If I had Studied Instead Of Partied We'd All Be Rockin' Bikini's Right Now

I'm sweating my ass off. Figuratively speaking anyway. I wish I was literally sweating my ass off.  And my hips.  And my inner thighs. And my belly. If there was a way to make that happen, I wouldn't mind the stinky sweat. You'd think that some nerdy scientist would have come up with a way to do that by now.  Just pop a pill, go out in the heat, and sweat off the pounds just by standing there. No need for that screechy Richard Simmons playing Oldies on his boom box and bouncing around all ADHD like a psychotic 3-year-old with a spray tan and a fro. But I guess all the scientists are too busy trying to cure diseases like cancer and lupus and stuff to bother themselves with a fat-sweating pill.  But aren't sciency people usually chubby and nerdy?  That's what I always thought anyway.  In high school and college I always zeroed in on the chubby nerd to be my lab partner because I just assumed they'd carry me through the semester.  Unfortunately the chubby nerds are usually born with a very low tolerance for horseplay and general goofing off.  They also often enjoy tattling on people who use their dissection frogs as puppets and make them reenact scenes from Laverne and Shirley. Stupid science nerds. Anyway, I would assume that those types of brainiacs would want to help themselves get thinner and sexier and maybe at least in their free-time work on a fat-sweat pill.  You can't tell me they don't have loads of free time in between all the disease curing, dungeons and dragons playing, 4-square-meal eating and adult-onset acne treating.

There's nothing like Houston heat to make you feel even fatter.  When things get sweaty they rub on each other and it just feels gross. When I first moved here, a few years before I traded my awesome abs and tight butt for a little person who farts alot and won't let me dance in public, I weighed WAY less than I do now. And even though it was the same heat I didn't really suffer. Now whenever some skinny little person tells me she's hot, I'm like, "Oh yeah? Strap an Easter ham to your belly and some chicken cutlets to your inner thighs and tell me how you feel then!" Seriously. When you have the same body mass as a flea, the heat just cruises on past you. When you're that small, it's like you have built-in air conditioning. When you have no insulation, your bones are always cold. Fat is like crisco, which boils in the heat and in turn makes you hot. This is just science.

And for those of you who don't live in Houston, you really have no idea. None. I thought I knew what hot was. I thought I knew what humid was. But until I moved here I had no idea. It is a deadly combination. One that sucks all energy from your body while simultaneously making your hair frizz like Carrot Top's and making you smell like a homeless persons crack. Nothing good can come from it. Those of us who are lucky enough to have a swimming pool at least have a nice place to cool off. At least until July when the water is so hot that you could have a crawfish boil in there. Last August I'm pretty sure I  boiled my appendix to medium well. It definitely feels a bit firmer than it did before. If you don't have your own pool you have to go to the neighborhood pools, which means that you have to wear a swimsuit in public, which is near the top of my list of things to avoid between getting accidentally decapitated on Space Mountain and getting felt up by Glen Beck.

One thing that makes me happy this time of year, is that all the tabloids run the photos of the famous people and their cellulite. I know that it should upset me, seeing their privacy invaded like that, but I have to admit that it fills me with immense joy. I justify my feelings this way: If someone wants to give me my own sitcom or movie franchise, millions of dollars, movie star boyfriends, 5 houses and a private island, then they can take pictures of my ass fat whenever they want. Seems fair to me. Although I have to say, if I had as much money as Oprah, and private cooks and trainers, I would not have her waggly coin purse arm pits. If those employees couldn't whip me into shape, you bet your cellulite ass I would hire my own team of science geeks to invent me a fat sweating pill. And if they couldn't, I would pay the magazines to decide that thunder thighs and waggle pits are the new sexy. Because in my experience, if a magazine says it, the public believes it. In 1977 Tiger Beat told me that Leif Garrett was not only sexy but made for dancing, and I believed them. Think about it people.

A Friend Is Someone Who Will Do Really, Really Weird Stuff With You

I am having a jealous day today. which is kinda stupid since I just finished up five fun-filled days with my friend, Kim.  Since Kim came to visit me from Missouri for almost the first time ever, I had a great excuse to do lots of things that would make other people jealous.  I got to go shopping.  I got to spend more hours by the pool with frozen drinks than I can count.  I got to spend a day in Galveston.  Childless. I got to eat out alot.  And, of course, I had the perfect excuse to go back to my favorite place. My Wonderland. The Drag bar.  And this time I saw even more awesome things than the last time.

