Song Hog

My son and I love to sing along to all the songs in kid movies. It's a sickness really... And, our never-ending love of Disney's Frozen, is no exception. Stop rolling your eyes. In fact, it's so often that we engage in these harmonic melodies, that I can actually hear our neighbors disgruntled loathing as they hear the movie start through the walls. I'm pretty show they want to throw poo at us. That lion king-like song which still, after seeing the animated joy time and time again, does not fit into the movie. Not even a little bit. Nope. Not at all. Is that poo on my front porch? And usually we just kind of sing the songs when the mood strikes. So, get lively lucky neighbors, we found a sing along version of the movie by accident this weeknd. Oh yeah. Get pumped. Aren't you ecstatic?! Why are you grabbing a slingshot? 

Oh my goodness, WE ARE in heaven. My sons popping the popcorn and I've made the hot cocoa. Yes, from scratch. I'm domestic like that. So my son hollers dibs on all the songs with Anna singing. I know its because it's the first song sung and she sings more than Elsa does in that song. No biggie, I'll be Elsa. Knowing Elsa has only two songs in the whole damn film, I'll take a back seat to revel in my sons happiness. Until the little knucklehead  stole my first song. Which was the main song everyone knows... That's right "Let It Go." Well I cannot let it go... So I sang along to my part as he rudely sang my part. Don't choke on the popcorn, child. It's was the ugliest duet two people could ever have. So I took his next song. Boom. And he sang on it too. Duet disaster. But he didn't let me. Determined little spitfire. He sang louder. Fleeked it. Drowned me out. And I sang louder. How you like them gains son?! Oh crap, I think I pulled something. Or it was the popcorn kernel lodged in my throat. Nobody is singing in key. The neighbors love us even more now. Sarcasm. Oink. Oink. All song hogging aside, the laughter and hot chocolate all over the walls has made quite a memorable evening for us. Oooooo I know, I'll should've pulled out the karaoke machine. He can't out-volume stereo output. Next time. Mischievous giggle. Next time... I will put my evil plan into play. All the songs... Will be miiiine... Buwahhaahaha! 

My BIG Monkey

My monkey is big

My monkey is bright 

My monkey is goofy 

My monkey...

Is soft and squishy. Is it? It's hairy fun to play with (Yippee!) ...and role playing has taken to new heights. Monkeys in a barrel! I play with my monkey in the bedroom. Huh? A proverbial monkey? I play with my monkey in the bathtub. Where you going with this? I have even played with my monkey in the back seat of my car. Are we talking about an actual monkey?  I love that my monkey travels with me everywhere. Or YOUR "monkey?" We are attached at the hip. I bet you are, monkeylicious.

My big monkey... Is the best, most cutest iPhone case on the planet! Ohhhh, your talking about your case for your cell. Whew! Totally thought you were talking about something else. It makes my phone bigger than both my hands can carry but for what it lacks in convenient travel compactibility, it makes up for in personality. And you dirtballs thought I was writing porn, wow... Nasty goobers. 

Commando Cutie

There are two kinds of girls, the ones who wear underwear... And the ones who don't. Don't be shy... We know which one YOU are darlings. I've seen you flash your boobs before for a free burger… Which has nothing to do with leggings or jeans. Or underwear. Unless your not a fan of panties and you like your pants to rub your personal space the wrong way while your walking. I'll pass on a good chafing please, thanks. Or maybe you are a fan... Guess you know what category I fall into, huh? Perverts. Today's post started out as a leggings vs. jeans query. But, as I tip tapped along my keyboard, I realized this is an underwear  vs. no underwear rant instead. So, pardon my fragmented thoughts… I promise they will string together by post's end. Maybe. 

Commando? Or no?

