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...