Things I Would Rather Do Than Watch The Royal Wedding

Count my split ends.
Trim my toenails with a chainsaw.
Get felt up by Edward Scissorhands.
Take a shower with a bunch of Mogwai's.
French kiss a hobo.
Do Maths.
Wake up next to an empty bottle of tequila, 2 donkey's, a dwarf, carrot top, & a live-streaming web cam.
Get kidnapped by Jigsaw.
Dry hump the entire cast of Jersey Shore.
Go to a Celine Dion concert.
Watch a marathon of Keeping Up With The Kardashian's.
Have jumper cables attached to my nipples.
Run my fingers through the hair of: Donald Trump, Amy Winehouse and Adam Duritz.
Give up guacamole. Beer. Shaving my legs. The internets. Drag Queens.
Be one of Charlie Sheen's Goddesses.
Watch the director's cut of Eat Pray Love. And the bonus footage. In French.
Have a threesome with Charles and Camilla.
Trade liver's with Lindsay Lohan.
Re-live The Chick-Fil-A Bathroom Incident of '07.
Lick a battery. Again.
Give birth again.
Use a menstrual cup.
Eat everything Bear Grylls has ever eaten.
Get a colonic. With bleach.
Listen to John Denver music. On a loop. For a month.
Cut my entire lawn with preschool scissors.
P-Hug a porcupine. Naked.
Be stranded on a desert island with Susan Boyle. And she thinks she is in a musical, so instead of talking, she can only sing.
Be stranded on a desert island with Ann Coulter after she realizes that she is a lesbian.
Be stranded on a desert island with Hugh Heffner and a bucket of viagra.

Cat Hair Has Many Uses. The Most Boring Of Which Is Being On A Cat.

So I told you guys that my sister visited last month and because I'm pretty much the best hostess in the whole world I really showed her an amazing and exciting time. Which included going to Target with me to do my household shopping, and helping me furminate the cat and then using double stick tape to make eyebrows out of the fur. Then making The Hub photograph us.  After he finished his eye rolling and head shaking and telling me that he didn't wanna hear any bitching about my allergies later. Yes. My allergies to cat fur. Which I taped to my face. But this was artistic expression, and sometimes art is worth the itchy eyes and runny nose. The Hub is obviously not cultured like me. Anyway, he said we looked like Cha-Ka from Land Of The Lost. Which we kinda did. Especially Lindsy:

And what I didn't show you guys was that after the eyebrows I also made a giant 'stache. Of course. And I think that is made me look like Wilford Brimley. But way less cranky and with less liver spots. And less diabeetus. And better hair. And I also kinda look like that muppet who I think was called Pops, and was the doorman at the Muppet Theater.

And now I'm totally inspired and I'm gonna save a few weeks worth of hair so I can make myself a wig like this:

I'll need a Benadryl IV afterwards, but I think it's totally gonna be worth it.

Patti's Tips For Hookers

There's a serial killer on the loose and he's targeting hookers. Somebody's got to protect the hookers. That's where I come in. I'm like Batman for ho's. Except I'm a girl. And I don't have a bat suit. And I can't fly. Wait. Can Batman fly? Or is that Superman? I'm not a comic book geek. But I do know that Batman has a cooler costume and a sweet ass Batmobile. And a Butler. And he looks like Christian Bale. Who's a total a-hole but I don't care cuz he looks so good. Except in that movie with Mark Wahlberg where he's a boxer who's addicted to meth or something. He's really ugly in that. And he's got bad teeth in it too. Wait. What was I talking about? Let me re-read this paragraph...hold on a second...Oh yeah, I'm trying to protect the hookers, so I've made this list of Hooker Protection Tips, i.e. How To Hook With Brains. Please forward this to all the ho's in your life. Their lives may depend on it.

(1) Stop advertising on Craig's list. It never turns out well. Unless you like getting all murdered and stuff.

(2) Stop being lazy and get yourself a work ethic. Hookers are supposed to walk the streets. It's tradition. Stop looking for shortcuts.

(3) And on the subject of pounding the pavement...Wear the biggest stilettos's you can find because -A- John's like whorey shoes, and -B- If the John pisses you off you can use the heels to stab him.

(4) Work over-time for awhile until you can afford some Karate lessons. If the economy is bad, just spend $10.00 and buy The Karate Kid (1984). Study that a-hole Johnny's bad-ass Cobra Kai moves. Ignore Daniel-Son until the end, because for the first hour and a half he's just a big pussy. But learn the Crane Kick from the finale. I'm not sure how effective it actually is, but it will make you look crazy enough that a murdering John would totally run.

