A couple of weeks ago, Pranksters, I came here and dumped my thoughts all over your screen. In this case, my thoughts were not about SkyMall kitties or why John C. Mayer ruined my life, but about hate.

Specifically, hateful comments.

I took a comment I’d gotten in January of this year and explained that it had caused me to live a [redacted] life.

(sidebar: [redacted] means to edit out sensitive information)

It wasn’t a particularly good post, however, it was one of those things I had to write to get it out. By getting it out, I’d hoped to be able to move on to a non-[redacted] life. I don’t much appreciate having to shit rainbows and kittens when I’m in a shit ON rainbows and kittens kind of mood, and I knew it had impacted me. I also knew why.

But in the comments on that post, I was asked a question. A question that deserves more of an answer than a comment reply could offer. And a question that I’d welcome your opinion about.

The question was simple (pardon me for paraphrasing):

“Do you feel that the negative comments outweigh the positive?”

The answer? Not so simple.

While I haven’t been subject of numerous hateful comments from Internet Mole People (read: trolls), I have gotten a handful, although most about my dog, Auggie. Just FYI, Pranksters, the Internet is sensitive about dogs.

Most of the hateful comments have been of this ilk:

“You’re boring.”

“You’re not funny.”

“This was navel-grazing.”

“You have problems.”

“You should kill yourself.” (from The Twitter)

To which I would heartily agree with all but the last sentiment. After all, the world needs ditch-diggers too.

Not one of those bothered me, except for the “you’re not funny” bit. And that only bothered me because I never SAID I was funny. Funny LOOKING perhaps, but funny? Not so much.

(pointless sidebar too! Who SAYS “I’m funny” about themselves anyway? UN-funny people, that’s who.)(also: your mom)

Anyway. Those type of Internet Mole People comments are fine. Just because you leave them doesn’t mean I have to publish them and just because I publish them doesn’t mean I cry unicorn tears into my pillow at night. You are CERTAINLY welcome to your opinion. And we all know Anonymity + The Internet = Assjackets. The difference is, I don’t have to give you the platform to broadcast it. Sorry, ’bout that.

(also: I am NOT sorry)

But the comment in question, well, it called me an addict. That was not cool. Why? Well, if I didn’t have massive migraines or two alcoholic parents (note: I am not bashing my parents, simply stating the truth. They are recovering addicts)(see also: I am only as sick as my secrets), maybe I’d have laughed. After all, I was the dumbass who named my blog “Mommy Wants Vodka.” What can I expect?

However, it’s something I worry about. Becoming an addict myself, that is, not renaming my blog. I’m not sure how to avoid that one.

So to be called out like that by “someone who knows me, the REAL me,” well, ouch. Condescending + hitting a nerve = hurt. That sort of comment sticks with you.

Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I was in the wrong for allowing it to hurt me. Maybe I’ll get hit by a bus crossing the street. Who fucking knows?

The point is, though, that sometimes cruelish comments do hurt. I think, though, that they only hurt when they hit a little too close to home.

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So I hope that answers your question, oh wise commenter. And now it’s your turn, Pranksters. How would you answer this question?

I bring to you something that will certainly keep you up all night long (but not in a creepy Lionel Ritchie way).

I should be back later with real werds, but for now, have these kitties to keep you company. Oh, and, is it creepy? Or am I just tired?

I was gently asked – nay, begged, by my friend Rachel to do something “touristy” while she was in town over the weekend. In addition to the tours of the dumpster and other assorted places I’d once gotten wasted, I decided it was probably time to actually bother doing something annoyingly touristy. Like stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at the tall buildings while making comments about “these here tall buildings.”

However, staring at buildings is only really fun when you’re wasted and they’re swaying because YOU’RE swaying and then you vomit on the shoes of a businessman wandering past you.

I figured it was time to break from tradition and do something awesome, rather than sitting on my couch, watching dancing cat videos. Also: I was afraid Rachel was going to beat my ass.

