A Spook With Sass

A Ghostly Post from Haunted Piece of Sass

As posted on Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom

One night a year, the air gets charged with magic and the dark moon casts shadows all about.  Whispers come from nowhere and things go bump in the night. Goosebumps come with every step taken down a darkened street and you know you’re being watched… followed… stalked, but by who, what, where?!

(play eerie music)

Then again, it could be the wine. After all, paranoia is a sign of a drinking problem. And Halloween parties often have the wine a flowin’ – hence why I love them. But paranoia and creepy crawlies are par for the course on Halloween, so we might as well costume up and bob some apples.

Halloween is utterly magic to me. Being a girl who gets freaked out by Medium and needs to check under the bed after watching a scary commercial, I’m a whimp.  I’m easily convinced that evil is lurking nearby and something is out to get me. Halloween would completely disable me if not for the gentle crackle of candy wrappers calming me with their sugary sweet promises.

From an early age, Halloween candy held a special place in my heart. What kid doesn’t count their booty and take inventory, then strategize a swap with their siblings to acquire a maximum Snickers to Sweet Tarts ratio? You gotta get rid of unwanted Neccos – lucky for me, my sister loved those. For kids, Halloween is part spooky what-ifs and part guaranteed sugar-coma, totaling a night of magical splendor.

At age 7, my teacher asked our class to write an essay discussing why we liked Halloween. My essay was one full lined sheet of paper discussing candy – in detail. The words “Candy is great” and “I love candy” were repeated 4 and 6 times, respectively. The underlying theme – because all seven year-old writing has a theme – was that free candy blew my mind. An entire night where EVERYONE gave me candy for FREE sent me into a candy-loving tizzy.

At age 15, my friends and I skulked from door to door in our lazy excuses for costumes. Then we snuck off to the neighborhood park where my scrawny yet adorable first boyfriend (awe…) spooked me by trying to kiss me through a rubber monster mask. And when he finally took the mask off and we ducked into the shadows of lofty pine trees, each kiss that followed was charged with Halloween magic.

By age 21, Halloween took on a whole new meaning. Every party featured a cauldron of witches “brew” that made the world go all swirly. Magic indeed! Surely a goblin snuck in and spiked the punch. Candy remained a constant, but Halloween kisses weren’t all treat anymore – there was college trickery in them, too. 

And over the years, my love for Halloween hasn’t changed. Today, it’s not about the candy or hidden kisses (though both are pretty fabulous) but about the enchanted possibilities floating in the air. I almost hope there are real witches and goblins and ghosts – just not in my neighborhood, per se – because they’d be proof  that the unknown, with all its magical charm, does exist. And to imagine that such unthinkables are real makes life seem exciting and new.

We grow so accustomed to seeing people and the world as we are – appearances, actions, words often reek of the ordinary – but on Halloween we get to play with the idea of what more could lay beneath? Perhaps under that costume lurks something unspeakable, something forbidden, something dark and sinister… eek!!

The history of Halloween is a mystery to me. I understand there are many beliefs and meanings in this one celebrated night that have nothing to do with ghosts and ghouls. Surely any holiday that lasted centuries is founded in some truth and stems from an important role in the society of our ancestors. And I have no intention of labeling such a longstanding day as dark or a celebration of evil. For me, it was never either of those. It has always been a day to ponder the unknown and try to see the magic in everyday life.

As a child, that magic was free candy. As a teenager, it was hidden kisses. As a college student, let’s just say, things got tricky. And this Halloween, that magic is in the unknown possibilities… and hopefully a few sugary-lipped kisses come my way, too.

This post was featured in Mrs. B's  31 Days of Halloween at Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom. Check her out, she's one witchy woman !

Scary Shit Part 4

Needing no introduction doesn't mean something doesn't need a warning.

Please, good readers, brace yourself. While parts 1 through 3 of the Scary Shit series have not, in any way, actually been "scary", part 4 will chill you to your soul.

People do twisted things. Good intentions morph into demented doings and evil seeps into the simplest of settings.

So let me set the scene. Lazy day on the sofa, friend next to me peeping at the computer screen as I search for furniture on Craig's list. With each inch of screen I scrolled down, she'd say "Oh! Look at the wagon wheels!" or "Antique bluestone rolling pin, click it!" or "Assorted used underpinnings... gross!" Each time, I'd indulge her and click the link and we'd break into giggles.

Oh, wait, this was supposed to be scary. Umm, we'd break into evil, scary giggles that is...

So when she said "Old baby doll for $10 - look at that, look at that!" I did as told. And then the horror began!!!

WHAT

THE

FUCK?!?!?!?

Now, what happened here?

What demented child tore this freaky bitch limb from limb? Or have we, perhaps, unearthed Chucky and once someone slaps down 10 bucks and begins the reassembly, will it's evil eyes flap open and the words "friends to the end" be uttered?

My assessment: People are perverts and dolls are scary, but when the two get together, pictures like these result.

But since when did that qualify as marketable?

Scary Shit Part 3

As I've said, I meet some choice characters in my line of work. Today was no different.

I had just finished saying to my boss, "Things happen for a reason and this case happened because something caused it to happen - we just haven't figured out what that cause is yet. I don't believe in Big Foot and UFOs. I don't believe in the unexplainable."

Then I turned to meet Tom.

Tom's dominating stature paired with his quiet, child-like way of speaking evokes Of Mice and Men from every corner of my mind.

As we wrapped up our business with Tom, my boss took a phone call and I was left to hear the following story.

"I heard what you were saying. About the UFOs," Tom said.

Hmm, this can't be going anywhere good, I thought.

