Ocean Squat Brandy

Picture it. Late evening. Grandiose skies filled with glistening stars with which to gaze upon. Blanket lay across the sand with a basket of great cheeses and tasty meat trinkets to enjoy while guzzling your favorite merlot. Staring across from me is a gorgeous blonde hottie  who's saying all the right things. Everything's right. It's a little too perfect actually. The ticky boom boom looking to be on its proper place. I better stop trying to find his crazy. He's going to think there's something wrong with me... Uh, hey girl, why are you staring at me like you want to devour me whole? Huh? Oh me? Uh, I was just... Hey look over there! It's a monkey on the beach... We are laughing and comparing our individual versions of celebrity impersonations. Mine are terrible. Hanky, the christmas poo is about all I got. South Park, people. Keep up. And then it hits me....Shit. I have to freakin pee. Where the hell.... 

Never one to be shy, I run to the edge, where the water meets the sand, pop a squat and just go for it. I swear to God, if a crab creeps up and bites my ass... Well, where else was I supposed to pee? There was no one else on the beach with us, it was dark. An ocean squat seemed the perfect solution. I run back to our blanket and he says, here take a swig of brandy.... Why didn't you give me a shot of this before I went down to pee? I could've fought off a manatee. My liquid courage in tow. Stop it. You were worried about a crawly crab coming in for the kill. Yeah. Your right. But I could still take the manatee, I don't care what you say... 

Magic Pussycat Syndrome

It's true. I have Magic Pussycat Syndrome. So kidding, I'm not that arrogant. Or am I? But I will be the first to quandary that if my mystery pocket is no more special than the next girl's... Then, I also have to ponder, does any other heffa strike out with one wackadoodle after the other? Wackadoodle-doo said the wackadoodle chicken. Bok. Bok. I can't be the only chick that has a history of attracting guys with their ticky boom boom, not quite, in tact.... Why else would I find one crazy loon after another? Three cheers for dumb luck! Mother fuckers driving by my house and drinky drunk dialing me. Finding potentially great guys who want to marry me; But their noggin isn't computing at my pace. This is why I'm constantly keeping my hot box locked up for no one to visit without first opting in for the background check. Let's keep it real guys. Once us girls release the sensual crackin, you mofos just get to hypnotized and won't fade into the background gracefully, when things have run its course. Abracadabra, when I snap my twat, you will be entranced to act upon my every wish, Biotches. 

So, girls, if your panty puzzle has got you dragging strays home on the back of your bumper... And this  confuzzlent has eluded you from a love story with a Prince Charming draped in skinny jeans, you're not alone. Your magical kitty just has side effects....

Turkey Joe Tiara

First of all, I love dressing up. Garçon! Tiara! Chop chop! Secondly, I love meeting new people and talking about other people that they find amusing to watch. Yes, she really did wear that... Poor thing. Or criticize. Come on girls, be nice... Maybe she doesn't own a full length mirror. No, I was right the first time... Make fun of. Oh, that is not a real friend to you dollface... Lettin you leave the house like that. Hm. HM. Hmmm... Back to the party, First thing we did was bee line to the bar... You've got to. Party time! There is no way to get through this kind of Christmas party without the help of alcohol. Shots! Shots! Come on, Isn't that true for all christmas soirees? Especially when I was waiting on the arrival of the trashy mean girl that everyone had been telling me about. After noticing the dinner service has no where near begun on time, I survey the area and notice there are turkey joe sliders (maybe not turkey, just a hopeful guess) roaming around on trays throughout the ballroom. Oooo yum. But these waiters get about halfway through the grand hall... And never make it to our side of the room. Bastards. I need a plan. I could toss a dessert spoon on the floor. They'll trip and fall and I'll save the day by catching the saucer of succulent gobble gobbles. I was at my perch, eyeballing every server in hopes of tackling their plates for a couple of those little buggers. That's right, no shame here. I'll tackle that sampler platter in my pencil skirt. 

We left our table to take some adorable pics in costume... What.. Costume pics like prom? Awesome. And I'm not being sarcastic. I know, rarity. Still didn't see the unpleasant lass everyone's loathed about. But I was busy pretending to be a jersey muchacha, gum smacking, tiara wearing princess ...and that was way more vital to my existence anyway. Feather boas. Glitter. High heels. You'll never get me away from this green screen, snapshot bonanza. Long story short, I never did meet the trashy mean girl. Yes you did. Wait. I did? Hmph... Don't remember. Guess the sloppy turkey sliders wrestling event and champagne trumped my interest... Or the tiara. It was definitely the tiara.

The BRC Bell Pepper

Can you cook? Before you answer that, keep in mind, Top Ramen isnt cooking. Do you google recipes? Who doesn't? I do too, so what. But I also, generally can throw things together by guesstimating and a lot of times when I follow the recipes they've given you the wrong measurements anyway. Which means mine turns out better. Because I've altered the recipes. I know, I'm awesome. I'm a kitchen goddess. 

But, sometimes, there are people whom- no matter what recipe- what cookbook, what... You tube video? Mouthing "wow" ...in a whisper. They just can't seem to put something on the table that a dog would touch... Bark. Bark. Poor pupster, all starving and whatnot. Gnawing off his own leg. Fido, Stop! 

