Russia: If I move there Sarah Palin will be able to see me from her house. And that's just all kinds of creepy.

So The Hub came home from work one day last week and said "What do you think about Saint Petersburg, Russia?" And I said "I don't." And he said "Maybe you should Google it." And I said "Why?" Assuming, of course that maybe they have an abundance of tiny animals or an entire city of little people or a big-ass Unicorn Ranch or a castle made out of PEZ and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups or something like that. But The Hub said "We have some projects going on there at work and it seems like someplace that would be interesting to move to."

Yes. Russia.

So I Google "Saint Petersburg Russia, tiny animals, tiny people, candy castle, unicorns," and you know what I get? Nothing related in any way to tiny animals, tiny people, or candy castles. There is, however, something called "Unicorn Trails". And I got all excited until I clicked on it and realized it is just horseback riding and they are totally false advertising and trying to draw you in with horrible terrible lies. It's a bunch of crap. The horses aren't even white, like unicorns. They're brown. Like turds. And the people riding them are wearing Cowboy Hats. Like posers. Russian posers. If you're gonna go calling yourself freakin' "Unicorn Trails" you better mother-effin' back that name up with at least some white horses, some glittery tin foil "horns", and some people wearing shiny crowns or those fancy headbands with little glittery bouncy crap on the ends of springs. Not stupid cowboy hats for f@ck's sake.

Russia.

As far as I can tell, no little things live in Russia. At all. Everyone's big. I think their babies even come out fully grown. And not even by C-Section. And everyone there has an accent that makes me think of the scarred-up bad guys from James Bond movies who want nothing more than to throw you in shark tanks or pull your fingernails out.

Russia.

A few years ago I saw a movie about a bunch of Russian's called "Eastern Promises." It starred Viggo Mortenson. Viggo Mortenson is super-duper sexy, super-duper dangerous and super-duper yummy. But guess what? He's Danish. He was just pretending to be Russian. That, dear people, is called acting. And to be totally honest, ever since I saw him in that movie where he was having sex with Gwyneth Paltrow and then had a chance to murder her for money but didn't do it, I've kinda lost respect for him. Cuz most people would probably murder Gwyneth Paltrow for free. Or at least for a gift card to Applebees. But this dude passed up a chance to get paid huge money to do it. Which means he is very very stupid. But I digress.

In this movie, I learned that Russian's are hairy. They like track suits and gold chains. They like dress suits only if they are shiny. You can't understand what the hell they're saying. They are mean. They like to smoke. They like to be in the mob. And, oh yeah...they like to kidnap girls and sell them into prostitution. Which I am not super-thrilled about. At all.

And I know that I'm possibly generalizing here. But this is alls I know. Except for the fact that Russian's like to beat us at Gymnastics and the women often look like that female football coach on Glee. Or Beulah Ballbreaker from Porky's. Which means that I'm almost certainly gonna get kidnapped and sold into sex slavery due to the fact that I am probably cuter than most of the women there. And that's not even conceited. It's just a fact. Probably. Remember that Masseuse I told you guys about a long time ago? The one who started spanking my naked butt for no apparent reason and I was too scared of her Andre The Giant hands to try and stop her? Russian. So The Hub will definitely have to hire me a bodyguard. And have a tracking device implanted under my skin. And pay for me to take even more Karate and Krav Maga lessons so I can be super prepared to kick some Russian Mobster ass. And I guess I would need to start digging Vodka drinks instead of margaritas. And do they even have access to avocados over there? And what the hell would become of my Babycado Orchard?

There are childless avocado loving Americans depending on me, dammit!

And guess what I read about the weather in Saint Petersburg. It's cold. It's wet. It's humid, And in May through July the sun only goes down for an hour each night. The good part about that is the fact that you are much less likely to get bitten by a Vampire. But the bad part is everything else. In fact, the only positive thing I can see about moving to Russia would be that I could get more use out of my Beaker hat. And I loves my Beaker hat.

I also have the distinct feeling that my woman mustache will not be out of place in Russia. I might just blend right on in.

This post is randomer than normal because I've been a lazy wanker and haven't posted in a week and just have to catch you up on a bunch of stuff that is in no way connected. I wouldn't even read it if I were you. And I know randomer isn't a word. That's why I used it, yo.

