Manic Musical Interlude

Starbucks. I think we need an intervention. When it comes to the altruistic sounds that are heard playing above your patrons heads as they enjoy their coffee lattes. I felt as though I was in a manic state as the music switched from one ridiculous impaired bewailing to the next. I think I literally saw a tumbleweed cross our table when we sipped our mochachinos. Lest not leave out the excitement of the decibel level of said musical violation. Sarcasm.  How loud does that damn music need to play? I couldn't even hear my own thoughts. I couldn't make an order at the counter without shouting and the barista looking at me like I was a light beacon attracting a moth.  Let me share the emotional bedlam I so luckily endured. Road trip time. 

The clatter switched to something reminiscent of a scene from Halloween. Um, is there someone hiding behind your coffee press there? Uh... Well until this creepy music ends, you might want to escort your lifelike, shade of milk-inspired, scream character away from the blades of that blender.... That's all I'm saying. I'd like to live through today's order thank you very much. 

And as the buzz switches, a clown pops out from behind the stock room. Ah. Circus-themed music now. I think I'm catching on here. Sigh. God help me.  

Oh hi Humphrey, where's Rita? Oh my bad, I thought we were in a classic film awaiting Sabrina's arrival to the dance. Oh no? Ok. I'll just hop on the Roman scooter and pretend I'm not a princess hiding from my duties then. Yes, all references from old movies. Keep up. This what I was dealing with... Feeling scattered yet? Welcome to my vanilla caramel macchiato nightmare. 

Fantastic. Charo has entered the building. Nice fruit. Is that organic? 

Oh, me salsa? I only like fresh and homemade. Thanks. But let's merengue! FML. Is that a conga line next to the Starbucks napkins?

And where are your cowgirl boots little lady? Uh, what? Oh, Clint Eastwood. Hey. What steed brought you in today's Starbucks in the valley.... Oh, right. The ever-so-subtle hillbilly musician playing the spoons. Gotcha. 

I've had enough. Starbucks. I love coffee. And your coffee, it's great. But whoever is in charge of the manic music choices needs to take his or her meds. No offense to any real sufferers of mental illness-that's no laughing matter. But this guy with his hand on the dial needs a whack on the knuckles... And some riddlin. Oh and next time I'm here, please make sure all your associates know that "The Red Eye" is a real drink, on the really secret menu. I'm too caffeine deprived when I come in to explain this simple cup of heaven. Dark roast. Add one shot expresso. Voila. Thank you. 

Cap Your Stream

I hate when I'm telling a story and by the end of the chronicle I can't remember the point I was trying to  make. Huh? Explain you're nonsense wench. What the hell are you saying? Or sometimes, what even brought me to tell the saga. Oh crap. Am I Chatty Cathy that likes to hear myself talk? Shit. I hope not. We need another Bugging Betty like another hole in the head. I don't know… maybe another hole could be used somehow. I like to entertain people. Make them laugh and feel… even if it's because I clumsily tried to move a wall with my leg. Because, I'm a klutz. I walk into tables, fall on my underwear laying on the floor. It doesn't take much. Unfortunately, I can't stop the belly aching laughter if I happen to see you trip on a sidewalk. Sorry, in advance, but if I can plummet head first over a pair of trashy lingerie, I am going to laugh so hard you're boyfriend's balls fall off.

But what's the fun in that if you end up narrating epics that just irritate people. Hi sleeping bear, I'm going to poke you. I just want to see what happens. You've done it too, don't judge. What's worse, is if you don't realize you're the talkaholic in a group. You're blabbing away, authoring novella after novelette, thinking people care about what you're going on about. They don't. In reality, they are secretly plotting how to get your voice box removed. Most of the time, we tell other people fables because we feel safe in the environment we are in to tell them. Feel less safe. Please. For the sanctity of our precious little piggly wiggly ears. Or we blather endlessly because we are nervous or feel pressure to keep some kind of noise in the air. Fill the void. I'm a thinker. Which causes me to frame words.
Not intentionally, it just happens. Right. Just like peeing in the toilet. Well, last time I checked, you can cap your stream. Try it sometime. You just might save someone the agonizing spinning of yarns and return your calls next time you want to hang out.

Happy Ever After And A Pegacorn

Leopards. Spots. Ugh, the agonizing question…. So if a leopard CAN change his spots then there's a unicorn in Tuscany with my name on it ready to fly me to a Sicilian-styled picnic. Yes, my unicorn flies, mom, let the debate go. The Pegasus vs. Unicorn debate. I Love you; But, my unicorn has wings... And he flies. He's a Pegacorn. And he's awesome.

I've been sitting on this internal battle for a couple days now and I  am still stuck on what to do. No, not the unicorn thing. I know my stance on that one. Refer back to The Pegacorn. Recently, a few ex-boyfriends have come back into my life. Why? Or, are trying, rather. While some ex-memories are good; some are… Bad, really bad. There are those ex-stories that are middle of the road learning lesson-types. Similarly, I burned myself on some yummy doughy bread rolls once. Don't touch the oven, it's hot. Dummy. They don't really stand out for anything good or bad. Yikes. Bummer, if you're put into that category. Unmemorable much?

