The first time I saw someone talking on a wireless headset was back in 2003. I was in the bathroom at the Atlanta airport, waiting for my connecting flight, washing my hands. There was a woman standing at the sink, looking in the mirror, having a conversation with herself.

As a student nurse who spent half her time in the hospital dutifully putting in clinical hours, wiping butts and taking names, seeing someone have an actual conversation with someone who was not actually all that uncommon an occurrence. Even now, I dismiss that sort of behavior where other people might lock their doors and run, shrieking, the other direction.

Anyway, I whispered to my friend, “woah, looks like SHE went off her meds,” to my friend Jenna, who was taking this Spring Break vacation with me.

She, always more up-to-date on this sort of thing, just laughed and said, “she’s on the phone, Becks. It’s a hands-free headset.”

Sure enough, when I looked more closely, curious now, I saw the wire dangling down from her ear to the phone. Hm. Odd.

A couple of weeks later, I saw what appeared to be a man talking into his wallet while lunching – once again, with Jenna – at Panera. I eyed him suspiciously, even though he was smartly dressed in a business suit. When I saw he was wearing impeccably natty shoes, I realized that he, too, was probably not recently released from the psych ward.

“What. the. fuck? Why is that man talking on a fucking wallet?” I whispered to Jenna, pointing him out.

She laughed. She was forever explaining these things to me; a Pre-Prankster version of the Internet.

“That’s a Blackberry, Becky. It’s like a PDA with a phone.”

“That is the DUMBEST thing ever. Does he KNOW how dumb he looks? Fucking jackass.” I had a very small phone that I loved very much. I would have married it, but it was stupid (also: illegal) to marry something that had a shelf-life of two years.

Fast-forward.

I own an i(can’t use my)Phone only because I like Apple products. Had I realized how craptastic the “phone” bit of it was, I’d have gone with a Blackberry. My very own Talking Wallet.

Also: my new anti-depressants are working which means I’ve engaged in one of my favorite past-times: talking paint off walls. On the phone.

Now, because (insert hilarious joke) I have Neck Issues. I also have lots! of! energy! which means that when I am on the phone, I am also washing walls, doing dishes, waxing my cat, cleaning the garage, scheduling posts, watching dancing cat videos, and/or photoshopping pictures of myself into pictures of celebrities.

Okay, that last bit was a lie, because I don’t own photoshop. I can’t do that stuff! Gnomes can, though, and I’m TOTALLY not a gnome.

So, while I’m jabbering away, annoying whomever I’ve conned into chatting with me, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my ear, like it’s a wee babe. Don’t think it’s helping my neck issues.

It was time to take! action!

wham!

bam!

pow!

robots!

I needed an ear thingy for my phone. Except, there are only two options (besides speakerphone, which makes everyone sound like they’re talking from inside a tin can which = bullshit):

1) Ear Penis, a.k.a  bluetooth headsets. I hate them. No, that’s not right: I loathe them. I loathe them so much that I should probably make up a new word for how I feel about them. I know, I know, they’re useful and you can’t live without yours and blah, blah, blah, squirt, squirt. Fantastic. Yay for you!

That guy is a Blue DOUCHE.

My second option:

B) McDonald’s Headset: you know, like the OLD SKOOL phone headset, with the plastic bits that go to your mouth and stuff? I had to wear one when I worked for United. It was pretty awesome, actually, but I think I’ve earned my comeuppance because every time I see The Daver use his, I walk up to him and try to order a “cheeseburger and a diet Coke, please.”

(be glad you don’t live with me)

Today, after agonizing over it for weeks (read: months), I finally broke down and bought an Old Skool headset. My neck deserves it, dammit, and hey, if all else fails, I can totally work at McDonald’s.

In order for me to Get Less Anxious, I’ve been doing a lot of purging. Getting rid of what’s not important. There’s a lot of noise and crap (literal and figurative) out there and if you’re not careful, it can take over your life.

