March 20, 2014

So yesterday I discovered that there is something in my bathroom wall behind my mirror. It’s like a little Bob The Builder squirrel or something and I’m pretty sure he’s building a condominium complex in there and then he’s going to advertise for squirrel occupants via Craigslist and things are gonna get rowdy up in here.

Last night I’m pretty sure I heard him using a table saw followed by a nail gun and then I think I heard a few hookers pop by for a quickie.

Things are happening in there, you guys. THINGS.

This morning it was nice and quiet until I went to have my morning constitutional.

I was sitting there, reading my Entertainment Weekly magazine and singing a song to The Cat about what a creeper she is with all the staring at me while I poop, when suddenly I heard it: A squirrel sized table saw.

The sound continued behind the mirror for awhile and The Cat went over and jumped up to check it out and tried to claw through the mirror like a delusional psycho.

Then it stopped, so I got back down to bidness.

Then the sounds reemerged in the ceiling.

Above my head.

Over the toilet where I was sitting in a compromising and vulnerable position.


I’ve practiced doing my Karate Kid Crane Kicks from the toilet but it really doesn’t work out too well in the end.

So anyways, I sat there looking up at the ceiling and then I heard what sounded like 3-5 squirrels jumping up and down on the little ventilation fan and I convinced myself that at any moment, angry construction guy squirrels were gonna fall onto my head WHILE I WAS GOING POTTY, so I screamed and finished up my business as quickly as possible (Because you can’t take off running in the midst of your business. I mean, you can, but it would be gross), all the while screaming bloody murder, then vacated the premises, closing the door behind me so that when they fell through the ceiling they couldn’t scamper all over the house with their little hammers and chain saws trying to brutally kill me.

I am about to go back in and see what’s up.

If you don’t hear from me soon, send in backup. Or try to lure them out with an Alvin and the Chipmunks album on loudspeaker.

It’s a little known fact that squirrels HATE chipmunks due to the fact that they are considered to be adorably charming and cuddly while squirrels are considered to be assholes. It’s called JEALOUSY, people. So if you play The Chipmunks they will come running at you like those dudes in Braveheart. Just be prepared to capture them before they reach your jugulars.

And P.S. Some of those bitches can fly, so be cautious. I got Face Herpes from one once, so trust me on this.

And P.P.S. DO NOT use the Chipmunk Rock album. That one really pisses them off. Especially their version of “Whip It.” You play that one and you won’t stand a chance.

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March 3, 2014

Once you become a parent it seems like 99% of your day is spent saying “no” and yelling at your kid’s to stop doing something stupid.

It’s never-ending.

And the reason that you have to say it so much, is because kids are idiots.

And before you get all pissy with me and unleash the BOLD CAPSLOCK FURY all over my blog, let me elaborate:  We are ALL born idiots and our parents are here to keep us alive and well until we learn to NOT be idiots.  We can’t help but do idiotic things because we don’t know any better. Everything is a new curiosity to us and we think we’re invincible. Little by little we grow and learn to stop trying to lick floors and stick random things up our noses. And sometimes, well…sometimes we don’t grow out of it. Just sit down and watch a few episodes of Tosh.O if you want proof of that.

I recently posted a Facebook status where I said that I had to tell The Boy to stop trying to shove The Cat down his pants.

The Boy is 12.

A few months ago he asked me if he and his friend could video tape themselves jumping off of the roof.

So the growing out of it? It’ takes awhile.

Ever since he could crawl I’ve been calling him out on his idiotic behavior. The amount of things he’s tried to do that could have injured or killed him is staggering. And the amount of things that he’s done that have made me want to vomit, are even more so. “Stop eating that dog poop!” was just one of sooooo many.

Anyways, after I posted that status about The Cat in the pants (that sounds like the name of a kick ass kid’s book), I asked my readers to tell me some of the things that they’ve had to yell at their kids recently.

I was not disappointed with the results.



-Stop eating the stick of butter. 

-Do not microwave the cats.

-Don’t sniff your brother’s butt.

-Stop licking the stove.

-Please don’t lick the dog.

-Did you just eat bird poop?

-Stop trying to hump your brother.

-That hole is NOT for fingers.

-Don’t bite the couch!

-Stop biting the dog!

-Get your finger away from the dog’s butt.

-Quit doing Gangham style naked.

-Stop trying to pull your brother’s penis off!

-Please don’t pee on your sister.

-Take garbage out of your mouth.

-Don’t bite the cat.

-Get your finger off the cat’s butt pucker.

-Cat Chow is NOT an afternoon snack.

-Get your hand out of your pants.

-Don’t try and pull the dog’s tail off.

-Don’t you shit on my carpet!

-Stop licking the television screen.

-Stop licking the side of the house.

-Why are you naked and trying to shove a cupcake in my mouth?

-Don’t make balloon animals with your balls at the dinner table!

-Stop licking your brother’s butt!

-No, your poop isn’t going to be chocolate flavored no matter how much chocolate milk  you drink so please don’t try it.

-DO NOT pee on the dog!

-Don’t rub your french fry on the floor.

-Stop putting your sandwich in your shoe.

-No, you may not take the peanut butter into the tub with you.