 If he's broken your heart more than once… It's idiotic to even consider the notion that this person has your best interest at heart; when they, in fact, screwed you over. Twice, by the way. How many questions would you have for them? I have a ton. How many new rules would you now have to instigate to stop another potential ruin from falling? Oh yeah… The Spanish Inquisition wouldn't even begin to describe what I'd have in store for them. If this was a girlfriend asking me these things, I'd say forget the sap and move on. Bye Bye. He had two shots and blew over the legal limit both times. No getting behind my wheel again. He shouldn't get another chance. He needs to get a girl and keep HER happy ass by doing the right thing, the first time… with her. Susie Q will have no history class with you, can't harbor any resentment… and she will believe everything you say. But, if its anything like the thousands of romantic comedies I've seen… she takes him back, they live together and they do learn lessons. Making history together. Live happily ever after, right?

Like in the films, when the guy comes to the door after weeks ( or months in my case) of them being apart and professes his love to her. He loves her, she gives him a hard time at the door. But, inevitably, he wins her heart back. Favorite scene of every romantic comedy. I always cry on that part. Wuss. Happy endings always get me. Shut it. Wait. He didn't profess his love to me, did he?

Or in that cinematic feature, as she goes into labor at her moms wedding, they rush to the hospital -in the wedding Rolls Royce- and they pit stop at the farmers market so she can tell him she realizes that she, in fact, is madly in love with him. Ok, focus. Stop trying to figure out what movie that's from; it's "The BackUp Plan." No, I am not pregnant. And that's not the point. The point is they end up together a**holes. They do life together. They're a family… a team. Like the song, by Lorde. 

I don't want just texted apology letters and promises of "I've changed" and "I'll do betters." Show up! At my door with flowers you derelict! I wanted to say monkey; But, in this scenario, a show monkey might, indeed, be a more considerable option at this point… And he'd tip his hat for me. I love show monkeys. They give good hugs. Show me I'm worth more than a lazy ass text! Because unless and until I see you with a royal procession sitting on a noble pony on my front porch... Chances are, I'm not going to believe anything you have to say. No matter how much my heart wants to believe people are inherently good, when I've been struck by that nasty blade of love, I don't suddenly get amnesia. Well, not anymore, at least. And unless you caught me on a good day where I've stuffed my face with cinnamon toast crunch cereal and I'm in a cinnamon sugar crunchy heaven… I will have actually put some thought into what you're asking me to accept.

Luckily for me, I've got a lot on my plate right now and just don't really have the time to waste on personal and emotional crap; But, hey, thanks for yet another song idea! And since I need a guy that's going to go above and beyond for me, make me really notice you. Find me a Pegacorn. Or maybe it's a good idea for you to figure out a Plan B. I might be too tough a nut to crack for you. You gotta have gumption. Be the stand alone guy. The guy who knows value when he sees it and be a fighter for it.
By the way… I like Tulips. 

Bouncy House

If I'm in another city, I tend to make sure my transportation is either handled by the production company or agency I'm working for or worst case… I, myself, take care of it. I'm, for the most part, responsible. I make sure I'm independent. Don't ask for help much. I try to do things all myself really. Therefore, it isn't odd for me to assume other people I meet, whom are prone to traveling a lot, have their mode of movement needs in order as well when they come here. Now, let's get one thing straight, in no way, am I a diva. I'd love to be a diva. I wish I was a diva. I've been told I'm the worst type of diva, actually,  because I think I'm low maintenance but I'm supposedly high maintenance. Yeah, a dude told me that. Clearly, he  just didn't understand me. I'm super easygoing. And, if I do say so myself, I'm pretty damn normal. Thing is, I have been stuck in other cities without a horse and buggy. And it sucks. I've missed jobs I had booked because of no conveyance or someone couldn't cart me around. Sort of kills the whole fun of the joyride really. I love what I do too damn much to miss out on work because of no trucking or to get screwed because I was dependent on someone else's shitty word that they'd deliver me there.

Back to the point. I met this really hot guy who rings me up to say he's in my city. Cool. He's hot. He's sexy. He was… uh fun. At least in his city he was super fun. But, he did realize, I didn't care to be his little playtime buddy, more than just that one time… right? For the record guys, not all of you are considered "relationship material." Not trying to be mean or be a whore, for that matter… Facts are facts. Sometimes girls just need a fun-time bouncy house. And, if you're fun-time bouncy house guy, that's all you're ever going to be to us. Maybe look at the bright side of this… be happy she took her shoes off before bouncing?

Problem number one: He expects me to drive to him.  First of all, you're the man. You have the penis. Man up and pick up a lady for a date. I'm not desperate for your little dick. Didn't you tell me you "own" multiple establishments. You ARE out here for business with one of YOUR establishments, aren't you? Hmmm… I've deducted that he's probably making it up. He doesn't have anything but a baby momma and a dream. He's probably here visiting his long lost kids he forgot to mention.

