The Month of February


He's such a great illustrator and I'm just not saying that because he agreed to help me maintain my sanity while I start a new writing project. He's SUPER good. He recently did the art work for Holly Robinson Peete's book, My Brother Charlie. This month is all about honoring Black History and contributing to our children's histories to come.


Pasadena: Saturday A.M.

Saturday I drove to Pasadena for my monthly eyebrow/lip wax. (I have no shame in admitting I get the mustache ripped off.) I love Pasadena days...My lovely lady who does my eyebrows always gives me little hand massages. She does this sound therapy thingy on me and I swear I leave floating on air EVERY.DAMN.TIME. She just radiates goodness and light.

Last Saturday was a bit off though in the place. Chris Brown was in the hizzouse getting his hair bleached out and it was causing a weirdness that I couldn't put my finger on. I left the spot in a hurry which is rare for me. I ran up to my car in the garage, all ready to skedaddle when I saw these trees...and I stopped...and then I swooned.

Gotta love mama nature.

Chocolate and Hummus Distractions

Something's not right...

Last night's Oscars was the first time I didn't cry. It was the first time I yawned...turned away...stuffed my face with chocolate and store-bought dips (that weren't all that) in order to escape the ho hum (and might I add awkwaaaaard) stuff happening last night.

I loved Natalie Portman's speech. She was humble, intelligent, sweet and lovely but that's about it. The rest was a bit forgettable...not even my prom dress and chucks worked I'm afraid.

Thank GAWD for Diva Dara and the ladies of La La Land for their glorious banter and enchanting sass. For without them, I would have been at home...alone...wondering what the heck is happening to my dream and my body...that size 2 high school prom dress was QUITE depressing to 'slip' into.

I came home, slipped into my favorite kind of Tishy wear, and let Lena Horne's quote begin to resonate a bit.

"It is not the load that breaks you down; it's the way you carry it.”

Music Snots Anonymous

I admit it painfully...My guy listens to shit music... You know the crap that has lyrics like "I think you could be my soul mate because you have big breasts and can clap your ass. Let's get romantic. You just kiss my balls through my draws and we'll be happy campers."

I swear on Jill Scott, I'm being punished by the music gods for loving Color Me Bad... I just know it.

Preventative Fashion

To keep your feet from falling asleep, wear loud socks. They can't be beat.


Recently I wrote a rant about the apartment pit of despair we currently reside in. We've been frantically looking for a new place that lacks critters, crawlers, cracks and crust, but to no avail.

We THOUGHT we had found mecca. We use this site called and it's pretty snazzy. It takes the traveling out of the search...but it doesn't give the full scoop. We found this apartment complex in the downtown area of LA and we were so geeked it wasn't even funny. The complex's web site promises indoor basketball courts, a Pilates center, gyms, libraries, pools, bowling alleys as well as granite countertops (tear) and beautifully new non-whack rooms with lots of space.

Then Jersey finds this:  Reviews of Hell Hole Apartment #2 . My little balloon of hope popped and hurt my heart.

Are you kidding me?! Car theft, dirty windows (that one really got me), $500 to use a flippin movie room...Huh?! Wha?!

...And we're back to the grind.

Kindred Souls...

I have a tendency of answering people's morning greetings with farting sounds.

...I'll put my hand under my armpit and then proceed to make real farting sounds. This is how I show them I care. It's also how I show them I'm weird and maybe they shouldn't bother me until I've had my morning cup of java.

I did this yesterday to a coworker and he replied back how weird I was. I said thank you and went about my business.

Yesterday evening I went to my gym class. It's called Butts & Gutts. I love that vulgar, so crass, so ME! So yeah, I'm chillin on a floor mat waiting for the instructor (who happens to be my boo, Jersey.)

He comes in and starts making farting sounds. I've known him for a couple of years now, but I never in that time knew he spoke toot talk.

My heart lit up. Kindred souls indeed...

A Dreamer's Dress Up

This Sunday I plan to dust off the prom dress. (Yep, I dragged that thing from the Midwest all the way to LA because I'm a sentimental twat.) I'll grab a box of tissues so that I can watch the Oscars the way an obsessed wannabe actress is supposed to--in psychotic style.

