Ice Castles

What the hell is she wearing? It's about forty-eight degrees last night and we are at a show and , God help me bite my tongue, but there were two girls backstage who were obviously there for their own reasons. Do you want to build a snowman? No, I propose that they were trolling... for d***. Any swinging d***. Scanning the crowd, on a rotating schedule, for d***. For, possibly celebrity d***.  Scantily traipsing in a white midriff tank top, which look like it was strangling the top half of her body, was also see through. I hope she knew we could see right through that sucker. She knew. I think she was wearing shorts also. I'm not sure because they were so short that I think I saw things only a man she'd date should only see. Unfortunately, I saw it too. I didn't want to. I'm forever traumatized. Traumatized. It was a reenactment of "Frozen." She and her half dressed friend were shivering, trying very hard to look as if they weren't freezing their tuckuss' off. Fail. Huddled close together. Goose pimples. Olaf would have shown up soon... that's how cold they looked. Their personal body parts were showing physical signs of cold too. Sigh. Come on ladies, cover up your ice castles. Give the guys something to hunt for. Don't show them everything, in forty degree weather. Get smart. Trust me, I was surrounded by men last night -Oooo, that sounds dirty, but not that exciting really lol- and they weren't saying kind things about your fashion choices. I'm not perfect, I like to dress like a whore too from time to time; But, I'm not catching a cold for the sake of ice hole d***-fishing. Let hell freeze over first.

Artifact

What an informative documentary. After watching this film by Jared Leto, I saw the bigger picture with being signed by a major label as opposed to being independent. There are many plusses to being signed to the big label. You get worldwide support to tour, get your album done easily and efficiently as they provide the funding to accomplish this, they handle mass distribution for you so you can focus on the music and the craft of your art, you get screwed on the back end of it, never actually getting paid a dime… oh wait, that was supposed to be about perks. I digress. I'll be good this post, I promise. Mostly likely, lying about being good, but eh, I'm of the schooling that says to act first and apologize later.

Anyway, this has given me time to think about the last label's interest in my work. This was a small, new label working underneath a parent giant network. First they told us they were under Sony and then switching underneath to Def Jam. This, they claim, was the reason for the many upsets in our camp. Let's go to the beginning… so, we were approached by this label and they loved my sound, my voice, my work ethic. They put me on a roster to perform across the country, and with a lot of time to rehearse, rehearsing every day, multiple times a day, preparing for my show. I reluctantly admit, and my vocal coach will kill me if she reads this, that I would also pop into some karaoke spots and do some crash singing too. I know. I don't want to hear it. Worst thing to do to your vocal chords is scream over that karaoke sound system. We get about a week away from the gig and my manager still hadn't gotten our flight information on lock so that I could prepare for my trip. I'm pretty obsessive-compulsive when it comes to getting things done. Believe me, I'm a hell of a procrastinator too, but when it's something important, I'm on top of it like a bird on shit. At this point, I tell her that I'm not thinking they are going to follow through; But, I keep the faith because sometimes people lag.

I may be too patient of a person. The event gets pushed a month, and then another month, as well as our signing with this label. Which was to be done the day after the initial show I was scheduled to perform. I got my lawyer ready to rumble via Skype for the said meeting dates, I had stopped any publicity related to modeling and/or whatever they deemed "inappropriate" and was possibly overshadowing my talents, and I also was still working on my album. Regardless of what was to happen, this album is in full swing and it WILL be finished. With or without a label's contract. And it will be amazing.

We were disgruntled. This small label was giving us excuse after excuse for why things weren't getting done. They'd say one thing, like, we're working on financials now and the next thing was they were waiting on the parent label to send them the advances. After about four months of this -possibly more, i don't remember- we found ourselves back in the big ocean over here. Begging the question, is it better to be independent? If you just desire the fame, then a major label is for you most definitely. And they can better get your music to mass marketing media faster. But, the independent artist isn't always doing it for the fame. Are you kidding? We don't get paid shit. It all comes out of our pocket. But, that's part of the musician's life. I may be sleeping on a couch but I can get my music done and will finally get it out to the people dammit!

A confidant of mine who's been in the industry for a long, long time had told me what to do and what I should have done. And, I'm doing it. My career waits on nobody and I gotta keep doing what I do. I'm in the studio, writing and recording. It's been a rough rode the past few months but it's happening. You just gotta take the leap, with or without that support.

If you get a chance, watch Artifact. It was an amazing film and very eye opening. And the way I see it, as told by friends in the business, if you had label interest once, you will have it again. But, do you want to?

Sickly Pickly

Headache. Stuffy nose. Upset tummy. Sinus blockage. Raspy voice. Being sick stinks. I keep plugging away though, I don't lay down and die when I'm sick. I want to. Maybe I should. I smell a challenge. Why don't I do that? Nevermind. I don't know; But I DO know when men are sick they all seem to act like big ass babies. Why do you guys, all grown and sexy, whine and cry like 8yo when your feeling under the weather? Sorry guys. Man-babies. It's a fact, own it. Show me a man who doesn't sob over his ailments and I'll find you a unicorn. Us women though? NO, we can't do that. We generally, don't, do that. There are exceptions. Or we don't let ourselves. Either way, stuff still has to operate. My body today is obviously in overdrive, trying to tell me that it's tired and to lay down but that's impossible. Still have to run errands. Trouble. Take my kid to school. Bummer. Do laundry. Paint in the neck. Wax the girly parts I own. Nuisance. Why won't the hair just stop growing there. Pack for the next trip. Dammit, where are those pink fuzzy socks anyway?

ACHOO!
Crap. My fate is sealed. And with my tissue box in tow, I'll continue my quest for world domination. =)

Grandmas Are Vintage.

