Beach vacations are relaxing and lovely. At least until you witness a mass murder.

It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
But mostly it was the best.
Except that one time when it was the worst. 
That time totally sucked.

As most of you know, The Hub and I ran away from home last week and went to play Lost meets Survivor meets Gilligan's Island in a place in the middle of nowhere in Mexico.  Seriously, you guys. Middle. Of. Nowhere. It's one of those adventures where halfway along you start wondering if you've made a terrible mistake and what if the website photos look nothing like the place you're going? And you pass little towns on dirt roads with donkeys (AKA the local transportation) tied up in front of "stores" and think to yourself "WTF was I thinking?" or if you're me, "I wonder if I'd get shot if I surprise buttsecksed that burro?"

And because we are not totally insane (well, I am, but The Hub usually handles all the mature and responsible thinking), instead of trying to navigate this journey on our own, we had a wonderful driver named Manuel who took charge. Although, truth be told, if we had been carjacked at gunpoint, aside from the ability to speak Spanish, I don't think Manuel was gonna be of any help. Not once did he mention anything to us about his mad mad ninja skills or show us his gun and knife collection in the glove box or anything. He did mention that he'd love to go to Disneyland, though. Which isn't something that someone usually says if they are a badass Mexican version of Chuck Norris or something. I don't picture a professional ass-kicker saying "I love Disney characters!" Actually, I really saw no similarities at all between him and Norris except for the fact that they are both short. I'm super positive that I've heard that The Chuckster is quite small. Which kinda makes me think that that whole think about him kicking ass is bullshit and is just some voodoo movie magic. I'm a tall spitfire with a short fuse, and my legs are probably longer than his entire Norris-ness, and I'm fairly confident that no matter what fancy ass moves he came at me with, I could just windmill kick him into oblivion. As least that's the delusion that I'm choosing to go with. 

Obviously my relaxing, peaceful vacation did nothing towards making me more focusey. Thank god. Cuz in case you didn't notice, rambling is my jam.

Anyways...

So we're driving around in total nowhere land when suddenly The Hub noticed an oasis. It was truly a sight so majestic that I thought it was a dream that would disappear when we got closer to it. But it didn't disappear. And for a brief moment I though to myself "what if it's a trap?" Like a siren beckoning me to her bosom with a beautiful song, only to leave me with my head chopped off and organs in a styrofoam cooler? But it was totally real and totally AMAZINGLY PERFECT:

THIS

I know...right??? When The Hub spotted it we told Manuel to make a u-turn and take my sweet, thirsty, travel weary ass back to my Nirvana. I'm pretty sure that this was a sign from The Universe that I was heading in the right direction. And also that I needed alcohol. STAT.

After quenching my thirst we headed on to our final destination, which was at the end of a long dirt road. The gate was made of giant sticks or bamboo or something, and looked like the entrance to Jurassic Park, minus that whole dinosaur's from hell situation. It didn't take me long to realize that this place is now my dream location in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse.

Step one: Kill all the zombie mofo's in between me and Norman Reedus. 
Step Two: Locate Norman and use my feminine wiles to make him mine. 
Step 3: Go to there. 

Not only was this place beautiful beyond belief, but it had gates, fences, lagoons (aka, moats), multiple towers to view your surroundings, fruit and veggie orchards, chickens, cows, lambs, donkeys, and beach and ocean along one side. If the ZA were to hit and you ended up here, you'd probably be so mega excited about the apocalypse that you'd be hi-fiving everyone about it, cuz aside from the whole keeping the undead hordes who wanna eat your flesh away from you thing, life would be pretty amazingly awesome. 

Just so you can get a lay of the land that is gonna save our asses. Study this and save a copy so you can help me set up our camp.

As an added zombie-free compound bonus, the lagoons and ocean in this place are deadly or something, cuz you have to sign a waiver saying that if you get into them and die, it's your own damn fault cuz you're an idiot and they told you not to. So that whole thing in that one zombie movie where the zombies were walking along the ocean floor like "la de da de da da I'm aqua zombie and I don't have a care in the world besides eatin' me up some brains?" It wouldn't work in my zombiepocalypse paradise. Nope. The ocean is too open and rough and they'd just keep on getting undertowed back out into oblivion. And the lagoons have crocodiles and I'm pretty sure piranha and miscellaneous unidentified aqua monsters, cuz you aren't allowed to swim in there either. Zombiepocalypse paradise: Win.

And by the way...I was telling The Hub's parents about how we were planning all the ways that this resort could be used in the zombie apocalypse and The Hub said "And by 'we were planning all the ways' she means that she was incessantly talking on and on about it while I was just nodding my head the way I usually do when she's on one of those tangents."

So he's probably not gonna be invited to keep his brains un-eaten and his bod tan.

