How To Be Jolly (Corkscrew Required)

As you can all tell from the picture, I am in Missouri for Christmas. Spending quality time with the family, and super-duper-quality time with my wine. This year the Christmas Angels gave me a gift, and that gift was the knowledge that wine is the key to a merry holiday season. Night one at my mom's house = 2 bottles. When we got to the in-laws house I made a wine run and got 6. The amount of empty bottles is directly proportionate to how well I am handling all of this togetherness. I love my family, but I love them even more when their edges are blurry. And I say that in a very jolly and Christamassy voice. Ho ho ho.

Since Christmas is a time when I am either buzzed or dealing with family members all up in my grill, it is not really a great time for me to write a blog. You know, since I like to make sure that I am in tip top shape, i.e. have all my wits about me so I can be politically correct, non-foul-languagy and really appropriate with my blogging. No matter how much fun you guys might think it would be for me to write you a blog after a bottle of wine, it would undoubtedly cause me nothing but problems. And people might not give me gifts if I piss them off. And I really, really, really like gifts.

So since I don't have much to write at the moment (obviously), I will just share a few Awesome Holiday Must-Haves with you instead:

There's a song on this album called "Deck My Balls." I'm sure there is someone on your xmas list who needs the heck outta this. And if there is, I'd probably keep an eye on them around all of your expensive gifts. And maybe lock up your medicine and liquor cabinets.

These people obviously agree with me about how to make it through the Holidays. Money tight this year? Can't afford gifts for the family, a tree, AND the necessary alcohol to make it through the season without losing your mind? Get a twofer with the Beer Bottle Tree. Due to the fact that you'll be drunk off your butt by the time you get enough bottles to make the big ass tree that your family demands, you won't be able to stack them without major breakage, so give that task to the kiddos. You can have an assembly line of chugging and stacking. Turn on some holiday music and you're good to go. 

Sometimes I get so discombobulated during the holidays that I lose track of my menses. NOw I shall never again worry if Aunt Flo shows up unannounced, because I'll be wearing Maxi Pad Christmas Slippers. If Shark Week suddenly hits, BOOM, stick your shoe in our underpants and you're good as new. It's the perfect last minute gift for all the pre-menopausal women in your life. It will make memories that last forever. 

Babies are boring. And if all they're gonna do is sit there, you might as well use them as a Christmas conversation piece. If they already know how to walk and/or crawl, this will basically act as a festive holiday baby straightjacket and keep them safely in one spot so you can have the freedom to do what you please and really get your drink on. If I could find one big enough for The Boy I would buy it right now. And I would probably get a spare to keep with me in case any other family member is getting on my nerves.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS! 

How My Parents Totally Effed Me Up Yet Brought Out My Geniusness At The Same Time (AKA Christmas Is A Lie)

When I was 5, aside from carrying around the burden of being adorably big-eyed and cute, I was also  blessed/cursed with being extremely smart. Oh, and also independent. As a matter of fact I was so cute, smart, and independent that I even considered moving out to live on my own. And if it hadn't been for my fear of dogs and fireworks, my extreme mega-fear of those two fears combined, the fact that child-labor laws prevented me from getting a job and there were no cage fighting rings for 5-year-old's with which to make money off of my mad street fighting skillz, I may have actually followed through. I totally could have been the shorter, blonder, sassier Mary Tyler Moore. With more bad-assness. And a killer groin kick.

The Buster Brown haircut and big brown eyes that say "Don't make me stab you!" 

So basically, when you're this world-savvy by age 5, it's difficult for your parents to keep you down by lying to you and trying to turn you into a naive idiot by telling you things like once a year a big fat man who needs a shave and a haircut flies around the world with magic reindeer and sneaks into your house to leave you gifts. Oh, and he also watches you. Like, all the time. Probably even when you're taking a bath or a poo or getting dressed. Because he needs to know if you are naughty or nice. If you ask me, if there really was an old, hairy, creepy dude out there spying on children and committing like, a bazillion B & E's and enslaving midgets (I mean little people), then it's the grown-ups who would be idiots for not forming a vigilante group and taking this a-hole down.

Since I was probably, like, 2 when my parents told me about Santa, I really have no memory of it or what I thought about it. And it's not like I can ask my parents for their retrospective on the event, because neither one of my parents can really even remember what they ate for breakfast by lunch time. Even though I have no memory of the exact moment my parents decided to tell me that I was being stalked by a guy with a penchant for red velvet who would give me gifts and candy if I was nice and sat on his lap, I do clearly remember the moment when I realized that they were big, fat, liars. Yep. I was 5.

I was in my bunk bed trying to be good girl and get those damn sugar plum visions to dance around in my head, but was afraid to go into a deep sleep due to the fact that (a) one should always be on high-alert when you know a stranger in coming into your house, and (b) my sister, who was on the bunk above me, sometimes rolled off in her sleep. And what kind of loser wants to miss that action?

So at some point during the night I heard a ruckus and decided to crawl into the living room to check things out. If it was Santa I figured we could have a chat. Possibly about what he feeds his reindeer and whether or not his elves are the same ones that live in the trees in the summer and make those cookies that I liked, and if so why did he need all of us to give him cookies on Christmas Eve when he can get them for free because that's pretty lame. Not to mention selfish. And I figured that if it was a burglar, I'd save my sleeping family from impending doom and get to kick some ass. Either way I win. 

So I crawled down the hall and through the kitchen, at which point I heard voices. Two voices. And I was pretty sure that one was a chick and that she was kinda bossing the dude voice around. So I peeked into the living room and saw not a fat pervert with a big, red, sack, but my skinny parents in their pajamas arguing over how to put out the "Santa" gifts. AKA the pile of lies.