My pheromones must be operating at a high octane or something... While running some errands for my friends, casually walking through the grocery store, checking off the list, grabbing some goodies that look yummy, talking into my ear buds to my manager and as I'm walking up to the liqueur section of the store, a man abruptly pops up from his stocking duties and says, "What are you looking for?" Cheerily, I tell him what I'm looking for and he guides me to it. With a  side of sarcasm, saying that he knows of a much better wine and should consider trying that one instead. Oh, OK, well, I'm not buying for me so thank you, but no thanks. Find my wine. Thank you. Now, shoo. Still standing in the liqueur isle, not a bottle in my dolly, I'm scouring for this specific wine I was set out to buy. Which is usually, quite easily found, but today, is hiding from me and I see every other option for this brand; Except, the grigio. Ten, agonizing minutes later. Liqueur section guy comes back and jokes that its not just going to hop in the shopping cart on its own. Funny. Are you the retail comedy relief? That damn grigio is nowhere to be found. Wild goose chase.  He plops down to the bottom shelf and starts helping me search and finds it behind other brands a foot away from where he first showed me. I'm pretty sure some wino purposely hid it there. Where I -the non lush- wouldn't find it. He fills up my little reusable bag with six bottles, which is all it can fit and hands it to me. Thanks. He shakes his head. This wine is garbage. You should be drinking something better than this. Well, again, kind grocery clerk, it's not for me. I'm merely checking off my list. I attempt to roll away as he's holding tightly to a bottle of red. I'm reading the bottle and it says vintage... 2010. Vintage is NOT three years ago homie. Cars from the early 1900s are vintage. Jewelry found at garage sales, handed down from previous generations, are vintage. Grandma's… are vintage.

As I'm leaving the liquer section, stock boy has apparently tossed this 2010 classic wine, into my shopping buggy. What the… Well, it actually, makes me smile because he was persistent about this wine. Clown. I put it on the end cap and head to the checkout. Guess who pops up behind me -literally out of nowhere- and asks what I did with the wine? Yep. You guessed it. The annoying proprietor. I'm supposed to believe it hijacked itself into my cart. Hello? I think you're aware of that, salesperson. He quickly returns, buys it and again, tosses into my grocery wagon. And demands to see me back later that evening, in the parking lot, at a specified time and that he'll bring the paper cups.

Excuse me, what?

Correction Cow

Why don't people have auto correct set on their computers? It's so easy to do and while I'm typing away at my blog post, as much as I love hitting back space a million times over, selecting "ON," auto correct  will do it for me... as I go. Seems easy enough, right? Yeah. I thought so too. However; it appears as though my friends, family, confidants, are none the wiser to this new age option. I'm letting you in on something right now. Peers, coworkers... If I have to work on your computer and you don't have the spellcheck on button selected, I will change it. Am I violating your personal space on your computer? My bad. Get over it. Why would you, when typing a document, even want to hit the ABC spellcheck button manually? Do you enjoy the extra time it takes to get done what you have jotted down? I don't enjoy the scenic route when I have million things to do. So don't be alarmed when I change your options busters! Call me the CORRECTION COW. It is now part of my mission -LIKE I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH TO DO- to help everyone operate more smoothly on their computers.  Stop manually having to go back through your documents for spelling errors! It takes to much time and isn't necessary. Not to be an a**hole but there are advancements in technology, MADE, just for things like this! I think I've made my point. MOO.

Del Taco Sweetheart Cafe

I'm enjoying lunch at my FAVORITE fast food place -if you know anything about me at all, it's Del Taco. It's all about Del Taco. It will mostly likely, always, be about Del Taco. Oh, thank you, whoever you are for inventing Del Taco- and there's a beefy looking guy sitting down a few pews from me. Decent looking individual, obviously spends a lot of his days in the gym. I can admit, I couldn't stop staring at his muscular orientation. His dark features. That attractive and graceful way he is... eating.. a burrito? Dammit. Fail. How quickly I went from a simple admiration to the hard-on "Creeper" status.




At the register, there is a man wearing a t-shirt, rope sandals, and... a skirt? I'm not quite sure. but it definitely wasn't pants, or shorts. And, with a poker face worthy of no grand card table, I smirk and glance quickly back down at my burrito. Red. Oh, and mini cheese quesadilla. Sigh. Inferno sauce.


Before I consider that he was possibly wearing coolots -possibly spelled culottes- the bodybuilder stunt double says out loud in my general direction, "Was that guy wearing a skirt?" And I literally burst out laughing. Because, of course he was. I'm in LA. Besides, it was too long for a kilt, and wasn't of the plaid persuasion. I couldn't accurately categorize it. Drapes, maybe?




And this is where the voices in my head ponder the leap from boring Betty to armchair odyssey. We chat for a while. He's flirtatious, single. Wait, did you say you, walked, to this fine establishment? Maybe he needed to take a break from his sports training mundane existence. Even if you love your job, you need to take a hiatus from the norm, right? He's got pretty good energy. He's lifelike, and personable. We connect on a few levels. This is going pretty good. Wait. Did he just grab my hand? Hold on, how did we get so close? I could have sworn we had a good eight feet between booths. Why do I feel uncomfortable all of a sudden. Is it hot in here? He has a sexy accent though. Puerto-Rican and Mexican did you say? Oh wow, I've always wanted to brush up on my foreign linguistics. He asks me if I have to catch an afternoon drink. Sure. Why not, I have a moment. Oh wait, he walked here. Does he expect me to drive him in my car? Why doesn't he have his car here again? He wanted to take a leisurely walk and enjoy his time off. Oh that's right. Well, OK, I'm not one to take these extreme thrill-seeking quests, but what the hell, I'm bored.


We exit my Del Taco and I'm thinking that we will just walk across the street to where he pointed a lounge/bar/restaurant with a bar, might possibly be located. And, he says, oh well, it is walking distance, but driving would be quicker if your short on time. Oh. Ok. So, I drive us to the next shopping center, we get out of the car, and... I don't see any kind of restaurant/bar/lounge at all. It's a run down shopping center containing business with signage missing letters and such on most storefronts; Except, the biggest sign I've ever seen for a store and it clearly reads 'Liquer.' You must be kidding. I take a deep breath and I say, strike one. Ok, hold your horses fellow reader, I know what you're thinking, strike never, he met me at Del Taco, he didn't have a vehicle and that should have been the end of that. I know. I broke one of my rules, which was adaptable to meeting someone at random. Like I said, I took a risk. It wasn't Del Taco's fault. *shrugs




We enter the 'Liquer' store -which I still think should have been a bar/restaurant/pub- and we head for the wine bottles. Ok Hercules, redemption time. I grab what might be a decent bottle, I don't recognize the name but it's at an approximate price point of fifteen dollars. I actually don't recognize most labels on the wines I've drank; But, for all intents and purposes, it "appeared" like it could be a better option than the 3.99 variety I first noticed on the shelf when turning the corner of the end cap. My husky companion quickly rips the bottle I had chosen out of my hand with his ham-like biceps and exchanges it for the decanter above it. I noticed quickly it was a brand of lesser quality. Listen, it looked like it was cheap. And, yes, I'm judging. And quite frankly, it was at a price point of seven dollars for heavens sake. Ugh. Really? This strapping young buffalo should have read my blog. Would have saved him a bunch of unanswered texts after this sad afternoon.




