Thursday, May 29, 2014

Kinky Copies


A friend of mine needed some photos copied, printed or whatever. So, we took a trip to Kinky Copies and used their computers to make it happen. We are at the service counter-and it's not that busy- and Marvin-not his name-but given the neanderthal that he is, I figured we'd keep his moniker under wraps. Believe me, I do not want to be this nice. He really was a freaking idiot. But, like mother always said, "if you have nothing nice to say..." Blah. Blah. Blah.

Pushing forward… On his name tag, I notice it says he's part of management. Ok, cool, this should be easy. Nope. First of all, he can't find the several files that were emailed to him. Pop Quiz Marvin! Can you find them? You've got two minutes... Annnnd... GO. Apparently he isn't good at pop quizzes. Once he does locate them a full twenty minutes later, he proceeds to tell us that his black and white ink is out and can only do color copies. I feel like this da-duhduh is lying to...  "up" ...his sales quota or something; hope that fifteen cent commission is worth it Marvin. Irregardless, we apprehensively accept it anyway. Well, more so, because we were in a position where we had to accept this load of crap. Well, fine… Marvin. Are you going to give us the black and white printing price? No? Oh... He doesn't know how to work the override functions on the computer. I'm sorry, what? Are you kidding me? Am I being "Punked?" What kind of moron gets promoted to assistant manager and cannot do override functions? What is the title in question for if you can't operate anything with your fancy purple and white plastic key card. Marvin. Or doesn't have answers for your questions pertaining to the business of… making copies? Marvin. Control, Alt, P… seems pretty elementary. Marvin. Why do you have a title? Marvin. 

Kinky Copies charging for color copies when they're black and white printing doesn't work. Oh did I mention that these photographs printed out like they were printed with a reverse mirror. CAUTION: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. This is ridiculous. I want to go chomp into a zebra. And, he wants to charge us full price for this fuck-up. He had the audacity to say, oh… they were sent to me like that. Um, oh sorry about that. Sometimes when I send pics over the Internet, exactly how they were taken, the person on the receiving end gets them upside down and backwards... said no one EVER. 

Did we just fall off a turnip truck? ...Yesterday? Rhetorical people. If I'm not mistaken, last time I checked I, the customer shouldn't be fined extra for your store's lack of keeping the machines working. Hey I like gum ball machines but if it keeps eating quarters without spitting out some gum balls, I don't keep letting it crunch on my shiny coins. Taking advantage of the situation much? Marvin, it's time you thwarted out to pasture. On a new adventure. Like, reading books to preschoolers. Those kids are about your speed. Or letting cows tip you over for fun while you sleep... I have a sneaking suspicion them bovine out yonder carry brighter bulbs than you.. And can probably hit the print function key. Boom. Mad cow takeover. Lights out. Marvin. 

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Wireless Wonderland


I'm appreciative of EVERYTHING and EVERY PERSON that comes into my life. Good. Bad. Otherwise. The "otherwise" group has expanded to comfortably fit all you non-descript and non-useful types; but that's neither here nor there... and not for this post. A friend of mine gave me a wireless router he no longer uses. The friend is in the "good" category. The wireless router... Not so much. Which, he was unsure of the pass code, because it was custom. Ok. No problem. This malleable slug, which will never disintegrate in a garbage dump, can still be useful. I turn to the information super highway to look upon the makers of this plastic paper weight. Click. Tab. Backspace. Enter. Ah... Jackpot! Found the website. Now to locate the model number so I can solve this pickle. Get online. Get back to my day. Not there. Where's a spam advertisement offering a free trip to France when you need one? A similar model name is there; But, no serial number matches the one I am now the proud owner. The numbers, letters, oh! And the caveman hieroglyphics are all off. Bah. Figures. Hmmm. Ok. Clearly, this predates the dinosaur age. No sign of it circa 1900s. So I call the company. The guy can't locate my model number either. When was this router made? 300 B.C.? Right. I'm so annoyed. I just want to google grumpy cat vines and cyber stalk a couple ex boyfriends who didn't see my value. This blows. 

I'm on the phone for 35 minutes. The agent on the phone is confused. I'm confused. My sister is on the phone with our friend asking him questions. It's a clusterfuck and I'm getting impatient. And I'm confusing the agent even more when I ask any iota of a question directly related to the riddle I need to solve. Look tech guy, who gets distracted by a glittery DOS program, I need you to focus on my problem. I have Internet. I need my router to work with it. I come from the future with a stone from the medieval era. And I need to pass it. The company you work for has made this ancient relic. I'd be surprised if this old 2.4 Ghz bean bag would magnify a bumble bee at this point. It doesn't even want to buzz buzz and it's connected to the wall coax. And that's a direct point of contact. Is this only going to work for dial-up? Really. How old is this damn moldable receptacle? 

This specialist is telling me he can't recover the password but we can try to find it from inside the router. Whatever that means. I'm not a techie dumb-dumb but his directions are random and not making sense. Meanwhile my sister and her niece are trying other pass codes via our friend on her line. While this Internet mechanic is blathering away, I'm asking him to hold on because we are trying some other options. POW! Magic password recovered. Wireless router professional not needed. Or helpful. Thanks professional of scientific instrumentation for all your... Actually, you didn't help at all. Turns out we didn't need you. Thanks. Bye. He's still talking and I hangup. And we are now online. Finally. 

Except... This router is quite the fixer upper. This massive 2.4 Ghz flexible platter is, in all sense of the word, active... However, most of the time it just doesn't want to cooperate. It's strength is weak and I'm not placing blame anywhere; But, my money's on the assumption that this piece of junk was pulled off a cornfield tractor. You can't just add antennae to farming equipment and expect it to yield a modern existence. Or Mapquest the nearest cotton candy kiosk. My friends heart was in the right place and this scrap component is fortified with gratitude. And will make a nice addition to my provocative junk pile. Remnants be damned... Not even Fry's Super Store can save you. Or Rumpelstiltskin's magic. 


