who's thirty plus one?

"I'M GONNA ROCK YOUR WORLD!"

happy birthday jillian! like naylor says "age is just a number" and someday we'll all be 31! love, j

where the boys are

"He tells us that the way to live in this world is to have the childlike heart and mind. In other words, never get old or dull or jaded in spirit. Don't become super-sophisticated."

Matthew and I made a trip to our local Barnes & Noble last night. Who knew the place is quite the communal hot spot at 9 pm on a Wednesday eve. The place was swarming with rowdy pre-teens sucking down mocha latte's, various walks of life thumbing through books, teenage misfits spending their summer nights playing chess, lonely people hoping to make a connection with another lost soul. It was a people watcher's paradise. Maybe it was the atomoshpere but the scene alone inspired me to write a book about book worms and those that want to be them. I relocate to the Biography section having a strong interest in personal memoirs. Some might say it's due to my need to meddle - but it is not - I am interested. My bookstore companion, Matt, is soon lost in the scurry of noise and nerds. I didn't pick up what naturally caught my eye because I felt bashful. "Loose Girl" is a memoir of promiscuity. Dismissing my curiousity, in the next aisle over my eyes are instantly drawn to Jenna Jameson's "How to Make Love Like a Porn Star" and for a second I question my state of mind. I scuffle around the store limiting myself only to the Biography section when I notice a copy of "Loose Girl" that is out of place. I think what the heck! Someone else was obviously interested in the tell-all. I'll just read the Prelude.

During the 25 minutes that follow I flip, with great intrigue, page after page of sextails oblivious to the patrons behind me except when I hear Matt walking nearby. He doesn't know it but he sends off signals to alude me to the fact that he is in close proximity. Only when he walks by do I become cautious of the book in hand. By the way, this was not possible with the Jameson read due to the tremendous amount of graphics displayed on each page - they would catch the eye of a blind man. Once again I become absorbed in the words of the low inhibited, sex addict. Fascinating stuff! My first interruption, and close call, occurrs when a group of obnoxious teenage girls stop by to comment on my shirt, to giggle, and to get details on where one could purchase such a shirt. Frazzled with dismay not wanting the virgin eyes to catch light of what I was reading, tuck the book to my side, finger in place, and graciously thank the girls with a smile that said scram. As the group awkwardly ran off I heard one of the girls say to her friend "my mom has a shirt just like it". Ha! Bitches.

About the time I get into the good stuff, and by good I mean dirty, a gentleman who was extremely uncomfortable in his own skin, John, politely interrupts me with a tap to my shoulder and introduces himself. To be honest I felt a little disoriented in a what's going on sort of way, you know the way you feel when you wake up from a 45 minute Saturday afternoon nap. John asks me if I have a name and I say with confusion "John" when he smirks "no that's my name." How charming - you're getting on my nerves John. I wanna know if Kerry is going to let the dirty scumbag take it to homebase. My mind asks does this man have pertinent information for me, does he need assistance, has he mistaken me for someone else? John used the 'ole "I noticed a man circling your area and I became concerned with the way he was watching you" line before asking "you from around here"? I can't believe this! John, probably straight out of Wednesday night bible study, is making a pass at me while I am doing a bad job at trying to disguise my book about women who love sex. Completely disconnected from the situation I manage a "yes I am from town, this town" wishing one of those flying monkeys from Oz would sweep up John and fly him over to the World History section.


Where is Matt by the way when I need him? Naturally I knew what was coming as John was running out of material. "What are you reading there" studying my hand trying to get a peep at the cover. I fail to step up to the moment and my mind drifts to blank. Frustration mixed with embarassment caused me to blurt out the first thing that came to mind "oh just reading books, with my boyfriend, who is somewhere in this store". John thinks I am lying. John takes the hint. Off he wanders but not far - he keeps a close eye on me. Alone again and 50 pages into Loose Girl Kerry finally loses her virginity and I decide I am no longer interested in what she has to say. I feel like such a guy!

