Just so you know, I am yet again writing from a weird place. First off: I am still not home. Second: I am writing on a laptop which is about as comfortable for me as a make-out session with John Denver, living or dead. Third: I am in a basement, which is something that doesn't even exist in Houston, for reasons that I don't really understand although I think it has something to do with, like, mud and water tables, which are not the kind of tables you eat on but the kind with lines and numbers and things like that, and mole people and secret underground mole people societies and their rules about regular above ground people invading their turf. I don't really listen 100% when Steve tries to explain it to me, but I'm pretty sure that I am at least partly right.
Anyway, I am uncomfortable again and having a hard time getting focused to write. For me, writing is kinda like peeing. I know that there is a percentage of people who pee in showers and pools and other places that one should really not be peeing, but I am not, nor have I ever been, one of those people. To pee, I need to be in the perfect pee position, which is a sitting one. Stand and pee? No. Float around in water and pee IN IT? Super no. Even if I wanted to, my body would never let me. Sitting position. Alone. The end. I am like that with writing. I need to be at my desk, with my computer, in my own house, or it is like trying to pee in the shower. On this trip I am forcing myself to write, but as I'm sure you have noticed, this is only the 2nd blog of the trip, so it is not going very well. But because I love you guys, I am trying my best.
So, to continue with our road-trip story...by the end of day one of our trip to Missouri, we were tired, hungry, and pretty much done. By the time we got to the hotel it was nearly 10:00 PM and we crashed pretty hard, getting some good rest to prepare us for day two. The next morning, when it was Steph's turn in the shower, Ethan decided he needed to pee like he's never peed before. He was losing his mind: rolling around on the floor, whimpering, just generally freaking out. I thought he was exaggerating until he curled into the fetal position, got really quiet, and his eyes started to roll back in his head as he just whispered the word "Pee" over and over. Since Steph was, as we later learned, "Deep Conditioning," and was not in a position to let us in, I grabbed the ice bucket and told Ethan to let loose. Not only did he feel a million times better, but he was super-excited to tell everyone all about it. I know what you're all thinking: that we are disgusting people and you will never use a hotel ice bucket ever again. Yes, we are disgusting, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. And no, you should never, ever use a hotel ice bucket for your ice. EVER. Just a few months ago at Disney, the ice bucket was our magical barf collector. It happens, people. And I know I am not alone.
Once Ethan's bladder was empty, Stephanie's hair thoroughly conditioned, and Ethan given a talk about how emergency peeing rules can differ from normal everyday peeing rules, we were on our merry way. Day two was to only be a five hour day, which after our GPS day from hell, was very exciting. We once again used the GPS, but this time I tricked her into going the way I wanted her to go. It was a three step process but one that was necessary for our survival.
The route we chose was one of winding back roads, freakishly tiny towns, and a very Deliverancey type of people. My GPS and ex-BFF stuck to the plan for once, but kept annoying me by telling me to "Bear right" or "Bear left" when all that was really required of me was to move my hand maybe 1/4 of an inch in either direction. When someone says "Bear" up, down, sideways, whatever, I am preparing for a turn of such sheer force that I nearly pull my arms out of their sockets and can barely stay on the road. I am definitely not thinking a delicate 1/4 inch move of the hand. For the love of God, when I was in the midst of childbirth, i.e., when I was pushing a 7 lb. 13 oz. HUMAN BEING out of my body, the Dr. told me to "Bear Down." While I wish that he had only intended me to ever so delicately move my hoo-ha 1/4 of an inch in order to complete that whole birthing business, what he really meant was that I should use such force that I not only almost push my kidneys out of my own body, but my eyeballs as well. My Dr. says that is what "Bear" means, and since he, you know, extracts humans from other humans and is a human himself, one with lots of degrees on his walls, then I choose to believe him over a bitchy bodiless voice from my car stereo. I don't know why.
Overall the day went well, save for one incident. After passing many road side fruit stands we finally decided to stop at one and see what they had. After buying some jelly from the old woman inside, and having her pretty much insinuate that she thought I was the mother of not only Ethan (9) but of Stephanie as well (38), she made small talk and asked us where we were headed. When we told her, she thought that our route was all wrong, and tried, quite hard actually, to convince us to go another, very confusing route. She pushed this "better/faster" route so hard and we could not get her to give up, so we eventually just said "okay," then jumped in the car and followed our original plan. Stephanie and I are 100% convinced that she was trying to have us either kilt (the hillbilly word for killed) or married off to her cousins Skeeter Bub Dohicky and Jethro Leroy Boondock. Being horror movie fans can save your life, people. We have both seen enough "Hills Have Eyes" type movies that we know the drill. This kindly old lady i.e. detourer to death and/or betrothal to inbreds, was supposed to send us on a right purty drive, instead of our long, boring, safe drive. If we had not grown up filling our brains with rated "R" horror movies behind our parents' backs, we would have listened to her and ended up -mark my words- on a one lane dirt road that dead-ended in a cavern of hillbillies that were waiting to pounce on our adorable, stupid asses. Ethan would have been sold into some kind of child labor ring where he would have to make moonshine, skin squirrels or something, and we would have had our hair cut off, been outfitted in overalls made from animal skin, been forced to go barefoot and been re-named Darlene Dohicky and Clementine Boondock.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
GPS, Toothless Ladies, and Banjo Music: An Arkansas Adventure
I feel so weird. For the first time ever I'm trying to write a blog on another computer, in another room, in another town, in another state. I don't have any Pez to eat, and it all just feels so wrong. I'm not one of those people who fears change. In fact, I have an extremely short attention span and I can get really bored if things are all samey and stuff. If one of my restaurants changes a menu I like or one of my TV shows changes actor's on me (I'm talking to you, Roseanne, when you got a new Becky) I am unhappy. But if I can change my furniture, my underwear, or my mind....those things are all fine.
