March 17, 2016

So I was logging into my blog and it asked me to prove my humanity by answering a math problem.

Since when do we have to do math to “prove our humanity”?

I happen to know for a fact that a lot of real live humans cannot math.

What happened to the good old days of deciphering nonsensical number/word combinations that seemed as if they were melting in some kind of warpy, tie-dyed, smoke cloud?

That crap totally sucked ass and I often got it wrong on the first try, but at least it wasn’t math!

And yes, the math that my blog gave me was the simple problem of 5+1.


But who’s to say what it’s gonna ask me in a month?

Or a year?

It could be some kind of Good Will Hunting BS and then BAM I’m forever locked out of the internets for being nonhuman.

And by “nonhuman” are they saying that they think I might be an animal or a bigfoot?

Maybe a ghost or a zombie?

Or are they talking robots and crap like that?

Because these things USED to say “Prove you’re not a robot” didn’t they?

But aren’t robots basically creepy computers with weird faces?

And aren’t computers “nonhuman” thereby making robots nonhuman too?

And aren’t computers often programmed to do all kinds of maths and stuff?

I mean, I saw that movie with Benedict Cummerbun where he basically invented the computer to do math/decoding things that ended up changing the entire course of the second world war and leading to the defeat of the Nazis. So yeah, I’m pretty sure that a computer can math.

And if robots are computers then technically couldn’t a robot answer a math question?

Unless maybe it’s one of those sex robots or whatever freaky shit they’re building in China now. I don’t think you need maths to perform robot blow jobs.

But what do I know? I might not even be human!

What I’m trying to say is that being “nonhuman” doesn’t automatically mean that you can’t do math, right?

And I don’t think that being human automatically means that you can.

Because as far as I know I’m a human who seriously sucks at math. BUT if I punch some math shit into my computer my computer totally knows what’s up.

So although robots may officially be nonhuman they still probably have a better chance at correctly answering math questions than I (a supposed human) do.

For that matter, so do animals, bigfoots, zombies, and ghosts.

Especially ghosts.

Because the ghost in question could totally be someone mathy like that dude that invented the computer. Or Einstein.



After all of that I didn’t even want to log into my blog on principle.

We must take a stand against forced mathing!

But I had all of these thoughts and I wanted to run them by you, so I did it.

I did the math.

But if someday soon I disappear off the internets you’ll know why.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Email

Like it? Share it!

March 8, 2016

I was driving down the road when out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a dead body wrapped in a plastic tarp in a ditch. So I turned around to go check it out.

In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that this was not the first time that I’ve thought I found a dead body.

There have been others.

Many others.

I know that sounds kinda weird. But ever since I was a kid I’ve just sort of expected that I’m going to happen across a dead body some day. I’ve expected it so much that when I was in college and a friend of mine came home from work one day and announced that she had found a dead body at a gas station, I was secretly angry.

Okay. Maybe not sooooo secretly. Because when she told me I was like “Ummmm are you kidding me? Well there go my chances, I guess. Because seriously, what are the odds that two friends would each find dead bodies? It was supposed to be me. But I guess now it’s you. Whatever.”

And I know that a normal person would have possibly reacted with something more like “Oh my God are you okay? Let me get you a drink. You poor thing!” and crap like that. But when have I ever said that I’m normal?

Back in my younger days before my “friend” stole my body finding spotlight, I had big plans for how I would handle the event when the inevitable time came, and I would walk around my neighborhood with a camera and a notebook just so I’d be prepared.

When I eventually found my first body I would take notes, snap a few photos, and observe and decipher any and all clues. And I would do all of that before contacting the proper authorities so I would have my own “evidence” that I could use to solve the case before the police did, thereby landing me a ratings busting 2-parter on The Phil Donahue Show to discuss how it was that I became so incredibly brave and awesome.

After my whirlwind media tour I would start my own business and go down in history as the only kid to ever become a professional, crime-solving, private investigator.

Them’s totally reasonable goals if you ask me.

But it never happened.

