Someone Pead In Our Pool.
June 19th, 2008 by trancejen
The pool has been open for two weeks. Two weeks of swimming, frolicking with inner tubes, kids tracking water through the house, merriment. I sit outside and read or drink beers with my friend from kickboxing when she brings her kids over. It’s been a slice.
Yesterday I walked outside to find that the pool had turned a phosphorescent green overnight.
The green is luminous. I found it hard to turn my eyes away.
The pool has only been open for two weeks. It is a large pool, or at least the largest of the Easy-Set varieties. It would be a big, fat, hairy bitch to drain.
I called my mother.
“It’s green.”
“A little green?”
“A lot green.”
“Are the kids swimming in it?”
“They’re looking at it with some trepidation and murmuring about alien poop.”
“Put some more chlorine tablets in.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to do it. This is Kermit The Frog green I’m talking about, here.”
I put more chlorine tablets in. I put Ph chemical in. I tested the water with little testing strips. I remained a clueless pool owner, and the pool remained green.
The J-Man and his friend wrinkled their noses. “Hey,” they called to the neighbor kids. “Come look at our green pool!!”
Shit.
My mother arrived home and together we stared silently into the murky green depths.
“You haven’t cleaned it enough.”
“Bullshit, I’ve been cleaning it every day.”
“They why is it green?”
“I am utterly confused. The filter is running. The chemicals are in place. The universe is aligned properly. The pool is green.”
We stared, willing it to turn clear with our eyes.
The internet told us to buy algaecide, so today we are purchasing algaecide. If that doesn’t work, we are draining the damned pool.
Sometimes I wonder whether it’s more trouble than it’s worth, merriment notwithstanding.
I also wonder whether the kids are right about the alien poop.
Happy Thursday.
Hi, How Are You, Don’t Look At Me.
June 18th, 2008 by trancejen
I am going to a wedding on Saturday.
It is rare that I attend any social function these days, not because I am worried about falling down due to Heartfuck or because I am rife with headaches due to Fuckbrain, but because I am suffering from a far more insidious problem - I am fat.
Lord, am I fat. I spent the winter stuffing my cheeks as if I were storing food for an impending disaster and now I am suffering for it even though I am working out five days per week. I am over thirty, and I have discovered that my thirty-something metabolism has slowed to a snail’s pace. I am working my damnedest to jack that metabolism up into the stratosphere, but so far it does not seem to be cooperating.
Therefore I am chubby, and painfully so. To be seen in public is embarrassing. To be seen in an armless black dress is downright terrifying. Why did I buy a sleeveless dress? Because I am stupid. I bought big, pretty earrings! Maybe people will look at them instead of my big burgeoning arm flesh.
I am not the only fat person in the world. Surely I will not be the only fat person in attendance at the wedding. (I hope. Always, I look for people Fatter Than Me. In that manner I am an Asshole Supreme.) Still, I cannot shake my shame. It is deep-rooted and has grown in me ever since I was five and my father called me “Jenny Jelly Belly”.
My father makes fun of fat people with aplomb. In fact I don’t know who he loves more, fat people or Barack Obama for filling his life with sick mirth. Suddenly, though, he has stopped making these stupid jokes around me. I know that this is in deference to my girth and it shames me even further. He pays for me to go to hypnosis sessions and then cringes when I eat anything other than salads. It’s gotten to the point in which my stomach actually hurts when I see him. My mother tells me to eat small meals and then bakes cupcakes. My mother is a size four. She speaks about fat people in a low voice, as if they have cancer.
And isn’t it as bad as cancer? It’s treated with medicine, surgery, hell, why not go the extra mile and try chemotherapy? Sign me up! Isn’t it as bad as a felony murder? At times I feel equally guilty as if I’ve shanked someone in the neck - look what I’ve done to my fucking body! Isn’t it a mortal sin? Feel your extra flesh and repent, vile overeaters! REPENT!!
God.
Between the two of my parents and my own sick head, it’s a wonder I don’t have a fat-induced nervous breakdown. I can see the headlines now:
Fatty Loses It And Takes To The Roof With A .38.
