After spending most of the day imagining many adventures where Mr. Pinchey, my imaginary Monkey Butler and I rode horses through the Australian Outback looking for pirated treasure and eventually roasted some shrimp on the barbie, I got down to some serious thinking. After, of course, I ate a hot dog. Mr. Pinchey stories always makes me hungry.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why we blog.

As my friend Cecily recently pointed out, a lot has changed in the time since we dinosaurs started our dinky blogs. I mean, when I started, WordPress (which I think was Typepad back then) didn’t even have a spell-check feature–which explains the abysmal spelling of many of my imported posts–it had a “BOLD,” “ITALICS” and “STRIKE-THROUGH” button at the top of the post. That’s it.

I started to blog on Mushroom Printing because, as I’ve said many times, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I began Mommy Wants Vodka because I needed a space where I could let it all out. Mushroom Printing was supposed to be a humor blog and once Alex was born, I needed a space where I could talk about my kid, too. Somewhere that I could be Becky, In Real Life, not just Becky, The Motherfucking Clown.

I kept on blogging because I’m a compulsive freak who has to do the same thing every day, lest my brain explode into a pulpy, spattery mass, and I’ve watched as bloggers come and go. Some of them good, some of them great, some of them terrible. I’ve added and deleted links from my blogroll, mourning the dead blogs of my friends while I happily added new ones.

But last night, as I read what Cecily wrote, I found myself nodding along, because she’s right. Memoir-style blogging, blogging where we bare our soul and tell stories and let our ugly warts hang out for the world to see, these blogs seem to be dying.

Instead, I find new blogs (not yours, Pranksters) that present a sanitized version of life, a Palmolive commercial, if I may (and I always may, because this is my blog and I am sponsored by myself and the pennies I find in the couch cushions). Life is good, children are adorable, and wouldn’t you know it, gosh-darnit, Jim, my darling-hubby is just the cutest darn guy on the planet!!!

I get it. I do.

Bloggers don’t want to bare themselves or open themselves up to criticism or scare off potential companies who will be all, “wow, this blogger says, ‘fucking shit,’ we’d better not pay her a boat-load of cash to shill our crappy product!” They don’t want to embarrass their children or spouses by telling the world that hey, you know what? SOMETIMES MY KIDS SUCK, TOO. SOMETIMES, I HATE MY SPOUSE. They don’t want to blog their life as it really is for whatever reason. I get it.

But in turn, that dehumanizes the blog, makes everyone seem like beige paint, and makes me, quite frankly, bored. If I want to watch a commercial about how life is supposed to be, I’ll turn on the television and watch it. I know how my life doesn’t stack up by comparison to the sunny television kitchens, and I don’t care.

I love my imperfect life. Maybe not every single day, but most days, I do. My imperfections are what make me human, and being able to come here every day and be honest about them is why 6 years later, I can still do it.

I don’t make much money off my blog. I’m not sponsored by Colgate or Crest or Palmolive, or even a vodka company. I run ads so that I can pay for hosting for this blog and Mushroom Printing. If I had to change who I was to be more popular or become “Mommy Wants Vodka by…xxxx Big Company,” I wouldn’t do it. Because that’s not me.

I’m ugly in the mornings. I don’t always say the right things. My entries are too long and not always edited and I can’t spell to save myself. I swear. A lot. I’m unapologetically who I am. You probably won’t always like me. I’ll probably always like you.

If I can offer new bloggers one piece of advice it’s this: write hard. Be authentic. Write because you can’t imagine not writing. Write because those beautiful words get stuck in your head like butterflies beating against your skull until you let them out and BAM! there they are on paper, in front of you and it’s perfection.

Even if you’re the only one who reads it: write hard. Do it for yourself. Don’t ever doubt that you can do it or that you should do it. Just do it and stop second guessing. Second guessing is for amateurs and punks.

Write hard, my Pranksters.

—————–

So, why do you blog, Pranksters? Alternately, why don’t you? I’m throwing up a Mr. Linky if you want to answer on your own site.

