White Trash Dinner

Being a single mom with work, aspirations, and a hankering for a quick meal. I am always looking for a way to whip up something quick and hearty for my child. Microwave noodles anyone? Nobody wants a visit from child protective services for undernourishment allegations. Feed that little monkey more than just peanut butter and Cheetos! And with that in mind, I also need to find something my kid will like to eat as well. No, you can't have candy, boy. Step away from the nougat… So, I was watching The Today Show last fall, and they were doing a segment on tailgate ideas. As I imagine, most of us know what tailgating is; But, I'll elaborate for those, not, on the same bus. Beep. Beep. Tailgating is what sports fans do when they take their cars, trucks, or even RVs to the parking lot of the sporting event, pop open the "tailgates" of their trucks and eat, drink and sometimes start fights over game facts and/or teams. It's a neanderthal way of fun; But, I sure enjoy the hell out of it every football season! Go Chargers! 

Anyway, one of the dinners I decided to adopt into my abode was the scoop of chili, into a bag of Fritos, concoctionry. What? Yup. Sounds good, right? Except I didn't have chili. Nor, did I have Chili Cheese flavored Fritos neither. I did have regular mini bags, of Fritos. And I had a whole chicken. Bok. Bok. The poultry was on sale. Cut me some slack. $4 dollars for a whole chicken?! Hell yeah.. Bok. Bok. Sale pollo. That's right, it's all about the coupons. 

I toss that foul into the crockpot, add a couple bottles of bbq sauce and cook that bad boy down until the meat came off the bones. Removed the bones, stirred it up, popped open the Fritos bag and voila. Hearty and speedy white trash dinner. Tossed some scoops of the pulled bok bok into the bag, add a fork, boom. The child was happy and ate about 4 bags full of this gluttonous glory. Toss a couple shaved scallions on top and you have some veggies in the mix too! The boy was happy. I was happy. The state would be happy. Feed on! 

Backpack PSA

Is it just me, or is it just, plain odd to see grown ass men walking around with Jansport backpacks like they're teenagers going from class to class? Stop it. You're killing me. You're not a child anymore. There are only three reasons that explain why a big boy is using a backpack in the first place. 1. He's a homeless drug addict. 2. He hasn't updated his gear since he was 12. Or, 3. He's a runaway. And assuming, none of the aforementioned, are actual defenses: THROW AWAY THE STINKING BACKPACKS!

Criminy. Thank you. I'm proud of you… I know that was tough. But, change is a good thing. I know, it is uncomfortable.. But, trust me you will thank me. I've jotted down some bulltpoints to get you, or your dude, on the right track to a look that will be current and practical.

• A backpack disguised as a briefcase, or in the form of an over-the-shoulder bag. This gives the appearance of professionalism, without sacrificing pocket space.
• A backpack for traveling, you say? Only in the shape -and style- of a duffle bag. This allows a roomy inside with an exterior that doesnt scream, "Hey! I'm really a hobo!"
• And last; But, not least, The camping backpack. This is, by all intents and purposes, the ONLY plausible option for an actual backpack…. with the visual being an actual, oversized backpack. You're in the woods, you need to pack first aid kits and hot dogs; Therefore, you necessitate the useful need of said, structured bag.

Now that you've been properly introduced to the backpack's benign use as an adult, you are now free to go shopping for anything that doesn't make you look like a homeless drug addict. Or become "twinsies" with my 6 year old neighbor. You're welcome.  I told you, you were going to thank me…

Putrid Paper Stacks

I have a pile of paperwork that I have been trying to get organized for about a month now… Anyone else procrastinate when it comes to this shit? Sing it with me then! "Stacks on stacks on stacks."  No, not the stacks of cash, kind of stacks. Damn rappers.  Geesh, I wish. If I had a dollar for every piece of paper I have to go through to get organized, I could retire. I do what the professional organizers SAY to do. That is, tackle it, one small stack at a time.

Nope. I attempt to conquer the colossal paper mountain fifteen minutes a day. 15 minutes? Eh…more like 4 minutes.  And surrender. And I definitely can't seem to keep this habit going every day. Nope. I'm getting to this sheet asylum, approximately once a week. For… 4 minutes.

