Manic Musical Interlude

Starbucks. I think we need an intervention. When it comes to the altruistic sounds that are heard playing above your patrons heads as they enjoy their coffee lattes. I felt as though I was in a manic state as the music switched from one ridiculous impaired bewailing to the next. I think I literally saw a tumbleweed cross our table when we sipped our mochachinos. Lest not leave out the excitement of the decibel level of said musical violation. Sarcasm.  How loud does that damn music need to play? I couldn't even hear my own thoughts. I couldn't make an order at the counter without shouting and the barista looking at me like I was a light beacon attracting a moth.  Let me share the emotional bedlam I so luckily endured. Road trip time. 

The clatter switched to something reminiscent of a scene from Halloween. Um, is there someone hiding behind your coffee press there? Uh... Well until this creepy music ends, you might want to escort your lifelike, shade of milk-inspired, scream character away from the blades of that blender.... That's all I'm saying. I'd like to live through today's order thank you very much. 

And as the buzz switches, a clown pops out from behind the stock room. Ah. Circus-themed music now. I think I'm catching on here. Sigh. God help me.  

Oh hi Humphrey, where's Rita? Oh my bad, I thought we were in a classic film awaiting Sabrina's arrival to the dance. Oh no? Ok. I'll just hop on the Roman scooter and pretend I'm not a princess hiding from my duties then. Yes, all references from old movies. Keep up. This what I was dealing with... Feeling scattered yet? Welcome to my vanilla caramel macchiato nightmare. 

Fantastic. Charo has entered the building. Nice fruit. Is that organic? 

Oh, me salsa? I only like fresh and homemade. Thanks. But let's merengue! FML. Is that a conga line next to the Starbucks napkins?

And where are your cowgirl boots little lady? Uh, what? Oh, Clint Eastwood. Hey. What steed brought you in today's Starbucks in the valley.... Oh, right. The ever-so-subtle hillbilly musician playing the spoons. Gotcha. 

I've had enough. Starbucks. I love coffee. And your coffee, it's great. But whoever is in charge of the manic music choices needs to take his or her meds. No offense to any real sufferers of mental illness-that's no laughing matter. But this guy with his hand on the dial needs a whack on the knuckles... And some riddlin. Oh and next time I'm here, please make sure all your associates know that "The Red Eye" is a real drink, on the really secret menu. I'm too caffeine deprived when I come in to explain this simple cup of heaven. Dark roast. Add one shot expresso. Voila. Thank you. 

Cap Your Stream

I hate when I'm telling a story and by the end of the chronicle I can't remember the point I was trying to  make. Huh? Explain you're nonsense wench. What the hell are you saying? Or sometimes, what even brought me to tell the saga. Oh crap. Am I Chatty Cathy that likes to hear myself talk? Shit. I hope not. We need another Bugging Betty like another hole in the head. I don't know… maybe another hole could be used somehow. I like to entertain people. Make them laugh and feel… even if it's because I clumsily tried to move a wall with my leg. Because, I'm a klutz. I walk into tables, fall on my underwear laying on the floor. It doesn't take much. Unfortunately, I can't stop the belly aching laughter if I happen to see you trip on a sidewalk. Sorry, in advance, but if I can plummet head first over a pair of trashy lingerie, I am going to laugh so hard you're boyfriend's balls fall off.

But what's the fun in that if you end up narrating epics that just irritate people. Hi sleeping bear, I'm going to poke you. I just want to see what happens. You've done it too, don't judge. What's worse, is if you don't realize you're the talkaholic in a group. You're blabbing away, authoring novella after novelette, thinking people care about what you're going on about. They don't. In reality, they are secretly plotting how to get your voice box removed. Most of the time, we tell other people fables because we feel safe in the environment we are in to tell them. Feel less safe. Please. For the sanctity of our precious little piggly wiggly ears. Or we blather endlessly because we are nervous or feel pressure to keep some kind of noise in the air. Fill the void. I'm a thinker. Which causes me to frame words.
Not intentionally, it just happens. Right. Just like peeing in the toilet. Well, last time I checked, you can cap your stream. Try it sometime. You just might save someone the agonizing spinning of yarns and return your calls next time you want to hang out.

Happy Ever After And A Pegacorn

Leopards. Spots. Ugh, the agonizing question…. So if a leopard CAN change his spots then there's a unicorn in Tuscany with my name on it ready to fly me to a Sicilian-styled picnic. Yes, my unicorn flies, mom, let the debate go. The Pegasus vs. Unicorn debate. I Love you; But, my unicorn has wings... And he flies. He's a Pegacorn. And he's awesome.

