Jerk-Off’s and Lady Assholes

People are just annoying. If I never had to deal with the public ever I would be thriled.I have to say the car accident that took me out of my life-long career of hairdressing -was a blessing in disguise. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my clients, and I love doing hair.

That’s really not the public I am talking about.

I am talking about just your regular, day-to-day jerk-off(s), that lack  any sort of social consideration.

When labeling these rude, crude and socially unacceptable people; I have come to find that some terms are deemed more effeminate and some more masculine.Usually you hear someone called a “Dick” to be male and “Bitch” to be, assuming, female.

Well I have heard many men say to other men “ Stop being a Bitch” which may or may not be degrading to females. 

I have to admit I have referred to a guy as being a “big ol’ vagina”;yet there are some terms that I use regularly that seem to have their place in their respective male/female categories.

Let me be more defining of some more commonly recognized terms:

Jerk-off (m) : A guys who publically talks way too loud in comparison to their surroundings. According to in social situations people often talk with normal voice levels at distances of 1 to 4 meters. In such cases the noise level should not exceed 55to 60 dB(A).

Talking with a normal voice approximate to a sound pressure level of70 dB, a raised voice to76 dB, a very loud voice to 82 dB and a shouting voice to 88 dB (1 ft distance). At a cafe or coffee shop, at least the one I am in, the area between me and the next table is approximately about 2-3 feet. The regular considerate person, usually is talking at a level of- oh, for fucks sake, including background music, let’s say; 72dB.

This is close enough so you can hear them, but if you have headphones or are more focused on background music you can pretty much drown them out. Now the jerk-off sitting next to me is clearly talking at a solid 82dB.  That’s freaking loud. Who does that? It’s just plain rude.

I have no desire to hear your talk in terms of a bunch of “alphabet soup” in any sort of public-based call.Not only is it annoying- but just plain obnoxious

.e.g. “.. So this weekend Joel’s internship ends and he will then transfer to BFK then onto another aspect of IDP and then to IQQ”

Or let alone they are trying to have a conversation with Siri….“Siri, find “GARBAGE COLLECTION” Garbage SIRI!!!… Stupid Siri.”I am begging you, Please stop arguing with your technology. It isn’t that advanced to care.  Yet, as I am human –I am advanced to care.

People, CEASE arguing with Siri… PLEASE! Unless you are Katie Holmes, and you are disciplining your daughter: Shaaaadup. NO ONE CARES. ( and even then no one cares…)

In addition, if you are in doubt about if you are encountering the  typical jerk-off ; some good word indicators would be the use the words: “party” “drink” “cock” “fuckin’” “dude” and “yeah”  more than once- in the same sentence. Probability= High. Unless he is a chicken farmer, a caterer, or quoting someone else. He’s a certified jerk-off.

The etymology of said terminology comes from the word “jerk” which was coined in the 1540’s as “to lash, strike or whip”. I can safely assume this then mutated into the slang “jerk off”– which means to masturbate or just plain ol’ waste time.

There is nothing I can find that brings the term to modern day into this possibly fraternity-based, derogatory adjective; except for maybe Andrew Dice Clay in the film “Ford Fairlane” 

Lo, women are not exempt here. When haters, hate-they gotta hate equally. Because on the flip side, we have the “Lady Asshole.”

Note:  I can’t believe I actually said the term” Haters  hate”- Really?

Lady Assholes (f): This is a term me and my friend Sam coined about a crazy “buck-toofed” acquaintance of ours. We use the word “lady” solely because she is a bit older and isn’t a horrible person per se; yet she is just really full of herself and thinks that her shit don’t stink. She’s an asshole – a LADY asshole.

She doesn’t return phone calls, she never gives credit where credit is due and doesn’t keep her word. Not to mention she posts insane close ups of her yellowing crooked teeth poking out of her gaping pie-hole…. it is just frightening. The only way I can describe the horror that is her mouth is Sloth from ”The Goonies” and that is insulting poor Sloth

She posts on her Social Network every-time she goes to the hairdresser, a before and after picture. Only the”after picture” has a lens-flare on it and she has squeezed her sausage-like physique into some “shmata” that is gratuitously glittery, her arms f-stopped in all their rippled “Bingo Wings”  in all their glory; and her hair LOOKS THE FUCKING SAME!