So today is the day. I will stop procrastinating and finish this bad girl slop. Ha! Who am I kidding? So, I plop my phat ass down in the middle of this dishevled paper-fuck and give it a go. I'm doing good, I'm getting through three pages of parchment and I find myself looking around the room. Daydreaming about hiring some poor sap to do this for me. Focus. Get back to work, you distracted cow. Ugh, fine.

After a couple more sifted and organized leafs, I've found my coffee maker and I'm enjoying my cup of joe. I needed a break. What are you looking at? Don't judge me. That stationary was doing a devil of a job mocking my attempts anyway. I needed a minute from this jailhouse nonsense. I just need to fly like a butterfly, you know… I can't be tethered down by this trivial, office reassignment paper surgery, post-decorated file cabinet redo.

Crap… it's only been three hours since I attempted this putrid paper stack today? It looks like I haven't even made a dent! I haven't. I have successfully daydreamed though and made coffee. Insert cheesy smile here. Plus, I'd feel more upset about draggnig this on, yet another day, but somehow the smooth, bold taste of my coffee is calming my distress. Uh, sounds like you've found an excuse to put it off further… yeah. I think I have. And I'm going to take it and run with it. Bye bye paper barrel!

Angel Face

Glowy. Etheral. Pretty much perfect… Ok, maybe not perfect, per say; But I do have the face of an angel. Oh who are we kidding? I've got wings. Never to be one short of confidence, I'm aware, of said condition. Oh geez.That being noted, if Im not smiling, talking or laughing; I look mean, snotty and arrogant. Or, as I've been told by my mother, those could be parts of my personality lesser known to the outside world, bless her heart; But hey, we all have demons. Lay off. Nobody is a happy hunky dory, hopscotching all the freaking time. Quite sure even comedians have down time… or hopscotchers. 

Recently, I was accused to darting dirty looks to someone. I wasn't. He asks if I was sure I wasn't giving him nasty looks. Uh. I wasn't. But, I will if you keep it up, sailor. A few moments pass and again, I was told that I was giving looks of smudgery. Again, I wasn't. Agitatation sequence, commence. Ever stop to think that maybe it's my chisled bone structure? That it's possibly just how my freaking face looks? Pissed all the time. In dirty-look mode. Do you know how many broads over the years said to me, "Um, like I totally didn't wana be friends with you because, um, like, you looked like a bitch. But, like you're, um, totally, like nice." 

Here's what I don't get… the people close to me, know I'm a sweet delectable. Like sugar cane and candy sprinkles. And for someone to assume I'm darting looks in their general direction is prepostorous.  Hey you! I'm mailing you unclean, filthy looks in your eye space. Take that. I have plenty on my proverbial plate and I am fucking busy. Wait, what? Why is there a pen in my ear? Mind your business and stay focused. Busy, I tell ya. Anyway, it was during this intrusion of my space that I was innocently reading and making notes on a book I've been working on. Imagine in real time: Casually looking up and around. Sipping the vino. Put my noggin back down to my pages and so on and so forth. I am not paying attention to the hefty eater to my right. Or the bartender slcheping around the glasses, banging the shit out of them like a bull in a china shop. The valley girl waitress hanging by the side of the bar like she's got nothing better to do, like, oh my god i dunno… Serve your tables? Wench. 

Bottom line. It's just my face. It's angelic. It's features are delightful. And occasionally, cartoonish. But, it's mine. And I enjoy my mug, albeit smiling or bitchy in appearance. I can only assume, I will continue to run into this physiognomy until my dying days… Hey, Sophia Loren is keeping it hot. I may be more of the Betty White variety; But, nonetheless… If you can't stand the heat, back away from my kisser. 

Foodie Cookery

Since I've been stuck at home, because of my trail of bad luck recently… Which, according to my friends and family, have come about because I've allowed it back in… Oh, for fucks sake, where's the sage? Well, irregardless,  I have decided to pick up some cooking sessions. No, there have been no fires. Whew. Maybe an occasional smoke detector activation here and there; But, no fires. Hmm… Sage really does work. Although, the fire extinguisher is within reach too…  Just in case.