"What the hell is she talking about?"
I have no idea. I guess I was just letting you know that in the case of writing this blog, I like same. Right now I am sitting in Missouri, and this room is kinda warm, and this chair makes my butt unhappy, and I am having trouble focusing on anything but the fact that I have quite a few split ends and I need to paint my nails.
But I sat down on this uncomfortable chair to tell you something important: My GPS lady is a bitch.
I used to like her. She was helpful. She was sweet. I gave her a name. I thanked her nicely when she got me to my destination. I wanted to French kiss her when she helped me find some coffee on a long, boring trip. We were traveling soul mates. Like Alice and that Donkey going to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on The Brady Bunch. It was magic.
At least until she stabbed me in the back.
The night before my two day drive to Missouri, I hosted my Bunco group of 11 for dinner, drinks, and what was supposed to be Bunco playing, but I guess we were having too much fun for that. Anyway, I cooked. I cooked alot. I also packed alot. Ran errands alot. And got my freakin' ducks in a row. Alot. And due to the fact that I had talked my friend Stephanie into flying to Houston and doing the 2 day drive to Missouri with me and Ethan, I had to pick her up at the airport at 11:00 that night, and I couldn't even drink! Well, I couldn't drink my normal amount. I may have had a glass of something. The point is that the next morning I was really counting on my little navigator buddy to get me to my halfway hotel in the quickest and safest way possible. Since I thought we had a special relationship, a special trust, I did not question her. I should have questioned her.
What was supposed to be a 6-7 hour drive on day one, ended up a 10 hour drive due to the fact that my "friend" totally screwed me over and took me in a huge circle of wrongness, and by the time my stupid ass figured out that she was messing with me, it was to late to take an alternate route, because since I was idiotic enough to trust her, I already paid for a hotel in Little Rock and by God I was going to sleep in that hotel in Little Rock. So of course there came a point in the trip where we realized that we were almost out of gas. The light came on. No gas stations. Miles. More miles. Even more miles. No gas. Since we were on a road that looked like the roads of my nightmares in which the mountain men come to get me, I was deathly afraid of running out of gas. I have AAA, but I doubt that AAA could save me from a toothless man named Cooter Bob who's just lookin' to get hitched..
Through the force of sheer determination, we did eventually find a gas station that was so old I did not understand the archaic pumping system, and the lady at the register had no teeth, and where I -- for the love of all that's holy in this world -- had the misfortune of having to pee like never before, and where on the way to the bathroom missus no-teeth told me to "don't spill dem buckets" and I said "What the hell is in the buckets?" and thank God it was only asbestos laden ceiling leak water and not, as I had feared, where I was expected to go to the bathroom, although once I saw the bathroom I would have been happier to pee out front in the buckets. And although I felt fortunate that this old-timey scarey as hell gas station was willing to take my credit card, I did fnd out in the next few days that someone had gone on a Wal-Mart shoppin' spree with said credit card account, therefore causing me a buttload of headache, and I can't help but wonder if Wal-Mart sells false teeth and if so if there might possibly be a fat, somewhat greasy lady who smells like gasoline running around in them there hills with a brand new smile, courtesy of the blonde city girl who was too dumb to work a gas pump and pretty much accused her of having poop buckets.
More Vacation Stories To Come...
"What the hell is she talking about?"
I have no idea. I guess I was just letting you know that in the case of writing this blog, I like same. Right now I am sitting in Missouri, and this room is kinda warm, and this chair makes my butt unhappy, and I am having trouble focusing on anything but the fact that I have quite a few split ends and I need to paint my nails.
But I sat down on this uncomfortable chair to tell you something important: My GPS lady is a bitch.
I used to like her. She was helpful. She was sweet. I gave her a name. I thanked her nicely when she got me to my destination. I wanted to French kiss her when she helped me find some coffee on a long, boring trip. We were traveling soul mates. Like Alice and that Donkey going to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on The Brady Bunch. It was magic.
At least until she stabbed me in the back.
The night before my two day drive to Missouri, I hosted my Bunco group of 11 for dinner, drinks, and what was supposed to be Bunco playing, but I guess we were having too much fun for that. Anyway, I cooked. I cooked alot. I also packed alot. Ran errands alot. And got my freakin' ducks in a row. Alot. And due to the fact that I had talked my friend Stephanie into flying to Houston and doing the 2 day drive to Missouri with me and Ethan, I had to pick her up at the airport at 11:00 that night, and I couldn't even drink! Well, I couldn't drink my normal amount. I may have had a glass of something. The point is that the next morning I was really counting on my little navigator buddy to get me to my halfway hotel in the quickest and safest way possible. Since I thought we had a special relationship, a special trust, I did not question her. I should have questioned her.
What was supposed to be a 6-7 hour drive on day one, ended up a 10 hour drive due to the fact that my "friend" totally screwed me over and took me in a huge circle of wrongness, and by the time my stupid ass figured out that she was messing with me, it was to late to take an alternate route, because since I was idiotic enough to trust her, I already paid for a hotel in Little Rock and by God I was going to sleep in that hotel in Little Rock. So of course there came a point in the trip where we realized that we were almost out of gas. The light came on. No gas stations. Miles. More miles. Even more miles. No gas. Since we were on a road that looked like the roads of my nightmares in which the mountain men come to get me, I was deathly afraid of running out of gas. I have AAA, but I doubt that AAA could save me from a toothless man named Cooter Bob who's just lookin' to get hitched..
