Alice Can Suck It...Patti's Been To The REAL Wonderland!

I know, I know, I've totally sucked as a blog hostess lately, but I've been kind've bored with myself. I can hear you all gasping right now, but it's true. Sometimes even I get sick of me. The weirdness that you read on here once or twice a week is what is CONSTANTLY streaming through my head all day every day. I can be a bit much for me to take. Between trying to get some time away from myself, trying to plan a vacation, and trying to thoroughly investigate all leads as to who poisoned me a little over a week ago (Yes, perp...I'm still on the case), I have been neglecting the blog. That is, until today. Today I am going to tell you about my "Happy Place". My Mecca. The Renee Zellweger to my Tom Cruise. The place that completes me. The Drag Bar.

Since I am a nice, responsible, suburban wife and mother, I don't get out too often, unless you want to count trips to school, Target, HEB, as well as the occasional Dr.'s appointment, which I really try to avoid since every time I go they either diagnose me with some rare or old person disease, or suggest we do some sort of surgery on something or another. Just for kicks, I am convinced. Anyway, the point is that I don't get out much. Well, at least I didn't until last Saturday night when I made my pilgrimage to paradise.

So, me and three of my more adventurous friends decided to enlighten ourselves as to the various types of entertainment that the city of Houston has to offer. Did you mom's know that Houston has more than a zoo, an aquarium, McDonald's Playplace's and Chuck E. Cheese's? Neither did I! But let me tell you this: There is a whole other world out there. A world in which instead of putting on their jammies at 6 PM people actually go out in public after 10 PM. You heard me right. Now that I am all hip, I know that nothing exciting happens before 10 PM. And here I was, deep in oblivious REM sleep while amazing things were happening all around me! Amazing things, indeed.

In what was a complete and utter shock to my old-lady system, we actually went someplace at 11:00 PM. My body was confused and trying to rebel, but I fought that with plenty of pre-adventure vitamins and caffeine, and it worked. So at 11 o'clock on Saturday, February the 13th, I entered the bar of my dreams. Like most of you, I have seen the drag bar in "The Birdcage" and reveled in it's awesome glory, but never have I been to a real one before. I can tell you this, people: It is Heaven. My name is Patti Ford and I love Drag Queen's. All shapes, sizes, colors, musical styles. I. Love. It. All. Exclamation Point!

Some of you may be shaking your heads right now, thinking that there's no way you would like this kind of place. But let me tell you this: You will. If you are a subscriber to my blog, I have to assume, right off the bat, that you are a bit crazy. A tad wacky. Maybe just a little left of center. If you're not, then you will be when I get done with you. Anyway, in my opinion, there is no way you wouldn't like it there. Not if you are a person with any sense of adventure, sense of wonder and sense of humor.

Some of the performers were beautiful, others were, well...not. But they were all awesome in their own special ways. Each of those ladies gave it their all, and you couldn't help but cheer them on. I found myself wishing I could perform. My lead song choices would be the crowd-pleasing and oh-so-appropriate "Dancing Queen" and a wink-wink version of "Man, I Feel Like A Woman," followed by a soulful rendition of the ultimate epitome of cheesy 70's ballads, "I've Never Been To Me". I would wear satin and sequins. Lots and lots of sequins. Maybe even some sort of feathery headpiece! I could definitely pass as a man passing as a woman, due to my height, shoe size and mannish walk. I could even use my neck scar for entertainment value once again, by saying that I had Adam's Apple Removal Surgery, or a Manapple-ectomy, if you want to use the professional term I just now made up. Performing at a regular bar I may be on the mid to lower end of the hotness scale, but at a drag bar? At a drag bar I could be a 10 (okay, maybe an 8)!! Even if I were a 1, the crowd would support me, cheer for me, give me dollar bills while fully clothed, because that's the kind of place this is. It's an amazing place. A place where you are accepted for who you are. A place where everyone just wants to have a good time. And that, my friends, is a happy place.

Me: After going through RuPaul's Dragulator. I am gorgeous!!

Law And Order: Patti Poisoning Unit (doink! doink!)

