*If you didn’t get it, I was making a reference to the SEA, Pranksters by referencing knots, which I think are some sort of sea thingy, or maybe they’re actually not. I could be referring to DON KNOTS who isn’t from the sea, I don’t think. He could be a Poseidon for all I fucking know. I’m still half tripping from the Dramamine, which should come with the label “WILL FUCK YOUR SHIT UP, BITCHES.”

I want a sandwich. And a snowcone. Actually, I want a snowcone sandwich.

Anyway, so I am back from my cruise and let me tell you that it was FULL of the awesome. Technically, it was a WORKING vacation, and Angie and I have come up with a fantastic idea which I will reveal tomorrow when the walls stop moving and I stop walking into my dogs.

So we were on a motherfucking boat wearing our flippy-flops, with apologies AND accolades to T-Pain, which is sort of like a traveling NASCAR fan hotel with all of the assorted classiness and hilarity that went along with it. I’m telling you that people watching cannot be better anywhere.

I got my first decent massage AND my first taste of true bad taste on the trip.

The massage was by a British woman and she was alarmed by the state of my stress level (an 8)(what, is that bad?) and the state of my back. Apparently, it was all kinds of tight and wound up and that’s apparently bad. Pretty much, she said that I would die unless I got more regular massages and stopped being so stressed out and maybe took better care of myself.

I tried to interject with “does Vicodin count as a stress reliever?” but then she sort of laid on my back with her elbows and I wept in pain and couldn’t speak. Or I could, but it would be a scream. I tried to make her tell me that my back was “knotty” so that she’d say something like, “Oooh, Rebecca, you KNOTTY girl,” and maybe then smack me around, but no such luck.

Just more of the elbows and threats of reducing my stress or “death.” WhatEVER.

The ship wasn’t exactly decorated from this era. In fact, it’s pretty much the LAST sort of decor that you want to see if you’re drunk and/or seasick, but it’s pretty much full of the hilarious. Brightly patterned carpets and brass and wall paper and colors! every! where!

It’s going to be vintage soon.

The worst place that I found was this: a HAND bar. I want whatever they were smoking when they decided that THIS was a great concept for a bar, because it had to be strong.

So you’re walking down the way and you see THIS:

Two giant hands. I assumed, nail salon. TACKY nail salon, but nail salon. Nope. The strains of a bad keyboard player ministering to a group of cougars wafted out and I could make out “My Girl.” Badly.

I was intrigued.

THAT is over the bar. I cannot impart how scary that looks. It’s a gigantic hand. Over the bar. What. The. Fuck.

The horrible keyboard player belts out shitty songs and drunken cougars vie for his attention and suddenly I’m horrified AND embarrassed.

The wall is home to the handprints of his conquests? OR VICTIMS…

The fingers wave creepily as I back out of the bar, happy to have escaped with my hands intact.

I’ll never listen to “My Girl” the same way again.

Aunt Becky: “Thanks for picking my ass up from the optometrist, yo.”

The Daver: “Not a problem.”

Aunt Becky: “I should have you know that the optometrist says that my optic nerve is BEAUTIFUL.”

The Daver: “Well, that WAS the first thing I noticed about you. Your sexy optic nerve.”

Aunt Becky: “Naturally! My optic nerve brings ALL the boys to the yard.”

The Daver: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “Oh, hey, can you run in to pick up my Thai food?”

The Daver: “You should SO go in while you’re wearing those disposable sunglasses.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll probably cause a riot with the guys throwing themselves at my feet. I mean, did you SEE how hot I am in these shades? THEY HAVE NO SIDES.”

The Daver: “You look like Morpheous from the Matrix.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m CLEARLY from the future and that will cause people to riot in the Thai place and plus my head is throbbing, so can you please get my food?”

The Daver: “RED PILL OR BLUE, BECKY?”

Aunt Becky: “The answer is ALWAYS “C,” The Daver.”

The Daver: “Touche.”

Aunt Becky: “Now I want some freeze dried ice cream with Vicodin on top. Because it’s ALSO from the future. My drug addiction will go hand-in-hand with my new cat’s eye rhinestone glasses.”

The Daver: “Your optic nerve better hope it attracts a new husband. And fast.”

Aunt Becky: “My optic nerve won’t fail me, baby. Now grab me that motherfucking Pad Thai.”

When the power went off yesterday at exactly 2:46 PM I tried to be all *hair flip* coy about it. I was all WHATEVER, I don’t NEED you MR. POWER COMPANY. You’re The Man and I don’t need to SELL OUT to The Man any more than I ALREADY DO.

