Snow Angels

I hate winter. When it started to snow on Sunday I thought “That sucks I should probably move my car before the snow plow comes through.” But it was a weekend, my daybed was so warm cozy, there was no way I was leaving my apartment. Going outside would involve putting on pants, and getting bundled up only to end up wet and cold. After about 2 seconds of debating I decided to stay in bed.

Yes, I have the bed of a 10 year old girl, and yes it might be a reason I never get any.

Well folks, as to be expected the snow did not stop and neither did my laziness. Eventually my car was stuck in the snow and I was stuck for three days working from home.

I realized “working” from home could only go on for so long before someone at work wised up. See, my definition of working from home includes watching netflix on demand, taking a bubble bath, making mashed potatoes from scratch, reading blogs, internet shopping, answering work e-mails so I look productive, and waiting for the UPS guy to deliver my new mahjong set.

Yesterday around 9 am PST I put on four pairs of knit gloves and marched the two blocks to my buried car. After a hour of shoveling (with a shovel I borrowed from a random nearby apartment building) I was sore, frustrated, tired and my car would not budge. I gave up, sat in my car, and cried like a little sissy boy being picked on in the locker room.

When Patsy made the bold step of posting a picture of herself I decided to follow suit. Even when I am digging myself out of a large snow pile I carry around a digital camera and a tripod.

My car is pimp, and yes that’s how I roll TOP DOWN CHROMES SPINNING even in a blizzard!

Now, I am not a very religious gal, as you can tell by my hemline, but I am convinced an angel helped me out yesterday. Just when I had given up hope (about two seconds after this picture) a man appeared between the snow banks. My angel looked like this:

This messenger from g-d came prepared like the boy scouts that he probably touches in their no-no spots! He brought his own shovel and chain smoked cigarettes. The angel then helped me push my car out saying “Yeah girl, get that car a rockin’ (insert wink).”

Thanks to you angel I came into work today even though my office was closed!

I wish I could quit you,



Patsy's Regina George Moment

You know what breed of creature really intrigues me? The Mean Geek. The Mean Geek, or Meek as they are called in the Scientific Community, is a sort of walking contradiction and cruel joke evolution has produced over millions of years. Physiologically, they look, act and sound geeky, and yet they are hostile creatures. They judge you based on an ass-backwards scale. For example knowing a dead language would earn a Meek’s trust and respect, whereas knowing how to crack a proper sarcastic office joke or how to properly put together a cute outfit enrages the Meek and you are forever marked as the enemy. They think less of you because you aren’t a fourth level Dragon Master and their die have 12 sides, whereas you have the oh-so-common four-sided model. They laugh at your livejournal because you don’t have an animated .gif icon of a Jedi—HAND CODED. I’ve had extensive exposure to Meeks recently, as one works in my office and sits in the cubicle next to me. I have been able to study the Meek in her natural habitat and I have some questions.

Why are Meeks so mean? I know what it’s like to be the new girl in the office, so on her first day I walked up the Meek, smiled and nicely and said “Hi! My name’s Patsy, you must be the new editorial intern!” The Meek looked at me the way one might look at someone who just publicly fucked a chicken, mumbled something that sounded like “Oh, okay” and then headed back to her desk. You shun my offer of friendship? GAME ON MEEK…

The Meek I’m sure is a very intelligent girl and is very dedicated to her internship. She is always working and requesting more work. Most of the editorial interns we’ve had just ass around and watch TV. Hell, this is my full-time job and I’m writing this blog entry and eating chex-mix instead of working. This Meek could go far in the editorial magazine world. But she just can’t do it looking the way a Meek looks. I’m sorry, I hate to say it, but it’s true. The Devil does not wear Limited Too. Now I’m not saying that you have to wear Prada to work everyday; Target and Old Navy make up a large portion of my wardrobe. I’m just saying maybe (if the Meek had accepted my offer of friendship) we could clean up shop a little.

The Meek wears the same outfit everyday. But literally, she wears the same outfit everyday. It gets horribly wrinkled by Friday. Poor Meek…Boo, I coulda helped you out.