This was decision time for me. I--like most people-- had always wanted to have the occasion to jump out and yell "Aha!" and if there ever was such an occasion, this was it. But I also knew that my parents would be upset. And the thought of upsetting my parents made me sad. Either that or I thought that if they knew that I knew that there wasn't a Santa, I would get fewer gifts next year. It was definitely one of those. But lets not get bogged down in specifics here you guys. The point is, I was 5 and I was a genius. And also a sudden realist. Who was, frankly, pretty relieved to not have to be worried about all the being spied on and all the do-gooding that this imaginary hairy guy required. I could live life my way. Follow my own rules. Poo in private. The only thing I was pissed about was the Elves. A world without Elves is a world without Elves. I don't even think I need freakin' metaphor here, people. We're talking about tiny little dudes with pointy ears and jingly bell shoes. JINGLY BELL SHOES, YO! The fat man can suck it. These guys are what Christmas was all about.

Well, at least I still have the ones that make the cookies. Wait.....

Crap.

Deck The Halls With Furry Balls (And other ingenious uses)

So, a few weeks ago I went with some friends to Houston's annual Nutcracker Market. A place filled with food, crap to buy, crap to eat, and lots of people to make fun of. I love it. This year at the market, my friend Anne decided to purchase a sweater/jacket even though when she modeled it for me I told her I hated it. The jacket was cute and all, but in addition to a furry collar that I didn't like, it had two strings from which dangled two furry balls. And aside from the fact that furry balls really aren't super sexy, they landed in a spot that I just didn't think was very attractive...

This is my friend, Anne. This is a very artistic interpretation of what she looked like in the ball sweater. And yes, they dangled right there where real furry balls dangle. If you were a dude. And you walked around in crotchless pants. And were in major need of a ball wax.

 Well, in a supreme act of defiance,  Anne bought the sweater anyway, but made me a promise that she would castrate the furry balls. Since she obviously doesn't care about me and my feelings, I didn't have a giant amount of confidence in her promise, so I told her that I would need the furry balls as proof that she had followed through. A week later, I had the balls in my possession. And oh what a time we have had! I realized that in addition to dangling from a sweater and making a cute woman look like she's undergoing a sex change, furry balls have lots of uses. Here are a few of the non-xxx ones:

Ear Muffs For Cats-------------Play Toys For Cats  ---------Hair Ball/Barf For Cats

Because nothing is more fun that chasing your annoying cat around the house and forcing her to pose for photos with furry balls.

Hairy Ear Ball--Furry Corsage For Shirt---Fancy Decoration For Sunglasses---Beautiful Hair Accessory

Admit it you guys...you totally want these balls.

Old School Sock Balls--------------Furry Decorations For Shoes
Flashback to the 80's. A time when sock manufacturers actually gave a damn about us and our sliding down ankle socks. These balls keep them up, and make your heels look sexy. 

Frolicking Finger Monkey
When your husband doesn't understand your absolute NEED for a Finger Monkey, what do you do? Well, you use your friend's castrated cardigan balls to make yourself a surrogate Finger Monkey to carry around and talk to in the hopes that your husband will decide that he'd rather you have a real live, breathing monkey instead of having to deal with the embarrassment of you going all over town talking to two furry balls taped around your finger.

Bath Puff For Baby
Because everyone knows that nothing gets a newborn cleaner than a bath puff made out of a dead animal's fur.  

Wine Bottle Stopper
Not that I ever have wine left in the bottle once I've opened it. But if I ever did, I'd totally protect it with a giant hairy ball.

Funky Pen Topper For Mount Stachemore Pen
Like a water-filled pen with Mt. Rushmore and a floating mustache isn't sassy enough?  Go balls to the wall and add an animal fur afro into the mix. 

Spaghetti And Furry Balls
Unfortunately, the purchaser of the Furry Ball sweater came up with this before my brain even got to foods. She may purchase sweaters with crotch balls, but she's got some ingenious ideas.

Furry Make-up Puff
Finally an excuse to rub animal balls all over your face.

Big-Ass Furry Spider
First, you make a giant and disgusting spider with which to scare your child. Then you have it attack your baby just for kicks. Because it's late, your husband's out of town, you had a bit of wine, and were bored.

Dead Birdie
Step 1: Place dead animal fur bird on sidewalk
Step 2: Tell your child to come out and see what his cat did
Step 3: Give your child ice cream to make up for lying to them and totally freaking them out.

Paul McCartney Is Trying To Kill Me

This post isn't really a post.

I know I haven't written anything in a week but I am in holiday shopping mode and my brain is frazzled. I can't focus. At all. I have a sneaking suspicion that Christmas music may be at least partially responsible. Every time I hear that Paul McCartney song where he keeps singing about how he's simply having a wonderful Christmas time, a little part of my brain dies.

And it really doesn't help that my cat (Ethan's cat) is totally killing my zest for life. She's insane and she won't be happy until I am insane too. And not in the good way like I already am. The really insane way where you eat your own hair, wander around the neighborhood naked, and shout weird things like "Beam me up Scotty" for no reason. I'm not there yet but I'm getting close. (More on her in a later blog)

And according to the iPeriod Ap on my iPhone (yeah, that's a real thing and it's awesome), I am entering the land of  PMS any second now. And I know that it knows what it's talking about because (a) Last night I dreamed that I was trapped inside a giant Reeses Cup and had to eat my way out, (b) I'm seriously considering trying to trade this cat on Craig's list for maybe an empty bag of Cheetos or an old battery and telling Ethan that The President wanted her for a top secret mission, and (c) Today I cried because I saw a dead deer in the road. Then I realized it was a cardboard box. Then I kept crying because it looked like something was in the box and I was sad for whoever had lost it.

And you people think I'm hard-hearted.