Because Pottery Barn is an asshole and I cannot possibly resist their tempting overpriced wares, every time they come out with their Halloween Issue, I tear into it like it’s a brand new issue of Maxim magazine. Eagerly, I examine the overpriced costumes and figure out which ones my kids MIGHT allow me to dress their very particular bodies in before the inevitable day when they say, “Mom, I want to be a ghost” and beg for a simple sheet.

This year, I managed to grab the magazine as I was headed out with Alex, who was highly INTERESTED in what I was looking at.

I’ve been TRYING to get one of my children to be the Land Shark for years, and no, every year they deny me. Which means that I need a costume party to be the Land Shark and be all ‘CANDYGRAM’ and then no one will laugh but me, but I will laugh enough for everyone else.

Well, anyway, I’m in the car with Alex and I’m all, “you could be popcorn! or rootbeer! or a carton of milk!”

And Alex, my miniature clone, said, simply, emphatically, with his mind made up, “No.”

Perhaps he is paying me back for these costumes.

The Halloweenier.

Or this:

The Hedgehog of DOOOOOOM.

Because he said, “I’m going to be a beautiful butterfly. But be careful, Mom, don’t step on my wings!”

The butterfly costume is this, Pranksters:

Pottery Barn, you win again. My son will be the most beautiful, manly butterfly in a dress, ever.

And I will never, ever stop hearing the end of it from his father, grandfather, my brother and every other male he comes into contact with. But I don’t fucking care. If my kid wants to be a beautiful butterfly, he can be a beautiful fracking butterfly.

I just might buy him some wee combat boots to go along with it. And maybe a spike collar. He will be the most beautiful butterfly on the block.

And I will punch anyone who looks at him funny. Because it’s a MANLY TUTU and he’s just a little boy who likes butterflies and flowers and light and for GOD’S SAKE his first word was PENIS and he can throw a ball better than most 20-year old’s I know, and really, Alex is composed primarily of sweetness and light and snips and snails and puppy dog tails and I have never met anyone more wholly good than him.

So yes. A butterfly. My son, Mister Butterfly. Spike The Butterfly.

Sounds kinda manly.

Right…?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have a crummy blog that gets comments every now and then, which makes me more happy than you would ever imagine.  Well, the thing that bothers me is that after a few days I stop checking for new comments (I may be a bit vain but not vain enough to check every entry for the rest of my life, right?)

The thing is that I really want to know if I have any new comments because those comments mean the world to me.  Like way more than you’d ever know!

Is there something I can do on a blogger account so that I know when someone has commented on my blog?  Especially the older ones??

Trust me, my friend, I know all about how important comments are, which is why I dutifully fish through 800 pages of Russian Porn Spam to find the one single comment that my blog spam filter has accidentally marked as spam. So, comments = GOLD to a blogger. I dig this.

As I am a lowly WordPress Blogger, I did not immediately have an answer to this question for you.

But, Merry Prankster! Have no fear! I also have a BLOGGER blog set up so that I can comment on all of your “I don’t allow anonymous comment Blogger blogs.” I just had to remember how to FIND it and get in there. It’s clearly unused.

From your dashboard, go to Settings. The settings menu will offer you a variety of selections. You want “Comments.”

Now, scroll ALL THE WAY DOWN to the bottom of the screen, which I cannot actually show in an entire screen shot, because, well, I don’t know.

But at the very bottom you will see this:

In that box, you can add your email (or 10!) and it should email you, after, of course, you click, SAVE SETTINGS (something Your Aunt Becky FREQUENTLY forgets to do because she is very, very smart), whenever anyone comments. Even those lovely spammers you get.

WordPress is wonderous because the comments are such that the most recent ones–no matter on how old the post–go to the top of the comment queue on the dashboard. I heart you, WordPress. Hard.

Hope that helps, Prankster.

——————

Good Morning Lovely,

Can you recommend a blog designer?  I need a little updating…

Minnie

Well, my darling friend, I’m so glad that you asked. Because I will tell you what NOT to do, my Merry Pranksters.

Do NOT get onto Twitter and say: “I NEED A SITE DESIGNER” when you are slightly drunk because you know what? The world is a site designer. Except of course, me, who is all, “I LIKE SPARKLES! AND PINK! AND UH, MOTHERFUCKING SKULLS WITH RAZORBLADES HANGING OUT OF THEM.”