So I packed the three of us into the old Family Truckster and navigated our way downtown, while fantasizing about how wicked it would be to have “Slasher” as my license plate rather than some letters and numbers. Because, obviously.

We ended up at the Museum of Science and Industry, which is probably MY happiest place on earth (with exception to the Hardware Store, which always trumps all). Like the auto show and Chinatown, it’s a place I’ve been going since I was a wee lass and somewhere I’m always proud to show off to non-locals.

Of course, we showed up an hour before closing. I’m excellent at timing things, Pranksters. Like I should win a medal at it.

And, as per usual, I immediately dragged them up to the anatomy exhibits, because, well, I’d rather swallow my tongue that hear ANY MORE about earth science.

When I showed up there, looking for the gigantic walk-through heart, I saw that the museum had acquired a number of the exhibits from Body Worlds, that traveling exhibition of preserved human bodies prepared using plastination to preserve the anatomical structures.

If you know my great love for anatomy, you’re probably all, “ZOMG AB, THAT SOUNDS FULL OF THE AWESOME!” And I really, really, really want nothing more than to agree with you. That I love looking at these bodies, so beautifully preserved for all to see. For ALL to fall in love with anatomy as I did so many years ago.

But you’d be wrong.

There’s something, I think, macabre about the whole thing. While I love looking at the circulatory system, so neatly preserved and lifelike, there’s something inherently creepy about seeing a dead guy riding a skateboard. Even if I can see the glorious muscular system in use just as it was when he was alive (presuming, of course, that he’d ever ridden a skateboard before).

I recall the day that my anatomy teacher asked me to help with the dissection of our cadaver. It did not bother me to see someone dead, someone preserved in formalin, or someone who once had hopes, dreams, and loved just as I did. No. What bothered me was that he had a shunt in his left leg left intact from the paramedics attempting to save his life.

It dawned on me, as I was examining the circus-like Body Worlds exhibits, that we who count ourselves among the living simply do not want to think of our dead as like us.

It brings it all too close to home, I think.

And while I learned many fascinating tidbits while at the MSI – my liver, for example, is a mere three years old – I walked out of there ruminating about the freakish sideshow of Body Worlds.

My hope is that the Body Worlds exhibits inspire a young crop of anatomists much like I was inspired, as a wee tot, by the mere pictures of the body from an old copy of Grey’s Anatomy.

Otherwise, we’re going to have some seriously fucked up serial killers out there.

Today, as I’m finally remembering my middle name (I think it’s “wants“) and using up what miniscule brain power I have left to decide whether or not I’d like a pony on rollerskates or a unicorn on rollerskates, I am getting ready to show yet another friend what living in Chicago is like.

Namely, my living room. Because I’m re-watching Weeds, dammit, and I have to know what happens next!

(besides the obvious “Nancy will make the worst decision ever“)

Clearly, I do not win at life OR as a tour guide. Unless it’s a tour of my living room. Which Dana can vouch for. She knows I win at the “tour of my living room.”

It goes like this: “here’s the couch.” “here’s the other couch.” “watch me sit on it.”

Really, it couldn’t be awesomer.

Anyway, this gem appeared in my inbox and I’ve been saving it for a rainy day. Which would be today. It’s ASS outside. HEY, WELCOME TO CHICAGO, IT’S ASS HERE!

That’s totally the awesomest thing ever. Jimmy Motherfucking Wales? Eat your creepy-eyed heart out.

P.S. I think I need to put this on my header somehow. HOW SICK WOULD THAT BE?

Also: Am here and here today.

Aunt Becky: “You can trust me because I have CREDENTIALS!”

Ben (my friend, not my son): “So WHAT are your credentials?”

Aunt Becky: “I have a DIPLOMA!”

Ben: “You do not.”

Aunt Becky: “I do! I didn’t even make it on dot matrix paper!”

Ben: “Who made it for you?”

Aunt Becky: “Um…”

(looks at hands)

Aunt Becky: “Me.”

