Being Quarantined Makes Me Write A lot. Mainly About Being Quarantined. So Basically I'm Just Looking For Sympathy.

Day 4 of Quarantine:

The boy still has fever. The boy "needs" crap, like foot rubs, leg rubs, blanket application, blanket removal, apple juice, more apple juice, apple juice that's colder, apple juice with less ice, apple juice with more ice, hugs, answers to every question that anyone has ever asked in the history of questions, explanations as to why we can't get married, explanations as to why we can't get married even if daddy dies, explanations as to why people get married in the first place, explanations as to why all gay men move to Mexico (this after seeing 2 episodes of House Hunters in a row that had gay men moving to Mexico), explanation as to why mommy's gay friends don't live in Mexico, explanations as to why mommy's dad lives in Mexico if he's not gay.

Things like that.

I am dying, people. I haven't left the house in 3 days. If it wasn't for the fact that Steve and I don't love him (his words), it would be four days. But when you don't love your son, like we don't, you get a babysitter last Saturday night and go to dinner and The Improv to see Jo Koy, with friends, even when your son has a fever.

Day 4 Realization:

Thank goodness I don't love my son and I totally ditched him on Saturday night to go out, because that time away is all that is saving me from going postal right now.

Since The Hub is out of town AGAIN, I am dealing with this all alone. We have had 4 days together, my offspring and I, and it feels like 100. Although he is claiming I don't love him, I obviously do. If I didn't love him I would have driven him to a strange neighborhood in the middle of the night when he was drugged into a fever-medicated coma-like sleep, pushed him out of the car in some dark alley, and come back home to a germ-free and whine-free environment. Well, not entirely whine-free, because I whine a lot, but child whine-free. And not "wine" free with no "h" either, because wine with no h is really helping to keep me sane right now.

And I know that I'm not supposed to talk about The Hub being out of town. And I never usually mention it until he is back. But at this point I don't care. It's integral to the story of my mental demise. Plus, as I know I've mentioned before, if someone is gonna go breaking into our house to get all murdery on us, it's gonna be me who does the fighting because The Hub would not wake up. At all. Even when the police were here doing the CSI stuff in the aftermath, he would still be asleep. And if by some miracle he did wake up? He sleeps in the nude, you guys, And I'm about 99% sure that nobody can kick murderer ass while nude. There's just a normal lack of confidence in a nude person (except for porn stars and strippers) that doesn't really contribute to fantastic ass-kicking skillz. So in the murder scheme of things does it matter if he isn't here? Nope. Plus, at this point I would almost welcome a murderer. I need the company. As long as he/she was willing to have a drink and a little conversation first, they can get all murdery on me all they want. Add some excitement to my quarantined life. Put me out of my misery. Whatever. Just so long as they spare the boy. See, I do love him.

I'm almost convinced that someone who wants to see me dead has infected Ethan with something and programmed him to give it to me. Kinda like The Terminator. He is chasing me around, coughing on me, asking for hugs, touching everything with booger hands, all in the hopes of offing me.

I'm actually not sure who is going crazier. Me or the cat. Ethan has made it his mission to spend every waking moment that he's not spending annoying me, on annoying the cat. She is living in fear and has developed a new facial expression that is a mixture of terrification (just totally invented that word), loathing, and bug-eyed freaked-the-hell-out-edness. She totally deserves it though. And as long as she is taking his attention from me, it's all good.

Thankfully...oh so thankfully, I have some wonderful friends. One gave me coffee when I was totally out this morning, therefore saving Ethan's life (thank you, Lisa Tagliarino). One got meds and various grocery store items for me yeaterday AND again today (thank you, Cathy Hunter). And one brought me a wonderful surprise yesterday (thanks, Nancie Herring. My little tiny pocket friend):

This is a Leprechaun Mustache, you guys. Wearing it helps me look super-serious and introspective as I contemplate all the ways I can get back at Ethan for all this illness crap after he is feeling better.  And just to let you all know how fried my brain is from quarantine, headache, earache, and sick kid nursing and servanting: when I was on the phone with Steve last night and was trying to tell him what Nancie brought me, I said "A green mustache! You know, for those little guys from that holiday with all the little green guys and shamrocks and stuff." Yep. I'm that smart. And BTW I have no make-up on in this photo, cuz only a jackhole puts on make-up whilst under quarantine. So don't get all judgey about my ugliness. Thanks.

