If I were a smart person, I would not have used my real name on the internet.
If I were a smart person, I would not solve problems by shrugging my shoulders and saying, “eh, I’ll figure something out,” then eating an Uncrustables.
If I were a smart person, I would have a greater five year plan than, “don’t die.”
If I were a smart person, I would actually sell the things I find in my closet, rather than donating them to charity.
Smart has the plans. Stupid has the stories.
Since I’ve been undergoing the great Purge Fest of 2010, I’ve been shocked by the amount of shit that I’ve managed to collect. I don’t like excess crap because it makes me unhappy, sort of how I feel when I’m chased by a flock of geese or if I have someone gleefully point out that I have misused a word somewhere in my blog (a-ha! She has made an ERROR! Let us POINT IT OUT TO HER!).
I’m in the process of moving my computer area upstairs so that I may watch my singing warthog videos in peace and possibly find a way to start a “career” or something (ed note: WHATEVER). Moreover, I want a space that is my own since my crotch parasites have taken over everything else.
Even though I cleaned out my closet a couple of months ago, I decided that it was high time to do it again. Especially since I finally went and bought new beside tables, lamps AND A DESK. I’ve never actually owned a desk before. Now I can properly watch my dancing dog videos on this:
You’re overwhelmed by awesomeness, I know.
Anyway, my tastes are delightful, I can tell that’s what you’re thinking. You’re not thinking, “who gave that girl a credit card because she has tastes like an overgrown monkey?” because THAT would be a cold prickly, NOT a warm fuzzy, Pranksters.
My closet, well, it needed some removal of crap. Mostly clothes that no longer fit. I’m now within 4 pounds of what I was when I got pregnant with Amelia, which means that I’m within 15 of what I was when I got pregnant with Alex, and that? FULL OF THE WIN.
That means, though, that I had a lot of clothes that needed removal. I’d thought about keeping them for when I have my Love Child, but I realize that by that time, I’ll want new clothes anyway.
I was hoping that I’d find my missing whore pants, now MIA since July, when I went through my closet, but no such luck. Those whore pants are gone baby, gone.
Whenever I do a gigantic purge, there’s a tiny part of me that wishes that I wasn’t afraid of eBay. I might make a couple of bucks selling my old crap if I wasn’t such a pussbag. Charity, I remind myself, is good.
My closet seems to reward this.
The last time that I did a purge I found, I shit you not, a small bag of diamonds. They were, of course, my own diamonds, but still, diamonds. I also found a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that I’d forgotten that I’d bought.
INSTANT WIN.
(I don’t know what one does with a bag of diamonds besides say, “I have a bag of diamonds,” but you know)
This time, however, as I approached my closet ready to do battle, I was expecting a bag of poo. Certainly, lightening doesn’t strike twice and frankly, with the week I’ve been having, poo would probably be more than I deserved.
Instead, I found more diamonds. A pair of earrings. Certainly more useful than a bag of loose diamonds.
Then, I found this:
A coupon for a free pair of new Whore Pants.
Huh.
Guess I have a Closet Fairy.
Wonder if I can ask it for a smaller ass.
While many of you asked the cake redeemed itself in it’s deliciousosity, I regret to inform you that the burning hair smell put me off of it. Then, when I realized the fondant smelled exactly like I’d imagine the color Blue to smell, it further solidified my desire to never let it touch my delicate, refined, distinguished palate.
(the very same delicate palate that loves on Crunch Berry Cereal. Hard.)
So this, my friends, this is a requiem for a Cake Wreck:
Alas, I cannot submit my creation to the SITE Cake Wrecks, because they only accept professional cakes, and as we’ve all gladly seen, I am no professional.
Somewhere, a lone bugle is playing Taps for my sad, sad cake.
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Yesterday as I was flitting about the house uselessly writing a couple of things that I had promised I would do, I noticed that my right ear was making an odd tapping noise. I have a cold, because it’s a day of the week that ends in “y” and I always have a cold, thanks to my three crotch parasites, and I chalked it up to odd inner ear congestion.
As the day wore endlessly on, the knocking in my ear continued, and as I was finishing up the last of my articles late last night, I had a horrible, awful thought that combined the most awful of my fears.
What if something had laid their hideous eggs in my ear canal and now it was hatching to eat my remaining three brain cells? Like an alien? Or a bug? Or an ALIEN BUG?