"I know it sounds crazy - and my mama told me to go back to smokin' the wacky tobacky when I told her - but I saw what I saw. And my brother saw it, too."

"What's that Tom?" I asked, more as a way to stifle the "Is this really about to happen?" that was trying to burst from my lips.

"I saw a UFO. Plain as day. It was 1973 in Tampa - you know all sorts of shit happens in Tampa, right? Well, my brother and I were out in a field, doin' some work, and we look up and saw a UFO - an unidentified flying object."

Thanks for spelling that out for me, Tom.

"It was shining metal, but not any metal I ever saw. You know, like really really shiny metal."

I thought, I want to get me some of that metal! Shinier than platinum? Yes, please!

"And it hovered right over us, then zipped away in a flash. Fastest thing I ever saw, ever will see... probably."

Yes, Tom, probably. Unless you find some more of that Tampa-special wacky tobacky.

Despite having heard an inordinate number of long tales in my job, I have yet to master a better reply than, "Now isn't that something?" which is about as empty and dismissive as saying "I think you're a quack." But it's nicer. And this is a business relationship, UFOs and all.

So, Tom saw a UFO. Who am I to say he didn't? My background in the sciences has founded a solid belief in the development of life as a progressive evolution of species responding to their environment. Why should our environment be the only one conducive to life?

Looking at it statistically, there's basically no way we're the only planet sporting life forms floating about in space.  That being said, I can't say I believe Tom saw a UFO.

Or I don't want to.

When I think of UFO's, I think of aliens flying about looking for an anus to probe. I think of shiny spacecrafts full of tools and methods for specimen collection - long pokey tools with burrs and prongs and tongs abounding. All things I don't want anywhere near my body, more or less my anus.

Anal probing aside, believing Tom's story just feels wacky. While I can see the logic that other species must exist somewhere out there, believing they're going to hover over me and beam me into their sodomy lab before darting off to pull some prankster crop circles is wacky to the nth degree.

But this is the season of wacky, the season of the extraordinary. So for a second, let's step back from our day-to-day rational "norm" and consider what else could be. Tell me, what do you think?

Scary Shit Part 2

Welcome to my House of Horrors!!

Don't let the ominous dark door turn you away. Or the insidious fog creeping around your ankles give you fright. Enter here, but beware, this house is full of things that go bump in the night.

And when those things grow weary of bumping about in the dark, they need to cop a squat. And that, my dearies, is the reason the following beauts were designed and mass produced. But being a scary freak doesn't mean you won't get sick of the ol' standby, and even the creepiest creeps sell stuff on Craig's List, allowing us to have a laugh alongside the horror of such hideousness.

When Norman wrapped up an evening's slashing about in the shower, he surely kicked back mama-style on this plaid psycho sofa:

(halo effect added by seller)

And when aliens descended on our peaceful (or not) planet they, too, needed decor. A little something to make them feel at home...

And when the 70's hit, Dracula's attempts to maintain an updated look fell fangs short when he designed this vampish love nest:

So really, not the scariest post, but I've been doing a lot of furniture shopping lately and was d-y-i-n-g to blog about these oddities. And if you imagine walking into a room with any of these furniture disasters, I suspect more than an "eek!" would cross your mind.

Scary Shit Part 1

Tis the season of spookin' and who am I to sit this one out?

So stay tuned to witness some really scary shit this week. And yes, I must use a curse word because it's too scary to be called "stuff" - this shit be scary!!!

And so we'll begin with a short little diddy, meant for the kiddies, all about kitties.

Imagine arriving home to your sweet, dimple-cheeked child singing about pussy.

That's right - pussy. I discovered this twisted tune in an eerie antique store. Please, oh dear readers, please sing along. But keep in mind, this very well could be just like The Ring and freaky ass cats could climb out of your television, tie you up in yarn and torture you until you feed them milk. I'm just saying, it could happen.

This was not a joke. It was published long ago, circa the time of antiques, which means it's spooky old.

Boo!!! Scared you, right?

A Day of Suitors

Today was a good day.

____________________

It began with a blood pressure cuff.

"Hey, sweetcakes, show me how this gizmo works."

With me, what Mr. Shapiro wants, Mr. Shapiro gets - to an extent. I mean, he is 80 after all. But he's a charmer and he had bought me a pink iced donut complete with sprinkles (my favorite) so who was I to say no?

I wrapped the cuff around his arm and hit the button. As the slow hum of the cuff releasing its pressure declined, the numbers didn't.

He shook his head and said, "Nah, honey, do it again."

So I did, but nothing changed. We were looking at 200/120. High.

He turned to me and said, "Now sweetcakes, leave the room and let's see how much it drops. My blood pressure ain't the only thing gettin' raised when you're around."

____________________

From afar, anyone looking at me would've seen a blur. The rate at which I was shivering was approaching butt-ass-fast, perhaps because it was butt-ass-cold outside.

Mr. Jones walked by in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans. Brow furrowed, I said, "Mr. Jones, it's too cold for t-shirts. Go put a jacket on!"

He replied, "Honey, when you're around, things get so hot I gotta take my clothes off!"

____________________

As I walked by, Mr. Giovanni waved me over. He touched the tip of my stethoscope with one hand and patted his heart with the other. Then he said "Sugar, come here and take a listen."

I asked what was wrong, that he needed his heart listened to. He replied, "Ain't nothing wrong, when you're around my heart skips a beat."

____________________

Granted, not a one of them was under sixty, but still, today was a good day.

Lye In Wait

I meet a lot of choice individuals in my line of work.

