I Was Almost Murdered In The Shower. For Reals.

Ok. So I recently told you guys how much I loved my new Stats feature that lets me see the who/what/when/where of my blog readers. I'm so totally gonna take that back now, because although I am obsessed with it, it is starting to freak me out. And not in a good way. I like to be freaked out just as much as the next gal, but now I'm looking over my shoulder and expecting to be kidnapped or attacked at any moment. While I was taking a shower this morning I thought I heard a gruff man voice chuckling at me, and I thought "Great. I'm finally gonna get murdered. I totally expected this, but did it have to be in the shower? I wonder if the murderer will let me get dressed first. Maybe straighten my hair and apply a little makeup. Because if this is it, my last moment, I don't want to be nude, wet and totally bloated from my period! Maybe he'll take a rain check and come back in a few days when I de-puff a little and have my act together." I have watched enough horror movies in my 38 years to know that they photograph the shit out of you when you are the body in a crime scene. And if that's my last photo shoot ever, I think I deserve to look good. I want some "Oh, what a shame someone so hot had to die so violently," not "Holy crap balls! Throw a sheet over that train wreck!" Tonight, when Steve gets home from work, I am going to instruct him that if I am murdered while PMS-ing or being all periody, he needs to tell the CSI team that it was  an unfortunate time of the month for me and that I usually look better, and maybe show them a few photos of me when I looked thin.

Well, since I'm writing this I guess you Einstein's have figured out that I am alive. Although I could totally be writing this from the grave because I have plans...big plans to haunt the crap out of people, and I have 100% confidence that I could still type a blog from the afterlife. Easy peasy. But for now, yeah, I'm alive. And that gruff man laughter I heard? I had my foot over the drain and when I moved it the backed-up water gurgled down the drain in a very man voicey way. But trust me, it so sounded like a murderer laughing at me while I shaved my legs. And it's not like I ever over-react. At all.

So...what was I talking about? Oh yeah....the Stats tracker on my blog and how it has convinced me I am a goner. So anyway, it tracks everything, you guys, and one of the things it tracks is the crap people type into Google that leads them to my blog. At first the stuff was funny, but now it's starting to get crazy, as in psycho fetishy murderer crazy. Here are a few things from this week:

suck my balls long time
dry humping moms shoeless foot
that mom sure can suck
my balls need loving too
mom wants my nuts
I love my balls so much

Discoveries? There are an insane amount of computer using people out there who are obsessed with things involving their balls. And there are an amazing amount of readers from countries that sound like very vampire, werewolf, Jack The Ripper and stealing-girls-so-they-can-be-sold-into-the-sex-trade infested places. Slovenia? Check. Latvia? Check. And there are others that I have never even heard of, but they sound dangerous. It's a big world out there you guys, and I'm finally realizing that this weird stuff I write is going to all of it. Do prisoners get internet? Do any of you know? Because that is another demographic I didn't have in mind when I started blogging. (Not that I don't like you incarcerated guys. I'm sure you are really amazing. I don't mean that in a flirty way. Just a regular way. Not that I don't think you're attractive. It's just that I'm not interested, is all. Not because I think I'm too good for you or anything. I'm sure you deserve better than me. I'm just already taken. Okay? Although I'm sure you're super great. And by the way, women really aren't super-interested in balls. Just FYI. No offense.)

I guess what really sticks out from those Googled phrases is the fact that they all have to do with sucking, balls, and dry humping. So I guess the obvious solution here is that I refrain from using those words on my blog. But I think you all know me well enough by now to know that that's never gonna happen.

So I'm officially a risk-taker. I'm livin' on the edge. Although I am obviously a magnet for people who spend alot of time on the internet typing in creepy things, I'm just gonna live my life with wild abandon so that I can keep writing the weirdo-attracting stuff that you all like so much. And for that, I think I deserve a round of applause. I'm putting my life on the line for you guys. Or at the very least, my sheltered suburban existence. And all I ask in return is that you keep reading. And maybe give me some free wine. Or tequila. Or take me out to dinner. Maybe a movie. I like gift cards too. And chocolate. And please, if I turn up missing, form a vigilante group of pissed off moms and call yourselves The Pissed Off Patti Posse, and get cute matching vigilante group t-shirts made and then go find me at some seedy sex trade market auction, and buy me back so I can come home. I'm sure it won't take much money. I'm almost 40, I'm periody and I'm super sassy. I'll definitely be affordable.

