Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

NashVegas: Where We All Speak American


July 13, 2012

I’d had every intention of leaving you with a post, Pranksters, telling you that:

a) I hadn’t gone off the rails of a crazy train, shaved my head and moved to somewhere in Siberia to breastfeed baby Yaks.

2) Getting the hell out of Dodge was the birthday present I was giving myself.

But Thursday got late, and Dawnie got to my house at the ass-crack of dawn on Friday and anyone who owns a mobile device that rhymes with MyPhone understands that posting to a WordPress blog while on a “smart phone*” is nearly impossible. Or maybe, it’s just me.

(it’s not just me)

Sunday, as the always-lovely Avitable reminded you, was my birthday. And despite the recent “series of unfortunate events,” I didn’t feel as though I was particularly immune to my Birthday Curse, which happens to generally be a series of unfortunate and ill-timed events as well. I’ve probably spent more birthdays in ER’s and Urgent Care facilities than anyone under the age of 80 should admit to, but suffice to say, it’s generally DIFFERENT issues, which meant that this year, I was expecting to go big or go home.

So I figured if I died, I may as well be doing something I loved as I went out. Like, for example, going down to Nashville (NashVegas?) with Dawnie.

We hopped into the car, or, more accurately, I slogged my tired ass into the car, around 8AM on Friday and we set off to find some…thing.

“Dawn,” I said. “You’re aware of my birthday curse, right?”

“Yup,” she replied.

“If I get decapitated, please just put my head back on,” I asked.

“Fuck that,” she said, “I’m going to make it hang out of the window.”

“Like a dog?” I asked.

Something like that,” she gave me A Look.

I stared out the Indiana countryside, marveling at the sheer amount of dead tires on the side of the road, trying to imagine what she meant by that. Was she planning to shrink my severed head and use it as a car ornament? Was she going to let it dangle from the rearview mirror?

“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to be pushy, but I’d like it if you could somehow either reattach my head – maybe with a broom handle or something – or have it nestled in my lap, like I’m holding it.”

She sighed. “I guess,” she replied, clearly unhappy with my demands.

And then we saw it. The most amazing thing I’d seen in at least three minutes:

fucks-lubeAnd for the very barest of moments, all was, at long last, right with the world.

*if my phone can’t cure cancer, it’s not very smart.

Forever Yours, Avidly


Depending upon who you talk to, I’m either the most organized or the least organized person this side of the Mississippi. If I’ve got the time, space, and energy, you’ll happily find me (on my days off) organizing shit, making it more efficient and reducing clutter. If I don’t? Well, I’m sure The Guy on My Couch or The Daver will cheerfully explain all the ways in which I am *not* organized.

It’s a good damn thing I know how to lock them out of the back end (snort) of my blog.

Anyway, by comparison, I look like (insert name of professional organizer here) compared to Daver. Looking for something on his desk is like going on an archeology expedition. Oh! Wow! There’s that stapler that’s needed staples for 4 years. And holy shit! I think this coffee cup holds a cure for the flu! And that thing I’d asked him to return – guess that’s not going back!

If you think I’m ragging on The Daver, let me tell you a little story. Gather ’round, Pranksters, because this is a good’n.

I was packing up our condo in order to move Dave for the third time in two years. He’s magically gotten a “headache” every time anyone has to put shit in boxes, leaving me and whomever else I can con into helping lug my crap around.

I’d gotten to his “office” which was really just a room with a computer that the cats peed in. The room, not the computer. The floor was, as usual, covered in paper. Daver has this thing about paper – he never knows what to recycle or get rid of so he just…keeps it. It’s not like he’s a hoarder. Not once did I see him yell, “BUT THEMS BE MAH PRECIOUS THAAAAANNNNGS,” as I removed his precious box of VHS tapes (we had no VCR) or his books of bad poetry, when I’d get down and dirty with the cleaning.

While I’d prefer to give you the mental picture of me strong-arming Daver away from a box of miscellaneous cords, yelling, “THIS IS AN INTERVENTION. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE BECOME – TAKE A LOOK IN THE MIRROR.”

Dave happened to be out at work when I made this particularly awesome discovery in the cat pee room/office floor, which was probably for the best, considering I spent the next twenty (two hundred) minutes sitting on our couch, staring at it, while a much younger Ben sat on the couch watching the same Sesame Street DVD over and over again (thanks to autism, I can’t even SEE an Elmo without breaking out into a cold sweat).