Crazed Chubby Runs Screaming Down Michigan Avenue Nude
Zaftig Woman Storms Baskin Robbins, Eats Inventory
Lord only knows.
Today kickboxing was canceled and when I hung up the phone I flipped out. Canceled!! What the fuck?! I have only a few more days to LOSE WEIGHT, damn it to hell!
Then I worked out, furiously.
It is hard not to revert to sick behavior. My instinct tells me to scarf and barf. Deep down in my soul, I want to throw up every fucking time I eat. It’s gross, I know, but it’s there. I simply park myself on the couch and grit my teeth and tell myself I can’t do it.
I just wish that the urge would be gone.
I just wish that the weight would noticeably start to come off, so that I could be pleased with the results and therefore less discouraged.
I just wish that I had never done this to myself. Me. I did this. I did this to myself. Me.
It is impossible to live with the guilt when you are living inside of it every fucking minute of every day. What sucks is that this guilt breeds shame and this shame breeds I SUCK OH FUCK IT I’M GOING TO GO EAT A DONUT.
The cycle is very, very hard to break.
And that is all I have to say about that.
In other news, I, anti-foot-toucher-extraordinaire, went completely against my grain and got a pedicure.
You read right.
My girlfriend from kickboxing is a professional manicurist and has been harping on me about my nasty-ass barefoot-girl feet for some time, so I figured, what the hell? I’ll try anything once.
It actually wasn’t that bad. I was a little touchy and ticklish at first, but it actually felt nice. It was a little freaky when she took this razor blade thingy and started grating my feet as if they were blocks of cheese, but damn, my feet are smooth and silky now. I also have perfect red toenails with little black scroll designs on the big toes. Cute.
She did my fingernails, too, so now I will have many things to distract people from my weight. Heh.
God, I’m so stupid.
Happy Wednesday.
My Body, It Is Tired.
June 11th, 2008 by trancejen
As if I were not working out enough, I am now undergoing physical therapy three times a week for my back and neck.
Yesterday I went for the evaluation, which was quite the interesting experience. I was first plunked down in front of a computer and told to fill out a questionnaire.
Please rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Forty.
Please describe the nature of your pain. There is an angry badger trapped inside of my spine HELP.
Do you have pain during intercourse? Yes, and I LOVE IT.
Describe your pain during intercourse. (seriously, I’m not shitting you, they asked me this.) Um, no.
Can you take care of your basic needs (showering, bathing, dressing)? Are you offering to scrub my back?
When is your pain the worst? When I think about how much I am paying for pain medications, physical therapy, MRIs, etc.
Are you experiencing pain right now? Yes. Now let’s stop this test crap and get busy with the Swedish massages.
A Swedish massage I was not to receive, however. Instead I was led into a little room with a little massage table (terribly misleading) and asked to contort my poor aching spine into all sorts of uncomfortable positions in order for the therapist to determine how well I could move. As it happened I could not move very well. I can kickbox you into next week, but I cannot turn my neck so you had better damned well be in front of me while I’m doing it.
I was also tested top to toe for muscle strength.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Oh, what a poor showing! Oh, was I embarrassed! After all, I am a kickboxer, right? I am tough! I can whup ass!
I have arms of Jello.
The therapist had me lie down on the bed on my stomach with my arms out at my sides and raised as if I were about to take flight.
“Don’t let me push your arms down,” she said.
Simple, right? Hold up your fucking arms.
My arms fell like they were filled with lead weights.
“Try it again.” she encouraged with a big smile. “Don’t let me push them down.”
I grunted and strained so hard that I thought I would lose control of my faculties right there on the table. Still, no dice. My arms simply would not cooperate, and I was floored. I felt I should apologize for my wimpy guns.
“I’m really not this weak,” I lied. “Maybe it’s the pain medication.”
She nodded solemnly.
Riiiight.
I couldn’t even pass the finger test. Try this, please. Hold your hands out with your fingers splayed apart. Now have someone try to push your fingers together while you try to keep them spread apart.
