This is a blog about lots of things but mainly the fact that I think I give off a pheromone that invites people and animals to touch me inappropriately, and even when I try to cover it up with the smell of alcohol, it still comes through.

Last night I only slept for about 3 1/2 hours, and ya know what? Getting only 3 1/2 hours of sleep is definitely going on my list of things that totally suck balls. I'm gonna make it #17. Right between losing your balance while doing the hover pee in a truck stop bathroom, and Paris Hilton.

So last night I was up late feeding my addiction to Pinterest, and I didn't fall asleep until sometime after 12:30. Then around 4:00 AM I woke up because I was having a nightmare in which I was in the shower and puffer fish were coming out of the shower head instead of water and they were floating up to the ceiling like balloons until The Cat went balls to the wall and jumped super high and popped one with her claws and it fell on my head then started to eat my hair, which was probably due to the fact that my new shampoo smells like a mother effing pineapple/coconut cake, and if I coulda reached it with my mouth I most likely woulda eaten it too. So then the shower door flew open and it was that giant dude that married Kim Kardashian for 5 minutes, and he said "Don't worry. I've got this!" And then he started swinging his belt at the puffer fish and he accidentally hit me in the eye with the buckle and then I punched him in the underballs. Then the next thing I know I woke up in bed in the Michael Jackson pose. You know the pose:

I had my left hand on my head and my right hand on my crotch. And my legs were all twisty like this too. And my left shoulder is the one I had surgery on and I am not supposed to have that arm over my head. So when I woke up that arm hurt like balls, so I got up to stretch it and to go pee and then I thought about the dream and then voila! I was wide awake. And I would really appreciate it if someone would analyze my dream, but please don't say that I was thinking about that big Kardashian lover and fondling my in-between. Cuz I wasn't. It was more like a self-protective grasp that I had on it. So I'm pretty sure it was just due to fear and had absolutely nothing to do with anything sexual. Cuz believe me when I tell you that that dude has nothing that is attractive to me in the slightest bit.

And now I think I'm protesting this too much. Which is only gonna make you guys think that I actually DO have the hots for that giant moron. So I'm just gonna quit while I'm ahead.

So anyways, I haven't written much lately because of the aforementioned Pinterest addiction as well as my addiction to my Facebook Fan Page and the fact that I have also had mucho trouble sitting still as of late. Xmas is a time of flashing lights and colors and music and smells. All of which distract the hell out of me. Just Sunday I was doing my annual bake-a-rama when I heard something peculiar and wandered off to investigate, then forgot what I was doing, then did some other stuff, then went back into the kitchen to crack my 8 eggs and there were only 7, then remembered that when I wandered off I had one in my hand. So then I had to go find the lost egg. Then I imagined that the egg's name was Private Ryan and that I was Tom Hanks and I was on a mission to save him. And it kinda went just like it went in that movie, but with less getting shot in the head, more getting pawed at by a cat, and it only took about 5 minutes instead of 3 hours. Or however long that movie took. Alls I remember is that it was long. So I found Private Ryan next to the telephone and I deduced from his position that he was trying to make a call for help because he didn't wanna be part of my Almond Joy Bread. But since he had neither hands nor mouth, he was pretty much f@cked. 

So another thing I did recently, which I don't think I mentioned yet, is I went to Mexico for Thanksgiving. Just me, The Hub, and The Boy. And it was pretty fantastic if you subtract the fact that I caught a cold on day three and got flipper raped by a sea lion on day 4.

This picture was taken post-flipper rape. As you can see, I had decided to forgive her due to the fact that I was pretty flirty with her earlier and I was also very scantily clad. I think there was some sort of miscommunication or something. And even with the flipper rape, I still like the sea lions better than the dolphin. Which is weird. Cuz I have always wanted a pet dolphin ever since I watched Flipper as a kid. But ya know what? The dolphin tank smelled like shit, and the dolphin really couldn't have given a ding dong dilly that we were in there. The sea lions really showed the love. Yes, possibly too much love, but the dolphin was like, "whatever." There was definitely not enough personality in that dolphin for me. If that had been a date I would not have gone out with him again. Well, to be fair, I probably wouldn't have gone out with the sea lion again either. Ya know, because of the whole flipper rape situation. But I might have made out with her later, then denied it and not taken her calls the next day.

So then we came back to America and nothing much happened until my Gusband Casey took me and my girls out to the drag bar for an early birthday-palooza. Since I usually wear very little make-up due to the fact that I have a short attention span for application and have been known to leave the house with one mascara-d and eyelinered eye and one plain, and I also have no idea what the frick I'm doing, I decided to treat myself and have someone do my make-up for me. And while it was quite beautiful, I was not used to seeing myself made up like that and was 99% sure that I looked like a prostitute. But definitely a high class one and not one of the ones you see on "Cops." And that wasn't due to the make-up inasmuch as it was due to the fact that I was wearing my Emmy shoes and those f@ckers were VERY expensive and no "Cops" ho is gonna be wearing those things. At least not unless Richard Gere gave her his credit card to go to Gucci or something. Which in 1990 we all learned was totally a possibility.

How many girls do you think THAT screwed up?

Anyways....Casey took us to my Xanadu and we even had a table reserved for us on the stage. It was awesome. The MC  (who was also a performer and also blind and also missed an amazing opportunity to perform the theme to Ice Castles) brought me up to chat about my birthday and we each had a shot...

