Insane In The Mom-Brain

Facebook Friday Crap and Stuff. April 5th Edition.

2013-04-05T17:48:00.002-05:00

So the email service that I use to send out all of my blogs to subscribers is being a total ball suck. And basically the whole reason that I even write these Facebook Friday blog posts is so that all of my subscribers who aren't on Facebook can catch up with what they missed over the course of a week. BUT since the whole ball suck thing is going on, I don't know if my subscribers are even gonna get this post since they didn't get my last one.

The point is, I could be wasting my time writing this for nothing. So I'm totally having a beer while I'm writing it. Because I deserve it. And also because any time spent drinking a Modelo is not time wasted.

It's been a long day today.

"Why has it been a long day?" you might be asking me right now. And if you are, rest assured you look ridiculous. Talking to your computer screen like a nutball. News Alert: I can't hear you. You weirdo.

The reason it's been a bad day is because, like I said, my email subscription service is acting like a dick and it forced me to read a whole lotta technical computery stuff that my brain just does not comprehend. ANY time I have to read technical jargon is a day from hell.

And then I had to go poop.

Let me set the scene for you:

So I have my 4 cups of coffee and make my way into my church to have my morning constitutional. It's going well. While doing my business I get deeply involved in trying to troubleshoot this whole problem I am having on my blog's subscription site (eff you, Feedburner!) so I sit there quite a bit longer than necessary due to the fact that I finally think I might be figuring something out. Turns out I was wrong. So I finally decide that perhaps spending 20 minutes on the potty for absolutely no reason other than I was busy reading, was dumb. Because my left leg is asleep. More than asleep, actually. More like dead. So I stand up and can't feel a thing and my foot is heavy like a Frankenstein foot. So I turn to exit the bathroom and pull that dead leg with a bunch of force. Too much force. And my dead Frankenstein foot rams into the door frame. I don't feel it because it's dead. But I fall down because the force stopped me so hard in my tracks than I fell. It was like I hit a wall. Because I did. I hit a wall. With my Patti-pooped-too-long dead Frankenstein foot. So I dragged myself to my bedroom to sit down and slowly the numbness wore off and I realized that my foot was swelling. And oh yeah, I also realized that it hurt like a holy mofo. So now I'm sitting around with an ice pack on it, popping Advil like candy, hoping that the swelling goes down and I can stand on it because DUH! I have a freaking Mud Dash tomorrow that I have been looking forward to for months!

"Hey Patti! Why aren't you competing in the mud dash?"

"Because I pooped for too long and my leg fell asleep like a dead frankenstein foot then I rammed it into a doorjamb and probably broke it without feeling a damn thing, and then I fell down without any pants on. Duh."

And there you have it. Bad. Day.

And even though the chances are slim to none that my subscribers actually see this post, I decided that i would write it anyways. Because you have missed a few things. And if you see me and you're all like 'Why didn't you tell me about the freaking poop foot injury?" I can say "I DID! I posted it in my blog. If you really loved me you would check my blog every day just in case you missed something. Thanks for outing yourself as a total jackhole"

So here's what has happened this week in Facebooklandia and beyond:

The podcast of my interview on Hines' Side Show from Springfield's US 97 went up on their website. You can listen to it HERE if you missed it. You can see how dumb I sound and also how I end most of my sentences as if they were questions when they are so totally not. Yes. When you listen to yourself chit chat for over an hour you notice lots of things about yourself. You can also learn about my plans to get into The White House, start a rock band, smuggle drugs across the boarder, sing, and imitate what giant tortoise sex sounds like. How could you NOT listen?

Then on another day, I had this thought about a Maroon 5 song:

My alarm clock is set to the radio option cuz if I get awakened my a buzzer I want to kick people in the face, and if I get awakened by music I dance and sing. Unless it's Celine or Mariah then I wanna kick people in the face. Anyhoo...This morning Adam Levine woke me up singing about how when the daylight comes he has to go, and I laid there for a minute thinking about making out with him and then my brain got distracted by the lyrics and I started wondering WTF he's singing about. I have decided that there are two possibilities: (1) He is singing to his booty call girl. The girl he wants to get down with in secret but will pretend that he doesn't know if any of his friends are around, or (2) He is a casanova vampire who gets it on with all the ladies at night but has to be back in his coffin when the sun comes up so he doesn't explode. THEN I was thinking that if I was a single dude on the prowl looking for hot dumb girls to get down with, I'd totally pretend that I was a vampire because girls get all hot and bothered over sexy vampires so it would be easier to get women, PLUS you have the excuse to not deal with boyfriend type stuff during the day. BOOM!

I just figured I'd add this picture cuz I'm cranky and I need it right now.

And The Boy said this about the book "I Just Want To Pee Alone":

"I read your chapter in the book while I was taking a crap. You said that when I was a baby I was an a-hole and you talked about my poop. That is just so wrong. You're getting famous because you invented me. I'm the one who should be famous."

Then yesterday I told this story about how I didn't get any sleep because The Hub is a wanker:

I slept like ass last night.
First of all I went to bed way too early. Like an old person. It was still in the nines for Pete's sake. But The Hub was going to bed and there wasn't anything good on tv and I was totally bored so I thought "Hey. I am way behind on my sleep so I might as well catch up." Which was really responsible thinking on my part. But when I went to the bathroom to do my before bed pee, there was a big spider in front of my closet staring at me so I yelled to The Hub "Help! Spider! HELLLLLPPPPP!" and he said "Just hit it with my shoe." And he said it all monotone and exhausted and annoyed like only a total wanker would say it. He said it like his bride's life was NOT in immense danger. But I found my lady balls and killed it with his shoe. And it was disgusting. Then I yelled "Thanks for your help, a-hole!" Then I was totally effed up for the rest of the night due to the fact that I have major spider issues and if I see one before bed it pretty much means that the zzz's ain't gonna happen because all I can think of is being Gulliver's Travelled by an army of spiders while I sleep. So I didn't sleep. At all. Until about 6 am. Then my alarm went off at 7. So yeah. Happy Thursday. The Hub is a turd-hole.

And I also wrote a blog that none of my subscribers got because of the whole email service being a total dick situation. There is a link to that blog post RIGHT HERE if you missed it. It's called "Square pegs. We may not fit in round holes, but that's okay. Who wants to be in a stupid old hole anyways? Holes are dark and gross and sometimes there are dead or bitey things in there." And I'm told that it actually ended up being kind of inspiring. Yeah. I wrote something inspiring. Suck on that.

Actually don't suck on it. Read it and share it if you find it inspiring.

And if you don't, THEN you can suck on it.

Patticrest Out.

Psst! My friend Angie is having a contest on her website where you can win some scrapbooky stuff. If you want to enter GO TO HERE.

Square pegs. We may not fit in round holes, but that's okay. Who wants to be in a stupid old hole anyways? Holes are dark and gross and sometimes there are dead or bitey things in there.

2013-04-05T11:00:00.000-05:00

Last week I got an email from a woman who wanted to know if I have ever had to deal with stick-up-the-butt moms judging me because I am so silly and off-the-wall, and if so, did I worry that my being different would make them unfairly judge my child.

My answer to that is Hell. To. The. Yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I have had to deal with that on many occasions.

Way too many occasions to count, actually.

And if any of the uptight Judgy McBitchholes are reading this right now (which let's face it, they sooooo totally are, because the people who claim to hate you are always the ones that obsess over your every single move) I am sure they are now judging me because I used the word "hell" up in here and in their closed little minds the word "hell" is not a word that a respectable mother would use.

What will the neighbors say???

I can tell you with absolute 100% honesty that I do not ask myself that question.

Why?

Because I don't give a flying fuck.

Yes. I just said "fuck."

My usual "frick" just didn't seem to capture the essence of just how totally and completely zero I care about what people like that think of me.

Was I always this way? No. Like most of us I have gone through stages in my life where I wanted to fit in.

When I was in 6th grade and I left my cozy little private school to go to public, I suddenly felt the need to fit in and I wanted to dress like everyone, have hair like everyone, be accepted by everyone, look like everyone, and talk like everyone.

That lasted for about a day.

When your mom forces you to get a new hairdo that "all the cool kids are wearing" and you end up being the new kid at school with the hairdo that nobody but the lunch ladies are wearing, then you know that the whole fitting in thing just isn't gonna work out for you:

So what do you do? You say "fuck it" and you start doing your own thing.

Then you meet kids who also said "fuck it" and are doing their own thing.

Those are your people and you are happy with your people.

I spent the next many years doing whatever the heck I wanted to do no matter what anyone else thought of me. You can ask my dad about that. He will totally back me up.

Then one day, years later, I squeezed a screaming little person out of my in-between.

That is when I went off the rails. Or back on the rails. I guess it depends on your definition of rails.

If you are a mother then you know what happens when you have your first baby: You get a little cuckoo majuckoo.

You want to do the right thing so bad that you sometimes overdo it. I was obsessed with being the perfect mom and making sure that The Boy became the perfect boy.

I read all the parenting books that told me all of the things that I had to do so that I wouldn't screw up my kid. I joined all the headachey mommy and me kinda classes and I met other moms and I tried to fit in and be perfect like them. I tried to wear what everyone was wearing and carry the purse that everyone was carrying and feed my family the foods that everyone was feeding their families and push the stroller that everyone was pushing and throw the awesome birthday parties that everyone was throwing for their kids and be accepted into The Sisterhood of Motherhood.

It sucked.

It took me awhile to let it all go. To realize that if I loved The Boy and took care of him then I was a good mom. End of story. Nothing else mattered. I didn't need every other mom in a 50-mile radius to agree that I was a good mom. I knew. The Hub knew. The Boy knew. Everyone else can fuck off.

Oops! I said it again.

After I dragged my ass out of the Stepford Motherhood I started to speak my mind and be my weird little self again.

One day when The Boy was about 4 I took him to a McDonalds playland and he got into a little scuffle with another boy in the dreaded tunnel of germs.

I was sitting at a cluster of tables with a bunch of other moms and The Boy came up to me crying and telling me that some kid was hitting him. I told him to go back into the germ tunnel and tell that kid that it isn't nice to hit people and that he wanted to be friends. A few minutes later he came back to the table and told me that he did what I said and the kid hit him again. I told him to try again. He did. The kid hit him again. And he came to the table to tell me again. So I asked the women at the tables which of them was the mother of that kid. One woman said that she was, so I asked her if she would talk to him about hitting The Boy and she said "Boys will be boys." Okay. Sure. And pissed off moms will be pissed off moms. So this pissed off mom told The Boy to go back in the tunnel and if that kid touched him again he should hit him, kick him, push him, scratch him, do whatever he had to do because that boy's mom says it's ok for boys to do that.

That's when all the women at the tables let out a collective gasp and that mother said I had problems and I said "No. Actually I don't. I have a super sweet kid who is nice to everyone. You are the one who has a problem, and some day that problem will be bigger than you. So good luck with that."

Even the women at the table who were my friends, were horrified with me. Actually I think they were more embarrassed that I had spoken my mind and stood up to a table-o-bitches, because they wanted to fit in with them. I didn't care about fitting in anymore. I wasn't 16 and trying to get in with the cool crowd like in some John Hughes movie. I'm not a mindless suck-up and I don't care about your Mercedes SUV and your million dollar house and your full time maid. If you're an asshole I really don't mind telling you so.

This was a turning point for me. It made me realize that I was still the person I had always been. I have been an independent thinker since birth (again, ask my parents) and I have never been afraid to go my own way or speak my mind and motherhood didn't have to change that. Trying to fit in with the herd was going to make me a worse mother, not a better one, because that would be teaching my son that it's not okay to be yourself. It would be teaching him that you have to do what the "popular" people are doing. It would be teaching him that you have to fit in.

Guess what? Trying to force yourself to fit in super sucks.

It's much more awesome to find the people who are gonna like you for you. It's freeing to just say what you think and do what you do and not worry about someone getting all butthurt about it.

I deal with this in my own neighborhood sometimes. I deal with this on my Facebook page too.

There are people who don't like me because I make jokes about something they might not think is funny. There are people who don't like me because I drop an "F" bomb now and then. There are people who don't like me because I talk about nonsense. There are people who don't like me because I talk about poop. There are people who don't like me because I think that sometimes kids are assholes. There are people who don't like me because I act immature or silly or weird. There are people who don't like me because I want gay people to be able to get married. There are people who don't like me because I want women to have the right to choose. And guess what? I don't really mind if people don't like me for those things. Because those are my things.

And that's what I want to teach The Boy.

That as long as you are being true to yourself, it doesn't matter.

If people don't like who you are, that's okay. Anyone who doesn't like you for being yourself isn't worth knowing anyway. You will find your people. And they will be people who like you for you and not for the things you have or for the person you are pretending to be. And in the meantime you have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of who you see. You are with yourself 24/7 until the day you die so it's kind of important that you like yourself or shit can get old really fast.

End of story.

Facebook Friday Fal De Ral

2013-03-29T20:57:00.003-05:00

Is "Fal De Ral" a real word? Falderal? Whatever? I am way too lazy to look it up. Doing the dictionary thing is way too much Fal De Ral for me. See what I just did there? I used it in a sentence. Seriously though, I have no idea if it's a real word or not. Alls I know is that in my family we use it all the time. It means nonsense or waste of time. I totally think it's the perfect possible word possible non-word to describe my Facebook Friday blog posts. Actually, it's the perfect possible word possible non-word to describe my entire blog. A big pile of nonsense and a waste of your time. Boom!

Why I'm proud of that I have no idea. But I am.

So last Friday Fox News Houston was at my house to do a segment about the book I Just Want To Pee Alone. If you read Monday's blog post (here) or are on my Facebook page then not only do you already know what I'm talking about, but you are totally and completely sick of hearing about it. And I'm sorry. I really am. But you have to comprehend one thing: This is a HUGE deal for us. I'm talking level 8 outta 10 excitement. I mean, it's not Oprah or Ellen or Jerry Springer or anything, but it is exciting. So you're just gonna have to deal with it for awhile. Capish?

Another thing that happened last week is that the letter that I wrote to Felicity Huffman (read it here) about how she was stalking me in L.A. and how I would like for her website to review our book, actually got me somewhere. I received an email from one of the writers on her website What The Flicka who came across the blog I wrote about the letter. She forwarded it to Felicity and to the editor of the website. Guess what? They liked my letter and are most likely going to review the book! I will keep you posted on how all that goes down, but the Felicity email plus the email I sent to Sebastien Million and the blog I wrote about Jason O'Mara all prove that sometimes being weird does pay off. Score 3 points for the weirdos of the world!

Thursday I did an interview with Hines' Side Show from US97 (Springfield's Classic Rock) back in my old town of Springfield, MO. Home of Brad Pitt and Cashew Chicken, and the place where I once got trapped inside my own car for over an hour. It will be available for you guys to listen to via itunes or something like that. You guys know that I really only half listen to the details about these things and never have any clue what's going on. All I know is that it will be available on Monday. I will post the link when I get it. The interview, chat fest, whatever it was, was fun! I really don't remember a lot of details. It's like a weird dream after too much Mexican food where you only recall bits and pieces such as maybe you said something about smuggling black tar heroin in your butt or possibly mentioned that you wanted to be the first lesbian first lady. It's all a bit fuzzy. But I guess we'll find out on Monday.

Over the weekend I told everyone on Facebook about this artist that I have loved for years and years named Dolan Geiman. Twice a year every year I stalk him at the Houston Art Festival. I am obsessed with his work and too afraid to talk to him and too cheap to buy anything. Yes. I am afraid to talk to him. I know that shocks people but it's true. Well this year I talked to him. Okay okay. He talked to me first and instead of throwing something at him and starting to cry and then running away like my instincts told me to do, I talked back. And we talked about my favorite piece of his. And then The Hub bought me that piece. And then I nearly peed my pants from giddiness.

Me and my new BFF Dolan and my birds. I look calm but I was giving my deodorant a real work-out and trying not to pee my pants.

Moving on...

Popular Facebook Statuses from the past 2 weeks:

-I want to eat all of the Reese's Eggs of the world. I could live on Reese's Eggs. The ratio of chocolate to peanut butter is magical perfection. If Baby Jesus had an angelic chicken in that manger these eggs would have come from that manger chicken. Magical Jesus manger chicken eggs

-So you know you've made the small time when your home town newspaper's online edition gives you a special corner for your blogs to go. Yes. My entire hometown gets to see me write about surprise buttsecksing inanimate objects and having the nervous poopsies. Suck on that all you a-hole girls from high school who were mean to me. And that one boy I liked who didn't like me back and now looks like a hobo. And Dear Mean Math Teacher, I still don't know how to do algebra and things are going ok. xoxo Patti

-Mom, I don't wanna hurt your feelings. But some of the girls at my school have bigger boobs than you. Way bigger boobs.

The Boy
A middle schooler

-The Boy either wakes up happy and ready to roll or totally ticked off and whining about everything and saying things like I wish the whole world would explode because that's better than going to freaking school. One never knows which boy they are going to get on what day. It's a total crap shoot. Five mornings a week I climb up the stairs wondering what fate awaits me. I always sing. I hope against hope that I will get the perky boy so I always sing a song about waking up. Sometimes he throws something at me but I keep on singing. I just change the lyrics to reflect the fact that he's being a turd. I wish there was a way to know which version of The Boy I was getting every morning. Like when my alarm clock goes off it could have a little robot voice say "The Boy is happy" or "The Boy is freaking pissed." I just want a warning so I don't always walk down the hallway looking all nervous and stressy like the Green Mile guy on his way to the electric chair. But less giant. And a bit more pale.

-There was a grey cat in my yard so I went out to meet him. He was very sweet and told me his name was Sam P. Bellyrubbins. So I'm standing there talking to him and The Cat comes up to me and rubs my leg then looks at Sam. Sam was super calm and just laid down and purred. I said "Sam this is Gypsy and you guys are gonna be best friends!" Then The Cat pounced on Sam and he ran into the bushes next door. Then The Cat walked the property line between the yards. Back and forth back and forth, and kept looking at Sam like "I dare you to cross this line you furry mofo." I am very disappointed. I thought we were gonna have a cat party. I thought The Cat was friendly. I had no idea she was the neighborhood bully.

-It's the First Monday after Spring Break. the Boy has spent a week staying up until all hours and sleeping in. The Boy's schedule is all effed up. The Boy's body clock is confused. The Boy does not want to go to school. School sucks. The Boy does not want the kitchen light on. It's freaking killing his eyes. The Boy does not want a cinnamon roll. They are too small and he will be starving to death by lunch. The Boy does not want an orange. The oranges are dry. The Boy does not want chocolate milk. That's a ridiculous question. The Boy does not want The cat to look at him. She looks at him weird. The Boy does not want The Dog to lick him. It's creepy. The Boy does not want those birds outside to chirp. They're too noisy The Boy does not want the earth tp spin on it's axis. That makes us have days which make us have school. the Mom wants coffee. the Coffee is the only chance The Boy has at survival.

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A few weeks ago I collaborated with my friend (and the designer of my blog banner) Sebastien Millon to create something for a charity auction. My friend Sheila over at Mary Tyler Mom is raising money for a charity called St. Baldrick's which helps to fund research for a cure for childhood cancer. Sebastien and I put our brains together and came up with this:

That's little cartoon me with a little cartoon spork holding hands with a little cartoon unicorn during the little cartoon Zombie Squirrel Apocalypse. I love this long time. It's an 18x24 inch print on archival paper, signed and dated by both Sebastien and myself. It's a one time printing and says 1/1 next to the signatures. It is available for bidding RIGHT HERE and the auction ends this Sunday, March 31st. ALL proceeds go to finding a cure for childhood cancer so it's a good thing!

That's it for this wrap-up. Thank balls. Because The Boy is all up in my bidness right now and my blog is acting up and changing the font style and size on everything I am typing all willy nilly and I feel like stabbing it if only I could stab a website because it's annoying the BeeGees out of me. So I'm out of here, you guys. Have a great Easter Weekend and eat a crap load of those Cadbury Cream Eggs so I don't have to look at them anymore. They truly disgust me. The inside looks like yolk. How is that even appetizing? I don't want my chocolate resembling chicken fetuses. Thank you very much.

Anatomy of a TV interview. AKA how to look like an idiot forever.

