Before I left for the conference, I had a mountain of shit to take care of that included such important things as:

Make Hair Not Look Like Joan Jett/Mullet

and

Secure Total World Domination.

That meant that such other, minor things like, Teach Amelia To Speak and Make Appointment for Alex to Have Tongue Tie Surgery went into a folder in my inbox marked TAKE CARE OF THIS SHIT NOW.

Of course, it’s Thursday and I haven’t really touched any of that stuff, so making that folder was really just a front to make me FEEL as though I was accomplishing things when, in fact, I wasn’t. That’s precisely why I don’t make lists, actually.

My kid, however, loves them:

The only thing in my Folder of Shit I Need To Take Care of that I’ve managed to actually start on is Amelia’s speech. Bolstered by a number of you, who have sworn up and down that Baby Sign Language, I’ve started down that road.

Back in Junior High, we had to take a class that was called some acronym like HELP or DARE or SUCKS or something, that was clearly not very useful because I cannot remember it. But in that class, we had to, for a week or something, have a disability. I assume this was to make us more compassionate people, but I also think that the people who designed this should have probably realized that Junior High Kids are asswads and picked another age group to minister this lesson upon.

Anyway, I’d been (for whatever reason), hoping for Deaf, because I thought learning the sign language alphabet was cool.

So I was given the task of being Blind. Which, hi, I peeked when I had to pretend to spend the day in a blindfold like an asshole. I’m thankful I didn’t have to carry around a Bag of Flour Baby or pretend to be a mime because mime’s are scarier than anything else.

*shudders*

I then learned the ASL alphabet anyway to spite the stupid program who made me Blind when I wanted to be Deaf and still remember it to this day (I can also, I should add, recite the Preamble to the Constitution, which I had to memorize in 5th grade)(but what’s my middle name? I DON’T KNOW).

So far, I’ve learned the words for “poop,” “drink,” “star,” “ball,” and “syrup.” I’ve also ordered a couple of those “Signing Time” DVD’s that ALL of my Pranksters swear by.

I’d been hoping that being proactive with the Helping Amelia Learn To Speak Project (and hopefully not regress further, which, let’s face it, she can’t go back much further) would make me feel better. Despite my whole “I don’t plan things” I am a do-er.

Normally taking care of business makes me feel all accomplished, like I should pin a jaunty medal on myself that says, “I TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS, PEOPLE!”

(note to self: Make That Medal and Wear It Often so that I feel more self-important than normal.)

This time, however, it’s just not helping me feel better about my daughter.

It’s odd, because I’ve had a mute kid. I have an autistic older son and he didn’t speak for years and I never worried about it. Now, of course, he never shuts up, proving that “talking paint off walls” is a genetic trait.

But with Amelia, who was born with her brain hanging merrily out of her head, knowing that her speech is regressing leaves me with this nebulous worry that I cannot quite put my finger on. It seems more serious this time, like it could be something real, in a space where I previously figured–and was correct–that Ben would just do things on his own timetable.

So while I am teaching the other people in my house the signs for various and sundry things in an effort to feel like we’re not just shrugging our shoulders and letting the Amelia Speaks project flounder, I am filled with a sadness I just can’t place.

Maybe there’s a sign for that.

Although, I’m pretty sure that Amelia is saying…

It’s probably not a good idea to fly with me. If, for some reason, you want to go on vacation with me (you don’t), it’s best to meet me somewhere, because flying with me is sort of like being in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Minus, of course, the Family Truckster. And THAT’S only because planes don’t have wood paneling. Mostly.

Bright and blurry, Thursday morning I stood in the Special Line at the TSA Screening just waiting to see what the morning would bring. A strip search? A trip to the back room? Would I be able to board this flight? I simply wasn’t sure, but was anxious to find out. Big Girl was HUNGRY and ready to move on with her day.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long: my Barbie Pink bag was immediately singled out for Extra Searching, which was the least of my concerns, since, you know, I’d stopped packing my shotguns and napalm.

Turns out my BUSINESS CARDS, which I’d brought for no other reason than to explain that I was an Executive in AWESOMENESS, looked suspicious, and needed to be further investigated.

(shout out to my designer, who is amazing, reasonable and BRILLIANT: Robin, at Oppositional Design. You need her. I promise. I can also give you a recommendation for a printer if you need one, too. My cards are incredible. Mostly because I didn’t design them. Or they would suck balls.)

Anyway.