Then she brought me back up again later and told me to sit down on a speaker. And this happened:

So I got dry stage raped only a few weeks after getting wet sea lion raped. And this one hurt more. And had an audience who was chanting my name. And when he pushed me down on my back, my head was under that Christmas Wreath and there were balls smacking me in the face and i just kept yelling "There's balls slapping me in the face!" Because that was just so hilarious to me at that moment that I almost peed my pants. Which would have been even more awkward than being dry-humped so hard on a stage in a bar full of people chanting your name, that your crotch hurts the next day. Probably.

And I think that pretty much catches you guys up on what I've been doing instead of writing on here. Minus a few funny little stories that I already told on Facebook and don't feel like telling again even though you are totally missing out on them if you aren't on my Mom Brain Facebook page. But that is really your problem and not mine, because while I do consider myself quite a Superwoman, I do not always have the energy to repeat my stories unless I am drinking beer and have an audience. In that case, it's on like Donkey Kong. Whatever the hell that means. 

So now I'm gonna go cuz I have a sleep-deprivation-induced-mega-headache and I need to go take some Advil and drink a beer and chill. Oh. And do 3 loads of laundry and empty the dishwasher and wrap some presents and all that stuff. And Wednesday is my 40th birthday so I am going to take the day off, but I am going to TRY to post you guys one more blog on Thursday, before I start the holiday drinking coma. 

See how much I dig you guys?

XO

Thanks to my sweet Casey for planning a special night for me two years in a row, and to my friends Jenny, Stephanie and Kris for braving the drag bar to hang out with me, and my sister Lindsy for joining the fun later (the floating head on my right shoulder). And also a shout out to Brandon (who you can see all fuzzy behind Casey) for coming along and shoving his tongue down my throat.

If a face-raping squirrel ever gives you herpes, you just better hope that it's Halloween. Because if it is, you can totally make that work for you.

Ok. Let me just start this by saying I suck. I know this. My blogs have been few and far between. Which some of you have found it necessary to remind me of, via email. And to you people I say I love you, and I'm glad you love my blog. But please please please suck my balls.

Too harsh? I don't think so. Notice the use of the word please. And it's not like I actually even have balls. So basically I'm telling you all to suck imaginary balls. And in my imagination my imaginary balls taste like Snickerdoodles.  So don't go getting all butthurt about that. And rest assured, you guys. I am doing my best. If by "best" you mean playing on Facebook a lot, while occasionally looking at a blank page on my blog. Then talking on the phone. Then texting. Then singing songs about The Cat and what a whiney a-hole she can be. Then hanging out on Pinterest for awhile. Then laying on the floor in various rooms of my house and looking up at the ceiling so I can see what life would be like if my house ever accidentally flipped upside down. Like, in a big gust of wind or something. FYI: Ceiling fans would become super dangerous, but would also make good merry-go-rounds for small children if turned on low speed.

Since I don't even know where I left off with you guys, and I'm way too lazy to go back and look, I'll just start where I start.

So I had The Face Herpes. And I'm not gonna lie to you guys, The Face Herpes does not feel good nor is it pretty. The one good thing about the Face Herpes is that I got it during Halloween. And since I was Zombie Chrissy Snow for Halloween, I got to hide all the herps under fake blood and make-up. And even if some of the grossness showed through, it LOOKED like fake Zombie grossness, so it was pretty sweet. If I had followed Halloween Protocol and gone as a Slutty Nurse, Slutty Cop, or Slutty Stewardess, I woulda been screwed. I mean, truth be told, a lot of those people probably DO have The Herps. Cuz of the fact that they're sluts and all. But not the Face-Raping Squirrel kind. At least that's my guess anyways. Because I'm pretty darn sure that the squirrels are savin' all their love for me. At least that's what I heard around the 'hood.

So anyways, here is a picture of me in my costume, with my friend Jenny, The Ringmaster (Which, if you ask me, shoulda been a Ringmaster Zombie. But oh well.)

And here is a picture of me and my friend Anne, who was a white trash pregnant bride:

Notice that I am totally biting her belly. Well, that's how Zombie Chrissy Snow rolls, yo. And as most of you know (unless you are not up to date on all things zombie, in which case we could never ever be friends), when a zombie bites you, you turn into a zombie. So a few days later, Anne gave birth to the twins:

And for some reason, she didn't wanna keep them. And she is also even denying giving birth to them. Saying some nonsense about a fake belly and stuff. Which means she totally sucks as a mother. So I, being an amazing mom, happily took them in. And we are really getting along well. Although I can't say that our friends and neighbors have taken to them quite as well. But that is definitely something we can work on in time. And I will work on it. Believe me. These little guys ain't going nowhere.

But in a totally out-of-character move for me, I have yet to name them. I just keep calling them The Zombie Twins. The one on the right is Rats, and the one on the left, is No Rats. So any suggestions that you guys might have would be appreciated. As most of you know, I am a self-proclaimed Kick-Ass namer of tiny animals. But those names are very fancy and magical I don't think I am as good at naming Zombies. For some reason I'm thinking that a Duke Byron Winterbottom, will not work quite right here. I don't know why.