I could not do this no matter how hard I tried, and it made me madder than anything has in months. My pride, my ego, my hubris, all down the shitter due to a stupid finger test. I used to win at “Mercy”! My hands are not weak! These hands have worked hard!! I am strong, I am invincible, I am WOMAN!!
Stupid motherfucking finger test.
After that the therapist led me and my wounded spirit through several exercises I am going to have to do at home every day. She also informed me that due to my tall girl’s habit of slouching all the time and my blind girl’s trait of slumping over the computer screen, I have the beginning of a “dowager’s hump”.
A DOWAGER’S HUMP???
Jesus, lady, you’ve already killed my pride, now you’re telling me I’m becoming Quasi-fucking-modo, why not just kick me in the tits and call it a day??
Needless to say I left physical therapy in a rather black mood.
Three times a week, I shall go.
I cannot wait.
Happy Wednesday.
A Pretty Gym Bunny I Am Not.
June 6th, 2008 by trancejen
I have, in the past, been a member of that gym that rhymes with Rally’s and features hot, ripped, tan, oiled bodies in its commercials. This is, of course why I went: not to become one of said hot, ripped, tan, oiled bodies, but to ogle them.
I love watching other people work out, which is probably why I so dread working out in any public arena and being watched myself. The Rally-gym in the neighborhood of the job I had at that time was right on point, too - hardbodies working to become harder. It was a real visual treat: rippled men pumping away at free weights and lithe, smoothly muscled gym bunnies cheerfully toiling away at circuit machines and treadmills or elliptical trainers, all moving in perfect rhythm without appearing to mar their matching Spandex outfits with a single unsightly drop of sweat.
How very nice! How very upper-middle-class-suburbia! I coveted their flabless bodies, but what I coveted more was their ability to work out while maintaining a facade of coolness.
I am a workout wreck. My idea of workout wear is a yellow and gray Tegan and Sara t-shirt and baggy blue yoga pants that consistently fall down at inopportune times. The second my body begins to move beyond its normal, sluggish range of motion I begin to sweat so profusely that the carpeting below me begins to squish. To further add insult to injury, I turn a deep shade of burgundy usually reserved for wines, my dining room walls, and heart attack victims.
I won’t even elaborate on what happens when you are a large-chested woman, have a crappy sports bra, and have to jump rope. Personally I feel that having to jump rope again after a twenty-eight year absence when I could hardy fucking do it right the first time is a complete insult to my body and is just ridiculous. There is a reason that grown folks with breasts do not jump motherfucking rope. If you are a man and want to jump rope with all of your junk flopping around, then fine, but I personally would much prefer it if my womanly chesticular junk stayed right where it should be.
So that is me, sloppy, red, sweaty, boobs a-swingin’.
At the dojo I currently attend we are fairly serious about working out, so sweat is encouraged, but I am probably still good for a lot of laughs around water coolers after kickboxing classes.
“Mabel, you should have seen this hot ghetto mess in my kickboxing class! Girl!! White girl was PURPLE like a PLUM. I am for real. And she have that real pale blonde hair all stickin’ out in every direction, make her look like the Scarecrow or somethin’. Mm-hm. Thought she was going to drop dead right there by the weapons wall.”
I shudder to think.
In fact I am still sweating now, a full half-hour after arriving home and turning on the AC.
Perhaps this is a good indication that my furnace is a-burning and that I am dropping pounds by the second, but I think it’s a stronger indication that I am, in fact, just a big hot ghetto mess.
Happy Weekend.
I am Omni-Mom.
June 4th, 2008 by trancejen
It is June and once again I am insured, thanks be to Medicare Part D! I am quite thankful, because although samples fulfilled most of my medication needs I have been without both pain medication and sleeping pills. This has left me one crabby, backachy, wide-awake “sumuma”, to coin a Bernie Mac-ism.