Jersey thinks me crazy. He refuses to rock his bow tie. (Wonder what crawled up his butt and deemed him normal?!) I LOOOVE the Oscars. I hate that actors say they're just happy to be there and don't care if they win. I LOOOVE the speeches. I hate the pushy rude music meant to hint to folks to shut the eff up. I LOOOVE the clothes. I hate thinking about how one of the stones in their earrings could feed and clothe me for a year...maybe two. It's definitely a love/hate relationship...The best of times and the worst of times.

I named my iPod Oscar Junior. I have a fake little guy on my office desk reminding me to keep dreaming. In those dream it's golden showers of praise. Ew...that sounded R.Kelly'ish. You get the gist, though.

There's no room for rationality. A grown woman will play dress up this weekend. She'll probably toot in her sequins to be honest. It means that much to me. I was driving home from work yesterday and saw an Oscar billboard flashing the countdown time. I did a happy dance in the Flying Tomato and honked his cute little horn. I had a dream a long time ago of me being at the Oscars in a black dress. I was adjusting the strap on my shoe...THAT MEANS SOMETHING! Forget that I probably dreamed I showed up to work sans shirt and bra the next day...STILL means something!

I will pay homage to the dream this Sunday. Don't you call me now! I'll be too busy crying my eyes out-- wishing for a Freaky Friday moment with Natalie Portman. (...And I'm not talking about her 'scene' in Black Swan pervies...I'm referring to the movies where the two women switch bodies. Hmph)

Closer to My Dreams

When I first moved out to Los Angeles (and was desperate for friends) I met this guy who I knew was a bit weird...a bit on the special side, but he asked me to go to this concert with him...He went on and on about this Bay area chick named Goapele so I started listening to her tunes and fell in love.

I ended up with a weird foot injury the day of the concert so I wasn't able to attend, but I never stopped loving that darn woman's music. Her song Closer is my theme song for sure. (Used to be my Myspace profile song...that's how deep my love runs.)

For Valentines Day Jersey got us tickets to her show at the Troubadour and it was everything and then some. She's full of light. Yes, I'm about to get real hippie-like on ya'll! Her energy was lovely. She stood up there in front of all of us and spoke about her past...little stories that explained why she wrote and continues to write. It wasn't long before my eyes were closed and my hips were swaying back and forth. She got funky. She got real. She bellowed out sweet and radiated strength. It was so much more than a concert. It was the perfect love note. (Thanks to Jersey)

That was some kind of night...

This dude...I saw him up in the area where she was getting ready and I said, "That's Dave Chapelle!" and everyone around me kept saying na na...he's too thick to be Dave. Hmph.

Can you detect where the irony is in my decision to keep rolling?

...And then she sang my song and I cried a bit. Some day this song will come full circle for me. That's what it's all about after all, right?


Brokedown Palace


Let me back up a bit. A couple of months ago I moved in with my guy, Jersey, and we thought it would be happily ever after. We'd pick out furniture and merge, purge our former and present lives together. It would be swell...and it would be swell to this day IF we wouldn't have moved to the Satan's apartment complex in West LA.

You thought the Red Dude liked to chill in the slums of India...the hovels in Brazil's City of God....HA! You make me giggle in my head. Dude is straight up hovering around my abode and causing havoc like a mother trucker.

First incident...Red Dude decides when Jersey moves he'll bless him with little friends. He has baby roaches. Joy...We always just see one at a time so we name our little roach Larry. We squish him and smash him to smithereens but the little bastard is as bad as BeBe's kids. He doesn't die...he simply multiplies so FINALLY after a week of hell the landlord sends the bug guy over and he sends Larry and his family to a heaven reserved for the disgusting. We think we're finally in a happy, swell place. Our bliss lasts a couple of minutes and then we notice our faucets in the bathroom annoyingly evil drip that makes you think you're in some sort of torture camp and that little drop is dropping on your at a time...just droppin and droppin some more.

The bedroom closet door breaks off...completely.

The hot water mysteriously comes and goes for days. When it goes cold it comes out in weird spurts and has an orange tint. It also smells like oil. Joyful joyful.

The knobs to the hall closet just decided to fall off one day. I felt like Tom Hanks in The Burbs when that one happened.

The washer took $3.00 of my beloved quarters...