Ben: “You made your own diploma?”

Aunt Becky (proudly) “On NON dot matrix paper. It’s purdy.”

Ben: “Does it have unicorns?”

Aunt Becky: “On roller blades. It’s wicked.”

Ben: “Is it in Sharpie?”

Aunt Becky: “PINK Sharpie.”

Ben (laughs): “Figured.”

Ben:

Aunt Becky:

The truth, I suppose, is somewhere in the middle.

Expert Photoshopping done by Rachel.

Despite the fact that Twix had sent me 70 (70!) candy bars to “make my house the coolest on the block” (which, I have to add, is much cooler than the 3 Wolf Moon decals on my windows)(lie), I decided at 2PM – a mere hour before my children descended upon me – that we must! get! more! candy!

I’m going to blame the ten pounds of candy I went out to buy on my fever – not from more cowbell – but from my mysterious Oregon Trail disease.

(also: anyone want to come over and eat ten pounds of candy?)

By the time we got home, sweaty, feverish and hallucinating, it was nearly time for the crotch parasites to descend upon us in a whirling Halloween snowball of excitement. I realized it was probably in my own best interest to pull out the costumes and get them ready for the kids to whirl into.

So I trundled around the house, sweating on everything as I looked for Alex’s Halloween costume. He decided that he was going to recycle last year’s costume, because obviously.

See also:

The world’s manliest butterfly. Or Flutterbye. Whatever.

I found everything but the shirt, which is a fucking Halloween miracle.

That done, I figured it was time to get the costumes we HAD bought for the other two out of the bag and ready to be thrown on. I grabbed the costumes, as I reached for my camera and noticed that something smelled….funny. Like dank, dark, basement mildewy gross.

I assumed it was probably my Mysterious Oregon Trail Disease and continued trying to figure out how to turn on my DS-LR.

But…what WAS that smell?

After I’d managed to take the lens cap off – a good hour later – I grabbed the costumes from the bags and realized, much to my horror, that there was PEE on on them. CAT PEE.

In an unrelated note: anyone want four cats? They’re VERY well behaved.

Both the small one and the big one had cat whiz on their costumes. Shitballs.

Frantically, we threw them under the sink, trying to get the SMELL out of the costumes before the kids got home and freaked the fuck out. Which, I couldn’t blame them for. I mean, EW.

T-Minus five minutes found us trying to dry off the costumes with a hair dryer, making my kitchen smell delightfully like a tantalizing mixture of frying cat pee and burning plastic. Thankfully, the kids didn’t notice.

The small one – who picked out her OWN costume, thankyouverymuch – this year:

Rocket Grrrrrrl.

And while some parents may want their kids to grow up to become doctors, lawyers, or business executives, I couldn’t be prouder that my son chose one thing – the ONE thing – I’d always wanted him to be.

Like mother:

Like son:

*happy sigh*

If you came to my door last night, you saw this:

And probably died a little inside. I know I did.

I wore a blue shirt and pretended to be The Twitter Fail Whale.

However, I failed. I failed at failing.

My life is at an all time high.

Remember how awesome Oregon Trail was when you were a kid?

I do.

I’d purposefully name my banker and his mess of kids after people I hated and deliberately kill them by being all, “YEAH, FORGE THAT RIVER NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. SEE IF YOU CAN AFTER I’VE OVERLOADED YOUR BAGS.”

Then they’d drown or die of Typhus or something equally glamorous while I rubbed my small hands together, cackling evilly.

What? Don’t tell me you didn’t do it too.

Now I’m old and I bought the Oregon Trail app for my iPhone (it may be the only app besides Cat Paint I actually used) and was still all, “VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE! MINE!” until I realized that the game sucked. Like, I don’t know if it sucked so hard when we were kids but now? It blows ass. No one dies. No one gets mysterious diseases. No one can be easily drown in the river. Especially not computer people you’ve named after people you hate (see also: Starbucks Lady).

I don’t even think there are yaks in that game. And without yaks, what the fuck good IS it?

