I Have A Mother F-ing Ballerina and I'm Not Afraid To Use Her... AKA: If you're thinking of burgling me, think again.

When The Hub is out of town I usually sleep like a dead person. I know, I know. Most people say stuff like "I slept like a baby" or "I slept like a log." But if you ask me, neither one of those comparisons makes any sense. It has been my experience that since babies are pretty much selfish assholes with severe drinking problems, they don't sleep. At all. Well, except if you drive them around, or carry them around, or push them around in a stroller, or give them Benadryl with a whiskey chaser, or change their pants and wipe their butts, or give them more to drink. It's really alot like having an alcoholic incontinent paraplegic hobo living in your house. I would guess that it even kinda smells the same. And logs? They are hunks of wood that are used for fires, and as far as I know they don't sleep so much as lay there being hunks of wood that are used for fires. And why would you want to sleep like a log anyway? The only possible outcome to that is waking up to find your wooden ass in some jerk's campfire. Bad idea. So anyway, I prefer to say that I sleep like a dead person. That is much more accurate since I don't really move much when I sleep, and as far as I know, dead people don't move much either. Except for Zombies. But that's a whole other story.

Since The Hub was out of town last night, I fully expected to do the super hard-core version of my dead person sleep. The super hard-core version only happens when I sleep alone and there's nobody there to bother me with their tossing, turning, farting, snoring, Undiagnosed Except by Patti Restless Leg Syndrome, and various other sleep issues. I used to think that I had a severe bladder disease because I would get up a hundred times a night to go to the bathroom. I even went to the Dr. for it and he put a camera someplace where one should never have a camera put. Ever. And although he severely mutilated me and made me yell verbally abusive curses at both he and his old lady nurse, he never found a problem. Then The Hub started traveling on business, I got to sleep alone, and I realized that when I sleep alone, I lie down on my back and wake up on my back without even messing up the bed. I. Don't. Move. The Hub's business trips made me realize that my bladder is fine, but HE is a fidgety-make-my-wife-think-she's-dying-of-bladder-cancer-so-she-has-to-get-a-camera-shoved-into-her-pee-pee-spot asshole. When The Hub is here his sleep jitters are waking me up and forcing me to think I have to pee a hundred times a night. And every time I get up to pee, I start thinking about something like aliens, ghosts, or zombies, and I can't get back to sleep, because.....Hello! Somebody has to be on alert for that shit.  I used to try to get back and forth from the bathroom with my eyes closed, thus tricking myself into thinking that I was still asleep, but then one night I almost peed on The Hub and that was the end of that. (Note: Men should not be allowed to sit down on the communal toilet at night, in the dark, because you will not see them there and you will pull down your pants and sit on their lap and freak both of you out like you've never been freaked out before. You're welcome.)

So I thought I was gonna have the sleep of a lifetime last night, but I didn't, due to the fact that I had -what I assume - were beer and Bunco-induced nightmares. Or my friend Stephanie may have slipped me some sort of roofie because she knew Steve was out of town and she was wanting to get a piece of my action. I don't know all the details yet. But something happened. Anyway, I didn't even get to sleep until midnight, then I woke up at 1:30 because I had a dream that I got a finger monkey that was trained to find bedbugs, but he kept eating them because according to National Geographic that is what monkeys do when they pick bugs off of something, and the ingested bugs turned finger monkey into some kind of finger monkey bug of death and I woke up in a sweat. Then, I had a nightmare that The Boy had caught a robber in his room and was beating him with a bat. That nightmare woke me up at 3:30, and I thought "It was just a dream" and I tried to go back to sleep. Then I thought "What if it isn't a dream and The Boy is up there all alone and beating a robber to death? He'll be scarred for life unless I dispose of the body and give him enough cough medicine so that he forgets everything that happened here tonight!" So I went upstairs armed with Nyquil and a tarp to check it out. With my ballerina statue as a weapon. Because she may look sweet but she could totally bash in your skull. Thankfully The Boy was asleep, although it looked like he'd been involved in some sort of scuffle because his sheets and pillows were on the floor. Even his fitted sheet. That kid is even more of a sleep-wiggler than his dad, so I will have to remember when he gets married to warn his wife that no, she doesn't have bladder cancer, and yes, the Ford men are sleepy-time freaks.

