I’m back — Did you miss me? Let’s raise our coffee mugs and beer steins and whatever else you have to Aunt Becky, who is out of Internet coverage and has recruited me to fill in as only your friendly neighborhood The Daver can. Thanks to all who sent Daver-friendly questions! Now gather ’round, gather ’round, and let’s all use our inside voices today, because The Daver is trying to catch up on his sleep thanks to being on Mr. Mom duty for several days.

Dear The Daver,

-Manda

Hi Manda,

I know that when people thought Ben was mine, I was always kinda flattered. I mean, I didn’t want to take credit, but he and I were Best Buds from the day we met, so I was perfectly happy to be in pictures or have someone guess wrong. I mean, sure, it was a little disconcerting at first — here I was, walking in to this person’s life, and I wasn’t expecting to become a capital-D-Dad so quickly, but in a way it just…happened. I loved him and wanted the best for him, and my biggest fear was measuring up to that.

Changing the way others perceive things is impossible; we had to put my last name on Ben’s school records because otherwise the school calls and asks for “Mrs. Ben’s-last-name” (NOT what she wants to be called, thankyouverymuch), and the mailman marks mail for him with a “here?”. To this day people comment on Ben’s resemblance to me. If I tried to correct all of them, I’d never have a conversation that didn’t involve explaining my ‘special’ relationship with my son. So I just say, “He sure is good looking, isn’t he?” and laugh later on.

So I’d say the only person you need to worry about is your boyfriend — talk to him about those awkward moments, have a laugh about the way people assume stuff, and tell him what YOU expect. Then when it happens again — because it WILL — you can give him a knowing look and he can play the role as much or as little as he’s comfortable doing, because he knows where you and your daughter stand — and those are the people he’s most concerned about anyhow.

-d

Hey, The Daver!

Love,
The NOT girlfriend.

Oh, NOT girlfriend,

Alas, I don’t have psychic powers and I can’t see into his head to tell you for sure, but I have to ask you this: what do YOU want? If using the terms ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’ to describe your relationship is important to you, then it’s important to understand why he’s so adamant not to be called those terms. Perhaps a previous relationship went too fast into those terms and it spooked him? Maybe he doesn’t want to jinx a good thing? Getting guys to talk about this stuff can be tricky, but if it’s upsetting you then he needs to know, and he needs to know why. Rather than just asking him to go ‘formal’, sit him down and share with him how it makes you feel, how he makes you feel, and what it would mean to you to use those terms, and give him an opportunity to open up about it. If he shares honestly, give him a BJ as a reward*, to encourage further sharing. 🙂

What you don’t want to have is the doubt you feel about this seemingly minor terminology issue turn into doubt about the relationship as a whole. If the terms don’t match the usual terms, that’s one thing (Becky calls me “fart-face” or “asshole” more than “husband”) but if the commitments you expect aren’t there on both sides, that’s another, and you don’t want that to cloud the good stuff, or fester into something more serious.

He’d better not be waiting for a ‘better’ chick, though. Besides the fact that he’ll be waiting a long time, because OBVIOUSLY, that’s just a dick move, and we may need to put his balls in a jar.

-d

*that one’s for you, SciFi Dad. But I’m only half kidding. Less than half.

Dear The Daver,

-MiniPeds-

Hey -MiniPeds-,

From personal experience being this very boyfriend, let me tell you: make him an appointment, and take him to it. This is not something that gets better on its own, and while depressed, it is unlikely that the idea of getting better registers enough to stir real action in him. Obviously, if you make the appointment and he outright refuses or gets upset with you, you can take a step back, but chances are pretty good that he’s not doing it because he’s just…not doing it. We depressed people tend to feel like making appointments not mandated by jobs or life is an awful lot of effort, and we’re already spending most of what we’ve got on the other stuff, so maybe next week I’ll feel better…

Now that my symptoms are managed, I’m so thankful that Becks made me go. And that she called me an idiot for stopping my meds when I felt better, and took care of me when I crashed after stopping my meds (even though she told me I was an idiot), and got me back on them. I learned my lesson, as most people who face this kind of thing do: the hard way. Having her to get me through the consequences of my mistakes changed everything.