Today is a scattered kinda day. Which I know is a big-ass shock. Kinda like when you found out Boy George was indeed a boy. So if you don't like reading my more disconnected postings, you should stop reading NOW.

And for those of you who are still here, you guys are awesome and I'm so glad we got rid of those goody-goody nerds who can't keep up with normal things like Wheat Babies and Babycado Trees and Unicorn Bikes and Time Burgers and P-Hugs and super-basic stuff like that.

I mean, it's really quite simple.

Anyway.... last time I blogged I was getting ready to have a tooth pulled. And since I'm a super wuss about all things dental, they totally gassed me up. And they left me in the chair for awhile for it to work it's magic. The tv was on. I had my iPhone. And I posted a few things on FB and took the following notes:

-Put birds in sterilizer. Assholes. Freakin' birds. Keep outta my hair. Sterilize them all. Dentist said so.
-James Spader. WTF? Hot asshole. Pretty Pink. Sexy. Growed up bad. Glasses. Doughy.
-Kathie Lee. Yoda? Hoda. Don't let her sing Hoda. You're bigger than her. Take bitch down.
-Cats and maxi pads. Why? My cat no period. No puberty. Still bitchy drama.
-Teeth are assholes.
-I'm a good girl. Don't f@ck with me. Satb. (I think that's supposed to be stab)
-Why does that door go? Where? Alley? Hobo? Hobos have no teeth. Usually. Stupid gummy hobos.
-Like a scuba. Sharks not.
-Beautiful mojo tooth.

And I think all of that is really quite self-explanatory. Not to mention deep as well as geniusy.

SEE?

And the Dental Assistant told me my tooth was beautiful and she let me bring it home. Which is good news. Cuz I'm pretty sure it has at least part of my mojo in it, and I was afraid that once it was gone I would turn into a nerd or something. Like The Hub. So now I wanna make it into a piece of jewelry so I can keep it with me all the time. And at first I thought it would make a nice necklace, but then one of my FB people said to make a ring. And that totally made more sense because the only jewelry I regularly wear are rings. So I was explaining to The Hub about the jewelry and my reasoning for wanting the ring vs the necklace and after I went in depth about the pros and cons of each and what kind of setting would best showcase it, he looked at me with that look that says "Oh my God...you're a dumb-ass" and he said to me "You're talking about this like you're actually gonna wear it." Duh. Who wouldn't? (a) It's a mother-frickin' tooth. (b) It's beautiful. The Dental Assistant said so. And (c) It contains at least 42% of my Mojo. Wearing it is really a no-brainer.

Sometimes I worry about that man.

Another thing that happened recently, is that The Boy was taking photos of people with his 3DS because it turns your photograph into a Mii. And everyone else had normal Mii's that resembled their photos. Then this happened:

And I realized that the 3DS can really, REALLY see me. And what it sees is that I have the soul of a black man. Which is part of the reason I dance so well. And can rap my ass off. And I have always said that I was once a black man who died in a scuba diving accident. I remember it clearly. So this DS is like some kind of Psychic that totally shows you who you used to be. And who you are inside. Either that or it sensed my special connection with my Pilates instructor, Phillip. Because it kinda looks like him:

And remember when I went to Missouri in July and my friend "forgot" to put my giant pickle in the cooler for our float trip because she was too busy jonesin' for some Skoal while I sang a rendition of that Joey Baby song form the 90's which was not only awesome, but about addiction. I think it was about addiction. I mean, I could totally be wrong. I admit it took me years to figure out what She Bop or Turning Japanese meant. But I'm pretty good at deciphering story-type songs. Like that one the fat half of Heart sang about raping a hobo in the rain and getting all knocked up on purpose. And I'm pretty sure that Joey song was about someone trying to get their loved one to stop chewing Skoal. Anyways...after I bitched about her punishing me by leaving Mr. Pickle in the hot car and totally ruining my float down the Meramec River, she sent me this as an apology:

That's a whole frickin' case of Mr. Pickles. So I'm gonna forgive her.  At least until I  eat all these pickles. Then I'll get fired up again and bitch and moan until she sends me another case. I have a feeling Imma be hooked up with pickles for quite some time.