Anyway, I went back to bed, but by that point I was awake enough to start thinking that my white noise machine was talking to me again. And I was hearing creaks and moans, otherwise known as: Holy crap balls...There is someone trying to get into my house! Since the alarm was on I assumed that nobody was inside the house...yet, but were possibly at the trying to get in stage. Although when I thought about it I realized I had hired a babysitter that night so I could go to Bunco, and it's quite possible that she could have let in a burglar who was now hiding in my attic waiting to pounce on me if I went back to sleep. She seems like a nice girl, but teenagers will do lots of things that are crazy or just don't make sense.  It's called hormones, people. So I decided to get back up and walk around the house a bit, just in case a burglar was watching, stopping every so often to do that amazing kick that Ralph Macchio did at the end of Karate Kid when he finally showed those Cobra-Kai assholes who was boss. And I would also pick up various household decorations (vases, statues, etc...) and swing them around to show that I had some bad-ass hitting-people-with-random-household-objects skillz. I talked to myself a lot too, because (a) Talking to yourself always makes you look crazy, (b) Crazy and scary are the same thing, and (c) I talk to myself all the time anyway, so I was really just doing it out of sheer habit. But I did talk more gangsta than usual, to, you know, show the would-be robbers I was not one to mess with. At all. I may not pop a cap in your ass, robbers, but I will smash a cute ballerina statue into your skull. Word.

I realized today that the only bat we had in the entire house was this pathetic miniature one.  I'm sure that would have done the burgular in good.

P.S. The Hub is now back from his trip so if you were thinking about robbing and/or attacking me, you can forget it. Not that he could kick your butt or anything, but his annoying wiggling will keep me awake all night so me and my ballerina will be ready for your burglar ass.

P.P.S. I am fully aware that "word" doesn't sound very gangsta, but the only gangsta-ish things I know how to say are "word," "yo", "fo shizzle," and "Bring me a bottle of Cristal." I did the best I could.

Thank you, Hollywood and Evolution, for ruining our lives.

Just in case you've been living in a cave somewhere and have had no access to any form of media, let me be the one to break it to you: We are being attacked. By Bedbugs. And I mean "We" as in THE ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD! Well, except for maybe those caves that some of you have been living in. I haven't heard any evidence that shows that bedbugs live in caves, so if that IS where you've been, maybe you should get your ass back there because all you have to worry about in a cave are bears and bats, and from what I've learned about bears from watching tv with The Boy over the years is that they often wear overalls or hats, like honey, sometimes have jobs, and seem to sleep alot. And don't worry about the bats because I'm pretty sure that bats will turn into really sexy vampires if you look cute and flirt with them a little. I know that in those Twilight books the vampires didn't turn into bats, but those books are fiction. In case you didn't know.

Look guys: Cute hat, ascot, and wants peace. (bijouliving.com)

Anyway, every time I turn on the tv lately they are talking about freakin' bedbugs. At first I wasn't very worried because Steve pretty much told me that I was being an idiot and that there were no more bedbugs that usual and it's just that the stories are getting reported more often. The Hub says he know this because he is a Scientist. But you know what? He's an engineer. And if I have learned anything about engineers in the past 20 years it's that (A) They always think they're right, and (B) They really don't know jack shit about bugs.

