Normally, when I announce to all four cats, my children, The Daver, and/or The Guy On My Couch that “I’m taking the weekend off,” I mean this:

“I’m not actually going to work online – but I’ll be digging trenches, planting trees, mulching weeding, planting, seeding, watering, cleaning out the garage, making 47 trips to Goodwill, obsessing about painting my kitchen cabinets white, whine about my formerly white – now dingy grey – carpets, fantasize about buying attachments for my Dyson, sorting kid’s clothes, throwing away dead frogs, helping color pictures before realizing I have the artistic ability of a squirrel with five thumbs, then dropping into an exhausted heap on my couch to watch shitty television until it’s time to wake up and do it all again. But I mean I’m going to do that WITHOUT obsessively Tweeting. Or checking email.

MUCH.”

I don’t “take time off” like normal people. Or maybe that IS how normal people “take time off,” I don’t know; I write a blog on the Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I’m not the Poster Child for normal.

But, upon dragging ass outta bed Saturday morning to “not take time off,” I realized that I was kinda…reeling around. Like the drunken spins, except I haven’t had an ACTUAL drink in for-fucking-ever.

(stop gaping at me like that. You’re going to attract flies that LAND IN YOUR OPEN MOUTH AND MAKE FLY BABIES)

Be honest, Pranksters: Drinking at 31 < Drinking at 21

The spins kinda suck, just like making out with that random hot bartender, then vomiting all over the back of a cab is kinda shameful. Now. Then? It was hi-fucking-larious.

“…remember that time Becky barfed on the back of a yellow cab in downtown Chicago while that hot bartender rubbed her back, then made out with her? Bwahahahahaha!”

See? Hilarious.

(See also: why would that hot bartender want to make out with a barfy chick?)

Anyway, I had the spins. I blamed Dawn, who was passing a kidney stone that we’re sharing custody of, for sympathetic dizziness. I’ve never been dizzy, aside from being drunk, but I will note this: I walked into less walls while dizzy than while sober.

That being here nor there, Dawn decided to come over and join Ben (The Guy On My Couch) and I, who were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, playing on our respective phones.

And, because I am used to going! going! going! during weekends, I decided that I wasn’t actually dizzy – just….having issues with equilibrium – and that the only cure for a fucked-up equilibrium was not, in fact, more cowbell, but more mulch.

I pried my dizzy ass off the couch, and off we went to the hardware store. Hey, I needed my fucking mulch.

We were fine, the whole way there.

The problem started when the doors to Lowes, bless their hearts, opened. Suddenly, I felt like the world had been tipped on its side. I grabbed Ben and Dawn to steady me as we made our way to the back of the store for a non-bullshit neck massager.

(awkward segue: of COURSE I mean “neck massager.” I write a sex column. If I wanted another sex toy, I’m pretty sure SOMEONE would give me one.)

We made it all the way back to dishwashers before I began to sweat, the gorge of vom rising in my throat, as the world continued, uncannily, to spin. Ben and Dawn steered me to a set of chairs, where I sat, trying to figure out how to exit the store without:

a) Falling over

2) Alerting the store personnel that I was, in fact, in need of medical attention. The very LAST thing I wanted was to have to tell the world that I was in an ambulance because “I was dizzy.” If I had to be in an ambulance at all, I wanted to be

• delivering a baby

or

• delivering a basket of kittens I’d saved from a burning house.

Since I was “simply dizzy,” I tried to look as non-stupid as one can while flanked by two people who are steering you toward the exit while your eyes are closed.

Yeah, I could feel the stares, even WITH my eyes closed. It didn’t help that I’d chosen, in a moment of personal irony, to wear my Genetics shirt from the Museum of Science and Industry, which proudly asks, “Why Am I So Beautiful?” (the back says, GENETICS).

After what seemed like 82,747 hours, I hit the yawning doors, holding onto Dawn and The Guy On My Couch like we were the last people on the RMS Titanic (the real one, not the one with Leonardo DiCaprio), I’d figured I was done with the humiliation of it all.

That is, until Dawn screamed, “Don’t judge our love!” at some couple gaping at us. I’d have grabbed both of their asses for effect, but I’d probably have toppled over only to be run over by a frantic couple from Delaware, desperately looking for some refuse bags.

Upside? I’d get cross two items off my (non-existent) bucket list.

1) Meet someone from Delaware

B) Get hit by a car.

Downside?

I’d have probably been dead. Dying over refuse bag purchases is just…pathetic.

Whenever I see my GP and am all, “Woah, my neck hurts,” he examines my neck and then jumps away, all unprofessional-like, swearing under his breath, “oh holy fuck. How are you even walking around?” I’d like to boast about giving “good spasms” but it seems a little counter-intuitive. Mostly because having chronic neck pain blows.

Unless you’re a fluffer, which I am, sadly, not.

I’ve tried everything from massage, which gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies, to chiropractic “adjustments” which made me feel like he was trying to snap my neck like a very sassy chicken bone, to physical therapy. I’ve done the tens unit (which I actually plan on buying), dry heat, moist heat, cold packs, more heat. Nothing lasts very long.

Mostly because that’s where I hold my stress. Turns out three kids + plus running two group blogs + plus freelancing + one cat that pees in the vents + no monkey butler + my fake dead cat, Mr Sprinkles (who gets up to the most amazing hijinks) = Why Mommy Drinks.

Last week, on our Friday night pilgrimage to The Target, I noted they had one of those weird massaging chairs on clearance. Those things remind me of waiting at the pharmacy AND those weird car seat rests with the little wooden balls – that ALWAYS pulled your hair when you moved – so I’ve never been a huge fan. I let it go in favor of some Twinkies.

This week, the chair massager was still there, and I was all, EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER as I bought it. I figured I’d give it to The Daver or The Guy On My Couch if it sucked (which it probably would) but that it was worth a try. So what if I don’t have “back pain?” MAYBE THIS WOULD FIX MY NECK.

Plus, it was on sale, and sales give me good spasms (high five for full-circle!).

Home I trotted, the chair massager neatly nestled among my “groceries*” all ready to try this shit out.