This week, I braved the Salvation Army drop center, where I swear to you, Pranksters, they judge my stuff before begrudgingly giving me a tax receipt. I did end up holding onto a few things. Maybe I will hold an Internet Garage Sale to raise some money to try and turn Band Back Together into a Non-Profit (I’m guessing it takes more than just batting my eyelashes and swinging the word “bullshit” around).

I came across something in my garage, buried under the piles of stuff to be donated; something I’ve never quite known what to do with.

Let me back up a second.

In 2002, a freshly single mother living at home with my parents, I’d realized that I needed to figure out What Next. Since toddlerhood, I’d planned to be a diamond-encrusted, world-saving doctor. Newborn on my hip, I realized this was probably going to have to be put on hold until said infant got a little, well, bigger.

Half a degree in bio/chem meant that I could handily enroll in nursing school, which was, at the very least on a similar plan, and wouldn’t make med school too far a distant chipmunk on the horizon.

So I did.

The first year, I spent doing the typical freshman pre-reqs, falling in with a motley crew as I commuted by train to the closest school that I could get my bachelor’s degree in nursing. I earned the nickname Super Becky Overachiever, acing all the exams (a degree in bio/chem is far more rigorous), becoming a TA for inorganic, organic and biochem as well as picking up some tutoring gigs for Anatomy and Physiology I and II.

Sweet ASS, I thought, as I patted myself on the back. I loved being busy, feeling useful, and doing something with myself back then just as I do now.

The first year of nursing school dawned and I parted ways with my homies from my pre-req days. They had another year before nursing school, so I’d be meeting a whole new set of people. No bother, I figured. I tended to get along with just about everyone.

When I walked in that first day, thirty pairs of eyes glared at me. To this day, I don’t know why I was met with so much hostility, but there it was, and there I was. I slurped my coffee, smiled a big ole fake smile, walked to the back of the class and took a seat.

The instructors bounded in applauding, “AREN’T YOU JUST SO HAPPY TO BE HERE?”

No, no I was not. In fact, this was not at all where I wanted to be, but I grinned uneasily as I looked around at my classmates; the ones I’d be stuck with for the next two years of my life.

Everyone else beamed, nodded, and started applauding back.

Okay then.

I tried to make nice. Really, I did. As a (former) waitress, I can bullshit with the best of them, but man, these people, I couldn’t crack ’em. For the next four (four!) hours, I sat there, alone in the back row, listening to a discussion about wiping butts, properly changing sheets, and bedpans. Each point the instructor made, punctuated by a question or comment from my classmate about something inane.

“One time, my grandma had the bed made wrong at the hospital.”

“I like cheese.”

“Our bedpans at the hospital I work at look different.”

Four hours a week of this, four days a week.

I walked back to the train, alone, and I wept. Not the kind of cry that leaves tears dribbling out of the corners of your eyes, oh no. I sobbed. I sobbed so hard that cars passing by stopped and asked if I was okay. No. But I would be.

My heart was broken.

I did what I always do: I made the best of it. I befriended the other outcasts. I zoomed to the top of my class, got invited into the prestigious nursing honor society, while slouching in the back, playing Bejeweled on my phone. Every time I got discouraged, I reminded myself that this was temporary.

I developed an incredible respect for nurses. Still have it.

Nurses = awesome.

I wouldn’t be where I am without where I’ve been or what I learned.

A couple of weeks before graduation, there’s a big thing for nurses called a “Pinning Ceremony.” It has nothing, I learned, to do with wrestling or sex. First, you get your picture taken, something I didn’t want to have done (I’m a rebel like that, and really, who the hell wants a snapshot of a twenty-five year old?), but my friends all insisted.

I love the surly face.

Anyway, there’s a big ceremony, a bunch of yapping, and we get pins.

That’s a nursing school pin. (also, like my retouching job?)

The night of the pinning ceremony, it was unveiled that some of the class had made each of us a gift from money leftover from something or another.

I don’t remember precisely what the ceremony involved, only that I spent most of it thinking about a) how hungry I was and b) listing the periodic table of elements (Hydrogen, Helium...) in my head. I probably played Bejeweled on my phone. Afterward, I went to the alter to collect my gift, the flowerpot I still own.