The decision for her to go get her hair done, is as good as the decision to buy a good pair of sunglasses. You may as well go to a bar, throw $80 on the table and leave. She should do the same to her hairdresser. Throw him a check, he should throw that dog a bone and send her on her way. She is just scary.

Once me and Sam get on a text thread about her, there is no stopping us. But, as with any Lady Asshole, you can usually go on tearing her apart for days. It’s comforting.


Blog Music Pairing: Jerk it Out– The Caesars



Sing Sing Sing!


Most days I go around with the first-line to a great story everywhere I go. I walk my happy-ass into Starbucks and in my head was authoring:

She opened the door too hard again today, hitting her head on this broken door for the last time. She thought, until… HE walked over; tall and cavalier and savvy enough to open the door before she had another opportunity to knock ( pronouncing the “k”) herself in the “kepie” again.”

Interrupted in thought, with droves of hot pink Lululemon tushies in line in the Las Vegas North West Summerlin Starbucks location.Me, in my jewjeans with with jewgenes.

To me, Lululemon sounds as if it is either a drink you have on a cruise, or something you squeeze into your Swee-touch-nee tea at Nana’s house.I have to say my favorite first line is usually in the form of a song. And Benny Goodman’s “SING SING SING” is a doozey especially when I feel like I am on my A-Game and going out somewhere. ( <–yes, this is really me)

When that is playing, any line is a good line and I usually get there feeling pretty dang good, swinging it hip to hip.

On arriving to whatever destination I get to, with “SING SING SING” I’m feeling a size 4 and all in glitter ready to walk into “the” bar, a plethora of men named Charlie yell “He-ya Kitten”… as I wave back knowingly with one hand donning one long red glove a velvet dress and a tiara ( It’s my scene, I have to have a tiara, you wouldn’t make fun of Rita Hayworth… OK then)

As make my way in, saying quick casual smarmy hellos to passers by, a steward lifts a round bistro style table over his head placing it at my feet as quickly as a chair is placed right behind me. White linen table covers, effortlessly drape the table followed by a candle and vase with flower.

Maurice, a slick looking waiter holding a towel and bottle of champagne on his arm whispers silently to his lackey who appears post-haste with a crystal champagne glass and a light of my cigarette…. ( the song fades)

( Fade In: Reality) 

… it seems that Sweet Tomatoes Salad bar closes at 9 p.m. on Sundays * sigh*

so me and my birkenstocks opt for Chinese take out and some SiriusXM England Dan on the way home.


The song just never really continues to all it is supposed to be.

In movies, like Annie Hall, ( Woody Allen is king of Soundtracks), Manhattan Murder Mystery, or Goodfellas, the music just goes along perfectly; the people live out exactly what the music is portraying it to be.


Songs from movies like “Moonglow” from Picnic in the scene where Kim Novak and Bill Holden dance, is just AWE-some. I do mean; jaw-droppingly, breath holdingly awesome eveytime I see it.

The romance, the peach-colored lens making everyone look dewy and ripe. Fresh faced Novak and horribly-horny looking Holden, is nothing short of a fucking-liciously perfect October evening.

Nothing, I did in October came close to anything like that; except maybe, embarrassingly enough, flirt shamelessly with someone half my age who has zero interest in me…..That doesn’t even come close to that scene.

But every-time I hear that song, I may as well have.


At the moment, “You Made Me Love You” by Harry James just popped on and I drift to the “Hannah and her Sisters” scene with Michael Caine and Barbara Hersey dancing, forbiddingly clandestine in a New York City hotel room with a bottle of Perrier-Jouet bedside.

Reality, I sit in a cafe in North West Vegas drinking a, now cold, half-caf latte in the red cup. The red cup” is the only reminder that the holidays are on their way– and it will be another season that will be the best time anyone  will have, in my head. Ugh, Really?

Another prime example: “Rhapsody in Blue” doesn’t exactly match up to the next crap ass situation:

A guy holding a baby walks up to a Jewish girl at a cafe, ( this is the beginning of a joke right there.. as this happened not five minutes ago) and asks if she remembers talking to him a few weeks ago about “all things Jewish”. She said, “ Yes I do”– as his, obviously annoyed, Meg Ryan looking wife looks on agitated, then he turns to her saying:  “Remember,  I told you, she’s the one about the Jewish stuff” “

Oh, uh-huh” she shakes her head; knowingly-unknowingly, looking like she just unexpected ate piece of gristle from a steak.( No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition)

Nice to meet you”; she says obviously not remembering, as obviously he never told her.

