Dear Santa

I have been a very good girl this year, as evidenced by my ability to keep from hurting anyone while I do my Christmas shopping. These past 2 weeks have been brutal, especially when I get within a 1 mile radius of a shopping mall. I admit I have come thisclose to not only hitting people with my car, but to almost beating a woman with a copy of that big-ass Stephen King book, "Under the Dome" at Barnes and Noble, and I had to hold myself back from forcing someone to eat an entire Ugg boot at Dillard's. When my temper nearly got the best of me, I just took a deep breath and thought "What would Santa do?", and that simple question usually calmed me down. I am almost positive that you would remain jolly in the presence of even the most crazed and selfish shoppers, although I have a feeling that those Elves of yours might kick some suburban ass.

Since I am sure that I am on your "Nice" list this year, I have decided to write you this letter to let you know exactly what I want for Christmas, in hopes of avoiding the gift fiasco's of 1985 and 1991. I don't wear mini skirts, I don't wear leather, and scented body powders are for the women on "Golden Girls", not a 14-year-old who's looking to get into the dating scene. Here is a list to help you make my Christmas just a little more merry:

A new Roomba. I'd appreciate it if you could keep this just between us, but my love for my current Roomba has died. I tried to work things out with her, I even went so far as to suggest we seek couples counseling, but I've finally come to the realization that we just weren't meant to be. Her relationship with Tiger has driven a wedge between us, and I just can't take anymore. Please replace her with the latest model, and make sure this one has a lot less back talk and a lot more spinning of that rotating brush.

A vacation with Paul Rudd. Someplace tropical would be ideal. A beach, a couple of lawn chairs, someone to brig us beer. Heaven.

A magic laundry fairy. She doesn't even have to actually do the laundry. All I ask is that she fly around and pick up Ethan's socks and Steve's underwear off of the floor and deposit them in the clothes hamper.

I would like you to tell Obama to make December and January, National Sweatpants Months. My pants start to get too tight around October 31st, and the problem only gets worse in November and December, until finally January hits and my New Years Resolution kicks in. Since I can't get my pants buttoned, nothing would feel better than to spend every day in my comfy sweats, but I don't want to be the only one looking like a slob. This would help my comfort level, as well as my self-esteem.

I would like for Elisabeth Hasselbeck to go away. You know what? I think she'd make a good elf. Maybe you should take her back to the North Pole with you. She did pretty well on Survivor, so I'm sure she could handle the pole.

I would like shopping malls to stop putting massage places and eyebrow places out in the open. Getting rubbed and/or getting hairs plucked from your body, are both things that should be done in private.

I would like a Tempur-Pedic mattress because my mattress is 10-years-old and it's starting to mess up my back, and those Tempur-Pedic mattresses make you feel like you're being gently rocked to sleep by an angel, or by Paul Rudd.

I would like for it to be cool to love the song "Highwayman", because that song is freaking awesome and I fly a star ship across the Universe divide, and when I reach the other side, I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can, perhaps I may become a Highwayman again (and again, and again, and again...).

I would like to invent a pill or something that makes your hair grow in whatever color you want it to, because I am tired of having to "enhance" my color. If scientists can grow a human ear on a mouse's back and then sew it onto an earless human, could blonde hair really be that big of a problem?

On the topic of inventions...I would like someone to invent a machine that makes junk foods healthy and healthy food junky.

I would like for my husband to stop snoring. After almost 20 years of quiet, he has only recently began this snoring frenzy and I am already sick of it. I believe in living together before marriage, if for no other reason than to make sure you are not getting stuck with a snorer. If you are not a snorer when you say "I Do" then you cannot turn into one later. It's false advertising and I'm not having it.

I would like a magic button that I can push to erase "Two Girls and a Cup" from my mind forever. I tried massive amounts of wine, but that didn't work. (P.S. if you don't know what I am referring to, save yourself the trauma and DON'T FIND OUT! Trust me, Trust me. Trust me.)

I would like my husband to stop flipping channels so much. He may be able to keep track of 10 shows at once, but I certainly can't. When you get up to go pee during a biography of George Clooney, and come back to see what turns out to be a documentary about firearms, topped off by an episode of Orange County Choppers, your entire relationship with George Clooney is shaken and things get confusing really quick.

I would like to turn back time to before I bought Ethan that can of "Insta Poop" and tell myself not to buy that darn can of "Insta Poop", because let me tell you something friends..."Insta Poop" causes nothing but insta problems.

I would like to be as good of a singer as Rock Band makes me feel like I am.

I would like for all of my readers to have a great Holiday Break. I now have 72 subscribers and I feel the pressure, but I'm taking some time off to get my Fa la la la la on. I'll catch up with you in January....

Fa La La La La, Rubik's Touch Sucks!

I like technology as much as the next girl. I can't imagine a world without my iphone or my DVR, and if you'd asked me a few months ago, I would have included my Roomba in that list, but now she's yelling at me, refusing to clean, and I am fairly certain she has been having "relations" with Tiger, so we are on the outs. Anyway, my point is...technology is good, and often makes our lives much easier. BUT sometimes technology is completely irritating and unnecessary, and the other day I saw a commercial for the item that most fits this description: The Rubik's Touch Cube.

Thursday morning when I first saw the commercial for this toy, I nearly choked on my Raisin Bran. It is a block the size of the classic cube, but with touch screens that you swipe your finger across in order to emulate a "twist". It even plays a recording of the classic cube's "twist" sound to give you that "nostalgic experience". Was it really that hard to twist the original cube? I have a pretty good memory, and I definitely don't recall ever injuring myself in a Rubik's Cube twisting incident. Is anyone actually willing to pay $130.00 extra to get a cube that they don't have to twist? If you are, I would like to meet you, at which time I would fully expect to see you either sporting a wrist cast or living life completely handless, due to a freak Benihana accident.

This stupid toy got me thinking about all of the toys I loved as a child, even though most of them didn't even take batteries, let alone have "touch technology". Here is a list of a few of my favorites:

Easy Bake Oven (Holly Hobby Version). Ok, so this one takes electricity and the amazing baking power of a 60 watt light bulb, but it was still a pretty basic toy, that awesomely took only 5 hours to cook a cake the size of a coaster. My desire for this toy resulted in lots of prayers and ultimatums to God. After He failed to follow my very specific instructions for delivering this gift to me, I told Him off big time, and bought myself one at a garage sale.

Perfection. This is the game where you wound up the timer, hit "start", and tried to get all of the shapes into their respective holes before time was up and all of the pieces popped out loudly enough to give a child a massive heart attack. I loved this game. I got this for Christmas when I was 7-years-old. Unfortunately, when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning it was broken and my dad had to take it in for a replacement a few days later. What my parents don't know is that the reason it was broken is because I spent the 2 weeks before Christmas unwrapping it and playing with it when nobody was home, then re-wrapping it afterward, accidentally breaking it a few days before Christmas. I also spent many hours in front of the mirror practicing my "surprised face" for when I opened all of the gifts I had not only already opened, but already played with.

Tape Recorder. When I was about 8-years-old I got my very own tape recorder. I used this for various activities, including the following: Recording my dad while he napped so that I could prove to him that yes, he actually did snore; Recording episodes of "Laverne and Shirley" so that I could replay them over and over until I memorized every word of dialogue, at which point I could re-enact a full episode for my very patient family; Pressing "record" and hiding it in my parents room when they were arguing so that I could play it back later and hear what they were arguing about; Recording phone conversations between the old ladies on our party line (remember those?) so that I could play them back over the phone the next time that they were talking, causing much confusion in their old lady heads; Recording farts and sometimes making an entire show called "Mr. and Mrs. Fart", because we were 8-years-old and that's just funny.

Hula Hoop. I spent many, many hours practicing my hoop moves. Arm hooping, leg hooping, neck hooping, and multiple hoop hooping. I was amazing. After not hooping for at least 25 years, I participated in a Hula Hoop contest last summer with the daughter of a childhood friend. Although I didn't win, I did clock in at 45 minutes, and since I fully expected to barely make it to 5, I was quite pleased that I still had some mad hooping moves, although truth be told I would have given big money to beat the trash talking 8-year-old who had spent months emailing me videos in which she sasses me while hula hooping.