My Cat. Who's Actually Supposed To Be Ethan's Cat, But Yeah...You Know How That Turned Out

If my cat was a movie character she'd be Jennifer Jason Leigh to my Bridgette Fonda in Single White Female because she's totally obsessed with me.

If my cat was a frog she'd be that annoying tree frog that was in the bush outside our bedroom window and made really loud croaky sounds all night.

If my cat was a man she'd be that stalker guy in college who followed me around all the time and stared at me.

If my cat had a job she would be a manicurist because she is obsessed with emery boards and I can't understand what she's saying.

If my cat was an alien she'd be way more like Alf than ET because ET was bald and pretty chill and would lay around in a bathrobe drinking beer and watching tv and eating candy and stuff, whereas ALF was always talking, talking, talking and being really annoying and furry.

If my cat was a car she'd be a smart car because she's really tiny. Unless Smart Cars are hybrids because my cat's motor is really loud and I know hybrids are quiet.


If my cat was a mouse she'd be one of those mice that scientists use to grow people new noses if they've accidentally lost theirs.

If my cat was an item of clothing she would be a hat because she likes to lay on top of my head.

If my cat was a serial killer she would murder her victims by suffocation because sometimes when I wake up at night she is covering my mouth with her paw and I'm pretty sure she's trying to kill me.

If my cat was a toddler she would not be the kind who needs to wear a leash because there's no way in hell she would ever wander away from me.

If my cat was a stoner, she's be more like Harold and Kumar than like Jeff Spicoli because all she thinks about is food and how to get it.

If my cat was a ghost she'd be the kind that opens doors and cabinets all the time and makes you think you're going crazy.

If my cat had a phobia it would not be laliophobia (fear of talking).

If my cat was a Dr. then she would be a Plastic Surgeon because she's always poking on my nose and my boobs and I'm pretty sure she's trying to tell me I need to get them done.

If my cat was an American Idol judge she'd be a mixture of Simon and Paula, because every time I sing or dance she looks at me like I'm a moron and then says lots of things I don't really understand.

If my cat was a cartoon character she would be Caillou because she whines. Alot.

If my cat was an Indian her name would be Likes To Watch You Pee.

Listen Up People....I'm So Not Kidding.

If I see any of you guys wearing these boots, I will personally organize a mob of ugly boot haters to chase you down with pitchforks and torches, much like those people chased Frankenstein in that movie that freaked me out when I was a kid. And we will hold you down and remove those big-ass fur balls from your stupid little feet and set them free into the wild where they can once again have the freedom to hunt and forage and run and dig burrows and howl at the moon. If I see anyone in Never In The History Of The World Cold Enough For Boots Like This Houston wearing these, especially when I am having PMS, I will personally wrestle them from your feet all by myself, because when I am PMS-ing and pissed, I have super-human strength and am much more prone to being irritated. Actually, the only people that should be wearing these boots are people who are living in igloos in some remote part of Alaska, as yet undiscovered by modern day man. And these people would wear boots that they made themselves due to the fact that undiscovered, remote, Alaska-living peoples would not have access to an Eddie Bauer catalog or a Mastercard.

What I'm trying to say, you guys, is that these boots are stupid.

By the way...Just yesterday I was bragging to my friend that I feel like I'm finally understanding how to work my blog. I have managed to change my address to a shorter one (www.insanemombrain.com) which is awesome because I could never remember my old one, and when people would ask me what it was I usually told them the wrong one because yes, I am that stupid. But this morning for some reason my dear old blog sent you subscribers yet another old entry and I have no freakin' clue why. While I try to find someone who can help my figure out why my blog is doing things all by itself (I'm guessing it's somehow alien-related), lets just pretend that I re-sent that blog because Halloween is coming up and we look extremely scary in those photos (click here). Hopefully some miracle will happen and I will figure out what is happening soon, but in the meantime be patient with me if you get anything else you've already read, and if I go missing or anything, try to get in touch with David Duchovny so he can get an X-Files posse together to hunt me down. I know he's pretty busy lately doing drugs and having orgies on Showtime, but if you ask him nice he just might help. Thanks.