A lot is going on what with home renovations and last week of school picnics and oh my God Mom I need a seven-ton Tupperware container today so that I can bring home all my school stuff, did I mention that, and I also needed to bring three two-liters of rootbeer and eight permission slips yesterday and also I need new roller skates cause mine don’t fit and also protective gear because we have to have it and I need it for today so GET RIGHT ON THAT MOM.
One thing that I have tried very hard to instill in the J-Man’s brain is that I am psychic and know all, see all, and hear all. I am aware of every dirty deed, rotten thought, and troubled inkling that crosses the child’s path. I can see through walls, surprising him by yelling, “EAT OVER YOUR PLATE,” “STOP MESSING WITH THE CAT,” “GET OUT OF THAT DRAWER,” et cetera. Even though I am considered partially deaf in one ear I can hear the slightest indication of Screwing Around and put a stop to it. I have been successful in my endeavors. He believes that I am indeed omniscient, and there is a healthy amount of fear there. Go, me.
This has, however, backfired in a sense. Since I am purportedly the Great Grand All-Seeing Mother I am supposed to know when a permission slip was due or when something else was supposed to be sent to school or when the karate fees have become dangerously overdue. I may be omniscient but I am not organized, and I am even less so when I am uninformed.
“But Mom, I thought you KNEW.”
“Of course I did.”
I find that I lie more as a parent in one week than I did in my previous lifetime.
“You can’t eat sugar cereal because sugar bugs are in it, and they will eat your teeth.”
“You can’t ride your bike around the block because someone will take you.” (possibly not a lie)
“You can’t have a cellphone until you’re 16 because it’s the law in this neighborhood.”
“You can’t use my laptop because it isn’t charged.”
“If you eat ice cream before you go to bed, you will have a stomachache.”
“Skim milk comes from white cows.”
I am entirely full of shit, and I dread the day he realizes this. The J-Man will be ten on the thirteenth, so I feel that day is coming soon.
We are having a pool party for the J-Man’s birthday. My house will be overrun with psychotic ten-year-olds in dripping bathing suits. Obviously, I cannot wait.
Save me.
In other news, I am working on tax documents to get certified as a business so that I can once again work. This involves paying myself a salary, which I guess is cool with disability, and money will be paid into the business, and I can even write off business expenses. I’m very excited about this.
I am also soon going to be selling some shit on eBay, some handmade jewelry and some little knitted iPod/cellphone cases and purses. I’ll announce it here once that stuff goes up for auction.
I’m sort of excited about this summer. Things are looking good.
Happy Wednesday. Prepare for the infestation of children.
Worker Bees.
May 29th, 2008 by trancejen
So we’re having the house scraped and painted and we are also having a brand-new pointy garage roof put on because our old flat one was falling in. Thank you, low-interest home improvement loans.
I like all this work going on because generally I’m alone all week and now there are people fluttering about the place nailing and scraping (the nailers and scrapers have yet to be at our place at the same time but I am already imagining a West Side Story-type throwdown complete with tools and Rod Stewart music). People! I like the people. I like to offer them beverages. Would you care for a cold Sprite? I will bring it to you.
The other day I had an interesting conversation with one of the roof-builders, a young guy with neck tattoos who described his living room which is “totally done up in Scarface”. Apparently he has Scarface window blinds, a Scarface rug, and even a Scarface coffee table. I want to see this so badly and take pictures that I itch. My own living room with its boring boring beige couch must seem so mundane in comparison! Imagine seeing Al Pacino every morning when one opens the blinds!
The thing I don’t like about having all these people around is that I cannot be myself. I cannot schlump around in no bra, breasts swinging haphazardly to and fro as is my wont during the working week. There are people around that would surely be offended by my lack of proper chesticular support.
The other day I was caught in the midst of a rather embarrassing conversation. The kitten, overly social animal that she is, enjoys being petted while she is eating her food. Since I am a patsy who finds this strange fetish endearing I am often ready to oblige. As a result, whenever I come into the kitchen I am greeted with loud notes of praise and supplication. Mama! Come and pet me while I eat. I love food and love.