(5) Educate yourself. Spend your days off watching Lifetime. They are always playing movies about    hookers and murder and crap like that. Learn from Tori Spelling's mistakes. Someone has to.

(6) Don't don't drink or do drugs. It's such a cliche. I know you want to make everything blurry in order to forget the fact that you're letting a 400 pound ugly dude with a third nipple and an ass fetish give you the butt sex, but you need to stay alert. A drugged-out hooker is a dead hooker. You can't get all Chuck Norris on some John's balls  if you're high as a kite. If you need to get yourself to la la land while getting pounded by a smelly John, take some yoga classes and practice meditation. When I am doing something I don't wanna do, I go to a place called Pattitopia. It's better than Xanadu, cuz it has Paul Rudd and Unicorns. But get your own happy place, cuz you can't come to mine. I have a strict No-Hooker Policy. 

(7) Never go with the guys in the fancy cars. Rich guys are douchebag's. Look at Donald Trump. And Kanye West. And 9 times outta 10 it's the rich guys who want the weird stuff. If you go with the rich guy be forewarned: He's not gonna be Richard Gere and he's not gonna give you thousands of dollars and a room at The Beverly Wilshire. Chances are he's gonna wear a giant diaper and want you to spank him.

(8) Invest in a Pimp. Yeah, them pimps got a bad rep, but you can turn the tables. Take control of the situation. The Pimp works for you. It's 2011. He's your bitch.

(9) Take your time and be choosy when selecting your Pimp. Since you've probably never been to a job interview before, ya know, cuz you're a whore and everything, you may wanna learn some interview skills by watching Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer. Ask your prospective Pimps the tough questions:

     Q: Where do you see yourself in 5 years? A: Fuckin' a John up!
     Q: If you were a tree what kind of tree would you be? A: The kind that fucks a John up!
     Q: What is your biggest strength? A: My ability to fuck a john up!
     Q: What is your biggest weakness? A: That I have to sleep, which takes away from time I could be
           fuckin' a John up! But when I do sleep I'm dreamin' about fuckin' a John up!
    
(10) Do not advertise for your Pimp on Craig's List. (See Tip #1)

MC Hammer Must've Had A Vagina

For the past 2 1/2 days I've been home with a strep throaty boy. And I have a sinus infection. And a yeast infection. And PMS. And initially I thought "Really, Universe? You're gonna take a woman who's having level 7 PMS and quarantine her in a house with a 10-year-old pile of whiny drama? And then toss in a sinus infection and an antibiotic-induced mega yeast infection, and then sit back and see what happens? Like it's Big Brother or Survivor or something?" And I got to make the unpleasant discovery that now that The Boy is 10, his ways of dealing with illness have changed.

Just a few short months ago he was a very apologetic and lovey dovey sick kid. Not only did he want to snuggle all day, but he also sincerely felt badly about being a burden. As he should. The kid used to apologize after every barf, and tell me how wonderful I was to take care of him. Which I always thought was totally appropriate. Because let's face it people, if you're bathing someone, waiting on someone hand and foot, and cleaning up someone's vomit... you totally deserve a 7 figure salary, a day at the spa, a night on the town, and a miniature pony. But since the patient is only 10 years old, I happily accept a Thank You. At least until he's all grown up and makes enough money to give me all those other things. Especially the pony.

 But now that The Boy is 10, he is a bitchy, demanding sick kid. He pretty much blames me for the fact that he's sick. And he shouts things like "Juice!" or "Strawberries!" and gets Incredible Hulky angry if those things do not appear on his lap instantaneously. And on day 2, The Boy decided that his throat hurt so bad that he couldn't swallow. So he wouldn't swallow. Nope. He carried around a Tupperware container to spit in. All day. And he would drink Gatorade, swish it around in his mouth, and spit it into the tupperware container. It was like living with some fancy pantsy wine tasting dude. Or a tobaccy chewing hillbilly. Actually, more like the tobaccy chewing hillbilly, because he smelled kinda bad and his hair was all wonky and about 20% of the time his spit missed the Tupperware container and landed elsewhere. And did I mention that we just got new carpet and furniture? So Mr. Hillbilly Strep Throat Spit Boy spent the remainder of his sick time in bed. Where I didn't have to look at him and his nastiness.