You Might Just Wanna Stay Away From Us. Unless You Really Love Cake.

I'm gonna do you all a favor here and give you a warning. And trust me, it's a warning that you all probably want to heed (yeah, I totally just used the word "heed' in a sentence, and I did it the right way too, which I know because I googled it afterwards just to make sure, you know, so I wouldn't look like an idiot or anything, because I can't have myself looking like an idiot. Although on second thought I think it actually behooves me to look like an idiot. See what I just did there? I totally rocked some "behooved." Suck on that, douchebag English professor who gave me a "C" even though I kicked butt in that class, because you didn't like me and not because I deserved it. I haven't forgotten you).

Anyway, back to my really important and completely accurate warning:  You can't trust the Ford family with your children.

Last weekend Steve was out of town, as was my friend Stephanie's husband, and since she was gonna have a really early day on Saturday, I was keeping her two kids here overnight. We all had dinner together first, during which Stephanie kept commenting on how much her son, Timmy, was eating. Then she told me how much he had consumed that day, saying that it was an unusually large amount of food. Now, that stuff I just told you there? That is called foreshadowing. You know, like when you're watching a horror movie and one of the characters is fixing a nice dinner and chatting with her friends and then they show a close-up of her chopping a carrot in half with a big knife or something, and you know that later in the movie some psycho murderer is gonna break into her house and use that same knife to stab her to death? That is foreshadowing (and again, suck on that professor).

So everything was going fine that night until I was awakened from a deep REM sleep at 11:30 PM by an unpleasant trio of voices: One screaming bloody murder, one yelling my name, and one doing some sort of crying/wailing thing. Well, it took me a minute to realize that I wasn't dreaming these sounds, and then another minute to remember where I put my pants because I didn't know if it was appropriate to run out there in my underwear when someone else's kids were present, but then I realized that maybe giving someone their children back alive was more important than whether or not they saw me in my undies. So I ran out to the living room fully expecting to see a murderer, a ghost, an alien, or possibly even a zombie in the midst of a full-on kid attack, but what I actually saw was Timmy and his sister coming down my stairway in slow motion while Ethan stood up in the game room screaming, then Timmy stopping to sit on a stair about halfway down and proceed to blow chunks all over the steps below him. At this point I ran to the kitchen to get something for him to use as a receptacle besides my carpet, but unfortunately I didn't make it back in time before he did it again. So then Timmy, who actually could have passed for a zombie at that moment, got up and made his way to the living room where he laid down on the carpet, and I said "Timmy, I love you but I'm just gonna scoot you over onto the tile," because my carpet just couldn't take any more.

When I got my wits about me and was able to stop thinking about whether or not this incident could mean that possibly Timmy was bitten by a zombie and was going through the zombie "change," I grabbed the phone to call Stephanie and tell her that her kid was single-handedly destroying my home and was probably gonna be a full-blown zombie in less than 5 minutes, but for some reason (probably due to inhalation of vomit gases that are not from your own kid) I dialed the number of a different friend and woke her up in the middle of the night and went round and round for a minute before I understood that I had the wrong number. Then I started over and got Stephanie on the line and told her that Timmy was barfing, which took her a few minutes to fully comprehend, because she went to bed at 8:00 and was in even deeper REM sleep than I was. So she finally understands the situation and gets her ass over here and gets the kids, all of their gear, and a barf bag and heads home for a night of fun, fun, fun. At this point, Ethan is still in the game room refusing to come out because he doesn't want to see any barf, so I go up and take him to his bedroom and he refuses to sleep in there because "I can't forget what happened up here," so I tell him to close his eyes while I lead him down the steps so he can sleep in my bed, and I get him tucked in and get out the towels, rags and buckets I need I order to start cleaning up the stair case. And although I consider calling my housekeeper and offering her big bucks to drive over here and clean it up for me, I decide that she might not appreciate that, so I just hold my breath and do it myself, then stay up for a few hours watching tv and drinking a big honkin' glass of wine until I can forget about the whole experience and fall asleep.

Fast forward 1 week: Steve is home. He decides to take Ethan and our neighbor, Taylor, to the playground. When he gets back he tells me that Taylor hurt herself on the Monkey Bars:

Me: "Was she okay?"

Steve: "Well, I could tell she was trying not to cry, so we left. She cried a little bit in the back seat."

