So instead of being a good mother and writing some heartfelt post about how my kid started school today (he did) and I cannot believe I have a fourth grader (I totally can) and how fast summer went (it dragged like a cats’ ass), I’d much rather discuss something more interesting. Tattoos.

Specifically, the one I am going to get worked on today.

Back in January, I was all, IMMA GET A NEW TATTOO! on Twitter, and I decided that I had to do it now, RIGHT now, because I lack impulse control. I was fortunate to be referred to someone whose work I loved, who is like world famous and shit, and she got me in because someone canceled, which is kinda like kismet and stuff.

This is what I wanted, a phoenix tattoo:

And after my first appointment, I came back with this:

Then, I went back in February to get this done:

THEN, in April I went back to get the color filled in:

Awesome, no? (if’n you like tattoos, I suppose)

Today, though, I’m going back for touch-ups and, like I said before, because I don’t plan ahead very well, I’ve finally decided what I wanted to do. First I was gonna be all, “IMMA MAKE THAT PHOENIX RISE FROM SOMETHING!” because people are always like, “Nice Peacock,” and I’m all, “Imma shoot you.”

And I probably will, some day.

But today, I want to put something THERE, where the nifty arrow is pointing. Last night, because I am brilliant, I asked Twitter. Twitter said that I should put in that space:

1) a meatball

2) RIP Tupac

3) Bacon

4) a giraffe

5) OJ Simpson’s Face

Twitter is an asshole.

I’m adding something into that space because eventually I want half of my back done. My mother, she will shit a brick (she hates tattoos), but I’ve always wanted something part of the way down my arm. Not, like, SLEEVE style, because I am a chicken shit, but something that goes along with the Phoenix.

So, Pranksters, what would YOU put there?

It’s probably not a good idea to fly with me. If, for some reason, you want to go on vacation with me (you don’t), it’s best to meet me somewhere, because flying with me is sort of like being in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Minus, of course, the Family Truckster. And THAT’S only because planes don’t have wood paneling. Mostly.

Bright and blurry, Thursday morning I stood in the Special Line at the TSA Screening just waiting to see what the morning would bring. A strip search? A trip to the back room? Would I be able to board this flight? I simply wasn’t sure, but was anxious to find out. Big Girl was HUNGRY and ready to move on with her day.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long: my Barbie Pink bag was immediately singled out for Extra Searching, which was the least of my concerns, since, you know, I’d stopped packing my shotguns and napalm.

Turns out my BUSINESS CARDS, which I’d brought for no other reason than to explain that I was an Executive in AWESOMENESS, looked suspicious, and needed to be further investigated.

(shout out to my designer, who is amazing, reasonable and BRILLIANT: Robin, at Oppositional Design. You need her. I promise. I can also give you a recommendation for a printer if you need one, too. My cards are incredible. Mostly because I didn’t design them. Or they would suck balls.)

Anyway.

Got to NYC, and the hotel, of course, wasn’t ready. But when I finally got to my floor, it was the Suites Floor, where a shoe company was doing an expo. Which, hi, AWESOME, except that apparently a Sample Size for shoes is a size 6, which I am not. Apparently my size 8.5 makes me Bozo the freaking Clown in feet terms, so me and my boatish clown feet shuffled our canoe-like feet to our room.

Which was right across the hall from this:

Restricted Shoes.

What. The. Hell. Are. Restricted. Shoes?

I looked inside, because obviously, and I’m telling you, Pranksters, the shoes looked not like they were made of platinum and diamonds and nebulous black holes, but like…regular shoes.

I was so disappointed to realize that “Restricted Shoes” were also “Boring Shoes.”

I’d kind of hoped they were the shoes that ate your feet or gave you terrible rashes or were made out of the skin of dead saints or by extinct dodo bird feathers, but these shoes just looked…normal.

Talk about mislabeling AND misleading me. I considered suing them for misrepresentation until I realized that the shoe people were leaving that night.

My heart was sad. So were my gigantic boat feet.

I couldn’t believe I could even WALK in feet that big, now that I knew there were people out there walking around with a dainty size 6 foot. Then I wondered if they had toes. They couldn’t possibly have toes. My hugemongeous hobbit feet and I comforted ourselves knowing that the Size 6 people probably had no toes.

For the following (counts on fingers) bunch of hours, my super-sized feet and I got asked what our “plans” were.

