It's just like that movie "Signs" but without the murdery aliens. And the glasses of water. And Mel Gibson. Thank God. Cuz that dude is a mess.

My name is Patti and I am addicted to American Pickers.

It all started when I had surgery in 2010 and I was stuck in bed doing nothing but watching tv and I came across this brand new show and became immediately obsessed with it. You all know I am an all or nothing kinda girl. If I like something I will like the ever loving like out of it until I have driven everyone around me crazy from talking about it. Sometimes, after over-liking something, I wake up one morning and hate it. That happened back in '84 when I went from planning to hijack Ricky Schroder's tour bus and take him across the Mexican border to marry him, to completely being annoyed by everything about him from his pansy ass hair to his stupid car bed, and deciding that Derek Taylor was my one and only forever and ever boy amen. But I won't ever wake up hating the pickers. Ever. I mean, probably not. I am nothing if not fickle.

By the way, I know that there is no earthly reason as to why in the heck The Rickster would have a tour bus. I did not, however, realize that when I was 12. I don't know what I thought he was doing rolling around the US in a bus. It's not like he was Bon Jovi or anything. Perhaps my brain was fried from all the kissing of my Teen Beat magazine posters of Ricky (and various and sundry other cute boys cuz I was a poster kissing whore bag). There has got to be some sort of toxicity in that ink, right? I bet if they did a Scientific study of that we would discover that many women in my age group have health issues because of tongue kissing poster ink. That cranky House dude should totally use this in an episode.

Anyways, back to the pickers.

So after I got all obsessed with this show I would tell everyone about it and they always asked if it was about nose picking, which I admit I thought was funny the first time but by time #3,758 I was ready to punch someone in the kidney. 

Let's get one thing straight right now: I am a flea market whore. That does not mean I prostitute myself out at flea markets. It just means that I can't get enough of them. My Patti senses start tingling when I am within a 5 mile radius of one. I can spend forever and a day just poking around and touching all of the stuff. And the junkier the flea market, the better. I like to wonder where everything came from and who had it and what they did with it. I like to look at those old timey black and white photos of people and wonder about who they were and I fight the urge to take them all home with me and hang them on my walls because I feel sorry for them ending up for sale. And I admit that I also kinda wanna fill my guest room with them, floor to ceiling, because lots of them look kinda creepers and maybe if a crapload of old timey creepy people were staring at my house guests, they wouldn't stay quite so long. 

Hi! Welcome to Patti's guest room.  Don't mind us. We are just going to watch everything you do. Nice underwear! Are you gonna have sex in here? We 'll just stand here and watch you get down with your bad selves. No big whoop.

My Aunt Bengie and I were flea marketing maniacs this summer and we ended up at one that was down a long gravel drive in an old house on a piece of property that practically screamed "Guess what girls, you are about to get chainsaw massacred and have your skin turned into throw pillows." And although we recognized the risks, we went in anyways. Why? Cuz we are bad ass adventure seekers. And also because we are addicted to the hunting of the junk. And hey, if there's a tiny risk of having our leg bones turned into a lamp base, that just makes it all the more exciting. Obviously we made it out alive and we did so with the genius idea of having our own reality show where we flea market and hunt down crazed serial killers at the same time. Toss in a few singing and dancing sequences here and there, and I think you've got the makings of a show that those hairy Kardashian idiots can only dream about. It's like American Pickers meets Dexter meets Glee. 

Why I don't run a network is beyond me.

So basically I have a big old friend crush on Mr. American Picker, Mike Wolfe. I did from the start. Not only does he like to look for treasures, but he gets all kinds of excited and giddy in the process, and it's infectious. He's funny and happy and smiley and he makes my eyes and ears happy. Oh what I wouldn't do to go on a pick with Mikey and Frankie and sit between them in that big old kidnapper van and eat burritos and tell fart jokes. It's on my list of dream dates right between singing a dorky song with Jimmy Fallon and killing zombies with Norman Reedus while rocking a zombie ear necklace.

Earlier this week I saw this photo of Mikey on Facebook: 

Courtesy: American Pickers

When I saw this photo I immediately knew that it was some sort of a sign to me. A sign as in a sort of secret message beckoning me to hop in the van with him and go look at a bunch of dusty old junk covered in rat poops. Let me break it down for you: 

1-The "R" in the upper right of that photo is a sign that hangs in their shop in Iowa that says "Rust." Rust is my maiden name.
2-The small sign under the "R" is a Ford sign. Ford is my married name.
3- On the bottom of the Ford sign all that is showing from the word "parts" is the "P." My first name starts with P. Duh.