Now here is where I point out that not one, but two males, both close enough in age to me to be trusted, both of whom have watched me walk into walls after yelling, “The Internet Is Broken!” when our Comcast goes out, watched me WITHOUT STOPPING ME unpack the massager.

As I pulled the chair thingy, (which, unrelated, looks remarkably like a chair from an airplane – I think it even has a seat belt! I can PLAY AIRPLANE NOW!) out of its bag, and ripped off the tags, both Daver and The Guy on my Couch simply watched me set it up. They watched me plug it in. They even watched me sit on it and make weird faces.

Eventually, we settled down to watch some Sister Wives on Netflix, nestled up on the couch in my airplane chair. I turned the thing on and noted that it was massaging exactly one area of my back (incidentally not the area that hurt), and, if on the right setting, made a horrifying noise – sorta like I was being punched.

I assumed this was normal – maybe I bought a punching massage chair – and continued to use the airplane chair until I went to bed. Not even the knowledge that I’d had to turn up Sister Wives to ear-splitting polygamist volumes made me – or anyone else, for that matter – assume, hey, maybe (Aunt) Becky DID IT WRONG.

The following morning, I woke up, rolled over and moaned. The area of my back that the punching airplane chair had been working on was bruised. Like actually bruised, not just me trying to exaggerate for effect. I hobbled downstairs, glared in the general direction of the punching airplane chair and poured myself a cup of coffee. Daver and the kids had crossed the Cheese Curtain and ventured into the land of Wisconsin, leaving The Guy on the Couch and I to finish some “yard work”**.

Later that night, after a spectacularly exciting day spent on the couch, drooling, Daver returned with the kids. When they were firmly ensconced in their wee beds, Daver came back downstairs to shoot the shit.

“I love that massage chair,” he said to me.

“GOOD. I was going to take that asshole chair back – that thing is bullshit. My back is SUPER bruised…but I DO like pretending I’m on an airplane,” I replied.

“It works a lot better with that screw out,” he responded, like I had any fucking idea what he was talking about.

I stared, dumbly at him.

“You know, on the back, where there’s a gigantic sign that says, “REMOVE THIS SCREW BEFORE USE?” he prodded.

I stared back.

“It works a lot better without that screw,” he continued, starting to laugh.

I stared. He and The Guy on my Couch began giggling.

“Why the shitballs did you and Ben BOTH allow me to set that up? I can’t work the television remote.”

They began chortling.

“You guys are assholes,” I responded.

“Why didn’t you ASK FOR HELP?” they sputtered out, between giggles.

“Because you NORMALLY just DO it for me. Or you STOP me from doing that shit before I burn the house down. Remember that time I burned my bed with a heating pad? Yeah. THAT’S why I assume if things are complicated, someone else will do them for me.”

Tears of laughter now coursing down their cheeks, I stormed (shuffled) out of the room with as much dignity as I could muster.

I turned back to tell them to piss off, and promptly walked into the wall.

I’ll let you know when I find my dignity again.

*bacon and Marshmallow Fluff don’t exactly constitute “groceries.”

**Watch more Sister Wives and wonder how that guy gets so many chicks. Gotta admit, he’s got nice hair.

————————-

This would be an ad: Mama’s gotta get some vodka monies somewhere.

Wanna be less embarrassing than me? You totally do. You also wanna stop ruining your underwear and clothes during your period (oh, like you haven’t had it happen).

Adira Period Panties are pretty awesome – they’re leak-proof, skin friendly and comfy. They are also International Patent Pending but I don’t know what that means.

If’n you like (and you do) you can buy Adria Period Panties here. (I kinda hope they double as adult diapers) Shop before 17st May 2012 and get 10% Off with this weird code: BHB1604

I knew something was up from the moment I saw them in the parking lot. We were winding down from a busy Saturday night, I was scheduled to close, but my server friends were waiting for me in the bar so we could all go out together after midnight. We had the bar schedule down pat – we knew where we’d start and where we’d finish. We even had a designated driver.

(PSA: driving drunk is fucking stupid.)

The yawning front windows lot of the restaurant coupled with the halogen lights in the parking afforded us a perfect vantage point with which to watch people come and go. Generally we were too busy to pay attention to the customers, but by 10PM, most everyone had left the building for drunker pastures, which meant that there was an eerie silence where the throngs of the eating masses had once been. I could almost hear ghost forks clinking against long-eaten plates while I walked through the winding mass of now-unoccupied tables.

There were a few stragglers eating, their voices now hushed as the rest of the din had, as though a cork had been popped, suddenly dissipated. Although we were open for a few more hours, the remaining patrons were clearly uncomfortable in the silence, so they began to eat more quickly, suddenly in a hurry to do whatever activity was following dinner.

But there they were, walking through the parking lot. I hoped -in vain – that they’d be picking something up, rather than forcing me to slap on a smile and pretend to give a shit about their wants and needs for an hour.

I was tired – we’d just started clinicals in nursing school, which made me miserable, and my young son was beginning to start various therapies for his autism. I wasn’t able to attend these therapies most of the time, as they conflicted with my school schedule, which only compounded my guilt.

I studied them through the glass window, standing behind the counter of the restaurant, lost in thought. He appeared to be mid-to-late thirties, a sort of gruff blonde guy, with a warm face, the sort who you might expect to see on a cattle ranch in Montana, not a deep dish pizza joint in Chicago. Alone, he’d have been under my radar. But he wasn’t.

Next to him, curled up in his arm, was a small waif of a girl, no bigger than five feet, topping the scales at maybe ninety-pounds, soaking wet with a backpack on. Her normally brown hair was dyed into three segments – black, white, and red, and fell somewhere around her scrawny shoulders. He was holding onto her, not quite daughter-like, but not entirely sexually, either.

I guessed at her age. Thirteen? Fourteen? She’d clearly not gone through puberty, her concave chest told me that.

I continued assessing her as they entered the restaurant, asked for a seat close to the door, and were seated by my manager. Once a student nurse, always a student nurse. I’d been assessing people from the moment I crawled from my mother’s womb – reading people was how I could make fat stacks of cash as a bartender and waitress.