-What’s in your nose? Is that poop?

-You can only be naked and touch yourself if you go in your room.

-Don’t let your brother eat your toes!

-Quit painting with your poop right this minute!

-Don’t eat your shoe.

-Don’t wipe your nose on the dog/cat/me/fork/any other usual household object.

-Stop rubbing your forehead on the carpet.

-Please stop playing with the dog’s vagina.

-No, the cat doesn’t want to be blue.

-Quit singing songs about titties, farts, buttholes, and privates!

-Stop trying to put your buttholes on each other!

-Don’t put that up your nose!

-Stop trying to put the cat’s head in your mouth.

-Where is my cat? What do you mean she’s in the dryer? How long has she been in there?

-Get your finger out of there. (“There” could be ANYWHERE.)

-Who licked the butter?

-Why did a spoon just come out of the icemaker?

-Why is there bologna and cheese in this pillowcase?

-That’s not bacon, that’s CAT HAIR! Keep it OUT of your mouth! (My two year old pulls hair off the cat and says “Mmm bacon!” and eats it.)

-Don’t beat your brother in the head with Mr. Potato head. You’re gonna wake him up.

-Don’t rub grilled cheese on your head.

-Can we please not freeze mud and sticks in mommy’s coffee cups?

-Why is your blankie in the freezer?

-No, you cannot ride the skateboard down the staircase railing.

-Stop licking your armpit!

-Please do not touch the puppy’s “lipstick.”

-How many times have I told you not to use your moose as a weapon?

-Stop licking people.

-Stop hitting the cat in the balls!

-Don’t sit on your sister’s head.

-Don’t pour your orange juice on the dog.

-Stop peeing on the dog!

-Don’t swear at nana.

-Don’t put the pencil in the cat’s butt.

-Don’t pee in the heat vent.

-Do not sniff the dog’s butt to say “hi.”

-No, you can not go out the doggie door and pee with them again.

-We don’t hang off of the fan blades!

-Stop trying to flush the cat down the toilet!

-What do you mean the cat fell out the window?

-Take the cat out of the microwave.

-The dog will poop out your tooth and we will find it and wash it off so that the tooth fairy can bring you a dollar.

-Get your toothbrush out of the oven.

-Stop licking the van.

-Please don’t swing the poo.

-If you hit your sister make sure you have a reason.

-Stop! There’s poop on the umbrella!

-Stop eating snow off the bottom of your boots!

-Stop putting things in your butt. It’s not a pocket!

-Stop twerking in the dog’s face.

-Sleeping with tacks on your pillow might not be the best idea.

-Don’t eat your sister’s boogers.

-Get your butt off your sister.

-We don’t touch other people’s heinies. No. I don’t care that they are squishy and make you laugh. Just no.

-Take all those bandages off the cat.

-Get that sword out of your nose!

-Stop putting your hand in your butt crack.

-Underwear does not go on the Christmas tree.

-Don’t put your sister in a suitcase.

-Stop biting the recliner!

-Stop sniffing the dog’s butt.

-Stop licking the dog’s teeth.

-Please get your finger out of your butt.

-Quit playing peek-a-boo with your penis.

-Don’t lick the cat.

-Get your tongue out of your nostril.

-Don’t color your sister’s vagina.

-Don’t put your light saber in the toilet.

-Don’t eat food out of your sister’s shoes.

-Don’t sniff your cousin’s genitals!

-Get the hamster out of your pants.

-Stop rubbing your wiener on the door frame.

-Let your sister out of the dog cage.

-Why is there poop on the wall?

-Mommy doesn’t want Graham crackers down her pants right now.

-Don’t put chap stick on the dog.

-Don’t pry open the dogs mouth and reach your hand down his throat to get your gum back.

-We do not put rubber bands on our penis.

-No, I will NOT sniff your finger!

-Please don’t poke your finger up my nose.

-Your hair is NOT a napkin.

-Do not drink out of the toilet!

-Get the cat out of the dishwasher!


-Keep your penis away from my computer!

HUGE thanks to all of my hilarious and amazing readers for sharing with me. xoxo


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February 24, 2014

A few days ago The Boy told me I was overprotective and paranoid, and guess what? It’s totally true.

My pregnancy with him was high risk, and having suffered the loss of a pregnancy before, I was immediately overprotective and paranoid.

I did everything my doctor told me to do and some things he wished I wouldn’t, like renting a monitor so I could listen to his heart beat every morning and every night and obsessing about it constantly.

When he was born I put him in a bassinet next to my side of the bed, propped myself up on pillows, and stared at him.

All. Night. Long.

Soon I was overprotective, paranoid, and completely out of my mind insane from lack of sleep.

And I was also a bit funky.

Not funky as in having a good dance rhythm, or funky as in Cold Medina, but funky as in “Holy hell woman, how long has it been since you bathed?” Because guess what? I was afraid to be away from him long enough to take a shower.

I was a psycho.

Finally, The Hub took the bull by the horns, or the crazy zombie lady by the greasy, tangled, hair, and said “I think it’s time to put The Baby in his crib in his own room because woman, you be losin’ your shit.”

Or something like that.

Don’t worry, as the years went on I got better.

