Happy Ghouls Day!

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

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

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

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

Random Batman

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

Battery Toss

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

The Pumpkin Seed Fires

Next time you want to watch a scary movie, maybe opt to take a front row seat at my serving counter in my kitchen. I'm on a domestic roll in the kitchen... Cooking and baking away. Grilled chicken sandwiches, pumpkin pies, black bean stew with pumpkin, carving pumpkins and repurposing the brains for more pie later. Pumpkins are my son's favorite thing. Except when he has to put in work and help cut them up. I curse you pumpkin season. Or cook anything with them. Punkin chunkin, anyone? Don't get me wrong my son is amazing. But his ambitious carving skills far supersede his will to cut that bastard squash open and clean it out. .. And separate the damn seeds. Stupid pumpkin seeds. So I throw them on a baking sheet (ok I have a beautiful roasting pan, same diff... Should work, right?) and bake at a high temperature. I've done this many times before. Wait, What's the elevation from sea level here? Set the timer for... 20 minutes? Crap, I forgot. Piece of cake! Or not. I realize I need to run to the store and grab a loaf of bread... and I had a hankering for some brie cheese. Don't worry, it was an Americanized version so I won't die of anaphylactic shock much. Stupid mold allergy. 

As Im leaving I tell my son to keep an eye on it and I barely get downstairs and I hear the smoke alarms going off... Hmmm, what are the odds that's at my house? Nah. I keep walking. Is that burnt popcorn I smell? I think I'll text him. Are the smoke alarms going off? Yes, mother. Both of them. We have two smoke alarms? I didn't know that. Don't worry I turned everything off. Well, I'm completely worried and run back upstairs. And I opened the door to a smoke filled flat. What the hell... So I look in the oven window and there's a fire encased in it. Dammit. Note to self: buy fire extinguisher. I fling open the door and the fire comes up outta there like the movie Backdraft. I know it's an old movie, hush, I haven't seen a new "firefighter" movie come out.. Have you? So zip it. Pay attention, my house is on fire. That's the only reference I have to describe this inferno. I grab a bottle of Fiji water -that I hadn't had a chance to open up and drink yet,-and reluctantly throw it on the flames. The flames just got higher. Water is your nemesis you jerk! And it's tasty Fiji!! Aw man my ceiling isn't white anymore in that corner. Ugh. I pour the entire bottle onto the pan and it finally goes out. I turn around and my son is just standing there. Watching. Thanks for the help kiddo. Glad all six feet of you could just enjoy the show. And without missing a beat... He smirks. Your welcome. 

After the pumpkin seed fire... I cleaned everything. The oven. Soot. The floor. More soot. The freaking ceiling. A lot of soot. And after all the evidence of my cooking was a distant, Fiji water sucking, traumatizing memory... With only the last of the soot tattooed on the stovetop, I realized something. Number One: invest in a shallow baking sheet. And Number Two: Start buying pumpkin seeds from here on out.

Fuzzy Barks

I like dogs as much as the next person but just because you want one doesn't mean you should get one. Time and place. Time and place. If your little fireball is constantly barking and annoying your neighbors, you may want to consider taking their little voice boxes out. I don't know what happened... He was barking yesterday. Strange. Or getting a hamster. Listen, there's nothing sweeter than the sound of dogs barking at other dogs, echoing off the garden walls and into my living room. 

There's a guy who lives in my building. He's got a dog. A little dog. Still can't figure out why large men get little pups. I think it's a WEINER dog. I think found the smallest dog he could find. Weird WEINER. And he's a sullen kind of man, which is sad-in theory-well, wait. Now that I think about it, he's kind of an angry fella. Anyway, what I'm about to tell you is probably completely the result from this type of personality. Every time I see him outside with his little bastard fido in the courtyard, it barks and growls at me. Now, I'm no Caesar, the dog whisperer, but I am an animal magnet. It's like pets know I'm allergic and so they gravitate to me. Like a four-legged magnet. Except this lil fucker. And when I walk by all his owner says is, watch out... he'll bite you. Wait. What?! Put a fucking faux piss yard on your balcony if you've got a kujo on your hands. And for the record... if you let that tiny terror interact with others' dogs, people or the occasional plant, it can be fan friendly and might actually enjoy the attention. What little peanut doesn't like being squished and cuddled?! That's right, every dog loves it. Stop depriving your pup the love. And you... That's right, you with Sir Barks A Lot at the end of your leash, take a dog owner training class and shut him up. Nobody wants to hear that crap at 7am. This has been a public service announcement from the fuzzy wuzzy observer.

Crosswalk Nightmare

I had to make a stop at smiths for a veggie tray, cheese and snausages before hitting my buddy's spot. Good nibbles. Gotta be a decent guest, right? I stop at the crosswalk a few feet from the store's doors and a guy driving his car, stops to let me pass. Thank you super nice guy. So I give a nod and trot along my way... diligently. He was thoughtful, so I thought... I need to up my pace to show my appreciation. 

So I do the crosswalk skip. You know, when you walk or hop across the path a little faster showing courtesy to the courteous. I know, I'm a good person.

 And then I thought more about it.... Why is it, when you're being accommodating, would someone walk so slow to cross the street? A not nice person, that's who. I hate when I stop to let people cross the street and these mother dockers walk a step a minute. It's so rude. A step a minute is pretty freaking slow. I want to throw a donkey at them. Do the math... It could take a really tall douche bag twelve minutes to mosey across the crosswalk with his size 13s. Stupid douchy zombie guy. Everyone's in a hurry until you let a dude trot along in front of you. Who has no intention. Of speed. Suddenly he has nothing to do but make you regret being kind. 