2013-03-25T12:31:00.003-05:00

So as most of you guys know, I am a co-author of a new book that is out called I Just Want To Pee Alone. And as most of my Facebook followers know, I just had my dorky television debut Friday on Fox News Houston. And as most of my Facebook AND blog readers know, I am not normally a fan of doing things like this. I have a history of turning down everything media-related that ever comes my way. Not that people are banging down my door with one of those big fireman door buster downer things or anything, but I have been asked to do a few things here and there and I always pass. A couple of months ago when that casting agency in L.A. asked to interview me I said yes and actually followed through. That was me forcing myself to do things I don't want to do because I realized that seriously, what's the worst that can happen? You might look like a ding dong for eternity? Your video will get satellite bounced into space and the aliens will watch it and either want to zoom down and kidnap you to be their Queen or zoom down and kidnap you to dissect your brain to try and find out what the hell is wrong with you? Yes and Yes. But really, what's so bad about that? Although I'd rather not have my brain dissected, it IS for Science. Even if it's for Alien Science. Science is Science, you guys. Alien or not. And is that really so terrible? Well, yeah. I guess it is. But oh well. What's done is done.

So without further ado, I give you "The Night That 3 Muthabloggers Made Themselves Look Like Dorks." You can either watch it on the screen below or click the big-ass "My Fox Houston" link to go to their site.

Ok. Since that all went by so fast (Thank Balls) this is where I break it all down for you.

First of all, here is what you look like when the reporters are pulling into your driveway. Yes. YOUR driveway. Because they want to do the interview at YOUR house. Which means that you have to clean everything so that everyone watching TV doesn't judge you for being a mess. And since it's at your house, you also have to try to fight the nervous poops that you get while waiting for the reporters to come because if you give in to them at the last minute, your house will not smell good. It's a lot of stress, preparing to have a news segment recorded in your home. And trying to hold in your poopsies. Which is why you look like this:

Yes. I am beautiful. I can read your mind right now so I know that's what you were thinking. There's no use in denying it.

So the reporter and the cameraman came into my house and got right down to business. Cameraman Rodney tells me to go to my office and pretend like I'm writing on my Facebook page. But guess what, you guys? I am not Tori Spelling. I can't "act" like that superstar can. One can only DREAM of having such talents. So I actually slowly wrote a long FB status and did not pretend. I think that's called Method Acting or something. And I think it means that I am actually on the level of a Daniel Day Lewis (which is a few levels under Tori Spelling but is still respectable) and it also probably means that he might want to make out with me if he sees this.

LEFT: Me pretending to type and actually typing since I suck at pretending to type.

RIGHT: Awkward close-up that no cameraman should ever do to a woman who is 41-years-old. Plus, now everyone can see how big my nose is and I am dying a little bit inside. (I don't actually have a giant circle and arrow on my face. That is from a still shot of the video. I just wanna clarify that.)

Here is what I was actually typing while pretending to type but really typing:

I am supposed to be pretending like I am writing a blog right now so they can film me for the news. I am typing. I am typing. I am typing. I am typing. Yay! I think I am doing a great job! I am very proud of myself for pretending to type for so long. This is very difficult. I am running out of things to type. Let's talk about what kinds of beer I like. I like Modelo. I like Pacifico. I like Ruby Red Bird. I like Shiner Blonde. I like Tecate. I like Dos Equis. I like most Mexican beers. Especially with lime in them. I like my rims salted. Especially with that spicy salt that I buy at Specs. I also like Margaritas. I like the skinny ones. I like the spicy jalapeno ones too. Those are good. There is a place here in Houston that makes them with cilantro. It drinks like a meal. Ok I think they are done now. This was vey hard!

Here is what showed up on my computer screen on the news:

So next, Reporter John wanted to interview me in my green chair because Cameraman Rodney likes the green chair. He likes it a lot. But he also says that he doesn't know why he likes it. I sit here in fear that The Cat is going to pounce onto the back of my head because the back of the green chair is her special place, and sometimes she can be a real bitch about claiming ownership of her special place. Kinda like me and my potty. So I'm sitting here concentrating on staying still, focusing my ADHD brain on the questions and actually answering them correctly, and not ending up wearing a Surprise Cat Hat.

My noggin stayed free of flying feline, but instead she walked around in front of me during this interview giving me the look of death and meowing at me non-stop. The girl was pretty wound up from the time Cameraman Rodney entered the premises cuz he called her fat and it hurt her feelings. Due to all the concentration I was using, I look stiff and serious as hell here. And I could totally hear Kelley in the kitchen telling Rachael that she drank too much. That's a lot of distractions, you guys. Distractions that I managed to ignore. So basically, this little segment used up the entire 2013 allotment of calm, concentratey, seriousness that I have for the entire 12-month period. Thank balls. Cuz I am NOT a fan of it, and Rachael was slightly disturbed by it. My cousin Becky also said that this was the most serious she had ever seen me in the history of my entire existence. It's really quite difficult to watch.

Next, Reporter John (or actually, Bossy Cameraman Rodney) told us to all sit around the kitchen table to have a drink (or two) and answer some group questions.

LEFT: This is when Reporter John asks us who we think is the funniest out of the 3 of us. Like we are gonna answer that. Like we are idiots who don't fear for our lives or are unaware that if we answered "me" we would look like egotistical doinks on TV. I mean, we all wanted to say we were the funniest. We were all thinking it. And I guess that Kelley missed the memo on the whole "think it but don't say it" thing, because she said "Patti has the most followers but I just think I haven't been discovered yet." I think you can see the look of pure outrage on my face as I point at her with my shock finger.

RIGHT: This is where Kelley starts making boxes. Like she's a mime or something. A really bad mime because she talks while she mimes and everyone knows that talking while you mime is the first sign of a bad mime. This is also where we all make fun of her for making boxes and Rachael accuses her of being drunk.

LEFT: This is when Rachael started making facial expressions that she hates. Facial expressions that she blames on having had alcohol in her system. But I know Rachael. I know Rachael sans alcohol. Trust me: Rachael always makes these facial expressions. She just doesn't know it because it's not usually on TV.

RIGHT: This is when Kelley keeps making boxes. She won't stop. And I make facial expressions that I hate. But unlike Rachael, I am self-aware and I realize that I make them all the time. Except when I am concentrating on being interviewed in a green chair while The Cat simultaneously contemplates face-raping me.

This is when Cameraman Rodney sets up a little still life of olive oil and wine and our book. Why? Who knows why Cameraman Rodney does what he does. Maybe he wants the viewers to think that mom bloggers like to get drunk and read while slathered in olive oil. Or maybe Cameraman Rodney is an aspiring painter and he just wanted a screenshot of this so he could paint a watercolor of it later. I don't know. I am not inside of Cameraman Rodney's bald head.

This is beautiful. I mean, seriously. Don't look at it too long or you will feel really shitty about yourself. THAT is how awesome I look here. I think that this is what happened after I asked Reporter John who edits this segment. I was just thinking that they could take this footage of 3 lovely mom bloggers and turn it into anything they want. Maybe it would end up being a piece about the "Whore Moms Of Houston" and they could take a shot of me with my legs spread (I am acting that out here) and say I was propositioning the cameraman or something. You never know how these things are gonna turn out. Never trust the media, you guys. You know that the media is responsible for making the Kardashian family look like idiots when in reality they are all shy, demure, and geniusy Neuroscientists.

This is at the end of the segment. This is after Reporter John asked us if we ever get recognized when we are out and about. I was pretending to be Kelley pushing a grocery cart through the market while loudly singing "I'm Kelley! From Kelley's Break Room!" so that everyone would know who she was. I sing pretty, you guys.

This is a still shot from the segment above that Reporter John sent to me during editing and asked me what I would give him if he didn't use it. I said "Use it! That's the real me. It makes up for the Fear of Face-Rape/Serious interview at the beginning. Use it." I bet he wasn't expecting me to say that. I like to keep people on their toes. Well, that plus the fact that I am way more embarrassed by the serious part of the broadcast than by the crazy parts at the end. In the beginning I was all Cindy Brady on the gameshow episode of Brady Bunch. Minus the awesome crown of braids. And with the addition of a possible face-rape by a cat. Although she kinda does look like she's about to be face-raped or murdered or something. Who knows what was going on behind the scenes of that show. I mean, Mr. B was gay and Mrs. B. was making out with Greg. So maybe there was a face-raping cat in their midst.

After the filming was over, Reporter John and Cameraman Rodney stuck around for a LONG time to chit chat and tell us stories about how awesome they are. Here is a photo of us with Reporter John. Notice the Zombie Baby and Flat Bieber photo bombs:

This is when we were attacking Cameraman Rodney and he was embarrassed because Rachael had just said "My breasticle is resting on your arm."

Shortly after this, Kelley realized that she was missing a boob. Not a real boob. That would be weird. One of her fake "chicken cutlets" that was shoved in her bra so that her boobies would look perky on TV. That's not weird at all. This marks the first time that anyone has crawled around my house looking for a lost boob under my furniture. I think she was rockin' one boob throughout the entire interview. Or maybe it fell out while she was miming those boxes. You might wanna go back and watch it again to see if you can tell.

For the sake of The Boy, I would also like to point out that he did get on TV. He was begging me to let him be on the news but I said no. I thought this was enough. He said this wasn't enough. He also said that I was only on the news because I invented him and my invention of him was what made me funny. Then he acted out a whole scene for me and The Hub about how he could get on TV for doing nothing just like I did. The Boy is a gem.

So that's is. That's the breakdown of our TV debut, and our shot at prolonging this exposure as long as we can. I am waiting on a call from Matt Lauer. I know it's coming. I'm sure that it was the singing and dancing at the end that got his attention. I am ready for my Today Show Surprise Buttsecksing of Matt Lauer debut. Dude should prepare himself, too. Cuz like I said, I used up all my seriousness in the first few seconds of this thing. I have none left. It's all singing and dancing from here on out.

This morning I also played reporter and Reporter Patti asked Reporter John for a quote about his experience with us. He said "I'm just glad I didn't get sporked for asking the wrong things." And "The most fun I've had with 3 women with our clothes on."

A BIG Thank You to John Donnelly and Rodney Cameraman (I don't know his last name and he probably prefers to keep it that way) for being so great. Also, please go check out my fellow Houston contributors to the book I Just Want To Pee Alone (which you can order HERE or purchase at Blue Willow Bookshop in Houston) at Rachriot and Kelley's Breakroom.

The Facebook Friday Wrap-up that isn't even a wrap-up and was written only 75 minutes before it was officially Saturday.

2013-03-15T22:51:00.000-05:00

Today is Friday. On Friday my new thing is to do a Facebook Friday Wrap-up situation which is basically when I pull a fast one on you and "write" a new blog post by just cutting and pasting a bunch of crap from my Facebook page onto this blog and voila! New blog, mofos.

Well, now that there is less than 2 hours left of Friday, and I HATE waiting until the last minute to do things, I sat down to get my act together and guess what? There isn't really anything from my Facebook page this week that's even worth cutting and pasting. This week was a slow week. I was super unbelievably busy trying to hustle my book here there and everywhere. And pretty much every Facebook post I made was some version of "Yo! Go buy this freaking book before I have an aneurism! Or before you have an aneurism from me talking about it so much!"

In between all that blabbering, I did come up with what I think is an amazingly brilliant way to get some publicity.

Yesterday my sister was in my yard and she found a big bone and she was all "WTF is this bone doing in your yard?" And I was all "I have no idea, but it's awesome! Do you think it's a person bone? Man, I really freaking hope it's a person bone!" And she was all "Why do you want a person bone in your yard?" And I was all "I've spent an entire week trying to get local publicity for this book, and the city of Houston is being a major dong sucker about it because if it doesn't involve a high speed car chase or a shooting or an oil well or a cold snap or something then they don't give a frick. The temperature might get below 40 tonight? Winter Coldpocalypse 2013! We now interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to talk about mittens! But 3 Houston mom bloggers co-author a book with a bunch of other mom bloggers and it instantly hits the #1 spot on 3 Amazon charts AND iTunes, therefore proving that mom bloggers are real writers and a force to be reckoned with in the world of publishing? Crickets, y'all. So basically, if I found a person bone in my yard, I could call the cops. If I called the cops, the news would find out. If the news found out, they'd interview me. If they interviewed me, I'd be holding my book up in front of my face and be all 'I was walking around the yard with this best selling book that I co-wrote, when suddenly me and the best selling book that I co-wrote found this person bone, at which time me and the best selling book that I co-wrote screamed bloody murder like that one woman did in this best selling book that I co-wrote when she was having that baby!' and then the whole finding a person bone thing would be totally worth it."

So later in the day when The Hub got home from work and went out to work in the garden, I asked him if he could go ahead and dig in some other spots around the yard to see if he could find any bodies. Then he looked at me blankly. Then I told him why I needed a body. Then he said no. Then I picked up the possible person bone to show him and it unfortunately turned out to be a rawhide. Probably from the dogs next door. So that kinda super sucked. Then I asked The Hub if he knew of anywhere that we could score a dead body to put in our yard to pretend that I found. He didn't answer me. I like to think that he didn't answer me because he was trying to figure out where to score his wife a dead person, but I think he didn't answer me because he thinks I'm an idiot.

The man just doesn't have the kinda geniousness that I have. And that makes me sad for him.

And today I was on Facebook in my book group discussing different things that we could do to get publicity, and someone mentioned that Felicity Huffman has a mom website called "What the Flicka?" and did anyone have any connections there. So I said, "Well, one time at LAX she tapped me on the back and said 'Excuse me' because I was blocking her from the luggage carousel" so we decided that I'd be the one to write to her. Ya know, since we are practically BFF's and all. So here is what I wrote:

Hey! Felicity! Remember me? Of course you do.

I "met" you at LAX in September of 2005. Are any bells ringing? If they are, that's not an ear defect. It's my unforgettableness coming through.

You see, I was at the luggage carousel waiting to grab my bag before someone stole it. God knows I travel with some amazingly great underwear that any hobo would be happy to own. Suddenly I felt a tap on my back and heard a woman say "Excuse me." and I turned around and BAM! there you were with your hubby. I was all, "WTF are those guys doing getting their own bags? Don't they have a person for that?" I mean, P-Diddy (or whatever the heck his name is now) has a dude whose only responsibility is to follow him around with an umbrella. And seriously, not to be ass kissy, but you guys rock way harder than that clown (but don't tell him I said that cuz he probably has a dude whose only responsibility is to beat people up).

Although I didn't speak to you guys, I'm sure you remember me. I was the really tall blonde with giant eyeballs who smelled like Vanilla and was trying to act like Felicity Huffman asks her to excuse her every day. No big deal.

To make things even weirder, 2 days later I saw you at Ellen when you were a guest the day after the Emmy's. You wore your jammies. I wore an evening gown. Why was I there and why was I in an evening gown? Because I wrote Ellen a poem about poop and got to be her Emmy and show guest, and the producers were all "Hey! Wear your dress to Ellen. Ya know, the same dress you wore to the Emmy's last night for infinity hours and sweated in like a pig." Needless to say, I was jealous of your jammies and no longer smelled like vanilla.

ANYWAYS, long story not so short, myself and a ton of other awesome mom bloggers wrote a book called "I Just Want to Pee Alone." We are currently at the top of 3 Amazon best seller lists and itunes. We knocked Tina Fey out of #1. I love her immensely, but damn that felt good.

I, on behalf of all of us, would like to request that you read the book and tell us what you think. We LOVE your site and would be proud to be mentioned on it. You're probably thinking to yourself "There are over 30 women in this book and they asked THIS freak to contact me? Holy hell!" Yes. Yes they asked me. THAT is how we do it.

I'll be waiting for your email telling me that you've been thinking about me every day for 8 years. Don't be ashamed. I get that a lot.

xoxoxo,

Patti

I'll let you guys know when she calls.

And now, for the winner of my free, signed copy of the book.

CARRIE COBURN!!! You won the book. I already rubbed it all up on The Cat's junk. I hope you don't mind. I will write something really fantastical inside of it and send you some Clorox wipes. I have sent you an email. Please email me back with 7 days or I will be gifting the book to someone else. THANK YOU and congratulations!

I will be giving another book away soon. Stay tuned for details. I haven't thought of the details yet or else I'd give you them now. Heck, I just now came up with idea to give away another book, so for Pete's sake of course I don't have any details yet. Calm the frick down!

LMTFA: It's fake serious business

2013-03-11T16:55:00.000-05:00

When The Boy was a toddler I suffered through a long and serious bout of LMTFA.

For those of you who aren't in the know, LMTFA (Leave Mom The Frick Alone - Syndrome) is a disorder in which the mother of one or more small children makes the critical and life-saving decision to pretend that she has an extreme irritable bowel disorder so that she can hand her child (or children) over to someone else and sit in the bathroom ALONE for endless amounts of time. The LMTFA sufferer usually spends this time reading, chatting on the phone, texting, Facebooking, or playing Angry Birds. The LMTFA sufferer NEEDS this time alone in order to keep her sanity after never-ending days of being endlessly touched, pulled, prodded, yelled at and cried on every damn day of her life. The LMTFA sufferer MUST have this time alone so that she will not lose her shit and end up selling her offspring on ebay to the first bidder. Or even worse, advertise them for tradesies on Craig's List in exchange for a few boxes of Girl Scout Cookies.

When I had LMTFA I read the complete works of Pat Conroy and Joyce Carol Oates, as well as countless issues of Entertainment Weekly and Us Magazine. Every time I read the "Stars: They're Just Like Us!" section in Us Magazine, I was hoping to see a photo of someone like Demi Moore sitting on her toilet reading some book about Kabbalah while one of her kids slips a piece of paper and a pack of Crayolas under the door and asks her to draw a rainbow. Let's get real here: The BS they put in that magazine about how so and so pumps their own gas or goes to the mall "just like us" is lame-o-rama. If they wanna make us think celebs are anything like us at all, they need to show Gwyneth's perfect little Apple pitching a fit in Whole Foods because she wants some freaking Toll House cookies instead of Quinoa. I'd also like to see Halle Berry's little angel throwing her body against the bathroom door with enough force to break her own bones, while Halle tries to drop a Deuce so that she can fit into her Oscar dress.

THIS is real life.

When The Boy was younger, I never got to poop or pee alone. And I'm the kinda person who, if you talk to me while I'm trying to go, it crawls back up. That's right. I've got potty stage fright. And back then I got interrupted at least 9 outta 10 times that I tried to go. It was worse than living in my college dorm and sharing a bathroom with 30 girls. I don't want an audience when I'm trying to drop the kids off at the pool. Bathroom time is my Zen time.

So, just like in college, I would sneak off in the middle of the night and do my business in secret. Then, nearly every day as soon as The Hub would get home from work, I'd hand The Boy off and say "Thank God you're here! I've GOT to go to the bathroom! Something is really wrong!" and off I'd go to my library. The Hub would keep The Boy away from me because he was under the impression that there was some serious stuff going down in there. Occasionally he would come knock on the door and ask if I was okay, at which point I would make some moaning noises and say something like "It's not good. It's not good at all! Walk away! WALK AWAY!"

In reality I was usually just sitting on my throne, fully clothed, reading The Prince of Tides or an article about how Janet Jackson is addicted to coffee enemas.

It may not seem like an honest thing to do, but it's what moms all over the world do on a daily basis. It's almost impossible to go to the bathroom when a little hand is desperately reaching under the crack in the bathroom door trying to touch your feet because if you are out of their sight for 5 seconds they might combust. When you have a child you usually can't even pee without someone walking in or screaming outside of the door. So we do what we have to do so that we can stay sane. And believe me, our husbands and kids need us to stay sane. We run shit. If we lose our marbles you're all screwed.

^^^^THAT, up there, is a long-winded roundabout Mom-Brainy way of telling you about the new book that myself, along with 36 other amazing mom bloggers, have written. The title is the most perfect title for a book by and for moms EVER in the history of book titles. That's just a fact. And I told you that story about my history with LMTFA so that you can contract a case of it and read this book from the comfort of your own throne.