One morning The Hub wanted us to go on a lovely kayak trip around the lagoon, which I hesitantly agreed to. In Hawaii I flew over volcanoes and ocean on what was basically a tricycle with wings. In Belize I jumped off of a boat way out in the ocean into water full of sharks and stingrays. And on previous trips to Mexico I've zip lined off the side of cliffs and let a murderous monkey sit on my shoulder before attempting to pull my hair out by the roots. But this lagoon/kayak/crocodile situation had me all kinds of twisted up. It started out ok. The Hub was doing all the paddle work and I was chillin'. But then he decided to leave the open water and head into the reeds. In case you aren't rockin' the ocean swampy lingo like I am, the reeds are where the crocodile gangs hang out and wait to make you their bitch. It's like human gangs and their dark alleyways. But instead of switchblades and snapping and singing about being a Jet, they just knock your wussy boat over and eat your ass. When the hyperventilating started, The Hub took my back to shore, and even though I gave him a recap of the documentary about Gustave The Killer Crocodile that I saw on the National Geographic Channel, Mr. Bravey Pants continued the death journey on his own, while I went to lay on the beach, drink a margarita, and plan out how I was gonna buy this entire property offa the life insurance money I was about to get.

Well, miraculously, The Hub survived. That dude is one lucky bastard. I'm assuming that his survival is only due to the fact that the crocs could see that I wasn't with him and they didn't give 2 craps about getting all murdery up on him without me there as the main course. And since I willingly got outta the boat, I saved The Hub's life. 

You're welcome, Hub.

This place was an eco resort and had no electricity and was like fancy camping. They lit torches and candles at night, which came early and because of some New Moon situation. No, Twihard freaks. Not the movie about sparkly vampires. Everyone knows that mexico doesn't have vampires, they have chupacabras. DUH! I'm talking about the actual moon. There was absolutely no moon while we were there. You know what happens when there is no lights and no moon? It gets dark. Really, really dark. And it gets dark early, like 6 PM. And dinner is at 8. On the other side of the lagoon. Which you go across in a rowboat. In the pitch black night. While crocodiles lie in wait for you to fall out on the return trip after dinner and mucho margaritas and beers. And THAT, my friends, is the only thing that kept me sober on this trip. The thought of marinating myself in alcohol only to become a tasty treat for an alcoholic croc. And it was really really hard, cuz there was an employee there named Diego who made THE MOST AMAZING margaritas that we had ever tasted. We re-named it The Diegorita, and he needs to bottle it and become a bazillionaire, buy the resort, and let me stay for free.

One of the missions of this resort/wildlife sanctuary, is to protect sea turtles. I had my fingers crossed for days that some turtle eggs would hatch while I was there so that I could release them. For years I've seen photos and videos of people doing this, and ever since I was a little girl I have loved turtles and I was that freak who will get out of a car to carry a wayward turtle across the road, so the idea of getting to release new babies to the sea was making me a happy camper. One day at lunch the manager found me to let me know that they had a few hundred turtles that were ready to roll and that they would be on the beach that afternoon if I wanted to participate. Oh. Hells. Yeah. 

The Hub and I stayed on the beach all day, and I was impatiently waiting for them to show up with the turtles. Finally, they came and brought these:

Little baby turtle wants a hi-five

I really wanted to do this right, so for once I took things seriously and listened to the directions and rules and did everything exactly as I was told. Umm...yeah. I freaking know. That is totally messed up. But I was all about being the best turtle releaser EVER. They made a line in the sand and we had to let the turtles go behind the line so that they could find their own way to the water, so the location would imprint on them and they could come back in 12 years to lay their own eggs in the same place. MAGICAL, right? I was as happy as I'd ever been. I felt like I was a part of something amazing, and watching these adorable little turtles make their way to the water was making me super excited and smiley. 

Run, Forrest, Run!

I felt like I should write a children's book. What a beautiful story this could be! The turtles are saved from the egg stealing a-holes by wonderful research scientists dedicated to their survival, then after they are hatched they're set free by me! Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles! Then they go on to live happy lives in the ocean and raise families of their own, each one naming their first born after me.

Then it happened.

Once most of the turtles had made their way to the ocean, the other people lost interest and wandered off to drink their wine, which pissed me off because (a) our turtle mission was incomplete, and (b) who drinks wine on the beach? It's beer and Diegorita's, people. I mean, seriously. But Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles was still there, and I wasn't leaving until I was sure that each and every turtle had made it off the beach. Then, just as it looked like things were clearing out, I looked down the beach and saw something. At first I couldn't figure out what it was, but then I realized that it was turtles that had made it into the water, then were washed back onto shore farther down. And then I saw something else. Something much bigger than the turtles. Lots of somethings much bigger than the turtles. I started to walk down there and as I got closer I realized that they were crabs. Giant, asshole, douchebag, bastard-face crabs. And they were taking my turtles! So I ran down there and shooed those mofos away from my babies and then I saw it: Holes in the sand with little turtle butts and legs sticking out. The crab bastards were eating my babies! Head first! I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. I am not trained in emergency turtle trauma, although if you ask me, if you're gonna run this kinda operation then you should have a MASH unit set up for this kind of catastrophe. Or you should warn your turtle releasers beforehand that after witnessing something amazingly beautiful, they will most-likely witness a mass murder and be scarred for life. I stayed on the beach to guard the turtles and cuss out the crabs until the last turtle made it into the water. That night I had nightmares about those crabs, and for the remainder of my trip, every time I saw one I told him what a piece of shit he was. I totally get why people eat them. Personally, I think they taste gross, but I might start eating them anyways just to show them who's boss. And every time I crack one open I'll say "This is for the turtle babies, muthafucka."