Cork board and string. Yep, you heard right. Cork board, string, push pins and paper. I had a cork board over the desk in my playroom, and I turned it into an old fashioned switchboard like Mrs. Olson had in Nellie's Restaurant when Walnut Grove finally got a telephone system. I used to spend hours talking into an empty salt shaker while connecting calls all over town.

Fashion Plates. Remember these? You put together an outfit made up of small plates, then did a crayon rubbing on paper to miraculously transfer the picture to paper so you could color it with the colored pencils (included!), thereby making the most amazing outfit ever. If my mom had not sold this at the yard sale of '82 I may have been the next Vera Wang. Thanks, mom.

Shrinky Dinks. Come on, who didn't LOVE Shrinky Dinks? In my opinion, this was one of the best toys ever. Color a piece of plastic, bake it, voila...you have a necklace and earrings! No other toy gave you "permission" to use the oven, your mom's cookie sheets, etc... I mean, what could possibly go wrong with that? Whoever invented this toy was a genius.

Yarn and Crystal Gayle Albums. Specifically the "Don't it make My Brown Eyes Blue" album. I painstakingly fashioned a floor length wig from yarn, put on my album, grabbed my tin foil microphone and sang my little heart out for hours.

Play Doh Ice Cream Truck. The best Play Doh item EVER. I made soft serve, push pops, sundaes and fudge pops, and drove all over my playroom to my various Barbie Towns so that they could buy some cold, frosty treats. Don't tell my mom, but I often ate the "treats", or at the very least licked them until I got sick. So salty. So good.

Flower and Junk Wagon. We used to load our wagon up with dandelions, rocks, and other glorious items, and go door to door to sell them. I was very persuasive, and often came back with plenty of coin.

Barbie Dolls and Barbie Styling Head. When I was little, Barbies didn't come with all of the stuff they come with now. All you got was a Barbie and a few outfits. I used to make extra outfits out of paper towels and markers, and since I didn't have all of the dream houses and stuff, I made houses out of shoe boxes. I like to add some excitement by having tornadoes and other natural disasters hit their shoebox neighborhoods. One time I tore Barbie's arm off and drew bruises all over her with a black sharpie to make her twister-related injuries seem more realistic. As for my Barbie Styling Head...she suffered severe facial burns after a perm gone wrong, and that's all I wanna say about that.

So there's my crotchity old lady moment for 2009...my tribute to when life was much simpler and we had to walk to school every day, uphill both ways.

*Please list your favorite childhood toy in the "comment" section. If you're getting this post via email, you need to click on the post title (Fa la la la la Rubiks Touch Sucks) and it will take you to the actual blog site, where you will find a comment section at the end of this entry. Because of some glitch I can't seem to figure out, you must enter your comment under "anonymous" and then enter your name in the body of the message if you want. Whew! I'm exhausted.

ABOUT ME

25 Things You Don't Know About Me
Yeah, that's a lot of things. But they are fascinating as all get out.
Or not.

1) I know that ghosts are real. And no. I don't have any "proof" to show you. But nobody has any proof to show me that they aren't real, either. And when there's no clear winner, the unclear winner is always me. Ghosts are real. Deal with it. 

2) The three things I am most scared of are Mountain Men (the kidnappery backwoods kind), Leather S & M Masks (the Pulp Fiction Gimp kind), and mother-freakin' spiders (See Spiderpocalypse blogs 1, 2, and 3).

3) I always laugh at the most inappropriate times. Always. So if you've just found out that you have a rare disease or your dog died, prepare thyself for unwelcome laughter, and know that I mean no harm.

4) I talk to myself more than any person should. I often sing about what I'm doing, like I'm in a musical or something. Even doing the laundry becomes West Side Story with socks vs. unders.

5) In High School I skipped class ALOT. Our art room had a back door that opened to the outside, and sometimes after roll was called, I would slip right out that door when my teacher's back was turned. I usually ended up at the river drinking beer or at the park feeding ducks. P.S. I love ducks but they can go from awesome to asshole in .03 seconds. Just like me. 

6) Seeing or hearing John Denver makes me go into convulsions and throw up in my mouth a little.

7) I sleep with my left heel between my right big and 2nd toe. OR, I put The Hub's heel there, or a blanket. I have to have something there. Once in middle school, I was spending the night with my friend Crystal, who woke me up freaking out because I had toe-jacked her heel in my sleep.

8) Socks annoy the shit outta me and turtlenecks are the Devil's knitwear.

9) I once made Harold Ramis laugh hard enough to choke on his drink a little. It was a proud moment for me, so you'd think I would remember what I said. I don't. But I know it involved a bit of dancing on my part.

10) I have crushes on David Letterman, Matt Lauer, Louis C.K., and Norman Reedus.

11) I wrote a poem for Ellen that contained the words "pee" and "poop" and somehow that won me a trip to go to L.A. for the Primetime Emmy's, a taping of her show. I even walked the red carpet and was even seen in the background on E! Live From The Red Carpet, dramatically fanning my arm pits because it was hotter than balls outside. Oh, what a lovely 15 minutes of fame. 

12) When I was little my parents told me that boogers were eggs and that birds hatched out of them. I used to save all of my tissues and try to incubate them under my desk lamp. They got hard and crusty, but no birds ever came out. My parents really knew how to be total a-holes.

13) I never went to a prom because I thought they were lame and I wouldn't have been caught dead in a dress of any kind let alone a big, poofy, satin dress. My dad really wanted me to go one year and he gave me some prom money. I still didn't go to the prom, but I did treat my friends to beer and pizza.

14) I am a Canie Magnet. I am not proud of this, but it is a fact nonetheless. I cannot go within a mile of a carnival for fear of being mobbed by carnie men. It started in about the 8th grade (creepy, right?) and it holds true to this day.

15) In 7th grade I got rebellious and climbed out my window to meet a friend in the alley to smoke a cigarette. When I went back home I realized that if one plans on jumping out of a high window, then one should think ahead to how the frick they are gonna get back in. 

16) I have met Oprah. I invited her out dancing and she didn't come, but she said my shoes were cute. They really weren't very cute at all. Oprah is a liar. 

17) When I was little I was sure of two things: #1-I was going to marry sweet, cute Ricky Schroeder, but carry on an illicit affair with his naughty friend Derek Taylor (Jason Bateman), and #2- I was going to be discovered --probably at the mall -- and asked to play Annie in a re-make of the movie that would make everyone hate the other version. So whenever we went to a crowded place I would quietly sing Annie songs while wandering around, just in case any talent scouts happened to be within earshot.

18) I believe in past lives and ever since I was a kid I have had memories of being a black man who died in a scuba diving accident. I often freak out when water is on my face, and I'm pretty sure that's why. 

19) When I was 7 I spent ever waking moment for about a month, in my playroom, wearing a long wig that I made out of yarn, singing along to every song on my Crystal Gayle album. 

20) Squirrels are assholes and they are plotting to kill me. Ask them. They won't deny it. Squirrels may be assholes, but they are honest assholes.

21) When I was little I cut a window flap in a giant box and sat in it to watch tv. If my family started to annoy me, it was time to close the flap. I closed the flap alot.

22) I went to a really weird Christian school until 6th grade and it scarred me for life. They wouldn't allow us to go see E.T. but my dad took us anyway. That is where I got my rebellious streak.

23) Drag Queens make me giddy. The Drag Bar is my Happy Place.

24) I hate crows. A few years ago I was attacked by one at the zoo. He kept dive-bombing my head and eventually landed on it, gripped my scalp with his nasty feet, and started pecking me. It was just like that movie but it wasn't in black and white and there was more blood.

25) I once woke up with someone elses clothes on...and they were ugly clothes...and I was soaking wet from head to toe. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

If you need more background on me, CLICK HERE. You won't regret it.

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Silence Of The Snowman

So, as you learned in my last blog entry, on Friday, The Boy and The Hub built an awesome tropical snowman made from palm fronds, fruit, aloe vera, and various other warm weather things. Later that evening, The Boy decided to name him "Snowy." On Saturday morning, I looked out the window and saw him talking to Snowy. It was a pretty long and intense conversation with lots of hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions on The Boy's part, but I didn't really see Snowy contributing much, so I assumed that maybe Snowy is just the quiet type, and not a loud, dancing, big mouth snowman like the one in those xmas cartoons.