Right now I have a glass of wine, a new episode of American Pickers, and Soft Blue Esquire (my favorite blanket) waiting for me in the living room, so let me get to the point: I will write you all something real by the end of the week. I swear. But for now I just wanna say thanks for being patient (except for those of you who weren't), and thanks for all the email I got for my Oprah blog. You guys are a bunch of weirdos. And I think you all like chocolate even more than I do. Which is crazy.

Anyway, the winner of a big, fat, pile of delicious Hippos is Ashley Reina. She won because she is hard-core serious about wanting those freakin' hippos. And she said really awesome things about me. And she is my #1 fan. And she is in love with me. And she works for a company that owns a restaurant that I love that makes queso that I love. And I'm hoping she'll do me a solid and queso the bejesus out of me. But even if she doesn't, I still dig her and she deserves the hippos.

Congratulations Ashley!!

Oprah Can Totally Suck It

Oprah. Where do I even start? I used to love her. Not in a lesbian way or anything, just in a she's really great and nice and seems to really care about people way. I even went to her show once and made all the facial expressions they tell you to make if you want to get on tv. I was concerned. I was shocked. I was dismayed. I got my 15 seconds of fame on tv for basically whoring myself out. Because in all reality I wasn't concerned, shocked, or dismayed. At all. I was bored. And I was acting. But the producers bought it and I got my screen time. So I guess that means I am an amazing actress. Probably better than Oprah. I could have totally played Sophia in The Color Purple. And if only the Emmy's had a category for most concerned audience member....that little gold man would be on my bookshelf right now.  Next to Mr. Stachey the Snow globe and my flying pig. But life isn't fair, people.  I got screwed and Oprah has a bazillion dollars.

Last season was when she really started getting on my bad side. She told everyone to stop talking on their cell phones when they were driving. Like her. A woman who has a chauffeur. And minions to make all her calls for her. Then she had a few interviews where she told the movie star how awesome their new film was when in all reality it blew super chunks. And you know she thought so too. And she was obviously lying. Which is totally lame. If I had a show I would be like "Julia, you're cool and everything. And I like the fact that you tiled your own kitchen and you're all earthy and real and stuff. But you know what? That movie sucked balls. Saggy old man balls. And I know you know it. So enough with the bullshit." I think that not only would the viewers appreciate this approach, but the actor's would get a little reality check. Which they need.

Anyway, Oprah just did her Favorite Things show. Two of them. And I got annoyed this year because (a) Everything costs too much for regular people to buy, (b) She screams alot, and (c) The audience members act like idiots. You know, if someone gives me a car, yeah, I'm gonna freak out a little bit. But if someone gives me Sparkle Uggs? I'm gonna vomit a little in my mouth. She gave them chicken pot pie and they acted like she'd just handed them a million dollars. It's a freakin' chicken pie, you guys. Chicken has no business being in a pie. And if it's something that you can get at Kroger, it's not worth crying about on national television. And she gave them bras. Which is kinda personal. And strange. But if she just had to give bras I wish she'd given them out at the beginning of the show so that the ladies coulda had some extra support before they were televised jumping up and down like maniacs. At this point I have no doubts that she could give them crap on a stick or dead kittens and they'd still go nuts. Dead kittens? Well, if Oprah likes them, they must be amazing!

Since Oprah's favorite things annoyed me, I have decided to do my own. And since I didn't get that Emmy and I don't own an Empire, I am not giving you guys these things. I'm just showing them to you. So PLEASE don't start jumping and crying and making a fool outta yourselves. But if you do, video tape it for me. Please.  And put on a sports bra first.

Patti's Super Awesomer Favorite Things

Humunga Stache. It. Is. Awesome. I don't own a dog but I'm considering buying one just so I can have him wear the stache. It has a rubber ball on the end so the dog will carry it around and look like an old timey store clerk. Who can't really sell any provisions or anything. Because, you know, he's a canine. And canine's can't talk. Or count money. But they can look fancy. Genius.

Ninjabread Men. Why did it take so long for someone to come up with this? Seriously. Aren't we all sick of those boring old gingerbread men? Those guys can suck it. Put some of them in a cookie jar with these Ninjabread Men and see who comes out in one piece.

Beer Belt. I'm crying a little. From sheer happiness. Nothing more to say.

Stache Anything. Lloyd Dobbler + mustache = a happy me. Year: 1989. Llyod Dobbler shows up at my house with boom box playing "In Your Eyes." I would kiss him. Hug him. Be flattered and all that girlie crap. Lloyd Dobbler shows up at my house with giant stache? Dry hump city.

Anti-Theft Baggies. Bully stealing your kids lunch? Co-worker who raids the break room fridge? Thwart them all with this baggie with strategically placed fake mold. Keep that bologna for yourself. Those a-holes can starve.

Creepy Porcelain Dolls. My friend Trish Bower brought these into my life. I can't even put into words how wrong yet so right these are. Who made these and why? I have no answers for you. But I kinda love them just a little bit.

Bacon Flavored Envelopes. Like paying bills doesn't suck enough. You also have to lick that horrible envelope glue which makes the chore suck even harder. Not anymore! Now you can pay your bills and get the awesome taste of bacon at the same time. This rocks. Hard.

Alien Abduction Lamp. Freaking awesome.

Happy Hippos. The most delicious PMS treat EVER. And the nutrition label is written in another language so you don't even have to know how bad the fat and calories are! They may be fat free for all I know. My only issue with these is that they are in the shape of hippos. Which is not super great for your self esteem when you have pre-menstrual weight gain. But they're so good I don't even care. Just bite that fat hippo's head off and enjoy.

Twin Peaks Mouse Pad. My friend, who chooses to remain nameless, just gave this to me. Literally 10 minutes ago. Her husband recently brought it home and she said "Patti has to have this." What does this say about me? She's too embarrassed to be mentioned in conjunction with this amazing item. And I am the first person one thinks of when they think "Who would enjoy this?" Well, I'm in no way ashamed of the fact that I think this is super-duper amazing. Hooray for you, Twin Peaks Restaurants. Hooray for you.