So good luck. He’s lucky to have you.

-d

As always, agree, disagree, and help these kind folks out better than me in the comments!

When I dropped her off at the airport the other day, Becky gave me a smooch, hopped out of the car, grabbed her carryon, and started to turn toward the entrance, when she stopped.

She looked back to me and said, “Hey! I asked a few people to guest post but they might not have had time to put anything together. If you don’t get something, just post something for me, okay?”

“But-”

“OK, I’m off! See you soon!” she blew one last kiss to me and scurried in to the terminal to get strip-searched or whatever by TSA. I looked up and as I started to drive back home, I could feel the weight growing: but the Pranksters….they are accustomed to QUALITY! And I’m just a hack who posts a few times a month. How will I measure up? How will I fulfill the RSS-pectations of all these lovely people who crave their daily dose of Aunt Becky??

So I did the same thing I did in college: I procrastinated. I tweeted, I watched Fringe, I played with the kidlets, I poked around on my computer. And now here we are! The time has come! I must…POST!

…

…

OK. The Mailbox Incident, or Ways I Hope I Never Mess Up My Kids.

I was maybe 7 years old. My parents were teachers, in a church-run school, so I spent a lot of time hanging around the church waiting for them to finish up whatever it was they were doing. And then, when they would say that it was time to leave, someone would catch them in the hallway and they would chat for a while longer. So I’d meander away, trying to drag them with sheer force of will away from whomever they were chatting with and out to the car.

One day, a pleasant spring day not unlike today ( see, there WAS a tie-in!), my mom was talking about God-knows-what boring stuff, and I wandered outside to the courtyard, thinking about getting home and riding my bike or something. I was into spy stories, and I’d read about spies leaving notes in special places, so I started imagining where my spy contacts would have left me notes. Near the door of the building was GIGANTIC mailbox, like a foot tall and two feet deep, and I thought to myself, “this flag on the mailbox — I never see it used — this would be perfect to tell someone that something was waiting!” So I flipped up the flag, and started to turn and hide while my imaginary spy friends picked up the imaginary note I left them, when —

My mom came running out of the door! “David!” she almost shouted, and I got that tingly feeling like I knew something bad was about to happen.

“David! You can’t touch that flag! That’s tampering with the mail, that’s a federal offense!” she said, and I felt weak in the knees and wanted to cry. I *knew* what a federal offense meant. It meant TORTURE so they could make me TALK! If they caught me I would never see my family again! I quickly flipped the flag back down and, fighting back fearful tears, walked to the car with my mom.

To this day, whenever I put mail out in my mailbox, I feel compelled to look around Very Carefully before flipping up the flag. They might be watching.

OK, Pranksters, since Becky is off in the ocean somewhere living it up and Internet access on a cruise is like 17 gazillion dollars a minute, she begged convinced the lovely Heather Spohr of The Spohrs Are Multiplying to fill in for her today. Which is totally RAD.

So enjoy, and don’t forget to ask me questions for this Sunday’s Go Ask The Daver!

— your The Daver.

—

So that lucky vagina Becky is on a cruise, leaving the rest of us at home, on dry land, totally not enjoying all you can eat food or questionably dressed passengers. Or tons of things to do, gorgeous pools, and warm weather. Or people waiting on you hand and foot, beautiful views, and did I mention the all you can eat food?

Some people have all the luck.

I have been on a cruise once in my life. When I was 21 and a senior in college, one of my friends got the idea that a cruise would be a great way to spend spring break. It caught on like wildfire, and suddenly everyone I knew was going. Well, OK not EVERYONE I knew, but there were twenty three people going. I begged my parents for the money to go, (IT WILL BE OUR LAST HURRAH! WE’RE SENIORS! WHY DON’T YOU LOOOOOVE MEEEEEEEEEEE?!), and I soon found myself on a cruise ship to Mexico.

