Today, as I’m finally remembering my middle name (I think it’s “wants“) and using up what miniscule brain power I have left to decide whether or not I’d like a pony on rollerskates or a unicorn on rollerskates, I am getting ready to show yet another friend what living in Chicago is like.
Namely, my living room. Because I’m re-watching Weeds, dammit, and I have to know what happens next!
(besides the obvious “Nancy will make the worst decision ever“)
Clearly, I do not win at life OR as a tour guide. Unless it’s a tour of my living room. Which Dana can vouch for. She knows I win at the “tour of my living room.”
It goes like this: “here’s the couch.” “here’s the other couch.” “watch me sit on it.”
Really, it couldn’t be awesomer.
Anyway, this gem appeared in my inbox and I’ve been saving it for a rainy day. Which would be today. It’s ASS outside. HEY, WELCOME TO CHICAGO, IT’S ASS HERE!
That’s totally the awesomest thing ever. Jimmy Motherfucking Wales? Eat your creepy-eyed heart out.
P.S. I think I need to put this on my header somehow. HOW SICK WOULD THAT BE?
Aunt Becky: “You can trust me because I have CREDENTIALS!”
Ben (my friend, not my son): “So WHAT are your credentials?”
Aunt Becky: “I have a DIPLOMA!”
Ben: “You do not.”
Aunt Becky: “I do! I didn’t even make it on dot matrix paper!”
Ben: “Who made it for you?”
Aunt Becky: “Um…”
(looks at hands)
Aunt Becky: “Me.”
Ben: “You made your own diploma?”
Aunt Becky (proudly) “On NON dot matrix paper. It’s purdy.”
Ben: “Does it have unicorns?”
Aunt Becky: “On roller blades. It’s wicked.”
Ben: “Is it in Sharpie?”
Aunt Becky: “PINK Sharpie.”
Ben (laughs): “Figured.”
Expert Photoshopping done by Rachel.
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.
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:
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.
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.