Did it bother me to see my 8-year-old boy in an extremely animated and intensely deep conversation with a snowman? Umm...of freakin' course not! Do you not know me AT ALL? As a matter of fact, I was unbelievably proud that he can carry on a one-sided conversation almost as well as I can. Honestly, I could talk to a can of soup for eons longer than most people can talk to an actual living breathing person. Not that I've actually done that or anything. But sometimes when The Hub comes home after a long week at the office, his vital signs are almost indistinguishable to that of a can of Campbell's Chunky Minestrone.

So anyway, The Boy is outside having a chat with Snowy, and after awhile he started hugging him, which I thought was totally adorable. I mean, come on! My sweet, Texas-raised child was so thrilled and excited about his first Houston snowfall and so in love with his first Texan Snowman, that he was outside hugging him! So I smiled, wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, had a sip of hot cocoa, and stood at the window thinking about how lucky I was to have such a sweet, innocent child. But soon I noticed that The Boy's "hug" began to look slightly violent, so I leaned closer to the window, wiped off the steamy glass, and squinted to get a better look. Upon closer inspection I realized that Ethan wasn't "hugging" Snowy insomuch as he was holding him in a frosty death grip as he ate part of his abdomen.

Was this how Hannibal Lecter got started? I read all of those books, and saw all of the movies, and that dude was into eating some nasty stuff, you guys. I do remember that the last book was all about Lecter's childhood. It's been a long-ass time since I read it, but I seem to recall that is was pretty freakin' snowy where he lived. Oh. My. Balls. You guys. When I was drinking some bedtimey wine the other night, The Boy asked if he could have some. Of course I laughed and thought he was just kidding around cuz he's silly like that. But ya know what kinda wine I was drinking? It was a freakin' Chianti, people. A freakin' Chinati!

I'm kinda messed up in the head right now.

By Monday morning, between the weather and all the "hugging" of Mr. Snowy, this is what remained:

I conducted a very professional, long, and exhaustingly labor-intensive CSI-ish inspection that included walking outside and saying "Well, it looks like the snowman melted," and taking this picture.  And my professional findings show that all the evidence seems to show that Snowy died of natural causes, i.e. weather related melt-ation. Luckily, bite marks in snow and ice disappear when it turns to liquid. Whew! But just to be on the safe side, I think I'm gonna take Snowy's aloe vera tongue and hide it someplace safe. Ya know, just in case the Police come poking around. For all I know, snowmen may be kinda zombie-ish in that even when they are just separated parts, those parts may still work, and the last thing I need is Snowy's tongue telling tales. 

Snow Blows

Well folks, it's finally happened. Hell has frozen over. Okay, so maybe Texas isn't technically "Hell", but if you came to visit me in August and got to experience the pleasure of stepping outside and immediately trying to dodge a flying cockroach and a giant red ant mound, while simultaneously having your make-up melt off and your hair frizz up like Bozo The Clown, you might think so. Anyway, it is snowing here in Houston today, which causes native Texans to go a little crazy. Steve got to come home from work early to avoid "the severe weather" which in Texan means a light dusting of slushy, wet snow. Some parents were even picking their kids up from school early so they could experience "the joy and wonder on their faces." Let me tell you something: If the school doors are unlocked and Ethan isn't projectile vomiting, he's going to school and he's staying at school. After growing up in Missouri, then living in Chicago, I am used to the snow. Actually, while living in Chicago, when we had a sunny, snowless day, people would pick their kids up early to experience the joy and wonder on their faces. As much as it is hot and miserable here in Texas, it was that cold and snowy in Chicago. But at least there we had Oprah and Chicago style pizza.

I must admit, though, that I have enjoyed the snow today. The way I enjoy snow is by snuggling up on the sofa in my yoga pants and fuzzy socks and watching it out the window while I watch Top Chef and Real Housewives of Orange County. I want absolutely no contact with the snow. I do not like to be cold, or wet, so winter activities are really not ideal for me. Of course, when I was little, I liked it just as much as everyone else. We used to build forts and attack each other with snowballs, form "sled pyramids" and slide down my neighbor's hill, and make lots of snowmen and snow angels. One year we even made "snow bunnies" and had the ingenious idea to spray paint them with food coloring. Unfortunately we made a bad choice and picked yellow. We could have gotten the same effect by peeing on them, but we were still proud.

I absolutely loved the snow until sometime in my teens. Actually, I can be much more precise with the date: It was December 1988. It was a cold and windy Saturday. The news said there was "a chance of snow", and you could kind of smell it in the air, but being that I was 17 and I had important Saturday night things to do, I ignored the warning signs. My best friend Crystal and I decided it was as good a night as any to pull the old "I'm spending the night with Crystal, I'm spending the night with Patti" trick. Our friend Dennis informed us that his parents were out of town, so we decided that we would spend the night at his house, as would our boyfriend's. Now, I have to pause here to tell you the first bit of proof as to how stupid I was: My dad was a very popular teacher/coach at my High School, and EVERYONE in town knew his SUV. Which I was driving that night. Which I parked in Dennis' driveway all night. Which was directly across the street from the house of my 2 step-brother's and their dad. Who obviously knew my dad. But I had important partying to do, and that never crossed my one-track mind, or to be more specific, my two-track mind: track one being boys, and track two being beer.

So anyway, our plan was pure magic. We had an awesome night with our friends, and even got in a few hours of beauty sleep. The next morning we woke up, stretched, smiled, and felt ultra-satisfied with ourselves and how amazingly sneaky we were. Until we looked out the window. Unfortunately, we woke up to about a foot of snow and ice. We knew that this would pose a small problem, since neither of us were particularly good at driving in slippery conditions, but what could we do? We had to get to Crystal's house early, to keep our story on track. My boyfriend backed the truck out of the driveway for us, because we couldn't even manage that. Once it was in the street, I took over at the wheel. Unfortunately, I only made it two houses down, at which point I slid and ended up deep into the front yard of a High School football player, whose parents were less than thrilled. So basically, I had to make an unpleasant phone call to my dad so he could come and pull his truck out of the yard of one of his student's, and the jig was up. That is why I hate snow.

Still, my son seems to love it, and he was very excited when he got off of the bus today. I actually witnessed that "joy and wonder" on his sweet little face. He immediately started playing in it, and he and Steve even made a snowman. Although, for a short time my son was having fun, I soon realized I had another reason to hate snow: It turns my son into a huge whine bucket. Every 5 minutes he opened the door to whine about how cold and wet he was, and when he came in he whined until I peeled all of his clothes off and made him a warm bath. Now he's whining just because he's on a roll and can't stop, I guess. So I realize now, more than ever, that snow is bad. Snow has it in for me. Snow wants nothing more than to make me unhappy, whether it be by getting me grounded or giving me a whine-induced headache. So snow, we are not friends. You ruined that relationship back in '88 and it can never be repaired. We had a good thing going up until then, but it's over. I choose my summer's and my Houston heat, my ants, alligator's and flying roaches. Summer may be hot, but summer never got me stuck in someone's yard wearing last night's clothes. Well, except that one time in '89...

Happy Holidays! (I'll try to keep my pants on)

It's officially that time of year we like to call "The Holidays". How do I know that? Because there is a chill in the air? Because there are giant inflatable Snowmen and Santa's in everyone's yard? Because every time I turn on the radio they are shoving that annoying and stupid Paul McCartney song about "simply having a wonderful Christmas time" down my throat (barf)? No, no, and no. The reason I know that "The Holidays" are here is because I can't button my pants.

Every year about this time, my body goes into some sort of fat-storage mode for the winter. Either I am distantly related to a bear, or my body is under the impression that I still live in Chicago and I need extra fat to survive. I do have some not-so-distant relatives who were Kentucky mountain people, so I guess the bear thing is a possibility, but because of the stigma of being the product of a woodland creature/human love affair, I'm gonna choose to go with the Chicago explanation. I have tried countless times to explain to my thighs that Houston's idea of winter is the same as a Chicago Spring, but my fat cells just aren't listening, and are hoarding every calorie like I'm some kind of Igloo dwelling Eskimo lady.

As I'm sure you all know, "The Holidays" started on October 31st, when our children went running around in the dark, dressed like cheerleader's and ninja's, knocking on the doors of strangers, and taking their candy (Nevermind that the other 364 days of the year we would go ape shit on them if they took candy from a stranger). At the end of the night, they came home with anywhere from 3-20 lbs of candy that, as all mommies know, is mainly going to be eaten by us when we are having PMS or watching a late night showing of "The Notebook".