We found out the ventilation system in our place is nonexistent. I tried to cook chicken parmesan and within minutes the whole place was up in smoke. I'm sure my neighbors loved the hour-long battle I had with my smoke alarms.

I'm now drinking seems to be working. I can hear Jersey in the kitchen nuking his washcloth so that he can wash his face with warm water. Ain't it sad?

This is making our apartment search that much more pressing. When it rains, it pours...except in my case it rains orange weird liquid that smells like oil.

Just in Time for Black History Month...

So it's no secret that my guy has the slowest liver known to man. Don't look at his perfectly chiseled bawd because that has absolutely no bearing on the fact that he's three sheets to the wind after one glass of beer. I'm talking LIGHT WEIGHT. Usually this is adorable and cute, but the other night we were celebrating a birthday in Hollywood and he was loopy 20 minutes in. We packed up early because I could tell he was gonna go down HAWD. He got in the car...eyes closed...calm. We pull up to the parking ticket booth and BAM! He hits me with the obnoxious drunkard man. He opens his eyes, looks over at the ticket guy and says, "Thanks Papi!"


Oh.My.God. My people's history is flashing through my eyes. I'm seeing MLK rallies, lynchings, Emmett Till's mama and my small, but significant battles to overcome racism. Then I come to and wait for Mr. Filipino to get bitch slapped by the man who's been forced to flashback to Cesar Chavez.

I've never wanted to jab someone so hard in the throat before. Yes, I'm mixed...Half white, half black, but I'm 100% militant as a muther trucker when it comes to race and race sensitivity. This is what happens when you date me. You pull a stupid and I pull out Eyes on the Prize, The Black List, and a book by Gloria Anzaldua.

Fight the power.

You Need a Test in Order to Have a Testimony...

Last week recap: 

There's always been a sort of melancholy rejection dance I've done whenever faced with dream disappointments: I bawl, hand over eyes with just enough of a crack to look around and make sure the Universe is watching. I ask the Universe, do you see this, Universe? I'm broken...I'm hurt. I'm tested...I'd do this little dance, but I'd still be hiding a tiny bit of joy, hope and optimism in my back pocket...

My dance didn't go so well last week, though. Last week...well, last week the Universe stepped on my pinky toe and then dropped me. hurt! I broke a bit last week. I'm not the first person to ask what my purpose is. Definitely not the first gal to cry over hearing the word no, but I was definitely the first me sitting on a couch trying to give up and forget.

I'm not healed. I just have a need to write that supersedes all bruised ego...unfortunately. I thought it would feel good not to write this weekend. No pressure to face the part of me I deem sucktastic. All I did the whole weekend was think about writing and what I needed to jaunt down. I wanted to drop kick me arse...and then some.

I still don't know if I believe myself to be a writer, but I'm definitely a pen hog. There's no stopping my writing purges. So what will I do next? I've accepted the fact that I don't know and maybe don't need to know quite yet.

I'll let Ms. Editor continue editing my ish. I'll then publish said ish online and see what happens from there. I have yet to figure out what anything in my life truly means...Everyone and their dog keeps telling me this is somehow normal..."No more comparing yourself to others' successes, Tish! No more beating yourself up! Stop pressuring yourself to have it all right this minute!" OK, OK...I get it. (somewhat.)

Man life is hard as balls! I think today I'll pretend like I'm working. Then I'll go home and clean the ISH out of my apartment...that ragamuffin spot. I shall grocery shop and watch at least two of my DVR'ed Oprah's and life shall be a bit more organized. One dang step at a time.

I Moved to Cali and all I got was this Lousy Rejection

I had two dreams. First dream: Become an actress who takes people's breath away. Second dream: Publish a book. Those were the two steady constants in my life. The book thing is a bit more recent, but I've been focusing on that whole acting thing since I was four. It was pretty major.

So...last week I hear from my agent that she's rejected my pictures. OK...fine. That sucks balls, but at least I still have my book to fall back on. My book is about acting and will become a movie and then I'll star in that movie and I'll still win in the end so tinker with that toy trick! So acting dream...deferred, but still hovering in the background of my little hopeful world.