“Becky, it’s yours,” my manager and good friend Rosanne grinned and winked as she told me. “What a bunch of fucking weirdos. Oh, and CARD THEM.”

I went over to the table and said my hellos, studying them as I took their drink order. The girl had to be closer to twelve, although she was surly as hell. She grumbled loudly and finally settled on a water. He ordered a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. “Fucking girl drinks,” I said to myself as I carded him. “Who the fuck drinks that garbage – it tastes like carbonated piss.”

I never made a habit of checking the photos on ID’s. The one I currently had made me look like an overweight Hispanic male, who was possibly taking a shit, so I never got too into the photos. I’d check the date, do the math, and move the hell on. NO ONE looks like their driver’s license photo.

This one said the guy was 47.

“Damn,” I said to him. “You look GREAT for your age.”

He laughed a little and smiled as she glowered at me. Was that…jealousy? I couldn’t tell. I certainly wasn’t going after him – he was my patron in a crappy pizza place. Nothing more.

Besides, I ruminated as I walked behind the bar to grab his Froofy Girl Drink, she’s like twelve and he’s clearly over forty, they can’t possibly be…

No, I decided firmly as I slammed the beer cooler shut. He is NOT an Uncle Pervy. See? He’d chosen a MIKE’S HARD LEMONADE, and NOT a Zima. We ALL know that Zima is the choice of drink of Uncle Pervies (and stupid high school kids) everywhere.

Except, that annoying little voice in the back of my head, no one makes Zima. Mike’s Hard Lemonade is the New Zima. (kinda how Pink is the New Black, but alas I digress)

I placed the water and the Mike’s Hard Lemonade in front of them, studying them as they put in their pizza order. She’d barely speak. He did all the talking. If I were out with my Dad, I thought, I’d probably let him…oh yeah right. I talk paint off walls. But that’s me, this is her.

“What’s up with those weirdos?” Rosanne giggled conspiratorially as she found me at the computer, putting their order into the system. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Is it a full moon?”

A half dozen of my good friends and coworkers yelled, “YES.” Apparently they were having the night I was having.

I went back to the kitchen to start on my side work to the lilting sounds of a Mariachi Band – the kitchen staff always ignored my requests for “disco” and “Ricky Martin,” instead pumping the volume of the chortling horns to 11 whenever I walked in. Assholes.

No sense in leaving it until midnight – even if I got ten more tables, most of this shit could be done between ’em. I wiped down salad dressing containers, shuddering as I got to the thousand island. Just LOOKING at it made me nauseous. Let’s not even DISCUSS the time I accidentally dropped a gigantic tub of the shit on the floor in the middle of the summer, when it practically melted in the 100+ degree kitchen.

No sooner had I finished with the salad dressings and was moving onto marrying ketchup bottles, when my friend Nikki thundered into the kitchen. Nikki’s teeny – been a friend of mine since we were in diapers, but in this case, she, and about three other servers plus the busboy raised quite the cacophony, even over the gentle, soothing sounds of the Mariachi band.

“Oh fucks, Becky, the girl at your table, she’s DRINKING the Hard Lemonade,” she spat out. “Go do something!”

I found Rosanne, who was in the back counting bags of flour, and told her what was going on. I wasn’t about to call the cops – but that feeling of something being not right rose to a fever pitch, thudding loudly in my ears. “Something’s not right, Rosanne. I can feel it.”

Rosanne nodded as we walked to the front of the restaurant. We watched them interacting, the feeling in my gut rising, as the girl continued to try and sneak sips of Mike’s Hard Lemonade from her water glass. Eventually, I had the busboy, Eddie, fill up her water glass with water, thereby removing any hope of drinking it.

The table ate in near-silence, the two of them not interacting very much. I guess it COULD be a father/daughter thing, right? That was, until he squeezed her hand lovingly, passionately. CREEPILY.

I brought them their bill, which they promptly paid, and left me a 20% gratuity. I looked down at the signature as they pulled out of the parking lot. It read, “Dr. So and So.” The signature’s lines were both forced and clearly faked.

Clearly, the man was not a doctor, nor was this his credit card, but they’d long since left. I stood there, staring down at the signature, my coworkers loudly celebrating at the bar over shift drinks yelling at me to join them, my stomach churning and unhappy, my heart somewhere on the floor. Something was up with those two. Something. And I?

I hadn’t done anything.

I hadn’t stopped them.

I hadn’t called the police.

I hadn’t even suggested calling the police.

I clocked out and balled up my apron, the thrill of going bar-hopping with my friends long-since passed.

As I sadly poured myself a vodka/diet, I thought to myself, “sometimes I am not my sister’s keeper.”

I’ve regretted it ever since.

I spent a good deal of time yesterday adding things to the Anatomy of a Forum post from yesterday. I’m telling you, I’ve never laughed so hard at comments before – and you guys are good. Like I want to make an award for best! comment! ever! but I’d give it to everyone, which kinda dilutes the whole thing.

Anyway, the post has been updated and will probably be updated again – you Pranksters are hysterical.

—————

Last week, the hospital called.

I wasn’t sure if it was a matter of wondering where I was, since I hadn’t been in (knocks on wood) for a couple of months. Hell, maybe I’d accrued some frequent flyer miles with which I could purchase a lovely sandwich in the cafeteria!

I answered, my mouth watering with antici….

…pation

It was the dude who schedules shit. Shit like, oh I don’t know, ULTRASOUNDS of my THYROID that may or may not show that I have an evil twin or one of those tumors full of hair and nails. Or the dreaded Neck Baby.

I’d had every intention of calling for the ultrasound…just…sometime else. Like maybe in 20 years or something.

It seems silly to be worked up about learning that my neck was pregnant or something, but after you’ve fallen on the wrong side of statistics enough times, you know that “routine” and “ultrasound” and “thyroid” and “neck baby” don’t go hand in hand. So I was more than a little bit nervous about learning I had a neck baby or an evil twin or something.