I am thrilled to be in this book with so many funny women. Each of us has our own writing style and our own stories to tell, so there is totally something for everyone. We're all very proud of it, and super honored that Jen (from People I Want To Punch In The Throat) asked us to be a part of it. And guess what? The book is doing great so far. Check THIS out:

If you wanna order a copy you can do so HERE. That link includes all the different places you can get it. And while you're on Amazon, read the reviews. They're pretty good. If you read the book and like it PLEASE remember to give us a review and tell your friends. It REALLY REALLY REALLY helps us if you leave reviews and spread the word. Click the share button at the bottom of this post and Facebook it, Google + it, Tweet it, email it, Pinterest it, whatever. Word of mouth is everything.

This week I am giving away paperback copy with a special little note inside from me and a picture of me rubbing it all up on my booty. Okay. Maybe not that second part. Maybe I'll just have my unicorn, Lord Burgess Atwood, sprinkle it with the power of unicorn magics. Whatever floats your boat. To enter to win a copy, please comment on this blog with your FULL name and email address. I will pick a winner at random on Friday, March 15th, and announce the winner in my Friday Facebook Wrap-Up post.

****Winners of last week's contest for the Zombie in a Bottle are: Lynn (no last name given), and My Train Has Jumped the Track. I have emailed you both. Please respond by Sunday, March 17th, or I will give the prizes to someone else****

Here is a list of all the amazing women who are in this book with me. Check them out.

People I Want to Punch in the Throat 
Insane in the Mom Brain 
The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva 
Baby Sideburns 
Rants From Mommyland 
You Know it Happens at Your House Too 
The Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess 
My Life and Kids 
Bad Parenting Moments 
Let Me Start By Saying 
Frugalista Blog
 Suburban Snapshots 
Ninja Mom 
Four Plus an Angel 
Honest Mom 
Binkies and Briefcases 
Naps Happen 
Kelley's Break Room 
Toulouse & Tonic 
HouseTalkN 
Hollow Tree Ventures 
The Fordeville Diaries 
Snarkfest 
Mom's New Stage 
Nurse Mommy Laughs 
The Dose of Reality 
The Mom of the Year 
Life on Peanut Layne 
Momaical 
Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine
 Confessions of a Cornfed Girl 
I Love Them Most When They're Sleeping 
Random Handprints
RachRiot 
You're My Favorite Today 
Funny is Family 
My Real Life

Facebook Friday! It's a 2 Week Wrap-Up because I totally didn't do one last week.

2013-03-08T15:20:00.001-06:00

Last Friday I didn't do a weekly wrap-up because I joined in to help my friend Mary Tyler Mom do her blog blast to raise money for St. Baldricks. If you missed it, make sure you go back and read it HERE and donate a little money if you can. It's for a great cause.

Anyways, today's wrap-up is a two week version.

Popular Facebook Posts:

I was getting new tires on my car and the dude told me that I was getting $75.00 back cuz they're having a rebate sale, so I said "Woo hoo! Do I want to go to a strip club or get a cheap hooker? I have big Decisions to make!" And he said "You're really gonna tear it up, huh?" And I said "Heck yeah! It's free fun money!" You shoulda seen the looks on the faces of the people behind me in line. My friend Jeanette happened to be there getting a tire fixed and I think she was proud to be associated with me. Or possibly horrified. But I'm gonna go with proud.

If Bohemian Rhapsody comes on and you don't drop everything to sing the heck out of it at the top of your lungs, I don't think we can be friends.

In my status bar Facebook keeps asking me "What's happening, Mom-Brain?" and it's starting to annoy me. What is this? 1978? Where's Re-run? Where's Raj? Or maybe it's a Sixteen Candles reference? If so, I wish FB would drop the Mom-Brain and just call me Hot Stuff. You're smothering me, FB. It's like an annoying, overbearing boyfriend I had in high school who was always staring at me and saying "Whatchu thinkin' about?" and then I'd say "How I could kill someone and make it look like an accident" or "I'm trying to start a fire with my mind." Dear Facebook, What's happening is that I am on my 4th load of laundry, packing for a trip, trying to pre-make some meals for my family, write a blog, and I just picked my underwear outta my butt. What's happening with you?

The Boy has decided to have a Flashback Monday and watch some Max and Ruby, so I have decided to bash the tv in with a sledgehammer. Or maybe I'll just leave the room. I guess that seems like a calmer way to handle it. The only good thing about this situation is that The Boy has finally started analyzing the show. He just asked me where their parents were and said it was really lame that their Grandma lived down the street yet didn't seem to give a crud that her 4 and 7 year old grandkids were living totally alone. My theory has always been that Ruby murdered their parents because she is a controlling beeotch and they were cramping her bossy style. They are buried underneath the sandbox in the backyard. I think Grandma, and everyone else in town, knows what happened and is afraid to do anything about it cuz Ruby will kill them next. I'm pretty sure I'm right about this.

So in carpool I was rockin' out to some Gnarls Barkley and The Boy had the nerve to say the following:  The Boy: Oh my god, mom. Your voice is shredded. It's like, really, really crappy. Me: Duh, I have a cold. The Boy: Oh wow. Wow. Wow. That's like the most epic lie I've ever heard.  Me: Lie? Why would I lie about having a cold? I have a cold! My voice sounds funny because my throat is sore. The Boy: I hate to tell you this but your voice sounds like that all the time. You really didn't know that? You really think it's because of a cold? Wow, mom. That's just so sad.  Then he tsked me. He totally tsked me

I woke up feeling amazing. My new bed makes me sleep like little Baby Jeebus swaddled in a blanket woven from the hair of magical unicorns in a bassinet full of angel feathers and myrrh.   Then I woke up The Boy.   The Boy has turned it up to eleven, and is now lying on the couch where he keeps pulling his legs up over his head and farting, asking me a crap load of "Would you rather's?" and just in case that wasn't enough to make me wanna vomit, he's watching Max and Ruby again. Grandma keeps laughing for no reason.cI think she is high in this one. If I was that bitchy bunny's grandma I know I would be. Now I think we know what she grows in her garden.  Any just one more FYI: The Boy just said to me, and I quote, "Mom, why do you look so much older in the mornings?

Other Nonsense:

-My friend over at a blog called Kelley's Break Room does a fun little segment on her Facebook Fan Page called "What's in her bag?" and she invited me to dump my purse ans hare the contents with her readers. Don't be frightened.

-I was in New Orleans last weekend with my friend Stephanie, and we had a blast. I had some good Facebook posts during that trip, but I didn't include them in this wrap-up because if I can get my head outta my ass I'll be writing a full blog post about those shenanigans next week.

Contest Alert:

In honor of you guys being so awesome, I am giving away an item from my purse. It's the Zombie in a Bottle. They are made by Sparkly Pony and sold on Etsy. She has been kind enough to donate the one that I have in my purse, as well as 2 more to give to my readers. All you have to do to enter is comment on this post and include your email so that I can contact you to get your mailing address. 2 winners will be chosen at random by using the random number generator. I moderate comments so they won't publish right away. Please only comment once. (Here is a link to Sparkly Pony's FB Page)

Contest ends Sunday the 10th at midnight. Winner will be announced Monday the 11th.

Good Luck!

And last but not least, the book that I am in is now available. Here is the cover:

It is already #9 on Amazon's Parenting and Family books list and we haven't even advertised it yet, so we are all pretty proud. To order it go up to the tabs under my blog header and click "Buy This Book!" or look at the right sidebar and click on the picture of the book cover. If you like the book after reading it, we would LOVE it if you would take the time to give us an Amazon review. If you hate it, just shut yo mouth. Deal? (If you are on a mobile device and can't see my sidebar OR header, click HERE to go to Amazon to purchase on Kindle or in Paperback)

Here are links to just a few of the lovely bloggers that are also featured in the book. Check them out!

Nicole of Ninja Mom Blog

Rebecca of Frugalista Blog

Anna of Random Handprints

Johi of Confessions of a Cornfed Girl

Bethany of Bad Parenting Moments

Everyone knows I hate chain mail. So if you give me a chain mail it pretty much means that you're trying to harm me, because you know that I will break the chain. So basically it's like you're trying to commit murder by proxy. Nice try, suckers.

2013-03-05T18:16:00.004-06:00

So I just found out that my friend over at the It's Cool to Be OCD blog tagged me in some kind of chain mail blog post where you are supposed to answer a crap ton of questions on your own blog or suffer death by freak chain mail-breaking accident. Well, since I like my friend and I hate dying, I decided to do it. Then, just when I sat down to try to pay attention and answer all that BS, he called me. He was all "What are you doing?" then I was all "Well, I just sat down to answer all that bullshit then you called me so chances are it's never gonna happen cuz you know what happens when I get distracted" and he was all "You HAVE to do it!" and I was all "I'm never gonna do it!" But I'm doing it. And I'm doing it 3% because I want to make him happy, and 97% because I don't want my ceiling fan to fall on me while it's a high speed and chop my head off, cuz THAT'S the kind of freak accident that happens when you break a chain, you guys. Did you see that guy that got eaten by the earth while he was asleep last week? Most people were saying "Oh my God! That's awful!" And yes, it WAS awful. But what's even more awful is that my first thought was "I bet it was a freakin' chain letter" and my second thought was "That's just the kinda BS that would totally happen to me. Especially since I just got a new bed and it's the best freaking bed in the whole wide world. It'd be so snarky of The Universe to let me have the best week's sleep of my life and then be all She looks so relaxed, time to feed her to the Earth's core!"

But, like I said, I'm doing it. Here they are.

WHO ARE YOU?
(Who who who who)

1. Where were you born?

I was born in an iron lung where my mother, an ex-prostitute, was confined after contracting some kind of whore disease from Keith Richards after she gave him a freebie after a concert one night in Cincinnati. Keith Richards is not my dad, though. My mom was already knocked up with me when she let Richards violate her free of charge.

2. Were you named after someone?

Yes. I was named after Patty Duke. Ya see, my mom's whore disease gave me a secondary baby whore disease that caused me to be blind at birth, and since my mom was a big fan of that Miracle Worker movie, she thought it only fitting. Unfortunately, she spelled it wrong and gave me an "i" instead of a "y." Also unfortunately, or fortunately, I regained my sight at age 27 minutes when the doctors realized that my baby whore disease was just a bunch of vagina junk that was caked onto my eyeballs. A few swipes of a damp washcloth and holy miracle worker, Batman! I could see.

3. How many children do you have?

I have 5 but I only raise one. The other 4 are being raised by their father, Jon Bon Jovi. I allow his wife to pretend that they are hers.

4. How many pets?

How many pets...what? How many pets do I have? How many pets does my 2nd cousin have? How many pets are on the planet? How many pets does it take to change a lightbulb? This question is confusing and incomplete and I refuse to answer it. Next.

5. What's the worst injury you ever sustained?
The worst injury I ever sustained was when I was about 15 and innocently walking through my backyard when suddenly my brother Peter threw a football to my other brother Bobby, and that wussy jackhole missed it and the ball hit me right in the nose. It wasn't broken, but it swelled up like a sonuvabitch and I looked hideous. So hideous in fact, that it ruined my chances of going out on a date with this popular guy named Doug. Thankfully, I had dumped a dork named Charlie to go out with Doug, and Charlie was desperate and nerdy so even after my nose swelled up the size of a potato, Charlie still took me out and I even got a free meal outta the deal. Unfortunately, I couldn't taste the free meal because when your nose gets swollen shut you kinda lose your sense of taste. But it was free and free shit rocks.

6. Do you have any special talents?
Seriously? Are you actually asking me this question right now? Name a talent. I have it. I am the most talented woman on the planet. I hula hooped for 6 straight days once, without stopping. I didn't even sleep. I even caught, killed, and cooked my own food while hula-ing the hell outta my hoop. I wore a diaper so I could just go boom boom in my pants. Then, I whistled and sang lovely music like Snow White and some birds would fly over and change my diaper, all while I was hula-ing up a storm. I have about infinity more talents, but I won't list them or else you will feel super inferior. That's another talent of mine: Making people feel good about themselves.

7. Favorite thing to bake?
Seriously? Again with the incomplete sentence? This time I'm gonna give you a break and assume you mean what is MY favorite thing to bake. The answer to that is anything that can be baked in a Holly Hobbie oven. Nothing tastes as good as something that's been cooked with lightbulb power.

Oh. Hell. Yes.

8. Favorite food?
God. Here we go again with the incomplete. MY favorite food is anything that I don't have to pay for or cook myself.

9. Would you bungee jump?
No. No I would not bungee jump. Why? It's ridiculous. It's asking for trouble. Basically, a bungee is just a giant rubber band, right? Well, I use rubber bands all the damn time, and guess what? They break. They break easily. So am I gonna tie myself to one and jump off a building or something stupid like that? Frick no.

10. What is the first thing you notice about people?
If they're wearing clothes or not. If they're wearing clothes, I notice that. If they're not, I notice that too.

11. When was the last time you cried?
I don't cry. I'm not a little bitch.

12. Any current worries?
If you are asking me if I am currently worried about anything, the answer is yes. I am worried about when the frick this questionnaire is gonna be over. And if you are asking me if I have any current worries, as in, any worries about the current, I would say no. If I were on the river I might. Strong currents can be a bitch. But I am in my house. There is no river here.

13. Name 3 drinks you drink regularly.
Everclear, absinthe, and the blood of baby mermaids. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Baby mermaids? I've never even seen a baby mermaid!" Of course you haven't. I take them all and drink their blood. That's how I got so awesome.

14. What's your favorite book?
I don't know how to read. My pet monkey is actually doing this questionnaire for me.

15. Would you like to be a pirate?
No. But I'd like to DO a pirate. Jack Sparrow, call me!

16. Favorite smells?
(a) Again with the incomplete sentence, (b) Not poop. Seriously. Anything that doesn't smell like poop is cool.

17. Why do you blog?
I don't. My monkey blogs. See question #14.

18. What song do you want played at your funeral?
This question is irrelevant to me, because I am not going to die. Why the hell do you think I drink all that baby mermaid blood? It's not for the taste. Duh.

19. What is your favorite thing about yourself.
My ability to talk people into doing stuff. Stupid stuff that makes them look silly.

20. What is your favorite hobby?
Stamp collecting. But the "s" is silent. I collect tramps. I keep them in my attic.

21. Name something you've done that you never though you would do.
Answer this questionnaire.

22. What do you look for in a friend?
See #19. I look for someone that I can talk into doing things. And beer. I look for someone who has a beer fridge that they keep stocked with Modelo.

23. What are your favorite fun things to do?
Knit. Make dinners from scratch. Read the good book. Clean. Do laundry. Wait on my family hand and foot. Pick up hookers. Smoke crack. Beat up Girl Scouts in my Girl Scout Fight Club. Not necessarily in that order.

24. What are your pet peeves?
When my friends send me questionnaires. Also, the earth eating me and my bed while I sleep. Which is mainly why I am answering this questionnaire.

25. What's the last thing that made you laugh?
Thinking about how pissy my friend is gonna be when he reads my answers to this questionnaire.

Psst! One more thing:
I am in a book that is coming out Monday. I am in this book along with many amazing mutha bloggers. Do me a solid and check out a few of them.

Kim of Let Me Start By Saying
Toulouse of Toulouse and Tonic
Susan of The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva
Julianna of Rants from Mommyland
Tracy of Momiacal

Donna Day!!!

2013-03-01T07:00:00.000-06:00

Today I am taking a break from regularly scheduled programming i.e. ridiculously long-winded and "wtf is she talking about?" kinda rants, in order to be a part of something special.

My friend Sheila, AKA Mary Tyler Mom, has asked me to join in on a special event called Donna Day. On Donna Day various bloggers take to their computers to honor the memory of Sheila's daughter, Donna, and help raise money to fund cancer research. Sheila has written about her family's experience with pediatric cancer in a series called Donna's Cancer Story for Chicago Now and The Huffington post. Not only is Donna's Cancer Story beautifully written, but it helps to shed light on the realities of pediatric cancer and give people a connection to this horrible disease.

Here are a few staggering statistics:

More US children will die from cancer than any other disease, or many other diseases combined;

Before the age of 20, 1 in 300 boys and 1 in 333 girls will be diagnosed with cancer;

worldwide, a child is diagnosed ever three minutes;

the cure rate for the most common form of pediatric cancer, ALL leukemia, is as high as 90%, but most other childhood cancers do not have that success rate, e.g., brain tumors have a 50/50 cure rate, and some, like DIPG, are known to be fatal with no known treatment or cure;

73% of kids who survive their cancer will have chronic health problems as a result of their treatment and 42% will suffer severe or life-threatening conditions like secondary cancers.

I am no stranger to cancer. Like most people, I've lost family members from this disease, and I would venture to guess that all of us know too many people who have lost family and friends. And when the person who gets cancer is a child, that hits everyone like a ton of bricks. Kids aren't supposed to get sick. Not like that. Childhood is supposed to be carefree and happy. All that kids are supposed to know about doctors is that they occasionally make you take yucky, pink, medicine, and give you shots. Kids should know nothing of chemo, hair loss, pain, loss of limbs, or death. Kids should know nothing of hospitals at all.

When I was a kid I thought hospitals were just for old people. That's how it should be. Hospitals are where you go after you've lived a long, happy life. Hospitals are where you go after a magical childhood of believing in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Clause, and the Easter Bunny. Hospitals are where you go after countless birthday cakes, parties, and presents. Hospitals are where you go after you experience puppy love, real love, and marriage. Hospitals are where you go after you've had children, and they've have children, and if you're lucky, those children have had children. Hospitals are where you go when you feel like you've done it all. Hospitals are where you go when you're old. Not when you are 2, 4, 10-years old and are just beginning.

Last fall I was emailed by a woman name Jamie, whose daughter was going through treatment for bone cancer. She told me that they enjoyed reading my funny stories, and she thanked me for making them laugh during such a difficult time. I get lots of email like this, but this particular one really struck me because Caitlyn was only 12-years-old, which is nearly the same age as my son. The fact that Jamie and Caitlyn were taking the time to tell me "thank you," during their darkest time, hit me pretty hard. After chemotherapy, amputation of her leg, and more chemotherapy, the cancer spread to Caitlyn's lungs. Her family was told to take her home, make her comfortable, and enjoy the time they had left. Caitlyn passed away on November 28, 2012.

This is Caitlyn.

I think we all tend to shy away from stories like this. People don't know how to handle it when someone's child gets sick. Nobody wants to think about the fact that it could happen to their own kid. That's a thought that no parent ever wants in their head. As a mother I know that I often shut down when I hear story like that, because I don't want to imagine it being my child. Our minds can't even bear to think about it. So we don't. But I think we have to think about it in order to comprehend the reality of this disease. If we keep a numb distance from it, although it protects our minds, it actually hurts the chances of finding a cure. We have to put ourselves in their shoes in order to realize that we can help. This could all end. If more money is given to research, this could all end.

The purpose of Donna Day is to raise money for St. Baldrick's Foundation, which funds more in childhood cancer research than any organization except the U.S. government. On March 30th, Chicago will be hosting the second annual head shaving event for St. Baldricks. This is an event in which people voluntarily shave their heads in order to inspire people to give donations. How ballsy is THAT? Especially for a woman. To shave your head in honor of these children who lost their own? It's amazing to me to think about. I only WISH I had the nerve to do it. But if you are a wussy like me, you don't have to shave your head. You cam donate in support of the people who are way braver than us. You can donate in support of the children who had no choice. Last year the Donna's Good Things team had a goal to raise $20,000 and ended up raising $79,000. THAT was an amazing feat. This year, since they have lest shavers at the moment, the goal is $30,000. The oldest shavee for the team this year is an 89-year-old woman. And guess what? her daughter will be doing it too, for THE SECOND TIME!

To help support the Donna's Good Things team, PLEASE click HERE to donate. No amount is too small. Seriously. Every penny helps. And if you want to shave your head, GO FOR IT! And get a unicorn tattooed on your head and really own the heck out of it! And send me pictures! I won't show anyone. I swear! Seriously, who would I possibly tell????

Also, do me a favor and read Donna's Cancer Story HERE, then read this piece HERE. It is honestly one of the most touching things I have ever had the pleasure of reading. These stories not only made me count my blessings, but they inspired me to do what I can to help others. I hope it will inspire you as well.

Thank you all. I know some of you get a little bummed when I don't write about the funny nonsense. But this is more important. And the fact that so many people come here to read my nonsense means that I have the platform to trick a ton of people into reading about something important. THIS is important. But just in case you are pissy about being tricked, here is a picture of a tiny turtle named Turtle Fingeroni. He's Italian. He's a badass. He's in the mob. If you don't donate to Donna'a Good Things/St. Baldrick's, he might break your legs. That's not a threat, It's just a fact.