Beyonce's man(ish) twin?  Check. Drag Queen who removes and twirls wig during the rockingest part of the song? Check. Tranny in head-to-toe white lace see-through catsuit? Check. Real live tranny pimp in purple suit and hat? Check. Real woman peeing in a urinal? Check. And ladies, just so you know, those little short jumpers you are all wearing this summer?  They have been fully embraced by the Drag Queen community. Personally, I have refused to wear one due to the fact that (a) They were a staple of my wardrobe between the ages of 5 and 10, i.e. before I had boobies and a period, and if you wore it before you were ten you should never wear it again, and (b) They would make me feel like I was wearing a baby onesie and (c) I don't wear anything that forces me to get completely naked just to pee.  But now I have a (d) to add since I have proof positive that they are being worn by the Drag and/or Transexual population.  I love my Queen's girls, but I don't need to dress like one.

So, after all that fun, why am I having a jealous day today?  Because my cousin (or, more specifically, Steve's cousin's wife) had something amazing happen to her yesterday.  Something I can only dream of happening to me. While stopping at a crosswalk she had a naked man cross right in front of her.  Dear Universe, You know I write a blog and Anne does not, therefore I find this completely unforgivable.  If anyone should have a naked man strut across their crosswalk it should be me.  Sure, I once saw a naked man driving around with a parrot on his shoulder but that was before I wrote a blog. Now is the time, Universe.  I am in need of weird stories to tell.  Anne makes jewelry and exercises alot.  What's this story gonna do for her?  Ya think she's gonna design a charm bracelet with naked man parts on it as a tribute too crosswalk man?  I highly doubt it. But me? I would write a love letter to you, Universe, for sending me such an amazing gift.  I would be infinitely happy.  Please and Thank You.

Anyway, although I didn't see a naked man crossing a street, I still had a fun weekend.  And Kim and I did do something nice to commemorate her visit and our enduring friendship.  We went to Target and had our portrait made together.  We think they turned out well...

                     This is the real us.  Personally, I think we look better in the Target Photos...

P.M.S and the S.L.N.

So, while I was moping around the house last week in the midst of THE WORST PMS OF MY LIFE, I was getting pissed about lots of things.  It was that kind of PMS where everything and everyone is just....wrong.  My clothes sucked, everything on TV sucked, most people sucked, all music sucked and most food sucked. Well, except for the ingenious combination of peanut butter and chocolate....Thank you, ugly people in the movie theater in that one Reeses commercial from the 80's where the guy had a chocolate bar and the girl had a freaking jar of peanut butter (why? who the hell does that?) and when the movie got scary he screamed like a little bitch and whoops! his chocolate bar flew into her jar of peanut butter and the result was pure magic for us and probably a major make-out session for them, because there's no way that discovering something as delicious as that doesn't make you feel like dry humping.

Anyways, what I'm saying is that I was in full-on bitch mode.  I was so annoyed by so many things, that I made a Shit List.  My Shit List goes way back to college days, when I would - literally - make a list of who/what was pissing me off.  "Pearl Jam sucks!" you might have said.  Well, I would pull out my Shit List Notebook and write you up.  Done.  You may find this odd, but it's oh so true.  The photo below was taken in 1994, which is at least 5 years before Chi's and dark-rinse pants with low rises. But that's beside the point. Notice that in my left hand I hold a beer, but in my right hand I hold my Shit List Notebook.  Although I clearly recall this night, and the fact that I put the S.L.N. in my pants, I couldn't begin to explain why.

Patti's Shit List:  April 2010

Kentucky Fried Chicken:  Ok, dorky white-haired man.  You and your big black glasses have really done it this time.  Sure, I like your chicken, and your mashed potatoes and gravy are so good I want to French kiss them, but come on. You're so damn cocky with your "Secret Recipe" crap that it's more than a little annoying, but I've forgiven you because it tastes so freakin' good.  But really?  The "Double Down" sandwich?   This thing has two chicken breasts (secret recipe) with bacon, 2 cheeses and sauce in between them. BETWEEN chicken. A sandwich has bread. BREAD! You can't use poultry as bread!  Poultry isn't bread-like AT ALL!  I have never - in my life - gotten confused between a chicken and a loaf of bread.  And you know what?  I am easily confused.  This sandwich is disgusting.  I blame you, Colonel Sanders, for all those damn fat people on scooters who are running over Ethan's toes.  HIS CUTE LITTLE TOES!  KFC...you suck! (But I still love your potatoes)