On Good Friday, I chose to celebrate the chocolate rabbit rising from the dead by making Dawn and The Guy On My Couch go with me to my ultrasound. I had to promise them cheeseburgers, which, I can’t say I blame them for. Bargaining is an art form.

The ultrasound didn’t show any beating neck baby hearts or teeth or hair, from what I could tell, anyway.

“Your doctor should have the results in two business days,” the tech told me cheerfully as we walked out of the room.

Wait.

Two business days from today? Good Friday is a trading holiday (I’ve been in the financial industry too long, clearly), does that mean radiologists get it off too?

I didn’t know.

So when Monday rolled around, I spent it balled up on the couch, a bundle of nerves with kicky hair. By Monday afternoon, I decided I should call my endocrinologist…just to see if they had the results back. They did! OH HAPPY DAY!

I waited nervously.

I’d been told email = good.

Phone call = bad.

By 4:15 CST, the same time zone my MD lives in, I’d had enough – I called back. I HAD to know if I had a neck baby.

“This office is now closed. To reach the doctor on call…” I was livid. What the fuck kind of doctor CLOSES at 4PM on a MONDAY?

(answer: apparently my endocrinologist)

I thought about all the hackers I knew. Maybe one of THEM could get me my results. I can interpret them (*waves* HI MOM! Thanks for that nursing degree!) , I just needed to see them.

Okay, I thought, most doctors don’t actually leave when the office closes. I bet she’ll call with the results tonight.

When the phone rang as I was watching reruns of Sister Wives, at 8:30, I was just positive it was her. Nope. My mother. Asking how I was.

Eventually, I fell into a nervous sleep.

The following morning, I grabbed my iPad and frantically waded through 837 “Make your penis bigger” emails (responding to them, of course. Who DOESN’T want a bigger wang?). Nada. Fuck.

I plodded over to my computer, ready to put a call into the office when, *zing* it hit my email.

“Hi Rebecca,

Your results were normal.

Thanks!

Nurse’s Name”

Thank the Good Lord of Butter – I am not growing a neck baby.

Kinda sucks about the evil twin thing, tho. I could’ve used an evil alter-ego to blame shit on.

———-

So, when I’m not staple-gunning things to my walls and watching animated animals play the piano, I run a site you’ve heard me blather on about. It’s called, Band Back Together, which, like five people have noticed, is a direct riff off the Blues Brothers:

Here’s the plan: we get the band back together, do some gigs, earn some bread, bang!

Nothing? Hrms.

Okay, maybe it’s a Chicago thing.

Anyway, the site is a group blog where anyone (YES YOU) can write their stories – stories of anything. Reposts of older posts, new posts you don’t want to share on your own blog, whatever. We pair the posts with a metric fuckton of resource pages (anything from how-to cope with depression to love resources to how to cope with a rape)

(*waves* HI MOM! Thanks for the nursing degree! I’m finally using for things other than diagnosing myself with testicular cancer)

Anyway, this isn’t the elevator pitch for the site. This is an answer to a question that was posed to me via my Go Ask Aunt Becky Form (and yes, I know I need to get back into writing my weekly assvice column – I’ve just been…floundering a bit).

I was asked: “how do I get in on this funfest?” and I don’t have an email address to reply privately, so here goes.

See, Band Back Together only runs because we have 60ish people working behind the scenes. We do everything from our Wednesday #withtheband Twitter Parties to creating pages, to brainstorming new ideas, to fundraising, to commenting, to using social media, to editing.

It’s a big fucking operation. And it’s entirely volunteer run. We’re waiting on our federal non-profit paperwork, but at the moment, since we don’t do ads or other revenue streams, no one makes a cent. In fact, we PAY for server space. Not a big deal.

If you’d like to work with us, and know how to tune your email settings to filter out some of the email (which can be overwhelming at first), shoot chibi@bandbacktogether.com an email. She’ll get you hooked up.

We’re a big dysfunctional family, which means we always need more volunteers.

Please note that any offensive words I’ve used were only thrown in to more properly illustrate my point that Forums = full of asshole pinheads, not to offend anyone. When I’m trying to offend you, you’ll know it.

-Aunt Becky

—————–

Ignorant Newbie Asks Innocuous Question: “Why are hedgehogs underrepresented in today’s media?”

Guy Who’s Been Ar0nd For Eleventy-Bajillion Years Who Gets Snippy When Rules Aren’t Followed: “Please search the archives for an answer to this – it’s already been discussed.”

Ignorant Newbie: “I’ve searched the archives. I can only see a question about Kumquats in the media.”

Person Who Has JUST Discovered The Internet: “OMG. YOU GUYS! I just got an email about people with HIV who stick there dirty needles underneath your car handle! BE CAREFUL!”

Self-Proclaimed Grammar Nazi: “Please use the proper word – “it’s their,” not “there.” Using the wrong one makes you appear to be a toothless yokel.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “I’m amazed by the blatant sexism here. ARE YOU REFERRING TO RAPE? RAPE ISN’T FUNNY!”

Pedantic Guy Who Has To Pick Apart Whatever Has Been Said Regardless Of Whether It Has To Do With The Subject: “You say, “blatant sexism,” yet, I see no mention of gender. Or rape. Perhaps you are trying too hard.”

Guy Who Makes EVERYTHING Political: “Abortion is murder! Obama is to blame!”

Woman Who Blames Everyone For Being Dramatic And Pretends To Flounce Off: “OMG. Can we PLEASE stop being dramatic? HEDGEHOGS ARE CUTE!”

(this message has been removed by forum moderator)

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “HA! See? You just said RAPE. I SHOULD REPORT YOU TO THE POLICE!”

Self-Proclaimed Grammar Nazi: “It’s “sexual assault,” not “rape.” Please, get a dictionary, you slack-jawed FemiNazi.”

Forum Moderator: “Please read the rules of this forum. We do not tolerate threats – idle or otherwise. Also: foul language is not appreciated.

Pedantic Guy Who Has To Pick Apart Whatever Has Been Said Regardless Of Whether It Has To Do With The Subject: “What, pray tell, is an “idle threat?” Please explain.”