 See that homemade chicken Parmesan in the photo? Yep, I did that. And, while I hate pictures of food, I had to boast about my successful foodie attempts so you all can see that, I can be trusted with a stove. Vent fan? Check. Open all doors and windows? Check. Plug in extra fans for circulation? Check, and check. After noticing another squaller in my complex last week with apartment fire smoke imprints all over their corner section of the building; I realized that it is possible… that the pumpkin fires of 2014 weren't -entirely- my fault.  Faulty wiring? Everything is electric, Rita. Yes, true. But, there are wires connecting the electric to the… uh, electric, stuff. Anyway, focus. This building was built ages ago. It is entirely conceivable that I'm not just a faulty cook. Sigh. Fingers crossed.


The fish plate mockery wasn't my fault either. But what did I expect from food, designated in frozen section of Costco. I didn't taste anything wrong with it; at first. But, when other members of my family made weird faces… and comments. Maybe I had just acclimated to the terrible taste since we had been on a very tight budget? Beggars can't be choosers. I was happy it was different from Top Ramen. I thought they were taking digs at my cooking. But, no, it was the beer-battered cod wannabe in the oven that was wreaking havoc. Concensus: Sometimes, I can cook. Yay! But, it helps to have REAL food, not from a case of iced over beer battered cod that can be compared to charcoal.

Elephant Puff

You gotta be kidding me. It's inflated. Like a bulbus balloon. A donut for your hemorroid-having ass. A, sort-of, squishy uncomfortable that is so inexplicable, that clearly, I had to share. Of course you did, Rita. So, my allergies are at it again. This time… with lotion. Yup. The good stuff you slather on, after a bath or shower. I had an incident. With the body butter. Hide your kids, this is one post you won't want them reading… Are they gone? Ok, good. This is going to be slightly inappropriate. Ha. Slightly… Loosely coined.

No one should be allergic to body cream. Unless you're me. In which case, of course, you would be… Welcome. Anyway, after an intimate engagement occurs… yes, guys, a pillow fight with all my girlfriends. Exactly. So perceptive. I go into my powder room to shower and clean up and I find myself extremely uncomfortable when sitting down on the commode. Hmmm… that's odd. But, ok, fast forward to the shower. Sudsy. Sudsy. Bing. Bang. Boom. Lather up with the pretty salve once again… and as I slip into a cozy pair of supergirl underroos, I notice the underwear are unusualy uncomfortable to the touch. What on earth…

My little piglet had become a nightmarish tale from the inflated twat! My pinky is puffy. My kitty is… absorbinantly oversized. My box is rearing itself before my very eyes. From the inside out! I can't sit down. I can't wear underwear. Shut up, guys. I need an epi-pen for skin conditioner that's creeped it's way to my good goods! Sigh. Really? I take some allergy remedy and the swelling eventually settled after a few hours; But, geesh. Maybe it was the tomato sauce I had with dinner the night before? What? I don't know. I don't know where that came from either, keep up. Word to the wise, ladies… Keep your flower away from hidden casualties. Not all body lotions are out to get you. Just my body lotion. Stupid body lotion.

Detective Sex Pot

Yes, you read correctly from the title line. And, by the way, who does that? A douche bag. A narcissist. A sociopath. A psychopath. These personality disorders aren't just for serial killers, you know… Clearly, online dating is a no-no if you're already in a relationship; But, what if you "accidentally" see some email updates pop up through his phone while playing his candy crush game? And what if those said updates, have the words xyzdate.com or okstupidwhoredatingsite.com type of whatnots included in them? What do you do? I don't know. Do you confront him? HEY YOU! Do you investigate it further? Super slueth, super hero. Do you plan and plot behind his back for the attack on his character? Once a cheater, always a cheater. Do you dump him? Later dude. Wait… Is he even using these sites? Ah, good question. Listen girls. Don't jump ahead of yourselves. It's true what they say about a woman… If she suspects something suspicious, she will be a better private investigator than one you could hire for thousands of dollars. But hold on.  Every girl wants to truly believe she has the best pick of the litter; But, once in a while, things come into view that make him appear… less than the stud you proudly parade around with; your arm in his. Leaving you… less likely to be huggin on him and shyt.

Look, I never accuse anyone of anything all willy nilly. And, the way I see it, I didn't seek out any of the information popping through to me that day. Pay no attention to that buffalo wearing a tutu. Wait.