By 2:48 I was sweating and on my knees praying to The Power Company Gods that the power be restored already, can’t you SEE that I’ve SUFFERED enough?? I NEED my TWITTER BACK! THE INTERNET MAY BE HAVING A SCANDAL THAT I DON’T KNOW ABOUT!

Now, I was born into a family of stinky hippies. I don’t mean the kind that shops at Whole Foods and occasionally recycles their plastics when they feel like it. No, my parents were hippies long past when it was cool to be a hippie and well before it was trendy to be organic. We had to drive all over town in our ancient VW Bug to go to the health food store, we grew our own sad, pathetic produce, and we made as much of our own food as possible.

That’s probably why I’m jubilantly happy that my rose food is made by Bayer, the same company that makes my aspirin. You cannot be TOO not organic when you live in Aunt Becky’s world.

Along with making our own food, we made our own maple syrup in the winter after we painstakingly gathered the sap from maple trees, we picked our own apples and strawberries from local (pesticide free) orchards, and my mother canned stuff. CREEPY, I know.

Also, she churned butter.

Oh yes, Pranksters, my mom churned our butter. I’ll let you take a moment to let that sink in, or allow you to compose yourself, perhaps to run to the bathroom to wipe the pee from your pants.

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Ready? (ASS)

Yeah, my mom churned butter. Sometimes, when I was a kid, I helped. Also, I should add, I was born in 1980, not 1880.

But to me, I’m really not into that whole lifestyle. I mean, I love Classic Rock fiercely…but I also love Bubble Gum Pop. Whole Foods is awesome…but I also call it Whole PAYCHECK. I have a garden which I love…but I don’t grow food in it. I don’t cook, if I can help it. I appreciate the organic lifestyle, but I lived it before most people and I am willing to admit that it has it’s drawbacks…like BUGS.

You can spare me the organic is better lecture because really, I HAVE been there.

Last night, after about 30 minutes with no power, the 3-year old hysterical because things! were! different! I realized that my iPhone was nearly dead and my house phone, well, that runs off The Internet, the stove and microwave both not working, I was pretty much ready to pull my graying hair out.

Luckily, the pizza guy came (thank you The Daver) and saved the day for the kids and 4 mother-humping hours later, the power came on to great fanfare in my house. Turns out, no one in my house–all of whom are used to sleeping with white noise–can sleep if there’s no power.

I’m pretty sure I would have been eaten by a large bear if I’d been a pioneer.

Last year, when Mimi was still one of those babies who STAYED where you motherfucking PUT THEM, I went outside of my house for a second. And when I was standing there, looking at my bright yellow house, I noticed something that I hadn’t previously seen with my bleary post-partum eyes.

Knock out a couple of windows and board them up and you suddenly have a house that looks like a creepy recluse lives there. I mean, I sort of WAS a recluse, thanks to a baby who screamed every time she got near the car, but that wasn’t the point.

The point WAS, Pranksters, the fucking bushes. I had to do SOMETHING about those bushes.

See? WIRE HANGERS, Y’ALL.

Those are a lot of motherhumping bushes. (also, not all are going)

But not then. OH NO, not then.

The Daver, bless his tiny heart, doesn’t like change. Nor does he like anything that requires manual labor (on his part) and I wasn’t exactly doing well mentally thanks to some wicked PTSD, so I decided that Bush-Wacking was going to have to wait until 2010.

He told me that I needed some elaborate plan as to what I needed to DO with the area where I was going to remove approximately 3,082 bushes, but really, I am kind of a less-is-more person anyway and the house is so fucking over-landscaped as it is, I was going to haul them out and see what happened.

I can see how ominous that sounds given my history of just “doing things” (see exhibit: Aunt Becky’s Cake Wreck), but I swear to you, Pranksters, I am actually an avid botanist. I mean, I grow ORCHIDS, and those things are notoriously hard to keep alive.

Anyway, it’s now the Spring of 2010 and Bush-Gate has officially arrived which means that I’m running around the house yelling, “I NEED TO GO BUSHWACKING, Y’ALL,” and Dave rolls his eyes at me a lot, because this is pretty much the way our relationship works. If you’re wondering how I got married, really, I don’t know either.

But I still don’t have elaborate blueprints created to show at precisely what trajectory I will put the new plants I haven’t chosen to go into the holes I haven’t yet created because do I look like I listen to The Daver? (answer: CLEARLY NOT)

Mostly because I am aware that his technique of making me do something painfully annoying is mostly just a stall tactic on his part so that I throw in the towel on my original project. Which, hi, not going to happen because I’m one busted out window and lamp made out of hooker boobs short of a Serial Killer Recluse looking house. The Daver, he doesn’t notice such things.