Shorts:  I love you but I hate you.  There's nothing like the freedom of shorts, and as a tall girl it's so much easier to find shorts to fit than it is pants.  But let's get serious for a minute.  It's time for a wake-up call, shorts.  It's high time you realized that most women can't wear shorts with a 1-inch inseam.  A 1-inch inseam wouldn't even make it past my crotch! And my crotch, stupid shorts, is definitely an area that I try to keep under wraps.  The only people who can wear you are pre-teen girls and Cameron Diaz.  And you know what pisses me off even more?  The fact that you go from a 1-inch inseam to a 12-inch inseam with super-nipple-high-rise.  Can't I get something in between?  I don't wanna look like I'm wearing a thong and I don't wanna look like  someone's MeMaw either.  Shorts...you suck!

Mattress.com:  First of all, I hate mattress commercials.  Second of all, I hate the fact that there are 10 mattress stores in every strip-mall in the United States.  Do we really have that many people out buying mattresses every day? If so, why?  What is happening on the mattresses of the American people that we can keep this many stores in business!  What??  Prostitution? Bed wetting? Murder?   Mattress.com has a commercial that is really ticking me off.  They say that after 8 years your mattress doubles in weight due to - get this - dead skin, dust mites, and dust mite poop!  SKIN, BUGS, and POOP!  I saw this commercial one night as I was resting my cramping and bloated body on my 10-year-old mattress and I became at once disgusted, fearful and angry.  I immediately blamed Steve for making me sleep in that pile of skin and poop and not letting me get my Tempur-Pedic.  I betcha anything that this nastiness doesn't happen on a freakin' Tempur-Pedic.  Probably after 10 years on one of those babies, balloons, confetti, margaritas and delicious hors d'oeuvres pop out.  Mattress.com... you suck!

Justsin Timberlake and Timbaland: Justin, I think you're kinda cute, in that skinny white-boy way, which is odd since you don't seem to realize you're white. But you are. And you have curly hair.  Like a 4-year-old.  Even if you cut it short we still know it's there.  And we all know you aren't being very nice to Jessica Biel, who I get the feeling is pretty much a bitch, but still...you chose her and she's your bitch.  And we all know you're flirting with Cameron Diaz in her little 1-inch inseam slut shorts.  Yeah, we all saw the proof in US Weekly, so just shut up.  Timbaland, you seem alright.  I really don't know much about you except for the fact that you are really really rich and you make lots of music with that slutty JT.  But Timbaland, you are now on my radar.  My PMS Radar.  And trust me, it's no place to be.  This new song you guys are singing, is really irritating the holy crap out of me.  "Carryout" is the name of it, and it is by far, the stupidest song I have ever heard in my 38 years of life.  And I was a child of the 80's.  THE 80'S!!  When someone sang "Get outta my dreams and into my car" for chrissakes!  Any song in which you say the words "I have you open all night like you I.H.O.P." is totally stupid and offensive to my ears. I know that rock stars are usually chick magnets, but when you sing a song that compares us chicks to various fast food restaurants, you have crossed a line. You guys are morons and this song sucks.

*Whew! There's more, but I'm gonna make this a two-parter, so as not to re-work myself up and/or overly irritate you. *

Close Encounters of the Fab Kind

I said I was going to write something yesterday, but as it turns out, yesterday is the day that my stomach decided to do some Spring Cleaning.  I don't know what happened, maybe my stomach has been watching Martha Stewart while I am asleep or something and it heard that now's the time to purge, because that's what it did, alright.  Today I am okay, although I feel like I have a hangover.  If there's anything I hate more than a hangover, it's having a hangover when there wasn't even margaritas, beer, mystery shots, gays, drag queens, strange photos on my iPhone, or memory loss involved.  And usually if your body decides to punish you by making you sick for no obvious reason,  you can at least count on losing a few pounds to make it all worthwhile.