Now you may think I’m a raging snob, but maybe actually seeing the Meek will change your mind. Here is how I look when I come to work in the morning (I know, I know, this is supposed to be an anonymous blog, but whatever, congratulations, you guys get to know what I look like. I just took this in the bathroom with my phone, so I apologize for how crappy I look):


And here is a picture I took of the Meek. I realize how creepy this is, I really do. But I just had to share so people would realize how extreme this situation is and I can sound 45% less like a vapid whore (and yes it was awkward to wait until she had to get up to eagerly snap a picture of her with my phone. But Meeks must be well documented so we can learn all we can about them!)


There she is. In all of her Meeky glory! That’s the outfit she wore all of last week. And it’s okay to be gap-toothed, have sort of a mullet and not be the thinnest girl ever! I mean look at my picture, I’m a cow! But it’s worth the effort to present one’s self well. Why doesn’t the Meek care? And why does the Meek care that I care and react with hostility towards me when I’m not the one with a kerchief around my neck? I shall study this Meek for the next 6 months and learn all I can to end Meek behavior. I know you have had a bad Meek experience…Anna…I’m looking at you. Feel free to share your Meek stories so I can further understand these creatures and end Meek harassment, or EMO: the End Meeks Offensive. We get together once a week and listen to Dashboard Confessional and cry.

Sha la la!


Necesito...your help!

I keep seeing this MTA public safety poster in the subway and it confuses, enrages and humors me every time I see it. Normally the PSA posters in the subway are what I would consider to be “helpful,” I guess. They remind riders to engage in pretty common sense behavior—not to run down the subway stairs to catch a departing train or stand too close to the platform. Pretty standard public transportation posters really.

The posters are all designed in the same way— a photo of a minority performing the wrong subway behavior followed by a witty catchphrase and then an informational blurb about MTA subway safety. Case Study: The poster reminding you not to run down the stairs to catch the departing train has a photo of a Latino man running down the stairs. We know that he is neglectful and running down the stairs as he is a minority (just kidding) wearing a trench coat that is billowing in the breeze created by his neglectful rush, and he is carrying a brief case that is falling out of his hand as he slips on the stairs. Underneath this poignant photograph is the phrase, “Be careful, the last step COULD BE YOUR LAST!” (The winning PSA catchphrase goes to Washington D.C.’s “Escalators are like alligators” for their escalator safety campaign).

So how could I be offended by such helpful posters? you may be wondering. Well let me explain to you the poster I have now seen three times and each time I sit there, TRAPPED, force to stare in confusion. The poster follows the template I have described above, but the photo is of the Latino man (now in a business suit, goodbye trench coat) clinging to the exterior of the subway car like he is fucking Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. So I stare at this picture thinking, “What the fuck is that man doing? What is this a PSA for? Not clinging to the side of the subway car like a fucking moron?” So I look next for the witty catchphrase and informative blurb and alas—its in motherfucking Spanish. Every. Time. They don’t make a version of this PSA in English!

This situation is seriously too much for me to handle. I don’t understand so many things. Why is he clinging to the car? Is he trying to get a free ride? That can’t be it; you have to pay before you even have a chance to get close to a subway car. Why do they only make this PSA in Spanish? Is there a problem in the Latino community about Subway riding confusion? Is there an entire race of people who think you ride THE OUTSIDE of the train? What the fuck is going on?