It was….mesmerizing – like one of those weird picture within a picture things I can never see because I’m colorblind and possibly brain-damaged.

Pranksters, I wish I had a snap to show you, but I did end up throwing it away well before I began blogging here at Mommy Wants Vodka.

What had been so sacred, so important, so revered, was a simple slip of paper. A simple slip of paper from Target. A simple slip of paper from Target detailing items Dave had, himself, purchased before we began dating, some three years prior. What, I can almost hear you ask, the hell was on this slip of paper that Dave deemed it so important as to not only keep, but MOVE three times?

In November of (counts on Fingers) 2001, Dave had bought himself a bin of kitty litter.

Now, I know what you’re thinking – why bother with kitty litter when the cats just piss all over the place anyway? The answer is, I don’t know Perhaps, Dave used it himself. Maybe he had an oil spill or really liked to hunker down and squat over a kitty shitter to evacuate his bowels. I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

And I’m damn sorry I didn’t keep the thing. I’d have framed it, like I framed the check I got from BlogHer for .01.

Sometimes, we must celebrate how ludicrous life can be.

Anyway, biology be damned, Little Ben seems to take after The Daver in more than just personality. My father, to give you an idea of the genetic soup I rose from, is the most organized person on the planet. His books are arranged on the bookshelves using the Dewey Decimal System (is that still around? I CAN’T BE SURE).

So I assumed some of this would rub off on my kid. I mean, if you tell me, “Hey, AB, go rearrange your blogroll to meet these arbitrary criteria,” I’d be halfway done before I asked myself WHY I was doing such a task. I may not be the most organized person on the planet, but I can follow directions like BOOM.

My firstborn, on the other hand, would be asked to go and clean his room, figuring that this was enough direction for a child who had my father’s genetics somewhere in his body.

I’d go and check on him a half an hour later and find that he’d carefully, painstakingly pulled out each of his Lego kits and had rearranged them to match whatever the instructional booklet showed.


Sorta like that, but less Star Wars-y.

His floor would be covered in miniature stacks of carefully laid out Legos while the rest of his bedroom appeared to have been subject to a very tiny tornado.

It was then that I realized my son would need some help with organizational skills. But how? When the kid is such a perfectionist that he has to fold and refold a shirt 26 times OR shove all of his clothes into one drawer, what do you do? I mean, he’s too young for a professional organizer…right?


Organization in school has been an issue with him for oh, I don’t know (counts on fingers) six years? I’ve tried differing systems with him – he gets too bogged down with making sure things like, “wipe ass” are on there. I’ve tried buying him a calendar-type planner so he can see what’s coming up in the future. I’ve bought him dozens of watches in the hope that if he had them, he’d be able to tell time and get his ass home in time for dinner.

The watches were gone within a few days. The planner was gone too.

Which is why, when he was invited into a program in Middle School called “AVID,” I was thrilled. It was a whole college-prep class about organization, note taking skills, and shit, I half-way wanted to sign up for it. Happily, Ben signed up for it, knowing as well as I that organization will always be a struggle for him. It made me feel a HELL of a lot better about sending the kid to middle school.

And then. And how. And why.


I got a letter from the vice-principal of the middle school. Due to lack of interest, the program won’t be offered this year.

When I stop weeping, I’ll let you know.

P.S. I know my site looks janked up – I updated to the newest WordPress and it took a shit on me. THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS, WORDPRESS.

P.P.S. While at the time, I wept and shook my fists at the sky, I think I’m going to see this as an omen that I need a new site design.

P.P.P.S. Randomly, what’s an Amazon Affiliate? I’ve heard that phrase no less than three times in the past 24 hours but have NO idea what that means.

Not Just Stupid, But Annoying Too!


I have food issues.

I like to think of them as sort of cute lil quirks, you know, the sort of thing that makes me endearing rather than annoying, but having lived with a foodie (The Guy On My Couch) and a pseudo-foodie (The Daver), I’ve come to realize that my food issues are more on the oh-my-God-you-are-so-weird spectrum. But hey, at least I have kicky hair.