College education, paying taxes and seeing the world through sober eyes are optional to those I encounter in my day to day. While most are walking Scotch bottles with poor style sense, a few diamonds in the rough show up from time to time.

And I don’t mean embedded in their gold teeth.

Yesterday was one of those times when life dusts off someone you see every day, letting their good character shine through.

Not a stitch over five foot two, this wiry black man named Sam made his way to me with a plastic bag in hand. He was somewhere between 50 and 100 years old and he didn’t so much walk as waddle.  The perma-grimace he sported just about screamed “I’m gonna bitch about something and you’re gonna listen.”

Sam is employed by Mr. Shapiro. A proper gentleman, the eighty-year old Mr. Shapiro calls me “sweetcakes” and isn’t happy until I have a cup of coffee with him and he talks me into eating a donut. Or two.

I love Mr. Shapiro.

Sam reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a CD. For your information, I’m not in the music business so this made little sense, but I went with it. In a raspy smoker’s voice, he said, “Honey, you weren’t even alive when I was seeing this man play.”

Looking at the CD, I saw it was Big Joe Turner, the blues legend. I agreed with Sam, that I probably wasn’t alive then, but that I knew of the great Mr. Turner via my dad.

A lover of jazz and blues, my dad introduced me to the greats early on. Dave Brubeck may have been my first concert… though he could’ve been second to The Bangles.

Sam was quickly lost in thought, so I cast myself in the role of “listener” to the story he was about to tell and was just waiting for him to begin.

“In those days, I wasn’t worth nothing’. Young boy who didn’t know nothin’ and was no good, through and through.”

Well, he had me there. I love a bad boy.

“Met Roy over there at Bobby Rae’s,” Sam said, gesturing towards Roy who stood a ways off from us. “It was a dance joint where all the greats used to play…” and then Sam listed the “greats” who I hadn’t heard of. All but the Big Joe Turner, that is.

Sam crossed to the radio and put in the CD. Pressing play, he waited. So, I waited too. And when Joe Turner sang, two things happened: I got jazzy, loving every tune the big man sang and Sam returned to his story.

“Roy saved my life.”

All jazziness stopped and I gave Sam a jigga-wha look.

Sam continued, “I didn’t treat my lady right. Used to mess her up, you know? I was no good, good for nothing, low down, rotten, worthless. She didn’t deserve that and I didn’t know better. One night, she done had enough and made up her mind to do me in.”

“Roy saw the light on in my place and went on up. Said he got there and saw her sittin’ in the kitchen with the pot of water on. Said it was boiling like somethin’ fierce and she was sittin’ in the kitchen with the light off, right next to the pot and an empty bottle of lye.

Suspect she meant to kill me, so Roy sat down to talk wit’ her. She’d done had enough and that was that. Wanted rid of me so she was gonna’ kill me. But my good friend Roy set her straight and she left me that night.

And so I lived.”

The story sank in and I looked from Roy to Sam, with his unburned skin, his normalness suddenly astounding. And Big Joe Turner sang, resonating every difference between that time and now.

Now, I love a bad boy and I love a vengeful woman, but really, I want no part in either. They’re tempting, sure, but like a boiling pot of lye they’re not something you want in your kitchen.

Cleaving With Our Cleavage?

Secretia at Secret Story Time emailed me the other day asking if I had let my girls loose on Boob Emancipation.

I had no idea what she meant so ran to check it out. And check her out I did. A lovely young lady calling herself Sassy posted a few coyly posed pics of herself topless. Well done, Sassy.

Please note - she is not me.

Feel free to start bawking like a chicken, for that is what I am. I love my girls but had never known they needed emancipating. Sure, I make them strut their stuff in push-up bras and ask that they stay perky as long as humanly possible, but in return I get them lots of praise from admirers and check them monthly to ensure their good health.

I thought it was a rather win:win relationship.

But boob slavery is a concept I had not yet considered. Perhaps 'emancipate' with all its ties to slavery isn't the right word. Women have been wanting to let the girls loose since the bra-burning of the 60's. But to be honest, I like bras. I like lingerie as a whole. Sultry lace and sexy satin with intricate stitching and the luxurious lines of boning, ooh la la!

Yes, boys, bras and boning are intertwined in more ways than one.

Perusing this website, I was impressed to see how many ladies are letting their ladies loose. And with zeal, style and variety! I guess there's an exhibitionist in all of us. So perhaps it's not emancipation that's needed, but a spotlight in which to shine?

And in this spotlight, nobody puts baby in the corner. So here's a glimpse of the real me...

So what do you think? You likey?

Okay, that's not really me. You don't think a sneak peak of me would come that easy, right? That's actually the rack of this drag queen...

... who I look nothing like. First, I'm a girl and, second, I'm a brunette. Third, I never pose in front of chainlink fences and, fourth, I don't have a boob job. As for other similarities in the brazier area, that's a mystery left unsolved. Sorry kids, but I don't play that game.

When offered a shot at the spotlight or the chance to be emancipated, I'll offer up that my girls would stay put. Not that they're shy or the stay-at-home-on-a-Friday-night type. They'd just opt for the comfort of a good home and the security of knowing they'll have adequate support into their old age. Who knows, maybe they'll even get a lift to keep them looking young some day. You never know...

At the heart of the issue, I like the idea of being liberated and letting go of inhibitions. And for that, I commend Sassy and the like. But when it comes to my girls, they appreciate their privacy and don't want to risk provoking the paparazzi just yet. So we, the three of us, will avoid the spotlight and stay under the wraps of silk and lace for now.