Heading toward his house now... Always a bad idea ladies. Alas, I broke another fucking rule of mine. Sigh. My chiseled warrior has now guided me through a chicken wire style of gating up to the door and proceeds to tell me, with a confidence I think he should have capped at hello, that he rents a room. I'm not judging this. I'm lying. I am. We go into the house, I mean, his cubicle and crack open the wine and he hops on the bed. Ew. Which, by the way, is a mattress on the floor. The bed isn't made -like it matters at this point. There are extra large plastic bins and his random belongings around the floor. I hope there aren't chopped up people inside those bins. Or animals. Either way, I'm ready to get the hell out of here. Literally, once he bounced onto the bed, I was over this voyage.


Why I'm still being polite at this junket, I don't know, but I sip the wine and internally discuss how I'm going to escape from Alcatraz. He asks me if I want to watch a movie. Um, sure. There's no television so this will be interesting. He whips out his phone and looks for movies online. Oh geez. On his phone? The screen is the size of a small envelope. Bah. How did he get so close to me?  Now he's on the horizon, way too close to me and goes in for the kill. And no quicker than his lips touch mine, I pop up and grab my things and say, hey, thanks but I gotta go. And like lightening, I was off with a flash.


 If it wasn't for the guy wearing an oversized scarf around his lower body, I could have missed this expedition, and thus, never would have had the solidarity that, I was NOT, the creeper. But, merely, a volunteer on this joyous expedition. 

For You, Stephanie Kirkpatrick Politte, We Will Always Love You

I received an upsetting call last night regarding news of a friend, and fellow cast mate, whom had passed away. Stephanie Kirkpatrick Politte was shot in the head by her husband and while she lay on the floor coughing up blood, he dials 911, but it was too late and she had perished. I want to dedicate my blog to her today, as her viewing is this afternoon and her funeral is tomorrow in Houston, Texas. I will not make this long but I want people to know how wonderful this woman was and elaborate on how she touched so many souls with her goodness.

Stephanie Kirkpatrick Politte was a special needs teacher and loved her work. A humanitarian to her core, her vivaciousness embrace on life was enthralling. Although she was soft-spoken when you first meet her, she would always make you feel important and loved through her tender words. Her humor was always right on time when you needed it. There were times when I'd come in to rehearsals, upset over what I was dealing with in my own home at the time and she would always say the perfect thing and make me giggle. She was an amazing and bright human being and her life should be celebrated. When we worked together at Company OnStage Theatre, we got to laugh and enjoy each others' company. Probably one of the best cast and crew I've ever worked with when working on the production of The Wizard Of Oz, we shared many smiles and flubbed lines in rehearsals, I imagine I speak for the entire cast, that Stephanie had a zest for life and with beautiful energy, she blossomed like a perfect flower with each performance. Interacting with the crowd after each show, you can feel her love bursting from their enjoyment of our production. Stephanie knew how to engage others and despite the fact there were obvious troubles in her home, it proves there was nothing that would stop her from being the strongest, most powerful, gentlest woman,  I have ever been lucky enough to get to know. Rest in peace. We will miss you.



http://www.click2houston.com/news/police-teacher-shot-and-killed-by-her-husband/24965200

Cheeseburger Hanky Panky Day

The alcohol induced morning after nightmare. Drinking. My head hurts and I'm literally stuck on the toilet. Whyyyyy?! My veins are plumped full of wine and I've got hypertension up the wazoo yet my wazoo isn't doing anything spectacular this morning so I get to deal with this a.m. is most, all-consuming. Every time we drink to the point of regret, we swear we will never do it again. And then we do it again. And again.

First of all, I rarely drink. Except for that one stint where I was dating this guy and apparently couldn't stop drinking. When you start dating someone, you go out, eat nice dinners, drink fancy wines and since he could easily drink a winery out of its reserves… I, on the other hand, am a one glass, two glass, and then I'm on the floor kind of girl. I'm a lightweight. So, bottles upon bottles later. It's safe to say, he may have been a bad influence on me. That few months were a blur and actually quite unproductive actually. Well, thank goodness, he went all "Houdini," allowing me time to come to my senses and get back on track. Oh. By the way, "Houdini" is the term I use for guys who basically disappear on you without warning. Basically, the rudest and one of the jerkiest things guys do to girls where we never see it coming and we're like, uh, what the hell? Basically, it's what happens when things are moving along "too well" and the guy freaks out and dips. Instead of being a man who yearns for stability, he moreover craves drama and if you're not some crazy wench offering up a serving of wacky, these types of mentally unstable blokes run for the hills. Oh, and forget to tell you that it's over. If you have been a victim of the flaky male species and got all bent out of shape over it, brush it off. Trust me girls, you don't want a jackass like that anyway.

Back to the point. Ladies, drinking makes you gain weight. I don't care who you are, how much in great shape you claim to be in… let's keep it real. Those jeans start getting tighter and your skin starts showing signs of some extraterrestrial being trying to escape through your once beautiful legs. Oh, we call this cellulite. Have you ever been at a bar and seen an older chick who's skin seems to sag? Oh yeah, that barfly has put in some heavy lifting in the moonshine department. So yes, it gets worse if your drinking too much.