Name Game


I like to play a lot. Give me a barista and I'm going to try to throw them off in any way I can. Give me a parking meter cop on foot and its all gravy. Show me a sandwich artist in Subway and they're all mine. Basically, my parents believed that being a circus clown would be my true calling. So, in an effort to make my parents happy, I screw with others while circling the parking lot on my unicycle.

My doting parents love to mess with me so much that when I was a  little girl-of the buffoon variety, they convinced me and I, naively, believed actors wore wax lips for their make out scenes. Embarrassing. True story. My first kiss didn't happen until ninth grade because I was so terrified of getting pregnant by kissing without the protection of wax. What an evil plan, predecessors. So you can imagine, the amount of glee that rushes over me when I hear the aforementioned barista, have to call "butter-nuzzles" to deliver my coffee, sends waves of tingles down my spine. It's so silly, but I'm easily amused. For a while, I thought sheep were female goats too. And that was in college. Wait for it… I gotta hear them call it again. Ah, it's like heaven just delivered my new baby name with a cloud. Glitter Girl. Princess. Bubbles. Goober. Renaming myself every time I go into a Starbucks to order my coffee has been my own sick little game I've been playing for about a year now. I don't believe that they find the humor in it; But, I guarantee finding the stick shoved way up the ass of any said person and yanking it out quickly is my reason to live. Why are we so serious restaurant servers of our modern society? Why can't we just find the one precious nut out of the prolific bunch? Find joy. Find the happiness deep inside your lunchtime servitude. I may have enough nuts to carry on my own account… but I like to share.

Hi, what would you like to order? Um, I'd like a vanilla caramel macchiato. What's your name? My name? Oh… um, let me think. What should I pick today? She seems happy to be at her daily grind. Or not. Jingles. What? My name Jangles. That's your name? Sure. Why not? She sighs. With a splash of irritant accompanying her demeanor. All in good fun, I say. If my mom and dad could convince me that movie stars wore wax lips so they wouldn't have movie screen babies… then, today, my name is Juggles. Don't wear it out.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Elmer Fudd

Nothing would make more sense than to share with you -on Memorial Day- my day at a police station. No,  I wasn't arrested. Although, I'm not opposed to a little role play. I'm waiting for my number to be called and I hear a man's voice elevate. Since, I'm pretty nosey, I turn around to look and all I hear the guy saying is, "Ma'am… what am I supposed to do? I'm trying to register my guns…" Blah. Blah. blah.. "because of my felonies." Wait. What?! Maybe I misheard. Eavesdropping is never an accurate way to spread gossip. He's wearing an old t-shirt with the arms cut off and it reads, "Shoot Responsibly." Nope. I heard him correctly. This guy is trying to register his guns in his new city -thank you responsible gun owner- but can't… because he's also the proud owner of two felonies. I retract the adjective "responsible," from my previous statement. Yet, still think role playing would be fun. I don't believe you can legally possess firearms with felonies on your record. Looking around for any sign of this on the walls. Nope. Nothing. But I'm pretty sure… In any city -or state! for that matter- across the United States. At least, as far as I'm aware, I'm pretty close to dead on with this one. Why does this law sound so new to this guy? The officer is trying to communicate that he must surrender them.. without really telling him to surrender him. "Sir. I cannot ADVISE you on what to do. BUT, you will NEED to do what is in YOUR best interest." I don't think Elmer Fudd is putting it together. But then again, Elmer Fudd never quite figured out how that rascally wrabbit always outwitted him. Some light bulbs only operate on dim. There's no other logical explanation. No, really, none what-so-ever. 

After that cartoonish fiasco died down, I was back to boredom in the lobby when I hear, what I believe is a stripper, behind my chair, arguing with her boyfriend in that whiny Kardashian dialect; But, is rocking hot pink -and matted- hair, long socks and too many piercings to count. Oh my gosh, I can't wait to hear how this pans out. This is going to be good. Pretending to be nose-deep in my book… and, NOT, her phone conversation… I slide down into my chair in a more slouchy position. Because thats going to help me hear better. I'm sure of it. Now I have nothing against any of these aesthetic attributes separately; But, put them all together and I twinge with angst. Maybe she doesn't know how dirty she looks. I'm pretty sure I would never buy a lap dance from her. No, I'm very sure. And I don't find bruises under your layers of fishnet stockings and chucks sexy. Not even a little bit. Call me old fashioned. Life management can be arguably defined by wardrobe choices. Or lack of shower choices. Ode toilet? English translation… she smelled like ass. Or the puttering of speech over why she feels she doesn't have the time to make sure her paperwork is in order for her 'independent contractor" business. Her words not mine. Verbatim. Maybe she's a creative type. Maybe she's not good with numbers. Maybe she shouldn't be in charge of her own business if she can't add two plus two. Or twenties. Either way, today's experience makes me want to visit police stations more often. Who knew the entertainment value would be in the high nines?!



Let's keep this Memorial Day going with yet another visit to Ikea. I need shelving. Two more visits later. And a curtain rod. With a canteen of Vino. Don't judge me… it's a holiday. Listen, party animals… like tweety bird in her forties, shopping in her sparkly spaghetti strap top and jean shorts -at three in the afternoon- clueless to any kind daytime fashion faux pas. Ain't no rest for the wicked, huh Lady Luck? Here… have a sip of my grown up juice. You seem like the type to hide liquor in your baby's sippy cup. What a great day! Today's adventure wouldn't be complete without trying our luck with some mall sushi. You know, the sushi restaurants they have in the malls? I'm sure thats the freshest fish around. Drink up that sake, it may be your last. And why not be inebriated before your last meal. I gotta say, my excursion was complete when I found myself seated next to Elmer Fudd at the sushi bar. Who proceeds to tell me that he ended up just saying screw it. If the police want to arrest him they'd have to find him first. "Aint no way in hell my gon give up my rifles."

Right on man. Cheers to that! Here… let me introduce you to someone. Lady Luck just ordered us a round of sashimi. Indulge. What could go wrong?