Halloween damage: 3 pounds and a severe bout of depression after the inevitable sugar drop, coupled with the fact that Ryan Gossling loves that Rachael McAdams so much he built a house for her. WITH HIS BARE HANDS!

Next came Thanksgiving, which is a holiday during which we are supposed to give thanks for the people in our lives and all that crap, but let's face it...mainly what we are thankful for is the turkey, the delicious trimmings, and an endless abundance of pies and cool whip. Don't get me wrong, I am definitely thankful for my family too, as long as they don't eat the last slice of pumpkin pie. Be forewarned: when I've been cooking for 2 days, am high on carbs, and have my new Pampered Chef Slice 'N Serve pie spatula in my hand, it would be in your best interest to step away from the pie. By day 3 of left-overs, I couldn't even do my fancy guitar kicks while playing Rock Band, for fear that I would split my pants.

Thanksgiving damage: 4 pounds, a close call with the Slice 'N Serve, and a somewhat boring and kickless performance of "Give It Away"

I truly wish the nightmare was over, but as we all know, Christmas is just around the corner. This time, instead of sending our children off to take candy from strangers, we are forcing them to sit on a stranger's lap and ask for presents. In my opinion, all this is doing is setting them up for sad and seedy futures as lap dancers and/or trophy wives. But I digress... Christmas, as we all know, is all about a baby in a manger who didn't have a crib and 3 old guys brought him some sucky presents (Really, what's a baby gonna do with some shrub called myrr? Next time, old "wise" guys, bring something helpful like A CRIB). So now, all these years later, there is still an old guy, but just one, but he's fat, like maybe he ate the other 2 old guys, but the important thing is that he brings better presents. Anyway, back on topic: Christmas is also all about food. I am quite sure that I eat enough food during December to last an Ethiopian family an entire year. It is, quite frankly, disgusting and pathetic, but I just can't stop. There's food and desserts everywhere and I just can't say "no". This year, I am publicly asking my Mother-In-Law NOT to make her annual Peanut butter cookies with the Hershey Kiss in the middle. Those are my heroin, and I am afraid that if they are made, not only will I have to wear my elastic pajama pants for the entire Christmas vacation, but I may pull a Robert Downey Jr. circa 1996, and wake up after a sugar high in a stranger's bed. And not in a good way.

Christmas damage: Estimated 5 pounds, with the definite possibility of 8 lbs and a warrant for my arrest, if my M.I.L makes the heroin cookies.

Because It's Turkey Week...Stuff I'm Thankful For

1. I am Thankful that Susan Boyle lives in another country, across a large body of sharkey water. I Dreamed a Dream that she would stay there.
2. I am Thankful for wine. And beer. And margaritas. As well as the fact that I can drink them all legally, because drinking them illegally was such a pain in the butt.
3. I am Thankful for my wonderful housekeeper. Especially now that Senorita Roomba has gone rogue and is acting like a little bitch.
4. I am Thankful that JLo fell down at the VMA's while singing a song about how hot she is in her fancy shoes and while wearing said fancy shoes. It just doesn't get much better than that.
5. I am Thankful for Mexican food, and I think that if the Government would just relax and have a nice Taco Fiesta Night at the White House, they may just loosen up on this whole immigration laws thing.
6. Spanx
7. I am Thankful for hair color. Not that I use it or anything, but I have lots of friends who do, so I am thankful on their behalf.
8. I am Thankful for Paul Rudd. I would be even more thankful if I could make out with him just a little bit.
9. I am Thankful that Steve is good at the maths. If I had married any of my other boyfriends, we would've been in a heap of trouble.
10. I am Thankful that my family is full of total weirdos. It makes life much more interesting.
11. I am Thankful for The Real Housewives of Orange County. Not only because it is must-watch reality television at it's finest, but because after each episode I feel so much better about myself.
12. I am Thankful for PEZ. I just can't imagine a world without them.
13. Spanx
14. I am Thankful for the Arctic Monkeys, because no matter how tired or crabby I feel they make me want to dance.
15. I am Thankful for "Cougar's" because although they think they are hot, they actually look ridiculous in their teenager clothing, heavy make-up and puffy lips. I am lucky enough to see them on a regular basis and they never cease to make me laugh.
16. I am Thankful I get to smell the following smells: Vanilla, Cinnamon, Plumeria and Lemon Verbena.
17. I am Thankful that I no longer have to smell the following smells: Poopy diapers, spit-up, and my sister Lindsy's feet.
18. I am Thankful for my washer and dryer. If I had lived in the olden times when you had to wash your clothes in the river and beat them on a rock, I would have been one dirty, smelly pioneer woman.
19. I am thankful for Tivo because without it I wouldn't have time to watch ANYTHING, and also, I wouldn't be able to fast-forward through all those damn Brooke Shields commercials.
20. I am Thankful for our dry cleaning service, because not only do I not have to wash and iron all Steve's dumb shirts, but I don't even have to drive them to the cleaner's. Oh, the life of a housewife.
21. I am Thankful that my OBGYN looks EXACTLY like Baby's dad, Dr. Houseman from Dirty Dancing, because getting to say things like "Nobody puts Patti in the stirrups" makes an office visit so much more bearable.
22.I am Thankful that Steve has the ability to tune me out, because if he heard every weird thing that comes out of my mouth, he would probably realize he's made a huge mistake, and he might try and run away.
23. Spanx
24. I am Thankful for my flat iron, because without it I would look like Roseanne Roseannadanna. Well, maybe just a touch flatter.
25. I am Thankful that Ethan likes to make up songs and sing all day long, just like his mom.
26. I am Thankful that there exists in this world, amazing individuals called "Massage Therapists" who will rub all over me in exchange for money. You make the world go 'round.
27. I am Thankful that my Mother-In-law speaks French, because today my car started yelling at me in French for no reason, and it wouldn't shut up, and I am hoping that my M.I.L. can translate. Let's keep our fingers crossed that it's saying something friendly. I've seen "Christine" way too many times.
28. I am Thankful for the wonderfully relaxing combination of Midol and Merlot, because not only is this week PMS week, but it is also Thanksgiving week, and my house is about to be overtaken by family. Family + Lots of cooking + PMS = The Perfect Storm.

And one more Thanks to all of you for reading this nonsense. Have a great Thanksgiving!

It's Not My Potty And I'll Cry If I Want To

I am not a fan of public restrooms. As a matter of fact, if it was socially acceptable, I would rather drop trou in a parking lot, between cars or behind a big cart or something. Very rarely have I seen a public restroom that did not completely disgust me, and believe you me, I have seen some restrooms. While I have always had pretty strict policy about peeing in public potties, when I was potty training Ethan, I had no choice but to venture into hundreds of them. I know that one of the pluses of having a boy, is that you can oftentimes skip the whole bathroom thing and let them go wherever and whenever the mood strikes. Unfortunately, when you are potty training, they need to go in an actual potty. If I had let him go just anywhere, instead of being potty trained he would have ended up bush trained, alley trained or empty water bottle trained. While all of those options are easier, I'm afraid they might be frowned upon by the general public.

This arduous training period lasted long enough for me to see nearly every bathroom in not only Houston, but in most of it's suburbs. By my intensive and highly technical mathematical calculations, for every hour of an outing, we went into at least 30 restrooms. Office Max? Yep. Kohl's? Of course. Sam's Club? You betcha! Wal-Mart? You don't even want to know what I saw in there once. It seemed to me that my son wasn't happy with having ruined my 2-pack-abs and my REM sleep, now he wanted to ruin my No Public Potty Policy as well.

Before I gave birth to the Pee Pee King of Texas, I not only had buns of steel, but a bladder of steel. I usually made it through a whole day of school without ever having to use the bathroom. Although I asked my teacher's for bathroom passes so often I'm sure they thought I had a severe bladder disease, I was never actually in the bathroom, but just wandering the halls, sometimes popping into other classrooms for an impromptu visit or whatever. My point is, I would hold it all day just to avoid using a public restroom. Don't even get me started on Porta Potties, or, Lord help me, airplane bathrooms, which you have to be under 100 lbs to fit into, and even if you manage to squeeze yourself in, it's like trying to pee in a thimble while riding a galloping horse. By the time you're done, you've not only touched every surface in there, but you most likely have a concussion as well. I once made it all the way to Hawaii with my legs crossed and my window shade closed so I couldn't see the big, wet ocean. I arrived on the Garden Isle uncomfortable and cranky, but dry as a bone. That Hawaii trip taught me three things: #1) I hate poi, #2) Sadly, my dream trip to Australia will forever remain just a dream, at least until we can afford our own private jet with life-size bathroom, and #3) If you sit with your legs crossed for 6 hours it is nearly impossible to uncross them.