I'm part Sicilian. Not really relevant. It probably just means I can admit how much I love to eat. So, yeah, I can whip up and create shit. Not bragging. Stating facts. Listen, the Pumpkin Fires was an isolated incident. I'd appreciate it if you'd stop bringing  up old shit. I'm no Master Chef Junior -gosh, that was a good finale- but I can hold my own. Except in November. With those pumpkin seeds. Hush, before I pop you one. That caught fire. Pow! Bang! Pop! 

There is someone I know of though... Well, they aren't that lucky. You've all probably had italian stuffed peppers before... I'm assuming. Italian meats diced up and mixed with garbanzo beans, cheeses, flavorful marinara, etc. But I bet you didn't know there's someone on the Internet showing folks how to put refried pinto beans and cheese like you put in a burrito, into a bell pepper. Huh? Now maybe I'm alone here; but this is the wackiest food idea I've ever heard. They should be arrested. And a  sloppy mess, at best. Arrested and slapped with pinto beans. Sounds like a plan. A BRC Bell Pepper. Sounds like an option item on El Pollo Loco's drive-thru menu. Listen, people, Mexican food doesn't go into every concoction you create. And I freaking LOVE Mexican food. And just because there's beans and rice doesn't mean it's a real Mexican food item either. Take a class. Read a book. Take trip outside the U.S. For heavens sake! Irregardless. Pay attention. Did you just scoop those mushy legumes out of a can? I'm going to need a tetanus shot. You don't just slop beans, rice and cheese together throw it in any ole thing and call it dinner. Driving the point home here... And taking that poor leg-less dog with me. I know Fido, They didn't love you. It doesn't belong in a stuffed, Italian bell pepper and furthermore, it definitely doesn't belong inside a baked potato. 

Text Assailant

I received an interesting text over the weekend. I was both, tickled with insatiable laughter, and confined with feelings of being violated. Gosh... Sometimes I wish I would drop name bombs on you guys so you could get the five laughs off of some of these jokers-with visuals; But, alas, I keep close to the privacy quotient and keep these dildo soldiers faceless. Dammit. The fuckery. I know. 

Back to the text assault... Picture this. Morning. I hadn't even begun my coffee slurping. I check my phone. If you know me, that will never begin well... You could send me a good morning text with fairy dust and glitter bursting from it and I'd bah-humbug that shit before my cup of joe. Focus. Dusting off glitter. Text Massacre? Oh yes...  So I open a text from someone I hadn't heard from in quite some time. Nice guy. Just wasn't for me. And I'm a little delighted because I'm always curious about how people are doing years later and hope they're doing all la-do-da... I'm nostalgic like that. We had kicked it for some time, no big whoop dee doo and remaining friends wasn't a stretch for either party and I feel like I could add another member to my extended acquaintance family tree. Only seeing them at reunions. Like a distant cousin or something... Who I dated. Wait. That didn't come out right. 

Boy, was I wrong. Ever hear of the saying that people come into your life for a reason, season, or a lifetime? Holy crap. Nice guy to weird guy. A reason has never rung more true for this situation. And I think sending me a random dick pic is a pretty disgusting reason to let someone loose... Time to prune back that proverbial tree family. Timber! At first insult, I felt like I wanted to vomit. After i contained my need to upchuck... I thought, mayyyybe he sent this to me by mistake. Oh look... It was followed up by a wink face text. Sigh. Intentional. 

We can no longer be friends. I could make a mockery of him and screenshot that ugly thing, stick it all over social media. Do it. Yeah? Do it. No. Be a good person, Rita. But then again? Come on, do it. No. Now you stop it little shoulder devil. The urge to disgorge is real. But, I'm not evil.. So, damn. I need another option. And if you're grossed out from reading this... Think about how nauseated I was to bear witness. Ugh. I shudder... Oh. Got it. You just earned yourself a spot on the block list, my now, former tactless friend. I feel so clammy. After I show my disdain for your social text ineptness... I find that there's a moral to this story. There is? No... There's not. Listen, Just don't send surprise junk pics to girls. It's creepy. I beg you. Because the will to throw up won't subside. Repugnant crudeness equals regurgitated lunch. Awwww... And that box of cordial cherries. All alone. With my name on it. Awaiting my consumption. Appetite, killed. Thanks text assailant. You're a doll. Good looking out though, shoulder angel. 

Song-Whoring

http://www.fusic.com/videos/11940

Obsessed. Clamoring. Can't live without it. Ok, ok. What the hell am I talking about... So, I am completely song-whoring over this app. Song-whoring is a thing. I just invented it. Hush. And keep up. The app is called Fusic. It's free and it's freaking so fun. Sing terribly. Song terrifically. Nobody cares. There's tons of good mistletoe vibes with super adorable peeps disguised as choir elves. Everyone just has fun on it. Get off the wall, flowers! Tear your vocal chords out and have a ball. You can sing video karaoke style or you can lip sync... Video, Uh, style... For the shy or non-singer. And since it's raining cats and dogs outside-ha look! just saw a corgi- in California, we are all kinda stuck in the house. Unless we have school. Or jobs. Or... Shit to do. I don't know. I don't film until Sunday on a project so I'm falling into the category of "nothing to do" -except pretending I have shit to do. Wait. So, do I have things to do? I'm confused. 