Guy Who Pops In Simply To Break The Rules: “I’m gonna kick your motherfucking ass.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “I am a woman. I can do anything you can do better. Therefore, I will kick YOUR ass, then report you to the police.”

Guy Whose Wife “Just Doesn’t Understand” Him: “Sighs, I wish my wife were feisty like that. My wife, well, she got fat and lazy after she popped out our kids.”

Guy With Badly Drawn Four-Leaf Clover Who Likes To Use His Irish Background To Grope Girls on St. Patrick’s Day but Never Has Anything to Say About the Conversation at Hand,” O’DOYLE RULES!”

 Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “I got a hedgehog for you, baby, right here.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “You are a DISGRACE TO WOMEN EVERYWHERE, YOU WHORE.”

Guy With Badly Drawn Four-Leaf Clover Who Likes To Use His Irish Background To Grope Girls on St. Patrick’s Day but Never Has Anything to Say About the Conversation at Hand, “Hey baby, wanna cyber?”

Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “24/F/Chicago.”

Guy Who Has Hooked Up With Inappropriately Flirty Girl Who Now No Longer Pays Attention To Him: “Sighs. I thought it was love. I knew I loved her. Why, o! why doesn’t she love me back?”

Chick Who Wants To Drive Traffic To Her Blog: “OMG, I just wrote something about this on my blog [insert link to unrelated blog entry].”

Guy Who Tries To Steer The Conversation Back To The Original Question: “Don’t you think Sonic the Hedgehog is big enough in today’s media?”

Guy Who Randomly Pops In To Hypocritically Tell Everyone That They’re Losers For Responding: “U R a bunch of losers.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “How dare you! You are clearly anti-women! We should burn you alive!”

Chick Who Wants To Drive Traffic To Her Blog: “Oh my GOD, I wrote about THAT too! [insert entirely unrelated blog entry link].”

Pedantic Guy Who Has To Pick Apart Whatever Has Been Said Regardless Of Whether It Has To Do With The Subject: “I cannot believe that anyone who talks in text-speak should be allowed on the Interwebs. You, sir, are the true loser.”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “If you’re such a feminist, why are you bashing another woman? Having a healthy sexuality is not the same as being a (as you put it) ‘whore.'”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “Women should have healthy self-respect and not fawn all over any guy who looks at her twice. Just look at me! 35 and still a virgin! Why? I haven’t met the right guy yet.”

Chick Who Wants To Drive Traffic To Her Blog: “Also, I am running a contest. Go vote for me!!!!! [insert link to contest]”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “You’re a virgin because you still live at home with your Mom and her 45 cats. You probably have a “A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle” bumper sticker.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: Mr. Muppets and Mr. Sprinkles are the only things that make my world worth living. And so what about my bumper sticker? ARE YOU DISCRIMINATING AGAINST WOMEN?”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “I bet you’re ugly as hell.”

Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “I’m pretty sure no man would dare stick his dick inside you. There’s prolly barbed wire in your vagina.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “THIS IS AN ATTACK ON ALL WOMEN EVERYWHERE.”

Guy Who Comes Onto The Board Simply To Whine About His Life: “I’d LIKE to respond to your question about hedgehogs, but my dog just died, my mother has cancer, I just got laid off, and my girlfriend left me for my best friend.”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “I bet you’re ugly too.”

Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “Poor baby – wanna come over here? I got a webcam!”

Ignorant Newbie Tries To Steer The Conversation Back: “Uh, sorry about your Mom. Do you know much about the media and hedgehogs?”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “Do hedgehogs really like shiny rings?”

Ignorant Newbie: “Uh, no. That’s just a video game.”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “That’s bullshit. Hedgehogs ARE all blue, right?”

Ignorant Newbie: “Uh, no. That’s just a video game.”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “Now I can see why the media doesn’t give a shit about hedgehogs – they’re boring as hell.”

Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words: “U R A Fag. Who gives a shit about those stupid rodents, you fucking r*tard.”

Ignorant Newbie: “I’m uh, not gay – I’m married with three kids. And I take offense to you using the “r” word.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “How DARE you use the word “fag!?!?!” You should be sued!!!!!!”

Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words: “Your wife is prolly a fag, too, assmuncher.”

Emo Teenager Who Whines About Her Life At Every Opportunity: “My life is so hard. My mom, like, makes me fucking go to school and shit. All I want to do is work at 7-11. I don’t need a GED for that. She’s such a bitch.”

Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words: “U R A Cunt.”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “I cannot wait for you to find some new, enlightening words with which to bash us. Try Thesaurus.com.”

Forum Moderator: Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words has been banned.

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women And Is Now Self-Righteous: “I’ve also reported him to the police. I think using the r-word is illegal. I’m sending an email to his employer, his wife, and left a message on his Facebook.”

Ignorant Newbie Tries One More Time To Steer the Conversation Back: “So, uh, HEDGEHOGS anyone?”

*crickets*

——————

What am I missing here, Pranksters? I’ll be adding throughout the day.

Dear Mr. “Gmoney,”

I think I’d respond to you much more favorably if you’d included an “ESQ” behind your name. I feel the addition of ESQ to your name would give your name a true punch, it would go the proverbial distance, and ask, nay, DEMAND respect. Gmoney, ESQ sounds a lot more powerful than the pedestrian “Gmoney” you used to sign your comment.

I wanted to apologize for suggesting that I might, “sell my dog, Auggie, for animal testing” after he successfully ate – then vomited up – the fecal matter of my other dog under the table on the white carpet my dining room while I was large, pregnant, and queasy. You’re very right – I am both a shitty human being and was blaming my dog for my own failings.

Would it appease you if I, instead of suggesting I’d sell him for product testing, I suggested I might, as an alternative, make a pair of moccasins out of his hide? I feel that is a more fruitful, comfortable and appropriate idea.

Do let me know. I’ll be anxiously checking my spam filter.

Yours Always,

Your Aunt Becky

———————-

Dear Packs of Hot Dogs in my Fridge,

I share the semi-unpopular opinion that, there are no finer words in the English language than, “encased meats,” my friends. Except, perhaps, “Hooray Beer.” Or boner. But that’s only one word.

