Song Hog

My son and I love to sing along to all the songs in kid movies. It's a sickness really... And, our never-ending love of Disney's Frozen, is no exception. Stop rolling your eyes. In fact, it's so often that we engage in these harmonic melodies, that I can actually hear our neighbors disgruntled loathing as they hear the movie start through the walls. I'm pretty show they want to throw poo at us. That lion king-like song which still, after seeing the animated joy time and time again, does not fit into the movie. Not even a little bit. Nope. Not at all. Is that poo on my front porch? And usually we just kind of sing the songs when the mood strikes. So, get lively lucky neighbors, we found a sing along version of the movie by accident this weeknd. Oh yeah. Get pumped. Aren't you ecstatic?! Why are you grabbing a slingshot? 

Oh my goodness, WE ARE in heaven. My sons popping the popcorn and I've made the hot cocoa. Yes, from scratch. I'm domestic like that. So my son hollers dibs on all the songs with Anna singing. I know its because it's the first song sung and she sings more than Elsa does in that song. No biggie, I'll be Elsa. Knowing Elsa has only two songs in the whole damn film, I'll take a back seat to revel in my sons happiness. Until the little knucklehead  stole my first song. Which was the main song everyone knows... That's right "Let It Go." Well I cannot let it go... So I sang along to my part as he rudely sang my part. Don't choke on the popcorn, child. It's was the ugliest duet two people could ever have. So I took his next song. Boom. And he sang on it too. Duet disaster. But he didn't let me. Determined little spitfire. He sang louder. Fleeked it. Drowned me out. And I sang louder. How you like them gains son?! Oh crap, I think I pulled something. Or it was the popcorn kernel lodged in my throat. Nobody is singing in key. The neighbors love us even more now. Sarcasm. Oink. Oink. All song hogging aside, the laughter and hot chocolate all over the walls has made quite a memorable evening for us. Oooooo I know, I'll should've pulled out the karaoke machine. He can't out-volume stereo output. Next time. Mischievous giggle. Next time... I will put my evil plan into play. All the songs... Will be miiiine... Buwahhaahaha! 

My BIG Monkey

My monkey is big

My monkey is bright 

My monkey is goofy 

My monkey...

Is soft and squishy. Is it? It's hairy fun to play with (Yippee!) ...and role playing has taken to new heights. Monkeys in a barrel! I play with my monkey in the bedroom. Huh? A proverbial monkey? I play with my monkey in the bathtub. Where you going with this? I have even played with my monkey in the back seat of my car. Are we talking about an actual monkey?  I love that my monkey travels with me everywhere. Or YOUR "monkey?" We are attached at the hip. I bet you are, monkeylicious.

My big monkey... Is the best, most cutest iPhone case on the planet! Ohhhh, your talking about your case for your cell. Whew! Totally thought you were talking about something else. It makes my phone bigger than both my hands can carry but for what it lacks in convenient travel compactibility, it makes up for in personality. And you dirtballs thought I was writing porn, wow... Nasty goobers. 

Commando Cutie

There are two kinds of girls, the ones who wear underwear... And the ones who don't. Don't be shy... We know which one YOU are darlings. I've seen you flash your boobs before for a free burger… Which has nothing to do with leggings or jeans. Or underwear. Unless your not a fan of panties and you like your pants to rub your personal space the wrong way while your walking. I'll pass on a good chafing please, thanks. Or maybe you are a fan... Guess you know what category I fall into, huh? Perverts. Today's post started out as a leggings vs. jeans query. But, as I tip tapped along my keyboard, I realized this is an underwear  vs. no underwear rant instead. So, pardon my fragmented thoughts… I promise they will string together by post's end. Maybe. 

Commando? Or no?