Problem number two: He doesn't get a rental car while in my city. Secondly, he explains that he has his "staff" come pick him up to do what he needs to do. Um, how did you plan on seeing me? Oh, I should come stay the night with you? Right. Sorry, lazy ass. Have the baby mama pick you up. You know, the one I made up. Because, otherwise, none of this make sense.

And last, but certainly not least…
Problem number three: I make my final attempt to string ourselves up together as he texts me about dangling along later in the evening. Now I smell a booty call people… read my post a few weeks back on how I feel about texting and dating, this totally falls into that category. Which, by the way, I wasn't entirely opposed to until he decided that I should be doing all the work. Sorry sucker, not gonna happen. I let him know, kindly, that he can come to me and I'm excited about having a good time. Obviously, this is a setup. I know he isn't going to come to me. I'm just making sure I've pretty much got this douche bag's proverbial number.

Him: I don't have a car!
And as I read this another text slides through…
Him: Just forget it

Me: Don't worry babes, I forgot you after you said you didn't have a car.

Un Guarde

First of all, I'm a week in to choking down this JOE Coffee every morning, which is absolutely horrible. I'm cranky and if this doesn't apply to you, pass it along to someone whom it does. So, imagine my loving irritability with you fucktards and your group messaging. Are you so socially inept that you have forgotten common courtesy? …Ok, OK, maybe you ARE one of the lost soldiers of manners and I need to clue you in. I know… my humanitarianism doesn't end. Again… I know, good samaritan alert. I can't help it. I'm full of love.

OMG. Let me say it like this… NO ONE, I repeat, NO ONE likes to be in a memo party along with people they don't f***ing know! Do you think everyone loves getting replies to that said group message days later? From random numbers? From citizens they do not know?! Um, no. No one does. Not even a little bit. …Yeah, you're welcome. I'm a giver. Uh, and if you're sitting there thinking about it… it's a no. A big, FAT no.

In my Rolodex, numbers will be blocked.. including the group initiator. Listen troop text leader, you didn't ask permission to connect those sheep to me and I don't want my number given out to any flock that I haven't personally given it. Un guarde! I challenge some archaic french fencing duel to you perpetrator! If you think being a note courier (more like the village idiot) by connecting me to homosapians (fancy word for humans, get a dictionary) that may want my number, you just put yourself in Rita's iPhone jail. If I plan on putting any mass community in a group message, the first thing is every solitary individual needs to know every luminary star in the group dispatch and everyone in this specific group message needs to have every one's number in their own cellular devices. Or said delivery person has gained permission to add unknown victim to a blathering bunch. It's so freaking rude. Thank you for the ambush. I love walking away from my electronic leash, only to return to it finding 85 text alerts. From some random tally of numbers, in conversations I didn't want to be a part.

Et ainsi, Je bloque a la mort. Yeah, my french sucks. So what. Blocking. Blocking you. Blocking him. Blocking her. Blocking unknown. Printed matter deleted. Block. Block. Block.

Walking Dead

EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! RITA SLANINA GETS F***D UP IN BOXING MATCH WITH A ZOMBIE KANGAROO! Wait. What? Who's kangaroo is this?

No. Not exactly. More like a pillow fight in my sleep. Two days ago. I can hear the Walking Dead creators writing me in a part as we speak. That's how horrid my face looked. Apparently, my loving friend's cat adores me so much that she persists on sleeping on my pillow and blankets while I'm not looking. To which, yesterday, I took a much needed nap, and POW woke up with this:

Zombie?

Yeah. I had the same reaction. And this was my reflection looking back at ME! I know, you can imagine my horror. I still twinge when I see the photo! I even attempted to make the pic look better… fail. That's supposed to be "better." Sigh. We all have "off" days, but what the hell? As my allergy list continues to grow, so does my sensitivity. Bloody hell. I washed all the linens and while I'm sitting on the sofa awaiting the buzzer to tell me its done, this little fur ball's reign of cuddly terror is back to put me into anaphylactic shock. She's on the back side of the couch, rubbing up onto my freaking head. Uh, Creepy. The conundrum here is that I love animals. I just can't be near them or I risk needing to use an EpiPen to bring my hairball-induced coma back to life. Well, thankfully, all is well now and I survived; But, it put me down for a good two days. Nothing says fun like waking up to a real life Walking Dead zombie in your mirror. I wonder how they do the makeup for that series. I can give pointers. I think I may have more insight on The Walking Dead "look" now. You know, since I lived it.  Who needs to Spackle on prosthetics when you can bury your face into a kitty?

Sisany- flower zombie curing chemist

 If I were Maggie and I woke up like this, Glenn would surely be suspicious if I was bitten. Glenn can't decide if he loves her anyway… shocker. Guys are confusing even on Walking Dead Series where your attacked daily by walkers. Uh, Glenn, she didn't try to kill you… so you should probably marry Maggie. Just saying. I think they should write me in as Daryl's love interest. I can be Sisany, the once bitten, shy kind of dormant cutie cell that was only hosting the zombie virus but really isn't a zombie at all. Oh yeah, Sisany and Daryl sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! RUN! WALKING DEAD ZOMBIES! And I, as Sisany save Daryl and he loves me forever. Oh yeah… I got this.