Through the force of sheer determination, we did eventually find a gas station that was so old I did not understand the archaic pumping system, and the lady at the register had no teeth, and where I -- for the love of all that's holy in this world -- had the misfortune of having to pee like never before, and where on the way to the bathroom missus no-teeth told me to "don't spill dem buckets" and I said "What the hell is in the buckets?" and thank God it was only asbestos laden ceiling leak water and not, as I had feared, where I was expected to go to the bathroom, although once I saw the bathroom I would have been happier to pee out front in the buckets. And although I felt fortunate that this old-timey scarey as hell gas station was willing to take my credit card, I did fnd out in the next few days that someone had gone on a Wal-Mart shoppin' spree with said credit card account, therefore causing me a buttload of headache, and I can't help but wonder if Wal-Mart sells false teeth and if so if there might possibly be a fat, somewhat greasy lady who smells like gasoline running around in them there hills with a brand new smile, courtesy of the blonde city girl who was too dumb to work a gas pump and pretty much accused her of having poop buckets.
More Vacation Stories To Come...
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Because I'm Busy Traveling But I Don't Want You To Forget About Me: 25 Things You Never Wanted To Know About Me
1. I believe in ghosts and I believe I have seen/heard them before. I believe that sometimes at night, one sits at the foot of my bed.
2.The two things I am most scared of: #1) mountain men-- because when I was little I saw a movie where one kidnapped a girl and made her his "woman", and since I grew up in the Ozarks I have always lived in fear that would happen to me. #2) Leather S & M Masks-- like the one that creepy dude who lived in the basement in Pulp Fiction wore. I don't know why, but I will actually cry if I see someone wearing one. Freaks. Me. Out.
3. I often laugh at inappropriate things. (Okay. That one you knew already)
4. I talk to myself more than any normal person should. Or any abnormal person, for that matter. I also sing about what I'm doing, like I'm in a musical or something.
5. In High School I skipped class ALOT. Our art room had a back door that opened to the outside, and sometimes after roll was called, I would slip right out that door when my teacher's back was turned. I usually ended up at the river.
6 . Seeing or hearing John Denver makes me go into convulsions and throw up in my mouth a little.
7. I sleep with my left heel between my right big and 2nd toe. OR, I put Steve's heel there, or a blanket. I have to have something there. Once in middle school, I was spending the night with my friend Crystal, who woke me up freaking out because I had toe-jacked her heel in my sleep.
8. I hate socks, and thank my lucky stars every day that I live in a climate where I rarely have to wear them. When I do wear them, Steve knows that the #1 way to make me freak out is to turn or pull them so that the little toe seam isn't where it's supposed to be. To me, that is like nails on a chalkboard.
9. I once made Harold Ramis laugh enough to snort his drink out of his nose. I don't remember what I said, although I think I danced a jig as well, and it was a proud moment for me .
10. I think Paul Rudd is the most adorable and funny man to ever walk the earth, and Steve knows that given the chance, I would run away with him forever.
11. I wrote a poem for Ellen that contained the words "pee" and "poop", and I got to go to the Primetime Emmy's with her show, and walk the Red Carpet. I took my best friend Kim, and she owes me big.
12. When I was little I thought boogers were eggs and that birds hatched out of them. I used to save all of my tissues and try to incubate them under my desk light. They got hard and crusty, but no birds ever came out. My parents are big fat liars.
13. I never went to a prom because I thought they were "lame" and I wouldn't have been caught dead in a dress of any kind, let alone a big, poofy, satin dress. My dad really wanted me to go one year and he gave me some dress money, which ended up buying alot of beer and pizza, which my friends and I ate and drank while wearing our non-shiny, non-poofy jeans.
14. Carnies LOVE me. I am not proud of this, but it is a fact nonetheless. I cannot go within a mile of a carnival for fear of being mobbed by carnie men. It started in about the 8th grade and it holds true to this day.
15. The first time I climbed out my window at night I was in the 7th grade. I met a friend in the alley to smoke a cigarette. When I went back home I realized that jumping out of a high window was one thing, but getting back in was something entirely different .
16. I have met Oprah. I invited her out dancing and she didn't come, but she did say my shoes were cute.
17. When I was little I was sure of two things: #1) I was going to marry sweet, cute Ricky Schroeder, but carry on an elicit affair with his naughty friend Derek Taylor (Jason Bateman), and #2) I was going to be discovered --probably at the mall -- and asked to play Annie in a sequel to the movie "Annie" that would be way better than the first one, mainly because I could rock that Hard Knock Life song like nobody's business.
18. I believe in past lives and I have always been sure that I was once a black man who died in a scuba diving accident.
19. When I was 7 I made a long wig out of yarn and wore it while I sang along to my Crystal Gayle album.
20. I once had a stalker. I wish it would have been Paul Rudd, but it was just some middle-aged guy who drove a truck and liked to watch me run errands.
21. When I was little I cut a window flap in a giant box and sat in it to watch tv. If my family started to annoy me, it was time to close the flap. I closed the flap alot.
22. I went to a really weird Christian school until 6th grade and it scarred me for life. They wouldn't "allow" us to go see E.T. but my dad took us anyway. That is where I got my rebellious streak.