Because I think that my bathroom phobias are completely and utterly logical, I cannot for the life of me, understand people who go through life all willy-nilly, just using the toilet everywhere they go. When worse comes to worst, I at the very least, do an in-depth sweep of the facilities before making any final decisions. My checklist includes, but is not limited to the following: Seat covers, toilet paper, hand soap, a freshly-cleaned scent, and paper towels. Air dryers are not only annoying, but are also completely unusable unless you have a doorless bathroom, due to the fact that the paper towel serves the dual purpose of drying your hands and allowing you to open the door without touching the handle, which is without a doubt one of the most popular rides at the e coli amusement park.

What boggles my mind the most, is what some people think is acceptable to do in a public restroom. I have witnessed some life-changing stuff, my friends. Some life-changing stuff indeed...And what I always wonder is, "Are you homeless? Is this your only access to a bathroom?" Because that is the only logical explanation I can come up with for why someone would choose to take what should be their MOST private potty time (you know what I'm talkin' about) and make it public. There are just some things that should be taken care of at home. There is no reason to inflict your most personal moments onto an innocent bystander who is just trying to follow the Swine Flu Prevention Guidelines and wash her hands in the bathroom at Macy's. Yeah, I'm talking to you, "lady" in the 3rd stall from the door.

So, to sum up this long and rambling post, I would like to remind you all of a few things: (1)Three-year-olds are cute,but not when they are in a stall with the door wide open not only making a #2, but describing it in great detail. Close the doors, people, I don't wanna see it and I don't wanna hear it. (2) Treat the restrooms well. If you don't want someone doing it in your bathroom, do not do it in the public bathroom. Would you go to Nana's house a write "Cathy is a b*tch" on her wall or throw your toilet paper on the floor? I don't think so. (3)Flush, flush, flush. I am begging you. (4)Wash your hands. For the love of Pete, people. We can all see you going straight from stall to door.

As we all now know, the Houston Police really love their hidden cameras, and I for one, would like to see some sort of "Disgusting, Germ-Spreader, Non-Handwasher Cameras." I think we should start a Pee Pee Task force. If the cops are too busy reviewing Red Light Camera footage to help, we can handle this ourselves. Most of our cell phones have video, so I think we should record the non-hand-washers and post them on You Tube. If shame is what is takes, I am all for it. Who's with me?

Did The Mayan's Know About Leg Warmers?

I've witnessed it. The first sign of the Apocalypse. That movie "2012" has everyone all in a twist about the stupid Mayan Calendar and the end of the world, but I'm here to tell you that the end is coming much sooner than 2012. Oh yes, people. I have seen the sign and thy name is Acid-Wash. And then I saw a few follow-up signs which you can file under the name's Shoulder Pads, Jelly Shoes, Flashdance Sweatshirts and no matter how painful it is for me to say this, it's still true... Parachute Pants.

As most of you know, I recently had a very confusing visit to Hollister, or what I have come to think of as the dark, cologne-drenched closet of a horny frat boy. One minute, you're walking through the bright, cheery mall, and the next thing you know you feel like you're about to get felt-up or puked on. After that disturbing trip to the mall, I had to take a mall break to get my bearings back. Last week I finally decided it was time to face my fears. My friend Jennifer went with me, because although I felt ready to go back, there was no way I was going there alone.

As we walked through the mall, we quickly realized something: somehow, our mall has turned into Teen World. All of the employees are teens and the stores seem to only offer items for teens. If your acne days are over and you have a full set of boobies, there's not much merchandise there for you. In theory, this should make me feel old, but what is does instead, is make me feel like I'm a teenager again (At least until I try something on and realize that generally, teenager hips are a different width than mom hips). See, what's happened is that all of the things that we teenager's of the 80's used to wear, are back in style. I definitely have mixed feelings about this. While part of me enjoys looking at these clothes and reminiscing (Look! That's exactly the same sweater I wore the night John told me I was the coolest girl in school!), the more sane part realizes that this is a terrible, terrible thing. These clothes should have never come back. When I was 13 I set my legwarmers free. You know the story (you probably wrote it on your Trapper-Keeper at some point): If you love something let it go, if comes back it's yours, if it doesn't it never was. Well, I was hoping my leg warmers would fall into the "never was" category, but since the end of days is obviously upon us, they have come back.

Instead of a mall, Jennifer and I felt like we were shopping at Goodwill, since everything was something we had previously owned. After a little bitching and moaning about the lack of clothing appropriate for those of us who actually have money, and a big old sandwich and fries from Steak Escape, we decided we would try to salvage our day by trying on some of these new (old), hip (dorky), stylish (tacky) clothes. For your enjoyment or horror, I have included a short
photo tour of our trip down memory lane. Turn up the Duran Duran, put on your toe socks, grab a can of Jolt, and go back in time:

Voguing in a puffy jacket and capri leggings, we have your Insane Mom, Patti. The jacket was flannel plaid, and contained lovely and oh-so-flattering shoulder pads, because what girl doesn't want to look like a Lumberjack Linebacker? No boy can resist you in this casual yet sexy ensemble. Throw on your blue Dr. Scholls and hit the town girl!

Next, we have Jennifer modeling a totally awesome sweater dress. She pumped up the volume with a gorgeous, red pleather belt. Wide may be BAD for butt's, but it's RAD for belts!! All the boys will be after her in this foxy outfit!

Here we have Patti again. This time she's sporting a pair of grey, peg-legged stretch jeans, which really make the purple swing top and scarf pop! She'll be feeling totally rad tonight at John's party. Didn't you hear? His parents are out of town and he's getting a keg!

Once again, we have Jennifer. This time, she looks smokin' hot in this plaid mini-dress over black leggings. Add a pair of slouchy ankle boots, and she'll be ready to Rock The Casbah!

Lastly, Patti models a totally bitchin' pair of acid wash stretch jeans, paired with a vintage-inspired "Thriller" t-shirt. After she tight rolls those pant legs and throws on her Jelly Shoes, you can forget about the zombie's, because it's the boy's who'll be chasing her tonight!

One Is The Loneliest Number...

Okay people, listen up. I love you all. Even if I don't know you I still love you because you read my blog. And while that definitely means you are slightly unstable as far as your mental health status, it also means that you have a sense of humor that is pleasantly askew and you also have extremely good taste. These are qualities that are very important to me, and as far as I'm concerned, the whole of mankind. However, I do have one little gripe to make, which may be PMS or sugar-induced, but whatever the origin the gripe remains the same: I feel lonely on the blog. It's like some crappy movie I saw late at night once where some poor space dude is floating around in some ship up there all by himself. I need some companionship from my peeps. Underneath each and every eloquent blog entry, is a comment area. All you have to do is give it a click and tell me something. Anything! If you've had a similar experience to whatever wacked-out thing I'm writing about, share it. If you just want to tell me that I am the reason you get up in the morning, tell me that too. If you want to tell me that you think I'm an idiot, you can shut your pie hole and keep it to yourself. The point is, I need human companionship. My computer, although very attractive and knowledgeable, is not enough for me. Give and take, homies. Give and take.

Footnote: My friend, Lazy Mom Leslie, has brought it to my attention that my comment button wasn't working. I re-set some things and maybe it's working now? If you've tried and failed, please give it another go. Thanks!

How Meatloaf Can Save you When You're Driving Like A "Bat Out Of Hell." Allegedly.

A few years ago, when those "Red Light Cameras" had just started to go up, I found myself thinking "Hey! What a wonderful idea! Our poor police are so busy trying to protect and serve, and they sure could use some help out there on those mean streets of ours. Besides, those douchebags who are too busy yapping on their phones, yelling at their kids, putting on their make-up or eating a damn hamburger to notice when a light turns red, are just asking for trouble! I hope they get what they deserve!" This was a real breakthrough for me. A sure sign that I had grown up to be a mature and outstanding citizen. I thought that any day, a police officer would show up at my door to give me an honorary badge, because perhaps he's heard through the grapevine just how much I care about road safety. That all ended last week when my mailman delivered me a very special letter from the Houston Police Department.