As I was looking for my name-flower pot (what the fuck was I going to do with that?) two nearly identical very short, very round woman with matching tight perms and haircuts so short they like tattoos waddled angrily up to me.

One of them shook their finger accusingly in my face: “WHERE IS NADIA’S?”

“Huh?” I replied. Nadia was a classmate who, well past the normal age of the graduating class, spent most of her time bitterly gossiping with her friend Melissa about everyone else. She especially hated me because, knowing I didn’t want to be a nurse – her life’s ambition – and beating her test scores seemed to mean that I was an asshole. (I am an asshole, but not for that)

“EVERYONE ELSE HAS A FLOWERPOT. WHERE IS NADIA’S?” the woman spat at me. Clearly, sparkling personality ran in the family.

I shrugged. I hadn’t been in charge of the flowerpots. Didn’t care about Nadia or her flowerpot. She could have mine if it meant so much to her.

The two woman stood there, on the alter of a church, no less, firing insults and complaints at me. I walked away.

It was a perfect end, really.

I graduated some variation of cum laude and ended my illustrious career as a hospice case manager (nurse) at the age of twenty-six. I’d been a nurse for under a year. Longer than I’d expected.

And now I have this completely useless flowerpot in my garage. Generally, I hate useless things. But I feel as though I should want to keep it. Or smash the shit out of it. Or something. Yet, I don’t. Which is why I’ve held onto it for so long. I just don’t quite know what to do with it, so I do nothing. It sits there, quietly haunting me, reminding me gently of where I’ve come from.

Maybe, just maybe, that’s a good thing.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Wow. So, I just found an old flame on facebook. my current husband (#3) is the jealous kind. should i delete him as my friend or keep him as a friend? my husband has not seen that I’ve added him yet. More importantly is there a way to keep him and hide him? I still have the hots for him!

O! Prankster, my Prankster, as far as I’m concerned, The Facebook is good for one thing and one thing only: feeling smugly superior to ex-boyfriends. Since I have none as “friends,” and with the exception of a select few (read: Robert), I happen to think highly of my ex’s, I find Facebook mostly annoying.

Also: once I read that Facebook destroyed like 87% marriages. Although I could be wrong. Numbers aren’t my thing. And those statistical things are usually pretty skewed. Remember when they were all, “most accidents occur within five miles of your house?” And you were all, “HOLY SCHNIKES, IMMA DIE,” every time you went to get a delicious cheeseburger? (Maybe it’s just me)

Until you realized, of course, most of your DRIVING was within five miles of your house, so of course, most accidents would occur there too.

Really, that’s my long-winded way of saying this:

Delete your old flame. He’s your “old” flame for a reason. Then?

Run.

Like.

Hell.

No good can come of this.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’m back again with another question for Aunt Becky and her Merry Band of Pranksters: I asked you before (that’s a link to her previous question) about my husband’s abusive behavior.

I know the answer to the question “Is it abuse?”

This time, the question is what do I do? I left, he can’t talk to me or come within 100 yards of me, but we have 50-50 custody of our 4-year old son. The ex has left bruises on him twice. I have had to take him to the pediatrician for. 50-50 custody.

I’m begging my attorney for an ex parte with the judge to change the custody situation. I don’t care about child support. I am afraid that he’s going to kill my little boy.

What do I do? Go to the family violence shelter and risk contempt of court charge and losing my job? Send him back and pray? Please help and pray for my baby. Please.

My heart sunk, Prankster, when I read this. Of course we’ll all pray for you.

I’ve dug around a little, and not knowing much about the law or where you live (don’t mention it, I don’t want this to get back to you), I’m not exactly sure what to do besides call the Child Abuse Hotline immediately. They have a 24-7 hotline staffed by counselors who can better navigate the law and how to protect your son.

This is the website for Childhelp.Org and the National Child Abuse Hotline is 1-800-4-A-Child.

Call social services and make sure that your child’s teacher is aware. Teachers are required to report abuse to social services as well and (according to a brilliant Prankster) may carry more weight with them.