And just so you know, my Face Herpes is pretty much gone. Unless you're in the know, you can't even tell I had them. But FYI: When you buy Zombie make-up that's cheap, yet thick enough to cover your face herpes, you WILL break-out approximately 3 days later. And that break-out will be of an intensity equal to that of all of the break-outs you had in middle school and high school combined. And THAT isn't pretty. It isn't pretty at all. Add to that the fact that you are bloated like an Ethiopian from PMS, and you just got Invisligns and are lisping like Cindy Brady, and you have the perfect recipe for horror.

Too bad there isn't a costume party this weekend. I would rock the hell outta that bitch.

This post is about how I found out squirrels are full of skanky STD's and the nurse at the urgent care place in my neighborhood is their master.

I just wrote three paragraphs and deleted them due to the fact that when I re-read them I had totally no idea what I was even talking about.

You guys know the drill: I wrote the paragraphs. Then my cat started snoring. And it was one of those little squeaky snores followed by a fat man grunty snore. And I tried to record it with my iPhone, but it wouldn't come through. Then I dropped my phone. Then The Cat woke up and looked at me like I was an asshole. Which I kinda am. Then I apologized to her, and then explained that her snore was really funny and I was trying to record it so I could post it on Facebook. Then she looked at me like I was even more of an asshole. And also an idiot for talking to her in human like she possibly understands. Which I know she doesn't. But I sometimes forget. Although I do think that there is a strong possibility that she understands Spanish because when I had the tv on Telemundo one time by accident, she seemed really into it. Anyways...then I saw a lizard crawling on the window screen. So I picked her up to show it to her. And she got kinda irritated due to the fact that she doesn't like to be picked up. And she straight up refused to even look at the damn lizard on the window screen. And I said "Hey girl. Your loss." Cuz that lizard was mega hyper and I know for a fact that if she'd seen it she woulda really enjoyed it. So I started playing with him by tracing my finger along the screen to see if he'd follow it. Which he totally did. So I decided to go outside and try to touch him. But as soon as I opened the door, about 5.3 million mosquitos tried to eat me. So I closed it. Then I sang a song about mosquitos being dick-holes. Which got me seriously thinking about Jurassic Park and how mosquitos were the whole reason that all that frickin' shit went down. Which made me wonder if, like, a gazillion years from now when Alien's take over the planet, they might find a dick-hole mosquito that had bitten the crap outta me, preserved in some amber and get the DNA out of it and make a bunch of Patti's that they would then use to make Alien/Human hybrids that have amazing 80's song lyric memorization skills and hobo stabbing skills,  as well as the ability to do mega Karate Kid Crane Kicks.

Then I sat back down at the computer and read the stuff I wrote about my arm surgery and Bionic Woman and blue polyester jumpsuits and The 6 Million Dollar Man, and I thought "Dude....that shit's boring."

And look at what you got now.

Maybe I made the wrong decision.

But basically I was just gonna tell you guys that I'm still rockin' it with my arm. It has healed up rapidly. Which is weird for me. The girl who has the worst medical luck on the planet. And I have enjoyed being able to brag, for once, about how well I am doing after a surgery. Instead of telling you all the domino effect of shit that went down afterwards. But maybe I bragged a bit too much and The Universe decided to give me a big ass kicking for being so cocky.

So Friday night my friend Casey came to spend the night. And we were outside. As were about 9 billion hungry mosquitos. And I got bitten about 50 times. Ate at least one. Maybe two. I can't be sure. Alls I can be sure if is that it sucked ass. So later that night I see that I have these bumps on my forehead and eyelid. So of course I'm thinking the mosquitos did it. Then Sunday morning when I woke up it hurt like balls and looked like I had a flesh eating virus. So I went to Urgent Care, quite convinced that they were going to tell me that my entire face would be gone by Thursday. So get my ass to Target Portrait Studio and live it up now. While I still had skin. But they told me it was a virus. Shingles. Which is a form of herpes that is usually on your back and sometimes on your face. And it almost always happens to old people. Like most of the nonsense I get. So I asked her if it was possible to get it from being face raped by an angry, STD-ridden, socially deviant squirrel, because that shit happened to me just last week. And she didn't say no inasmuch as look at me like I had a mental disability. And I don't really take that as a no. I kinda take it as a maybe she is a lover of squirrels and is in on this whole face rape epidemic and sees that I'm onto them and is having a moment of shock at my revelation. I'm very perceptive like that.

So now my arm is feeling pretty damn good, but my face is starting to make me look like that kid in Mask. Which just makes me think of that movie. Which just makes me cry like a little bitch. And I keep singing that Katmandu song. Cuz they played it in that movie when the Mask kid got mad about his friend moving away and not going to all the places on the map with him. And he ripped the pins out and had a big hissy fit. That's why. And for the record: I thought Sam Elliott was HOT in that movie.

And alls I can say is thank balls my Halloween costume this year is Zombie Chrissy Snow. Cuz if my face is all jacked up I really have no other choice but to be a zombie. Or Lindsay Lohan. But I think Zombies are cuter. So hopefully this latest medical fucktastrophe will only add a realism to the costume that I would not have had before. And if by chance that costume doesn't work out, I'll just go as me, with a stuffed squirrel taped to my face. And a bottle of Valtrex in my hand. It's good to have a back-up plan.

P.S. Due to some wank-hole posting a very inappropriate comment on my blog, I will now be moderating all comments. So if you post and don't see it don't worry. Once I look at it and deem is not douche-tardy, I will post it. Thank you!