I look awkwardly at her, as I never introduced myself to warrant someone to say “nice to meet you” and say

Yes, Yes” and nod at her through squinted eyes red and sore from computer glare.

Trying not to be rude; I focus mostly on her, gratuitously asking about her kids, autumn activities and the weather– as I know what it was like to once play the part of the “asshole wife.”

I am too cerebral for this town….

As “I’ve Heard That Song Before” swells in my blue-tooth headphones, I clean the lenses of the ugliest glasses I have ( the backup pair) looking around as the Friday crowd piles in with their spray tanned bodies squeezed into their hooded tank tops ( That’s Vegas for you) carrying shopping bags, first-world problems and acrylic nails.

The cute guy with the long hair and green shirt is here again–always wearing an orange ballcap… which means he is bald with long hair (ouch). That is almost leaning toward mullet territory…. that can turn “attracted to a nerd” into, “Ugh you’re giving me GERD” ,quickly.

Coleman Hawkin’s “Out of Nowhere”, shuffles into my headphones, and I think to myself: Dude, Just shave it, guy you can’t wear that hat forever. Bald is beautiful Own it. ( <–hot!)

As the old timey sounds of “She’s Funny That Way” by the Erroll Garner Trio plays on,

I shake my head, and roll my eyes and hope I look better than I really do in the reflection of my computer screen. As stated, life’s situations and songs just never really match the over romanticized moments in life I lend to them…. or equate to their movie’s counterparts soundtracks.

Life: It makes music sadder- not the other way ’round.

Another Friday Night in Vegas

Hello, I Must Be Going

There’s an old joke.Two elderly women are at a Catskills mountain resort, and one of ’em says: “Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.” The other one says, “Yeah, I know, and such … small portions.” Well, that’s essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it’s all over much too quickly.The-the other important joke for me is one that’s, usually attributed to Groucho Marx, but I think it appears originally in Freud’s wit and its relation to the unconscious.
And it goes like this-I’m paraphrasing: “I would never wanna belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.” That’s the key joke of my adult life in terms of my relationships with people.Lately the strangest things have been going through my mind, I guess I’m going through a phase or something, I don’t know. I tend to spend more time on my own, I guess that’s about the worst you can say about me. I think I’m gonna get better as I get older, you know? I think I’m gonna be the-lithe
vegan yoga type, you know, as opposed to say the obnoxious bitter hormonal types with bad teeth, for instance, you know? ‘Less I’m neither of those
Unless I’m one of those women who wander the casinos with red lipstick bleeding into the cracks of her lips with an oxygen tank, Las Vegas promotional gift bag screaming about socialism.*
Its been, in short, a long three months.
I have seem to have come out of a hibernation, of sorts.
That corner of the couch I’ve confined myself to in the past two years.​ Like the cats spot on a window sill. They’re home, they sniff around and find a safe spot and stay there- till they die. Pretty much, that’s it. I mean, how many times have you gone to a friend’s house that have pets and they point out:
“That’s Mildred’s favorite spot over there in the sun” or “We redecorated the bedroom and Barney has his own bed” –you look over and there is Barney; laying lavishly sprawled out. He’s going no where, that asshole dog will die in that bed ten years from now, because he doesn’t know better.
That cat will get into the same routine sitting in the sill, drinking water, standing there meaninglessly, licking her haunches with her foot in the air; look around, sit on the fucking window sill and– die.
That’s pretty much what I resolved to do when I moved into this apartment. I had come from a rough, tarred-and-feathered, seven years of pure abuse and exhaustion –and dammit… I am still fucking tired.
But I have to say, I have put myself out there to meet “people” lately– and I don’t mean date… I just mean to get out and socialize —and it’s sucked (sometimes).
Why?  People are emotional vampires. They want to suck the advice out of you until you become this emotional black hole-of-an-friend, and there is nothing left.
They all go all “NANCY ” on you. Who is Nancy?
Nancy is this Mrs Kravitz’s  demon seed daughter-of -a- neighbor I used to have;  that if I ever heard the words “How are you?” come out of her mouth, I would die of shock.
She is one of the most selfish, self-centered pathological women I have ever met.   Lately, I have run into more, “Nancy’s”…what is with the neurotic, crazy, control freaky people lately? In a world spinning out of control you would think at least you have some daily self control over your own life, intrinsically.
I have to say, I have a huge radar for these types and usually get a head start of a run before I am affected.With crazy Nancy, I wouldn’t leave my old house before doing a “Nancy Check” outside.
Coming home I’d drive the block clearing the area like the secret service.. and dammit if your timing is shit and she’s walking out while you are pulling up,nothing could help you now.
Yet, after a while I learned to walk straight by her, while she jabbered on mid-sentence about how bad her vagina smells, or how she would run ( full speed) after you with 4×6 photos of her from the 2004 porn convention ( this was in 2009…) and she lied about having cancer..WHO LIES ABOUT CANCER?So after I moved out of the “other house” into my “own place” people would ask me to come out with them and join them to do things; fun things, social things…. and I just couldn’t.I was happy being Mildred the dog or Fifi or whatever- the -hell- cat would do and sit and lick my wounds from a crap ass seven years, shitty neighbors and backstabbing people … ” friends” that just wanted their hair done or marketing advice.
I am lucky I have a handful of friends that actually care and who see that I am more than just a commodity or emotional black hole. Fuuuuuck that.Similar to Amy Linsky, the character in the film “Hello I Must Be Going.” (with actress that has the funnest name to say ever:. Melanie Lynskey-say it 10x fast)Lynskey plays a woman who just is happy in her crap-ass world of couches and 80’s sitcoms, and wallowing in social disappointment until.. Well, just see the movie.( I have, 200000 times. So sue me, its a “go to”)
Melanie Lynskey in "Hello I Must Be Going"
So, lately I took steps to move off the couch, besides for school, Max and my plethora of mandatory dr’s appointments.
I  have tried jumping off that proverbial cat’s window sill, but ya know it’s sounding pretty good to go sit  back in the sun for a while…It kinda reminds me of that old joke, you know,  this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, “Doc,  my brother’s crazy. He thinks he’s a chicken.” And, the doctor says, “Well, why don’t you turn him in?” And the guy says, “I would, but I need the eggs.” Well, I guess that’s pretty much how how I feel about getting back out there. You know, people,  they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd and … but,I guess we keep goin’ through it because most of us need the eggs.*