Or what about the family of five who walks by way of the parking lot in a cross section in front of your vehicle? That's always a good time. You're in a rush, you need tampons... And now you gotta deal with this moron and his band of parking lot sloths. How much more trailer park can you be than to shuffle along like a snail?! Rhetorical. No offense trailer park dwellers,and don't send me letters, I'm going somewhere with this. Impeding others' on their trip to CVS. Ok, maybe not... But it's the thought of the disclaimer that counts. Hey she's bleeding in her driver's seat, you jerk, move your feet. 

Vegan Fry Daddy, Part 2

So, after yesterday's post, I got to thinking.... I know, but I couldn't help myself. It's time to eat. Vegan Raw Whore Curiosity. So menus are being passed around and I'm looking at one that offers vegan raw chili cheese fries. Oh yeah, I'm going for it. Why the hell not... Fate has a way of finding me. So I jump in. Greens and caffeines? I don't know what that means. But, let's try that too. So, I also opt for a white chocolate veggiechino. Come on, even the name of it makes you wonder how the hell they pulled this off, right? 

So my vegan raw chili cheese fries aren't hot. Their cold. Because their stupid raw. Sometimes it takes me a little longer to process, GEESH. They look like fries but they're made from jimaca and there are scoops for what appear to be guacamole... But it's not. It's some pasty green concoction that just looks like guacamole. Actually the stuff wasn't that bad. The sprinkling of season salt all over it completely made my fries taste like chili cheese was smothering it. I won't likely become a vegan raw whore anytime soon but at least it was filling. And I grazed on something new. I dive into my veggiechino -ha! I love saying that... Veggieeeeechiiiinoooo-and that is actually pretty amazing. I thought it would be hot too... But it wasn't. Kind of threw me off at first glance, so I was skeptical but knew I had to suck this one down with reckless abandon. Then, something amazing happened. A unicorn flew over head. Fireworks in its wake. I took a sip and it was.... Sensationally tasteless and delicious all at the same time. I didn't think that was possible. Anythings possible, haven't you seen Alice In Wonderland? I'm buying a pony after this. Or a hookah smoking cat. Strange little imitation coffee alternative was quite tasty... Is the bloating normal? 

Vegan Fry Daddy

I get that starting a new diet or knitting yourself a new habit of snackery has got to start somewhere.  Dear food journal: Day 1... But I'm quite certain that when you're out on a first date with someone new, you chit chat about the weather, small talk about your likes and dislikes. I like grapes. But I hate raisins. See if he'd be open to having your mother live in the spare bedroom after your married. Just kidding. Don't talk about that. He'll run. And, since coffee is going well, you decide to move into restaurant status. What?! Cloth napkins bitches! He wants to choose a restaurant; But, offers you to decide. Come on woman, where the hell do you want to eat. Next thing you know she saying she eats nothing that has come from life. Wait. What? Or had a face. Or once took a breath. Ok. So you don't eat meat? Eggs? Or plants? They were alive once too... Before being yanked from the ground... Just saying. Do you feed on cardboard? Oh and raw only. Of course, you do raw only. Okie dokie. So you don't own a frying pan? ...Oh you do. What happened to raw? What's happening here? Raw cooking? Hmm. Oxymoronic; But, Ok. So, would you like to get some pho? That's vegan and raw... I think. I don't know, some of its hot. Can you eat that? How did this chick just become so complicated? I don't want to play anymore. Now you're sitting in the establishment looking over the menus trying to figure out what the hell this broad CAN eat and it dawns on you... So, how long have you been vegan raw? Dear food journal: Day 3... WTF? Three days? ...Three days?? No wonder this hoe is staring at the menu like she's just going to opt for a napkin to munch on and a glass of water. She doesn't know what she's allowed to eat! Clearly, this was an uneducated lifestyle choice. I'm starting to feel for your male dating woes. I wouldn't even want a female friend like this, let alone your lucky enough to take this masterpiece out on a date! Her knowledge noggin has no clue how to navigate this new lifestyle choice and all you can do is sit there and watch the train crash into the station. 

Can I help you decide? No. Oh ok... So, what made you decide to become vegan raw? You want to be healthier.... Hmmm. Well, I was a vegetarian for three years -must be the magic food number- and it took a year to get to that point. Your doing this cold tofu turkey? Yes. Oh... Yes, waiter, I'll have the filet mignon and lobster. And the lady will have a plate of carrots, uncooked. This guy is starting to think you jumped on this vegan raw wagon to excuse yourself from digesting anything. Maybe you should just eat what you want and then... Throw it up? Or maybe just do it the old fashioned way and starve if you're feeling a bit puffy? We don't have to get bonkers and make life difficult for those around us. Apparently, she feels more special this way? Or more like, a picky female dog that wants attention? I guess the moral of the story is if you're on a date and the subject of food habits come up... Don't be a 3 day fake vegan raw whore. I fell off the vegetarian wheelbarrow a year ago and haven't looked back. Well, I'm a flawed pescetarian, don't judge. You should've just gone out with me. I'll take a bucket of wings and I'll call you my vegan fry daddy anytime. 