In case you haven't noticed, I've been MIA for a week, due to what I am positive was the single worst case of food poisoning EVER. Remember a few years ago when Wendy's or Jack In The Box or Burger King or one of those places made everyone sick with bad burgers? Mine was worse than that. It was as if I had eaten each and every one of those poisonous burgers myself. And yes, Steve, it was worse than your Boston Market incident of '96. Don't argue with me. Anyway, it's been five days now and I'm almost feeling like myself again, although I'm still having some pretty severe flashbacks. I've been to the dark side, people. I've been to the dark side and I've seen some things, and those things stay with you.

Because I do not want this crisis to ever befall me again, I've been trying to retrace my steps so I can figure out who/what did this to me, and I have come up with five possible scenarios:

1) "Friend" Poisoning. I met my friend Lee for lunch at a restaurant that SHE suggested. A restaurant that SHE likes. A restaurant which I have only been to one time, years ago. At the restaurant in question, I had the lettuce wraps, an item which SHE thought I would enjoy. An item that SHE DID NOT have herself. During said dinner, SHE INSISTED I try a dipping sauce that she said was "delicious". Whether or not she tasted this as well, I cannot say. I never witnessed her doing so. Suspicious? On so many levels...

2) Box Of Crap. As you may have read in last week's blog, I received a B.O.C from my childhood friend, John. While I am quite positive that John was just being his funny, quirky self by sending me this B.O.C., I have suspicions that something evil may have happened. I don't want to point fingers here, but let's just say that John has a wife and sometimes wives don't like their husband's to have female friends. Add to that the fact that the news media is always telling us about various chemical agents that can be put into envelopes and mailed. Add to that the fact that when I opened that B.O.C there was quite a bit of what I thought at the time to be dust and/or cigarette ash floating around. Top that off with the fact that a chemical poisoning can have the same symptoms as severe food poisoning (or so I assume). Mix all those facts together, and things start to look a little sinister...do they not?

3) Blog hate. I know, I know, this idea seems pretty far-fetched, but for the sake of argument let's pretend that someone out there really hates my blog. Maybe someone really, really loves Brooke Shields, despises the word "funky" and (gasp) hates Paul Rudd. Maybe, just maybe, this person went off the deep end when I said that I like the book "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" (that book can definitely be polarizing), and they decided to try and do me in. Maybe they snuck into my house and poisoned my food, or my toothbrush, or (assuming they were a super-genius) my wine! The plot thickens...

4) Roomba. As my long time readers know, she used to be my little round cleaning angel and now she's like my bitchy, self-absorbed teenage daughter. Since I was such a handful for my mom, and I don't have a daughter to give me paybacks, god is punishing me through Roomba. Does she hate me that much? I think so. And ponder this: she has the ability to suck up dust, or dust-like substances, as well as blow them out. Could she potentially sneak out at night, head to the seedy part of town, score some "angel dust" or some other powdery drug that could induce severe vomiting, then roll back home and sneak in under the cover of night and sprinkle that "dust" onto some of my personal belongings? Hell. Yes.

5) Running. I just have to assume that running could potentially shoulder the blame for this. I haven't quite ironed out the details , but I'm not taking it off the list just yet.

So there you have it. My five genius theories for why I was so sick last week. If you have any information that could lead to the proving or disproving of any of the five scenarios, please submit it to myself, or the local authorities, ASAP. I will be working diligently to solve this case, as soon as my brain is back to it's full intellectual abilities, which may or may not happen any time soon. For that reason, any help you could give me would be greatly appreciated. Until I nab the perp, I will live in fear of pretty much everything.

You Down With B.O.C (Yeah, you know me)

Well, it's rainy and cold outside today, and I'm just being a complete slug, so I thought it was the perfect time to write something. At least it seemed like a good idea an hour ago, before I had yet another reminder that my brain cells are dying off at an alarming rate. Sometimes when I log into my blog it asks me for a password, and sometimes it doesn't. Unfortunately for me, today was a password day. I thought I knew it, but it turns out that I'm even more stupid than I thought, which is really saying something, since I am nothing if not honest with myself about my level of stupidity.

After blogger rejected what I thought was my password about 5 times, I decided to make a new one. In yet another unfortunate twist, in order to change your password you must do one of those Word Verification things, which I usually have more trouble with than College Algebra, and this time was no exception. This time I set a personal record for failed attempts at Word Verification. Not only that, but I am actually quite confident that I may have set a world record as well. So after what seemed like hours of typing in "words" like fgl8esTar and rAvd4ESlg2 I finally got lucky with thEr8ulAte, and made it onto my blog. Problem is, now I not only can't remember what I was going to blog about, but I also have a headache and a sore throat from screaming curse words at my computer screen.