And if we wanted to get waaay out there with theories, we could say that to his right is something yellow and red which are my favorite colors. And that behind him on his left is a hula girl statue and not only have I been to Hawaii but I also watched people hula. But those aren't as cut and dry. I admit that. But there is no possible way around it: My #1-3 are hard-core facts. Seriously. The Government should hire me as a code cracker. My skills are redonk.

My analysis of this photo is that Mikey is using signs as signs to invite me hither. I think he carefully organized those signs to send me a secret message. An invitation if you will. And I picked up on it in the first 1/2 of a second after I saw this photo. Mikey and me, we got it goin' on. A brain connection. Kinda like ET and Elliott had except for so far as I know neither of us is from outer space and I don't like Reeses Pieces. Which is weird. Cuz Reeses CUPS are my favorite candy bar ever. Except for Marathon Bars. Which were awesome cuz they looked like ropes and you could stretch them out really far before they broke and then your mom would yell at you cuz you got chocolate all over your hands from playing chocolate tug of war with your sister.

Moms are big fat bummers.

So I am writing this post to let Mikey know that his message was received loud and clear, and my bag is packed and I've got a cooler of Modelo, plenty of burrito cash, a couple of bottles of Beano for Frankie, and I am ready to roll. 


*****UPDATE!!!****

So this just got posted on the Pickers FB page. AFTER I blogged about them. So seriously, you guys...I am so right that it hurts. Not only are all 3 of them in front of my sign now, but they have a few additions: 

1) Clocks above them. That means it's time for me to go on a pick with them.
2) A refrigerator on the right. That means I'm cool. Which I already knew, but I still don't mind hearing.
3) The lamp on the left means that I am a bright, shining light in a dark, rusty dusty world. 

This is all making my head hurt. Thankfully I speak the language of "I can make anything about me-ese." That ability makes it so much easier to decipher subliminal signs. Soooo much easier. 

Courtesy: American Pickers

I think it's time to hide the razors.

So there's this thing going around on the interwebs lately where people are shaming their dogs. I can't be sure how it started, or what kind of amazing genius started it, but I could probably find out on google if it weren't for the fact that I am a lazy turd and I really don't care that much. What I DO care about is that it is an amazing idea. In case you didn't know, most animals can't talk. Sure, some birds can. And sometimes when you are on your morning walk one might corner you in an alley and start flirting with you, and then the very next day trash talk you because you wouldn't go out with him and nobody will believe you until one of your friends goes on a walk of their own one morning and it happens to them. But most animals? Most animals can't talk.

Since I was getting such a kick out of this whole shaming business, I decided to do it to The Cat. Let's face it, if anyone needs shaming, it's her. She owns up to none of her a-holey behavior, and believe you me, she has lots of a-holey behavior. In keeping with the theme, she was a real jerk about letting me put this sign on her and she had to be held pretty tightly by The Boy. Way to go proving my point, Cat.

And I refuse to sit still while taking my punishment because I totally think I'm above it.

After I realized that I was going to need help getting the feline to hold still, I yelled up to The Boy (who was playing video games at the time) and said "Hey! Do you wanna help me shame the cat?" And to be perfectly honest, I totally thought he would ignore me due to the fact that he always ignores everything when he's playing video games. But not this time. This time he immediately yelled back "SURE!!!" and turned off the game and came running. Admittedly, I was like WTF just happened? Cuz that was highly unusual behavior on his part since I normally have to ask him for help with anything at least 1,296 times and on the 1,297th time use threats to sweeten the pot.

So The Boy came running downstairs and said "Where are we gonna shave her?" So I said "What?" And he said "You said I could help you shave The Cat!" And I said "No I didn't! I said Shame! SHAME The Cat! Not shave! We are not going to shave The Cat!" And he said "Oh come on! Can we shave her. PLEASE? It will be fun!"

So here is what happened to The Boy:

I like this shaming thing. I like it a lot.

Pay it Forward, I see dead people, share some bloggers that I would like to hump, summer guest blogger series #6 or 7 I'm not sure cuz I lost count and I'm too lazy to go back and look.

This blog post is from the adorable Christine over at Humble Writes Words. She's new. She's young. She's good. Oh! And she has a few kids. Actually, the "about" section of her Facebook page says "I'm 27. I have 5 kids. Like a boss." And guess what? That makes my brain, my body, and especially my vagina, super tired. As a matter of fact just reading that made my vagina yawn, put on flannel pi's, grab a good book, and settle in for the night. 

And now I'm totally distracted with thoughts of my vagina doing all kinds of of strange things.

This could totally be a Pixar movie. If Pixar was into doing animated movies about vaginas. Which I don't think they are.

