These pictures are the epitome of win.

Look closely, Pranksters. Look very closely at this Facebook Ad.

You too, can be a member of the intense, elite CIA!

Then, you too can pose triumphantly with a squirrel carcass.

There is nothing not AMAZING about this picture. I’m going to frame it.

Then, while trying hard not to delete my own Facebook Profile (I was creating one for Band Back Together)(I don’t know why either), I came across this beauty, which makes me really happy, and will probably ensure that I never, ever, ever, delete my Facebook profile, ever.

Now, I’m a born and raised Chicagoan, and I’ve never, ever considered putting a tiny pig in red galoshes as “something to put on my Chicago Bucket List.” Become a mob boss? Yes. Become a Mafia Princess? Yes. We teethe on deep-dish pizza and are well-accustomed to corrupt politics and locals never go to Taste of Chicago.

I might have even once had a love-affair with Rod Blago’s magnificently luscious hair (this was also probably my favorite post):

But to dress a wee pig in tiny boots? I don’t think I know any Chicagoan who wants to do that. That sounds like something a Wisconsinite would do.

This morning, as I was getting my blueberry-flavored coffee and Junior Mints at the Sleven down the street (Breakfast of Champions, I told the guy behind me who snickered wildly at my selections), I noticed something so awe-inspiring that I simply had to take a picture for you.

Do you see that, Pranksters? PURPLE IS A FUCKING FLAVOR NOW. I have been petitioning for “purple” to be made a flavor for YEARS.

Don’t believe me? LOOK

And now, Pranksters, it is. Purple is FINALLY a flavor.

Um. UM. UMMMMM.

This exists. I don’t know why.

Next time, I’m TOTALLY buying it and leaving it out around the house so when people come over, they’ll see it and be SUPER uncomfortable when they see it. Like, “woah, does Becky USE this stuff? If so, WHY?”

I love making people uncomfortable.

Last, but certainly not least, is an email I got awhile ago from someone I do not know.

I think she’s in love with me.

In my secret fantasies, not the ones involving being able to pull off blond hair (I have black hair)(black hair does not translate into a blond well)(and by “well” I mean that I looked like Bozo the Clown), I somehow manage to run away from my life, move to California and…do…something.

Maybe I’ll sell oranges by the freeway, a la Sublime’s My Ruca. Or I’ll actually start a hippie jam band, without the anthrax laden drums, though, because there’s nothing like fucking ANTHRAX to harsh your motherfucking BUZZ, man. I could even start to surf and live on the beach or something, even though walking is a challenge for me and surfing would certainly find me breaking something vital to my survival.

Whatever.

California has always been able to bring out the part of me that makes me simultaneously want to sell everything I own so that I can live off the land (while hoping that I had some natural talent for…something earthly, especially considering I consider “roughing it” staying at a hotel without room service) and strike it rich by being the Next Big Thing.

New York, conversely, made me feel like I had come home for the very first time when I visited. Even the sight of garbage bags all over the place didn’t stop me from swooning. New York, ah, New York.

But really, for now, I’m a Midwesterner. Land of, uh, The Tater Tot and The Mullet (all business up front and PARTY down the motherfucking back!) and all sorts of other middling things. It’s flat and it’s either a) ass hot or b) ass cold and there’s not a whole lot to say about it besides that.

I’ve lived in Chicago my whole life, which means I’m thoroughly enchanted by anywhere else. And I do mean anywhere. Drop me in the middle of the slums and I’d be all “dude, I bet I can get a kick ass wig! Or some awesome BBQ! Oh, please, take me to get a weave!”

We’re leaving for the airport in 15 minutes, and really, while I’m happy to leave 75 degree weather to slither back to the subzero-freeze-your-nipples-off-arctic, I’m not really. I only managed to see a fraction of my LA friends and I didn’t see a single transsexual prostitute. NOT ONE. EVEN AT THE BABY SHOWER.

But, I get to go home and see my children, who are going to be, no doubt, furious that I dared leave them.

I’m off to style my hair to make sure the paparazzi get my Good Side on my return trip home, and try and snag an In-n-Out Burger because really, who doesn’t want to have to poo buckets in the tiny airport bathroom.

Until we meet again, The Internet, bon voyage.

Oh, and I leave you with one question because I am curious: if you could ditch your life and start over, what would you do?