So needless to say I am now too exhausted to write much of anything, thanks to blogger's fear that there lives, somewhere in this big world of ours, a very bored and sinister individual who wants nothing more in life than to hack into my blog and wreak havoc on my reputation by writing a counterfeit entry. Listen, whoever you are, you can't possibly, in a million years, do more damage to my reputation that I can do to myself, so save your hacking energy and find a new pastime.

So there you have it. My excuse of the day. But since I love you guys and I don't want to leave you completely empty-handed, I will leave you with this: Last week I sent my dear friend John a book that I wanted him to read (it is called "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, and it is hysterical, but not for the faint of heart or die-hard women's libbers). After sending him this book I received an email that stated the following "Thanks for the book! I've only read the first story but I can tell its gonna be fun. You need to be careful sending me packages because I have a tendency to send things back. Usually if I clean out a drawer or closet shelf and find a bunch of stuff I haven't seen in years, yet can't bring myself to throw away, it goes in the mail. So don't be surprised if you get a big box of crap in the mail. Thanks again!" So yesterday I received my "Box Of Crap", and here is a photo as well as a partial inventory:

-Book of matches, partially used
-Menu for one of my favorite pizza parlor's. Lightly stained.
-Electric Pencil Sharpener, full of pencil gunk.
-2 Monkey Heads made from coconuts
-Orange Marmalade. Homemade. Looks really old.
-Miniature stuffed Winnie The Pooh in a bunny costume.
-2 broken watches
-2 pens (working)
-Dental floss
-Chia Seeds
-Photo of my face drinking a beer (extremely close-up shot)
-Football necklace
etc...

While this may seem like a strange thing for someone to do (not only the sending of the box, but also the writing about the sending of the box), I was thrilled to receive my B.O.C. See, I may not get to see or talk to John as much as I would like to, but now when I am missing him, I can dump out my B.O.C and sit in the middle of that cigarette smoke smelling pile of trash and pretend I am with him. And each time I look at my B.O.C. it will remind me that maybe, just maybe, I am not the weirdest person in the world, because someone who would spend $11.87 to send me a giant B.O.C. is at the very least, the same amount of strange as the person who was happy to receive it.

Unlike Bruce, I Was Not Born To Run

I have a sneaking suspicion that The Universe does not approve of my running. She didn't seem to have a beef with my walking, bike riding, my wii fitting or my step aerobics, but The Big U definitely has a problem with the running. As most of you are aware, I have never been a runner. In the past, I have chosen to do whatever it takes to avoid it, except possibly in the early 80's when there was a neighborhood game of Kiss Tag going on, and my cute neighbor was playing. For some reason, on those particular nights when I was "It", I could run like Prefontaine. Except, of course, when He was "It". Then I somehow always managed to either trip over a stick or get a massive leg cramp.

So I am fairly certain that The Big U is trying to send me a message, and the first way she chose to send me that message was by way of my knees. Basically, my knees are completely rebelling against the entire idea of running. They've gone from just an annoying pain, to just deciding to fold up on me when I'm simply walking across my living room. I went to see my Doctor this week, and he has referred me to an Orthopedist and told me in the meantime, no running on cement and to try running on my treadmill. I explained to him that I had recently tried just that, and it failed to turn out well. As a matter of fact, if someone had been videotaping it I am sure it would now be one of the most watched You Tube videos of all time, since it involved not only a flying telephone, water bottle and remote control, but also an elaborate fall and subsequent filing cabinet slam by some idiot who forgot to attach the safety clip to her pants.

Anyway, he gave me this "advice" on Tuesday, and on Wednesday I met my running group for a run on the cement, because I am a rebel and that's how I roll. (And I may indeed be rolling once I completely eff myself up and get my very own tricked out mobility scooter. Bad news with that scenario is that I will have severe butt growth due to not being able to exercise. Good news is that nobody will be able to see it since I will be sitting on it while I roll around all day.) Since I chose to ignore my doctor and go running anyway, The Universe got pissy and decided to make me run right through a dog turd that must have come from some freakishly giant Marmaduke/Horse crossbreed. In my opinion, if The Universe wanted me to run, she would have had me step into a pile of something more pleasant than poo. Perhaps money, wine, or Paul Rudd would have done the trick. THAT would have been positive reinforcement. Unbelievably huge pile of poo? Not so much.