But I’m still a little overprotective and paranoid.

The other day when The Boy asked me  if he could stop wearing his bicycle helmet because it’s “nerdy” and “none of my friends have to wear one!” I said a great, big, “Hell to the NO!”

And again he called me overprotective and paranoid.

But ya know what? WHATEVER. I don’t care. There’s no way in hell I’m giving the go ahead for him to remove something from his head that could save his life.

That’s me being overprotective and paranoid.

But if he decides to disobey me to fit in with his friends, then I can’t stop him. He will do what he’s gonna do.

And that’s me getting better.

As parents we all want to protect our kids no matter what.

But things are always gonna happen that we can’t control.

A few years ago he climbed a tree and he fell and broke his elbow.

A few years before that he fell off a couch (of all things) and broke his arm.

Shit happens. And most of it isn’t terrible: Bumps and scrapes and various mild injuries that they easily heal from.

But still, as a mother who thought she might not ever become a mother, I am on overprotective and paranoid. He’s all I’ve got and all I’ll ever have.

He’s about to turn 13, and although I’ve loosened up a good 70% or so since he was born (or before), I’ve got another 20% to go.

Yes, that’s only a total of 90%, but a mom can never truly stop being overprotective and paranoid, so shut up.

But I know that I can take all of the precautions that I take, and still something could happen, and as a parent, that’s my worst nightmare.

There are millions of overprotective parents out there who were on paranoid high-alert like me, and something still happened that they couldn’t control:

Their kids got sick.

Did you know that this year more children will die of cancer than all other diseases combined?

Before the age of 20, 1 in 300 boys and 1 in 333 girls will be diagnosed with cancer? And worldwide a child is diagnosed every 3 minutes.

But with enough money we can find a cure.

That’s where you come in. And I come in. And all the other parents who have felt what it feels like just to deal with your child having the flu, or getting a broken arm, come in. Take THAT feeling and multiply it by infinity and you still don’t even come close to feeling what these parents feel.

No matter how much you worry and try to protect, cancer can sneak up on you. There’s no helmet that can protect from that.

My friend Sheila, who writes an amazing blog called Mary Tyler Mom, knows this feeling all too well. She lost her 4-year-old daughter, Donna, to cancer. I don’t know how a mother makes it through something like that, but she did., and she came out on the other side having honored her daughter by writing about her journey and starting organizations to raise money to find a cure.

I stayed at Sheila’s house while I was in Chicago last summer, and from the minute I walked through the front door where Donna’s dance shoes hang, until the minute I left, I felt her spirit. Sheila keeps Donna’s spirit alive by talking about her journey and turning Donna’s illness into something that helps others.

This is Donna.

This is Donna.

This is Donna.

This is Donna.

This is Donna.

This is Donna.

Today is Donna Day. It’s a day where we honor Donna’s memory and raise money to help others.  You can click HERE to read about Donna’s Good Things and to donate under her team name. You can also choose to be a TOTAL BADASS and shave your head for charity through ST. Baldricks by clicking HERE if you want.

If you’re too big of a wussy (like me) to shave your head, you can order these really cool t-shirts HERE and support St Baldricks by wearing one while tossing around your luxurious, wussy, mane.

Super awesome t-shirts for pussies who won't shave their heads.

Super awesome t-shirts for pussies who won’t shave their heads.

Please help if you can. Even if you just share this post, THAT in and of itself would be amazing. I mean, not as amazing as growing some balls and shaving your damn head, but hey, it’s something! The more people that see this the better. Every dollar counts, and in 2 years the blogging community has helped to raise over $195,000 for this cause, so HELLO we are ALL capable of amazing things.

And if you haven’t met my friend Mary Tyler Mom, introduce yourself to her by reading THIS  as well as he entire collection of posts called “Donna’s Cancer Story.” because it’s totally and completely amazing and will put everything into perspective for you. I know it did that for me.

I’m slowly realizing that I can keep on being protective of The Boy, but I should also let him live a little because life is a gift and I can’t waste it by keeping him from doing things. I can’t control everything. None of us know how much time we have and living isn’t living if you can’t fall out of a tree once in awhile.

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January 22, 2014

This morning I went to Pilates as usual, and when I came home I noticed that The Cat was outside. I was like “WTF are you doing out here?” because I never let her out when I’m not I’m not gonna be home. But she didn’t answer me because duh, she’s a cat, and also a secretive asshole. So I was like “What’s up with you? Cat got your tongue? Do you got your own tongue or does some other cat got your tongue? And what the hell does that saying mean anyways? I’m gonna have to get in a google spiral over that one later.”

Although it was weird that my feline was outside, I kinda shrugged it off because I had a lot of shit to do today and no time to worry about The Cat and whether or not she had magical traveling powers or anything, so I went inside.  When I opened the door I  heard Tejano music coming from The Hub’s boom box. The only time Tejano music is playing in my house is when Gabriella, the Queen of Cleaning, is here. But Gabriella wasn’t here, so I was like “Well, maybe when she was here yesterday she accidentally set some kind of stereo timer or something. And that’s totally possible because she’s never used that particular boom box before and when I showed it to her and told her she could use it she thought I was giving it to her and it took 5 minutes to clear that miscommunication up and I almost DID give it to her just because I was so exhausted.”