Then today rolled around. Dressed in black (I was totally foreshadowing when I chose my wardrobe this morning and didn't even realize it) I sat at my work desk and skimmed the internet. I hear my phone buzz and I see the letters of the literary book agency pop up. Oh my! Did they get my submission early? I open the email, smile plastered, sparkle ready to shine when I see the words regret, no thanks, you suck (OK, I didn't quite see that one, but I felt it!) and I start to feel warm drips on my cheeks. I'm broad daylight...for all my place of employment folks to see. Crazy dude watching? Yep. He's looking at me like I'm the weird one. I cry harder. In one day I have found out I did not win the bed contest with Jersey and now this. I check my other email from the agent who requested hard copy chapters recently. Maybe I misread. Maybe this is a different agency. Hope builds for a quick second and then...nope. Same agency, different agent.

The same thing keeps repeating in my head...I never succeed. I always fail.

My shoulders start to fall and I'm wondering how I'm ever going to be able to pick up a pen again. Rejection sucks folks. People asked me how I would handle this and for the most part I was a darn good trooper. I handled the negative with grace. I even sprinkled a little sass into the pot--I kept the rejection letters so that when the good one came I could throw each letter back in the faces of the misguided.

This rejection was different though. THIS rejection wasn't normal. They started out liking my book. They had multiple agents asking me for information. I was jumping through the hoops. I thought I was in. Yes, I've heard you're not supposed to get excited at that stage because they could still say no, but for the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE I was actually confident in my talent. I actually believed I had something good and knew they couldn't say no. But they did. My last thread of hope was snipped and I watched helplessly as it gently fell to the floor.

I've been writing this stupid blog for almost six years...written a book that took two and some years. I swear my blood, sweat and tears went into that...When you find out that it's a no go, what do you do with all of that? What do I do?

Picking up a pen or writing more here just seems absurd. What's that saying? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results...


I work with a groovy chick who I lovingly refer to as Boston. Her accent is absolutely adorable...especially when she's speaking Spanish...with a Puertorican/Bostonian accent. Love.It.

She's from a city I've always wanted to visit...the history, the architecture and the colorful folks. I've attempted to get her to open up about that wonderful little city, but the only thing miss thang divulges is that it was cold there. (This coming from a chica who loves to wear as little shoe as possible.)

She's just one of those quirky, wonderful people around the office that save me from knocking my head against a printer over and over again. Recently she plopped a cup on my desk that had me chuckling in my chucks.

Being that I'm a hot tranny mess when it comes to me and the entertainment industry, this gift was quite relevant. Don't ya think?

The iPhone

Have I ever mentioned that I'm poor? Well, I like to tell people I'm investing in myself meaning I'm paying off mounds of debt so I never have the cash to do anything frivolous...that includes shopping for cute shoes, buying fun jewelry and most importantly it means no iPhone just because I want one.

My current beat up mother trucker works just fine. (It just looks like a hot tranny mess.) That means I can't rationalize going out, picking up a new phone plan and totally awesome, mama jamma rockin' phone. It's sad, but whatever. I can't wait for the day when all I have to worry about is which savings account to send funds to. What a glorious moment that will be. That thought gives me a much better high than a pair of shoes I'll wear once before switching back to my beloved chucks that's for darn skippy!

I can deal until I'm confronted with an iPhone user and then my bottom lip trembles a bit. The other night I went and saw a movie. As I was walking in to the theater a group of 16 year old girls invaded my personal bubble in hopes that I would buy them tickets to a Rated-R film I was also going to see. I usually don't do that ish because I'm a wholesome geek and I'm terrified they'll catch me and send me to the naughty girl's jail, but I was feeling oddly brave so I got them tickets. They then proceeded to sit down with me in the theater restaurant as I waited for B.

Awkward to talk to a group of high school chickaroos? Yes. I felt old. Really old. And dorky but I managed to talk them up. That is until they all whipped out their iPhones and then my lip trembled and I had to pretend like I didn't notice that people half my age have the awesomeness my little heart desires.

It's fine. Really...

Just give me a minute to collect my...(muffled cries)

Dara Vision

Yesterday afternoon I met up with my good friend Dara for some much needed gab time. I need that girl's words like Octomom needs her tubes tied. I call it "Dara Vision" and D.V. is some damn powerful stuff when you're feeling sad, but know you're some how contributing to that sadness and need a good, healthy dose of real. Dara brings the real, but she does it gently...with positive intentions. Her advice lacks ego which is perfect if you're looking for earnest perspective.