Without further ado, let's reveal a mystery you've all been dying -I'm sure- to hear. Uh, ok. Drum roll please…  Im a leggings girl! Ta da! This might be due to the fact that as a competitive gymnast growing up, it's all I would wear. Probably has nothing to do with that at all. But, either way porcupines, I lived in leggings. Literally. Snoozed away in stretch pants. Sometimes I drool, so what. Chomped down in spandex. I'm always hungry. Worked out in yoga style. I don't always want to work out. Blah. But who does? Anyway, to sum up… I lived in them. So when they came into the end all-be all style that they are today... Guess who scooped up inventory from every store for miles?! I did. Vroom. Vroom. Yup. Mine. All mine. It's a sickness. Add it to my ever-growing list. It's quite a long one… I'm kinda proud of it actually. Have you ever gone commando in leggings? By accident. Or jeans? Again, by accident. The repercussion to a walk of shame occasion. Or two. And let me tell ya, it didn't feel comfortable, AT ALL. Not even a little bit. Leggings, without undies, are just as hellacious as jeans, without briefs. Maybe worse. They cut like a knife on that sensitive skin. I'm not made of butter. Although, I am pretty tasty, if I do say so myself. Like a pumpkin scone. Pay attention. There's nothing more beautiful than your personals breaking free from a fabric attack. Irritated and screaming for a soothing chamomile bath. Don't get me wrong, there are some situations where I think the pretty panty should be banned. Ok, so it's extreme, but maybe you'll sway my way on this, after I provide you with an example.

EXAMPLE: panty lines.

Yup. That's it. That's the reason. Freaking panty lines. With all the advancement in technology, those no-show panty lines underwear are still freaking showing! What gives? So, go commando cutie or wear a thong. But please stop showing us you're bloomers from the outside. Stop it. You're violating our visual space with your poor choice of undergarment, completely upsetting the pantaloons to outfit ratio. 

Be Nice, Casually

What the hell does casually nice attire mean? Casually nice. Is it a dress? Maybe. Slacks? No, that goes under business-wear/professional attire. Jeans? Hippie… wear… attire? Tank tops? You're not going to the beach. Put on a blouse you transient. Casual means I can wear flip flops, right? Depends. Of course it does. But, the nice part means I should wear heels instead? Not necessarily. Ugh, I'm in a pickle. Los Angeles has a very different way of how everyone shows up to any event. Seen a hairbrush lately? Is that woman wearing a bonnet? Basically, no one freaking dresses up unless you're attending the Oscars. And that's the diamond rocket ship mamma jamma, with a tiara on your head, kind-of-evening wear. Other than that, its flip flops, ripped jean shorts and no bra. Whores. That's how we dress out here, yup. Like whores.

Maybe I'm from the old school, or just Ohio, but I like to dress up just to leave the house. I don't think sporting some wedges and a skirt to Walmart is a gutsy move. It's called taking a little time to care about how you present yourself to the world. At Walmart? Um, probably a bad example, but you know where I'm going with this. Although, paying less attention to detail may lighten my stalker load. Well… possibly not, now that I think about it, because I've been -as I'm sure every girl has- been followed around retail stores and restaurants in sweat pants. Is there a tracking device in these pajama bottoms? If I'm going to be home in my lycra, I will choose to do so indoors. With no witnesses. This isn't to say I won't leave the house unless I'm in full facial war paint. It's just that, taking a little pride in one's appearance wouldn't hurt. I've seen women who spend an hour in the bathroom, only to emerge looking worse than when they woke up. All I know, is that when I've been told casual/nice attire for anything and shown up in jeans and flops… I was the only one. And I looked like a hobo. And when I've shown up to a spot with the same description for the "what to wear," I wore heels and a dress. I was the only one. Rogue snob. Blah. Whatever, I don't take chances anymore. Total wardrobe risk taker. I would much rather be overdressed than look like I just traipsed out from under the Los Angeles River bridge. Hobo Chic! Unite!

Days And Confused

First of all, it's only freaking Tuesday. Yes, it is. It feels like Thursday. But it's not. And tomorrow is Wednesday. Nothing gets past me. All day yesterday, felt like Wednesday. Nope. It was Monday. I think it's laundry day... But I like doing that on Thursday. It's not Thursday. Public school did well by me, huh? Dammit, it's Tuesday. Bah. But if I don't get it done today then tomorrow will be Wednesday. Winner. Winner. Which will just mess up my whole weekend. What a nail biter. And I wanted to ride a pony.... Wait. What? It's going to be a long week. Oh geez. I'm going back to bed. 

So to clarify... What day is this? 