And remember my other float trip friend? The one who only poops twice a month or something and lied to me and Skoal woman about The Goaticorns? I'm almost ready to forgive her too. Cuz she just started working as a caretaker for an elderly couple who - get this - are the freakin' grandparents of none other than Wheat Baby Daddy's wife! Buckle your seatbelts people. We are infiltrating the shit outta this whole thing. We now have a spy in place to get Wheat Baby photos. DNA samples. Whatever we need. And if the constipated girl can pull this off, I'll forgive her for the whole Goaticorn hoax. Probably.


And I probably have more unimportant stuff to catch you guys up on, but after that last paragraph I stopped writing for 45 minutes so I could look at my split ends, talk to The Cat about her gas issues, and sing her a song I wrote about digestion. Then I had a long conversation with my house ghosts about proper kitchen etiquette. Since they left cabinet doors and drawers open yesterday while - I assume - trying to bake me a Thank You cake for being so awesome and trying to get them equal rights:

And I'm starting to realize that those of you who are not on my FB page are probably very confused right now. And that's to be expected, and nothing to feel bad about. At all. You just miss a lot. Probably cuz you're lame-asses who are not on my FB page. 


But anyways my point was that in the last 45 minutes I have totally lost focus on writing this blog which totally means that I need to go to bed.  And this isn't really much of an ending but I am mega-tired and confused. Maybe one of my house ghosts glamored me like the vampires on True Blood do. Either that or The Cat's farts have poisoned me. Both are pretty damn possible.


I told you this was gonna be random.

I'm pretty sure that in 21 days I'll only have one arm. Just like that guy James Franco pretended to be in that movie with the hiking and the rocks. Except I'm a girl. And I'm not stupid enough to go hiking alone and fall in a hole like an idiot. And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't cut it off. I'd do the spit and wiggle and set that bitch free, in like, 5 minutes flat.

I think I'm dying. Ok. Maybe not dying. But I did almost die once. And I was in the hospital for a week and all the nurses said my room was "the fun room" cuz I was so perky and chatty and everything. Even though I almost died. They took their lunch breaks in my room just to hang out. When something is serious, I make jokes about it and basically refuse to in any way acknowledge that it's serious. But when something is minor, I like to freak the hell out about it.

That's just hows I roll.

So right now I'm freaking out about a few things:

#1- I have to have a tooth pulled tomorrow. Because all of my other tooth hate it, and there's a whole Bully situation going on, and it's just probably best if he just gets the hell outta dodge before I get my Invisaligns, because those things and that a-hole tooth just aren't gonna mix. And it totally sucks, because I really don't trust dentists. At all. Peoples mouths are disgusting, and anyone who wants to go to work everyday and poke around in them has really got issues. And they do horrible, unspeakable things to you that hurt like balls. So obviously they're sadistic. And according to an episode of Dateline 20/20 that I saw once, they like to touch your junk when you're knocked out. Which is just wrong. If someone's gonna go touching my junk I wanna be awake for it. Maybe if the dental assistant would fondle me while I'm getting my stupid tooth pulled, it would distract me from the horror happening in my mouth. So the fact that they put you to sleep before messing with your bits and pieces shows a level of selfishness that is really quite staggering.

#2- I am allergic to myself. Or The Hub. I'm not sure which one yet since I don't actually see an actual doctor until Friday. But I'm quite positive that he's gonna diagnose me with one of those. And I'm almost 100% sure that we're gonna find out that I'm allergic to me. Because this problem started while I was in Missouri last month. Without The Hub. But with myself. But it HAS gotten worse since I've been home. Where The Hub also resides. So it is very confusing indeed. And the allergy went away last week for the entire week so I thought I was cured. But then it started up again. And I was totally periody last week, and I wasn't myself. So maybe I wasn't allergic to myself when I totally wasn't myself. Cuz my bitchy PMS attitude fooled me into thinking I wasn't me so I didn't have any problems. Like I said, I'm pretty sure I have this whole thing figured out. And you can bet your sweet ass I'm documenting all of it for the doctor. Which I'm sure he'll appreciate and probably publish in a Medical Journal someday. You're welcome, Doctor V. Unfortunately though, I think that The Hub is kinda depressed, because I am pretty sure that deep down he was hoping I was allergic to him. And he'd get to get his own pad. Or at least his own room. And I sorta feel sorry for him. Cuz I totally get it. I need some space from me sometimes too.