I’ve been warned, a time or two, that I am, in fact eating:

a) bits of fetal pig

b) lips

c) assholes.

I’m not entirely sure if the latter two are actually supposed to be bits of pig lips and/or assholes – I should probably ask for clarification about that.

It’s irrelevant, I suppose, as I will happily nosh upon crushed bits of tiny unborn pigs. We all know that suffering tastes like awesome.

Hungrily Yours,

Becky

—————-

Dear My Son,

I know that I, in a moment of sheer stupidity, said, “woah, these colored bubbles will make your poo turn colors!” I hadn’t been addressing you, and was not, in fact, suggesting that you should take it upon yourself to drink aforementioned bubbles. While  I understand that I hadn’t made it clear that “one should not drink colored bubbles, even if one’s poo may turn technicolor,” I would have hoped you’d have not assumed that my words were a green-light for drinking bubbles.

But since I was not more clear, I sincerely hope that you enjoy your colorful poo.

Next time, try Crunch Berries. They may make your mouth feel as though you’ve been chewing glass, but they taste like heaven.

Love,

Mom

——————

Dear Thyroid,

I understand that you’ve been upset with me lately and for that I do apologize. I’d like to point out that, at no time, did I:

a) threaten to sell you to the gypsies

b) threaten to send you to Lady Gaga to become her newest hairpiece

c) threaten to plaster you with ads for Viagra.

Which makes me concerned that you’ve misunderstood the arrangement we’ve got – you function, and I continue to let you be groped by the pretty lady doctor every four to six months. I thought we had a deal.

Unless the “thing” growing on you is a tumor full of hair and teeth, I’m not happy with your behavior. Not. Happy. Thyroid.

Don’t make me send you to live with Marilyn Manson.

Always,

Becky

———————

Dear My Nigerian Relatives,

Words cannot express how happy I am to learn that you, of all people, have died and left me a substantial fortune. I’d always dreamed that blogging would be the reason I’d procure a yacht, and here you are, practically handing me millions of pounds, if only I return your email with my bank account number, my social security code, my mother’s maiden name, and my favorite sleeping position.

Since I have gotten no less than 30 of these emails in the last two weeks, I’ve begun to purchase luxury items on credit – like a snow-cone maker and a blinged-out Pimp Cup. As my creditors have been calling, demanding I pay for my “Meat on a Stick” machine, I sincerely hope that you are already on your way to transfer that money into my account. I’m pretty sure that my pony on roller-skates will soon grow weary of living in my (rather small) backyard. Or maybe she’s just mad that I spray-painted her pink.

Anyway.

Not to be rude, but thanks for dying – I’m finally going to realize my dream of turning my basement into a ball pit after I Velcro my bedroom wall so that I can stick to it. That, my dear Nigerian Family Member, is worth, in my biased opinion, more than life. Unless it’s mine. Because I’m worth about $3.28. So thanks for being dead!

Er.

Sorry you’re dead,

Aunt Becky

*sitting in the garage, drinking a diet Coke, taking a break from making the exterior of my home look as though recluses live here. CREEPY ones, I mean, not just boring old me.*

Aunt Becky: “I have no idea what I won in the [Band Back Together] auction.”

The Guy On My Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “I know I got outbid on a bracelet I wanted.”

The Guy On The Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “People are hardcore about auctions. That’s why I’m afraid of eBay. *shudders*”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’d get waaaaay too into it – I can see you with a garage full of your winnings.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehehe. Yeah.”

The Guy On The Couch: “You’d totally get a Storage Locker and end up defaulting and have your shit go up on Storage Wars*.”

Aunt Becky: “No. Fucking. Way.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Where would you put it?”

Aunt Becky: “Anywhere but there. I’m terrified of Storage Lockers. You know the ones over by the McDonald’s? I get the heebie jeebies whenever I go by it.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Hahahaha. Really?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. I’m always afraid there’s a dead body in there. I mean, WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU PUT IN A STORAGE LOCKER?”

The Guy On The Couch: “Crap from your dorm room?”

Aunt Becky: ” Ugh *shudders* no. Dead bodies.”

The Guy On The Couch: “I bet it’s safe to say that there’s a dead body in a storage locker somewhere around here.”

Aunt Becky (eyes widen): “Do you think it’s stuffed?”

The Guy On My Couch: (thinks)

Aunt Becky: “You know, all taxidermied and shit? Like people do to animals?”

The Guy On My Couch: “I’m sure there’s one out there SOMEWHERE. Prolly not as close as a regular dead body, though.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m gonna put in my will that I want to be taxidermied, dusted, and moved from children’s houses on a rotation schedule. Four to five months, I sit in each of my kid’s house. In the living room – potentially in the big picture windows, occasionally moving to the table for “dinner.””

The Guy On My Couch: “….”

Aunt Becky: “I’m getting back at them for making me birth them – shit, have you SEEN the size of their heads?”

The Guy On My Couch: *shakes his own large head* “Yeah, yeah I have.”

Aunt Becky: “Payback. And those twerps best not be throwing me into a storage locker. At least, not all year long.”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’re going to have a painfully long last will and testament, aren’t you?”

Aunt Becky: “We’ll be measuring it in miles, not sheets of paper.”

The Guy On My Couch: “Just don’t tell the kids – or they’ll be sure to stuff you in a locker they default on.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m adding it to my list, thanks.”

*surprisingly interesting show, by the by.

When I started high school, before Jesus was born, high school was done in split shifts. The underclassmen (read: me and my trouble-making friends) started at 9AM rather than 7:30AM, which, I have to say as a non-morning person, was pretty damn sweet. Soon enough, my high school decided that was bullshit and built a second high school about a half a mile from the first.

We’d get stuck in classes in both buildings, which meant we had to hustle to get from place to place. And by “hustle,” I mean, “smoke pot out of soda cans” as we ambled our way too and from the North building.