Polka Dot and Striped Rhinoceros Head. I couldn't find a photo but I saw it at Houston's annual Nutcracker Market and I need it. It was $250.00 of pure awesome. I would call her Henrietta Van Hooverstein. Her horn would hold my robe. We would be happy together.

Between two Ferns.
I could marry this show, get knocked up by it, and birth a hundred awesome little baby shows.
Best Sean Penn Interview EVER (Yes, EVER)
Ditto Bruce Willis (Oprah can totally suck Zach Galifianakis's balls)

Airport Rub-Downs: Consider It An Early Christmas Present.

Well, it's that time of year again when I am supposed to say what I am thankful for.  Last year I had a long list of things to share with you guys, but this year I have only one: I'm thankful that I don't have to fly. Like, super-duper-doing-a-happy-dance-thankful.

Unless you've been in a coma, you've seen the endless crap on the news about the airport body scans and pat-downs, and you know how pissed off people are getting about it. Well, I'm pissed off too! But I'm not pissed off about the pat-downs and scans, I'm pissed off at all the losers who are whining about it. (By the way, if you were in a coma, that totally sucks, and this blog should catch you up on everything TSA-related. And even though I don't know you, I'm really thankful that you're awake. So congrats on that!)

So anyway, the first thing that all these jackholes are pissed off about, are those x-ray scanner thingies that some of the airports have now. It seems that people are all worked up because these machines show an outline of your private areas. You know, weiners and boobs. Since I am nothing if not a seriously thorough investigative reporter, I looked up some of these x-ray photos on the internet, and my finding was this:  They make you look like either a mega cool robot or a frumpy albino. It really just depends on what you're giving them to work with.

Example:

These 2 people are in really good shape, which = mega cool robots.

These 2 people aren't quite as svelt, which = more of a frumpy albino. And also, they are carrying inappropriate travel items, i.e. creepy things and murdery types of weapons. I'm pretty sure the lady has a banana in her waistband. Or a vibrator. And the guy has some kind of parrot or something on his shoulder. Probably a trained parrot assassin. So, you know, thank goodness for these scanners. Otherwise some unsuspecting granny on a SWA flight to Boca would be getting her eyeball stolen by a mother effing parrot, and some albino lady in the seat next to you would be getting down under her blanket with her vibrator/banana.

I don't really see the big deal here, people. So these scanners can see your privates. Guess what they can also see? Weapons hidden inside or around peoples privates. Yeah, it happens. Sure, maybe if you're self-conscious about your beer belly or your muffin top, or it's that time of the month and you don't want everyone seeing your maxi-pad with wings, these scans can suck. But you know what else sucks? Sitting on a plane next to a douchebag with a bomb in his underwear. That sucks hard you guys. 

And if you're really super shy about these scanner techs seeing your in-betweens, you can always buy these x-ray proof underwear to hide your bits and pieces:

But they'll probably think you're hiding a gun behind that fig leaf, so prepare yourself for a stage 2 cavity search. Which you totally deserve, by the way, for being such a self-conscious wanker.

The other thing that everyone is fired up about is the security pat-down. I read an article online in which a woman was quoted as saying that buying an airline ticket doesn't give a stranger the right to rub her private parts. She also compared the pat-down to being raped. This woman is obviously an asshole. 

First of all lady, it's not like some dude's jumping out of a dark alleyway and searching your crotch for weapons. This is airport security. They are trying to protect us. Before they send us hurtling through the sky in a tiny plane with no cops and a few hundred cranky strangers. And I haven't seen you, but I am betting that the TSA employees of the world aren't laying awake at night hoping that they get to give you a rub down. This is their job, and I doubt they're gonna be picturing your bitchy face that night when they rub one out.

And I'm sorry, but from what I've seen on the news, most of these travelers look like they could use a little feely-feely. People get cranky during the holidays, and I think that stress levels could be lowered immensely if these fuddy duddies would just let their junk get rubbed.  Charlie Sheen pays people, like, thousands of dollars to rub his junk. You can get it done for free. And totally legally. And your spouse can't even call it cheating. For crying out loud, just go with it! Get your rocks off and be thankful that a hand besides your own is feeling you up for once. Geesh!

If Your Kitty Gets Stuck In A Pipe, Call These Guys. Or Don't. I'm Sorta Confused.

I was behind this truck a few months ago, and of course I took a picture of it because I found it totally confusing. But in an awesome way. Then I kinda forgot about it because my attention span is really, really short unless the topic is Paul Rudd or Laverne and Shirley. But The Universe obviously wanted me to remember it because I was behind it and all of its awesomeness again yesterday. How, oh how, could I have ever forgotten about this? This is like, the best truck EVER! I can't even begin to understand what it means, but that is the genius of it. Obviously the owners of this truck are some kind of plumbers and  they can totally replumb your entire house. And they also seem to be adept at replacing pipes. With keys that turn or something. I'm not at all sure what that means. But because I like to be really researchy and stuff I went to their website to find out, but there were a whole lot of mechanical sounding words and things that were extremely boring, so I got distracted and gave up. But I did send them an email inquiring about the wet cat:

Dear Delta Mechanical,

I was behind one of your trucks and I was curious...why is there a sad, wet cat on the back door of this  truck? This causes me great confusion and I hope that you can help me to understand the scenario in which this cat got so totally drenched. And sad. Although I guess as far as cats are concerned, drenched and sad go hand in hand, since cats hate being wet. Except that cat I saw once on You Tube who liked to waterski. But I'm pretty sure he was duck taped to those skis. Or hot glued. And he looked pretty pissed.