So I went into the dining room to turn off the music and noticed that my kitchen table and chairs were totally set up in my entry way. Never mind that I came into the house through the kitchen door and walked RIGHT PAST the empty area where my table and chairs usually are and didn’t even notice that they were missing.

But after I DID notice them I thought “THE PORN NEIGHBOR RETALIATES!” So I went next door to ring their bell and accuse them of lame retaliation, but my neighbor had no idea what I was talking about, and I could tell she was serious. So we came back to my house and went in and I showed her what was going on.

That’s when we noticed that there was one coffee cup on the table and one on the floor. There was also water spilled all over the floor in 2 puddles and one had napkins on it like someone had tried to mop it up. And there were two open magazines on the table, so we started reading the pages for clues.

No, I didn’t notice that my table was missing from my kitchen when I first came home, but yes, after that I suddenly got all CSI about napkins, magazines, and water. My brain works in mysterious ways and doesn’t work in even more mysterious ones.

The literary clues told us that Tori Spelling recently left her husband because he cheated on her and Sean Penn is doing Charlize Theron and Halle Berry buys toilet paper “Just Like Us,” but what does that have to do with Tejano music, moving tables, and Patti MURDER?

I also started thinking about the Tejano music. If only I spoke Spanish I could have deciphered the message behind whatever was playing when I walked in! DAMN me and my inability to learn Foreign languages! It was probably a very important clue to finding my future murderer!

My neighbor was all “Don’t touch anything! Don’t move anything! We have to call the police!” And I was all “One of my internet stalkers has finally found me, learned my daily routine, and decided that my furniture need to be moved to odd and undesirable locations in my home! I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME! There’s probably a murderer in here right now who wants my supple skin for an ottoman! And they let me go to Pilates before the murder because they wanted to be all stabbing me or whatever while I yelled ‘I worked out for nothing! You could have at least killed me before I wasted time working on my abs! A nice murderer would have spared me the unnecessary exercise because dead people don’t need firm butts. YOU’RE A FREAKING MONSTER!’”

Then my neighbor was like, “Would anyone else have done this?” And I was like “No. You and Stephanie are the only ones with keys and she doesn’t have a car today. There’s no way she would hitch a ride over here just to move my table, read some trashy magazines, and dance to La Bamba. She’s weird but not that weird. Plus, if she woulda come in here to play a joke she woulda done something with Flat Reedus. Not just moved my table and looked at Us Magazine.”

So I text The Hub and I know he’s thinking Oh shit! This is what she gets for telling the world about her poop habits and every other private thing in her life. I knew her attention whorey ways would finally end her life in disaster. Then he says “STAY AT THE NEIGHBORS HOUSE. I WILL CALL YOU!”

So I’m about to call the popo even though it means they will search my house and probably find all the porn that I never wanted my neighbors to know I have because then I will no longer be able to hold their mis-delivered porn over their heads and make fun of them for being degenerates.

But my life depended on it, so I figured that losing the upper hand with the neighbors was worth it.

Then I say, “Before we call the fuzz let me call Stephanie to make absolute sure she didn’t somehow get over here and do this.”

So I do.

And she did.

I was like “WTF? Why are you trying to give me a heart attack?” And she was like “I assumed you’d know it was me and Renee.” And I was all “No…I didn’t think it was you because you don’t have a car.” And she was all “We were on our bikes and we stopped by for a drink and you weren’t there so we went in and rearranged your furniture.” And I was all “WHY?” I figured it had been moved to make a murder room like on Dexter, or perhaps Gabriella is dead and her ghost wants to clean my house once more before it crosses over into Heaven. Or maybe cleaning my house IS her Heaven because it smells like me, AKA bubblegum and happiness, and even my dirt is amazing. BUT THE POINT IS, I ALMOST HAD A HEART ATTACK!

So we started talking about what they’d done and I said “Why did you drop a mug of water on my floor and let it lay there? And then start cleaning up one of the puddles with napkins but leave them on the floor?” And she was all “We didn’t! I would never do that. Maybe Renee did and I didn’t see her?” Then Renee called and said “I would NEVER do that! I swear. I’m so sorry. We didn’t spill stuff on your floors! But now I’M THE ONE WHO’S SCARED! That’s freaking me out! And we didn’t let your cat out either. I KNOW we didn’t! I think you DO have a house ghost!”

Here’s what I think:

I think a psycho internet stalker killer broke in and was waiting for me to get home from Pilates so he could get all murdery up in here, and when he heard Stephanie and Renee coming in, he went to hide because he didn’t wanna waste any or his murdering energies on anyone but me because then they woulda gotten all good and fancy murdered and I would get all lazy sloppy murdered and my murderer wants me to get his best murderiness. Then when they were done doing whatever weird things they were doing with water and magazines, he came out of hiding and threw their mugs around the room because he was angry that they interrupted his murder prep time, and made a mess. Then Ghostly Gabriella started cleaning it up because she knows that pooling water on wood floors is nothing but trouble. Then the murderer saw the Ghostly Gabriella and he freaked out and ran away, because just because you’re a murderer doesn’t mean you can’t be scared of shit just like everyone else. Murderers can be scared of anything they want to be scared of, except for murdering people. Then I came home while Ghostly Gabriella was in the midst of cleaning up the spill, and she didn’t want me to ask her to clean The Boy’s toilet again, so she went POOF and disappeared.