The Sickness Clause

Ladies and gents, I'm up for some Friday Fun again…. and I decided that we need to nominate a special day just for when we need to get out of doing things. You don't want to work? Uh, absolutely. You want to get out of cooking? Hell yes. You want to get out of sex? To-ta-llyyyyy-Wait. What? Who would want that? Only crazy people… but, never mind. Who am I to judge… It's going to be Rita's new law, cleverly named… The Sickness Clause. Because, I'm clever. Duh. It's the Santa Clause that gives you the gift of an excuse to evade anything! Hiccup. Cough. Flu-like Surprise! I've come up with some examples of how to go about using this new law. And how not to abuse it…

#1 Sweet Cookery. I'm cooking salad. Or bacon. Whichever. And, I've decided I've had enough of this debauchery. Wait for your counterpart to move into your kitchen space. Bloop. Bloop. Once your target is in range… bend over. That's it. Just bend over, make sure you're hair is covering your face a bit and make no sound but a soft grunt of disdain. He's going to instinctively come to you to make sure you are OK. You put your arm up just a little bit, as if it's a struggle to even do that, then you say you don't feel well. Leave everything. And make your way to the bathroom. Shut the door. And make some reference sounds of illness. Boom. He will either finish up your kitchen tasks or order pizza… Either way, you're free from it. You can milk this episode for a few days if you're smart about it. Play Candy Crush on silent on your phone for forty-five minutes… only opening the door like you're going to come to the light and then quickly disappear back inside the bathroom. Check your email, text your girlfriends, watch an episode of Big Bang Theory with your ear buds. You feel better only for a piece of that pizza and then your back in bed… fast asleep. The sickness clause. You're welcome.

#2 Co-Worker Wankers. Now, let me start by saying you should never play sick AT work. Why? You look weak, unreliable and mental. Which will never get you that promotion. Ground floor. Or pay raise. Broke bitch. And probably put you on unemployment. Really broke bitch. But, that being said, if you need some time off… or you want to get some asshole that sits at a desk near you, to get off your case, then you may want to instigate the achoo! clause. You don't want to grab lunch for your teammate? You're going to a doctors appointment. Why? You're sick and they can't find the reason for your never-ending pain. Ow. Maybe stress. In your head. Who knows. They won't ask you to pick up their lunch anymore because you're always at a nurse's station. Whining. Your boss wants you to stay late? Your kid has the measles. Holy crap. Or lice. Stay away. Or pink eye. Yikes. You can cling to these stories for up to two weeks. All these shout KEEP BACK, I'M CONTAGIOUS.  Remember, use this one with caution. You gotta pay your rent.

#3 Sick Tits. You're having sex with your boyfriend-or girlfriend-but usually boyfriend, because when has a guy ever said 'no' to sex. Exactly. Now, I don't recommend this every time, mostly because you will most likely confuse the fella and he will start to think he actually makes you sick. And maybe he does, I don't know. So, this actually happened to me once… But, the difference in using this as an excuse and my actually getting physically sick are two different scenarios. Mine, my friends, I actually felt physically sick afterwards. Run to the toilet and hang out by the porcelain commode, sick. No reason. Like waiting an hour before swimming, I guess this rule applies to sexy time. Make sure your food has digested before you dive in. But, after that day, I started thinking… You're being intimate, you get yours, and you're pretty much over the whole act. You want to be selfish today. You want to take a nap. Zzzzz. You want to send him on his merry way. Get movin' Bo. Whatever the case may be, you are done. I quit. You want to 'x' out of this safari session. Hurry up stupid pinwheel. Amidst the boinky boink, you cover your mouth and hop off the train and dart for the bathroom. What's happening? Sure, he'll look confused. What did I do? Is she sick? Did I make her sick? OMG, I made her sick?!  He will be worried about your sudden throw up groove; And, he might even get a complex about his trail ride making you, physically sick… But, oh well, you're off the hook. I had sex with her, and I made her sick. Maybe I'm a bacteria-filled host…. So now you can play stomachache girl all the way to your car and blast the tunes once he's out of site!

Clearly, my confidantes, if you overuse these tactics… you will be found out. Use sparingly. Like salt. Only when you need it. If you're getting sick for two weeks a month, you might find yourself committed to a hospital, starting medications or worse… never being able to use the sickness clause again. Enjoy! My twisted little sickies!

Popcorn Ball Massacre

I'm off my baking game… How the hell does one screw up popcorn balls? Corn syrup. Sugar. Butter.