Anyhoo...Don't tell the other guest bloggers, but Christine is probably my favorite so far. Why? Because she wrote such nice things about me. Did anyone else do that? No. Epic fails on their parts? Yes. It's always good to say nice things about the person who invited you to write on their blog. ALWAYS. Christine knows this, and me thinks this girl is gonna go far.

Maybe her vagina and my vagina can go on a cartoon Thelma and Louise adventure. But without the dying part. And not in a convertible. Vaginas in a convertible seems inappropriate. Unless they are wearing sundresses and hats. Then? Totally cool.

Be Cool Humble...Be Cool

When Patti asked me if I would be interested in guest posting on her blog, my immediate reaction was, "Does she know she is messaging me? Because I think she meant to send this to someone else..." so I responded "Sure can! Is there something you had in mind?" Really, I was only testing to see if she was really talking to me on purpose, so when she replied with "Just be yourself" instead of "Whoops!! Not you!! Facebook is a glitchy piece of shit!" I knew I was totally screwed. 

Why? Because telling me to be myself is basically like saying "Try really hard and hopefully someone will think your a natural"


And plus I don't know if you have noticed.....
Patti and this blog are a big deal.
And she doesn't even know it.
Or she knows it and doesn't give a crap like how all honestly cool people do.
But I have insider info and been a fan of Insane in the Mom Brain for awhile (well before I ever started any of my own malarkey on my Facebook page and blog) and will tell you, she is a fan favorite not just among the readers, but among the bloggers.

Which basically means it took me 2 nerve wracking months to think of what in the hells bells I could possibly say that embodies "Just be yourself" without sounding like I am trying really hard to be a natural, and also not portraying myself as a brown noser. So since I can check those little boxes as MISSION FAILED....

Me being myself, isn't always possible. 
I feel miserable almost all of the time. Pushed to my limits, or in the middle of some type of breakdown. Not the kind where you are screaming or yelling and crying (although that happens occasionally) but the kind where you are just functioning like a robot to get through the day to do the next day, and the day after. Part of me, would just LOVE to get on Facebook or my blog and say "My life sucks, today sucks, tomorrow will probably be just as lizzzame" but alas, we all have read blogs and posts like that, haven't we? We have all heard about the kid drama, the spouse significant other drama, the family drama, and so forth, and I am not saying there isn't a time and place for it, there is, and everyone should reach out to someone and say "Yo, this shit is weak" but if I did that, for me personally, I wouldn't be able to stop. If there is one thing I can do really well, it is being a bitter Betty, a negative Nancy, a Debbie downer, you name a bitchy bitch that you don't wanna fuck, and I can be her, quick status.

Me most of the time

But I just, can't. Fighting the inner snarky bitch, is hard work. I have had to hide people from my feed so I wouldn't be tempted to be the person I try so hard not to be.
I have had to force myself to find something positive to say about something, so I couldn't get trapped in the snark addiction.
Five kids is a lot of work. I feel like I can't stay on top of things, or who are we kidding, even find the top of the things to even get on top of the things that I am supposed to be staying on. So in order to not give in to the itch that is the bitch, I like to surround myself with happy shit that I like, be around caring and funnier than me people, and learn from this great big stupid sad, but gloriously beautiful world, and enjoy the fuck out of it.
That is why I started my page. That is why I started my blog. To hang on to the part of me that doesn't want to give in to feeling jaded.

Me trying to be positive and shit

What ended up as a small mission to make others smile and displace my struggles, turned into a lifestyle. I find things that I like, things that make me laugh, and share a few things that I have learned about myself through my struggles and share them with people in hopes that they will feel a little less alone, a little less crazy (well I can't actually guarantee that...being as bat shit cray that I am...I am not a miracle worker) and little more hopeful.
I like to think of myself as a forced optimist, as in, I am enforcing optimism to be the shining light that guides me...(cue the Tyra Banks theme song) throughout my struggles and mundane raising 5 kids in a 2 bedroom mobile home kind of life.
I strive to see the better in people, not judge them for face value, and treat them how I want to be treated...with respect you know? By listening to them, and shutting up when I am listening, and saying things that are nice, and not all mean and shit.
So if you are into that kind of positive shit you are invited to read my blog. You are also invited if you aren't into super positive shit because you are already jaded and like it that way. I am not always "on" I am not always even making any goddamn sense (like maybe, now....)and I most certainly never know what the fuck I am doing (definitely...like now)
And really, I kind of like that. I guess I like being myself, or the person I strive to be, even with the run on sentences and the pirate mouth and the insecurities, I am doing alright.
I mean, I made it to being on Patti's blog, so I must be at least a little cool.