And See? After, I save Daryl, I find a magical flower potion that cures me. Obviously, nobody on Walking Dead Series knows this, but Sisany -my cleverly written character- is a flower zombie curing chemist. Yes, my dear Daryl, I'm your dream ingenue because I save people, I'm smart and I can create fancy liquids… Voila! I look cute again! Yay!

Sexting -Ground Rules

I decided there should absolutely be ground rules for the sexters out there. I've just noticed that there are things that douche bags miss that I've learned along the way and feel the need to share with my fellow females. Which may make me look like I'm a sextaholic, I'm not. I'm boring. I don't think I can say I'm boring either. But I do know that my phone pretty much rarely goes off. I'm more like Robin Hood. Saving all my girlfriends out there from the sucklings who just want our hot pics to add to their weird hobbies list. Although, on the rare occasion that I may, or may not, get a sexting session going… Not likely. I think there should be rules. Sorry, Mom.

RULE #1 DIETARY MUST. There are boundaries to this thing! If you choose to send the first photo at full monty, it doesn't mean, we girls, will be sending you all our fancy feast right back. No. Girls like foreplay. Even in this situation. Yes, guys… it never ends with us. Remember… It still looks like a hot dog without a bun and girls don't usually like hot dogs. We just eat them because we have to.

RULE #2 WANNA RIDE? If we say we don't send pics. It generally means we don't send pics. Unless, its with a guy we are dating. Not "brand new" dating. Not "just met" dating. But dating you, a long time. After a few months when we feel you're a safe bet and probably sticking around a while. Ask us to send pics right out the gate and we will shut down all fun on our happy-land playgrounds. It doesn't take one token for this ride fellas.

RULE #3 FILTERED SEXINESS. Yes, we use filters and creatively take shots from different angles to make our parts look bigger. Get over it. You like it. No, actually, you guys love it. And, as of late, you sneaky fuckers are guilty of it too. Stop complaining on social media that you hate it. Liars. We usually do it for ourselves anyway. Mind blown. We girls like looking pretty and hot. Mind exploded. And, we actually get pretty excited that we did such a great photo with our iPhones! Mind bomb. And, yeah, sometimes, it ends up on Instagram. Mind splattered. Oh, that didn't make you feel special? Sorry, it was such a great selfie that it had to be posted. And you couldn't really see nipple anyway. You thought you did. That was an M&M.

RULE #4 LET'S PLAY. How many freaking shots can you send of your junk? Is that all you got? Geesh. Gimme something to work with here. Dress it up. Put a hat on it. Draw googly eyes. I don't care. Just stop sending the same stinking pic from beneath you. We aren't dumb. It's not that big. But we love you anyway for thinking you've pulled the wool over our eyes.

RULE #5 FRESH FRUIT. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT send me a pic of yourself that you have taken for someone else, sent to them AND had in your gallery since December of last year. Oh, you didn't know that I knew? I must be psychic. No, I'm not. But, when you send me photos, they automatically save to my gallery and guess what… it will save it to my gallery into one of my folders from the date you took the lovely snapshot for your last girlfriend. Yeah, your photo has a birthdate… and I can see it. Thanks jerk. Busted. You're not fooling anybody. Take new pics to send to your new girl, the same day you guys are sexting. Dumbass.

JOE Coffee

Tall. Dark. Handsome. All women want this guy. Right? He's smooth and bold at the same time. He'll lift you up to the tallest cabinets like a cheerleading stunter. He'll throw you around like a wheelbarrow careening down a freeway… Wait. What? I don't know. Ladies, there is NO perfect man. Only a man that is perfect enough for you. Just like coffee. Stay with me. So when I was shopping a couple weeks ago, I found the perfect… Uh… Joe?

At the top of this coffee package, it states that its a Dark Roast. It's not. It's weaker than Denny's coffee. And at least Denny's has caught on to flavoring their morning sludge to lattes and frappes. I commend you Denny's. Thank you.

If you look above the title of the bag of ground -non-expresso- beans, it says it's "tall, dark and handsome." So cute, right?! Clearly, a play on words. I'm a sucker. I bought it. I thought, there's no perfect playboy for me; But, maybe there is a perfect pot of coco-colored loveliness. And he goes by the name of Joe. A Joe can generally be attractive and fulfilling. Except, inside this caramel teasing persuasion, it's not. Maybe… finding the perfect cup of coffee is like finding the perfect guy. Not possible. With every new bag of beans I grab, I think, this is the one. Oh wait, I think that when I'm dating too. Dammit. Sensing a trend. I need to lower my standards. No. Keep the standards high. I'm never one to give up hope. I'm a hopeless, romantic, coffee-man lover at heart. I can muddle through.


Moral of the story girls? Just like our man-vision goggles, not even the well marketed coffee packaging can measure up to the fantasy. It's sexiness sold me, but on the inside, no one should consider this be called coffee. Terrible idea. I struggle every morning trying to choke this crap down. While you're busy looking for mr. Right, you're only attracting Mr. Right  Now and his insides usually suck. This damn bag of coffee will be the death of me. And don't just go by the marketing hoohah label, the perfect Joe just doesn't exist.