Photo: Pioneer Woman
Recipe: http://www.familycircle.com/recipe/creepy-caramel-popcorn-balls/

Disaster. I'm thinking, how cute is this recipe? Super cute. Creepy Popcorn Balls? Super creepy cute. My son would absolutely go bonkers for a sphere of sweetness. So, I gallop to the store… Grab the popcorn. Check. Scoop up the M&Ms. Check. I need butter sticks. Check. Check. Already have candy corn. And check. I traipse my happy ass back home with my grocery bag of susie homemaker  goodies. Crap. I need a saucepan. Wah… Eh, guess this small one will do. I'm stirring. And stirring. Ugh. Still stirring. Sigh. Apparently -constant- is the only option, since sugar caramelizes to a crispy crunch if you're not paying attention. Only experience could teach you that snack lesson. Listen, I like to think I got this Martha Stewart thing on lockdown. No pun intended. But, I got that domestic goddess flow. Pioneer Woman makes me feel like I can do it all. Duh, I'm Super Woman. With my invisible cookie sheet, I can wing it through any recipe. Hmmm… How do I use my magic lasso here? Family Circle showed me that. Not how to use my magic lasso, but that I can… oh you get what I'm putting down. And, my self-proclaimed (and recently acknowledged) O.C.D. keeps my house pretty fucking spotless too. Oh, the parchment tornado?  Ignore that stationary, spread all over the floors. The notes by the piano? Music sheets. Uh… the onion skin in the hallway? HMmmm…. bills? I think? Or maybe receipts that need filing? Ok.. stop looking around. Yes there's a mess of store ads and money saving coupons on my table. But, I'm not done with that pile. Judge me all day. I don't care. I have the power to circle around fast enough to change my clothes in a wind tunnel. I hate paper and for whatever reason, thats the one thing I can't keep control of… freaking paper monster. Chomp. Chomp. It would probably help if I condensed down all the scripts I used for auditions. Tossing those in the garbage would be beneficial; both for the letterhead takeover and spiritually. The asshole in me likes to keep tabs on those who passed on me… the sickness is real. And yes, can you believe it? There are those who've actually passed on this Super Woman. The gall. The pages and pages of lyrics though, I like to reference those from time to time so probably best to hang on to those. Excuses. You collect porcelain carousel horses. I collect paper. Ok… moving on from that failed Queen of Clean rant…

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen… Is the mixture in the saucepan supposed to get big and foamy? The directions spout a four minute cool time on the saucepan bubbling thing. Since I popped the popcorn already… I spread it out on foil and wait. Tick Tock. 1 minute. I keep staring at the mixture waiting for something to happen -tick tock, 2 minutes- and while I'm not sure what's supposed to happen here… tick tock, 2 minutes and 35 seconds….  It's been long enough. I pour this goop all over the popcorn like it says and it drizzles straight past it and onto the damn foil. What the… So, I grab the spatula and start trying to move the popcorn around so I can coat these kernels with the sticky concoction. No one told me to coat the spatula with cooking oil first. Yes they did. Read the directions. They did. But I didn't, so therefore, I was making an even bigger mess. Screw it. I coat my hands with non-stick cooking spray and dive in. Covered in sticky goo as much as I believe the popcorn can be, I try to mold them into balls. They don't stay. The stupid balls fall apart as soon as I put them down on the counter. What the hell. Its like a mountainous popcorn range with trees of M&Ms scattered on my floor. After about twenty minutes of this chaos, I wash my hands and calmly walk away. What? Huh? oh… yes, that was absolutely a flying spatula. Spatulas have wings. And so do non-stick, cooking spray cans.

Workout Widow

Noble Ambience Photography

Pump that iron. No. Lift your butt up on those squats. It's heavy. Run those miles. Ugh. Why? I was working out one day and thought to myself… why the fuck am I doing this? I'm sweaty. It's hot. And did I mention, I was sweaty? I haven't been eating healthy so I feel slower than usual. Sloth-like. Maybe it's the not-so-healthy diet? Sloths eat leaves, how is that unhealthy? Maybe it's the excruciating September, freaking heat? Why is it so damn hot anyway? Isn't it autumn yet? I want pumpkin pie. The stair-master has cobwebs on it. Halloween IS… around the corner. What's a couple creepy popcorn balls in the diet… Shrugs. The dumbbells are rusting. Tetanus anyone? The resistance bands… well, they're no longer resistant. Rubber is not the same as chewing gum. Spit it out.


So, I have been so lackadaisical about my workouts, even my gym equipment doesn't know who I am.