Anyway, I would like to know what happened to this particular cat. Was he involved in a pipe bursting accident? Was he accidentally flushed down a toilet?  Is he actually dry but just likes to wear hair gel and have that wet look? And if so, does he know that look was over, like, 20 years ago? Also, was this photo taken during a real pipe emergency, or was this a model/stunt cat? If it was a model cat, I would like to volunteer my cat to pose for your next truck photos. Free of charge. Because (a) She's really photogenic, and (b) She hates being wet and since she's on my bad side right now I'd really like to teach her a lesson. You can even stick her in a toilet if you want, because I think that would make a really awesome truck picture. I bet you'd get, like, thousands of calls. Most of them from animal rights people, but even animal rights people need plumbers. Am I right? 

If you would be so kind as to answer my questions, I would greatly appreciate it and will think of you guys if ever I have a plumbing catastrophe. Get it? CATatstrophe! Feel free to use that in one of your ads.

Thank You!

Unfortunately, I haven't heard back from them yet, which if you ask me, is really pretty rude, because obviously my questions were of the utmost importance. So if I've learned anything here it's that plumbers don't really have good manners. And cats look really funny wet.

This Receipt Blows

Okay, so when I was visiting my sister last week, the first thing we did after my plane landed, was to go and have an embarrassingly enormous breakfast. The second thing was hit the supermarket, because (a) I knew she wouldn't have any food in her apartment, and (b) I needed wine. And chocolate.

When we got to the checkout, the girl asked who was buying the wine. I said, "Either one of us, it doesn't matter. I'm paying, if that's what you mean." And she said, "I need to know who's buying the wine, because if it's her (points to my sister) then I need an ID, but if it's you (points to me) I don't." Ok. I will now pause here to let you ponder this statement........................................................I am sure that you are as shocked as I was, because really, I don't look a day over 21. Right? I mean sure, the mustache makes me look mature, but I was mustache-free that day since I suspect that it also makes me look crazy and/or terroristy and I was flying and stuff, and the last thing I needed on a very rare child and husband-free vacation is to be taken down by an air marshall and cavity searched and waterboarded. So anyway, I said "Excuse me? You don't need an ID from me? Isn't there a rule where if someone looks under 35 you should card them? Don't I look under 35? Hello?" And she just looks at me like she hates her life and wishes I would go die.

So, while I bitched and complained I showed her my ID and paid for the groceries and we went on our way, talking about how totally rude she was. And of course I looked for reassurance from my sister that I did not look over 35, and since she's not only my sister but is intelligent enough to know that I am not at all above kicking her ass, she gave it to me.

Fast forward to Sunday, when I'm getting my receipts together so that the husband can get his Quicken boner taken care of. As I'm putting the supermarket receipt in the pile, I notice something:

This Devil receipt says my birthdate is 12/12/1912.
And Turkey is spelled wrong. 
So not only is that cashier an a-hole, but her cash register is a total idiot.

Now, although I actually witnessed the cashier typing in the birthday, I am hoping that maybe there is some reason that this particular store maybe uses that date as a catch-all date for people over 21. Do any of you know anything about a rule like this? Because, man...I'd hate to think she is that mean. Although she did seem pretty hateful.  And I don't really have a super amount of faith in humanity and their ability to not be totally bitchy. Given, I HAD just gotten off of a plane, which means I was possibly a bit puffy. And I DID get up at 4:00 am, which means I maybe had bags under my eyes. And my birthday IS 12/14, which is close to 12/12. But my year is nowhere near 1912. And if you remember from my vacation blog, those guys at the bar told me I looked 28. Tweny-freakin'-eight!! They even asked to see my ID for proof that I was actually 38! Surely they meant that. And surely it had everything to do with my looks and nothing at all to do with my maturity level. Right?

All I can say, is that cashier and that stupid register of hers had better thank their lucky stars that I am now 745 miles away and neither PMS-ing nor in possession of my own private plane, helicopter, jet pack or teleporter, because if my hormones were just a little more fired up and I had fast transportation, I would so go to Marsh's Sunfresh Market and kick some ass.

* UPDATE* My friend Pennie has informed me that on the Devil receipt, above my fake birthday, it says "Wholly Guacamole." I am so ashamed that I missed that! I guess when you're 98 years old your eyesight's just not as good as it once was.

I Have A New Blog And I Totally Did It Myself (Or Not)

Guess what you guys? I finally got a new blog design! After spending a year being bored to tears by that plain Jane page I was using before, and after spending months trying (and failing) to re-do mine on my own, it's all shiny and new. I am so happy! Now I can stop reading articles and "simple" step-by-step instructions on how to customize my page, because that stuff was giving me migraines. And making me stomp around the house a little bit, talking to myself about how much I hate computers and the insanity of HTML and all that crap. And maybe now I can lay off on the wine a bit. Or not.

Last week I'd finally had it with the whole do-it-yourself approach and was about to toss the laptop out the window, when I was saved by Blogs Gone Wild. Within just a few days we got everything done. And I say the word "we" even though all I did was harass this poor guy over email enough that I'm sure he is (a) extremely relieved this job is over, (b) drinking way too much now, and (c) probably about to put a hit out on me.

So  I want to thank Mr. Bill at Blogs Gone Wild, as well as Sharon Sheara with Camera Shy Creations for so kindly volunteering to take pictures of me with my stupid (yet amazing) mustache. I know that I was a tough subject to shoot. And we had severe trouble not laughing through the whole thing. Also, I want to thank my friend Pete Stuller, who came up with the idea for the photo and tattoo. He was also my Biology partner in the 10th grade, and was awesome enough to play frog puppets with me, which he probably doesn't remember, for reasons I won't mention here.

