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I’d just sat down to build my 105 floor on Tiny Tower, which I’d planned to name a jaunty “Cyber Sex,” when my kids got home from their grandmother’s. A couple of times a week, they visit my mom’s house, where they happily can eat cereal from plates and annoy my parents with their incessant chattering while I sit at home in my underwear, playing Tiny Tower and watching videos of dancing snails.

My eldest son burst into the house, a whirlwind of knees and elbows, and clomped out to the family room, where I was sitting on my iPad playing a pixelated game and pretending that I wasn’t as lame as, well, I am.

(shut UP)

“MOM,” he yelled. “WE HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL NOW.”

Um. I’m not wearing pants.

“Why?” I asked, cautiously. There’s something in that child that turns every minor request into an earth-shattering conquest – like we were going to have to climb a mountain, drink our own urine to stay warm, and nosh upon whomever was not up to the challenge in order to get to his elementary school.

“IT’S MY SOLO TONIGHT!” he nearly took my face off with his screams.

Aunt Becky say wha??

That was the first I’d heard of a “solo” a “concert” or a “trip to school after hours.” I try to be up-to-date on all things kids-related, but this child, well, he’s as organized as a, well, okay, he’s not very organized. We’re working on it.

(and by “working on it,” I mean that when he hands me a stack of ancient papers for events we’ve already missed, by hair falls out)

The kid was SOL – Alex has an ear infection, Dave’s out of town, and I, well, I’ve had a migraine that makes me wish I could plunk out my eyeballs with a spoon just to stop them from quivering unpleasantly. The Guy On My Couch was going to have to take over for me for the night – I couldn’t send him to school with the kid, much as I wanted to.

“Sorry, kiddo, but we’re going to have to skip it,” I replied, and before I could continue to explain myself – inserting neatly an object lesson in telling people what you need them to do BEFORE you demand that they drop everything and do it for you – he began to scream.

“BUT MOM, THEY’RE COUNTING ON ME!” The teeth gnashing had begun.

“Ben,” I replied. “We have 14 minutes to get you dressed and ready to leave the house. Do you even know where this concert is?”

“NO,” he said, again yelling my face off. “BUT I GOTTA BE THERE, MOM. I GOTTA.”

The maternal guilt began flowing freely, dripping from both my eyes and ears. I knew it was a lesson he had to learn – had I been given a couple hours to plan, I’d have been able to find someone to take the kid, but with 14 minutes to go? I was fucked.

And OMFWTFBBQ the guilt.

Even now, well after the fact, I’m stewing in a nice puddle of maternal guilt. I WANTED the kid to get there – I wanted to SEE him play his solo. A GOOD mother would’ve made sure her kid got there and I couldn’t do it, therefore, I was clearly NOT a good mother.

To make a long, drawn out, histrionic conversation short, we didn’t go. When I stop feeling like shit about this, I’ll let you know.

I sent his teacher an email, explaining that I was very sorry, that we were all sick, and no one was around to help with Ben’s siblings. The guilt oozed from my fingertips as I wrote it.

After I hit send (carefully removing links to my blog from the bottom of my email signature), the guilt flooded me. I had to watch some Prison Break just to remind myself that I’m not THAT much of a failure. In hindsight, I should’ve watched Jersey Shore –  Michael Scofield would’ve made an elaborate plan including both tattoos, the sun’s gravitational pull, and a single red Twizzler to make sure the kid made his solo WITHOUT being taken out by The Company.

This morning, I awoke to check my email to find she’d written me back, wishing to talk about my son’s future in music with me.

When I stop panicking, I’ll let you know.

I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’m STILL afraid to talk to a teacher about my son’s organizational problems.

If you need me, I’ll be under the bed, sneezing up cat hair and looking for my missing whore pants.

0) Rebranding myself a “social media maven.”

1) Listening to John C. Mayer croon about my body being a wonderland.

1) Decoding passive aggressive Facebook status updates into anagrams about zombies.

2) Finding that bitch Carmen Sandiego.