When we went to Chicago over Labor Day weekend, I knew enough to yell at The Hub when he put his suitcase on the bed because Dr. Oz had already told me that if you do that, all the bedbugs will immediately jump on and stow-away in it kinda exactly like Leonardo Dicaprio and some other poor people did when they snuck onto the ship in the Titanic movie, and they will get a nice, cozy, free ride back to your house. But instead of hitting an iceberg and totally fighting over lifeboats and drowning at the end, they will just hide in your underpants and socks until you unpack and then live in your drawers and stuff until they can infiltrate your bed and all of your orifices. The other thing Dr. Oz had told me was to make sure I check under the hotel bed, which I thought sounded like a smart idea, but since I have a fear of finding used condoms and/or dead hookers under hotel beds, I skipped that part.

This could be happening on your body, as we speak.

In the past few days, I have learned soooooo much more.  First of all, the name "Bedbug" is a total lie, because now the news is telling me that not only do they live in beds, but in movie theater seats. Yes. Movie theater seats. So now if I want to go on a date to the movies, I have to take a flashlight with me so I can search the cushion of the theater seat to look for bedbugs and/or bedbug feces. That's poop, you guys. I am also not allowed to put my purse on the seat next to me in case it is harboring bugs that wanna hitch a ride back to my place and get into my bed. Usually on a date you do have to assume that someone is trying to end the night in your bed, but if you're lucky, it usually isn't a bug. So the news people told me to put my purse on the floor. Of the theater. Where they keep all the spilled coke, sticky butter, spit out gum, melted chocolate and semen. That doesn't sound gross at all.

Not only have our movie theaters been compromised, but our department stores as well. I have learned that if I go buy or try on clothing at a store, I may get infested with bugs. If you try on clothing that is currently serving as an apartment home for bedbugs, you guys, the bedbugs will hide on your body so you can bring them home. So if you're trying on pants, and there are bedbugs living in the pants, they may ride home with you on your privates. Like it's their own personal Taxi. Except hopefully cleaner and with less cussing and flipping off.

So how do you know if someone's body is currently serving as the Las Vegas for bedbugs? Well, you are supposed to look for nasty bumps that look like mosquito bites but are way grosser and usually found in clusters, like herpes. Not that I have personal knowledge of herpes or anything. This is just what I heard. If - for example - your neighbor is suddenly covered with "mosquito bites" and you notice that they are in a cluster, you need to run away immediately just in case they are infested with bedbugs. And also, don't have sex with them because it might be herpes. As far as I know, the only way to tell for sure if there are bedbugs on something/someone is to use a bedbug tracking dog. Yes, the bedbugs are so bad they've trained dogs to find them. I am not totally sure as to how one can acquire a bedbug dog, but I am definitely wondering if dogs are the only animal they train for this, or if they can possibly train a teacup pig or finger monkey as well. I'm definitely gonna have to look into that.

But what I'm really worried about, people, is Evolution. The Hub likes to talk about Evolution and I have seen my fair share of Nova/Discovery Channel specials on how people used to be monkeys and killer whales used to be minnows, and stuff like that. Sometimes it's just difficult to have a mind like mine. You know, one that totally grasps the complexities of things like mutation, adaptation, genetic recombination, natural selection, and other things that you guys couldn't possibly understand. Since I really know alot about all this sciency stuff, I can tell you with 100% certainty that we are all goners. This thing has spun way too far out of control now that the bedbugs are going to the movies. Think about it: The  news is always telling us that if you watch violent movies you might become violent. And these bugs have been living in the theaters during the entire summer, i.e. the height of the action movie season, loading up on sugar, carbs, and human flesh and blood (that's DNA, people)  and learning how to kick our asses and get away in a car chase. Trust me on this one guys. I'm, like, super-duper smart and my husband is a scientist.

Random Thoughts (AKA: I just discovered a link to all my past Facebook status updates & since I am lazy I am trying to pass some of them off as a blog)

I would totally rather discover you have an S&M room than a Precious Moments one.  It would scare me less.


Having one of your lawn guys see you nude is such a  great way to start your day. Just FYI.