Restless rock-a-bye

So I'm a bit picky about how I decorate my place. I'm a diva. Did you really think otherwise? Right. So, with that in mind, I would rather sleep on an air mattress than buy a bed that's ugly. And believe it or not? I absolutely do. Air mattress diva. It's weird how wanting something when you don't have it motivates you. Practical diva. So when friends come over there's no where to really… hangout yet, as I am going through a re-furnishing process. No shame in my couch game. And the look on your face right now is the same one everyone else gives me when they see it smack in the middle of the floor. But do I give a poo? Nope. Because unless you're going to buy it for me, you'll appreciate my air mattress, you furniture snob. 

So, now that you've accepted my ratchet choice, now you'll have another obstacle to overcome. Did you put air in this thing? No, I haven't put any air in the damn thing. Not since it was first blown up and thrown on the floor. As I dance around the room with pride, you're faced with a fight or flight response. It's entertaining, you'll stay. Because its freaking awesome. Which, gets acknowledged, any and every time, someone visits. There is a method to my madness. I want the prettiest bed I've ever seen, DUH. But, I need to save up for it. Responsible diva. I've let the air slowly seep out. And I don't like firm mattresses. I don't want to feel like I'm sleeping on the floor. But you are. So as the ballon bed has acclimated to my body, it's airlessness is part of the reason that cozy plastic sleeper and I are meant to temporarily be…  So zip it. Its squishy. Loving diva. I've disappeared into the cloudy softness type of mattress I yearn to dream. So if you have restless leg syndrome and you're shaking away... Knock it off. The whole thing bounces when you twitch. This blow up bed does not have the adaptability of movement absorption like a temper-pedic. It's more of a luxurious puff of air sleepery that any camper would blissfully be grateful. 

Predictability Factor

#bts #photoshoot

I love being spontaneously driven to do what I want. Wind in my hair. When I want. No underwear. I love that about myself! ...But sometimes, having a routine, would just fits the bill. And wearing underwear. The predictibility factor of waking everyday, at the same time, with the same a.m. routine, eating the same breakfast... Wait. Groundhog Day Coffee? With the same routes to work. No detours? Stop. Enjoying the simplicity of seeing the same people every day. No scenic routes? Putting my hands up like a traffic policeman. Hold up. Knowing that tomorrow will be just like yesterday. Crap... I'm wearing the same navy blazer. Did I shower last night? Whispering to myself... Please stop talking. Planning your travel according to your predictable schedule. Sure, we'll get to Cancun... After three years of saving up vacation time. Shaking my head. No more. I... Can't... I just... 

I'm not about that life.

 I think I just talked myself out of this daily predictibility. Whew! That was a close one. But I do drink a cup of joe every single morning. Expectedly. I wanted routine yesterday... What happened?! Pigeon-hole-ing. And I write this daily -somewhat predictably for you guys- look, I'll tell you what happened. Well, ok I won't lie, I write this daily for myself too. I got more than a thousand words in my head. And we all know I'd spew it all at an innocent bank teller. Or grocery bagger. Or sales girl. Wait, let me check... Nope, no tree outside with falling leaves every time I open my trap. It would be difficult to put duct tape on my mouth, I would've fought it just like Eddie Murphy in that movie too. . Back to the point. This ought to be good. Or a cluster-fuck. The thought of predictably knowing my daily routine without nary a hiccup would never work for me. Although it would for a time. Confusing much? I'm sure you forecasted that. I don't know how folks do it day after day though. Somehow Id rather be held by my feet on the ledge of the Capitol Records building. 

The oxymoronic thing about predictability is that I am an adventurous workaholic. If you know me well, the answer to "wyd" is almost always... Sigh. I'm Working. So, in essence, I actually do the same thing(s), plural, every day but because I could be on a set one day and in the studio the next, I guess that's where the unpredictable, predictability... Comes... From? Maybe cutting back on my daily coffee would.... Oh screw it. Just don't put me in the same cubicle every day and I will be fine.

HAMBONE

I noticed an adorable couple today, while a friend of mine and I were driving. Wait. You were both driving at the same time? Yes. Only monkeys can drive in tandem. Pay attention. He was taking pictures of her -with a really nice camera- while she was using her cell phone as a prop. That's funny because the last time I had my phone on set, I kept it hidden in my bra/corset. No, we weren't filming porn, perverts. It was a music video… get your minds out of the gutter. And the director, who was amazing, put out his hand and confiscated it from me. Dammit. Busted. I collected it later after class. I looked at her, while he clicked away, and she smiled. I smiled. Then we were giggling. Why do we girls do that? He turns around and pretends to shoot a picture of me... Well, never the one to take over someone else's photo shoot.... Of course I smiled and gave a warning that I don't play, I'm a ham. And.... I will absolutely start posing. Oh yeah? Yup. He starts snapping away -crap, I'm wearing my glasses- and I'm making goofy faces. Hambone photo bomb! Keep making that face and it will stick that way. I hope so. I don't even think I've showered today actually. Hashtag, no makeup. Hashtag, no soap. Hair knotted on top of my head. Everyone's laughing. Next thing I know… my friend, who's been driving, shouts out of the window… "she costs money, you gotta pay, bro." Wait. What? Did you just... Like a... Oh my Lord. You sound like a pimp. That just happened. 