In the Religion section, on a journey for spiritual healing, John just happens to run into me again and seeks confirmation that I am still with someone. Now I just feel sad for the guy. In retrospect I should have offered him a copy of Loose Girl.

Throughout the course of my Barnes experience I was hit on by three boys - two of which were together and probably no older than 20. Word to the single ladies (or lonely hearts). This is where it's at . I hope to never find myself sitting in Barnes searching for "the One" but I don't frown upon those that do. Next time you get a late night craving for a Grande Mocha Latte, spice up the night with a trip to your local bookstore. To go a step further, keep in mind Loose Girl. It's a real page turner.

~ Josie
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Sometimes everyone needs to step out of their comfort zone to get a clear sense of importance. You really won't miss the things you think you will, and in the end you may just miss the very thing you were afraid of to begin with. ~ jm

so long farewell

auf Wiedersehen, good night.

dear blogspot,

I'm three seconds away from puking on my desk...

...daily multi vitamin. To add insult to injury I think I ate some bad turkey roni. The 'ole head between the knees trick works. 9th grade Health class wasn't a complete waste of time afterall.

On a less exciting note, following 48 hours of brutal anxiety I finally received my first at-home B12 shot (I am a B12 junkie) administered by a non medical professional. What a trooper that Matthew, such a care free spirit. I watched as, after 2 days of my badgering stemming from a strong need to diminish distress and craving reassurance, Matt's confidence crippled to the point where he refused to inject me in the rear on Monday night suggesting we'd "give it a try" another night. This statement was made about the time I was thrown into a full blown panic attack while watching a nurse via the likes of youtube demonstrate the proper way to execute the deed. Readers beware, t'was not the needle that frightened me, it was the way ms. prick critically stressed the life or death importance of inserting the needle in the muscle avoiding any nerves. To add fuel to this growing fire, someone at work put the lethal combination of needle and heart attack in my head and it's all I thought about for 2 days. I convinced myself the second the syringe met my skin my heart would explode. Alas, last night my fear was conquered enough to go for round two. Once I could keep my paws to myself, the meds were sucked into the needle followed with several flicks to remove air and without a pinch I was suddenly B12 replenished. Like a child I sniffled "did you do it?" I hate to brag on the non-nurse, but Matthew did a first-rate job. Heck, I'd go as far to say he's the the best B12 administrator I have been pricked by, medical professionals and all, in three years. Thanks tigercat.

Here is a little something I have been working on creatively titled "I'm Just a Girl"...

I’m Just a Girl who believes love is about wanting to better yourself for someone else
I’m Just a Girl who is a victim to insecurity yet exudes with confidence
I'm Just a Girl who is terrified of awkward predicaments
I'm Just a Girl who is great at a few things spectacular at nothing
I’m Just a Girl who would rather cheat with a cigarette than a slice of cake
I’m Just a Girl who loves who I am yet disgusted with someone I have been
I’m Just a Girl who’s easy to please and easily annoyed
I’m Just a Girl always looking for something new but habitually complacent
I’m Just a Girl who says screw foolish expectations
I’m Just a Girl who wants the 9 oz steak over the 6
I’m Just a Girl who forgot what my 20 something self was like yet feel 19 at heart
I’m Just a Girl who has come to learn things do get easier with age yet some things never change
I’m Just a Girl who is a skeptical believer
I’m Just a Girl intrigued by what’s next
I’m Just a Girl who prefers the mysterious power of music over any form of art
I’m Just a Girl who understands life really does go on
I’m Just a Girl who loves to play but pensive at the core
I’m Just a Girl with a handful of dear friends oblivious to her enemies
I'm Just a Girl with zero tolerance for fake
I'm Just a Girl who wants to forgive and then forget
I’m Just a Girl who prefers to go commando
I’m Just a Girl who will say I don’t care what you think, but might consider it
I’m Just a Girl who has learned the hard way
I’m Just a Girl who feels sorry for closed minded people
I’m Just a Girl who has left my past in the past
I'm Just a Girl with a man sized appetite
I'm Just a Girl who loves to endulge in a daydream
I’m Just a Girl who appreciates the benefit of the doubt
I’m Just a Girl who gives without expectation
I’m Just a Girl who does extraordinary things with her mind
I’m Just a Girl tempted by curiosity, better suited not knowing
I'm Just a Girl who adores alone time but believes being lonely is the saddest emotion
I’m just a Girl who is wise yet still learning
I’m Just a Girl often misunderstood
I’m Just a Girl who believes we all sometimes dream of frolicking on someone elses’ grass
I’m Just a Girl complicated but true
I'm Just a Girl who gets lost in a song
I’m Just a Girl with a razor sharp edge
I’m Just a Girl who sometimes needs rescuing from my thoughts
I’m Just a Girl who has learned some people change their situations, never change their ways
I’m Just a Girl in love.