Now I although I took three years of Spanish, I do not speak a word of it. I got through my Spanish education like I got through most of my education—luck and charm. I’m a pretty lucky and charming bitch, and it tends to help me out in a lot of sticky situations, Spanish class being one of them. I got through middle school Spanish because, well, I grew up in America and therefore know enough remedial Spanish to get through Señora Rivera’s class. Freshman year of high school I had the town lush as a teacher. Her daughter was in my year, and if you were friends with her, as I was, you basically didn’t have to worry about your grade. Gracias Señora Leikwig. Sophomore year was a little trickier. My teacher was a cunty import from Spain and I had her first period. I also had this nasty little habit throughout high school of sort of just coming in first period whenever I felt like it. It had gotten to the point where my friend Jen and I were in the same boat, if we were late to one more class we would “LC” the class (meaning Loss of Credit). On the same morning that Jen was five minutes late to class resulting in her LC, I was 45 minutes late. As I strolled in without a care in the world, my teacher looked at the clock and said, in Spanish, “Patsy you are very late to class this morning.” To which I said, “These shoes? Thanks! I love your shoes too!” My teacher thought this was the funniest thing she had ever seen in her entire life. She laughed for a solid 30 seconds, gave me that “oh you…” shake of the head and told me to sit down. No harm, no foul. I never got in trouble for being late again because when I was late, it just reminded her of the time slash shoe mix-up joke and I’d be let off the hook. Gracias Señiora Cuadrado.

So seeing how I don’t speak Spanish I need your help in translating the poster in hopes of figuring out what the fuck it’s a warning for. This will result in so much alleviated anxiety and confusion for me. So I leave you with what the poster says (yes I wrote it down one day for this very occasion) and a rough sketch of what the picture is of (yes it’s stick figures and yes I am an artist, but I never said I was an illustrator). I thank you in advance for your helpful comments!


Este pdria ser el ultimo viaje de su vida. El unico viaje seguro es el viaje donde permanence adentro del tran. Viaje adentro del tran—no se suba sobre el.

Sha la la!
La Patsina


“Yeah we in luck down in the muck”

This week's drinking game is DISNEYS THE LITTLE MERMAID. Combining drinking and childhood memories is always quality.

The Little Mermaid came out during "that time" of my childhood. I was aware of what was going on but young enough everything was still magical. When I saw the redhead (who in my 5 year old way wanted to bone) screw legs I wanted to swim all day.

I was a bit of a ham as a child and for that Christmas (oh CHRISTMAS of 1989 you were the best ever; I got this pimp microphone with flashing lights and a baby sister!)

I ran around the house with my awesome microphone—which was not an easy because it had a large stand where said flashing lights were located-- singing Little Mermaid Songs as loud as I could. Only I would wear my bathing while I performed around the house even in cold Western New York because DUH I was a mermaid! And unlike all these little girls now a green bathing suit was a quality replacement for fins.

Uncreative little ho, she does not know what it is like to wear a bathing suit in winter for the sake of performance.

In honor of The Little Mermaid's famous jugs olden and I made and enjoyed some awesome nipple cupcakes.

On to the movie!

Take a sip…

Before every song to lubricate the vocal cords. SING ALONG!

When a parent/chaperone reprimands a child. (Stupid mermaid parents on land yell at their kids too)

Clothes mysteriously appear / disappear with transformations from human to merperson.

When Scuttle uses the awesome power of BSing with confidence

Anyone gives a convenient recap of information.

When something your 1989 self would not find sexual all of a sudden is sexual. (or racist)

Take two sips…

Every time the "Ariel's theme" is sung either by Ariel or the imposter

When someone dies/has a near death experience

Finish your drink

There is a happy ending

This game will bring out the kid in you. Get ready for some GREAT childhood stories from friends.

I wish I could quit you,




Patsy: WHHHHHHHHAT? like the chess player?

Patsy: god bless him

Dear Bobby Fischer,

You passed away last night, in Iceland. Apparently you lived there which is random.

So Bobby, I actually know very little about your life. I do know you were arguably one of the best chess players EVEARh! Booby, you beat the big shots of the game at a young age. During a Cold War you showed those damn red commies who was better at a centuries old cerebral game.

Time passed Bobby, and you became cultural footnote. To some you were little more then a question on a trivial purist card, a quirky question that you read to friends while waiting for your burger in a diner.

I actually associate your name with the movie Searching for Bobby Fischer. My parents made me watch/ suffer through that movie when I was 10. Fear not, I will not judge you on a movie that you had nothing to do with.

In conclusion Bobby, RIP. I hope you are challenging Abe Lincoln to a chess game in the sky.