(Please note, I found that picture on the internet after searching 'drag queen boobs' so there's a slight chance that ain't no man... maybe... but I wouldn't bet on it... if that pic is actually you, my apologies you trans-gender wonder!)

Sex: 101

I'm a sleepy piece of sass. Laying in my virtually empty apartment, I just heard the tenant below me having sex with her boyfriend. Noise carries like herpes in old apartments with no rugs -  a fact I doubt she realizes.

They're the silent types, which begs the question of how I heard them.

Well, first there was a period of pregnant silence following loud talking. Such a break in chatter is hard to ignore. Then there was some scuffling about (foreplay) which the dog growled at, and then she gasped. Not the dog, mind you, but the girl downstairs. She came with two hiccupy gasps (orgasm A).

Then more silence. A couple minutes passed where we know she laid there like a blow-up doll and he pump-humped away. Then he (finally) came, with a grunt (orgasm B).

Then lots of silence which we can assume involved panting that didn't carry my way (thankfully). And now they're back to loud talking.

Elapsed time: less than ten minutes, I wasn't counting as I was too busy criticizing them in my mind, so that's an estimate.

Now, no one expects an audience for such encounters, so maybe they didn't have their game faces on. But if my sex life ever circles the double-hiccup-grunt, the next sound my neighbor hears will be that of my boyfriend walking out the door. Because really, what's the point of keeping him around?

Now in my book, there are two types of sex: slow n' sensuous and then everything else.

And, also in my book, I can relate everything to food.

Slow n' sensuous sex is like something made in a crock pot. The slower it's cooked, the more savory it becomes. Slow and steady wins this race, and the prize lies in feeling every.single.sensation.

For example, I once hurt my neck. Couldn't move it at all. But my boyfriend was horny. And I was horny, too. And we were really, really good at it. You know how some people pair up perfectly? Well, we were one of those pairs (in the bed, at least). Even though very little movement occurred, we both remembered that night as one of the best. And it really was.

All other sex should follow one simple guideline: don't hold back. My friend always tells me that a good chef is a messy chef. Sex is like that, too. Not in it being messy, necessarily, but in it being expressive. Good sex is action-packed and evoking.

Evoking? Yes, evoking. It evokes something inside of you and brings that out in numerous forms: in toes curling and backs arching and legs wrapping and fingers grabbing... something more than a double-hiccup.

When it's really good, you want to tell him and you can't hold it in. Whimpers, pants and moans of satisfaction escape. If you can "mmm" over ice cream, you can moan over sex.

I suppose that for some, sex isn't that important. Scary concept, right? Well, it is almost Halloween so... boo! Now go get laid properly, please, and don't keep quiet about it.

Gay Pride, see clauses 1 through 218,652,978

For those who don't know, I love me some gay people. Not sure why the biased affection, but it's strong and undeniable. Granted, I'm not gay myself. Gay men and I share one thing above all else - we think girls are gross. That's not entirely true because I know women are beautiful and sexy and all that, I just don't want to sleep with them. But I don't care who does. What goes on in your bedroom is your business. How on earth could I form an opinion about you on that?

What's getting my goat lately is how hesitant we are to accept gay everything. Meaning we'll be "okay" with people being gay, but we don't want to actually see it. I hear it all the time, "I don't care if they want to sleep with each other but I can't handle seeing them kiss" or "I'm okay with homosexuals so long as they don't flaunt it."

Well flaunt this, you narrowminded pricks, acceptance doesn't come with conditions or exclusions  - it's all or nothing.

I know my name calling is misdirected, as you wonderful readers are not them. But this hot topic gets me heated up. To have been so deluded into thinking society had come so far, and then to see a man beaten over and over and, yep, over again simply for his sexual orientation... this breaks my heart. For every ounce of disapproval or reluctant acceptance, a glimmer of hate remains. Or that's how I see it.

Preachy part over, Funny to follow.

This resounding hesitation to fully accept homosexuality was mirrored recently in, of all things, a soap opera. Guiding Light featured a story line about two women who had the hots for each other. Olivia and Natalia - otherwise known as Otalia - flirted around a passionate love for each other, but never did more than hold hands or hug on television.

Not. A. Single. Kiss.

Areyoufuckingkiddingme, CBS?

Pussies

(pun intended)

To support my stance - and prove that my friends are damn funny - let me introduce you to Danielle. An avid fan of Guiding Light and the Otalia story line, Danielle made the following video that has become quite the internet sensation. And don't we just love those?

Ode to an Obsession, via YouTube. Laugh, my dearies, laugh. And yes, that's her real family. My application to be adopted by them is pending.

Honorable mention to Meditations in an Emergency's recent post on the death of Stephen Gately and the gay bashing that followed. Well done, Mysterg. 

Queen Sass And Her Throne

Fear not, dear readers, I'm shitty no more.

While a few people may beg to differ, life according to me is mighty fine.

Toilet a runnin'
Water a flowin'
Heat a pipin'

And the dog is shit-free. Woohoo, mothers, it's game on for apartment decorating!!

Granted, I'm kinda broke but a paycheck is just around the corner and Ikea, what's that? Oh, you're calling my name? Don't worry, my beloved Swedish sweat shop, I'll be on my way in no time.

And now, an introduction to the most recent house of Sass.

From the outside, it's a shithole. Old buildings can be that way. But on the inside, they hold unique treats you can't find in newer places. Even that made-to-look-old-brand-new stuff can't compare - it's just missing something... soul.

Imagine old made new again with shiny new appliances and marble countertops alongside refinished wood floors and cute old faucets. Windows abound showing glimpses of tree lined streets. And there are closets a plenty, all the better for storying my wardrobe of cute summer dresses and strappy heels that I won't be needing for months and months.