Looking in the mirror, at my leg-fat, and I'm livid over the fact that I've spent the entire morning on the commode and now I've gotta figure out how to find a miracle cure for this too? Yuck. Stupid alcohol leg-fat. Wait. What's going on with my stomach? Is that belly fat? I'm pinching around my waist and hips, squeezing the squish, that I've now noticed as a problem. That wasn't clearly evident a problem a few months ago. How does one go from hot and smooth to tepid and bumpy in a matter of months? Before you get distraught and start sending me letters telling me "But Rita, you're still hot, there's no cellulite." Shut it. I'm a woman and while yes, I'm still modeling for these men's magazines; But, if your crackerjack female brain can find cellulite then so can mine.

Damn you headache. Why monkey must you play the bongos so loudly? Ugh. I need a cure. Cheeseburger. It's the only way to get rid of this and redirect my attention to what I really need to do. I thought I was vegetarian. I'll coin this day, "Cheeseburger Hanky Panky Day," so I can stray from my usual veggie-regime. It's the only way to rid myself of the stampede takeover in my thinking cap. Ugh. Guess I should hit the gym too. Treadmill. I hate you. I know, it needs to be done. Too much playtime with boys and losing focus on what's vital to my existence. Music. Film. Writing.  As I'm driving my sickly self to the local fast food joint for my cure-all, I'm holding my head like it's split open from a hatchet. It is. Now I'm holding my stomach. Hatchet again.What am I holding exactly? Is putting my hand on my head and stomach actually helping or just reminding me of this excruciating nightmare. Oh hell. I'm a bloody invalid.

Blind Date PSA

It seems I need to make a “Blind Date Public Service Announcement” to those around me who love me dearly; But, need to stop with this setting me up madness.

 Last night I had the blind date to last a lifetime. How a date can be both amazing and disastrous is beyond me; But, leave it to the universe to allow such an experience to wander into my lap. Sigh. So, friends of mine have been begging me to come up and hang out, mingle and get to know people. Go out. Date. I’m not a huge party animal, but I do like to get out. I’m pretty busy with my grandiose life of alone time and book reading that I just can’t seem to muster the energy to venture into the world to get grabbed by ill-mannered man-children in the clubs or get drinks spilled on me in bars by men smelling of grandpa and cigars. I guess you can say I pick my battles. 

And, away I go... I grab my music books -they have the most beautiful baby grand piano, throw my purse over my shoulder and head over to their house -to what I think is just a relaxing evening with wine and piano playing. Wrong. I arrive to a group of people and there’s hubbub of heading out for the evening. Mind you, I came dressed in my Ugg boots, sweats, the biggest geek-life glasses (yes, I’m blind as a bat) and a sweaty stained sweatshirt. Clearly, I was poised for an evening out. Next thing I know, I’m alone with a scruffy-looking and somewhat shy man who asks me if I’d like to go out with him. I laugh because, I’m not only convinced that this was a setup by my adoring friends; But, I take notice that we were left alone all of a sudden -without warning- like the kid who disappears after stealing your toaster waffle. Lucky me. 

Sure. Why not. My girlfriend helps me get all dolled up (borrowing clothes and makeup for this surprise date-attack) and not only did this guy come back with a driver to pick us up but he looked... Breathtaking! And, by the look on his face, he seemed to think the same about me. Yeah, a little spit-shine and I can look human. Off to a decent start. I’m still hesitant because I tend to attract... Well, that’s a story for another time. (But, I didn’t pick this one so there’s a tiny chance this might be good.) We are at the event and walking around the grounds of the property, just taking in the views, beautiful hillside and admiring design of the home while talking and getting to know each other. Pretty great date so far. We have drinks, laugh. He is actually quite a bit more charming than I anticipate, and smart. He can hold a freaking conversation! I’m over the moon by this point and while trying to keep my composure to a dull roar; But, I’m actually squealing with delight inside. I excuse myself to the powder room and he stops me for a second. He pokes his head near mine, pauses and sweetly, steals a kiss. Completely didn’t see it coming. I was taken aback and the smile on my face must have been immensely huge because, he said he was just checking. And, I’m bright eyed. I still to this day, am not sure what he was checking for... Maybe he was waiting for me to clock him with my clutch? Or jump him right there? Either way, I may never know but I gotta tell you, it got me. I was in. I now found myself wanting to know this man, and actually, wanting, this man. 

Fast forward to the end of the event, we are famished. Apparently, amidst our skipping around the beautiful home overlooking a lush landscape we missed the food. We head to a restaurant. And this is where it got weird. Before stopping at the restaurant, he decides his friends are going to meet up with us. They all disappear for a few minutes and are laughing and  acting strangely-friendly-but still, strangely. At the restaurant he is rude to the waiter. Crude with his words around his friends, to which I must add, that his friends kept telling him to behave and be polite. It seems they have a handle on what was going on with him. Which is great, because I am so clueless as to what has just happened here. He’s combative with the waiter over everything and then finally we leave. On our way out, he slips down the stairs. I have never seen such a large man fall so clumsily. He was laid out on the concrete! (Yep, I laughed too.)

Heading home, finally, he is being handsy with me and being quite disrespectful. He’s asking me to kiss him and when I say no, he’s huffing and puffing like a twelve year old who didn’t get a bike for Christmas. He asks me if I like him, I say yes, and he says then why won’t you kiss me or let me touch you. (Uh, because you’re a five alarm douche bag?) He has his driver stop- at what seemed like every gas station- along the way home and the night just would not end. He walked me to my door and hugged me and actually did not try to kiss me for the hundredth time and he asked me if he really screwed things up.. Hmmm. Perceptive much?

I don’t know what on earth happened that night but it was tragic. And now on to the public service announcement to those around me. 

“Please friends, if you love me, stop setting me up on blind dates. Just opt to send me some wine, cheese and a novel from the chick-lit section of the book store. Or a puppy. I’ll take a puppy. This has a a blind date public service announcement.”

HOBO CHIC

                                 
Turns out, on one hand, I'm sometimes fashionably on top of it and somehow, simultaneously, Im the epitome of the "Fashion Don't." You know, the girls at the back of the magazines with the black bar over their faces… yeah, sometimes -maybe more often than not- is me. I'm not the one with the sparkly Ugg boots and weird leggings though. My social blunders come by way of slapping together something in the dark. Not in the form of, hey world, look at me, I want you to know I can't dress! For example, I'm wearing my ripped shorts, cute black top with the lace back, a zip-up hoodie and sweater boots. I'm officially a "Malibu" girl according to my close girlfriends but I'm a fashion travesty to the rest of the world. California girls will wear Ugg boots with anything. I mean, anything. Dresses? Uggs. Shorts? Uggs. Mini skirts? Uggs. House robe? Uggs. Evening gown? Yup, Uggs. Well, you get the idea.