And I've had many more people call and email me with support. Like I'm at death's door or something. Even readers that I don't actually know. Obviously you guys all know me and know how much I (a) overreact to everything, and (b) like attention. So thank you to all of my awesome friends and readers. Your support in my time of stress and sorrow is much appreciated. And in case the boy never gets better, and I come down with a deadly version of whatever is ailing him, and the CDC puts our entire house inside one of those big plastic bubbles like they did to Elliott's house on E.T., I just want you all to know I love you. And you'd better find a way to cut a hole in the bubble and either bust me out or at the very least, give me some margarita fixins.

I'm (Probably) Not Dying. So Stop Trying To Take All My Awesome Stuff.

I know, I know... I haven't posted anything in a week. For those of you who actually enjoy reading my posts, I say "I'm sorry." For those of you who would rather have your face eaten off by a gaggle (pack? horde? school?) of zombies than read my posts, I say  "You're welcome." I tried to sit down and write something a few times, but every time I tried I went into some kind of trance and typed absolutely nothing. You see, I was near death last week. And I don't think I'm exaggerating. At all.

About 10 days ago I started getting terrible headaches off and on, which was just perfect timing since the hub was out of the country. After a couple of days the headaches stopped and then came back last week with a vengeance. I honestly thought I was dying, you guys. As most of you know, my body has the ability to get itself all effed up with all kinds of stuff. Weird stuff. Stuff that only people over 65 are supposed to get. Stuff that only Asians get. Stuff that only African American women get. My doctors are amazed with me. Nothing surprises them any more. They shake their heads. They call colleagues. They look at me in wonderment. I am really medically screwed.

So anyway, last week I thought I was dying. But because I didn't want to overreact, I chose to ignore it. Then a few of my dearest friends, and my dear husband, pretty much insisted that I drag my butt to the ER, because if any 39 year old "normal" white American woman is gonna go dying of Ebola or Legionnaires' Disease, or some other weird thing that nobody around here ever gets, it is gonna be this woman right here. Maybe I'm not the most attractive person in the world, but I am like a super model to weird illnesses. They can't get enough of me.

When I got to the point that even I was convinced I was having a brain aneurysm, and my friends and family were getting frightened, I went to the ER. By myself. Because I didn't want to bother anyone to take me. Cuz I'm a total martyr like that. Plus, I can make everyone feel guilty about it later. So they did bloodwork, neuro tests and a CT scan on me and found nothing. But fortunately they gave me pain meds. But unfortunately I had to decline the hard-core narcotic ones because I was an asshole and I drove myself. And as usual, I asked if I could get medicinal marijuana for this, and as usual, they said no. But you can't blame a girl for trying.

So basically I was sent home feeling like my head is gonna explode. But it comes and goes, so I make do. Then Ethan went down for the count on Saturday morning. But unlike ignoring his illnesses like I do mine, I took him right in to urgent care and he had strep. And now on day 3, he still has fever. But since today he is screaming a lot and chasing the cat around and asking me lotsa deep questions about life and death and birth, I believe he is on the upswing. Thank god. Because if anything pisses me off, it's not getting to wallow in my own sickness enough before someone else goes and steals my spotlight. And touches me a lot with germ hands that I've not only seen him cough into and pick his nose with, but stick in his pants. Hooray.

But the good news is that this morning I used the medical knowledge that one gains when one is a medical f@cktastrophe like me, and I decided that I have an inner ear infection. This happened years ago in Chicago, and took the doctors, like, 2 days to figure out. Ya know, after putting me through many tests including a spinal tap, before which you have to sign papers saying that if they accidentally paralyze you forever, it's fine and dandy. So my doctor took pity on me and my inability to drag my ass in with a sick kid and a dizzy head, and called in some antibiotics for me today, and hopefully I will soon be on the mend.

And if all goes well and I am totally healed up soon, I will write you something more interesting than this load of whiny crap. Probably not much more interesting though. So don't get your hopes up. And I want to say "Thank you" to my friends who were so worried about me and insistent that I go to the doctor. Even though it turns out that I'm not dying, it was nice of you to care. Although, truth be told, most of you were only trying to get bequeathelled, or bequeathed upon, or whatever. Dear Kim, You may not now, or ever, have my Shirley. Like I said, she will be buried with me. We will be in matching dresses and tap shoes. Bite me. Love, Patti. And those of you who didn't give a poop about me can suck sweaty hobo balls. Twice.