And since I'm creating some things to do today... It's song-whoring all day. Move over professionals! Us ragulars are going to FA-La-la-la-la to Train's holiday tunes, or To All You Want For Christmas with Mariah! I know. I'm too excited. Suck it. I'm rarely impressed and this has been just to much fun! pssst… So, a little backstory, I had forgotten about this app and was getting alerts in my email about people liking a video -or two- that I did. Literally, two. Well, after figuring out I wasn't being spammed by Merry Titties Unlimited-I made that up, relax-I clicked on and rediscovered with my childlike innocence… my new favorite app. On the planet. That I hadn't taken advantage of in a year. Anyway, it's winter holiday fuckery with a dash of boredom killing. Enjoy! 

Can we get a refill?

My son and I have been obsessed with Denny's lately. Don't lecture. They have new menu items that are surprisingly quite tasty. Holiday themed dishes! Questionable-looking gravy. Cranberry sauce from a can. And yes I've been hanging with my kid a lot. But he's my buddy. No I'm not. Or I force him to hang with me. This might be illegal. And be my buddy. You will enjoy your time with your mommy. Dragging him by his Jean pockets distinctly qualifying his inclusion -to my outings- as part of a... buddy system. Hey buddy! To which, he begrudgingly adheres. Somebody. Help. Such a good kid. Anyway, It's all about perspective. 

Focus, everytime we go to said restaurant, we keep getting served, glasses of water that are the size of toddler sippy cups. Slurp. Refill. Slurp. Refill please. Slurp. Refill. Slurp. Ah. Mozzarella sticks. 

So we are slurping up our third serving of H2O-filled tumblers and watch the waitress -bring to a table across the room- large water cups. Yeah.. LARGE. Water. Glasses. Heyyyyy. Our mouths dropped to the floor. With drool. Uh, waitress, Napkins? We could not believe we have been wamboozled. Bam! Bang! Pow! They werrrrre smokers so... maybe ...they looked thirstier than us. Cough. Cough. Lung. Emphysema would make one, insatiably, in need of quenching... I suppose. 

Guess Wonder Woman will have to fly in refill numero siete... (That's #7, my non-spanish speaking friends) *wink 

Ink Cartidge Hell

How did a simple trip to Walmart turn into this tomfoolery? Oh... Wait. This is me we are talking about... Story of my life. Stupid Kodak fax/scanner crappery. I needed ink for my printer. Which has become a pretty regular staple item on my errand list. Eggs. Milk. Ink cartridges. More, on my hatred for my Kodak printer, on another post. Hell with it. The fact that I need to buy printer ink -that should last 670 pages of printing responsibility; the promise it makes on the freaking box- only lasts the equivalent of 12 pages of printing stupidity. Anyone with this piece of sh** copier knows what I'm talking about. Time to toss this plastic paperweight. Pass the recycling bin. Pass go. Collect $200. Oh wait. No, I'm out that money... which now, as I take a reality check... I should have just fed the cold hard cash to a pack of gerbils. Stick to camera film... Kodak. Oh wait... I stand corrected. This time, It printed only 5 pages. Before saying low ink. And if the color cartridge is out and there is still black ink, this garbage won't print anything. Prints NOTHING. Not even on greyscale. Pay attention. I get more pages of napkins at my local coffee spot that comfortably collect in the glove compartment of my car.  So my Kodak printer loathing continues.... I drag my happy ass to my local superstore and  scouring the isles for ink. DVDs. Tablet cases. Flat screen televisions. After making my way through the store and its holiday chaos, I finally grab the cartridges, and with my frozen burger patties in tow... I'm off to the register. What. You haven't lived if You don't impulse shop. For meat. 

After a swift checkout-I think it WAS raining pigs- because quick checkouts at Walmart? Unheard of. That has never gone so smoothly. I'm happy. My day is turning around. And... apparently it was not. And it WAS absolutely raining barnyard animals because we didn't exit the parking lot to anything less than the police helicopter flying over the parking lot spotlighting me, and everyone else in the parking lot. Freaking really? Ok, then. Grown men ducking behind cars. Kids screaming like its a good episode of COPS. Poor old lady dropped her Sprouts, paper grocery bag. Her vegetable squash rolling away from her tiny little hands. Cop cars driving in droves through the parking lot where I was standing. Grandma's beefsteak tomatoes adding holiday decor to the sidewalk. Sigh. I'd sit and quandary,  a "why me;" but, seriously... 

Finally Im home. Ink changed. Realigned. Ready to print the scripts sent to me to read. Annnnd... won't the mouse work. And yes, I already tried putting in new batteries. I start daydreaming... A butler. No. Bucket list. Swarovski flute. Stop it. Fine. Add to bucket list. Can I at least get a sparkling something? No? Not champagne. Ugh. Fine. Bucket list that too.... But I've got some flat imitation Sprite. And a Solo cup. So it's gonna have to do. Focus people. I'd like to celebrate the tossing of-both-the Kodak machine and the useless computer mouse into the Pacific Ocean. With the accompaniment of the LAPD to spotlight the event. Oh look... and a herd of hedgehogs. Why not... 

Sweaty Drip

I swear, more on one side than the other. Some times it's the left, and other times ...it's on my other left. Anybody else have this problem? Not likely. Is it just me? Most likely. If it is, I'll take that. I'm an oddball. I know that. So today, I'm meeting with a writing partner, and for some crazy reason I'm just sitting and waiting for him to arrive and I feel a trickle of perspiration run down my left arm. Uh. Ok. So I dab with a towel and resume multi-tasking, flip flopping between football games, and listening to music while I wait. Mind you, it's also chilly outside. Which aids, in absolutely, no logical reason for my perspiration. And then... I feel another droplet bead down my left arm. Ugh. Come on. Really? I showered. Today. Put on self tanner. So what, it's streaky. Cut me a break. I'm feeling cute and adorable. Stop it. Sweaty. Arm. Pants. Pants? I don't know. And while it's quite annoying, I can't help but notice, it's doing it twice as much on my left armpit than my right armpit. Sigh. Of course it is. I'm now Sid... from the movie, Ice Age. Moist. Wet. Furry. Wait, what? 