(answer: a hot pile of bullshit)

I was pretty mopey after I realized how much the game sucked now.

Just like I’m mopey at this particular moment because I woke up sick. Again. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, first let me give you my deepest apologies. Then, I will remind you that every other week I am sick.

You’re probably all, “Yo, AB, stop licking toilets and shit, and you’ll feel better!” and you’d be right. Except that I’ve never licked a toilet NOT EVEN ON A BET (which is saying a lot)(I love a good bet).

It turns out that some of us (read: me) have shitty immune systems. I have since I was a baby. And considering my mother was on Lithium while she got pregnant with me, I think that I got off pretty easy. I mean, that shit is HARDCORE.

Doesn’t make having to explain to people that “yes, in fact, I am sick again. Also: you can call me Typhoid Aunt Becky if you want to. Also also: send presents” any better. Why? Because people are like ‘HOLY FUCKBALLS, ARE YOU EATING POO OR SOMETHING?”

Which. Um. No. Ew.

But it makes me wish I could tell someone I was suffering from malaria or glandular fever or something more glamorous than being like “I Haz A Virus.” Then, at least, I’d have an excuse to feel like I’ve been run over by a truck ON MY FAVORITE FUCKING HOLIDAY. Then, I could mope around the house WITH REASON and moan histrionically because I had a glamorous Oregon Trail Disease.

Instead, I’m just going to ice my eyeballs and see if I can disable the doorbell so I don’t cry each time it rings tonight. Which, since I’m giving out big ass Twix bars (thank YOU, Twix) should be often.

But fuck, I wish I had one of those Oregon Trail Diseases.

Dear Aunt Becky,

So here’s the problem.  I’ve been writing a blog for a few years now. It has a decent following, with regular commenters. My issue is that one of my commenters is going overboard.  In a bad way.  Everything I say, she feels the need to one-up. Her comments are often longer than my posts.  And they are all about her.  It’s as if she’s writing a blog–she’s just using MY blog to do it.

Now, I don’t much care.  I ignore the comments.  Whatever–I’m busy and don’t have a ton of time for junk like this. The problem is that my readers REGULARLY email me and tell me they want to punch her in the face.  That’s a direct quote.  “I want to punch her in the face.”  They want me to call her out on her inappropriate behavior.  I’ve had readers tell me that they feel like they don’t want to read my blog anymore and they don’t want to leave a comment because of this woman.

So. . .what do I do?  I am embarrassed for her.  I feel bad that everyone is talking about her.  And I’m at the point where I’m frustrated that she can’t realize how inappropriate she’s being.  She’s a grown-ass woman, acting like an obnoxious pre-teen.  But I don’t know what to do without offending her.

Waiting for you to weigh in.

Signed,
Embarrassed For Her

Oh Prankster, that woman sounds like a tool. But, it’s the Internet and tools abound (see also: Mommy Wants Vodka).

The answer isn’t that simple, either. You can:

1) Email her privately and politely ask her to stop leaving such comments (I don’t know the context of these comments, so I cannot speak to how obnoxious or inappropriate they are).

Pros: make yourself look like less of an ass.

Cons: she’s bound to take it the wrong way. Why? Because from your question, she sounds like quite a crotch rocket.

2) Publicly oust her on your blog.

Pros: your readers can join in and help drive the point home.

Cons: You look like an asshole and possibly scare off OTHERS who may want to comment on your blog.

3) Let your readers take care of her.

Pros: You don’t have to do anything to look like an ass.

Cons: She may troll your readers.

4) Block her IP address and/or delete comments.

Pros: You don’t have to really DO anything.

Cons: She may not realize what a crotch rocket she is.

What would *I* do? I’d delete the comments. This isn’t to say that I regularly do (although my somewhat overzealous spam filter does), but I’m not a firm believer in anonymous internet dickwads having the right to fling shit all over my blog. Period.