I've dished up all the details save the best part - the bathroom!

Now, here's the thing about me. I love bathrooms. They're hidden potential to add character to a house. Why? Because they're the place your guests have one-on-one time with your abode. That's right, in the comode.

We all know things get personal there, and as your guests sit to tinkle they get personal with YOU. They take a look around without distraction and take in whatever you've put there for them to see. Boring bathrooms scream "I belong to a rational person who is too busy to bother decorating me." Country bathrooms with oak toilet paper holders and carpeted seat covers cry out "I belong to someone who wants to french kiss Eddie Bauer." And beachy bathrooms scream "I belong to someone who thinks bathrooms are beachy" and that's just sad.

My bathrooms say something different.

Without any help from me, this bathroom announces itself to be retro fab. Say hello to tile done right in the old days:

With no help from me, it's a happy place to be as is with its matching wall tiles and a window letting leaf-filtered light shine in:

(the before, work with me, bathrooms are tiny)

But with a splash of sass (i.e. I added a shower curtain) my bathroom announces "Welcome, friends. Sit and watch as old meets new and they live happily ever after in monochromatic bliss!"

(the after, and no, I didn't iron the shower curtain)

Next paycheck, it'll get even better when I splurge to buy the bath mat I'm coveting. Next up, plush towels and art that adds splashes of color... or maybe splashes of gray. I can't decide. Ooh, or beveled mirrors!!

Guests to my new apartment will part ways with the vino I just served them as they take in some black on white action. And if they've had too much wine, they'll trip out M.C. Escher style.

If the heart of a home is in the kitchen, then I'll offer up that its soul is in the lav. And, sweeties, my place has soul.

What's yours got?

Shitty Piece of Sass

This morning, I laid around in bed imagining tonight's post. It would detail lofty visions of a cozy, singleton's apartment, all retro tiled bathrooms and gleaming hardwood floors. In a few short hours, I'd be out of the shitbox I'd been in and into my new place. My how sweet life is!

That was before the move.

Here is my day:

8:05 am - arrive to motor vehicle division to discover I have virtually none of the documents they need to register my car.

8:06 am - rebound from verge of irritation and give up on car, deciding to move to fun new apartment!

9:00ish am - arrive to super cute apartment and snap photos of it blissfully empty, a canvas waiting for me to paint, rooms waiting for me to christen.

12:00 pm - after cleaning former craphole residence, I make a swift exit with all remaining belongings and one cute puppy dog in toe.

12:03 pm - cute puppy dog whines as we pass the park.

12:04 pm - always a sucker for cute puppy dogs, I flip a U-turn and take her to the park despite the freezing rain. My decision to suck it up and walk her is vetoed within 2 minutes of being outside. Result: puppy dog is less cute and more the color of mud and I am a popsicle.

12:30 - 3:00 pm - unpack by shuffling things about randomly.

3:05 pm - realize nothing has been accomplished and decide to take a shower in my new ultra fab retro bathroom. Turn on faucet and... nothing. Nada. Zilch. Try all faucets and get same result. Call landlord and leave message, then stare at phone. Watched pots never boil, so I opted to walk the dog around the block instead.

3:15 pm : dog rolls in shit. We're talking a pile of shit with a dog rolling in it, who happens to be my dog. I couldn't even process the horror. I began to head for "home" and realize we have NO water. So, kept walking in hopes the rain washed the shit off. It didn't.

5:00 pm: waiting for landlord with a shit-covered dog. Decided to inflate air bed as I haven't moved my "real" bed up yet. Unroll air bed and attach pump. Switch pump on... nothing. Nada. Zilch. Deciding this is, in fact, okay, I pack the fucker up and head to Target.

5:30 pm: get call from landlord saying he checked and the water's just fine! I grow suspect.

6:00 pm: return to find water is fine - hooray!! Decide to shower but gotta pee first. After flushing, something goes clunk and the toilet doesn't refill. And the shower begins to spit drizzle. Realize the apartment is rather frosty. Check radiators and, yep, they're ice cold. Call landlord, leave message, and wrap scarf around neck.

6:15 pm: inflate air bed. Stop fully functional pump and instantly hear a dreaded hissssssssssss. Decide to pull out my crash cart of tape and fix it. Result: hssssssssssss.

So I returned to Target and got yet another air bed, which hasn't gone hsssssssssss yet. When I came back, the water was working. I remain skeptical. The heat isn't working yet and the toilet only flushes if I reach in a pull the chain.

One word: yuck.

Oh, and I washed the shit off my dog.

So here I sit, semi-fresh smelling dog beside me in my brand new apartment on air bed #3. And I want to ask you, is it just me? Or does everyone have days like this?

Faux Friends

The other day, I received the fourth friend request on Facebook from a girl I’ve repeatedly “ignored”. Wait, remove the quotes, I’ve ignored her outside of Facebook, too, so no quotations needed.

So what gives? Why so persistent??

Some background is needed: I met her first semester of college, fake friended her (because isn’t that what freshmen year is all about?) then spotted her boyfriend who was h-o-t and let him lead me to his dorm room about 1/15^th of a nanosecond after he dumped her. This all happened about three weeks into college. She left college after the first semester to pursue becoming a redneck who overly highlights her hair and swears by everything the Dixie Chicks say.

From her profile pic, she graduated with honors.

So back to the here and now, why is she so persistent? Why not send me a message that reads, “Hey bitch, I didn’t like you then and I don’t like you now” like my former self-absorbed freshmen self deserved?