I am out for a long weekend. As John Landis would write, See You Next Wednesday!

Lata snakes. ~ j

Happy Birthday Puppethead

you're MY favorite

~ josie

dirt

I am addicted to my Burt's Bees Carrot Seed Oil Complexion Mist. When I apply a modest spritz to my face it's as if I am giving my skin a refreshing drink of water. My face says thank you. I keep a bottle on my desk for frequent application throughout the day. Earlier this afternoon, while in a twilight zone typing in a monotonous manner, I mistaked my vanilla blackberry body mist for the burts and squirted it in my face. I know what you're thinking "I bet your face smells nice." It does.

Last night before falling into a deep nights sleep I wrote a pop song in my mind. I am not a fan of pop music, hate it in fact, but that doesn’t mean I can’t write the junk and make my first mil. The tune was so unimaginative and easy for the average closed minded music lover it was sure to be a hit. I pictured waking up early on a Saturday morning to tune into the local mainstream crapstation, something like the Top Hits of 2008 - 96.5 FM The Zebra, where my song would be played on Casey Kasem’s Top 100. Naturally, there would be some bullshit of a sob story portrayed before leading into the first beat of the song. I envision kickstarting the number one hit with a high pitched growl. I’m still working out details. Being ill equipped to play an instrument I mentally sounded out the bass, the electric guitar and keyboard. During my preliminary outline I really pushed for a trumpet/piano combo in lieu of the drab sound of a keyboard but in the end realized that would be a little too progressive for this sterile genre. The hook, being loyal to its class, was paltry and predictable.

Having already begun my journey into the world of dreams, I could not bring myself to get out of the sleepy sheets to document my musical gem to paper, instead made a good mental note of the masterpiece to perfect the following a.m. Alas, I found myself getting out of the tub this morning when a wave of disappointment came over me. What was sure to be a life altering journey had escaped my thoughts for eternity. My vision vanished. The struggle to find the right producer, interviewing for the right vocalist, a visit to Letterman, an appearance on the Today Show, jet lag, a late night dinner at Nobu with P Diddy, the stress of writing an acceptance speech before nabbing my first Grammy – bye bye. I am kicking myself for not getting my rear out of bed to capture the words of my first opus “Caught in Love”.©™® [writers note: I had a glass of Merlot directly before bed and was exhausted from a late night swim.]

