So, Internet, did you hear? There’s this big ass conference this weekend about blogging (dude. How lame does THAT sound? SHUT UP) and it’s in Chicago and at least 103% of the Internet is going. I won’t dare say it’s name, lest I annoy everyone more than they already are, but let’s just say it rhymes with “FlogHer.”
But I’m going, in fact, because I am Super Becky Overachiever, I am going down to the city on Wednesday night so that I can peel myself out of bed the following morning to go to this Ford-Motor-Car thingy. I’m not really sure what it is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s very James-Bondy and I might be doing death-defying stunts and saving the planet from peril. I’ll be like Jack Bauer, WITH A (floppy) VAGINA.
You’ll be happy to say that “you knew me when.” Hell, maybe you can even raffle off the comments I leave on your blog for big ca$h money! Rock. Music!
Or maybe, just maybe, we’re forming focus groups to discuss What Women Want In A Car, which is not nearly as Double O Aunt Becky as I thought. Like at all. THIS is why I need someone to read the fine print FOR me, since I am obviously not capable of it whatsoever. But whatever, it should be fun as hell. Even if I’m doing the opposite of fighting The Terrorists.
What I cannot believe is that for the first time in 4 years, I am going to go away for 3 nights. 3! whole! nights! without my children. I plan to spend the time either blitzed out and drooling in bed–alone–or running around like a previously caged beast.
[excruciatingly pointless details redacted for boringness]
Let’s just leave this at this: I haven’t been out of the house without my kids for an extended period of time in 3 years. This will change soon either way, because I plan to either get a double stroller and force my wee beasties in it, or become independently wealthy, whichever comes first.
(I figure the wealth will, no doubt, buy me some Wild Baby Handlers)
This means that since I quit my last job as a nurse case manager 3 years ago, I haven’t been required to be in public for any length of time. Sure, I do go out and about, but only for short periods of time, and always with a purpose.
While other people may be afraid of not having anyone to talk to or eating alone or maybe they’re afraid of a gigantic gaggle of women (shit, right?) all in one place, I’m afraid I might soil myself. Or streak. Or soil myself while streaking.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in public, what if I can’t remember not to pick people up and gnaw on their necks while blowing raspberries? Or what if I check to make sure YOU haven’t pooped your pants by popping a finger down your crack and looking for the telltale smudgey pooness? Or worse: what if I just bend down and smell your ass?
WHAT THEN, INTERNET?
What if I have gotten so used to being with small kids that I try to cut up your steak or try and airplane your mashed potatoes into your mouth? What if I nag you to put your cup away and finish your drink?
Maybe I should take some sage advice given to me on Facebook and just roofie the hell out of myself and take to bed for 3 days. Then I couldn’t shame myself in a room full of bloggers who could happily report on my misdeeds for days. Which, wouldn’t you?
(also: completely unrelated segue leading to pictures of my babies, if listening to an a cappella version of “Don’t Stop Believin'” is wrong, Internet, I don’t want to be right)
Turn off the fucking Journey, Mom. This is child abuse!
Oh, and maybe you want to see who *I* am so that you can properly identify me and run like hell, lest I come over and nom your ears?
(whispered voice-over from guy with indiscriminate European accent: “so, we’ve cornered the Aunt Becky in her natural habitat. Here, let’s ply her with vodka and cupcakes. QUICK, NOW INJECT THE SEDATIVE! WHEW, that was a close one! Wild Aunt Becky’s should be approached with care.”)
Except I’m fatter now. Also: will not be wearing my wedding dress. I am saving it to wear to my BFF Pashmina’s wedding. Because wedding dress = something you wear to a wedding, right?