In Malibu, I got many compliments on my outfit. 'Oh, you look adorable." Thanks. "What a cute choice." Aw, thanks. "That's a cuddly ensemble." Thanks.

But, add anyone east of the California border and the compliments turn sour. "That's an interesting choice." Oh. thanks. "Was that a fashion suggestion in Vogue?" (Followed by a giggle.) Erm, uh, not sure. But thanks. Hey, Not every outfit can be a winner. Thanks fault-finding patron, so struggling when it comes to figuring out what to wear every day in the sunshine state is always challenging. Shrugs. I could honestly care less about fashion (lying), yet I still don't want to look like a hobo. Maybe I should start a company called "Hobo Chic." Where I can wear my Uggs with pretty much any damn thing I desire and when someone says, uh, what's the direction you were going with that outfit -I can respond with, hello, the direction of awesome. Haven't you heard about that new clothing line by Rita Slanina? Oh yeah, clothing designers always refer to themselves in third person. It's all the rage, Ugg boots with anything! It's Hobo Chic, man. The next big thing! Totally jumping into their psyche forcing those fashion appropriate demanders of style right into submission.

Listen, friends who live anywhere but Cali. Here's the deal. In the lovely southern region of bankrupt state with the Golden Gate, it's difficult to know if its going to be hot or cold here. It's cold in the morning until it gets hot. And, its hot until, suddenly, it's cold. Then it's hot again. Or wait, now it's cold. Dammit. I should most likely always bring a sweater, or tank top, maybe flip flops, but wear my boots. Or, darn it, I should have grabbed my parka. Then it's hot again and I'm sweating bullets. Now that I ponder a solution to this madness, I might consider tossing a bag in the trunk of my car with extra clothes for when the weather plays backgammon with my emotions, and my wardrobe choices. More often than not, if I'm not bundled up, I freeze to death. Because, it was hot but was suddenly bone-cilling cold and apparently the Antarctica wind chill factor has kicked up. So, today I guess, to avoid a fashion faux pas, I'm going to lug my suitcase of two or three articles of clothing, now fifteen different options to peruse and hope for a blizzard. Yeah, right. Judge me, fashion superstar. I don't care if you sneer. Because, I'm rollin hobo.

Text you a picture of my what?

Yes, please and thank you! Ok, I have mixed feelings about "sexting." By no means, if you are under eighteen and reading this should you do it, its HIGHLY INAPPROPRIATE. Public service announcement out of the way. I would do it if I was in a relationship, I've done it, but then you're always hesitant because what if the jerk puts your peachy nana all over the internet? There goes my dream job in politics. Just kidding. But, hey, look at what having your fruit basket plastered all over the web did for Kim Kardashian. Seemed to work out well for her, didn't it? Although, I don't see politics in her future either. Ever.

But, what about the guy you have put into the fun category? Should you send him these naughty delectables? I'd say no, but then again, I've done that too. What other purpose would the guy you keep around for your amusement be otherwise anyway. The playtime-only guy would be the most open to sexting back and forth his junk. And believe me, in that case, I want to see that eggplant. Yep, I'd plaster that yum yum all over my wallpaper on my computer… for inspiration, of course.

Maybe there should be some unspoken ground rules here. Example.
"Hey boo, send me a pic."
Um, "Ok," I say. So, I take a picture of my ankle and send it off.
 He laughs and retorts, "no, girl, give me something to work with… a little dirtier than that."
"Um.. ok." So, I snap a shot of… well, something else. Sent.
He sends a "much better" reply and we're off and running in this sexy session of texts. I gotta say, I'm delighted and feeling pretty hot. And, he's not so bad either. Until he requests, "Send me a shot of your… while sticking a… and don't forget to smile" text.

HUH? Stick what? Where? Smile? Have you gone mad? We had such a nice naked game of badminton going and you had to go and volley that. Eh, lost me. Sexting should be a sort of, foreplay, for the real thing, I think. At some point, you can shove whatever the hell you want in the cookie jar when you see me. Well, maybe not "whatever the hell you want." Chances are, I'm not going to send you that capture on film; thats reminiscent of free porn on the net. And not that I know anything about that. Maybe. But, either way, I'm most likely going to send a photo of a banana and me staring at it like it will probably kill me and flip you off at the same time.

Sucky Friend Alerts

I want to create an app that would allow sucky friend victims the opportunity to let their peeps know when they're being terrible peers. Wouldn't it be amazing to send a push notification when your buddy is being a sucky friend?

Let's say you and your sidekick have plans to go out on the town. You have a set time to leave, you speak to them confirming but they she's running late. Five hours later, you figure out that this cow has stood you up. You open up the app and send, from a barrage of choice alerts, in this case it would be "you stood me up jerk!" And you can list everything you did and the time it took out of your day so they can see the impact it made for you to be a good chum to them!

If you and your friend go out but her desperate ass ditches you for a guy and you have no way home. Yes, this has happened to me. Just open up the app and select "Really bitch?" Hit send. And voila! She will now be annoyed until she rectifies the situation.

And there should be no end to these alerts, basically, endlessly annoying her until she makes it right. Oh yeah, this won't be like your alarm clock where you can just slide open the phone and it shuts off. Nope. This will be an interactive alert problem for her. She has to respond to the alert from the app choosing "I'm sorry", "oops my bad", or "hey! Im a sucky friend, let's make up!"

Ha! I think it should take a picture of said friendship violator while she reads your sent notification. I would love to get that in my banner update with her making some whack face that I can laugh at because she's been busted by the playmate police.