What? Nor am I saying I am said "seeker" of said events… But, when a girlfriend opens up to me about things like this, I start to question everything about their relationship, and series of conversations.  Guess it wasn't so perfect. I am a self-proclaimed truth finder. What's done in the dark, eventually comes to light. If anyone is lying to me, I eventually, AND inevitably, find out. Liars can only keep track of so many lies for so long before the wires cross and the lies change during a multiple line of questioning. First I paid for my ding dongs with donald duck money. THEN, I went to the gym. But you said you went to the gym and got the ding dongs after…. I really should've been a cop. But I don't really like bloody crime scenes. Or drama. Or chaos. Or crackheads. Or uniforms.

And so, the investigation begins… Detective Sex Pot, reporting for duty. I am all in my girlfriend's business now. Her best ally. And now his, worst nightmare. Once the deck is stacked against him, I then have to figure out how to tell HER. I hope and pray he's just being misunderstood. I'm being cynical. Often. I'm too logical. Sometimes. Okay fine, once in a while. But, odds are if it walks like a duck… QUACK. QUACK.

Cityscape Spew

Ah.. my building. I guess, Sir Stomps-A-Lot that used to live above me with the vicious, ankle biter dog and the heavy smoking has moved away. Awww, boo hoo. I'll miss his charming ways… But, alas, the neighbors around me have more than made up for his… moving on. I've got a party of four, that has moved in next to me, that apparently have gotten the police familiar with my building. *tipping my hat, Good Morning officer. Awesome. And I haven't even counted the boy band's mattress move this week, fucking up MY doorway, leaving remnants of drywall and chipped paint all over the place. I'm quite sure the dragon lady in the manager's office is going to love pinning that one on me. She hates me. For no reason. And she's ugly.

Add to that: I've got a new couple across from me that -at all hours of the day and night- argue and seemingly have a swinging door policy on chaos. Why do we slam the doors when we are leaving pretel? Oh, guess we are going to stand in the hall and har-har for 45 minutes about lame ass music. Perfect. Just how I enjoy my midday walk to the mailbox. And most noteably, last night, I was awakened by the sound of a woman, delicately dragging her flip-flop covered feet, in the common areas below my balcony, gently throwing up all over the sidewalks. And continuing to dry heave her way home… Oh. What's that? A hooting owl, distinctly echoing in the distance. That seems complimentary to her incessant puking sounds below. It's like drunken music to my ears. Did she have sushi for dinner? Never seen that image before. But, at least she quit after an hour and -eventually- stumbled home. Out of puking view.  The owl didn't knock it off until 9 a.m.

One day my sleep, will not be interrupted by instrusively behaving neighbors and chatty forest animals, but I do await the day I become numb to just the regular …sounds of the city. Oh geez. Yeah, right. The neighbor demographic has gone from families surrounding me to dumb ass, barely out of their teens, who've never lived on their own status. I just adore the trash they leave out and about for all to see… Great place for girls to toss their cookies into after a night of debauchery, while they try to make it home to their apartment. Whores. Oh my God. I sound like an old lady… Stop the noise! Don't make me grab my rifle! Damn kids! Get off my lawn!

I know this is the dragon lady's dirty work… I should send the vomit girl onto her doorstep. With a mattress. And flip flops.

The Moldy Berry Effect

#geeklife

So, the other day… Did you say… "eye" infuktion? Yes.  Yes I did. You may have noticed a ( brief) mention last week about said condition. Oh crap… you're going to go into it now, aren't you…. Yup. I do not even know where to begin with what has been going on with me the past couple months; But, after a few posts next week, you will be all caught up. Lucky you! So, let's start with the latest of infractions on my immediate life, the pink eye and the corneal ulcers… Corneal, what? Right. Exactly. Sounds like the beginning of a children's story, doesn't it? So, I am a long time contacts lens wearer. I don't mind my glasses but wearing them on the daily doesn't suit me and my active lifestyle. Ok, let's face it. I'm hyper. And, glasses just don't fit into my daily hyper routine. I know, I know… get Lasik. Lasik scares the begeebies out of me! Boo!