Dumpster Hostage

There's always that one guy (or girl-I know you guys read my nonsense too) that we let escape our grasp… Not in a "hostage," sort of way. There was that one dumpster… I knew I should have added a padlock. I kid. But when you're young and dumb and don't communicate as well… you screw up. I recently bumped into an amazing guy that I, didn't want to let go of back then, and am still kicking myself over now. What are the odds that after wondering about him, how he's doing, if he's found love… this sexy bastard pops up on my doorstep. Sigh. Sexy bastard. He had everything I wanted in a dude. An incredulous sense of humor. Cliche coming… Tall, dark and handsome. Ambitious. Hard working but not a stress case. Family man but fun. Understood me and my crazy Lucille Ball-like ways without judgment. I would have done the same thing… Vitavitavegamin. When I'm with someone I really, REALLY like… I tend to not act like my normal loud mouthed self. I'm not that loud. OK, maybe a couple octaves closer to obnoxious, but come on, cut me some slack. You love it. Anyway, I sit back a little more and let them lead. I'm a traditional girl when it comes to relationships. Not caveman dragging me by hair but I let him be in charge. I know, weird right? I'm such a carefree girl, don't tie me down, kind of peanut brittle; Yet, I'll still act like a little weird servant girl to my dude. I'm more hesitant to say how I'm really feeling to them and I'm more afraid of scaring them away. I'm a lot to handle. I know that. I'm still funny as all get out. But, when it comes to the nitty gritty of emotion, I tip toe around it. Bad idea. I'm clumsy and tippy toes will get me a face plant to the floor real quick. Probably has more to do about me and my upbringing or my fear of total commitment to a person than it does them. Tell-tale people. Listen to my lyrics.

What would you do when you're faced with your "one" person you feel you should have been with? I wanted to just jump his bones. Don't do that. I wanted to do that. No, I didn't do that. I'm a Beast. He asks me if I knew that he loved me. I'm dumbfounded. I was so totally in love with him. He's dumbfounded. Neither of us spoke up back then and both of us idiots thought the other acted completely opposite those said feelings. What on earth? Am I on planet love-tard? Apparently. Population: Me. This is why I stick to emotions in lyrical content… I can say ANYTHING that I want to say in a song. Put me face to face with someone I care about and I'm frozen. Do you wanna build a snowman? I know, I sang it when I thought it too. Long and short of it… he's doing great. And I'm happy for him. Mumbling obscenities under my breath can be supportive. Don't judge me. No holding back on emotions when I like Mr. Hot Stuff now. I'm all smiles all the time. Always. No. I'm fine. Nothing is ever wrong. World could be crumbling. Oops, there's a piece falling into space now. Dammit. Good thing I had my coffee this morning… Maybe I should have handcuffed him in that dumpster?

No touchy touchy

You cannot, I repeat, cannot just touch another person's face… whether you know them, think you know them, or don't know them at all. Recently, a friend of mine was telling me that she had met a girl that seemed nice and wanted to get to know better. Cool. Women  should be sticking together and powering up. Too many females get insecure and stupid around other chicks and it needs to stop. Stop it females. Play nice. Sisterhood. Think of your fellow woman as part of your pack of gum. So, she proceeds to tell me that after meeting this chicklet, she bumps into bubblicious on another occasion and this broad, apparently drunk, was telling her to smile… and while doing so, this tidal wave grabbed her face at her chin and squeezed her face. Right. A mother would do this action to her baby. If said mother was the face squeezing type. A kid would do this to their doll. You could do this to your dog. My friend though? Oh no sweet marmalade… My friend almost punched this bitch's lights out. I mean, who does that? And if your one of the guilty assholes that do that, why the hell do you do that to people? You're invading a person's space. And the violations. You are so violating. Would you like it if someone did that to you? Most likely, not. I'm Just saying.

Flash forward to an incident involving me… Shocker. I'm working and this arrogant dude is talking to me… far too much. He's downright annoying. He's like an out of date chunky heel. Nobody cares what your rambling on about. Didn't we donate those heels to charity? Please shut up for the sake of everyone around you. He doesn't. So agitating. It's the horrid clodhopper style of shoe that never wants to die. This clog is blathering on about some nonsense, making himself look like a moron (clearly acquired that title quickly by the way) and then puts his finger on the side of my face! Right! What the hell space invader? I never backed up so quick and reacted. Ugly shoes will do this to you. Don't touch me, ever. My knee jerk reaction was to hit him, like he deserved. I didn't. But, the guy to the other side of me notices what this douche has done also and steps in, abruptly, reminding him I'm a lady and keep his hands to himself. Ok, sometimes I'm a lady, screw you guys. Doesn't he realize that he's in public and touching other people is not only rude, but a hostile engagement likely to get you knocked the f*** out?!

Moral of the story? Whether your a blow pop with tasty gum inside or a hideous mule-style slide,
DON'T TOUCH PEOPLE IN THE FACE.
Rude asses.