At least that’s how I am choosing to decipher all of this. Because if my friend’s broke into my house and missed the opportunity to do something strange with Flat Reedus, or Bieber’s head, or my Lord of the Rings PEZ dispenser collection, or my open laptop (which was open to my Facebook), or any other of the various oddities that I have lying around my house, and instead chose to move a table and read US Magazine, then I gotta spice it all up somehow. That’s how much I love my friends.

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January 13, 2014

Our mailman is notorious for giving everyone the wrong mail. ALL THE TIME. I don’t know what the deal is with her, but she just can’t get it right. Maybe she’s bitchy about being in a job with word “man” in the title. I know she’s a woman but mailwoman just doesn’t roll off the tongue quite right, so most of us still call her our mailman.

I kinda get it.

After I got married I decided to get rid of all my hair and get a sassy little pixie cut, which I loved, until some dude called me sir, and if I hadn’t been so shocked and depressed after that I woulda done a lot more than put his mail in the wrong box. One of those things woulda been showing him my boobs, and another woulda been kicking him in the underballs.

So yes, I totally get why the mailman lady might be kinda ticked from time to time.

But maybe the woman thing isn’t the issue at  all. Maybe she just hates us and thinks out catalogs and magazines are stupid, so she’s playing puppeteer and manipulating us into finding out each other’s business and creating drama for her own amusement. Maybe she has cameras hidden in our homes so she and all the other mailmen can watch their own little Truman Show type thing.


All I DO know is that I get other people’s mail and other people get my mail, and it puts us all in some perpetual state of forced nosiness.

For example, I know that someone on the next cul-de-sac over gets letters from prison, and they know that I get lots of stupid entertainment magazines. Magazines which I suspect they read while pooping, then give back to me (because that’s totally what I would do in that situation). And whether they actually took my magazines into the crapper or not, I’m never gonna be able to stop thinking that they did. And it kinda ruins the entire magazine reading experience for me when I’m trying to enjoy a story about some douchey thing Kanye did and all I can picture is my neighbor reading the same story while going poop.

But last Friday I found out about something better than prison love or hair club for men: I found out which of my neighbors orders porn.

And it’s awesome.

Now most people -if accidentally given some of their neighbor’s porn mail- would probably either throw it away or casually slip it into the correct mailbox so that their neighbor would never know that they know that they’re a freaky porn addict.

But I am not that neighbor.

This is what  the porn catalog looked like when I returned it to them:





Man, my neighbors are all so lucky to have me.

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December 19, 2013

Last year on my birthday my friends gave me what would quickly become one of my favorite things ever…my Flat Bieber. If you’re new to this weird neck of the woods, then you can read about that HERE. Go ahead. We’ll wait. Oh and don’t worry! We TOTALLY won’t talk about you while you’re gone. Go on! GO!

Psst! Can you guys even believe that those wank-holes haven’t read about Flat Bieber? I mean COME ON! Half the crap I’ve talked about for the past 12 months is built upon the Flat Bieber Foundation. It’s like they’re not even trying to get me! I mean, seriously. Put in a little effort and do your homework, amiright? Sheesh.

Oh you’re back? Cool! You’re super awesome! We were so bored while you were gone. All we did was talk about knitting and periods. But now you’re back and all caught up and we can continue. Yay!

So I’ve had Flat Bieber for a year and we’ve had lots of amazing times together. Then this year my friend Becky gave me Flat Reedus, and you guys all know how much I LOVE me some Reedus (and if you don’t there’s just seriously no hope for you). I was immediately in love and SUPER excited to bring him home and introduce him to my family.

But it didn’t go exactly as planned…














Big thanks to my friend Becky for giving me Flat Reedus, and to Renee for saying “Hey! You should have Flat Bieber and Flat Reedus have a territorial fight!” and inspiring my brain to come up with this whole scenario. Wait…I mean this all really happened exactly like I said it did FOR REAL AND FOR TRUE. Yep. Totally. Oh, and big thanks to Stephanie for coming over to take photos of this freak show.

Now excuse me while I go do my Drummer Boy dance.


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December 12, 2013

Last week one of my readers sent me this photo of her kids visiting Santa and it had me laughing so hard that I decided it would be fun to gather photos from more of you. Then I thought to myself, “Princess Unicorn, wouldn’t it be awesome if you had a contest for best photo and gave the winner some stupid prizes that they in no way need or comprehend?” And then I said to myself “YES! Yes it would totally be awesome, you sexy thang you!”

So I’m doin’ it.

I sifted through about 100 photos and narrowed it down to 14 because that’s my favorite number. NOW I need you guys to vote on the one you like. Please post your choice (by #) in the comments. Voting closes Saturday the 14th at midnight central standard time. I will post the winner in Facebook Monday and email them privately. If I don’t hear back within 24 hours the prize will go to the runner up (and so on and so on and then eventually I’ll just keep the damn prize for myself because holy crap, you guys, you need to get your shit together).

