So many questions . . . .

Not so much any more, but people used to always ask me: why do you call this - looking at my booth - Beyond Her?  Ha ha, I would laugh - it's because of an old friend who noticed that, once I reached a crescendo, I always concluded my rants with "Ugh! It's beyond me!" I guess you could say it's my manifesto, articulated here.

You'd think I'd understand a lot more now, at this ripe old age. But it seems like I spend more and more of my time shaking my head, pursing my lips and rolling my eyes.  

Starting now, I'm going to chronicle my quandaries.  And let me just say that this is going to be Her - raw & uncut. Why would I bother to be politically correct on my own blog? It's beyond me.

So here we go: Installment #1. The possibilities are, well, endless.
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It's Beyond Her: Potty Talk

When I grew up, the old saying was that you had to eat a peck of dirt before you die. Look it up: that's a lot of dirt. This expectation, combined with spending a lot of time outside and covered in art supplies have left me pretty much immune to personal messiness and with very little fear of germs. Unlike everyone else, it seems.

So, why is it, that with all these manically clean, disinfected, Purel-ed people making a huge production of their personal hygiene, that every public toilet seat I sit on is wet? And we know what with, right?

These cleaner-than-thou germophobes have gone out of their way to whiz all over the public fixtures so that they can't catch anything from the seat (guess they missed health class that day). Meanwhile, the next person, AKA me, gets to sit in their waste.

​Like I said, I'm pretty germ-insensitive, but even I find this disgusting. And a damp bottom makes it hard as hell to pull up my pants. SO rude, SO self-centered, SO entitled. Gives new meaning to the phrase pissed off.

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