Buzzles

Grilled salmon, asparagus and parmesan risotto. Nice. Add a nice glass of champagne. Ok. After a long day of shooting, I needed a nice little nightcap. A little bubbly perhaps. After I make the order, I start the shower... thinking I have half an hour, like the concierge noted. I forgot that I was on the phone for twenty five of those thirty minutes. As soon as I hopped into my waterfall wasteland of awesomeness, I hear a pounding on the door. Yay! Oh wait, Dammit. Room service. I'm wet. I need to let them in. I'm elated -and naked- all at the same time. I rush to put a towel on and slip on the mock travertine shower floor. Whew. Close one. I catch myself... this time. I'm not always this lucky though. Klutz. Yep. Always.

Shuffling my wet flippers out of my wading pool of bliss after nearly cracking my head open against the shower door... which, by the way, isn't even really a door. It's a glass partition approximately a foot wide, that isn't even keeping the shower water from escaping its designated area. It looks cooler than it functions. Water is all over the bathroom door, the floor and forget the towel I had lay down to keep me from being the elderly broad on the commercial shouting, to no one, "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up." Where's my necklace button when I need it? Oh, I'm not elderly. Dammit. The universe amuses itself with me. I struggle with my towel, as naturally, it doesn't want to wrap around me. I'm munchkin-size... why is this oversized, moveable sponge NOT cooperating? Just wrap around my petite frame, so I can open up the slammer keeping me from my nourishment.

I finally get to the portal that separates myself from my stunning sustenance and the look on the guys face making the delivery is comparable to probably seeing a unicorn was hiding behind a lamp in my room. He apologizes for disturbing me and is very sweet. I feel bad. Now I'm repeating "I'm sorry" also. It's ok. Story of my life. Oddball dysfunction has made quite a home for itself. Shrugs. I've accepted it. But this poor guy... he never saw me coming. And I'm still fighting my towel. Stupid towel.

Flash forward a few minutes. I plop on the tv, doesn't work on the channel that I want to watch. Shocker. Oh well, and I'm looking at my glass and it doesn't look like a pretty, clear sparkler at all. It looks like a cabernet. Hmm. I'll investigate this in a moment. I remove the lid to my feast and it looks amazing. Picture perfect. Yep, you guessed it. The risotto tastes microwaved, the asparagus is soggy and lucky me the salmon is a weird cross between over-cooked and sloshy. I eat it anyway. I'm too tired to complain and too hungry to care. And yes, cabernets don't go with fish. I'm aware of this fact so I wait to drink that later, because I'm thinking, it's possible what sparkling fizzle I ordered looked much different than I anticipated and maybe, I'm just clueless or something. Don't screw with my alcohol people.

It's a cabernet. It's horrible, horrible cabernet… and I'm waking up with a headache. I wanted a fizzle and I got a buzzle. Buzzles are busted fizzles. Fizzles that didn't quite work out. Yes, I made it up. Next time, I will be more specific. Apparently, descriptively placing an order for a sparkling brut champagne gets you a cabernet in this town. I wonder what comes to your room when you want a mimosa...

Take a number

Disclaimer: I promise, no more making fun of you gentlemen. You really take a beating in my posts. Yikes. I love all you men out there. Uh, some of you are strange, but I still love ya and your good sports. You guys are fascinating to watch... especially when you inappropriately scratch your nether-regions. Yes, we see you. We always see you. Oh look, you scratched again. Saw it. How many times, really, is it necessary to itch down there anyway? Why does it itch? Psoriasis? Does it tickle? Something's going on down there. I'd investigate if I wasn't so afraid of what rawness I could never "unsee." Awkward.

It's amusing when you, as a female, tell guys that you're not dating because your working on your career and they continue to try to convince you that, your the one... What part of, I'm not dating don't you get? Not dating. No one. Including you. You're most likely, not different, and I'm too exhausted from what I'm accomplishing for myself to care about your feelings. Stay friends. Let's network together. Which makes me, the bitch. Sigh. Can't win. What gives? It's like the more I resign from the dating game, the more testosterone flies in my general direction. Forcing me to move like Neo in The Matrix just to evade the male, smoke-blowing shrapnel. And if you think coming at me "different," means doing the opposite of being a gentleman will get you the job of boyfriend, keep in mind, that you, who says I wear too much makeup and need my teeth whitened, puts you right in the no fly zone. Think again buster. Thanks for flattering me with your verbal incontinence. You planning on paying for my teeth whitening? No, I didn't think so. Shut the fuck up. And I have nice teeth, by the way, go choke on a turnip. Oh you want to have sex with me? Thanks, so does every guy with a penis. Fantastic, take a number and wait for it to be called. Even though the DMV may make you take a number but keep in mind, usually only one gets to go to the window before closing. Chances are you won't be that lucky with me. Sure, you have the number in  hand, ready to jump on my Plexiglas window; But, no B289 will be called. And if its not you, take off another day of work tomorrow and try your luck again. DMV would tell you that, right? Sorry, we couldn't help you today. Make an appointment. We'll lose that too. Still probably won't call you... but we enjoy watching you try! Long and short of it is, whether you decided to climb down the rabbit hole with the blue pill or figured you'd just take the boring red one putting you into a sleep stupor, I'm long gone on another job. So, thanks sir, we appreciate your kind graces. Please take your seat and wait for your number to be called while we peruse your application.