I get insane motion sickness – cars, planes, boats, you name it, I get sick. Before I left for the cruise, my doctor wrote me a prescription for a seasickness patch that went right behind my earlobe. It was AMAZING. I was never sick, even when the seas were crazy and all my friends had their heads in buckets. I felt invincible.

You know what made me feel even MORE invincible? Alcohol. I didn’t know it at the time, but sea sickness patch…enhanced…the effects of alcohol. They should probably put that on the label. After two drinks, I was good to go. Of course, being 21 years old, I never stopped at two. That would have been RESPONSIBLE.

On one of the first nights, I had a few glasses of champagne, and I suddenly had a moment of clarity: I was related to George W. Bush! I started to tell all my friends. “You guys…I have to tell you that he’s my uncle. It’s awkward sometimes because we differ politically, but he’s family and I am suuuuuper close with the twins.” I told strangers. I told the wait staff. I pretty much convinced everyone I was related to the president. And by convinced everyone, I mean I became notorious as a total drunk whack job.

Another night, I enjoyed a few more glasses of champers, then went dancing. After we left the boat’s club, we went up to the late-night buffet. While we waiting for our drinks to arrive, I became completely parched. So I reached for the water on the table and brought it up to my mouth. So what if it happened to be a vase full of flowers?

Needless to say, I have yet to live either of those incidents down. And now I’m pretty sure my parents are going to demand I repay them the money they spent.

Becky, if you try to convince people you’re related to Obama, I will love you forever. But don’t drink vase water. It doesn’t taste good.

In roughly two hours, I’m leaving for my cruise, which is pretty much full of WIN for me and pretty much full of LOSE for my family. I’m traveling alone down to Florida to meet up with Angie because stupid CHICAGO doesn’t have a stupid OCEAN it’s rapidly losing whatever awesomeness quotient it had. Chicago, I am moving away.

I’ve been on a cruise once before as a broke college kid and they put us in what HAD to have once been servant’s quarters, but I’ll tell you that it was awesome. Even when we hit a major storm and everyone started yacking in the hallways like the Great Pie Eating Contest in Stand By Me, it was pretty much the best vacation ever. My friends didn’t have a very good time, but I did.

I mean, it’s a big boat in the middle of the ocean. Occasionally, when you sail close to hostile countries, you get surrounded by men with semiautomatic weapons. What’s not to love?

This time, I’m going to relax, workout, get a motherfucking tan and write. I have a lot of writing to do on my book and a lot of thinking to do. I know, that makes me sound very deep and meaningful, but it’s true. YOUR AUNT BECKY, a THINKING person. Who would have THOUGHT it?

(answer: not me)

I’m hoping to come back with a camera full of hilarious pictures. It’s going to be like BINGO for Cruising Bloggers. This is what I want:

1) A picture of someone in a tuxedo shirt

2) Someone with a mullet

3) Someone with a SHE-mullet

4) Someone using a garbage bag for luggage

I’m not sure quite what else to expect, but I’m sure that will be an excellent start.

I’ve gotten a couple of guest posts lined up, and The Daver will be doing Go Ask The Daver this week, so if you want THE DAVER to answer your questions, go ahead and submit them to Go Ask Aunt Becky in the sidebar (if you don’t, he’ll just answer some Go Ask Aunt Becky questions). He’s more thoughtful and nicer than I am anyway and it’ll take him like 10 hours to write the column so that will be HILARIOUS if you do it. I can’t wait to get back and see what you make him do.

SPEAKING of book stuff, Dave will be home with The Sausages and sending out the sample chapter for my book, so check your spam filter if you’ve signed up because that’s where they’ve been ending up. See, I sent them from a DUMMY email address because I didn’t want people being all “WHO THE FUCK AR U SLUT?” in my real email case one of you had entered your email all wrong.

So the email address is a dummy.