Friday, May 23, 2014

Slip N Sleep


Ok. I know what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. But this bed tho!!! It's like Vegas seeks out to find the softest, squishiest and cloud-like mattresses and pillows on the planet! Sinking down into these sheets, nuzzling into the sexiest, bare chest... Oh wait. That was part of a dream. Dammit. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Crap. How can a bed made of heaven be so comfortable that I am not even able to get past my insomniac ways and count my sheep as I doze back off to my dirty dreamland. Bah. Stupid insomnia. 

Since sleeping is never a luxury I get to endure, guess it means I need to find something else to fill my time. I hop my grumpy ass up out of heaven, make some coffee and head to the studio. Do my.. La-La-La's as I'm en route, so as not to waste time on my particulars ...and away I go. Knock out a few tracks until now the sun has woken it's sleepy eyes to the day and I head back to my hotel with a yawn in one hand and a chamomile tea in the other. As I let the the bathtub fill up with hot and bubbly relaxation, I get undressed and trip over my own feet. Face first. Lights out. I awaken to the water beneath my nose on the bathroom floor. Shit! I over-flowed the bath tub. Again! Why does THIS scenario keep repeating itself... Crap. Crap. Crap. The hotel staff is banging at the door and I yell to them that everything is fine. I fell and bumped my head. Literally. But I'm ok. Seems as though they don't care that I'm ok-and only covered by hand towel- but merely that the hotel guests in the room below me are in a shower of my overflowing bath bubbles and they don't see the calming effect of the lavender scent like I do. 

Two hours later. The buzzing around Floor 38 has hushed to a dull gossip as I finally lay my non-cleansed booty down to rest. I don't even care anymore. I'll relish in my filth at this point if it means I can finally get some zzzzz's. All my fizzy scented water lovelies went to waste on the floor below me. They still don't see the value. And all I got was an overwhelming dose of it in the air making my room smell of dusty flowers.
Good night friends. Good night scented oil that I get to choke on all night. Good night stupid sheep. Now, where's that handsome bare chest... Sigh. Zzzz. 

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Flexed Booty

Athletic guys. Guys who eat well. Guys who exercise regularly. Keep their man-hairs in some kind of order Guys with buff bods are just plain sexy!
But there's a line in the sand that needs to be drawn. By me. I'll do the dirty work. Geesh. My family and I were online yesterday-incessantly-seeking out guys to just, I don't know... Take a little PEEK. Check out. Gawk. And a lot of times, laughed ...Just perusing the plethora of male menus of instagrammers and face bookers alike. Hey I'm allowed to to look; just no touchie touchie! Besides, we were bored. Finding great -sometimes not so great- looking guys that we would give back stories on. Like this guy for example...
Why are you roiding dude? It shrinks your man parts. It makes you bald and I watched a documentary once that showed a pro-body builder who had done steroids his whole life and somehow his arm got so freaking huge it literally popped -POOF!- like a balloon. And nobody likes deflated balloons. And if you look close enough it's almost as if there's an embryo growing on the inside of his arm trying to escape. I don't know about you but if anything on my body could pop like an embryo balloon I'd be a bit hesitant to use it. Oh baby, your deflated and flubby arm is so beautiful compared to the rest of your overblown muscle-head tone; said no woman EVER. I can pretty much bet all my chips on that fact. That being said, guys who juice up with steroids are yucky. It's like your telling the world how insecure you are by using your overly flexed sphincter as a billboard. Like a plate of broccoli swimming in fake cheese from a can disgusting. 

Or the weird runner guy. How thin do you think you need to be to prevent "drag?" Eat a steak for fucks sake! No chick wants a guy she can call a spinner. She wants a manly man to throw her around!!


I've dated all types. Not in a whorey type of way; But, more like a wine tasting kind of way and I tend to always fall back into the guy who's -IMO- just right. He's not so buff that he can't wipe his ass. He's not so anorexic he needs an IV tube to eat. He's in the middle. He's cuddly; but at least tries to eat right -more so because I'm a health nut and force feed the poor guy. He's thick or solid; not fat. He tries to work out -let's face it, I'm probably dragging him to the gym by his ankles. But he's the type that will love me for it anyway. And besides, he gets his revenge in our bedroom playground time. 

He can have some... Hair. Sigh. I have such a love/hate affair with this monstrosity of an issue. Listen; I'm a girl. I wax everything. I like it clean. One hairless cat, coming up! And while I don't expect guys to de-fuzz themselves like a street sign pole on a corner... Can we at least be willing to trim the shit? Please? 

After having a little fun at your guys' social media expense... I've come to the conclusion that man-selfies are still weird. Just be you. Even if your a steroid taking, hairy baboon. She will love you more for that. 

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

The IKEA Jungle

Are we in agreement that putting together an IKEA bed shouldn't be rocket science? I'm not a rocket scientist -which is probably the problem- and this is probing to be quite a task. All the bolts to my IKEA bed frame are missing. Now... I suspect, that this is the work of the nuts and bolts monster... He most likely ate them. He's as real as the pegacorn folks. 

Irregardless, I now have a bed that is on the floor. In pieces. Without any way to put this bad boy together. IKEA ROAD TRIP!! I'm ready to kill a few hours of my day. Why are these stores NEVER nearby? With all the hullabaloo surrounding the Swedish meatballs, one would protest that they don't open up Ikea cafés on every corner. I'd be there every day. For the coffee. And the waffles. Mmm... Waffles.

I don't know the name of my bed style. All I know is it's a queen. It's a platform bed. And it's in pieces all over my bedroom floor. Metaphor much? 

Welcome to IKEA! I know the bolts that go to my bed are here in Switzerland... somewhere. So I head up the staircase to the entrance with the crazy notion that I can hunt this puppy down. The styles of their furniture doesn't change that frequently and I only bought this bed a couple years ago. I mean, that's part of the beauty of what IKEA stands for. Simplicity... and the confidence that I can return at any time and find replacement parts. And waffles. As I'm following the arrows of time wasted, traveling through the maze of gimme gimme, I finally get to the bedroom department. I don't see my bed anywhere. You've got to be kidding me. Is IKEA friends with Siri? I know that peach of a computer is infiltrating all technology to relish in her joy of fucking with me on every level. Making sure there is no reference of what I need in the store's computer system. Whore.