This is my first post in about 3 weeks and it's about lots of things that actually do connect for once, even though it might seem like they don't.

So first things first: I obviously survived my surgery. Which you should already know due to the fact that when I posted my guest blogger posts I also wrote little introductions. But even if I hadn't survived my surgery I woulda probably still written those intros. Cuz like I've told you guys before, I plan to continue to blog from the grave. So if I have any haters out there who think they can make me stop blogging by sporking me to death or something, it's time to get another plan. Cuz that won't stop me one bit. In fact it will probably make my blogs even awesomer cuz I'll have all that being sporked to death by a hater stuff to talk about. So you might as well give in and start liking me. Turn your sporking energy towards someone more deserving. Like Anne Coulter. Or whoever decided to re-make Footloose. Cuz that shit was just fine the way it was. And seeing some stranger do the Angry Warehouse Dance is like getting my heart kicked by some kinda animal that kicks really hard. Like a kangaroo. Or Jean Claude Van Damme.

And although I survived my surgery, I did lose something very important to me:

I'm only kidding you guys. The armlessness in this photo is due to the fact that I was just accidentally positioned wrong while Cathy was taking yet another picture of me on our morning walk. Although awesomely apropos, it wasn't even on purpose. And why was Cathy taking a photo of me from behind?Probably cuz she is obsessed with me. And I know that she tells everyone that she doesn't like to take ridiculous photos of me. But we all know she secretly loves it. Why else would she repeatedly go on walks with me and take pictures of me acting like an idiot? Plus take those face raping squirrel prevention classes at the Y? Think about that, you guys. Think. About. That.

I think the squirrels clawed that in there. They follow us around so much they certainly know what's what.

Anyway, I did come out of surgery with both arms. I swear. And if you're on Facebook you already know this cuz I was on there within a few days post-surgery, slowly posting with the index finger of my left hand. Like a boss. But I wasn't really able to type enough to write a full blog post. Until now. But although I can now type an actual blog entry, I am also having PMS. Which most of you know makes me even more scattered and ADD than usual. And those of you who know me well probably know that since I made the mistake of mentioning Footloose in the first paragraph, my brain now can't seem to focus on anything else but Kevin Bacon, his hair, and that awesome awesome Angry Dance. Which I have been on You Tube watching repeatedly since starting this blog post. ANd of course trying to re-create for The Cat. Who really seems to dig it. As she digs most of my musical performances. Then THANKFULLY I remembered that Brett did his own version of The Angry Dance on Flight of the Conchords. So I watched that. Like, 100 times. And now I have to post it for you so I can get it outta my system:

You're welcome.

So anyhow It's been 3 weeks since my surgery. And I'm healing like a super hero. Or like someone on True Blood who gets hurt then drinks vampire blood. Which is really unusual for me. Cuz I have had a lot of surgeries for various effed up stuff, and if there's one thing I don't usually do well, it's heal. What I usually do is turn into a medical domino whereby the fixing of one thing turns into the discovery of another thing, then the fixing of that thing accidentally effs up another thing, then the fixing of the accidentally effed up thing accidentally effs up yet another thing. And so on and so forth.  So the fact that I have been healing so rapidly really makes no sense at all. So maybe I did have some vampire blood that I don't know about. I was pretty high on narcotics and in and out of consciousness for about a week there. And I did have some pretty realistic dreams about vampire Eric. So it's totally possible that he may have visited me. Or possibly slipped some blood into the tomato soup I had one day. It did taste kinda weird now that I think about it. So when I go in for my next follow-up appointment I'm gonna tell Dr. Mattieburger that the reason I'm totally Bionic womaning this whole screw in my arm torn rotator cuff thing, is due to the vampire blood I ingested. I'll let you know how that goes over.

And for two weeks after my surgery I couldn't lift my right arm and it hurt like balls. And I looked like a total asshole cuz I couldn't straighten my hair or put on makeup or anything. And I couldn't drive so I was stuck around the house for two freakin' weeks. So thank Rudd for Facebook. And you long-time readers know that I always say thank Rudd and for the love of Rudd and stuff like that due to the fact that I totally dig Paul Rudd and that whole adorably cute and funny situation he has going on. But this time I literally mean Thank Rudd. Cuz right before this stupid surgery I became Facebook friends with him and then a ton of other interesting people and then got involved in these revolutions and nations and rebellions and all kinds of really fun and stupid stuff. And it was perfect timing since I was stuck here on my ass for 2 weeks with absolutely nothing to do all day. So yeah...thank Rudd for that. 

And even before all that happened I was planning to write a Dear Paul Rudd blog. Kinda like the Dear James Franco blog I wrote. But less mustache and old man sweater oriented and more lets play frisbee in the park and drink some beer and spoon while watching funny movies, oriented. But now he knows I'm writing one. About him. And although I think he kinda "gets" my vibe and understands that I am a bit weird by now, I don't think he actually understands the full extent of it. So hopefully he won't un-friend me and call the police after reading whatever I write. But if he does I'm cool with it. Cuz as I've told you guys before...I LOVE a good prison break movie. I watch them all. And if that shit goes down I am fully prepared to break myself out. Assuming they even get my Karate Kid Crane Kicking ass in there in the first place. And if I know anything at all I know that at least half of you guys are as weird as me if not weirder, and that you will have my back. And someday they will make a movie all about the weird mom blogger who totally freaked out Paul Rudd and went to prison for it and busted out like Tim Robbins did in Shawshank but much awesomer and with less anal rape and crawling through sewers of poo.