Be sure to document the SHIT out of everything with pictures, doctors notes, you name it.

I wish I had any smarter advice but I have a terrible My Grain and can’t see very well and I don’t want to say something that’s dumber than dumb (read: my normal crap).

Prankster, I am sending you all the love and light that I can. Please be safe.

Pranksters, please, help this Prankster and her son (Prankster, JR) out with all of your brilliant advice and prayers..

These pictures are the epitome of win.

Look closely, Pranksters. Look very closely at this Facebook Ad.

You too, can be a member of the intense, elite CIA!

Then, you too can pose triumphantly with a squirrel carcass.

There is nothing not AMAZING about this picture. I’m going to frame it.

Then, while trying hard not to delete my own Facebook Profile (I was creating one for Band Back Together)(I don’t know why either), I came across this beauty, which makes me really happy, and will probably ensure that I never, ever, ever, delete my Facebook profile, ever.

Now, I’m a born and raised Chicagoan, and I’ve never, ever considered putting a tiny pig in red galoshes as “something to put on my Chicago Bucket List.” Become a mob boss? Yes. Become a Mafia Princess? Yes. We teethe on deep-dish pizza and are well-accustomed to corrupt politics and locals never go to Taste of Chicago.

I might have even once had a love-affair with Rod Blago’s magnificently luscious hair (this was also probably my favorite post):

But to dress a wee pig in tiny boots? I don’t think I know any Chicagoan who wants to do that. That sounds like something a Wisconsinite would do.

This morning, as I was getting my blueberry-flavored coffee and Junior Mints at the Sleven down the street (Breakfast of Champions, I told the guy behind me who snickered wildly at my selections), I noticed something so awe-inspiring that I simply had to take a picture for you.

Do you see that, Pranksters? PURPLE IS A FUCKING FLAVOR NOW. I have been petitioning for “purple” to be made a flavor for YEARS.

Don’t believe me? LOOK

And now, Pranksters, it is. Purple is FINALLY a flavor.

Um. UM. UMMMMM.

This exists. I don’t know why.

Next time, I’m TOTALLY buying it and leaving it out around the house so when people come over, they’ll see it and be SUPER uncomfortable when they see it. Like, “woah, does Becky USE this stuff? If so, WHY?”

I love making people uncomfortable.

Last, but certainly not least, is an email I got awhile ago from someone I do not know.

I think she’s in love with me.

I wanted to say thank you to all of you who read my post yesterday about anxiety and commented and emailed and stuff. It’s a weird thing for me to be dealing with, and I’m not sure how exactly to handle it. Anxiety, that is, not blogging, because, hell, I’ve been blogging so long that dust comes out of my fingers when I type.

I’m fortunate enough to have a doctor who is quite possibly the World’s Greatest Person. Like, I know I’m constantly giving the Nobel Prize for Awesome out to random things, like the guy who invented the bacon cheeseburger, and the person who made this picture:

If you don’t think that’s the greatest picture ever, I will fight you.

My doctor deserves the medal for Awesomest Doctor Ever.

Getting help made me I realize how long I’ve been pretending that everything was okay when it was not. Problems are bullshit. Denial is a bigger pile of bullshit.

The first order of business is to start thinking like an editor. I’m cutting out any excess [words] noise. Getting rid of everything I no longer require (I wrote about that on Curvy Girls). Literally and figuratively (when in doubt, throw around big words and hope you’re using them properly).

Then? Organization, Pranksters. After, of course, many hours of snow cone eating and dancing cactus videos.

CLEARLY.

—————-

I realized I’d forgotten to announce The Winner for the Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirt Contest yesterday, but by the time I realized it, I’d already put up my post about being all anxious. It seemed so vastly incongruent to be all After School Special, “Pranksters, I’m struggling and anxious,” then, OHMYGOD, WINNER! #UNICORNBLOOD trumps #TIGERBLOOD!

But today, in a completely random post, I can announce it.

QCMAMA, come on down! You just won a Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirt! (soon to be available in PURPLE)

———-

This seems like an excellent time to tell you about Robert, the Worst Date of My Life.