Facebook Friday/Crap You Mighta Missed: Ghosts like boobies, and The Hallmark Channel Sucks balls.

2013-02-22T16:29:00.002-06:00

I started this last week, so you should all know the drill. This is a lame-ass post about some lame-ass crap that you may have missed if you are a lame-ass who isn't on FB or are a lame-ass who IS on FB but doesn't pay attention to my lame-ass.

The following is just some crap that happened in my mega-exciting life this week:

-There was an estate sale in my cul-de-sac last week, and I had a VERY difficult time fighting the urge to dress up like an old lady and go rub my butt all over everything, possibly even toot on some of it, and just see what happened with that, AKA how long will it take me to get kicked out. But if there's one thing you should know about me it's that I'm lazy, so instead of doing it I just looked out the window and daydreamed about doing it. Most people (including the one that I am married to) probably think I made the right choice. Those of you who think I made the wrong choice, are enablers. And enablers are the kinda people that my parol officer says I should stay away from.

-I had some pain in the muscle of my inner hip/thigh area, so I got the bright idea to put some Biofreeze on it (which is like an amped up version of Icy Hot) and then go sit on the couch, wearing big honkin' loose pajama pants, legs all akimbo, and the Biofreeze ended up getting all up in my in-between and pretty much mentally scaring me for life. Now every time I pass an old person in the market and get a whiff of their Ben-Gay I'll probably clutch my nethers and run. Kinda like a Nam flashback but with less guns and rice paddies and more vagina fire.

-I was home alone and thought that someone was trying to murder me. Again. But it was only a cop looking for someone who was probably trying to murder me. Or maybe he was checking on the neighbor's house alarm going off. Or maybe I didn't ask him what he was actually doing, since once I realized it wasn't someone trying to murder me, I didn't really care anymore. Unless I am directly involved, I don't want to be in any way involved. That's just my way.

-I had cramps from hell this week and realized that the combination of Trader Joe's Chocolate covered orange slices, a heating pad, Midol, and a Brady Bunch marathon, can work WONDERS! At least until you get super excited that part one of the Hawaiian Tiki Trilogy has begun, and then after that episode is over, the muthaflippin' Hallmark Channel decides to go straight into re-runs of Frasier.

Dear Hallmark Bastards, Every Bradyphile knows that the first installment in the Tiki Trilogy is just a necessary set up for the 2nd and 3rd installments which are THE INSTALLMENTS OF AWESOMENESS and involve the Peter/Tarantula incident as well as the Vincent Price is Gonna Kick Your Ass in the Cave, incident. To deprive a viewer who is holding a heating pad on her shedding uterus, the closure of seeing the final two episodes, is to dance with the devil. You are dead to me.
xoxo,
Patti

-I re-posted this ecard I made a long time ago, because it has become an interwebbian sensation. It has gone totally viral. It's like a mega-whore carousing Vegas with a bad case of The Herp in full herp-bloom. But in this case the mega-whore got her head chopped off and nobody could identity her, because the quote from this card has been sluttin' all over the net, but without my face. Or link. Or credit to me in any way, shape, or form. Why? Sometimes the only creativity people have is to steal the creativity of others. We call those people, assholes.

A few Facebook Statuses You May Have Missed:

I had my first lady boner for a car. I know dudes get hardies for automobiles all the time, but until now, I have never cared. I saw a new Aston Martin Sedan that had leather seats so buttery I wanted to talk with a Paula Deen accent and lick them. And at $207,895 it was amazingly affordable*  

* If I go on a bank robbing spree or start selling the Magical Rainman/Gambling Unicorns that I'm breeding on my Ranchicorn.

Ya know how dudes yell trash talk at the tv when they're watching sports?That's what I do when I watch House Hunters and some bitchy woman looking at million dollar houses is complaining about the size of a tub or the color of the floor tiles. And if I'm watching an episode in a tropical location, I'm a bazillion times worse. The kitchen is a bit small? The. Back. Yard. Is. A. Private. Beach. Where. Magical. Mermaids. Frolic. And. Dolphins. Do. Air. Flips. Nothing makes me wanna spork a ho in the ovary like house hunters

My alarm didn't go off this morning. Possibly due to the fact that I didn't set it last night. But I'm still not quite ready to accept responsibility for this total and complete eff up, so for now I'm going with this: One of our house ghosts turned off my alarm so that i would oversleep cuz that particular ghost is a perv and he likes to touch my junk when I'm out like a light. One of the other ghosts told me about it once with brain wave, ESP communications, but I believed it because that particular ghost that told me that is a nun. Well, she WAS a nun. I mean, she's dead as a doornail now. So I doubt she's doing much nunning. And one time my brain waves said to her "If you're a nun, how come the big man hasn't beamed you up yet? You stayed a virgin your whole life for him and you don't even get to frolic on the gold streets with a fancy unicorn?" and she said it's because he left her in my house to protect me from the boob-touching ghost. I mean, Booooooooooooob touching ghost. That sounds more ghosty. Anyways, I told her it ain't no big thang, cuz guess what? You can't feel ghost hands rub your booooooooooobs, so it's no skin off my nips. Then she brain-waved the big guy and he beamed her up, so now it's just me, the booooooooob toucher, the naked albino, and the bad breath bearded dude.   So to summarize...my alarm didn't go off. It wasn't my fault. A ghost did it. Good morning!

I'm watching the episode of The Brady Bunch where Alice goes on a vacation and her cousin Emma comes to take over. First off, I'm pretty sure that was the first and only vacation that Alice got, like, ever. Second, I bet she went to one of those Hedonism resorts. Third, can't Carol freaking take care of her own house and kids for one damn week? I mean, the kids are all big. What the hell would she have to do? Lazy bitch. Fourth, Emma is a drill sergeant and she makes them do calisthenics every day. Fifth, who the hell even says "calisthenics?" Sixth, the person who played Alice also played her cousin, which makes it look like they are super inbred cousin/sisters or something creepola like that. Seventh, She wears some kind of bow tie and jumper situation and it was totally Marsha's duty, as the hot and fashionable one, to give her a makeover. But my guess is that would gone horribly awry. Remember when marsha gave Molly that makeover and she ended up hotter than Marsha? Emma probably woulda ended up hotter than Alice and stolen Sam the Butcher and then it woulda been a girl fight all up in there. Except I'm pretty sure that Emma was a lesbian. Maybe her and Carol woulda made out? Eighth, The pants that Cindy is wearing at the end of this episode are bullshit and they are giving me seizures. I thought I'd have 10 of these, but my uterus hurts and my sister's dog is growling at me cuz I told you guys about the butt stamp situation, and I need chocolate, so I'm out.

I actually woke up on time this morning, but I am still cramping like a mofo and The Boy had no clean jeans, so I had to do Laundry even before I had any coffee. So I'm sorta thinking that this day isn't off to the greatest of starts. I texted Chocolate Thunder to inform him that I wasn't gonna work out today due to the fact that "my mofo uterus is shedding like a pissed off snake" and he said that might be too much information. Personally, I don't think it's even close to being ENOUGH information, so I will probably write him a poem about it later, cuz sometimes when I am menstrual and feeling blah I also feel really poetic. Kinda like a Bukowski/Shel Silverstein sorta combo, which may sound strange, but hey, it's also kinda strange when one of your organs peels off and falls outta your lady tunnel once a month. It's kinda like your body is re-enacting that elevator/hallway scene in The Shining. Don't push my buttons, yo. You don't want this elevator landing on your floor.  P.S. Send chocolate and muscle relaxers.

So in car pool I had a conversation with The Boy and his friend about which one of us was the most ghetto. Believe me when I tell you that it was a fascinating conversation. After The Friend and I argued about it for awhile, and I did some rapping about why I was the most ghetto, I was feeling good about my win. Then when The Boy said "I'm not really sure what it means to be ghetto" he pretty much fell outta the running. And then there were two. Then when The Friend told The Boy "It's kinda like Goth but with more rapping" I was sure I had this thing won, and I said so. Then The Friend said, "I may not know the exact definition of ghetto, but I do know it's not you." To which I replied "Whatchu talkin' 'bout?" To which he replied "You need to realize that you're all nice and pink and happy and fun and unicorny. THAT'S YOU. You are unicorn. And unicorns are not ghetto.

There. Is. Something. In. The. Wall. Behind. My. Bathroom. Mirror. It is morse coding me. I don't know much about morse code, but using what I can remember from Hogan's Heroes, it's saying "I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP AND EAT YOUR EYEBALLS THEN MY WHOLE FAMILY WILL LIVE IN YOUR FACE HOLES!

So last week I mentioned that there is a book coming out next month, in which I have a story. Well, that book is called I Just Want To Pee Alone, and I would like to start sharing a few of my fellow Motherbloggin' Authors that will be in the book with me, so you can check out their stuff and get familiar with their awesomosity before the book comes out and I force you to buy it. Sooooooo...

This is a blog by my friend Rachael over at Rachriot. It's called "Eye Carumba" and it's full of awesome and topped off with a sprinkling of Ice Castles and a few or Robbie Benson's hairs.
Read the hell out of it HERE.

This is a blog by my friend Jen over at People I Want to Punch in the Throat. It's called "For My Secret Valentine" and it's about her non-lesbian love for Tina Fey. It makes me totally not feel so bad about my blogs/love letters to Norman Reedus and Mike Wolfe.
Read the hell out if it HERE.

Facebook Friday - AKA Amazing crap you may have missed.

2013-02-15T18:08:00.000-06:00

I know it sounds effed up and wrong you guys, but it's totally true: I have lots of blog readers who don't read Facebook. I also have lots of Facebook readers who don't read this blog. The latter is way easier for me to understand. On Facebook everything is condensed and quick. I mean, sure, I AM one of the most long-winded Facebook status writers OF ALL TIME (an official title that I just now gave to myself, and that myself accepted from myself with a fist bump and an air hump with myself), but still, compared to a blog post, the statuses are pretty short. My Facebook page is basically a condensed version of my blog. It's also the reason that I went from posting an average of three blogs per week, to maybe one. I find that I tell lots of my stories on Facebook the minute that they happen, and then when I sit down to write a blog, I'm all like "Yeah, told that one already," so I end up playing with my split ends and looking at miniature goats wearing clothes, instead of actually writing anything.

Lately I've received lots of emails and seen lots of Facebook posts from people who missed something somewhere and don't know WTF is going on. Let's face it, if you follow my writings, there is a lot to keep up with. And if you only read my blog OR my Facebook and not both, you are totally gonna get lost at some point. Some peoples blogs and/or Facebook pages are like little short films, where you can read them now and then and everything stands on it's own, and you don't need any background information. My stuff is like an endless mini-series, where if you miss one part you're gonna be totally lost. Case in point: "Babycado Orchard," "NotPatti Ford," and "Timeburger." Those are all things I often reference that some people have no freaking idea what I'm talking about, yet others recall every amazing detail. Actually, The Hub said that he thinks that instead of a mini-series, my stuff is like a serial drama, like "Lost." But hopefully with more comedy, and less dead people and smoke monster.

Anyways, due to all of that lostness, I have decided to try doing a Facebook Friday post every week on this blog. This will be a way for me to share little stories and/or photos that you may have missed whether you are on Facebook or not. And today is Friday, so here we go.

Things you may have missed:

-A website called Circle of Moms had a Top 25 Funniest Mom Bloggers contest, and I landed 2nd place. I think that #2 is perfect because I LOVE going number two. Anybody can go number one. Most people do it multiple times a day. Number two is harder to accomplish. Number one doesn't give you a spring in your step or make you look skinny. Nope. Number two is the place for me.

-I was asked to submit a story for an anthology book, and it was accepted. It is a book of stories by some really funny mom bloggers, and I am honored to be included. It is expected to be published in March. I will pimp the heck out of it on here as soon as it goes on sale, and I will also give away a couple of copies. Stay tuned!

-My friend's house burned down last week. We have been friends since we were 11-years-old. She and her children lost everything, but thankfully were not home at the time. I told her story to my Facebook readers (and also confessed to drinking too much soda when I spent the night in 6th grade, peeing on their couch, and blaming it on the dog), and in just a few days we raised $4106.65 because my Facebook peeps are AMAZING! I'd like to give a special shout-out to my long-time reader, Bobby Gaskin, for donated a whopping $750.00. You, and everyone else, whether they donated, sent well-wishes, prayers, or whatever, rock SUPER HARD and I am proud to have you all in my orbit.

- My friend over at a blog and Facebook page called Slice of Humble (Humble Writes Words), sent me a special gift. It was a Walking Dead t-shirt with my man Daryl on it. She bought herself one too, so we made this photo collage:

A few popular Facebook Statuses:

As I was sitting at my desk last night, doing a little writing, AKA sitting in front of my computer, staring out the window and thinking about how happy I would be if I had a baby fainting goat, I noticed something: The Cat was on the desk, trying to get all up in my biz, and she would sit down, move a little, sit down, move a little, etc... and I realized that the girl does this little dance all day long, which is in and of itself, not a big deal. But when you think about the fact that cats have up-tails and every time they sit down their little b-hole is basically marking that spot with a (hopefully invisible) butt stamp, things start to get gross real quick. Unfortunately, I couldn't stop myself from over-thinking this whole situation and using my mad mad mathy skillz to calculate that in the 2 1/2 years she has lived here, she has probably butt stamped at least 50% of the surfaces in our house. Then I started thinking about nudist colonies. Holy hell, you guys. Holy hell. Everything in those places needs to be burned. Butt Stamps: Until the post office starts accepting them as postage, they're not okay

I just thought I should let you all know that I not only have a butler, a driver, and a sock matcher-upper, but I also have a toast butterer. I only eat toast once or twice a month, tops, but he has to stand by the toaster at all times just in case I get in the mood and start felling all toasty-ish. I also make him wear a lion costume because it makes me feel brave to take toast from a lion.

I never get to have the TV remote. If The Hub is home, he has it. If The Boy is home, he has it. Lately I've noticed that when they are watching TV, they always have at least one hand it their pants. Why men do this, I don't know. But they do it. THEN they use that same hand to change channels with the remote. After observing this last night, I realized that the remote is basically ruined. I'm not super Sciencey or anything, but I'm pretty sure that there can come a point when something can get so submerged in the germs of something else, that it can technically BECOME that something else. Therefore I deduce that at this point the remote is basically just a wanger that magically changes channels, and I foresee a future where evolution just cuts out the middle man and makes men's wangers have channel changing capabilities. If I worked at Evolution Headquarters, this is how I'd roll.

I have had people ask me why I say some of the phrases that I say. When I was little I would, like most kids, get sayings and song lyrics mixed up. Here are a few of my favorites that I have always used:

-I thought the alphabet song went "H, I, J, K, Elemental P" because my name started with "P" and therefore was the most important letter.

-I thought that the"I've Been Workin' on the Railroad" song said "All the ding dong day." I thought that ding dong was an expletive cuz my mom used to call my sister and I ding dongs a lot. So I often say things like "I ran errands all the ding dong day."

-I thought the saying "You scared the beeJesus out of me" was "You scared the BeeGee's out of me." Those BeeGee's were everywhere in the 70's and you either loved them or hated them. So I figured if you got scared badly enough, it might scare your love of them right outta your body. This would be something that the BeeGee's haters would do.

Last night I dreamed that my doctor told me that I had "Purse Cancer." I kept asking what the hell is Purse Cancer? But he just ignored my question and looked at me really sadly. I assumed it was vagina cancer cuz vaginas are the most purse-like part of the body that I could think of. Things get put in there. Sometimes questionable things. I imagine that some peoples vaginas are like old, overstuffed, purses. So then I went on a fundraising speaking tour to tell people about the dangers of Purse Cancer. Then, about halfway through my tour, I started to grow purses on my body. The first one was a Birkin on my side and I was actually like "Wow! This is pretty cool! A Built in purse! AND it's free! This is way better than vagina cancer!" Then I grew a corduroy fanny pack and I freaked out and the doctor said it couldn't be removed or I'd die. Then some other stuff happened that I can't remember much of, then The Cat woke me up cuz she is a turd.

So I just saw my sister post a FB status that thanked our mom for sending her chocolates. Dudes...her mom is the same mom as my mom, and unless my mailman ate mine, I did not get any chocolates. And my mom wonders why I never call her.

I had what I thought was a stray hair stuck to my face, which upon further inspection was discovered to be a hair growing OUT of my face. Just a lonely, blonde, 2 inch hair that outta nowhere started growing out of the middle of my cheek, for no other reason than to say "Hey, Patti! You are officially turning into a Sasquatch. Good luck with that!"

Another regular thing that I do on my Facebook page, is to tell little mini stories about animals. I sometimes see pictures of cute animals and immediately a name and story pops into my head. Seriously, it's like I am possessed by that animal and suddenly I am typing out a story. I don't even realize what I've written until I read it. After telling these stories for many months, people started sending me photos of animals and asking me to make up stories about them. Here are two from this week:

Greetings and salutations, my good people. My name is Harry Higgenbotham III. Miss Mom-Brain found me whilst perusing something called Googly Images. I am not quite sure what that is, as I abhor all modern technology. The only reason I am posting a salutation on this, the magical electronic book of the face, is because Miss Brain promised me a hefty amount of cheese if I did. She also threatened to keep my family in a shoebox in her closet and train them to perform the stage version of something called "Grease" if I refused to comply with her wishes. I am just a wee bit frightened. And now she is laughing because I used the word "wee." I dare say I fear for my safety. Please send help.

Hi ya'll! My name is Darla Doggenport! My favorite color is red and my favorite shape is hearts and my favorite pattern is a horizontal stripe. I know, I know. My momma always says "Darla Dogenport! You know horizontal stripes are the stripe of The Devil and will make your hips look as wide as the Crazy Catmanson's trailer home!" But I don't care! I'm old enough to make my own decisions, and I love stripes almost as much as I love One Direction! Oh my wow...I just said I love One Direction and just before that I was totally talking about how much I love stripes that go ONE particular DIRECTION! Oh good heavens, sometimes I just crack myself up! My momma says I shouldn't laugh at my own jokes because laughing at yourself is the laughter of the devil, but I just can't help myself. I'm just clever, ya'll! I bet Harry Styles would think I'm clever too! And I bet he likes clever girls. And his name is Harry and I'm hairy. Some things are just meant to be. My momma says that's called fate and that there ain't no such thing as fate, and talkin' about fate is for the devil. Sometimes my momma gets carried away with all that devil stuff. Don't tell her I said that, okay? That woman will whip me good, and probably make me eat dry food for a week. Ya know who eats dry food? The Crazy Catmanson's. And everyone knows the Crazy Catmanson's are crazy. Heck, it says so right there in their name. Friend me on Facebook, okay? I'm tryin' to get more friends that that Missy Mufferstein. Her favorite color is pink and her favorite shape is a star and her favorite pattern is polka dots. My momma says polka dots are for whores. And ya know what? I think she's right. Because I heard that Missy Mufferstein got caught licking her life size poster of Harry Styles. That bitch be crazy, ya'll. Don't tell my momma I said bitch. Pinky swear? Guess what? I don't even have a pinky! Sometimes I'm just all like "What did I just say?" I'm just silly, ya'll. I love you guys! BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!

(This photo was sent to me by a reader named Erin Browne.)

That's it for this week! Hope you feel all caught up. Personally, I feel like I have a bad case of Deja-vu and an ice cream headache.

It's Valentine's Day, and some b*tches be trippin' (This is my valentine to the men of the world - I feel your pain)

2013-02-12T15:11:00.000-06:00

If you ask me, February is the definitely the worst month of the year. The only good thing about it is that it's short. It's only 28 days. Except for when it's 29. And I never fully understood what the hell that was all about. I just assume that the reason it's a short month is cuz the missing days just wanted to jump ship and get the hell out of February. They probably wanted to be part of a summer month. Or maybe even December. And who could blame them? If I was a day I'd much rather be in a sunny/beachy/beer drinking month or a month where everyone's drunk on eggnog and getting an ass-load of presents. And this whole leap year thing? I have no clue about that. I never really paid that much attention in school unless we were playing on those scooter thingies in PE, or learning about our blossoming bodies or cutting up frogs and turning them into marionettes. Yeah. That happened.