23. Drag Queens make me giddy. The Drag Bar is my Happy Place.
24. I want to have a slumber party with Chelsea Handler and Kathi Griffin. Diablo Cody can come too.
25. I once woke up with someone elses clothes on...and I was soaking wet from head to toe. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.
Friday, July 2, 2010
It's Rainy. My Tan Is Fading. My Kid Is Barfy. I Am Annoyed. (Shit List Volume 2)
Dear Rain,
Looking back, I suppose my funktastic dance the other day to "Alejandro" could have been misinterpreted as a Rain Dance. Perhaps that new move I did with my arms seemed a bit Native American, but I was only trying to bring da funk, not da rain, so could you please cancel this mess ASAP?
xxxooo,
Patti
(Warning to Anne: I say barf a lot in the following paragraph. Proceed with caution.)
Seriously people, this rain is getting on my nerves. I like a rainy day every now and then for two reasons: #1-So I don't have to remember to water my outdoor plants, and #2-So I can lay around the house reading, eating and watching tv in my PJ's without feeling like a complete loser. Other than that, I don't particularly care for the stuff. Especially when it's rain of this magnitude. Honestly, this is getting ridiculous. My nice summer glow has completely faded and I am pretty sure I am starting to grow mold. If the upstairs air conditioner wasn't on the fritz, I would make us all sleep up there just in case the first floor floods during the night. I am already crabby enough if I get awakened in the middle of the night, I don't need to get awakened by bayou water and alligator's crashing through my windows. To top it all off, Ethan is sick today. Well, since he barfed all night last night I guess he was sick then too. If there's one thing my son can do, it's barf. He is so spectacular at it because he's had lots of practice. If there's a virus out there than involves barf, he'll find a way to get it. At least he's a polite barfer. A few years ago he used to blame us for the barf and yell at us for holding buckets in front of his face, then turn his head and just barf wherever. But now he barfs and then apologizes for it, as one should. Barfing is not something that anyone likes, so if you're gonna do it in front of people, it's only good manners to say you're sorry. Anyway, I am not having PMS this time, but I have enough things making me cranky that I decided to post some recent additions to my Shit List. Enjoy.
Patti's Shit List-Week of June 27th.
Local News Teaser Commercials: I'm talking about those dumb-ass commercials that run on TV all day long. The commercials that I usually get to bypass, thanks to whoever the rock star genius is that invented DVR's. Seriously, whoever invented these things deserves a national holiday or at the very least, a postage stamp or a special sandwich named after them, because as far as I'm concerned, this is the best invention since the internet, which Al Gore says he invented, but was actually invented my my 19-year-old ass while I was babysitting one day, wishing that I could somehow use the crazy parents' computer as some sort of magically electronic encyclopedia to search for a way to make their really weird and annoying kid go into a deep coma-like sleep, and then I could use the magic computer to look for pictures of tiny things. I felt jipped for a long time, but I'm over it now. Anyway, the teaser commercials are the ones where they say all that crazy/scary stuff that causes you to stay up all night in a sweaty panic because they told you to watch the 6 o'clock news to find out more, and you forgot, so now you're most-likely gonna die from either eating bagged salad or by parking in the wrong parking garage. Last week the teasers that told me that if I wear make-up of any kind, my face is probably gonna melt off, and that I really better keep an eye on my mail carrier because he is either going to murder me or get me addicted to crack. I've really had it with these commercials. If something is that important, they need to tell me right freakin' now and not in 7 1/2 hours when I have important mommy crap to do and wine to drink. If my make-up turns my face into a giant oval-shaped scab with eyes, and I start prostituting myself for crack money, it's your fault, news teaser people. You suck!
Exclusive Furniture: This is some dumb store here in Houston that has really stupid commercials which are usually on the radio instead of TV which I'm pretty sure is because radio is cheaper and TV is only for really pretty people, and while I haven't actually seen these furniture people, I can tell by their manic, screaming voices that they just aren't right for high def. For all I know, this store has really nice stuff in it...but I highly doubt it. Any store which has a commercial that informs you that if you buy one of their mattresses you are gonna have a better sex life, is just crazy. How are you furniture freaks gonna keep this promise? Does this mattress come with a hooker and some porn? Does it revolve and/or vibrate? Is there a money back guarantee if you buy one and you still only get lights-off missionary? If you're gonna make a statement like this, you have to back it up! Exclusive Furniture people...you suck!
Elizabeth Hasselbeck: Wow. I don't even know where to begin. I try to protect my eyes and ears from all things Hasselbeck, but sometimes the uncontrollable urge comes over me to flip by The View to see if Barbara is still alive and if Whoopi has grown any eyebrows. Sometimes E. H. is gone having a baby or whatever, but usually she's there, being all smug and annoying with her whiny nasal voice and her dumb opinions. Rosie O'Donnell had her own set of problems, but if there's one thing that Ro and I could bond over, it's our dislike for Hasselbeck. But Rosie also loved Tom Cruise and Barbra Striesand, so our bonding really ends with Hasselbeck. When Rosie was on, I never missed an episode, because I was 99% sure that she was gonna finally blow a fuse one day and beat her with one of her crocs, but to my great disappointment, it never happened. When Whoopi joined I thought that she would be just the kinda gal to knock some sense into her, but now Whoopi is starting to talk out of her ass just like Elizabeth, and that eyebrow thing is really starting to creep me out. Now my only hope is Joy. Sometimes I see it...that little bubbling of Hasselbeck Hate. If she's, by any chance, still going through menopause, we may have a shot. Maybe during a hot flash or mood swing she will finally lose her shit and smother her with her big, red wig. Not 'till she's dead. Just 'till she passes out. I'm not that crazy, people. Elizabeth Hasselbeck...you suck!