Footloose is on. Bacon's giving his speech about dancing to the churchy people. Man. He's so smart about crops & celebrations & history & stuff. And he has such spiky hair. And that skinny tie is like Windsor-knotted sex appeal. Dance, Bacon! DANCE! 


I have cramps that could kill a horse. To all my male FB friends: you dudes are so friggin' lucky. Well, aside from that whole losing the hair on your head yet growing it outta your ears and noses business. Plus that whole having a wiener situation. Those things just seem annoying.


Pistachio's in the shell are DELICIOUS, but I have to assume that I am eating them with just a bit too much wild abandon when I later find a runaway shell in my underwear.


Reasons men are gross #152:  I was doing laundry tonight when I pulled from the hamper a pair of my husband's underwear that were ripped up in a way that is difficult to describe except to say that they looked like he had been attacked by a gay lion.


What I learned from Matt Lauer this morning: Due to the popularity of Facebook, I can never have more than one husband at a time because I'll probably end up getting busted. Damn. There goes my dream of having more than one man not help me around the house & bitch at me about my spending habits.


FYI:  Don't try to put on jeans immediately following the application of thick lotion on your legs, because your jeans will get stuck halfway up and believe it or not, when you walk around the house like that your husband may not find it sexy.


If your child gets excited to see their Granny, don't let them type Granny.com into the computer unless you want their perception of Granny's forever changed.


Dear iPhone predictive text, It was funny when you said I was having an orgy instead of an orange. It was a little funny when you said I was feeling dick instead of feeling sick. But I am getting tired of you now. I am getting a mani/pedi tomorrow, NOT a man/penis. Why do you make me sound like such a whore?


Why are guys who drive Porche's such douchebags? 


I woke up at 5:55 this morning, positive that I heard an asthmatic burgular who had taken a break from robbing me blind, to gargle and play a solo game of Yahtzee.  I crept out of bed ready to put my mad street fighting skilz to the test, and discovered that I wasn't being burgled.  It was just a combo of my coffee maker brewing, and my new fridge making ice.  And I was so ready to rumble!


Dear Mother Nature, Could you please stop making those freaky bell peppers that have a mini bell pepper/siamese twin/baby inside?  It gives me the creeps when I slice one open and find that mini-me in there.


It's EXTREMELY annoying when I'm in a chatty, & if I do say so myself, witty mood and there's nobody around to talk to! When Steve came home super early a few minutes ago I was sooooo excited to tell him about a few GENIUS ideas I had today, but obviously he wasn't quite as excited to listen. I think I need a new husband. I've obviously worn this one out.


Dear Guacamole, If Science can find a way to somehow combine you with The awesome DNA of Paul Rudd then I have found my most perfect thing in the world. GuacaPaulie. He can look adorable, be funny, I can dip my chips in him & he'll go great with beer. HEAVEN! 


 I had a text conversation w/ my friend Jeanette trying to invite her to bunco, during which she was being a total bitch & I was all "Why are you being a total bitch?" & she was all "Who do you think this is?" & I'm all "Jeanette" & she's all "You have the wrong number. This is Michael & I don't know you" and I'm like "Well, whoever you are do you wanna come to bunco?" & he's all "Please delete my number"


After finding some runaway fried chicken in my bra, I decided that maybe chicken in the bra would be better at attracting men than flowery perfume. Girl breasts AND fried chicken breasts in the same place? What man could resist? If I can just invent a bra that can hold cold beer I will be ready for my patent.


This morning I punched my house alarm code  into the microwave instead of the alarm pad,  I put my fresh cup of coffee in the refrigerator, & since I couldn't remember the word "strawberries" i referred to them as "big red berries".  I  think I need more sleep.


I sure wish Willis had told Arnold what he was talkin' 'bout. Now it's too late.


It sounds weird, but there is a bird in my back yard saying my name.  I swear it's true.  I haven't even had a beer yet.