If I could begin by describing how the tribulations surrounding me have been pouring down like a rain cloud… Or hail. Ouch! Yes, hail is painful. It would be best demonstrated by illustrating -what was clearly-  facial stroke from a berry I ate a few weeks ago from the container without looking at it. I am not being dramatic, mother. My face literally, froze up, like a bad botox injection. Uh, you're supposed to wash that shit. I did. It didn't help. Because I couldn't see the damn berries. How so? That scrumptious little buddy had mold on it and it tasted terrible and before I could spit it out. Why did I eat it if it had mold on it, you ask? Uh, because I'm a ravenous berry-eating beast. And, my blurry eyes wouldn't let me. Anyone notice the scuba guys photobombing google maps? Focus. Anyway, before I could stop the mouth intrusion, it was too late. I was a frozen facial, moldy berry eating baboon.

Back to my screwy eyeballs… So, I've been wearing Oasys contact lenses for a few years now and I've never really liked that brand best anyway; adding insult to twinkie squishing injury… My eyes always felt drier wearing them. Stickier. Crustier. Eyes getting veins in them, drier. Even though, they claim to allow MORE oxygen flow to the eyes. Lies. They don't. At least, NOT, in my experience. I tend to always get these cards dealt; Hence, this proverbial vomit I offer up to you all, week after week. You laugh; But, you love it. Oh, that's right, I heading to a point here… They're really uncomfortable, I could feel them in my eyes all the time and my eyes would end up more dry after removing them. It's not dry eye. That next big thing in eye problems being shoved down our throats through commercial advertising. Sneaky medical field. But, sorry pharmaceutical company… Not my pickle. Maybe its the silicon hydrogel material they're now using to manufacture the Oasys Lenses is contributing to this? I don't know… just saying, some women -long ago- have died getting silicon breast implants because they were allergic to the fluid leaking into the body. I don't think it be so far fetched to say it possible one could be allergic to these shitty ass contact lenses. So, instead of changing the manufacturer's brand to one I'm already familiar and didn't have trouble with… because the doctor said "they're the best." Or I was just to lazy to fight this battle… Most likely. I just dealt with the annoying effects of the contacts since I had already bought a supply of them. Until NOW. Turns out, while apparently the company keeps fighting to stop class action lawsuits against them and look into the fact that people can be allergic to silicon based materials -like I am and many others- the so-called "best contacts on the market" don't seem to be the BEST, at all. So, why continue to push them on people? Or revert back to the old materials used?

Conspiracy theory alert: The manufacturers know that these problems are happening. Awareness. Still paying off the doctors to push them to customers. Ka-ching! Eye problems are created. Eye Boom! Now they can make more money off the other drops and whatnot on the shelves. Ka-ching! Ka-ching! And, when customers eyeballs are passed the point of simple repair -ow, wah-  they now make MORE money off their pharmeceutical company investments. Ta-Dah! Oh yeah… Follow the money and you can always figure out why people are motivated the way they are compelled. Make it rain! I like cotton candy. Follow my cotton candy money trail… Booyah! Sugar madness, all day…

Relationship Pogo Escape

Getting what I want is… How do I put this? Wonderful. Dreams turned to reality. Or, wait, a scary fucking thing? The relationship conundrum stinks. Anyone else smell that? Time for my pogo escape plan…. I want the great guy. Nope. Schmuck. I find the great guy. Oooo pretty. I get the great guy. Pssttt… he has muscles. He meets all the expectations; well… the muscles aren't the only thing, I'm not that shallow. He is pretty though… But, meeting 75% of my check list gives me pretty good odds, I say. Bet on that horse! And yet… I can still find something wrong. Or imagine it. Either way, make-believers… it's there. My sister will be the first to tell me that I can find any illogical reason to dump a guy without batting an eyelash, and yet, be that silly broad that hangs on to the bad guy AND make neverending excuses for him. Sissy, he's a great guy; he just likes to build Q-tip forts. Wait. What… Excuse me? One would think this news would piss me off; But, it doesn't. Because I sit. And I sit. And I think about it…. Dammit. Looking back, I couldn't pick a good guy if my life depended on it. Good guy. Dump him. Great guy. Dump him fast. Bad guy. Ohhhh… keep him! He only bangs his baby mama behind my back; so I'm going to trust that one. Oh geez. How I can be so brilliant; Yet, so deficient sometimes, still astonishes me… And, with the few good ones that have crossed my path, I ran at the first sign of ANYTHING. He likes monkeys? I'm out. Which, was probably nothing. He's obsessed with down pillows? I can't take that shit. Deuces, feathery dust ruffle lover. So he wasn't an avid cleaner of his ears… sure, it could've been worse. Oh. No. Not, plush monkeys? Stop it. Ok, learning lesson. I'll sit on this pogo stick for a second. Plus, I can use it for my getaway. Boink. Boink. Boink. 