When I saw the return address, what immediately ran through my mind was "Finally! It's my badge!" I mean, I was a little bit pissed that it wasn't being hand delivered, but I know that they are busy down at the precinct setting up prostitution stings and doing interrogations and stuff, and I decided to cut them some slack. So I settled in to open the mail, and I told Ethan, who at the moment wants to be a police officer when he grows up, that if he follows my lead and behaves as wonderfully and good-citizeny as his mommy does, someday his dream may come true. After choosing the spot on my shirt where I would pin my shiny new badge, I tore open my envelope and the first thing I saw was a picture of the back of my car. "Wow!" I thought, "The paparazzi are already stalking me." I've seen enough Barney Miller and Hill Street Blues to know that sometimes cops are "dirty", which instead of meaning they need a bath or like kinky things, means they don't follow the police man rules. I figured that someone desperate for my photo must have paid off this dirty cop, and I was being followed. This seemed like it may eventually become annoying, but for now I figured I could ride it out, at least until I get the urge to shave my head or beat someone up with his own camera.

The second thing I noticed, after the photo of my car, is that there was nothing else in the envelope. No badge, no certificate of good driving citizenship, nothing. Well, now I was starting to get a little ticked off. As I started to read all the annoying words that surrounded the picture of my car, I realized something. Red Light Cameras suck! Those lazy, donut-eating cops! Just who do they think they are? If you can't find the time in your busy schedule to actually hide behind a bush with your speed gun or whatever, you don't deserve to be giving out tickets! I mean, where were you when that stupid douchebag of a dad was flying down Highway 6 with 2 toddlers in the front seat of his convertible not even buckled in? And where are you every morning when I am taking Ethan to school and some moron is texting and cutting everyone off? Geesh!

Finally I took a deep breath because that is what Dr. Oz told me to do when I get stressed, and I began to settle down and clear my head. I read the date on the "violation" and then, like my Karaoke favorite, Meatloaf sang, "It's all coming back, it's all coming back to me now. There were moments of gold and there were flashes of light. There were things I'd never do again but then they'd always seemed right. There were night's of endless pleasure, it was more than your laws allow! Baby, baby!" Ok, maybe there were no night's of endless pleasure involved, but the rest rings true. Anyway, it is all basically my mother-in-law's fault. She was in the car with me, and when someone is in the car with me, I may possibly have a habit of talking just a tad too much, therefore missing the existence of such things as lights and signs and stuff like that.

What really makes me mad about this whole thing, is that these cameras are so sneaky. I would much rather have an actual cop pull me over, because 9 times out of 10 I'm gonna get out of whatever trouble I've just gotten myself into. Exhibit A: I am 16 years old and my friend and I have just been pulled over for "suspicious driving", which in layman's terms means drinking too many Little Kings and thinking you can drive home, when in all actuality you are only 16 and can barely drive home after drinking a Dr. Pepper. The solution to this predicament? Turn on the water works. A few tears and nose blows later, we are back on our merry way. Exhibit B (there are many more exhibits between these two, but I am editing here): I get pulled over for going 15 mph over the speed limit in my hometown, just a year or so ago. I pretend I have never been there before and am visiting people, therefore I have no idea about the speed limits and I saw no sign. After getting a few laughs, a little shameless flirting, and relief that I was wearing a scoop neck top and a really good bra, I received not a ticket, but an invitation to go to a party at the river later that evening, and I was on my merry way.

What does all this mean? It means I miss the fuzz! I miss an actual person being in charge of my moving violations. At least with a person I have a shot at getting myself off the hook (although as I get older, that shot is dwindling). With a stupid camera I am just screwed! They even have the video "evidence" of my alleged "red light violation" on their website. I have watched it repeatedly, and I think I've found my way out. The video shows my car, but not who is driving it! The way I see it, I have 3 options: #1) throw my mother-in-law under the bus and say that she was driving, #2) claim that Ethan, during a Halloween candy-induced sugar high, took my car out for a joy ride, or #3) claim that my car is "KIT's" unstable and jealous sister, and I have no control over her actions. Or I guess I could just go to my court date and try to apologize through the magic of Meatloaf and Karaoke. "If you forgive me all this, If I forgive you all that, We forgive and forget , And it's all coming back to me now..."

Help! My iphone is Trying to Ruin My Life! (But it still rocks)

Cell phones are an awesome invention. Heck, I will even insert a "freakin'" in there and say that cell phones are a freakin' awesome invention, and that is huge because I don't just hand out my freakin's left and right. I am now at the point where I don't know how anyone ever lived without a cell phone. Remember that episode of "Little House on the Prairie" where Laura was up on the mountain crying about her brother and Pa and Mr. Edwards were looking for her? A cell phone would have rocked in that situation. Or that time on "The Brady Bunch" where Cindy and Bobby were lost in the Grand Canyon? Ok, they probably wouldn't have been able to get a signal, but they could have at least had a shot! Nowadays I think of many situations that would suck if I didn't have my phone. What if your kid got sick at school and you weren't home? What if you were lost or your car broke down? What if your husband was running late and you were worried about him? (well, my husband hasn't figured this one out yet, but I do have faith that someday he will) I am also super-thankful that when Ethan is a teenager he will have a cell phone so I can keep tabs on him, and I am super-FREAKIN'-thankful that when I was a teenager I didn't, because I would not have gotten away with nearly as many things as I managed to get away with. So to sum up: Cell phone's are good. BUT, as you will soon learn, cell phones plus Patti are bad.

Every cell phone I have ever owned has gone bad. Not turned to a life of drugs and prostitution bad, but not-working-right bad. I can't even count how many I have had over the years, starting with the giant fore-arm sized phone with the 3-foot antennae circa 1994, but there have been many. Out of those many, each and every one of them has gone bad. A few of them have stopped ringing. A few have freaked out so I can hear my caller's voice but they can't hear me. Some have decided to constantly turn off whenever the heck they want to and refuse to turn back on. One decided to just start making a psychotic, fingernails on a chalkboard noise for no apparent reason, while just hanging out in my purse. One was constantly taking pictures of the inside of my purse, so that all day, wherever I went I just heard "clik! click! click" and my phone was full of photos of tampons and hand sanitizer. The list goes on and on.

This year my husband, in what was either a drug-induced moment of confusion or just a natural moment of complete and utter stupidity and memory loss, decided to surprise me with the new iphone (and this was just weeks after I lost the ipod he surprised me with the year before). The iphone is great. I can catch up on my email while in line at the grocery store. I can watch Dexter while in my doctor's waiting room. It works as an ipod as well, so I can listen to my tunes in the car. It also has some amazing apps. There is one that tells you how much any house is worth, so you can be a total busy body and talk about all your neighbors' estimated net worth. One tells you the artist and name of any song on the radio (which is how I found out the disturbing and life-altering news that I like a Lady Gaga song while innocently shopping in American Eagle). Unfortunately though, there is not one that opens your garage door. I can tell you this for sure because I stood in my driveway and tried for 5 long, profanity-filled minutes to get it to work, mainly because I am an admitted moron and I thought I had my opener in my hand. Oh yeah...I can make calls on it too! There is, however, one problem with my iphone. It calls people all by itself.

The first time this happened, I was hanging out with a girlfriend, on what was most-likely a PMS day for me. My husband was getting on my nerves, leaving underwear lying around, making man messes everywhere, etc... and I felt the need to vent, and she had her own man issues, so we went to town. We spent a long time discussing the pros and cons of husband's, and on that particular day, the pro column was pretty empty. Anyway, I got back to my house later, and noticed that my answering machine was blinking so I hit "play" and it was our entire conversation! Since my machine wasn't set for a time limit for messages, it filled the entire thing. Thankfully, I made it home before Steve did! I hit "erase" faster than you can say "men are smelly morons" and I saved myself from what could have been a highly unpleasant evening.

The next time this happened, I was at the movie watching "Inglorious Basterds". This particular night, my phone decided to call Steve's parents. Twice. They were not at home for either call, but when they did come home they had 2 interesting messages on their answering machine. Since this movie is totally psycho violent, I imagine that they thought we were being tortured or murdered and were trying to call them for help (which, thankfully we weren't, because they obviously care too much about going out to dinner than sitting home by the phone waiting for our distress calls).