February sucks. And the reason it sucks is because of one stupid day. Remember that Osmond song about how that one shitty apple spoiled the whole bunch, girl? Well, Valentine's Day is the rotten-ass apple that makes all the other 27 or 28 or whatever the hell it is, days suck balls. It's guilt by association, you guys.

Since I am technically a female, I will begin by telling you why February sucks, from a female's point of view.

Wait. I can't do that. Why can't I do that? Because from a female's point of view, February does not suck. Okay, okay. Not ALL females feel this way. I -for one- think Valentine's Day sucks balls. But to many girls (key word being GIRLS), February is a magical month about love and romance and stuff like that. It is a month during which they find out how much their man truly loves them. And how do they find this out, you ask? They find this out by rating everything that happens -or does not happen- on February 14th. Every. Little. Thing.

And I have news for you men of the world: Oftentimes, you just can't win. February sucks for men. And no matter which way you look at it, this whole Valentine's Day is usually a lose/lose situation.

Early in their dating life, a lot of men try to do what's expected of them. And what's expected of them is to be that guy who plans out the perfect Valentine's Day for his girl. This poor guy feels like he's got it in the bag. He's planned for weeks. Maybe even months. He bought her a lovely bracelet. He got a reservation at a romantic restaurant. Ya know, the kind where you have to wear dress-up clothes, eat snails, know which fork is for what, and chew with your mouth closed. He might surprise his girl with some sexy lingerie after dinner. And he probably bought the chocolates in the heart-shaped box. Maybe even a teddy bear. He definitely got long-stemmed roses that the flower shop jacked up to $150.00 for this most special of days. This dude also got the perfect card at Hallmark that totally expresses how he feels. This guy is confident that he has covered all of the bases. This guy went all out.

But guess what? This guy is screwed. And I don't mean that literally. He's screwed because he's probably not getting screwed. And there are oh so many reasons.

He might be screwed because he chose the wrong restaurant. Maybe a seafood place. And he forgot she's allergic to seafood. Or maybe the place is too fancy, and she didn't have anything to wear. So why the hell did he surprise her like that? If only he'd told her earlier, she could have gone shopping for an outfit! And this bracelet he got her? It's yellow gold. She likes white. All her other jewelry is white, so this won't match. Hasn't he ever noticed? Doesn't he ever even look at her??? And a box of chocolates? Really? Doesn't he remember that she gave up sugar so she could lose a few pounds! Does he not remember the time he said her butt looked fat in those pants?? Okay. Maybe he didn't actually SAY that, but when she asked him if her butt looked fat in those pants he took more than 2 seconds before he said "no" which is the same thing as saying "Girl, you look like a freakin' hippo!" And a teddy bear? Really? What is she? A third grader? What in the holy balls is she gonna do with a freakin' teddy bear? Put it on her Strawberry Shortcake comforter next to her Rainbow Brite doll and snuggle it while she looks dreamily at her Ricky Schroeder poster? What the hell IS he? Some kind of pedophile? And roses? Really? How original! She could have bought a new outfit to wear to the fancy-ass restaurant with all the money he spent on those dumb-ass roses! Did he ever think of that? And did he actually go INTO a flower shop or just buy them from one of those parking lot tents at the last minute? A hobo probably took a piss on those parking lot roses. And besides, she like tulips. NOT roses. Roses remind her of her dead granny and when she thinks of her dead granny her ulcer flares up. Doesn't he even care about her sadness and digestive health? And the card. All he did was sign his name? HIS FREAKIN' NAME??? Doesn't he have anything sweet to say to her? He couldn't write her a freakin' sentence about how much she means to him? Nothing? And lingerie? Oh. My. Freaking. God. LINGERIE? I hope this douche-hole doesn't think she doesn't know what THAT'S for! He bought that for himself! What the hell is she gonna do with fancy lingerie? He knows damn well she sleeps in a t-shirt and boxers! Why? Cuz it's comfortable, that's why! We all know he only bought her lingerie cuz he wants some sexy time. And he thinks she's gonna let him touch her in-between after all that other crap he messed up? He only signed his freaking name in the stupid-ass piece of crap Hallmark card he bought her that isn't even special because literally thousands of guys probably bought their girl the same freaking card! CAN'T HE WRITE SOMETHING TO HER FROM HIS COLD, DEAD, HEART????

I told you. This guy is screwed.

But what if he hadn't done anything? If he hadn't done anything, his girl would still be mega-pissed. But this time she'd be pissed because WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU GET ME A BRACELET OR SOME CHOCOLATES OR A TEDDY BEAR OR SOME LINGERIE OR TAKE ME TO A FANCY-ASS DINNER? DON'T YOU EVEN LOVE ME?

That guy is screwed too.

Listen, there's really nothing you can do about it. At least if you are unmarried and in a certain age-bracket, let's say, 16-30 or so, this is just what's probably gonna happen. At this age, lots of girls are immature and don't have a clue what they really want. We've all been there. When I was younger I dated guys who gave me nothing and planned nothing, and I got all kinds of pissed and broke up with them to date guys who gave me things and planned things. Then when those guys gave me things and planned things, they usually weren't the right things, and I felt all kinds of smothered because of all the attention they were giving me. FOR FRICK SAKE, I CAN'T EVEN BREATHE ANYMORE AND YOU CALL ME TOO MUCH AND YOU'RE ALWAYS ALL UP IN MY GRILL AND IF I HAVE TO SPEND ONE MORE CRAPPY MINUTE LOOKING AT YOUR FACE I'M GONNA VOMIT ON IT!

Guys. Can't. Win.

The best you can hope for is to find that needle in the haystack or to make it to the age where the girls turn into women and honestly don't care about that stuff anymore. What do WOMEN want? A good man. Someone to help around the house. Help with the kids. Pick up the dry-cleaning every now and then. Fold some damn laundry. Empty the dishwasher. Take our car in for a wash. Offer to pick up dinner so we don't have to cook. Give us a back or foot rub when we're stressed out. Listen to us when we talk. Like, actually LISTEN. Be interested in what we're up to. Rent a movie that we wanna see, even if everyone talks in an English accent and wears corsets and the entire movie takes place in a farmhouse.

If you do all of these things and your woman still whines about all that ridiculous Valentine's Day crap and compares what she got to what her friends all got and you dread February 14th like you dread the freaking Zombie Apocalypse? If that's the case, then it's time to stop dreading the Zombie Apocalypse and start praying for it. Cuz ain't nobody got time for no Hallmark Holidays when hordes of the undead are trying to eat their faces off. And if the Zombiepocalypse hits and your woman is STILL worrying about Valentine's Day? If that happens, you can seriously just wait until some Zombies are chasing you and then trip her. Nobody would judge you for that. Haven't you seen any Zombie movies? Every time a whiney person gets eaten, the audience cheers. And you can think of it as your valentine to the Zombies. Zombies need love too.

(Art by Kipling West)

The Chick-Fil-A Bathroom Incident of '07

2013-02-03T17:22:00.003-06:00

If you have an aversion to poop horror stories, you should stop reading now.

Still reading? REALLY? I thought that everyone had an aversion to Poop Horror. But not you, huh? Man, you're a real freak.

It was a lovely, happy, day. I took The Boy to Chick-Fil-A to have lunch with some friends. The kids were playing in the play land, and we "adults" were stuffing our pie holes with waffle fries and talking about whatever the heck women in large groups talk about. I tend to space out, so I don't remember. About midway through my Diet Coke I had to go peeps, so I went to the bathroom. Of course it didn't smell great in there, but I chalked it up to the fact that this is a kid-friendly restaurant and that bathroom changing table probably sees an insane amount of poopy butts per day. The bathroom was empty and all 3 stalls were open, but since I am a greedy bish, I decided that I deserved the spaciousness and luxuriousness of the big stall. So I waltzed my little spoiled ass in there, and without surveying the area first, I closed the door behind me. After locking the door, I turned to walk towards the toilet, and that is the moment when I learned a lesson about the importance of conducting a proper survey before entering a stall. There is a reason that, for the last 6 years, I have totally Karate Kid Crane Kicked the door of every stall that I am considering peeing in.

ONE MUST ALWAYS KARATE KID CRANE KICK THE DOOR TO ANY AND ALL PUBLIC BATHROOM STALLS, AND SURVEY THE INTERIOR OF SAID STALLS, PRIOR TO PHYSICALLY ENTERING THE STALLS.

Kick and look, you guys.

It's that easy.

Kick. And. Look.

All I can say is that I have no idea WTF went down in that stall. I mean, it was definitely nothing that could be accomplished by anyone with 100% human DNA. Alien/Human hybrid, or Animal/Human hybrid? Maybe. Psychotic circus bear with an amazingly unhealthy hatred for all humanity, on the run after his animal train derailed, popping in to devour a party tray of chickin strips, a gallon of Lemonade, 3 gallons of coffee, topped off with a side of Ex-Lax? More likely. Someone or someTHING had taken a twosies everywhere in that stall. Well, everywhere except for the place you are supposed to take your twosies. On the floor to the left of the toilet? Check. On the floor to the right of the toilet? Check. In front of the toilet. Check. Behind the toilet? Check. On the back of the toilet? Check On the walls? I'm sorry you guys, but that's also a check. It was as if someone had been imprisoned in there and was marking off the days with a big poop marker.

I was frozen in fear for what seemed like hours. When I snapped out of my shock, I turned to unlock the stall door and totally couldn't remember how a lock worked. It was like one of those scary movies where someone's being chased by a murderer and they can't remember how to open a door to escape, or dial a phone for help. When you're actually living a moment of sheer terror, these simple things become nearly impossible. I was stressing out. I tried to focus on the lock, but I couldn't stop looking at the horrific crime scene to my right. I began to imagine the pieces of poop all rising up to form into one giant poop monster that would strangle me with its strong, murdery, poop hands. Then I started thinking, "Whoever, or whatever did all of this had to touch this door to get out of here!" Since my fingers had been all over that lock and door while I was desperately trying to escape the poop stall, that realization nearly killed me right then and there. There's not enough Purell in the world to make you feel clean after that. Even a Silkwood shower is gonna leave you feeling like a dirty crap whore.

Sorry, guys. I HAD to make this picture for you. It could not be helped.

The only thing that kept me alive was the knowledge that I had a son out there in that play land who would eventually come looking for me. If I died, I would die in a bathroom stall full of poop, and unless a CSI team was called in to properly investigate this situation, the coroners would most likely think that I was the guilty pooper! I did NOT wanna be the poopetrator! I couldn't leave that legacy for The Boy to bear. "Hey, Boy! I heard your mom's the one that died in that disgusting poop pile in the big stall at Chick-Fil-A!" He'd never live that down. And all because I felt like I deserved the stretch limo of bathroom stalls, when the mini pooper woulda done just fine. My whole poop legacy might even keep him from getting into an Ivy League University. You might get straight A's and be valedictorian of your class, but if you're the spawn of a woman who dropped 20 pounds of brown horror all over the big stall at a Chick-Fil-A, then drew on the walls with it, then tossed it all over like she was playing a poop and potty version of horse shoes before finally dying in it, you're kinda screwed. That's just the kind of baggage that could not only keep you from getting into the college of your choice, but could also keep you from getting a good job, a good wife, and having any normal kind of future. You've all seen what happened to Dexter Morgan after witnessing that whole mom in a shipping container fiasco. Dead mom in a bloody shipping container. Dead mom in a poopy big stall. Think about it.

And in case you're wondering what the heck DID happen in that stall, I still have no idea. When I finally got out, I grabbed The Boy and told one of the employees that they needed to burn the whole building down. Then we hit the road for the sweet sweet comforts of home, and my own poopocalypse-free potty.

I could totally be like James Bond if my doctor would just get his sh*t together.

2013-01-30T17:11:00.001-06:00

Those of you who have been reading my stuff for awhile now, should be totally down with my whole right arm situation. You should also be totally effed up in the head, cuz if you've been reading my blabberings since way back then, consider yourself lucky if you have even 20% of the brain cells that you had before you found me.

Just for funzies, let's try a little something real quick:

Q: Patti has a troupe of finger monkeys that perform Broadway musicals for her pleasure. Three of the finger monkeys sing lead roles. Seven of the finger monkeys are lighting technicians. Twenty-three of the finger monkeys are in the chorus. Nine of the finger monkeys play instruments. One of the finger monkeys does nothing because he is a dick. How many legs do all of Patti's finger monkeys have?

A: None. That is the only reason she could afford them. They were all on a bus to Anchorage to perform a revival of Hair! when, due to a surprise blizzard and a drunk bus driver, they went off a bridge and landed on a boat full of sharp metal that was on it's way to the Sharp Metal Recycling Plant up in Wasilla, and they were all leg-capitated. Everyone knows that legless finger monkeys are usually on clearance.

If you got the answer right, you've been here awhile.

If you actually did the math, then you are new. Anyone who's been here awhile knows Patti don't do no maths, and also, Patti don't have no "normal" answers.

Once you start answering things like me, you're at a maximum of 20% brain cellage. The saving grace is that it's 20% of awesome instead of 20% of nerd.

Anyways, back to my arm.

In September of 2011 I had surgery on my right shoulder due to the fact that I had totally, somehow, effed it up and ended up with a tear in my rotator cuff. As is usually the case for me, I have no idea how it happened. One day it was fine, and my Girl Scout Fight Club and Handies for Hobos organizations were going off without a hitch. My arm was easily whooping 8-year-old girl butt, and pleasuring the train traveling homeless population, without issue. Then one day, outta nowhere, I lifted my arm and almost died from the pain. At first I thought that perhaps I was being sporked by one of my house ghosts. A few of those mofos can get a little bitchy sometimes. Probably due to being walked through all the time and from having to watch me drink beer and have sexy time and morning constitutionals and all the other awesome things that dead people can't do. It doesn't take an Einstein to figure out that all that jealousy combined with the fact that the dead love irony, could cause me to receive a ghostly sporking in my #1 favorite appendage.

So I had the freakishly painful surgery, but my arm never did get better. The motions that were originally causing it to hurt like balls, aren't hurting so much anymore, but pretty much every other motion is. Plus, it now hurts all the way from the shoulder to the elbow when I am doing absolutely nothing but sitting around being a lazy ass. Which is a lot. Every time I go to the Doctor he's like, "Hmmm....that doesn't make any sense" and I explain that nothing in this world makes sense. I mean, look at the success of entire Kardashian family, those Honey Boo Boo people, and Anne Coulter. Look at the prevalence of Crocs, fanny packs, and Ed Hardy shirts. Not everything in this world makes sense.

So Mr. Doctor had this idea to put me under anesthesia and go all psycho crazy on my arm and yank it every which way but loose, in the hopes that it loosens up some scar tissue or frozenosity that may have possibly set in. That sounded like a terrible idea for two reasons:

1) I'm about 117% sure that he's tired of me and afraid that I will ruin his career with my blogging and will see to it that I'm "accidentally" given too much anesthesia so I never wake up.

2) He never did a post-surgical MRI or x-ray on me to be sure what the what is going on in there. For all I know his Rolex could be ticking away in my arm at this very moment. Or maybe a loose fingernail fell in there. Or perhaps a piece of his morning donut was stuck on his face and chose the perfect moment to drop into my arm hole. I'm just a tad bit hesitant to let them go all bat shit cray cray on my arm unless I have more information first.

So basically, I've done what I always do now when any of my doctors say they want to do anything anywhere near surgical to me. I ignore it and do nothing.

But the pain is getting bad. Some days it's so bad that I forget about my carpal tunnel and my back pain or my fallopian tube and uterine pain, all of which my doctors are bitching at me to take care of. But I've been ignoring it anyways.

Then, The Hub and I went to see the new James Bond movie. At the beginning of the movie, Bond was fighting some dude on top of a train. At one point the dude pushed him off, and the only reason Bond didn't totally fall to his death was because he hung onto the train with one arm. I told The Hub that I was now worried that if I get into a scuffle with a villain on a train, or any other scary, high, place, and my Karate Kid Crane Kicks fail me, I might get pushed off and not be able to hang on. I mean, I can barely lift that arm over my head at all, let alone hold my full body weight onto a moving train with it. And my left arm is totally useless to me. Seriously. It's useless. The other day I tried to wave at someone with my left hand and ended up hitting myself in the face. After my last shoulder surgery, when my righty was in that Robocop sling, I stabbed myself in the eye with my toothbrush while trying to brush my teeth with my left hand. Twice. In one brushing.

The only way I can even get to sleep nowadays is if I smoke a crapload of crack, or lay face down on my bed and dangle my right arm off the side. For some reason the dangling makes the pain go away. But, when I dangle it, I open myself up to the very real and not at all imaginary possibility that one of those Poltergeist bed clowns is gonna drag me under and kill me, or that a spider is gonna jump onto my fingertips and climb all the way up my arm to lay it's bazillion baby eggs in my ear or behind my eyeball. I'll probably start wearing goggles and ear muffs, and pray for the sweet sweet murderyness of the clown.

Basically, James Bond made me realize that I need to get myself fixed up. Some people might say "What are the chances that you're gonna get in a fight on top of a train, or need to dangle yourself under an elevator while it goes to the top floor of a building so that you can kill some hit man?" and I admit that the chances are slim, you guys. I realize that. But if you ask me what are the chances that I'm gonna need a strong right arm to take care of a bunch of leg-capitated finger monkeys, or possibly beat the crap out of a few moms in the middle school carpool line, the answer to those is about 100%

And just in case you ARE new here, I came across this photo of Man Nurse Jeffery Jefferson. He was my post-shoulder-surgery home nurse. He supplied cold water through a tube to a cuff on my arm to keep the swelling down. I've missed him so. I suppose if I let Mr. Doctor try to rip off my arm while I'm in a drug-induced coma, I might get to use Man Nurse Jeffery Jefferson again. I guess that's a plus.

My foot's a clumsy turd, and I learned how to Skype. Otherwise known as, Things I Haven't Had Time To Blog About Yet.

2013-01-21T18:46:00.001-06:00

In my last blog post about the winners of the Holiday Hump Contest, I mentioned a few things that I promised to tell you about later. Usually when I promise to do ANYTHING later, it either happens (a) months and months later, or (b) never ever ever, but I am totally feeling like getting things done today, so here we go. You freaking lucky bastards.

Those of you who follow me on Facebook (AKA those of you who are awesome) probably already know that I hurt my foot before xmas break. And as things usually work when I totally eff something up on my body, I wasn't really doing anything at all strenuous. I mean, I've pulled my back out at least 3 times in the past from simply making my bed. And it's not like I'm gettin' Martha Stewarty all up on that thing, either. I'm not doing special military corners or bouncing quarters off the sheets or anything psycho like that. I'm just pulling the comforter up far enough so that The Cat can't get her feline germs all over my slumber zone, and suddenly BAM! I can't move. At least twice I've pulled my neck so badly that I can't turn my head for days, by simply just looking over my shoulder before backing out of a parking space. That little injury hurts like balls, so now, when I'm leaving a spot, I just hope for the best and drop the hammer.

The injury of my foot was not much different. I mean, at least this time I was actually doing something somewhat physical, seeing that I was in pilates and actually kind of working out. And I say "kind of" because the amount of working out that I'm doing in there just totally varies day to day. That particular day all I was doing was this stupid stretch called "Elephant" where I'm simply bent over stretching, then I have to lift up my toes while my feet are flat on the ground. Well, I've done this thing multiple times a week for nearly 3 years, but this time, when I lifted my toes, muthaflippinholyhellsweetbabyjeebusinapitapocket it hurt kinda bad. Even though I had lots of pain, since I was busy getting ready for The Holidays, I ignored it and went away for two weeks with it hurting like a mofo. When I got back home, I went to the foot dude and he said it looked like I had torn my plantar fascia, and that it was on the mend, so I just needed to leave it alone for another few weeks. That means no pilates. Which means no Phillip. Which means that I am not only totally out of shape right now, but Phillip is in some kind of sadness spiral. I'm pretty freaking sure.

The other thing I mentioned in the last post, was the whole Skype situation.