Again, in the words of, the late great Groucho Marx…

Hello I Must Be Going….

(Captain Spaulding:)
Hello, I must be going.
I cannot stay,
I came to say
I must be going.
I’m glad I came
but just the same
I must be going, La-La.

Mrs. Rittenhouse:
For my sake you must stay,
for if you go away,
you’ll spoil this party
I am throwing.

Captain Spaulding:
I’ll stay a week or two
I’ll stay the summer through,
but I am telling you,
I must be going.

Blog Song Pairing :
“Hello, I Must Be Going”  by Groucho Marx (and Margaret Dumont)
( From the film : “Animal Crackers”)

“Drink Deep” by Laura Veirs
( From the Film : “Hello I Must Be Going”)

* Thanks to Woody Allen for help with the intro….and the outro

There’s Always Gonna Be Something With You Joe…

“There’s Always Going to be SOMETHING with you Joe”


“There’s Always Gonna Be Something With You Joe….” Meg Ryan, smirks at Tom Hanks in the film “Joe Vs. The Volcano”. Those who love this film, REALLY love it, Those who can’t stand it, really can’t stand it. Why  I am choosing to write about this subject is simply because of the aforementioned quote.

Life.There IS , ( and will) always  be : “Something.” or is it “Something”. I am still trying to figure it out. I am pretty shitty when it comes to grammar but can be quite smarmy in what I write. I will leave the technical crap to editors–for now, it’s a fucking blog.

So it is always something, isn’t it? Yet today I feel lucky. If Harry Callahan asked me today, if I feel lucky, I would have to say, “Yes Harry, I do feel lucky.”


But as Joe Banks was told by Patricia Grathamore, “ It is always going to be something with you Joe...” But she also shared,


Like Patricia, I live in a world of total amazement. Maybe it’s my sense of being completely hyper-sensitive to everything. It has its pluses when it comes to work, marketing and intuition about situations and people. Yet this can also be a curse of being overly curious, and think much too much about, I won’t say nothing, but things that just “are”.  ( It’s Always Something)

Today,  I got all my stuff done rather early.  The day started off pretty solid;  feeling good, pretty happy with a good night sleep under my belt and my shoulder, miraculously, not hurting too bad as it usually does upon rising.