At this junket, I have placed two huge clumps of paper towels under both my arm pit pants because I'm starting to sweat through my clothes now. I'm not nervous. It's not hot out. Completely, illogical sweat moisture. I'm italian? I'm spicy? I could spin this into a positive chili pepper moment? Nope. Sweaty pit ownership. By the time my meeting starts, the huge globs of paper have withered into baby sized spitballs from all the dampness and it's coming out in fragments. Post-tree, chopped from wood... Paper towel shrapnel. 

And yes... I have applied deodorant. A***holes. Did you really think I didn't try that? Don't answer that. Ugh. Maybe I should try to Botox my under arms.... I heard that is a sure fire way to impede the sweaty raindrops from my body. Although with my luck, my pits would be paralyzed... And I'd still drip like a perspiration percolator.

Chapped Pretzels

Let me paint a painfully proverbial picture for you all this morning. I'm playing chess. Not the painful part... Wait for it. We are munching on grilled cheese sandwhiches, tomato soup, hot cocoa, pretzels and orange juice. Hush... It was delicious. There could be more ...odd combinations... but this was ours. 

I decide to stop inhaling my orange juice-which I dip my pretzels into to- so I could adjust my seated position. I seriously have no circulation in my legs. They fall asleep more than I do. Ow. Pins and needles. Pins and needles. And when I did, a couple pretzels that I apparently sat aside for later came tumbling down my blanket. Guess I'm a squirrel hiding acorns now. So I quickly picked them up and stick them in my mouth. But wasn't eating them yet. Just keeping them close. Don't want them to go to waste. Or break. Or run off. I made another move on the board... Knight to bishop. Haha! Suck it. And then grab the pretzel sticks out of my mouth... 

And ripped the skin right off my bottom lip. Holy giraffe balls! So when it's cold outside, apparently, you cannot only... Not put your mouth on frozen light posts... but putting your mouth on dry, salted pretzels will put you in the hospital too. And try to kill you. I always knew my life would be cut short by a sourdough bullet. There's a little reminder of two skinless shaped pretzel sticks on my bottom lip. How am I supposed to apply lipstick now? It burns when I gloss up. Not even medicated Chapstick can save me now. Well... Serves me right. My pretzel greed was real. Couldn't just let the little twists just fall off the blanket... The fuckery. 

Grated Madness

My son offered to make me dinner last night. Burritos! Holy wow. Hell hath frozeth over, in the form of tamales. Just kidding. He's a great kid. And if the only thing he can make is burritos then I'm all for it. Otherwise, If I keep waiting around for a caprese panini, I may starve. Anyway, I fell asleep earlier during the day and had asked him prior to my snore fest that he clean up the kitchen. Visions of baby beans and shredded cheese particles dancing in my head. Now, if you have kids, you already know the never-ending battle of "the cleaning of the house." Filthy dishes. Crap on the floor.  Dirty cheese grater. BLAH. 

So I awaken from my noontime slumber and I roam my happy ass into the kitchen -singing happy burrito songs -and the bomb that had gone off had yet to be... Still... tidied up. Ugh. Nobody wants to enter that dragon. Fire breathing hot sauce chaos. I went from happy to shitty in under two seconds flat. I'm a mom. It's a required talent. Get your butt up and handle that! Ugh. No, satirist mumbles allowed, man-child. I pretty much ripped him a new one. Teenage angst, grunt and groans. Fun. Fun. I'm your mom, not your friend. No. Wire. Hangers! I'll live through your momentary disdain. 

As I fight off the Mommy Dearest reference trying to escape me like the exorcist. I make the biggest deal about the cheese grater. What's a burrito without any cheese? No. Really. The cheesy goodness is the best part. The grater was dirty and... I saw visions of my dinner waning. Waiiiit... Delicious tortillas. Don't run. Come back! Therefore, my incessant yacking. Or crying. Clean the kitchen! We can't... go on.. Without... The grater. Give the grater a good scrub! Do you hear that? I do. It's the faint screams of the extra sharp cheddar, howling my name...

After all was said and done, we decide to get to it together and bond -over mexican rice- and he pulls a bag from out of the refrigerator. Well I'll be damned. We bought pre-shredded cheese.

Musical Pockets

Hanging out with friends is something I don't get to do often. I've got workaholic, obsessive compulsive, perfectionistic qualities. Whew. What a mouthful. Chomp. Chomp. So when the opportunity came up to do it... There. So. I did. Tada! So I love when my friend wears this ridiculously useless, multi-pocket, parka vest. What the hell is that? Are you cold? Is it hot? How could you possibly be warm when your arms are protruding outside of your body. Exposed to that bone chilling cold. Ok, to be fair. It's so not cold here. No reindeer on my balcony. Really, it's never gets that old here. It's not snowing, I think someone just spit off the roof. It is the most confusing piece of outerwear one could own. And forget the fact that you put your phone in pocket A. Your notepad in Pocket B. And your car keys in pocket... Wait, how many pockets does one vest fucking need? Apparently, eighteen. What if you want your cash in one of the secret pockets (the ones inside the jacket.) Just kiss that cash goodbye because it will disappear into the black hole pocket. Star Date, Captain. It appears your cookie has turned to crumbles in the far off planet of pocketdom. Er, um.... Stupid parka pockets. 