Food and love. I mean, wouldn’t we all enjoy a nice rubdown while having a slice of delicious pizza?
“Rrrrreet!”
“Oh, kitty, little kitty. Thassa gooooood little kitty. Awwwww.”
“Rrrrrowr!”
“Oh, yes! Is a gooood kitty. Loves her food. Oh, yes. Who’s a fat kitty? Yes! Is a fat kitty! But is so preeeeetty. Yes!”
“Reet!”
“Food and love! Food and love! Food and love! Yes! Her loves-”
*knockknockknock*
“Fuck!”
“Reet?”
At that point I realized that the roofer guy had come inside the front screen door and was ten feet away, knocking on the inside of my wide-open front door for something.
He had the good grace not to laugh at me in person.
I feel like the window scrapers are watching me. I realize that this makes me sound slightly schizophrenic, but every time I walk through the house there’s a head in one of my windows and I imagine they’re thinking, “Damn, that bookshelf is cluttered,” or “Damn, she twitches her right leg a lot,” or “Damn, I’m going to have to look up that website when I get home.”
Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
I would like to make a move to donate some new music. They’re still playing Rod Stewart. Now while I’m sure Rod is a great guy and fine and fluffy for the older set, the rhythm of my heart is not beating like a drum, I have nothing to say to Maggie, and no, I do not want his body, nor do I think he is sexy.
Ease up on the Rod, scrapers.
Happy Thursday.
Paint Scrapings and Insurance Dealings.
May 19th, 2008 by trancejen
I just spent three hours talking to Medicaid/care and finally, FINALLY got all of the computer glitches unglitched and found someone who knew their shit, was nice, and was willing to enroll me in a Medicare drug program.
Hallelujah.
I still won’t have any drug coverage until June first, so please feel free to continue to send me any unused Cymbalta, Lexapro, Topamax, Lyrica, and/or crack you have lying around the house.
I sincerely appreciate it.
Medicare is full of questions. What drugs are you on? How much? How often? Did you poop today? When was the last time you pooped? Are you taking fiber supplements for that??
Lord. I’m not kidding about the three hours. Questions, questions. What is my mother’s maiden name? Could I describe my last vivid dream?
I don’t generally mind talking on the phone, but today my house is being scraped. Yes, dermabrasion, now trendy enough to have reached the real estate market.
We are painting soon, and therefore we have hired Guys. I don’t like hiring Guys. I would rather do shit myself, but scraping windows on a ladder falls under the heading of Stuff That People Who Fall Down A Lot Can’t Do Real Well, so Guys it is. They sound as if they are jamming the scrapers directly into my brain, so lustily do they scrape. I am almost afraid to look outside for fear I will see windows loaded with gouges.
I suppose an enthusiastic scraper is a good thing, though. Even though the cats are going batshit crazy as the white paint rains down past their befuddled little craniums and even though the scrapers’ blaring of Rod Stewart is really not doing the ‘hood any favors, This Old House is getting a makeover.
This Old Jen could use one, too.
Happy Monday.
Cat Pharmacist Extraordinaire.
May 16th, 2008 by trancejen
You mean it’s May? And I have a web page?
Where am I again, exactly?
I hate logging onto the computer after a prolonged absence because the guilt trip I get from the box itself is just overwhelming. There are eight hundred pieces of Spam that I have not dealt with! My computer has been heaving underneath the very weight of it! My web page is fucking cluttered with casino crap! I have not been a good computer mama. Not at all. I suck.
So what have I been up to, with my sucky self? I had a forty-eight hour EEG this week. That was fun. You really haven’t enjoyed a good night’s sleep until you’ve rolled around with thirty-eight wires sticking out of your head. It was also a plus that the cats considered these to be Happy Fun Strings and kept leaping at my head like they were going for jump shots and I was the big-headed, fucked-up basket.
I can’t even begin to describe the pleasure.