But, if you haven’t gotten it by Sunday, send an email, marriage proposal, or complaints to dave@dwink.net. That’s Dave’s email address and he likes email, I think. Internet access on the boat is like 50 dollars a minute and while I might go through withdrawal, I can’t justify tweeting at that rate.

Bon Voyage, my Pranksters. If my plane does not go down in a fiery crashball like the last one I was on almost did, I will see you on Monday.

Also, for any of you who asked how old I was in that picture, it was taken on Sunday and I am actually 12.5. I’m aging backwards.

Did you know that the original title of “Where The Red Fern Grows” was “A Boy and His Dog?” Now you do. I don’t know why I can regurgitate that particular bit of information and barely remember my middle name. Is it Sherrick or is it Elizabeth? I DON’T REMEMBER, Pranksters!

Anyway, the editors must have thought that the the original title lacked some pizazz, so they insisted it be changed to something more artsy. I don’t know shit about artsy, but the first title has a little something, but so does the second.

And: SPOILER ALERT: (the dog dies and it’s tremendously sad).

Anyway, yesterday, we were at The Target, otherwise known as MY boyfriend–he’s sleeping around on you, ladies–and I realized that I probably required some new kicky flippity-flops to take on my cruise. I mean, how else can I attract an older man and become a trophy wife like I’ve always wanted, but without a new pair of kicks?

Just don’t remind me that I’m not trophy wife material anymore because you’re CRUSHING my DREAMS, MAN. And that’s SO not cool.

So I picked out these hideous monstrosities that were later called, “like being fucked in the eye.” I thought they were rather charming.

First, my Gerber Daisy shoes (because, Pranksters, you should ALWAYS, as Alex would tell you, refer to a flower by it’s NAME, not simply as “flower” if you know the name):

I thought those screamed Aunt Becky lives here and has a wicked sense of fashion.

Next up were my more nautically themed shoes:

I do NOT believe that anyone at the nursing home would wear these charming shoes, despite what I was told…

…they have no firm arch support. OBVS.

We continued on in the shoe aisle where I was looking for more Garden Boots (it’s a proper noun in my house) for Alex when we happened upon the GIRLS shoe aisle. Since you Pranksters informed me that there was some nifty conversion between adult womens shoes and girls shoes, my shoe collection has increased exponentially, while the maturity level of it has dropped.

I’ve dropped a considerable sum on shoes for my daughter, who happened to be in the cart with me, throwing animal crackers at my head, but unless I planned to duct tape her feet into her shoes, there was no way she was going to wear them. She just…refused.

Amelia, it seems, is a force to be reckoned with. And, for someone who has been through all of the obstacles that she has, I’m really not going to sweat the small stuff. If the girl doesn’t want to wear some motherfucking shoes, well, FINE. There will be a day when she does, and I will REGRET it when I see what the shoes she picks out cost.

But, rather than continue assaulting me with animal crackers, my daughter did an odd thing. She began to squirm and shriek and indicate that she, would, Mom, you ignorant slut, like to look at those MOTHERFUCKING SHOES.

Baffled, I handed them to her. She indicated that she wanted me to place those shoes on her feet. So I did, but they didn’t match up to whatever it was that she thought in her head, so she shook her head “no.” (she’s not speaking much)(I know, I KNOW, I’m not happy either).

She’d then indicate that she’d like THAT pair of shoes, and I’d place THEM onto her feet. Again, she’d decide that they didn’t pass her elaborate standards and no, they’d too go back onto the shelf. For thirty minutes, we did this.

Finally, she spied these:

And by this time, I was pretty much fed up with looking for shoes and ready to go home. So I said, “Amelia, really?”

And she took one look at my incredulous face and said,

“YES!”

And so I dutifully strapped her sausage/marshmallow feet into the shoes and then? She lit up like a wee fireplug/Christmas tree. Turns out, the girl was just waiting for some Chuck T’s.

I’d only be more proud if they were Vans.

Aunt Becky: “Thanks for picking my ass up from the optometrist, yo.”

The Daver: “Not a problem.”

