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.”

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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?

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July 17, 2014

A few months ago my friend Rachael and I went to Austin to spend the night in a treehouse at Cypress Valley Canopy Tours (photos and videos to come at a later “when-I-get-my-shit-together” date)

Well, when we were there we also tried to get some Franklin Barbecue because the hype about this freaking meat is making me turn into a starving and ruthless animal.

This place has been getting a lot of press and the word on the street is that they have THE BEST BBQ on the planet.

Now, I’m not one to get into this kinda thing. I’m sort of like “If everyone else wants it then I don’t want it because I’m cool like that, yo!”

But they got me.

So we went.

But when we got there they were out of meat.


Ummm…bite me.

WTF? I come to get some sweet sweet meat and am DENIED?!?!?!?

Ummm…Screw you, Franklin.

So I turned on them.

Yeah, I still wanted the meat, but I didn’t WANT to want it.

Then I went all googly up in here and read that you could pre-order a shit ton of meat online and pick it up with no wait.

So I got online to oder enough to theoretically last me 3 months, but realistically last me through one lunch.

And guess what?





Yet still, I could not give up.

Oh yeah, I knew what they were doing:  Make the meat hard to get and everyone will want it more.

I. Get. It.

That’s the motto of every douchebag on the dating scene.


But still, it was working.

So Rach and I made a plan that later this summer we will do an early as shit, pre-dawn road trip in our PJ’s to achieve our meat goals with the caveat that if we went though all of that and DID NOT GET THE MEAT, we would riot.

I’m talking a nationwide, news worthy, PMS-ing hungry moms FREAK OUT.

Then a few days later I went to the movies with The Hub and we saw “Chef.”

I was LOVING this movie.

I totally dig Jon Favreau and Bobby Cannavale and I was totally digging the whole thing.

Then it happened.

Jon’s chef character went to Austin to eat some freaking Franklin BBQ.

And guess what?


And did they have enough meat for him?

Well, well, well…YES THEY DID.

In fact, they had enough meat for him to take with him to make sandwiches for hundreds of people.

What a crock of poop.

So I started freaking out in the movie and telling The Hub that THAT was the place that denied me the damn meat.

I started punching his arm just because I was frustrated and he shushed me and if I, like a 4-year-old, cannot use my words, I use my fists.

My body was exploding with (some may say ridiculous) rage (I blame PMS).


But I calmed down, thankfully, after a few days when my bloat and cramping went away.

And then one morning last week, it all came back.

This morning I got my coffee, sat down to relax and watch my Today Show, and what the frick do I see?

Obama eating some g-damn Franklin BBQ and buying enough for everyone in line behind him.

Yep. Franklin is getting even MORE famous,which is only gonna make it more difficult for me to get the freaking meat.

Thanks a lot, Obama. Why can’t you just go to freakin’ McDonalds like Clinton?

Momma wants her meat.

And she wants it with as little effort as possible.

But if I have to run for and win the presidency in order to get that flipping meat, I will.


Then after I eat enough meat to require hospitalization, I will force them to make enough for everyone in the USA FOR FREE.

All day err day.


Or at least until I get impeached.

Which should be about 3-7 days after I am sworn in.


Maybe 2.

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May 28, 2014

Last night I walked into my bedroom and saw something on the floor.

It was dark so I couldn’t tell what it was.

All I could tell was that it had legs and was big and there was no way in hell that I was gonna try and get all murdery on something that was a mystery to me.

What if it had fangs? Or wings? Or laser beam eyes? WHAT IF IT HAD ALL THREE???

I have enough trouble getting murdery on spidery things that I CAN see. I spazz out and freak out and 9 times outta 10 it ends up getting away and then I have to sing a few verses of  Motley Crue’s “Don’t Go Away Mad (Just Go Away)” in order to properly commemorate the moment that I totally effed up and let an angry spider loose in mi casa.

You might be wondering to yourself why I didn’t just turn on the light so I could get a better look, and if you ARE wondering that then I can totally tell you’re a newbie to the world of insectual intruders.

Even though I’m spazzy I have enough bug killing experience to know that turning on the light can make a bug run away and hide and meet up with all of the other gross and mysterious insecty things so they can gang up on you and stage some sort of coup d’etat, all while you are trying to live a normal life in a house where you know there is a mysterious thing that got away and is lurking somewhere waiting to lay some eggs in your b-hole.