Got to NYC, and the hotel, of course, wasn’t ready. But when I finally got to my floor, it was the Suites Floor, where a shoe company was doing an expo. Which, hi, AWESOME, except that apparently a Sample Size for shoes is a size 6, which I am not. Apparently my size 8.5 makes me Bozo the freaking Clown in feet terms, so me and my boatish clown feet shuffled our canoe-like feet to our room.

Which was right across the hall from this:

Restricted Shoes.

What. The. Hell. Are. Restricted. Shoes?

I looked inside, because obviously, and I’m telling you, Pranksters, the shoes looked not like they were made of platinum and diamonds and nebulous black holes, but like…regular shoes.

I was so disappointed to realize that “Restricted Shoes” were also “Boring Shoes.”

I’d kind of hoped they were the shoes that ate your feet or gave you terrible rashes or were made out of the skin of dead saints or by extinct dodo bird feathers, but these shoes just looked…normal.

Talk about mislabeling AND misleading me. I considered suing them for misrepresentation until I realized that the shoe people were leaving that night.

My heart was sad. So were my gigantic boat feet.

I couldn’t believe I could even WALK in feet that big, now that I knew there were people out there walking around with a dainty size 6 foot. Then I wondered if they had toes. They couldn’t possibly have toes. My hugemongeous hobbit feet and I comforted ourselves knowing that the Size 6 people probably had no toes.

For the following (counts on fingers) bunch of hours, my super-sized feet and I got asked what our “plans” were.

Now, if you don’t know Your Aunt Becky, you wouldn’t know that she doesn’t really make plans. I’m more of a broad strokes person. I knew I would be GOING to NYC and going to my panel at 1:15 on Friday and an interview thing on Saturday at 11:00 and beyond that, *shrugs* I was going to see what happened.

What? The Type-A people on the other side of the screen are screaming. How could you not have any other PLANS beyond that?

And no, I didn’t. I never do. I always figure things will work out and I’ll have more fun if I wait and see what happens. There’s always SOMEONE around with the address of the party I’m supposed to attend and if not, well, I’ll do something else. I’m always content to make my own fun.

This, of course, drives my Planner Friends INSANE. Like, skull blowing off, brain matter spewing everywhere, insane. Which makes it all the more fun to be all, “uh, WHAT was I supposed to do next?”

So, when I came across this, at the Diesel Store, I was all, holy balls, Diesel took my motto:

And I laughed, because dude, Being Stupid is so much more fun. You should try it sometime.

Then, on the way back from dinner with my boss from Toy With Me (I love calling her my boss)(P.S. my column from yesterday is up about online dating), I saw what was on the SIDE of the Diesel Store and peed myself. And not just because I was drunk.

You’ll have to forgive the quality, but the iPhone 4 doesn’t take amazing night shots. It says:

Smart Has The Plans, Stupid Has The Stories.

You know what, Pranksters? I’ll take the stories any day. My ginormous feet and I will happily tread all over town like the village idiots that we are, plan-less and happy, making stories–and children cry–wherever we go.

Because if you’re stupid, you’ll never wish you were anywhere else.

Except not on a plane with me. Obviously.

Even after I publicly claimed that “I was unable to say no to most pranks,” no one in NYC actually dared me to do anything. That’s bullshit.

So while I was at this big fancy party thrown by Schick, I came up with a hybrid prank that I was dying to do.

Pranking, you see, runs in my family. My older brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, is a Master Prankster (I know, some of you are shocked that I share my near-perfect genetics with someone else. Let me reassure you that the moment that I was born, my mother decided to get spayed. She knew she’d looked in the face of perfection and could do no better. Actually, she looked at me and said, “Now THAT is a face only a mother will love! “

Yeah, that’s why I’m like this).

He was the sort that had a propane tank and Bunsen burner in his high school locker to make coffee and was well known both by the STC PD and his dean for getting into mischief.

So when I realized that the place that this party was being thrown was in the same fancy complex as Masa, one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in the world, I decided that what I wanted more than anything was to enact my Master Prank. It’s a hybrid on the Ferris Bueller Prank, but, well, better.

The Con:

Get a normal person to fake a celebrity to get a table in a fancy, exclusive restaurant on a busy night without a reservation.

The Players:

The Celebrity: A woman, dressed as eccentrically as possible, possibly her hair wet and disheveled (on a dry day), large sunglasses covering her face and acting like a total weirdo. Occasionally wander around lobby eating flowers, talking to paintings, and screaming incoherently into off cell phone. Also has a weirdly familiar three word name.