Please vote only once or we will all think you’re a douche-hole and Santa will send his reindeer to poop in your yard.

(P.S. The Rogers family are not part of the contest but they will totally be getting something from me too.)















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December 10, 2013

I once had a boss commend me for being the most calm, clear-headed, patient, employee that she had ever had.

So I totally bragged to all of my friends about it and was met with the same reaction, which was a facial expression that seemed to translate into something along the lines of “WTF? Is your boss smoking crack?”

And I totally get that.

Because I am not a person who is well-known in my circle of friends for the gift of calm, clear-headed, patience.

I’m kind of known for being a bit opposite of those things.

So why did my boss tell me that? Because I WAS all of those things at work.

At that time I was working at a semi-independent living center where I was a life skills trainer for adults with special needs. My job was to help them learn the skills needed to live on their own. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, hygiene, communication skills, and everything else that is needed to function independently.

Anyone who has worked or lived with someone with special needs knows that there are MANY challenges, and the only way to deal with those challenges is to be calm, clear-headed, and patient. If you respond to any of those challenges with anger or impatience, you will lose. All day long, forever and ever, you will lose. And they will lose too.

And I know that because I grew up with it.

One of the things that many people don’t know about me is that I have an older sister with special needs. It’s not like I hide it or anything. It just doesn’t often come up. I don’t introduce myself by saying “My name is Patti and I have a sister with special needs,”  but if a topic comes up that pertains to it, I will mention it then. I have written many blogs in which I talk about our childhood shenanigans, but I haven’t mentioned it in those stories because it didn’t matter to the story. Sometimes it will come up and when I mention it the other person will say “Oh! I didn’t know you had a sister with special needs! Why didn’t you tell me?’ And I’m like “Well, I guess you never asked.” It’s not something I go around thinking about all of the time. It just is what it is.

She was nearly four when I was born and my parents were in full-throttle parenting mode with her, so I came into the world like an independent little old lady who was set in her ways. Just the other day my mom said to me “Even as a baby, you just took care of yourself. You didn’t want anyone bugging you or doing anything for you. I don’t know if that’s just how you were meant to be or if you knew that’s what we needed you to be.” And I don’t know either. I just know that that’s who I was. And that was good, because my parents were busy with my sister. She could often be be a real challenge to deal with, and that challenge was all I ever knew, which actually meant that to me, it really wasn’t a challenge at all. It was just normal.

She needed people to be calm, so I was calm. She needed people to be clear-headed, so I was clear-headed. She needed people to be patient, so I was patient.

And my parents needed an independent little kid who could take care of herself, so I was independent and I took care of myself.

Because of my sister I learned patience and empathy. I also learned self-confidence because kids (and some grown-ups) can be cruel, and you have to learn to stand up to them and not let it bother you. My sister sometimes got teased, and I sometimes got teased, and you have to learn that those people who are doing the teasing usually have problems that you can’t see. But you also have to learn that sometimes you just have to kick some ass.

And trust me when I say that I DO have a temper. I’m not always calm and nice. I get frustrated and angry with myself and other people if I don’t think they are trying, and if I think they can do better. But I’ve never gotten frustrated with someone who is doing the best that they can with the tools that they have.

When my boss gave me that compliment, it was after a situation where one of our clients came into the office and screamed at me for about 5 minutes, while trashing the whole office. I just calmly sat there and waited for the storm to pass so I could talk to her about why she was so upset. And in the middle of an office full of a huge mess of papers and busted up picture frames, we got to the heart of what had made her feel like tearing things apart. But she NEEDED to tear things apart to get there because she didn’t really have an easier route.

Sometimes people with special needs can be like children in that they don’t have the tools to deal with their emotions in the way that other people might. So you shouldn’t get mad at them the way that you might get mad at someone else.

My family and friends have seen me rip people a new one and bluntly tell them that they are being idiots or acting like dicks. But they’ve also seen me talk my sister down from big tantrums and freak-outs.

I am thankful to my sister for that bit of selective calm, clear-headed, patience. It has allowed me to work with some amazing special needs adults and children that I will never forget. Growing up with her has made me a more caring person than I might have been had I not grown up with her. And since she really didn’t put up with any crap and once gave a boy a bloody nose after he called me a name, she also taught me to kick ass. So I’m pretty thankful for that too.

Another thing I learned from my sister and from working with other special needs individuals, is that they want to be belong like everyone else. They want to be accepted like everyone else. They want to work like everyone else.

My sister is the reason that I am doing a fundraiser this month with a company called Paper Clouds Apparel.

Paper Clouds Apparel takes artwork drawn by people with special needs and puts it onto shirts, totes, and hats, and sells these items to raise funds for special needs causes. Not only that, but they hire individuals with special needs to package all of the items for shipping, which gives them endless confidence and a feeling of purpose.

For the next 2 weeks, Paper Clouds Apparel is selling 3 pieces of artwork drawn by my friend Allyson’s son, Logan. Most of you know them from The Crumb Diaries, and if you don’t, you should.


