February 16, 2013
I know it sounds effed up and wrong you guys, but it’s totally true: I have lots of blog readers who don’t read Facebook. I also have lots of Facebook readers who don’t read this blog. The latter is way easier for me to understand. On Facebook everything is condensed and quick. I mean, sure, I AM one of the most long-winded Facebook status writers OF ALL TIME (an official title that I just now gave to myself, and that myself accepted from myself with a fist bump and an air hump with myself), but still, compared to a blog post, the statuses are pretty short. My Facebook page is basically a condensed version of my blog. It’s also the reason that I went from posting an average of three blogs per week, to maybe one. I find that I tell lots of my stories on Facebook the minute that they happen, and then when I sit down to write a blog, I’m all like “Yeah, told that one already,” so I end up playing with my split ends and looking at miniature goats wearing clothes, instead of actually writing anything.
As I was sitting at my desk last night, doing a little writing, AKA sitting in front of my computer, staring out the window and thinking about how happy I would be if I had a baby fainting goat, I noticed something: The Cat was on the desk, trying to get all up in my biz, and she would sit down, move a little, sit down, move a little, etc… and I realized that the girl does this little dance all day long, which is in and of itself, not a big deal. But when you think about the fact that cats have up-tails and every time they sit down their little b-hole is basically marking that spot with a (hopefully invisible) butt stamp, things start to get gross real quick. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop myself from over-thinking this whole situation and using my mad mad mathy skillz to calculate that in the 2 1/2 years she has lived here, she has probably butt stamped at least 50% of the surfaces in our house. Then I started thinking about nudist colonies. Holy hell, you guys. Holy hell. Everything in those places needs to be burned. Butt Stamps: Until the post office starts accepting them as postage, they’re not okay
I just thought I should let you all know that I not only have a butler, a driver, and a sock matcher-upper, but I also have a toast butterer. I only eat toast once or twice a month, tops, but he has to stand by the toaster at all times just in case I get in the mood and start felling all toasty-ish. I also make him wear a lion costume because it makes me feel brave to take toast from a lion.
I never get to have the TV remote. If The Hub is home, he has it. If The Boy is home, he has it. Lately I’ve noticed that when they are watching TV, they always have at least one hand it their pants. Why men do this, I don’t know. But they do it. THEN they use that same hand to change channels with the remote. After observing this last night, I realized that the remote is basically ruined. I’m not super Sciencey or anything, but I’m pretty sure that there can come a point when something can get so submerged in the germs of something else, that it can technically BECOME that something else. Therefore I deduce that at this point the remote is basically just a wanger that magically changes channels, and I foresee a future where evolution just cuts out the middle man and makes men’s wangers have channel changing capabilities. If I worked at Evolution Headquarters, this is how I’d roll.
I have had people ask me why I say some of the phrases that I say. When I was little I would, like most kids, get sayings and song lyrics mixed up. Here are a few of my favorites that I have always used:
Last night I dreamed that my doctor told me that I had “Purse Cancer.” I kept asking what the hell is Purse Cancer? But he just ignored my question and looked at me really sadly. I assumed it was vagina cancer cuz vaginas are the most purse-like part of the body that I could think of. Things get put in there. Sometimes questionable things. I imagine that some peoples vaginas are like old, overstuffed, purses. So then I went on a fundraising speaking tour to tell people about the dangers of Purse Cancer. Then, about halfway through my tour, I started to grow purses on my body. The first one was a Birkin on my side and I was actually like “Wow! This is pretty cool! A Built in purse! AND it’s free! This is way better than vagina cancer!” Then I grew a corduroy fanny pack and I freaked out and the doctor said it couldn’t be removed or I’d die. Then some other stuff happened that I can’t remember much of, then The Cat woke me up cuz she is a turd.
So I just saw my sister post a FB status that thanked our mom for sending her chocolates. Dudes…her mom is the same mom as my mom, and unless my mailman ate mine, I did not get any chocolates. And my mom wonders why I never call her.
I had what I thought was a stray hair stuck to my face, which upon further inspection was discovered to be a hair growing OUT of my face. Just a lonely, blonde, 2 inch hair that outta nowhere started growing out of the middle of my cheek, for no other reason than to say “Hey, Patti! You are officially turning into a Sasquatch. Good luck with that!”
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