We had one road to cross to get there, a thoroughfare that wound throughout campus, that had a nice crosswalk painted on it. One of our deans, who happened to be both the football coach and a major douchebag, would occasionally patrol the area, giving PM’s (detentions) to those of us who walked out of the lines. We also had Mr. Shields*, a prehistoric relic that seemed to arise from the very dust of the earth.

Mr. Shields, well, he had a golf cart, and he liked to ride it around the parking lots of the school, busting people for parking in the wrong area, always on the lookout for those of us who cut class to go joyriding and eat tacos**. He communicated to the other deans and Parapros (paraprofessionals? I don’t actually know anything other than their name made them sound like dinosaurs.)(*puts on Nature Show Voice and whispers* “Beware of the roaming Parapros – they’re hungry and getting ready to write PM’s”) via a fairly elaborate system of walkee-talkies. Keep in mind, this was when cell phones weighed as much as a small bus.

(not actually Mr. Shields)

(probably)

Being hippies and anti-establishment meant that my parents didn’t give much of a shit if I got in trouble – only if I was STUPID about it. Like on Senior Ditch Day – I didn’t even TRY to get my boyfriend’s cleaning lady to call me in – I just didn’t show up. This pissed off my mother – not that I ditched class, but that I hadn’t bothered TRYING to cover it up.

She’d taught me many years before how to forge her signature so I could avoid these very same situations. I’d often go into the office, note written in purple crayon, begging out of school so I could “see the doctor.” The office staff must’ve thought I was the world’s sickest teen OR the world’s biggest hypochondriac.

Generally, these “doctor’s appointments” involved a lot of tacos and/or Jim Beam drunk straight from the bottle in the parking lot behind the Taco Bell.

Tonight, I must go back. No, not to Taco Bell. After a particularly vicious battle with food poisoning, I sadly swore it off for life.

I’ve been back, upon occasion, to my high school. My son, Ben, (not to be mistaken for The Guy On My Couch, Ben) he plays a ridiculous amount of instruments and my high school has a pretty kick-ass stage – we even get like famous people there sometimes, doing, erms, FAMOUS PEOPLE THINGS.

But the North Building, the scene of so many of my days as a Prankster, has since been turned into a Junior High.

The Junior High that my son will attend next year.

(I don’t know how the fuck my kid got so old)

Tonight, I get to go back and “take a tour” of my old stomping grounds. This is gonna be the kind of tour that I can’t say things like, “Wow, I puked up Jim Beam in that corner!” or “We used to smoke pot there – see? You can’t be seen from any of the windows.”

No, I have to go in and nod and smile and pretend to be a normal parent around other parents.

*whimpers*

Someone pass the vodka.

*his actual name

**raises hands

Part I.

Part II.

“Okay,” Josh said, “Give me your ‘I want you’ face.”

Immediately, I started laughing – I’ve known Josh for close to ten years, and the very idea of giving him a Come to Aunt Becky face was beyond comical. I’m not even sure I have a sexy face – when I want to have sex, my idea of foreplay is this, “Let’s have sex.” Occasionally, “I want to have sex now.”

Let’s face it, my idea of a “romantic evening” involves a 12-pack of condoms and a bottle of bourbon.

So yeah, back to my “Come Hither,” face.

Eventually I stopped laughing, but I’m not gonna lie – it took awhile. It’s not that Josh isn’t attractive – he is* – but it’s just not like that. Plus, I had both Dawn and The Guy on my Couch, Ben, sitting there, watching me as I tried to twist my neck into positions no porn star should consider.

Every time I grimaced, Josh said, “Turn your neck farther – I don’t care if it doesn’t go that way. DO IT.”

So I did. For thirty minutes I did. While listening to death metal. Because shit, there’s nothing like thrash metal to get you in the mood to get down and dirty.

Bow-chica-wow-wow. Awwww-YEAH.

After the music began chanting about killing someone, I asked him to change the selection to something more porn-y. It’s hard to be all sexy while you’re listening to Motorhead.

It seemed to take hours for him to finish shooting my pictures. Hours I spent wondering:

1) Why I’d chosen to get pantyhose without an easy-access crotchal opening (for PEEING, you pervs)

B) What the German death metal song was ACTUALLY saying – it sounded like they were screaming about bratwurst.

3) How many digits of pi that I could rattle off (3.141536…) before I was told to “make the sexy face” again

i) Why the fuck my dress was giving my arm rug burn.

C) If my arm looked like a hunk of ham.

II) How far I’d go to get a diet Coke – murder? theft? drive-by?

D) Why two – but only two – of my toes were cold.

But mostly, I wondered how I’d gotten myself into this damn mess in the first place. It’s not that I don’t like having my picture taken – to me, it’s as natural as breathing. See, Pranksters, I was born at a time when my father (who maaaaaay be a bit Aspie), grandfather (likewise, Aspie) and brother were into photography. I may be the most well-documented child on the planet. Every family shot was arranged, then rearranged, then rearranged again, by which time those of us in the shot were ready to take the camera and insert it neatly into the photogs rectum.

So photos? Not the end of the world.

Finally, after I’d been contorted into positions that would make a stripper blush, I was done. Immediately I slipped out of my bastardized Beyonce dress and back into my happy pants before sitting my ass on the couch while The Guy On The Couch** got his snaps done.

We all considered keeping me in the outfit just to see if I could get any cash working on the side (the demise of the Craig’s List personals have left me with no extra income), but we realized no one had a pimp stick. So back into my PJ’s I went.

What the fuck were we all doing there? I can hear you, Pranksters, wondering, the wheels in your head turning. Certainly I’m as narcissistic as the next blogger, but rarely would I willingly drive into the Ghetto to further my obsession with myself. Why, I can look into the mirror and have the same results.

So let me take you back a year, Pranksters, where this all began.

Amy, from the site formerly known as Blogger Body Calendar, approached me – she was overwhelmed by the whole project and very sweetly asked if my site, Band Back Together, would be willing to take it over. Of course I agreed – I mean, part of what we do is to break down stigmas through stories of mental illness, rape, trauma, child loss, infertility, and anything else you can imagine. We always take submissions (hint, HINT) so that none of us will ever feel alone in our struggles.