Let us know what you decide.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I work in a typical office setting with people working in cubicals where you can hear everything everyone does: talking on the phone, clipping nails, ovulating, etc.  It’s just part of life and you get through it through by making silently disgusted faces with your office friends after someone hacks up a lung down the hall.  And by drinking.  That’s the background.  

Now we have someone who sits by the lunch room door and is suddenly very disturbed by all the talking and chewing sounds going on in here that he wants the door to be closed at all time, no matter what.  Apparently the hum of the vending machines is irritating the voices in his head.  

Having this door closed is a MAJOR inconvenience since it requires me to exert energy.  Not to mention nearly impossible if my hands are full carrying in my Hungry Man dinners.  Plus I hate him and don’t want to comply.  He has become the Lunch Room Door Hall Monitor and is up and out of his seat to close the door at the slightest level of ajarness.  

I would guess his work productively has taken a nose dive – but who cares about that.  I am a cordial type and begrudgingly close the door, but leave it open if it’s to just to do something quick, like wash an apple and then close it on my way out.  This is tantamount to mutiny and I have an appt with my parole officer next week for this grievance.  

It’s ridunk.  

I never say that, so you know I’m serious.  I’ve actually mentioned that it’s getting out of control to the highest of ups here and assumed they would agree with me.  Nope.  They say we need to keep the door closed.  For this ONE person, where the whole rest of the building could give a rip and hate it.  He’s getting combative and aggressive about his door patrols and I SO BADLY want to NOT close it or SLAM! it, but sadly that would be unbecoming.  

WHAT TO DO?  

(besides submit the idea to The Office).  

Thanks so much.

Well, I need photographic evidence of this guy. Like, I want a video of this guy being The Door Guy.

Then, I’d suggest a slow, subtle drip-drip method of annoyance. In no particular order:

1) Rip ass as you are walking past his cubicle. Every. Single. Time. If you have no extra flatulence, buy the Fart O Matic app from the iPhone store. It’s beyond awesome.

2) Whenever walking past his cube, make sure to make some really obnoxious noise. I’m talking an AAHHHHHHHH as you drink your soda. A MMMMMMMM as you inhale your undoubtedly delicious Hungry Man dinner. A SNOOOOOOORT as you breathe in. Really, there’s no end of it.

3) Insist that he get the door for you, every time. Make up reasons. Beg that he shut it, too. Just give him the AW SHUCKS face.

4) Give him a tip jar for his desk.

5) Begin storing your personal supplies on his desk. Say, “Oh I’m going to just be a moment.” Then never come back.

Pranksters? Other suggestions for these brilliant question askers?

Jimmy Fucking Wales.

I had to go to the doctor yesterday. Routine stuff, really. No new diagnoses, no new ailments, nothing of the sort, except that I still give good (neck) spasms. Like, the doctor seemed impressed by my neck spasms. Apparently, I excel at neck spasms. Who knew?

But as he was examining me, he noticed my chin.

You’re thinking, what, you give good chin, too, Aunt Becky? What does that even mean?

To which I would say a resounding, “probably not” and “I don’t know.”

I’ve been stuck with this rash on my chin for the past couple of weeks. On any given day, I was convinced it was typhoid, a tick bite, malaria, diphtheria, the bubonic plague, tetanus, or cat scratch fever. To be honest, with everything else that’s been going on, I’ve sorta back-burnered my chin. I mean, I’m pregnant with a FOOD BABY! Everything else comes secondary!

But my doctor looked at my chin and decided it was a “rash.” He didn’t share the TYPE of rash, so I’m assuming it’s face herpes. I mean, that’s the logical guess, right?

(right)

If it’s face herpes, it means that my face has been sleeping around on me. So much so that I now have a new strain of herpes that grows on your chin. It’s like evolution, on my face! Really, it’s a win.

Except, I guess, if you’re my chin.

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We’re doing a blog carnival over at Mushroom Printing. You should join us.

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Also: my friend Amy sells Scentsy, if you like that sorta stuff (and I do).