#ritaslanina #workoutselfie

Knock. Knock. Who's there? Rita's gym equipment. Who? Right. Last night I did a whole five flutter kicks. You go girl! And when I was challenged to add twenty bicycle crunches to that random burst of feeling bad for myself push ups, I laughed for seven and a half minutes. Boom. There's you're sit-ups, bitches. Laughing doesn't equate to sit-up work? I thought laughter was the best medicine. Dammit. So, here I am juicing up a tasty little lemon-celery-carrot concoction, as if thats going to stimulate my metabolism. mmmm… all of the taste, none of the pep. What the hell. I don't feel the zest absorbing at my cellular level at all. I'm full of juice and freaking starving. Oh… holy crap. Anorexia. That's it. No, it's not. Famine… That's the answer. Nope. Starvation…  I may have just found the answer to getting back on the big blue -fall and bust your ass- ball; Never. Stop it. Get your fat ass on the machine, Rita. Ugh. Fine. I hate you workout-trainer-guy. Interrupting my daydreams. Sandman hater.
The nerve of some people…

Breaking The Box

www.that-is-good-crap.com

It's flu season. Ah-Choo! Well, at least -according to the commercials- they're telling us drones to stock up on tissues and cold medicines because flu season is coming. I rarely, if never, get sick AND I don't buy those over-hyped, over-the-counter medicines. Makes me queasy. Am I looking a little pale? I won't take prescription crap either. Makes me nauseas. Oh, no, just a lovely shade of green. Thanks for noticing. Wink. Wink. Unless its birth control. Be smart ladies. But, there's an extremely logical reason for that, in my opinion. No Babies! If you look in my medicine cabinet, you will just find Bath & Body Works lotions and sprays. yes, glitter sprays. And maybe a glue stick. I don't know. One day the glue stick made its way into the bathroom and decided to take shelter.  Back to the point… I'm a little bit obsessive-compulsive about how I keep my house. I want it neat. I want it orderly. Okay… sure, there is the occasional mess; But, for the most part, I keep it magazine-styled.  Slowly, getting to the point here… 

Back to the tissue box. Sniffles. So, I bought one of those multi-packs of tissue boxes. You know, the decorative ones for the home that you toss out (or recycle) when your finished with them? Right. So, I have it on my mantle and it looks super adorable. It's blue and purple with a swirly design on them and oversized water droplets. I just want to hug it. So, last night, my eyes kept watering from this stupid mascara that I bought a while ago (I really need to dump it but I hate wasting money, and it makes my lashes look pretty amazing) but the mascara flakes off into my eyes. I think I'm allergic to it too because my eyes will water for no apparent reason throughout the day while I'm sporting this glop. One day the right eye will ooze tears. That evening just the left. Go figure. Damn allergies. And when my eye waters for no reason, it starts to sting. Stupid stinging mascara. That should be the name of the brand. For that bee sting-like feel. So, I get up and grab a tissue and it rips. Only putting a little more than a 3/4 sheet in my hand. I don't know why there is a bundle of sheets trying to come out of the box too… so, I sort of, just casually… walk away… with my 3/4 page of tissue. 

www.bizrice.com

My son walks up on the box and before he even goes for a sheet… Hey, whats going on with the tissues in this box? I look around the room… whistling. Like, it wasn't me. It was me. And I didn't hear him. Three feet away. I heard him. I have that bat-hearing flow. And he pulls out the little strip that was missing from my recently pulled sheet and hands it to me. Um, thanks. I know it was you, here's you're missing piece. It's not mine. It's yours. Let me see you're sheet. No. I'm giggling now. I'm a bad liar. He's chuckling. And take note… *I'm not like those fake, bad liars who are really -actually -great at lying and manipulating; But a bonafied, truth-telling AND finding, kind of bad liar. He pulls out that big clump of tissues that was trying to escape earlier on me and hands me those with a smile. Take these too. Obviously, you broke the box. Fine, cardboard superhero. I broke the tissues. But at least the box is still in tact. And will make a nice drawer organizer later… 