See, while I happen to love fruit, I can’t look at canned fruit. In fact, the smell of canned fruit makes me heave histrionically. Actually, most things in cans repulse me. I’d rather go hungry than eat canned food. Which means when the Zombie Apocalypse happens, I’m gonna die. Immediately. Well, if I’m not raptured.

Hey, it’s possible.

(so is John C Mayer being un-douchey, the sun rising in the west and squirtable cheese in a can.)(…WAIT A MINUTE)

Anyway. Food issues.

They include a distrust of cream based salad dressing (especially thousand island, which appears to be the direct creation of Satan’s bunghole) and other creamy things in a can. Especially mayonnaise. The very thought of mayonnaise may ruin my appetite for mere moments at a time!

Mayonnaise is just so…so…WRONG.

A couple of months ago, The Guy On My Couch agreed to make me spinach and artichoke dip without the artichokes because who the hell likes those? (apparently most people who are not me). As I was off scouring the sale-rack for half-price Pop Rocks, The Guy On My Couch sneakily purchased a tub ‘o’ Mayo. I didn’t see it until we were in the car because he was being all stealth-like about it – he knew I’d overrule him and put back the mayo.

One morning, before he had a real job, I asked him to make the dip for breakfast.

Aunt Becky: “Hey, can you make the spinach dip now?”

The Guy On My Couch: “Sure.”

Aunt Becky: “You can’t put mayo in it.”

The Guy On My Couch: “Just…don’t come into the kitchen.”

Aunt Becky: “Why?”

The Guy On My Couch (shuffles feet around): “There’s a zombie in there.”

Aunt Becky (runs for the mustard): “Oh my GOD, REALLY? BATTEN DOWN THE MOTHERFUCKING HATCHES!”

The Guy On My Couch: “Um….yeah!”

Aunt Becky: “You’re going to put mayo in the dip, aren’t you?”


Aunt Becky: (glares) “Nice try.”

The Guy On My Couch (preens): “THANKS!”

Aunt Becky: “On second thought, let’s go get donuts.”

Now that tub of white goo that looks mysteriously like spooge has sat in my lazy Susan for months, unopened. I’m sure as shit not going to open it up and grab out a nice big spoonful and if someone were to do it in my presence, I’d probably sit there making barfy noises until they opted to go into the other room. I’d, of course, follow them and continue heaving.

(my six word memoir? “Not just stupid, but annoying too!”)

The problem is this:

Aunt Becky wanders into the kitchen and, upon gazing lovingly at the box of Equal, notices a white tub of goo:


*Grabs can and spoon*


Rinse, repeat, every two or three days. God BLESS you Topamax for wiping my short-term memory. So glad I can still recall every phone number I’ve ever had but cannot manage to remember where I left my pants or how to update my blog.

I’m aware that the “smart thing” to do would be to dump the mayo once and for all, but no one has EVER accused me of being smart unless they were being particularly sarcastic, which, who could blame them?

Now if you don’t mind, I have a tub of Marshmallow Fluff waiting for me….

….oh right. Never mind.

So what’s going on with YOU, Pranksters? What’s YOUR six word memoir?

Further Proof That I Am, In Fact, As Stupid As I Look


I’d reached the point where I was simply praying that my middle son was going to find a particularly nice young man to room with in college – the kind who didn’t mind occasionally changing my son’s diapers.

I figured that there were plenty of people in the world who liked to poop into diapers (after watching Hoarders, I now know that there are plenty of people who like to poo into bags AND THEN SAVE IT. Best of all? YOU KNOW IT TOO, NOW.)(You’re welcome).

I mean, there was that crazy astronaut lady who drove across the country to kill her lover’s wife or something WHILE WEARING ADULT DIAPERS. Clearly, there’s a market for that stuff. And clearly, my kid was going to join into that market.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t a good example. Hoarders + Crazy Astronaut Lady don’t = great sampling size.

Either way, I’d resigned myself to it. It was that, or pull my hair out one by ever-loving one until I had a bald spot the shape of Alaska on my previously hair-covered scalp.

So yesterday, still sick as a motherfucker, I tried again with the potty training. As my son admired the tiny Lego Hogwarts that The Guy on my Couch (who firmly believes he will no longer be known as The Guy On My Couch once he does not, in fact, live on my couch) had lovingly put together, Alex asked to play with it.