Yuletide Fuckery

Ok. So yes, I put my Christmas tree up already. Thank you Hallmark Channel for the holiday movie marathons. Since October. You've inspired me. Or brain washed me. There's nothing under the festive evergreen. And, it's a month early. Don't judge me. It's also missing a leg... Somehow in all the moving around that we have done, the tragedy of the Christmas tree leg has come to light. Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree... How lovely are thou straggly branches. And missing parts. Everybody sing! 

Fine. It's a Charlie Brown yuletide birch; but hey, I put it up with love and tenderness. Mostly because, the damn aspen wouldn't stay up with with three legs and it was a freaking nightmare... But, with tenderness all the same. Never Mind  the whack against my fireplace. If it didn't bruise the mantle, it didn't happen. 

So what should take approximately 20 minutes to setup took about an hour and a half. This faux sapling is only about 5 feet tall and ...maybe 5 inches? My son can fling it around with one hand. And he's bigger than the tree. I'm not bigger than the tree. Im not bigger than most things. Now that I'm reminded of it. I'm a shrimp. Or an elf. But whatever. Everything is usually bigger than me and I've come to accept that. A little chickadee on a farm of bison. What? I don't know. Back to the tree. It's all set up and it keeps falling over. Timber! So, I came up with an idea to put my son's ankle weights on the back leg. He can't lose that much ankle muscle in a month. He can improvise. He can use soup cans. Or a jug of milk. He's not made of paper. Maybe that'll keep the beech from falling over. Timber! Hmmm. So I grab his free weights and add that to the front of the fir  where the leg is missing in action. Timber! What the heck. I've got about forty pounds on -and against- this plastic fiasco and it still keeps towering over.... Timber! 

Stop it. 

After much to do over this overgrown green bush... I think I got it. Tim- don't you dare -Ber! Keep laughing, my child, see if you find any presents under this bastard next month. Coal in the stocking! Order for one please Santa! I strategically arranged the weights to hold up the oak wannabe. It's catching a slight lean. But I think it's going to stay put this time. Now for the decorations... 

Timber! 

Sigh. 

Popsicle Jewels

Are you kidding me?!

Ok. So me and my girl are on the phone over the weekend. Yucking it up about business and friends. Shoes and bad hair cuts. It's true, bad hair cuts are a six month nightmare for a girl. BLAH, blah. Just shootin the shit. And then... we start talking about guys. So her dude is in the room. She can't talk. Because, clearly, she's going to talk about whatever stupid ass thing his goofy butt did in the last twenty-four hours. Last time he nailed his finger to a pound cake. Sigh. She tells me, it's 18 degrees outside and he's got the air conditioning on. You must be kidding me... Nope. Total boyfriend-girlfriend nonsense. What the... Who the hell puts on the air conditioning on when there's snow on the ground? Rhetorical, people. Don't answer that.  First order of business... Pick up some gloves from the Outdoor Store. 

Maybe he's just messing with you? Poke the sleeping mama bear. Why not? Death wishes might be your gig. I don't know. Maybe he has no circulation? Medical conditions are no laughing matter. Let's dump him on the wheelbarrow... He won't feel a thing.

Monty Python's: The Holy Grail

It's possible,  he doesn't feel pain… So.. maybe… he never gets… cold? I'm giving him too many excuses here. My apologies. Most likely, he just needs to be knocked out via frying pan so you can start up the fireplace… All I know is, if you're wearing a parka in the bathroom, it's time for some recon. 

Second order of business... Toss all pots and pans to enforce the commencement of the oven ceremony. You wanted eggs, my darling? Aw... We are all out of skillets. Looks like you'll have to bake  yourself a quiche. Golly. Gosh. Darn it. I'll be in the sofa, with every blanket we own, In between the cushions... with my earmuffs. This fool ain't gonna catch me the fucking pneumonia. I cleaned out Walmart's entire winter stock to bundle my ass up in.. Snow shoes. A beanie. An Inuit. Ooooo... I like that necklace. Oh hell, why not. I can be the prettiest frozen popsicle the morgue ever did see. 

HOUDINI POOFERY

With so much going on in my world right now, I wanted to give you all a short update today about my new song produced by Big Boi Beats in Atlanta. Hi BB. We are getting our plans together for a video. So in the meantime, enjoy the sounds! I wrote this as a homage to the boyfriends of dating past who decide to dump you without nary a peep. Did I just hear a cricket chirp? Your siting around months and months later thinking... Did he run away to the circus? Was he attacked by a gerbil? Uh, did we break up? So... I give thanks to those douche bags for inspiring me to dig deep into my soul and find that dark and desolate place that I was able to hopefully justify eloquently in this piece. It's true, sometimes I make tons of sense. Everyone, I imagine, has been treated this way at least once in your lives and no one seems to talk about it. Probably because she's still waiting by the phone wondering if antelope had run through the streets and ate him. Or in this case sing…

Closure is a gift we may not want; but, when if we can get that sucky gift, we should practice finding the gratitude in it. Or eat chocolate. Or hell, crack open some champagne. Have a great weekend! Love & Light! 

