Hair there!

I had dinner with a friend last night and mid-chow I excused myself to the powder room. The lavatory was vacant which allowed me to select the stall of my preference. I am a creature of habit so, as is customary, I sail towards the middle stall. 2 seconds before my naked body made contact with the toilet seat my eyes were drawn to what might possibly be the longest pubic hair I have, in 31 years, come to know. I don't feel that I've been missing out. I would have been perfectly happy not acquanting myself with this disgusting treasure.

My immediate reaction was to move to stall 3. No way was I wiping that thing off the seat. Not even with a surgical glove. In a disgusted manner I maneuver to the adjacent stall and immediately check the ins and outs of the toilet to ensure that the villian hadn't polluted this toilet as well perhaps during a follow-up trip. All clear. While doing my business I mull over the long, thick and harsh bit of what I consider "private hair". It was manly in nature. The thought of this thing coming from a woman made me dizzy. There was no question of gender because I was in a female restroom (that's a whole separate blog so lets just go with the odds, shall we). This...this...this thing belonged to a female. No wonder her body rejected it. There has got to be some crazy stuff going on with her down there. I know dogs shed in the summer so maybe she's losing her summer coat. I just don't know! Of course I had to take another gander at the thing before making my exit. After my second observation I confirmed, yep, definitely a pubic hair. You could almost mistake it for a cut of thread.

I return to the table and share my delightful experience with my friend. I tell him I just saw what might be the longest pubic hair ever. Friend is in disbelief. Friend wants a picture. Dammitt. The one time I don't have my camera with me. My friend, being the cool cat he is, loans me his camera phone for the once in a lifetime (god willing) photo op. He sets the gadget up and shows me when/where/how to snap the picture. During my return journey to the lavatory I didn't want fellow diners to see me walking into the restroom holding the device all geared up and ready to capture a moment so naturally I pretend like I am taking a very important call. I am walking around the restaurant, right index finger pressed firmly against my right ear while loudly saying something like "yeah, huh, oh no, I don't know it's really loud in here let me move to a quiet place like the restroom" [wink wink]. But we know. There's no conversation coming from the other end. I am on a mission.

Upon arrival I notice the nasty thing still clinging to the commode for dear life. Sick. 1, 2, 3 SNAP. Might I add that this might be the first time I have taken a photo in a public restroom. I am 99% positive it's the first time I have taken a photo of a public toilet seat. So having shared this debacle with you, it is only fair that I share this exclusive picture. Exhibit "A" below is evidence of my saga. I only wish you could have been there to share in the moment. Sadly, the picture doesn't give the hair the glory it deserves and rightfully earned.

Ciao, friends...

EXHIBIT "A"

I Hate Tuesday-Mondays

I have been trying to adopt a British accent. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time trying to formulate one of my own. Thus far I have failed miserably. I have learned, however, that the "reading voice" in my head has it down pretty well and have decided to apply said accent to anything and everything I read from here on out. You should give it a try.

I’ve had a difficult time focusing on anything productive today. Feel a tad disconnected. I've spent a considerable amount of time daydreaming. Anyone who knows me well is aware of the fact that I am an avid "people watcher". I like to create scenarios and conclusions about perfect strangers. I do this quite often. Whenever possible, actually. Some might consider this judgmental. Don’t be fooled. It is not. The victims (I call them "characters") are unaware of such thrilling productions being made amongst their presence.

Speaking of make believe, remember Mr. Rogers’ trolley that led out of the living room into an imaginary land where puppets lived under the reign of King Friday and Queen Sara Saturday. Sometimes Mr. Rogers would cheat and use the means of a fake castle resting on his kitchen table to enter imaginary land. This was unacceptable to me and led to much disappointment. My favorite townsperson was Lady Elaine Fairchilde. What a jokester she was. Always keeping weirdos like mailman Mr. McFeely in his place. I will admit I think it was unfair that Lady lived in a merry-go-round while poor Daniel lived in an old clock. Explains his chronic depression.