I've been sitting on this internal battle for a couple days now and I  am still stuck on what to do. No, not the unicorn thing. I know my stance on that one. Refer back to The Pegacorn. Recently, a few ex-boyfriends have come back into my life. Why? Or, are trying, rather. While some ex-memories are good; some are… Bad, really bad. There are those ex-stories that are middle of the road learning lesson-types. Similarly, I burned myself on some yummy doughy bread rolls once. Don't touch the oven, it's hot. Dummy. They don't really stand out for anything good or bad. Yikes. Bummer, if you're put into that category. Unmemorable much?

 If he's broken your heart more than once… It's idiotic to even consider the notion that this person has your best interest at heart; when they, in fact, screwed you over. Twice, by the way. How many questions would you have for them? I have a ton. How many new rules would you now have to instigate to stop another potential ruin from falling? Oh yeah… The Spanish Inquisition wouldn't even begin to describe what I'd have in store for them. If this was a girlfriend asking me these things, I'd say forget the sap and move on. Bye Bye. He had two shots and blew over the legal limit both times. No getting behind my wheel again. He shouldn't get another chance. He needs to get a girl and keep HER happy ass by doing the right thing, the first time… with her. Susie Q will have no history class with you, can't harbor any resentment… and she will believe everything you say. But, if its anything like the thousands of romantic comedies I've seen… she takes him back, they live together and they do learn lessons. Making history together. Live happily ever after, right?

Like in the films, when the guy comes to the door after weeks ( or months in my case) of them being apart and professes his love to her. He loves her, she gives him a hard time at the door. But, inevitably, he wins her heart back. Favorite scene of every romantic comedy. I always cry on that part. Wuss. Happy endings always get me. Shut it. Wait. He didn't profess his love to me, did he?

Or in that cinematic feature, as she goes into labor at her moms wedding, they rush to the hospital -in the wedding Rolls Royce- and they pit stop at the farmers market so she can tell him she realizes that she, in fact, is madly in love with him. Ok, focus. Stop trying to figure out what movie that's from; it's "The BackUp Plan." No, I am not pregnant. And that's not the point. The point is they end up together a**holes. They do life together. They're a family… a team. Like the song, by Lorde. 

I don't want just texted apology letters and promises of "I've changed" and "I'll do betters." Show up! At my door with flowers you derelict! I wanted to say monkey; But, in this scenario, a show monkey might, indeed, be a more considerable option at this point… And he'd tip his hat for me. I love show monkeys. They give good hugs. Show me I'm worth more than a lazy ass text! Because unless and until I see you with a royal procession sitting on a noble pony on my front porch... Chances are, I'm not going to believe anything you have to say. No matter how much my heart wants to believe people are inherently good, when I've been struck by that nasty blade of love, I don't suddenly get amnesia. Well, not anymore, at least. And unless you caught me on a good day where I've stuffed my face with cinnamon toast crunch cereal and I'm in a cinnamon sugar crunchy heaven… I will have actually put some thought into what you're asking me to accept.

Luckily for me, I've got a lot on my plate right now and just don't really have the time to waste on personal and emotional crap; But, hey, thanks for yet another song idea! And since I need a guy that's going to go above and beyond for me, make me really notice you. Find me a Pegacorn. Or maybe it's a good idea for you to figure out a Plan B. I might be too tough a nut to crack for you. You gotta have gumption. Be the stand alone guy. The guy who knows value when he sees it and be a fighter for it.
By the way… I like Tulips. 

Bouncy House

If I'm in another city, I tend to make sure my transportation is either handled by the production company or agency I'm working for or worst case… I, myself, take care of it. I'm, for the most part, responsible. I make sure I'm independent. Don't ask for help much. I try to do things all myself really. Therefore, it isn't odd for me to assume other people I meet, whom are prone to traveling a lot, have their mode of movement needs in order as well when they come here. Now, let's get one thing straight, in no way, am I a diva. I'd love to be a diva. I wish I was a diva. I've been told I'm the worst type of diva, actually,  because I think I'm low maintenance but I'm supposedly high maintenance. Yeah, a dude told me that. Clearly, he  just didn't understand me. I'm super easygoing. And, if I do say so myself, I'm pretty damn normal. Thing is, I have been stuck in other cities without a horse and buggy. And it sucks. I've missed jobs I had booked because of no conveyance or someone couldn't cart me around. Sort of kills the whole fun of the joyride really. I love what I do too damn much to miss out on work because of no trucking or to get screwed because I was dependent on someone else's shitty word that they'd deliver me there.