So I met her and her little one for some D.V. and Porto's over on Magnolia Blvd. We grabbed our cheese rolls (if you're ever in LA I recommend you go to Porto's and get the damn cheese roll. It's heaven and then some.) and some caffeine-friendly beverages and sat down for a good hour to talk about life as we currently know it. I caught up on her new life as a mama. She's handling her new role like a rock star. She has a sense of humor, a strong will and a good heart--perfect mix for a cool mama mia. Her little one sat there quietly staring at all the wonderful new things around him as we laughed and shared the day away...perfectly content.

...And of course I learned some things as well. I learned that there's always two at fault and how it's your job as a big kid with a brave soul to find your fault in the pain. I learned sometimes you just need a "come to Jesus" moment and how you can't control how or who (for that matter) someone is. You can only control how you react to that someone. I also learned that Toddlers and Tiaras is frickin' addicting and even the strong-willed (such as Dara) aren't powerful enough to resist the crazy insanity known as pageant life gone ugly.

Most importantly, I got reconfirmation that sisters don't always come in the same package. Sometimes the best sisters are the ones you didn't meet until high school and then become close to until you both moved out to pursue your dreams in a faraway land.

Some days we allow our hearts to open up full. We perk our ears up and we shut our mouths because we're ready to hear the truth. We're ready to be better human beings. Yesterday was that day for me.

Good thing...any more time and I would have been a mean homeless woman sitting on a neighborhood corner tooting  with sick and twisted pleasure on the happy who happened to walk near me.

Chasing the Unicorn: A 2011 Reality

Bless my beloved buddies...

I think it's not such a surprise that my dreams of one day acting are starting to fade. A good friend decided to write to someone she knows in the business. I think I was more upset for her...realizing it's a shatty time to be chasing the Industry is something I'm used to, but she still has hope for me and wacky ways.

Her friend sent back a so many words:

Well I mean to be honest there really isn't any rhyme or reason to the game. Its quite unpredictable and definitely not color favorable. Its tough right now for name actors to get roles, keep agents, etc. And especially African Americans...its almost like they are trying to eliminate black people from the game entirely. My real answer I want to say is tell her to run and have a normal life...because wasting it chasing the wind won't bring you happiness. However I'm not in the business of crushing dreams so I would tell her to just continue to persevere.
I've been quite an emotional draining drone this week...with an apparent love for alliteration. Dang!

I'm Currently...

...Working on a literary agent request to provide an author's bio among other things...

I've paced in front of the laptop (which has no name) for days now. Yesterday I found inspiration from a Twitter friend so maybe my fear luck will change. Gotta love social networking I say!

"The real question, then, is: What makes a writer? Unfortunately, a few sentences cannot answer that. A writer is made by writing, and by reading, and by living: going to work, and eating, and being bored, being loved and being hurt, being held by your mother (or not), by sleeping, by waking up from bad dreams, by erasing one sentence, and rewriting it, erasing it again. All that, you see, cannot be summed up in a jacket flap."

Now doesn't that just sum it all up and then some?

The picture I shall send along with my packet came in the mail yesterday. That means today I have to stop playing fear factor with my words and just do the damn thing.

Sigh...Will any of this EVER get easy?

A Longing...

D recently helped a sister out and commented on the bed contest page Jersey and I have entered into, found HERE.

The following conversation ensued...

Me: Thanks lol good comment!

D: I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, but it just happened to me over the wknd so I thought I'd share hehehe....good luck on the bed!

Me: What you farted in bed? Lol…or you farted in bed WITH SOMEONE? : )

D: Get your mind out the gutter. I fart alone. hahahaha

Me: I fart on someone. :)
D: My wish is that one day I'd be able to do the same. You're lucky! hahaha

Moral of the story: Never take farting on someone for granted. It's a beautiful thing.