As I hit ignore for the fourth and sure-to-not-be-last time, I was reminded of how good I am at it. If defriending people on Facebook were an Olympic sport, nations would be fighting for my shotgun citizenship. If it were a superhuman power, I’d be The Defriender, doling out “Sayonara, suckers” with every low blow. With no remorse, but always with style, vigor and panache, I hit Ignore and Delete Friend and Block User.

Granted, that wasn’t always so. I used to believe these undesirables could see my rejection. Like the following day’s news feed would read, “Sass has rejected the friendship of Loser Mc Loserson because she is a lame loser-tard.”

As soon as the deniability of Facebook’s current dynamic was revealed to me, I edited my “friend” list from 400 x a loser quotient of infinity to a pleasant 218.

How on earth can I have 218 friends? I don’t know, this still baffles me. But a few times a year I run through it and am shocked to see faces I adore. The fugly riffraff of my fake-to-your-face days have all disappeared. What a lovely list is it!!

So how many of you enjoy the brutal honesty that makes me smile? And how many put on a happy face as you let someone you’d never invite out for a drink label you as their friend?

And really, can we talk about friend inflation? Because no one really has 1000+ friends. Not even Kim Kardashian’s ass. How many of you let the losers in to make you look friendlier than you really are?

Fess up, friends. 

Feminist Fossils

By now, you all know I like to get my science on from time to time and this is one of those times. And it's all because Ardi is my homegirl.

And Lucy is, too.

Ardi on the top & Lucy on the bottom

In the face of epic age differences, they’ve got something I just can’t get enough of – a whopper booyah to the male sex spanning millions of years.

Ardi is the oldest fossil that we humans call sista’. Before Ardi was dug up somewhere in Ethiopia, we could trace our roots back to the 3.2 million year old Lucy. But staying true to the wiles of women, Ardi upstaged Lucy by a little over a million years, weighing in at 4.4 million years old. That's basically like arriving to your arch nemesis' Christmas party wearing Manolos when you know she shops at Walmart.

Well played, Ardi, well played.

Besides both ladies being mega-fabulous scientific finds and our oldest ancestors, they pack a major punch in the history of humanity. Why, you ask? Because they’re both female.

In true male fashion, the boys of long ago are nowhere to be found, which is nothing short of typical.

There was one mancicle named Otzi who was found a while back, frozen in ice. But he wasn’t nearly as old as either of these chicks, only dating back to a measly 3300 BC, like that's old. And probably he got the perma-freeze when he was chasing some pre-Christianity tail behind his wife’s back. I’m just saying, some things never change.

Otzi, also known as Frozen Fritz likely suffered a break dancing accident when he met his demise

The significance that the two oldest predecessors to humanity are both female is probably zilch. But I’m a betting girl and I’ll wager there’s something to go hmm about here. Being the bearers of children, the nurturers and caregivers, the dolers of common sense and the masters of manipulation, I’ll offer up that women are the backbone of society, both now and then.

While men were out hunting and spreading their seed all about town, they got eaten by Saber-toothed tigers or swallowed hole by ancient Moby Dicks. As a result, their fossils are MIA and unable to contribute to our modern day scientific history.

The moral of the story: Women know how to show up, men kinda suck at it. If women weren’t so good at doing what we do, there’d be no proof that we existed at all.

And no, I'm not exaggerating.  

Pass the Sass, Please

We've all heard the following:

"If everyone else jumped off a cliff, would you too?"

I suppose the answer is yes. For every trend I've set, I've followed a hundred and this is no time to break stride. Some of my favorite bloggers have created awards of their own lately. I've got to say, I loved getting each one. Such an individual form of acknowledgment left me truly flattered. And my love of interior design makes me want to add my own spice to the mantels of great bloggers.

And thus, let me welcome you to the unveiling of Hot Piece of Sass's Pass the Sass award!!!

I truly am addicted to a few blogs. Meaning as soon as the iGoogle on my phone shows a new post, I read it. No matter if I'm driving 80 down an interstate or pretend listening to my boss, I'm hot to hear what the following bloggers have got to say.

So the general gist is to Pass the Sass to blogs you're truly addicted to. Plain and simple. No rules required!

And one last disclaimer, this is borderline like when a mother whispers in one child's ear that they're her favorite. I love all of you. I really do. But if I passed this out to everyone now, it would seem cheap, right? Anyways, you get the point.

The blogs I'm currently addicted to are...

(in alphabetical order to exclude breeching the shit-ton-of-favoritism threshold)

Advice and Humor from Mr. Condescending - An addiction that needs no explaining. Go get hooked.

Another Hot Mess - If you don't know her, you really really need to. Laugh. To. Tears.

Birdykins - A constant reminder of the beauty the written word conveys.

La Belle Mere - All things good and fun and thoughtful wrapped up in one sassy Brit. Gotta love her.

Let's Have a Cocktail - Who isn't addicted to laughter? This is the perfect blog to get your daily fix. And the best part: she's all good, no nasty spitefulness or gutter dwelling humor.

Meditations in an Emergency - A blend of sexiness and sensitivity in a man that seeps into your system and keeps you wanting more of Mysterg.

The Japing Ape - An intellectual gorilla. You already want more of him, right? Go get him.

You. Me. No Adult Supervision - A woman who will make you laugh and cry in the same post. Her writing makes you remember the good in people while also giving you free reign to laugh in their face. Sal's a keeper, for sure.

To everyone else, please know I really do love ya'. Proof of that love lies in me sharing my blogger stash with you. Read these bloggers and you'll discover not every addiction is sinful... or maybe that the best ones are.