Speaking of rears, for the good part of this week I was victimized by chronic constipation. General moving felt like work until today – the day of reclamation. This small girl with a big fat appetite could not eat a thing all week and the little I was able to swallow and digest merged with the 10 pounds of waste burdening my colon. I felt fat, run down and spent most of the day pushing on my belly encouraging my lazy big intestine and his small helper to do their jobs. By day 3 I woke up feeling full on an empty stomach and knew it was time to take matters into my own hands. A purchase of a Fleet Enema was imminent – at a store that offers self checkout kiosks, naturally. “Ewww…gross.” Shut up. When I succumb to the dire straits of constipation I am wallowing in a pain induced delirium so it doesn’t bother me a bit to squirt 120 ml of sodium phosphate into the anal canal. I welcome it. During the intense seconds following insertion I generally like to read a magazine in a humble attempt to distract my mind from the immediate pressure. Sometimes when I forget to bring reading material I am left to browse the instructions located on the outside of the Fleet box. It makes me smile when I read “Remove the tip from the rectum and maintain the position until the urge to evacuate is strong”. What do you mean until? There is no waiting period. Picture this: someone has just handed you a flaming piece of paper and says "hold this until your hand starts to burn." The trick of the evil enema is the longer you retain the fluid the greater chance at bowel evacuation (I know it sounds sick but it’s science). Let me tell you, the scene is not pretty. I recommend doing the deed when no one is home. There aren’t many other situations I would be more embarrassed to be caught mid act. Here is another tip: when you decide your body will no longer hold what naturally wants to come out make sure you aren’t far from the commode. Just trust me on this. If you follow the simple instructions the Fleet magic should succeed at releasing the compounded mass that is killing you slowly. I must’ve had quite a bit of blockage but lucky for me the enema came to my rescue and cleaned me out. I am dehydrated but my tummy is flat again and it feels as if I gave birth. I am positive if I got on a scale I would be 5 pounds lighter.

My dear friend Ohio informed me last eve that he is going to be leaving us towards the end of this year. The sucker is moving to South Carolina (finally). Here is a bit of trivia, O, the state flower is the Yellow Jessamine. In the less than 6 months we have together I will do what I can to show him a good time, heck I may even document an occasion or two. It’s going to be a difficult task attempting to top the night Ohio and I had to pull up Stacie’s jeans after she tumbled to the pavement while urinating in a downtown parking lot, but we’ll give it our best shot. Our first rumored trip is to the casino – Las Vegas, Nevada or Tunica, Mississipi. I know, night and day right? Matthew says Tunica is the Vegas of the South. What a joke. More like Vegas finds himself homeless, alone and addicted to meth.

In closing I would like to mention that, with the current state of the economy, mediocre earnings and inflation, I am getting ready to buy my first mini horse, T.J. Hooker, solely for the purpose of transportation. You’re right – whatta waste. Transportation and mini horse baseball. Since I am fun size (thanks Mariah) I won’t require a grand daddy size stallion although I would be willing to negotiate with Mr. Ed, if he is still around, because it’d be nice to have someone to vent with while trying to find a parking spot at my neighborhood Kroger.

GOOD NIGHT MY LOVES!

What ever happened to

By Scut Farkus

Old fashioned summer-time. I'm talkin' about orange sherbert push-ups and spending hours outdoors in the front yard, riding bikes in the street, playing kickball in parking lots, shooting hoops in the nieghbor's driveway, getting into shananigans on the roof of the house, climbing trees just for the hell of it, meeting friends for a game of whiffleball in the field across from the junior high school. What happend to surveying the yard for sticks so you could run through the sprinkler later minus injury. We didn't have the luxury of a backyard swimming pool. When the summer gods were good to us we were occassionally invited to a neighor's house on a hot afternoon to splash around in a horse tub filled with tap water which scratched our swimming itch. We were so delighted to be in a tub full of water, swimming in circles, that the third degre burns from the metal walls didn't bother us a bit - or not too much anyway. There were days when mother, aching for some quiet time, would give the siblings and I one dollar apiece to walk down to our neighborhood 7-11 for an afternoon treat. Neighborhood = a 3.5+ mile trek in the blazing heat. Halfway through our journey you could find us dehydrated and sprawled out in someone's front lawn bellyaching about heat strokes and bad ideas. When boredom ensued we brainstormed ideas to bring home profit. We were big fans of the driveway car wash, fully equipped with Dawn liquid soap and a lawn hose. Our only downfall was lack of marketing skills and zero motivation. Lemonade stands were fun - the thirst quencher sold itself - but we had to settle for the kool-aid flavor of the day because that's all we had in the fridge (orange was my color of choice). Once my sister and I raffled off prizes donated by the catholic church [wink] to neighbors around the block. Neighbors who knew my sister and I personally and neighbors who attended the same catholic church my family frequented (on a good day). The raffle ticket was crafted out of notebook paper with our [make believe] prizes, rules, and need not be present boldly written in bubble letters using a variety of crayola crayons. You would be wrong to guess that no one purchased a raffle. On a grand summer's eve the parents would declare "shut the windows kids" which only meant one thing - house meet air conditioner. We, like kids on their way into the magic kingdom, skipped around the house in joy for we were about to be treated with the magic of cold air! This enabled me to move away from the box fan I sat in front of for 8 hours each day and also allowed me to finally get some sleep at night.

