T h e A d v e n t u r e s o f C h i c a g o J o
Got an Itch, Fix it, Shine it Up, Sing it Out
|2008-01-23 – 4:32 p.m.|
Ok, so the cream. I swear it wasn’t vag itch cream. Being ambiguous made for a better story, so I left it that way intentionally. No need to be all grossed out. Do note, however, that if for three days you had an itch on that unreachable spot of your back, that would make you almost as weave-pulling or tooth-knocking grumpy as the start of any crotch tingle.
Speaking of crotches, someone sent me a video of Alexys Tylor. (Watch the video, and you’ll note that the crotch reference is to her, not he who sent the video.) It’s been a while since I’d browsed her particular brand of crazy, and I’ve wasted entirely too much time on this infotainment since then.
Also, retorting to unsuspecting friends over IM with phrases like “dick so good it’ll make you slap somebody” and “you have to police the pussy” is quite satisfying.
Although Ms. Tylor has quite the colorful way of explaining things, I do need to give her a quick holla for talking about policing one’s privates. Do recall that nine of the past 12 men I’ve dated forgot to mention their girlfriends... If I didn’t police what went on down there, I might have been writing yesterday’s entry about cream for crotch rot.
I’m just sayin’.
Last night I was quite the lil home fixer-upper.
After work I braced the cold to go to Ace Hardware. I was surprised to see so many women working there, answering questions, and knowing what the heck they were talking about. After paying for my $18 bag of crap, we talked a little about Britney Spears, and then I speed-walked home to Bob Vila it up.
I replaced four burned-out bulbs in my bathroom's light fixture. It's now so bright in there that I sneeze when I walk in the room. When I stumbled in this morning for my post-sleep pee, I had to scrunch my eyes for the stream's entire length before daring to open them. And when I checked out my caboose while getting into the shower, light was hitting it so strongly from all angles that it looked like there was less cellulite. I think I can live with the sneezing and eye scrunching if my tush doesn't look so meh.
Besides unscrewing and screwing in light bulbs (admittedly not so Bob Vila-ish), I also took apart my vacuum cleaner to check out the belt and used my drill to install shelves in my office. This is where I'd beat my chest and do that Tim Allen from Tool Time's man grunt.
Alas, I'm a lot more inclined to say, "Go me!" while I jump up and down and clap for myself.
So, yeah. Go me! *clap clap clap* *bounce* *clap clap clap*
I've got a question that I'd like some feedback on.
A few years back I had a boyfriend who gave me some jewelry. If this was some generic classic piece, I'd have no issue with wearing shiny stuff paid for with his dime. This is instead a pretty distinct ring that previously had significance. It's of course of no value to me now, so I'm wondering how best to get rid of it.
It's not a fat diamond that I could bring to a jeweler to get 25% of its value in cash. The eBay market for gemstones set in white gold would gain me nothing but an untouched auction. My niece is only three, so it would sit in my desk drawer for a long time before it became something I'd give her.
I'm wondering what others have done with their jewels from exes. Please let my comments section know what you or a friend did.
Work = poop. Meh.
A friend asked me yesterday if I'd sing for an uncoming benefit for his non-profit. Said friend has apparently never heard me sing. However, I'm entertaining the thought.
Last night I browsed through YouTube, opened up the lyrics, and listened to the song about ten times. I just might go for it since it's not exactly a difficult song. However, as I said to another friend of mine, the only thing that'll get me is my nervousness. I have no issues with talking to large crowds; however, I'm quite confident in my ability to talk. Singing? Not so much.
Okay, I'm out. I have a charity benefit to attend, and I need to drop off my gym bag before I head out there.