The alarm went off  at 5 a.m, yet my phone rang at 4:45, it was my friend travelling through Morocco who needed to know if it was Moroccan Oil that I used on her hair. I couldn’t help but laugh,”Um no”…..  the conversation was interrupted by chatter of  multiple people in the background of wherever she was, barking dogs and clicks on over the line which got so distracting I just hoped she heard me say ‘goodbye’ and  ‘safe travels’.

Shower time.

I got Max up singing ” Leaving on a Jet Plane” in his ear to give him a laugh on rising and ready for his flight to LA. I got some breakfast down his gullet;  and we blasted AC/DC down the 215 freeway to McCarran Airport where I got a pass to escort him to his gate.

Heading through security… Max got searched.( It’s Always Something)

He was wearing a hat that looked like Fidel Castro and carrying a tye-die backpack. ( Bless his heart, he  is so his mother’s son)

He was completely searched and his bag dumped out in it’s entirety. ” It’s my belt that beeped”  he kept claiming… “Its my belt, I am not carrying anything else”

Jesus, All I was saying to myself was: “Billy” please. Don’t say anything else.. We have to get you out of here, were running out of time.”

Max  kept reaching into the bag, innocently,  to” help” the TSA  agent go through my, now mortified, fourteen-year-old teenagers- personal things; the  TSA agent gently  kept nudging Max back;  I kept pulling Max back, and whispered to Max to let the poor ex-Del Taco employee  a.k.a. TSA  agent,  do his “job”. ( It’s Always Something)

I felt like I was in Midnight Express, sans the hashish and the intense scene where Billy  is profusely sweating in bathroom of the Turkish airport. ( lest we forget the “OH BILLY”, boob scene, best replicated here.)

We finally get through that debacle, when they tell me he has a Pre  TSA  pass on his ticket and because I only have an “escorting passenger pass” I have to go through the whole line all over again. Yeah, not going to happen. Sooooo… Max claims he may drop dead if I don’t escort him. They shuffle us to the front, and through we go.( It’s Always Something)

Max told me then and there he is ordering a Bloody Mary  on the plane; I fist-bumped him and wished him good luck with that, but if he got it, he deserved it after that crap. ( It’s Always Something)

My little world traveler was finally airborne, and I got going to my first appointment of the day. Damn, the airport was slammed today. No idea why- Lots of chode-y “businessmen” with KISS  gift-bags. Hmm. Yeah nice, thanks Vegas, comp the ” tourists.” ( It’s Always Something)

I made it out in one piece, checking my phone, waiting for a call from the boy,and hearing he made it ok to LA.

Arriving at my hair client early,  I happily caught up with her and her always sage advice on kids, college, law suits and tuxedos. Left there an hour and change later– making the most of my drive-time had a nice chat with my good friend Ron, in Canada. At the stoplight I updated my Facebook , then after fighting with the remaining insanity and construction on Rampart,  headed for the bank.

Red tape reared it’s ugly head when I swung by my house to check my mail as I hadn’t checked in three days, I pulled into my parking lot and quickly sprinted to my  mailbox, monetarily, I  drifted back to Monday morning’s Golden Nugget elevator; leaving the mailbox, I trip over   air –  shake it off quickly and flip through the sandwiched stack of mail, now falling, around my feet.

My wind whisked hair settled as I was safely back in the driver’s seat ( literally) of the car where I  phoned the Las Vegas Parking Division who sent me a letter letting me know they lost all my paperwork for my parking ticket ( They cashed my check, yet lost the paperwork the check was STAPLED to.) ( It’s Always Something)

Knowing my  new printer on the fritz, ( It’s Always Something) I headed over to my local copy shop on the corner where I vented to the owner and friend, Becky, about this stupid discrepancy and then realized anyone who works at a copy shop may as well have either invest in earplugs or be as savvy in giving advice as a hairdresser.