You know you had a great night when someone says to you the next day "Hey, remember when you were talking to that drag queen in the red jumpsuit last night?"


When I got out of the shower this morning I stuck a Q-Tip in my eye.  On purpose.  Because I thought it was my ear.


2 things I've learned today: #1-When your Physical Therapist has you walk backwards on the treadmill don't get cocky w/ your bad self & speed it up. #2-When your PT has you scissor him, he may not think you're as adorably funny as you find yourself when you ask him if that's a real exercise or if he's just trying to get lucky.


I am laying out by my pool and I hear a large group of people yelling, whistling and cheering.  I don't know where it's coming from, but I am going to pretend it's all for me.


Does anyone else find black toilets to be creepy?


Dear Houston Humidity, Why do you insist on making me look like an a-hole? Maybe some girls can pull off frizzy hair and greasy skin, but I'm not one of them. If you weren't invisible water vapor I would so kick your ass. xxxooo Patti


If there was really a Funkytown I would totally move there.


Here in Houston, Tom Delay is auctioning off a dance (w/ him) for charity.  The advertisements specify that he will only take bids from females.  Dear Tom, As a woman who knows her gays, I feel pretty confident telling you that you are not a gay sex symbol, & I highly doubt that you would have had an issue. As a matter of fact, good luck getting a female under 80 who still has her eyesight & full use of her bladder.


Sign of the Apocolypse #12,384:  Amy WInehouse is designing her own clothing, accessories and makeup line.  This is great news, because not a day goes by where I don't think "Man, I look okay...But if only I could look just a little more meth addict-y and Syphilis-y I would really have that extra confidence I need to go out into the world and have a great day!"


There's an airline charging passengers to use the bathroom. Since I would rather try to pee in my mini tequila bottle than use the toilet, that's fine w/me.  But after walking in on the fat naked man taking a poo that time, I hope they spend some money on automatic locks.


SIgn #147 that you've had too much Benadryl & it's time to go to bed:  You wander into the laundry room and get your pants pulled down halfway before you realize that it is indeed the laundry room and not the bathroom.


I really wish my neighbors would take down their giant Easter bunny flag.  Out of the corner of my eye it looks like a person. I have said hello to it at least 3 times today, and now that it's happy hour things are bound to get worse.  I may be making out with it by sundown.


Parenting Lesson #1,279:  If your 8-year-old son asks you to smell his hand, don't do it.


(Coming Soon: Ethanisms Galore)

Chicago: The Pretty City

New discovery: I am really, really, REALLY cute in Chicago. It's true. We used to live there but I guess I was too busy working and being busy to realize it. Or maybe it wasn't true then because my hair was pretty short and one time when I went to the grocery store without any make-up on & my boobies squished into a sport bra pancake, some dude called me "Sir." But it's true now. Chicago makes me adorable.

We went for a long Labor Day weekend. Yes, Ethan missed 2 days of school. Unexcused. It's not like I can lie about it like the rest of you do because I write a blog and I would get caught and I'm pretty sure they, like, stone you or electrocute you or make your kid wear a scarlet "U" on their clothing or something in our school district if you rack up more than 6 unexcused days. At least that's what I've heard from some pretty trustworthy sources. Also, I really suck at lying. Don't get me wrong, I'm really creative and can make up a pretty good lie. It's just that later -like maybe 5 or ten minutes later- I can't remember that I told it, so I will totally un-tell it. Either that or I occasionally go overboard with the lies and get a bit too creative which can really cause the person I am lying to to start questioning me a bit too much, which only makes me get more creative, i.e. ridiculous with my lie, until I eventually get busted. It's not that I'm a good person or anything.  I'm really just too imaginative, forgetful and stupid for lying.

