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]

summer 'lovin

Happy 29th of the fifth month lads and gals.

I still owe you my 8:48 story but due to a busy Memorial Day Weekend and what has been a short, tiring, and ailing work week, time has been a lackin'.

Remember that paralyzing song Pearl Jam released on their '94 Vitalogy album creatively titled "Bugs"? I enjoyed playing this jingle for family members, set to repeat, until insanity ensued. Aw, the memories. I even choreographed an accordian skit to sometimes perform while the song played.

June is upon us which means my body has been temporarily seized by The Mosquito. This class, the lowest on the social insect tree, loves me. Every part of my body itches at any given second of the day (almost every part, pervs). I have become so accustomed to this relentless nuisance that at times I don’t even notice the burn. What exactly causes the violent craving to rub hard? The mosquito, an insect bearing hideous wings larger than its very own body, takes an unwelcomed bite of human skin and leaves what? A dry pocket that survives solely on the scratch? At times, after a mad finger to skin session fails to please, I attempt to remove the bite from my body in its entirety in an attempt to stop the madness only leaving a masacre. Guess what. Still itches. Try scratching a pool of blood. You don’t know where your target is but something is driving you to the looney bin. How about those bite-free chaps who, lacking an ounce of personal knowledge, preach “don’t itch it; you will only make it worse” accompanied by the 'ole index finger shake. I have TRIED to “let it pass” but it never does. Last night while in bed I counted mini horses for two full hours waiting for the nagging bites to terminate mission but apparently they never sleep. I became delirious in my agitated state. I have not been able to shave my legs in a week. When I do sleep at night I subconsciously claw at the unmerciful sensation until fresh blood is drawn. I have several three inch deep nail marks on my ankles. Getting in a bathtub full of hot water is currently impossible. Odds are good I have West Nile. Don’t ask yourself “is West Nile still around”. It is.

To add insult to injury, this week I was victim to a blood sucking, disease infecting tic. If you think about it, I mean really dwell on it, what those gremlins do is pretty unforgiveable. Unbeknownst to us mortals, the vultures suck the life out of you while working, singing, playing cards, pumping fuel, eating ice cream, watching Cops, playing cops! They are not unlike the Red Cross only this time I didn’t sign up for the donation. The trespassing tic was discoverd four nights ago while getting some shut eye. I had an unusually strong[er] itch behind my left ear and when I succombed to the urge I felt the cold, hard shell as the bastard sucked my head dry. Once the sucker (pun yes) was removed a small sore developed and eventually a large puss producing bump took residence.

[4 mind wrenching hours later]

I have confirmed (sans a diagnosis from a medical care professional) my body has been tainted with a tic passing disease known as Lyme Disease kudos to the freeloader that invited himself and his fangs to use my body as a host for his feast four nights ago. I wonder how long he made my body his home. I will be the first to admit I am a hypochondriac but do I have to remind anyone how the Boy Who Cried Wolf ended? Exactly.

I have reviewed webmd and various “survival” websites for the avid outdoorsman. There is a 1.7% possibility that I read the symptoms and my mind adopted them as its own, but I swear my throat is sore and my lymph nodes are swollen.

TGIT [sounds like tgit] I am fanatically awaiting the weekend for no particular reason. I'm out like a scout (who wears OFF - better to be safe than sorry).

~ JOSIE'S ON A VACATION FAR AWAY...

clarity

I need to set the record straight...

I was not hungover in that pic ↓

Jerry, on the other hand, reaked something awful of crown and stale tobacco. It was the longest ride home.

Speaking of hangovers...

I title this next story "8:48". Buckle up ~ it's gonna be a nasty ride.

put a fork in me

Ahhhhhh....!!!

I am coming off a music induced adrenaline high. I am calling it MORI (aka Magic of Radiohead Part I), without a doubt there will be MORII and if the gods are good to me, MORIII. I peg myself as a die hard Radiohead fan (borderline fanatic) and, for the first time in the 10 years I have been following the boys, report I am no longer a Radiohead virgin.