As The Guy On My Couch tried to pick up his jaw from the floor (one does not, it appears, play with The Guy On The Couches Lego sets), where it was handily collecting cat hair, I seized the opportunity:

“I will buy you that set AND have Big Ben put it together with you, Alex.”

His eyes opened as wide as saucers as he looked at me. He’s too young to know that statements like that are always followed by a rather unpleasant, “if…”

“…if,” I continued, “you go poop in the potty.”

“No.” There was no room for argument. Guess that wasn’t the currency the kid wanted to dabble in.

“Okay, if you poop in the potty,” he giggled as I continued. The word “poop” is always cause for much ruckus and merry making in my house. “I will take you to Chuck E Cheese TODAY.”

I’d been promising them a trip there as AMELIA had already dropped her deuce in the shitter – but I was going to hold off until whatever bug is currently eating away at my soul decided that my feeble immune system was actually going to kill it. Going to a Chuck E Cheese on a Sunday is worse than waxing the cat or picking out stray pubes one at a time with a pair of tweezers.

His siblings, also in the room with me, chimed in, all pressing the kid to take a shit on the crapper. After a couple minutes, an overwrought Alex protested so loudly that we all stopped and then went about our day (read: tried to stave off a headache, while the banshees chased each other about). My eldest, Ben, continued pressing his brother.

Twenty minutes later, Alex was actually perched atop the porcelain throne and five minutes later, he dropped his first deuce.

The whole house erupted into cheers as the small ones scurried to find pants to wear to Mouse Hell, Where A Parent Is Reminded To Take Her Birth Control, to eat Mouse pizza.

Ears still ringing from the sounds of Mouse Hell, I looked at Dave sheepishly, as we pulled into the toy store after our hour in Mouse Hell (happily, I noted, firearms are not allowed there), and shrugged. I had promised the kid a zillion hundred dollar Lego kit.

“I never thought he’d do it,” I said.

“Me either,” The Daver replied.

And that is how Your Aunt Becky learned to never, ever bribe a kid – no matter how unlikely it is that aforementioned child will actually perform a feat.

Turns out, I am as stupid as I look.

How was YOUR weekend, Pranksters?

(I have to apologize – I’d been planning to start writing my Go Ask Aunt Becky column again – I have plenty of questions, but I was beyond sick on Saturday)

(insert joke about unleavened bread)


Now you’re probably not going to believe me, Pranksters, when I tell you that I occasionally bake. You’ve seen what happens when I try to cook (see also here and here) and we all know that while I’d like to PRETEND that what happened in those blog posts were just for show, they weren’t. Sadly.

But once or twice a year, I forget that I can ruin Jello and decide to bake something. This year, it was my mom’s famous Christmas bread.

Round about September, I got all, “IMMA MAKE HOMEMADE BREAD, BITCHES.”

Stop laughing.

I mean it.


I carefully mixed up all of the ingredients. I even followed the recipe rather than throwing a bunch of shit into a pan like they do in those cooking shows.

(I learned the hard way that this is not, in fact, how one cooks)

I threw it into a bowl, after I beat the fuck out of it, and waited. I’d started in the mid-afternoon, my cobwebby-memory banks telling me that it took a couple of hours to actually rise. I waited. And waited. I watched some annoying cat videos. I waited some more. I shook my fist in fury at the three toys that randomly come to life and play music whenever the fuck they want, scaring the bejesus outta me.

Still, I waited.

By 6PM, a full five hours after I’d lovingly placed the dough in the bowl? Fuck nothing. It hadn’t moved a millimeter.

By 8PM, I got frustrated enough that I slapped it into a pan and was all, IMMA EAT THIS, YOU’RE GONNA EAT THIS, WE’RE ALL GONNA EAT THIS.

By 8:30, I admitted defeat. I pulled the bread from the oven, dumped it onto a baking rack and realized it could easily double as a brick (to throw through a window) or a paperweight (if people actually used such things). I tried to eat the thing, because I’m stubborn, but it was…it was not good.

A few weeks later, determined that it was, in fact, the YEAST that had fucked mah bread up, once again, I gathered up my ingredients, threw them together and practically sat there, trying to watch the bread rise.

It was like one of those optical illusions – if I looked at it with THAT eye, I could ALMOST see that the bread had moved. ALMOST.