Security: A dude. Not necessarily a LARGE man, but someone who can act formidable. Sunglasses with wire rims a must. Full black suit. Facial hair for anyone younger than 30.

This is Hockey Man Dad, who is Angie’s husband.

The Handler/Assistant: Smartly dressed woman in one of those weird women’s suits with the skirts. Coordinated gold jewelry a must. Sensible heels and a well executed up-do. Choices were:

Angie Pangie

Heather

Both were also candidates for Celebrity Role as well.

Extras: Stock lobby with people who “know” the celebrity who can ask for autographs and gasp and say, “OHMYGOD, IT’S BECKY SHERRICK HARKS.”

The Prank

Show up to an exclusive restaurant without a reservation, “celebrity” acting like a total freak (which, in my case, isn’t hard to pull off) and demand a table. When the host/ess claims that there are no tables available, pull the “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?”

Clearly, they will not, because, well, the “celebrity” is a nobody.

Security will stand around, looking menacing while the Handler tries to convince the hostess that “Becky Sherrick Harks” really is not someone that this restaurant can afford the “bad publicity” to turn away. The three-name name is always a good one to pull out because it makes you sound like you are probably more important than you are.

Hope like hell no one has read your stupid blog or bothers to Google you to FIND your blog.

The “celebrity” should wander around the lobby acting like a total fool, eating the flowers, talking to inanimate objects and scaring the other patrons while security attempts to wrangle her.

Have lobby extras ask for autographs and pose for pictures with “celebrity” while handler talks with host/ess about getting the table. Have her go up management chain to secure table for “client.”

Make sure some of the extras gasp loudly and make a scene about “celebrity” and how awesome “celebrity” is.

Keep at the hostess for twenty or so minutes to see if you can actually manage a table out of them. If it does not work, leave in a threatening huff, promising that their restaurant will be on the next day’s paper. And on Twitter. Etc.

The Reason I Wasn’t Able To Pull It Off:

First, I was dressed normally that day, and was too tired to go back to the hotel to put on something zany and weird. Had I had even an ounce more energy, I would have gone back and found myself half of a fat suit to wear or something. And then gotten drenched. Getting wet is always a good cover.

Then, there was this, my security detail (who ALSO wasn’t dressed properly):

That’s me, attempting to look like I’m taking a picture with some REAL celebrity that was at the party I was attending. I’m from Chicago, and people from Chicago aren’t overly impressed by celebrity, unless it’s Britney Spears and OMFG, I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS.

But, my SECURITY detail, he was all FanBoy on the dude. So, I wasn’t able to wrangle him away.

We were down two essential players.

Plus, Heather was throwing the party and Angie was as tired as I was, so it just seemed like our hearts weren’t going to be into pranking.

Next year, though, I’m going to do something with THIS:

—————-

P.S. Are you impressed by celebrity? What celebrities have you met? Will you do this prank with me?

Like roughly 72% of the blog world, I was at that gigantic conference this weekend and to be completely honest, Pranksters, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d gone last year, and for the few of you who read me last year who still read me now, I didn’t have a particularly good time. 85% of my problem was this:

It’s not a very good likeness, for someone who looks more like this:

Anyone expecting a cartoon Russian Lady washing the floors were SOL.

So learn from me, Pranksters, if you are going to a conference and your avatar is a cartoon or a picture from 80 years ago, you may want to update it so that people know what you look like. Just, you know, saying.

The other problem was that the tone of the entire conference (or at least what I saw of it), just seemed…wrong. What I’ve always liked about blogging was the sense of community and I just didn’t see any of that. When I tried to insert myself into a group of people talking it was all “talk to the hand, Aunt Becky” and that? SADPANDA.

I couldn’t find mah friends (shocking, I know, but I have friends)(well, I pay them, but you know) and so by Day 2, when my son Alex got orbital cellulitis, I was out of there.

But this year, it just wasn’t like that. The blogging community seemed to be back to it’s community-centered roots and from the moment I got there to the moment I left, I was happy in the pants.

On Friday, due to some TERRIBLE miscalculation on BlogHer’s part, I was speaking on a panel with the Mouthy Housewives about giving advice in the blog world. We hadn’t really hashed out the details, but I figured that if all else failed, we could do a Dance Party audience participation bit.

When I was in high school and we had to do group presentations, that was always my go-to solution: dance-off’s. Who doesn’t like a dance-off? (answer: people who hate kittens and big-eyed puppies).