Without further ado, let's reveal a mystery you've all been dying -I'm sure- to hear. Uh, ok. Drum roll please…  Im a leggings girl! Ta da! This might be due to the fact that as a competitive gymnast growing up, it's all I would wear. Probably has nothing to do with that at all. But, either way porcupines, I lived in leggings. Literally. Snoozed away in stretch pants. Sometimes I drool, so what. Chomped down in spandex. I'm always hungry. Worked out in yoga style. I don't always want to work out. Blah. But who does? Anyway, to sum up… I lived in them. So when they came into the end all-be all style that they are today... Guess who scooped up inventory from every store for miles?! I did. Vroom. Vroom. Yup. Mine. All mine. It's a sickness. Add it to my ever-growing list. It's quite a long one… I'm kinda proud of it actually. Have you ever gone commando in leggings? By accident. Or jeans? Again, by accident. The repercussion to a walk of shame occasion. Or two. And let me tell ya, it didn't feel comfortable, AT ALL. Not even a little bit. Leggings, without undies, are just as hellacious as jeans, without briefs. Maybe worse. They cut like a knife on that sensitive skin. I'm not made of butter. Although, I am pretty tasty, if I do say so myself. Like a pumpkin scone. Pay attention. There's nothing more beautiful than your personals breaking free from a fabric attack. Irritated and screaming for a soothing chamomile bath. Don't get me wrong, there are some situations where I think the pretty panty should be banned. Ok, so it's extreme, but maybe you'll sway my way on this, after I provide you with an example.

EXAMPLE: panty lines.

Yup. That's it. That's the reason. Freaking panty lines. With all the advancement in technology, those no-show panty lines underwear are still freaking showing! What gives? So, go commando cutie or wear a thong. But please stop showing us you're bloomers from the outside. Stop it. You're violating our visual space with your poor choice of undergarment, completely upsetting the pantaloons to outfit ratio. 

Be Nice, Casually

What the hell does casually nice attire mean? Casually nice. Is it a dress? Maybe. Slacks? No, that goes under business-wear/professional attire. Jeans? Hippie… wear… attire? Tank tops? You're not going to the beach. Put on a blouse you transient. Casual means I can wear flip flops, right? Depends. Of course it does. But, the nice part means I should wear heels instead? Not necessarily. Ugh, I'm in a pickle. Los Angeles has a very different way of how everyone shows up to any event. Seen a hairbrush lately? Is that woman wearing a bonnet? Basically, no one freaking dresses up unless you're attending the Oscars. And that's the diamond rocket ship mamma jamma, with a tiara on your head, kind-of-evening wear. Other than that, its flip flops, ripped jean shorts and no bra. Whores. That's how we dress out here, yup. Like whores.

Maybe I'm from the old school, or just Ohio, but I like to dress up just to leave the house. I don't think sporting some wedges and a skirt to Walmart is a gutsy move. It's called taking a little time to care about how you present yourself to the world. At Walmart? Um, probably a bad example, but you know where I'm going with this. Although, paying less attention to detail may lighten my stalker load. Well… possibly not, now that I think about it, because I've been -as I'm sure every girl has- been followed around retail stores and restaurants in sweat pants. Is there a tracking device in these pajama bottoms? If I'm going to be home in my lycra, I will choose to do so indoors. With no witnesses. This isn't to say I won't leave the house unless I'm in full facial war paint. It's just that, taking a little pride in one's appearance wouldn't hurt. I've seen women who spend an hour in the bathroom, only to emerge looking worse than when they woke up. All I know, is that when I've been told casual/nice attire for anything and shown up in jeans and flops… I was the only one. And I looked like a hobo. And when I've shown up to a spot with the same description for the "what to wear," I wore heels and a dress. I was the only one. Rogue snob. Blah. Whatever, I don't take chances anymore. Total wardrobe risk taker. I would much rather be overdressed than look like I just traipsed out from under the Los Angeles River bridge. Hobo Chic! Unite!

Days And Confused

First of all, it's only freaking Tuesday. Yes, it is. It feels like Thursday. But it's not. And tomorrow is Wednesday. Nothing gets past me. All day yesterday, felt like Wednesday. Nope. It was Monday. I think it's laundry day... But I like doing that on Thursday. It's not Thursday. Public school did well by me, huh? Dammit, it's Tuesday. Bah. But if I don't get it done today then tomorrow will be Wednesday. Winner. Winner. Which will just mess up my whole weekend. What a nail biter. And I wanted to ride a pony.... Wait. What? It's going to be a long week. Oh geez. I'm going back to bed. 