There should also be camaraderie awards alerted too. It can't be all bad. If you and your girlfriend are getting in the car and keep getting an odd whiff of doo-doo, randomly, you both entering and exiting the vehicle, creeping in the back of the car thinking maybe a stray cat shit on the floor or something. Yet, after much deliberation and investigating it turns out that she had the biggest clump of poo stuck to the bottom of her boot. She'll get an alert from the sucky friend app but instead of the "your lame" context, she'll be smiling at the gold stars and rainbows she's received for "My Best Pal Ever!"

Obviously, there could be a bunch of creative ways to say "You Suck". And maybe its just me, but I think this would be hysterical. And If anyone takes my million dollar idea without breaking off a piece to the creator -me- then "Boooo" on you! OH! and send yourself a Sucky Friend Alert because you're just an a**hole. 

Under Construction

I hate doing my website. If any of you have noticed, my website has been "under construction." Its not that designing my website is hard, per say, its just time consuming. Hence, my undeniable desire to procrastinate is strong. Case in point: I should be pecking away at it now instead of blogging this post; But, hey, I struggle. There are just some things that are mind-numbing and re-doing my website -which I tend to do more often than not- is one of them. Praying to the website Gods doesn't seem to get it done. Wishing in wells doesn't seem to help. Grabbing a leprechaun to get this dirty work done, and maybe that pot of gold they like to keep hidden, doesn't do the trick either. And the leprechaun never did lead me to the pot of gold. I really wanted that. Stingy leprechaun.

When you have a small team, you tend to discover many talents that you may -or may not- have. I've learned to build a website on less than a dime, some tricks about social media marketing/networking, design posts on twitter on less than fifteen characters. Actually, the twitter posts, I'm always going over on those. Annoying. I know, I know… there are apps to help shorten whatever you want to say into a convenient link; but after trying that, it turned out I just had an extra app laying around on my phone that collected a lot of pixie dust because the pixie fairy wouldn't do it for me… Stupid pixie fairy.

To make a long story short, I don't wanna do my website today… waaaaa! =( Although, if I don't my manager will get in my butt and that's probably a fate worse than death. Why is it, even as an adult, if we get our asses handed to us for not doing something -that we should be doing anyway- we digress to childhood shame? Maybe, if I hire a neanderthal to take the blows from my manager, I can procrastinate for one more day about this website task…

Damn it, now that I think about it, the neanderthal probably won't be smart enough of to even show up. I'm screwed.

#SuckNut

I'm at the grocery store and I'm trying to decide on what chips to grab. Cheesy? Crunchy? Kettle? Vinegar? Healthy? Screw it. I take my arm and just scoop them all up and as I'm feeling quite happy with my array of options, a man walks up and for some reason feels the need to give me nutritional facts about my bags of potato and corn machine cut munchies. I'm stunned at first and rather tongue tied as he's carrying on about transfats, and the lethargy effect. Oh Holy Hell. I need an escape route. Where is a group of oversized, genetically modified apes ready to pounce when you need them?

If I'm not mistaken, this fool isn't coming home with me, isn't my boyfriend, isn't my brother, and isn't my son or uncle. I'm rather confused at why the hell he cares so much about whats in MY basket of delicious goodies. "Uh, sir, you must have me mistaken for someone else… does your wife look like me? Is she in another isle and you have some form of dementia that causes you to randomly attack unsuspecting snack hoarding single mothers with your torturous banter?" Well, I'm still standing here wishing I'd say something to get this junk food hater far, far away from me and I'm speechless. I know. Me. Never.

I glance around his shoulder-he's carrying on with a quinoa liturgy- as if I've noticed the person I've come shopping with - There's not. I came alone. A woman catches my gaze and quickly puts her head down and scants away. Great. Thanks sister. My hand is in the air giving a stuttering wave as this organic tomato is now looking at me quizzically. I, slowly, attempt to creep away and he starts to follow me. Holy Gluten Batman! I have an idea! Maybe if I put all my sodium-filled choices back on the shelf he will finally give up on this lost sugar cookie. Oh, but I so envisioned myself deep into a food coma before dawn. This King Arthur of saturated fat is far, far from the aisle of "get lost" where he needs to be with his round table of dried fruit and legumes. It is time to put an end to your dietary fiber legacy.

Wait a minute. He's in MY isle. I had planned an evening of lustful endorsement full of artificial flavorings. This nut job is sucking the cheesy puff face stuffing challenge I was gearing up for and I can't take any more of this peanut-free headache. I know what this guy is, he's a suck nut! You and your intrusive Dr. Oz wannabe advisory label shanking!

There is only one way to end this. I hand him my card, thank him for his percent daily values run-down  and stare him dead in the eye. Reaching, hostilely for a bag of chocolate kisses and hold the bag near his face. I state that he would love my blog and should "hashtag suck nut" on Twitter. Toodles.

The Business of the Self-Starter Insanity

I've kind of done it, haven't I? I mean, I took the leap and took a huge risk. I uprooted and relocated to Hollyweird and with great effort am tirelessly working towards my goals. I'm falling on my face on a daily basis; But, the reality is, I'm still getting up everyday and haven't given up. What the hell is wrong with me? No really, there's gotta be some kind of malfunction in my brain to continually torture myself everyday! Auditions, acting classes/workshops, the never-ending pursuance to finish my album, the magazines and music videos that just don't want to pay us girls for our time -chewing us up and spitting us out. The douche bag dating system that IS Los Angeles - I've gotta be able to find someone who's had a decent upbringing eventually, right? And the blogging of what is literally mi vida loca! Seriously, what kind of nut job would keep doing this to themselves? Me.

Yup, me. I grew up with a dad that was constantly doing the same with and my mother who supported all his whimsical, entrepreneurial endeavors, that just never seemed to work out with happy endings. It was probably predestined for me to push myself to live my life similarly. Except, I believe my happy ending is in the fact that I rather enjoy this insanely, stressful journey.  My dad had a janitorial company -which he had us kids helping , a roller rink -we helped there too, a gymnastics gym - I had the title of successful gymnast on my shoulders and rarely, did my dad work for anyone else. He wasn't much of a people person though anyway. t can remember one time that he worked for a company as a sales representative. That didn't last long. As ambitious as he was, working for other people just never seemed to be his gig. At one point, he was raking in past the million dollar mark but I also remember him losing it all. My theory is you can't fault a man -or woman- for being a risk taker. I've had interesting jobs to keep me afloat but taking the biggest risk of all and falling on my face has actually made me stronger. I know I can get it all back! I may never be normal, but I can live with that. Normal can be pretty darn boring anyway.