*UPDATE* Just because, you know, The Universe loves me right now and I've been having such a great time the past 10 days, it decided to make me make the totally dumb-ass move of cleaning my washing machine filter and failing to screw it back in tightly enough, causing said washing machine to explode like a geyser all over my kitchen and laundry room, and causing me to run around the house yelling "I just got new carpet! I just got new carpet!" like a psycho. I am not having a good day, people. I might drink a bottle of wine and cry myself to sleep tonight. I just might.

Valentine's Day: Cockroaches, Balls and Chocolates.

Let me start by saying that I am generally not a mushy person. Unless I'm having PMS. When I'm having PMS I will cry about really dumb stuff and expect everyone around me to basically speak in Eulogy, i.e. constantly say wonderful things about me, just like one might do at someone's funeral. Except for I'm not dead. But I am most likely wishing I was because when I'm having PMS I also have cramps like a mofo. And after the person says all the wonderful things about me, I will most likely make fun of them for being so mushy. Cuz that's how I roll.

Anyway, my point is that I don't generally go for romantic type stuff. Or what most people think is romantic. For example, Kay Jewelers has this commercial playing right now that I think is just about the stupidest thing I've seen in a long time, but I bet there are lots of chicks who find it romantic. And that disturbs me:



If you find this commercial to be romantic, then you are an idiot. And honestly, if this commercial makes you feel anything other than barfy, we can never be friends. It totally makes me want to vomit. And personally, I don't think every kiss begins with kay. I think most of them begin with alcohol. At least most of mine do.

Here are two cards that I would MUCH rather get than a stupid "Love's Embrace" Necklace:

(Bluntcard.com)

Um...if you don't think that these cards are totally amazing then you are waaaay too uptight. And you really shouldn't be reading my blog.

And another thing that I don't want it this:

Can you just imagine how pissed off you would be if your man showed up with what looked like a jewelry box with a mother effing diamond ring in it, but it turned out to be a freakin' coffee mug with a handle that looked like a ring? I mean, come on! If your man is stupid enough to pull a bait and switch like this, then his V-Day gift should probably be a karate kick to the balls.

After 20 years together I think that The Hub has finally figured out what I like and what I think is stupid. This year he surprised me with custom made M & M's:

These are pretty romantic. But not too romantic. Just how I like it. Not only do they show appreciation of my love for the mustache and for the boy I gave birth to, but I can eat them too. Anything that I can eat is my kind of romantic. As long as it's fattening.

And this year I surprised The Hub with a cockroach. No, I didn't catch a cockroach and give it to him. That would be weird. I bought a giant hissing cockroach at The Bronx Zoo that will be named after him. Cuz that isn't weird at all.

Nothing says love like a giant hissing cockroach. But the The Hub cockroach had better not be kissing any other cockroaches like this one is doing, or else I'll squish the shit out of him.

I have to admit, I honestly feel really bad for men on Valentine's Day.  If you get your girl lingerie she gets mad because she sees that as a gift for you, yells at you for only thinking about sex, and gets pissed. If you don't give her lingerie she probably thinks that you think she's too fat. If you give her chocolates she gets mad because you're giving her something that's gonna make her fat. And no matter what you get her, she's always gonna have at least one friend who got something a million times better. Then she'll be pissed at you for not giving her whatever the hell that was. I'm a girl, but even I admit that girls are crazy. Guys can't win. And I think that most guys don't even give a crap if they get anything on Valentine's Day or not. And if they do, they're most likely gay. I'm almost 100% sure that all any straight guy wants for valentine's Day is (a) to not piss off his woman, and (b) to get to see her naked. True story. So if you want to give your man a great V-Day gift, pretend to like whatever he gave you (even if it's the ring mug or the "Love's Embrace" necklace), and then let him touch your boob. THAT is romance.

And I Could Never Watch "The Little Rascals" Again

Last week, someone besides me actually had to have surgery for once. My good friend Kim, who you all may remember from the Target photo shoot blog, had some kind of back surgery, which was because of the fact that her back was totally effed up because of something that I'm sure she told me a few hundred times but that I already forgot. And not because I'm a bad friend, but because I am stupid. Anyway, she had surgery last week and I feel really bad for her because she not only had to endure a 3 night hospital stay, but a 3 night hospital stay in a non-private room. Let me just go on record here as saying that non-private hospital rooms can suck my balls. Her hospital didn't even offer private rooms, which I don't understand but I assume is because this hospital is in The Ozarks, and in The Ozarks, a room with only 2 people in it, in which they each get their own bed, is considered pretty fantastic.