No freakin’ thanks.

So I put a container over the gross thing and then weighted it down with a heavy candleholder and I figured I would tell The Hub to finish the job when he got home later.

The photo above depicts a daytime recreation of the occurrences of the night of May 22, 2014.

The photo above depicts a daytime recreation of the occurrences of the night of May 22, 2014.

Well, even though I was freaked out, I totally forgot about it about 10 minutes later.

I scare easily, but I also forget easily. So it’s always a surprise which one is going to win out.

(I also surprise easily, so basically my life is just a non-stop clusterfuck of multiple emotions.)

So later that night I went back into my bedroom and paused and thought “Oh Yeah! There was a gross thing!” And I looked down on the floor and my homemade bug jail was gone, so I thought  “Oh no! Where is the gross thing?” And I freaked out for a minute imagining a band of angry mystery bugs who, sensing that one of their own was in danger, totally banded together to get him out of trouble and performed some sort of eloquently executed jail break and then ran off to plan my demise. Then the thought crossed my mind that The Hub had happened upon my detainee and handled the situation. In my spider phobic mind, this seemed like the less likely of the two scenarios. But just in case,  I went to ask him about it.

Here’s how that went down:

Me:  So? Did you find my bug jail?

Him:  Yes.

Me:  Well, did you find the thing in it? Was the thing still in it? Tell me the thing was still in it!

Him:  Yes.

Me:  What was it?

Him:  I don’t know.

Me:  Ummm…WHAT?

Him:  I. Don’t. Know.

Me:  Okay…well…was it a creature or was it a ball of lint that just looked like a creature? Because that’s happened before.

Him:  Creature.

Me:  I KNEW IT! Okay. Was it more buggy or spidery?

Him:  I don’t know. It was something.

Me:  Was it some sort of a stink bug thing? I thought it looked kinda stink buggy but I don’t really know what stink bugs look like so maybe it didn’t. And it was dark. So I don’t know. But was it? WAS it a stink bug thing?

Him:  (sighs) I don’t know.

Me:  How could you not know? You picked it up!

Him:  I saw all that crap piled up on the floor and figured you had a bug in there, so I just killed it.

Me:  With your shoe or with a tissue?

Him:  With a tissue.

Me:  Did you wrap it in the tissue or did you wrap it in the tissue and then crush it? Wrap? Or wrap and crush?

Him:  YES. I crushed it.

Me:  Then did you open the tissue to look at it?

Him:  No.

Me:  WHAT? If you didn’t open the tissue and look at the body then how do you know it was dead?


Me:  Did you feel it squish? Like, did it crush and make crunchy noises?

Him:  I don’t know!

Me:  Then it might not be dead?

Him:  IT’S DEAD!

Me:  Where did you put it?

Him:  In the trashcan.

Me:  You didn’t flush it?

Him:  NO.

Me:  Oh my GOD! Why would you not flush it?

Him:  (sigh)

Me:  Which trashcan?

Him:  MINE.

Me:  Holy hell! What if it wasn’t dead? We don’t even know what it was! How could you not even look and see what you were killing? HOW???

Him:  Okay. I’m done talking about this.

Me:   What?

Him:  I’m not talking about this anymore.

Me:  Excuse me?

Him:  You heard me. Done.

Me:  But don’t you love me?

Him:  Yes.

Me:  I love you and if there is something that you’re afraid of I will not poop all over it. Even if it’s dumb and I don’t get it I will be like “That’s so sucky for you” and try to help and stuff.

Him:  That’s nice.

Me:  Soooo…

Him:  I’m done talking about this.

Me:  Okay……………………………………………………………………………………………..But do you really think it’s really dead?

Him: (sigh)

Me (To The Boy):  Hey! It’s trash night!

The Boy:  I know! I already took it out!

Me:  Did you get the trash from our bathroom?

The Boy:  No.

Me:  Why?

The Boy:  It’s not full.

Me:  Take it out anyway!

The Boy:  I don’t take them out when they’re not full.

Me:  Take it out!

The Boy:  There’s only like 3 things in it!


The Boy:  OH MY GOD! OKAY! SHEESH! (eye roll)

Me:  Man, I hope that whatever was in the tissue IS dead because now our son’s life could be in danger.

The Hub:  (Totally in his own world now and had entirely tuned me out)

Me:  Oh well, he was a good boy.

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