So, running at the first sign of a great relationship, got me to thinking. What the hell is wrong with me? Rhetorical, fuckers. I love, love. I am always fairly happy; for no damn reason at all… Seriously, I get excited about pink marshmallows. And glitter! I'm -sickeningly- positive about every other aspect of my life. I keep the light and abolish the toxic. So, why am I clutching onto my getaway pogo stick so tightly? Um, I think you're denting the metal Rita…  RUN! I mean, HOP! BOUNCE! LEAP AWAY!! Or, however you prefer to make an exit.


Or… Maybe? And, I may be pushing the proverbial envelope here. But, just maybe? Hang onto this one. PUT. DOWN. THE. POGO STICK. Hear me out. He's caring. He's loyal. He's probably the best thing that has happened to me in quite some time. Consider, not just a dip of thy toe into the water… But, rather, dive right into this pool and take a chance. You can swim dammit! Gotta say… I have never met anyone who actually gets ALL of me. My quirkiness. My belligerence. My awesomeness. Had to throw that one in there… because, uh, well, do I need to divulge? Didn't think so… You all know I'm pretty fantastic. I don't need to pound it into anyone's heads; that would be redundant. As for my getaway prancing shaft? It quietly sits in a nearby corner…ready to spring onto the 405 freeway… 

FILE THAT Under... ADORABLE!

PROJECT: File Cabinet Redo. YOUR MISSION. Should you choose to accept it. Turn a plain Jane -UGLY ASS- file cabinet into something I can live with and NOT have to buy anything NEW! 

 

Initially, I wanted to dump this heavy piece of scrap metal. I mean, who needs this much file cabinet space anyway?! Unless you're stuffing a pinata into it… Or running a large business, with which, to store important documents; Otherwise, it's quite a useless piece of furniture. It's not like I plan on hiding a dingo in there or something. So, buying a cute little file box and downsize this oversized chard -for me- was the most likely of options. But, when faced with the idea of trying to bring new life to something old…  I gotta say -in all my creative glory- I actually ADORE the results so much more than I would have, having to scour the retail trenches for anything that would come anywhere close to the satisfaction I am getting from this piece of, art gallery quality, fertile resourcefulness. Yes, indeed, I boast!  But, hell, I have been stuck at home with the longest terms of eye infucktions, and freaking the boredom needed killing. Take that boredom! Bang! Pow! Boom!

                                    
I sanded, I wiped clean, I sprayed and I began the detailing process… When I looked online for design ideas though… I found nary a sweet looking motif that fit my glamorously detailed scheme. Polka dots? No. Stripes? No thanks. Plaid? Uh, definitely not. So, instead, I found a picture of a chandelier and had to free hand this sucker myself. I know, I know…  This glitzy blueprint isn't going to fit everybody's taste. But, IDGAF. It's girly. It's glam. And it has Rita, written all over it. (Not literally, duh. Figure of speech people, keep strolling along with me here.) I'm in love with it and now I will have to reorganize this bastard so it can be put to some good use… Maybe now,  I can finally house that litter of baby dinosaurs. Tired of them eating up my rhinestones. Pesky sparkle-pooing reptilian bastards.

Bar Slum Party Listener

I'm visiting my favorite bar - yeah… sadly, this is how I have been coexisting, as of late- and I find the characters visiting this fine evening… Evening? Yes, evening -not only fascinating- but ironically, annoying. When I sit down, the two fellas to my right are interestingly enough talking about finding the rich woman of their succubus dreams. Excuse me while I put vomit to the floor. Oh look! A quarter! And glitter! To my left, a couple of Irishmen (with the one closest to me, belching every… Five, fucking minutes. No seriously… Every. Five. Minutes.)