Ke$ha: Why do you have to be so damn annoying? Your voice sounds ok when you sing, but from what I have heard you don't sing quite as much as you sort of talk in a sing-song, bratty teenager voice. I used to be a teenager, so I know that voice and I know it well. But I am not a teenager anymore and Ethan has a few years to go, so for now I'd prefer to not have to hear it over the airwaves, thank you very much. Maybe your mom needs to ground you or something. Maybe take away your phone. It looks like she already took away your pants because whenever I see a photo of you, you're not wearing any. I admit that I like to walk around without pants just as much as anyone, but I only do it in the privacy of my house. Now granted, I don't close the blinds first and sometimes I run out to the garage for a beer or something, but at least I'm on my own private property and not going out for dinner like that. And you have a dollar sign in your name, which is just idiotic. Are we supposed to call you Ke-dollar-sha or are we just pretending like it's an "s", and if so then why not just make it an "s"? And it's still a mystery to me why you woke up feeling like P. Diddy. What does that mean? You woke up feeling like a rapper? Like an African American? Like a really self-absorbed rich guy? And in the same song you basically say you think Mick Jagger's hot. Have you seen Mich Jagger? He is far from hot. He is cold. Like death. Even a hundred and some odd years ago when he was younger, he was still not hot. He was 80 pounds, not even 6 feet tall, lips the size of inner tubes and he danced like a chicken. Granted, he sang 'Paint It Black' which is an amazingly awesome song, but that, my dear pantsless whiner, does not make him handsome. Ke$ha, you annoy me, and you may be higher on my list save for the fact that you once barfed in Paris Hilton's closet. I have to give you props for that. You really, really annoy me, but if you could do that a few more times I might forgive you. So for now you suck, but barf in Paris Hilton's closet again, and I'll reconsider.
Looking back, I suppose my funktastic dance the other day to "Alejandro" could have been misinterpreted as a Rain Dance. Perhaps that new move I did with my arms seemed a bit Native American, but I was only trying to bring da funk, not da rain, so could you please cancel this mess ASAP?
xxxooo,
Patti
(Warning to Anne: I say barf a lot in the following paragraph. Proceed with caution.)
Seriously people, this rain is getting on my nerves. I like a rainy day every now and then for two reasons: #1-So I don't have to remember to water my outdoor plants, and #2-So I can lay around the house reading, eating and watching tv in my PJ's without feeling like a complete loser. Other than that, I don't particularly care for the stuff. Especially when it's rain of this magnitude. Honestly, this is getting ridiculous. My nice summer glow has completely faded and I am pretty sure I am starting to grow mold. If the upstairs air conditioner wasn't on the fritz, I would make us all sleep up there just in case the first floor floods during the night. I am already crabby enough if I get awakened in the middle of the night, I don't need to get awakened by bayou water and alligator's crashing through my windows. To top it all off, Ethan is sick today. Well, since he barfed all night last night I guess he was sick then too. If there's one thing my son can do, it's barf. He is so spectacular at it because he's had lots of practice. If there's a virus out there than involves barf, he'll find a way to get it. At least he's a polite barfer. A few years ago he used to blame us for the barf and yell at us for holding buckets in front of his face, then turn his head and just barf wherever. But now he barfs and then apologizes for it, as one should. Barfing is not something that anyone likes, so if you're gonna do it in front of people, it's only good manners to say you're sorry. Anyway, I am not having PMS this time, but I have enough things making me cranky that I decided to post some recent additions to my Shit List. Enjoy.
Patti's Shit List-Week of June 27th.
Local News Teaser Commercials: I'm talking about those dumb-ass commercials that run on TV all day long. The commercials that I usually get to bypass, thanks to whoever the rock star genius is that invented DVR's. Seriously, whoever invented these things deserves a national holiday or at the very least, a postage stamp or a special sandwich named after them, because as far as I'm concerned, this is the best invention since the internet, which Al Gore says he invented, but was actually invented my my 19-year-old ass while I was babysitting one day, wishing that I could somehow use the crazy parents' computer as some sort of magically electronic encyclopedia to search for a way to make their really weird and annoying kid go into a deep coma-like sleep, and then I could use the magic computer to look for pictures of tiny things. I felt jipped for a long time, but I'm over it now. Anyway, the teaser commercials are the ones where they say all that crazy/scary stuff that causes you to stay up all night in a sweaty panic because they told you to watch the 6 o'clock news to find out more, and you forgot, so now you're most-likely gonna die from either eating bagged salad or by parking in the wrong parking garage. Last week the teasers that told me that if I wear make-up of any kind, my face is probably gonna melt off, and that I really better keep an eye on my mail carrier because he is either going to murder me or get me addicted to crack. I've really had it with these commercials. If something is that important, they need to tell me right freakin' now and not in 7 1/2 hours when I have important mommy crap to do and wine to drink. If my make-up turns my face into a giant oval-shaped scab with eyes, and I start prostituting myself for crack money, it's your fault, news teaser people. You suck!
