September 13, 2016

14291823_10210515527108098_2102371774490888792_nSo this morning I’m taking a shower and I’m all “Hey! I forgot I bought this Trader Joe’s body scrub. I think I’ll try it!”

Mistake number one.

Although it smelled really awesome, I soon realized that it had this oddly sticky/gooey texture that would not rinse off of my legs. After a little work the little scrubby bits rinsed off, but the weird, thick, stickiness wouldn’t budge no matter what.
It was awful and uncomfortable, but I didn’t have time to figure out a solution since I was running late (as usual) and needed to get my ass to an appointment with my chiropractor.

Since my chiro. likes us to wear form fitting clothes so he can do deep tissue work without getting all tangled up in fabric, I said to myself “Hey! Today would be the perfect day to wear that new pair of super soft, tight leggings I just bought at Athleta!”

Mistake number two.

And to be honest, I knew it was a mistake about the time I got the pants pulled up to my knee area.

It seemed that the weird residue left behind by my body scrub was acting as a sort of rubber cement/glue kind of adhesive that was making it SUPER hard for the pants to slide up my legs. But since I was running late and it took me like 5 minutes and an exhausting amount of work to get them up THAT far, I knew there was no turning back. I had to dig deep, power on through, and get them pulled all the way up.

It wasn’t easy.

And by the time I was done, I was so sweaty that I needed another shower. But there was no time for that! I had to get to my appointment.

By the time I got there the 3 cups of coffee and 1 juice I had ingested this morning were ready to come out, so I went into the bathroom to pee.

Mistake number three.

Once I started to pull down my pants I quickly remembered that they were basically glued to my body with the leftover scrub. But once again, there was no turning back. There was no way I could physically handle getting my full-bladdered body worked on without peeing all over the table. I was near the point of complete ant total overflow and there was no other choice.

After another insane episode of pulling, twisting, and contortions, I finally got my pants down and peed. And guess what? Well, duh. I couldn’t get them pulled back up.

I tried and tried but they weren’t moving.

I stood there and thought, WTF am I supposed to do now?

I decided that I only had two options: Call the front desk and ask the receptionist to come in and help me pull up my pants, or use paper towels and try and wash the weird stuff off of my legs.

If I’d been wearing cute underwear I may have gone with number one. But I absolutely was not, so I went with number two.

I put about 30 paper towels into the sink and got the wet, then I started manically scrubbing until my skin was all red and raw. After the scrubbing, I took about 30 more towels to dry myself off so that when I finally got my pants up it wouldn’t look like I had peed myself. That would have REALLY sucked as well as totally negated the entire reason for pulling down my pants in the first place. Why worry about the CHANCE of embarrassment from possibly peeing your pants, when you’re gonna end up looking like you totally peed them anyway?

It should come as no shock to you that as I was scrubbing and drying, scrubbing and drying, I fell sideways into the wall. Not only was it very loud, it was the wall that was between the bathroom and my chiropractor’s room. So yeah. That’s real casual, Patti. Things are going SO WELL FOR YOU. Plus, you’ve been in here FOREVER so everyone definitely thinks you’re taking a shit now. And what’s worse? Your cute chiropractor thinking you’re taking a dump at his office or everyone knowing that you’re stuck in there with your pants halfway down? Pretty sure it’s a toss up.

After a lot of falling into walls, sweat, and maybe a few tears, I finally got the freaking pants up. Although I looked like I’d been in some sort of physical altercation, I strolled out of the bathroom like nothing was unusual at all. Like I had not just been in there for an embarrassingly awkward amount of time. Nope. Nothing to see here, people. Move along.

Then my doctor called me into his room.

This might be there part where anyone else in my position would think “Okay. So I look like I’ve been to war. But I’m gonna cut my losses, pretend nothing happened, move on, and try to make it out of here without further embarrassment.”

But not me.

See, I am a total freak who, even when I am completely and totally embarrassed and horrified at something I’ve done, has the uncontrollable need to tell EVERYONE about it. Plus, since I looked like I just left a hand to hand combat situation, I didn’t want everyone thinking I’d had the world war 3 of shits in there. So I immediately launched into the entire story of what I’d really just been through.

I prefaced the story by saying “So you know that episode of Friends where Ross wears the leather pants on the date and he can’t get them pulled back up?”

And my chiropractor says “No.”

He. Says. No.

I mean, who the hell hasn’t seen that episode?

I guess cute people are just way too busy being cute to watch Friends.

So I berate him about that a bit and then continue telling him my story of woe (minus the falling into the wall part).  So he’s laughing and he says “Hey, at least you didn’t fall into the wall.” And I’m like “Are you fucking with me? Did you hear me fall into the damn wall?” And he’s all (smiling) “Nope. Didn’t hear a thing.”


I’ve since taken a bath AND a shower and my legs are still sticky!

After posting this story on Facebook one of my readers googled the body scrub and found the following Amazon reviews. VALIDATION, you guys. Although I’m not sure what that 5 star psycho is smoking. Perhaps she has a  job as a human lint roller and needs to be at a maximum level of stickiness and adhesiveness at all times. Only explanation I can come up with.



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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.

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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.

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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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