I really had no idea what I was gonna write about when I sat down at my computer today. And guess what? You can totally tell.

You guys know how un-focusey I am. How even the slightest sound or shiny thing in my peripheral vision can make me get up from my desk and wander around the house for at least an hour. Usually I spend the first half-a-second looking for where the shine or the noise came from, then the next 59 minutes and 59 1/2 seconds are spent doing things like practicing my karate moves, acting out memorable scenes from Sixteen Candles, singing songs for my cat (she really seems to like Meatloaf these days), and starting a minimum of 13 projects that need to be done around the house and wandering off from each of those after approximately 2 minutes. This is just how I roll. And I totally have zero problems with it.

Other people have a problem with it though.

I think that The Hub is often thisclose to trying to find an assassin to just go ahead and whack me off already. That way he can get a new wife that is way more housewifey than me. Or possibly just get a full-time live-in maid. Which I would totally let him get right now, BTW. If he wanted to. Cuz I could use one of those for sure. I've always been jealous of that damn Carol Brady with her awesome as hell haircut and her amazing-ass Alice. A full-time maid/nanny who wears a uniform and does EVERYTHING that needs to be done in your house. Well, except for your husband. Alice definitely wasn't doing him. How do I know that? Cuz he was super gay. She was, however, doing Sam The Butcher. Which was  -let's face it-  sooo totally going above and beyond the call of duty. I mean, screwing the neighborhood butcher just so you can save your bosses a few bucks on meat? Hell. Yes. That Alice really knew how to do her job like a champ. I have a lady who cleans my house twice a month, and I can't even get her to move the kitchen rug and mop underneath it. So I really think that there's about zero chance of getting her to give my lawn guys a few BJ's so I can get free tree-pruning and lawn aeration. Whatever the hell that is.

The work ethic of the 2012 housekeeper is definitely not what it was in the 70's. Not. Even. Close. And ya know what? That's just sad.

I just realized that I said that The Hub wants to hire an assassin to "whack me off," and I think I got that wording wrong. I think I meant "whack me." Or I coulda just said "Off me." And these are all handy phrases to know for when I go through the search history on our computer. I know that most of you lady readers of mine probably go through your men's search history to see if they've been looking at porn. But if I were to go through mine, it would totally be to look for things like "how to hire someone to murder my wife and make it look like she died in a slipping-and-falling-while-dancing-for-the-cat-on-a-freshly-waxed-floor-while-wearing-her-mustache-print-knee-socks kinda accident."

I haven't found any evidence yet. Well, I haven't actually looked for any evidence yet. Mainly due to the fact that one has to sit still and focus for more than half a second in order to nose through ones search history. And let's face it you guys. That's just never gonna happen. But I want you all to know that if you ever hear that some freak accident has befallen me, that shit needs to be investigated. I mean, chances are pretty super high that whatever the "accident" was, it was totally a real accident. Especially if it was something really weird. For example, if you hear that I died while trying to jet pack around my neighborhood with a homemade jet pack that I made by tying a leaf blower to my back, and wearing my knitted unicorn hat in lieu of a safety helmet, that shit was most-definitely on the up and up. But if you hear that I died after trying to float across the bayou down the street in a boat that I fashioned out of old flip flops and duct tape, which quickly sank after I brought a big-ass cooler of Modelo on board, at which point I got super eaten up by alligator's....you should definitely be suspicious. Because while I would so totally build that awesome raft and take it on a kick-ass journey that rivals Huckelberry Finn's -minus Jim and the racism- I would without-a-doubt pour all of my Modelo into one of those Camelback thing-a-ma-bobs that the hard-core bike riders wear. I would definitely NOT take a giant cooler on my flip flop raft, you guys. Cuz that would just be ridiculous.

BTW: When I googled "Whack off" to see if I had it wrong, this came up on yahoo answers, and I enjoyed these questions so much that I thought I would share:

Waxing leads to 80's music and sitcoms and Davey Crockett and horror movies. That's how my mind works.