Aunt Becky: “I should have you know that the optometrist says that my optic nerve is BEAUTIFUL.”

The Daver: “Well, that WAS the first thing I noticed about you. Your sexy optic nerve.”

Aunt Becky: “Naturally! My optic nerve brings ALL the boys to the yard.”

The Daver: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “Oh, hey, can you run in to pick up my Thai food?”

The Daver: “You should SO go in while you’re wearing those disposable sunglasses.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll probably cause a riot with the guys throwing themselves at my feet. I mean, did you SEE how hot I am in these shades? THEY HAVE NO SIDES.”

The Daver: “You look like Morpheous from the Matrix.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m CLEARLY from the future and that will cause people to riot in the Thai place and plus my head is throbbing, so can you please get my food?”

The Daver: “RED PILL OR BLUE, BECKY?”

Aunt Becky: “The answer is ALWAYS “C,” The Daver.”

The Daver: “Touche.”

Aunt Becky: “Now I want some freeze dried ice cream with Vicodin on top. Because it’s ALSO from the future. My drug addiction will go hand-in-hand with my new cat’s eye rhinestone glasses.”

The Daver: “Your optic nerve better hope it attracts a new husband. And fast.”

Aunt Becky: “My optic nerve won’t fail me, baby. Now grab me that motherfucking Pad Thai.”

For a third of my life now, I’ve been a mother.

I used to find Mother’s Day endlessly conflicting, especially as a new mother. Here was a day where I was supposed to celebrate being a mother, and there I was, working my ass off, trying to please the other mothers in my life; neither of whom particularly cared for me.

When I stopped trying to please them, I found that I was much happier.

I don’t feel conflicted anymore. Because while this is a holiday where I am supposed to be loved and cherished and honored by my children above all other mothers, I know that a shitty brunch of undercooked Eggs Benedict won’t ever say what your grimy outstretched arms do every day: you love me.

I know this.

So today is really about you, my children, the inexplicable three chunks of my heart forever walking around outside of my body. I’m not sure how they physically removed my heart and divided it up like that, but there you have it. In your veins, my blood flows; my heart pumps in your tiny, fragile chests.

I hope that you all grow to know how proud I am of you; how proud I am to know each of you. How I’ve marveled over each of your fingers and kissed them one by one while you slept on my chest as infants, and how my heart has swelled until I thought it would burst in my chest when you mastered something new.

How I’ve wept, wishing that I could save you the bumps and bruises that are coming down the road by taking them for you. How I want you to grow to be tall and proud, standing up for what you believe in and helping those who have no voice. How I want you to be sure that there is so, so much good in this crazy, mixed up world, and how I want you to add to this good by being who you are.

Because you are all such wonderful people.

I hope that you can forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made. I’m bound to fuck you up in all sorts of ways I can imagine and many that I can’t. I hope that you can forgive me for calling you crotch parasites (even though you all are) and teaching you to swear prolifically.

Preemptively, I’m sorry.

But there’s not a day that goes by that I’m not proud to call you all my children. So Happy Mother’s Day, my babies. Without you, I simply wouldn’t be me.

And a Happy Mother’s Day to you, my Pranksters. To all of you who have children to celebrate with here on Earth, to those of you who are struggling to be mothers, and to those of you whose treasures are in Heaven.

A Happy Mother’s Day to all of you.

People would all cluck sympathetically when I told them that I had a two-year old and I was always kinda stuck scratching my head. Now, I’m always kind of scratching my head because I’m stupid and things like “In” and “Out” doors leave me stuck outside for hours, but this was especially bad. Because my TWO year old was awesome.

My THREE year old is Of The Devil.

I know, I know, I’m not supposed liken my child to a mythical creature that lives in a fake underworld because that’s NOT NICE AUNT BECKY, but it’s true. The THREE year old is a beast and the TWO year old was a living, breathing angel sent from heaven.