I figure that while most of the world will be off barbecuing delicious encased meats and getting sloppy on cheap beer, my spam bots will be bored and lonesome. So for you, my spam bot friends, I provide this gratuitous Mimi shot.

She always looks horrified by life when I get the camera out. Maybe I smell bad.

Then there’s this that Alex picked out in our not-so-subtle-you-need-to-think-about-getting-out-of-diapers way.

So far, all we’ve managed to do is to scare the hell out of him.

(any good potty training wisdom out there?)

All that I DO know is that I really think that I need to install something that cheers for me after I take a crap. That would be AWESOME.

Mimi says (and I quote), “Peace out, my bitches.”

I don’t know where the fuck she learned to swear like that.

First, let me say this: I’ve swollen up to sexy Michelin Man proportions (only sans “Man” bits) and am having a terrible time making my fingers properly work. My doctor seems to think this is No Big Deal, as my pressures have been decent, and I did end up swelling badly with Ben (read: I looked like a sausage bursting from it’s casing) but that was August. And this…is January. So, in the mean time, I’m watching my pressures and having a terrible time using my computer. But I heart My Internet so I will soldier on.

(cue Celin Dione music, Maestro) Somehow, my fingers will go on…

And Coco, you sexy bitch, you won my impromptu contest about passive aggression. No one can top faking a death. NO ONE. So let me use my 3 remaining brain cells to come up with something fitting to send you.

Moving on.

So, after Daver and I were dating for awhile, his lease was up on his place in the city and he moved to Oak Park, where I lived with him a couple days each week. When I was in nursing school, I had to do clinical time in the hospitals learning the ropes on Actual! Live! People. I’ll give you a moment to digest how scary that sounds for all those patients I cared for.

Better? Good.

But having chosen a school that operated about 45 minutes from my house meant that the hospitals that agreed to have us lowly students work on their patients (for free) were similarly far from my house. And not being exactly an Angel of the Morning, Dave graciously offered to let me stay with him on the nights before the clinicals so that I wouldn’t have to interrupt my beauty sleep in order to get to the hospital at ungodly hours (read: 6 AM).

Plus, we could bone. Which is always good.

One night that winter, we walked down to the downtown part of Oak Park to catch some dinner at the Indian place there and afterwards (since Ben was not with us) we popped over to the huge Borders there to browse. It was a favorite thing to do, going in there, grabbing a cup of coffee and listening to some of the CD’s they had out on display, and it’s something that a child and a half later, I miss doing.

But I digress.

So there I was, several aisles away from where Daver stood listening to his whiny Emo crap while I rocked out to the subtle sounds of the new Christina Aguilera album when I realized that I was not alone in my aisle. Being Oak Park, with it’s bazillion (read: 52,524) people meant sharing a ton of space with said people, so this didn’t even register on my radar besides noting the gigantic dent in this dude’s forehead.

After finishing that CD, I made my way to another aisle to listen to something different and after a few moments I noticed again that Mr. Dent In His Forehead was in my new aisle. Odd, but not entirely unlikely. I didn’t own the patent on the space between aisles, so whatever. About a half an hour after this, I saw that he was still in my aisle as I made my way to yet another aisle. This time, the one with my future The Daver in it.

I went up to him and teased him briefly about whatever he was listening to, he teased me back and we began to discuss what our next plans involved. Mainly, bed. Now, I noticed that Dent Face was not only in THIS aisle with us, but watching me intently. I tested my This Guy Is Following Me theory out by walking to different aisles, and I was now right: he was following me from aisle to aisle, not being even remotely discreet about it.

Now, as full of myself as I tend to be, I’d normally write this off to my glaring hotness, but there was something in the way that he looked at me that made me acutely uncomfortable. Kind of like he was imagining what my brain might look like smeared on the walls of his apartment.

I feel that I must add that I’m not an alarmist by even the remotest standards. I don’t have pepper spray, I rarely lock the doors to my cars and I don’t see Aspiring Murder/Rapist on every passing person. My parents were/are hippies and always taught us not to be afraid of people. Which I’m not.

Except for This Dude. Who had not only begun to make me sweat in my jacket, but fear for my life. Daver, God love him, isn’t a huge and imposing guy and this dude looked like he would have happily snapped his neck to get at me. I’ll never know why I reacted this way to seeing this guy, but I did. And I panicked.

What the hell is someone who is in a retail place only being stared at by some creepy guy supposed to do? Call the police? Tell a Border’s employee? What the hell are they gonna do about it? He was LOOKING at me, not shining a knife and pointing it at me.