After 8 hours (bonus points for being both stupid AND patient), I sadly accepted my fate: I would not be able to make this bread rise. Angrily I dumped the rock-solid hunks of dough, where, adding insult to injury, they succeeded in knocking over the garbage can.

Last week (or was it the week before), I picked up some frozen loaves of bread. I’m not certain if I was thinking, “Oooo! Bread!” or “Ooooo! Frozen weapon!” but I guess it doesn’t much matter. Same thing, if you ask the Atkins movement.

Yesterday, I dumbly was all, “IMMA MAKE SOME BREAD” because I’m still not on solid food. Fucking tooth socket.

So I pulled the frozen hunk of bread from the freezer and debated using it to kill someone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, tho, I merely threw it into a pan to “let it rise.” Which, after all that time making UN-risen bread, sounded like a conspiracy.

And um.


I’m now strutting around, feeling all accomplished, until I remember that I didn’t actually participate in the actual assembly of the bread.

Which, as I’ve learned the hard way, is how it should be.


So, Pranksters, tell me something. Anything. I’m in the mood for some stories.

When You’re Glad You’re Not Aunt Becky, Part Eleventy-Five


Aunt Becky: “Oooooh, I should make KEY LIME BARS tonight. It’s only 8:30 and House, MD is delayed and OOOOOO TASTY.”

Aunt Becky (wanders to the pantry): “OH I HAVE RICE TOO.”

Aunt Becky: “Who the fuck eats rice around here?”

Aunt Becky (pours Key Lime crust into pan and throws it into the preheated oven for 8 minutes): “I should take some Vitamin V to properly enjoy The House Experience.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m not sure how I like the new storyline. I think there should be more singing cats.”


Aunt Becky: “I am the celery pundit!”

Aunt Becky: “That’s PROBABLY the crowning achievement of my life. How pathetic.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to doodle ‘Aunt Becky Rules’ on the fridge. Certainly they ALL need a reminder. Perhaps THEN I can get my fake monkey butler Mr. Pinchey!”

Aunt Becky: “Celery is fucking bullshit.”

Aunt Becky (wanders outside to check on roses): “Full moon. Explains a lot. I should give the full moon a FULL MOON.”

(gives full moon a full moon)

Aunt Becky: “I hope my neighbors saw that.”

Aunt Becky (wanders back inside): “Wonder if House, MD is on. We’re not getting back together until he gets a haircut. Prison mullet looks like, well, Prison Mullet. Why can’t he be all Michael Scoffield hot?”

Aunt Becky (spies pan sitting back atop stove, timer blaring): “OOOO. SHIT. DID I ACCIDENTALLY NOT THROW THE PAN IN THE OVEN? I’M SUCH A FUCKING DUMBASS, SWEET BABY JESUS.”

Aunt Becky (reaches to grab pan): “I can totally pretend I MEANT to leave that out….OH BLOODY FUCKING HELL HOT FUCK GODDAMMIT.”


Moral of the story: when in doubt, use a test subject to handle all potentially hot items. Alternately, an oven mitt. But mostly a test subject.

Aunt Becky Bites The Dust – Or, Why You Should Be Glad You’re Not As Stupid As Me


Me: (returning from my 7-11 pilgrimage wherein I purchased a Double Big Gulp of Diet Coke) “This Gigantic Diet Coke shall continue preserving myself from the inside out.

Me: “I like Britney Spears.”

Me: “Oh, I see the garbage has been taken away, I shall bring these recycling bins inside my garage so that I may fill them with more recycling stuffs.”

Me: “I’m Captain Motherfucking Recycling.”

Me: “I can’t carry three bins at once.”

Me: “I like donuts, too.”

Me: “I’m very lazy and do not wish to make a second trip down my twenty-foot driveway to carry in a bin.”


Me: “I shall use my foot to move the third recycling bin into the garage where I shall fill it with more stuffs.”


Me: “This is a BRILLIANT plan. I shall have to exert no more effort than I have to.”


Me: “I certainly admire these wooden-soled shoes that I am wearing.”

Me: (kick, kick, kick the recycling bin)


Me: (kick, kick, kick, CRACK)



Can’t Blog, Spam’ll Eat Me


I was entirely shocked to find not a single Mountain Folk in Assville, NC, where I spent the weekend. I’d been hoping for some banjos, a dog named Blue, or perhaps, a fuckton of toothless yokels.