First of all, I make friends everywhere I go. I can't help it. I'm like-able. I like others. Sometimes. I'm

chatty. All of the time. My heart is on my sleeve. Most of the time. Duh, that's why y'all keep coming back. It's entertaining to watch a chimp in her environment. I'm just darn friendly and have no weird jealousy with other people-especially women- so I'm fairly approachable all the time. And ironically, Im not a fan of people. Overall. If I were a monkey, I'd throw poo all the time. Weird. Just kidding, people are great. Oops, you got poo in the eye. Wonder where that came from…. But, my hambone? Hmm.. I Have no idea where the poo flew from either… *whistling while I slowing back up into the shadows. Now that's a cheesy side of me?  I just can't put a lid on. Monkeys don't belong in a barrel. Photobombing, unsuspecting photo shoots throughout the city. But, then again, who'd stop a monkey swinging into your shot by way of vine anyway?

Orange Flier Movie

Pre-Screenings are a way of life here in the city of angels. They kinda make movies here. Pretty normal for production studios to test out their movies on the public - Or, what I like to call the fake public- before it goes to a full fledge release. And, while I've only been to one pre-screening last year, that was an invite only, it was a fun experience. But, maybe it was because I was in good company. Sorry… no name dropping. So, what happens on the regular pre screenings is, you'll see people standing around with these half sheets of paper that you can just grab. Usually, they're standing outside the theatre ready to attack you with their speech. Or they're out on Hollywood Blvd, just pushing the pages in your face. I happened to be leaving a theatre. And I had a Buddy The Elf moment and was like ooooh, I want one! They hand them out asking if you want to see a free movie. Yeah, sure. Ok, so now you need register online to reserve your spot. So you do. Check the box for no future spam. Ok, don't need any prescriptions pushed in my inbox. Offering to heal one thing while next thing you know, your anal rectum is bleeding. Then when you get there. Which, mind you, I'm too busy working on my own shit and clawing my own way through this business than to go to any of these things. But, I had some available time, I took a friend. Poor thing. We had drinks first and honestly, I thought it would be a cool thing to do. Something different… Cue horror music.  

It was a freaking nightmare. We get there and there's tons of people in a long ass line. Drones. So we get into it like the lady with the clipboard instructs us to do and some pompous little woman who looks like she's partied a little too hard in her life turns around and says the end of the line is way back there. And you don't have this little white business card and you have to get one to get in line here,… Blah, blah blah. Um, no. The clipboard weeny told us to go here. And I'm already reserved online and she said my orange tickets are fine. And third, mind your business, nosey. What do you care if we have the wrong tickets or where we are in line? So, just to make sure this nosey heffa was wrong I went back and talked to another clipboard hall monitor. And she said, no, your fine as long as you reserved online. Ok, thanks, I thought so. So I went back to our spot in line and haggard looking lady turns around and I said, we are fine. And we are in the right place. So, she runs her suck off some more, apparently thinking we wouldn't talk back. We have been here since 5:00... If you know me, a deaf/mute, I am not. Why would you come so early? Don't you have a life? Oh wait, no. This is the highlight of your year... Being used by a studio to give feedback on a film before its release so you can, maybe, get... Discovered? Or, most likely, a black eye? Hmmm... I'm pretty sure that's not how it works; but, okie dokie. Bob and weave, bitch. Bob. And. Weave. And, by the way, they aren't paying you for your time either so as far as I'm concerned, there should be no headaches involved here. Here, have a shot, relax a bit. So far I have scouted at least three. Three headaches. I don't know what this wench's problem was but I can definitely tell you, I don't have a filter here, so I wasn't going to have one there either. Shocker. And I looked pretty hot that night too. I was feelin myself and she was trying to shit on it. Some hippos are just mad they can't walk the tight rope I guess. Apparently she just was so annoyed that the people behind us were so friendly with us and we were all laughing and having a good time while we waited. Next thing we see... she scurried off hastily to the clipboard queen that I had last spoken to… Who returns on the heels of Ms. Pain in the Ass with a new rule. She says you guys need to move to the back of the line now. Your orange tickets require it. We said, what?! I just talked to you and you said to go here and we registered online and we are good to go. But crabby patty goes to you and talks shit about us and now it's a different story? Wow. Bi-polar, making up new rules as we go, clipboard lady. So, she won't admit that hostile lady in front of us just had such a disdain for our company that we voluntarily leave the line and think about it for a second. This experience hasn't been fun. AT ALL. People have been rude. Disrespectful. Nosey. Annoying. There's a lot of disorder. And now the staff -whom, by the way, doesn't know dick about what's going on, on their left hand when they look at their right hand- hassles us? You know, the community colleges offer people classes for neanderthals. We decide abruptly that this is too much of a headache for a freebie movie and went shopping. I wonder how much the studio knows how poorly we were treated and how much chaos was going on. I doubt they care. But either way, I urge no one to endure this. The nightmare, far outweighed the good time it could have been. Why is that lady screaming and running around the movie theatre naked? Oh, they tried to give her an orange flier too… 

Crispy Polo

Ditch that f***ing polo shirt… 

If you've had a polo shirt for too long, it will either wither away until the fabric cannot hold itself together anymore OR it will get this weird crunchy feel to it. Potato chip-like feel is always romantic, so no girl, EVER. How does it get that way to begin with? I'm befuddled. I don't know which is worse because on the one hand, if it's hanging on by a thread… I'm going to see your hairy nipple. Yes, men, this is for you. Unless a lady nearby has a hairy nipple. And it's showing. And there's more than two. I would so instagram that. Anyway, on the other hand, if it's got a rough-like texture like you used every can of starch in America, then that isn't going to wear well either. Step AWAY... From the starch perp and no one gets hurt. Why do you gents hang onto shirts that have, clearly, been used and abused? Stop it. Let it go. Just a little note, we don't like that. No girl loves the feeling more, than trying to keep your shirt from scratching the hell out of her while she hugs you. Hi, thanks for the itchy rash. Appreciate you. Keep your wardrobe updated. Rid yourself from that crispy polo and feel compelled to add a trendy scarf to your trendy beard. And maybe a new Ralph Lauren loin cloth. Or a shirt. Or remain the same, continuing a chick-repellent legacy for years to come. Let's just agree, to free, the crusty tunic from its obligations to fulfill bigger dreams. Like... In the city dump. 