I think the Terrible Two’s are full of bullshit, Pranksters because with both of the boys, I never saw it. Maybe my daughter, who already throws tantrums when she doesn’t get what she wants, will prove otherwise, but I remain unconvinced.

This is pretty typical in my house now:

Aunt Becky: “I have to go to the bathroom now.”

Alex: “NO!” (stamps foot)

Aunt Becky: (laughs) “Well, actually, Alex, I do. I don’t have the luxury of a diaper, baby.”

Alex: “NO!” (stamps feet)

Aunt Becky: (goes to the bathroom, is followed by Alex and Amelia)

Alex: “You don’t have a diaper, Mommy.”

Aunt Becky: “No baby, I don’t.”

Alex: “Can we buy a kitty?”

Aunt Becky: “Ask your daddy.”

Alex: “NO!” (stamps foot)

Amelia: (begins shrieking because she believes that we should now pack up and leave the house on an adventure. She lays down on the floor and begins to kick and scream until the hallway is wet with tears and boogers) (also, you’re welcome for the free birth control)

Alex: “Mimi STOP YELLING.” (STAMPS FEET LOUDLY)

Aunt Becky: (buries her head in her hands)

Alex: “Mommy, you sad?”

Aunt Becky: “Yes, my head hurts now.”

Alex: “NO!”

I know from years of dealing with a know-it-all ex-boyfriend that arguing with him is pointless so I just ignore him when he acts like that. Plus, he’s not sleeping, which isn’t making the situation any easier on any of us. It’s sort of making me want to send The Daver to get a SECOND vasectomy just in case this one didn’t take.

It’s a good damn thing that he’ll then counter all of his annoying three-ness with doing something full of the awesome like yelling, “LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL GERBER DAISY, MOMMY.”

Then I take a deep breath and remember that this too, shall pass. And I stop and smell the Gerber Daisies.

I have this question in my Go Ask Aunt Becky folder, where it’s sat since October:

Aunt Becky, what’s your favourite blog to read?  Or maybe your top five, since choosing one is probably as difficult as choosing between your children. Or is it?  I only have one child and therefore have never faced that particular predicament.  Anyhow, I’m always on the prowl for something new to read, so a nudge in the right direction would be appreciated.

I’ve tried to answer it probably no less than 20 times, but every time I do, I immediately feel guilty because the asker is indeed correct: it’s like choosing between my children. I want to grab up my blogroll and hold you all close and scream, “BUT AUNT BECKY LOVES YOU ALL IN YOUR OWN SPECIAL WAY, DAMMIT!”

I’m not much of a “favorites” person anyway. When asked to pick my favorite song, I’ll tell you what it is TODAY (Up on Cripple Creek, The Band) but tomorrow I can assure you it will be different. It’s not so much that I’m fickle, it’s just that I change my mind often. Unless we’re talking about hot dogs, which are God’s way of saying howdy.

But I’ve tried to think of my all-time favorite blogs and I can’t narrow it down past about 30.

On that top list, however, remains a blog that I’ve read since Your Aunt Becky started blogging on my old blog Mushroom Printing. I don’t know how I found Jason Mulgrew’s blog, Everything is Wrong With Me, but I assure you that it was probably the best thing I ever did find on The Internet, and that includes Poop Senders (thank you Kristin).

I peed a little when I found Jason, and then I immediately declared that he was my Internet Boyfriend, which is a little scary since most of my Internet/Television Boyfriends are actually fictional characters and Jason is a real person, but that’s pretty much the highest compliment I can give someone. But that’s just how worthy of admiration and restraining orders that Jason is.

Then proving that I have friends who are better than I am (which, Pranksters IS always the way to go), he joined the ranks of my friends like Lauren Leto, Gretchen Rubin, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, Danny Evans and Chris Mancini and wrote himself a motherhumping book.

When I got his book, Everything is Wrong With Me, I actually read it. I know, ME reading WORDS! And all this time you thought I was illiterate! Anyway, Pranksters, it’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve read in the longest time and that includes the warning on my hairdryer not to bathe with it (because, OBVIOUSLY, the picture shows someone being electrocuted).