I wanted the proceeds of this 2-week fundraiser to go to Team Jeremy (who I have raised funds for before) to help pay off Jeremy’s bills from his battle with osteocarcoma.

Then something happened.

Jeremy was told that his friend Nick (a 14 year-old boy who he met while going through chemo for the same cancer), just found out that his cancer came back and spread to his lungs. His mom had to quit her job to take care of him, and with 2 other kids in the house, the family is having financial difficulty. So Jeremy asked us if the fundraiser could instead go to Nick.


Jeremy (left) and Nick.

I can’t tell you what I felt when I got this request. Sometimes the selflessness of people is so amazing that I have no words. Last year when I started raising funds for Jeremy, I knew that he was a special boy, and this gesture proves it. He’s nothing short of inspiring.

These are the designs that you can buy for the nest 2 weeks at Paper Clouds: 
Go over to Paper Clouds and join the cause to help Nick’s family, as well as the artists and employees with special needs who are part of every Paper Clouds project.

And please, when you see someone with special needs, just remember that they are someone’s child, brother, sister, and take a moment to show some kindness. You have no idea how much that helps. And if you don’t, I just might kick your ass. Seriously. My sister taught me that.

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December 6, 2013

Amy  is one of my co-authors from I Just Want To Pee Alone and she is a peach. One of the amazing things about being in this book with so many other female bloggers is that we have all gotten to know each other a bit, some through the magics of the interwebs and some in person. I have never been let down by anyone, they have all been awesome, and when Amy sent me a guest post about the waxing of her lady bits, I knoew she was my kinda gal. I’ve been there, Amy. I’ve been there.

When I was eight months pregnant with my first child, I started to worry about what would happen in the delivery room. Would it be cold? Would the anesthesiologist screw up my epidural and kill me? Would I be able to get an epidural? Would I crap on the table? Would I tell my husband I hate him? Would I hate him?

I knew I wouldn’t be able to control many things about that experience, so I focused on what I could control.  I got a pedicure, I practiced my rhythmic breathing, and I scheduled a Brazilian wax. I thought that while I may be a total shit storm during childbirth, but my toes and my lady bits would look nice. In hindsight, I realize maybe we had to borrow a car seat to bring my boy home from the hospital because I was too focused on my pubic hair and not focused enough on securing baby essentials.

I had never had a Brazilian wax. I did have a couple of professional bikini waxes under my belt, and really it’s the same thing, right? I had some friends who were cleaning up their downstairs too, so we made our appointments together. I’m the type of girl who likes to premedicate in anticipation of future pain, but since I was pregnant, I went in dose-free. Not even a cocktail to take the edge off.

We arrived at the salon, and waited in a foyer filled with cozy chairs, cool art, and a table piled high with photo albums of after pictures. Men and women. Front and back. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought about what style I wanted. My friends had though, and we discussed the choices and preferences of the women in our group.

The business was set up as one big room, with walls that were about ten feet tall forming the smaller “rooms” and a curtain as the doors. This allowed some privacy, but there was still the feeling of openness. It also meant any screaming would be heard by all. I was nervous, but I figured people do this all the time. How bad could it be? Also, I wax my upper lip and eyebrows frequently. That meant I was pretty tough, right? In a month I was planning on pushing a baby out of that same area, so a little hair removal had to be manageable.

It was my turn. I made pleasantries with my waxologist, or esthetician as I learned they are actually called, and was led to my room (the one closest to the door and the waiting area) and given my instructions. She left the room while I disrobed, laid on the table, and draped my fur with the sheet. It was chilly, but I was sweating. Was it too late to back out? What the hell did I care if I wasn’t freshly waxed for the big day? I’m sure my doctor and the hospital staff had seen worse. To this day, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have put a stop to the whole thing if my ride wasn’t spread eagle in the next room getting hot wax applied to her butt.

The esthetician came back in, and we got started. It hurt. The bikini area was screaming, but my face was still calm. Then she had me grab my knee and pull it to my chest. This was difficult, actually impossible, but I pulled my leg up as far as I could with my gigantic belly, and waited. As the hair was ripped from my body, I began to wonder if my nether regions were going to be able to handle the rigors of childbirth if they protested so violently at a waxing. I cried. I sweated profusely. I was shaking so much we had to take a break. And I was pissed. Pissed at our society that tells women this garbage is necessary, and so prevalent that there are businesses dedicated almost solely to pubic hair removal; pissed at my friends for bringing me to this torture chamber; but mostly pissed at myself for being such a pussy. I was having a difficult time talking myself into continuing, but I couldn’t stop yet. I was lopsided! I bit my lip, dug deep for strength, and gave the wax wielder a “let’s do this” nod.

She waxed, I whimpered, and I was eventually allowed to lower my legs. They were numb. I wished the rest of me was, too. I suggested an epidural service be added to the establishment’s a la carte menu. The esthetician smiled, dipped her wax, and told me to get on all fours. I sighed the sad, sad sigh of the broken, and complied. I felt sorry for myself, I felt sorry for this woman who removed asshole hair for a living, and I was exhausted. One more time, I pulled my strength, and I clenched my jaw. She set to work, and while she was waxing, she said, “You know, during pregnancy you have more blood flowing to your genitals. This makes waxing much more painful.” What? WHAT?! We’re more than halfway done and I’m just hearing that now? She continues, “I’m really impressed that you were brave enough to try this for the first time with that much more sensation down here.”