Since today was a non-running group day, I agreed to do something completely unlike me. Yes, even more surprising than running. I decided to go to a Jazzercise class. I will now pause for a moment so you can all laugh at me......................................................................Okay. Are you done? I know, I know, it is a funny image. I GET IT! When one of my readers (the lovely Melissa Bland) invited me to join her, I laughed as well. I had an image in my mind of those old ladies on TV doing Sit And Be Fit, and since I didn't own a pastel leotard, leg warmers or white tights, I almost said "no", but in an uncharacteristic moment of agreeability, I decided to give it a try. While it was actually a really fun workout, I am certain that a video of me in the act of Jazzercising would surpass even my top-ranking treadmill fall on You Tube.

Suffice it to say that today I discovered what I have always suspected to be true: I have no rhythm. Sure, I had my first clue back in '87 when Dirty Dancing came out and I painstakingly tried (and failed?) to recreate some of Baby's moves, but until today, I always held onto the dream that I was an awesome dancer. Well, unfortunately I realized that I am a mess, and that I am not so good at the whole "Do what I do" premise of an exercise class. I quickly understood that I am not a good mimic, and at some points, when I just couldn't seem to even slightly recreate what our instructor was doing, I would just go into a more sedate version of the "Elaine Dance" and do my own thing.

When I talked to the instructor after class and told her this, she said that my crazy dance was fine, as long as I kept moving. Say what? Have I actually found a place where my inability to follow directions will be accepted (as long as I stay in the back so as not to distract the other participants)? A place where, if I'm just not feeling the side-step lunges, I can instead break into Baby Houseman's merengue? Indeed, I think I have. At least until I get too carried away and try the big "I've had The Time Of My Life" finale, and try to jump into the instructor's arms. At that point, I think I may be asked to leave.

Goodbye Funky Town, Hello Good Vibrations

Previously, on Insane In The Mom-Brain: After enduring many trials and tribulations such as ugly hair, lack of wine, unexpected and unwelcome rain, a whiny child, and a menstrually challenged lunch date, our heroine was stuck in a funk. (Yes, I am choosing to call myself "heroine" because that makes me feel better, so whether or not it is true doesn't matter. I do not mind living in a fantasy world one bit.)

As I was saying....our grumpy HEROINE was stranded in funky town due to no fault of her own, because she is awesome. Things didn't improve much Thursday, when she found out she would need to get braces this year. Metal, wiry, braces....in this, the year of her 20th Class Reunion. Nor did things perk up much Friday morning, when she had to go to her running group. Nothing "bad" happened at running group, but running does not equal happiness. The mere act of making oneself run from absolutely nothing, is in and of itself, an act of complete and utter stupidity. Yet inexplicably, she runs.

Although things stayed pretty blah throughout much of Friday, They actually got better Friday evening, thanks to the occurrence of a much-needed girls night out. Your awesomely cool, amazingly smart, and very sore runner's kneed Heroine Patti went out with her friend Jennifer for dinner, drinks, and a late-night trip to the home of her crazy (in a good way) friend, Maureen. I won't bog you down with details, but they ate too much, were almost set on fire, nearly chipped a tooth, had something slipped into their beer, were mad that they were leered at by old dudes and sad that they weren't leered at by young ones, re-enacted scenes from the amazing cinematic masterpiece "Nell", staring Jodi Foster as "Nell" ( a role that, in a perfect world, would have, SHOULD have, gone to Patti), and narrowly avoided being ninja attacked by wild, elementary school-aged deer. These sorts of happenings can definitely bring one out of funky town, and into just plain being Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch kind've funky (which, in case you didn't know, is a cool kind've funky).

So, to all of you who were worried about her stint in the town of funk, let it be known that she appreciates your concern (but would have appreciated it much more if it had been given in the form of baked goods and/or wine), and she is feeling better this week. Even after enduring yet another bad hair day today, as well as being forced to run much farther then she ever has before, she continues to feel funky-cool instead of funky-grumpy, and she will try to get her act together and write another blog soon. Fresh-baked cookies may speed up the healing process....I'm just saying. (Photo Courtesy of my.spill.com)