And so I'm thinking how The Universe sucks for sticking me in this situation while I am dealing with all this sicky crap of my own, but then I realize that The Universe actually knew what she was doing by distracting me with my sinuses and what will surely go down in history as The Worst Yeast Infection EVER, because I was pretty damn busy thinking about my nose and my vagina and didn't have any extra energy to use on kicking The Boy's ass. When you're distracted by dreams of owning your own Hammer Pants (which my friend Stephanie so brilliantly came up with) so that your vagina can have some breathing room, you really aren't focusing so much on child murder. So that is probably a good thing.

So anyway, I've been stuck at home, dreaming of how awesome it would feel to stick a popsicle up my vajayjay (but I would never actually do that you guys), and thinking about how I should blog but really have nothing interesting to blog about, as you can see for yourselves. So I just thought "What the hell." My sinuses and my no no hurt and I'm nice enough to write something for you guys anyway, so the least you all can do is appreciate it. Or pretend you do. And be happy that you got something. And that you have your vaginal health.

And here are a few things that I would like to share with you:

I got this in the mail last week. Addressed to my mother-in-law.  Who for some reason gets mail here all the time. At our address. As does my father-in-law. Which they pretend is accidental, but I think is step 1 of their diabolical plan to move in with us when they get old. But this particular piece of mail struck me as hilarious. I've received mail promising free electronics or free trips, but this is a new one. I guess that once you're a Senior Citizen, the offers change.

One of my readers, Traci Smith, sent me a photo of a most horrible creature that I (happily) never knew existed. She said it was a cross between a spider and a moth and it dive-bombed and pretty much tried to kill her. But her photo was very low resolution and I couldn't post it on here, but it was pretty much this asshole above, with big ass wings on it. Which I would normally draw on for you but dudes, my hoo ha hurts. Anyway, this creature is basically Mother Nature being a total bitch and telling us all to f*ck off.

My friend Jenny saw this in the bathroom at a Farmers Market down the road, and thankfully decided to photograph it. Just in case you can't read the fine print on the bottom, it says "If you have a problem with this stay the hell out of the restroom. If this continues the restroom will remain locked and you can piss or shit on yourselves. You want to act like a child about it then wear a diaper and don't worry about it." So now I find myself wondering just what the hell happened in this bathroom? At a freakin' farmers market? Murder? Birthing? Animal sacrifice? Something unspeakable had to go down to get the bathroom owner to this point. I mean, I've seen some things in bathrooms. Horrible things. The Chick Fil A bathroom incident of 2007 was the worst. But Holy balls! This guy's story probably makes mine look pathetic.

Then whilst googling Jesus, for reasons I can't even remember, I came across this light switch from the 1950's. I can honestly say that if I'd had this switch, I would have always wanted my light off.

And now I'm gonna go search the Goodwill for some Hammer Pants.

I'm Actually Raising A Person. Let's All Ponder That For A Moment...

I am old. How do I know this? Probably because every part of my body hurts. Probably because every time I enter a room I forget why I'm there. Probably because the other day while talking on my cell phone, I was getting totally cranky and flustered cuz I couldn't seem to find my cell phone. The one I was talking into. Oh. And I also know I'm old because The Boy is turning 10 on Thursday. Yes. The Boy I gave birth to. TEN FREAKIN' YEARS AGO!!! 

So as a salute to The Boy on his double digit birthday, and as an even salutey-er salute to me for keeping an actual human being alive for 10 whole years, I am posting a re-run of his quotes from last year. Plus two new ones from this week. I have been saving all the crazy things he says for YEARS. And this re-run is a gift to him as well, because he has really turned into a fame whore because of this blog, and now every time he says something that makes me laugh he says "You should probably put that in your blog."  

The Boy is full of wisdom. Bask in it.
(The following quotes were all said by The Boy between the ages of 4 and 10. How could I NOT write this stuff down?)

Sometimes I like to do things to make people say 'Man, that woman did not raise him right!' Yeah, it makes me look bad. But it makes you look worse.

The Boy: My Birthday is tomorrow

Me: Are you excited?

The Boy: No.

Me: Why not?

The Boy: Because now I could go to Juvey, so I gotta be good.

When you're dead I'm gonna eat 5 Auntie Ann's pretzels a day. Cuz you won't be my boss.

This is almost my one hundredth life. I've lived lots of lives. Some I remember and some I don't, and I'll probably live lots more. 

I never want to go to a privates school! That's creepy. They just make you learn about your privates!

The Boy: Mom, wanna take a bath with me?
Me: No honey.
The Boy: Why?
Me: You're a big boy and it's inappropriate.
The Boy: Well, how about when I turn 21 we get some beer and take a bath together.
Me: I don't think so. That's REALLY inappropriate.
The Boy: What if we wear trunks? 