Las Vegas or Bust

Did you miss me? I bet you did. I've been on the road working on some things that has taken my attention from my favorite peeps... Duh, yes, I'm talking about y'all! This week I was honored to work with the amazing Toby Keith and Carrot Top on a short film for Toby's show opener. It was a great set! Sometimes you work on a set and everybody just blows, not that I would ever say I worked with some a-holes anyway, but this one was great! But I get along with everyone I work with... I love them all. And harass everyone I meet. They love me. Everyone was happy, upbeat and worked very hard! I got to meet some pretty great talent as well. I feel so much gratitude and love for my blessings. Been a lot of hard work. But I'll break my back for this stuff. Back on the road now. Bye Bye Las Vegas... til next time. You'll miss me. You already do. Senorita Rita signing off... ;-P

Crazy Bat Shit

I've noticed, as a single girl, that people are bat shit crazy. When I was in relationships, no matter how bad those relationships were, I didn't seem to recognize the nutcases that roam our planet; existed in such droves. Maybe it's because I'm a certified people watcher. I'm cursed with the vision to see the mentally unstable. Wait. Doesn't like beget like?

At a restaurant, there was a man having a conversation with his imaginary friend. Yes, seriously. No one was with him and he was chatting away about politics and religion.... over pie. Sigh. I felt bad for him but then I thought, does this guy drive on the roads with regular people? Is he going to know he needs to stop at a red light because there are real people trying to pass perpendicularly? Is he color blind? Stop lights change color and don't speak. This could be a learning curve for him. Would I have noticed this as much if I was in a relationship? My mind distracted with rose colored glasses? Seeing the world... less clearly. Shrugs. I could have missed his fictitious fantasy and been alright.

And if more people - than not - are this defunct, Forget dating… I had a neighbor fighting with his girlfriend in the apartment building hallways, screaming and hollering. Throwing pots and pans. I think that's why I heard clanging inside their apartment… even though I was inside mine, with doors and windows closed and I could hear EVERYTHING. And I mean, everything! Discretion please? No? Ok, while the rest of get to hear your dirty laundry landing on the apartment grounds, I implore you, continue to tell everyone who sees you everyday that you hate his little pee pee.

And just how many people are drinking before 9:00 am? I've counted more first person witnesses to that morning yuletide in the last year than I can bear to imagine. Drunk by noon? Shit. I wish I could. But I wouldn't get anything done. Let alone feel I could hide my inner shame for my bottle a day escapades. I'll keep with my coffee thanks. Being alert seems to give me more inner peace even though if I try to drink more than one cup,  I start to shake like an addict needing a fix. Ugh, why am I so healthy? That's rhetorical. I like to treat my body like a temple. Well, except for the time I woke up face down on the lawn…. but, who was there to witness that sunrise?

The OH Face

I used to wonder what a guy's face looked like during sex. Lying. I actually still do. Some guys. OK. Not every guy because that's just being a slut. Frankly, who wants to see that one, ugly guy's "OH" anyway? I don't. But that hot guy with the six-pack Abs... Ouchie-wa-wa! I would like to know! It's hot in here. Back to the point. I don't need to wonder because I think I've figured out that some of the everyday things these gloriously sloppy creatures do on the regular can actually be compared to their own personalized "OH" face. And I've come up with some personality tall tales to sort of help us girls decode these deviant monsters as well... But I'll save that for another post.

The Chip Barrel

See the guy that shoves a handful of French fries in his mouth like they are reaching for the ceiling lights and feeding themselves...  like angry hungry baby birds? This is pretty sure to equate to same said guy who barrels down into your Poconos like the end of a potato chip bag is near. Fast. And furious.  And even though  careening face first sounds just lovely on any random occasion, I'd put some caution signs near your on ramp for the sake of this mouth collision. Ouch.

The Angry Sailor 

So this gentleman is a bit on the cranky side. Yeah, lucky girl, that could be your jackpot. Sorry. I like my guys in control but laid back. I'm too in need of feeling "free" and "independent" for this type of knucklehead. This type gets mad at everything and his face displays it all! That scowl he makes when argumentatively harassing a waiter could be the face he makes when he's about to... well, you know. Cursing up a storm, while he ploughs right into your dough. Ouch.

The Tenderoni
This guy is holding babies and puppies. He talks in a baby voice, creepy. And, talks to dogs in a high pitch, also creepy. He's going to raise his eyebrows and sweet talk you during the deed. Still creepy. He'll be gentle, but most likely, too gentle. Sorry, this guy sounds romantic, but he'll miss the punch you need to have that spark. His OH face most likely looks like he's going to cry. Oh please don't. Creepy.

The Wild One
The guy that jumps off roofs and is excited by ham. His mouth is always open, he's loud and he has the attention span of a flea. So, imagine a roll in the hay with this one and you're most likely going to see the OH look like a surprised cartoon-like caricature. OR you know those women who have too much plastic surgery? Constantly wearing a look of surprise? Yep like that. He will look like he's about to catch a mouthful of flies when he's about to get his. On the up side, at least he'll throw you around the room and whether he's enjoying it or not, you'll never know because he'll have a look of constant wonder on his face. Eh, I'll take this one. He'll be amusing to watch.