Basically, I'm gonna scratch that whole idea of the children's story about the turtles. Unless you wanna read your kids a bedtime story about a cute little turtle getting his brains eaten by a f@ckface crab. If you do, I'll call Random House. I'm sure they'll give me a deal faster than you can say "years and years of therapy".

It's interesting that one of my first thoughts when I saw this resort was "This is the perfect Fortress to protect us from brain-eating dead people," and one of my last experiences there was watching giant (zombie?) crabs eat baby turtle brains. Ah, Universe...thou art a hilarious a-hole.

At least I got to see this little cutie pie and since I didn't witness her getting her head eaten off, she made me forget my trauma just a little bit:

Ain't no way in hell I'm taking my eyes off you, lady. I know what you're up to.

And then I got to surprise buttsecks some scary dolls:

Nothing like giving it to a bunch of paper mache dolls to make you forget about turtle murder. Remember those words of advice. They could come in handy some day. Or not. Probably totally not. 

Me and The Hub. With Diegorita smiles.

P.S. When The Hub showed a tv slideshow of our photos to his parents, he purposely deleted the doll buttsecks one in order to shield them from his inappropriate wife (ahem...losing battle). So in-laws, if you're reading this, THIS is the kinda thing I really do on vacation. Or when I go to Target. Or for a walk. Whenever.

For once I'm glad that The Hub never bought me a finger monkey, cuz if he did, this puppy woulda eaten it by now.

Please hurry and take the damn photo so I can eat these glasses.

I am currently puppy sitting.

Puppy sitting is really a whole lot like babysitting. They lick you, chew on you, there are poop and pee situations, they smell good yet bad all at once, they freak out for no reason, and they make lots of noise. The main differences between the two are the hair (if your baby is as hairy as a puppy then you have genetic issues that might need some looking into), and the fact that you can leave a puppy home alone, but if you leave a baby home alone, it's sorta frowned upon. So thank god this is a puppy and not a baby, cuz I can't possibly stay home all day. No way no how. I cannot be confined to these 4 walls. I have places to go and people to see. This crazy bird has got to fly free. And by the way, I have more than 4 walls. I have, like, eleventy something. Or something. I'm not gonna count them for you guys, because that's math, and math can suck my balls. But I do have more than 4. Who the hell has 4 walls? Even back in the Little House on the Prairie times the Ingalls family had more than 4. They even had a loft. With a ladder. And a pretty sweet ass barn. At least until that jackass Mary burned it down.

Regardless of the fact that I can leave the house sans puppy, I am still feeling a bit tied down. I can close her up in the office when I go out, but I have to be home within a couple of hours before she poops on something, eats something she shouldn't, or logs into my Facebook account and posts mean things about cats or something. Which would be mega clever of her because nobody would be the wiser since I do that too. Smooth, puppy. Smooth. I can also crate her, but then I end up feeling guilty. Like I'm some a-hole puppy veal farmer or something.

The Puppy eats everything. It makes me feel like I have a toddler in the house again, because when The Boy was a toddler, HE ate everything. You couldn't turn your back for a second or he'd be chowing down on a throw rug or a table leg. Every single photo we have of him from birth to age 4, his entire shirt is covered in drool because of the chewing of all of the things. In 5 days time, The Puppy has already been caught eating 3 of my shoes, my expensive neck thingy from Relax the Back, multiple dryer sheets and tissues, a pencil, her leash, dried up leaves, mulch, a baseboard (she removed it from the wall and ate it on my bedroom floor), and Soft Blue Esquire. Yes. My blankie. And I think I have PTSD now after witnessing that whole situation. I'm still having flashbacks and waking up in a cold sweat, clutching onto Soft Blue like Rose clutched onto Jack until her selfish ass fell asleep and he died.

Dear Rose,

If I can fight a vicious canine to save the life of my blankie, you can sure as heck keep your privileged ass awake and share your floating door with the dude who saved your life.

xoxo
Patti

And to tell you the truth, I'm still in shock that The Puppy survived after eating one of The Boy's socks. I shudder at the thought of what kinda funk his socks -THE SOCKS HE WORE IN GYM CLASS- have embedded in them. If she doesn't either die or turn into some kind of mega comic book superhero dog after eating that business, I will be in shock. Forget about radioactive spider bites and accidents at nuclear power plants. We're talking about tubes of absorbent cotton that were on an 11-year-old boy's disgusting feet all day.

The Boy covered in slobber and the remnants of a pile of dirt he ate.