So to clarify... What day is this? 

The Sickness Clause

Ladies and gents, I'm up for some Friday Fun again…. and I decided that we need to nominate a special day just for when we need to get out of doing things. You don't want to work? Uh, absolutely. You want to get out of cooking? Hell yes. You want to get out of sex? To-ta-llyyyyy-Wait. What? Who would want that? Only crazy people… but, never mind. Who am I to judge… It's going to be Rita's new law, cleverly named… The Sickness Clause. Because, I'm clever. Duh. It's the Santa Clause that gives you the gift of an excuse to evade anything! Hiccup. Cough. Flu-like Surprise! I've come up with some examples of how to go about using this new law. And how not to abuse it…

#1 Sweet Cookery. I'm cooking salad. Or bacon. Whichever. And, I've decided I've had enough of this debauchery. Wait for your counterpart to move into your kitchen space. Bloop. Bloop. Once your target is in range… bend over. That's it. Just bend over, make sure you're hair is covering your face a bit and make no sound but a soft grunt of disdain. He's going to instinctively come to you to make sure you are OK. You put your arm up just a little bit, as if it's a struggle to even do that, then you say you don't feel well. Leave everything. And make your way to the bathroom. Shut the door. And make some reference sounds of illness. Boom. He will either finish up your kitchen tasks or order pizza… Either way, you're free from it. You can milk this episode for a few days if you're smart about it. Play Candy Crush on silent on your phone for forty-five minutes… only opening the door like you're going to come to the light and then quickly disappear back inside the bathroom. Check your email, text your girlfriends, watch an episode of Big Bang Theory with your ear buds. You feel better only for a piece of that pizza and then your back in bed… fast asleep. The sickness clause. You're welcome.

#2 Co-Worker Wankers. Now, let me start by saying you should never play sick AT work. Why? You look weak, unreliable and mental. Which will never get you that promotion. Ground floor. Or pay raise. Broke bitch. And probably put you on unemployment. Really broke bitch. But, that being said, if you need some time off… or you want to get some asshole that sits at a desk near you, to get off your case, then you may want to instigate the achoo! clause. You don't want to grab lunch for your teammate? You're going to a doctors appointment. Why? You're sick and they can't find the reason for your never-ending pain. Ow. Maybe stress. In your head. Who knows. They won't ask you to pick up their lunch anymore because you're always at a nurse's station. Whining. Your boss wants you to stay late? Your kid has the measles. Holy crap. Or lice. Stay away. Or pink eye. Yikes. You can cling to these stories for up to two weeks. All these shout KEEP BACK, I'M CONTAGIOUS.  Remember, use this one with caution. You gotta pay your rent.

#3 Sick Tits. You're having sex with your boyfriend-or girlfriend-but usually boyfriend, because when has a guy ever said 'no' to sex. Exactly. Now, I don't recommend this every time, mostly because you will most likely confuse the fella and he will start to think he actually makes you sick. And maybe he does, I don't know. So, this actually happened to me once… But, the difference in using this as an excuse and my actually getting physically sick are two different scenarios. Mine, my friends, I actually felt physically sick afterwards. Run to the toilet and hang out by the porcelain commode, sick. No reason. Like waiting an hour before swimming, I guess this rule applies to sexy time. Make sure your food has digested before you dive in. But, after that day, I started thinking… You're being intimate, you get yours, and you're pretty much over the whole act. You want to be selfish today. You want to take a nap. Zzzzz. You want to send him on his merry way. Get movin' Bo. Whatever the case may be, you are done. I quit. You want to 'x' out of this safari session. Hurry up stupid pinwheel. Amidst the boinky boink, you cover your mouth and hop off the train and dart for the bathroom. What's happening? Sure, he'll look confused. What did I do? Is she sick? Did I make her sick? OMG, I made her sick?!  He will be worried about your sudden throw up groove; And, he might even get a complex about his trail ride making you, physically sick… But, oh well, you're off the hook. I had sex with her, and I made her sick. Maybe I'm a bacteria-filled host…. So now you can play stomachache girl all the way to your car and blast the tunes once he's out of site!