The third time it happened (Yes, I am so stupid and helpless that it happened again), I was in the car driving Steve's parents to the airport. On this lovely day, my phone decided to call my mother. Yes, I know. Sooooooooooooo many things could go wrong here. I shudder to think . I mean, I seriously freakin' SHUDDER! But thankfully Karma was on my side, and I was only talking about my impending hair appointment. Of course my mom thought I was talking to her and couldn't understand why I wasn't answering her, so she got fed up and hung up. Then my iphone called her back. I was still talking about my hair ( I am obviously a bit long-winded), and she is on the other end yelling "What are you talking about? What's happening to your hair? Why won't you answer me? Stop calling me if you're not gonna answer me!" Then, hurt and confused, she hung up on me again.

All of these instances were annoying, but none has put as much fear into me as the call to my mother. Not that I ever talk badly about you mom (she is an ubscriber-say to this log-bay). I have absolutely no fear that she could ever hear me saying anything even remotely negative about her at all. No, no, no! I am afraid that she may hear me discussing all of the positive, wonderful, mothery things that she does, and all that adoration will embarrass her. She is easily embarrassed, and I, being an extremely sweet and loving daughter, would never want her to feel that way. Therefore I have finally decided to talk about my iphone problem, with the hope that someone out there can help me stop this crazy phone from constantly trying to ruin my relationships. I seriously think that this phone is out to get me. They say the iphone is smart, and I think they are right. It's freakin' smart alright, and it's got it in for me.

Brooke Shields Is Stalking Me and I've Had Enough!

I've had it up to here with Brooke Shields. I really never liked her or her bad career choices anyway. First of all she played a hooker and was naked in some movie when she was 12. TWELVE! Obviously, that was at least partially due to some seriously bad parenting on her mother's part, but I am pretty certain that I had enough attitude at 12 to tell my parents to suck it if they told me to do something like that. Then came that damn "Blue Lagoon"...the ridiculous movie in which she is stuck on some island with that annoying curly-haired boy. Basically the plot is this: they are on a ship that sinks and they end up on an island and they hit puberty and she gets her period and he discovers the joy of spanking it and she almost dies and they discover the sex and she has a baby and they get rescued and they eat some berries and they die in a boat. Finally (You may think I remember too much detail about this movie, and I do. Terrible movies and terrible music seem to sear themselves into my brain). Then, she was in all those dumb Calvin Klein commercials telling everyone that she goes commando, which in my opinion is disgusting, not to mention incredibly uncomfortable. Then she wrote some book where she bitched about her crazy drunk of a mom and told everyone she was a virgin. A 12-year-old, naked prostitute, no-underwear-wearing virgin? Sure, Brooke. Sure. Then she dated Michael Jackson, which really needs no further explanation. Then she was on a really dumb sitcom that made Kathi Griffin (whom I love) way more annoying than usual. AND NOW, through the magic of television, she is harassing me on a daily basis, which makes me rethink my great love of technology. I mean, seriously!

I have recently seen her in commercials for at least 4 products. She has gone from 12 year old movie prostitute to 40-something year old product pimp. The first time she popped up in my living room, she was telling me I don't drink enough milk. She had the nerve to tell me that when I'm an old lady I'm probably gonna have a big old hump back and break a hip before my bones finally just turn to dust. Next , she came on to tell me that my teeth were all yellow and I need to use that damn Colgate toothpaste, or basically, people are gonna be talking behind my back about my ugly smile and my gingivitis. Then, just when I thought she was gone, she came back totally uninvited, to tell me that if I got knocked up my husband would buy me a new Volkswagen. Ya know what? I highly doubt that his response to an unplanned pregnancy would be "Hop in the car! We're gonna go out and buy you a new VW!" He'd probably blame me for being a space cadet and forgetting to take my pill, and get worried about affording another baby and the fact that babies make me bitchy when they are all up in my face all day, then I'd get tired of hearing him go on and on and on and I'd have to spork him in the taint to get him to shut up. Then, just when it seemed like The Brookster had maybe finally gone away, and I was starting to get over that eyebrow overload and relax in front of my TV for the first time in months, she came back AGAIN! This time she was telling my that my eyelashes are pathetic and puny, and that basically, I should be too ashamed by my manish eyes to even consider going out in public, and that the only cure for this hideous deformity is to use something called Latisse, although if you listen to her and use Latisse, you may get sores in your eyes, lose the ability to cry, or go blind. But she almost convinced me that the risks are worth it to have long and luxurious lashes. Who cares if I'm walking out into traffic or bumping into walls as long as my lashes look rockin'!

The insanity needs to stop! I haven't been this afraid to turn on my TV since I saw "The Ring" and I was positive that long-haired, wet dead girl was gonna crawl out of the screen and kill me. To be honest, I think I would actually prefer that creepy girl to being bombarded by Brooke. At least the dead girl isn't trying to make me feel bad about myself, or trying to make me throw away my underwear and get pregnant. At least she will just kill me quick and end my suffering. Brooke, on the other hand, wants to toy with my self-esteem and slowly drive me insane. Come on creepy, wet, dead girl...come and get me! Take me to the bottom of that cold, dark well. It will be the happiest I've been in months, just as long as there's no cable TV down there, and I get to keep my underwear on.

What Is That Thing On Your Neck?

Some of you who don't know me, have been confused about the "Ethanism" where I mentioned my neck scar. You poor, poor people. You have missed out on so much drama! Here is the lowdown:

I used to be healthy. In the 6th grade I won the perfect attendance award, which is something that only the very healthy and very geeky kids win. By high school things had changed, and I was missing way too many days, but that was due to the call of warm, sunny days, cold drinks and cute boys, and had nothing whatsoever to do with being sick. I sailed through my 20's as well, with nothing more than allergies and a case of pneumonia. As a matter of fact, I was quite healthy until I had a baby, then my entire body turned on me.

Soon after having Ethan, I was diagnosed with PCOS and then Insulin Resistance. There were a few surgeries related to all of that, but nothing major until during one of those surgeries my Dr. had an "oops" moment and punctured through an organ accidentally. A painful exploratory surgery and repair ensued. Then after one of those surgeries, I developed Pulmonary Embolisms which almost killed me off, and sent me to the hospital for a week. After that, I had to get a CT Scan to check and make sure the clots were gone, at which point they found something suspicious near my lungs, which they thought might be lymphoma, but turned out to be a disease called Sarcoidosis, which is preferable to lymphoma. SO, I had to have surgery to get a biopsy of the mystery mass, and this surgery requires that they cut into the base of your throat (Aha! That is the thing on my neck!) and go into your chest to get the stuff they need. So, I went in for that, and when I woke up I could not talk. I thought that this was common, so it took me a day before I complained about it, at which point I found out that it is not common at all.

The Dr. took a video of my cords, which is highly unpleasant, and we found that the left cord had become "accidentally traumatized", aka paralyzed, and was being a lazy, good for nothing jackass. He was just laying there doing nothing except being an a-hole. I had to live with nothing but an annoying Elmo-like whisper for about 6 weeks, until I found a specialist who I like to call "Dr. Meatloaf". Dr. M. told me they could temporarily bring my voice back by injecting collagen into the lazy cord . Of course, that was yet another surgery, but since I am all about the talk, I had to do it. That surgery went fine, and although he did not give me Angelina Jolie lips like I suggested he do as long as he was going at me with a syringe full of collagen, it was easy peasy. I got a scratchy version of my voice back, but I wasn't complaining. At least I could talk loudly again. Well, since those injections are temporary, it only lasted a couple of months, so I went back to do it again, but this time they told me that you have to be awake for the procedure. That was not a good thing. I have drawn a diagram of the event, and I just want to say, that of all the unpleasant procedure's I have had done, this was by far the worst. I took a friend along, but she would not go into the procedure room with me, so the next time, she can suck it and I will take someone else ( I am currently accepting applications for someone to hold my hand during the next torture session).

So, suffice it to say, I do not see myself ever voluntarily going under the knife again. I am pretty sure that if I were ever to be operated on in the future it would involve a nightly news emergency bulletin, ambulances, jaws of life, and something like a near decapitation or a weird, giant, foreign body sticking out of my chest (or else a tummy tuck or lipo).