There is NEVER any good news in a copy/postal shop. Either someone is returning something that isn’t working, signing a document that needs to be notarized ( custody, divorce, tickets) sending packages to loved ones that reside far away, or just aggravated that they have to go through any of the hubbub that goes down at dealing with the tedious day-to-day paperwork of life. I realized this after bitching to Beck about my own crap, in walks Martha the mouth ( entered talking…)( It’s Always Something) about her package and how she thinks she has the wrong packing tape and how she needs stamps and…. and.. and…

I see poor Becky with her frozen smile, as I glance up from the 1000- word explanatory tome I am writing to the Parking Services department on the cover sheet of my fax. I whisper to Becky ” Wow, you hear all the shit don’t you” ” -“You have no idea”, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

I can tell with the holidays almost here,Becky longs to be with her new grand-baby and the daily grind is getting to her. I have known her for years now. She is one of those day-to-day  familiar framily, the ones you give money to, to listen,the one’s that know more about you than most friends and I have. I’ve seen her happy showing me photos of  the grand-baby grow from ultrasound to birth. I’ve seen her when  we’ve  both comforted each other through crappy divorces, (It’s Always Something)–and have had celebratory hugs on her new engagement.

Kind of like Jeannie , the lady I talk to that works at the market– she always keeps me up on celebrity gossip.

This weeks topic was Tom Cruise and how is now dating what’s her name…. You know, drug addicted, skanky red head,  was in the remake of all the Herbie the Lovebug movies…. whatever her name is…HER— and with arms akimbo ,Jeannie stood her ground stating: ‘Tom completely ruined  Katie Holmes spirit.”; Jeannie shook her head and gave a “Tsk, Tsk, Tsk” as she picked up a gum wrapper from the floor.. I grabbed my receipt and as I dragged my happy ass out of the store, turned back and laughed  and hollered back:  “Tom Cruise is an idiot”, He was right to be gunned down in “TAPS”  Jeannie  slapped her knee, and laughed too; but not a knowing laugh. I have a feeling she knew not what I was talking about.  (It’s Always Something)

I digress,  So leaving Copy-shop Becky, I wave hello to everyone at my nail place , which is next door to the copy shop. They wave me in, but I point to my wrist, ( signaling  “I gotta go…”) which  then I realize I am not wearing a watch. Eh, they got the picture.

I feel relieved I got that crap faxed off to the parking people and even more relieved that I had the good sense to grab my computer while running out of the house this morning.   I know if I went home now I would opt for  A) watching the 20-some, pre-holiday “Hallmark Channel” movies I  already have on my DVR, or  B) look for Alan Alda porn, I opted not to go home.

I am not in the mood for seeing great looking, first world problems of suburban-teen couples unite under the Xmas tree just yet;  Nor do I feel like scouring PornHub or any other site  for videos with guys looking remotely like Alan Alda, because trust me, there is nothing.( It’s Always Something)

Yes-This is my day off.

When (and if) Alan Alda really does decide to do porn , ( and I don’t care if he is old and shrivel-y) or even a look- alike of the Hawkeye Pierce of 1978 ,comes to fruition, I will be the first in line.

But no one today really has that Alda THING… That smarts or those killer greenish blue eyes and that fucking SMILE.

Well-maybe someone. Maybe. (It’s Always Something)

So I opt for coffee at a the local coffee place, and  “Cream of Clapton” which Gary and I used to listen to on the way  to his Grateful Dead gigs just north of LA. Oh so many years ago. Damn you Bell Bottom Blues. I shuffle to ” I Feel Free”.

Gary and I, …We don’t talk much anymore. Which makes me sad because he is one of my best friends. I remember we would laugh every-time ” Hello Old Friend” came on in the car.

He would grab the bag, and  I had the bowl and the light. We’d cruise along  PCH without a care. Good Friends.

Today, almost 20 years later,  I get it, the past year or so there’s lots  been of things on his plate today. Even though he doesn’t have the freedom to talk to me, I am still his friend. ( It’s Always Something)

So here I am, People have come an gone already out of this coffee shop and me…. just here wondering what to write. Clapton is still on repeat in my headphones and my phone and computer are both dying… ( It’s Always Something)

So See, you can have great day, and still there is  Always Something,   and there always will be.  

So Stay Mellow, Go with it. Grow with it.

Pick your  battles, and remember, if it’s going to “ Always be Something” … “Something”  is  a fuck of a lot better with BADGE.


Blog Music Pairing:  “I Feel Free”-By Cream   … and of course Badge ( as above)

Outstanding Job, April!


1986 … had to be the worst year for everything. Clothes, Music, Relationships.

For me, I worked more jobs than I knew what to do with.