Exclusive Furniture: This is some dumb store here in Houston that has really stupid commercials which are usually on the radio instead of TV which I'm pretty sure is because radio is cheaper and TV is only for really pretty people, and while I haven't actually seen these furniture people, I can tell by their manic, screaming voices that they just aren't right for high def. For all I know, this store has really nice stuff in it...but I highly doubt it. Any store which has a commercial that informs you that if you buy one of their mattresses you are gonna have a better sex life, is just crazy. How are you furniture freaks gonna keep this promise? Does this mattress come with a hooker and some porn? Does it revolve and/or vibrate? Is there a money back guarantee if you buy one and you still only get lights-off missionary? If you're gonna make a statement like this, you have to back it up! Exclusive Furniture people...you suck!
Elizabeth Hasselbeck: Wow. I don't even know where to begin. I try to protect my eyes and ears from all things Hasselbeck, but sometimes the uncontrollable urge comes over me to flip by The View to see if Barbara is still alive and if Whoopi has grown any eyebrows. Sometimes E. H. is gone having a baby or whatever, but usually she's there, being all smug and annoying with her whiny nasal voice and her dumb opinions. Rosie O'Donnell had her own set of problems, but if there's one thing that Ro and I could bond over, it's our dislike for Hasselbeck. But Rosie also loved Tom Cruise and Barbra Striesand, so our bonding really ends with Hasselbeck. When Rosie was on, I never missed an episode, because I was 99% sure that she was gonna finally blow a fuse one day and beat her with one of her crocs, but to my great disappointment, it never happened. When Whoopi joined I thought that she would be just the kinda gal to knock some sense into her, but now Whoopi is starting to talk out of her ass just like Elizabeth, and that eyebrow thing is really starting to creep me out. Now my only hope is Joy. Sometimes I see it...that little bubbling of Hasselbeck Hate. If she's, by any chance, still going through menopause, we may have a shot. Maybe during a hot flash or mood swing she will finally lose her shit and smother her with her big, red wig. Not 'till she's dead. Just 'till she passes out. I'm not that crazy, people. Elizabeth Hasselbeck...you suck!
Ke$ha: Why do you have to be so damn annoying? Your voice sounds ok when you sing, but from what I have heard you don't sing quite as much as you sort of talk in a sing-song, bratty teenager voice. I used to be a teenager, so I know that voice and I know it well. But I am not a teenager anymore and Ethan has a few years to go, so for now I'd prefer to not have to hear it over the airwaves, thank you very much. Maybe your mom needs to ground you or something. Maybe take away your phone. It looks like she already took away your pants because whenever I see a photo of you, you're not wearing any. I admit that I like to walk around without pants just as much as anyone, but I only do it in the privacy of my house. Now granted, I don't close the blinds first and sometimes I run out to the garage for a beer or something, but at least I'm on my own private property and not going out for dinner like that. And you have a dollar sign in your name, which is just idiotic. Are we supposed to call you Ke-dollar-sha or are we just pretending like it's an "s", and if so then why not just make it an "s"? And it's still a mystery to me why you woke up feeling like P. Diddy. What does that mean? You woke up feeling like a rapper? Like an African American? Like a really self-absorbed rich guy? And in the same song you basically say you think Mick Jagger's hot. Have you seen Mich Jagger? He is far from hot. He is cold. Like death. Even a hundred and some odd years ago when he was younger, he was still not hot. He was 80 pounds, not even 6 feet tall, lips the size of inner tubes and he danced like a chicken. Granted, he sang 'Paint It Black' which is an amazingly awesome song, but that, my dear pantsless whiner, does not make him handsome. Ke$ha, you annoy me, and you may be higher on my list save for the fact that you once barfed in Paris Hilton's closet. I have to give you props for that. You really, really annoy me, but if you could do that a few more times I might forgive you. So for now you suck, but barf in Paris Hilton's closet again, and I'll reconsider.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Boy Has It Easy. Not As Easy As Ricky Stratton, But Still Pretty Easy.
So far this summer, my offspring has spent an unacceptable amount of time complaining, and let me tell you something...that little dude is livin' the high life. Wake up. Lay around and watch cartoons. Mommy makes pancakes or something equally as delicious. Go swimming. Go someplace fun or go out to lunch. Play with friends. Repeat. What the hell is he complaining about? It boggles my mind. For a little perspective, here's how summers went down when I was a kid...
Sometime between 7:00 and 8:00 am: The woman we called "Mom," but seemed more like a prison warden or internment camp officer entered out bedroom, pulled our covers back, told us to get up, make the bed, and do a few chores that none of our friends had to do. None. Not one.
After bed-making and totally unfair chore doing were completed: Eat breakfast. Usually it was something totally disgusting like poached eggs, which the warden knew we hated but loved to make us eat anyway, just like she did liver and onions, which I betcha anything the prisoners at Guantanamo would not even be forced to eat. Breakfast took a little longer than one would expect, due to the fact that we had to wait for the warden to leave the room so that we could stuff those nasty, runny, eggs in the way bottom of the trashcan, using our super ninja-like, egg-hiding, moves. Stealthiness was key, because if caught, we would be forced to eat another egg.