Anyway, the Chicago weather was perfect. It was in the 70's and 80's. No humidity. Sunny. Breezy. Beautiful. Yes, in about a month the sun will disappear, it will take approximately 7 hours to dig your car out of its parking spot to go to work, and everyone will have that Seasonal Affective Disorder or whatever that thing is that Dr. Oz says is real but I just think is an excuse for people to do things like eat canned meat, let their leg, pit and crotch hair get out of control,  and watch things like Jerry Springer and Cops without feeling like white trash. But right now, the weather is perfect.

After living in Houston for so long, I had totally forgotten what late summer/early fall felt like in normal states. You know...states without alligators, flying cockroaches and ants that can kill you in your sleep. It's actually been about 10 years since I left Houston in the fall. Here it is still nearly 100 degrees and 90% humidity. There it was awesome. My skin was gorgeous with hardly any makeup. No grease or sweat in sight. My hair....I could write an entire blog on how amazing my hair was. It was so, so straight. Even after being outside all freakin' day! Even after getting attacked by a few 30 MPH wind gusts it would just miraculously fall right back into perfect place. There was no curl. No kink. No frizz. It was heaven. And there was no pit or back sweat. I smelled like flowers and cotton candy. I was also really, really skinny. Even though I was deep into a Chicago hot dog and deep-dish pizza binge,  I think the combination of a normal humidity and temperature level made me shrink. The agreeable weather in California is the reason why all the actresses in Hollywood are so thin. Well, that and the drugs and anorexia. I'm pretty sure I saw a Discovery Health Channel special on all that once.

I was so adorable that, even at age 38, on a boat WITH MY HUSBAND IN TOW,  I still got free beer from the bartender without flashing him a boob or telling him he was muscular or anything. I think he was just a sucker for straight shiny hair, matte skin, and a shirt without pit stains.  I wasn't even turning on the charm. If I had, they probably would have let me drive the boat if I wanted to. The only person on the boat who didn't get hypnotized by my adorableness was our tour guide, Lorenzo. Oh, it was working for awhile...he was totally into our entire family unit: teasing Ethan, quizzing Steve, letting me sing into his microphone...Then I accidentally spilled beer. Into his mouth. I won't bore you with the details, but he just kept saying over and over "Twenty years of sobriety! Twenty years of sobriety."  Chances are good that I've knocked people off the wagon before, although maybe in a less forceful way...just by being annoying and driving them to drink to drown out my incessant chatter. So this isn't really a big deal for me. I'm sure he'll be ok.

Unfortunately, although Chicago makes me cute it makes Ethan annoying. He was pretty much a giant whine bag for the first couple of days, but by the end of the trip he was having fun. Actually, he seemed to straighten up on day 3 after I accidentally dropped a twin size roll-away bed on top of him, pinning him down with about 1-inch of breathing space. And even though I could hear him whimpering, I was laughing so hard I couldn't work up the energy to lift it off of him. You know that super-human burst of strength that moms are supposed to get when their child is in danger? It doesn't really work if you're laughing so hard you're about to pee your pants. But eventually I got it under control and rescued him. And after a minute of being mad at me for laughing, he was laughing too, and his mood was much better for the rest of the trip.  Not only am I cute in Chicago, I learn really important life lessons there:  If you want your kid to straighten up you should almost "accidentally" kill them. Works like a charm.

Pattitopia

I recently got an email from a reader that said "I wish I could live inside of your head for a day just so I could see what is going on in there. I bet it would be a blast!" Although I am quoting from her, I will not publish her name because she was most likely drunk or high when she wrote that and I don't want to embarrass her. Although I do admit that for the most part my head is a happy place to be, it is also sometimes an annoying and bitchy place to be, as you've seen in my PMS postings. But recently I have been trying to focus on the happy place. Even when bloated, bitchy and crampy. I call my happy place "Pattitopia" and it totally rocks.

When my son gets annoyed with people, he teleports. He just closes his eyes and says "I'm teleporting. I'm teleporting." I don't think that technically it's working since he's still standing in front of me, but I just let him do his thing because (a) I think it's awesome, and (b) I can totally relate. I try to pretend I'm living in Pattitopia every day, although sometimes people or things annoy me enough to drag me back to reality.