Do I make a left to find Madagascar? #zebralife

Which brings me to my hair. Huh? Yup. No Segway. Just totally committed to this unstrung, flitting thought. Over the past few months, my hair has gotten drier and crispier itself. Cockatoo bangs are all the rage. I didn't know if it was a sign of cervical cancer or I just needed a blowout. So I did some investigating and while, yes, the unneeded -and undeserving-stress I have been under could be a culprit, I cannot very well commit to that because I'm a believer of the "live. love. laugh." variety. I have a picture frame that says it to prove it. I brush dirt off with a tiny flick of the wrist. And anti-bacterial wipes. And I don't let shit get under my skin too often because I know how karma works. Like a bitch. In case you didn't know. That being said, I had a light bulb moment. Highlights. No, not the kids magazine. Not a highlighter marker, to quickly identify subject matter in a large body of text. Freaking, hair highlights. At the beginning of summer, I went and had highlights done. The hairdresser put toner (fancy word for you won't get green or orange hair) on the blonde but not the brown, which gave me an orangey tint as opposed to the hints copper and caramel I was going for. Or orange. Which, I have had before, by the way. Not the Orange problem. So this wasn't an 'ohhhhh, I'll give this tilt a whirl' moment... This was a drop in the proverbial bucket. Or so I thought. Sorry guys, all this nonsense just means she gave me orange hair with stripy white highlights. Kind of like a zebra. With orange and white stripes. I showed her a picture of what I wanted. Tada. Seemed simple. It was the same picture I used with my hair guy that I had committed to, ONLY, let touch my hair for nine years. He retired. Good for him.... Argh. I. Hope. He's. Happy. Mental note: Egg his house on the way home. Then I showed this broad a picture of ME, with the final result of the initial picture. Right. Seems well thought out. Voilà! Is, tangerine, a hair shade? Well planned. I even had photos for her to reference. With my own hair. On MY head. Post highlights, years prior. I swear, she had no iota of a clue, how to do hair. Maybe she was color blind? I could forgive that. So now I'm doing damage control. Run your fingers through my hair and you'll take a bunch of it with you. Waited two months or so before going back to my regular hair color. Torturous. Using deep conditioners from salons. No luck. Home hair solutions to put moisture back. Didn't happen. Sadly, that chick over processed my hair... And I've gotta wait this out. Mayonnaise just isn't going to fix this mess. 

Single In Salem

Relationships are a fucked up thing. A person won't admit their wrong until what they didn't want to happen... Well, happens. He really did think riding a pony into a restaurant would've been received without panic. Our reality is the product our own perception. He was taken away for trespassing. The horse was set free after doing community service. What a beautiful, movie-style ending…. Romantic comedies have screwed everybody up. Bad kissers are a reason to dump him at the curb, right? In my opinion, the biggest reason is that it plants seeds in everyone's brains that you're going to want someone to go overboard and chase after you. Looking over my shoulder. And speed walking. With mase in tow. Nothing is more comforting than feeling like somebody's watching you. Singing: It always feels like, somebody's watching me! Why is that song in my head on replay? Pay attention, incessantly texting you, calling you or showing up unannounced at your doorstep, trying to fix something that went terribly wrong. But, the flaw in that… is that in real life, that translates to some pretty, clearly written, textbook stalkeratzi behavior. Uh, hi… 911? Yeah, I have a stage five clinger lurking in my bushes. 

I feel like people are the best version of themselves the first three-six months of a relationship. Bless me
father, for its been… uh, one… two? Oh fuck it, three months since my last confession. Last time I was here he told me that a panoramic photograph of a rhino, in a tutu, was completely normal. On their best behavior. And please, Bless me father for I have… seen crazy, unbottle itself. Again. Or, at least, the pretend version of who they were portraying anyway. Bye, Thanks for playing, wasn't Bob Barker great? Most people aren't who they present themselves to be, and when you find out, it's usually too late. Trains won't stop, so wait to cross people. Mostly, because folks just move too damn fast in relationships to gage the red flags they're ignoring. Omg, I met him last week and now we are getting married. I. Am. Totally... Excited. What… Aren't you on you're 6th husband? Did we not use the last five as learning lessons? It's similar to someone who checks their Facebook every day, scrolling through posts in obsessive continuum; But, have only two posts for 2014. We're in October annnnd.... You have two profile pic changes? 10 months? 2 posts? Hmmmm… That's suspect. Fake account much? Next thing you know, her face shows up on an amber alert. 