The Cat has about had it too. I know I talk about what an ass pain our feline is, but that girl is chill. Sure, she talks a lot. But so do I. She is like the kitty cat version of me, combined with the kitty cat version of Hyde from That 70's Show. Whatever will be will be. She's easy going as hell. Ya know how I go to my Pattitopia when something unpleasant is happening around me? She goes to her Catitopia. Her eyes glaze over and you can see her leaving her body to go run free in a field of catnip and Fancy Feast Tuna Feast. In the past few days, The Cat has been cowabunga jumped on, knocked over, chewed on, pushed off of furniture, licked, tripped, barked at, and nearly butt raped. The Cat will honestly put up with anything. But last night she had finally had her fill and she was possessed by a kitty demon. Her ears laid back, she growled, and she went total badass Mohammed Ali on The Puppy's face. It was like an interspecies Fight Club and she was Tyler Durden and The Puppy was some drunk ass hobo she found in the alley. I had hoped that the repeated face punching would at least make some impact on The Puppy, but since The Cat has no claws I guess it just wasn't a memorable ass whooping. This morning she was pissing The Cat off yet again, and I am thisclose to duct taping some toothpicks onto The Cat's paws so she can kick some butt.

For a tiny little ball of fluff, this animal also barks a lot. She's like a little cloud floating around the house with thunder sounds coming out of it. And she'll bark outta nowhere at absolutely nothing. She can be in a totally comatose state, when suddenly something invisible pisses her off. Like an a-holey Casper the Ghost who hates dogs. Or a ghost cat, or something. And as you guys know, I scare easily, and I scare a lot. And there is absolutely zero way of preparing oneself for a peacefully sleeping dog to suddenly jump 5 feet in the air and bark so loud that the sound waves actually force urine out of your own pee hole. Zombies I can be on alert for. They make those dumb ass moaning noises and shuffle their feet. Burglars? Yes. They pick locks and break glass and set off alarms. But that outta nowhere, erratic, canine insanity? There is no preparation for that. All you can do is get used to the screaming and pooping of your pants 10 times a day. Sometimes she does actually bark at real things. And by "real" I mean things that I can see but are in no way threats to her or anyone else. Yesterday she stood by our pool and barked at a ball that was floating in the water for approximately 2 hours. Then when she came inside, she barked at The Boy's backpack for 30 minutes. Then last night she decided that the Halloween candy bowl was her arch enemy, and barked and growled at that for awhile. I had to put it in the closet in between doorbell rings. I was about to go all Elaine Bennis on her ass and re-locate her furry butt, but that takes energy. And planning. And driving. And I am far too lazy for all of those things.

And just so you guys don't think I'm an animal hating a-hole, ya gotta remember one thing: I am nothing if not a sucker. After writing all this stuff about The Puppy, she came up and starting barking at me, like she KNEW I was talking shit about her. And I picked her up and starting talking to her in an embarrassingly pathetic baby talk voice. I said "You're soooo fluffy and cuddly and snuggly and I would totally eat you but you're so furry that if I ate you it would clog up my throat and I'd have to drink a case of beer just to push all the fur down and then I'd be drunk and I'd vomit all the fur back up and it would be the worlds biggest beeriest hairball ever, so I am not going to eat you, but you are soooo fluffy!"

That's honestly exactly what I said.
I know. I have issues.

And just now The Dog finished drinking her water and then walked out of the room carrying the empty bowl, sat it down on the hall rug, picked up some mulch that she carried in from the yard earlier, put them in the bowl, then picked up the bowl again and took it to the living room. There is definitely a variety of odd noises coming from that direction, but I'm kinda at the point where I don't even want details. Every time I enter a room there is a new surprise waiting for me. And not the balloons and 4 foot, million dollar check kinda surprise. It's more like the Jerry Springer paternity test "You are not the father" kind. The discoveries are never, ever good. But let's face it, even if I did get a giant check and balloons, she'd eat them before I got to them. And that's a disappointment that I just can't take. I'd rather watch a dog poop out a baseboard than a pile of paper bits that used to be a million bucks.

Spiders love Pink Floyd, and other things about arachnids you are gonna wish you didn't know.

So you all know how I feel about spiders, and if you don't, then you are obviously super new here and have some major catching up to do. And I mean major, as in: Call in to work, make a pot of coffee, put on your footie jammies, wrap yourself up in a snuggie, light a fire, and get to reading. My history with spiders is akin to that of Bruce Willis and all those bad people with the creepy accents in the Die Hard movies. Except my stories are more realistic. And in place of a black, sassy cop, I have a black, sassy exterminator. I give it until mid-way through the reading of Spiderpocalypse 2 before you are spiking your coffee with some alcohol or sedatives and swatting at the air around you like a homeless hippie suffering from LSD flashbacks.

