If I spent as much time trying to cure world hunger as I did looking for tweezers, we’d all be trying to lose a few. The whole world. A worldwide, literal Whole 30.
And reading glasses. I’ll go into a room, and all that will be lying around will be real glasses. I don’t NEED real glasses. Already got in my contacts. I just need to see UP CLOSE GOD IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.
Then the moment I need real glasses, all I’ll be able to find will be readers.
Also too? I have three pill bottles in my purse: m’Ritalin [heart emoji], my migraine meds, and my little-used nausea pills for when I have a bad migraine. Every day–EVERY DAY–I reach in there for the Ritalin and pull out the nausea meds. Every fucking day.
Last week, when I had the moan-aloud migraine, I hunched over nauseatedly to my purse to get out the nausea pills, and?
Pulled out the Ritalin.
There are a lot of goddammits in my house.
In other news, I called my old coworker TinaDoris, because she is forever posting on Instagram how she’s getting up at god’s half acre to work out at Pure Barre, and I realize “god’s half acre” doesn’t mean that. What are you, new here? And since no one sees me naked anymore, I have less incentive to work out, and all of a sudden I look like Ruth Buzzy. Who if I’m not mistaken was sort of thin. But I just mean I look old and like the meat is falling off the bone.
I figured if I worked out with someone, I might show up out of obligation.
After she got over the part where her phone actually rang (Dear Millennials: Get over it. It’s a phone. You spend $700 on a phone. It’s supposed to ring.), she told me the beginner classes were on Sunday morning and Thursdays at god’s half acre o’clock.
So, Saturday night I went to bed early, and set the alarm for acre time, and whomever the asshole was who said, “Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise” never had Netflix when season two of The Crown was premiering.
But I actually got up, slipped on some sexy workout clothes with all m’hips, and crunched hippily out to the car.
It snowed here for more than 24 hours from Friday to Saturday, but then it melted, but then it froze up again Saturday night. This is why, as I grabbed my car’s door handle, nothing happened.
I mean, frozen motherfucker did not budge. “Oh, come ON,” I told myself. “Try harder.” I tugged and I pulled and I pulled and I tugged, and now my door handle and I are in a committed relationship, but I could not get into my car.
“Goddammit,” I said, as I stomped back into the house. Then I had to call poor TinaDoris, who probably had her phone disconnected, what with all the jarring ringing it did that week.
But since I already had on a sports bra and everything, I ended up doing my Callanetics video, with that phony Call A Pickaxe or whatever her name is. Oh my god, that workout is hard. As opposed to the boilin’ bag of gravy that is my ass.
Remember boiling bags? My mother used to get them for me when I was in high school. They were fairly disgusting, but I ate them. You could get, like, chipped beef. Boil the whole bag, dump it out.
I love how I’d eat that after school and THEN have dinner, and I weighed 110. Probably because I was so active then.
Anyway, further reports as developments warrant re Pure and its Barre. Maybe TinaDoris and I could just get up early and go to a bar.
In my hometown, back when everyone worked at the factory, and that factory was open 24 hours a day, the bars stayed open, too. So you could get off third shift at 7 a.m. and head to the bar.
I have to go. I got assigned something at 10:30 last night, and a person I feel bad for is our traffic person, who assigns everybody everything. Anyway, the work looks pretty interesting, but lengthy. Like my dick.
I leave you with the following exciting news.
As you know, because you follow my every move (except for no one ever remembering that I do, in fact, have a face in my tree. A face I nailed in myself. And covered ad nauseum on this not blog. But then every time I show a photo of that tree, I get, “I see a face, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO–blargh.” That was when I shot the person)…
Anyway, as you know, since you follow my every move, I spent $50 on a tray full of chubby sticks, like my dick, and what I thought we would DO, because we are so whimsical here at house of Jooooooblargh, is I’d try on a new lipstick for you every day.
Let’s try them from left to right.
I took about 11 photos hoping my gray roots wouldn’t show and it turns out, hips don’t lie. Neither do cameras. Anyway, this is Richer Raisin, and I don’t like raisins, but this color isn’t bad. It doesn’t give me a chubby stick, but it’s okay.
Stay tuned for Fuller Fig tomorrow!!!!
Oh, Jooooo. How dull you are.