Now, if you don’t know Your Aunt Becky, you wouldn’t know that she doesn’t really make plans. I’m more of a broad strokes person. I knew I would be GOING to NYC and going to my panel at 1:15 on Friday and an interview thing on Saturday at 11:00 and beyond that, *shrugs* I was going to see what happened.

What? The Type-A people on the other side of the screen are screaming. How could you not have any other PLANS beyond that?

And no, I didn’t. I never do. I always figure things will work out and I’ll have more fun if I wait and see what happens. There’s always SOMEONE around with the address of the party I’m supposed to attend and if not, well, I’ll do something else. I’m always content to make my own fun.

This, of course, drives my Planner Friends INSANE. Like, skull blowing off, brain matter spewing everywhere, insane. Which makes it all the more fun to be all, “uh, WHAT was I supposed to do next?”

So, when I came across this, at the Diesel Store, I was all, holy balls, Diesel took my motto:

And I laughed, because dude, Being Stupid is so much more fun. You should try it sometime.

Then, on the way back from dinner with my boss from Toy With Me (I love calling her my boss)(P.S. my column from yesterday is up about online dating), I saw what was on the SIDE of the Diesel Store and peed myself. And not just because I was drunk.

You’ll have to forgive the quality, but the iPhone 4 doesn’t take amazing night shots. It says:

Smart Has The Plans, Stupid Has The Stories.

You know what, Pranksters? I’ll take the stories any day. My ginormous feet and I will happily tread all over town like the village idiots that we are, plan-less and happy, making stories–and children cry–wherever we go.

Because if you’re stupid, you’ll never wish you were anywhere else.

Except not on a plane with me. Obviously.

Flying, for me, is never an easy feat. Not, you know, because I need to be medicated within an inch of my life to get on a plane or anything. I actually like to fly and am not a particularly nervous flier despite the whole nearly dying on the way back from LA thing that happened back in January.

(I submit that if I am to die on a motherfucking plane, there better be some motherfucking snakes, just because, you know, well, obviously)

But when I get on a plane, it’s always something with me.

Mostly, it’s because the world thinks I’m a terrorist or a super-secret-super-spy, which is probably the most laughable thing one could think about me because I can barely hide what I’m thinking, let alone if I were holding the world’s secrets in my bag or something.

(I do not play Poker, obviously, unless it is for pocket change)

This whole “Aunt Becky is a Terrorist” thing started when I was a kid, actually. I started getting pulled aside for extra searches long before 9-11 and the shoe bomber ever made headlines around the world.

When I was a kid, they’d often tear apart my stuffed animals in front of my stricken face to make sure that I wasn’t smuggling…uh…I don’t know what in them. Unsatisfied by the mere stuffing within, they’d move onto my luggage, and rip that apart, too.

Clearly, they never found anything. Your Aunt Becky may cop to many charges: ‘obnoxious,’ ‘painfully annoying,’ highly irritating,’ and ‘devastatingly handsome,’ but ‘terrorist’ and ‘drug smuggler’ are not two of them.

For some reason, every time I go through security, no matter what city I’m in, I’m constantly singled out for pat-downs, occasional strip-searches and the rare back-room interrogation.

My past is about as glamorous as dry toast, and while I have toured Europe (twice) with a traveling orchestra, it was never to any of the countries that might even raise an eyebrow. Even my current name: “Rebecca Sherrick Harks” or my given name “Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick” aren’t exactly inspired to make you think, ‘Wow, that’s a terrorist name!’

In fact, I am primarily Swedish, Scottish, English and Black Irish, if you must know my pedigree. My swarthiness comes from the Black Irish.

And you know, if it had happened a handful of times, I’d have written it off as a coincidence. But it’s happened far too often for that. There’s clearly something in My Permanent Record that says,

“Rebecca Sherrick Harks (a.k.a Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick), VERY bad blogger, likes to hang out in serial killer section of hardware stores, possible person of interest and should ALWAYS be subjected to extra security.”

It took me watching the full two seasons of Life, (boo, NBC, bring that show back!) to realize what my problem was: I do kinda look a little Middle Eastern.

I guess this means that until I remarry someone with a TOTALLY vanilla name (I’m looking at YOU Mr. John Smith), dye my skin and hair, I’ll probably always get a little action with my plane ticket.

Which, I guess, is a bonus.

Remind me not to pack my teddy bear, okay?

——————–

P.S. LOOK ON MY SIDEBAR! See that big button that says, “Aunt Becky Tees?” Yes, Pranksters, you can buy a Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt now. Um, AWESOME.