Mission: Bronze Goddess

 

So yes, I confess, I do go to the tanning bed from time to time to keep my tan going strong. Its totally like lifting weights, you know. Flesh exercise? But if I didn't, my Sicilian skin would look yellow and sickly. Doctor, I need Vitamin D, stat. And while I'm not on a crazy tanning mission to be a sultry orange... Translucency, is not my cup of tea. Oooo, tea sounds good right now. And there's a whole slew of tanned and toned bodies out here and I can't possibly be odd woman out. Although, I do see many pasty faces. And. Orange. Faces. Want some tea? Back to the point... So I thought I'd go lay down for that sexy glow for fifteen minutes. I don't know why but I always have this tiny fear that the thing is going to short circuit and fall on me. My legs hanging out of what would be... the tan sandwhich. One, Charred, Smoked Rita Club on plastic... Order up! Ding! Ding! 

Ok, so it didn't fall on me today. A total win. But I had another problem on my hands. Or rather... Bodily function. I had to tinkle. I knew I had to go potty when I talked to the -oh so ditzy girl -at the counter. Started my peepee dance as I walked to my designated room. Visions of golden waterfalls, dancing in my head, as i undressed. Instigating shivers down my spine as i slathered on the magic potion. And unadulterated bladder cramping... as I toast my tasty buns under the bulbs. Sizzle. Sizzle. Each minute passing by slower than the last. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Now, one would think, this girl was on a mission to bronze, how would we possibly have expected you to see the bathroom on your skip down the halls to the skin bakery? You are so right. There was a commode en route to my tanning room. Door open. Vacant. Fresh towels next to the sink. And yet, I chose to accomplish Mission: Bronze Goddess instead. Hello. Urinary Tract Infection. It's been too long... But I really needed to score that tan. 

Gum Buddies

I have been searching for my earbuds for two days. Maybe three... I didn't know where they went. Maybe they flew off to Tahiti? Everyone needs to vacation. I don't know. I had no clue if they grew legs and walked away. Like a polka dotted spider from the poconos. Hey, Anything's possible. It is a new mellinium. Thought maybe my kid swiped them from me. Or a warthog. Warthogs are a huge problem in LA, I can see them chomping up my earbuds now. As I run in slow motion, yelling noooooooooo...... Not. The. Ear. Buds. Just kidding. The only warthogs in LA, have two legs and pretend to be big time directors so they can get booty. Say no to the casting couch ladies.... 

Back to me. I had to use speaker phone. Can you believe that? I hate speaker phone. It's like I went back in time or something. Always sounds gurgled. It's either too loud or too quiet. And you can't hear a muffled voice in either situation. Welc-me to McDon-d's, doe t-at co-ete your order.? Ugh. Exactly. No one understands that shit. Did she get my fries? Guess it's a surprise gift bag now. Stupid speaker phone. 

So I dug into my closet and grabbed a backup pair. Somehow I've accumulated three backup pairs. Maybe I lose my earbuds often? Nah. Maybe I lose my earbuds often and buy new ones and then find the old ones in a pocket and it gets thrown to the backup pair pile? In a box. In the closet. Maybe I left them in the car. That's possible. I was on the phone with my mommy at the time. Now that I think about it, she ditched me for a TV show. Tisk Tisk Mother. They've gotta turn up somewhere...  inside that warthog. Chomp. Oink. Chomp. Oink. Chomp. 

Another day goes by and I needed to run some errands. Well low and behold... On the ground, what do I see?? Gum? No, ass. Next to my driver's side door... Gum. ...Seriously? No. My damn ear buds! And yes.. Gum. They're on the ground like they fell out of that magic pocket I don't have and... Stuck. In. Gum. Sigh. 

Car Wash Bark Bark

My vehicle looked bad. I mean, real bad. The, I don't think it's been washed for two months, kind of bad. So I decided to take my dirty car's butt to the car wash. Next to me was a woman who had twenty kids, ok fine... I'm exaggerating. Four. She had four kids. Maybe it was three. Either way, they were the sound of twenty. Wah. Mom. Can we? But why not? I was so happy they all sat down next to me. Yes, folks, sarcasm. She had two cute little dogs too. Caramel and fuzzy. Inquisitive little buggers. Are you done sniffing my boot? Ok thanks. Those little furballs were cute only until the fire trucks blaring their sirens drove by. 

What the hell?! Those little yap yaps started barking so much right next to my ear. Startled the crap out of me. She apologized for them barking a lot but then we got to talking about children and I mentioned to her that hers are at the fun stage. Mine doesn't need me anymore. Well actually, he acts like he does so maybe I did a good job? He still loves me... Yay! Whew. My little monkey. Stop being sappy. So, her being nice made me stop hating her. And her kids. And the annoying dogs. Just kidding, she was a really nice lady who was clearly over worked with that herd. I wondered where the husband/father was in hindsight. I don't know about her situation but if I had a hubby at home, I would've left his ass with all that mess and took my time drinking my latte while the car was getting detailed. Sorry, my darling hunny buns, I'm taking a mommy day... It would read like a novel. She was barely heard as the door slammed behind her, as she left the house. Husband never stood a chance to object. He ran to the door, and on their doorstep, a dust cloud. Where she might have stood. And the squealing of tires on the next block. 

Oh look, a magazine stand, I'll take the People Weekly, the Star gossip rag, and the Muscle & Fitness Hers... Oh and "find your peace now?" Yeah, I'll take the Oprah magazine too. 