I'll play all day if I want to… #setlife #modellife

Listen, nobody is perfect and obviously, everyone is trying to find the one screwed up person that's right for them with flaws that they can  tolerate. Ok, I'll marry you and your psoriasis infected toe. But, with chick lit books out there trying to convince us that a guy who flips his phone upside down and deletes every incoming text as he responds is nothing Im willing to scoff  at. Ha. Ha. Scoff. And I'm not even going to check off the fact that as he replies to said deleted messages, he turns the phone at an odd angle so you can't even catch of glimpse of what's going on in that screen. That glare just blinded me thanks for pointing out your shadiness so blatantly. Nor will I add the fact that,  if I'm was being asked who the fuck I'm talking to all the time? It's completely a sign of guilt on aforementioned party. No thanks, I don't want to play this kiddie game. Or end up on a milk carton. As I get older, I put up with less and less… And I'm thinking Taylor Swift might just have the right modern attitude women should have about life. A happy, successful -seemingly well adjusted- single girl! Suck it co-dependency! You don't get burned at the steak anymore for being a spinster. Damn Salem witch trials. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of us single gals will just elongate the "Im Hot" phase of our lives because we took care of ourselves and didn't have to 'mother' a spouse over forty. 

Movie Killers

Probably why you missed me in this scene
Get off your phone.

Ssshhh, I'm watching a damn movie. Jabber jaws. Get off your phone. Text technology, ever hear of it? Besides, there is plenty of time to be on your phone… the other 22 hours of the day. Why the hell are you people looking at your phones during a movie anyway? $20 per person for a movie, you'd think you'd want to see your investment at work. Nope, the phone that no one is texting you on is more important. I see your screen. Maybe, don't… utilize text technology. Brightest setting ever. I tend to notice everything. It's a sickness. I'm detail oriented. It's annoying to me too. I'm the worst to take to a movie because I can lose interest so quickly if the story doesn't grab me or the actor loses character. Holier than thou complex. Shrugs. So, while at a movie over the weekend, I couldn't stop seeing people pick up their phones throughout the entire film. Hello… Denzel said something foreshadowing a further event. And now I missed it. How annoying can you be? Yep, I went there. 

Or this scene…
Get off your phone.

If you don't have time to see a movie because you're worried your going to miss a Facebook update then get the hell out of the theatre. Opt for the rental selection at Red Box instead. Click on HBO and watch movies on the comfort of your tablets. Some of us actually go to movies to watch them. Not watch our phones. Or yours, for that matter. It was completely distracting. Condescendingly berating. The addiction to our phones are real and disgusting. And believe me, I'm no exception either. I'm ALWAYS on my phone. I blog, photo bomb  post, share and sometimes take an occasional phone call. Hello?  It's always strange to hear someone's voice and in my head I always think, we could've accomplished this via email. Or text. Which, doesn't change the fact that I'm still multi-tasking while on the phone with whomever. Yes mom I heard what you last said... Oh really? What did I say? Gurgle, gurgle… uh,  elephants and Tiffany lamps or something? Yes, you like Tiffany lamps with elephants on them. What? No?  You didn't hear a word I said. Oh… You need to go to the store to find batteries. Dammit. 





Whatever… turn your phones off at the movie theatres, movie killers. 

The 5k Views Duck Lip Salute

A huge thank you everybody!!

Duck Lip Salute! 

I can't believe there are so many of you out there reading my zany posts. I give you the 5k duck lip salute! Quack! Quack! I'm so grateful and I want to thank you all! Regular readers and new readers alike… The blog has reached well over 5,000 views in such a short amount of time and keeps climbing. You little spider monkeys, you. I know I'm a little out of the box. Cardboard is awesome. I am pocket sized. Ball me up and fit me in your jeans. Which makes me…  portable? Or shippable? I don't know. Well, regardless, it somewhat explains my madness… But, what the hell is is wrong with you guys and gals? Wackos. I know. You're all twisted like me. Thank you for reading and encouraging me to unbottle the crazy, day in and day out. I appreciate you for coming back every day to enjoy you some daily fakery. And for passing along that fuckery for others as well! And they say the literary word is dead in our society. #deadawesome Shenanigans, I say! Shenanigans!

I started this blog to mark my journey in the entertainment business. More like monkey business. Monkeys in a cage. At the zoo. Not really. Actually, very really. But I'm still a monkey just the same. And, at first, the blog…  it didn't quite make sense. It wasn't fun. It was boring. So I dropped it. In fact, I thought that if I was bored with it,  why would anyone else find it interesting? They didn't. Snore fest. Reading about anyone's career struggles is fine if it's one article here or there… zzzzz. Trailing off into dreamland in the middle of sentences isn't good. But that daily grind? BLAH. Boring! Even in my industry of choice, it's just not that glamorous. Sure, the airbrushed photos and scripted shows and perfected songs make it look so appealing to everyone else; But, the real nitty gritty of it? Well, it just sucks. Big balls you can't choke down sucks. So I put it down for a few months and forgot about it. Then, one day, It hit me. I was a rhinoceros with a revelation. Slapped myself on the forehead. Rhinocerous?  I knew how to make this blog worth reading. So i woke up, I shined up my diamond crystalled keyboard...  Ok, rhinestone. I love pretty sparkles. Drank my coffee -no coffee, no function- and I started my scroll with a new way to infringe upon you my unsolicited thoughts and ideas. With all my personality. And randomness. And it it has been shaping itself ever since. Still confused. What's with the rhino? I don't know either. Pay attention.

Moral of the Story… Huh?