I was barely 19 and living in an apartment in Costa Mesa, California. I had zero concept of money or how to remotely live on my own. I remember the guy next door, Dave, worked at the bank and had to teach me how to write a check. Yet, he neglected to inform me it was not like a line of credit. ( Now credit I knew about from watching my mother spend like there was no end in sight). I really thought every time I wrote a check, the bank would just make sure there was money in there, so I was living the high life for a while until I realized how badly I had screwed things up and thought to myself:  ” Holy Shit, I need more jobs!”

At the time, I worked at a pizza place; Bogey’s Pizza. I think as I look back that was one of the funnest jobs I ever had. I was the sole employee, except for the owner and his wife. They were from China and had immigrated here and spoke very little English, but enough that I got a check every week and free lunch every day.  But it wasn’t cutting it to make Home Savings and Loan happy again as my account was “outstanding”.

When Dave informed me that  I shouldn’t be celebrating over my “outstanding” bank reputation, I panicked and looked for a second job. So I walked next door from Bogey’s and got a job at Clothestime too.

In 1986 there were three popular token items every idiot chick was wearing. (including me)  Brightly colored thick-knit, over-sized, chunky-button synthetic cotton cardigans, floral leggings and heels with ruffled socks; and my hiring manager, Colleen, wore them all– altogether… all the time.

Colleen was a handsome gal with thick blonde curly hair, lots of freckles, and a tad on the squat side. Colleen thought she was the band Heart’s, Nancy Wilson incarnate and found the opportunity to do Nancy’s infamous “kick” any time she saw fit. Which was pretty much all the time. Colleen would accidentally “kick” customers ( oops!) ,  “kick” over displays and even broke her toe one time when she “kicked” a mannequin in the tit. We would usually have some warning a kick was coming when she would be humming the song “Crazy On You” or “Never”; we knew then an there to back the fuck up!

As much as I was entertained watching Colleen kick her way through the workday, listening to B-52’s  “She Brakes for Rainbows” on repeat, and hanging up badly fashioned clothing; I still needed more hours I was not getting,  I was tired, broke and my cat missed me.

Arriving home one evening after being hired for concurrent job number three, Patrini Shoe Store… I realized how badly I neglected my apartment and went on a cleaning spree and as broke as I was had minimal budget for cleaning supplies.

There was no 99 Cent store in 1986, we had Pic-N-Sav and I was not going to drive 20 miles to opt for cheap supplies.

At 19 of course I knew everything, so decided to polish my furniture with: Vegetable Oil. (Ok, Shaddup… I was 19 and it seemed to work great- oil was oil right?)So I took out my bottle of Wesson and I worked it into the wood. Everything came up SO shiny and dust free!  I figured it was natural  and it worked….so, done AND done. Until…….

I came home from one very long, very special day at the shoe store, where none other than Jan Crouch came sauntering in to shop. Now, If you lived in Southern California in the 70-80’s then you know exactly who Jan and Paul Crouch are. Especially if you loved your late nights and trashy TV.  Jan Crouch was an over-the-top,  Evangelical TV personality who everyone loved to hate. Her gaudy make up and pink hair, always weepy-eyed, and always wearing  some sort of awful baby-doll style clothing which made her just shockingly noticeable everywhere she went ; and if you didn’t notice her, she would hang around until you did.

Day One, Job three: In walks Jan Crouch. Swaddled a pink and white tulle, wrap-around style pinafore dress, pinkish blonde Bouffant hair-do and sunglasses so big she put Joan Boyce to shame. ( and I LOVE Joan Boyce! Who doesn’t!) So Jan stayed in that shoe store from noon, until closing and bought over 30 plus pairs of shoes; from me! On my first day!

I was so excited, I knew my commission check would cover whatever I screwed up from the bank.  I hurried home that evening as friends were popping in to share the excitement of my celebrated day with crazy Jan Crouch and her holy minion of shoes she acquired. When I arrived at home, I walked in to find to find my cat licking every piece of furniture I had in the house, in a complete frenzy. As much as I tried to pull her away, there was no stopping her. The vegetable oil idea had terribly backfired, as I frantically tried to wipe down the rest of the greasy furniture.

Friends arrived just in time, with their Bartles and James wine coolers and clove cigarettes to witness me, complete disheveled attempting to tame my furniture-licking cat, the only thing that distracted me was the phone.