Speaking of depression, I recently had the displeasure of hanging out with a couple who hates each others’ guts. To the core. To be around them is as painful as taking crumbs and salt lingering at the bottom of a potato chip bag and dumping it into your open eyes. You have to wonder what brought the lovebirds together in the first place. I try to "make believe" that the anger by day turns into mind blowing passion by night but by the looks of these two I would say the last time they were intimate was 6 weeks before their wedding. I don’t get it. Why not put an end to the mighty apparent misery. Are these people masochistic? Most of you can relate to a similar couple. Generally speaking the female is the dominator. The husband is usually so scared of her he has learned how to quietly "agree to disagree" and has taken a considerable amount of time researching what a labotomy entails - giving or taking. The girl that I know has no qualms about calling her husband out on all of his wrongdoings in a public setting amongst friends (90% of these wrong doings are just doings but no one in their right mind would ever cross my friend while she is having one of her moments). The fear on hubbie’s face is terrifying. This common scenario is usually followed by wife running off to a place "to be alone" which translates to "I am going to pout and every one of you better give me the attention I am craving". Common phrases heard during said pity parties are "He better come say he’s sorry or else" or "Oh [insert friend name], I simply can’t take it anymore. I’m done, I’m done". No one can stand the nervous energy that floats around the room any time these two are within hearing distance. It’s draining. Debilitating at times. I know I like to complain about single life but give me 2 minutes around these guys and I am swearing off marriage forever.

I'm out. Terribly busy day and not enough time for bloggin'. I am incredibly exhausted. We'll chat this week.

Tired Sasssssssssssss.................

4 day weekend, ya'll....

Remember how I said I would be breaking hearts? Well, sad news folks. I will be out of pocket for several days (does anyone know what that means exactly and where that phrase derived from). Not to worry, though. I shall return next week. Until we meet again, be safe and have a great Memorial Day Weekend.

Word to yo brotha, peace out.

McSassssssssss

WRITE and wrong....

I love to write. Didn’t say I was good at it, some would suggest I am bad at it (this is similar to my denial that I can't dance but we’ll get to that later). Regardless, writing is one of my favorite pasttimes. One thing that I’ve learned over the years is one should try best to refrain from partaking in a little journal writing, lyrical writing, whatever it is your into, after a large consumption of alcohol. In the story at hand I was on the cabernet (incidentally I use to refer to this type of wine as "cabaret" as in the entertaining production rather than cabernet the vino which was an embarassing discovery).

So yeah, it’s a rather humbling experience to walk into your living room following a night of self-pity, wine consuming and writing for one reason only...the words that appear to be written on page after page of the legal pad sitting on the floor (pen resting on top as if it's waiting for round two). If lucky enough, you drank too much and the words are hardly legible. But if you drank just enough to bring out that dark side of the mind that believes it’s pretty darn clever at 1 am on the red wine ("wait til they read this shit") well...prepare yourself for the worst. I tend to read this form of delicate art with one hand over my eyes...bracing myself...cringing....staring down at the paper as if it were a credit card statement after a week long shopping binge. Then I repeat again and again "god, I am a freaking IDIOT".

Lucky for you guys you will get to share in the delight (or pain) of my writing. Until next time...

josie mcsassy

CHANGE

Bowie sang about it, it is something we like to think about, its inevitable, its feared and may be the biggest challenge we face during our short time on earth. Complacent by nature. Life is rotting away with "I am going to" "I’d like to" or "someday when things slow down". This is the now. We’re so afraid of loss we don’t realize what we’re potentially missing every day. Its easy to get stuck while the years pass us by. Making change, even subtle change inspires for more change. Don’t ever say you are too old, too tired, too poor, too set in your ways. Take advantage people. Life is a canvas. What are you painting?







I love you Fab...

Josie's List of "Things That Bug Me"

This will be forever ongoing. Feel free to add to this never-ending rant (assuming I agree with you, naturally).

Lets start, shall we???

(1) Slow drivers
(2) People that spend 10 minutes backing into a parking spot just to make an effortless get-away at a later time
(3) Grown men in sweater vests or cardigans
(4) IBS (enough said)
(5) Socializers at the gym (worse if said socializer is donning the towel around the neck look)
(6) Chronic complainers
(7) Long lines
(8) Traffic
(9) Fake laughs
(10) PT Cruisers
(11) Monotony (not to be confused with monogomy)
(12) Brown-nosers
(13) Non-English speaking Customer Service Reps
(14) Crowds
(15) Bluetooth (safe, yes - ugly, yes)
(16) SPAM
(17) cold feet (literally not figuratively)
(18) Pepto Bismol commercials

Howdy friends and strangers

"If you're a fierce individualist who has a bone to
pick with the profit-driven world, you might be a punk."