Be yourself. Be yourself. Be yourself. I'm an obsessive compulsive workaholic with a flair for the funny. I'm deep and complicated but I make the effort every day to enjoy life. Live it to the fullest. Mmmm… cake with sprinkles. I have fat days. Bad hair days. Tired days. Fuck my life, I'm over it days. Bottom line. I'm not perfect. But... That's what makes me perfect. And as long as I feel I am giving my best for me, and for all my friends out there in cyber space, it can only keep climbing. And hell, even if it didn't, I find solace in writing daily. All this verbiage cannot, I repeat, cannot be contained. I'd write this bad boy everyday even without an audience to enjoy it with me. Ticking time bomb. Kablowie! Words all over the room. Splattered on the walls, the ceilings… loquacious phrases dripping from the chandelier. Can you imagine the explosion of word vomit if I kept all this rattle inside my head? Me either. And so, I'll continue to share my garrulous terminology with you all to spread cheer and chuckles every week. Spread what? Yeah, sounds messy… but what's life without a little chaotic schmearing on your cheek. 

PIP Masters

Never, has there been a happier day when we learned how the PIP works on our television. Really? Picture In Picture? So, you're just learning about this… now? Whoda thunk it?! Clearly, everyone but me. What a modern revelation! Welcome to the 21st Century. Watching two shows at one time? Don't judge me.  Or two sporting events? I'm a late bloomer. Or hey, let's make it interesting by putting on a reality show and a cooking show at the same damn time. Don't you dare. Don't worry, nothing makes me more ill. Watching a show while perusing the guide channel? Ok, we get it. You have been living under a rock. 

Keep in mind, up until recently, we either did without TVs in our home or had the old big hunk of plastic that took two or more people to lug around. Unreasonably heavy ass shit.  Why were those TVs so freaking heavy anyway? No reason. No reason at all. I needed super human strength to even consider moving it from one side of the room to another. I'm a single mom, I can do anything… It's the overachiever complex that probably keeps me from watching the boob tube every day anyway; But, we do like to watch movies and hangout. So, I finally broke down and got a new TV and who knew HD could be so… Crisp. Vibrant. Clear. So… twenty years older than I thought everyone looked. Yikes. I thought Taylor Swift was nineteen. Humph… interesting. I can see how old movie stars really are -and probably visually aged, more so- with all that caked on goop on their faces. Not a good look. Hire some new makeup artists. Let's get a youthful glow going on these actors. Doesn't Cover Girl make a liquid mousse that covers patchy skin and keep your youth alive and well? Do we need to see a grand piano-sized dollop of powder on your faces? I don't think I'm still supposed to witness the "loose" part of the powder, after it has been applied. The poofery is real, Cruella DeVille.

Now, I'm a bit challenged with this 'how to work my TV' business. Because, I realized, that after we were playing with our fascinating discovery… my son actually is the one who knows how to use it. Damn kids. And I was just all thumbs the next day trying to figure out how the hell this shit works. Aw man, I wanna be a PIP Master too. Ugh… Help. Really? I thought I had it figured out, granted, vicariously through his actions of a child's due process; But, I am sitting here now trying to wrangle with this couch potato remote system. Bah! It's like I'm a monkey. Oh, what? Why is the remote lodged through the screen of the video box? Um, well, it wasn't cooperating. Pay attention…  It wasn't me. All I know is that I heard a woman screaming suck it. 

Pompeii Snack Stand

The Grecian Hot Doggery is real…

So... we were watching the movie Pompeii and while the gladiators (who are hot and sweaty sexy) were fighting -we don't think of how realistic the scene is or isn't.... nope; But I'm most definitely enjoying the visuals regardless-We notice there is no hot dog stand.. Wait. So how did they get their snacks? No cotton candy. My favorite. No hot soft pretzels. Love those too. No freaking nachos!! That's it, I can't take it anymore. Take what? This is blasphemy... No wonder the Romans and the Greeks fought. They were hot dog hungry! So, the lesson? Next coliseum around the 1500th century mark holding 'To The Death' sporting events... Wise up. Think outside of the barbarian cages and spear up some tasty concession stands nearby. 

 Chariot Hot Dog Vendor Queen!

I wish I had a street vendor in my house. Yeah, so do you. How cool would that be? Super cool. Super freaking cool. He could sell those frozen ice cream bars too... Like the guys with the little box carts, that push them up and down the sidewalks with the little bell on them. Ding. Ding. Ding-a-ling. Love those little proprietors and their delicious -but, terribly bad for you- street foods. Yeah, sometimes they smell like they haven't showered in weeks... But, look at it like they're adding flavor to your meaty chompables. A je ne sai qoi, if you will. A chariot full of bacon wrapped pounders pulled by street vending pegacorns. Magical. 

The Pee Flow Standard

That's right. I'm going to start this week off with some pee pee talk. Did you know, you can pee too loudly?...and pee too quickly? Well, I didn't know this. I'm not perfect, I have learning curves too sometimes. More times than I can count though, multiple persons have told me that I actually do both of the aforementioned actions. Not a new revelation. I guess there's now an unwritten rule of acceptable levels of pee loudness and swiftness. Like a peeing genius, more like it. Listen up, I'm efficient. Toilet multi-tasking. I pee and move on. Sit. Pee. Wipe. So what, if you can hear the trickle breaking the sound barrier, I don't like spending three hours in a restroom when there's a movie I want to see or torrid sex I need to have. Who am I kidding? Nobody's going to have sex with me in a movie theater. Or on a toilet. Don't judge. A girl can dream can't she?