I showed up, our panel being DIRECTLY after lunch, and I was a little concerned that people would be all, “FOOD COMA, MUST NAP” and blow off the session, so I tweeted that anyone who didn’t show up would be hunted down and kicked in the taco. I mean, nothing like a little threat of vagina-punching to get the attendees rolling in.

AND THEY CAME. This gigantic room, which probably held 30 or 300 people (math is not my strong suit) it was FILLED UP WITH REAL PEOPLE. My Pranksters, you showed up. I would have cried, except that I have to pay someone to do that and I had no cash.

BlogHer is working on an audio-recording of it, so you can hear me say things like, “When I write, Magic comes out,” (or perhaps not), but for now, there’s a live-blog of it up here. You should comment on it and tell BlogHer that reading the live-blog made you cry because it was so moving. Just because it was actually hilarious. The whole session was hysterical and the room was in stitches most of the time. Although they may have been laughing AT us, but who cares?

The Mouthy Housewives are freaking awesome and we didn’t even need a Dance Contest to fill up the hour, although that sort of made me sad, because I could have busted out my wicked “Sprinkler” and “Mowing the Lawn” for you to see. (shut up, my dance moves RULE).

But I wanted to talk about something else, besides how grateful I am that you all voted for us to have this session (thanks, Pranksters!).

Disclaimer: while my session was about advice blogs, what follows is not about running an advice blog.

Someone who had a fairly serious blog–not an advice blog–let’s say it was about drug addiction, asked about other people who had found her blog and wanted her advice about drug addiction. She seemed unsure about what to do with these people who wanted her advice on this very serious topic.

My statement to her, which made about half of the room look at me as though I’d grown three heads, all of which had started singing, “Don’t Rain on my Parade:”

“You don’t owe the Internet anything.”

I immediately followed that up with, “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s true,” especially after seeing that everyone looked at me like I was the second coming of Alien.

I’d read something, I think it was actually on BlogHer’s website, about how other, Big Bloggers owed Smaller Bloggers a hand, and it had turned into a spirited discussion over there, but I feel this applies to any sort of, well, ANYTHING on The Internet.

Just because someone feels that they have a connection with you for some reason: drunken parents, teenage pregnancy, a couple of kids, abusive relationships, being a fellow blogger, infertility, WHATEVER, it doesn’t mean that you owe them anything. Especially not a solution to their problem.

Especially if the burden of helping them solve their problem will be something that drags you down as well.

For my friends, there’s very little that I wouldn’t do, and for my Pranksters, you know I love you all and will help you with whatever you need, because in turn, I know I can turn to each of you to help me out when I need a hand. There’s a give and take in a relationship like that, and I’m so fortunate to have found such an amazing community of people here. I don’t take that for granted–ever.

But for someone who finds me through clicking links or Google, then sends me a random email, and then expects that I can drop whatever I’m doing to help them increase their blog traffic? Or counsel them through xxx? I have no obligation to them. If I choose to help them, it’s my choice.

I don’t owe The Internet anything.

I can help my friends with whatever they need, but I don’t owe anybody anything. There’s a difference there, you see? It may be a fine line, but there is a line.

If you’re reading this and wondering if I’m talking about you, I’m not. Genuinely, if you’re a Prankster, then you’re one of my friends, of course I’ll help you if I can. But I don’t think it’s such a radical idea to assert that we don’t owe The Internet anything. You don’t have to help anyone just because they ask.

Putting yourself out there is enough. If you do want to help someone, that’s full of the awesome. If you don’t, that shouldn’t make you feel guilty. It’s not your job to solve the world’s problems and it doesn’t make you a bad person to say, “hey, I can’t handle talking about xxx anymore” or “I can’t help you with your problem.”

And you know what? I’ll probably help you, but not because I have to.

—————–

But I’m beyond interested to hear what you have to say about it, Pranksters. So tell me your thoughts on this: do you feel that you owe the Internet anything? Why or why not? Has anyone ever asked you for something that you simply felt uncomfortable about (besides, of course, the hot Russian spammers, who want your credit card numbers)?

When I entered the second grade, my mother dutifully signed me up for Brownies, which is sort of the baby version of The Girl Scouts (I THINK). I’d guess that I battled her for the honor because it seems like something she’d have been aghast by and something I would have found to be Full of The Awesome. Mostly because she hated it.