I’ve also been on the phone. I have been on the phone all fucking day, every fucking day, with Medicare and Medicaid. I won’t get into the mind-numbing nitty gritty of it all, but there are Problems with my health coverage that have resulted in my having no medication, in my actually having to trick-or treat at doctors’ offices for samples like a raving fucking dope fiend; and consequently I have been listening to a lot of fucking hold music and talking to a lot of people named Shaquonda and Tiffany and Bob who could not possibly give less of a shit that I am really starting to go white girl crazy and lose my mind all over the floor.
So that is what I have been doing. And when I am kickboxing, I am picturing your face, Shaquonda. Right hand jab, rear hand hitting, right hook, ROUNDHOUSE UP YOUR SNARKY LITTLE ASS.
I actually have a caseworker who is supposed to be doing this stuff. My caseworker has approximately four thousand other clients. She works twenty-three and a half hours per day, never answers the phone, and probably cries a lot. She actually called me back once. I fell off of my fucking chair and cowered under the table, sure that schizophrenia had finally set in at long last. All I could do was babble incoherently throughout the entire twenty seconds we talked, thereby wasting the entire conversation and totally further screwing myself.
I can’t fully begin to express how much I hate dealing with Medicare and Medicaid. There are times I throw the fucking phone down and contemplate eating cigarettes by the pack.
I guess it should comfort me to know that everyone I deal with who does it for a living seems to hate it a lot more.
In other news, I nearly killed the kitten.
I spilled a bottle of Lyrica, which is a non-narcotic pain medication, all over the floor last week. My mom was in the kitchen with me and we frantically scrambled to grab the big red capsules before any of our cats did, because the damn cats act as if they are not fed and also as if anything dropped by a People is manna from heaven. People food! I’ve seen them eat all kinds of ridiculous shit. Salad. Coffee grounds. Crushed red pepper, that was fun. I dropped a contact lens once and had to dive for it for fear that the little buggers would be crapping my Acuvue.
Anyway, I thought that we got all of the pills. We were quick and careful.
I thought.
The next day I came upon a completely lethargic kitten splayed across the kitchen floor, eyes rolling around strangely.
“Skittles!” I said. “Kitty!!”
She looked at me weakly, lifted her head slightly and meowed the meow of a seriously fucked-up feline.
Oh God. She was stoned.
Now this is a large cat I’m talking about. She’s only six months old but she’s huge and fat. I thought that surely she could metabolize the drug like a People. Why not?
Then I thought, who the hell am I kidding? It was a two-hundred milligram pill! The cat was a goner. I was going to have to tell the J-Man I killed his cat. Mommy is a murderer, J. Mommy dosed your baby. This kitten is no more. She is an ex-kitten.
This was clearly no time for stupid jokes.
I called the vet while simultaneously lighting a cigarette in order to quell my nerves. My Keith Richards cat stared, lolling on the floor like a drunken sorority girl.
“Hello?”
“HELLO I THINK I POISONED MY CAT OH MY GOD WHAT DO I DO???”
The vet calmly explained to me that I was fucked, as it was too late to pump her stomach. (Too late! MY GOD) He told me to watch her and encourage her to eat and drink in order to get the medication to pass through her system more quickly.
“KITTY!! FOOD!”
“Meowwwwww.”
I ended up hand-feeding her every cat-delicacy I could think of. Tuna. Cheese. Chicken. She ate, but the next day she was still despondent, lazy, and drooling.
This was a cat who spent her days harrassing my other cats into panic attacks. I was sure she was dying.
I kept stuffing food into her slack mouth, and over the next couple of days she started to perk up, developed a kidney infection, and began peeing all over the house. We took her to the vet for a shot of antibiotics and now she seems to be fine.
Talk about your sighs of relief.
Bullshit, cat lover that he is, told me, “Next time only give her half a pill.”
I’ll have to remember that.
Happy Friday.
Stuff! and Nonsense!
April 23rd, 2008 by trancejen
Speaking of selling useless crap, did you know that I am still selling useless crap? Really.
It’s cool useless crap, though, so obviously there is a need for it.
