Oh, man, you guys, I cannot hook it up with the scanner love. Everyone I know has a non-functioning scanner right now. Companion took the pictures to work yesterday, and was only able to locate a black-and-white scanner, which is tres sucky, as they say in FRONCE.
I know, I know: go to Kinko’s. But I have no non-toddler time right now to do this in this week. And I’ll be DAMNED if I’m supposed to scan 32 pictures in a Kinko’s with Hurricane Strudel running around. So, sadly, I am bumping my anniversary series to next week, and it will at least be tied together with the category heading. And there will be pictures then, for crappity fucking crissakes, which is how the Giant Head of John Travolta intended things to be.
This week I am starting a ten-week intensive kickboxing program. It meets five days a week. I am already sleepy and starving all the time, but I think it’s going to be “fun.” By fun, I mean I’ll be able to dig out my old pre-Strudel, out-of-style ho clothes. Woo!
I have wanted to do something like this forever. The downside is that our hot water heater is hemorrhaging today. I knew something had gone terribly wrong this morning when I turned on the shower and it never got past lukewarm. There is a puddle in the basement now that does not seem to be ruining anything significant right now, and the hot water heater people are coming later today. So tonight I will go back to kickboxing class, having NOT taken a shower from the session the day before. Yeah, that’s cute. Maybe they’ll refund the money before sending my stinky ass home.
Speaking of bad timing…why did I get into the shower and shave off everything from the waist down on Friday night? Yes, even my toe hair. Apparently three glasses of wine in a two-hour period is the magic number for doing stupid things lately. And now, of course, the hair is growing back. This wasn’t a good idea when I was sixteen, so why did I think it would be a good idea now? Plus, I was disturbed to discover that I have a tiny stretchmark on my snacktrap. WHAT THE HELL, FRANNY. Thanks for making me eat all those cheeseburgers when I was gestating you.
And tonight as I am punching and kicking I will feel like I have a FIRE in MY DAMN PANTS. Oh universe why did you make me so stupid?
My parents have a scanner. Two of them in fact. You could drive up to the land of the malls and visit.
Use one of those bath/shower puff scrubby things on your beavage. It works wonders on itchy ingrowing hairs.
Shaving scares me. I don’t even shave my legs let alone go near the snacktrap vicinity. (Oh, man, that word’s so good I don’t even know what to say.) If I’d had three glasses of wine and a razor I woulda died from blood loss so let me congratulate you on your versatility in tipsy grooming with sharp objects.
However, I was reading an article on strippers (whose vanity is mainly about lack of body hair rather than boobage (aka milktraps?)) and I read they use roll on deodorant (anti-perspirant?) for the itchiness/ingrown issue.
Have fun in kickboxing!
BEAVAGE!!!! Winner!
Oh, Halo, I can totally see myself pestering your parents for that. “Ding ding…SCANNA MAN!”
Ozma: but have they gone to anal bleaching yet???
You guys are just too damn funny. Shaving is only shitty in the growing out stages, if you shave every other time you shower, then you should be ok. Woohoo!!! Look at me, Ms. Ingrown Advice Hotline over here!
Showers these days make me puke and faint, so my solution is not to take them a whole lot. Therefore, you’re in good company, if I do say so myself.
beavage and snacktrap? Those have definately made my day.
digital camera it instead of scanning it? that’s what i do because i am lazy.
Ooh! I’m so glad to hear someone else admit to drunk shaving! I have done this more times than I would like to admit, and have regretted it every time, but apparently not enough to keep me from repeating the mistake.
::scratches coochie::
I was going to suggest for more ass-whompin fun, you should check out cappy’s on Union. They’re nice folks, who give you your money’s worth.. but now I’m just trying to fight the urge to scratch my crotch at work.