It’s very helpful when you know precisely what you want (read: not me) but not helpful when you don’t know what you want (read: me).

But the person who did my site design and tolerates my questions like: “WHY *stamp stamp stamp* can’t I make that feed-thingy work?” is Jon from Keeping You Awake. What’s shocking is that he STILL tolerates me. Actually, what’s shocking is that ANYONE tolerates me.

Alas, I digress.

I do not, however, know how much time Jon has for this stuff. So I am also shouting out the fabulous Robin from Oppositional Design, a.k.a. My Business Card Person. I’m telling you that you need to ASK someone how cool they are, because the coolness cannot be captured on film.

(seriously, it cannot)

(P.S. I still have a kajillion of them, so Imma be passing them out for-freaking-EVER)

(P.P.S. I SUCK at social networking, apparently)

(P.P.P.S. I’m going to Type A Mom. I’m going to be FLINGING the cards at people. Sorry if I hit you in the face with one).

But Robin does this stuff for a living AND puts up with me AND still takes my emails, so, Pranksters, I’m giving you two people that Your Aunt Becky can personally vouch for. Hit it up in the comments, Pranksters, because I know YOU guys must know other people who are also awesome in the graphic design world.

———————-

Dear Aunt Becky,

What to do with a mother-in-law who insists on always trying to give/serve expired food?

OMG so gross!

Oh Prankster, you asked the right person this question. Because I? Have FOOD ISSUES. I’m sure if I were a kid, they’d be all, “she has sensory issues,” but really, I’m just weird about my food (okay, I’m just weird.).

First, you’re clearly not going to change her mind by leaving pictures of E. Coli viruses out, so I wouldn’t bother. Second, I’m guessing that your husband just tolerates it because that’s his mother, right? I mean, what can he do? (no really, what can he do?) Third, I’m assuming, of course, that she is in her right mind.

My advice is to take a page from the Aunt Becky Playbook:

1) Eat before you get to her house.

2) If you’re going for any amount of time, pack food in your purse. Like non-perishable stuff, not a turkey or something because if you packed a whole turkey, now, guess what? YOU’RE THE FREAK.

3) Push the food around your plate LIKE you’re eating, but instead of actually eating, just occasionally put the empty fork in your mouth. That way you’re being polite and not a jerk, because really, hurting her feelings isn’t going to solve anything.

4) Drink lots of tap water or bottled water or whatever to make it look like you’re eating like a normal person.

5) Compliment her often. Again, you’re not doing this to be cruel, you just can’t really be rude. It helps nothing.

Also, I wish you good luck and God Speed, Prankster. I’ve SO been there. Not with the expired food or anything, just because I’m a freak.

—————–

As always, Pranksters, please fill in where I left off in the comments. And please feel free to submit your mostest burningest questions to the button-thing at the top that says, “GO ASK AUNT BECKY.”

So today, Pranksters, I have a guest post from Team Mandy from Harper’s Happenings. She’s also on Twitter, here. Not only is she hilarious, but I also MET her in NYC and gave her one of my Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts before we went to Sparklecorn/Prom, which is awesome. Because she wore it. See? I tweeted this last night, so if you are seeing it again and annoyed, FORGIVENESS (even if, even if, you don’t looooove me anymore).

I’m thinking of making a Flickr page for anyone who buys these shirts so we can all revel in our awesomeness. Thoughts? I HAVE a public Flickr account, and we can totally be BFF but they just marked me as Adult Content, even though my account is LITERALLY pictures of my kids and not nekkid boobies or anything.

So, if you want to see me, you have to change your settings. WHATEVER.

ALSO, Mushroom Printing is UP, yo. Ready for ACTION.

Now, onto the action.

——————-

so this one time i was attempting to shop for a dress for BlogHer (because seriously? goldfish crackers deeply encrusted into jeans and whatnot doesn’t scream “new york city!”. at all.) and looked at my phone to see a message from our very own Aunt Becky. it read “hey slore. want to guest post for me sometime?”. after i promptly gagged (think dumb and dumber), i responded calling her a slag.  so yeah, here we are. romantic, no?

to say i have romantic feelings towards our Aunt Becky would be like saying i only slightly dislike the shift key. i hate the shift key. i pink puffy sparkly with unicorn farts on top HEART Aunt Becky. hence? the gagging.

(unicorn farts smell like samoa girl scout cookies and chris cornell’s freshly washed hair, obviously. well at least my unicorn’s farts do. your unicorn’s may smell different. moving on.)

speaking of farts (i’m all class, folks. all class), i thought i’d share a story from back in the day that i have tried hard to remove from my memory – because of the level of embarrassment – but that is damn funny looking back. hold on to your undies, Pranksters (if i may call you that), because this one is full of the awesome. at least for people who it didn’t happen to.

when i was 22 i was having some digestive issues. i was often feeling sick to my stomach, and i was missing a lot of work because of it. my age automatically threw me into the “maybe she should lay off the sauce and come to work” category with my co-workers, but that wasn’t the case (for the most part – i mean i did my fair share of one dollar vodka sour nights at the local crap bar). i finally decided to go to the urgent care to see what was up. after an x-ray thingy of my insides, the doctor proclaimed what my family had always been telling me – “you’re full of shit”.

(can we take a moment to focus on what a kick ass doctor he was? because he really said that.)

“when was the last time you had a bowel movement?”, he asked.

after thinking for a while i was all “last week? two weeks ago?”.

turns out that is NOT normal. who knew? well not me, because for me it was the norm. awful right? pooping is the best. and i was being deprived! so with some powdery stuff to make me shit and a referral to a special poop doctor (i’m positive that is what their documents say), i was off.

my first trip to my special poop doctor was a little nerve wracking to say the least. i mean, i was young, embarrassed, and going to a doctor who was going to only talk to me about the function of my butt hole. as i sat in the waiting room i felt like the other patients were looking at me like, “wonder what up with her butt hole”, which made me want to scream “YOUR BUTT HOLE IS HERE TOO DUDES!”.

my special poop doctor was a very sweet indian woman with a pretty thick accent. i liked her right away, except for her use of the words anus, feces, and bowel movement. i mean i get it, you’re a doctor so you have to use the technical terms, but really lady, this would be more comfortable for me if you’d just say butt hole, shit or poop. i mean honestly.

she asked me all kinds of questions about my eating habits (which clearly did not include enough fiber) and junk, and a bunch of weird questions that i answered uncomfortably. then she was all “have you ever looked at your anus with a mirror?”.

i wanted to yell “WHAT KIND OF POOP DOCTOR ARE YOU, YOU SICKO!”, but refrained and answered, “um, no”. BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY, NO.

“the reason i ask is because you could have (insert medical term) around your anus and that can be causing you to not feel the urge to take a BM”. she said in her thick accent.

“oh. um, yeah i’ve never done that. should i?”, i asked, knowing what her answer would be.

“yes. just use a mirror and look for anything out of the ordinary”.

“sure, ok, i will do tha…”

“you know what? since you’re here, let’s just look now. the restroom is right across the hall, i will meet you in there”.

WAIT WHAT? i started to sweat. my hands got sticky. my heart was beating fast. this is not what i signed up for! i just want to poop like a normal person, not put my BH on display for some perfect stranger (who at this point i had decided i now hated). i tried to stall, come up with reasons i just couldn’t show her my butt hole today, but before i knew it, she had ushered me over to the ladies room and told me to holler when i was ready.

ready? ready for you to come examine my poop shoot? yeah, you’ll be waiting for a while lady. and why am i in a bathroom? can’t you look at it in the exam room? what the DUECE is going on here?!

soon my fears were realized as she came in (did i say i was ready? NO) and explained to me she could only see the (insert medical term here) if i was pushing like i was going poop. phenomenal. this is why we’re in the bathroom. you guys, i had to sit on the toilet, lean forward in a way so that she could see my dumper and then push as if i was taking a shit. WHILE A LITTLE INDIAN LADY WAS LOOKING.

i will never in my life forget being bent over that toilet, pants at my ankles, and being told “it’s ok if you fart”. practically face first into the tile, the most exposed i had ever been (later this story would be laughable as i pooped on a table having my daughter) and trying not to crap on an indian lady.

if i can give you any advice, Pranksters, it would be to EAT YOUR FIBER. eat your fiber hard.

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.