Actually....that having a movie made about my Rudd arrest kinda sounds interesting. So either way, cops or no cops, restraining order or no restraining order, it's all good.

We'll just wait and see how it pans out. But you guys should all brush up on your prison break movies just in case. I need my back-up to be prepared. As well as slightly mentally unbalanced. And if any of you guys have an Invisibility Cloak, that would rock pretty hard too.

This is a blog about all the reasons I am not fit to report to jury duty

I talk too much. And if you tell me I am not allowed to talk, I can pretty much guarantee that I'm gonna talk more.

I am very irresponsible. The first day I brought my son home from the hospital I forgot to feed him. When he wouldn't stop crying I thought he was just an asshole.

I am obsessed with drag queens and if one was accused of a crime and I was a juror, I'd probably let her off. Or at least go on The Lam with her and start a new life with fake names and everything and lots of moving from town to town. And since drag queens are much more feminine than me, she'd pretend to be the wife and I'd have to cut my hair and pretend to be the husband and my name would be Herbert:

I used to be a criminal. I once stole a big canister of Slim Jim's from TG&Y. And one time when Cheryl Figgenspan wouldn't let me borrow her little plastic frying pan with rubber eggs in it (sunny side up!) I put it in my pocket and took it home with me.

I am not above lying if backed into a corner. When Cheryl Figgenspan's mom called my mom to say that I stole the frying pan, I accused the entire Figgenspan family of trying to frame me.

The other day, for no reason at all, and even though I have an allergy to cat fur, I brushed my cat and made Wilford Brimley eyebrows out of her fur and taped them to my face and made my sister do it as well:

I want to tattoo Wonder Woman's costume onto my body, because (a) It's awesome, (b) I won't have to wear clothes if I don't want to because I will always be dressed. I know that this will work because when I was 9 I used my crayon soaps to color a wonder woman costume onto my body and then ran around the house and nobody seemed to notice that I was totally nude.

I cuss a lot. If you tell me not to cuss I can pretty much guarantee that I will probably cuss more.

I have a pet peanut that looks like a bird and his name is Nutbird and he lives in one of my houseplants:

I am forgetful. I once took my son all the way to the zoo but forgot to put his shoes or pants on.

I am a daydreamer and a terrible listener. Here's how it will go down: Annoying D-Bag Lawyer: "Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I present to you a man who..."  What's going on in My Brain: "Man, if I had a Unicorn I would name him Lord Burgess Atwood and I would train him to come when I sing 'U Can't Touch This', which I would totally sing right now, and he would come get me out of this juror box thingy and I would jump on his back and tell everyone 'It's Hammer Time, bitches', and Lord Burgess would fart a rainbow and we'd slide on it all the way to Baskin Robbins and I'd get the S'Mores ice cream in a waffle cone and Burgey would get Bubble Gum in a dish cuz he can't hold a cone cuz duh, unicorns don't have hands."

I once went to Target Portrait Studio to get this photo taken:

One time I walked all through Target with a pair of underwear stuck to the back of my shirt. And once I discovered it was there, I really didn't care.

I totally believe in ghosts and I'm not above bringing one with me to court. I also believe in Bigfoot, The Loch Ness Monster, Chupacabra's and Vampires.

I have a really big mouth and I can in no way promise that I can keep the details of any case secret.

I am obviously unstable.

I think this is completely appropriate attire for jury duty:

If I were told to not wear that outfit, I would probably wear my graduation robe.  If the judge gets to wear a robe, I get to wear a robe. And on the back I will iron-on the words "#1 Robe Wearer" so the judge knows that as far as rockin' big dumb robes goes, I totally win.

Unless one of the lawyers looks like Matthew McConaughey, I'm not gonna be paying any attention.

I'm pretty sure that Judge Judy is the only person capable of properly handling a courtroom.

I sometimes do karate for my cat. I also perform scenes from musicals. She seems to really enjoy it.

I can almost guarantee that at some point I would have to yell "I object!"

My bladder is the size of a raisin and I require lots of pee breaks. If I am denied pee breaks, I will find it necessary to wear a diaper or pee in a bottle which will be extremely messy since my husband did not buy me The Whiz.

I wear a wrist brace which I will tell everyone is from hurting my hand giving too many handy-j's to strangers in the alley, but is really from beating up hobos for sport.

I'm pretty sure that the other jurors will want to kill me, so if you choose me you risk having another murder on your hands, plus another trial, plus more taxpayer money, plus a need for more jurors. It's an endless cycle.

I would be totally easy to bribe. All it would take is some guacamole and a margarita.

I think Charlie Sheen is some kind of evil genius.

I believe that PMS is an excuse for anything.

Did I mention that I write this blog?

Donna should have stabbed a hobo. It would be easier than reading all the drivel in my blog.

So today I have another guest blogger. And she's a bit off. Kinda like me but different. She told me to use that title up there, and I said great. Then an hour later I realized she said my blog was drivel. Which I think is something bad and Britishy cuz my unicorn, Lord Burgess Atwood, says it all the time.  But I am too lazy to look it up, and Burgee wouldn't tell me, so I left it in there. See...what this particular guest blogger did was sit down and read pretty much my entire blog from beginning to end. Over 2 years worth of stuff. Really really weird stuff. So if that woman can do that in one day and make it out alive and at least halfway sane? I'l let her title this post however she wants to. Cuz I'm high on narcotics right now and that's just how I'm gonna roll. Enjoy.

