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

December is The Month of Patti.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I. Was. Pumped.

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

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

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

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

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

Until this year

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

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

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

And I looked like that because I saw this:

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

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

And we shared a soda of love:

And a tender moment:

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

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

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

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

So I wanna thank these people:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Tis the season.

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

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

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

Here's why:

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

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

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

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

Christmas, fail.

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

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

Falalalalala-sporktotheballs.

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

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

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

Magic Tree For Sale

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

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

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

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

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

AnonymousDecember 6, 2012 10:47 AM

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

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

Patti The Purfumerarianist

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

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

Here's the reality: 

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

P.S.

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

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

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

THANK YOU!! xoxo

My latest art boner. Yes, it involves unicorns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner will be announced Monday, 12/10.

Good Luck! 

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

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

Dear Universe, Stop Taunting Me: A Story About Poop

WARNING:

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think these two speak for themselves.

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

Beach vacations are relaxing and lovely. At least until you witness a mass murder.

It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
But mostly it was the best.
Except that one time when it was the worst. 
That time totally sucked.

As most of you know, The Hub and I ran away from home last week and went to play Lost meets Survivor meets Gilligan's Island in a place in the middle of nowhere in Mexico.  Seriously, you guys. Middle. Of. Nowhere. It's one of those adventures where halfway along you start wondering if you've made a terrible mistake and what if the website photos look nothing like the place you're going? And you pass little towns on dirt roads with donkeys (AKA the local transportation) tied up in front of "stores" and think to yourself "WTF was I thinking?" or if you're me, "I wonder if I'd get shot if I surprise buttsecksed that burro?"

And because we are not totally insane (well, I am, but The Hub usually handles all the mature and responsible thinking), instead of trying to navigate this journey on our own, we had a wonderful driver named Manuel who took charge. Although, truth be told, if we had been carjacked at gunpoint, aside from the ability to speak Spanish, I don't think Manuel was gonna be of any help. Not once did he mention anything to us about his mad mad ninja skills or show us his gun and knife collection in the glove box or anything. He did mention that he'd love to go to Disneyland, though. Which isn't something that someone usually says if they are a badass Mexican version of Chuck Norris or something. I don't picture a professional ass-kicker saying "I love Disney characters!" Actually, I really saw no similarities at all between him and Norris except for the fact that they are both short. I'm super positive that I've heard that The Chuckster is quite small. Which kinda makes me think that that whole think about him kicking ass is bullshit and is just some voodoo movie magic. I'm a tall spitfire with a short fuse, and my legs are probably longer than his entire Norris-ness, and I'm fairly confident that no matter what fancy ass moves he came at me with, I could just windmill kick him into oblivion. As least that's the delusion that I'm choosing to go with. 

Obviously my relaxing, peaceful vacation did nothing towards making me more focusey. Thank god. Cuz in case you didn't notice, rambling is my jam.

Anyways...

So we're driving around in total nowhere land when suddenly The Hub noticed an oasis. It was truly a sight so majestic that I thought it was a dream that would disappear when we got closer to it. But it didn't disappear. And for a brief moment I though to myself "what if it's a trap?" Like a siren beckoning me to her bosom with a beautiful song, only to leave me with my head chopped off and organs in a styrofoam cooler? But it was totally real and totally AMAZINGLY PERFECT:

THIS

I know...right??? When The Hub spotted it we told Manuel to make a u-turn and take my sweet, thirsty, travel weary ass back to my Nirvana. I'm pretty sure that this was a sign from The Universe that I was heading in the right direction. And also that I needed alcohol. STAT.

After quenching my thirst we headed on to our final destination, which was at the end of a long dirt road. The gate was made of giant sticks or bamboo or something, and looked like the entrance to Jurassic Park, minus that whole dinosaur's from hell situation. It didn't take me long to realize that this place is now my dream location in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse.

Step one: Kill all the zombie mofo's in between me and Norman Reedus. 
Step Two: Locate Norman and use my feminine wiles to make him mine. 
Step 3: Go to there. 