Back to the point. I met this really hot guy who rings me up to say he's in my city. Cool. He's hot. He's sexy. He was… uh fun. At least in his city he was super fun. But, he did realize, I didn't care to be his little playtime buddy, more than just that one time… right? For the record guys, not all of you are considered "relationship material." Not trying to be mean or be a whore, for that matter… Facts are facts. Sometimes girls just need a fun-time bouncy house. And, if you're fun-time bouncy house guy, that's all you're ever going to be to us. Maybe look at the bright side of this… be happy she took her shoes off before bouncing?

Problem number one: He expects me to drive to him.  First of all, you're the man. You have the penis. Man up and pick up a lady for a date. I'm not desperate for your little dick. Didn't you tell me you "own" multiple establishments. You ARE out here for business with one of YOUR establishments, aren't you? Hmmm… I've deducted that he's probably making it up. He doesn't have anything but a baby momma and a dream. He's probably here visiting his long lost kids he forgot to mention.

Problem number two: He doesn't get a rental car while in my city. Secondly, he explains that he has his "staff" come pick him up to do what he needs to do. Um, how did you plan on seeing me? Oh, I should come stay the night with you? Right. Sorry, lazy ass. Have the baby mama pick you up. You know, the one I made up. Because, otherwise, none of this make sense.

And last, but certainly not least…
Problem number three: I make my final attempt to string ourselves up together as he texts me about dangling along later in the evening. Now I smell a booty call people… read my post a few weeks back on how I feel about texting and dating, this totally falls into that category. Which, by the way, I wasn't entirely opposed to until he decided that I should be doing all the work. Sorry sucker, not gonna happen. I let him know, kindly, that he can come to me and I'm excited about having a good time. Obviously, this is a setup. I know he isn't going to come to me. I'm just making sure I've pretty much got this douche bag's proverbial number.

Him: I don't have a car!
And as I read this another text slides through…
Him: Just forget it

Me: Don't worry babes, I forgot you after you said you didn't have a car.

Un Guarde

First of all, I'm a week in to choking down this JOE Coffee every morning, which is absolutely horrible. I'm cranky and if this doesn't apply to you, pass it along to someone whom it does. So, imagine my loving irritability with you fucktards and your group messaging. Are you so socially inept that you have forgotten common courtesy? …Ok, OK, maybe you ARE one of the lost soldiers of manners and I need to clue you in. I know… my humanitarianism doesn't end. Again… I know, good samaritan alert. I can't help it. I'm full of love.

OMG. Let me say it like this… NO ONE, I repeat, NO ONE likes to be in a memo party along with people they don't f***ing know! Do you think everyone loves getting replies to that said group message days later? From random numbers? From citizens they do not know?! Um, no. No one does. Not even a little bit. …Yeah, you're welcome. I'm a giver. Uh, and if you're sitting there thinking about it… it's a no. A big, FAT no.

In my Rolodex, numbers will be blocked.. including the group initiator. Listen troop text leader, you didn't ask permission to connect those sheep to me and I don't want my number given out to any flock that I haven't personally given it. Un guarde! I challenge some archaic french fencing duel to you perpetrator! If you think being a note courier (more like the village idiot) by connecting me to homosapians (fancy word for humans, get a dictionary) that may want my number, you just put yourself in Rita's iPhone jail. If I plan on putting any mass community in a group message, the first thing is every solitary individual needs to know every luminary star in the group dispatch and everyone in this specific group message needs to have every one's number in their own cellular devices. Or said delivery person has gained permission to add unknown victim to a blathering bunch. It's so freaking rude. Thank you for the ambush. I love walking away from my electronic leash, only to return to it finding 85 text alerts. From some random tally of numbers, in conversations I didn't want to be a part.

Et ainsi, Je bloque a la mort. Yeah, my french sucks. So what. Blocking. Blocking you. Blocking him. Blocking her. Blocking unknown. Printed matter deleted. Block. Block. Block.

Walking Dead

EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! RITA SLANINA GETS F***D UP IN BOXING MATCH WITH A ZOMBIE KANGAROO! Wait. What? Who's kangaroo is this?

No. Not exactly. More like a pillow fight in my sleep. Two days ago. I can hear the Walking Dead creators writing me in a part as we speak. That's how horrid my face looked. Apparently, my loving friend's cat adores me so much that she persists on sleeping on my pillow and blankets while I'm not looking. To which, yesterday, I took a much needed nap, and POW woke up with this:

Zombie?