After the douchebag crew exit on my right, a woman seats herself... She appears sweet, and wiser in appearance of years... And she is awaiting her sire. In the form of a blind date. From online dating… And, after his legendary arrival and three minutes hath passed… It is decided. He's a loser. He's an old gent with a know-it-all complex, arms folded, and can clearly see that the louder and more all-knowing he professes to be, her insecurities shine through and she begins the dance of stupidity; Hoping the derfwad might be THE ONE. She complains about the online dating pool while he philosophically describes his take on the subject. I can't take it. It's annoying at best. And… suicidallly inductive at worst. Obviously, I have a big mouth, so i interject. Way too much… I know. I know. They're crappy convo is NOT my business. But if freaking should be. My ear space feels part of their date tango. Hey, party listener - or, rather… EAVESDROPPER- slum it at another bar! Ugh. I know… Hush.

Mind your business RiRi!! Time to retreat back to my wine. Wine glasses should really be the size of a large hat. And as if the liquer fairy conveniently and quietly refilled my chalice while my head was turned, I toss back a 3rd glass of Merlot. I seriously cannot take the crazy- THAT IS-  in this restaurant this fine luxurious evening… Or is it afternoon? Eh. Who cares. It's 5 o'clock somewhere. And as if, on cue, women whom I've witnessed -normally- works with are chiming in with their cackling and with their hen-like, mean girl group… They cluck, cluck themselves into my yackity-yack with the (cute) bartender, whom I want to talk to, and are even more obnoxious than the previous savants I've already had to listen to thus far. Savants used loosely, ironically AND sarcastically here. Really, where's a quiet library when you need one? Or a polka dotted giraffe to ride out into the ocean? I'm not picky. Library or giraffe.

Poking Ninja Monkey

There's something to be said about those close to me, or used to be close to me, who keep my name in their mouth; like they know what they're talking about. What you know about somebody while you are with them is all it is. That's it. That's all. No before. No after. There's no thereafter or pre-dated history that anyone could make a comment on. Caveman drawings? Unless they were there. Ah, you invented the wheel, got it. I've broached this subject before, and in light of current events, it's clear I must reiterate a couple points. Point one. My posts are not about you. If you think they're about you, then A. You're arrogant and delusional. Hmmm... Drugs are bad, knock it off Or B. Even if a post has similarities -relatable to you- no one else would even know unless you put it out there. Self- shaming in public? Don't monkeys throw poop on the streets of some exotic place? And C. If B applies to you then please refer to A. because... nobody cares. Especially me. But it definitely makes it entertaining for all of us! Monkeys and poo are always funny... Oooo, poopoo flinging bongo monkey. 

A writer, writes from experiences. Yes. But can also elaborate, dream, be grandiose... and even -get this- use their imagination- to give a story, fullness. Direction. Crowd-drawing interest. And even Make shit uppery! I know. Crazy right! For one to believe that all stories I write are about them, in any way, is both ridiculous and hilarious. With all I have going on, my outlet is here. On my blog. For me. For you. For pure entertainment. There is most times, a very small, factual basis, with which I draw; however, this isn't my end all/be all for my content. I'm a creator. It's involved and always evolving. It's Like I'm a literary butterfly. And a cocoon. With the larva... And the sticky icky cocoon larva journey thingie... webbed up on the branches of a tree... You get the idea. Right. Moving on... 

So dear friends... Laugh at what you read. I do. I laugh at myself all the time. And, as Im sure grandpa gets a few good laughs off, when he bought the largest bottle of liquor -and only that bottle of liquor- at the grocery store yesterday...  while babysitting his little granddaughter. At 9:30 am. Literally throwing money at the cashier. Grumpy drunk ass. Smdh. Travesty. Guess he needed that drink. But hey, I could assume all sorts of things. I'd, mostl likely, be dead on thougj... in that particular accident, waiting to happen. But, alas, most of the time; you just gotta take it at face value. We all post on social media in a proverbial codec to convey our feelings in some way. A DOS faction of words to elude and protect those who remain unnamed.... Not that they deserve it; But, you feel me. And Instead saying, I took a poo today. One would opt for, my toilet cried a whole hour this morning. And it is no ones job to interpret those posts, internalize them, nor is it the responsibility of anyone to stalk said postings and try to go all...  Inspector Gadget. James Bond? Lego Ninjago? 