Man, I totally feel like I'm winning an Academy Award or something. I've never thanked so many people in my life, choosing instead to usually tell people to suck my balls. I feel so nice right now!

If you are getting this post via email, please click the title so you can go to my site and check things out. I hope you like it. If you don't you can totally suck my balls. (There. I feel much better. I said that twice. I am gonna get so many Google hits from this it isn't even funny)

It's Like Angels Singing. If The Angels Were Totally Untalented Ex-Cult Members With Stockholm Syndrome.

Watch this video:



Did you watch it? Don't lie to me. Seriously. I will spork you in the ovarnads. Plus, you won't know wtf I'm talking about unless you watch it first. DO IT!

Okay. Now is where I just decide to trust you guys. Here we go...

First of all let me say that I now know there is a God and a Heaven because this was obviously sent to us from Angels, who sent it to my friend Jenny Ruchhoeft, who sen it to me and is now my most favoritest person in the universe (aside from the inventor of my mustache snowglobe). But although I love this video with a love like no other, I must point out a few things that I find aweomely disturbingly creepily amazing.

-  "He taught me how to praise my God and still play rock and roll." 
No. No, he didn't. This is not anything that even slightly resembles rock and roll. Awesome? Yes. Rock and Roll? Nope.

-  "Once I tried to run and hide. Jesus came and found me and he touched me down inside." 
I'm sorry, but this sounds like something a kidnap/molestation victim says on the witness stand.  I have a bit of advice for you, Jesus. If someone is running and hiding from you, maybe don't chase them. And if you do, then certainly don't touch them down inside when you catch them. There are, like, all kinds of laws against that. Plus it's just gross.

- "He's like a Mountie, he always gets his man. And he'll zap you any way he can." 
Ok. So maybe if some dude who looks like Jesus is chasing you, and you try to run and hide, you'd better either be really fast or a really good hider, because obviously this Jesus has a cattle prod or something like that air gun that scary dude in "No Country For old Men" had, and he's gonna zap the shit out of you with it so he can touch you down inside. Or maybe this Jesus is a wizard. Like Harry Potter. If Harry Potter was listed in the Sex Offenders Registry. And wore sandals.

- The guitarist isn't wearing shoes. 
I'm pretty sure that when Jesus caught him he took them so he couldn't run away anymore. I think I saw that in a kidnapper movie once.

-  There is a mysteriously pointless grand piano is this video.
 For no reason. Maybe the director thought it added a certain gravitas to the whole production or something. But no one is playing it. It's just sitting there looking stupid, which distracts from all of the other things that look stupid. They really shoulda had someone dressed as Jesus playing it. Wearing a Mountie hat. That would have been amazing.

-  "He'll love me when I'm perfect, If I ever get that way." 
Dude...I wouldn't hold my breath on that one.

-  There's a whole lotta virginity going on up in there.
Unless I see videographic proof that any of these people have ever gotten laid, I won't believe it. And if anyone takes me literally and tries to show me videographic proof of any of these people actually getting laid, I will cut you. But I'm sticking with my assumption that they are all mega-virginal and have never even come close to gettin' down with another person. Unless you count being involved in some weird-ass relationship with a really, really, handsy Jesus as gettin' down. Which I guess I probably would.

-  I'd like to point out that the name of this group is "Sonseed."
I have many inappropriate things to say here, but sometimes my mother-in-law reads this, so I'm just gonna let you make up your own.

I Went On A Trip. Not An Acid One. Just A Regular One.

So last week something strange happened. I got to leave my house, my town, my husband and child, and go someplace that involved an airline ticket and a suitcase.

I went on a trip alone. By myself. Over state lines.

I know! I can't believe it either! For one thing I have a feeling, deep down, that I really should not be allowed to travel alone. If I had a psychiatrist, which let's face it - I probably should,  he/she would probably even have some sort of court order against such a scenario. For another thing, it took a rocket sciencey skill set to organize the whereabouts of my 9-year-old for the 4 weekdays that I would be gone. I left notes and piles and suitcases and snacks and medicine charts and all manor of motherly job thingies to get this to work out as smoothly as possible.

And did I mention that I had to leave my house at 5:00 am on THE MORNING AFTER HALLOWEEN? And I had quite the elaborate costume planned for trick-or-treating, but by the time I got myself organized for the trip, and my kid organized for the halloween festivities, I just didn't have the oomph to dress myself up. So I drew on a handlebar mustache, filled a bag with a few bottles of beer, and hit the streets with my little Grim Reaper.

My one-woman trip was to Kansas City to visit my little sister, who at 23 is much younger than me, but at 6 feet tall a bit bigger than me. She had just moved into her first solo apartment so I went to have some bonding time. Roommate free. Whether she wanted it or not, I was there to cramp her style.

Sister cute. Sister being a weirdo. It runs in the family.

My mom told me that my sister was nervous about keeping me entertained, which is totally stupid, because as all you moms out there know, being away from home alone is so freaking rare and exciting that you don't really need entertainment. Just riding on a plane kid-free is so effing fantastic that on step one of the trip you've already had enough fun to make it worthwhile. Even if you, like me, had to sit behind the most flatulent man in the universe and next to the most annoyingly boundaryless woman.