Hi, Patti Sheeple. How goes it?

I'm Donna and I'm everyone's favorite crappy internet housewife. How do? (insert big cheesy grin and enthusiastic waving here) When it comes to housewifery, I sure ain't no Donna Freakin' Reed. I write a blog about how much I hate this stinking job, how much I suck at it, and the struggles involved chasing the elusive American Dream...which kind a brings me here writing a post for Patti the one armed bandit. The blog writing part that is, not the pathetic attempt at picket fences and dustless shelves.

So, If I'm a crappy housewife, what am I doing here? Well, frankly I harassed her about the posting until she said yes.  I can be very persuasive...

Now please note that I was supposed to write this a few days ago, but I am easily distracted by this thing called the Book of Face. It's crippling addiction.  It often consumes with with converstations and delights that would not normally happen in my housewife life of sheer udder boredom and keeps me at my computer or with my attention otherwise glued to my phone. I fell in love with this insane place, the FaceF@ck as I so endearingly call it, shortly after I started my blog and soon created my own little corner of the internets the I refer to simply as "my kitchen". Before that I had nothing to do with Facebook, I didn't keep a profile, never had even seen the damn thing, and I didn't care.  Today, this kitchen, this kitchen that I adore, love and defend beyond all necessity, often stands in the way of my household duties, my life and my writing responsibilities mearly because I. cannot. walk. away! Argh. These women are compelled to share some of their deepest housewife secrets with me! It's incredible the things I know about my readers sometimes... and yes I love it. People talk to me all. day. long.

As was the past few days, excuse me, week. I swear my phone never stops buzzing sometimes and those little red numbers light up on the Facebook world get higher and higher every day.  I can't stop. I'm addicted to the constant converstation like my mother is addicted to Diet Coke, like Lohan is addicted to regular coke. With the book of face... I am never alone with the voices in my head. I'm sure it and my blog are the biggest reasons my husband is still alive today. Damn redneck.

Anywhoot.

Patti and I agreed on Thursday that I would write a post for the following week. Friday was a busy day for me so i didn't really get to any writing as I was preparing my house and my husband, Captain Oblivious, for my first over night departure since I got totally shitfaced the weekend before my birthday at my old bartending gig...T-raSheD! Holy crap. Effed the f@ck up. Really.  But that was in January...and before that since...I don't know...NEVER.   But this past Friday for the first time in months, almost a year really, I went out as an adult without my 2 year old and without my redneck at my side...just me...at a party...a fabulous birthday party with fabulous people...and a fabulous glass of bourbon...and a...wait for it...wait for it....a  freakin' Rainbow Hello Kitty Cake! Seriously. 

Look at this thing! It's Ruddonkulous! 

 No seriously...look at this frickin' cake in all it's glory!

Needless to say I was very distracted by the fanfrickingtabulous cake, and the delicious bourbon... so much that I wasted (and totally loved every minute of it) most of my Saturday sleeping in and enjoying morning tea and crumpets at my dear friend the cake maker's house. So essentially Saturday was shot for blog writing also.  

Then came Sunday and well, that is typically family day for us...not this Sunday in particular, but still...typically.  This specific Sunday began with a text message from my sMother-in-Law that absolutely made me blow my freakin' stack! 

>>>BOOM!<<<

 Which of course set the stage for the rest of the day and no blog writing was done (WARNING: Shameless self promotion... if you are interested in me blowing my stack in the form of text to my MIL check out my most recent blog postings at www.mydirtykitchenfloor.blogspot.com).

Somewhere over the weekend I got completely distracted by the Paul Rudd Revolution by which Patti herself told me to join...Honestly, I didn't really have much of an idea of who Paul Rudd was until I met Patti here on the internets.  I had to look him up, as I did Justin Lee Bartha, but that's ok, I did at least know who Jason Bateman is because well, frankly I find him delightfully hilarious and very attractive in a suit....rawr!  Sorry Rudd, it's just the truth (at least I'm in your nation because I stand with Patti).  It doesn't matter who the hell Rudd is, I like follow the Patti sheeple to see what the hub bub is all about typically, then I strike! 

BOO YAH!

 Yes. I totally wasted time to make this pic when I could've been writing a post of Patti...it's just another way to spread my legs here on the book of face.  Who knows...it may lead to something..like more friends and followers and more lost time. Yes. Yes. I am a facebook whore and I am not ashamed.

Monday there was a showdown on my facebook wall that I had me consumed for most of the day...that and the frickin' laundry that I had ignored all week.  The laundry, in fact, became another distraction when I created a fun exercise on the facef@ck, I mean Facebook, in honor of the hatred of the housewifery chore by talking some of the ladies in my "kitchen" to post their laundry stacks, piles, and baskets on my facebook wall. What a fun game. I think everyone involved came out feeling better about their poor laundry skills....especially me. It will soon become a great blog post.