Lucky for me (but not so lucky for you, since I know you all love reading about my misery), I am not currently involved a Spiderpocalypse 4. Not yet, anyways. But it IS getting colder outside, and those arachnids are like old people when it comes to winter. They like to flee the cold, throw on 8 knee high socks and 8 sandals and vacation in your nice, warm, house. There's probably a few Tommy Bahama clad arachnids lounging under a table lamp in your living room as we speak. And when Raymond the Bug Man was here 2 weeks ago, he did mention that my neighbors had just done a full spider spray on their yard so I needed to keep my eyes open in case they all flee in the direction of my yard and set up refugee camps on my property. And I'm like, "Dude...why aren't you doing a full spider spray on MY yard so the refugee's will go to the other neighbor's yards? Seems like a simple problem to solve to me!" And Raymond says "Because it's red ant season and I need to treat your yard for ants and I can't treat for both at once." And I'm all "When ISN'T it red ant season in Houston? And I know they bite and build mounds taller than The Boy, but when push comes to shove, I can totally live with them. Spiders? No can do." And even though when I first moved to Houston I saw on the news that some red ants got into a nursing home and pretty much ate a man who could not get out of his bed, if it comes down to a choice, I still choose red ants. I am not old and I can get my ass out of my bed if that happens to me. Unless I'm on heavy meds. Like I was that time in college I was home alone, in bed, after having my wisdom teeth removed, and I heard the Schwan's man come into the house, use our phone and toilet, then wander around and -I'm pretty sure- stare at me, as I lay comatose and unable to make my body work cuz I was paralyzed by narcotics.

FYI: Nobody believed me about the Schwan's man. Just like they didn't believe me about the alligator on a leash in the sewer or the time the mice from The Rescuers came to talk to me about the end of the world when I had a freakishly high fever in the 4th grade.

Due to the fact that I had not eaten the day that Raymond was here, was quite exhausted from working out, and Raymond was wearing his "Trust Me, I'm Wearing A Safari Hat" hat that magically lulls me into believing he knows about nature, he won the power struggle over what kind of disgusting bug to spray for that day, and eradicated the red ants. And since I have only killed 2 spiders since then, I suppose that the refugees went to the neighbors on the opposite side of the fence. So sometimes at night, I imagine all hell breaking loose over there while I walk peacefully around my house in bare feet. Yes, occasionally I startle at a piece of pocket lint that has fallen to the floor, but I have been relatively calm as of late.

And, as usual, when one is relatively calm about something that they used to be super-duper un-mother-freaking-calm about, I came across a game changer. While I was in a google spiral from hell, I found an article titled "Green Lights Help Spiders Jump With Deadly Accuracy." Immediately I was picturing hordes of spiders standing at stop lights, waiting for greens, and jumping on people like mofos. Just like that movie "The Birds," but with spiders. But I was wrong. Thank god. Or I'd never be able to go near an intersection ever again. What the article said was that if you put a jumping spider (AKA asshole) into a room lit with green light, he will jump like a freaking psycho. He will zoom in on his prey (me) and jump, like, a million trillion feet and land on my face and dance a little "I just landed on your mother freaking face and I'm gonna set up a bachelor pad in your nasal cavity" jig.

THEN, the article said that if jumping spiders are in a room lit with a UV light (black light), they will get horny. Seriously. They will want to make the sexy time. Big time. It seems that these spiders cannot orgasm without ultraviolet light. And when chick spiders were put under UV light, the dude spiders went into a sexual frenzy.

I wish I was kidding, but I'm not.

And I wish that I wasn't sitting here, writing about spider orgasms. But I'm doing it.

And I super wish that I wasn't suddenly suspicious that the Little Miss Muffet story was actually a pedophile spider tale. But I so totally am.

It's like that one time in high school when I dated this boy who liked Pink Floyd, a lot, and we drank beer and watched "The Wall" then went into his room to make out and it was covered with posters that glowed. It was all kindsa psychedelic and funky in there. And although it makes a person look super freakishly tan when they are standing there with their unders glowing like a Vegas casino sign, it still didn't really do anything to horn me out. Which is good. Cuz I don't really want to have anything in common with spiders, other than the fact that we both have long legs. That's enough similarity for me right there. I don't need to go on Match.com and get hooked up with a horny spider posing as a person cuz both of our turn-ons are black lights and glowing nethers. I have enough issues in my life without worrying about being inappropriately groped by a spider when I'm at an arcade or trying to play a game of laser tag.

At least since this google spiral I now know the spider-infested places to avoid. For instance, if I ever feel like going to a tanning bed I'll just remember that there's probably a gang of horny spiders hanging out waiting to pounce on my naked body. So spiders are accidentally saving me from getting skin cancer and looking like an Oompa Loompa. But they're also making me too scared to get my groove on at the roller rink or go to rock and roll bowl. I also know that if I want to stay safe from spiders, I need to lure them away from me by living next door to a Pink Floyd freak with glow lights in his bedroom.

Spiderpocalypse 1, 2, and 3.

No puppies were killed in the making of this blog

So there's been a cartoon making the rounds on Facebook for quite awhile now, that people have been posting on my wall and emailing to me many times a week for what feels like eons. And in case you didn't know, an eon is the longest division of geologic time containing two or more eras. And I'm no expert on eras or any other time-related things, but I'm pretty sure that it's a really long-ass time. And actually, if I were a professor in whatever the hell it was in which they discussed eons and geological crap like that, I'd tell my students to just call it a really long-ass time instead of eon. I would want my class to be all casual and friendly and I would wear cardigans with elbow patches and I'd climb on desks and recite poetry and perform musical numbers to inspire them. And I'd also probably forget to go to class a lot and then get fired and then they'd have some sort of poetic musical situation to raise awareness on my firing and get me re-hired.