And although I don’t expect it to happen quite as much as I used to (thanks to that college “friend” for ruining my odds), I am still quite susceptible to seeing dead bodies in various locations. Albeit dead bodies that always turn out to be things that, upon closer inspection, in no way resemble dead bodies at all.

But that doesn’t stop my brain from seeing what it thinks it sees and then convincing me that THIS is finally it and I MUST GO LOOK. Because one thing I do know is that the day that I finally decide NOT to go look is the day that I see on the news that somebody else found a body that was meant for me.

But would that really be so bad?

Because over time I’ve gotten a lot more neurotic than I was as a child. I’ve pretty much lost that badass, crime-solving confidence that I had as a carefree, dead body obsessed, child of the 80’s. Now I’m more prone to over-worrying about every what-if that my ADD riddled brain can come up with. Gone are the plans of notes and crime scene photos. Those plans have been replaced with mind-numbing panic about everything that could go awry when one stumbles across a dead person.

So that in mind, like I said in the first sentence…

I was driving down the road and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a dead body wrapped in a plastic tarp in a ditch. I decided I had to go back and check on. Here is the conversation I had with myself on that journey:


Holy shit! Was that a dead body?

I’m pretty sure that was a dead body.


There’s no way that was a dead body.

It’s NEVER a dead body.

But it seriously was.

Wasn’t it?

If it IS a dead body I wonder who it is? I hope it’s an adult. Please let it be an adult. And I hope they’re old. Someone who was gonna die pretty soon anyways. And hopefully they were a total dick when they were alive too. Because I just don’t want to find out it was a nice person. Or a young person. Old and dicky is the only way I can deal with this. Maybe someone Rush Limbaugh-esque.

If it IS a body I hope it’s fresh. Okay, that sounds creepy. What I mean is I hope it’s not horribly decomposed. I could deal with a fresh body that still looks alive-ish much better than I could deal with a rotty one. I sooo could not deal with that. I mean, my eyes could probably handle it. I do watch The Walking Dead and everything. And my eyes? They’ve seen some stuff. But there’s pretty much no way that my nose could even begin to deal. I once barfed in the sink after smelling a glass of bad milk. And sometimes after I eat jerky my own farts make me gag. My nose is seriously not up to this.

If it IS a body and it IS super stinky I’m probably gonna barf on it. If I barf on the body would I get into trouble for tampering with evidence? Because I bet vomit would totally ruin the chances for a proper investigation. All that stomach acid and whatnot? I bet it would totally eat up any DNA left by the murderer. Wouldn’t it? It seems logical to me, but I’m wrong about things nearly all of the time sooooo…..

Okay. Calm down.

You KNOW it’s probably just some trash or an old throw rug or some shit like that.

It’s never a dead person.

But what if this time it is?!?!?

Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen.

I’m gonna pull over a bit and see if I can see it from my window. If I can’t see it from the window then I’m gonna have to approach it on foot. But once I start approaching it on foot I run the risk of smelly funk gettin’ all up in my nose. And then the puke gates open. It’ll be like that elevator in The Shining but with the digested remains of every single thing that I ate on Binge Day Sunday. So maybe I should put some of that Burt’s Bees lip balm under my nose to thwart the smell particles from infiltrating my passages. But sometimes when you use good scents to try and cover up bad scents it just mixes to make the perfect storm of bad scents. Like (in the case of the Airwick I have in the bathroom) Sugar Cookie Exploding Diarrhea. Or, in this case, Pomegranate Mystery Corpse.

Maybe if can’t verify what it is from the car then I should just call 911 and tell them that I think I saw a dead body and then they can handle it. But the problem with that is that if it turns out to NOT be a body then the cops might get mad at me for wasting their time and it will be embarrassing. Kinda like that time when The Hub wanted to take me to the Emergency Room because we thought that my appendix was trying to burst but it turned out that I just needed to fart a lot. I’m sooooo glad that the farting started before we went to the ER and had the most embarrassing night of my life.

I have to be patient and wait until I know what it is. I cannot jump the gun here.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Ok, we’re here.

I think I’m gonna be able to see it from the road.