So, me and this lady are sitting in the Exit row, which is airplane Heaven for a tall girl because my freakishly long legs don't even come close to fitting in a regular seat, which have ample legroom for you only if you are an oompa loompa, or a guest of honor at the Amputee Skydiving Festival. So, I say to her : "Maybe if we look sick and/or crazy, nobody will sit between us. You cough alot and I'll talk to myself." Since I am hypnotically persuasive, she was game. Unfortunately, a tiny little Asian woman decided to chance it and sit between us anyway, which shocked the hell out of me because she was obviously a germ-a-phobe of some sort since she put her purse and her briefcase into velvet bags before placing them under the seat. But whatever. The woman and I were not happy about our interloper, but since she was so tiny and couldn't possibly take up much room, we were not too pissed. But we were incredibly wrong about her. This 80 pound woman immediately fell asleep and flopped her drooling head onto the shoulder of my comrade, then actually threw her legs over mine. Yes. On top of my legs. Like she wanted a foot rub or something. She may have been 80 pounds but she took up more room than a linebacker. And at least if we'd had a linebacker he would have been aware of his girth and probably tried to make himself small and unobtrusive, and possibly even taught me what the hell a linebacker is. I tried to wiggle her legs off of me, but they just wouldn't budge, so I started to cough. Alot. And when I saw her open an eye to take a peek at me I said "I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure I was bitten by a Zombie last night and now I feel funny." And voila...she made herself tiny. FYI: Crazy works every time.

So I had 3 carefree days with my sister to shop, eat, drink, shop, eat, drink, and shop, eat, drink. Oh, and find weird stuff at flea markets. And go serial killer hunting in her building. And eat some more and drink some more. And sleep on a blow up mattress like I'm young and careless and don't have an old lady back. And get told by (possibly double-vision-having drunk boys) that I can't possibly be a day over 28. Shut up. I'm sure they meant it.

Anyway, my sister's apartment had some freaky-ass pounding going on in the pipes, which I am almost positive was morse code, which I suggested was being tapped out by someone who was chained up in the basement by a psycho janitor. Lindsy didn't see how this was possible, since she was on the fifth floor. But as I told her, the morse code pipe tapping of an abductee can carry like nobody's business. I watch scary movies all the time so I'm sort of an expert on that kind of thing. I suggested that we go to the basement and check it out but she declined because she's obviously selfish and doesn't care about saving people. She pretended like she thought I was stupid, and she said something about me having my own constant stories going on in my head or something, but I'm pretty sure she was just scared. So when she was at work one night I went down to check it out myself, and although I found nothing, that doesn't mean there's not a secret room that I missed. Because Serial Killer Janitors know nothing if not how to hide their murder rooms. I'm just saying.

On a less murdery note...One of my favorite things to do is to go to Flea Markets, so we did that a few times to look for things for her apartment. And while I found things that I thought would make her new place "special", she seemed to have a different opinion. One place had so many Jesus paintings that I have to assume it was nothing less than a sign from Heaven that we needed them. There were Jesuses (Jes-i?) everywhere, so I suggested a Jesus themed apartment. Unfortunately she poo-pooed that idea, even though I watch all those decoratey shows and I really think I know what I'm doing. Then I found one of my most favoritest flea market finds ever...A FREAKIN' GIANT CAT! And I suggested that instead of a sofa (which she needed) I buy her the giant cat, which could easily seat one, possibly two very thin, apartment visitors. Although this idea slightly intrigued her, it was a no go.  And although I pondered all the things that I could tell Steve to convince him that I needed this $200 big-ass cat in order to survive, I begrudgingly left it behind. And as usual, we also found some doll parts at the markets. And strangely enough, a doll that was missing a head yet was $55.00 with a tag that said "Antique doll. $55.00. Missing some toes." Yeah. But it's also MISSING A HEAD!

Me riding a giant cat, of course. Because who in their right mind wouldn't ride a giant cat?  A loser, that's who.
Glass container of doll heads. Totally expected. Not even shocking anymore.
You can still cootchie-coo the hell out of a headless baby who's also missing a few toes. And it's so not even weird.

But out of everything I saw in Kansas City, there was one item that stood out. One item that made me shed a tear of happiness. One item that I was bound and determined to purchase no matter the cost (which thankfully was only $12.00, although as I told Steve, I would have totally prostituted myself to make enough money to buy it anyway). And that was this:

Yeah. That's a mother-effing MUSTACHE SNOWGLOBE, yo!

Honestly, I've dreamed up some pretty fantastic things in my twisted little head, but never did I dare dream I would find something as amazing and spectacular as this. I just wish I knew the Genius who invented this, i.e. my soul mate. I can now die happy. Which I might. Because aside from having a kidnapped girl in the basement, I'm pretty sure that Lindsy's apartment building was also haunted. Because it was really old and really creaky and stuff. And mostly because I wanted it to be haunted because I love that kind of stuff. And I'm pretty sure that the ghost fell in love with me and followed me home, because that shit happens to me ALOT. And when I got home my cat (Ethan's cat) started running around the house all bonkers like it was chasing something invisible (like a ghost) and generally acting like she was spooked out of her little kitty cat mind. And today she is all up in my grill and trying to make out with me non-stop like a maniac, which I think she is, because she's undoubtedly possessed by the ghost that followed me home and is now using her furry body as a vessel to get all up on my stuff and be all rubby and licky and everything. So now I need an exorcist because having a cat lick and dry hump you is totally unacceptable. Even if you're totally into dry humping. Like I am. And Steve says I have trouble drawing lines, so I am thinking that drawing one at being dry humped by a cat is a good place to start. And now I can tell him that if only he wasn't too big of a tight wad to let me buy that giant cat, I could surely use it as protection against this 9-pound humping cat, and save myself alot of exorcist fees because I'm pretty sure exorcists charge more than $200 a pop, because dude, they are making ghosts go away. And not just any loser off the street can work that magic. Except probably a big-ass giant cat.

Things That Are Totally Scary. To Me, Anyway.