Not only was this place beautiful beyond belief, but it had gates, fences, lagoons (aka, moats), multiple towers to view your surroundings, fruit and veggie orchards, chickens, cows, lambs, donkeys, and beach and ocean along one side. If the ZA were to hit and you ended up here, you'd probably be so mega excited about the apocalypse that you'd be hi-fiving everyone about it, cuz aside from the whole keeping the undead hordes who wanna eat your flesh away from you thing, life would be pretty amazingly awesome. 

Just so you can get a lay of the land that is gonna save our asses. Study this and save a copy so you can help me set up our camp.

As an added zombie-free compound bonus, the lagoons and ocean in this place are deadly or something, cuz you have to sign a waiver saying that if you get into them and die, it's your own damn fault cuz you're an idiot and they told you not to. So that whole thing in that one zombie movie where the zombies were walking along the ocean floor like "la de da de da da I'm aqua zombie and I don't have a care in the world besides eatin' me up some brains?" It wouldn't work in my zombiepocalypse paradise. Nope. The ocean is too open and rough and they'd just keep on getting undertowed back out into oblivion. And the lagoons have crocodiles and I'm pretty sure piranha and miscellaneous unidentified aqua monsters, cuz you aren't allowed to swim in there either. Zombiepocalypse paradise: Win.

And by the way...I was telling The Hub's parents about how we were planning all the ways that this resort could be used in the zombie apocalypse and The Hub said "And by 'we were planning all the ways' she means that she was incessantly talking on and on about it while I was just nodding my head the way I usually do when she's on one of those tangents."

So he's probably not gonna be invited to keep his brains un-eaten and his bod tan.

One morning The Hub wanted us to go on a lovely kayak trip around the lagoon, which I hesitantly agreed to. In Hawaii I flew over volcanoes and ocean on what was basically a tricycle with wings. In Belize I jumped off of a boat way out in the ocean into water full of sharks and stingrays. And on previous trips to Mexico I've zip lined off the side of cliffs and let a murderous monkey sit on my shoulder before attempting to pull my hair out by the roots. But this lagoon/kayak/crocodile situation had me all kinds of twisted up. It started out ok. The Hub was doing all the paddle work and I was chillin'. But then he decided to leave the open water and head into the reeds. In case you aren't rockin' the ocean swampy lingo like I am, the reeds are where the crocodile gangs hang out and wait to make you their bitch. It's like human gangs and their dark alleyways. But instead of switchblades and snapping and singing about being a Jet, they just knock your wussy boat over and eat your ass. When the hyperventilating started, The Hub took my back to shore, and even though I gave him a recap of the documentary about Gustave The Killer Crocodile that I saw on the National Geographic Channel, Mr. Bravey Pants continued the death journey on his own, while I went to lay on the beach, drink a margarita, and plan out how I was gonna buy this entire property offa the life insurance money I was about to get.

Well, miraculously, The Hub survived. That dude is one lucky bastard. I'm assuming that his survival is only due to the fact that the crocs could see that I wasn't with him and they didn't give 2 craps about getting all murdery up on him without me there as the main course. And since I willingly got outta the boat, I saved The Hub's life. 

You're welcome, Hub.

This place was an eco resort and had no electricity and was like fancy camping. They lit torches and candles at night, which came early and because of some New Moon situation. No, Twihard freaks. Not the movie about sparkly vampires. Everyone knows that mexico doesn't have vampires, they have chupacabras. DUH! I'm talking about the actual moon. There was absolutely no moon while we were there. You know what happens when there is no lights and no moon? It gets dark. Really, really dark. And it gets dark early, like 6 PM. And dinner is at 8. On the other side of the lagoon. Which you go across in a rowboat. In the pitch black night. While crocodiles lie in wait for you to fall out on the return trip after dinner and mucho margaritas and beers. And THAT, my friends, is the only thing that kept me sober on this trip. The thought of marinating myself in alcohol only to become a tasty treat for an alcoholic croc. And it was really really hard, cuz there was an employee there named Diego who made THE MOST AMAZING margaritas that we had ever tasted. We re-named it The Diegorita, and he needs to bottle it and become a bazillionaire, buy the resort, and let me stay for free.