I’m just gonna pull over a bit…


What’s that truck doing?

Why are THEY pulling over?

What. The. FRICK???

Oh HELL no! There’s no way in hell this is happening twice.

That dude is NOT gonna steal my freaking moment!

Shit! He’s running over there.

Wait. What if HE’s the murderer?

Maybe he was taking the body out to bury it and it fell out of the truck and now he’s come back to get it?

Oh my God that totally makes sense because why would someone purposely toss the body of their murder victim in the ditch on a major road?

And if that IS what’s going on then he already knows I’m onto him and he can totally see my license plate and I’m gonna be next on his People To Murder List.

I’m getting out of here.

Oh crap! He’s there! He’s got it!

Is it a body?

WTF IS IT?!?!?


It’s just a plain old empty tarp that fell out of his truck.

I freaking knew it.

I’m so glad I didn’t get myself worked up about it or anything.

Look! He’s waving at me.

Oh…he looks harmless.


I mean whew! Nobody’s dead!


What a relief and stuff.

Well, at least I know that I’ve got this locked and loaded and I’m totally ready to handle it when the time finally comes.

It’s a good thing I can remain so chill about it all.

Nerves. Of. Motherfreakin’. Steel.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Email

Like it? Share it!

March 19, 2015

So my friend and I planned a day of stuffing our faces followed by furniture shopping.

Because who doesn’t wanna test out La-Z-Boys and pillow top mattresses after they’ve eaten enough food to nourish a small town for the winter?

While having lunch at our favorite Thai place we started talking about the down side of furniture shopping. You know the drill. You need a new couch and all you want to do is look at the couches in peace, but the second you walk through the door someone is all up in your grill wanting to know everything about you including but no way in hell limited to your name, so social security number, the first day of your last period, and whether your last bowel movement was a squishy or a solid. Then they want a photo of you from all angles like a mugshot. Then they want a fingerprint and a blood sample. And last time I was there I’m pretty sure someone pulled out a few of my hairs while I bent over to look at the cleaning instructions on a love seat.

They do all of this so that if you don’t buy anything they can track you down and harass you until you do. And if you still won’t be talked into taking advantage of the Memorial Day Sales Event, they will kill a hobo ON that love seat and plant all of your DNA in between the cushions so they can frame you for the murder. Then, as you’re being dragged off to jail, they’ll be all “You shoulda bought the fucking love seat! IT WAS 20% OFF WITH ZERO PERCENT FINANCING FOR 2 YEARS, YOU CHEAP ASSHOLE!”

And we were talking about this loudly and laughing all through lunch.

After we finished eating we went to the furniture store and of course it was all BOOM POUNCE and we were cornered  by some clipboard lady the minute we walked in. Since we were more than prepared for this brazen attack we remained calm, refrained from giving out information, and simp;y said  “We’ll look for you if we have any questions or wish to make a purchase. THANKYOUBYE!”

And we hurried off.

But we weren’t alone.

It didn’t take long for us to notice that the saleswoman was about 10 feet behind us.

We were being stalked.

Every time we even contemplated sitting on anything BOOM there she was to tell us about the density of the stuffing, the hand turned legs, the stain resistance of the fabric, and the fact that it granted wishes and made your boobs grow.

Each time this happened, we would smile as politely as possible and quickly wander off again until we’d thought that for sure we’d lost her, then BOOM, there she was with a velveteen swatch and a urinalysis test.

Eventually we decided to head upstairs and start working our way through the maze of fake rooms thinking that it would be harder for her to find us in there. After about 10 winding minutes, we were finally pretty sure she was gone, but the minute my ass was about to hit a sectional cushion BOOM outta nowhere I hear “It’s microfiber and is super resistant to stains! Except for the blood of the hobo I’m gonna kill and pin on you if you don’t buy it.”

Okay. Maybe she didn’t say that last part out loud, but I’m sure she was thinking it.