Believe it or not, I am easily frightened. Except by Zombies. I could really beat the heck out of some Zombies. But spiders? Frightening. John Denver? Terrifying. Stirrup pants? Shudder. The thought of Paris Hilton ever procreating? Eeek! When we lived in Chicago I used to brag to Steve about how totally ready I was to kick ass at any point in time. Muggers beware. Then one night when I took the elevator to the basement laundry room of our building and made the trek through the dark boiler/storage room, where Steve had taken the stairs down and hidden so that he could come up behind me and put his hand over my mouth, the truth finally came out. I am  a freakin' pussy. If you had asked me before then, what I would do in that kind of situation, I would have showed you some karate moves and deadly street fighting skillz. But when it actually happened, I went limp, fell to the floor and cried a little. It was completely pathetic you guys.


And just the other morning, after Steve left for work, I looked across the still dark bedroom in my sleepy haze and was 99.9% positive I saw a transvestite murderer in my closet. I assumed they had been there all night just trying on my clothes and plotting my demise. I was brave, though. I went in to investigate and basically discovered that I have allergy eyes and am pretty much mentally insane. Then I went back to bed. But the fact that I went in there to check it out in the first place is major progress for me. It sure beats lying on the floor in the fetal position in a puddle of your own tears.


There's alot of freaky ass shit in this world to be scared of. So in honor of Halloween, I have decided to post a few odd things that scare the crap out of me.

#1) Dismembered Dolls. Recently, my friend Anne and I visited an "art reuse" store. This freak show had a major overflow of doll parts, which made us feel like we had wandered into that Texas Chainsaw Massacre house, if Leatherface had been into dolls instead of humans. Which would have still been creepy, although much less bloody and social unacceptable.  So my question is, who is buying these things? I guess some heroiny "artist" who wants to make a super disturbing art project involving old lady heads and eyeless babies. Sounds incredibly stupid to me, but what's even scarier is that I am 100% positive that there exists, somewhere out there, more than a few totally rich douchebags who would buy it.

#2) Naked Santas and Imprisoned Dolls. The good part? These dolls had not been dismembered. Yet. Well, except for Santa. That dude's penis was totally missing. As were his belly button and his nipples. And his velvet suit. Which is how I know that the other stuff was missing. I didn't strip him myself you guys. He was already like that. I swear. Now, up until this point I had lived almost 39 years without ever seeing Santa nude. And I was doing just fine.  I mean, I never really spent much time thinking about Santa's private parts. A little, but not much. But never in a hundred years did I think he had none. But I guess that explains why he adopted all those elves instead of just knocking up Mrs. Claus. I guess you can't knock someone up without a penis. And I never woulda thought that he was the kinda guy to just stand around naked in public. But he IS freakin' old.  And he probably has alzheimers or something. Which is really sad, but no less scary. And I'm a really caring person and everything, but he'd better get his shit together before December, because I have a big ass list this year.  And then there's the prison stuffed with naked, dirty dolls.  Highly disturbing. Especially since the ones in front look like they're totally getting crushed like I did that one time in college when I was in the front of the mosh pit at a Lemonheads concert. But I doubt that anyone is using that opportunity to feel their boobs. Not that that happened to me or anything. Anyway, you want to know the most upsetting part of the doll prison? Look in the middle....

....It's Mrs. Beasley from A Family Affair, AKA one of my favorite shows when I was a kid. Buffy loved her so much, you guys. And Mr. French was always making sure things were taken care of at the Davis house. I would have never thought that he would have let this happen. I blame Cissy. She was a teenager. She pretended to be such a goody-goody but I betcha she had a dark side. She probably sold Mrs. Beasley for drug money and this is where she ended up. In doll prison. Obviously a total meth head weirdo who is into some pretty kinky girl on girl stuff. But from what I've learned from Cinemax After Dark, prison will totally do that to you.

#3)  Dental Work. As in I HAVE TO GET A FREAKIN' ROOT CANAL!  Because I have alot of Zombie fighting dreams, I clench my teeth so hard while I sleep that I cracked a molar, like, all the way down to my gums.  ANd one thing led to another, and now...root canal. Anyway, since I even freak out a little bit when I have to have my teeth cleaned, I can't even begin to fathom the horror of a root canal. In 1991 I survived having all 4 wisdom teeth out at once, but I think that the only reason I made it out of that alive was because I was 19 years old and really not worried about anything. And I was also probably drunk and/or high. But now I am a big, giant baby when it comes to anything dental-related. Maybe in a past life I had some major gold teeth and was mouth mugged by pirates one night on my way home from the neighborhood pub or something, because I have a serious distrust of anyone poking around in my mouth.


Since I can't ever do anything the easy way, my roots are totally bent at a 90 degree angle & I have to find a specialist who's willing to tackle this situation. So I posted a want ad on my neighborhood website to try and find a referral, and I mentioned that I want a surgeon who is willing to put me under, because I want to have zero awareness of what is happening to me. When I told Steve this, he said that if I'm knocked out I run the risk of getting molested. But that's totally a risk I'm willing to take. Plus, I told him that I'd probably just wear a unitard because there's nothing like a unitard to thwart unwanted dental surgery molestations. They might be thinking of molesting me, but once they take a peek under my clothing and see that I'm rockin' a unitard, they'll be all like "Crap! A unitard! Those things are so hard to get into! We just got thwarted, yo!"  But I got a few referrals from my post, and one woman told me her husband is an Endodontist (which is what they call the scary people who do this) and that he could put me under and that he wouldn't molest me. But then when we started emailing back and forth a bit, she told me that they were new to the area and came from out of state. So, obviously I ask her why they left their state. Did they perhaps move due to her husband running from the dental police for molesting a patient? Although she says this isn't the case,  I'm not sure I totally believe her. But that doesn't mean I'm not gonna do it. I have faith in the unitard. Plus, in all actuality, as long as I'm knocked out I'm cool with whatever happens. As long as nobody puts it on the internet. 

This is what my cat and I would look like if we ever became Zombies. Which we totally wouldn't because we are both super badass Zombie fighters. But I'd still much rather have this happen than to have a root canal.