I proudly ran home from school after getting my poo-brown uniform and put it on. Back then, I was a sucker for anything that looked official.

Twirling in my mirror, even at 7, I knew it looked bad. The color was just…off.

But I looked official, and that’s what mattered to me. I strutted proudly around the house for awhile, alternating between marching and skipping, while my mother rolled her eyes at me. A couple of days later, she announced that I had to go to my first meeting.

Bwaaa?

Excuse me? I didn’t sign up for anything that required WORK. My mother laughed, the tables finally turned on me.

Dejected and annoyed by my lack of foresight, I trekked to the meeting and joined a bunch of ridiculously enthusiastic girls and their equally enthusiastic mothers who sat around in a semi-circle (women sitting in circles is something I would later be very, very afraid of).

They excitedly discussed how we could earn PATCHES!!! for our SASHES!!!! by doing THINGS!!!!

My own eyes began to roll back in my head as the meeting wore on and on. “Sisterhood” was discussed, as were things like overnight field trips and selling cookies. I was beginning to feel like the whole uniform thing really wasn’t worth the bullshit.

I never had any intention of selling anything and the very idea of sisterhood made me queasy and weak-kneed. I was pretty sure that I had to vomit and quickly.

At the next meeting, which my mother dragged me to, even after I faked the stomach flu and a fever of 109 degrees, it was time to make a “kneeling pad.” We had to sandwich two large pieces of vinyl between a piece of Styrofoam and stitch it up with green yarn. I wanted to actively kill myself, but I had no implements of destruction nearby. I considered trying to beat myself over the head with the Styrofoam, but I only managed to make it look like it was snowing.

On my head.

What the fuck was I going to do with a KNEEPAD besides try and smother my older brother with it?

My mother snickered when she saw me trudging back to the car with my creation.

“What the hell IS that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “We’re supposed to KNEEL on it or something.”

I’m pretty sure you could hear her laugh for miles.

My abysmal failure at selling any cookies when it came time to “FUNDRAISE!!!! GIRLS!!!” and my inability to earn a single patch, finally convinced her to allow me to quit. She’d never insisted I stick with anything I didn’t really like, and I’m sure she was tired of me bringing home my pathetic attempts at craft projects.

I mean, who could blame her? One of the cats started using the “kneeling pad” as a “peeing pad” and ruined one of the carpets and my older brother had actually broken a tooth on one of my attempts at making a ceramic cup. It was time to admit that I was never, ever going to cut it as a housewife.

Ha. If those scary Brownie People could only see me now…hey…wait a minute.

Shit. Is it too late to become a heiress?

In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t know what he was thinking, but I don’t know what I was thinking either. The gigantic pizza slice costume was one thing, but this, this was something else entirely. But nonetheless, there I was, standing in the middle of the pizza restaurant where I worked, in a Santa costume feeling stupider than I’d ever felt before.

The customers you could tell, were even a little embarrassed for me. I looked like an idiot. But the district manager had gotten the inane idea in his head that for having “Santa’s Helper” in the store for Christmas Eve would somehow bring flocks of customers in for lunch.

What he didn’t know could fill volumes. Sort of like the time he taken me aside, just as I’d gotten four new tables who were all waiting for me to get them drinks to whisper conspiratorially, “I think someone is stealing…cheese.”

But I needed the extra money because it was my son’s first Christmas, and as a single mother who was also in school full time, I took every shift that I could lay my grubby hands on. Debasing or not, it was money in my pocket.

Shockingly, no one actually wanted to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” I’m not sure if it was the yellowed, fraying beard, or the fact that my pants fell down about every third step that I took, or that I was obviously a very young female, but no one seemed interested. In fact, everyone seemed to avoid me, which was just as well. I used the time to get caught up on my homework. No rest for the wicked.

Finally, just before I was to go home to my son, some family was badgered into having their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” Perhaps they hadn’t seen me. Maybe they didn’t like their kid very much. Or maybe everyone just had a fantastic sense of humor. Who knows.

All that I do know is that they thrust their tiny baby onto my threadbare lap. And all that the baby knew was that one minute, she was burbling happily on her mother’s shoulder and the next, she was shoved onto this stinky scary bearded lady in an saggy red Santa Suit. She did the only sensible thing to be done in such a situation: she opened up her wee baby mouth and she bellowed. She screamed, she cried, and she wailed.