Mom, when I'm a man and I get married and have a little girl I'm gonna name her Sal. But for now I'm just gonna call you Sal. Okay Sal?

The Boy (said to my stomach): Goodnight brothers and sisters.
Me: There's no brothers and sisters in there.
The Boy: Yes there are, but they were too slow and lost the race to be born. Tom was in 2nd place. Makenzie was in 3rd and Joe was a few miles behind her.

If I  farted fire instead of gas that would be a big problem.

When I run, I fart automatically.  It sounds like a machine gun.  

Mommy, some people say rain is God crying, but I think it's God sweating, because I  think he likes to run around in those spinning tornado circles. And next time I'm in a plane, I'm gonna look out the window, and if I see him I'll jump out and he'll catch me and I'll say, "Hey God, What's up?  Thanks for catching me! 

The Boy asked The Hub for permission to stab suspicious men if they come onto our property whenever he is away on business. He said, "I have the power to kill someone if it's an emergency."  

Cold is better than hot because if the hottest thing, like fire, got you, you'd be dead. But if the coldest thing got you, like a giant ice cube, someone could always smash you out with a hammer and you'd be fine.

The Boy was singing "All The Single Harry's."  I pointed out that it is "All The Single Ladies" and he said "Well, I'm Sure there's plenty of Harry's that are single too."

  

Mommy, I wish you were really fat so I could hug you so tight that you would explode into hundreds of little mommies and then I could hug all of them! 

Me: I smell a toot.
The Boy: It was me. That's how I live. 

The Boy:  Who were you talking to on the phone? A naked hippie? 

The Boy came out of the bathroom with a long piece of toilet paper tied in a bow around his weenie and said "Look mom, my weenie has it's own bow tie!  I'm gonna keep him like this forever!" 

The Boy gave me a drawing...
Me: It's ripped and a piece is missing! 
The Boy: Yeah. I'm eating it. Geesh.

You know, when you die you go to deadland and everything is gold and your skin comes off.

The Boy (playing with a plastic lizard): You know what kind of lizard this is?  It's a Canadian.
The Hub: Why is your lizard a Canadian?
The Boy: Because he can change colors.

The Boy: Mom, I am a man now. I grew my first man hair!  
Me: Where?
The Boy: On my big toe!

Mom, there's lots of different names for your nuts. There's nuts, seeds, privates, and atmosphere.  

A lot of people think I'm not smart because I'm so crazy, but I am proof that you can be both very crazy and very smart. 

You know I could kill someone with my bare hands. I just choose not to. 

The Boy: School is strict. You're not allowed to dance unless they tell you to.
Me: Well, do they ever tell you to?
The Boy: Hasn't happened yet!

When your 8-year-old son is caught walking around with his hands behind his back saying in an English accent, "I'm just walking like an old timey English Gentleman" and you haven't even asked him what he's doing, he is most likely hiding something from you, and trying in a very unsuccessful and suspicious way to distract you from said hidden item. 

The Boy and I saw a truck with a plate that said "Mr. Stuff."  I said, "I wonder where Mrs. Stuff is?" And he said, "Unfortunately, she's dead.  When I was a baby, I was out crawling around town and I saw her get hit by a car. It was sad. Mr. Stuff has never been the same." 

Why do we go to school when we're just gonna die anyway?

The Boy: How old do I have to be to drink beer?  
Me: 21
The Boy: Man, when I am 21 I am going to be extreme!

I was gonna try to be good today, but you just make me so bad! 

The Boy (after he walked up & sprayed me in the face with Febreeze): I don't know why I did it!  My brain didn't tell me I was going to do it, but my hands just did it!

And now photographic proof that I know how to cook up a baby:

HAPPY 10th BIRTHDAY TO THE BOY!!!

The Menstrual Cup. They Say Your Vagina Will Thank You, But I Think Mine Would Tell Me To F-Off.

So...a lot of you ladies (and a few nosey guys) have been asking me about the Menstrual Cup. You remember, that amazingly awful period funnel that I blogged about last week. In my blog I failed to go into the details of how this is used. I read all about it, of course, cuz I am nothing if not very researchy. I read all the testimonials, all the instructions, etc... But I didn't tell you guys all that because The Hub is always saying how I don't have "a line" so I sometimes try to have one, just so I can say that he's wrong. But I got a million emails asking me for more info and now I have to explain it to you guys anyways. So The Hub is just gonna have to face the facts: The people want to know stuff. The people don't want me to have a line. The people want bluntness. Even if it's totally disgusting. And the people obviously don't know how to use google.