And to the bloggers who have recently bestowed awards on me or tagged me in those pain in the ass incredibly fun memes, thanks for the love and I promise to get those blogged out soon.


Kisses,


Sass

Watch Dog, Watch

To help with the skintness of my college days, I walked Sonny. Dappled in burnt crimson and snowy white, he sprouted tufts of hair between his toes and broke hearts with each glance of his soulful puppy dog eyes. He belonged to my second family, so really he was my dog twice removed or something like that.

Two of my dearest friends are the sisters who called Sonny their own and who have long called me their partner in crime. The inventive thinkers we are, we cast Sonny in the lead role of our home video production. Sonny played my father and I was his daughter the princess, naturally. The sisters made guest appearances, filmed and directed. It was a blockbuster hit.

In my college years, with my best friends at schools far away, my walks with Sonny were less cinematic and more automatic – click on leash, step out door, simultaneously walk and daydream behind Sonny who pulled me steadily ahead. Such a routine our daily walks became that one could claim I wouldn’t notice being robbed in the light of day.

Okay, it wasn’t me being robbed. It was them. My second family, the O’s.

The day in question was different from the others. I’d skipped class (not the unique feature) and stopped at a coffee shop where I alternated between staring blankly at coffee cups and recommitting to studying biochem. When I could stare and study no more, I left to walk the dog.

But first, I peed.

Coffee does that to a girl so I peed in the coffee shop's lav.

On a normal no-coffee-shop day, I’d have held it til the O residence. My normal routine involved opening their door, feeding the dog and then peeing while he ate. A 20 minute drive after an hour long class is an equation that always equals pee pee.

But this day, I entered the house, fed the dog and, not having to pee, I putzed around. I checked out the new magazines on the coffee table of the house I’ve nearly grown up in myself. And then I walked back to the kitchen where something caught my eye.

A glint of gold. A ring. A class ring from Penn State circa 1973.

My thought process ran something like this: “What on earth is Mr. O’s class ring doing on the floor?  I bet he had his friends over for beer and football since Mrs. O is out of town. That wiley devil…”

Walk to get dog leash from utility room and notice cabinets opened randomly. My, my, how the mouse will play while the cat is away…

Sonny and I had an average walk ending with me opening the front door, hanging the leash back up and closing the door.

The End?

Not so much. Fast forward a few hours and I get a panicked call from Mr. O asking if I’d noticed anything out of the ordinary that day. Light bulbs lit up like the power coming on after a citywide blackout in NYC.

The open cabinets, the class ring, the two-dollar bill encased in a fancy envelope that was randomly left on the coffee table… and the partially open bathroom door.

Growing up in that house alongside my BFFs, there was one thing I'd learned about the family of O’s. They’re open or closed bathroom door people. Nary a partially open door in the house. All or nothing for the 15 years I’d known them.

I remembered how it had struck me odd when I’d entered their house, but the assumption that Mr. O was letting his hair down while Mrs. O was away seemed logical. I mean, Mr. O is not straight-laced guy. He’d bought the Eminem CD before any of us had.

As he waited for my answer and all the random facts added up to one incredible answer, I began to realize the truth. The O’s had been robbed. And I had interrupted the robbery.

Eek!!

Mr. O told me what the cops had figured out – the thief entered through a basement window, rifled through a few drawers in the office and then dropped the booty where it lie when I entered the house.

At some point, the thief left through the kitchen door, leaving it wide open to the cold winter air.

Mr. O asked if the kitchen door had been opened when I fed the dog. It hadn’t. Meaning I had scared the thief off who ran out the kitchen door once Sonny and I had left for the walk.

With no proof to substantiate my story, I know without a doubt that thief was hiding in the partially open bathroom. I know that, had it been any other day, I would’ve had to pee. I know that, had it been any other day, things could’ve ended very differently.

I know I’m glad I skipped class and went to that coffee shop.

All was well in the end. The thief got away with nothing more than a few old two-dollar bills. I scared him off before he got to the good stuff.

And, after a top-notch security system was installed the next day, Sonny and I resumed our daily walks. Me, a little wiser and more aware, but Sonny was unchanged. He continued to be the beloved watch dog – who literally watched his house being robbed.

RIP Sonny, good boy.  

X-Rated: Keep the kiddies away, Mysterg has come to play

Settle in dearies, we have a gentleman caller today. By invitation, Mysterg of Meditations in an Emergency has graced us with his presence. Why did I invite him over, you ask? Because a reader asked me to blog on a topic of a certain nature that is semi-unknown to me.

What could I possibly not know about? The answer: men sitting on your face. Luckily, I have yet to experience such torture. But be sure this was not an act of torture my poor reader suffered, but an act of (ahem) love.

Let me explain. This poor, poor girl has hooked up with two guys in the past year, BOTH of whom sat on her face for some reason unknown to her. I don't believe these were ongoing relationships, just hook ups and she claims to have never said "please sit on my face" or "want a t-bag?". She said one guy nearly suffocated her. Brilliant story, right?! Umm... I mean, unless it's your face being sat upon (sorry, you poor soul xoxo).

Always one to know when I'm outmatched, I immediately called in reinforcements. Contacting three male bloggers and two "real life" male friends of mine, I received five "WTF, who does that?" replies.

Phew, it seems this act of love won't be coming to a town near you any time soon. But why did it happen TWICE to our dear friend? Only one responder manned up and tackled the topic - the infamous Mysterg. And tackle he did... what follows merits a warning for the prudish, bashful and faint of heart. I even blushed - several times.

Read on if you want to improve your sexucation, for the sexpert Mysterg has now arrived...