So of course I was willing to help her out. In turn, this year, we’d be doing our own calendar.

Which we are.

For our 2013 Band Back Together Calendar, we are doing, “I Am The Face Of…” Rather than head-shots, each of us is going to shoot a picture inspired by an actual album cover. This is either going to be the most brilliant – or most horrendous – idea ever.

At long last, The Guy On My Couch was done with his shoot. I wondered aloud whether or not the car would still be there when we got back – I mean, we HAD parked in front of an abortion clinic and those are known hot-beds of violence. Apparently, we are not only suburban, but stupid, too.

But there she was, my natty suburban SUV, sitting there, probably with a bomb rigged somewhere (I, apparently, have been watching too much 24) so we’d die when we got in. Alas, it was not to be.

Sorry, Pranksters, you’re not that lucky – I’m still alive and ticking.

I begged Ben to stop at the side of the road, where some guy was selling “Tide” from the back of his pick-up truck. He refused. He also refused to stop for the guy selling cotton candy. I love me some cotton candy.

Back on the highway, we breathed a sigh of relief. We’d made it out alive, even if I DIDN’T get any cotton candy out of the deal. I don’t have any pictures of the photo shoot yet – I’m scared to death to see what they look like – but I’ll let you know when I do.

To stop me from pouting, Ben and Dawn took me out for gloriously suburban cheeseburgers.

Now, I just have to figure out how best to dispose of the fug ass dress. I’m pretty sure Goodwill will ban me for life if I try to drop that shit off.

*Shut the fuck up, Josh. I will never admit that I said that.

**The Guy on my Couch is named Ben (my kids call him Big Ben)(hehe). Ben works with me on Band Back Together and has relocated to Chicago because it’s truly the best city on the planet. As far as I’m concerned “Chicago” should be labeled on a map and the rest of the world should be labeled, “Not Chicago.”

Sorry to leave you hanging, Pranksters, but I knew a 2500 word story would make half of you fall asleep and the other half of you throwing shit at your computer in horror. How! Can! A! Blog! Be! So! Long!

Part I

We arrived at our destination, which had both wrought iron bars on the windows and the door – apparently one is not suitable – and had a five minute debate over who had to knock. In the end, we insisted The Guy On The Couch was the unlucky one. We made him knock – hey, we’re small white chicks; if someone opened up the door high on Special K, I’d rather not be the one directly in his or her punching radius.

Lo and behold, it was, in fact, the right address so we were greeted by my photog, Josh Hawkins, who looked tan and fit, which made ME want to take some Special K and beat him ugly. He lives in Vegas, lucky asshole.

Inside the place was like nothing I’d expected. Where I’d expected to see a couple homeless guys camping out and sleeping off their 40’s from the night before, possibly a couple of hookers looking for blow, I found it was a nice, roomy studio. It even had a working bathroom and fresh paint on the walls. (sidebar: you know you’re on the wrong side of the tracks when you’re happy the place has a bathroom) I was thrilled. I hadn’t yet changed from my Happy Pants into my outfit, and while I’d change in front of all three of them, I’d rather, um, pretend to be modest.

(three vaginal births later, I’m just as apt to take off my pants and “assume the position” as I am to shake your hand. I can possibly do both AT THE SAME TIME, but that is neither here nor there)

I’d caught Josh as he finished up a photo shoot with an old friend of mine, Janet, who once had a blog, but like most of the sane world, disbanded it many years ago. This gave Dawn, The Guy on my Couch and I some time to sit on what turned out to be the world’s most uncomfortable sofa where we chattered on about the Band Back Together 2013 calendar, which we were actually risking life and limb for.

I was nervous as hell.

Every time I panicked a little, I talked myself down: “the stylist would be here soon. The stylist would be here soon.” I hadn’t looked as bad as I did since, oh, the last time I went to Chuck-E-Cheese (read: the day before).

A refresher course on what I happened to look like walking into the place.

Yeah. That. See? Eye Slugs (or some weird thingy you put on your eyes if your eyes are puffy and/or have circles underneath them. I got them as swag one year and they totally burned my eyes (talk about swag promotional materials backfiring)

But I sat there on the couch, pretending to “work” (which involved a lot of Tweeting) as I waited for the stylist. An hour past the time she was supposed to show, Josh finally said, “Um, I can’t get a hold of her. I am not happy.” Then he went on about some other stuff as my brain melted out of my nose.

fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

I hadn’t brought any makeup. My hair was still damp from the shower. I wasn’t even wearing real pants.

Josh pointed me at a room he called the, “You Look Fine, Honey” room. Dawn and I made a beeline for it – it had a mirror, some awful props and, BINGO! A button of makeup. I said a quick prayer to the gods of theatre that Dawn had worked on stage in college as she went to work on my face.

Ten minutes later, I slithered into what is easily the ugliest item of clothing I own, threw on some fishnets, and said, “Oh FUCK. What am I gonna do with my HAIR?”

Oh yes, Pranksters, it even comes with the beret. Talk about winning! P.S. That is not me. P.P.S. Anyone want the outfit?

My hair hates to be forced to curl. My hair is a “I don’t need no stinkin’ curling iron telling ME what to do” independent kinda hair. My hair hates the color pink, any given Sunday, life, liberty and the pursuit of happyness. THIS was why I needed the ever-loving stylist to show up and save the day.

She didn’t.

So while Dawn got to work fixing the hair on The Guy on the Couch, I was left to my own devices. I found a studded masquerade mask, a bottle of red liquid that claimed to take makeup off, and some bizarre three pronged hair curler.

After I decided that it was not, in fact, a dildo, I plugged it in and began to work on my hair.

Rather than actually making me appear both chic, stylist and ready for the camera, I looked like a bastardized version of Beyonce. Or Diana Ross.

Frankly, I preferred the Eye Slug look.

Especially since it meant that there was no way I could leave without being mistaken for a particularly bad hooker. And shit, I didn’t want other hookers assuming I was there to take their bizness away.

The only comfort in all of this is knowing that I have a graphic designer on hand to fix whatever I did wrong (read: all of it)

Thank the Good Lord of Butter.