One of the missions of this resort/wildlife sanctuary, is to protect sea turtles. I had my fingers crossed for days that some turtle eggs would hatch while I was there so that I could release them. For years I've seen photos and videos of people doing this, and ever since I was a little girl I have loved turtles and I was that freak who will get out of a car to carry a wayward turtle across the road, so the idea of getting to release new babies to the sea was making me a happy camper. One day at lunch the manager found me to let me know that they had a few hundred turtles that were ready to roll and that they would be on the beach that afternoon if I wanted to participate. Oh. Hells. Yeah. 

The Hub and I stayed on the beach all day, and I was impatiently waiting for them to show up with the turtles. Finally, they came and brought these:

Little baby turtle wants a hi-five

I really wanted to do this right, so for once I took things seriously and listened to the directions and rules and did everything exactly as I was told. Umm...yeah. I freaking know. That is totally messed up. But I was all about being the best turtle releaser EVER. They made a line in the sand and we had to let the turtles go behind the line so that they could find their own way to the water, so the location would imprint on them and they could come back in 12 years to lay their own eggs in the same place. MAGICAL, right? I was as happy as I'd ever been. I felt like I was a part of something amazing, and watching these adorable little turtles make their way to the water was making me super excited and smiley. 

Run, Forrest, Run!

I felt like I should write a children's book. What a beautiful story this could be! The turtles are saved from the egg stealing a-holes by wonderful research scientists dedicated to their survival, then after they are hatched they're set free by me! Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles! Then they go on to live happy lives in the ocean and raise families of their own, each one naming their first born after me.

Then it happened.

Once most of the turtles had made their way to the ocean, the other people lost interest and wandered off to drink their wine, which pissed me off because (a) our turtle mission was incomplete, and (b) who drinks wine on the beach? It's beer and Diegorita's, people. I mean, seriously. But Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles was still there, and I wasn't leaving until I was sure that each and every turtle had made it off the beach. Then, just as it looked like things were clearing out, I looked down the beach and saw something. At first I couldn't figure out what it was, but then I realized that it was turtles that had made it into the water, then were washed back onto shore farther down. And then I saw something else. Something much bigger than the turtles. Lots of somethings much bigger than the turtles. I started to walk down there and as I got closer I realized that they were crabs. Giant, asshole, douchebag, bastard-face crabs. And they were taking my turtles! So I ran down there and shooed those mofos away from my babies and then I saw it: Holes in the sand with little turtle butts and legs sticking out. The crab bastards were eating my babies! Head first! I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. I am not trained in emergency turtle trauma, although if you ask me, if you're gonna run this kinda operation then you should have a MASH unit set up for this kind of catastrophe. Or you should warn your turtle releasers beforehand that after witnessing something amazingly beautiful, they will most-likely witness a mass murder and be scarred for life. I stayed on the beach to guard the turtles and cuss out the crabs until the last turtle made it into the water. That night I had nightmares about those crabs, and for the remainder of my trip, every time I saw one I told him what a piece of shit he was. I totally get why people eat them. Personally, I think they taste gross, but I might start eating them anyways just to show them who's boss. And every time I crack one open I'll say "This is for the turtle babies, muthafucka."

Basically, I'm gonna scratch that whole idea of the children's story about the turtles. Unless you wanna read your kids a bedtime story about a cute little turtle getting his brains eaten by a f@ckface crab. If you do, I'll call Random House. I'm sure they'll give me a deal faster than you can say "years and years of therapy".

It's interesting that one of my first thoughts when I saw this resort was "This is the perfect Fortress to protect us from brain-eating dead people," and one of my last experiences there was watching giant (zombie?) crabs eat baby turtle brains. Ah, Universe...thou art a hilarious a-hole.