-----------------------------------------

When One Sassy Girl asked me to write a little something about the t-bagging problem described above I was honoured. Then I was a little horrified. I wondered why she was asking me. Did she think that because I'm British and have a natural love of tea, that this love was extended to a similar unnatural practice in the bedroom? Or had she made me for the pervert that I really am? Or was it some back-handed compliment? Or perhaps her 'friend' is actually her and she wants me to sit on her sassy face?

So with some hope and trepidation, here is my advice on the subject:

Guys enjoy eating pussy. And if you're doing it right, your ladyfriend should love it too. In fact the only time I would say that I haven't enjoyed it is when an ex of mine bought some candy underwear for me to literally eat off her.

Initially I thought great - food and sex combined! (She really knew the way to my heart). But to be honest, I haven't much of a sweet tooth and what started off as quite an enjoyable experience turned into one of disgust as the more I chowed down, the more the candy became fish-flavoured and the more I wanted to vomit.

Yet putting that experience aside, oral sex should be pleasurable for both parties, shouldn't it? And therefore in the interests of equality, why shouldn't a guy be able to sit on the face of a lady, especially if that's what gets him off?

I've never tried it so perhaps I'm the wrong person for Sass to ask. I've also asked some friends of mine, none of which say have done it, or at least will admit to doing so. As I don't keep up with the latest developments in porn movies - despite Sass encouraging me to do my research! - perhaps it is a current and popular trend, one which is now being replicated in bedrooms up and down the country on poor unsuspecting victims such as the friend of Sass.

However that said, I have always thought that giving a blowjob is at least a two-person job - although I'm yet to find two willing volunteers at exactly the same moment in time. Therefore, unless this whole thing is all about autoerotic asphixiation, perhaps I can almost understand why a guy might choose to sit on the face of his partner. Almost...

Anyway, in the interests of all parties involved, I have come up with some etiquette which should hopefully keep everybody happy.

Here are my tips for the guys:

• Sit facing forward - you don't want to inflict your asshole on the poor young lady in question do you? (Unless you expect a tongue up it at some point...) However, if you simultaneously plan to reciprocate the favour, then this is negotiable obviously.
• Shave your balls - you don't want to explain to a coroner how death by misadventure could have been avoided if she had not ingested a hairball. If she shaves her pussy, then you can trim your one-eyed trouser-snake.
• Don't come in her hair - it's the least you can do for her being so accommodating. Shampoo it ain't. Even if it does condition-her...*drum roll and cymbal*
• Wait until at least the fourth date before you try this - or until you've had non-freaky sex for the first time, whichever is the soonest.

Some tips for the ladies:

• Hum a tune - It may improve the experience for the guy and help you pass the time faster (I suggest something by Beethoven).
• Take both balls at once - They come in a pair so it's not fair to neglect one over the other. A guy wouldn't neglect a pair of naked twins...
• No biting - you wouldn't like it and neither do we. It's just not cricket.
• Learn how to blink S-O-S in morse code with your eyes - we want to avoid suffocation obviously. And what better way is there to communicate when confronted by semen?

Let me know how you get on ladies and gents. And feel free to share your stories with Sass and any other tips you may have.

Now Sass, about that date, third time is a charm so I hear...

"Sit on my face and tell me that you love me,
I'll sit on your face and tell you I love you, too.
I love to hear you o-ra-lize,
When I'm between your thighs,
You blow me awaaay.

Sit on my face and let my lips embrace you,
I'll sit on your face and then I'll love you tru-ly.
Life can be fine if we both sixty-nine,
If we sit on our faces
In all sorts of places
And play...'till we're blown awaaaaaaaaaay."
- Monty Python

-----------------------------------------

Now run and introduce yourself to Mysterg. Though he's unseen to me, I can just tell he's a hot piece of ass.

xx,
Sass

Mama Says It Best

Creative thinking runs in our family. I put words to electronic paper and my mama puts accents to words. She's not foreign. She's not an impersonator, interpreter or multilingual. Nor does she have any unique accent to make people swoon. She just has a knack for adding French flair to run of the mill American English words.


One summer, as we passed a field of bison (read furry mammoth buffalo to all non-Americans), my city-dwelling mother pointed excitedly out the window exclaiming, "Look girls, the bee-sahn, the bee-sahn!" 


We looked at her funny and asked if she meant "bison".


Just a few weeks ago, her attempt at using the slang term "biatch" failed when she repeated "bioche" multiple times.


Kind of like brioche, but bitchy. 


Giving ordinary words that French je ne sais quoi is not the only realm of vernacular my mama graces with her talented touch. Cliches are the lucky beneficiaries as well. 


Calling her OCD about Windexing mirrors to perfection was converted to her AC/DC, which oddly fits since the woman's zeal for cleaning is rather electric. 


And when she attempted to describe my personality as Type A, she called it A-1. I'm nowhere near an A anything (cleavage included) but I will agree to being saucy. 


I struggle to name my most beloved blunder of hers, as there are two in tough competition. The first was when she suggested to a friend that they shit on the pot, as opposed to just shitting or getting off it. Much more dramatic that way but significantly less hygenic. And the second beaut' came recently while we were playing cards.  She asked if someone would give her a boner already. I suggested she rephrase that request into "will someone throw me a bone?" 


But for all the misnomers my mother has made, her advice on life is spot on. Whenever my sister or I were too lazy to fold our underwear, preferring to dump it in the drawer and figure it out as we went, she'd tisk her way over to the laundry basket and begin to fold, saying "the world is a better place when your underwear is organized.”


Well said, Mom, well said.