But, in order to perform such tasks, I was stuck surveying my sad stash of Bush-Gate materials in my garage. Nothing was quite up to par.

So much to the dismay of my search engine (who, of course, judges me based upon the shit that I search for, because OBVIOUSLY), I searched for “how to remove bushes.” Turns out? MOST OF THOSE SITES WERE NOT SAFE FOR WORK, PRANKSTERS.

Left to my own pea-brained devices, I decided that the best way to complete this project was to get a pickax. Obviously. Mostly so I could go BUY a pickax and then carry it around like Paul motherfucking Bunyan.

So I loaded my family into the car to go to what the three-year old calls the “hammer store” because he was convinced that I was stupid enough to buy him a hammer. While I was stupid enough to buy MYSELF a pickax, I didn’t think he needed to act out “If I Had A Hammer” on his sister’s head.

The pickaxes, it turns out, are in a special part of the hardware store that I like to call “Serial Killer Row.” They’re right next to the regular hardcore axes and while I carefully perused them, I can almost swear that I was being recorded. Probably because the hardware store people are very smart. Most people buying pickaxes are probably not doing anything but putting them into eye sockets and stuff.

Me, for as much swagger as I have, I am busting up roots and probably a finger or two because anyone who allows me near sharp pointy things has probably just increased my life insurance policy. But I’m guessing that I’m probably on some secret database now, maybe cross-indexed with RIDICULOUSLY BAD BLOGGER and POSSIBLE VICODIN ABUSER.

Which is why I made sure to have The Daver bring in the hardcore insecticide, pickax, gigantic loppers, and saw from the back of the mini-van before I took the kids to school. I didn’t need Ben piping up and telling his teacher that I’d threatened to cut off his fingers one by one if he didn’t stop slamming the door.

Even if I HAD promised him a shiny hook in return.

Last week, I was watching American Idol* and admirably substituting “Becky” everywhere in the songs that they sung “Baby” which is ALWAYS what I do. Dave was laughing at me when he wasn’t grumbling about the lack of talent this year because that’s ALWAYS what he does.

(aside time!! When I started dating Daver, I likened our relationship to that of Mr. Wilson and Dennis the Menace. What’s most full of the awesome is that I was motherfucking RIGHT.)

Anyway, since I use all social media to be a moron, I decided to be annoying and tweet the pointless shit that I always do rather than the deep and purposeful shit that other people do. So I said something to the effect of “I always substitute “Becky” for “Baby” in songs because no one ever sings about a girl named Becky.”

Well, Twitter is fucking smart. And before I knew it, I had a kajillion responses that were all, “you know what, duder? There IS a Becky song.”

And they were fucking right. There is. Only if your name IS Becky, you don’t want to know it, I assure you. Like, you really don’t want to know it.

I’m embedding it here, but I am telling you RIGHT NOW, do NOT listen to it at work or around kids and if Aunt Becky is warning you, you know it’s bad. It’s SO dirty that even I blushed and that takes WORK.

Anyway, after I saw that, I went to Urban Dictionary to read about my name. What I saw made me immediately want to change my name.

“Becky” means one of two things, per Urban Dictionary.

1) to give a blow-job (apparently, white girls give the best blow jobs, for those of you who didn’t watch the Becky Song)

2) cocaine (that white girl Becky)

I’d always thought that Rebecca, my Hebrew name taken directly from the Bible from Rebecca, the wife of Issac, meant “to bind” and really that’s not all that sexy either. Often the “binding” part is in context with a noose. Wow. That’s hot. Rebecca makes you want to die.

So I’m sort of thinking it’s time to change my name to something that doesn’t mean:

1) BJ’s

2) coke

3) death

I’m sort of batting 0/3 here with the meaning behind my name. And I can’t be all “oh, but my MIDDLE name is awesome, so I can go by that” because when I got married I LEGALLY dropped my middle name (Elizabeth) and switched to my maiden name (Sherrick). So unless I want to go by “Sherrick” I am pretty much in need of a whole name renovation.

But first, I’m gonna have to scour Urban Dictionary to make sure I’m not inadvertently renaming myself something that means “Cow Shit” or “I Love John Denver” something.

So, Pranksters what does YOUR name mean? Is it better than “blow job?”

*Shut up, like YOU don’t watch it, too.