Party Pants

Party popper. Plop. Negative nancy. Meh. Clenching Cathy. Might have made up that last one, hold on… I need to pour my coffee. Drip. Faster. Drip. Hurry. Drip. Oh my God, why is this taking so long to get into the cup? So, I have been using my coffee press -which I have finally been able to use- and it seems I have forgotten how the hell to use it. Even though its my preferred brewing method. Shocker. But, seriously, that's how long it's been! Ohhhh, the deprivation. Where's my knight with shining coffee cups when I need him? He better be out shopping for shiny coffee cups. I bought some ground coffee -I know, I do come across as more the whole bean type- and have been scooping that into my press. For my fellow "I heart coffee" lovers, you already know where this is going. Catastrophe. You don't put ground joe in a press. Oh, but It smells so good. Coming out of the package. Ive been too lazy to go purchase the appropriate style of crude. I wait for my teapot to boil the fresh water.Tick Tock. Tick Tock. And, then await the aromatic espresso to fill the air. Espresso-filled air? Yeah, you heard me. It is… totally… a thing. Hush. As I take a sip from my newly poured cafe au lait, I also discover I'm choking down the gritty mud swirling around in the cup. What the hell? Dammit. I forgot that I need to have my beans "coarsely" ground. Which means, I need to make my way to the grocery jungle and pluck a bag of whole bean java. But, alas, amidst my morning wakeup… I still drink the muddy water though… I don't waste coffee. I just don't. So, eventually, I run to the market to find the perfect whole bean bag of pick me up. The bolsa I choose will carry me over the grocery store threshold of new life. I heard angels singing when I chose. This. Bag. Is… The One. Laugh all you want but I can't just pick any Ole cafe. What do you take me for, a savage? I think not. And so, I find myself this morning coarsely grinding away. The relaxing sounds my little beans crunching… awaiting their fate to my perfect cup of break fluid. I let it simmer. I pour into my beautiful cup made of fine China. Did she say a teacup? Ok, its a cross between a tea cup and a demitasse cup. Bite me. And… I take an urgent slurp. Listen, I'm hurting. I've been typing away here for you guys without coffee. That's like poking a sleeping tiger in a cage. Rowr! Don't hop over the cage. Or do. Or in this case, my office desk. I'll take your arm off. With your poking stick. And I'll drink your cappuccino.

Photo: Nobel Ambience Photography

So back to the point… or at least to make the title of this post make sense. It's Friday. I'm sliding into my Party Pants. I'm belly-full, off of my french roasted brew. Like a baboon. I love monkeys. I'm feeling robust but smooth. Like a puffer fish. Glup. Glup.  Enjoy the weekend everybody… Sorry about taking your cappuccino. And your arm. But I warned ya…  Happy Friday!

Typewriter Tap Tap

Recently, while ONE was trying to take a nap, I was told that, said "one," could not catch some zzz's because I was tapping away on my keyboard. Which, apparently, was in comparison to Fred Flinstone trying to make his stone car drive on the street. Hater. But, it got me to thinking…  I want a stone car. Yabba Dabba Doo! Listen, I type 85 words per minute. Tap Tap. I know, I'm awesome. A secretarial genius. I hardly have time to monitor the decibel level of my finger pads hitting the keys. Robotic Voice Activated: Today's tap sound level has exceeded the sound barrier today, please report to typewriter jail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I have a lot to say. It may be nonsense. It may not pertain to the importance of the human condition. And it may be hilariously entertaining… but, irregardless, it must be said. What must be said? I don't know… something. Roll with it.

How dost one type too loudly anyway? In high school I took a class to learn how to type and I aced it, of course. Patting myself on the back and typing at the same time. And, I recall the sound of the keyboard keys being a moment of triumph as you sailed through a speed test with no errors. Nerd much? Yes, yes I am. Maybe, I should've considered the source. Accusational source? Caveman-Monkey hybrid.  This neanderthal, whom I adore deeply, types with the grace of a monkey. And not the spider monkey kind either. More like a gorilla. One sad little letter of the alphabet at a time. Somehow, I get schmoozed into doing letterhead more often for people than I'd like. And for future reference, if you'd like to kill my typewriter taps while you snooze, then you may want to try bribery. Because when you're tempted with a coconut iced donut… (the snacking is real people.) Tadaa! Face is stuffed. Cocunut flakes all over my eyebrows. I don't' know how it gets there either… I'm a savage donut eating beast.

Moisturizer Maven

Photo: Joseph Ascioti

There are many ways to apply moisturizer. You're a moisturizing maven on the rampage after a bubble bath. After a bath beaded- enfused, aromatic moisture sucking session, I was toggling between hiking my leg up on counter -to display my goodies to my male counterpart like a peacock- or just bend over and slather it on both legs simultaneously to be fast and time efficient -which I'm sure any male counterpart would have enjoyed also. Are those epsom salt crunchies stuck to my backside? I thought those were supposed to dissolve in water… Being that so many styles to applying body lotion are prevalent… I started to ponder how each method says so
mething about you. And so I came up with this. Enjoy!