Me trying to be cool at being myself

-Christine Vader
Facebook: Slice of Humble
Blog: Humble Writes Words

So I've heard tell of people making "Left-over Casserole" with the entire contents of their fridge. This blog post is kinda like that. A bunch of miscellaneous, suspicious smelling crap that I threw together and baked at 450 for 35 minutes then let cool for 15 so it wouldn't be runny.

Soooo...Ya know that moment when you're lying in a pool chair, relaxing, reading a magazine, when suddenly you hear the spastic flapping of giant bird wings under your chair and you instantaneously have a flashback of the time a few years ago when a giant crow tried to kill you at the zoo and on his second kamikaze dive bomb of your head his feet got intertwined in your hair while he brutally and murderously pecked your noggin with his bloodthirsty beak so you convince yourself that your ass is about to get repeatedly beak raped by yet another psychotic bird and you jump up screaming and throw your magazine into the pool whilst simultaneously realizing that your right boob has popped out of your bikini top and that the murder bird was actually the wind blowing the empty bag of Funyuns that you devoured like you just got off of a Ghandi fast an hour before?

   Asshole of epic proportion.             Deliciousness of epic proportion.

You don't know that moment, do you? Well, I do. And that's how my day went today.

And Monday I got locked out of my house with a car full of groceries including but not limited to ice cream, frozen pizza, and cheese. Ya know, things that need to be housed in cold environments. But truth be told, at least once every few months I come home from the grocery store and am NOT locked out of the house but I DO forget I just came from the grocery store and forget to bring anything inside and instead let in all sit in the car and melt into a heap of grossness and idiocy. But Monday, about 5 minutes after realizing that I was locked out of my house, the medicine I had taken for the lapse in my clockwork constitutionals (AKA poopsies) decided to kick in. Which was a bummer. No pun intended. Because as you all know I am a girl who only likes MY toilet seat much like Sheldon Cooper only likes HIS part of the couch except he doesn't go poopsies on his couch. I assume. That would so totally not be Sheldon-ish. At all. But I willed it away with much leg crossing and muscular squeezing and concentrating on other things like, oh, the discomfort of going #2 in my yard.

And this afternoon I decided to bake some cookies for The Boy and The Nephew and after I put a kajillion of them in the oven my sister-in-law called me and I got in an intense conversation about water levels and spring production with her and totally forgot that I was even baking anything in the first place and I burned the entire recognizeability out of those "cookies." I mean, there's burned and then there's burned. And these things were burned like little Drew Barrymore got pissed at them kinda burned.

And if you don't get that reference you are way too young and that annoys me cuz I am old.

Anyhows...

A few nights ago The Boy had a friend over to spend the night and around 2 am we had a big ass storm roll through and knock the power out. So after about a half an hour I decided to go wander around the house and make sure everything was okay because someone has to be on alert for shenanigans and burglary while The Hub gets his beauty sleep, and when I walked into the living room I noticed the boys were on the couch because The Friend was scared shitless of the storm situation. Then I realized I was in my unders cuz I didn't think that two boys were gonna be sitting on my couch at 2 am, so after going to get some pants on (and passing the still comatose spouse) I saw that The Friend had packed his bag and brought it downstairs with him as if he was planning to get the hell outta Dodge or something so I explained that although our Dodge was having a storm, so was his Dodge (being as that it is in the same neighborhood), and so there really was no reason for him to hit the road as all roads were covered with wetness and lightning. So he said ok, and I took them both back upstairs but had to stay in the guest room next door so the lightning wouldn't kill them. Or the ghosts. Whichever he was most scared of. The details are still sketchy. Alls I know for sure is that he saw me in my unders and The Boy found it hilarious and The Friend's parents probably now think I am a perv.

So while I was laying in the guest room getting poked and prodded by The Cat who was super excited that she was in a bed with me since I lock her out of MY room, I was thinking about how sucky it is to not have power. I mean, it's super duper sucky. When we had the hurricane a couple of years ago we were without power for about 10 days and that was pretty much apocalyptic in my book. I mean, if I'd had to fight zombies and stuff I probably woulda been less irritated. Cuz Houston is hot. And you need air. And beer needs a little old thing called refrigeration. Except for The Hub's Guinness. But who the hell would drink a Guinness in an air-condition-less Houston summer? An asshole, that's who. And then I started thinking about Pioneer people and how shitty they had it with their heat waves and their 8,000 layers of clothing and their homemade maxi pads and their spending 10 hours to make one freaking meal because there was NOTHING that you could buy at the store except for flour, sugar, and cornmeal and you pretty much had to hope that your chickens pooped out some eggs and that your cows were of the milky variety so that you could turn your 3 bags of nothingness into some kinda freaking dinner concoction and it takes, like, 6 hours to make a loaf of bread and then you realize WHOOPS we don't have any butter so you have to go milk a cow and churn some of that stuff and by the time you've done all that your bread is stale.  Ain't no frozen Totino's Pizza in the olden days, you guys. Being a housewife blew some serious chunks. Making dinner like that every damn day while chasing a shitload of kids around because there wasn't any birth control and it was better to stay pregnant than to use homemade tampons which I assume were made out of flour sacks or sheep wool or bark or something.