Once I get the ball rolling with this new blog thing, I plan to make it a daily source for venting and a tool for creativity. I have stories to share, hearts to break (uh huh) and minds to shock. So please, guys, hold on tight until then. I'm really excited about this thing...

For the record, I didn't author the following quote, but an old friend shared it with me years ago and I am rather fond of it:

"You are the strangest
person I ever met" she said. And he said "You too". And they decided
they would know eachother for a very long time.

Guys, I shared the creation of my new blog with my bestest (<- u like that?) friend in the world and what did she have to say..."why that picture..." :( Nit-picker. I won't tell you what else she said about it (girl get your mind out of the gutter) but FOR THAT I am stickin with the pic. Shaazzzamm!

Nit-picker's little comment created a strong foundation for my first story. What comes out of my mouth, she says. Hmm. Funny you should mention that. Here we go, people.

I have a bad habit of starting stories out with the following phrase "I don’t know why I am about to tell you this, BUT..."! My close friends have learned that this means lean in, listen up and prepare yourself for just about anything imaginable. Most instances have proven to be displeasing to the ears. But you guys, and you know who you are, will never forget my interesting tales. You’ve probably even passed along a story or two to others, totally not giving away my identity, but saying "you won’t believe this, but I know this girl who...". Right? Now you’re shaking your head mumbling "she’s right, I have done that, how’d she know".

I once dated a guy and I really never gave him much of a chance because of an incident early on during our courtship. This particular instance was the second time he’d been to my place. We hadn’t really been intimate yet (at least no more than a few pecks following our first date which were nothing to write home about). We had spent the afternoon together and had a very casual dinner on a patio at a neighborhood mexican restaurant. We dined on cheese dip and draft beer. We decided to continue the extravaganza over at my casa. Things were cool. This particular gentleman is really funny and aggressive which are two traits I find incredibly attractive in a person of the opposite sex. So, we hang out on my patio, have a few beers, listen to music. The conversation is top notch, as usual. My date proceeds to excuse himself to "break the seal" (his exact words) while I go inside to switch out cd’s. Just to be clear, and I hope you’ll agree, "break the seal" is slang for urination after taking back a couple of beers, correct? As would be considered normal, my date was out quickly and we continued our flirty banter when I, too, decided it was time to "break the seal". Upon my arrival to the bathroom I was met with a war zone. When I glanced upon what was floating in the toilet I nearly passed out. I never pass out. I almost passed out when I saw the disaster awaiting me. My initial reaction was to blame myself. Why you ask? Well, why would anyone DO THAT in someone elses’ bathroom, unless it was a dire emergency and if that’s the case you make POSITIVE there is no evidence of such occurrence. My date had been in and out with a quickness. How could he possibly produce such madness in a short amount of time? So, again, blamed myself. I thought to myself I must have done this earlier in the day. I don’t know when or why I didn’t flush but maybe I was in a hurry this morning. I was dumbfounded and utterly embarrassed. I flushed the disgusting mess, urinated, gathered whatever dignity I had on reserve and shamefully walked out of my bathroom. Now, if my memory serves me right I vaguely recall being met with a distinctive look of apprehension from my date. I assumed, of course, this look was given because he saw the disaster when he walked into the restroom, didn’t know how to react, felt it too weird a subject to broach with a girl he hardly knew, and thought best to play dumb. My second thought was how could he desire my company after such a discovery? Anyway, business as usual. We went back to talking, singing and "what not" but the incident dominated my thoughts. A real head scratcher. I pondered on the situation for quite some time and came to the realization that NO. No sir. Nuh uh. It wasn’t me. I hadn’t "done that" in awhile and absolutely had not done the deed that morning. Plus, I am adamant about checking the facility post production to make sure it’s making it’s way down to the sewer. If ever it didn’t make it’s way down after multiple flushes I go to plan b. Desperate times, desperate measures. I don’t care what you have to do - you don’t leave it. If this involves some digging and disposing of so be it. I am way too prideful. It’s not going away on its own. In the case at hand, though, the ringer for me was it just looked weird. Unlike something I’d manufacture. It was at that moment - the very moment I came to realize I was not the culprit - when I became totally disgusted with my date. Our "association" was so new. I could never look at him and not see the disgusting mess I saw that afternoon in my toilet. It’s all I knew. I have no problem with this very healthy and natural duty but in the early (and very awkward) stages of dating swoon me. Don't blow out my toilet.