#3- I am finally having surgery on my stupid asshole of a right arm. I ignored the doctor for, like, 8 months, so I could do things like this:

And this:

And I could not do these things in some douchey sling. But now my arm is mega-pissed and I'm finally caving in. But I'm not happy about it. At all. Because guess what? I don't trust doctors. And I especially don't trust surgeons. Because the list of "whoopsie" moments that I've had during surgeries is a long one and involves things like paralyzing my vocal chords (whoopsie!) and jamming things through organs into other organs (whoopsie!). Plus, every time a surgeon goes in to fix one effed up thing, he discovers another thing that is all effed up. So for some odd reason I'd just really rather not have any surgery of any kind ever again.

But since I'm getting to the point where my arm is hurting like a mofo most of the time, I decided it was finally time to give in. So I scheduled the inevitable medical f@cktastrophe for September 14th, specifically because 14 is my lucky number. And if there's anything I need on a day of surgery hell, it's luck. Then I got a call from the nurse yesterday saying that my doctor's wife has up and decided to steal my spotlight and my number and have her goddamn baby on the 14th. So I was pretty pissed. Still am, actually. And I told the nurse it was pretty selfish of them, and she said "Well, it is his first baby." And I said "They've waited this long, can't they wait another day? Cuz 14 is my lucky number." But she seemed to think I was being unreasonable. Which, if you ask me, was totally unreasonable of her.

So now I'm scheduled to have my surgery on the 21st. Which is a number that means absolutely nothing to me. Although I'm sure that if I thought about it hard enough, I could come up with something terrible that relates to that number. Probably even the specific day. And I'm sure that whatever it is I'll have a flashback of it right after I wake up from my surgery and  they break the news to me that due to the fact that my doctor had a new baby at home and wasn't getting any sleep and was kinda super stressed out, he lost his focus and cut my arm off. And that is why, as I said in a past blog, I am trying to get my hands on one of these babies:

No. Not the creepy guy. The big ass awesome Swiss Army Knife. Because when (yes, when) my sleep-deprived-selfish-wife-having doctor accidentally cuts my arm off, I want this thing waiting in the wings to be attached in its place. If we can work that out, I won't be quite as pissed. Cuz this thing not only rocks my world, but will totally help me with my organ-harvesting/hobo kidnapping/fight clubbing rings.  Plus I can use those giant scissors to make some cool-ass paper dolls. Frick, yeah.

Wow. This post really went awry. Is that how you spell "awry"? This really went a-rye. P.S. The hub hates rye but I totally dig it. Freakin' Rueben's? Come on!

So summer's over and The Boy went back to school this week. And ya know what? It was really good timing cuz I'm having PMS from hell this week and am kinda bouncing back and forth between crying about stuff and wanting to stab stuff. So it really is for best if The Boy is out of the house for most of the day. Unfortunately, however, The Cat is still here. All day. Meowing and following me and trying to sit on me and touching me and rubbing on me and just generally making my life a living hell. As my long time readers know, I agreed to get The Boy a cat due to the fact that cats are easy and they sleep a lot and they hide from people and  they really like to be alone most of the time. But this cat's different. Mostly cuz she's the re-incarnation of an old dude who used to stalk me in college. Not that we have any confirmation that he's dead, but I am completely positive that he's in her little cat body watching my every move and saying "I love you" in meow language all freakin' day. Trust me on this one. I'm very perceptive to things like ghosts and shit. I did, however, just make the discovery that she shuts up if I sing a combination of Opera, Sound of Music songs,  and ghostly "Woooo" noises. So, that's definitely gonna be a thing around this house from now on. Who knows. Maybe it will make The Boy and The Hub shut up too. A dreamer never stops dreaming.