If I'm the exception in the bathroom, rather than the rule... Then doesn't that make me kind of a toilet paper super hero? The Wonder Woman of all Commodes? Faster than a peeing bullet… or drain? I don't know. Anyway, what's a pee flow standard without an above par exception to save the day?! And you've totally thought about sexy toilet time, lying perverts. So fore-tell, if you can hear the rumblings of liquid gold from outside the door, then haven't I accomplished what I had set out to do? Relieve my pee? In the toilet? Uh, yes, pay attention. If my rushing river can make snow inedible and you can hear it over the ventilation fan, then shouldn't you call on me to create the best distraction in history? Uh, yes again. I can make a difference. Don't eat yellow snow. I'm just saying… There are a plethora of opportunity here in my pee. Stock options? Like a reading rainbow of glistening golden showers. Pee-Pee Pegacorns? Let's break the pee flow standard, and be… above average, magical pee-ers, people! 

Soup, Cough Drops & Sarcasm

Fiddlesticks. I thought I narrowly escaped the rabid flu going around. I didn't. The fuckery. I've been hacking all over everything -and every time I do-my son sprays me with Lysol. Literally. And so I sing: Started with a cough now we here. Started with a cough now the whole flu f***in here. Yes, Drake, it's gotta start somewhere. My sinuses are screaming.  My eyes are begging for a random spider monkey to jump in and claw at them. And my jaw is so achy that I could probably set off a metal detector. Wait. What?

 #sickpics #livinglife #ihatetheflu

So... Thank you, my love for bringing me some tomato soup. My favorite. No, it really is… No sarcasm at all. My favorite of all time. Seriously, I love this stuff. And, for some reason, tastes like marinara sauce. Ugh. Mumbling to myself -It's the thought that counts-because I am a grateful woman. Ok fine, most of the time. But seriously, Why bring me the fancy stuff? Duh. Food snob alert. Campbell's would've been just fine. Um… No, it wouldn't. Oh, this one has a subtle pepper kick. Kaplowie! Ah. That explains the taste… that IS bland. No kaplowie. I add hot sauce. Kaplowie! Now, I know what you're thinking, it's a special recipe and it's better than the canned versions at the supermarket so shut it. Bah. I'm a creature of habit dammit. As predictable as the Price Is Right wheel. And I wouldn't have been happy either way really. I'm down with the flu. How can I juggle bowling pins when I'm stuck under the covers? No, I can't juggle. But, what if I wanted to learn? What if today, is the day, that I take on the task of juggling cats, tennis balls, or fruit? What if? Huh? Huh? Right. Well, I can't because I'm a couch beast right now, reveling in the cushy goodness of my runny, snotty nose. Wiseguys. 

As I enter into this weekend stuck in bed with the sniffles... I implore everyone else to raise the roof. Tear up the town with selfies and glitter. Paint it with polka dots. Juggle that spider monkey. Sigh. While, I am here… Like a lump. Enjoying your hashtags and comments on social media. Posting my own pics with that sickness flow. With my own custom hashtags to share…

Follicle Follies

Hairy. Prickly. Cactus legs. You know it's time to shave your legs when someone is massaging your lower limbs against the grain of the hair growth and it's long enough to pull and pinch your freaking fuzz. Not saying I was lucky enough to get a delectable body kneading recently; but if I were, the savage beastery that is my minx sticks, right now would be enough to crash any soirée. Hey look at that, I found a quarter. Thank you mangled mane. Your like a treasure hunting dream... I wonder what else I can forage for in this fur debacle?

Ok... Now where's my razor? By the way, make a note, I absolutely hate shaving my proportioned appendages. Hate. Loathe. Despise. Crying on the floor, temper tantrum Fuckery. But I also hate sitting around for hours getting mani-pedis too. While most women think it's a time for pampering, I feel the burden of it being a chore. Was that relevant? Eh, who cares. Back to my moxy hammocks. So, I wax everything else except my legs. Yup, I execute the waxing myself, in case you were wondering. Because I'm awesome. Believe it. Or a masochist. Definitely believe it. Which, is an interesting scenario, because there are much, much more sensitive areas I should be painstakingly worried about applying hot wax to-other than my gams. 

Photo: NobleAmbiencePhotography.com

So, while mister handsome is getting the knots out of my ripe thighs... I'm screaming because of the damn hair tugging on my foxy poles. Shave yo legs HO! And not a snug yanking in a good, dirty, and fun mop pulling either... 

Pink Pantry

On the closet organization trail... I blaze through The Container Store and find some ADORABLE -and, of course, color coordinated- boxes for my pantry. They're gingham checked pattern is in a sweet pink and it's going to add an heir of country chic to my kitchen. Or so I thought... 

It looks cluttered. And now my son is complaining that he can't see where the cupcakes are, so what's the point.... Mind you, he says this while dragging the larger bucket o' snacks from the pantry. Hey, I just vacuumed there... Can we not drag the bucket? Thanks. He also notices that I put my, more healthy, snacks in a different sized box o' chompery, to which he quandaries that he might want to eat those as well so why are they segregated into their own pail. Maybe I don't want my yum yums even touching that commercially advertised crap? Just a thought. Well, darling child, who can't seem to ask enough questions for what is now becoming a badly systematized idea... Hey, you there, get your head out of my food bucket! 

So, upon the realization that he wants in on my salutary nibbles, I ditch the morsel holders and toss all the munchies-both nutritious and fattening options- on the same shelf and retreat to my bedroom closet on a new mission... (*cue Star Wars music) To gloriously decorate usefully, like no one decorative container, has ever done before...