I saw none. I was mildly distressed by this.

In fact, Assville, NC, is a HIPPIE town. An EXPENSIVE Hippie Town. Who knew? My parents would have felt right at home.

(I did, however, eventually see a guy playing a banjo)

(that pretty much ruled)

Anyhow, I woke up Sunday morning and checked my email because I cannot possibly function if my email remains unchecked. I mean, what if TODAY is the day that House, MD calls me and begs me to write for his show?

My email was, as per usual, full of stupid sites whose email lists I cannot manage to remove myself from, and a curious thing. I had at least fifty new posts for Band Back Together. That’s, um, out of the ordinary. But, I congratulated myself, perhaps it was all the people I’d just MET. Maybe I had, in fact, strong-armed into writing for us and/or working WITH us.

So I clicked to see what the title of one of the posts was:

“The Many Benefits Related To Obtaining Superior Mortgages.”


I clicked through and saw that all of the fifty new posts were, in fact, spam. Well, that’s not so fancy. Spam users I’m used to. Spam posts? That’s a whole ‘nother ball game.

That put me in a not-so-sparkly mood.

As bloggers, we’re all familiar with spam. I currently have 500 spam comments that are awaiting my glistening eyes to sort through. That’s just from yesterday.

But Band Back Together is different than a personal blog because it’s not just my ass blathering away at you. See, everyone who posts must first create their own account – email, username, password – so really, it’s their blog too. Same goes for Mushroom Printing.

Spam users: I expect. Spam posts? Not so much. But these posts just kept rolling in. I deleted over a hundred and thirty of them before installing a simple capcha for anyone registering. (It’s a math problem, not those stupid letters, because those letters are BULLSHIT.)

I was Furious George until I came across this gem in my inbox:


And then I felt my life was, in a word, complete.

Perhaps I should publish it. I’d bet that would help MORE than a few people.


I wrote this about Special Needs Parenting, over at Cafe Mom. You should read it.


What are you feeling ranty about, Pranksters?

(you can publish any snarky rants over at Mushroom Printing, too)



Last year – or perhaps it was two years ago – I decided that my house looked like a serial killer lived here. Not just a serial killer’s GIRLFRIEND (I heart you, Dexter), but a reclusive serial killer who probably chopped up hookers to make light fixtures out of their boobs.

The overgrown shrubbery had practically obscured all the windows in the front and I intended to remove them. All 958 of them.

I’d bought myself a pickax and a number of loppers capable of removing my fingers with a quick motion and set to work. I did manage to remove a few of the bushes myself before I paid the neighbor kid to remove the rest. When I’d started the process, see, I hadn’t expected that the early landscapers would plant so many fucking bushes atop each other.

But they did. Thanks, old landscapers.

After my neighbor was off spending the check I wrote him on a new iPod, I surveyed my lawn. Clearly something had to go in the gigantic trench the bushes had left behind. But…what? I’m no arborist or botanist and frankly, by that point, I’d rather have gouged out my eyeball with my pickax than replant some.

I made mention of this requirement to The Daver.

Me: “It looks like we’ve dug a foxhole in our front yard.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “Like any moment, World War II vets are going to pour into the holes and start shooting at the neighbor’s dogs.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “Or maybe a moat.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “But it can’t be a moat without a fire-breathing dragon and some cannons. Can we get a fire-breathing dragon?”

The Daver (not even looking up from his work): “Nope.”

Me: “Well, I need to replant some shit in there.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “Maybe some of those plants that eat people.”

The Daver: “Nope.”

Me: “Okay, then what?”

The Daver: “That’s your job to figure out.”

Me: “I hate planning.”

The Daver (now looking up, exasperated): “You need to sit down, figure out what will grow in there, the supplies you’ll need to install them, the places you can purchase these plants, and how long it will take you to put them in. I want an itemized list.”

Me: “Hrms. Maybe I can put the old, dead bushes back.”

The Daver: “Nope.”

Me (flicking off the back of his head): “Bite me.”

Asking me for an itemized list, cross-indexed and color-coded is a lot like asking me to turn into a bullfrog. Much as you might like it, it just ain’t gonna happen.

So my foxhole sat through the winter, sadly unoccupied by any roving WWII vets or fire-breathing dragons.