The manager of the shoe store was calling to tell me I was earning Employee of the Month, on my first day because of my huge sale. Finally!– I would be out of debt and would learn my lesson about what writing checks was really all about.This was way before ATM cards, or any sort of Versa-Tel so it’s all I had to rely on.

Unfortunately, It didn’t really work out for me in the end. Jan’s  reputation was just as “outstanding” as mine. Her check bounced. Which made my commission check bounce; which made the vet’s check bounce from the chronic diarrhea the cat had from its ottoman-licking escapade.

In the end I quit the pizza job… and Clothestime (they ended up closing making way for Wet Seal ) Sadly,Colleen had to to find alternative places to kick. Patrini shoe store closed when the manager was caught stealing and doing Crystal Meth ( ah, the 80’s) and Jan Crouch is probably still crying on TV. ( most likely from a jail cell, for defrauding people out of their hard earned money in the name of the Lord) and It took me a year to cover those fees at Home Savings and Loan. You know, when I finally went in to settle up with them; They had closed their doors. Go figure,

So, I went and bought shoes instead…and they were OUTSTANDING!


Blog Post Music Pairing: “She Brakes for Rainbows” – B’52’s  and   “Crazy On You”– Heart

Free Bitch!


Balls out:  That’s how I am going to start living my life.  This bitch is going to write whatever the fuck she wants.I have gained a certain rawness from certain incidents in my life that tend to stay with me quite a long time.

I am not a “heal overnight” kinda gal; Yet I know some women who are. Whether it be a shitty comment someone said to me, broken friendship, some sort of important business crap fall through, takes me a minute to process what the hell just happened. I have a big heart, I am not a shitty friend or some sort of fucked up sociopath and do not tend to make bad decisions that are not basically, and or obsessively, well thought out.

In the movie “Clueless” Cher states: “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.” That pretty much sums it up when it comes to me and dating. Picky. As dating is fairly new for me per my marital break up two years ago.  Since then I have done a lot of binge-watching “Hart-to-Hart”, (BecauseMrs Hart..She’s Gorgeous)  “Breaking Bad” and pretty much every series that looked remotely interesting without a ten-season commitment, from Netflix to Amazon Prime.

Some women just go through a breakups like they do lattes and move on. They grab their proverbial balls and just move on. For me, I got stuck at Never hundred o’ clock.

What is Never hundred o’ clock? 

Welp,  Never hundred o’ clock is :  a) a time that will absolutely never come or  b) a groundhog-type day/situation that you know will never change. Now, this is nothing like Johnny Mathis’ over-romanticized  trademark vibrato in the song: “Twelfth of Never”, although I wish it was.This is a time or situation that is just absolutely not going to happen.  Ever.

Never hundred o’ clock,  for example, is that time when someone enters the friend zone, on hearing something like: “I am sure glad I met you; you have really have become a sister to me.”.

My ex-husband was king of over-winding the hands to Never hundred o’ clock. Every single day. The wasted sense of hope…and hope, by the way, is wasted energy. I found that out the hard way- it is the love child of worry and what-if : so knock it off with the hope shit. It either is or isn’t. 

I enmeshed myself in that sort of hope every fucking morning of that shit-ass relationship.  The hoping and wishing for any sort of romance, and any smoke-signal of communication to rear it’s head, ugly or otherwise, and it just never happened.

Now don’t get my creative language mistaken for angst or anger. I use it merely to make a case-in- point as I look back with irony and humor, in thinking things would change in a Never hundred o’ clock. situation. Fortunately I found a grain of self-esteem left, and broke out of a really, really dangerously abusive situation.The Alanis Morisette’s song “Ironic” is a great example of Never hundred o’ clock.

With that being said, It seems that I tend to sit in this timezone quite often. Every time I have ever tried to start a blog, I would write like there is someone sitting and watching, begrudgingly, over my shoulder.

This time I am not doing that. I never felt I have had anything worthy to say that any normal person would want to listen to. I realized that I myself, am not a ‘normal’ person, so why would I care? (Insert THC induced epiphany here)

So, I sat on this blog and never published anything.  Sat at Never hundred o’ clock.. for a very very long time. So here I am breaking out  with a fuck of a lot of bravery and huge chunk of vulnerability.

Blog Post Song Pairing: Tenement Funster/Flick Of the Wrist/Lily of the Valley ~ Queen