The picture was taken and a phobia of Santa was formed. This poor kid was going to grow up terrified of Santa. Jumping at holiday displays and wondering why the thought of Christmas always made her feel nervous and nauseous, always trying to get out of festive celebrations in favor of sitting in front of the television with her twelve cats and a pint of ice cream.

It would all be my fault.

Satan’s Little Helper.

Flying, for me, is never an easy feat. Not, you know, because I need to be medicated within an inch of my life to get on a plane or anything. I actually like to fly and am not a particularly nervous flier despite the whole nearly dying on the way back from LA thing that happened back in January.

(I submit that if I am to die on a motherfucking plane, there better be some motherfucking snakes, just because, you know, well, obviously)

But when I get on a plane, it’s always something with me.

Mostly, it’s because the world thinks I’m a terrorist or a super-secret-super-spy, which is probably the most laughable thing one could think about me because I can barely hide what I’m thinking, let alone if I were holding the world’s secrets in my bag or something.

(I do not play Poker, obviously, unless it is for pocket change)

This whole “Aunt Becky is a Terrorist” thing started when I was a kid, actually. I started getting pulled aside for extra searches long before 9-11 and the shoe bomber ever made headlines around the world.

When I was a kid, they’d often tear apart my stuffed animals in front of my stricken face to make sure that I wasn’t smuggling…uh…I don’t know what in them. Unsatisfied by the mere stuffing within, they’d move onto my luggage, and rip that apart, too.

Clearly, they never found anything. Your Aunt Becky may cop to many charges: ‘obnoxious,’ ‘painfully annoying,’ highly irritating,’ and ‘devastatingly handsome,’ but ‘terrorist’ and ‘drug smuggler’ are not two of them.

For some reason, every time I go through security, no matter what city I’m in, I’m constantly singled out for pat-downs, occasional strip-searches and the rare back-room interrogation.

My past is about as glamorous as dry toast, and while I have toured Europe (twice) with a traveling orchestra, it was never to any of the countries that might even raise an eyebrow. Even my current name: “Rebecca Sherrick Harks” or my given name “Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick” aren’t exactly inspired to make you think, ‘Wow, that’s a terrorist name!’

In fact, I am primarily Swedish, Scottish, English and Black Irish, if you must know my pedigree. My swarthiness comes from the Black Irish.

And you know, if it had happened a handful of times, I’d have written it off as a coincidence. But it’s happened far too often for that. There’s clearly something in My Permanent Record that says,

“Rebecca Sherrick Harks (a.k.a Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick), VERY bad blogger, likes to hang out in serial killer section of hardware stores, possible person of interest and should ALWAYS be subjected to extra security.”

It took me watching the full two seasons of Life, (boo, NBC, bring that show back!) to realize what my problem was: I do kinda look a little Middle Eastern.

I guess this means that until I remarry someone with a TOTALLY vanilla name (I’m looking at YOU Mr. John Smith), dye my skin and hair, I’ll probably always get a little action with my plane ticket.

Which, I guess, is a bonus.

Remind me not to pack my teddy bear, okay?

——————–

P.S. LOOK ON MY SIDEBAR! See that big button that says, “Aunt Becky Tees?” Yes, Pranksters, you can buy a Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt now. Um, AWESOME.

For probably *counts on fingers* I don’t know, a LOT of years, I’ve been getting the same hair cut. A simple blunt cut to my shoulders that I eventually let grow out until I cut it back up again. Once in awhile I’ll put in a funky color or add some layers, but really, that’s about it. I’m not one of those people who looks good in trendy hair cuts so I leave those to people who do.

I blame my inability to venture out into the land of sassy haircuts on two things:

1) My mother gave me bangs in the third grade. These bangs started at approximately the nape of my neck and went to the bottom of my eyebrows. She’d cut them in a straight line across every couple of weeks. I STILL shudder when I think of bangs.

2) In a stunning fit of “I WILL LOOK LIKE AN ADORABLE PIXIEEEEE!” I allowed my friend Rory, who is neither a hairdresser, nor a great judge of anything to give me a haircut when I was in high school. The result?

I looked like a boy. I’m not a girl who can pull of that adorable pixie do no matter how hard I try.

So I stick with what looks mostly okay.

May, 2010

College Graduation, 2005.

Alex’s first birthday, 2008.

But this week, desperate for a little change, I figured I’d do something different. Which is probably not the brightest thing to do when you’re about to meet 2,000 people you’re trying to convince you’re not a Crazy Internet Middle Earth Person.