After that last ambush we got a bit more brazen in our escape attempts. Politeness was out the window and we just refrained from making eye contact, pretended she wasn’t there, and quickly strolled off. After we rounded a corner I checked back to see if she’d finally given up, but she was walking towards us even faster than before. We ran around another corner and I tried to hide in an armoire, but my freakishly long limbs kept me from being able to close the doors. Although I briefly considered amputating my legs just to avoid Clipboard Lady, I decided that she still would have found me.

Yeah, the blood and random legs lying on the floor outside of the armoire MIGHT have been a giveaway, but still.

This woman was the Liam Neeson of furniture store employees.

She has a particular set of skills and she will look for you and find you and make you order an entire Pretty Pretty Princess Bedroom Set even though you don’t even have a daughter.

Plus, there’s no way that my friend and I could find a hiding place large enough to fit us both, and I was not about to leave her alone to get talked into buying a full line of furnishings for that Men’s Cigar Lounge that she’s always never wanted.

If I HAD left her some major guilt woulda kicked in and I’d have to return to perform some sort of Saving Private Ryan scenario.

There’s no way I could have lived with myself if I knew she had bought 10,000 sf of furnishings for her 3,000 sf house and used her daughter’s college savings to pay for it.

“No University for you, sweetheart. Mommy had to get her some antique, gold leaf, nesting, end tables. And yes, we only ever use the top one because the other ones are hidden underneath it, but it’s always nice to know that there are two more under there for no reason. Who the f@ck needs 3 end tables when they only use one? BUT PATTI LEFT ME WITH THE LADY LIAM NEESON AND WTF WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?”



So I made a pact with my friend:  We get out of here together or not at all. If you get dragged into the fabric swatch room, then I go with you. Even though I’m pretty freaking sure that at least half of the fabrics in the fabric swatch room are made out of the skin of people who refused to buy the Sunny Day Patio Set, I will risk being turned into an ottoman for the sake of our friendship. And yes, I could only be turned into an ottoman. An especially small one for children, because I’m so dainty. You can become the extra deep sofa for a family of 5. And I know that sounds bitchy, but if I’m giving up my freedom for you then I have the right to be bitchy. That is part of the Friendship Furniture Store Pact.

We pumped ourselves up, focused on the front of the store, and made a beeline for the exit.

“Wait! I have a card for you to fill out so that we can tell you about upcoming sales!”

Walk faster! Walk faster! Walk faster!

And we made it through the doors to the outside world.

As the fresh air of freedom blew through our hair, we rejoiced in the fact that we’d not only made it out alive, but also without applying for a store credit card with an interest rate of 99.9% and the promise to acquire the soul of your first born child.

Feeling pretty freaking fantastic that we’d accomplished a non-Shawshanky type of escape (i.e. crawling through sewer poop), we high fived and strolled confidentially towards the car.

“Hey! Weren’t you guys just at the Thai place?”

We slowly turned to see who was asking.

“I was sitting at the table right next to you and I heard your conversation about coming here. I actually work here! Are you heading inside? Do you need any help? We’re having a sale on all upholstered furniture until 31st!”

That’s what her mouth said. But her eyes said “I heard everything you said about me and my co-workers and there’s no way in hell you’re getting out of here alive or at least without buying our entire collection of plaid couches! THE REALLY SCRATCHY KIND!”

I grabbed my friend’s hand and we ran for my car, jumped in, locked the doors, and put the pedal to the metal.

In my rearview mirror I could swear I caught a glimpse of her taking a photo of my license plate and then bending over to pick up a piece of hair or a fiber from my jacket or something.

I know that it’s only a matter of time before they track me down.

Some day, when I’ve finally relaxed and let my guard down, my phone will ring. I will answer and hear the following:

“If you buy the Reclining Rec Room Extra Plush Sectional now, that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you. I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will use your skin to upholster a 12 Seat Lazy Leather Living Room Set. Yes, the 12 seater. I saw how much you ate at that Thai place, you gluttonous bitch.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Email

Like it? Share it!

January 16, 2015

Recently my hairstylist asked me if I’d seen the new “Annie” movie yet.

I could tell by the look on HER face that she could tell by the look on MY face that she’d opened a can of worms and whoop ass.