What ever happened to the old mustang body style - circa '87?

I had one back in '88 right before I met that evil whore cocaine. R.I.P. Sally.

What ever happened to Cowboys vs. Indians plastic figures. I had hundreds of these little guys strolled out on the cold floors of my bedroom when I was a young lad. Instead of playing out scenes from one of my favorite Westerns, I produced my very own amateur "Cowboys vs. Indians - Battle of the Bands" series. The Indians proudly carried the title Almika and Her Dirty Dozen (Almika meaning "She of the Sun"), while the Cowboys were known around town as Louis Lou and the Lone Ranger's. This is what I called entertainment not horsin' around with a woo or wii whatchamacalit. What happened to using your imagination? These days all you need is a little pocket change to buy your very own fantasies!

And finally, in closing, what happend to good old fashioned walking. Back when I was a youngster gas was $1.24/gallon, give and take, and my family still commuted everywhere via foot. Quit your whining society!

Thanks for allowing me time on my soapbox ("soap poisoining" - ha) I could honestly go on for hours but life calls.

~ Scut
__________________________________________

About the writer:

Age: 38 going on 16

Marital Status: They say third time's a charm, right? :)

Who would play you in a movie made of your life: Easy - Ron Howard

Favorite childhood memory: Kickin' some Billingsley ass in '83. Nah, seriously I love the guy. Playing Bernardo in Fullmont High's rendition of Westside Story.

Favorite Song: The song of the moment is "Tiny Birds" by Yo La Tengo other than that anything by Natalie Merchant.

Favorite Television Show: I couldn't live without Friends reruns. Also lovin' that new Real World series. D-r-a-m-a! Not a big fan of that wife swap series - that one hits too close to home.

Favorite Leasure Activity: My wife is going to hate this response but I am a bit of a pool shark.

Guilty Pleasure(s): a zima with lime, a black and mild, and a dame.

Pets: Samuel L. Jackson, his bastard kittens and baby's momma Fruitloop (her original name was Penelope Priss but I changed it because I can't stand the bitch).

Favorite Athlete: PBA's very own Walter Ray Williams, Jr., of course. You're #1 Walt!

a day in the life...

As a prelude to the flustering memoirs to follow I dedicate this blog, with a humble heart and much gratitude, to the empathetic fellow who accompanied me Saturday afternoon during a routine stroll through Walgreens gone awry.

It is on those days that seem almost too perfect when I seem to sense mayhem brewing on the horizon similar to how, on a beautiful sunny day, sometimes lies a vague suggestion of rain in the air.

I escorted a particularly special gent, a man who kidnapped my heart and holds it hostage at an unreasonable ransom, to the state of Missouri this past weekend to attend his first cousin's wedding in St. Louis followed by some QT time with extended family members. Those that know this somewhat demure girl well know that I become timid around strangers and consume myself with violent anticipation leading up to such an event.