Luckily, I never claimed that my elevator ran to the top floor, so that’s precisely what I did when I went into get my hairs did. I said, “I need to do something different with my hair.”

I came out nearly sobbing. I called one of my Internet Friends, Jen, and said, “I LOOK LIKE FUCKING JOAN JETT. COME OVER NOW.”

And she did. Because I did.

Words cannot describe how upset I was until I broke out Mommy’s Little Helper:

And had a brilliant idea. Because the best ideas are always formed when you are half-drunk.

With a hair clip, lifted handily from my daughter’s unused collection, all was fixed.

Except, maybe, for my killer hangover the following morning.

——————

So pull up a chair and pour yourself a tall glass of vodka, Pranksters, and tell your Aunt Becky about your worst hair cut. Misery loves company, and all that.

—————

I’m over at Toy With Me today talking about how when you look good (heh), you feel better about yourself. Turns out that maybe Cosmo was right about something after all.

Did you ever see that movie where those yuppies sold all of their crap and RV-d it across America? THAT’S AWESOME and I TOTALLY want to do that. Except I wouldn’t bring my children because while they’re kinda cute and lovable, I really don’t want to deal with them complaining about stopping at seedy truck stops while I search for a lighter that looks like a gun.

(side note: I adore truck stops)(one time, I had a fantasy where I was going to BECOME a trucker until I realized it’s kind of a dangerous profession for a woman)

Anyway, I like to pretend that one day, I’ll be able to do just that: roam the country and hang out with my Pranksters. Perhaps I’ll even get drunk, make an ass of myself (which I do sober, too) and vomit on your carpeting! I know, don’t all line up to invite me over at once, hear?

For now, I have to settle for NYC at the end of the week, where I’ll hopefully meet at least SOME of my Band of Merry Pranksters.

Now I will attempt to answer a question I get a lot (also questions I get a lot: “why are you so annoying?” (answer: I was born that way) “why does anyone put up with you?” (I pay them highly) and “how do I get more blog traffic?” (mayonnaise!)):

Are you really like this?

And the answer is…yes. Mostly.

1) I really do want to meet you. I offered to exchange phone numbers a couple of weeks ago, and I meant it. My offer still stands, although I will pester you to then send me a picture of you flipping me the bird. I’m attempting to populate my address book with these gems.

So email me. I mean it.

2) If you happen to see me and I have a weird look on my face, I am probably very confused. I take high doses of a medication whose side effect is “cognitive impairment,” which is a fancy-pants way of saying, “this shit will make your ass stupid (er).” So, it’s likely I’m making a bad face because I am confused by something, not because I hate you.

3) Please come and say hello to me no matter what I am doing. Because chances are, even if I am in the middle of writing a thesis about why sausage is sorely underrepresented in today’s billboards (WHY GOD!?!), I’d much rather you said hello. And maybe came along to join in with whatever mischief I am managing.

C) With a few notable (read: my panel) exceptions, I have very little planned for the trip, which leaves the trip WIDE OPEN for all kinds of Pranking and Mayhem-Creating. I expect your help in this. Yes, YOU.

7) You should come to my panel, if you’re going to the conference.

It’s on Friday from 1:15-2:30 and I’m speaking with the Mouthy Housewives about stuff-n-things. Luckily, it’s on Friday, so we should all be fairly lucid. Mostly.

You will know me because I am the only swarthy dark-haired one.

5b) I’m perhaps a little nicer in real life, but that’s maybe subject to debate. I guess it depends on what your definition of “nice” is. But I’m not going to be all snarky on your ass if I don’t know you. I do have SOME manners. And by “some” I mean that I’m mostly housebroken.

9) I can’t say no to most dares. But I’ll make you reciprocate with a dare of your own. BE WARNED.

K) I may hump you while I eat a hot dog. It’s probable, actually. Sorry.

10) I have a gigantic inflatable #1 finger. It’s pretty much awesome and I plan to use it whenever possible.

87) I want to remake the Beastie Boys “Sabotage” video while we’re in NYC. With Ninjas. Because, obviously.

aa) I may spend all of my time trying to track down my 2nd television husband, Anthony Bourdain. I may not.

08) Once I get an idea in my head about doing something off the wall, I can’t stop myself from doing it. If you’re with me and I’m in the middle of it, yes, I probably mean it. It’s better to either get out or buckle up.

42) Pictures = awesome. But we may have to find hilarious poses first. Because you don’t want to look back and be all, “wow, another stupid picture.” You want a hilarious picture of us flinging donuts at other (unassuming) bloggers. Then you want a picture of us being chased by aforementioned bloggers. CLEARLY.