Upon realizing the fury she’d unleashed, she quickly backpedaled and was all “No! That’s sacrilegious to you isn’t it? Don’t you really love the old version or something?”




Or something.

I’ve always loved it.

And here are some pages from my scrapbook (circa late 70’s to early 80’s) to prove it.
photo 1photo 2photo 4

Plus a page with a Pudding Pop on it because I was apparently also quite passionate about my love for Pudding Pops. And also the kind of ugly figurines that old people love.

photo 5

I was 10 years old when the original “Annie” came out.

And I was 10 years old when I’d finally found my calling.

Which was awesome news considering I’d spent the last 2 years worrying that I’d someday have to become a prostitute, thanks to Jodie Foster and a late night television showing of “Taxi Driver.”

I’ll never have enough boobage to hold up a damn tube top.

Life is funny like that.

One minute your teacher is asking a room full of 8-year-olds what they wanna be when they grow up and you’re getting stressed out because you realize that your skills at doing paint by numbers and setting up Barbie crime/natural disaster scenes most likely aren’t a skill set that is gonna pay the bills when you’re an old person. So you go into an “Oh my GOD I’m gonna be a prostitute!” tizzy. Then the next minute you’re realizing that all you have to do is land the lead part in a big screen musical and become rich and famous and invest the proceeds wisely and you’re prostitution free for life. Or at least until your financial manager steals all your money and runs off to Fiji.

But either way, I knew what I was meant to do. And it wasn’t running around NYC with a mowhawked, freaky deaky, Robert DeNiro.

It was singing the most beautifully sad rendition of “Maybe” that anyone had ever heard.

Since the part of “Annie” had already been taken, I decided that due to the movie’s success there would most likely be a part two. Although the part of the headliner in a sequel would usually go to the person who portrayed him/her in the original, I was convinced that if only I could be discovered by someone who had connections to the movie, I could totally get the part.

I spent a lot of time thinking up possible scenarios wherein this might happen.

Scenario 1:  I’m at the mall and a talent scout for the movie happens to be there doing some shopping when suddenly they hear the most beautiful voice of all time singing “Sandy” from the center of a circular rack of clearance sweaters. (I know this sounds implausible but I did actually try it at the Northtown Mall in Springfield, Missouri, but the women shopping at the rack obviously weren’t in the movie industry because they  just either ignored me or asked where my mother was.)

Scenario 2:  The phone rings. I answer it in song, to the tune of “Tomorrow”: “You’ve reached the Rust house, this is Patti. This is Patti Rust how may I help you? Who’s calling please?” And then I hear a voice say “Oh my! I must have accidentally dialed the wrong number but thank God I did because you, my friend, are a superstar! Give me your address so I can send a helicopter to get you and bring you to Hollywood!”

Scenario 3:  I’m outside playing in my front yard, when suddenly a limo drives by and gets a flat tire. When the man gets out to ask to use my phone I sing him my version of “Hard Knock Life” and he says “Oh my God! I just so happen to be a producer of the movie “Annie” and you would be perfect for the part!” Then I say “What about the other girl?” And he says “I guess she’ll have to grow up and be a prostitute!”

I was sure that one of these was going to happen eventually, but in the meantime I busied myself by forcing neighborhood children to spend hours in my basement helping me hone my craft. I made sure to surround myself with kids whose performances didn’t hold a candle to mine so that I would look even better by comparison. It was a grueling time for me as I was both star and director. Not an easy task. To this day I still shake my head in awe of someone like Clint Eastwood who does this on the regular. It was a hard job, being The Eastwood of 11th Street. But I held my own and waited for my shot at the big time.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that I forced my cat, Jackie Sue, to play the part of Sandy, I spent most of my basement production time covered in scratches. But I decided that the scratches only served to make me look more orphany. Then I realized that since in the first “Annie” she had been adopted by super rich Daddy Warbucks, the possibility that she would look scratched up and orphany in part two was pretty slim.