One thing you should never do though? If you post a comment, talking shit... Deleting it -with the misconception that I won't see it...when my email notifies me- it is more cowardly and embarrassing for you than owning up to it. Bottom line... Haha bottom. Be entertained. Enjoy life. And LAUGH. Being a martyr never got anyone anywhere... Eeyore. Foghorn Leghorn. Squidward. Gosh, feels so elementary school, doesn't it? Neanderthal. 

Hot Guy Hack

How long is too long to text with a guy before moving toward the official date? Well, I don't know about you, but for me? ... if it's longer than a week,  Im over it. Did someone hear the egg timer go off? And I'm already bored. And I burned my cake. And most likely over the new prospect as well. Anyway, I don't care how hot you are. How great a catch you might be. Or how busy you are either. My theory is, if you are interested in dating me... Uh, date me and stop fucking pussy-footin' around. Let's go grab a squash and have a picnic already! Texting me questions deeper than "how's the weather?" Will get you a few days with me of texting but not too much more of that. Yes, I adore fuzzy socks too! And if you're asking me personal questions that are better suited to a face to face? Later gator. How do I like my steak? Oh good grief. I'm out. Taste the dust from my stilettos! 

Recently I met a gorgeous, tall, engaging fellow who asked me for his number and since I found him quite accomplished and -i must mention- very easy on the eyes, I gave my number to him. He texts me that evening saying how he enjoyed meeting me and the great conversation we had, and looks forward to going out. I'm giddy. Like a school girl. Got my pigtails flopping in the wind as I skip down the sidewalk. We go back and forth for about four or five days, the weekend is approaching and still no request for an official date. I like a man who plans. And I will NEVER be available for a guy last minute. So, I'm getting irritated and starting to respond a little less frequently. Saturday night. He texts, "Hey! We are going to the club, want to roll with us?" What the.... Uh, no. But, since sometimes I do have a filter, I reply, "no thank you I already have plans." I know right! I had manners when he clearly did not. Mark it on your calendars, friends. There must've been a blue moon. Listen, hot guy hack, Im not going out with you and your friends. To a club. Last minute. When we haven't even gone out to see if I even like you enough yet! 

He texts the next day. I don't respond. He texts again. I don't.  Til finally he says, "Hey, what happened to you." Heres the bottom line guys, make an effort. If you half ass the energy into someone; you're going to get even less back. I'm  not mothering a guy to be a gentleman because if he is really interested, he will be. And he WILL put in the effort. Unless his mother didn't raise a gentleman then that's a whole other issue... 

Quality Tea Cups

Getting back into routine is like trying to scale a building after being hit with a tranquilizer dart. Uh, yeah... It could happen. Scale a building, I'll aim... and we'll watch what happens. After being off for the holidays, it's so hard to get back into the swing of things! Hey batter, batter! I just want to shop and eat. Oooo... Pretty stilettos! ...And ham! 

But alas, I cannot. It's busy working season for me, and for most of us, out there in the world. Trying to get those taxes done, working on multiple projects, kids need a thousand cupcakes by morning for their class... It's a nonstop gig in January! And I finally took down that damn shrub that was taking up space in my living room. I gotta be honest, while I love the idea of the holidays, I honestly can't stand them. And I cannot tell you how glad I am they are over. Are there any cordial cherries left?  While everyone else has been shopping their little hearts out and putting themselves in food comas, Im the girl trying to put in more hours than I have during the day to get work, finish work, and add more work into my dinner plate. If you read my posts often, you'll notice I have been posting less than my normal five days a week. All this means is that Im taking my posts down to about three days a week from here on out -to sort of, lighten my load, so to speak. Wait. What? Didn't you just say you have added work but now you're...? Oxymoron much? Yes. I'm a walking conundrum. An enigma. Are you new here? Anyway, I am working on a few projects outside of the blog that are taking up a good chunk of my time -which I feel absolutely blessed to have and will absolutely give you the skinny on those at a later date- but this also means I need to allocate my time accordingly, so the quality of my work doesn't suffer. No she didn't. Stop snickering. Yes I totally did. Now I'm snickering. 

Oh hell, who am I kidding... Quality. If you're anything like me at all-which you must be because you're still reading- you already know I'm not everyone's favorite cup of tea. Fuck yo cup o tea! Or quality! Whatever. I am nothing If I cannot laugh at myself... And with that, I bid adieu and welcome everyone into this new blessed, quality tea cups, year! Woop! Woop! Wait, what?