Mean Dreamer

With big kid relationships comes big kid fights~Tish McEffinMerritt

The other day Jersey and I got into a good ole fashioned, real fight. You know, the kind that can shatter windows and stack walls and walls of silence between you and your boo. I was so frickin heated that I didn't think in a million years I would ever find my way out of that maze of mad, but I did. (batting eyes)

It's for that reason alone I can tell you about the funny I made during the mad period. (Some day when I'm a well-known writer people will define my 'periods'...this is the mad period. Remember that.)

So...according to Jersey I allegedly got out of bed, reached over him and grabbed the pillow he was hugging as he half-slept. I threw the pillow on the ground and then got back into bed like nothing had happend.

Can you say psycho sleeper?
OK, I've never slept walk...I talk sometimes, but it's been a looong time so this just takes the cake, now doesn't it? Who does that?! A really mad mama jama weirdo that's who!

Still Deferring...

I'm still pretty butt hurt over the whole agent breaking down my soul stuff...

I'm experiencing some kind of punishment for turning 30 I think. After learning that my pictures weren't good enough (ego blow and then some) I went to the gym and cried on a front of people...who see me around the building. Talk about low moment. (shaking head...)

Here's my take on the whole thing: I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. So for now I choose to do absolutely nothing. I have never been so fearful of moving in my life. J sent me an article of sorts that calls this stationary feeling "surrendering". I'll take that. I surrender to the fact that I have no idea what I'm supposed to do be doing or what's right and what's wrong. How 'bout those apples?

I went for a walk yesterday afternoon searching for something to lift my spirits. I watched the trees blow...I thought of a big fat bumblebee landing on a flower and causing it to tip (for some reason that cracks a smile usually...obese bugs, har har)...looked for leaf prints in the sidewalk. None of it helped.

I'm just quiet. And not a good quiet...all of you out there who have witnessed what my loud mouth is capable of know that's close to impossible. It can only happen when the planets align just so and the Universe reminds me that acting ain't gonna come easy. Who knows what I'm supposed to do with my life. I can't really get away with saying I'm just a young 20 something-year-old who has time and room to grow. This is when stuff is supposed to start becoming more clear. Who says? I say. Where did I hear that? I don't know, but it makes sense in my bones so I go with it.

Living in LA when you're not acting can be so cruel. Success is constantly being thrown in your face. You watch a movie and realize they shot it literally down the street from you. You see actors everywhere...You walk right passed a studio. It's torture. Really.

A Dream Deferred...

Man I had the worst kind of day yesterday. Not only was I dealing with personal problems that are still too raw to discuss in a humorous way, but as I was winding down from my monotonous warty ole work day I received an email from my agent...Let's just say I wasn't a happy camper...

So yeah...Those photos that I was oh-so-geeked about...well because my agent knew they were done by a friend, she's making a big stink. They're good pictures and I did EXACTLY what she wanted, but she probably has some friend on the inside (i.e. they're a photographer looking for work) so she wanted to see if I'd take the bate. She thought I was bluffing when I said I didn't have the cash to be throwing away on new pictures every darn year. Mind you she has YET to book me a job. This is the crap you deal with if you want to be an actor. People with mommies and daddies who can afford to keep shelling out silly fluff money to appease the greedy get ahead because they can afford a grip of new pictures every two weeks to show folks they have the money and they're not doing this for financial gains...they're just seriously that passionate. Excuse me while I barf.

After reading that email from The Agent yesterday I sat at my desk and cried. I've gone from super intense to a deflated hot mess. Five years of this and I'm still right at the beginning. The friend making the know, the one with the real actors in it...he texted me the other day to tell me he was boarding with one of his prominent stars from the flick. Must.Be.Nice.

Is this all a hint? Almost 30 and still wondering what I'll be when I grow up...

*In response to this news my twin in DC (known as Twinkie) sent me THIS

Meet Mr. and Mrs. Excellence

I would normally agree with others like me who are mildly good at most things that people who are great at most things should be locked up in a dungeon...sentenced to a life of wedgies and taunting. I can't really hang with that kind of mean energy though when it comes to Mr. and Mrs. Excellence. These two newlyweds are the quintessential excellent couple.

Not only did they date for years and years long distance and make that ish look sweet and romantic, they recently pulled off THE best wedding I think I've ever been to. So yes, as a couple they are most excellent, but that's not even why I gave them their frickin' names!!!