But as usual I'm way off point.

The point is supposed to be the cartoon that I adore that was given to me a bazillion and 3 times:

Now you know why so many people sent me this. If you know me at all then you know that it is THE PERFECT cartoon for me. It could only be more perfecter if the unicorn was wearing a beer can helmet full of Modelo. 

I've loved that cartoon long time, but never knew who drew it until a friend of mine (Thanks, Brent) sent me a link to this dude named Sebastien Millon's website because he thought it would be something that I would like. Well, strangely enough, it happened to be the site for the artist of this very cartoon that I adored. I nearly died as I went through all of his work. Yes, all. And there's a whole lot too. And I loved each picture more than the last. And I quickly realized something: I totally and completely understand this person's brain. The more cartoons I looked at the more I realized that this dude was somehow hooked into my brain. His artwork is super cute and perky. His characters are adorable. And on first glance you might think "Awe....that is so cute and sweet!" and then you look closer, and you read the caption, and you're like "Holy balls! WTF did I just read?" 

And that's kinda what I feel like sometimes. Sweet and normal on the outside but all kinds of WTF on the inside.

Here are a few of my many favorites:

I immediately felt a kinship with Sebastien, so I decided to send him an email. 

After sending the email I realized that since he is way more awesome than me, he probably gets waaaayyyy more email than me. And I get a lot. So I decided to write to him again and in the subject line I put "If you don't read this, puppies will die!" Since he draws lots of animals I figured that even though some of the animals in his drawings are murderers and murderees, he was still probably an animal lover and would not want to kill real-life non-cartoony puppies. Well, it worked. He could have easily been branded a puppy killer, but he saved himself by writing me back pretty quickly, and I like to think that we bonded. I mean, it's totally possible that if you asked him he may perhaps refer to it as more of a "She stalked me and I only wrote her back because I thought she might actually kill some freaking puppies and blame it on me," kinda situation. But I prefer to think it's the whole bonding thing. So we went back and forth a bit and yada yada yada, he drew this new blog banner for me that even includes little fat baby ducks with jet packs (cuz you guys know how bad I want a jet pack), and a squirrel (cuz you know my history with squirrels), and his trademark Unicorns and Bunny, and I designed a whole new blog around it. Well, I mentally designed it but hired a creative guy named Bill to actually take the stuff from my head and put it on the screen, because I am barely computer literate enough to run this blog, let alone make a whole website blog thingamajiggy.

Sebastien's drawings make me happy. They are what my Pattitopia looks like in my head: colorful, fun, perky, sweet, weird, with an underlying and sometimes blatantly overlying dose of freaky. One minute things are nice and calm, and the next minute they might go horribly awry. Like his cartoons, I think that people will be all "Oh my! This blog looks like an 8-year-old girl threw up all over it! It's adorable!" Then they'll start to read a few blog posts and be all "This woman makes me giggle AND kinda scares the poop outta me at the same time. I am so confused!" And this confusion is something that I kinda like.

I hope you guys like it too. If you don't you'd be wise to protect your teeth, because Bunny is going to kick them in. 

A HUGE thank you to Sebastien Millon for being so wonderfully gracious and lovely. AND for saving the puppies, AND for responding to my email. AND for making me this amazingly perky banner. He couldn't be any nicer. Please go see his work on his website and like his page on Facebook (links below). And thank you to Bill Downey for making the rest of the page fit in with the banner. I know you wanna kill me now because of how bossy I am, but please don't, or you'll get your teeth kicked in by Bunny too. That Bunny. He's a badass.

Sebastien's Etsy Shop
Sebastien's Website

Sebastien's Facebook Page

More Blogging Tips! You keep asking for them so here they are. But I would totally not listen to me if I were you.

For the past few months people have been emailing me for advice on starting their own blogs. I wrote a very short post about it last spring, but people still have questions. I could fake like I'm a total bad-ass mega-blogger with carpal tunnel-less hands and answer them all individually, or I could write another blog post about it and then have plenty of free time on my tingly hands to drink a beer and eat some Funyuns.

Countdown to Modelo and onion breath...

I did not go back and re-read the first post to check that I don't regurgitate exactly the same thing. I am too lazy today and am still in my work-out clothes, and I gotta be honest with you...I smell like a dead animal. So I'll just write what comes to mind right now and if any of it is a repeat, it's a repeat. You'll live. But I will try to go into more detail than I did in the other post (i.e. this will be long). And please let me preface this by saying that I don't really know why you guys are asking me for advice. I am not a professional writer. My grammar is shit, I make up words, I have no idea what punctuation goes where, and I am queen of the run on sentence. So obviously, my advice isn't gospel. It's just what I think about blogging. Some may agree and some may disagree, and that's totally cool with this idiot.

Can I be a blogger?