After pretending to eat breakfast: Go outside. "Oh," you might be thinking, "You were an outdoorsy child and couldn't wait to frolick in the morning dew, listen to the delightful sounds of happily singing birds, and generally commune with Mother Nature." Well, if that's what you're thinking you're a delusional d-bag. I was a kid. All I cared about was watching cartoons, eating junk food, and basically just hanging in there with my current family until I was either adopted by Daddy Warbucks or Edward Stratton III from "Silver Spoons." If it were the latter, then the adoption would be informal, wherein I would live with the Stratton's and get all of their money, my own room, my own cotton candy machine, and get to ride around our house on that awesome train, yet could still marry Ricky when I turned 18 (and carry on my illicit affair with Ricky's best friend and token bad boy, Derek Taylor). Anyway, going outside was not something that we volunteered to do, but much like prison yard time, it was required. Although unlike prison yard time, which I have learned from the movie's is usually a short period of time, our yard time lasted until dark. We would normally be outside for at least 2 hours before other kids, from more laid-back households, would finally appear. They had spent the morning lounging around in their PJ's, eating some Boo Berry cereal, and drinking some store-bought chocolate milk And there we were, the sunburned losers who'd been sitting on the curb staring at ants for 2 hours, and seriously contemplating eating them because our bellies were empty from avoiding the wet eggs.
Lunchtime: Thank God! Sooooo freaking hungry! Soooooo freaking hot out here! Can't wait to go inside and watch some TV and adjust the tuner about a quarter inch to the right so we could get MTV and try to figure out WTF was up with Boy George. Well, dream on kiddos. Once we were thrown out of the house in the morning, we were not welcome to come back in until dark unless we had to use the bathroom, and in that case we were expected to go in the basement door and use the scary one down there which had walls that the previous owner's son had painted with devil's. Probably with blood. There's nothing like trying to release your bladder while staying alert for a satanic attack. At least for lunch we had decent food like regular kids, and usually some Kool-Aid or a Pepsi. I'm pretty sure the reason our lunch was so good was because we had to eat it outside where the neighbors could see. Otherwise, I'm fairly sure that the warden woulda dug the poached eggs outta the trash, squished them between a couple slices of bread, stuck them on a paper plate, and sent them our way.
After Lunch: This was usually about the time that we were exhausted and near heat stroke, and in desperate need of some time in the shade to cool down. At least that's what I told the neighbor boy when I draped a blanket over the picnic table and insisted he play house with me. House was the role-playing game where I would make the neighbor boy say things to me like "I love you," "You're the prettiest girl in the world," and "You smell like cotton candy." Then I would make him do some light dusting, sweep the floor, and kiss me on the lips. For 5 straight seconds. Because everyone knows that a kiss that lasts under 5 seconds is not a real love kiss, and is more of a hooker type kiss. Eventually he would get tired of our pretend marriage and try to leave, at which point I would threaten to tell his parents that he sometimes peed in the neighbor's yard, and he would decide to stay.
Pre-Dinner: Having exhausted ourselves on our bikes, swingset, climbing trees, etc... we would often go door to door with a wagon full of rocks, flowers, and whatever miscellaneous junk we could find and try to sell it, or at least trade it, for candy. This usually went quite well, and we got a big enough sugar high to keep us going until dinner. Once we grew bored of being traveling salesmen, we would ride our bikes back and forth in front of the mean old lady's house. If we were feeling extra bored, we would ride in and out of her driveway and really pissed her off. We would do this until she came outside yelling terrible things at us and threatening to call the cops, then we would move on to something else.
Dinner: All I can say about this is that we got to eat it in the house. Hallelujah.
Post-Dinner: This was the time of day when we would put up lawn chairs and force everyone in the neighborhood to watch us perform some sort of show. Maybe a play. Maybe some stand up comedy. Perhaps a gymnastics routine. Then we would either play some kiss tag, ghost in the graveyard, or swinging statue, or maybe catch some lightning bugs, rip their butts off, and make them into jewelry.
Bath Time: Dear Mom, I hardly ever took a bath. I just stuck my feet in the water then made wet foot prints on the rug. I was a filthy, disgusting child who never even washed the lightning bug butts off of my ear lobes and neck. xoxoxo, Patti
Bed Time: I had to share a room with my sister who snored like a fat old man, and my closet door often popped open for no reason and scared the crap out of me because I convinced myself there was either a psycho murderer or a ghost in there. And my mom would hardly ever turn on the air conditioner and it was hot and sticky and snorey and ghosty and annoying. Not at all like my room at the Stratton's or Daddy Warbucks', where it was quiet and fluffy and smelled like flowers and candy and I got to sleep late and have the maid make my bed and I had a movie theater to watch my cartoons in and if I wanted to see Adam Ant or Boy George, my rich "dad" would just pay him to come over, and the cook would make me whatever I wanted to eat and we had air conditioning and a swimming pool and probably some kind of machine like a car wash -but for people- that I could just ride through and come out clean and all dressed up like the Jetson's or something, and I'd sing and dance with a magic dude named Punjab and maybe make Ricky kiss me on the lips.
The Boy has his own bedroom. His own TV. A swimming pool. He can go outside if he wants too, and back inside if he wants to. I will happily sing and dance with him 24/7, and I wouldn't dream of making him eat liver or runny eggs. That kid has it made. In the air conditioned shade.
Sometime between 7:00 and 8:00 am: The woman we called "Mom," but seemed more like a prison warden or internment camp officer entered out bedroom, pulled our covers back, told us to get up, make the bed, and do a few chores that none of our friends had to do. None. Not one.
After bed-making and totally unfair chore doing were completed: Eat breakfast. Usually it was something totally disgusting like poached eggs, which the warden knew we hated but loved to make us eat anyway, just like she did liver and onions, which I betcha anything the prisoners at Guantanamo would not even be forced to eat. Breakfast took a little longer than one would expect, due to the fact that we had to wait for the warden to leave the room so that we could stuff those nasty, runny, eggs in the way bottom of the trashcan, using our super ninja-like, egg-hiding, moves. Stealthiness was key, because if caught, we would be forced to eat another egg.