By the way...when the cut on my neck was fresh and nasty, I sent out a photo to my friends asking for alternative explanations to give people who asked me what happened or were just rudely staring. Here are a few of my favorites:

High-Maintenance soccer mom stabbed me with her stiletto
Champagne cork gone awry
Bad pole dancing accident
Mexico
Vegas
Hit by a blow gun dart while on African Safari
Benihana accident
Vampire hickey
Implant from my alien abduction
I tried to break up a notorious monkey knife fighting ring
Running with scissors

Paranormal Appliance Activity

I have the perfect maid. She cleans whenever I tell her to and she never misses a spot. She never complains and she doesn't steal anything. She never comes late or calls in sick. She never snoops through my underwear drawer, and she never asks for a raise. She is perfect, and her name is Roomba. Roomba was given to me by my friend Anne, who obviously thought that my housekeeping skills sucked badly enough to warrant such a gift. Regardless of the reason, I love Anne and I love my Roomba. At first I wasn't sure about her. She required alot of instruction and set-up, she refused to do steps, and she was a bit rude and pushy. My son had his own issues with her. He thought she was creepy, and when she went in circles she made him dizzy, but he eventually got used to her as well. I have had her for about 1 1/2 years now, and she has always cleaned like a champ.

The other day, I sent her off to work her magic as usual, and she did a great job, but stopped before she was finished. When I came into the living room to check on her, she was taking a little siesta. I found this odd, since she is usually such a hard worker. I picked her up and told her that she had been doing a good job and in a creepy, GPS lady voice she said, "Please change Roomba's filter!" At this point I screamed and almost dropped her on my toes! After 1 1/2 blissful years together, I thought I knew Roomba well, but never, in all that time has she ever spoken to me. The most she has done is make a few beeps and play a little pre-cleaning get into the groove music. That is it! I called a friend of mine who has her own Roomba, and asked her if it has ever spoken. Nope. Never. I looked through my instruction manual and could find no mention of Roomba even having a voice. This was freaking me out, and to make matters worse, nobody will believe me! I admit that I have been known to imagine things, like the time when I was 8 and I swore I saw a guy walking an alligator on a leash, or when I was 10 and I thought my nice old neighbor had chopped his wife's head off and put it on the window sill (a very lengthy investigation ensued), but this was not one of those cases. I SWEAR MY ROOMBA SPOKE TO ME!

Last night, at about 11:00 PM, Steve and I were both on the edge of sleep when I heard a cough. "Was that you?" I asked him. "No, but I heard it too" he said. "Oh my God!" I said, "I think it was Roomba! She told me to clean her filter! In 1 1/2 years she's never asked me for anything, and this one time, she takes every ounce of battery life she has remaining in her shiny little round body, just to ask me to clean her filter, and what did I do? Instead of cleaning her filter, I chose to watch tv and (surprise!) drink wine. Now I think she has caught a bad case of asthma. Is that even contagious?" Of course Steve, being a man as well as someone who has been conditioned to tune out my endless ramblings and freak-outs, had already fallen into a deep and loudly snoring sleep. There was no way I was gonna sleep. My mind was racing with thoughts of Roomba. I tried to think of something that could explain what was going on. Unfortunately, I came to the frightening conclusion that my Roomba was possessed.

I went out last weekend to see approximately 98 minutes of pure terror called "Paranormal Activity", and I was (and still am) living in an extremely heightened state of fear. I admit that I haven't had a good night's sleep since subjecting my eyes to that nightmare 5 days ago. That movie has convinced me that possession is a very real possibility, and that there is definitely a good chance that my beloved Roomba has fallen victim to some evil spirit that is trying to do me in. So, I guess I will get on Google and try to find some kind of appliance exorcist to help me get my sweet, hard-working Roomba back. Maybe we can offer up a new "host" for the spirit to inhabit. Maybe it would be interested in my coffee maker or my toaster oven. On second thought, I love those appliances almost as much as I love Roomba, so maybe we can offer up Steve. It's not like he cleans my floors or makes me toast or coffee in the mornings or anything. As a matter of fact, if the evil spirit promises not to snore, I am totally cool with this whole exchange. Hang in there Roomba! Help is on the way!

Today's Boyism: He See's Dead People & They See Patti's Cellulite

Last night The Boy says to The Hub, "Dad, someday when you feel like you're about to die, make sure to give me your wallet so I can buy stuff. And don't worry, we'll still see each other. Dead people are still here, we just can't see them. There are like a hundred of them floating around in our house right now."

This was not a good thing for me to hear ONE DAY AFTER I saw Paranormal Activity. I suppose I will need some extra bedtime wine for a few nights, just to take the edge off.

HOWEVER, once I have had time to get over the initial scare factor of this revelation, I have realized something: I have been wanting to lose 10 pounds, and I am having trouble getting the motivation. But now that I know there are at least 100 people watching me do everything from shower to sneak binging on Ding-Dongs, I am feeling more motivated than ever to get my butt in gear. There's nothing like being naked in front of 100 people on a daily basis to make you want to tone up!

The Incredible Time-Out Machine

I was convinced I had thought of every "time-out" scenario possible. I have often said that I want a house with a "wine room/whine room", the kind with the wrought iron doors that make it look like a fancy French jail cell. It would be a room that I would lock, I mean, gently place my kid in for a short period of time so that he could think about what naughty thing he did. Sometimes, it would be a room that I gently placed myself in to have a few glasses of Mommy's Nerve Medicine so that I could calm down from whatever naughty thing my kid had done. I have also always dreamed of having one of those secret rooms behind a bookcase...not to put my kid in, but to put myself in. In my dream I keep this room a secret from my son, and when he is driving me to insanity, POOF! Mommy just disappears. With my ninja-like stealth I slip into the bookcase room, where I sit in one of those massage chairs that everyone sits in at Brookstone, and I fire up my margarita machine and relax. (Oh yeah, my room is sound-proofed as well, which allows me to blend away, and possibly scream at the top of my lungs, if that's the kind of day I'm having).

Anyhoo...the one "time-out" scenario that eluded me was finally brought to my attention yesterday, thanks to CNN and Falcon's fame-seeking dad: Giant Spaceship Balloon. Genius. Pure genius. Why didn't I think of this? As you all know, when your kid is in "time-out" it can often be a headache for you because you have to listen to the whining, sobbing, and pathetic cries of "How much longer?" With the "Giant Spaceship Balloon/Time-Out Machine" you can finally rid yourself of the annoyances of "time-out".

Step One: Just loosely anchor the aforementioned device to your house, a fence, a tree, anything you want!
Step Two: When your kid starts whining about homework, what's for dinner, how bored they are, etc... Simply send your child to the "Giant Spaceship Balloon/Time-Out Machine" so that he/she can think about what they have done.
Step 3: While your child is in the patented "safe, relaxing, and remorse-inducing environment", you can go about your daily chores. If the G.S.B.T.O.M. is tethered to a tree, maybe it would be a good time to do your tree-trimming , weed-whacking, or some other outdoor chore that involves being near aforementioned tree with a sharp device that has the ability to "accidentally" cut through a large rope. If your G.S.B.T.O.M. is tethered to your house, then gosh-darnit, it is probably as good a time as any to do that much-needed maintenance your H.O.A. has been all over your lazy butt about. Power-washing, paint-scraping, shingle-replacing, whatever the chore may be. Just make sure you watch out for the rope tied to your house! You don't want to mistakenly do anything to weaken it's hold! If your G.S.B.T.O.M. is tethered to your fence, it is probably the perfect time for your narcolepsy to flare up while you're on the riding lawnmower. Just make sure you aren't driving towards the fence when it happens! That could be a very unfortunate accident indeed!

With the G.S.B.T.O.M. your sweet offspring will have plenty of time to think about how to be less naughty, loud, and just plain annoying. There's nothing like gliding through the great blue yonder to induce sincere regret for ones behavior. You can bet your bottom dollar that lots of serious thinking will be going on in the G.S.B.T.O.M. At least until altitude sickness takes hold and they pass out, I mean, partake in a much needed and restful slumber.

These suckers are gonna go fast, so ORDER NOW! Free case of "Mom's Old-Fashioned Nerve Medicine" for the first 20 callers!

(Seller is not responsible for any injuries, mental or physical, as well as any emergency life-saving costs that may be incurred by the city and/or state in which you reside.)