Insomniac Attack

The thing I hate most about insomnia is sitting there, wide awake, with what I would call "ticks." Not the little bugs that suck your blood. Or vampires. Or involuntary shouts at strangers. But when you're laying down, staring at the ceiling, fondling your pants. Or blankets. Stop that. Get your minds out of the gutter. Not talking about that... This time.

 Twirling my hair, contemplating about getting up. But not getting up. Why is my tummy upset? Oh.. That's right. Stupid wine. Brain going around in circles. Two bongos and a monkey never gets boring. Since Mustering the energy to tinker at the piano has escaped me in the twilight hour, I'm so wide awake that it would make sense. Good thing I don't have any ghosts. Although, I'd have a buddy to chat with all night. Now that's just crazy talk. Cookoo. Cookoo. I would never get any sleep if I had a ghostly buddy. Gosh, when I think about it... There are so many things I could be doing. Like, sleeping. But I'm not. Since I thrive on being productive... I'm still just watching the ceiling mock me. Such a conundrum. Can you be quiet, ceiling... I'm trying to sleep. Go yuck it up with the chairs or something. Make yourself useful. Nobody cares about your popcorn covering. Feeling insecure much? Annnnnd, I'm still Not dreaming.... Juuussst thinking about it. 

And When did I get chapped lips? Ow. I don't like this. Gotta be the weather change. I love cold weather. So I don't like to put the horse cart in front of the monkey... Wait. That's not right. The hitch in front of the buggy? The tiger on the back of my.... Oh hell. Forget it. I'm laying still there and by this point I have to pee. And i don't want to get up because it is chilly. Not quite penguin chilly. Snuggle weather is the best. Rabid pillow smuggler. Total problem in these parts. Three chapters later into some chick literature... I'm yawning. Is there hope? Have I found the fountain of sleep? I exhale. Can I ask myself a thousand more questions.... Ugh. Nope. So I plop in front of the TV for some Everybody Loves Raymond reruns and hope this sitcom lullabye hits me like a freight train. Oh I love This episode where Ray tries to get Debra's splinter out of her finger. Dragging her across the floor... Screaming. Am I sleepy now? Nope. Ugh. Where's that damn Chapstick? Oooo... pretzels. 

Boardwalk Beauty

My 1920s Look

As Boardwalk Empire is in it's last season, I just wanted to point out -wait for it- that the producers missed out in a huge opportunity to really take this amazing show further. It's coming... Wait for it. How did they not see that it wouldn't go beyond five seasons without this pertinent character? You're going to love this idea... Wait for it. They've pretty much killed every one off in season four and need some new blood. Well, hello, I don't know my blood type but this new blood absolutely belongs as a guest star. I could be O+.... I don't know, probably not even vampire worthy… moving on. But hey HBO, you need me! Plus I like to play pranks on my cast mates, which couldn't be more annoying and distracting. Just a thought. Seriously, this time, moving on…

I could be Nucky Thomspon's new love interest. Go with me on this… A performer on the beach, who suddenly can't swim and Nucky jumps in with his fancy clothes to save me. I mean, who jumps in the ocean with a tight rope balancing stick anyway? Uh… this bitch! My character's name should be Marla. I don't know where that came from either but since it's set back in the 1920s, I imagine Marla is a good name. Spoiler alert. So Nucky is going to find out that Marla is really a spy, only, she is disguised -and introduced- as a beach performer. As everyone has warmed up to Nucky, now a reformed bootlegging mobster, Marla will be working with, What he will think, is an innocent unicyclist fawning for his attention; but really... She's working for the crooked cop guy who was busted down and his vengeance toward Nucky is futile. So Marla's gotta "off" Margaret's nosey butt, but instead sends her and her children away under false pretenses. Hey, I can't play a killer. I have a weak stomach. So, back to the secret spy part... So, she uses Nucky, to convince crooked cop guy, Van Alden, that she's just a girl wrapped up in a crazy scheme. And when the shit hits the fan… Everyone turns up dead or in jail and she shows up at the end of this final season on Arnold Rothstein's arm! What the hell?! Ohhhh yeah, edge of your seat writers... Arnold and Marla have been plotting all along to take over the East coast, knocking off every mobster and bootlegger in their wake. Remember when Rothstein was making these secret phone calls and trips in season 3? (I think it was season 3) well... It was him and Marla making a fail-proof plan to over take Jersey City. I know. I know. Now that I think about the twists and turns Marla will be doing to flip this show upside down, she's kind of a whore. Dammit… well, on the bright side, fans of Boardwalk Empire… You're welcome. 

Workout Breakdown

I've been back on my workouts now for a few days and I'm sore as all hell. My trainer is clearly ignoring my whining and keeps coming back to torture me. Something tells me he likes to incur pain. So, mom says to drink watermelon juice to ease the soreness. Always one for a natural solution, I promise her I would try it today. Right after my coffee. And another painful fitness session. And a meeting. And... Ah hell, I will get to it later. 

Funny thing is, I used to love working out and enjoying the sore muscles quotient. But now... It's a struggle to even think about spandex. That thought alone is exhausting. It's a jumping jack. Do one. Ugh, No. 

Ok so I will end up working out anyway because I have an overachiever complex. Ta-da! I can do do it all. Bom. Bom. Bom. But when my nervous breakdown comes just be sure to have tons of junk food on hand. And a baby elephant. I don't know... Who wouldn't want a baby elephant? No one. Ok fine. A baby elephant is excessive. And not a good workout buddy. And too big to house. Dammit. Anywhere. So potbelly piggy it is... I'm going to name him paperweight. That'll encourage me... Ah hell, forget it. I'm just going sit right here in my pajamas. 