So you want to start a blog! First things first: Do you know how to read? Cuz that's important. If someone is reading this to you, then you probably can't read. Or you're blind. Or you're just lazy and rich and you make people do stupid things for you like that whole Puffy Diddy Daddy situation with the having the guy hold his umbrella. Douche. City. Do you know how to operate a computer? Do you know how to type? Do you know how to string words together to form sentences? If you answered "Yes" to these questions, congratulations! You too can be a blogger!

What should I blog about? 

Most bloggers write about things they like, or what goes on in their day-to-day lives. You should blog when you have something to say, and don't blog when you don't. If you blog too much your readers probably can't keep up. And if you have email subscribers and blog too much, those people might arrange a posse of spork-wielding monkeys on unicorns to come stab you in the face. Or perhaps just unsubscribe. One of those. If you wanna be a blogger but you have no idea what you wanna blog about, you probably shouldn't be a blogger. Most bloggers I know have a "thing" and that's why they started blogging in the first place. They had something they were passionate about or they just like to talk a lot and email friends and family long, weird stories (<<<<< That last one right there? That might be me).

Why do you blog?

I was always into writing. Creative Writing classes in high school and college were my jam. When any other class had essay tests, no matter what the topic and regardless of whether or not I actually had any knowledge of it at all, I could almost always score an "A" because I could say some stuff and say it well. I think I would confuse the Professor into thinking I knew what I was talking about by making it different or funny. 

I started blogging in 2008 when I went through a series of medical mishaps, one of which almost killed me. Yeah, you heard that right. It's called Multiple Bi-lateral Pulmonary Embolisms, bitches! And it's hella deadly. During my hospital time, multiple procedures, and long healing process, I wrote email updates to family and friends that were perhaps a bit silly, ranty, odd, and wackadoo, and everyone seemed to enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. If I have any gift at all, it's finding the funny in things that aren't really funny. And that's what I did with my health situation. After all that crap, I had to have yet another surgery that contained a big fat OOPSIE that paralyzed one of my vocal cords. That's right, you guys. This big mouth couldn't talk. And what does a non-stop talker do when she can't talk? She starts writing more. Then, because of my increased email stories,  a friend of mine who had started a mommy website asked me to be a writer for them. Although I had to remain a bit focused because I had specific topics to write about, I liked it, and eventually went out on my own in 2009 and started this blog so that I could say exactly what I wanted when I wanted, with no editing or censoring of any kind. If I wanna say asshole I can say asshole. ASSHOLE!!!! ASSHOLE!!! ASSHOLE!!!

Will people read my blog? Will I become famous? 

As I said before, you should write what you know and love. Sometimes an audience finds you and sometimes they don't. If you write what makes you happy, then it shouldn't matter if you have 5 readers or 5 million readers. If you love what you do, then you will continue to do it. If you only wanna blog for attention and numbers and fame, I hate to break it to you, but you're probably gonna suck. I've seen plenty of bloggers start out really, really good and then BOOM they get to thinking they are famous. They get huge egos when their audience grows and they inevitably think that they could pretty much post a photo of their poop and people will love them. Their writing totally suffers and they just start churning out crap because they think they can. That's like a kick in the face to your readers. If you have 5 or 5 million, respect them, and keep doing what they loved you for in the first place.

I remember that when I hit 100 subscribers on this blog I almost cried and pooped my pants. I could not believe that there were 100 people who wanted to read the complete and total nonsense that I wrote. And the numbers that I have today shock, amaze, and humble me constantly. But am I famous? Hell. No. Look at the numbers most bloggers and Facebook page people have and think about it in real life terms. It's nothing. Sure, it's great that so many people like me, or like you, or whoever. But it's a drop in the bucket. Mick Jagger is famous. Keep some perspective and it will keep you from being a douche. I know that writing a bunch of stuff that people find funny doesn't make me special. And I don't approach writing this blog any differently than I did back when I had 100 readers. I still write about things the same way that I wrote about them before. The only thing that has changed is that I have grown into my style. It takes awhile to get in a groove and find your voice. The writing comes easier the longer you've done it. Don't let your numbers change that.

What should my "writing style" be?

It should be whatever comes naturally to you.  Find your own. And if you don't have one, don't steal someone else's. Sure, some people just naturally write in similar styles. Over the years I have come across a few bloggers that write very similar to how I write (The Bloggess, Fetch My Flying Monkeys, and Barefoot Foodie to name a few), and I actually LOVE them and felt like I found a few bloggy soul mates when I found them. People are sometimes similar, and that's really, really cool. But if you change your style on purpose to try and morph into someone else who is more popular with readers than you are, then it's time to throw in the towel. In my first year of blogging I had a few people actually steal entire paragraphs of mine word for word and use them in their own blogs AS THEIR OWN. And people still steal things I've written. There are coincidences and there is copying. There is a difference between naturally sounding alike and becoming the Single White Female of the blogosphere. One is kinda cool and interesting and fun, and the other is prison psych ward, it puts the lotion on it's skin, freaky scary. A few years ago I visited a childhood friend who had saved every letter I had ever written her from age 12 until mid-twenties, and we sat down and read them all. I discovered something interesting: Those letters? They could each fit in on this blog. Even the ones I wrote when I was 12. You guys could read them and KNOW that I wrote them. My way of saying things hasn't changed much. I've grown into my style, but the basics have always been the same.