So after I wrote those first three sentences up there ^ I totally spaced out for an entire hour due to the fact that I heard a lawnmower outside and looked out there and started thinking about Little House On The Prairie and how they didn't have lawn mowers. Or refrigerators. Or blenders. Or tampons. Or margaritas. Or soda. Which made me think about Laverne and Shirley and how Laverne always drank milk and Pepsi. And I totally loved Laverne so one time I made myself a glass of it and decided that Laverne had some major problems cuz that shit sucked balls. So then I started to think about balls, and how the kid riding the Unicorn Bike that I want MORE THAN AIR IN MY LUNGS must have some huge freakin' balls to be seen out in public on that thing and how he should probably give it to me so he won't be teased and how people suck cuz I can't seem to get anyone to build me one even though I've been asking, like, really super nicely and I would probably flash them a boob in exchange for the bike of my dreams and I would name it Bertrand Bueller Bikeicorn III and we would be oh so happy. Then I started thinking about what color mane I wanted him to have, which made me think about my hair and how it's too short and looks like I have that disease where you lose your hair and how if you had that disease at least your pubic area would always be smooth without the pain of a Brazilian wax but how way more people see your head than your secret garden so it really isn't worth it. Unless you're a hooker or a stripper cuz those sluts usually wear wigs so they can look more big-haired and whorey. Which made me think about all the big hair I had in high school, but that was because it was in style and not because I was a hooker. Although I really should have gotten paid to make out with a few of the boys I made out with due to the fact that one was a really slobbery kisser and one had really bad breath and touched my boobs so hard I think he thought they were punching bags and maybe his dad should have taught him how to do that right because boys are stupid and clumsy and need information like that. And I wondered if there was some way I could get those boys to pay me now, 20-something years later. And add on some kind of interest.

And this is the honest truth.

My brain has some issues staying focused on things when Paul Rudd is not involved.

The other day on Facebook I said something about how I am pretty positive that I have adult-onset ADHD and a girl I knew from school said that was the most shocking thing I've ever said cuz she had Home-Ec with me in Junior High and if I think that I didn't have ADHD back then I'm in denial. And so I started thinking back on my childhood and I realized that she was 100% right. I was an un-diagnosed ADHD sufferer and I felt really screwed that I did not get the extra attention I deserved nor did I get to use that as an excuse for everything I did. So I was pretty mad. But then I got distracted by the memory of 9th grade Home-Ec and the blue hammer pants I made and then got to model/dance in for my class and I got happy again.

And this blog post was supposed to be about how I went to the doctor Monday and found out he's trying to turn me into a really cheap-ass SOBER robot, and how I'm having mega-bad PMS and how yesterday I broke a glass and hurt my head and got even more brain damage than I already had.  But I got distracted. So I'll try to write about all that later. Unless someone mows their lawn. Then all bets are off.

I can hardly even look at this without crying from pure desire.

I had too much fajitas and margaritas so this is not only short but kinda pointless.

Wow. Yesterday's post was a bit hyperactive. But sometimes that's how I roll. And I guess that yesterday was one of those times. The Hub read that post and claimed that it gave him a headache. I was like dude! Welcome to my brain! There's a reason why I pop Advil like they're candy, and that -my friend- is it.

Anyways, I am a tad bit more lucid today. Even though I'm slightly buzzed on Skinny 'Ritas. 

Basically I'm writing this short post to let you know two things:

#1) The guy I probably impregnated in high school with the wheat baby DID NOT accept NotPatti's friend request. AND he blocked her. That's right. She got blocked. Why? Cuz he's obviously a douche-nozzle. As one of my FB peeps pointed out, the name NotPatti CLEARLY states that she is, in fact, NOT Patti. So why he wouldn't accept her request is really a mystery. Everything she posts is totally opposite of what I post. Even her profile photo implicitly states that this person is not Patti Ford. 

#2) The other thing is that I wrote this stupid thing for Jason O'Mara's website cuz he said I was funny and he wanted me to. And I am totally easy like that. So here is a link to that if you wanna read it: Link to stupid thing Patti wrote for Jason cuz he's kinda cute and she's easy.

Now I'm gonna go get my jammies on and watch tv. And probably kick my cat while wearing The Hub's steel toed boots.  (P.S.That is a joke. It's definitely something NotPatti would do. But I am no NotPatti.)

Here is a picture of a tiny Koala: