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Despite the fact that Twix had sent me 70 (70!) candy bars to “make my house the coolest on the block” (which, I have to add, is much cooler than the 3 Wolf Moon decals on my windows)(lie), I decided at 2PM – a mere hour before my children descended upon me – that we must! get! more! candy!

I’m going to blame the ten pounds of candy I went out to buy on my fever – not from more cowbell – but from my mysterious Oregon Trail disease.

(also: anyone want to come over and eat ten pounds of candy?)

By the time we got home, sweaty, feverish and hallucinating, it was nearly time for the crotch parasites to descend upon us in a whirling Halloween snowball of excitement. I realized it was probably in my own best interest to pull out the costumes and get them ready for the kids to whirl into.

So I trundled around the house, sweating on everything as I looked for Alex’s Halloween costume. He decided that he was going to recycle last year’s costume, because obviously.

See also:

The world’s manliest butterfly. Or Flutterbye. Whatever.

I found everything but the shirt, which is a fucking Halloween miracle.

That done, I figured it was time to get the costumes we HAD bought for the other two out of the bag and ready to be thrown on. I grabbed the costumes, as I reached for my camera and noticed that something smelled….funny. Like dank, dark, basement mildewy gross.

I assumed it was probably my Mysterious Oregon Trail Disease and continued trying to figure out how to turn on my DS-LR.

But…what WAS that smell?

After I’d managed to take the lens cap off – a good hour later – I grabbed the costumes from the bags and realized, much to my horror, that there was PEE on on them. CAT PEE.

In an unrelated note: anyone want four cats? They’re VERY well behaved.

Both the small one and the big one had cat whiz on their costumes. Shitballs.

Frantically, we threw them under the sink, trying to get the SMELL out of the costumes before the kids got home and freaked the fuck out. Which, I couldn’t blame them for. I mean, EW.

T-Minus five minutes found us trying to dry off the costumes with a hair dryer, making my kitchen smell delightfully like a tantalizing mixture of frying cat pee and burning plastic. Thankfully, the kids didn’t notice.

The small one – who picked out her OWN costume, thankyouverymuch – this year:

Rocket Grrrrrrl.

And while some parents may want their kids to grow up to become doctors, lawyers, or business executives, I couldn’t be prouder that my son chose one thing – the ONE thing – I’d always wanted him to be.

Like mother:

Like son:

*happy sigh*

If you came to my door last night, you saw this:

And probably died a little inside. I know I did.

I wore a blue shirt and pretended to be The Twitter Fail Whale.

However, I failed. I failed at failing.

My life is at an all time high.

Remember how awesome Oregon Trail was when you were a kid?

I do.

I’d purposefully name my banker and his mess of kids after people I hated and deliberately kill them by being all, “YEAH, FORGE THAT RIVER NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. SEE IF YOU CAN AFTER I’VE OVERLOADED YOUR BAGS.”

Then they’d drown or die of Typhus or something equally glamorous while I rubbed my small hands together, cackling evilly.

What? Don’t tell me you didn’t do it too.

Now I’m old and I bought the Oregon Trail app for my iPhone (it may be the only app besides Cat Paint I actually used) and was still all, “VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE! MINE!” until I realized that the game sucked. Like, I don’t know if it sucked so hard when we were kids but now? It blows ass. No one dies. No one gets mysterious diseases. No one can be easily drown in the river. Especially not computer people you’ve named after people you hate (see also: Starbucks Lady).

I don’t even think there are yaks in that game. And without yaks, what the fuck good IS it?

(answer: a hot pile of bullshit)

I was pretty mopey after I realized how much the game sucked now.

Just like I’m mopey at this particular moment because I woke up sick. Again. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, first let me give you my deepest apologies. Then, I will remind you that every other week I am sick.

You’re probably all, “Yo, AB, stop licking toilets and shit, and you’ll feel better!” and you’d be right. Except that I’ve never licked a toilet NOT EVEN ON A BET (which is saying a lot)(I love a good bet).

It turns out that some of us (read: me) have shitty immune systems. I have since I was a baby. And considering my mother was on Lithium while she got pregnant with me, I think that I got off pretty easy. I mean, that shit is HARDCORE.

Doesn’t make having to explain to people that “yes, in fact, I am sick again. Also: you can call me Typhoid Aunt Becky if you want to. Also also: send presents” any better. Why? Because people are like ‘HOLY FUCKBALLS, ARE YOU EATING POO OR SOMETHING?”

Which. Um. No. Ew.

But it makes me wish I could tell someone I was suffering from malaria or glandular fever or something more glamorous than being like “I Haz A Virus.” Then, at least, I’d have an excuse to feel like I’ve been run over by a truck ON MY FAVORITE FUCKING HOLIDAY. Then, I could mope around the house WITH REASON and moan histrionically because I had a glamorous Oregon Trail Disease.

Instead, I’m just going to ice my eyeballs and see if I can disable the doorbell so I don’t cry each time it rings tonight. Which, since I’m giving out big ass Twix bars (thank YOU, Twix) should be often.