Speaking of blog posts...Tuesday came and it was high time I wrote a post for my own blog and do some grocery shopping...and so I did. I also spent much of the day trying to...ohhhm, oooohhhhhmmmm, oohhhhmmmm...become one with Patti by reading her blog from beginning to end...Well, I ended up shuffling around a bit, got a good flavor for her style and realized I could never be one with Patti, even for a moment to write this damn post.  She is lovely and blonde, walks outside AND on a treadmill for EXERCISE! Seriously. What the hell? She is also clean and organized...something I will likely never be...though I felt a level of comfort knowing that she went to Target with a pair of her back of drawer monthly stash of panties on her back. Excellent.

Well, here it is Wednesday and I'm still distracted buy the damn Rudd Revolution and the facef@ck. My kitchen is a mess, my ass hurts from so much chair time, the laundry is again in need of folding and my 2 1/2 year old kid colored my beautiful precious stainless steel stove, the back door of the rental property in which we live, my blonde wood end tables, the front window, and my antique bedside table. Sigh. I need a nap.

Do you think Patti would mind if I waited until tomorrow to write her post?  I'm sure...yawn...by tomorrow I can think of a great post about unicorns folding laundry in a room full of tiny sweet animals wearing tutus while farting and sharing pictures of Patti with underwear attached to her back at Target.  Or maybe I could just write about prolapsed vaginas. Seems to be a showstopper...

Oh. Snap. It's already Thursday. I am so screwed.

Cheers, 

Donna Freakin' Reed
aka Donna Freeakin' Reed
aka Donnareedonlsd

...just living the American Dream and totally sucking at it...

Message from Mom-Brain: You non-Facebook followers don't know about The Rudd Revolution yet since I haven't been able to type about it yet due to arm carnage. But I'll fill you in next week. Carnage be damned. But FYI: I am president elect of a revolution Rudd started for himself to compete with one Jason Bateman started for himself because they are like 13 year old boys. And since I am like a 13 year old boy as well, I am involved. Oh. And it's all cuz I became FB friends with Rudd and Bateman and a few others a few weeks ago. Shit got crazy pretty fast and I have so much to tell you. Later.

I'm all effed up so here is blog from a guest blogger who has two hands.

Since I can only type with my left hand, or to be more precise, one finger of my left hand, I have chosen to have a few guest bloggers this week. This not only allows me time to let my good arm heal, but also time to de-tox from my pain meds which I have discovered actually make me act kinda normal. Ish. Normal-ish. I think narcotics probably make most people act like weirdos, but I do that naturally, and the meds seem to kinda level me out. Which some people (The Hub) may like, but I just think sucks balls. So now I'm de-toxing and exercising my arm and trying to get back to maximum weirdness and hobo ass-kicking-ness.

And there's soooo much going on that I want to blog about, so let's just hope I heal up fast.

But for now, my first guest blogger is Tom Morgan who writes a blog called "Unconventional Wisdom". Enjoy.
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I love this photo. Every time I look at it I will remember the first time I pushed my son on a swing. And the day I tried, and failed, to teach my daughter how to pee outside.

Shortly after I took it, my daughter informed me of nature’s call.

"Daddy, I have to pee."

"Okay, let's go," I said. 

I plucked the little guy out of his swing, put him in his carrier and we walked to the bathroom.  The men’s room at this park is among my favorites. It is huge and always clean- as bathrooms go, this is a safe one in which to set down a baby in his carrier and a pleasant enough place to stand around and wait for a kid to pee.  And I knew we were going to be the only people in there; the park was empty but for us.  My mood changed when I tried to open the door.

"Sonofabitch."

"What?"

"Oh, sorry… How bad do you have to go? The bathroom is locked."

"I don't have to go."

“Why… oh, never mind.”

This shouldn’t have surprised me- my daughter always wants to go to the bathroom when we're in public. And not always because she actually needs to use it. She is something of a bathroom critic. She loves to check them out and direct me where to stand, what to do, what NOT to touch.  And, if necessary, what not to smell.  "Okay, Daddy, put baby brother there. You stand here. Don't touch that daddy potty. It's dirty. I'm going in that room. You wait okay daddy? It's stinky in here, close your nose."

Still I wanted to know what kind of afternoon this was going to be.  "Are you sure? We could run home, go potty, and come right back to the park."

"I don't have to go."

"Okay."

Ten minutes later I knew she had lied to me.  The pee-pee shuffle was impossible to miss. We were not going to make it home. Okay, think fast dad. We're alone. There are good trees here for her to lean against. And it doesn't matter anyway. She is going to pee. And soon.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go potty outside! Won't that be fun?”

"Here?"

"Yes. Well, sort of. Over by that tree."

"I love that tree, daddy!"

"I know you do sweetie. That's perfect."

"Now. Here's what you do. Pull down your shorts. And bend down. I'll hold your shoulders. Bend your knees. No! More! Bend your knees more. MORE! Damn.  It's okay, honey. We'll practice more on our neighbor’s deck. Well, let's go home and change. Pull up your shorts, honey."

"No, daddy. They're all wet.  Eew, my shoes are wet, too."

"Yeah, I see that."

I could probably get her to pull those shorts up. But it'll be a fight. Will someone show up before I win it? The park is empty now. I think we could make the truck.

"Okay, new plan:  Give me your panties and shorts, I’ll carry them. We're going to run to the truck. Put on your shoes."

"NO. They're all wet."

"Honey, you are going to wear your shoes. We are not heathens."

Now, as we ran across the park, were my gym shorts- pockets weighed down with keys, wallet and phone and hands too full to pull them up- creeping towards the ground with every step so that by the time we reached the truck my daughter was naked from the waist down (but for shoes) and my shorts were around my ankles? Boy that would be a memory.