Listen, Hollyhood, you haven't defeated me. I was built for this. Everything I have done has served and is serving a purpose. I haven't a damn clue what it is yet. But, none the less it's propelling me somewhere. Let's just hope somewhere is where I have been planning to land! Crash landing? The long and short of it is, that we can never predict what is going to happen. So, go for it. Who cares if people are going to judge you. They will. Or if they will talk shit about you. They will. Get off your ass and make something happen today. I've fallen on my face already today and I've only been awake for 12 minutes. No, seriously, I fell off the bed reaching for my coffee. Shrugs.

It's too freaking early for this optimism.

“Coffee... Without it, I might kill you”

I wake up in the morning, push the button of my Keurig Vue machine and wait for the smell of my Italian Roast to brew aromatically throughout the room. (Mind you, my Keurig is on my nightstand next to my bed, yes, I LOVE coffee. Mess with my morning coffee and I’ll most likely hurt you.) I finally drag my limp body to a sitting position and reach for my freshly poured cup and sip.... Nothing. I look in the cup to make sure I’m not still trying to drink imaginary coffee. Dammit. I forgot to put the pod in the machine last night before bed. How could I possibly have forgotten to do that? Oh yes, I remember, Jack came over last night and we had conversations about art and politics into the wee hours of the morning. Jack was helping me mend a broken heart due to some jerk breaking it. Jack is such a great friend. Always there to cheer me up when I need it. But, we made cups and cups of coffee last night and amidst the evening chatter, I must have forgotten to fill the pod dock before finally crashing into a deep slumber. 

The amazing thing about the Keurig Vue machine is that you can fill the water carafe once and it can produce multiple cups! The next thing you know, you’ve run out of pods before you’ve needed to fill up the carafe again! Damn you Jack. So, I plop back down under the covers after popping in a fresh pod and impatiently await my first cup of joe. As I grab the now freshly brewed cup of coffee, I go to take a sip... My manager is calling. Shit. I put down my mug and quickly answer the phone. As she’s going on and on about deadlines and meetings I need to get to and errands I need to run for him, I can’t help but stare at my poor little coffee cup with its beautiful steam coming off the top of the pretty coco colored liquid inside. As I’m rushing around, the phone between my ear and shoulder, I’m hopping on one leg slipping into my socks and as I zip up my boots, I toss the notepad (I’ll remember what my manager is saying later, right?) and reach for my coffee.... Nope.

Instead, I find myself trying to catch my fall as I trip into the nightstand and the phone bounces out of my reach and I hit the floor. Face first. Nice. Rolling over to my back, I see the phone has slid underneath my bed, (ugh), and reach for it with my fingers and as I bring it to my ear again, my manager is still talking about who knows what and finally says she wants me in the office by 10:00a.m. Ok, no problem, after I accomplish all million and one items on the to-do list, I’ll get right on it. Sigh. I hang up and my eyes shift to the ever-lasting cup of love that I need to get through this evil, evil morning. I scoot in towards my nightstand, legs crossed, arms extending to finally get that warm cup in between my hands. As I breathe in the smell of those refined coffee beans, I find myself giddy with excitement, the now lackluster vapor traveling through my sense as I inhale with glee. Someone knocks on the door. I stop mid-smell, the happiness quickly fades from my face. I abruptly put my coffee cup on the nightstand, more like slammed it, but who’s keeping track? And I huff and puff my way over to the door and ask who it is. No one replies, so I open the door angrily now and see a package. Oh! It’s my order of Keurig Vue pods! When I run out of pods, I can easily get online at www.keurig.com and order up a shipment to replace my waning home supply quickly and easily. I can choose from a variety of different coffee and tea flavors as well as for other drinks I may desire from the Keurig Vue machine! I can also login to my account where it remembers what I ordered! A light crosses my being as I skip along with my newest shipment of assorted coffee and tea yum yums to fit my fancy. I was out of the iced tea pods so this actually makes my day feel brighter.

Back to my coffee of the morning, I realize that my once hot brew is now a sad existing cold one. Sigh. Blah, I decide that this will not do. So, I set it aside - I’ll just add some ice and creamer to it later and toss it in the blender for a frozen treat to top off my afternoon - and I decide to pop in another pod into my machine. And within a couple minutes, I have a nice, fresh, HOT, mug of a Breakfast Blend at my lips! As, I go to sip this fine fragrant delectable, my phone rings once again. I exhale a deep breath, set down my coffee and pick up the line to see who it is. It really doesn’t matter actually, because at this point, there is only one remedy to ensuring my daily fix gets met. I stand up, open the window and throw the phone. Maybe it will fly, most likely it wont. Either way, nothing is getting in the way of my breathable savor this time. I hop back underneath the covers, snuggle into my fluffy pillows, cuddle myself into my chalice and begin to let my taste buds reveal the flavorful wonders that only my Keurig Vue machine can deliver. Sure, you can hang on tight to your old Keurig machine and thats great. But, why do that when you have the newest member, Keurig Vue, brewing appliance? It does so much more than just coffee, I don’t know how I survived without it. Seriously, I haven’t a clue.

Dating AND Texting

Anyone who knows me well, knows I have a bad luck dating history. But, for whatever reason, the advice I've given has worked for my girlfriends. Therefore, as I said in my previous post, I was going to provide my new friends with some guidelines and rules when it comes to dating and texting. Now, as a habitual seeker of love -however unsuccefully- I have stumbled upon some things that are just a NO - GO when it comes to dating. I gotta say, first of all, dating me is tough anyway. A secure guy is a MUST because I have my ass all over the damn Internet! Lol But add to that my drive to become bigger and better, constantly working on my next project, oh and this little blogging habit I've got going on... Well, I'm probably destined a spinster for life! But, that doesn't mean you guys have to suffer, right? I can help you find your dreamboat; whoever he may be! (Or she. Mind you fellas, this post will be more for the ladies-catch you guys on the flip side)

So, let's do this: 

Rule #1 Sorry, I no speak text. Never answer a text to go out on a date. This should be a no brainer but some of you heffas get so excited a dude asked you out, you jump at it like a sausage cake just slapped you in the forehead. Knock it off! Even a monkey can dial a phone, so you should be requiring him to call! Your worth it! 

