Sunday, June 3, 2018

G Minus 6: The Best of Precocious Daughter

My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in six days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's six days away from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day.

This May Be the Weirdest Thing I've Ever Written
Originally Published 6/5/2014

Read that title again.

The woman who has written about crusty vagina fruit and Anthony's Weiner thinks this is weird. Yeah.

Oh, two-headed calf, you try.
I went into my bathroom tonight. The lid on the toilet was down. Which, believe it or not, was not the weird part. I lifted the lid and saw...

Should I have taken pictures?

Maybe I should have taken pictures.

But I didn't. I mean, how many of us have the presence of mind to snap a photo when the unexpected happens?


Anyway, I lifted the lid and saw that the toilet bowl had a bunch of little short curly black hairs floating in it.

If you don't know, Precocious Daughter and I - this is the bathroom we share - both have blondish-brownish hair. She flat-irons hers, and mine only holds a curl if you douse it in Twinkies-grade industrial chemicals, and the last time I did that was in 1991.

So my first thought on seeing what was floating in the toilet was, Why would my ex (yes, still living with my ex; no, not going to talk about it) come into the ladies' bathroom, trim his pubes into our toilet bowl, then fail to flush? And also, did he use my antique toenail scissors to do it?

I have had them literally my entire life.
They're not as shiny as these, but they still
cut a mean toenail. Am I the only person
who uses something like this to self-pedi?

I called him into the bathroom and asked if he knew anything about the wiry black hairs in the toilet. He swore he didn't, and after 26 years, I know when the man is and is not bullshitting. At that point PDaughter wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I mean, I wasn't going to let her look at the scene of the crime until I knew for certain that I wasn't going to be exposing her to her father's pubic hair.

Did I really just write that?

Or maybe it was Bill Cosby's hair!
Or...not. Sorry, Cos.
PDaughter knew nothing about it. Look, I give my beautiful daughter the privacy she deserves. But I know for a fact that no part of her body produces kinky black hair. Mine either, for that matter, and even if it did, the dementia has not progressed so far that I wouldn't remember thinning out the crops and dropping them into the toilet.

Not completely related, but...OMG, best tattoo ever.


We finally decided to agree that our senior cat, who is a tuxedo kitty and loves to jump onto the toilet seat and drink out of the bowl, must have left the hairs. Did she fall in while we were all out? Did something startle her while she was drinking, causing her to quickly drop a bunch of little furs? Did said furs, assuming we're buying any of this story, suddenly become short and curly instead of medium-length and silky upon hitting the water?

Without ever really meeting one another's eyes, we sort of agreed on some poorly articulated version of that story and dispersed. I flushed the intruder hairs away (without photographic documentation) and went about my business.

And I never did speak aloud my pet theory of how those strange hairs came to inhabit my toilet.


Fantasmas muy machos. Orale!

Specifically, male ghosts of Mediterranean descent who decided to haunt my bedroom and use my toenail scissors to man(ghost)scape themselves when I wasn't looking. Except they forgot to flush the toilet, because they're goddamn black-haired ghosts with hairy scrotes, what do you expect?

I really have no other explanation for how short curly dark hairs ended up in the toilet used primarily by fair-haired women who at least know how to flush, for God's sake.

Again, not strictly related, but thanks,
Google Image Search.
Bottom line: I believe my home has been visited by hirsute ghosts who decided to take a break and clip their spectral pubic hair into my actual toilet bowl, then dematerialize without flushing.

And I double-dog dare you to come up with a better explanation. You want this goddamn blog? You can have it. Just relay what actually happen.

PDaughter and I and our swarthy spirits are waiting to hear.

1 comment:

  1. I remember this one. I don't remember how long I'd been reading your blog at that point, but, hey, at least now I can say it's been at least four years.
    And yet I don't remember the advice to wear a brassiere and not tug my girdle. That's something I should remember because girdle-tugging formed an important plot point of an episode of Sgt. Bilko.


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