I wish I could quit you,


A day in the life...

If you are human you have had a song stuck in your head. And if you are not human (according to my qualifying statement) LEAVE ROBOT SCUM!!

Apparently--according to some article from 5 years ago I found on the Internet-- the number one song people get stuck in their head is “It’s a Small World.” That song is horrid, and if it has ever been stuck in your head I am sorry. I feel your pain, truly. When my family went to Disney World my Grandmothers favorite ride was “It’s a Small World.” At the tender age of five I despised those happy culturally diverse animatronic children.

Back to the main point of this entry, to admit my problems so I can grow from them.

Top Six (weird/awkward/annoying/awesome) Songs that (over the past two years) Have Been Stuck in my Head!

These tunes are nothing like “It’s a Small World” but they are still are bad/awesome.

6. Rod Stewart- Do Ya Think I'm Sexy

I had this song stuck in my head for eight months. I would SING IT ALL THE TIME and that is not an exaggeration. Rod was constantly playing in my head. I even tried to slip this ditty on a work mix. "Do Ya Think I’m Sexy" is a deadly disco dance and I LOVE IT. Although the song itself is annoying I was never annoyed by its presence.

5. Hava Nagila

After I attended one of the BEST CATHOLIC/JEW WEDDINGS IN HISTORY I left with a hangover and this traditional tune. "Hava Nagila's" repetitive and endless nature combines with my lacking knowledge of Hebrew resulting in one painful tune. I am positive that I replace approximately 50% of "Hava Nagila" with my vague memory of high school level German. "Hava Nagila" made a second appearance in my repertoire after I saw a Jewish Klezmer band in a park this summer.

4. Anything By Kylie Minogue

Enough said.

3. Melissa Etheridge- Come to My Window

After a bit of heartbreak I play "Come to My Window" and the song validates my feelings. It takes three times in a row before Melissa’s Grammy winning song gets stuck in my head. Thus begins a vicious cycle of song, I play it all the time because the song is stuck in my head, but it is in my head because I play it all the time. My enjoyment of "Come to My Window" has brought along embarrassment. Recently a lady caught me singing Ms. Ethrage's hit song in K-Mart. I have no clue what is worse that I was singing this song or I was shopping in K-mart.

2. Pat Benatar- Love Is a Battlefield

Ms. Benatar’s tune takes the place at number two because it has been in my head for YEARS. If I hear any piece of this song it sticks. When "Love Is a Battlefield" plays I have to fight the urge to break out in dance. "Love is a Battlefield" is the most played song on my itunes, and I watch the music video daily. If you ask me Ms. Benatar words were true 25 years ago and still true today, Love IS a battlefield.

1. The Zoobilee Zoo Intro Song.

I used to watch Zoobilee Zoo everyday before school, I might have been the only person watching this show. Very few people know of this program; which is a shame. The theme song is bad, childlike (obvi it is a kids show) and has been in my head for four solid weeks now. If you do not want the pain of this song please do not click play. I am only providing video if you have no clue what I am talking about you can get yourself up to speed.

This song is stalking me.

I wish I could quit you.



I look really gay today.

For those of you who do not know me that is not common. I appear feminine so people are often shocked when they find out I am a Lesbos.

For some reason today I woke up and unconsciously decided on this (casual Friday) I wanted to show my homoness. Perhaps, it was because I spent yesterday watching tons of project runway and then a documentary about a tyranny sex worker. Or maybe it is my nod to the start of the 5th season of the amazing and horrid show The L Word.

There must be some random reason I look like this:

Only in a bit more of a tan/blue family

The second I sat down at my desk I realized how gay I looked. If anyone in the office was thinking I am queer this outfit has answered their questions.

I am wearing:

Hair- In bun so I guess that’s gay in a school mum way CHECK

Face- No make up or earrings (I woke up late) CHECK

Shirt- White button down with gold and sliver stripes CHECK

Vest- Navy blue CHECK

Pants- Tan Corduroys ( I debated between these and work jeans) CHECK

Shoes- Red Chuck Taylors (i.e. the infamous lesbian work sneaker) CHECK

Add in my cup of herbal tea and you get

I wish I could quit you,

Shoot 'em up

Happy Drinking Game Friday to one and all!