The weekend clock ticked by primarily on the road while we made our pilgrimage from one state to another leaving little time for much else. We split the 400+ mile drive into two days stopping in the quaint town of Eminence, Missouri on Friday night (population 53 plus one mini horse who goes by the name Robert, Bob to those that really know him) requiring us to wake up to the cock-a-doodle-doos on Saturday to make it to the church on time (thanks David Bowie) so that grannie, who was swooped up in Emienece, was present for pre-wedding pictures. This also meant wearing our Sunday best while making the 4 hour journey from Eminence to St. Louis. At 7 am Saturday morning I found myself slipping into my single strapped, kelly green satin dress feeling half pretty half foolish. A gal should never be in a situation where she is wearing a semi formal dress this early on a Saturday morning unless she passed out in it the night previous.

Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon captivated me for the seventh and a half time with the 2005 spellbinding, 153 minute smash Walk the Line amid the commute [writers sidenote: my favorite part of the film is when Joan says to John "there are too many if's in that sentence" and John retorts with bewildering wit "there's only one if in that sentence."] While I was being mesmerized by Joaquin's stunning face I was also preparing for injury as the fearless man behind the wheel flew, at three times the legal limit, up and down roads resembling the treacherous highs and lows of the Texas Giant. The fear was crippling and even though I would never let him know it, it twas a lots 'o fun.

We arrive at the church on schedule [translation: 2 hours early] prior to commencement of the ceremony. 5 hours in a satin dress in the scorching summer heat did not improve my confidence levels. To add insult to injury, I felt incredibly OVERdressed as I watched guests strapping causal attire slowly migrate to the church doors.

With 2 hours to spare my handsome date and I decide to take a gander at the fine items on display at the local Goodwill down the street from the church. His idea. I refused to make eye contact with a single soul while thumbing through the donated treasures [trash] in the second hand department store. I am pretty sure one lady, wearing dangly faux diamond earings paired with heavily washed out Levis, and her large male friend pointed and chuckled at my ridiculously too fancy for Goodwill attire. I wanted to retort, only in my mind, something that was hilarious and would make them feel bad for poking fun, alas my lack of confidence left me feeling stupid for being the object of humor in a Goodwill store. 10 minutes later, following a trip from front to back of the store in search of a restroom only to wind up in the employee break room, we find ourselves with 110 minutes to kill and standing in front of a Walgreens drugstore. My hands were screaming for sanitizer as is always the case post second hand store shopping so naturally a trip to the drugstore was not only a convenient opportunity to murder time, it was necessary.

As we make our way through the Sally Henson line of beauty products I whisper the lyrics to Boy George's Karma Chameleon which is proudly playing over the loudspeaker at surprisingly intense volume. After humming along to the line "red gold and green" I recall thinking 'hey, I am wearing a green dress'. Doggone it will you look at that!

After a good effort search for a product that tames unruly brows (it's a personal problem) I take the advice of my shopping mate and try the 'ole comb and hairspray trick. For those of you at home, do NOT try this. You might end up with what looks like a chronic case of dandruff to what now looks like tiger speckled brows. Minus ten points from the self-confidence bank.

Inspecting aisle after aisle left my feet achy and arm pits moist. It was my intent to impress, not offend, the members of my sweetheart's famile. As nerves increased so did the amount of perspiration exuding out of my pit pores. I inform my shopping companion, who was scoping out Walgreens finest spray colognes like Eternity and Coolwater, that I was preparing to endeavor down the hygeine aisle where it was my intent to burden myself with an ample spray of aerosol deodorant. There was no need to make a purchase of a brand new deodorant stick. I had a perfectly good stick of asian pear scented Secret in my suitcase. This was merely a temporary pit fix for precautionary purposes. In aisle 6 I am perplexed as I make a determintation on which deodorant best suited my current needs. For a reason unknown, I limit myself to the trial size versions of the real deal, maybe because I was about to commit the third commandment. I recall, as I pick up the modest can of aerosol spray, pondering "I hope this deodorant doesn't leave a white mark on my brand new satin-y green dress" and just as I complete that thought, while my right index finger gave an impressive push to the squirt nozzle, I felt what can only be described as a fucking mess. Without looking I knew. It wasn't a can of deodorant at all. It was shaving cream.