3) Eating mayonnaise by the spoonful.

5) Trying to figure out why my phones have been tapped.

8) Blogging about my fake dead cat Mr. Sprinkles.

13) Watching a cooking show without rolling my eyes and/or trying to poke out my eyeballs with a spoon.

21) Understanding the origins of the word “teh.”

34) Bathing a light socket with my tongue.

55) Retaking Calc 3.

89) Trying to figure out Pinterest and StumbleUpon

144) Delivering a baby in the back of a moving taxi (or city bus) using only a 12×14 box, a blue felt-tipped pen, and a strawberry Starburst.

233) Dressing in a giant squirrel costume, occasionally throwing myself into the road to signify “roadkill” or “the denigration of society and it’s inhumane treatment of roadkill.”

377) Traveling from office to office delivering singing telegrams to unwitting executives.

610) Becoming an interpretive dancer. See also, “SOMEONE DO A DANCE AS A SALAD! QUICK! YOU’RE THE LETTUCE. NOW YOU’RE THE TOMATO!”

987) Rewatching Season Three of Glee: Who Gives A Shit About Plot? LET’S DANCE, MOTHERFUCKERS!

1597) Listening to anything ever produced by Katy Perry and/or Avril Lavigne.

So what’s new with YOU, Pranksters? TELL ME ALL THE THINGS!

(scene, 11PM, just returned to the couch to watch another episode of Prison Break with Guy on the Couch. The Daver watches Deep Space Throat Nine Downstairs)

Aunt Becky: “FUCK, I just knocked over my Diet Coke.”

The Guy On My Couch: “I got the paper towels.”

Aunt Becky: “No, I mean, like FUCK!”

The Guy On My Couch: “Um…okay?”

Aunt Becky: “There should be a law against this.”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “No Diet Coke shall spill after 11PM.”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “Why are you staring at me like Michael Scofield? YOU’RE NOT IN PRISON. YOU DON’T NEED TO BREAK OUT OF IT.”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “What are you waiting for? CALL FEMA! CALL THE NATIONAL GUARD! CALL AARP! CALL NAACP! CALL THE BLACK PANTHERS! This is a fucking emergency situation.”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “And tell them to bring Funyons. I’m hungry.”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “I’d be okay with Chex Mix too. Just, you know, if Doctors Without Borders is out of Funyons.”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”


The Guy On My Couch: (rolls eyes)

Aunt Becky: “Can you stop giving me the Michael Scofield stare, PLEASE? To circumvent your next question, I do not have a fake-gold crucifix with which to help you turn off the electricity.”

The Guy On My Couch: “I think there’s more footage of Michael Scofield staring out the window than any other scene in the show.”

Aunt Becky: “It’s signifying that he’s working something out. You know, how in House, MD (pauses for a moment of silence), they’re always walking with House and talking as a way to show plot progression?”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “If he just was all, ‘I need a 12×14 cardboard box, a blue felt-tipped pen, and a pink starburst,’ it’d be all, ‘where the shitballs did that come from?’ Looking out the window gives his plans some credence.”

The Guy On My Couch: “What would Scofield use those for?”

Aunt Becky: “The box would be to send a message via carrier pigeon and the blue pen would be a red herring – the pink starburst? That’d be because they’re delicious.”

The Guy On My Couch: (laughs)

Gimmie the Pink Starburst and NO ONE GETS HURT!

Aunt Becky: “Well, they ARE. And where the shit is AAA to clean up my Diet Coke? You DID call them, right? You DID stress that this was a NATIONAL EMERGENCY, RIGHT?”

The Guy On My Couch: “…”

Aunt Becky: “Maybe the IRS can help.”

The Guy On My Couch: “What, are they gonna give you a tax break or something?”

Aunt Becky: “You never do know…” (gazes into the distance)

(several minutes elapse)

Aunt Becky: “If I made a baby with Wentworth Miller, would it cry in a British accent?

The Guy On My Couch: “You’re fired.”

Aunt Becky: “So are you. Where the fuck is the Red Cross?”

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