So recently Eddie sent me a mix CD called “Dance Away Winter Blues,” and I must say it was much needed. I can’t stand that span of time after the holidays where the city is no longer covered in twinkle lights and filled with cheer. Instead it’s just dark and boring. And without twinkle lights. Really, I can’t stress the importance of twinkle lights and my general demeanor. When I get in these angsty-teen-without-a-date-on-prom-night moods, I tend to perpetuate them by listening to glum music and watching depressing movies. One winter break, my mom noticed that I was watching the movie Trainspotting over and over again and decided to remedy this by buying me The Ultimate Neil Diamond Collection. Oh Sweet Caroline, it was awesome.

So I’m going to pass my depression on to you (because friends who care, share). Get your needle ready and find that vein, because it’s time for the Trainspotting Drinking Game!



take one sip…
- Anytime Renton says the word “choose.” Just kidding. You would die.
- Sick Boy talks about James Bond
- Begbie beats somebody up
- Someone says “shyte”
- Someone looks for a vein
- Someone shoots up

take two sips…
- When someone is arrested
- Someone decides to quit heroin
- Someone has sex
- There is a trippy heroin/opium/withdrawal induced scene of a surreal reality

finish your drink and poor some on the ground for your fallen homeboy…
- When Tommy dies

Sha la la!


Lovely Dovey

There have been no updates recently (as you can tell). I wish I had a quality reason but really I am lazy that and my family flew across the country to visit me.

Patsy has a much better excuse seeing as she is consumed with the outrageous deadlines and demands brought on by he horrid mistress that is her employer in the magazine industry.

Luckily a dear friend of ours decided to step up to the plate and take over today. Our guest blogger this week is the very sexy Chris. Chances are if you actually read this blog you have stumbled upon his comments. Chris and Michael run a little cohabitation piece of the Internet kosher eucharist which is a DELIGHTFULLY HILARIOUS READ.

I trust Chris’ drinking game making abilities for he was my co-developer in the first drinking game we featured on 2birds. Our guest blogger enjoys the company of others sexually from time to time, as much as he enjoys the company of the drink. These loves are combined in the (soon to be famous)…

The Bad Sex Drinking Game

Take one drink when:

You start justifying the sex before it even happens. "I'm drunk! And bored. And lonely. And none of my friends are going to see this. And there's nothing on TV."

You start editing the story as it unfolds. "Okay, definitely not going to tell my friends I had sex with a homeless guy. I'm gonna say... astronaut. From Brazil. Who was in the Olympics."

You take a drink specifically to steel yourself.

You have to pause to suppress laughter or nausea.

Take two drinks when:

You go back to someone who was bad sex for more bad sex, because at this point it's marginally better than being alone. Also, that nerve in your hand that gets sore when you jack off too much is visibly swollen.

There is a condom mishap - anything from "Can't get it open" to "I seem to have left something in your, uh... let me just get that."

Someone stops to pee.

You're more concerned about the sheets or an article of clothing that you are the other person's pleasure. Or your own.

Take three drinks when:

You realize the other person is sweating. A lot.

Someone has to switch hands.

All pretence that the situation is not incredibly boring is dropped. "Sigh. Okay. What do I need to do?"

Someone tries for a facial... and misses.

Finish your drink when:

You search for a reason why "it doesn't count." Drink more if you spurn common excuses like "I was drunk" or "I pulled out" in favor of something involving the full moon, parallax, and the different between Orthodox and Roman Easter.

You have an STD scare several days later. Sure, it could be hay fever... or it could be gonorrhea.

You admit it to your friends, who refer to it as the time you got syphilis from a homeless guy, even though he wasn't homeless but in a halfway house.

You realize halfway through a subsequent one-night stand that you have failed to learn a valuable lesson.

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