Buy away. Buy for your friends. Buy your mother something for Mother’s Day. Buy something for your kids. I can attest to the fact that the J-Man loves his Mad Cat baseball shirt and wears it to bed almost every night.
Thankfully he hasn’t looked up the website yet.
If you have a suggestion for the products there or for another product that might not be there, shoot me an e-mail. I’d be happy to work with you.
In other news, I am eating a great deal of fiber. Consequently this morning I farted rather trumpetously and the kitten, ever-alert, spent a full five minutes trying to find said fart and attack it.
If that is not some funny shit then I don’t know what is.
Maybe you had to be there.
In still other news, I was awarded my gloves and wraps today during kickboxing. Right hand jab! Left hand hook! Roundhouse kick!
I am kicking some imaginary ass, people. There are some seriously fucked up imaginary villains walking the streets of the sout’ side, people with missing teeth and blackened eyes and broken noses.
Today we did circuit training, which I prefer to call the Seventh Circle of Hell. This torturous run through includes presses with fifteen-pound weights (this might not sound like much, but to my spaghetti arms they are MEDICINE BALLS), a stint at the heavy bag, punching with five-pound weights, and the bike, which is the easy station that everyone eyes greedily.
My arms now feel like Jell-O encased in a thin candy shell. I don’t even have enough energy to work up another fart for the cat to chase.
That said, I am now going to go collapse on the couch and watch Law and Order while all of you hungrily shop my website. Enjoy.
Happy Wednesday.
Bamzu Is a Virus.
April 15th, 2008 by trancejen
I have watched enough bad late-night television that I have started to become convinced that I actually need the products advertised on infomercials.
Sleep-Number Bed? Oh, yeah!! I fucking fantasize about turning the little dial on that glorified air mattress and snoozing my way to a better back, and I have actually become downright paranoid about the fact that my Old Ineffective (because even as we sleep we are supposed to be effective) Innerspring Mattress is KILLING me with added pressure points.
Don’t even get me started on the Tempurpedic. I have come very close to ordering free thirty-day trials of the Tempurpedic mattress under the name of every person I know to be delivered to this address, thereby ensuring at least a few years worth of gooshy mattress delight for the entire family.
I actually ordered a Ped Egg, a little device designed to scrape calloused skin from the bottom of the feet. It arrived in a few weeks, egg-shaped and innocuous-looking in a small box, and I thought, cute. Then I opened the thing up and saw that the bottom was covered in tiny razored fangs.
Being the ignorant sort of extremist person that I am, I thought that this was perfect and indicative of a superior product. This is going to work fucking great!
I was not wrong, as it turns out. It does work great. It removes the calloused skin with ease. However, the product is probably meant for a non-ignorant-extremist-person who will not use it with the force of a thousand angry men.
My feet have still not quite recovered.
The Bible is now available on DVD, for those devout and holy families who wish to worship all high-tech-like. I don’t know who is the featured reader, but it should be James Earl Jones, or me. I sound a little like James Earl Jones before I’ve had any coffee. Luke I am your fatherrr. And the glory of the Lord shone uponnnnn them.
James Earl Jones. Who else could it be, really?
One person whose voice I cannot quite deal with is Billy Mays, he of Orange Glo, of Mighty Putty, of Oxy Clean and Kaboom! - that dude is about as grating as Gilbert Gottfried on meth.
HEY, BILLY MAYS HERE! WATCH HOW I PULL THIS ENTIRE TRACTOR TRAILER FULL OF THE TWENTY-FIVE DIFFERENT CLEANSERS I HAWK WITH A PAPER CLIP AND THIS STICK OF MIGHTY PUTTY!! HA HA! YES!! I HAVE SOLD MY SOUL!! I’M SNORTING HIGH-GRADE CRANK OFF OF ORANGE-GLO-POLISHED MARBLE NOW, BUT I’LL BE GARGLING KABOOM! IN HELL!! IN HELL!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!
I imagine him to be quite sad in real life, when he’s not tweaking.
But then maybe I have an overactive imagination.
Happy Tuesday. What would you buy from the TV?