This spring, rather than broach the subject again, I simply went to Lowe’s and bought a bunch of flowering shrubs, giggling because the term “flowering shrub” sounds like a wicked STD.

Feeling particularly eye of the motherfucking tiger, I planted them a couple of weeks ago. And when I did, I realized there was a conspiracy afoot.

I needed to buy dirt.

Let me say that again: I needed to buy DIRT. Somehow the shit manages to find it’s way into my carpets and all over my children, and yet, I had to go spend real dollar bills on DIRT. In fact, I needed to purchase a substantial amount of dirt. Clearly, this was The Man keeping us (me) down.

It was also bullshit.

I haven’t exactly BOUGHT the dirt yet, which means I now have what appears to be a foxhole with shrubs growing out of it. I suppose the roving WWII vets will be pleased that their foxhole has been decorated with some fancy new shrubs.

Even with the occasional rain of bullets from down below, I’m certain my neighbors are thrilled that it no longer looks like a serial killer resides here.



Who wants to come over and fill in my foxhole for with me?

The Un-Pampered Chef


I was shocked by how much space my new house had. We’d gone from cramming ourselves into a wee three-bedroom condo without storage space to a house that had three floors and so much storage space that it seemed obscene.

It was beyond startling when, the weekend that we moved in, my new neighbors began showing up at my doorstep with plates brownies and cookies and treats to introduce themselves and to meet us. Our condo building was filled with incredibly unpleasant older, single cat ladies who didn’t like us. They’d have been more apt to leave a bag of poo on our doorstep than a plate of cookies.

With the exception of the people we shared a porch with, there was no one in the building who didn’t hate us. I still don’t know why.

We’d just happened to move into Pleasantville, which is what I STILL call my neighborhood. House after prefab house filled with pleasant, kind people. On Halloween, there’s a house that hands out hot chocolate and hot toddy’s. Another grills hotdogs and passes out beer and soda. If I had a binder, I’d write, “Aunt Becky + Her Neighborhood = Tru Luv” in loopy letters, surrounded by a bunch of pink, puffy hearts.

(sorta like I do with my Pranksters. You all have pink puffy hearts around you)

So when my neighbor, my son’s friend’s mother, invited me over for a “Pampered Chef” party, I was thrilled. Well, thrilled might not be the proper word. I was thrilled to be invited, but I liked cooking about as much as I liked grinding a lightbulb into my eye socket.

But I marched on over there for the party and sat down with a number of older women I didn’t know. Everyone was, of course, way friendly, but the person who was demonstrating the products began to blab. And she kept blabbing.

OMFG she kept on blabbing. I’d never SEEN someone talk so much. (as someone who routinely “talks paint off walls, THAT’S saying a LOT).

It was like one of those cooking shows I never watch because I cannot stand the blabbing. I mean, I love a good meal, but I’d rather cut my leg off than prepare it, or worse, watch someone who isn’t going to GIVE me the meal prepare it.

In the middle of her blabbing, I decided that I, too, could cook. And that I, too, needed THOSE SPECIFIC TOOLS to cook with. Certainly it wasn’t MY problem I couldn’t cook. It was because I didn’t have the Pampered Chef chopper-thingy! Or the cutting board! Or the grill thingy!

I blew a hundred bucks that night on crap so I, too, could be a COOKER-PERSON.

It took a week or so before my order came in. Immediately, I opened my miracle chopper thingy and put it together. I had fajitas I was gonna make! This was a WIN! Plus, my stuff looked so FANCY in the empty cabinets!

Only…the chopper thing didn’t really, well, WORK. The blades were always falling off, which meant that someone as dumb as me was tasked with slipping the blades BACK IN TO their rightful place. Without losing part of my thumb. It took me half an hour to cut up a green pepper, not including the time spent washing the stupid thing out. Had I used a knife, it would have taken less than five minutes.

That Chopper-Thing Was BULLSHIT.

The tiny spatula I’d bought, well, the handle fell off after a couple of months. The cutting board was fine, but nothing I couldn’t have bought anywhere else more cheaply.

I was a little discouraged, knowing I’d never become a Cooker-Person, but I cheered up when I realized that this meant I could eat more McDonald’s.

Those golden arches, they NEVER disappoint me.


Tell me, Pranksters, what do you think of those in-home parties like Pampered Chef or Tupperware? Love ’em? Hate ’em? I need a good laugh today.

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