Walmart Weiner

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It astonishes me how weird crap always happens to me – and I mean, ALWAYS. Just finds its way to my lovely handbag, chockful with a plethora of oddball experiences. I’m shopping for necessities at Walmart the other day and this guy to my right shoulder is doing something bizarre. I’m afraid to look; But, curiosity gets the best of me… And, I freaking look. Why do I insist on the one stop shopping Walmart has to offer? Embarrassingly, Rhetorical. And… what do I see? Oh, that’s right. He’s got his hands down his pants. Lovely. Now, I don’t think I’m so freaking hot that I illicit a masterbater to take idle hands to play; But, clearly, this tickler pickler thinks otherwise.

Add insult to my mind’s eye’s injury, he notices me looking at him -Hey! I looked at him… IN. DISGUST.- but since that doesn’t dissuade him, he forges ahead and whips that eggplant right out of his pants. I’m not a huge fan of eggplant anyway; But, this just sealed the fate on that for good. It’s like the kid in elementary school who only responds with bad behavior no matter how hard to try to tame that wild child… and likely ends up this Walmart weiner guy. Maybe he didn’t notice my look of disgust? Maybe he’s a fan? Maybe he’s just gross? I’ll take “gross” for the win, Pat! (Wheel of Fortune reference.)

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This takes me back to an episode in high school. My sister and I were driving home from school and we look to the vehicle in the lane next to us. Mr. Wonderful looks at us and puts his fingers to his mouth in a “V” shape, and puts them up to his mouth. Proceeds to stick his tongue through said, makeshift twat, and basically, professes a disgusting action. Oh, but it does not end there. After he saw our shocked reactions, this driving degenerate decides that humping his steering wheel and looking at us was a more, fun action, he just had to engage in. Couldn’t make this up. I wish I could embellish but lucky for you guys and gals, this shit just walks into my path. So, I guess I must accept that someone has signed me up for a lifetime of creepiness, when I my back was turned. #creeplife Maybe the weiner flasher is the same guy who just showed me -the unwilling party- his peepee. What would be the odds that it was the same guy? Lightening can strike twice.

White Trash Dinner

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

Anyway, one of the dinners I decided to adopt into my abode was the scoop of chili, into a bag of Fritos, concoctionry. What? Yup. Sounds good, right? Except I didn’t have chili. Nor, did I have Chili Cheese flavored Fritos neither. I did have regular mini bags, of Fritos. And I had a whole chicken. Bok. Bok. The poultry was on sale. Cut me some slack. $4 dollars for a whole chicken?! Hell yeah.. Bok. Bok. Sale pollo. That’s right, it’s all about the coupons. 
I toss that foul into the crockpot, add a couple bottles of bbq sauce and cook that bad boy down until the meat came off the bones. Removed the bones, stirred it up, popped open the Fritos bag and voila. Hearty and speedy white trash dinner. Tossed some scoops of the pulled bok bok into the bag, add a fork, boom. The child was happy and ate about 4 bags full of this gluttonous glory. Toss a couple shaved scallions on top and you have some veggies in the mix too! The boy was happy. I was happy. The state would be happy. Feed on! 

Backpack PSA

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

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

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

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

Putrid Paper Stacks

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

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

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

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

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

Angel Face

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

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

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

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

Foodie Cookery

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

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

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

Elephant Puff

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

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

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

Detective Sex Pot

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

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

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

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

Cityscape Spew

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

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

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

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

The Moldy Berry Effect

#geeklife

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

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

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

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