Ok. Three millions arrows to follow and many departments I didn't want to look through later, I found a bed frame that was similar to mine. It's a platform bed. Dark wood. More like particle board. But it's missing my nightstands that attach to the headboard and have floating drawers. Considering everything else on the bed frame itself looks the same, I'm thinking the hardware has to be the same too. Or close to it. Zebras and leopards are the same, right? Wrong. But... They both have four legs. So, I grab the paper with the info and I'm off. The representative of the bedroom department says I need to go to customer service, she thinks. So I run to customer service to play Russian Roulette. Dammit. Customer service tells me to go to Returns. Where's the rabbit hole I need to fall in? I feel like I'm in Wonderland. Screw it. IKEA cafe break. 

Imagine, quirky, elevator music playing while you slide your tray along the cafeteria displays. Making your choices seem endless to the soundtrack of melodies reminiscent of Saturday morning cartoons. Macaroni and cheese was pretty good. Can't really screw that up I don't think. But with all the black pepper and hot sauce I dumped all over it... Who could tell? I like spicy. Anything without spice feels so boring. Kind of like me. Kidding. Well, maybe I'm not kidding... Anyway, steamed fake vegetables -gotta work on those IKEA cafe- I doused a buttload of salt/pepper on those. I'm not a fan of salt, but I still gobbled them up without complaint. For dessert, I grab some yellow custard cake thing with jam inside and -no, no...there's no jam in there at all. It's all sugar. I've never tasted anything loaded with so much sugar that it would make your soda not sweet. Wow. Someone take the sugar away from the chef. My teeth, I'm certain, dissolved out of my mouth as I ate that thing. Notice, nothing really stopped me from eating the all-fructose induced pastry...

Ah, returns section. I take a number and wait while I hear Debbie Gibson's "Shake Your Love" playing overhead. I can get into this. Shake your love, I jus can't your love. Shake your love, I just can't shake, your loove.... Number 86. Yay! That's me. Hi, I need bolts for a bed you don't have anymore. The lady looks confused. She humors me.  Cascading back and forth to the stock room five times -my fault, I had none of the parts I needed and kept asking for more- and finally we think we got it. She's not sure. I'm not sure. It's a fuckery I'm all too familiar. Knowing my luck, my bed will need one random piece they don't make anymore. I ask her how much and she says free. I said, what? Replacement parts are free. Holy cow! IKEA speaks my language! I love you IKEA. 

After a little bit of struggle, I've managed his monstrosity, although missing a few pieces -still- is finally holding my mattress up off the floor. I plop down to feel my good work in action and I fall right through the bed frame onto the floor. With my pride. FML. 

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Spaghetti Space

Desperate times call for desperate measures. As for my brain? Spaghetti. She just gave me her two week notice,"hey bitch, I quit." Night night time. Forget it. We all already know about my insomnia. Blast you, sandman. Waking up. Shutting down. Can't do math. Never good at that anyway. I forget to shower. I prefer baths. With bubbles. And champagne. Multiple problems needing solving all at the same time. I like to juggle knives. Making time for the boyfriend who's being a great boyfriend and my cuddling-needing boyfriend that I can't even be boyfriend-cuddling right now. I wanna squish him. Waaa! Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight... Ohhh yeah. SexyIliciousness. Bah. Focus, Rita. 

I've gone delirious. And I have the Minecraft head to prove it. Told you, I lost my mind. Stress will do that to a person. Ask my man-handsome. Basically ignored him. Yelled at him. And forgot he's on Team Rita.. I know. I was an asshole. Pay attention. I'm driving along and I keep making wrong turns and driving in circles. What should have been a twenty minute trip to CVS turned into a forty-five minutes scenic excursion of confusion. Oh! A Coffee Bean. That'll help. It doesn't. Now I'm spacey AND jittery. Space Cadet Sally reporting for duty! And still missing kisses that are being blown in the wind from my amazing man-handsome love nugget. Trying to catch them. Still flying up over my head. Sigh. And I'm still turning on the wrong streets. Did I really just blow this audition because I memorized the wrong script? Oh geez. Life intervention, where are you? In my defense, I have three scripts -two with 30 pages of dialogue- to memorize... I deserve to be cut some slacks... Slacks? Who needs pants anyway. Over-rated.

Finally, we are getting settled into, yet, another new place. I gotta say, Los Angeles, you really know how to test a persons will to survive. Sometimes I think turning my car into a permanent residential address really might be the way to go. Give me an AC adapter for my keurig and I'm all set. A house on wheels wouldn't be so bad, would it? I can imagine my heater is a fireplace that I can drink tea and read a book nearby. All cozy in my driver seat with my Breakfast At Tiffany's flannel blanket wrapped around me. Tucked in tightly, keeping my feet warm. I love the sound of the rain, pitter-patter against the windshield's window pane. Me and my boo can get snuggly in the back seats while we watch a movie on my iPad and eat freshly popped popcorn. Hot out of the Easy Bake oven; in my trunk. 

Moral of the story? When life gives you lemons, make an awesome Lemon Tart on Hollywood and Vine. Don't let life stress you out kids. Even a street walker will help you change a flat tire while she's waiting on another work opportunity to arrive. No matter how hard or how difficult. Bear Grills has nothin on me. There is a purpose for you. When shit gets f***ed up there are new opportunities arriving to try something else. And those are huge blessings. Who knew I could use my coffee carafe to boil ramen noodles? 

Friday, May 16, 2014

Tornado Tutti Fruitti

Everybody has this friend in their Rolodex that comes in and brings a whirlwind of, uh… adventure -yeaaaaahh, adventure… that's what we'll call it. More like chaotic tornado of pandemonium. Kind of like, vomiting as you pass through the highest point of the loop of a roller coaster. And while you're the purveyor of said up-chuck, the juicy aftermath happens around you. And on you. Or as you cruise through on the coaster. You're welcome riders. Enjoy the refreshing blast. I honestly don't think the Rolodex exist anymore but I just love the way it sounds. I want one. I imagine myself flipping through it, pretending I'm a 1980s stock broker. Punching those numbers right off the pages into my rotary phone knowing my next call will be the break of a lifetime. And I, too, can have a harem of men surrounding me and I can order them around at my whim. Can a harem be filled with grown men-children? Time to investigate. Some ideas are just ridiculously good ideas.