Sleeping Beauty

Crowded planes kinda suck. A lot. And while the flight was decent -the plane itself was sardined, stinky and I was most uncomfortable; 97% of this ride. Excuse me, stewardess, I'll take a masseuse and a mai tai… thanks. The pilot can't help turbulence, so I'm forgiving. I was placed in a middle seat in between two fairly large men. Sigh. This should delight me. It doesn't. I'm cramped. My seat doesn't recline since I'm in the last row. Armrests... What arm rests? There weren't any for me to relax my little arms on. No. I was lucky enough to hunch over with my arms at my sides the entire journey. Both of you guys, on either side of me, are over six feet tall. I know I'm small but geesh! I'd like an armrest too. Screw this. So I take off my shoes since Bigfoot to the right of me felt at home to do so. And soon after takeoff, he falls asleep so peacefully… breathing on me with an aroma; reminiscent of cigarettes and beef jerky. Halfway through this magic carpet ride, I have to pee so badly that I am forced to draw up some scheme to wake up sleeping beauty next to me. He IS… in the isle seat for goodness sakes… and what else would he expect me to do anyway? Wet myself? I tap him on the shoulder to try and wake this gentle giant. Excuse me sir. Nothing. Sigh. I wish I could sleep this heavy at some point in my existence. I'm awakened by a bug flying into my bedroom window. Or a duck quacking in Toronto. Damn you nature.

I tap him again, a little more like a shove, but I need to get my point across here, or everyone in my row is going to be wearing what started out, as coffee. And mango slices. He doesn't budge. Oh bugger. Maybe I should kick him in the chin. Ugh. No. That's probably considered assault and, with my luck, this mammoth would be the resident air marshal. So, I stare at him instead. Trying to use the "force" like they do in Star Wars. Wishing the colossal dinosaur would wake up all on his own. What the heck is he dreaming about anyway? Selling socks… or prostitutes probably. How sound, of a daydream, could you possibly have? Hopefully, he's buying Mentos in his dream and plans on taking those suckers when he wakes up.

While I'm conjuring up the idea to knock the bohemoth's android tablet off his lap to the floor of the aisle he suddenly, he snorts himself awake. Good thing. I would have sent that tablet flying just for good measure. Oops, he's gawking at me. Nope. The Amazon is looking at me while I'm staring at him to wake up. I'm still staring. And he gets this look on his face like I've just earned the "Creeper-Status" Award for most awkward funeral viewing of a live person. In his seat. On the airplane. Alive and well. Reeking no better than my earlier observation. Oh, hey, sorry about my rubberneck voodoo gaze; But, since you've risen from your slumber, rather obnoxiously if I may add… Would it be a bother to scootch on by.  Needless to say, the rest of the trip he has sat upright, his knees toward the aisle far away from my weirdo ass. But, at least I got to pee.

Pigeons On A Wire

Ladies, if you continue to perch yourselves up next to VIP tables in the club, you will keep looking desperate. If no one has called your flat sandals -in club- wearing ass to their table… flapping off elsewhere might be a more suitable option. Why are girls wearing sandals and ballet flats in the club anyway? Did I miss the memo? I should have brought my surfboard. Maybe next time I'll bring my tutu. Last time I checked, even if you are rolling in with your flock of girlfriends, neighborhood deep, dressing up is the freaking fun part of going out. No, some of you look like your hitting the gym for a post-alcoholic workout.

If you post up to a handrail without the intent to be friendly or outgoing, you basically are telling the rest of us club-goers that you're roosting. Cock-a-doodle-doo! Start flapping your wings. And, while we're on it, when did girls stop wearing makeup at the club? You didn't just roll out of your coop. Apply that war paint and let's do it right! Sigh. And please, take your hair out of that sad little bun on top of your head… it looks more like a bread knot you get in your carbohydrate-filled basket at dinner. Stop it.

Let this percolate penguins. I don't go to the club to meet a man. Sorry guys to disappoint. Take note that your overbearing cock stance doesn't stand a second in my pen. Plus, I feel so bad for your spandex shirt fighting for its life to hang on. Poor stitches. But, should that option present itself, I should feel like I did my thing. Got dressed in something other than a robe. Pajama party? Strapped on shoes that don't have shoestrings on them. Im a point guard on these chickens. Either way, smacking your gum like you are using your jaws to fight the demons isn't going to land you Mr. Right Now. Or a good time Charlie either.

Maybe if squaking fits your fancy, shuffling your tail feather on over to a VIP table and just saying hello is the right thing to do. Hello, my name is Awesome. What might you have to drink there? Oh, you think I'm pretty? You like my dress? Aw, gee, thanks, I just fell out of the hay waking up this great, thank you.

Even pigeons fly south for the winter. Might have to look that reference up. Could be wrong. Point is,  take a chance. Fly the thermals! Wait. No thermals. Get your unidentified flying object ready to soar.   Free your bird!