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Last night, after I punched myself in the ‘nads for fucking with my roses too early, I got online and began to work on a resource page for teen mental illness.

Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you: I KNOW HOW TO PARTY.

When I was as done as I was going to be, I IM’d my friend, Tooks, to proof the page which was approximately the size and shape of a novel, and included such phrases as “fuck yeah, teens can have mental illnesses.”

(my teen pregnancy pages notes that one of the symptoms of pregnancy is “a baby coming out of your vagina.”)


Aunt Becky: “Hey, can you proof teen mental illness for me?”

Tooks: “Sure.”

Aunt Becky goes to work on another page while watching a video about dancing hamsters.

Tooks: “I don’t know if kids are going to understand the phrase ‘Drink the Kool-Aid.”

Aunt Becky: “…”

Immediately takes to The Twitter:

“Was just informed that kids might not understand the phrase, “drink the Kool-Aid. WHAT’S WRONG WITH KIDS THESE DAYS?”

“APPARENTLY, we need a new cult with a suicide pact.”

“That came out wrong. DON’T DO DRUGS, KIDS. STAY IN SCHOOL.”

I then turned to the two male occupants of my house, “You DO know what drinking the Kool-Aid means, right?”

Ben (The Guy On My Couch): “Yeah, it’s about Waco.”

Aunt Becky: “No. It’s not. Waco had the fires.”

Ben: “And the Kool-Aid.”

Aunt Becky: “Not all cult massacres involve Kool-Aid. Oh wait, didn’t those comet people use Kool-Aid too?”

Ben: “The Hail-Bopp comet?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, they were in California.”

Ben: “No, they were in Texas.”

Aunt Becky: “No, that was Waco.”

Ben: “Well, that was before California joined the Union.”

Aunt Becky: “It was in like 1996.”


Aunt Becky: “Not all cults stem from Waco, Ben.”

Ben: “…”

Aunt Becky: “Like the Jonestown Massacre – WHERE THEY DRANK THE KOOL-AID.”

Ben: “That was also in Waco.”

Aunt Becky: “No, that was Jim Jones. In AFRICA.”

Ben: “Africa is in Waco, right?”

Aunt Becky: “I thought I was bad with geography.”


Looks at kids who have thrown cushions around the room, “Guys, pick up the cushions or I’ll go all Waco on you.”

Two sets of eyes rolled simultaneously, as they did, in fact, pick up the cushions.


I can’t wait to try the Branch Davidians method of getting them up in the mornings. Got my iPod and my stereo all ready to play some AC/DC. At 11.

Because it GOES to 11.

I don’t make lists.

Or, I should say, I don’t make GOOD lists. Every time I get overwhelmed by the sheer amount of dancing cactus videos on YouTube, I tell one of my Type-A friends that I am overwhelmed by the volume of dancing cactus videos. Rather than simply GO THROUGH THEM ALL AND TELL ME WHICH ONES ARE GOOD (in spreadsheet form, natch), they say the same words. ALWAYS the same words.

“Make a list.”

And every time, I’m all, “these are Type A people – they have color-coding and highlighters – they MUST know what they’re talking about.”

So I start a list:

  • Watch dancing cactus video
  • Drink Diet Coke
  • Fantasize about owning boxing nun
  • Google directions to nearest nunnery
  • Pour cup of coffee
  • Realize I’ll probably spontaneously combust should I step onto the sacred soil
  • Wonder what nuns do all day
  • Assume it’s not watch dancing cactus videos
  • Go onto next dancing cactus video

Then I realize that I’ve spent 46 minutes making a list that’s now stressing me out because, well, THAT’S A LOT OF SHIT TO DO, I’D RATHER JUST DO IT AND NOT HAVE TO STOP AND WRITE IT DOWN, THANK YOU TYPE-A PEOPLE.

I rip up my lame-ass list and roll my eyes any time anyone says the words “Type” and “A” together in a sentence. Because who wants to make lists? The same people who thrive off Post-It Notes. NOT SANE PEOPLE.

I woke up this morning and realized I wanted to make a list. Not a “life list,” (life list is apparently pretentious hipster-speak for being able to write things like, “climb the summit of a tall mountain wearing my Northface Jacket” and “drink fine wine on the backs of starving children.”) because those are lame, but a list of things I’d like to do someday, but, through the actual act of living a life in which every time I make a “plan,” things go horribly awry, so I’ll probably never get to do. Ever.

(Unfair Jab at Pretentious Hipsters: But hey, at least I’m good with straight-up iodized salt rather than sea salt carefully culled from the bottom of the dead sea, then breathed upon by unicorns until it made it’s way onto my $145 dollar entree.)

Return a movie on time to Blockbuster

Eat chocolate cake in the bath in a poufy dress

Figure out how many licks it takes to beat someone to death with a Tootsie Pop

Give up on the idea that Jen and Brad are EVER going to get back together

Get over my unresolved anger at Angelina Jolie and her sanctimonious pillowy lips

Find and purchase 2 smaller, angrier birds (the Winklevoss Twins!) to set deliberately behind Mark Zuckerberg

Use a Post-It note successfully – not just for lobbing insults in adorable wee form.