Last Friday Jersey and I headed down to Long Beach to hang with his gang of buds. (Mr. and Mrs. E are in this group.) We walked into their new place for the first time and my jaw dropped. Like always, Mrs. E touches something and it turns into something totally awesome with taste and art awesomeness pooing out of it. It's almost not fair how much artistic talent this chick has in her little pinky. She's a passionate graphic designer and a total magnet for all things snazzy.

Case in point: I recently went on her Facebook page and saw that she had found some sticks from outside, painted them, and stuck them in beautiful glass jars. VOILA! Instant art. She makes sticks cool. Who makes sticks cool? MRS. E!

Then there's her wonderful husband, Mr. E.

Mr. E is a chef...but not just any old chef. This dude experiments and comes up with dishes that have never let me down. Once he brought a Peruvian yellow sauce to one of our beach BBQ parties to put on grilled baked potatoes. Really? Because sour cream ain't cool enough, right? Dang...

So Friday Mr. E. had this smorgasbord of goodies for us to eat...Some kimchi, these amazing Korean bun thingies that I can't remember the name of along with other goodies including baby octopi. I TRIED A BABY OCTAPUS! You the one from Finding Nemo..."You made me ink!" It was definitely a brave food moment for me, but I can't take all the credit. The dude can cook. I'm pretty confident that he can do no wrong in the cocina. And that little squid was delish BTW.

For dessert we feasted on homemade red wine ice cream (you don't even know!) and macaroons that brought me back to someone's motherland...wherever those darn things were invented...that's where I went.

After dinner the men retreated to the couches for some basketball stuff while the women went up to Mrs. E's (of course) awesome office where we discussed a pal's upcoming wedding and invitation stuff. She has every cool needed for snazzy designing. I realized up there in the little office of snazz that they both excel (and then some) at what they love. How many people can claim they actually rock at what they do for a living? Not many. You'll never catch me saying that...that's for darn skippy.

It's always fun hanging with those two. Inspiration to boot.

Devilish Digs at a Doo Doo Head

Never use your blog for rants!!!
Never use your blog for rants!!!

See my conscious knows what's up, but I'm just gonna go ahead and ignore fairness and justice and all that ish and vent to my little heart's content because you know what? Venting is good for the soul. Venting helps get me through the poop ya'll refer to as life. If those inflicted by my venting have an issue, they can hash it out with me in the comments section. There's where the fare comes in. Nuff said.

So here's the deal. This rant is about Jersey and the wonderful domesticated devil he has created in me. I used to be hard core cool man. I was the chick that didn't care what her dude did. Little things never bothered me. Little things were cute. Now little things annoy the living ear wax out of me and cause me to have to call my dearest friend at 6am in the morning and ask how one man can eat a WHOLE lasagna in one day.


I went to work. I had a craptastically LOOOONG day. I worked out, much to my chagrin. I then came home and instead of relaxing...getting in a nice shower...writing a bit...I passed all things nice and went directly to jail (i.e. the kitchen) and started preparing an elaborate and beautiful lasagna. I sprinkled goat cheese on the top for added flavor for Chef Boyardee's sake!

While I appreciate the fact that FINALLY a dude digs my cooking, I'm not so thrilled that a meal that is supposed to last a couple of days only makes it through the night. WTF!? I live with a 170 something pound man who believes himself to be 300 pounds.

I don't know where this crazed "must eat, yum yum!" Cookie Monster mentality comes from. Was he starved as a kid? Is he secretly a greedy hot mess of a man who thinks he should eat it before I eat it all? I eat like a bird, yo. I nibble and delight in taking leftovers for work. Can a girl get a leftover?! Heeeck naw! She sure can't because that ish is in the tummy of Jersey! The tupperware sitting in my cabinet sings spiritual negro hyms...all alone. Never getting used cuz there's only one dried up stick of celery left in the fridge.

Friends say I should just cook crap he won't like, but that's impossible. The dude will dig anything I put in front of him. I made a mango chicken rice dish once that seriously tasted like Square Little 50s Mamacita with a fear of all things flavorful wrangled that ish up. He shoveled that ish into his mouth in less than five minutes and told me it was delicious. (My head drops in defeat.)

I don't know what to do about this. What will I tell Suze Orman on Oprah's Network when she asks me what I've spent my possible life savings on? I'll tell her I spent it on food...and that I couldn't even really eat it because I didn't move quick enough.