Last December a woman from a casting agency in L.A. contacted me to ask if I had ever thought about having a docu-series done about me. I wrote her back and asked her if she was talking about that Honey Boo Boo crap and if "docu-series" was just a fancy word for reality show. She said it's a kinder, gentler, less-trashy reality show situation. I guess she thought that I would be more intrigued by that, and to be honest, at the time of my initial response I was. But after pondering all of the stupidity I could get up to in a trashy reality show, my imagination was kind of excited. I WANT TO BE IN CHILD BEAUTY CONTESTS, DAMMIT! I WANT TO BE MOM-BRAIN, THE BOUNTY HUNTER! I WANT TO SPORK THE OVARIES OF A BUNCH OF STUCK-UP, SPOILED HOUSEWIVES!

The woman told me that she would like to sort of interview me on Skype, and record it, so that it could potentially be shown to the people who decide about these things. The God's of Television, or whatever. Let me be totally and 100% honest here and tell you that I in NO WAY have ANY desire to have cameras in my home or following me to Target or pilates or to go poop or to watch me dance for The cat or anything like that. I am 100% sure that nobody would want to watch that show, with the exception of maybe some horny prison inmates when they get tv day for good behavior. But this is a super cool and flattering opportunity for anyone, and there's no way I was gonna NOT do the interview. I mean, there's always the teeny tiny chance that I could talk them into doing a show about my scheme to Occupy Johnny Depp, or perhaps one about Hunting Norman Reedus, that would be kinda like that Finding Big Foot thing, except with less sasquatches and hillbillies, and more Norman and Modelo.

So I did the interview. It was not at all nerve-wracking like I thought it would be. I guess if you don't expect anything to come of it and you don't really care either way, there's no reason to be nervous. Once I realized that, I was good to go. That said, I do have some focus issues, along with direction following issues, so I'm sure that the poor woman had a bit of a migraine by the time that it was over. And since it was my first time ever using Skype, I was a bit wackadoo. And then, of course, when it was all said and done, I was all "Damn! Why didn't I tell her about the time I got trapped in the dark behind the theater and that hobo tried to pee on my friend? And when she asked me my favorite things to do, why didn't I tell her about my boner for flea marketing, or my addiction to Girl Scout Fight Clubs?" And then I totally wanted to hop in my Time Burger and go do it all over again. DAMN! Why didn't I tell her about my Time Burger????

Truth be told, I am not much of an in-front-of-the-camera kinda person. I know that from all the crazy photos I post, you probably don't believe me at all. Basically, I'm ok in front of a camera if I am doing something totally and completely ridiculous, but if it's something where I am supposed to be "normal", I'm just not that into it. I get all weird and awkward and uncomfortable, and not in a good way.

A few years ago, as some of you already know (and others have recently emailed me asking about...so here ya go), I won a contest on Ellen to go to The Primetime Emmy's when she hosted, and then to her show the next day. I never even enter to win anything ever since the time in Kindergarten when I was sure I was gonna win an amazingly fancy cake in a cake walk, and the stupid girl in my class that copied all of my rad drawings, ended up winning. But for some reason I stopped in my tracks to enter this. I was literally on my way out the door to go pick up The Boy after school, when I heard the announcement on tv about the contest. You were to email the show and tell them why you should get to go to The Emmy's. I had never entered anything like this before, but for some reason I sat down and wrote a quick (5 minutes) poem to her, then ran my late ass out the door. By the time I got home with The Boy, I had a call from one of the producers.

What happens after something like that, is that they call you 10 times a day for a few days, and interview you a bit every time. They are trying to get to know you and get a good sense of your personality and see if you are someone they want to have on their show. I am not at all uncomfortable with that. It's one-on-one and it's easy for me. I take pride in my ability to charm the balls off of anyone. Producer Andy and I had a super fun time in those conversations. He was my long-distance, much younger, not-really-boyfriend, boyfriend. He was lots of fun.

When it got time to go to L.A. I was asked if I would be willing to be interviewed on the show if they had any free space. I said "No thank you." I was then asked if I would be willing to dance with Ellen at the beginning of the show if they decided that would work. Again, I said "No thank you."

Now, I know that probably ALL of you are saying to yourselves, What the holy WHAT? That attention whore declined to get interviewed by Ellen? She didn't want to dance with Ellen? I know it's hard to believe. Even I have a hard time believing it NOW. But this was before I had a blog, and I didn't really see what I could possibly say that would interest ANYONE watching me on tv. I honestly still don't, which is part of the reason I have a habit of turning things like this down. Combine that with the fact that I am not big on cameras, and you get my big fat "pass." While this was definitely the most excitingly unexpected thing that had ever happened to me before, I had absolutely no delusions that it was my moment to shine, or that I would somehow become famous from it. Good lord, that is the last thing I would even want, or think that I deserved.

The day of The Emmy's, the limo came to the hotel to get us, and there was a camera crew who wanted to ask each of us some questions about what we were looking forward to, and which stars we hoped to see. When it was my turn, I uncomfortably answered their questions, then waited for the camera to turn off and for them to go talk to someone else. But it just sat there in my face with that red light on and I felt like Cindy Brady when she was doing that television quiz show. I was all zoned out and spazzy and WTF and awkward, and the moment I realized it, I started rolling my eyes and did a weird little dance, and the camera man was like "What the hell was THAT?" and I was all "I DON'T FREAKING KNOW!"

And suffice it to say, that segment did not air on the show that Monday morning. Thank balls.

Note to self: Next time you get to sit on stage in a tv host's chair, make sure that the doink who's taking your photo knows how to use a camera, or this will be the best of all 3 photos that he takes, and you will want to hunt him down and spork him in the underballs.

Thankfully, now that I'm older and (GASP!) wiser, I'm a bit more comfortable in my pasty skin. I have accepted and grown into my personality and my whole I don't give a f*ck-edness. And although only a year or so ago, I woulda turned that Skype interview down, and even last year I turned a few other things like this down, I am now finally getting comfortable enough to do these things, and I'm kinda just a teensy bit proud of myself. I'm sure if I actually SAW the recording of the Skype thing, I'd totally change my mind and climb back in my little hidey hole, but as long as I don't have to see it I can convince myself that I done good. If you tell yourself something enough, then it's the truth, right? And if I had actually given in and done anything like this last year, I wouldn't have told everyone about it because I would be a bit embarrassed if I failed and nothing came out of it. But now I realize that I should be kinda proud at even getting this chance, even though most likely nothing will come out of it. I honestly don't expect anything, nor do I even really care. And if you don't really care, and you're ok with the fact that people will either like you and what you have to say, or they won't, and you have absolutely zero ambitions to become famous or be on tv or whatever, then it doesn't really even matter, right? I GET that now. I guess this is 40, you guys. (Ok, so I'm actually 41, but that just doesn't have the same ring to it.)

P.S. My friend Stephanie made an unexpected appearance in my Skype thing. Here is the status that I posted about it on Facebook:

So today I had a Skype interview/meeting/audition with someone from a casting agency in Los Angeles. I know, right? It's been in the works for awhile now. For some reason they are maybe interested in the idea of having me be in a show. A show that people would watch. Or not watch. Probably the latter. I have never Skyped until today, so that was a bit odd. I think I came off semi-normal. The Cat tried to get in on the action cuz she is an attention whore. Then my friend Stephanie thought to herself, "Self, wouldn't it be funny if I drove over to Patti's house and peeked in the window to her office while she was doing her interview, and made a funny face?" So she did. And I guess she kinda forgot that I am somewhat fearful of some lady putting on a diaper and driving here to take my skin. So here I am, talking to the woman on Skype, trying to be attentive and make some semblance of sense, when I look up and see a woman in my bushes. So I freak out and yell, then I'm all "Oh, it's Stephanie! My friend is in my bush!" Then I'm all "That sounded really dirty! Wrong kinda bush." Then, since I had spoken to her previously about how much fun my friend Stephanie and I have together, I was all "I did not plan this! I swear!" And she told me to let Stephanie in and have her say "Hello", so I did. Even though she gave me a heart attack and made me yell about her being all up in my bush. And BTW it was recorded by her so all the people who spot talent can watch it. I'm sure they won't be horrified or confused at all. I totally bet I get a call very soon. (<<<

The Holiday season is over. So pack up your tacky decor, so it can hide in the cardboard box of shame, in the attic of what the heck did I do last night.

2013-01-18T19:09:00.000-06:00

Don't get too excited, people. This isn't a post post. It's just an "I am way late posting the winner of the xmas decoration molestation contest due to the fact that I've been busy being lazy, healing my damn foot (more on that later), trying to focus on book writin', having Skype interviews with casting agency people (later), tracking down creepy internet copy cats (yes, "s"), stuffing my face with food that's way too totally and ridiculously fattening for someone who isn't allowed to work out until her foot heals, and just plain old being awesome, post. In other words, you are all pretty much getting cheated with this blog. It's time you will never get back. Now, the winners, on the other hand, they aren't getting cheated. They are getting to be a WINNERS!

Let me preface this whole winner announcement by saying a little something about American Idol. Now you're probably asking yourself, Self? WTF does Patti's announcement of the #1 Holiday Decoration Humper possibly have to do with American Idol? Well, I'm about to tell you, so calm the frick down! Holy balls, people! Impatient much?

Sometimes I watch American Idol. Most of the time I don't. But when I do, I watch it on DVR so that I can skip through all the crappy commercials, the narcissistic coaching segments, and most of all, the sad back stories. I want to see the singing and not be at all influenced by the story of the person with the noise coming out of their pie hole. I want to judge them strictly on their pie hole sounds alone.

Okayyyyy.... so what the heck does this possibly have to do with the molesting of holiday decor?

Dudes...keep your pants on. I'm about to tell you. Sheesh.

I got approximately 30 entries for this contest. I don't think that I am exaggerating at all when I tell you that approximately 8 million of them let the yard decor buttsecks THEM! Now, if being a submissive in the world of the pretend buttsecking of goofy inanimate objects is your thing, that's fine. But my thing giving it to them good. But still, those photos were pretty darn funny. And then there were the approximate 70 gajillion people that sent me photos of them doing things that were, well, HILARIOUS, yet perhaps just a teensy bit too pornographic for me to post on this blog. AWESOME, yet not particularly appropriate. So basically, to sum it all up, I was left with about 5 photos that I was deciding between. And after I went through those 5, I had 2 favorite ones. That is where American Idol comes in.

My favorite one, and my #1 pick is this one:

This is Jeremy Gonzalez. Jeremy is surprise buttsecksing The Grinch, while he is deep in the tree. Yes, he's giving it to him deep while he's in deep. (I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.)

The reason that this photo made me so darn happy is because not only is Jeremy participating in my favorite pastime, but he's doing it in the hospital where he is being treated for Osteosarcoma, which is a rare bone cancer. Some people in his situation would be feeling sorry for themselves, or be depressed, and that's ok, that's their right and it's totally understandable. But seeing Jeremy be all smiley and running around the hospital buttsecksing things made ME smile. So yeah, I know his backstory. And yeah, it influenced me just a tiny bit. But come on. This kid rocks pretty freaking hard. Okay? In my book, he is the very defintion of the word WINNER!!!!

And although I didn't plan on it, I also have a runner up. I chose this girl cuz she is one of the very few people who actually did their buttsecksing in a public place, where people are milling about. I mean, it WAS Wal-Mart, which means that nobody would have batted an eye, but that's neither here nor there. Public is public.

This is Miranda Christmas. Yes. Miranda CHRISTMAS. How perfect is THAT? Happy Winner #2 Miranda! And don't be sad about being #2. You know how much I love a good numero dos.

So there ya have it. Jeremy and Miranda get some fantastically dorky t-shirts from my store, custom made for them. That's sooooo much better than cash! Ok. Maybe it's not anywhere near as awesome as cash. But it's still awesome. Ok. Maybe it's not awesome, but it's free. Ok? So stop your bitching.

***Winners, please contact me ASAP at insaneinthemombrain@gmail.com***

An open letter to the person who is stealing my words

2013-01-16T13:35:00.000-06:00

And to everyone who has "borrowed" from me in the past, or plans to in the future.

A blog is like a diary that is written for anyone to see. Many bloggers (parent bloggers, especially) blog as a release of sorts. A way to share what they're going through and find other people who are going through the same things. We write because we love to write, and because people connect to it. Oftentimes, the people who read my blog tell me that I say the things that they have thought, but didn't have the balls to say. Or they tell me that my brain works like theirs, and they just don't know how to put it into words like I do. My writing in my blog and on my Facebook page, are little tidbits from my daily life, and odd little thoughts that go through my head. I share them because I enjoy it, and so do the people who read it.

What I write on this page, and my Facebook page, are mine. I have never used content someone else has written. I have never made up stories for entertainment value. I have never invented people or situations that don't exist. I am straight up telling you MY story. In MY words. In MY own way. The fact that these stories are on the internet, and not in a book or a magazine, does not mean that they are free to take.

Sometimes another Facebook fan page will steal one of my statuses and claim it as their own. Sometimes another blogger will lift things from my blog and publish it as their own. I find both of these things strange, especially the stolen statuses, because they are long and ranty and so uniquely "me" that I often wonder how they expect it to blend it with their own, usual content. People who have these pages and do that kind of thing are obviously people who want attention and have nothing worthwhile to offer up in exchange for that attention, so they use someone else's words. It sucks to have that happen, but unfortunately, you get used to it.

Tuesday I experienced something new. I came across a Facebook fan page that was made up almost entirely of MY content. It included Facebook statuses that I had written, as well as paragraphs taken from this blog. Months and months of my words. Seeing an entire page made up of content taken from me, as well as some taken from other bloggers that I personally know, was upsetting. I was fired up and ready to kick some ass. Then something else happened.

A reader of mine alerted me that she had found the personal Facebook profile of the woman who was behind this page, and told me that I should have a look at it. What I found on that page changed my anger into something closer to fear. It's one thing when someone hiding behind a fan page is pretending to be someone they're not. That happens every day. But when someone is doing the same thing on their personal profile, that is NOT normal, and it's disturbing as hell.

This woman's page was like any of our personal pages; It had her photos, her friends, her family members. But the similarities to anything normal stopped there. Much like her fan page, nearly every single post on her personal page was mine. My statuses as well as portions of my blogs, all written down verbatim. The only difference being when she needed to change a name or a location to one that would fit her reality. She was telling her friends and family about dreams that were MINE. She was telling them about something that had happened to ME at the grocery store. She was telling them about something that MY child had said. She was telling them some phone conversation that I had. She was telling them all of these things and inserting her own names in place of mine.

Friends and family members were commenting about how funny and creative she was. You should write a book! You are so entertaining! She would thank them and say things like that's just how my brain works.

The thing is, it's not. It's not how your brain works. It's how MY brain works. I have no freaking clue how YOUR brain works.

The feelings that I have about this are confusing, even to me.

On one hand I think, wow, you must be a sad individual without any sort of life, or anything worthwhile to say, who craves attention and has a strong need to be loved and admired. When I think of it like that, I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for a person who doesn't have enough confidence to think that anyone would like them for being themselves, and feels this so deeply that you must pretend to be someone else.

On the other hand, I think this is bullshit. Scary, disturbing, messed up, psychopathic, insane, bullshit. I'm talking "It's puts the lotion on it's skin", Single White Female, The Talented Mr. Ripley level insanity. This hand is overpowering the other, more empathetic, hand.

Just because I share parts of my life on the internet, that in no way means that my life is up for grabs. This is MY life. These are MY thoughts and words. These are stories about ME, MY husband, and MY child. To take these things and claim them as your own, to the readers of a Facebook fan page that you don't actually know, is dishonest and manipulative. But to essentially take my life and claim it as your own to the people who know you, and, I assume, love and care about you? That is a whole other level. You are lying to everyone around you. They have no idea that they are being tricked into believing that you are someone you're not. Have you taken even one moment to think about how they would feel if they knew what you were doing? If they knew that everything out of your mouth was a lie? And not only a lie, but someone else's truth that you decided to "borrow"? Do you ever think about how upset, confused, and hurt they might be? Do you care?

On the flip side of that, do you think about how upset, confused, and frightened that I am? I have absolutely zero idea what is going on in your head, but I'm guessing that since you aren't considering the feelings of your own friends and family, you aren't even close to considering my feelings or those of my family. What do you think that it feels like to find out that someone is basically pretending to be you? Not in name. Not in the way you look. But to BE you. To take your thoughts and stories, and the cute things that your child says, and to claim them as their own? This is like trying to steal someone's entire daily life life. This is not okay.

I don't know what your reasons are for doing this, and I doubt I ever will, but you need to stop. You need to stop for yourself. You need to stop for your friends and family. And you need to stop for me. If you have nothing to say on the internet, then get off of the internet. Any praise or admiration you get from people in exchange for writing words that are not your own, is meaningless. They aren't praising you. They are praising who they think you are. They are praising a lie. It's immoral, it's pathetic, it's manipulative, and it's scary as hell.

As a blogger I put myself out there. I put my family out there. I tell stories for people to enjoy. But I have a limit. I have a line that I don't cross. There are stories I don't tell. And just because I write things for you to read, doesn't mean that I don't deserve that limit and that line. I deserve some privacy and respect just like any other person does. My life is still mine. You can't steal from it. You can't pretend to be me. You can't try to become me. Every word you read in every single blog, or column, or Facebook status, is someone else's words. These words are not yours to take.

Things like this make me worry about my safety and the safety of my family. The person who did this may just be an insecure person who wants to be liked. But she may also be a person who wants to wear my skin. There's no way of knowing. And that's what's scary.

Years ago, when I started my blog, I never thought that so many people would read it. I never thought ahead and imagined that it might go way beyond my family and my friends. I didn't think about the fact that telling little stories about my life might make me a target for plagiarism, or mean that I was going to have to deal with unstable people. I didn't predict that I would someday be visiting the FBI with a file of threatening emails. Or that someone would essentially try to take on my identity. But just because I LOVE to write and to connect with people, doesn't mean that my life is up for grabs. I am me. You are not. You have no right to pretend to be me. You need to come clean to the people who love you. You need to seek professional help. You need to learn to be comfortable in your own skin, because you can't have mine.

I'm patiently waiting for Michelle Obama to contact me so I can be in charge of America's Bully Wars. My phone has a dial tone and my email is working, so I really can't figure out what's taking her so long.

2013-01-09T14:42:00.000-06:00

Hello class! Mom-Brain here. Everyone get settled, put away your back packs, make sure your pencils are sharpened, get out your notebooks, shut your traps, keep your dirty hands to yourselves, turn off your phones, and pay attention. Today we are going to talk about bullies.

When I was a kid I never really got bullied much. There are only 3 instances that I can remember. Two culminated in fist fights that were actually started by me, just to put a stop to the endless hallway threats of a fist fight. Nothing shuts a bully up when they're yapping on and on about how much they wanna punch you in the face faster than you just hitting them in the face already. The third one was diffused by me distracting the bully with a made up story about someone talking bad about her. Someone that didn't even exist. Causing her to spend weeks actually obsessing over beating up a figment of my creative imagination. It was one of my finest moments, really. Oh sure, I've had many people over the years who didn't like me for one reason or another, but if they decided to pick on me I could usually win them over with humor or distract their tiny little minds with something else that pissed them off more, like I did by inventing that invisible person.

Even though I didn't have many run-ins with bullies, I was nothing if not prepared for the possibility. I did, after all, have a total asshole of a girl neighbor that was bully-ish in a Mean Girls kinda way, as girls often are, and I had seen enough movies like Karate Kid, The Outsiders, and various others, to know the basic outline of a bullying type situation. To mentally prepare myself for the possibility of a physical fight, I often practiced my mad mad street fighting skillz. Skillz that I'm sure were about infinity times more bad ass in my imagination and in the reflection in the full length mirror on my closet door, than they ever would have been in any real life battle of brawn. But more than the physical part, I practiced the mental aspect of a possible asshole showdown. Even as a dumb-ass pre-teen I could usually see through a person and the show-offy BS they were up to, and figure out at least a little part of the why, and realize that I really had very little to do with why they wanted to beat me up. I understood that if it wasn't gonna be me, it was gonna be someone else. That's why my imaginary distraction technique worked so well. All a bully needs is a victim. If it's not you, it's gonna be someone else. A bully has to have someone to hate, and it might as well be someone who doesn't actually exist.