11) There really is very little I won’t do.

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So, Pranksters, are You, In Real Life, how you appear on your blog?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Just 3 weeks ago, I found out that my boyfriend of 7 years has been sleeping with an ugly, stupid woman he works with.  He used to make fun of her all of the time by forwarding her emails to me and to other people in her office.

Her emails contained such gems as “I am staying home with a migrant today.”  She meant “migraine,” but everyone speculated that she had swung by Home Depot and picked up a guy for the day.  She also claims that things aren’t “worth her wild.”  I still have those emails.  What should I do?

You’re the best!

ThreeBadDogs

Oh, Prankster, how my heart hurts for you, because I have SO been there before, and I can tell you that it’s bad enough when someone cheats on you, but it’s THAT MUCH WORSE when it’s someone with half a brain. Or someone who is, perhaps, butt-ugly WITH half a brain.

So I’m sorry. That’s lousy and I have total sympathy. It’s happened to me twice and it’s brutal.

As for what you should do with the emails, I can suggest posting them on Mushroom Printing (it’s the group blog and you can post them over there if you choose), and I’ll ask my other Pranksters for advice here as well. What should she do with these emails?

Dearest Aunt Becky,

I have a dilemma that I would love your advice on. I’m not close to any of my real aunts and I don’t have any sisters, but you are the best Aunt of the Internet out there so I figured you could help. Forgive me that it’s a bit long.

Anyway, I am having a problem with men. Just like every other woman in the world. However, I feel like my own judgment can’t get any worse and I need to dig myself out of this hole I am in.

I am 19 years old. I dated a much older man for about two months. He was mostly good to me and we had a great time together. Amazing chemistry. I found myself falling in love with him very, very fast and equally hard! I was head over heels for this guy (still am…) and I would do anything for him. Including “understanding” him being with his ex-girlfriend. They had a history and clearly he wasn’t ready to let go of her, although they broke up over a year ago. He stopped seeing her altogether when we were dating. In my naive little mind, things were going my way. Then, all the sudden, he meets up with his ex, they “talk” and she ends up spending 2 nights at his house, all while he ignores my calls and ruins our plans together.

So I was done with him. Extremely broken hearted and deeply in love, the last time I saw him was when I left his house sobbing so hard I couldn’t even drive straight.

Fast forward to the present day, about 3 weeks later. I met a really nice guy on July 4th. We have been dating since. However, I find myself really…not myself in this relationship. Normally I am sweet, fun, flirty, and very affectionate. I tend to get close to people quickly.

This hasn’t happened with the new guy.

I like him a lot, he’s a very sweet guy and nothing like the last prick I dated. I just find myself not caring if he calls me, not caring if he wants to see me, and not caring about…him in general.

I feel so numb from my last relationship that I don’t give a shit if I get close to this guy. I really, really want to give a shit, though. I want to be my old self. I want to let my guard down. But I feel like the last guy broke my heart so bad that it can’t even function.

I’m way too young to even be in this situation. Aunt Becky, what the flying fuck do I do?!

Much love,

Lauren

Aw, sweetie, I’m sorry you got your heart trampled on. Same thing happened to me at that age and I STILL remember driving away from his house sobbing like a baby (aside: I am not sure I have a heart anymore, but that is neither here nor there). When we fall, we fall hard, huh?

Anyway, that’s a good thing that you can love so deeply, even if it hurts now. Sometimes, we need time to get over the people we loved before we can let ourselves open up to someone new. It sounds to Your Aunt Becky like your heart is still hurting from the one who broke your heart before and that’s okay. There’s no time limit on the length of time it takes to get over something like that.

I think the people we loved are always a part of us even when we’re no longer together.

That love you had changed who you were forever. Maybe for now, you’re a little more wary of opening up to someone new, but I promise, you will be able to love someone again. Just give yourself time to mourn what you lost before expecting yourself to bounce right back.

Love you, Prankster. Hard.

Dear Aunt Becky,

In the few months I’ve been following your blog, I’ve tried to come up with a suitable question for you. Unfortunately my mind seems to be stuck on a single question and until I ask it, I’m not going to be able to think of another. So, would you rather watch a porno with your parents, or one starring them?

Mystern

The answer is simple, my good friend: mayonnaise.

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As always, Pranksters, please fill in with the comments where I left off, yo.