Last time I had food poisoning I lost eight pounds, and although sitting on the toilet with a bucket on your lap is not pretty, or fun, the eight pounds lighter aftermath definitely is. For about 48 hours I could even wear my skinny jeans!! But this time, the scale says I've gained three. Seriously? How is that even possible? I looked on Web MD and can't find any sort of virus or bacterial infection that has those symptoms.  As a matter of fact, when I type in "headache, backache, diarrhea, vomiting, weight gain and weird dreams about Bon Jovi," it says "These symptoms, while possible separately, are in no way possible as a cohesive unit of illness, with the exception of vomiting and dreaming about Bon Jovi, which usually go hand-in-hand."  Web MD suggests that "you may want to contact the government's Alien Abduction office, because we think that maybe you have been a test subject for some weird, green bulbous-headed extra terrestrials who like 80's New Jersey hair bands."  Well, maybe it didn't say that EXACTLY, but that is how I understood it anyway.

While I totally and completely believe that there are, indeed, aliens flying around up there, I really have my doubts that they chose me as a test subject.  From what I understand, you only get chosen if you are (a) a male, (b) dropped out of school before the 8th grade, (c) are missing at least 4 teeth, (d) usually fail to put on a shirt except when it's church goin' time, (e) have a first name that either sounds like a nick-name (Cooter, Chicken or Buster), or is really two names (Bobby Joe, Billy Bob or Jimmy Ray), (f) drink actual moonshine, most-likely from a pickle jar, or (g) live in a town that has the words "Forge" or "Holler" in it's name.  Although I AM from Missouri and probably have relatives that fit some or, let's face it, most of these criteria, I just don't.  While I honestly wouldn't mind being an alien abductee (just as long as they've abandoned the anal probing part of the program), I really have my doubts that it's gonna happen for me. But man, it would make a great blog.

If only I had Dr. Oz's phone number.  I would really love to ask him what's wrong with me.  That guy knows everything about everything that is body-related.  I once heard him say that if you have cankles you were probably a whore in high school,  and if your poop is black that means you're gonna die in a boating accident at age forty-seven. Yes, I'm usually busy with after-school stuff while I half-listen and half-watch The Dr. Oz Show, but I heard what I heard.  I am 100% positive that Dr. Oz could tell me what is going on here, but I am just a regular person and regular persons don't have a direct-line to Oz.  He is the most awesomest Dr. on the planet, but you only get to ask him something if you will agree to go on TV and ask him in front of millions of people, becoming, for the rest of your life, the person who went on national television and admitted she sticks junk food up her vajayjay while sleep-walking, or sometimes coughs up worms, or something equally as disturbing.

While I would be more than happy to tell his audience about my symptoms, I don't think I would be deemed exciting enough to warrant a segment on his show. That is, unless I can find photos on my iPhone of an alien abduction.  Maybe there's a new breed of gay, drag queen aliens who for some reason like to listen to Bon Jovi. Maybe these new-age ET's have different criteria for their abductees.  Maybe instead of hill people they like suburban moms who write blogs because, like most club gays,  they like attention. Maybe the drag queen aliens dressed me up like RuPaul and took some snapshots or (yes, please) video of their handiwork, while they pranced me around like a puppet dancing to "You Give Love A Bad Name."  And maybe, just maybe, the reason for the vomiting and weight gain is that they liked me so much they implanted me with a little gay alien drag queen baby.  This explains alot.  And Dr. Oz, you can suck it.  I'm going straight to Oprah with this one.


*ALERT*  I have been informed that my most favoritest high school teacher, Mrs. Zink, will now be reading my blog.  This news is both exciting and uncomfortable at the same time.  Mrs. Zink, I know you always loved me because you told me so many times.  I also know that you knew that I was trouble and that secretly that is why you liked me so much.  I want to thank you for teaching me so many important and useful things in your Home-Ec classes.  I took every single class you had, and I learned lots, such as how to make a gingerbread house (the prettiest one), how to bake a cookie with a mini snickers bar inside (the tastiest one), how to sew an apron (ok, the most pathetic one), and how to be the orneriest kid in class while also being the teacher's pet.  These are gifts that I cherish. xxxooo

I Should Just Make My New Password "Password" (AKA, I Can't Believe I Can Function In Society)

It happened again.  After taking a few days off from writing due to an extremely bad case of PMS, I decided to write a little bit today and found that once again, I was too stupid to log in.  To this blog.  The blog that I started.  The blog that I made the sign-in name and password for.  This blog right here.  After the last time this happened, I got smart enough to write down the pertinent information so that the next time it happened (yes, I knew there'd be a next time) I would know where to find it. But as it turns out, my pea-sized brain is incapable of remembering where I write such important information approximately 60 seconds after I write it.