#1 Cowboy Up! This is when you throw your leg up on a surface -counter, mattress or otherwise- as if you're hopping on a horse. Inverted spread eagle? Yeah, pretty much. This says… I'm a romantic. I want to show you- however unwittingly; But more so deliberately- that I'm sexy. Sexy eagle chick? Personally, I think any style of spread eagle would work here. But the inverted one will suffice. Usually, we find ourselves doing this fashionable application to subtly catch his attention. However. Not… so subtly. Whores.

#2 Toe Touch.. This is pretty self explanatory. You bend your ass over and slap on that silkening cream. Face down, ass up. But you do it quickly and without any precision whatsoever. Smack. Swipe. Swat. Executing twice the coverage in one fell swoop of vigorous rubbing. Half of the lotion lost on the walls and floor mats. This is for the girl who's got two jobs and most likely doesn't care about her looks but wants to stay moist in case she comes across a man who might want to sleep with her. Whores.

#3 The Slather Sloth. I need a base layer of lotion. Plop. Now a scented stratum. Plop. Plop. One that matches my perfume. Then, an overlap of body spray. That matches my perfume. Oh, and a ply of glittered, body spray… you know, for a glowy effect. Shiny. Pretty. That must match my perfume. And finally… I top it off with a sheet of my perfume. Spritzed from head to toe. That matches all aforementioned slatherings. Ah, I'm ready to head out into the world and gag anyone in my wake. Cough. Cough. You can smell this sloth before she even enters the room and by the time she leaves you have a migraine. Oh my head. What is that? Not even a whiff from your canister of emergency coffee beans you keep in your pocket can annihilate this stench. And you can still smell her three days later. Whore.

#4 The GentleMAN. Men only offer to apply lotion for us ladies because they want one thing… sex. They aren't being nice, or thoughtful. Indirectly, They want sex. Can I help you with some dick? Thank you Chris Rock. That being said, it still feels good when someone else smears on a scented delectable to our skin. mmmm… Or I'm just lazy. zzzz…. Or a princess. All hail… me. Or I just like it when a dude slops that shit on and I can just lay there like a dead fish. A dead fish that smells of pears and lavender. That's right… no shame. I'm a pears and lavender whore.

and last but not least…

#5 Spray-cial.
A Spraycial is a word I came up with that combines… well, you get it. There aren't really any spray lotions out there on the market -that I am aware of.… Except, sunscreens or tanning sprays. So, I only have those options to pull from here… This is the spritz and forget it sesh. Squirt. Squirt. Rub. A quicker than, by all other means, to glop dollops all over you. Sure, you may miss some spots; But, overall, its a fast approach. Whats a few patches of pasty skin tones amongst friends. For sunscreens, you may have burn spots… but who cares? For self-tanners, you're glowing without the work of laying on the sand for your bronze. You're living on the edge. You're fighting wrinkles and moisturizing all at the same time. You're like Wonder Woman. With a UVB ray fighting spf30 tan. It's a flawed system. Why are the bottoms of your feet and hands dark orange? But you don't care. You're skin is supple and golden! You golden, tan, spf30, UVB ray fighting whore.

The Bagelry

I'm not sure if there is a skill set involved in preparing a delicious noontime edible at my local bagel spot; But, if there is one… I'm quite certain that there wasn't much fact checking on the current situation occurring behind the counter. In today's society, guesstimates can somehow be twisted into facts, so today… I'm stuck watching this hoagie travesty. No spitting on my grinder!  Now, I bet you're wondering… Rita, if this is your favorite donut alternative delight, (absolute favorite) why are you knocking the preparers of your delish tidbits? Hmmm… I don't know. Its fun. And you need something to read when you visit me. Wahoo! Because, these are the thoughts that scurry through my brain while I wait for my little nibbles to be served. Because, I'm too lazy to make my own bagels, and slice them… and add smear to them, or lox… and the toasting. Who wants to watch me fuss over a bagel? No one. It's exhausting. Although, the rate at which I can learn ANY coffee machine, is astounding. The extent to which I analyze freaking everything, trust me, bearing witness to my poor boy competence would be agony. Or hysterical. Either way, a sandwich artist… I am not. I'm plum tuckered out - just at the thought. Espresso anyone?