I just watched "Wolf Of Wall Street." I'm still reeling over that movie. What a rush I had leaving that movie theater. Brilliantly done. Right, well, while I dock my imaginary multi-million dollar dream yacht, let's not forget, I played with boxes when I was a little kid, I can entertain myself with cardboard. I know... I'm special. Cardboard box special.

This high strung sister-lioness' energy is most of the time fun and exuberant. She cheers you up when you need it. She's the one that will come over with a bucket of sherbet and a the dye kit after you dump your boyfriend's skeezy ass. You know the type. The dude that screws you over not once, but twice, then wants you back. Swears he will change. You believe him. He doesn't. And he plays make believe to the world like he was the innocent victim. Yeah, that skeezy douche. She acts up and we jump around the house like parkour misfits. Sometimes, lamps get broken, sure… or they get a Bohemian makeover. Either way, she tells it like it is without hesitation. And my life is always, instantaneously better, all because she is in my life. Tye dye family time!

 But, she also comes with a lot of… disorderly conduct. Let's just say one time she brought a dog that peed on the floor… and refused to clean up after it. Another time, she convinces you to drink a shot called the cement mixer. Don't. Ever. Do. It. Or, She'll tell you, you are going to go grab dinner… and you end up in Mexico sitting on a donkey with a snow cone. I still have that sombrero.

At least you can smile at all the pillows, sheets and tablecloths that now have a flower child theme keeping consistency in your decor. And your new pet donkey named Tutti Fruitti perks up any sad moment. The story of how you acquired him is priceless. But… you don't look like a pot smoking hippie at all. But, you do. Peace, man.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

My Twitter Struggle

The social media Mecca can be an amazing tool for business, or getting together with your friends for that under water basket weaving class you've been meaning to take. Or simply, to get a laugh out of the old lady-selfie that your Twitter-buddy posted making fun of her mom jeans. It was mean, but funny. But, he was using her photo as a catalyst for using her as a punching bag. Let's face it, it's tough to keep your keyboard clicking eyeballs off the screen. I can do it. Click. Click. Enter. Backspace. Shit. And while it's great for networking, blogging, making friends, finding boyfriends Wait, no No, no, no Don't try that last one. You could be one Craigslist post shy of a victim. It's appeal and fun time max character postings, can be quite entertaining.

The thing is, I can randomly think of goofy one liners all day long. It's innate. And my immediate reactional need is to twat it, share it with my social mediates  bringing joy to at least one person who sees it… But then, I find myself flippantly skipping around the house singing The Smurfs theme song, and I end up deciding against it. Why? Uh, because… skipping is fun. Duh. No... Well, yes it is fun, but really the truth is, I want to elaborate on it. Add my corny commentary. My witty verbiage. You can hold your applause. And, no, readers... "Reactional" is not a word. I made it up. I'm a trendsetter. Applaud frantically... now. 

My problem is Twitter actually bores the s*** out of me. Sorry Twitter inventor people. My love/hate relationship for it, is a conundrum I can never seem to get past. People tend to either be blissfully happy,  me… extremely angry, sometimes me…  undeniably bitter, not really me… or ethereally spiritual, oh, totally me. My God, how many times can I hear someone say "he ain't shit. I ain't shit. She ain't shit." Ugh. And the bad grammar. I die inside every time I see someone, purposely,  misspell a palabra. That's spanish for the word, "word." yeah, I'm a one word bilingual genius.  Acronyms, even modern day slang -sup dawg- are one thing… but to deliberately write like a dumbass who points at a book and says, very slowwwwly… corrrrrrn flaaaaake. Stop it. You aint shit neanderthal. 

Granted, on Twitter, there are a lot of facades that don't lineup to real life. For instance, the so-called wanna-be beat makers that claim their work is so bomb and next thing you know you're receiving an email with something sounding more like loud freight train combined with the Tele-tubbies theme song. Toss your shitty beats player. Everybody makes beats…. Oh yeah, and so does my dead grandfather in his heavenly tomato garden in the sky… FOH. Oh look, acronym. Did you use a 1980s tape player to make that piece of shit beat? Maybe a gopher helped you during mastering? I used to get them in my email but when I got one busted ass beat after another? I passed along that pain to my manager. And that chick? Oh, way harsher than me. Everybody makes beats and so does my dead grandfather in his heavenly tomato garden in the sky… FOH. Oh look, an acronym.

What about the artificial bodies perpetrating on cats whom they plan to spam or hack? Purely out there to prey on twatters accounts. Chopping and slicing up accounts since its birth. But then again, not even Miley Cyrus is immune to the fact that, even 30% of HER followers, are estimated to be fake accounts. Yes, friends, GOOGLE it. Not even EmergenC can save you. Even celebrities can't escape the bogus Twitter embodiment. And, it's not entirely Twitter's fault. Even if they tried, they couldn't manage that. 

The twitter-sphere reminds me a lot like sleezy car lots. Full of mostly shit salesmen with mouths full of samples and a dash of clam bake hospitality.  Moral of the story, stop taking it so seriously. You should be more concerned about you're morning coffee and where it comes from instead. And it doesn't change the fact that my Twitter struggle is real. 

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Superhero Seeks Fruit Cake Affair

After my recent post about my local Target Superman... I got to thinking. I'm a freaking super hero too. Well, I WANT to stop a speeding train in a single bound; But, all I've managed to do is eat the jelly out of a donut. Quite successfully.

I bob and weave throughout the local supermarket like speeding bullet, casually evading those tempting end cap deals. Take THAT, food marketing geniuses. Your evil attempts to stop my padded bra heroism has failed! Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Never fear my handsome champions. No villain can whisk me away to Sugar Metropolis and load me up with mountains of cotton candy to win my affection BonBon King. Well, maybe. My padded bra -made of lollipops-awaits you, kind sir. I'm pretty certain any sophisticated civilization has cotton candy. If it doesn't, someone should be getting the fudge covered ax. Not mentioning names. Peanut Brittle. You bastard. If the victor plays his cards right, he can access the spoils of the glittering padded bra! Da-Da-Dadaaaaa! Of course it has glitter. Strawberry flavored. Would you expect anything less? I have no idea why I keep talking about my brazier either. Keep up. 