The book is full of The Awesome and if you need any proof that Jason is as funny as I’m promising him to be, go here. Your Aunt Becky doesn’t lie about The Funny.

So, here’s the deal, Pranksters, you require this book. And I am giving you the opportunity to win a copy of it because OBVIOUSLY. Let’s do a contest, Pranksters.

For a chance to win a copy of this book (and if you don’t win, just buy the book because it’s really worth it). You have until May 18 to enter. Please leave a separate comment for each entry.

1) Leave a comment telling us YOUR top five blogs and why you love them.

2) Do an homage to Jason a la YOUR life in pictures on YOUR OWN blog but give a linkage back here. THEN leave the link in the comments here so people can laugh at your awesomeness.

3) Blah, blah, blah, follow me on Twitter.

4) Blog about who you would nominate for the Nobel Prize of Awesomness (I’m always nominating the person who made the cheeseburger) and why. Then link here, and leave the link in the comments so we can read it.

5) Squirt, squirt, use the Google Friend Connect follow button publicly, which looks like pubic, which makes me laugh.

—————

Good luck, Pranksters.

It appears to me that people in the 1970’s had a proclivity towards bushes* and assorted foliage, if prefab neighborhood is any indication. Because EVERYONE I’ve talked to has said precisely the same thing. FUCK THE BUSHES. We’ve all had to yank out miles of ’em to give our houses that “no, a serial killer doesn’t live here” or “no, this house is NOT abandoned” look.

As I showed you before, my own house is no different.

That was before I started.

Eventually, I made it to the Serial Killer Section of my hardware store and bought some very frightening implements of mass destruction which I promptly buried in my very own leg. Because I am not to be trusted with anything with a blade. Even a butter knife.

After much work, I got rid of…

Those motherfucking evergreen bushes, man. THE ROOTS ARE LIKE 8 MILES LONG.

In fact, this is precisely how I feel when I think about evergreen bushes. Sadness, mixed with anger, mixed with resentment. Also, is it bizarre that the kid’s hat is too big for me? DO I HAVE A PINHEAD?

The rest of those bushes in the front are dead to me, too (not the lilac or the rhododendron). They just don’t know it.

Before, Shot 2:

And the AFTER shot part number B (which also, isn’t done)(consider this the INTERLUDE, not to be confused with the QUAALUDE):

The rest of THAT ugly evergreen ground cover is going to be dug up (hopefully this week) so that I may perhaps not ever have to see an evergreen in my house so long as I live Jesus Christ AMEN.

And lastly, before any of you die of boredom, here is the only thing that looks marginally better, which you’d only see if you followed my Tweet stream and clicked over to see what I called “as boring as cat pictures.”

Before:

Butt-ass ugly, right? Like you just barfed on your monitor and now want to bill me for your keyboard? Well SORRY, Pranksters, but I can’t afford new keyboards for all of you. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Anyway, I didn’t plant that butt-ugliness, I just looked at it and shook my head for years. Then I got sick of it, got angry and took my rage out on it.

This is what happened:

I grow roses, Pranksters, which is probably making those of you who didn’t know that scratch your head quizzically because it seems like a contradictory thing for me to do. But I do. Mostly rambling roses, but this is a miniature rose. It also WASN’T the sign I was referring to, but I thought it was lovely, no?

—————

I’ll explain more about signs in another post because I was going to do it here, but I realized that it was going to be all LONG and shit and I know from my SEO tips that you cannot possibly read anything longer than 400 words.

—————-

I’m obsessing over Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black. If you don’t know that song, GET THEE TO AN iTUNES AND DOWNLOAD IT. Also, Amy, please get sober and make amazing music again.

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Today is now Toy With Me day and I’m tackling cheating. It’s a tough, personal subject for me to talk about and I’d love to hear your thoughts, if you’d like to share.

*If my viewage of 70’s porn is any indication, there is a direct correlation between bush planting and rockin’ the full bush down below, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.