And yet, and yet all of my hackles were raised and my flight or fight response began to kick into high gear and I was utterly stuck there. We had a car, mine, parked in the garage behind Borders, but walking there in the dark of night while some creepy dude made “I’m Going To Enjoy Killing You, Bitch” eyes at me? Didn’t sound appealing or bright.

But what choice did we have? None, really.

The entire walk/run back to the garage was torture: I honestly feared for my life, something I’d rarely done before, if ever. We hightailed it out of there, and uncharacteristically I made The Daver drive us home while I shook like a frail leaf in the passenger seat. I cannot honestly believe that I didn’t piss my pants.

It took the rest of the night and a large amount of Jack Daniels for me to calm down and not stare out the windows for Mr. Denty-Pants (although I do admit to doing that a fair bit), whom I thankfully never saw again.

I’ll never know if I was right in being fucking freaked the hell out by this dude, or if I was mainly being a damn pansy about the whole situation, but hell, even 5 years later, the whole situation makes me a little squiggly inside.

I’ve heard that we humans have a sense for this sort of thing, a vestigial DANGER, DANGER sense that will go off when something out of the ordinary is going on and you are in danger of something, but I never knew if it was true until then. I’m still not sure, I guess.

What do you think?

One of my favorite bloggers, Emily R. at Wheels on the Bus, asked me (after I begged for suggestions of things to talk about BESIDES adult diapers. Which, dude, I don’t know WHY you don’t want to hear about that) if I shaped my eyebrows. Well, Emily, the answer should be fairly apparent soon.

Probably about 5 years ago, I learned via some weird familial conversation that I was, indeed, a teeny-weenie part Italian. Now, this didn’t mean that I immediately ran out to buy one of those horn necklaces or some Italian flags to throw over my rearview mirror. Hell, I didn’t even start peppering my everyday conversation with corny Italian phrases. Apparently, being something like 0.005% Italian doesn’t inspire the same amount of (freakish) pride as someone who is 100%.

I’d always wondered where my dark skin and overall swarthiness (dude. Swarthiness is an underused word. I’m completely planning to bring swarthiness back. Fuck sexy.) came from, considering that the way I understood it, I was something like 80% Swedish and the rest Scottish. Neither of which are really known for being as brown as I am.

I also blame my teeny percentage of Italian-ness for the overabundance of body hair peppering my body.

Now, I’m SWARTHY, not a Sasquatch, so don’t get too ahead of yourself while thinking of my ultimate hotness. I’m also (now) incredibly good with a bottle of Nair and a pair of tweezers, so it might not be as evident if you were to see me on the street (or, perhaps, at BlogHer).

When I was pregnant with Ben, I wasn’t so much concerned with my body hair. There was something about all of the turmoil and unrest of the whole situation that didn’t leave me running for the tweezers, and for the first time in many years, I let my eyebrows–and other *ahem* parts of my body–go au naturale. (that’s “natural” for my non-French speaking readers. I know, I know, I’m so Continental!).

Besides, through a steady diet of Chinese food and Steak -n- Shake, I had turned into quite the oompa loompa, gaining approximately 70 pounds (I stopped looking at the scale at the doctor’s office) on my 5’5″ frame. I just knew I would be breastfeeding all of those pesky pounds away, so I figured when I did that–likely within the first month or so–I’d wax the hell out of myself, and BAM! just like that, I’d be a butterfly emerging from my cocoon of fat and hair!

Go ahead and get your laughter out now. Come on, let it out. I’ll wait.

Done? Good.

So yeah. Breast-feeding didn’t exactly work for Ben and I, and he was born with his days and his nights mixed up, and he screamed pretty much 90% of the time he was awake. Needless to say, I didn’t exactly lose that 70 pounds within that first month, nor was I coherent enough to even THINK about going to the salon.

My ever-loving brother, Aaron, came over one weekend with his new girlfriend (now my sister-in-law) to visit my young son, and in the lull between oogling my baby, he looked over at me, sitting there on the couch with toothpicks keeping my eyeballs from slamming shut and began to smirk mightily.

“Stumpy*,” he began to laugh. “What the HELL is going on with your eyebrows?”

Sleep deprivation, after many weeks, makes one incredibly stupid, so I just looked wearily at him, trying to make sense of what he meant by “eyebrows.”