I have had many hospital stays, but only one in a non-private room. That experience scarred me for life and I have instructed The Hub that no matter what condition I am in or how close to death and in need of hospital care I might be, he must never, NEVER, allow me to be put into a non-private room ever again. In fact, I would rather they just stick me in a Janitor's closet with one of those creepy molesty type Janitors for the duration of my hospital stay, because sleeping next to dirty mops and plungers and a molester that occasionally fondles my parts is about a kajillion times more preferable to me than sharing a room with another patient.

It was a cold Chicago day. I had been sick for about a week with what I assumed was just bronchitis. But after days of feeling like a herd of elephants had trampled on my chest, The Hub took me the closest hospital, which was unfortunately just a tiny bit on the wrong side of the tracks. Well, at the hospital I found out I had Pneumonia.  I guess that it isn't bad enough that Chicago has to totally freeze your balls off for 9 months of the year, but it has to give you pneumonia too. Anyway, they put me in a non-private room, but I was thrilled when I saw that I did not have a roommate. Thrilled. Then it got late. The Hub went home. I went to sleep. Then, in the middle of the night I was awakened by my new roommate. The curtain was pulled so I couldn't see anything, but I could hear her, and she was a total crack head. The nurse was trying to ask her a bunch of intake questions, most of which I heard the answers to. She was a hooker. She done got beat up. She had Chlamydia. She had "The Herpes." She had a lot of things. She was angry and loud and maybe not the brightest bulb in the lamp. She didn't want her IV. She went psycho balls crazy when they were putting it in. I was not happy. I don't like to get woken up anyway, but getting woken up by a crack-headed-herpes-hooker has got to be near the top of my list of ways that I don't want to get woken up. Right between getting woken up by being peed on by a hobo, and getting chewed on by a grizzly bear. Or peed on by a grizzly bear and chewed on by a hobo. Either way is bad. And unfortunately, I had to got to the bathroom. So I waited until the nurse left, and I could hear the hooker doing her crack headed snore, and I slipped out of bed to go to the bathroom.

This is it, people. This is the moment that I wish I could take back. The one moment in my life that I totally wish I had not been curious. Curiosity killed the cat, you guys. And you know what? I bet that cat begged it to kill it. Because it saw something like I did. Something that can never be erased from ones memory. As I was heading to the bathroom to do my "oh-my-god-my-roommate-hooker-has-the-herpes-and-I-heard-somewhere-you-can-totally-catch-the-herpes-from-toilet-seats" hovering pee, I looked to my right, where unfortunately my roommate's curtain was wide open, and I saw her. But by the looks of her head you woulda thought she was a him. Because she looked exactly like Buckwheat. EXACTLY. LIKE. BUCKWHEAT. But unfortunately....Oh, so unfortunately...I know that it wasn't Buckwheat. And wasn't a man. And I know that because she was on her back. With no covers. With her hospital gown pulled up to her neck. And nothing on under it. And her knees bent. And her legs spread apart. Oh so far apart. Like, really far. She looked like Buckwheat giving birth to another Buckwheat. And it was not good. Not good at all. And I have never shared a room again.

Exactly, you guys. And I betcha my roommate even carried a knife just like this one. For protection. You know, from pimps and Johns and crack dealers. And don't even ask me why Buckwheat is in possession of a giant deadly weapon in this photo. I certainly don't remember any murdery episodes of The Little Rascals. And his left hand is on the blade. That doesn't look safe. At all. 

And this is why, even though Kim says her roommate sucked, she didn't suck as much as mine. Did she cry all the time? Yes. Was she a drugged out hooker with STD's and a wide open vagina? No.

I win.

But back to Kim...She now has a big ass scar that is literally a big ass scar. It starts at her ass crack and heads north, making her look like she's got plumbers crack times a million. I have seen a photo, and it looks (a) pretty damn painful, and (b) pretty damn funny. I wanted to show you guys, but I didn't want to invade her privacy by showing a bazillion people her extended crack, so I drew it for you:

Kim actually has a much better figure than this, but I drew this quickly. Plus, I thought that if I drew her too shapely she'd think I spent an awful lot of time studying her curves. And then she might be in love with me and get a tattoo on her back that shows this love. And I'm just not into that. But anyway, this is what her big ass crack looks like.

So this is what I suggested she do to cover up the big ass crack scar. Not only does it cover it up perfectly, but also prevents her husband from getting any kinky ideas. Which he might. Since now there's so much attention drawn to her bottom. And since I realized that I drew pants on her that make her look like a sailor, I gave her some sailor themed tattoos as well. You're welcome, Kim.

Her friend Tana suggested she get a Cobra tattoo to cover it up, which is also a pretty good idea, yet not as good as mine. A Cobra says "I'm a wild girl", whereas mine says "I'm a good girl." I guess it just depends on how she wants to roll. I'm sure she would appreciate any suggestions you guys may have, so feel free to offer them up. And Kim.... GET WELL SOON!

If It Was My Left Arm I'd Just Cut It Off. Like James Franco Pretended To Do In That Movie. Because Obviously I Am Much Tougher Than Him. And I Have A Better Mustache.

So last week I went back to the doctor to get some tests done on my arm to try and figure out what the hell I did to myself. Five months ago. That I'm just now trying to get taken care of. Cuz that's how I roll. I am not a big fan of doctors ever since one "accidentally" punctured through something that was not supposed to be punctured through during what was supposed to be an outpatient surgery.  And since another one "accidentally" paralyzed my left vocal cord during another surgery, causing me to permanently LOSE THE ABILITY TO SPEAK unless I occasionally get collagen injections in there, which involves a giant needle digging into my neck and me crying like a baby who has a giant needle digging around in her neck. So sometimes I kinda put things off, which is just my way of avoiding being maimed. Yes, I know that there is a slight chance I could also get healed if I just grew some balls and went to the doctor, but there is about 100 times more of a chance that I'll get "accidentally" malpracticed to death.

Anyway, the doctor had this test done on my arm in which they stick needles all over me and just ever so slightly electrocute the shit out of me. I had myself totally worked up about it for days, but in the scheme of barbaric things that doctor's have done to me....this wasn't bad. Except for the last few minutes during which I dropped the F-Bomb a few times, followed by a nice "Sorry" each time. I am nothing if not polite.

So basically the results showed that they don't know what the hell is wrong with my shoulder still, but I have carpal freakin' tunnel in my right hand. Which I've been telling people is from my day job of giving Handy J's in the alley behind my house, but is really from too much Rock Band guitar and blogging. But the Handy J. story is just much less embarrassing than the truth. And my friend Lisa helped me realize that this whole thing is Steve's fault, of course. He bought me the Rock Band, and he bought the new MacBook, which puts my arms in a terrible position for tiny animal internet surfing and blogging safety. More proof that Steve really needs to get his act together.

Anyhow, remember the recent blog post where I said I'd like either a human arm transplant or a giant swiss army knife arm? Last night on my favorite show American Pickers, I spotted a giant swiss army knife in the background, and I tried to telekinetically tell Mike that he needed to buy it for my arm replacement but it didn't work, probably because that show is taped and not live, and not at all because my telekinesis doesn't work. I'm sure that wherever Mike was last night, he heard a little voice in his head telling him to get that damn giant knife. I have complete confidence in my powers, because once when I was 8 I made this mean girl fall off her bike just by thinking about it really hard. True story.

On the left is a photo of the giant Swiss army knife that I want my arm replaced with, and some scary guy who is obviously the guardian of the giant Swiss army knife that someone will have to kill in order to get it for me.  On the right is a photo of a giant Swiss cake roll that I got distracted by while trying to google image giant Swiss army knife and spotting the option of giant Swiss cake roll. I am PMS-ing and I want this pretty bad. And if I had my Swiss army arm I would have a knife to cut it and a fork to eat it with and my life would be that much closer to perfect.

So now I am wearing a brace that I hate because I have to take it off every time I pee, which is about 100 times a day. And I also keep hitting myself in the face with it while I sleep. And it hurts. I wish this had happened to my left hand instead, because that hand is just for show. It doesn't really do anything except dangle there like a limp noodle anyway. But my right hand is super useful. I dial the phone with it. I text with it. I eat with it. I drink with it. I flip people off with it. I need it to be in tip top shape. But just in case worse comes to worst, I am practicing making margaritas with my feet. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Now in honor of all my friends and family who are enduring the Blizzard Of The Century, here is a photo of a tiny little seal covered in snow. You're welcome.

I. Want. To. Hug. This. NOW.