After an incident at Academy the other day where some lady was totally freaking out about a mis-marked price and being a complete buzzkill to anyone within earshot, I realized that the public needs to learn about this wonderful world and it's laws. You may see me out in the neighborhood, going about my business...but inside my head, I'm in Pattitopia. The way it works is as follows: If you are within ten feet of me you are a visitor in Pattitopia and therefore must follow the rules and regulations of Pattitopia. Ten feet is more than close enough to drag me into your moody web and I'm just not having it, so if you plan to get that close, slap a smile on your face and keep it light. Now, I completely admit that I get bitchy about stuff just like anyone else (sometimes more than anyone else), and if I am bitching about something you are welcome to join in, but you are not allowed to start the bitching unless it is about something you know I hate, i.e. Glen Beck, Paris Hilton, Mariah Carey, Ann Coulter and guys wearing skinny jeans. In Pattitopia, I set the tone. My topia, my rules.

Pattitopia has a fixed population of 3 humans and 4 animals. The humans are of course, me and my sweet Paul Rudd, plus my bodyguard, Spunk. Spunk is a friend from high school who is a bodybuilder with arms the size of my thighs, and he has agreed to protect me exactly like Kevin Costner protected Whitney Houston in that movie where she sang the hell outta that I will always love you song. The only differences are that  the colors are reversed and I am not a crack whore.

The 4 animals in Pattitopia consist of finger monkey, teacup pig, mini hedgehog and pee wee pony.  Eventually I will allow each pet to have a mate so they can get busy making me more tiny animals, but for now they are all innocent and single. And someday I will also have a dolphin. As soon as the lazy animal biologists of the world figure out how to make a miniature one.

The weather is always sunny in Pattitopia. The average temperature is a comfortable 75-80 degrees. We have white sandy beaches, palm trees and beautiful mountains and forests. There are bottomless margaritas, wine and Pacifico. Paul likes dark beer, but it's not allowed in Pattitopia and even though I love him, he's just gonna have to deal because it's not called Paulatopia. The only foods allowed are Mexican food and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and they are miraculously fat-free.

In Pattitopia The Brady Bunch and Laverne and Shirley are always on television. Except for the Cousin Oliver years on The Bunch...those sucked.  My friend Jeff is allowed at any time as long as he's wearing a sleeveless shirt and riding his bike. My husband is allowed at any time as long as he is in "Vacation Steve" mode, which is his super- relaxed and fun mode. Ethan is allowed as long as he doesn't fart or whine. My friend Neal is allowed at any time as long as he's willing to P-Hug. There is lots of P-Hugging in Pattitopia, and as a visitor you do not have the right to refuse a P-Hug. If I feel that you are leaning out of the P-Hug, you will have to deal with Spunk.

                                                

Even though it is warm, I am always allowed to wear my Beeker hat in Pattitopia, and even though it is dorky and I look completely idiotic in it, everyone must tell me I look amazing. There is no John Denver music, photos, or video allowed. Under no circumstances is math allowed in Pattitopia. While birds are more that welcome to do flybys in Pattitopia, they are not permitted to land or to poop. And under no circumstances are crows allowed anywhere near Pattitopia due to the fact that a few years ago one tried to peck me to death when I was at the Zoo. It repeatedly dive-bombed me and pecked my noggin until it drew blood. Crows are assholes.

Day passes are free to Pattitopia. When you come into the 10 foot circle you are accepting a pass and agreeing to my rules and regulations. While I welcome and love visitors, if you start to sing that Rocky Mountain High song, talk bad about Johnny Bravo,  or just plain annoy me, you will receive a citation. If the trouble continues, you are out. A world needs rules to run smoothly. That is one of the few things my brain retained from my Government class in college. That and the fact that seeing your professor in a kilt is in no way pleasurable.