“THEY LOOK LIKE CATERPILLARS SITTING ON THE TOP OF YOUR EYES!” He was in hysterics now, laughing so hard that he began to tear up. He then marched into the bathroom on that floor and grabbed me a pair of tweezers, all the while laughing his ass off.

Still not quite sure what he meant, as I hadn’t even looked in a mirror that day yet, I went into the bathroom and turned on the light. What I saw both shocked and horrified me: apparently, without proper maintenance, the upper half of my face turned into that of Groucho Marx. What worked for Brooke Shields did NOT work for me. Not by a long shot.

And, dammit, he was right. They looked like big, black caterpillars waggling on the top of my eyes.

Which meant that something needed to be done. Now.

I quickly secured a babysitter and practically levitated to the scary nail salon down the street, where approximately 4 pounds of eyebrow hair was removed in a haze of waxy glory. It may have hurt quite a bit, but I honestly don’t remember that. I only remember how much lighter and blissfully freer my forehead felt after that.

Had I known just how stupid I’d look without proper maintenance, unrest or not, I’d have found some time for some personal grooming in there, even if I did closely resemble the Michelin Man. At least my eyebrows would look fantastic.

So spill: what’s one of the dumber things you’ve done in the name (or not) of beauty?

*Stumpy is my nickname. Given to me by my brother, who was amazed that I was so short. Lest you think he’s some kind of giant, let me assure you that he is shorter than my father. Who is 6 feet tall.

Time to dust one off from the vaults. Too busy sitting on my ass and pretending to be important. What? I’M VERY IMPORTANT, YOU SEE.

Now you may have heard people whine about it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘œHollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels that go up to your chin. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating (whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).

Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘œBaby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.

This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.

I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on (in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course. I happen to look quite like a hippo these days) and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?

The waist fit.

The hips fit.

The calves fit.

Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?

Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.

What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.

So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them. Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go.

So tell me, fair reader, what’s the biggest fashionable thing that you abhor? What makes you want to gouge out your eyeballs when you see it on someone else or yourself?

*I’m thinking that it was a Very Bad Idea to have taught my children to call Anthony Bourdain “dad” when he comes onto the television. The therapy bills are making a nice “ching-ching” noise as they add up in my head.

*I don’t know why I cannot believe that something would go well for me. Although I’m not cutting my arms or ringing my eyes with black eyeliner, I feel much more pessimistic than usual. Is it a defense mechanism or am I a Debbie Downer?

*I find it nearly impossible to blog about going through bad times, yet I have no problem talking about the state of my unshaved bush. You know, the REALLY important stuff.

*In a stunning change, for the first time in well, forever, my hair is at it’s natural color. I got tired of the highlights, because on we black-haired ladies, it looks kinda funny. At least on me. My skin is dark and the blondness makes me look, well, green.

And you know what? I HATE it this dark black. I feel Goth.

*I think that the world would be a better place if everyone at some variation of the cheeseburger. This makes it doubly upsetting to learn that I cannot eat one right now, as they taste bad.

*The worst part about getting an US at my doctor’s office is that they don’t allow anyone to go back with you until they’ve done all they need to do. I find this incredibly stressful. Plus the US techs there tend to be pinheads.

Your turn, sweet reader. Your turn at randomness.

So, I got tagged twice for this meme that I’ve done already, and although I could just rip out my old answers and be done with it, that would be extremely boring to us all. My answers are not exciting at all. Hell, I’m not exciting at all.

I’m gonna mix things up on y’all.

1. What wasn’t I doing 10 years ago?

10 years ago, I wasn’t giving the slightest thought to my future. I was 17, graduating high school, and enjoying a life of partying and living one toke over the line. I openly mocked all the goody-goodies who painfully mapped out the rest of their lives, because at 17, who the fcuk REALLY knows about the rest of their lives?

If you say that you’re doing exactly what you said you were going to do back then, at age 17, I will personally eat my own foot. (That’s a lie. No I won’t.)

2. Five things on my to do list for today. No. Too boring. Hmm…Five Things On My Shit List Today:

1) People who complain bitterly about, well, everything without seeing any good in anything. It’s almost always a matter of perspective.

2) People who insist on parking their lazy fat butts in their cars in front of the store entrance. You know, they make their own spots there? BECAUSE THEY’RE LAZY.

3) The merry family of paper wasps who inhabits my porch every summer, no matter how much insecticide I coat them with.