Remember when coffee shops were like the new black and suddenly, they sprung up every-fucking-where? This was after that. One of my good friends worked at a coffee shop attached to a small, local video store, in one of those combinations that seemed like a good idea, but really wasn’t. One of his coworkers was a guy named Robert, and I should have known by his foppy haircut that he was Bad News for someone Like Me.

But, I was between boyfriends and when he asked me on an actual date, (I had boyfriends, not actual “dates,”) I accepted. What’s the worst that could possibly happen? I reasoned, even after uncomfortably noting his extremely well-manicured fingernails and soft palms.

Robert, it seemed, was the worst that could happen.

The night of Our Date, I met him at the coffee shop and he chivalrously offered to drive to the multi-theater complex located a good 45 minutes away. Okay, I thought, anyone with hands like that was probably not a rapist or axe-murderer.

And he wasn’t.

Robert was of a completely different ilk.

Robert was Mr. Sensitive Pony-Tail Man, sans pony-tail.

Now, I’m all for a guy who likes to talk about His Feelings without the use of hand-puppets and other props, but Robert took things to a whole new level. A whole new level that made me so uncomfortable that, had we not been in a car on the highway, I might have had him pull over so that I could show my own feelings. Vomity-type feelings.

In that 45 minutes, I learned this: Robert was 22 (I was 18) and lived at home with his mother. He’d had a long-term girlfriend who he’d recently broken up with because she’d moved away to be a part of some traveling Renaissance Faire and he couldn’t handle the distance. They’d tried, he informed me, and his mom was pretty mad at him because they’d racked up massive phone bills.

Apparently, Robert’s answer to being so far apart was to spend each night on the phone, sleeping together.

Yes.

You read that right.

They “slept” together. On the phone. Listening to each other snore.

I’ll wait while you vomit.

….

….

….

….

I appreciate romance as much as the next person, but that’s just plain old creepy.

He waxed on and on about his ex for the entire car ride. Clearly, he was not only co-dependent, but also still not over her. Ugh. By the time we arrived at the movie theater, I was ready to go see a movie – any movie – by myself. But, no. Cell phones were still relatively new, weighed about 6 pounds, and cost hundreds of dollars to own. I had a snazzy gold beeper instead.

Snazzy wasn’t about to get me away from Creepy Robert.

Oh well.

So, before we went into the movie of his choosing, I insisted he buy me the biggest vat of popcorn they had and a bucket of Diet Coke and some Junior Mints, because, well, then the date wasn’t a total loss. I wasn’t normally the kind of girl who did such things, but I’d just spent 45 minutes listening to the virtues of Megan, The Most Wonderful Renaissance Princess Ever Who Also Played Dungeons and Dragons And blah, blah, fucking BLAH.

I considered this my tasty and delicious therapist’s fee.

I’d been too busy craning my neck around to see if I knew anyone who I could bum a ride home from to notice what movie Robert had chosen for us to see, but it was no surprise that he’d chosen the lamest movie ever: Ever After: A Cinderella Story.

I dry-heaved.

Instead of focusing on the riveting plot (I’d have chosen a movie like Die Hard), I listed the Periodic Table of Elements in order my head: “Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon…” Then, claiming “bathroom break,” I went into the lobby and played air-hockey with a couple of twelve-year olds.

When I came back, Robert was openly weeping.

Not at my absence or anything, but at the movie. Apparently, it was very touching and I had missed it! O! the humanity! O! the emoting! O! the beauty!

O! the vomitus!

I took my seat next to him and he sobbed so loudly that people began to turn around in their seats to stare at him. Not a single other person in the theater was tearful, so I guess it hadn’t been that emotional.

I was mortified. I was with That Guy. I had no idea how to handle it.

So I patted his leg reassuringly and said, “There, There.”

He wept louder.

The ushers came.

They asked us to leave.

The entire ride home, he babbled about how “beautiful” and “true” that movie was. I just stared out the window, willing the ride to go by faster, wishing I’d worn a mask.