So I found this video on You Tube for you to watch. It will explain a lot, but it will also totally creep you out. And if it doesn't, then I think you probably have problems.

(By the way, and totally unrelated to this...Earlier today I went through the drive-through at Walgreens to try and order a salad. Cuz I thought it was Chick-Fil-A. And a few minutes ago, after leaning down to high-five my cat because I was proud of the stuff I just did around the house that involved tools and danger and stuff, I totally bumped my head on the corner of a shelf. And now it's bleeding. And it hurts like balls. So if you don't hear from me within a few days, assume I'm dead or in a coma and please send help. Yet more reasons why I should not be allowed to do anything alone. Really.)

Now here's the video. Grab a beer and a big bowl of popcorn and enjoy!

And here's yet another disturbing video. All I can say is what the hell kind of park are they at? My life would be complete if I were taking an afternoon stroll and saw a puppet show like this going down by the lakeside. What a lovely and informative way to spend an afternoon. Plus, tell me if that Vagina doesn't look like a pink Punjab with red hammer pants and maybe a championship wrestling belt. And if any of you know where I can get a vagina puppet, please email me ASAP.

Now have a margarita and try to forget you ever saw these.

Having a uterus already sucks. What kind of stupid jack-hole wants to make it suck more?

Just FYI...This is totally a real thing that is actually happening:

What's this? It looks like a plunger for a tiny toilet. Or a weird acorn. Or an urn. Or a bell to ring when you want your butler to bring you some rich people stuff.  Or a dunce cap for a naughty monkey. Or a funnel with which to make delicious, powdered-sugary funnel cakes. But alas, it is none of these things. At all. It's actually a Moon Cup. AKA Menstrual Cup. And it's exactly what it sounds like.

And this is a sea sponge. The kind that I sometimes use for painting. And the same kind that Spongebob is. Except more rounded. But these aren't for painting. No. These are for something else entirely. You know, in case the Menstrual Cup is not your thing, and you're more comfortable sticking Spongebob up your vagina. And then pulling him out every few hours and washing him in the sink. Then sticking him back up there again. 

And these are Glad Rags. Which sounds like Glad Bags. But are not for putting your kids PB&J's in. At all. Although if you did wrap up a sandwich in these on your non-menstrually days, it would be very planet savey of you. But on your special lady days you'd better use the tupperware for lunch, cuz you'll need these babies for other things. They are re-useable maxi pads. Just in case you don't already totally hate your period. And just in case you're not already in a bitchy enough mood. Now you can actually re-use your pads after you wash them in this:

You know, like you're a pioneer or something.  And you might as well start wearing those bloomers and long skirts and stop brushing your teeth too. And hell! Why not give away your car so you can ride a horse-drawn wagon to your job at Oleson's Mercantile. Then go panning for gold on your lunch break. Then go home and milk the cows and churn some butter. Then make your family dinner from scratch and cook it in a wood burning stove. And poop in an outhouse. And have sex with a man who smells like a hobo's crack because he plows fields with a mule all day and you don't have a shower. Or deodorant. And then have, like, 20 babies because (a) You have no birth control, and (b) You would rather just stay pregnant your whole adult life than wear maxi pads that you have to hand wash and re-use.

I love our planet. But I'd rather kick Mother Earth in the balls -with that super amazing karate kid crane kick that Daniel-son whooped Johnny's dumb Cobrai-Kai ass with- than use any of these stupid things. For reals.

Do they let you do jury duty barefoot?

For those of you that were shocked and disturbed that the American legal system was actually desperate and/or stupid enough to actually demand that I report for jury duty, I have good news...I am now exempt! After filing the exemption form 4 times, instead of the suggested "one time ONLY", they finally decided that they didn't want me and my super-long list of excuses that got longer with every request.  Good call, whoever made that call. Good. Call. Because by Friday afternoon I had pretty much decided that I was going to borrow 3 pissed-off babies and a triple stroller and stick my cat (Ethan's cat) in a carrier and take them all - plus my surrogate husband, Colonel Hooversatche - with me to court.

Having me stay home is so much easier. For everyone involved. For reals.

And on another note (Yet one that kinda further proves that I'm not fit for jury duty. Or any kind of duty, really)...

Today I gave my shoes to a guy who works at Big Texas Trees. Why? So he could win an employee contest. For 2 weeks they've all been asking customers for their shoes. And for 2 weeks they've all been denied. Until today. Today was Bill's lucky day:

Suck on that, Bill's co-workers. Suck. On. That.

And a big shout out to The Hub for piggy backing me outta there. Cuz that parking lot was super rocky.