid asshole with your slooooow, elongated strides.

You have NO shame doing that in front of the entire neighborhood, but God forbid someone mentions twerking, and have mercy, all the claws and criticism come out!

No one said you have to teach your daughter how to do it.  No one said you had to fire up your webcam and make a YouTube video, or capture 6 seconds of your ass-claps for Vine.  There is a time and a place for twerking, and that varies from person to person.  It is up to you to decide when and where your twerking shall take place, but for heaven’s sake, just DO IT!  I guarantee you won’t want to stop.

Think about it:  It wasn’t that long ago that we lived in a society where belly dancing was weirdly taboo and pole dancing was just for strippers.  Those two styles of cardio-movement are now taught as exercise classes.  And don’t forget Strippercize!  Even Zumba has taken this country by storm, and while it’s not exactly sexualized like belly dancing and pole dancing are, it IS sexy and sensual and you KNOW you feel like a hot l’il ticket after a class.

Give it a chance.  Do it for fun.  Do it for you.  Bounce your ass and lift your spirits.  Go ahead.  Grind your booty on inanimate objects.  No one’s looking.  No one’s judging.  Move your body like the slinky little sex goddess you are.  And don’t be surprised if your man…..notices a change….in you.

You’re welcome.  And by the way—my Twerk Riot Friday was…ah-mazing.