Rule #2 Confirming Your Date. Make sure he confirms the night before AND when he's on his way to where you are going to meet. Nothing is more rude than not confirming the date! If he is more able-bodied than a turnip then he can pick up the phone, call you, and give you the courtesy that he is definitely going to meet you, and is on his way. Respect yourself enough ladies to require a man to act properly! If a man doesn't confirm our date, I won't go. Period.

Rule #3 The "Hey" Text. Seriously… this has to be the most annoying text of all that a guy can send us, am I right ladies? If he's dating you, texting, "Hey," is just insulting. Don't "Hey" me. I'm not your buddy, homie, friend. I'm a motha f**n PRINCESS! Call me if you want to say "Hey." Have a dialogue for goodness sake.

Rule #4 The Text Potato.  So, then there's the guy I like to call, The Text Potato. The Text Potato is the guy who thinks he's got you all figured out and now he can do less. If he can do it remotely, like via text, he will. (similarly, watching tv on the couch surfing with the remote. Get it?) And believe me, if he can think it, he will most likely try it.  Oh… no, no, no. Shake up your Text Potato with some garlic and parmesan! Make him work for you, you're his Queen! He needs to know he can't remotely access you so easily.

Rule #5 Walmart is 24hrs. Not me. If a guy texts you after 9pm, forget it. Don't respond to it. Its says your available for booty. You have no other plans. And, that you have quite possibly been waiting by the phone for his call… or rather his lazy ass text. As far as I'm concerned, a text that comes in after 9pm never happened. Let him text the available "ho" instead. You dodged a bullet and your self esteem will remain in tact!

Listen, this isn't the end all/be all of rules. Adjust accordingly. That being said, I will say, this applies to dating. Not necessarily your friends, ex-boyfriends (which I treat way worse - they had their chance - bugger off jerks), sisters, brothers cousin and most definitely, do not treat your mother this way. She powdered your booty! Plus, she'll probably whoop your butt so call her back right away!


Granted, I have learned these lessons the hard way! And have made many, many mistakes. These are just a few rules to get you started and weed through the bulls***.  Don't reward bad behavior. You are a diamond. You are a goddess. Hold out for the guy that shows exemplary behavior because, HE, will be the one that deserves your greatness! And men/guys/boys, don't email (OR TEXT) me all upset that your girl dumped you. Instead, take peek at how you treated her…you may have deserved it. *shrugs

Text vs. Calling

Nothing irritates me more than texting. If it's something quick that needs to get dealt with fine but if you want to go out, make a phone call. If you want to know how I am, make a phone call. If you have a question, CALL. If you want to gossip, CALL DAMMIT! 

I am not going to text you back paragraphs telling you "what's new" or "did you know jenny blah blah blah" or "sure I'll go out with you" NOPE. Forget it. Don't count on it. Not gonna happen. The art of conversation is lost on idiotic texting. And, while we're on the subject, you can't even decipher someone's tone by texting either! A simple "Hey" doesn't tell me if your in a good or bad mood yet, weeks later I find suddenly that you were mad at me and I should have "known" because you text me f***n "Hey." Huh? Really? 

Now, simple ideas that work for text are: does this outfit match? Also Sent with a pic to view my striped pants with my polka dotted half shirt. Or "ha! Check out backpack guy in airport with the kid on a leash" (also with a pic attached-obviously!!) or "thinking of you", "your great" or even "your a douche stop texting me" simple one liners, or quickie witty comments, jokes, website addresses, or even directions work just fine for text.

But come on people... Get a clue! For me personally, I suck at returning texts as it is anyway, so add a dash of content that I find redundant or full of mindless rhetoric, in a text? It's game over. In fact, keep your peepers wide for a post for how I feel about dating and texting. My guidelines and rules will help weed out the lazy asses from the good guys! Or, at the very least, be entertaining! ;-P 

Just because he's an idiot, doesn't mean I should give up all hope, right?

So, now, I'm back in the dating game. And believe me, these guys out here PLAY GAMES. I'm giving it an alternate approach though this time around. I'm not going to give two shits. I have a lot on my plate and I deserve the best because well… I work my ass off night and day to be the best at anything I do and therefore, require the same from any yokel that may decide to take a crack at dating me! Now, don't misquote me. I'm not the type of all-knowing asshole that won't give a poor guy a break but let's just put this out there loud and clear. I am the type to tell you to get lost if you are jobless, car-less and hopeless. I'm not a shelter and I don't take in strays. Fair enough? Right. So, that being said, when I say I'm not going to "give two shits," I'm basically saying that I'm going to take a stance of caring less until I'm SHOWN by actions that I am cared for, looked out for and above all I find I am with someone that WANTS to be with me. (Did you hear violins? I could have sworn I heard violins.)

I've found that, as women, we tend to love hard even when we aren't getting anything in return. We love even when we are being disrespected and treated poorly. Well, screw that! I've always wondered why I see the 'bitches' in relationships, while the nice girls are being pooped on and maybe these B's are doing something that us nice girls aren't. I don't think it's their bedroom acrobatics, or that they have the frog to prince smooching magic figured out but rather that they all commonly treat their beaus like tissue paper under their shoe. Its the condescending treatment they give their man-children: Get this, get that, no that's wrong, buy me, I want, gimme, you'll never amount to anything, when you stop being a loser I'll marry your stupid ass and things of the like. I got to thinking… men like being treated like crap? This is what gets them to respond appropriately?

Well, while I won't be treating a man like that any time soon, it's certainly fun to think about! (Like, taking a lasso to my cowboy and drag him around by horse… teach him to bring my box of Godiva chocolates to me when I ask for them not when he "feels' like it. Jerk.) Ok, not all dreams can be materialized. But, either way,  I'm sure Mr. Right is out there and I know he won't be perfect. But, just because he's an idiot, doesn't mean I should give up all hope, right?