Now that I'm a grown up (quit laughing), I don't often have to deal with that anymore. Sure, a few years ago, some woman in my neighborhood got all pissy with me after her son was bullying my son and I tried to talk to her about it. She totally flipped out and tried to kick me out of the Bunco group that we were both in. She actually told me, and I quote, "I started this group, and I don't want you in it anymore, so here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna send out an email to the group and tell them you have to quit for personal reasons." To which I replied something along the lines of "Girl, what are you smoking? Have you MET me? I'm not doing that! And by the way, thank you for answering the burning question as to how your kid became such a bully." After making a few calls about getting me out, she ended up quitting herself, and being, in her words, "The bigger person." Which is always what someone calls themselves when they aren't even in the same zip code as the bigger person.

Other than that situation, I haven't really had to deal with it. Thank you baby Jeebus. I mean, I am 41-years-old, and if I was dealing with that shit every day I might as well regress back to petting my Shaun Cassidy posters, writing love mail to Ricky Schroder, wearing Wonder Woman training bras with matching unders, and practicing the art of the french kiss on the side of my hand.

On Facebook there are trolls galore. But compared to lots of other pages, mine really doesn't get very much. If I DO get them they are not normally what I would call "bullies," but more like people posting something rude or mean to see if you will bite. Trolls aren't usually trying to strong-arm you into anything, or intimidate you, like a bully would. They are just playing a game of "let's see if I can get this person all worked up." I wrote a blog about that a few months ago, and have since then learned to ignore it better, which in all actuality, is the best weapon you can use against them. All day, errday. Having a blog also means that a few people are going to email me with a diatribe about how they don't like what I write and why. Thankfully it's only happened to me a few times. And honestly, the people who do it are usually well-spoken and somewhat kind about it (if that makes sense), and I just write back and say "I'm sorry you feel that way," and move on with my day. I personally don't consider that trolling or bullying. It's just someone with a misguided view of how much their opinion might mean to me. That's just a personality trait. It's also just one person's opinion. We all have opinions. It's just that most of us would feel really a-holey sharing them like that. Thank balls.

The reason I got on the bully soapbox here isn't due to anything that happened to me. It's all because of Phillip. Yes, my sweet, lovely, and actually hella muscular and large Pilates God, Phillip. While I WANT to go all momma bear psycho in depth about the situation, I will refrain for Phillip's sake. Even though his bullying situation took place waaaaayyyyyy back in school when he claims (although I have yet to see proof) to have looked like a weaker, nerdier version of Urkle, he still doesn't want to give me and my big mouth and go big or go home attitude, the full scoop about it. What I do know is that it was pretty much the usual situation, where some big, giant dude picks on someone who is completely the opposite. Yes. Bullies are pussies like that. And I do know that this childhood bully is now an actor and was just in a blockbuster movie. And I do know his name. And I googled the crap outta him and it's totally KILLING every cell in my body to not email him and demand an apology and a suggestion that perhaps he use his little spotlight to do some sort of anti-bully campaign. Which I would for freezies make some posters for. And write speeches for. And promote the hell out of. And forgive him for being an asshole, for. Maybe. But alas, my Phillip wouldn't want me to do that.

I suggested to Phillip that we get a Bully Crime Fighting Team together and tour the US putting bullies in their place, because sometimes what a big time bully needs is to get their own ass kicked. I thought that while we were at it, we could totally perform some anti-bully musical numbers so that I could get my groove thang shaken. Phillip claims to dance like Michael Jackson, and I KNOW beyond the shadow of a doubt that I sing just like Beyonce, so I think that we would totally be wasting our talents if we only kicked bully asses and didn't perform a musical number about the kicking of the bully asses for the people who were so happily watching the kicking of the bully asses. And as Phillip should know, I'm totally always right about everything.

^^^^^^THAT'S what I'm talking about, you guys. THAT is how you start a campaign. THAT is how you spread the word that if you act like a wank, you are goin' down. Then we will perform a musical number about how you just went down. And I REALLY beyond REALLY want to send this to The Bully Who Shall Be Nameless and ask for an apology for my Chocolate Thunder. But I won't. And I won't try to make Phillip let me do it either. Cuz that would be ME being a bully, and then I'd have to help him kick MY ass and perform a musical number about my own ass kicking. I like to do lots of non-sensical things, you guys, but that one would take the cake.

P.S. Here is the first photo we took. I was going for a Karate Kid/Chuck Norris situation. It didn't really work out how I pictured it in my head. Usually things don't.

P.P.S. Phillip does not do Facebook OR read my blog. So it's always a surprise to him when people tell him about whatever the heck I have written about him. Or photos I have shown of him. Poor, sweet, Phillip.

All I ever needed to know I learned from Blogging and Facebook (AKA How not to be an asshole)

2013-01-06T20:06:00.004-06:00

I don't make New Years Resolutions. Ever. All a new year means to me is that I just survived 2 weeks of having my family all up in my grill, and that it's time to buy another calendar. Yes, I still buy real, live, old timey, paper calendars. When it come to using the electronic versions, I am kinda like the Clint Eastwood character in every movie from the past 5 years. I don't understand them, they make me grumpy, I call them bad names, they don't work right, I don't trust them, and if they get on my lawn I will threaten to beat them up.

That last part didn't really make much sense, but I think you get my point.

We all know that 99.9% of the people that make these resolutions never follow through with them. I am no different. I am the 99.9% and that knowledge keeps me from wasting my time and going around bragging to everyone about all the amazing things I'm gonna do every year, that never actually come to fruition. I'm not even gonna promise myself that I am gonna accomplish a shower on any particular day, let alone quit eating sugar, run a marathon, or build my own space ship out of tin cans, an old fridge, and lawn mower motors or something. I know this about myself and I am totally okay with it.

I think that the only people who do well with resolutions are competitive people. And me? I'm not really a competitive person. Ask The Hub. That man refuses to play a board game with me and my family members due to the fact that if you land on Park Place and I own it and you have fallen on rough times, I won't make you pay. And if I had to mortgage my railroad, you can bet your sweet ass that my mom or my sister will loan me money so that I can get it back, with a little extra left over for cushion. And if you win the game I'll be all "You did a really great job and should totally be proud!" which does nothing if not annoy the crap out of a competitive person.

The only reason I have ever been competitive in my life is if I hate your guts. But I'm 41 years old now, and at this point in my life there isn't really anyone whose guts I hate. Don't get me wrong, there are people that I don't like. There are people that I don't like a lot. But not many. And even if I don't like someone a lot, I try my best not to waste any extra energy hating them. I just try to pretend they don't exist. When I was a kid I was different. I hated a neighbor girl, and I was competitive as all get out. That girl was an unholy, a-holey, terror, whose bitchy attitude culminated in the Pac Man-athon of 1982 in which I showed her who the Atari Queen of the neighborhood REALLY was. And in high school I went to extraordinary, calculatingly genius lengths to get back at a few people who had done me wrong. But nowadays I'm more of a "Good luck getting through life being such an a-hole" kinda person who can walk away from almost anything, knowing that karma will take care of things and it's not my place to interfere. Most of the time I can even find a positive lesson to take from it, too.

I sound really grown up right now don't I? I think I do. Don't be frightened. It's probably just a phase.

Since I know that me and resolutions don't mix, instead of making all these promises to myself about what I'm going to accomplish this year, I've decided to focus on what I learned last year that might come in handy in the year ahead. Yes. It's positivity time, people. Deal with it.

So last year I learned that I don't wanna be an asshole.

Let me elaborate.

When I first starting Facebooking, I was a little more sassy with a bigger dash of smart-assey. ANd not always in the tongue-in-cheek, silly way that I am now. I wrote more rants. I complained more. I thought that being more bitchy was funny. And maybe it was for awhile. I didn't really know where I belonged in the great wide world of the interwebs. I was all alone writing my little blog for about 2 years before I found Facebook, and I really had no idea how to translate what I did on my blog to the whole Facebook situation. I felt like the new kid at school. I didn't know any other bloggers before then, and for the first time ever I was "meeting" other people who had blogs and pages. It's easy to get sucked in to a false sense of community in that kind of situation. You want to be liked and to fit in. You trust people. You think they are your friends. You want to be a part of it. It turns out to be a lot like high school, except it's much easier to misjudge people when they can hide behind a computer and an internet persona. There are people who plot against each other, get jealous, and act like total jackwagons. People lie. People pretend to be people they aren't. People try to manipulate you. People use you to benefit their own blogs or pages. People get angry if you don't "share" their page or promote them or whatever. Some people think that because they have X amount of "fans" they are famous. It's easy to get a bit wrapped up in the whole world of Facebook Fame and forget one tiny thing: It doesn't matter. Just because people "like" what you post on Facebook doesn't mean ANYTHING in your real life. It's great to have people like a photo or some meme you shared that 1,000 other people have shared too, but that really has nothing at all to do with you. Anyone can share a meme. Anyone can get likes for regurgitating something a thousand other people have already posted. So holy ballsack, people. It's ridiculous for anyone to let it all go to their head and think they are special and amazing.

Blogging and Facebooking can become an addiction. I had times where I would sit around with my nose in my computer or my iPhone, with such a hard-on for getting virtual attention, that I would forget what was going on around me. I had real life people around me who wanted to spend time with me but I was sucked into some BS internet world. That was me being an asshole. I've learned that my life as an internet goofball, while fun and entertaining, doesn't define me. If everyone unliked my page tomorrow, it would have absolutely zero effect on who I am as a person. Likewise, if a million people were to suddenly like me overnight, it would in no way change who I am inside. I'd be exactly the same person that I am now. Either way, the people who know me and who love me for real, would still be there if I had no page or blog. Those are the people who deserve my attention. In the very beginning of Facebookarama, I may have briefly lost sight of that. I have it back now, and it won't happen again.

Although I've met plenty of internet "friends" who turned out to be assholes, I've also met some who have turned out to be real life friends that I can trust and who I hope to know for a long time. You just have to learn to choose wisely and weed out the wankers. It can totally be done. You just have to be careful.

I have found that lots of the people I have gotten to know, and trust, and admire, are often people who also have blogs. I started as a blogger who got a Facebook page because a reader set it up for me and said "Here...now you have to write on it." I like to write little stories about my life, and luckily I discovered that I can also do that on Facebook. I like to think of my page as an opportunity to write mini-blogs. Or long-ass statuses. However you wanna look at it. But either way I am a storyteller, and my stories are about my real life stuff. Do I tell everything? No. I tell the funny stuff, because that's the stuff I choose to focus on and that's the tone of my page and blog. Does it mean that every day of my life is amazing? No way. But that's not what I choose to write about on a day to day basis, and it's not what I choose to share with thousands of people. But the pages that I love are the ones who tell the funny and the sad, and tell it well. Those are the ones that inspire me and have become my friends and are the ones that I trust. Pages like I Want a Dumpster Baby, The Klonopin Chronicles, Slice of Humble, It's Cool to be OCD, The Crumb Diaries, among others, as well as a few that are newer to me, like Mary Tyler Mom. These are the people that I find to be inspiring and truthful and doing it all for the right reasons. Not for money or internet fame. They write because they have to write. It's just who they are. People reading it and enjoying it is just icing on the cake. Because of them I've learned that finding "real" people in Facebooklandia is possible, and I like to think that I've also learned how to be a better person because of finding good people.

I sort of had an epiphany last year when I realized that the ridiculousness of what I do actually mattered to some people. I started getting more and more email from readers who were going through some really bad times. Job loss, illness, and the deaths of spouses, parents, and children. These people told me their stories and said that I made them laugh in the midst of whatever horrors they were going through. One woman thanked me for making her mother laugh while she was dying in hospice, and giving her the memory of her mom's laughter instead of her pain. Another woman told me that her young daughter had cancer, and they enjoyed reading my stories during hospital stays. She wrote me again yesterday and let me know that her daughter had passed away. Although I don't know these people in real life, I cried for them. Like, snot all over my shirt kinda cried. It humbles me to realize that my stupid little stories about The Cat and walking around Target with underwear stuck to my back -stories of absolutely no depth or purpose- can affect people deeply. Here I was, writing all this nonsense, only to find out that I was somehow a part of someone's last moments with their mother. Or part of a few final giggles with their daughter. This realization has not only changed the way that I think about everything that I do, but it's also literally changed me as a person. It's made me thankful that I am lucky enough to have not only my health, but my family's as well. It's made me hug a little tighter and kiss a little longer. I don't care how many people like my page or read my blogs. I would take the 2 stories I just shared with you over a million more readers, or any amount of money or fame, all day, every day.

Last year I started a Zazzle store to sell Mom-Brain stuff. People had been asking me to do this for awhile, but I didn't want to because it made me feel like an asshole. I didn't want to slap my name on something and ask people to give me money for it. Not that there's anything wrong with other people doing that, there's just something inside of me that could not do it. I didn't want to feel like I was making money off of the people who are kind enough to read what I write. So what I decided to do was to start a store and give the money to charity. I choose a different one each month, and when people buy my stuff, that's where the money goes. It's not an avalanche of cash or anything, but it's a decent amount, and it makes me feel okay with asking people to buy things if it's for a good cause. I also think it helps people feel good about themselves to know that they helped someone too. My hope is that in addition to raising a little bit of money and awareness for these causes, I can inspire people like so many have inspired me.

Hearing stories like the two I told above, and promoting charities, helps me feel like I have a purpose for what I do. I have more readers than I could have ever imagined, so why not use that exposure to do something good. It's not about me. It's about what positive things can I do to deserve having the attention of so many people. That's what I needed to justify taking time out of my real life to do what I was doing. A purpose. I have no desire to make money for myself, or become famous, or pump up my ego. There were points last year when I was disgusted with the whole catty and often mean-spirited Facebook thing, and even thought about shutting my page down. It's the amazing bloggers who inspire me, and the people who write to me and comment on my posts, and the discovery that I can do what I do and help people while doing it, that have kept me around, and even inspired me to attempt to write a book. It's discovering that telling my silly stories can bring positivity to someone else's life, or change the entire course of their day. It definitely goes both ways. Finding out that I made a stranger laugh can make my whole week better. I have realized that there are some really amazing people out there that I would like to know, and who feel like they already know me. People who let me into their lives every day, by taking the time to read about mine.

Each of you, whether it was good or bad, have taught me something in the last year. You are all, in your own ways, keeping me from becoming an asshole. And for that, I thank you. Even the assholes.

xoxo
Patti

A Tale of Two Birthdays: Death, Kidnapping, and Sugar Balls.

2012-12-31T08:20:00.000-06:00

December is The Month of Patti.

In other words, it's the month that I was born.

Although I was born in a hospital, and not a manger, it was a pretty small, country-ish town, and I wouldn't doubt it if someone working or visiting there had some goat or mule in their family DNA somewhere.

And I'm sure that my mom would claim that she was a virgin at the time, if she thought that she could get away with it.

I will now pause while you all applaud the glory of my birth. Actually, you should applaud the fact that I have lived to see this many birthdays, what with the double death wish of sass and freakish medical oopsies that I've got going on.

Yes, my mother's uterus decided to give me the gift of being a December baby. And If you know anything at all about December babies, it's that when it's our birthday time, we often get screwed.

December is so freaking busy with the holidays and everything, that the last thing anyone has time for is worrying about your silly old birthday. If people can climb out of their Christmas spirals long enough to remember that it's even your birthday at all, they will either give you no gift because they're out of money due to all of the presents they had to buy, or they will try to give you a twofer. Ya know, the old "Happy Birthday and Merry Chrsitmas! Here's your gift!" Yes. GifT. Singular. I have decided that if someone says that to a December birthday baby, you should just say "Ssssssssss," to which they will reply "Huh?" to which you will reply "Don't you mean GiftSSSSSSSS," to which they will reply "Oh you're so silly. This is your combination gift!" to which you will reply with a swift kick to the ovarnads.

Non-Christmas parties are also total suckage in December. If you have a party, nobody can come. Nope. That little Baby Jesus done stole your entire guest list. There are Christmas parties galore, and ain't nobody dumping the Baby Jesus for your stupid butt. Only one person holds all the one way tickets to Heaven, and it sure as heck isn't you. That baby gets TOP priority. The whole darn month is his. Sure, you can compete with little Sally Johnson's lame-o December birthday. You are more fun and your mom makes better party snacks. You will have no problem poaching her guest list. But If you try to poach that holy baby's list, hellfire and damnation will be yours. Ok. That may be a little dramatic, but I think you get the gist.

I don't really remember too many of my birthday parties. I only know that they occurred, because there is photographic proof and my parents can barely turn on a computer, let alone construct photoshopped "evidence" of parties I never had. But those parties weren't a huge deal or anything. They were tiny little gatherings for some quick cake and ice cream.

The first party that I actually remember, was when I had my first slumber party. That was a big deal for me. I was turning (I think) 11, and my mom had finally given in and let me have a pretty decent sized sleepover. I guess we had sent out the invitations pretty early, because the turn out was surprisingly good. I was sooooo excited. My mom had baked a ton of goodies and we were all going to sleep on the living room floor and pig out and talk about important things all night, such as "Who would you marry? Ricky Stratton or Derek Taylor?"

I. Was. Pumped.

Not only was I finally getting some of the birthday attention that I so rightly deserved, yet had been denied for so long, but I was getting it for a period of approximately 12-15 hours. For 12-15 hours, I would be queen. This was gonna be some good stuff. Plus, everyone would be talking about it at school on Monday, so it would be like my birthday was going on for days and days. I was gonna milk this for all it was worth, and ride this birthday wave as long as possible. This would be my time in the sun, FINALLY, and ain't no Baby in a manger gonna steal my spotlight. Not this time. Not with MY slumber party going down up in here.

Then, about an hour into what was surely going to go down in history as the best slumber birthday party in the history of ever, someone came to the door to tell us that our neighbor, who was the grandmother of one of my guests, had just died. Not only had she died, but she had died in a horrible accident that was described in great detail to the room full of slumber party girls. There were tears. There were neighbors coming and going. The whole block was mayhem.

Nothing ruins an amazing birthday party like a dead person. I mean seriously. I can't think of anything. Nothing at all. Except maybe two dead persons.

I did have other slumber parties after that. But only a few. There was totally a cloud of "Remember when that lady died during your party?" hanging over any possible festivities. And, to be honest, I think I was always on high alert and waiting for something bad to go down. Cuz once your party is upstaged by a death, it's kinda hard to let that go. It's like, "Welcome to my party. I hope nobody dies this year. Good luck on making it through the night."

After than whole unfortunate situation, I pretty much gave up the perfect party dream.

Until this year

Most of my Facebook readers know that I have a thing for Justin Bieber. And by "thing" I mean that I have a sort of ironic, fake, and totally fun-filled love for him. Seriously, that boy is just really fun to pretend to love. Thursday morning, I had heard about the thwarted JB kidnapping plot that someone had been busted for, and I made the following post on my FB page:

I would like to state for the record, that I had absolutely nothing to do with the plot to kindap Justin Bieber. If I HAD had something to do with it, then this morning, instead of hearing about a really poorly planned and easily thwarted kidnapping plot, you would have awakened to the sound of millions of little girls doing that loud, dramatic, wailing, hyperventilating cry, cuz if I was heading that operation, The Biebs would be gone, baby, gone. But let's face it, his whereabouts would only be a mystery until maybe lunchtime, cuz I would totally be bragging about it and posting photos of him with my Zombie Babies and maybe a few of him vacuuming or washing dishes. I am nothing if not (a) A kidnapping expert, and (b) Really bad at keeping secrets.

So one of my friends told me that she was having a birthday lunch for me. I was meeting them at a restaurant, and this is what I looked like when I walked in:

And I looked like that because I saw this:

Turns out, he HAD been kidnapped. But I still maintain that I had nothing to do with it. He was a gift to me, and I'm not super up to date on kidnapping laws, but I'm about 0% sure that if someone kidnaps someone and gives them to you as a gift, it's totally allowed. I mean, the actual kidnappers sure as heck broke the crap outta some laws, but the person they gave the victim to, did nothing wrong. It's rude to turn down a gift, you guys. Even if that gift is a blindfolded kidnap victim. That's just super bad manners.

Since I am not a rude gift receiver, I adored my gift:

And we shared a soda of love:

And a tender moment:

And a birthday dessert (I know it looks like mashed potatoes, cheese wedges, and meatballs, but it's mousse, sorbet and sugar balls. Which is JB's new nickname, BTW):

And he got to go home with me (that paparazzi is a bitch):

And then I made him do housework, like I said I would:

And then he got to chill and hang out with his new brothers, The Zombie babies:

So I wanna thank these people:

Becky, Simi, Jenny, Stephanie, and Flat Biebs, for giving me the 11-year-old girl's birthday party that I never had. I loved it long time. And thank you for all staying alive so that I could be in the spotlight.