At least I got to see this little cutie pie and since I didn't witness her getting her head eaten off, she made me forget my trauma just a little bit:

Ain't no way in hell I'm taking my eyes off you, lady. I know what you're up to.

And then I got to surprise buttsecks some scary dolls:

Nothing like giving it to a bunch of paper mache dolls to make you forget about turtle murder. Remember those words of advice. They could come in handy some day. Or not. Probably totally not. 

Me and The Hub. With Diegorita smiles.

P.S. When The Hub showed a tv slideshow of our photos to his parents, he purposely deleted the doll buttsecks one in order to shield them from his inappropriate wife (ahem...losing battle). So in-laws, if you're reading this, THIS is the kinda thing I really do on vacation. Or when I go to Target. Or for a walk. Whenever.

For once I'm glad that The Hub never bought me a finger monkey, cuz if he did, this puppy woulda eaten it by now.

Please hurry and take the damn photo so I can eat these glasses.

I am currently puppy sitting.

Puppy sitting is really a whole lot like babysitting. They lick you, chew on you, there are poop and pee situations, they smell good yet bad all at once, they freak out for no reason, and they make lots of noise. The main differences between the two are the hair (if your baby is as hairy as a puppy then you have genetic issues that might need some looking into), and the fact that you can leave a puppy home alone, but if you leave a baby home alone, it's sorta frowned upon. So thank god this is a puppy and not a baby, cuz I can't possibly stay home all day. No way no how. I cannot be confined to these 4 walls. I have places to go and people to see. This crazy bird has got to fly free. And by the way, I have more than 4 walls. I have, like, eleventy something. Or something. I'm not gonna count them for you guys, because that's math, and math can suck my balls. But I do have more than 4. Who the hell has 4 walls? Even back in the Little House on the Prairie times the Ingalls family had more than 4. They even had a loft. With a ladder. And a pretty sweet ass barn. At least until that jackass Mary burned it down.

Regardless of the fact that I can leave the house sans puppy, I am still feeling a bit tied down. I can close her up in the office when I go out, but I have to be home within a couple of hours before she poops on something, eats something she shouldn't, or logs into my Facebook account and posts mean things about cats or something. Which would be mega clever of her because nobody would be the wiser since I do that too. Smooth, puppy. Smooth. I can also crate her, but then I end up feeling guilty. Like I'm some a-hole puppy veal farmer or something.

The Puppy eats everything. It makes me feel like I have a toddler in the house again, because when The Boy was a toddler, HE ate everything. You couldn't turn your back for a second or he'd be chowing down on a throw rug or a table leg. Every single photo we have of him from birth to age 4, his entire shirt is covered in drool because of the chewing of all of the things. In 5 days time, The Puppy has already been caught eating 3 of my shoes, my expensive neck thingy from Relax the Back, multiple dryer sheets and tissues, a pencil, her leash, dried up leaves, mulch, a baseboard (she removed it from the wall and ate it on my bedroom floor), and Soft Blue Esquire. Yes. My blankie. And I think I have PTSD now after witnessing that whole situation. I'm still having flashbacks and waking up in a cold sweat, clutching onto Soft Blue like Rose clutched onto Jack until her selfish ass fell asleep and he died.

Dear Rose,

If I can fight a vicious canine to save the life of my blankie, you can sure as heck keep your privileged ass awake and share your floating door with the dude who saved your life.

xoxo
Patti

And to tell you the truth, I'm still in shock that The Puppy survived after eating one of The Boy's socks. I shudder at the thought of what kinda funk his socks -THE SOCKS HE WORE IN GYM CLASS- have embedded in them. If she doesn't either die or turn into some kind of mega comic book superhero dog after eating that business, I will be in shock. Forget about radioactive spider bites and accidents at nuclear power plants. We're talking about tubes of absorbent cotton that were on an 11-year-old boy's disgusting feet all day.

The Boy covered in slobber and the remnants of a pile of dirt he ate.