Me: "Did you walk her next door?"

Steve: "No."

Me: "Did you call Lisa and tell her what happened?"

Steve: "No. I think she was fine."

Next morning. I've been up for an hour. Steve wakes up and enters the living room:

Me: "Hey honey...come here. There's a picture on Facebook I want you to see."

Yep...that's a broken arm.

Of course, Steve felt terrible, and I posted an apology on Lisa's FB page for my husband being such a doink. Then she called me and told me about their trip to the ER. I told her that as an apology I was going to bring our new cat over with a big bow on her and give her to Taylor, and Lisa pretty much told me she would kill me if I did that, but her husband yelled that I could make them some of my pineapple cake if I wanted to make things right. So that's what I did. I made them a pineapple cake and gave them a nice card:

If you leave your kid with us, we'll probably totally eff them up, but we will give you pineapple cake and a card to make up for it. Cuz that's how we roll.

Pattilates: Not A Real Exercise, But Totally Should Be.

Just in case any of you guys were wondering...no, I don't run anymore, and no, I don't Jazzercize anymore. And in case you missed it, I blogged about both: i.e. how much I totally and completely sucked at running (click here), and how much I totally and completely enjoyed Jazzercise (and click here).  The running was not only putting me in one helluva bad mood and making me get dog poo on my snazzy shoes, but it was also totally effing up my hip and knee, which was causing me to limp around like an old lady and sometimes fall down like a drunk. Although not like me when I'm drunk, but like one of those falling down drunk kinds of drunks. Me, I'm more of a talk about inappropriate things, yell the word "penis" a bit too loud, sing to her waiter kind of drunk. Actually, I would do all of those things sober as well, so I'm not sure that too much actually changes when I ingest alcohol. Anyway...I did all of those things on my dinner out with the girls night Monday night when I had too many Margaritas because Alejandro kept refilling my glass every time I sat it down (and I dare you to not sing like Gaga when you have a waiter named Alejandro). Normally I would stop myself after 2-3 Margaritas, but when your glass is constantly being refilled it is easy to convince yourself that you are just drinking one, so you'll probably have just a tad too much and wake up with a hangover on a Tuesday morning when you have to shove your tortilla chip/Margarita salt bloated body into your tight little exercise clothes and go do your latest form of exercise: Pilates.

Until I started Pilates I really only knew two things about it: (1) That it involved lots of laying down, which is something that I really enjoy, and (2) That lots of really hot actresses are always saying that they got their bodies from Pilates. Hot body + laying down alot = my kind of exercise. Plus, after going through Physical Therapy for my knee/hip issues and being told that I should not run or Jazzercise anymore, my therapist actually suggested Pilates. But to be honest, he also suggested that walking on a treadmill backwards and scissoring him were forms of Physical Therapy and not forms of amusement and/or excitement for him. So believe what you will.

Anyway, now that I've been doing Pilates for almost 6 months, I can tell you that while it does indeed involve quite a bit of laying down, you are usually doing something painful with your arms and/or legs while laying down, which kinda negates the whole relaxation aspect of the laying down in the first place.  Pilates is kinda sorta like yoga, which I tried last summer, which was totally not for me due to the fact that it involves lots of being quiet and concentrating and focusing and not laughing and not making fun of all the names of the really strange things that you are doing. Actually, Pilates has lots of weird named exercises too,but I just change them to names I like better.  And according to the official "Principals" of Pilates it also requires concentration and focus and lots of other boring stuff I skimmed over online so I could write about it and sound knowledgeable and already forgot about, but it's not quite as strict and zenny as Yoga.  Well, maybe in theory it's supposed to be like that, but my class isn't. Which probably annoys my instructor, Phillip, a little bit. Even though he does lots of smiling and pretending like he thinks we're funny, I have a sneaking suspicion that he sometimes goes home at night, gets into the fetal position and cries. But hey, at least he's doing that on his own time and not bringing us down with him.

