Ocean Squat Brandy

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

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

Magic Pussycat Syndrome

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

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

Turkey Joe Tiara

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

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

The BRC Bell Pepper

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

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

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

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

Text Assailant

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

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

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

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

Song-Whoring

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

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

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

Can we get a refill?

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

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

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

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

Ink Cartidge Hell

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

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

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

Sweaty Drip

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

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

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

Chapped Pretzels

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

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

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

Grated Madness

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

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

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

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