Sunday, June 30, 2013

Summer beauty for stupid people

This morning I filled the soap dispenser in the bathroom. This turned into a session of me sitting on the bathroom floor surrounded by the entire contents of the cabinets beneath the sink, sniffing cast-off shampoos and dabbing peculiar, forgotten lotions along my body like war paint. Ahhh, the single life.

Waaay in the back of the cabinet, I found a box. I don't remember purchasing this. I don't remember trying it. I think Satan placed it there. And waited.

I immediately stripped down to only my pink shorts and plugged this bad boy in. And I remembered the 80s. Do you remember the 80s? Do you remember Epilady? We all tried it once and limped away, convinced it was a torture device? Well, brAun, thanks for changing the packaging and waiting long enough for me to sort of forget the pain (like when people tell me they don't truly remember the pain of childbirth--LIARS, the lot of you).

It hurt like a motherfucker. Pardon the language, but I didn't want to sugarcoat it. And as I dragged the equivalent of 40 cloaked lepers holding tweezers up my leg, I thought, "I meet up with Robin and Noelle for lunch in approximately four hours. My skin will likely erupt in anger. This might be one of my stupider moves."

And it was. Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:
Those ain't freckles. Those are craters where my hair used to live. It's an hour later and the burn has turned to a weird tingle.

And while I was digging around under the bathroom sink, I found another goodie. This was a gag gift from Pam.
You see, I have hobbit feet. Truly. From the knee down, I don't know what's really happening. But I hate my feet. I don't like people touching my feet. And so I hide them away, letting a bad situation get worse. And today felt like a good day to try to improve on a bad situation. I mean, my legs are already bleeding. Why not rip open the flesh on my feet too?

After damaging my self-esteem trying to open the package (effing plastic), I removed these pieces. Then I read all of the cardboard inserts. Hmmm. No directions. Where do the batteries go? How does this thing turn o----wait, it's not electronic. Because it's a CHEESE GRATER. A cheese grater for your feet. Thanks, Pam.

And because I must have been dropped on my head as a baby, I assembled said cheese grater, lifted one bleeding ankle onto my other bleeding knee, and started grating.


And suddenly it was snowing. From my feet. Fine white dust rained down. As the kids say, dafuq?

So I looked inside.
Are you kidding, Pam? It's like charred remains in there. This cheese grater is like an oven at Auschwitz. I feel like I should bring the remains to a high hillside and let them float away on the breeze while saying a prayer for what used to be my feet. And I've developed a slight limp. I swear that leg is shorter now. You know, because this Mengele contraption ate one of my hobbit feet.

In sum, I don't feel prettier. And now I have to go get ready to lunch in Newburyport. In sweatpants and shit-kickers. Get the tequila ready. I'm goin' in.

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