(what, ME neurotic?)
(shut up)
When I informed Dave of my fears, he rolled his eyes and laughed.
The Daver: “You do remember it’s January in the Midwest, right?”
Aunt Becky: “Yes.”
The Daver: “And that nothing is actually alive.”
Aunt Becky: “Yes.”
The Daver: “And that you’re being neurotic.”
Aunt Becky: “You’d be neurotic too if you were growing an alien bug baby in your ear canal.”
The Daver: (rolls eyes) “Clearly.”
Then I went and flushed my ear canal with water and hydrogen peroxide for a couple of minutes, figuring that it would kill whatever was eating my brain. While it fizzed merrily, I hate to report that my ear is still sort of thumpy today.
The alien baby CLEARLY is immune to hydrogen peroxide.
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Today I am over at Toy With Me, where I am telling the not-at-all (SARCASM ALERT) embarrassing story of my bachelorette party. It involves a clogged toilet, a stripper, and balls on my face.
And, as always, if you’d care to vote for me in The Bloggies under best humor blog (voting ends in a couple of days), here is the link. I will love you all over in ways you never knew possible.
I never thought I’d get married. I really never thought I’d get married, squeeze out a couple of crotch parasites and move to the suburbs and become a housewife. I really, really, really never thought I’d get married, squeeze out the kids, rock the ‘burbs as a housewife and write.
Talk about a mindfuck.
Add a white picket fence and I’m June Cleaver with a dirty mouth.
Truthfully, I’d not given the idea of marriage much mind. I’d not planned out a puffy white dress or a first dance number and hadn’t planned out bridesmaids and while I thought that the idea of having “a man” around to help raise the other man in my life (who happened to be 2 feet tall) was a good idea, I didn’t think it would happen.
I’m just not the marrying kind.
I’m the go-go boot wearing, cell-phone bejeweling, disco-dancing kind. So I was genuinely surprised to find myself at the alter, pledging to love, honor and repay The Daver for taking me to be his lawfully wedded wife. He pretty much had to drag me up the aisle by my hair kicking and screaming.
I was pretty afraid that I’d lose myself in being someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone else’s everything.
And I was right. For the first years, I did.
A sea of extenuating circumstances: thyroid storm, my mother’s alcoholism and subsequent rehabilitation (which, sobriety, YAY!), the incredible isolation of our first condo, the loneliness of being a parent when you have no other parent friends, post-partum depression, pre-partum depression, living as a single parent while my husband focused on his career; all of those to the me out of me.
It was so gradual that I didn’t even realize it.
Only recently did I realize that I had to unearth myself and figure out what’s what. Truthfully, I’ve been really afraid of what I’d find. Would I even recognize who I was anymore? Happily, I’ve come to realize I’m exactly the same as I was, with, perhaps, a white stripe in my hair now (yes, seriously) and the self-confidence that comes with being truly happy.
Maybe I’m still xx pounds fatter than I’d like (I have no scale) and maybe I’m still not writing for Playboy (a girl can dream) and maybe I still only see The Daver 3-4 hours during the week, but I’m finally moving. Not stagnating in a pile of my own filth feeling trapped and miserable.
Now I’m just stagnating in a pile of filth. Beaming merrily. As it should be.
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Team Mimi is up and in Full Effect and walking for March of Dimes on April 25 in St. Charles (the details are behind the linkage or on my sidebar). Anyone is welcome to join. We’d LOVE to have you. If you’d like, you can form your own team as well. They’re forming all around the country.
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I AM going to launch the community site, just as soon as I can get the kinks worked out with The Daver, and my site designer and figure out exactly how to set it up.
So far, this is what I’ve got on the docket for ideas:
*It’s got to have a variety of topics that we can all weigh in on and post about.
*Easily navigatible and not full of The Ugly.
*It’s just going to be a link from the top of my blog to a separate site, where hopefully I can do some promotional giveaways and stuff because according to you guys, people like free shit. So, if I can find people to give us stuff, we’re IN.
*I’m going to use the same software that Dooce’s community site uses because it’s a great example of a community site.
What else would make a community site Full Of The Awesome?
(I bought the domain www.bandbacktogether.com for the community site)(we still need to name the community site)
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