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Now I’m not a hoarder. I’m not even very sentimental.

(you’ll note that I am decidedly NOT a hoarder because every time someone comes over, I try to send them home with everything from Orchids to children)

I watch Hoarders as inspiration to clean my fucking house, and I’ll tell you that it has worked to curb any impulse buying I may or may not have experienced (so, so sorry, The Target, for breaking up with you like this. I know I should have done it more personally, but hey, you read my blog).

I’m also not attached to my stuff. Not most of it, at least. I’d throw down some fisticuffs if you threatened Big Mac II or my iPad. It’s not, however, because they remind me of “greener days,” and “happier times,” but because they allow me to work. Or try to get more than one star on those stupid Angry Birds game. Which is more complex than actual work, but I digress.

My Son: *carrying around a baby doll*

Aunt Becky: “Why are you carrying around that doll?”

Ben, My Son (Not the Guy on my Couch*): “We’re playing Oregon Trail at school and Sam needed a boy baby.”

Aunt Becky: *thinks about how awesome it would be to make the doll have “dysentery.” *

Ben: “It’s for school.”

Aunt Becky *still bitter that the i(can’t)Phone version or Oregon Trail is neither gory or has fun as it used to be. These are probably related events*. “Oh? What are you doing with it?”

Ben: “I told you. Sam needs a baby boy.”

Aunt Becky *grumbles* “Like THAT clears it up for me.”

Ben: “I have to bring it.”

Aunt Becky *looks at the stained baby and recalls how she’d lovingly gotten it for her then-five-year-old son Ben who was about to become a big brother*: “Ben, no. You can’t take it.”


Aunt Becky: “Why?”


Aunt Becky: “So you’re going to bring it to school and probably forget it there, right?”

Ben: “Yes.”

Aunt Becky: “NO.”


Aunt Becky: “The doll’s for Sam, not you. If you need something to signify a baby that badly, take a stuffed animal instead.”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “You have your teacher call me and tell me why you need to bring this particular doll in.”

Ben: *stomps off in the way only a histrionic 10-year old can.*

Aunt Becky (to herself): “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Two adult male voices chime in simultaneously: “Waco.”

Turns out, Pranksters, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of that baby doll; the one he’d once named Seth.

*my BFF who moved here to start a new life.

…Post a picture of something random then link to this post. Which I wrote. I love it. I can’t read the comments, but I love the post.

And no, I wasn’t talking about you – ANY of you.

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.

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