I know what you're thinking, or not. But my sweet tooth is becoming a very real obsession; But, I'm happy to report, that I brush and floss regularly and I have grown quite attached to my pretty white chompers over the years. BRUSH YOUR BICUSPIDS, KIDS! This has been a public service announcement. See? Super hero status. Speaking of super heroines... Am I the only one who noticed that Minnie Mouse has not aged one bit in her entire Disney empire lifetime? Maybe she has the super power of the anti-aging. Sign me up. I'd rock the hell out of those ears! So, my sensational champions, what kind of protagonist are you? 

The nerd hero who can stop a barrelling -out of control- train virus in it's tracks. Control, Alt, Delete the madness troubling me with just a few clicks. Oh, my circuit board savior.

The muscle bound emancipator. Leaping across the 101 freeway into my crazy blogging heart. Carrying me over his head, like a fruit basket bench press, across four lanes of elliptical trials.

The evangelical artist. Strapping my frame around him like a paint brush murse. His heroics, favored by his muse, shellacking his easel with great posture... And a beret. 

Let's sum up. I think I would be the perfect super hero. Im independent, but love wholly. Like guacamole. I'm strong, but am a tenderoni. Like macaroni. And I like donuts. 


Saturday, May 10, 2014

Happy Mother's Day Mom!

Ok, whew, got that out of the way. Is she looking? No? Ok... Good.  I start this post with caution because this may be the day I piss her off with my version of childhood events, that maybe -just maybe- I'm not supposed to mention. Crap. I know she's reading this. Well, if I'm going to hell anyway... 

Maybe it's a good thing? Not visiting the devil silly... But joyously delving into my dill pickle minus The Reuben kind-of-existence. Maybe it's a bad idea... However, I've never been one to give two giraffes' poo-loads about blemishes to my reputation. Doesn't phase me. Either way, these experiences have helped shaped me to be who I am... And they're a bit comical. Wait. I have a reputation? HA! Whatever... I'm always up for an opportunity to bestow my embarrassing tales unto you all. No shame in my jungle book. 

Mom says I was a, smarter than average, kid with an uncanny ability to persuade others to jump off bridges. Like the time in sixth grade, when I rallied for the girl with allergies to keep eating peanuts on state testing day just to watch her sneeze uncontrollably. This entertained the school yard masses. Or when I was able to convince my sister to eat mud pies on several occasions. Really. I coerced her to put pies... made of mud, in her voice hole not just once, but on many... Many sunny days of summer. No matter how old I get, I still find cheer with that. Even when I believed She wouldn't do it... ONE. LAST. TIME... somehow by the sacred sunflower garden, she would do it. Mind blown.

...So, I was rambunctious kid -that ONLY a mother could love- apparently my gentle caregiver of a mother at one time tied me to the bed to keep my hyper ass still. Right. Sound awful? Sound like I was abused? Nah. I just wouldn't sit f***ing still. And she was just trying to catch some rays and relax. Scratch that crazy notion into oblivion. Hi, welcome to my parents hell. Make yourself at home. The thermostat is adjustable -with options of hot, hotter, and hottest. Oh, and we have scones. But, act like you've been infected with mad cow disease nowadays and they will medicate your over active youth in two shakes of a pogo stick. But, Back then? All it took was a rope and a mattress. 

This wasn't the first rendition of this tale though... Which made me ponder. Was I gridlocked twice? When my mom gave me this narrative account a second time, it came across quite differently. She could barely get through the fable without snorting laughter! She recounts that she had tied me up to keep me restrained from scratching myself. Chicken pox. They itch. I scratched. Most adults couldn't refrain from these scribbling lacerations. Cut me some slack. So I'm hopping down the bunny trail of my childhood home hallway, arms and legs hog tied together. Nothing was going to keep me in that bed. Nothing. Mom was none the wiser. Until she saw my lasso loosening around my ankles as I bounced and skipped along. Urgently escaping the lingering doom of being stuck in the house all day over a couple of prickling imperfections. There were trees to climb. Boys to challenge -and WHOMP on. Yes, anything a boy could do, I can do better. Try me. Suckers. 

Speaking of trees. This broadcast just in, one of my sisters -not the mud pie one- has just informed me that, I, was also tied to one of our tall, woodsy friends. Yes, a freaking tree. The tree that we had the most amazing treehouse fun in! Wait. The same tree I fell out of? 

Upon hearing this breaking news, I'm starting to stumble upon answers as to why I tend to be so gregarious when people tell me no... or the fact that I feel confined by rules and regulations. Not all rules and regulations -by the way- are for every mould. And I, am my own mould. I live by my own passion. I know. I'm awesome. Write that down. Or maybe it's as simple as a "go f*** yourself. Ill get what I want and persevere no matter what anyone says." Even if it's only when I want to substitute iceberg lettuce or spinach. Damn you waitress... I will use the force to get the shrubbery I desire! ...And possibly why I'm very non-committal when it comes to boyfriends. Wow. What an uphill climb for Mr. Right. Sorry dude. Good luck on the terrain though! I'm rooting for you.

And so I rouse -and dance like a ballerina on train tracks. Thank you mom! You're stories, your convivial punishments and quirky upbringing have built the perfect combination of giddiness, beauty and strength that only you could have provided me. 

I love you MOM!
Happy Mother's Day! 

 

Thursday, May 8, 2014

It gets weird


Damn you energy drinks for convincing everyone that , they too, can have wings... No superman, you didn't force open the sliding doors at Target. They open on a sensor. But the fact that you made that face of struggle and proceeded to plow through them like a ruffian surely entertained me! Make a muscle! Smile and say cheese! Snap. Flash. snap. No flash. Im adding you to my photo gallery collection. I shall give my new collection a name... 