Proud member of Women Against Men Who Eat Too Damn Much

Coachella Homework

I'm going to Coachella again!!! Now that the party in my pants has subsided, I can calmly tell you about my plan of action. You see I feel that it's quite ridiculous to pay all that money to go see a weekend-long concert if you only know like 3 or 4 bands therefore/entonces I am going to try to get hip on as many bands as I possibly can before April 15th.

My darling Twinkie has decided to help me with my specialness by sending me weekly CDs containing the sounds of folks who will be performing.

So far the list includes the Black Keys, Gogol Bordello, Erykah Badu's latest and Mumford and Sons. First I started with the Keys. Once I get a nice and good feel for them I'll switch to Mumford and so on and so on...

I'm going to be that REALLY annoying girl that knows the words to every song at every stage. : )

Poignant Poop, Elegant Earwax

I'm not what you'd call a trained writer. I knew something was amok in elementary school when the teacher was trying her very bestest to teach me to hold my pencil correctly. To this day I rock a pen in an nontraditional...OK,plain out wonky way.

The physical weirdness of my pen-hold says oodles about me and this writing adventure I've been riding on. Am I trained formally? HECK NAW! Could I whip up something totally professional that Oprah would point out as poignant and relevant? Mmmm....probably not, but I do drive to work every day with a story in my head. Like yesterday the title for this post popped into my head. When you have that kind of stuff lightbulb-ing in, you really should share. (smiles)

I go a bit crazy if I don't get to write. I'm seriously addicted to jotting down thoughts. This goes way past the point of blogging. I've been writing in a journal since the tender age of six. I adore writing. I go beluga whale big phat crazy when I get to write about goofy stuff such as poop and earwax.

Someone once said I don't possess a filter. I don't know if it's necessarily a filter I lack. I definitely know when to shut my mouth and how to avoid an awkward conversation. It's more that my soul is completely wide open and I don't fear the topics that others find humiliating...such as tooting in their pants to become one with the world.

I don't mind sharing bathroom humor, a heart break or some random fancy I read in yesterday's newspaper. If sharing is wrong, I DON'T WANNA BE RIGHT!

Recently the FBGs asked me to write some stuff for Valentines Day. It got me thinking about all the stuff we're supposed to list that we love...This year I'm pretty infatuated with writing. Anything to do with writing! Pens, brainstorming, poems, creative processes, books, billboards, ads...I love it all!!!


Not One Mean Bone...


I swear I could have watched these little deadly guys for days without uttering a single word. That's a whole heck of a lot considering I haven't shut my trap since 1984. So majestic...All they have to worry about is expanding and contracting...Moving in and moving out...taking in the world and letting it go.

Sounds like an ideal situation right? Way cooler than a groundhog.

That's my current battle. What to take in and what to let go...I'm working on a request from one of the two literary agents interested in my book. I have to send them a group of chapters, a biography and a one page synopsis. They give me the hoops. They tell me to jump and I ask how high. I looked at my manuscript for the first time in a long time yesterday. That's dangerous. One thing I've learned from reading other authors who have discussed publishing is that you can always find fault with your writing baby.

I cringe every time I read what I've written. My dear editor makes me want to throw myself off a cliff in shame every time I see a comment asking what something means. I don't know what it means!!! I don't know because my writing is a never ending balls of error!

Excuse me while I collect my self respect off the burly brown carpet in my living room.

Does this ever get easier? Oy vey.

The Trip

Ho hum...Back from the beach watching The Truth About Cats and Dogs with the fella and wishing for the sounds of the ocean. Our normal non-vacation abode is 3 miles from the the only sounds we here are our annoying neighbors giggling. It doesn't lull me to sleep to say the least.

We ate good, we slept good, we lived good. That place was surreal...totally beautiful and quiet. We puttered around on our golf cart and planned our next visit. We've decided to make that a yearly spot we visit to recharge our "battries" like they do in London.

Parting with that place was a sweet, sweet sorrow...only made bearable by the thought that we'd return. I want the same spot, the same cart and that same bottle of wine we shared the last night there. We took that bad boy onto the beach and sat (shivering) watching the waves crash.

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