Balcony Relief

Why is it... In every building I've ever lived... Is there that one asshole who is a chain smoker. And lives above ME. Do I have "hey Nasty smoker, move in above me" stamped on my forehead or something?! Ugh. And by the way, who freaking smokes for two hours straight? A grumpy hunchback bastard, that's who. And just curious... Isn't smoke supposed to rise? Nope. Not if you live above, I suppose. Criminy. I hid under blankets. Couldn't escape the smell. I hid in my room. Seemed stronger there. By night's end, I felt like I'd been in a forest fire. Inhaling so much of that crap that my allergies kicked up and I couldn't breathe. It was probably killing me from the inside out. Omg. I almost died. I think my neighbor is trying to kill me. I knew he was up to something. I will foil his plans. He won't get away with it. Everytime he smokes Im going to throw a bucket of water from my balcony onto his balcony. How Im going to do this without all the water getting on me... I haven't a clue. Picture this: Maybe if I swoop down, and around in a half moon shape up towards his general direction.... Like in a scooping motion? Hmmmm. This might be tricky. Trick-Or-Treat. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, be kind, smokers. Cough. Cough. There are others around you that aren't looking for emphysema. 

Watch Swag 101

I'm a fairly timely girl. Haha, what? I'm early for appointments. Says who? Says me. Zip it. I make sure projects make deadlines. Actually, I am good with that. And when I was little I would wear a watch constantly and check it as if I had minutes to live. Hypochondriac. That's what happens when your on tight schedules though I suppose. No, that's what happens when your a hypochondriac. But now, I don't wear a watch. I barely check my phone for the time. Sometimes I make plans and they change abruptly. Free-spirit.

So why the hell did I wear a watch when I went out last week? Uh... Who does that? No one who's sane.  I think if you're wearing a watch to be fashionable -grandpa- then it's cool. So, I thought I was being fashionable and it ended up becoming the butt of the joke. Hey Father Time! Fine. Doc, where's the Deloreon? Jokes on me. Are you the going to show up naked in the woods? Seeing yourself as a little kid? Then an old woman? Haha, I can take it. Time Traveler's Wife people, keep up.

Yuck it up, annoying friends of mine... The moment will come when I make fun of your style choices.... In the blog. Insert evil laugh here... Bwahaha! 

Happy Ghouls Day!

Cat Woman (me), Random Cop,
and random guy photo bombing it.
MEOW

Ghoulish themed dinner anyone? Yes, I am attempting another hoorah in the kitchen. Screeching in horror. Armed with a fire extinguisher. My son is a bit too old-and way too freaking tall- to do the trick or treat thing. No I'm not. Son, you are. Here's a bowl, you're a Grecian goddess' son, pass out the candy. He strongly disagrees. On the trick-or-treat stance. Although he likes making muscles like Hercules. Wow.

So get spooky! A Frankenstein inspired taco bake casserole. Yum. A bloody vampire lemonade with eyeballs floating in it. I can't wait. Monster's fingers breadsticks. Nom. Nom. Nom. I am staying far far away from throwing any pumpkin seeds in the oven. No more house fires thank you. But, I'm certain I can handle the rest of it.

We aren't going to do the costume thing this year either; although I

Random Batman

love dressing up! Last year I was working on a set so I missed out on Halloween festivities. But the year before? Sexy cat woman. Rowr! I'm always a slutty version of something for Halloween. Hooker. Love it. Tramp. It's the only time of year you can walk the street with your ass hanging out and not get arrested. No seriously, one year on the streets of San Diego, I saw a man with his butt cheeks on display for all to bear witness. I still shutter. It wasn't the nicest pair of cheeks. So I'm stealing my son's costume. No, not a shirtless female Hercules. Oooo, that be fun. Not the time Rita. Fighting stereotypical gender roles. Nor the place. Knock it off. Pretty sure I'd get cops at my door for that one. Most likely… And not the fun stripper-type police officers either. Dammit. I just had no time to shop. I'm opting to be a plane for Halloween. Not a sexy plane. Argh! Foiled again. Dammit. Just a blue plane... with red suspenders. 

Battery Toss

Since I have a really busy day planned today. Mai Tai's and spring rolls qualify in the busy column, right?  I figured I'd show you guys a commercial I was in a few years ago. I know… Throwback Thursday Hashtags are tomorrow. But regardless, I continue. And to be more accurate, it would be more like, many moons ago… I was shuffling through items in my reel and since I have a new song, set to release this week, I have a little more on my plate than usual. More on my platter than laying around on my air mattress? You betcha. This commercial was what I would consider my first big commercial at the time. I hadn't booked anything that serious at the time and when I got the part I was ecstatic. In the audition, I was thrown a tennis ball -that many females apparently could NOT catch successfully- and after getting the call that I had nailed the audition, it was my athleticism that saved my ass, I think. Thank you daddy for treating me like the son you never had! I found out later on while filming that I, indeed, got the part because out of the hundreds of girls that auditioned, I was the only one who could catch the sphere… Which, in the spec you will see that I actually had to be able to catch a small battery! Of course I caught that little bastard every time. This was my moment! Jason Dirron was a great director and the cast was super fun and into it the whole time. Ok, so here ya go! Hope you enjoy! See yall tomorrow!