I know that paragraph makes me sound like a helpless idiot, and that's okay, because quite frankly, that's what I am most of the time.  At least during my waking hours.  When I am asleep I am a genius.  When I am asleep I also know Krav Maga (the official self defense system of the Israeli Defense Forces), multiple languages and dance moves, have an amazing singing voice, eat only junk food yet lose weight, and Paul Rudd and Casey James constantly fight over me.  But yes, when I am awake, I am sometimes a bit...spacey.  Most of you who know me probably have your own proof as to the truth of that statement.  For those of you who don't know me personally, here are just a few snippets of things that have happened to me in the past 2 weeks:

-I was almost killed by an ATM machine.  I made the mistake of thinking that I was capable enough to use the deposit feature on the drive-through ATM machine.  I'm not.  Oh sure, I've done it before with no problems, but I should have known that was a fluke.  This time, since I had the fancy idea that I was an expert at drive-up depositing,  I went to an unfamiliar machine.  It seems that this strange machine differs from my usual ATM in that instead of having an open slot in which you insert your checks, it has a slot with a door that slides up and down.  Since as usual, I wasn't paying attention as the door opened, I didn't yet know of it's existence.  The screen told me to insert my money, so I did.  It was at this point I noticed that the money was just laying there, whereas in my usual machine it gets immediately pulled into the ATM.  Assuming that I needed to push it in further, I stuck my hand in to give it a shove.  It was at this moment that the door decided to close.  On my wrist.  Really hard.  And it wouldn't re-open.  Since I am afraid of scratching my car, I always park so far away from the ATM that I have to undo my seat belt and dangle half my body out of the car to reach the machine, which isn't the best position to be in when the ATM decides to go crazy and eat you.  I am thankful for two things:  1) That nobody was behind me when this happened, and 2) That sometimes there are call buttons on ATM's.  I always wondered what those were for...

-About a week ago, I was driving into town to meet my friend Karen for lunch.  As I was going down the highway I realized that it looked like it might rain, so I thought I'd better stick my car umbrella into my purse, just to be prepared.  I reached down into the pocket on the drivers side door and grabbed my umbrella.  While pulling it out, I somehow twisted it just enough to get it wedged in between the door and my car seat adjustment buttons.  The reclining button, to be exact.  So as I'm flying down the road my chair is slowly leaning back farther and farther to the point where I look like some gangbanger in a hoopty.  I always wondered how those dudes could drive in that position, and now that I've (unwillingly) tried it, I wonder even more.  Since this was the day The Universe finally decided to grant my wish for all green lights, I had to cruise around like this for quite some time.  It is hard enough to drive this way, harder still to drive this way while trying to dislodge a rogue umbrella.

-Yesterday I went to Old Navy to return some shorts.  Since I had tried to return these shorts once last week and couldn't do so because I left the belt that came with them at home, I was a little crabby about having to go all the way back to the store again.  Thankfully, my crabbiness subsided when I saw an open parking space right in front of the store.  It was a beautiful space that shimmered in the sun.  Since I usually have trouble finding parking at this particular store, I was so excited about this space that I sang a song about it called "Once, Twice, Three Times a Spacey," as I practically skipped into the store.  Upon entering the store I realized that The Universe was smiling on me yet again, because there was no line!  So I did my happy dance on up to the register and told the boy that I had a return to make, on this fine, sunny, perfect day!  "Do you have a receipt?" he asked.  "Of course I have a receipt!" I said, as I pulled it out of my purse, without digging, for once. "Okay...where is your item?" asked the boy.  "Oh....well...at home on my kitchen counter," said the PMS-ing idiot.  At least if I'm gonna make a complete ass out of myself, I didn't have to walk too far to do it.

Anyway, there you have it.  A small bit of proof that I'm losing my mind.  This isn't even what I was I was going to write about when I sat down today, but sometimes my mind goes a bit off track.  Surprise surprise!  I will try to sit down tomorrow and write about what I was going to write about today.  If I remember.