Buy all items on this screen AT ONCE

Especially the testicles. Because obviously.

Figure out why the hell someone made a testicle self-exam kit.

Figure out why a testicle self-exam kit costs $114

Inform everyone I know that this, in fact, is what I want for my birthday

Buy a cell phone that actually makes calls.

Become BFF with Tom from Myspace. That dude was EVERYBODY’S friend.

Immortalize Tom from Myspace in tacky lawn ornament form.

Figure out what happened to Justin Timberlake, you know, the guy who started Napster?

Punch someone while they’re in the middle of their “If you can dream it, you can DO it,” speech. BECAUSE I HAD A DREAM TOO, MOTHERFUCKER, AND IT’S BEEN RUINED.

Admit that I haven’t actually HAD a dream to ruin, so there’s that.

Get three stars on an Angry Birds level so that I can do a victory dance, tell The Twitter, then realize how lame I’ve become.

Meet someone from Delaware IN THE FLESH.

Become a real-life troll, and stand in the middle of The Target yelling “You’re fat!” and “You’re ugly!” until I am arrested.

Take the Route 66 road-trip through the States. With or without Mark Zuckerberg as my copilot.

Get raptured.

Get UN-raptured because Heaven is Bullshit.

Wear my Shut Your Whore Mouth to a Middle School Function.

Figure out what the hell Stumble Upon actually does.

Punch John C. Mayer in the ‘nads. Alternately, immortalize him in tacky lawn-ornament form.


What do YOU want to do, Pranksters? Alternately, what do you think *I* should do?


Meet Mark Zuckerberg:

He’s dating The Bloggesses Beyonce.

He’s also the culmination of approximately 291,727 years of work on my house.

Some people, they get stressed and eat a cake. Others drink a bottle of wine. Still others go on mad shopping sprees until they’ve amassed a houseful of garbage and appear on Hoarders so that I may watch and then go clean my house obsessively.

When my kids were little and I got stressed, I’d vacuum. My formerly white carpets were spotless* whenever I had a particularly bad week (read: year). They were too small for me to bundle up and take out back so I could do what I really wanted: to get into my garden.

I know there are babies out there (reportedly) who sit in things like “strollers” and “hang out calmly,” but I’m telling you Pranksters, THOSE BABIES WERE NOT MINE. I got more snide comments from people – “well, I didn’t GIVE my child the option to NOT ride in the stroller,” during those years. I never responded with – but should’ve – “wanna give it a shot with them? How far can you take ‘em before DCFS gets called due to reports of child abuse?”

I’ve owned three strollers. One was a shitty Graco stroller that made an uncanny clicking noise when we walked. Ben – as a baby – screamed whenever he got near it**. The second was an umbrella stroller I could occasionally coax my then-five year old son Ben into. The third was the Cadillac of Strollers (some overpriced Bumbleride), which I bought for Alex. That fucker is still sitting in my garage like an albatross, reminding me that I could’ve WAITED to see if my child would actually allow me to put him down.

(answer: no. Not ever)

Anyway, when they were small, gardening went like this:

Aunt Becky: “I’m going outside to garden.”

Daver: “Can you take the kids?”

Aunt Becky: “No, I’m working in thorny roses.”

Daver: “Okay.”

Then the kids would stand sadly at the window, like a pile of weeping puppies, pointing at me until I let them outside.

I got nothing done unless it was naptime or bedtime (for babies).

That’s a fucking shame: the previous occupants of my home had let the landscaping done by the previous PREVIOUS occupants go to shit – the house was shrouded in bushes. My house, overgrown with bushes, looked remarkably like a serial killer lived here.

This was AFTER I’d removed a couple of bushes.

Turns out the seventies bush wasn’t just for pubic hair.

I was super embarrassed. Like, you can only claim, “it’s from the previous occupants” for so long before people start rolling their eyes.

So my front yard was full of bushes. My backyard was full of patchy grass and fake flowers.

Yes. Those are fake flowers. In the middle of February. It took a long fucking time to get rid of all that shit.

Luckily, I have. My house, while still a horrifying shade of yellow (the insurance quote only noted hail damage on TWO of the four sides = fuckers), is finally becoming something I’m not entirely horrified to show off.

I planted a rose garden. The gutter guy totally knocked one over and I am thinking about paying him a “visit” with my “shovel.”

I planted more roses. And gardened in a swim suit.

(don’t judge – I had the stomach flu)

So thank YOU, to the stress of the last few months, for allowing me to whip my yard into shape.

I think it’s time for a Prankster-Only Encased Meat Festival. Who wants in?

*yet still dingy – I need new carpeting. Terribly.

**He also, I should report, screamed when the sun shifted to a forty-five degree angle, any time anyone said the word, “the” and from 4-10PM on every day that ended in “day.”

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