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Tom is a writer and stay-at-home dad. He writes some okay stuff on his blog and Facebook page. The really funny stuff he saves for his diary. His penis' name is The Truth.

http://temorgan.blogspot.com/

Dear Right Arm, I really really need you around to help me drink beer cuz Jason O'Mara hasn't bought me my damn beer can helmet yet, so if you get cut off I'm totally screwed.

So I'm having shoulder surgery tomorrow. Finally. If it seems like I've been talking about it for forever, it's totally because I have. I have dragged this thing out for months and months.

I just typed moths and moths instead of months and months. And I actually took the time to change it for you guys. I know you people know me and you do a really kick-ass job following along with every weird thing I say or strange tangent I go on. Or at least you pretend you do. Out of fear. But I'm thinking if I said I've dragged this out for moths and moths you guys might be a tad confused. Or maybe not. I don't know anymore. Cuz you guys are weird. But maybe you'd know I meant months. Or maybe you'd think I actually did drag my arm out for moths. Ya know, to show the moths I have an arm. Like, "Na-na-ne-boo-boo, I have an arm and you don't! And I know you fly and flying is awesome, but flying into light fixtures to die is totally stupid." And maybe I don't fly, but at least I don't do that. I do, however, get easily distracted by light. Or anything shiny for that matter. And if I did have wings I might actually -if I'd been drinking- fly into one. I mean, sometimes when I'm at my desk writing a blog, I see a flash of light or a shiny thing and I wander off to find out what it is. Then see the pantry and stop for a snack. Then see The Cat and do an awesome dance for her. Then see the backyard rabbit and try to feed it a carrot. Then wander to the neighbor's house just to see what's up.

So actually, I might really be kinda like a moth. So nevermind.

Anyways, as you all know I am dreading this surgery because (a) surgery sucks, and (b) surgery never ever EVER goes well for me. And like I said before, my doctor just had a baby last week and is most-likey severely sleep deprived and totally ready to malpractice the shit outta me. Or he might possibly be very well-rested cuz sometimes newborn babies are kinda comatose. And sometimes new baby daddy's let the new mommy's do all the work and their sleep patterns don't change at all. Who's to know? I'm just trying to be prepared for the worst. That's how I roll.

So today I've been trying to do all the things I won't be able to do with one nearly useless left arm, like laundry, dusting, vacuuming, note writing, organizing The Boy for school, grocery shopping, flipping people off, beating up hobos, and writing a blog.

And normally throwing back a few beers would be near the top of that list. But I haven't been allowed to drink for the past week because of the stupid surgery. Which is ridiculous. And I think that rule may be something that my doctor made up just to try to re-hab me. Like he's Dr. Drew or something. Which he's not. Dr. Drew is a silver fox, and I would totally fake a crack addiction and prostitution problem just to let him try to re-hab my sweet ass. But my doctor is not a silver fox. He's a guy who I am pretty damn sure is younger than me. And his nickname in med school was Mattie-Burger. Which he doesn't know that I know. But I have connections. And I know. So before my surgery tomorrow I plan to write in Sharpie on my arm: "You F@ck up you DIE, Mattie-Burger!" Just in case.

And by the way...for those of you who aren't on my FB page, I'll have you know that I got (almost) brutally face raped by a flying squirrel last week. So after tomorrow I won't be able to protect myself like this:

So I really doubt I can go on any walks with Cathy for awhile. At least until she takes some kind've Squirrel Rape Prevention courses so she will be ready to save me. I heard they offer those at the local Y. So I'm really hoping she gets on it. Pronto.

And since I'm pretty damn positive that I'm gonna get my arm chopped off tomorrow, I'd like to share a collage of some recent good times me and my arm have had together. While you look at the photos, sing The Golden Girls theme out loud:

And I want you all to know that I even if (when) my arm gets amputated, I will continue to blog and Facebook. I'll just do it with even more misspellings than usual. If that's possible. Cuz I'll be typing with my toes. Like that chick in that Joni movie did in the 70's. Except she was paralyzed from a diving accident. And she used her mouth. Not her feet. Which I won't do because (a) I'm usually either talking or have food in my mouth, and (b) My toes are almost as long as regular peoples fingers so it would totally be a waste to not use them.

But that's how much I love you people. Or maybe it's how much of an attention whore I am. It's definitely one of those.

And Facebookers: I will be updating you Wednesday morning as to any important goings on at the hospital. And hopefully you will hear from me after surgery. If I have a right hand and The Hub doesn't pay the anesthesiologist to kill me.

And finally, one last thing:  Aside from a really obnoxiously large "sling" that looks like some rejected Robocop body part, I have to carry around a big ass igloo cooler that has tubes attached that go to a cuff that goes around my shoulder to keep it cool. And it was ugly. And it made me feel like I was selling lemonade on the corner (which actually sounds kinda fun if I'm gonna be totally honest here). And since The Hub won't hire my friend Jana who is a real nurse to be my freakin' nurse, I turned the cooler into a nurse. A male nurse. From the 70's. Who's gay. So I won't be embarrassed getting sponge bathed by him and stuff. And his name is Nurse Jeffrey Jefferson:

And he has a sweet-ass mustache. But he doesn't wear pants. Which is fine with me since I probably won't be wearing pants either.