I'm sure there are very proper and technical ways of explaining what Pilates is, but when I started googling to find out how best to define it, I got really distracted and way off track and somehow ended up spending time looking at more pictures of finger monkeys. But I do know that Pilates involves lots of core work and "Powerhouse" stuff and doing things that make you look like you are either in the circus or in the gynecologist stirrups. And I also know that if Steve would just freakin' buy me a couple of finger monkeys already, I could probably train them to be my little Pilates helpers and hand me the straps and butt pads and stuff which would save me alot of time.  I think I could also possibly train them to pull my pants up every time they start to slide off while I'm doing something called the round back or flat back or stomach massage or something like that but I just call Pants On The Ground because that is what happens whenever I do it.

Anyway, I love Pilates and I love my instructor, Phillip, because (a) he is nice to me even though I talk about completely inappropriate things and goof off too much, (b) he is a very, very, VERY patient instructor, and (c) he is pretty easy on the eyes. Which is how old fashioned people say someone is attractive. And if I'm gonna have to be forced to exercise, I definitely need an attractive person to do the forcing because there's no way in hell I'm gonna listen to some unattractive person tell me how to look better.

So, since I was Phillip's very first client, and since I know that he totally digs me and thinks I am an amazing Pilateist, and since I wrote him a nice, serious, testimonial for his website, I asked him to write me a testimonial for my website. After spending a few days laughing at my request, I finally convinced him I was hard-core serious, so here it is:

"Patti was our very first client and is probably our most possesive. She has her favorite reformer and doesn't like anyone else using it, even when she's not in class. If the music isn't good, she makes us change it. She even whined and complained so much about being hot that we purchased a fan just for her, and she broke it after the first day. She really focuses on her mind/body connection when she's not cracking jokes or telling stories in class. On second thought, maybe she doesn't focus on that connection.  Her favorite pilates moves are the ones where she's looking at her butt in the mirror. "--Phillip and Tracey Griffin (Scoop Pilates)

Unfortunately, I think he and his wife, Tracey, may have made a few errors in their testimonial, so I have taken the liberty of re-writing it the way I'm sure they meant it:

"Patti was our first client and is definitely our most awesome. She has her favorite reformer but she is so kind-hearted and sweet that she lets everyone else use it, even when she's in class. If the music isn't good, she pretends she loves it anyway. She seemed a bit sweaty one day and although she did not complain, we purchased a fan just for her, and she broke down crying at our generosity. She really focuses on her mind/body connection when she's not helping other students with their form.  Her favorite pilates moves are the ones when she's looking  at Lee's butt in the mirror. Patti is the most amazing client in the world. As a matter of fact, we love her so much that we are going to start paying her to come to class instead of the other way around. Patti Ford is freakin' awesome."--Phillip and Tracey Griffin (Translated by Patti Ford)

Anyway, I want to state for the record that the fan, whose name was Borg 1, had a major attitude problem as well as a laziness issue. He never worked right from the very beginning, and I had absolutely nothing to do with that. I am alot of things but not a fan murderer. Now we have Borg 2 and he is amazing. He rotates and blows like nobody's business, which helps me keep cool and do a much better job pilate-ing my brains out. I do make Phillip change the music sometimes, but that is only because some of his musical tastes are very similar to those of a teenage girl in the early 90's who is going through a break-up. I cannot Pilate to that crap. I can cry and get my period to it, but not do Pilates. I am possessive of my reformer because I was the first person to use it and it's rightfully mine. I am also possessive of Phillip. One day when Lee and I went into class early and witnessed him teaching 2 other women ON OUR MACHINES we literally froze in our tracks for a minute and I kinda felt like I'd just walked in on my husband cheating on me. It felt wrong. And as for the cracking jokes and telling stories in class....well, yeah, I do that. Usually totally inappropriate stories too. But although Phillip pretends I drive him crazy, I know he digs me. Just the other day when some of the girls were saying I should Twitter (which I can't because I don't fully understand it) Phillip said "Yeah, I'd follow you on Twitter." True story. I even have witnesses.

When I saw this photo of Phillip on his website with "Travis Johnson of the San Diego Chargers" I was pretty offended. I was his first client. Maybe I don't play whatever sport this dude plays (which must be football because he's pretty freakin' big, but I hate sports so I really have no clue), but I AM THE FIRST CLIENT EVER! And I think that should count for something. Plus, this guy uses my machine and now it makes a squeaky noise and I'm really not so happy about it. So anyway, Phillip very happily posed for this photo with me too, and although it's not on his website (yet?) I am just a little closer to forgiving him. (http://www.scooppilateshouston.com)