Two things went through my mind. First, I wasn’t as much of a pussy as I thought. Second, I could stop. And that’s just what I did. I wasn’t done, but I wasn’t lopsided. Good enough. A vast improvement over what was happening down there when I walked in, and being on all fours with a stranger eyeing my butthole while I was eight months pregnant was a great story. I considered the day a success. I would come back when I could pop some ibuprofen and have a few drinks, and when my body wasn’t preparing for the miracle of childbirth.

I never did.

Check out Amy’s Facebook page HERE
Check out her blog HERE

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November 21, 2013

Last week The Today Show did a segment about inspirational people in which each of the co-hosts of the show got the chance to talk about who inspires them. Well, since the producers of The Today Show have not yet invited me to come to the show, sit on Matt Lauer’s lap, and talk about my love of tiny animals wearing clothing and my love of Norman Reedus not wearing clothing, I have decided to totally slum it and do my own Today Show-esque situation right here, on my own blog, while sitting in an office chair that is in no way as awkwardly comfortable as sitting in Matt Lauer’s lap.

Hopefully, all of you are lucky enough to  get the chance to meet at least one person who inspires you. Last year, through the magic of being a big mouth in the blogosphere, I got the chance to meet Reilly.

Last December, after posting a photo of myself with my life-sized, cardboard, Justin Bieber, Reilly’s mom (who had been a reader of mine for awhile) asked me where she could get a cardboard Selena Gomez for her son. After that post we started chatting and she told me Reilly’s story:

On a rainy morning in 2010, when Reilly was 11-years-old, he went outside to play football with some friends. After the ball was accidentally thrown into the creek behind his house, Reilly went in after it.  When the current knocked a pile of debris loose, Reilly panicked and grabbed out for what he thought was a rope, but ended up being a downed power line. Reilly was electrocuted, went into cardiac arrest, then fell face down into the water and started to drown. Some people in a passing car were flagged down, got him out of the water, and performed CPR until the paramedics came. On the way to the hospital he was about to be pronounced dead when the paramedics felt a slight pulse. He arrived at the children’s hospital barely alive, and was put into an induced coma to try to save brain function.

His mother was told that he was going to die.

But Reilly didn’t die.

He went through 3 brain surgeries. He stayed in the hospital for 8 long months. He then stayed in a private care facility for 3 years.

He cannot walk. He cannot talk. He cannot eat. But he gets around like a maniac in his electric wheelchair. He communicates through a machine. He eats through a tube in his stomach. He smiles nearly all of the time.

And this is why Reilly inspires me.

Not only did he survive blow after blow after blow, but he still smiles.

That’s a big freaking lesson right there, folks.

Ever since I met Reilly I think about him when I start to get pissy about something and I realize just how ridiculous I am. Some dude cut me off in traffic and I’m gonna let it ruin my day? SERIOUSLY??? How pathetic is that?

Reilly puts things into perspective for me and makes me appreciate LIFE.

Reilly has been in the hospital for a few weeks now. He’s been vomiting uncontrollably and the doctors have had a difficult time figuring out what’s wrong. Yet this is what he does:

Image - Nov 21, 2013 17.27.25He smiles.

After all he’s been through and continues to go through,


(Reilly with a cardboard Selena that I sent him)

He freaking SMILES!

And I’m gonna let something stupid like a cold cup of coffee ruin my day? I don’t think so.

This is my inspiration:
Image - Nov 21, 2013 17.36.41

So here’s what I want to do…I want to celebrate Reilly. I want people to send him cards, letters, little gifts, ANYTHING that you think will make his hospital time better. I want him to know that he is amazing and that people are rooting for him and are inspired by him. My dream is for him to get to meet Selena Gomez. Can you imagine THAT? If we could somehow reach out to her and get her to at least send him something special, can you even try to picture the smile that would be on his face??? If he smiles this much already, I can’t even imagine what a Selena smile would be like, but I know one thing: I want to see it!

Here’s how you can help:

-To keep Reilly’s spirits up you can send cards or gifts (he likes anything to do with BMX baseball -TX Rangers, skateboarding apparel, flat billed hats, blankets, movies, anything involving Selena Gomez, things that light up, anything Science related, anything to do with pranks and jokes) to him at this address:

Smiley Reilly
℅ Insane In The Mom-Brain

6140 HWY 6, #122
Missouri City, TX  77459

-If you have Twitter you can tweet to @selenagomez and include #smileyreilly and the link to this post:

-If you have a Facebook or Google+ page you can share the link to this post and ask people to participate and share it too.

-You can write to TV shows such as Ellen (, Kelly and Michael (, or any other shows or publications, websites, etc… that you think might be willing to help. You can also write to News and Radio stations in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and include the link to this post. Kid Kraddik is a great radio show in Dallas that does a lot for kids

-ANYTHING else you can think of doing…DO IT!!!

Let’s bombard everyone with this request and see if we can get Reilly some Selena love!

Hey, nothing is impossible. Reilly definitely proves that.

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