I like to call this

"THE DAY AFTER" [yes i am wearing my concert T - no I did not wear it during the show]


Radiohead was positively an invigorating experience and incredibly personal. An emotional rollercoaster, if you will. The show, packed with hundreds of Dallas locals, hipster kids, and one man in a banana suit, far exceeded my expectations. Radiohead mesmorized me with their melodic, sometimes haunting magic, leaving me hungry for more. I am not one to gush about emotion and when I do break the seal [wink] I try to be subtle about my feelings, but allow me to dork out for a second and state for the record that during the 120 minute show (give or take) I connected with the music in a way that paralyzed me. I did not wig out like a 15 year old teeny bopper at her first Beatles concert, but I did tear up during their debut performance and it was not the only time. Radiohead delivered each song with power, passion, and creativity in a way that opened and fed my soul. Due to lack of a more fullfilling phrase I can assure you that during those 120 minutes I was moved over and over again. At one point I turned to Nikki and shouted, with a big fat grin, "this is one of the happiest moments of my adult life". You don't get that sort of sentiment often from me. Unforgettable. For those of you who quesetion how, this is living.

I had a difficult time choosing a video clip to share with you guys from Radiohead's Dallas show. I chose Fake Plastic because it was the second moment I teared up during the show and it was a brilliant performance. It was also the most surreal moment of the night for this girl. When I wasn't getting sappy, I was dancing my ass off and screaming into some dude's right ear who was standing at an alarmingly close distance in front of yours truly. When I watch this clip, in addition to other performances from this incredible show, I still get chills.

"But I can't help the feeling...I could blow through the
ceiling...If I just turn and run..."

5 days and counting...

we hope that you choke, that you choke, that you choke

coming soon to a computer near you

that dickie hard at work again...




marlow the tease...

"how u doin"


SUMMER '08
MARLOW AND DICKIE

don't call it a comeback

As birds were beginning to chirp this morning, I was enjoying a rather intense sexual rendezvous when I was disrespectfully interrupted by my iPhone, imitating church bells, fullfilling its daily 5:45 a.m. duty of waking me from golden slumbers knowing I have no plan to clear the sheets a second before 7:15. No day should start out this disappointing before making a complete exit out of slumbersville. Naturally, I wished upon the dream fairies to teleport me back to the euphoric entaglement but instead found myself reunited with odd acquanitnances and long lost friends together as a group in my high school gymnasium for no particular event. Double wammie. Lost sex dream faced with memories of the dorks of my youth I fought so hard to forget.

It…it…it t’was…SOAP POISONING….!!!

taking a break, blog for 'ole times sake, clearing my thoughts, connecting the dots...

[eat your hearts out rapper wannabes....don't hate the magic]

I've got an idea...take a look at this devil...



Folks, I would like you to meet my roommate, and dear family friend, Jerry Oscar Seinfeld. Don’t be fooled, Jerry is not a full blooded canine of the Jack Russell Terrier family. Jerry's blood runs half rodent/half dinosaur. Clever kid that one - struggles with ambition. After his bout with Seasonal Affective Disorder the die hard started putting in 14 hour days at The Weekend Theatre working directly under Frits Milchowsky, Director of Events and Sr. Casting Exec. These days when Jerry comes home at night, correction if Jerry comes home at night, he demands a double scotch and water, hops on the couch where he inevitably passes out, and tests my sanity with ceaseless snoring. When he can't sleep at night Jerry escapes the demands of art by means of a phony myspace account posing as "Chino", a Vegas promotions manager at The Mandalay Bay Casino and Resort who was born and raised with his 2 brothers, 1 sister, and 1 half brother in a little town called Moapa Valley. Jerry doesn't think I notice the light shining through the door crack at 3 am but I do. Half the time I don’t know whether he’s coming or going. True story: two nights ago Jerry walked through the front door at 9 pm, puked on the hardwoods, then proceeded to clean up the brown concoction half single malt scotch whisky half dead bird with the tongue of his very own mouth. Jerry means well, he does. This is the first month Jerry has been able to make rent, on time and in full, and I am really trying to give the little guy a second chance. Having dabbled with depression last month I feel its necessary to keep the boat steady if ya know what I mean.

I promised Jerry a plug: If you are looking to get out this weekend please keep in mind The Weekend Theatre's rendition of "Sailor's Do Cry" debuts Saturday evening, curtain call at 8:15.