So I'm laying there thinking about all this olden days drama and getting all sad and frustrated for the pioneers when suddenly the power came back on just as The cat had gotten to Burrow Level 10 all up under my person. So I went back to bed, thankful as shit for my oscillating fan and white noise machine and air conditioner. And a few days later I booked a vacation to an eco-reosrt in Mexico that has no electricity. And don't you worry, the irony is not lost on me. And I hope that was the proper use of irony. I learned from Alanis that people get all kinds of bitchy about that.

Part 5 of my Pay it Forward like that kid that sees dead people-I'm a lazy a-hole-Shine a light on other bloggers- Summer blog series. Blah blah blah

Today's guest post comes from my latest find, Brent Siekman from SooperDad Blog of Awesomeness. Brent is a stay at home dad of 4. That's 4 kids, you guys. No. Not 4 goats. I know that the English language is tricky sometimes, but we're not talking about those cute animals with little horns that eat entire cars and head butt you in the belly when you're an animal-loving 8-year-old who's only trying to pet them all sweet and stuff (flashbacks, yo!). We're talking 4 real live, non-imaginary, human children. And ya know what? I KNOW all you moms are LOVING the heck outta that. A dude that stays home with 4 maniacs. And guess what? He still has time to blog and run a Facebook page and be funny and all kinds of entertaining. So my assessment is that either he is 5 hour energy drinking it up every 2 hours like a bad-ass rebel, or he actually IS, as his blog implies, a SooperDad. Whatever the heck "Sooper" means. Obviously he's too busy to use spell check, but I'll let that pass. THAT'S how much I dig him.

And once again, I've blabbed on way too long. So without further adieu, here is his bloggy blog post:

50 Shades of *CENSORED*

So...

My wife is an aesthetician. She has access to all kinds of body creams, exfoliants, scrubs, serums, and other foofy things. She likes to try out new drugstore options too. Like chocolate-scented kids soap. I had the great fortune to join her on a jaunt out to her supply shop yesterday afternoon, where upon I stumbled onto this gem.

WHAT.

If you can't read the THREE FOOT TALL DISPLAY CASE, it is for a product called "Betty".Their slogan is "Color for the hair down there".

Yeah.

It's box dye for your crotches, ladies. A THREE FOOT TALL DISPLAY CASE OF VAGINA DYE.

We'll get back to the crotch coloring in a minute. Let's have a serious discussion, ladies.

I've been married for 14 years. I have the same reaction to seeing a vajay now as I did when I was 17. My eyes widen, my heart races, and I can assure you that the COLOR of the carpet (unless it's hardwood flooring) does not factor into any equation whatsoever. The simple fact that I get to see it is the thing. It could have Medusa tentacles coming out of it, and I would still be in awe. I can't speak for all men, but my guess is that a good majority of them wouldn't even know your original "hair down there" color anyways.

Now, back to the paint by numbers kits. Betty has a website. As I grimaced through this website in absolute awe of the dumbfuckeryness of this whole concept, I saw this page. For Bridal Betty (all the "Betty"s have names. Black is "Black Betty", Ocean Blue is "Malibu Betty", etc.). BRIDAL BETTY COMES WITH STENCILS Y'ALL. So you can be a classy, sophisticated bride bent over the bathtub squeezing food coloring on your lady bits the day before your big day. 

So I snicker...wait...wh...........what.............WHAT THE FUCKERY FUCKING FOOK IS THIS?

BOTTOM. LEFT. CORNER.

This shit is marketed towards MEN too? Oh...it gets better folks. Testimonials from men who were "embarrassed when getting intimate" about how GREY THEIR PUBES WERE. FFS. Okay, look, it might be an issue for some dudes, I get that. But really, it's not a fashion show. The fact that anyone is close enough to even see your crank is a prize in itself.

Have we really gotten this crazy about our body image in society that we need to "spice it up" by changing the color of body hair that the general public doesn't see anyways?

*LE SIGH*

-Brent Sieckman

Blog: SooperDad Blog of Awesomness

Facebook: SooperDad Blog of Awesomeness/Facebook