So the other day I went to get a wax. No. Not for my car. For my Secret Garden. And in case you don't know what that is, it's my in-between, you guys. And in case you don't know what that is, it's my taco. And in case you don't know what THAT is, you really need to (a) get a life, and (b) get a life. Although if you wanna get totally geeked-out and all technical about it, then vagina is the word I guess I would use. But that doesn't really work in this situation, cuz the vagina is actually the interior portion of the garden. And unless you are a real live sasquatch or are a Kardashian, the interior part should not be hairy. It should oh so totally NOT be hairy.  As far as I can recall from those awkward and uncomfortable sex-ed classes back in middle school, the actual part that I'm referring to is just called the pubic area or the labia or something like that. I think it's Major Labia, if you wanna get all fancy. And no, that isn't that 80's sitcom that starred that guy who used to be in "Simon and Simon" and then married Delta Burke when she was skinny then she pulled a fast one on him and got fat again. Maybe I have that name backwards. Maybe it's called the labia major. But that just sounds like one of Beethoven's symphonies or something boring like that. But either way, alls I'm saying is that it sounds really technical and oh so super duper un-sexy.

Actually, since I am writing about this I decided to google a map of this stuff so I could get the terms right. But just FYI: Don't actually "google maps" that stuff. Cuz they totally do not have it there. But there IS a place in Russia called Vagina. And I now know how to get to THERE. And I should probably actually go, because those Russian women, so far as I can tell from the movies, might need a few tips on the tending of their gardens. Those bitches look pretty hairy. But save yourselves some time. Learn from my mistakes. And just regular google it.

So anyways, regular old google led me to a diagram ("Map" was the wrong word, I guess. Although I have known some boys in my past who really could have used one), and the wording they used in said diagram, is a super mega turn-off. Did you guys happen to know that lady parts have an area called the "vestibule"? Isn't a vestibule some kind of foyer? Okay, remember on "Friends" when Chandler got stuck in an ATM vestibule with Jill Goodacre? I always thought he was stuck in a bank foyer. But maybe he was actually stuck in her Secret Garden. Cuz let's face it, he really was kinda awkward with women, so if any dude was gonna mess up an encounter with Jill Goodacre, it was probably gonna be him. And Ross. Ross was super nerdy. Remember when he got stuck in those freakin' leather pants? What an idiot. But anyhow, this whole "vestibule" thing? It really changes the whole way that I look at "Friends", and I think I'm gonna have to go back and watch some re-runs now that I have this knowledge. Kinda like when I discovered that "Turning Japanese" wasn't a song about morphing into an Asian person, but a song about whacking off. And ditto with "She Bop". That shit messed up my mind!

Man, I have gotten so off track with this.

But basically I prefer to call that area my Secret Garden And that's only due to the fact that Bruce Springsteen told me to. And we all know that he's The Boss. So it's best to just do what he says. He's from Jersey, you know. So he's probably got some bad-ass connections. Anyways, when I first heard that "Secret Garden" song, there was no fooling me. I had learned my lesson in the 80's with those other songs. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'll kick you in the nads. Possibly even spork you. Depending on my mood. But I heard those lyrics and I damn well knew what he was talking about:

She'll let you in her house
If you come knockin' late at night
She'll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She'll let you deep inside
But there's a Secret Garden she hides.

Wait. Wait a goddamn minute. Now that I am re-reading these lyrics, I'm thinking that maybe I had this all kinds of wrong.  I think that maybe "she" is a hooker. Cuz he says "If you pay the price, she'll let you deep inside. But there's a secret garden she hides." So he's obviously paid her (hooker), and she let him deep inside. But she's still hiding the secret garden So that CAN'T be her taco. Cuz he already got deep inside of that.  So I am getting all Perry Masony up in here and deducing that the secret garden is her butt and she must charge extra for butt sex. Which totally makes sense. Cuz I know plenty of non-hookers who do the butt sex, and although they may not ask for cash money, they still get a little shopping out of it. Maybe some jewelry. Occasionally a nice weekend vacation. So I suppose that a hooker would be all kinds of stupid if she didn't charge some major bucks for that.

And now we are way off track.

Sometimes my mind goes on tangents. And it's hard, oh so hard, to get back where I started.

And I tried to google maps "my train of thought" but it took me to a transportation museum in St. Louis. And although I know I am way off course, I'm pretty sure that a transportation museum is not what I was talking about. Even though my brain DID get off track. And trains run on TRACKS. And TRAINS are for transportation.

Wow. That shit just blew my mind. For reals.

But anyways, what I was talking about before my brain got all twisty and turny and transportationy, was waxing.

So I went in for a wax yesterday, and I'm not gonna lie. It hurts. And it hurts like balls. And in situations that hurt like balls, I like to distract myself by talking. Actually, to be totally 100% honest, I like to distract myself by talking in ANY AND ALL situations. I am nothing if not a talker. And in this situation in which my bottom half was totally naked and I was in really awkward positions whilst getting hair brutally yanked from my nether-regions, I decided that it was totally apropos to discuss ball waxing. Because women? I understand why WE wax. Women like to be smooth. In most places, anyways. We all have different levels of smoothosity that we wanna achieve. But men? Men are not supposed to be smooth. Well, except on their backs. Cuz that shit is just disturbing. I don't need my man looking like he's gone all Davey Crockett and skinned a buffalo and flung it on his back to stay warm. But smooth in the down below? Nope. I mean, I think most women like their men to be "manscaped", but totally bald? That is just so totally not ok in my book.

So I had heard tell of men going in for "Crack and Sack's". Which is just what it sounds like, you guys. They get their butts and balls waxed. And I already know that balls look ridiculous, but I would prefer them to be hidden away behind a bit of fuzz rather than just be hanging there taunting me with their gleaming apricot-i-ness. That is disturbing to me on so many levels. And as the waxing lady told me to roll over and spread my cheeks, I decided to ask her how many men go full Brazilian. And the answer was quite a few. Quite a few, ladies. Which, of course, I immediately pictured in my twisted-awesome mind. And ya know what? It was not a pretty picture. And it wasn't manly either. It looked like a hairy man wearing skin panties. Which I of course told my waxing lady, to which she replied, "Well, it kinda does. But I fade it in." Meaning, she gradually waxes less and less as she goes up and/or down so it looks "natural". Ya know, if it's "natural" to be wearing skin panties with a gradual thickening of hair around the edges. Which it's sooo totally not. And let me tell you something. That would be a deal breaker for me. I like my guy to be organized down there. But I pretty much don't want him to look like he went all "Silence of the Lambs" and made skin panties with shiny dangling apricot balls that mock me at every wiggle.

Please, men of the world, stop the madness. Stop it now!
Well, unless you're gay. Then by all means, wear your skin panties with pride. I can totally see that being acceptable.

Booze, Midgets, Disco-Skating and Emotions. A Dumb-Ass Holiday Story.

You know it's been awhile since you've blogged when:

(a) You forget the address of your own damn blog.
(b) Then you finally remember that there is a link to it on your bookmarks bar, but it still takes you 5 more minutes to find it.
(c) Once you finally find it and get to your blog, you realize you don't even remember the password.
(d) So you go through all the crap you have to go through to get your password sent to you and then realize that your damn password was the supposedly idiot-proof password, "i4gotmypassword"
(e) Once you're finally in the Fort Knoxiness that is your blog, you don't even remember what button to click to write a new blog.
(f) Believe me when I tell you that there was indeed an "f" but that I totally forgot it in the 60 seconds it took me to write "a" through "e"

For those of you who know me, that should be easy for you to believe. What should be hard to believe, is that I have actually had the wherewithal to write nearly 200 of these amazingly fascinating blog posts.

I know. I can't even begin to understand how it even happened, but I think I've gotten spacier. I am pretty sure that if you ask anyone in my orbit if they believe this to be a factual statement, they would say "hell yes." And I don't know what happened to kill the brain cells that were in charge of helping me remember things and actually have the motivation to actually DO those things. But I am going to go ahead and blame cleaning supplies. And because of the INDISPUTABLE SCIENTIFIC FACT that cleaning supplies have ruined my brain, I shall clean no more.

And that is sad. Cuz I really did love to clean.

And now I'll have to drink more beer to drown the sorrow I feel since not being able to clean all the stuff and the things.

My brain cells may be dying off at an alarming rate, but I'm still smart where it counts: Coming up with excuses to drink beer and being awesome at Miscellaneous 80's Trivia.

Q: What was the first word Allison said on The Breakfast Club?
A: Vodka

Q: What was the name of Laura's horse on Little House on the Prairie?
A: Bunny

And BTW...do you remember when Nellie fell off of Bunny and pretended to be paralyzed and Bunny almost got put down? That Nellie Oleson was a fucker.

But anyways...

I DID look back at my last blog post just to see what it was about. Because I honestly had no idea. It seems to have been about how I get inappropriately touched by people and animals. A whole lot. Through no fault of my own. Well, unless you would call telling everything and everyone that I am going to hump it or them, MY fault. Which I doubt you would. Cuz you know that I will spork you in the kidney if you do.

So I'm thinking...what has happened since last we chatted? Well, I went on our annual holiday tour of Missouri. And as usual, I drank. I drank a lot. But I offset the calories of the drinking by not really eating that much, which helped me in two ways. #1 being that it made me save on calories, and #2 being that it made me get buzzed mega-fast. And I think we can all agree that drinking during the holidays is pretty necessary. I mean, I love my family. (Psst! They are reading this.) I REALLY LOVE MY FAMILY! But sometimes one needs just a touch of alcohol to make the family closeness bearable. Plus, alcohol actually makes you love your relatives more. It's just Science. Much like the cleaning supplies killing off my brain cells thing is Science. Duh.

But all in all this holiday was pretty uneventful. No attempted murders of my prized possessions (Like last year's horrifying and emotionally scarring, near murder of Mr. Stachey). No getting sent in circles by GPS. No snowstorms. No games of charades in which my young niece acts out Aunt Patti as a sloppy drunk who runs into walls and falls down. And no visits to the urgent care clinic for the first time in probably 5 years.

It was a strangely uneventful Christmas.

Something interesting DID happen at my mom's house when I met my sister's friend, who I shall protect by calling "Not Garrison." Not Garrison had a little hatchback car that I had heard about months ago, due to the fact that he removed the back seats in order to make the entire rear of the car into what I believe to be a midget skating rink/kidnapping trap. See...what he did was remove all rear seating and then lay wooden floors down over the entire rear of the car, leaving a secret area below "for storage." Why? Well, he claims it is to discourage miscellaneous people from asking him for transport all the time. But as I previously stated,  I believe it to be a skating rink in which he will place one tiny skating midget who will enticingly disco skate under a small disco ball and funky lights in order to lure other midgets into the back of the car to skate, much like a siren lures sailors and pirates and shit, where they will then fall through a little trap door in the floor and into the little dungeon space below. I think he plans to drive across country capturing disco-loving midgets in every state. I am almost positive that I am correct about my assumptions here, people. I even made him show me the vehicle in question so that I could inspect it pretty closely, and I told him I suspected that he is trying to steal our nation's little people. But he just looked at me blankly and then nervously giggled. Which is exactly how a guilty party would play it. The dude may be able to fool some of the people most of the time and most of the people all of the time but he can't fool this person any of those times. Unless this person is drunk. Or low blood-sugared. Or menstrually imbalanced. Or something like that. Then yeah. He could probably fool me. But I was none of those.

Except possibly the drunk one.

And my niece and I decided to make our own "Patti and Jillian's Year of Feelings" calendar, in which we will have a different feeling/emotion for each month. This is our "Cool/Awesome" shot:

And this is our "Shocked/Frightened" shot:

We think we might sell copies on ebay. I'm sure it's going to be a top seller. As a matter of fact, we might just open a Zazzle store in which we will sell P & J Feelings Paraphernalia, such as eco-friendly shopping bags, coffee mugs, hoodies, etc... And I will use the money to purchase NotGarrison's midget-disco-skating-kidnapping-mobile. Because if anyone's gonna be doing something as sick, twisted, and weirdly awesome as that, it's gonna be me. And then next year, I will sell a calendar in which each month has a different disco-skating midget! Money. In. The. Bank.

Maybe my brain cells aren't so bad after all.


Footnote: I know that it is not officially Politically Correct to call little people "midgets" but for the purpose of this blog it flowed better. And personally I think it sounds cuter. Cuz to me, little people will always mean those REALLY little people from that cartoon when I was a kid that lived in your walls and had toilets that were made out of thimbles and stuff. So please don't get all butt-hurt and send me email about my use of the word. Gracias.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How many girls do you think THAT screwed up?

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

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

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

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

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

See how much I dig you guys?

XO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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