After pretending to eat breakfast: Go outside. "Oh," you might be thinking, "You were an outdoorsy child and couldn't wait to frolick in the morning dew, listen to the delightful sounds of happily singing birds, and generally commune with Mother Nature." Well, if that's what you're thinking you're a delusional d-bag. I was a kid. All I cared about was watching cartoons, eating junk food, and basically just hanging in there with my current family until I was either adopted by Daddy Warbucks or Edward Stratton III from "Silver Spoons." If it were the latter, then the adoption would be informal, wherein I would live with the Stratton's and get all of their money, my own room, my own cotton candy machine, and get to ride around our house on that awesome train, yet could still marry Ricky when I turned 18 (and carry on my illicit affair with Ricky's best friend and token bad boy, Derek Taylor). Anyway, going outside was not something that we volunteered to do, but much like prison yard time, it was required. Although unlike prison yard time, which I have learned from the movie's is usually a short period of time, our yard time lasted until dark. We would normally be outside for at least 2 hours before other kids, from more laid-back households, would finally appear. They had spent the morning lounging around in their PJ's, eating some Boo Berry cereal, and drinking some store-bought chocolate milk And there we were, the sunburned losers who'd been sitting on the curb staring at ants for 2 hours, and seriously contemplating eating them because our bellies were empty from avoiding the wet eggs.
Lunchtime: Thank God! Sooooo freaking hungry! Soooooo freaking hot out here! Can't wait to go inside and watch some TV and adjust the tuner about a quarter inch to the right so we could get MTV and try to figure out WTF was up with Boy George. Well, dream on kiddos. Once we were thrown out of the house in the morning, we were not welcome to come back in until dark unless we had to use the bathroom, and in that case we were expected to go in the basement door and use the scary one down there which had walls that the previous owner's son had painted with devil's. Probably with blood. There's nothing like trying to release your bladder while staying alert for a satanic attack. At least for lunch we had decent food like regular kids, and usually some Kool-Aid or a Pepsi. I'm pretty sure the reason our lunch was so good was because we had to eat it outside where the neighbors could see. Otherwise, I'm fairly sure that the warden woulda dug the poached eggs outta the trash, squished them between a couple slices of bread, stuck them on a paper plate, and sent them our way.
After Lunch: This was usually about the time that we were exhausted and near heat stroke, and in desperate need of some time in the shade to cool down. At least that's what I told the neighbor boy when I draped a blanket over the picnic table and insisted he play house with me. House was the role-playing game where I would make the neighbor boy say things to me like "I love you," "You're the prettiest girl in the world," and "You smell like cotton candy." Then I would make him do some light dusting, sweep the floor, and kiss me on the lips. For 5 straight seconds. Because everyone knows that a kiss that lasts under 5 seconds is not a real love kiss, and is more of a hooker type kiss. Eventually he would get tired of our pretend marriage and try to leave, at which point I would threaten to tell his parents that he sometimes peed in the neighbor's yard, and he would decide to stay.
Pre-Dinner: Having exhausted ourselves on our bikes, swingset, climbing trees, etc... we would often go door to door with a wagon full of rocks, flowers, and whatever miscellaneous junk we could find and try to sell it, or at least trade it, for candy. This usually went quite well, and we got a big enough sugar high to keep us going until dinner. Once we grew bored of being traveling salesmen, we would ride our bikes back and forth in front of the mean old lady's house. If we were feeling extra bored, we would ride in and out of her driveway and really pissed her off. We would do this until she came outside yelling terrible things at us and threatening to call the cops, then we would move on to something else.
Dinner: All I can say about this is that we got to eat it in the house. Hallelujah.
Post-Dinner: This was the time of day when we would put up lawn chairs and force everyone in the neighborhood to watch us perform some sort of show. Maybe a play. Maybe some stand up comedy. Perhaps a gymnastics routine. Then we would either play some kiss tag, ghost in the graveyard, or swinging statue, or maybe catch some lightning bugs, rip their butts off, and make them into jewelry.
Bath Time: Dear Mom, I hardly ever took a bath. I just stuck my feet in the water then made wet foot prints on the rug. I was a filthy, disgusting child who never even washed the lightning bug butts off of my ear lobes and neck. xoxoxo, Patti
Bed Time: I had to share a room with my sister who snored like a fat old man, and my closet door often popped open for no reason and scared the crap out of me because I convinced myself there was either a psycho murderer or a ghost in there. And my mom would hardly ever turn on the air conditioner and it was hot and sticky and snorey and ghosty and annoying. Not at all like my room at the Stratton's or Daddy Warbucks', where it was quiet and fluffy and smelled like flowers and candy and I got to sleep late and have the maid make my bed and I had a movie theater to watch my cartoons in and if I wanted to see Adam Ant or Boy George, my rich "dad" would just pay him to come over, and the cook would make me whatever I wanted to eat and we had air conditioning and a swimming pool and probably some kind of machine like a car wash -but for people- that I could just ride through and come out clean and all dressed up like the Jetson's or something, and I'd sing and dance with a magic dude named Punjab and maybe make Ricky kiss me on the lips.
The Boy has his own bedroom. His own TV. A swimming pool. He can go outside if he wants too, and back inside if he wants to. I will happily sing and dance with him 24/7, and I wouldn't dream of making him eat liver or runny eggs. That kid has it made. In the air conditioned shade.
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