Stop asking questions. Pay attention. So, after waiting for about an hour -exaggeration- for a sweet old woman to order… oh, I don't know, fifteen hundred bagels. Which she did, by the way, one lonely bagel at a time. Very…. slow…ly…. I couldn't help but notice -my fellow service industry friends -struggling to just function within their realm. There was the girl staring at the register with befuddlement. The young guy carefully putting together a gourmet sandwich option. Reading his bagel syllabus, as to not make a mistake. Uh, smear goes inside the doughy goodness love. Inside. The older woman in the back was rummaging through their ovens, hastily looking for a pumpernickel option. Pumpernickel? After taking notice to all the intriguing action, I saw old lady bones getting her walker together and putting a small to-go order in her satchel. Hold on. All this time and she only bought one freaking bagel?! You've got to be kidding me. Am I on candid camera? Listen, I'm not one to disrespect my elders, but don't look at me if she accidentally trips into the street. It wasn't me. And the walking stick? Flying into the sky? *whistling and looking around…. Uhhh… Check that driver's bumper.

Bottom line, folks. At my bagelry of choosing, yeah… they may be a bit slow. Or dim-witted. Possibly both. And maybe… its just trickling down from management. Highly likely. Isn't management always a bit, on the "special" side, anyway? I just can't stop going there. I'm hooked. They got me in for the bagels and I stay for the entertainment provided by the staff. Maybe the manager, or CEO, needs to institute a class of bagel-learning. Now class, these ones have holes in the middle. And these ones have walnuts in them. And… this… this my trainees… This is the Art. Of the Bagel Effenciency Quotient.

The iPhone Douche Bag Crowd

Photo: macrumors.com

So while I was cooking, I had my iPhone plugged into the wall so it could… Oh, i don't know…  charge. AND I was plugged into my earbuds so I could chat as well. I'm a multitasker.  I turned to handle my stove business -hey I gotta eat- and WHAM! My beautiful, amazing sucky insurance replacement iPhone broke. Hated that insurance replacement phone so much. But, with all my insurance replacement phone angst, It was never going to survive the huge belly flop it took onto the ceramic tile floor. Yippee! I can go get a new iPhone! Bye Bye shitty insurance replacement. Damn you and you're refurbished goods of crap!  I run straight to my cell provider and while visions of my new magnificent cell phone dances around in my brain with beautiful thoughts of how I could quickly just buy a new iPhone, they tell me that my contract isn't up for another month. Wait. What? But… I don't. Sigh. Understand. Excuse me a moment, while I wipe this droplet of water from my face. I may be perspiring. Or crying. Either way, this blows. I'm crying. The salesman continues continues on by letting me know that if I can wait a few more weeks, the new iPhone will come out and my iPhone model will be a better deal. The horror. Does anyone else hear that woman screaming? Oh, wait… no. Sorry, that's me. So, now my iPhone is a freaking useless piece of junk. And because I'm always about stumbling upon a better deal… I decide to wait. Now… deep in my thoughts, I'm suddenly interrupted by the proprietor who is trying to sell me a speaker box. Huh? Ok, pay attention cell phone salesman, with what am I going to plug into this fucking speaker box? My finger? Right. I need a new phone and now I need to wait for this phone. Now, away with you, leave me to my sobbing. 

Flash forward a week…  and now Im using an Android. Ugh. While I'm appreciative towards the lovely man who loaned me this piece of crap... I must say, having to have to adjust to this device, has been quite a nuisance. Like, sitting in traffic while you're late, kind of nuisance. All my apps I've downloaded onto this paperweight looks foreign and operates completely opposite. Or not at all. Welcome to topsy-turvy land folks. And some apps are completely wrong, by the way. They're named the same thing but suck ass on this phone. Ass. Suck. I'm suddenly going through Siri withdrawals. Note that Siri and I have an undeniable loathing for one another; But, she still address me as Your Majesty. Further allowing me to accept my place  in The iPhone Douche Bag Crowd. My crown please. Why Android… why, must everything have a more scenic route to the one function I'm trying to execute? Because you stink. It seems to me, if I want to look at multiple pages in the web browser, there should be a function allowing me to do so. nope. I get a thorny briar patch. Thanks. You're Welcome. Screw you smelly Android. All I get to do is hit the back arrow. Stupid back arrow. And instead of taking me back a page… what does the touch screen back arrow do? That bastard takes me completely out of the internet. Uh, thanks back-asswards browser arrow button. You missed the mark… again. Guess, I WONT, be buying the shoes that match the cute dress I found because my shopping cart magically disappeared. Probably in the thorny briar patch. I miss you, Siri.