Yeah. I had the same reaction. And this was my reflection looking back at ME! I know, you can imagine my horror. I still twinge when I see the photo! I even attempted to make the pic look better… fail. That's supposed to be "better." Sigh. We all have "off" days, but what the hell? As my allergy list continues to grow, so does my sensitivity. Bloody hell. I washed all the linens and while I'm sitting on the sofa awaiting the buzzer to tell me its done, this little fur ball's reign of cuddly terror is back to put me into anaphylactic shock. She's on the back side of the couch, rubbing up onto my freaking head. Uh, Creepy. The conundrum here is that I love animals. I just can't be near them or I risk needing to use an EpiPen to bring my hairball-induced coma back to life. Well, thankfully, all is well now and I survived; But, it put me down for a good two days. Nothing says fun like waking up to a real life Walking Dead zombie in your mirror. I wonder how they do the makeup for that series. I can give pointers. I think I may have more insight on The Walking Dead "look" now. You know, since I lived it.  Who needs to Spackle on prosthetics when you can bury your face into a kitty?

Sisany- flower zombie curing chemist

 If I were Maggie and I woke up like this, Glenn would surely be suspicious if I was bitten. Glenn can't decide if he loves her anyway… shocker. Guys are confusing even on Walking Dead Series where your attacked daily by walkers. Uh, Glenn, she didn't try to kill you… so you should probably marry Maggie. Just saying. I think they should write me in as Daryl's love interest. I can be Sisany, the once bitten, shy kind of dormant cutie cell that was only hosting the zombie virus but really isn't a zombie at all. Oh yeah, Sisany and Daryl sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! RUN! WALKING DEAD ZOMBIES! And I, as Sisany save Daryl and he loves me forever. Oh yeah… I got this.

And See? After, I save Daryl, I find a magical flower potion that cures me. Obviously, nobody on Walking Dead Series knows this, but Sisany -my cleverly written character- is a flower zombie curing chemist. Yes, my dear Daryl, I'm your dream ingenue because I save people, I'm smart and I can create fancy liquids… Voila! I look cute again! Yay!

Sexting -Ground Rules

I decided there should absolutely be ground rules for the sexters out there. I've just noticed that there are things that douche bags miss that I've learned along the way and feel the need to share with my fellow females. Which may make me look like I'm a sextaholic, I'm not. I'm boring. I don't think I can say I'm boring either. But I do know that my phone pretty much rarely goes off. I'm more like Robin Hood. Saving all my girlfriends out there from the sucklings who just want our hot pics to add to their weird hobbies list. Although, on the rare occasion that I may, or may not, get a sexting session going… Not likely. I think there should be rules. Sorry, Mom.

RULE #1 DIETARY MUST. There are boundaries to this thing! If you choose to send the first photo at full monty, it doesn't mean, we girls, will be sending you all our fancy feast right back. No. Girls like foreplay. Even in this situation. Yes, guys… it never ends with us. Remember… It still looks like a hot dog without a bun and girls don't usually like hot dogs. We just eat them because we have to.

RULE #2 WANNA RIDE? If we say we don't send pics. It generally means we don't send pics. Unless, its with a guy we are dating. Not "brand new" dating. Not "just met" dating. But dating you, a long time. After a few months when we feel you're a safe bet and probably sticking around a while. Ask us to send pics right out the gate and we will shut down all fun on our happy-land playgrounds. It doesn't take one token for this ride fellas.

RULE #3 FILTERED SEXINESS. Yes, we use filters and creatively take shots from different angles to make our parts look bigger. Get over it. You like it. No, actually, you guys love it. And, as of late, you sneaky fuckers are guilty of it too. Stop complaining on social media that you hate it. Liars. We usually do it for ourselves anyway. Mind blown. We girls like looking pretty and hot. Mind exploded. And, we actually get pretty excited that we did such a great photo with our iPhones! Mind bomb. And, yeah, sometimes, it ends up on Instagram. Mind splattered. Oh, that didn't make you feel special? Sorry, it was such a great selfie that it had to be posted. And you couldn't really see nipple anyway. You thought you did. That was an M&M.

RULE #4 LET'S PLAY. How many freaking shots can you send of your junk? Is that all you got? Geesh. Gimme something to work with here. Dress it up. Put a hat on it. Draw googly eyes. I don't care. Just stop sending the same stinking pic from beneath you. We aren't dumb. It's not that big. But we love you anyway for thinking you've pulled the wool over our eyes.

RULE #5 FRESH FRUIT. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT send me a pic of yourself that you have taken for someone else, sent to them AND had in your gallery since December of last year. Oh, you didn't know that I knew? I must be psychic. No, I'm not. But, when you send me photos, they automatically save to my gallery and guess what… it will save it to my gallery into one of my folders from the date you took the lovely snapshot for your last girlfriend. Yeah, your photo has a birthdate… and I can see it. Thanks jerk. Busted. You're not fooling anybody. Take new pics to send to your new girl, the same day you guys are sexting. Dumbass.