But fuck, I wish I had one of those Oregon Trail Diseases.

Dear Aunt Becky,

So here’s the problem.  I’ve been writing a blog for a few years now. It has a decent following, with regular commenters. My issue is that one of my commenters is going overboard.  In a bad way.  Everything I say, she feels the need to one-up. Her comments are often longer than my posts.  And they are all about her.  It’s as if she’s writing a blog–she’s just using MY blog to do it.

Now, I don’t much care.  I ignore the comments.  Whatever–I’m busy and don’t have a ton of time for junk like this. The problem is that my readers REGULARLY email me and tell me they want to punch her in the face.  That’s a direct quote.  “I want to punch her in the face.”  They want me to call her out on her inappropriate behavior.  I’ve had readers tell me that they feel like they don’t want to read my blog anymore and they don’t want to leave a comment because of this woman.

So. . .what do I do?  I am embarrassed for her.  I feel bad that everyone is talking about her.  And I’m at the point where I’m frustrated that she can’t realize how inappropriate she’s being.  She’s a grown-ass woman, acting like an obnoxious pre-teen.  But I don’t know what to do without offending her.

Waiting for you to weigh in.

Signed,
Embarrassed For Her

Oh Prankster, that woman sounds like a tool. But, it’s the Internet and tools abound (see also: Mommy Wants Vodka).

The answer isn’t that simple, either. You can:

1) Email her privately and politely ask her to stop leaving such comments (I don’t know the context of these comments, so I cannot speak to how obnoxious or inappropriate they are).

Pros: make yourself look like less of an ass.

Cons: she’s bound to take it the wrong way. Why? Because from your question, she sounds like quite a crotch rocket.

2) Publicly oust her on your blog.

Pros: your readers can join in and help drive the point home.

Cons: You look like an asshole and possibly scare off OTHERS who may want to comment on your blog.

3) Let your readers take care of her.

Pros: You don’t have to do anything to look like an ass.

Cons: She may troll your readers.

4) Block her IP address and/or delete comments.

Pros: You don’t have to really DO anything.

Cons: She may not realize what a crotch rocket she is.

What would *I* do? I’d delete the comments. This isn’t to say that I regularly do (although my somewhat overzealous spam filter does), but I’m not a firm believer in anonymous internet dickwads having the right to fling shit all over my blog. Period.

Let us know what you decide.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I work in a typical office setting with people working in cubicals where you can hear everything everyone does: talking on the phone, clipping nails, ovulating, etc.  It’s just part of life and you get through it through by making silently disgusted faces with your office friends after someone hacks up a lung down the hall.  And by drinking.  That’s the background.  

Now we have someone who sits by the lunch room door and is suddenly very disturbed by all the talking and chewing sounds going on in here that he wants the door to be closed at all time, no matter what.  Apparently the hum of the vending machines is irritating the voices in his head.  

Having this door closed is a MAJOR inconvenience since it requires me to exert energy.  Not to mention nearly impossible if my hands are full carrying in my Hungry Man dinners.  Plus I hate him and don’t want to comply.  He has become the Lunch Room Door Hall Monitor and is up and out of his seat to close the door at the slightest level of ajarness.  

I would guess his work productively has taken a nose dive – but who cares about that.  I am a cordial type and begrudgingly close the door, but leave it open if it’s to just to do something quick, like wash an apple and then close it on my way out.  This is tantamount to mutiny and I have an appt with my parole officer next week for this grievance.  

It’s ridunk.  

I never say that, so you know I’m serious.  I’ve actually mentioned that it’s getting out of control to the highest of ups here and assumed they would agree with me.  Nope.  They say we need to keep the door closed.  For this ONE person, where the whole rest of the building could give a rip and hate it.  He’s getting combative and aggressive about his door patrols and I SO BADLY want to NOT close it or SLAM! it, but sadly that would be unbecoming.  

WHAT TO DO?  

(besides submit the idea to The Office).  

Thanks so much.

Well, I need photographic evidence of this guy. Like, I want a video of this guy being The Door Guy.

Then, I’d suggest a slow, subtle drip-drip method of annoyance. In no particular order:

1) Rip ass as you are walking past his cubicle. Every. Single. Time. If you have no extra flatulence, buy the Fart O Matic app from the iPhone store. It’s beyond awesome.

2) Whenever walking past his cube, make sure to make some really obnoxious noise. I’m talking an AAHHHHHHHH as you drink your soda. A MMMMMMMM as you inhale your undoubtedly delicious Hungry Man dinner. A SNOOOOOOORT as you breathe in. Really, there’s no end of it.

3) Insist that he get the door for you, every time. Make up reasons. Beg that he shut it, too. Just give him the AW SHUCKS face.

4) Give him a tip jar for his desk.

5) Begin storing your personal supplies on his desk. Say, “Oh I’m going to just be a moment.” Then never come back.

Pranksters? Other suggestions for these brilliant question askers?

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