The Cat has about had it too. I know I talk about what an ass pain our feline is, but that girl is chill. Sure, she talks a lot. But so do I. She is like the kitty cat version of me, combined with the kitty cat version of Hyde from That 70's Show. Whatever will be will be. She's easy going as hell. Ya know how I go to my Pattitopia when something unpleasant is happening around me? She goes to her Catitopia. Her eyes glaze over and you can see her leaving her body to go run free in a field of catnip and Fancy Feast Tuna Feast. In the past few days, The Cat has been cowabunga jumped on, knocked over, chewed on, pushed off of furniture, licked, tripped, barked at, and nearly butt raped. The Cat will honestly put up with anything. But last night she had finally had her fill and she was possessed by a kitty demon. Her ears laid back, she growled, and she went total badass Mohammed Ali on The Puppy's face. It was like an interspecies Fight Club and she was Tyler Durden and The Puppy was some drunk ass hobo she found in the alley. I had hoped that the repeated face punching would at least make some impact on The Puppy, but since The Cat has no claws I guess it just wasn't a memorable ass whooping. This morning she was pissing The Cat off yet again, and I am thisclose to duct taping some toothpicks onto The Cat's paws so she can kick some butt.

For a tiny little ball of fluff, this animal also barks a lot. She's like a little cloud floating around the house with thunder sounds coming out of it. And she'll bark outta nowhere at absolutely nothing. She can be in a totally comatose state, when suddenly something invisible pisses her off. Like an a-holey Casper the Ghost who hates dogs. Or a ghost cat, or something. And as you guys know, I scare easily, and I scare a lot. And there is absolutely zero way of preparing oneself for a peacefully sleeping dog to suddenly jump 5 feet in the air and bark so loud that the sound waves actually force urine out of your own pee hole. Zombies I can be on alert for. They make those dumb ass moaning noises and shuffle their feet. Burglars? Yes. They pick locks and break glass and set off alarms. But that outta nowhere, erratic, canine insanity? There is no preparation for that. All you can do is get used to the screaming and pooping of your pants 10 times a day. Sometimes she does actually bark at real things. And by "real" I mean things that I can see but are in no way threats to her or anyone else. Yesterday she stood by our pool and barked at a ball that was floating in the water for approximately 2 hours. Then when she came inside, she barked at The Boy's backpack for 30 minutes. Then last night she decided that the Halloween candy bowl was her arch enemy, and barked and growled at that for awhile. I had to put it in the closet in between doorbell rings. I was about to go all Elaine Bennis on her ass and re-locate her furry butt, but that takes energy. And planning. And driving. And I am far too lazy for all of those things.

And just so you guys don't think I'm an animal hating a-hole, ya gotta remember one thing: I am nothing if not a sucker. After writing all this stuff about The Puppy, she came up and starting barking at me, like she KNEW I was talking shit about her. And I picked her up and starting talking to her in an embarrassingly pathetic baby talk voice. I said "You're soooo fluffy and cuddly and snuggly and I would totally eat you but you're so furry that if I ate you it would clog up my throat and I'd have to drink a case of beer just to push all the fur down and then I'd be drunk and I'd vomit all the fur back up and it would be the worlds biggest beeriest hairball ever, so I am not going to eat you, but you are soooo fluffy!"

That's honestly exactly what I said.
I know. I have issues.

And just now The Dog finished drinking her water and then walked out of the room carrying the empty bowl, sat it down on the hall rug, picked up some mulch that she carried in from the yard earlier, put them in the bowl, then picked up the bowl again and took it to the living room. There is definitely a variety of odd noises coming from that direction, but I'm kinda at the point where I don't even want details. Every time I enter a room there is a new surprise waiting for me. And not the balloons and 4 foot, million dollar check kinda surprise. It's more like the Jerry Springer paternity test "You are not the father" kind. The discoveries are never, ever good. But let's face it, even if I did get a giant check and balloons, she'd eat them before I got to them. And that's a disappointment that I just can't take. I'd rather watch a dog poop out a baseboard than a pile of paper bits that used to be a million bucks.