P.S. Special Thank You to Bombay Palace of Sugar Land, TX, and our super sweet (and totally game) server Narayan, for feeding us some amazing food, putting up with our shenanigans, taking photos for us, making me a special Bieberiffic dessert, and just generally being awesome. xoxo

P.P.S. Thank you to all of you who have asked if you can send me birthday gifts. You are all soooo sweet but the answer is no. (a) I don't give out my address because I don't want to end up kidnapped like The Biebs, cuz although he ended up with someone awesome (me), I would no doubt end up with someone who wanted to make my skin into an ottoman, and (b) I would rather you give the money to charity. Project Night Night is my December Charity. All proceeds from my Zazzle Store go there this month. AND you can donate directly to them if you don't want to buy any of my crap.

'Tis the season to hump all of the things. If you get caught, you can blame it on all the wine and eggnog.

2012-12-19T07:12:00.004-06:00

Here's a little secret about me: I hate to have my picture taken. Really, I do. I know that's hard to believe, due to the huge amount of photos that I post of myself on this blog and on my Facebook page. But believe me, it's true.

Here's another little secret about me: I love to have my photo taken. Really, I do. I know that's hard to believe, due to the fact that I just told you right up there ^^^^ that I hate to have my picture taken. But believe me, it's true.

Confused yet? Well, it goes like this: I hate to have my photo taken when it's for anything serious. Or normal. Or regular. But I love to have my photo taken when I am acting like a dork. Or wearing something stupid. Or doing something totally weird and/or inappropriate.

If you ever need a volunteer to do something ridiculous and/or embarrassing for a photo, I'm your girl.

There is something wrong (or maybe right?) with my brain, which makes me constantly scan my surroundings for photo ops. If you can climb it, hump it, be humped by it, dangle from it, kiss it, lie on it, ride it, or hug it, I am so totally in that it's not even funny.

This is me in L.A. when I asked the driver of our Hollywood Star Homes Tour if I could hop off the bus and hump this statue that was in someone's fancy Beverly Hills yard. Obviously the driver/tour guide was down with it.

This addiction really gets put to the test during the holiday season.

Starting at Halloween, and continuing all through Christmas, everyone is covering their lawns with things that blow up, light up, make noise, move, and just BEG for my photographic attacks. It's especially hard to resist those giant inflatable things that everyone has in their yards. They are everywhere in my neighborhood, and it's honestly stressful for me to see them every day and not totally molest them for sport.

Last Saturday night, my friends and family and I did a Mobile Xmas Carol Assualt of our neighborhood. We took donations for Toys for Tots in exchange for giving the gift of song and dance. We had a big light up trailer/hayride situation that pulled us 'round the 'hood while we shared our angelic voices with our lucky neighbors. During that tour of our neighborhood, I saw at least a hundred holiday decorations that I wanted to hump, but since there were children on board the assault vehicle, I had to refrain. It was difficult. I mean, seriously difficult. It was like dangling a bottle of Jack in front of an alcoholic. I'm not gonna lie to you guys... I still get the shakes when I think about it. At one point we slowly drove past a house with a giant inflatable dog in the yard, that just so happened to be in the perfect position for me to give it the business from behind. Even my friend Kris mentioned that it was truly made for me and my mad mad surprise buttsecksing skillz. But alas, I had to turn away, tear in my eye, and say "I'm being strong for the children. I must behave myself and set an example for the children."

Being appropriate really sucks, you guys. It is totally not my forte, but I've proven that I can do it when I have to. I am nothing if not amazingly thoughtful, mature, responsible, and a superior role model.

But my point here is this: 'Tis the season for doing inappropriate things with holiday decorations, and I want YOU GUYS to get in on this action. I would like you to molest some inflatable yard decor, Santa statues, light up reindeer, whatever you can find, and send me the photos. Be creative. Be unique. Be funny. I will accept photos until January 1st and I will announce a winner a few days later. The winner will get some totally ridiculous crap from my Zazzle store, as well as the public humiliation of having their photo posted on my blog and Facebook page, as well as bragging rights about how you won a contest because you are the #1 Holiday Decoration Molester. In the whole wide (Insane in the Mom-Brain) world.

I got a little funky in my neighborhood yesterday afternoon, and I hope it will inspire you to trespass and inappropriately pose on a stranger's cherished holiday paraphernalia.

'Tis the season.

***Send photos to me at pattibrain@gmail.com***

The Insane Holiday Spiral. It's the reason that so many people try to keep a nice buzz going all winter.

2012-12-10T07:55:00.002-06:00

This is the time of year that I go swirling deep into what I like to call The Insane Holiday Spiral. 'Tis a time of year when whoever the heck it was who decided that these were all holidays anyways, also decided that it would be awesome if the big ones occured back to back. And I'll tell you one thing: I can pretty much guarantee you that the people that caused this craptastrophe were dudes.

Here's why:

Halloween? According to the church school I was unwillingly forced to attend as a child, that holiday is all about The Devil. And guess what? He wants you to dress up like a whore. And guess what else? The Devil's a dude.

Then before you can even come down off the satanic sugar high from all that hell candy, here comes Thanksgiving. Now, I don't claim to know a whole lot about Thanksgiving, and we can blame my Christian school for that. Alls I really learned there is that God invented turkey's so that we could brutally murder them cuz they are delicious. Of course there were also ships and Pilgrims and Indians. And although the Indians were made out by old cowboy movies to look like jerks, I'm pretty much on their side because those white guys were a-holes. Plus, Indian outfits were way cooler than the Pilgrims, all day, errday. But in all those Thanksgivingy pictures in books and crap, who's the main focus? The dudes. The pilgrim chicks are always in the background setting the table or holding some food or something.

Then, before you even begin to climb out of your triptophan turkey coma, boom! It's Christmas. And that's all about dudes too. Even though Mary, a virginal young girl who popped out a baby in a pile of hay, did all the work, she really got the shaft on all this Christmas carol stuff. I think it's a travesty that Mary doesn't have a really rockin' Christmas song. Even the background players got Christmas songs written about them. The 3 Wisemen got one. Heck, even the little drummer boy got one. I don't doubt that one of those cows in the manger even got a song and I just haven't heard it yet. So where is Mary's song about going about her business and getting magically knocked up and dealing with it like a champ? Where is her "THIS GIRL KICKS ASS" song?

When I was in church/school, I was usually drawing pictures of unicorns and writing awesome poetry about Ricky Schroder instead of listening, so I can't claim to know ALL of the religious details of the holiday. And I do admit to totally falling from grace in my Christian school when I decided to listen to Madonna and watch The Facts of Life, and never looking back. So there might possibly BE a Merry Christmas Mary song, but if there is, it must suck, cuz I haven't heard it. But I DO know that "Merry Mary Christmas" would kick ass waaaayyyyy better than that pa rum pum pum pum situation. Even Bowie couldn't make that jam. Let's face it: The kid in the song played a drum, and we all know that with the exception of that little long haired Mmm Boppy Hanson brother, when kids play drums it sounds like ass. And as far as the Wiseman are concerned, they walked through some fields and moors to bring some really non-newborn appropriate gifts to Baby Jesus, and even THEY got a song. A boring ass song about walking a long ways. The only thing worse than walking a long ways, is listening to a song about someone else walking a long ways. If they wanted it to be catchy they shoulda done it more like that whole "I Would Walk 500 Miles" song. That song rocked. Plus, if they were that wise they woulda ridden horses or hopped on a wagon or something. That's what 3 Wise Women woulda done. And they would have brought gifts like blankets and booties and diapers instead of whatever the frick myrr is.

Christmas, fail.

And finally, after everyone's broke from gift giving, and exhausted from talking behind everyone's back about the crappy/cheap gift they got from so and so, comes New Years. A time to get loaded, do stupid things, then tell everyone that you're gonna do something amazing this year, and never follow through. And, as I assume you all know from that awesome 70's cartoon "Rudolph's Shiny New Year," Baby New Year is a boy. Surprise, surprise.

And yet with all of this sexist holiday information, WHO does most of the baking, decorating, organizing, card sending, planning, etc....on these holidays? The women.

Falalalalala-sporktotheballs.

But before I got sidetracked explaining all of the holidays that you already knew about, I was telling you that I go into The Insane Holiday Spiral, which means that I start to get even more forgetful and ADHD than usual. I know. It seems impossible. But it's true. For one thing, I have severe sensory overload. The lights! The smells! The sounds! The glittery, colorful crap everywhere! I am super duper distracted. And when I have a lot to get done, like I do during xmas, I start doing one thing, then something in that one thing reminds me of another thing. So I pause that one thing and run off to do that other thing before I forget what it was. Then THAT other thing reminds me of the next thing, so I run off to do THAT thing. Then I repeat that whole scenario, like, a thousand times. What ends up happening is that nothing gets all the way done. There is, however, a bunch of crap that is partially done and left to rot, because this girl does not look back. The good news is that if ever I were to disappear over the holidays, be it running away or being kidnapped by one of the psycho trolls who have found me via the internet, any CSI team worth their salt would be able to track down my whereabouts in no time, by simply following the trail of half done tasks that I have left in my wake.

Point is: It's a really difficult time. Which is why I stock up on wine.

One of the 1,374,289 things on my "To Do" list this week was to sell our old Xmas tree. Here is the ad I wrote for neighborhood website:

Magic Tree For Sale

I'm not sure how tall it is. Maybe 7 1/2 feet? Maybe 7? It's taller than me but shorter than a giant. It's also fatter than me, yet thinner than Jabba the Hut. It's about 6 years old. It's pre-lit but some of the lights are out, which means it will take patience to fix which is why we are getting rid of it because at my house we don't have that trait. The Hub wants $50 for it but I say best offer. Even if that's a case of Modelo and a dry hump. It's sitting up in our garage so you can come take a look if you want to. It looks ugly as ass cuz it's undecorated and I didn't primp it, but you'll get the picture. Cover it with a bunch of crappy ornaments that your kids made, and it will look amazing. Or it will look like an ugly ass tree with crappy stuff your kids made strung all over it. Either way, it's a win/win. And by win/win, I mean sooo totally not a win. At all Just come and take my damn tree, please. And P.S. I'm pretty sure it's magic, cuz one night last year after I had too much eggnog, it spoke to me. It told me I was crazy, then it sang Have a Holly Jolly Christmas to me, in Chinese. A few nights later, as I was innocently strolling past it, it kicked me and threw an ornament at me. The next day I put 2 and 2 together and realized that I'm pretty sure this tree is possessed by Bruce Lee. If your husband is a Bruce Lee fan he would love this tree, and you can give it to him as a gift. He might not even care that he has to fix the lights because he'll be so excited to have a genuine Bruce Lee Possessed Tree in his living room to show off to his friends on man night. Boom! I've already done your Xmas shopping for you. You're welcome.

And guess what? I totally sold it. Just like a few months ago I sold my Treadmill Time Machine.

Once again, I have no idea why I have yet to be snapped up by an advertising agency.

And last and totally least, my Zombie Babies want to wish you an early Merry Christmas. They are so festive. They really keep me perky through all these holidays. I highly recommend that you all open your hearts and adopt some next year. No family is complete without a couple of scary babies that sit in your living room year round and freak the crap out of visitors.

****The winner of the contest to win the prints from Leroy's Place was picked using a random number generator at random.org. The winner is the following reader:

AnonymousDecember 6, 2012 10:47 AM

Love Serene's stuff and she's sweet to boot!
Kristy

Please get back to me ASAP via email at pattibrain@gmail.com so I can send you your prints! YAY!

Patti The Purfumerarianist

2012-12-07T06:30:00.000-06:00

The year was 1978. I wanted this for my birthday, and I wanted it bad. THIS was my calling. I would be a perfumerarianist. A maker of smells. I would make smells the likes of which had never been smelled since the beginning of time. Smells that smelled better than Sweet Baby Jeebus's little baby noggin. Smells so glorious and hypnotic that when I wore them to school, kids on the playground would be drawn away from their games of four square to sniff me and look at me in awe. Strangers would stop me on the street and ask me how it was that I came to smell so fantastic. I would reply "I am a perfumerarianist, and I own my own perfumerarary." People would beg to buy my bottles of amazingness and their nostrils would delight in what they inhaled, as their nose hairs danced a happy jig. I would become rich. People around the world would be wearing my smells. I would go down in history as the most successful perfumerarianist EVER.

That was the dream. The dream I saw as clearly as if it had already happened.

Here's the reality:

After months of incessant whining about how desperately I needed this, and even though my mom thought it was a stupid waste of money, she gave in so I would not fulfill my threats to sell our fine china in order to acquire the contraption that was going to make my whole life worthwhile. After opening it, I ran immediately to my lab, AKA perfumerarium, AKA playroom, to make the dream happen. No matter what portions of what smell I mixed together, it smelled like a dead animal's bunghole. So I went to get some extracts from my mom's baking cabinet and threw a few drops of those in. That made it worse. It was like the bunghole of a dead animal that ate a lot of cake. So I got some mouthwash and mixed that in, and nearly vomited because it smelled like the bunghole of a dead animal that ate a lot of cake, then died, then had a case of Scope mouthwash poured on his carcass. In the end, I dumped out my creations, rinsed out the bottles, opened my Love's Baby Soft, and poured it into the Barbie bottles. I then drew my name on the labels in marker, and went door to door and sold them for about 50 cents apiece. I told the buyers that when they were done I was gonna need my bottles back. Which they never gave me. Sometimes dreams are bullshit, you guys. Total. Bullshit.

P.S.

Visit my store and buy something this month, cuz all proceeds go to Project Night Night

OR...If you don't want any of the amazingly stupid stuff that I sell in my store, you can just go straight to Project Night Night on the interwebs and donate there.

Thank you to everyone who has ordered things the past 2 months. In case you didn't know, ALL money made from my Zazzle store goes to charity. I will choose a different one each month. The money from November goes to the Fisher Center for Alzheimer's Research Foundation, and October's earning were for Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

THANK YOU!! xoxo

My latest art boner. Yes, it involves unicorns.

2012-12-06T00:11:00.003-06:00

You guys know a lot about me. Like, a crap load about me. Literally. Just read the poop blog I wrote last, and see. I tell you (and my Facebook readers especially) all about my weird thoughts and happenings, in sentences that ramble on and on like they were written by a psych ward inmate. Yet here I sit, totally free in the world. I don't know how or why, but I sure am glad I slipped under the radar of the people who make those decisions. If there's one thing I've learned from watching this season of American Horror Story, it's that I couldn't handle it in an asylum. At all. And 'm pretty freakin' sure that they don't allow you to have sporks in there. And this girl has gots to have her sporks. I also learned while watching that show, that even when his arm gets ripped off by a scary-ass monster, Adam Levine is still sexy as heck. He's so sexy that you don't even notice that he's screaming and waving a bloody stump around.

I get lots of email. They send me pictures, links, articles, kind words, they tell me their problems and want advice (Yikes!), and they ask me questions. One question that a few people have asked me, is, what would people be surprised to know about you? The answer to that is this: A helluvalot. So much so that I can't write about it in a blog. I gotta save that stuff for my book.

But one thing that you might not know about me is that I am artsy. Artsy, as in, I used to paint anything I could get my hands on, and people actually paid me to do it. I did canvases, furniture, murals, etc... and I loved it. Then, since I am flighty and fidgety, I got bored. Then I started to write my blog. I guess creativity is creativity and it comes out in different ways at different times. I think I finally found my "thing" though. It's much easier to sit at my desk and type a stupid story about how I am constipated, than it is to climb ladders and inhale fumes and paint a bunch of stuff on a wall for days and days until you feel like your body is 90-years-old and arthritic.

My mind is a jumble of odd pictures, songs, and stories, and it never really stops working. It's like some strange, colorful, picture book in there that is almost impossible to keep up with. Some people call that creativity, and I am happy that such a kind word is used to describe it. I have a soft spot for other people who are "creative", and I also get excited when I see someone come up with something that is so amazing that I hate myself for not thinking of it first. I am in awe of some peoples minds and ideas, and I like artists who make me smile and get a bit jealous of their skillz. Case in point: Sebastien Millon, who designed my new blog header. It's like he draws what is going on in my head. His talent makes me giddy.

I recently came across another artist that made me mega happy. her name is Serene Bacigalupi. Her stuff is so creative, unique, and magical that I fell in love with it immediately. She takes vintage paintings and paints things on top of them. Here are a few of my favorites:

I would have done way more Bible reading if this had been in there.

Dear Hollywood, this is better than 90% of your ideas.

I mean, COME ON! It's a monster sitting in a pond, having a refreshing beverage!

After stalking all her stuff, I totally fan mailed her and basically told her that I was in mad mad love with her, and instead of calling the po po, she was kind enough to write back to me and I told her that I wanted to share her with you guys ASAP. Well, she liked that genius idea, and she wanted to give you a discount code for her Etsy store as well as 2 prints of some of her most popular pictures to one of you guys. Yay for nice people, right? Nice people give you free stuff. And who doesn't like free stuff? An idiot, that's who.

To enter to win the prints, leave a comment with your name and email address in it, and I will draw one of you randomly with the help of computery shit that my pathetic brain can't even begin to understand. Also, please go like Serene's FB page HERE and her Etsy store HERE. You can use the code MOMICORN to get 10% off anything in the store. FYI she has some Hall and Oates earrings that are pretty amazingly badass. Seriously. Bad. Ass.

Winner will be announced Monday, 12/10.

Good Luck!

And P.S. I moderate comments so it might not post right away. Be patient. It will. lease only enter once. xoxo

***Contest ended on 12/10/2012***

Dear Universe, Stop Taunting Me: A Story About Poop

2012-12-02T16:42:00.003-06:00

WARNING:

This post is in no way appropriate. But since when am I appropriate? On a mature day, I have the mind of a 13-year-old boy who got held back a few grades and has irresponsible parents.

If you can't handle talk about poops, or the lack thereof, then I suggest you stop reading now. But if you CAN'T handle talk about poops, then honestly, I have no idea WTF you're doing here. Because it's kinda something I talk about. A lot. There's a reason that "Everyone Poops" book became such a huge seller, and that reason is, duh, everyone poops. It's right there in the title, you guys. Holy balls.

As my avid readers know, I have a thing about poop. That thing is that if I don't have a morning one, it can and will, throw off my entire day. I learned from my dad to call this special morning time "My Morning Constitutional," which seems totally appropriate considering that one of the definitions of "constitutional" is "beneficial to ones general physical well-being," and a good poop is nothing if not beneficial to my well-being. It keeps my clothes fitting well, it keeps me healthy, and it keeps me from sporking idiots in the nutsacks. So actually, my morning constitutional is beneficial to not only me, but to everyone around me, too.

So last weekend we went with some friends to the Texas Renaissance Festival. I love the RenFest for two reasons:

1) It's a total freak show
2) They have food on sticks

So the day we went to the RenFest, I did not have my morning constitutional. It was just literally, a no go. I could barely move. My pants wouldn't button right, and I felt all discombobulated and frumpy and slow. I even broke one of my cardinal poop rules and tried in vain to make a deposit at a McDonald's along the way, but some woman beat me to it. Nothing ruins your shot at a good poop like someone else stinking up the joint so you can't stay in there long enough to give it a go.

Basically, by the time we got to RenFest I wasn't feeling the traditional Patti Perk.

And ya know how when you've just had a bad break-up or something, every song that comes on the radio is about a break-up and you feel like The Universe is taunting you and your pain? That's how I felt at the RenFest. Every sign I saw made me curse my inability to perform on the potty.

The photo on the left is of me (duh) in front of a Hot Tamale stand, and the red circle is around a sign that is advertising Fudge Puppies. The photo on the right is of me (duh, again) in front of a pewter stand (pooter is a fart, you guys).

This is a photo of me in front of Ye Village Flutemaker. Oh, how I envied that flutemaker.

This is a photo of me in front of King of the Log. Need I really say more?

THEN the tide turned. The clouds parted and the Heavens shined down on me:

I think these two speak for themselves.

(A big shout-out to my friend Jenny R. for taking these photos and laughing with me at all of the signs, and not cringing when I constantly talk about poop.)