It, it, it'was......!!!!

Without him telling me so I have no doubt had my unfortunate Walgreens companion found one of those secret walls you push and it sends you into an adjacent hideway room he would have fled. The intensity was so strong I felt calm maybe due to a small seizure. I didn't dare look at my dress. I didn't need to. I saw the whitish blue foam resting quietly on my silver Jessica Simpson kicks. My panicked date grabbed the first thing in site, a teddy bear from one of those "$10 sale" bins and began to scrub furiously while I moan nuisances such as "why bother" or "so much for looking nice I might as well swing back by goodwill and pick up a dress I'm hideous anyway." My date does not say a word. During his moment of silence I believe he was praying for the ceiling to cave and flatten me to the ground. When Plan A fails he and I move to the Women's restroom where he paints my dress with cold water until a female, relatively masculine herself, walks in and gives me a wicked glance, turns to the "Women" sign in an obvious attempt to reiterate where we were, and barks "this is the women's bathroom , right?" She knew it was. Still in my numb state "I'm sorry" was the best I could come up with as I scurried out the door. Meanwhile, my date turns up the optimism reassuring me with positiveness "we're getting there kiddo not to worry".

I have to be honest. At this point I am trying my darndest not to laugh. When my date accidentally lets out a chuckle I can tell he immediately senses negative repercussion and goes back to scrubbing. When I feel the urge to smile I cover my mouth. I was suppose to be acting upset! All the same, I did find my current pickle ironically comedic.

While we let the dress "sit" as it dried I decide to tackle another deodorant offense - the brut scent. At this point I smell like grampa straight after an early morning shave. Like a masochist, I find myself back in the troubled aisle where something, perhaps the negative kharma gods, lures me to the scene of the deodorant incident. I find myself picking up a bottle of "Phoenix" scented Axe, trial size naturally, and began to hose my naked skin with the contamination resulting in a 30 something girl smelling half teenage boy half 70 year old man - the concoction was worse than awful. I am positively sure it was confusing for others as the vapors reaked from my body as I passed by.

With a headache on the brink and a wet dress currently comaflauging a sticky mess of shaving cream, I make the brainless decision to go out to the car and spray some of my very own expensive perfume over the Phoenix/brut mix in an attempt to hide the current overwhelming smells. My after-the-fact reasoning for this is delirium obviously from the heat and Phoenix. As luck would have it..............

the vehement Missouri heat caused the Coco de Chenal spout to eject the powerful liquid in abundance - enough for a family of 8 at least. It was one of those situations where I was uncomforable in my own skin, literally. I could not tolerate the smell of me. I smelled a disgrace. I probably violated some toxic code. I am sure if the law were involved they would have required me to wear some sort of regulated hazard sign. It is very possible I created a lethal gas not to be inhaled into human lungs.

After a few failed attempts at removing the foam from my new dress, leaving my date sweaty in his nice suit and a furious wreck, me, the soiled dress, and gaseous odors arrived at the church and made it through the wedding minus any weird looks or criticism - that's what I am telling myself anyway. Denial is delightful. My darling's family treated me with kindness and not once uttered a word about my funk, at least not to my face. My date fed me a lying fork of "I can't even smell a thing" and the like. I did, however, receive many compliments on my snazzy frock.

What began with a meek attempt to prevent fowl smelling body odor resulted in one year off of my life as the anguish over a filthy dress and three smells that should never [neva eva] be combined turned my Saturday afternoon upside down. My companion should thank me for finding an interesting way to kill 2 hours. The lesson here, chickadees, look before you squirt. Somewhere in St. Louis sits a forty-something white male reviewing surveillance video in the back of a Walgreens store laughing his ass off as he rewinds, and shares with various Walgreens employees, video footage of yours truly consciously applying a heap of shaving cream to the left side of my body.

Stay tuned for my next blog depicting more fascinating josi'sms....

~ja ja ja josie.


[Bob and I]