Thankfully I was a very creatively open-minded and multi-talented 10-year-old director/producer/actor/singer/writer, so I decided that part two could include a storyline wherein Annie tells Daddy Warbucks that she does not want to call him “Daddy” because it’s super creepy, so he gets hella pissed and locks her in a dungeon with rats (hence, the scratches), and she sings songs about her imprisonment and turmoil and then plans an escape ala “Escape From Alcatraz” (Clint Eastwood strikes yet again) and things get mega exciting and the chances for musical action sequences grows to epic proportions.

It would be a different kind of “Annie” role, but one that an actor of my caliber could really sink her teeth into.

(Much like my cat sank her teeth into the webbing between my right thumb and forefinger when I tried to make her perform “Dumb Dog” for the twenty hundredth time.)

Although I was completely obsessed with “Annie” and had lots of the dolls and records and everything else, I did not have that one iconic piece: The red dress.

Why? Because my mom wouldn’t buy it for me.

Why? Because she wanted to ruin my life.

I guess she saw that as the one final piece in the puzzle that would really make me shine as “Annie” and figured that if I had it in my possession it was only a matter of time before I moved to L.A. and left her behind.

Either that or she didn’t have the money for it. But I prefer to think it’s the first one because it’s more dramatical and I’m an actress and that’s what we do.

Since I didn’t have the red dress (or any other proper costumes) I had to make them all out of scraps of fabric and construction paper. And I did so beautifully. Until Jackie Sue got pissed one day and ate my “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here” ensemble and then barfed it up on the playroom carpet.

Although I had accepted the “no store bought dresses” situation and used it as a jumping off point for my practice as a costume designer, thereby solidifying my status as “Most Multifaceted Entertainer Of All Time,” it still came as quite a blow when my neighbor, Melanie, got 2 “Annie” dresses as gifts from her grandmother. Both the red dress and the blue romper with white collar and tie. At first I saw it as a chance for me to finally get the opportunity to wear one of the REAL dresses.

But Melanie saw it differently.

Melanie saw it as a chance to be a total dick.

That was 33 years ago and I still think she’s an asshole. I also like to think that she’s part of the reason I never made it to the big screen because it makes me feel better to blame her for things.

Obviously the years went by and I never did get discovered.

I guess that singing inside a rack of half price sweaters just doesn’t get you maximum exposure to the powers that be.

But that’s all I had.

We didn’t have YouTube or anything like that back then, which is how everyone gets discovered nowadays. And that’s probably a freaking blessing, because if we had I’d now be forever haunted by clips of my musical pleas to studio execs to make “Annie: Escape From The Warbucks Basement.”

By the time I was 14 I’d sold most of my “Annie” paraphernalia in yard sales and had moved on to worrying about being discovered by boys instead of by talent scouts. But I’ve always had a soft spot for the movie and I still TOTALLY obsess about the music. If I get started on one song I have to sing the entire score. Ask The Hub.

I still totally adore everything about the ORIGINAL movie (aside from the fact that I wasn’t in it).

“So have you seen the new Annie yet?”

Remain calm.

Remain calm.

Remain calm.

“WHAT? ARE YOU SERIOUS? Fuck Jamie Foxx. FUCK HIM IN THE FACE.  And I’m sorry, but have you seen the clothes? THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE THE RIGHT CLOTHES! And I can hardly even say this without having chest pains, but CAMERON FREAKING DIAZ? If Carol Burnett was dead she’d be rolling over in her grave. But she’s not. SHE’S NOT DEAD! SHE’S ALIVE AND WELL AND THEY JUST HAD AN ENTIRE KENNEDY CENTER HONORS THING ABOUT HER AND CAMERON DIAZ IS NO MISS HANNIGAN! And did they even sing ‘Sign’? I make a very dry martini. I make a very wet soufflé. Don’t be so mean you mean ole meanie. Lets you and me make, why shouldn’t we make hay. HOW COULD YOU NOT SING SIGN’? HOLY FREAKING CHRIST ON A CRACKER!”


You didn’t see it then?

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Email

Like it? Share it!


Content security powered by Jaspreet Chahal