Will I get rich? Will I get to poop in gold toilets and eat salads made of money?

I have never had any ambition to become a big deal or make money or be famous. I wrote because I couldn't talk and I had to have SOME way to get my thoughts out there. And honestly, I think that's a part of why I like writing this blog and why people like reading it. I'm not using my readers to become anything and I think that they get that. I am who and what I am and that's all I want to be. I am a firm believer that if you are in this for numbers and fame and money then it shows. Do some people get fame and money from blogging? Sure. A select few actually do. But the ones that I've seen it happen to weren't out to get it. They were funny and charming and authentic and likable and entertaining and sending out good energy and they were rewarded for it. They weren't clawing their way to the top and stepping on people the whole way. They were just hangin' out, doing what they loved to do and "It" just happened.

Lots of you have asked me about advertising. I honestly don't know too much about it. (You can click here if you wanna know my stock answer) Recently people have been coming to me wanting to buy space on my blog and offering me various other projects and I keep saying no. I think it stuns the people that I have said no to, and I am the first to admit that I am maybe just a tad bit controlling. This blog is all me and it's not my thing to give up any control of something that is all me. It's also not my thing to promote products I don't use and love. Plus, I feel like my readers and I have a relationship of sorts. Through the magic of Facebook we have actually gotten to know each other and my readers are my people. We kinda have a trust situation and I am not willing to ruin that trust to make money. If I had the opportunity to advertise something I loved would I be game? Of course I would. As long as I advertised it my way.

How do I get a crap load of readers?

Do the things I said before and stop worrying about getting "a crap load of readers." It may seem odd to some, but I actually don't dream about bigger numbers on Facebook or on this blog. Just like that whole "Mo money mo problems" thing, it's totally true that "Mo readers mo problems"as well. The more people that find you, the more creepers and trolls you're gonna have (read my troll blog here). It isn't fun. I have had issues serious enough that I have filed police reports and visited the FBI. I have also had trolls mean enough that a thinner skinned person would crumble. It all goes with the territory. You have to be prepared for weirdos and bitches to get ALL up in your grill. Some are crazy and some are just jealous. But either way, it can be a lot to take. So think about how open you want to be and how much you wanna share. I have been told that I shouldn't show pictures or tell personal stories. But if I didn't, what would I be? I tell stories about my day to day life. THAT'S what I do. Some are more personal than others, but I know where to draw the line. I write about the funny. But is my life funny all the time? Umm...hell no. Nobody's is. I have sadness and stress and problems just like every person in the world does, But is that what I want to write about? Are those things what I choose to dwell on? No. Luckily I dwell on the funny and if I do write about something depressing I try to make it funny, and if I can't, then I don't write about it. That's not my blog. I don't do depressing. And I don't publicize things that involve other people. I respect my family and friends enough to know where to draw the line and to ask their permission to post things that might impact them. You can be open without being OPEN. So make sure you know where your line is.

One thing I feel strongly about is this: Don't exclude other bloggers. Promote them. Let them guest blog for you. Guest blog for others. Have a Blogroll on your page to give them exposure. Tell your readers who you love and share the spotlight. If you don't you come across like a selfish asshole. If people like you they're not gonna dump you because they liked someone you promoted better than they like you. And if they do? So what. You helped someone find something they like to read and you helped a fellow blogger get a new reader. Good for you. You still have readers. Promoting others is good juju for you. And everyone wants good juju, right?

When you write a blog and let people into your world, they feel like they know you. I'm a suburban mom with a husband and a boy and a cat who has an overactive imagination and an odd way of looking at things that some people seem to enjoy. Recently a woman accused me of making things up saying that "Nobody has that much stuff happen to them just going to target!" I don't know what she's talking about because nothing much happens at Target, really. Once I found a pair of shoes in the parking lot and once I answered a phone and once I had underwear static clinged to my back. It's not like I'm telling unbelievably exciting and outlandish stories here. I'm not out on a yacht living the high life or getting rides on the space shuttle or anything. They are just day in the life stories. Nothing is made up. It's just written with fun language and goofiness, but the underlying stuff is normal mom stuff. I think that it's the way I write it that makes it fun. And it's the fact that people relate to it that makes them enjoy it.

I don't want to ever get an overblown ego or be a douche. It makes me uncomfortable when people call my readers "fans". I seriously don't think of it that way. I think of my readers as my friends and I am just writing the same stuff I used to write in group emials, but on a larger scale. I respect each and every one of them and I'm thankful every day that they are interested in what I have to say. I will never poop on that. And if I do, you have my permission to spork me in the ovarnads.

That's all. Man this was long. Sorry about that. But I hope it helped at least a few of you who wrote to me. Remember: This is just all my opinion and feelings about blogging.  I'm sure that many bloggers will disagree with me. Take what you will from it, or nothing at all. Good luck to you! I am exhausted and my Modelo is calling....