September 13, 2012
It’s just like that movie “Signs” but without the murdery aliens. And the glasses of water. And Mel Gibson. Thank God. Cuz that dude is a mess.
My name is Patti and I am addicted to American Pickers.
It all started when I had surgery in 2010 and I was stuck in bed doing nothing but watching tv and I came across this brand new show and became immediately obsessed with it. You all know I am an all or nothing kinda girl. If I like something I will like the ever loving like out of it until I have driven everyone around me crazy from talking about it. Sometimes, after over-liking something, I wake up one morning and hate it. That happened back in ’84 when I went from planning to hijack Ricky Schroder’s tour bus and take him across the Mexican border to marry him, to completely being annoyed by everything about him from his pansy ass hair to his stupid car bed, and deciding that Derek Taylor was my one and only forever and ever boy amen. But I won’t ever wake up hating the pickers. Ever. I mean, probably not. I am nothing if not fickle.
By the way, I know that there is no earthly reason as to why in the heck The Rickster would have a tour bus. I did not, however, realize that when I was 12. I don’t know what I thought he was doing rolling around the US in a bus. It’s not like he was Bon Jovi or anything. Perhaps my brain was fried from all the kissing of my Teen Beat magazine posters of Ricky (and various and sundry other cute boys cuz I was a poster kissing whore bag). There has got to be some sort of toxicity in that ink, right? I bet if they did a Scientific study of that we would discover that many women in my age group have health issues because of tongue kissing poster ink. That cranky House dude should totally use this in an episode.
Anyways, back to the pickers.
So after I got all obsessed with this show I would tell everyone about it and they always asked if it was about nose picking, which I admit I thought was funny the first time but by time #3,758 I was ready to punch someone in the kidney.
Let’s get one thing straight right now: I am a flea market whore. That does not mean I prostitute myself out at flea markets. It just means that I can’t get enough of them. My Patti senses start tingling when I am within a 5 mile radius of one. I can spend forever and a day just poking around and touching all of the stuff. And the junkier the flea market, the better. I like to wonder where everything came from and who had it and what they did with it. I like to look at those old timey black and white photos of people and wonder about who they were and I fight the urge to take them all home with me and hang them on my walls because I feel sorry for them ending up for sale. And I admit that I also kinda wanna fill my guest room with them, floor to ceiling, because lots of them look kinda creepers and maybe if a crapload of old timey creepy people were staring at my house guests, they wouldn’t stay quite so long.
|Hi! Welcome to Patti’s guest room. Don’t mind us. We are just going to watch everything you do. Nice underwear! Are you gonna have sex in here? We ‘ll just stand here and watch you get down with your bad selves. No big whoop.|
My Aunt Bengie and I were flea marketing maniacs this summer and we ended up at one that was down a long gravel drive in an old house on a piece of property that practically screamed “Guess what girls, you are about to get chainsaw massacred and have your skin turned into throw pillows.” And although we recognized the risks, we went in anyways. Why? Cuz we are bad ass adventure seekers. And also because we are addicted to the hunting of the junk. And hey, if there’s a tiny risk of having our leg bones turned into a lamp base, that just makes it all the more exciting. Obviously we made it out alive and we did so with the genius idea of having our own reality show where we flea market and hunt down crazed serial killers at the same time. Toss in a few singing and dancing sequences here and there, and I think you’ve got the makings of a show that those hairy Kardashian idiots can only dream about. It’s like American Pickers meets Dexter meets Glee.
Why I don’t run a network is beyond me.
So basically I have a big old friend crush on Mr. American Picker, Mike Wolfe. I did from the start. Not only does he like to look for treasures, but he gets all kinds of excited and giddy in the process, and it’s infectious. He’s funny and happy and smiley and he makes my eyes and ears happy. Oh what I wouldn’t do to go on a pick with Mikey and Frankie and sit between them in that big old kidnapper van and eat burritos and tell fart jokes. It’s on my list of dream dates right between singing a dorky song with Jimmy Fallon and killing zombies with Norman Reedus while rocking a zombie ear necklace.
Earlier this week I saw this photo of Mikey on Facebook:
|Courtesy: American Pickers|
When I saw this photo I immediately knew that it was some sort of a sign to me. A sign as in a sort of secret message beckoning me to hop in the van with him and go look at a bunch of dusty old junk covered in rat poops. Let me break it down for you:
1-The “R” in the upper right of that photo is a sign that hangs in their shop in Iowa that says “Rust.” Rust is my maiden name.
2-The small sign under the “R” is a Ford sign. Ford is my married name.
3- On the bottom of the Ford sign all that is showing from the word “parts” is the “P.” My first name starts with P. Duh.
And if we wanted to get waaay out there with theories, we could say that to his right is something yellow and red which are my favorite colors. And that behind him on his left is a hula girl statue and not only have I been to Hawaii but I also watched people hula. But those aren’t as cut and dry. I admit that. But there is no possible way around it: My #1-3 are hard-core facts. Seriously. The Government should hire me as a code cracker. My skills are redonk.
My analysis of this photo is that Mikey is using signs as signs to invite me hither. I think he carefully organized those signs to send me a secret message. An invitation if you will. And I picked up on it in the first 1/2 of a second after I saw this photo. Mikey and me, we got it goin’ on. A brain connection. Kinda like ET and Elliott had except for so far as I know neither of us is from outer space and I don’t like Reeses Pieces. Which is weird. Cuz Reeses CUPS are my favorite candy bar ever. Except for Marathon Bars. Which were awesome cuz they looked like ropes and you could stretch them out really far before they broke and then your mom would yell at you cuz you got chocolate all over your hands from playing chocolate tug of war with your sister.
Moms are big fat bummers.
So I am writing this post to let Mikey know that his message was received loud and clear, and my bag is packed and I’ve got a cooler of Modelo, plenty of burrito cash, a couple of bottles of Beano for Frankie, and I am ready to roll.
So this just got posted on the Pickers FB page. AFTER I blogged about them. So seriously, you guys…I am so right that it hurts. Not only are all 3 of them in front of my sign now, but they have a few additions:
1) Clocks above them. That means it’s time for me to go on a pick with them.
2) A refrigerator on the right. That means I’m cool. Which I already knew, but I still don’t mind hearing.
3) The lamp on the left means that I am a bright, shining light in a dark, rusty dusty world.
This is all making my head hurt. Thankfully I speak the language of “I can make anything about me-ese.” That ability makes it so much easier to decipher subliminal signs. Soooo much easier.
|Courtesy: American Pickers|
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