Clearly, my confidantes, if you overuse these tactics… you will be found out. Use sparingly. Like salt. Only when you need it. If you're getting sick for two weeks a month, you might find yourself committed to a hospital, starting medications or worse… never being able to use the sickness clause again. Enjoy! My twisted little sickies!

Popcorn Ball Massacre

I'm off my baking game… How the hell does one screw up popcorn balls? Corn syrup. Sugar. Butter.

Photo: Pioneer Woman
Recipe: http://www.familycircle.com/recipe/creepy-caramel-popcorn-balls/

Disaster. I'm thinking, how cute is this recipe? Super cute. Creepy Popcorn Balls? Super creepy cute. My son would absolutely go bonkers for a sphere of sweetness. So, I gallop to the store… Grab the popcorn. Check. Scoop up the M&Ms. Check. I need butter sticks. Check. Check. Already have candy corn. And check. I traipse my happy ass back home with my grocery bag of susie homemaker  goodies. Crap. I need a saucepan. Wah… Eh, guess this small one will do. I'm stirring. And stirring. Ugh. Still stirring. Sigh. Apparently -constant- is the only option, since sugar caramelizes to a crispy crunch if you're not paying attention. Only experience could teach you that snack lesson. Listen, I like to think I got this Martha Stewart thing on lockdown. No pun intended. But, I got that domestic goddess flow. Pioneer Woman makes me feel like I can do it all. Duh, I'm Super Woman. With my invisible cookie sheet, I can wing it through any recipe. Hmmm… How do I use my magic lasso here? Family Circle showed me that. Not how to use my magic lasso, but that I can… oh you get what I'm putting down. And, my self-proclaimed (and recently acknowledged) O.C.D. keeps my house pretty fucking spotless too. Oh, the parchment tornado?  Ignore that stationary, spread all over the floors. The notes by the piano? Music sheets. Uh… the onion skin in the hallway? HMmmm…. bills? I think? Or maybe receipts that need filing? Ok.. stop looking around. Yes there's a mess of store ads and money saving coupons on my table. But, I'm not done with that pile. Judge me all day. I don't care. I have the power to circle around fast enough to change my clothes in a wind tunnel. I hate paper and for whatever reason, thats the one thing I can't keep control of… freaking paper monster. Chomp. Chomp. It would probably help if I condensed down all the scripts I used for auditions. Tossing those in the garbage would be beneficial; both for the letterhead takeover and spiritually. The asshole in me likes to keep tabs on those who passed on me… the sickness is real. And yes, can you believe it? There are those who've actually passed on this Super Woman. The gall. The pages and pages of lyrics though, I like to reference those from time to time so probably best to hang on to those. Excuses. You collect porcelain carousel horses. I collect paper. Ok… moving on from that failed Queen of Clean rant…

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen… Is the mixture in the saucepan supposed to get big and foamy? The directions spout a four minute cool time on the saucepan bubbling thing. Since I popped the popcorn already… I spread it out on foil and wait. Tick Tock. 1 minute. I keep staring at the mixture waiting for something to happen -tick tock, 2 minutes- and while I'm not sure what's supposed to happen here… tick tock, 2 minutes and 35 seconds….  It's been long enough. I pour this goop all over the popcorn like it says and it drizzles straight past it and onto the damn foil. What the… So, I grab the spatula and start trying to move the popcorn around so I can coat these kernels with the sticky concoction. No one told me to coat the spatula with cooking oil first. Yes they did. Read the directions. They did. But I didn't, so therefore, I was making an even bigger mess. Screw it. I coat my hands with non-stick cooking spray and dive in. Covered in sticky goo as much as I believe the popcorn can be, I try to mold them into balls. They don't stay. The stupid balls fall apart as soon as I put them down on the counter. What the hell. Its like a mountainous popcorn range with trees of M&Ms scattered on my floor. After about twenty minutes of this chaos, I wash my hands and calmly walk away. What? Huh? oh… yes, that was absolutely a flying spatula. Spatulas have wings. And so do non-stick, cooking spray cans.