Musky body booty. For her. Nah, too much. Target The Weirdos. Nope. Target Voyeur- Pics of the odd and entertaining. Ok, I may need a little new time to find a title for this collage. Mmmmm... I do love energy drinks though. They really give you that feeling of cheating death when your heart palpitates or stops beating a few minutes. What a rush! 

I never thought I would say this; But, people watching at Target is... AMAZING! The guy who was walking toward the doors that are labeled "Exit", stops in his tracks, and retraces his steps back to enter the doors marked "Enter." I don't think I've ever seen anyone do that. Just go through the damn doors, they both open whether you go in or out of them. Mental note... the exit gates totally opened up for him and he still chose to walk to the aforementioned "Enter" doors. Target customers might be as interesting to peep on as much as Walmart victims. Ok, ok, I'm pushing it. Nothing tops the Walmart crowd. 
But Riskier customers? At Target? Now, maybe, I've seen -or heard- people having sexual relations in a Target bathroom; But, that's neither here nor there. Only speculation really. I'm a pervert. And so I hope for the mama jama gold mine find in that scenario though... I know. Issues. 

It's quite possible though that I could have been acting just as odd at Target. 
And I'm a creep... I'm a Weirdo. Everybody sing! What the hell am I doing here? 

 I was the only child of a plug outlet trying to charge my dead phone. At the entrance doors. Or exit doors. Where did superman saunter off to? How normal did I look? Why is that guy staring at me? He was in the frozen section. On the escalators. By the dishes. And now sits across from me near some shopping carts. Just say hello you freak. Geesh. 

Well, my electronic leash has been fully charged and that is my cue ladies and gents. But I now have a new motto when I go to Target. When it's time to get weird. Let's get weird at Target. 

Ooo that can be a title for my array of pics... No? No. That isn't that catchy either? No. Dammit. 

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Steeling Metals

I'm half asleep at the wheel of my iPhone and I need to charge it, badly. While perusing the mall, taking a break from less exciting tasks, I go in search of an outlet. A never-ending search. There's seating everywhere and upon each sitting area there are absolutely no charging stations. What the hell is going on here? Even the airport has a place to sit, eat and charge. Am I hearing mmmmmm bop playing overhead? I cruise around the first bend and no luck. Oooo but I see a Swarovski Store. I should remind myself to pick up new martini glasses. Swarovski... Martini glasses. Still no plug outlet though. Then I travel around the second wide turn, oooo is that a California Pizza Kitchen? Wait. I don't like the service at that restaurant. Last time I went there I had my sisters rowdie kids with us and they made us wait so long to seat us that we ended up leaving. Probably planned. The hostess was a snobby wench and maybe we deserved the witchery that ensued that day. Her kids were running around screaming like they've never been paddled. Or, out in public before. Most likely, both issues were prevalent. Outlet, outlet, outlet... Find a darn outlet. They've  got to have tables nearby walls with electrical sockets, right? Ooo hot waiter guy.... But still no sockets. Ugh. Wrong. Note to self... Keep hating California Pizza Kitchen. 

Driving my annoyed legs down another corridor of this vast ocean of retail madness, in abuprtly stopped out of my inner -no-outlet loathing- of thoughts. "Hello, your cute." Excuse me what? "Would you like to try a falafel?" Huh? Does it come with a plug? Did you just say i was cute? Thanks but I'm allergic to wheat. "Oh, these are gluten-free." Of course they are cute snack shack guy. I'm on a mission here... Focus. Bye, gotta run. Good falafels though, yum! Holy crap. What is this I see? I come to a balcony and find... Ooo A piano. No. No time for that. My world will end if my phone suffocates to death here at the mall. A pillar with an outlet. I can't believe it. There's no benches near it, shocker, but I'm not stuck up enough to care right now. I sit my happy ass down and plug in my phone. Finally! I glance back down at the pretty black and white keys on the first floor and I cannot believe what I'm seeing. It's an electric grand piano and -wtf- that damn thing is plugged into the floor! Of course it is, bc I have finally found a plug. Now that I no longer need a plug. There's a conveniently placed plug... For an instrument, with which normally does not need a plug. 

Suddenly, a girlfriend of mine interrupts my thoughts because she's having trouble breathing and her inhaler isn't working right. See?! I told you I couldn't leave my phone's fate in the hands of it's own battery. This is an Urgent call! I'm going to save the day and possibly my friends life today! I could be on the news for protecting the innocent and uplifting the weak! I will be a hero! She asks me to pick something up that will alleviate her symptoms and as I walked by a vitamin store, I think, oh! This would definitely have what she needs and I march right in there and ask for steeling metals.... 


Damn this day... I need a nap.

Friday, May 2, 2014

No We Do Not

I know that so badly, that you boys, want us goddesses to relate to you on many levels. Soulfully... Mentally... Emotionally... or emotionless because you guys think we, beautifully emotional creatures, are one golf ball short of a bogie. I draw the line at farting. So stop accusing us. You guys are just filthy and want us to be like you, cutting ass blasters everywhere you go. I know, we are cute and smell delicious. It would probably not please you more than to make us disgusting pigs, just like yourselves. But, let me be clear... In no way, will an air biscuit be forming to take away my bootilicious juiciness.

Let's be clear about those Perfumed puffballs you believe are filling your air space while you sleep. Maybe your own ass woke your from your slumber. Ever think of that? And, I'm not taking ownership, but if That pizza with extra cheese we had for dinner last night wasn't on my plate maybe -just maybe- you wouldn't have been subjected to those little Stink Clouds. 

Girls just don't do any of these butt burps. Keep your opinionated scene rattling air horn explicatives to yourselves. No we do not and no we will not commit any smelly meltdowns on your watch. We , femme fetales, are prefect. That is all.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Zipper Envy

I bite my tongue. I do. Stop laughing. Are you done? No? Ok.. I'll wait. Wow... Really? Oh geez, clearly, it's hyena time. Keep cackling while I broach the topic... I like to consider that I keep my mouth shut when I should. Although, everyone around me seems to disagree on this. But you have to stand up for yourself as well so if I need to open my trap, I will. 