4) People who are always better than you with whatever you do. No, not people who ARE better, people who ARE SURE that they’re better than you. And never stop telling you how.

5) Going to the post office. I’m so incredibly terrified of Post Office People that I kind of want to barf.

3. Snacks (and food) I fucking hate:

Celery
Yogurt
Pork
Black Olives.
Hot Pockets
Orange Juice

4. Things I wouldn’t do if I was a billionaire.

Shit, I wouldn’t give a dime to charity. I’d save it all for myself, cash it into small coins, build a giant vault and go for an afternoon swim each day in my money. Kind of like Scrooge McDuck. Except you can call me “Hooty McBoob.”

5. Places I have lived Dull. Hm. People I Hate

Flava-Flav. Do I need to explain how he makes my skin crawl? HOW do people have The Sex with him?

Wendy The Snapple Lady. Okay, so I don’t hate her. But I do hate Snapple. Bitterly. And she used to represent Snapple. Therefore…

Whomever wrote “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing.” I’d like to shove my fist up their ass.

Evan Rachael Wood. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA. But she ruined “Across The Universe” for me.

Mr (or Mrs) I Stand Too Close To You While I’m Checking Out At The Store. Because, really? Am I the reason the line is not advancing? Unless I am having a fit (it’s possible), no. So BACK OFF BITCH.

——————-

Your turn!

So, yeah. Yeah. Rules. Yeah.

Now, I’m not much of a dog person. Really, I’m not. We have Cash, the dog equivalent of a house plant whom I love dearly. But we both know that he’s The Daver’s dog, and we’re okay with this.

And if I’m not a dog person, I’m REALLY not a puppy person. Sure, they’re cute and all, but so are puffer fish, and we both know what can happen when you tangle with one of those. Honestly, neither is The Daver; we both like established dogs whose personality is able to be determined upon meeting them. But Cash is a really territorial house plant, so getting another dog was out of the question.

But we found this puppy. This teeny-tiny puppy who looked like a mini-fox. And rather than walk away from him like we should have, we instead chose to hold him. It was then that this dog turned the cute to 11 and we were hooked.

We vacillated wildly as we always do in these situations, knowing that all we’re really doing is posturing for comedic effect. The dog was as good as ours when he first nuzzled into Dave’s neck. The puppy knew it, I knew it, The Daver especially knew it.

Sure, we TRIED to put him back into the cage, but it wasn’t gonna happen.

So we now own the world’s cutest puppy.

Problem is, he needs a name. And I suck at coming up with names. I just suck (one might argue I suck at many, many things) at this. Between the two kids with 15 names each, the foster animals, and my regular animals, I’m tapped out. I especially suck because I insist that the names be something either clever or ironic. Not an easy combination.

So far I’ve come up with

a) Little Guy

b) Vincent D’Onofrio

c) Gary Indiana

I’m not a cutesy name dog person, nor am I intending to become one. Mr. Jubbles, Foxy, Bear-Bear, or Sweetie are not okay for me.

Any ideas? It’s a dude and it’s a Shiba Inu mix.

Here he is!

And I hope that everyone had a great Mother’s Day. Or at the very least, that it wasn’t too brutal.

With the help of The Daver, I have now learned just how easy it is to put pictures up. It’s shamefully simple, and now I am ashamed of my ineptitude at all things electronic.

And I learned it all for YOU, Internet. Just for you. That’s how much your Aunt Becky loves you.

I present to you, without further Becky-Babble: Alex eats an Oreo:

(Does he look female to you? I don’t so much think so, but every single time, and I mean every single time, that we go out, someone always comments on what a (insert applicable adjective here) little girl we have. Doesn’t matter if he’s dressed head to toe in blue, people seem to think he looks feminine. Poor kid’s gonna get a complex. Especially when he learns that I put him in dresses as a baby (no, Daver, don’t worry, I don’t. Much.).)

And here is my hair, sadly without the frumptastical before picture:

But, dear Internet, you have no idea the beast that has been unleashed by my learning how to put pictures up here, no idea at all. Entries will now be peppered with gratuitous shots of such interesting slices ‘o’ life as “Wow, Lookit How Full of Crap Our Garage Is,” “Becky Eats Lunch (With Bonus Silverware!)” and “How Can Three Cats Excrete THAT Much Excrement?”

Ah, I take that all back, have no actual fear, I’m much too lazy to do that.

Mostly.

(cue evil laughter)