Well, regardless of what you might think, I do zip my lip from time to time. Less often than not. No zipper envy here. But nonetheless, I make the effort. Painfully. I think I feel a muscle knotting up in my shoulder... 

It's sort of like the breast stroke in lane five. I don't know what that means either. I don't even like pools. Yes, I swam on the swim team in high school but I was naive. I didn't realize how often dogs shed their allergen-carrying fur into the water just simply chasing a ball... Yes. I prefer beaches to pools. Something about the filthy children swimming amongst us mortals and the elderly squelching shats into the isolated body of liquid makes me shudder. That's a mysterious Island I can pass on visiting. Some journeys don't need to be inhabited. Although... I'll happily be stranded on that island with the pec pop of love... Thank you Dwayne Johnson. Without instructions, all men would be lost. And in my case, I have a road map full of bob-n-weaves keeping me elusive to all your manchild charms. Where was I going with this? I continue to stray from my point... 

Clearly, it's unavoidable to escape dirt at the beach. . All through with your insidious laughter, guy who drinks too much of everything and vomits in the vacation pool? That was a nauseating thought. Don't kid yourself, it happens and it's gross.  I think the beach is just better. I can out surf a shark while playing in the waves with dolphins. Dig up a beautiful castle made of sand crystals. Sure, a toddler may have squatted his behind in the moat I've dug around my princess sand palace and taken a huge dump.... But I forgive you. Your a sexy 6'5 man beast baby and you can do whatever you like. It's the ukulele playing that swoons me. Keep it up and I'm a miniature sized moth to your monstrous flame. 

Dammit. I really must stop daydreaming. Why, oh why HBO must you be toying with my dreams by airing Journey 2. I hate you Journey 2. My erogenous zones hate you. But, since I'm stuck staring at a body carved out of the most precious stone today, I guess biting my nails while waiting for Dwayne Johnson's character to take off his shirt will suffice. Sigh. I'm ready. I'm so ready. I'm more ready than you are for that scene. Did you have to do a lot of research for that role? You know what... It doesn't matter. Don't answer that. Just pop your pecs again. Thank you. Oh gosh Rita. Focus. Right. Knowing when to keep quiet...

I've made my point concisely. I know when to button up my thoughts. Keep making that face too... Like you know me. Phhssss. 

The DMV Circus

Given the fact that, at a bank, a DMV or any other establishment- with which- you will be waiting around for a while; It still surprises me how much complaining people do there. Bring a damn book! I heard The Queen of the Sweet Potatoes is a page turner. Or an iPhone with game apps! Angry Birds! What good does it do to complain first of all, anyway? That question was rhetorical, don't answer that. It doesn't do ANY good. In case you really wanted an answer to that question, don't. Let's examine this, like filmmaker  George Clarke's alleged and amazing film discovery... Did he ever figure out how make the time travel? We should ask Charlie Chaplian. But, since we can't, I'm going to hypothesize a big fat NOPE. Although, if the futuristic person sashaying behind a zebra, circa 1928, is any indication, as he gleefully chums along, engaged in a phone call... Wait. A phone call? A cell phone call? Has to be a time traveller. I'm convinced. Because maybe cell phones and time travel to 1928, do indeed exist. Or was he a she? Sorry madam. I can't tell by the clothes in that era. Think back. Jog your memory bank. For some of you... this will take you far, far back. Far.... far back.

When you were a kid, remember the span when you'd whine and somehow your punishment would get… worse? You'd complain and you'd just dig a deeper hole for yourself? Maybe I was just always getting into trouble. Stomping my feet should work. It didn't. But it never hurt to always try.  Or, you wanted some toy at the store and the more you complained the further away it went. You're begging for a Bratz doll and it ultimately becomes a choice between the parakeet you always wanted and you leaving with the Bratz doll. Sigh. I probably would've starved the parakeet anyway. Or left to the cage open. I wanted to play with that feathered friend. How was I supposed to know it would fly away?  Next thing you know, mama and papa indignantly mutter, "You say one more peep and you won't get it at all." You peeped. Gone forever was my ever-wanting, under life or death circumstances, the American Girl Doll that would have changed my life forever. You were going to adore her for five minutes and then play with the box for weeks on end anyway. Sigh. Boxes never got old, did they… Building forts, making cardboard clothes for your dolls. Those were the days. Huh? Now I want to build a hut.

Recently, I was at the DMV and mind you, I went to a location other than the obvious one to which I'm nearby for the sake of saving time. It did. It was more miles out of the way; But, it was MUCH faster... once I was in that place. I ponder reminiscently of the day I went in for a perm and came out feeling victorious that I went with the hair stylist's suggestion to go with the Brazilian blowout instead. That was a great day. As I pride myself on the decision of doing my business at this undisclosed location, it took less than an hour. Because I'm happy.... I know, you sang it as you read it to. Damn you Pharrell and your catchy tune. Trips like this have never taken such a short amount of time. Most people in that place went to that location for the very same reason. They 'heard' it was faster. It was. Yet still, sitting across from me was an elderly gentleman who could not restrain his agitation with how long he was waiting. Giving the evil-eye to every other "number" being called; but his. Hey grandpa, did you ever meet Charlie Chaplain? Was that really a time traveller on the set of The Circus? I know you can solve this debate... And one more thing, did you ever have a parakeet?

 The two ladies next to me have bonded over their number never being called as they giggle their way through the ridiculing day. I bet they got their Bratz doll when they asked mommy for it. Who else would so anxiously be annoyed staring at the monitors demandin their number be next. I loved the Bratz with the leather outfit and purple hair as much as you did. But you mean girls probably had the whole collection. I'm not mad. I got over it yesterday. Not everyone could have a whole collection of dolls dedicated to showing young girls how many different types of whores there can be in society. Role models are great to have. Waiting room tramps. Now that's a doll I would buy.

As my number is called, I joyously hop up from my seat as I feel I've stumbled upon my own little secret DMV tilt-o-whirl escape. I've managed to avoid being the bearded lady at the circus and triumphantly scoot across the juggling dingo without being punched. Now if I can figure out time travel... I'd have Charlie Chaplain over for dinner.