When we got back to my car, he professed his love to me. I suggested that he “rescue” his “true love” from the Ren Faire.

He agreed.

Then he called me so often that I had to block his number.

The Moral of This Story: Never, ever date a guy with soft palms.

It dawns on me as I sit there, my left butt-cheek falling asleep, that I could be somewhere else eating a bagel. Like Paris. Or Detroit. Or learning the Swahili phrase for “pants are bullshit.” Or washing my car. Okay, maybe not washing my car. It was like -900 degrees out. Washing my car would be like that scene in the Terminator with the Nitrous Oxide and the robot.

I smile, imagining my car shattering in the car wash, until I remember I’m probably sitting on barf germs. I hate barf germs.

My iPhone isn’t getting any signal in here. Stupid AT&T. Should be named the iCAN’TPhone because I haven’t been able to make a phone call since I got the damn thing. Hm. I really could use some mindless interaction from The Twitter right about now. Or maybe a Vicodin-Chip cookie. Or some vodka. Because my heart feels like it’s going to pound right the fuck out of my chest.

When the hell did this HAPPEN?

When did I start feeling stretched as taut as an over-tuned violin string? Why did I feel like the pressure to do more; to be more, to constantly outdo myself was omnipresent? Like I couldn’t ever possibly manage to live up to my own unrealistic expectations? Like I had to somehow be everything to everyone. Like if I didn’t constantly prove myself, I would cease to matter. I would cease to exist.

When did this start? And moreover: how could I make this stop?

These anxious racing thoughts; this anxiety, this had to stop.

Admitting that I had a problem the first step, I know from Al-Anon, and doing something about it was important. Hence the bagel-craving and the barf-germ-coated chair in my doctor’s waiting room. And, of course, the urge to flee so that I could learn Portuguese or Mandarin or really anything but admit that I had a problem.

I’m so tired of problems. I’m so tired of having something wrong that I barely want to admit to myself that I have a problem. Between migraines and my lazy-ass missing-in-action thyroid and insomnia, I can hardly stand to be in the same room with myself anymore without wanting to punch myself in the teeth. Problems are bullshit. I hate problems. Maybe I can make a “Problems Are Bullshit” shirt. Because they are. Bullshit, that is.

Maybe this isn’t ACTUALLY a problem. Maybe I can just ignore it and it’ll get better on it’s own.

Except it hasn’t. Because that’s what I’ve been doing. And it’s not working. Clearly.

Before I could do anything, though, the nurse poked her head into the waiting room, “Becky?” she trilled calmly, clearly unaware of my churny guts.

I sighed, put my iDON’TWORKPhone back into my purse and followed her back.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked kindly.

“Well,” I started, looking at my hands, ashamed to be admitting this to anyone but the people who live inside my computer. “It’s sorta like this…”

My love of encased meats is the stuff that legends, dreams and the occasional nightmare are made of. Hot dogs (and diamonds) are probably the quickest way to my heart. They’re probably part of my heart by now, if you want to be technical about LDL’s and triglycerides and stuff, which I’d rather gloss over, thankyouverymuch, because that would prevent me from thoroughly enjoying my encased tube of lips and buttholes.

In my spam folder, nestled firmly between several notifications of “I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE” and “You won 750,000 in Premiere Oil Lottery,” I got a gem of a PR pitch.

I don’t, as you can imagine, get a whole lot of PR pitches. I swear and even though I’m pretty sure the *hums* Winds of Change are blowing through the advertising world and I’d bet we’re going to see a lot of changes in the world of marketing and advertising on actual blogs (not just the ones that are saccharine sweet), we’re not there yet.

(I’d asked on The Twitter a couple weeks back if I should write about “Crappy Ex-Boyfriends” or “Making Money Blogging” and people responded, of course, to “crappy ex-boyfriend” not seeing the obvious joke I was making)(speaking of that, I need to choose a winner in the Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirt contest)(tomorrow, I’ll announce it)

So I don’t get a lot of PR pitches which is just as well. I’d rather not subject you guys to what amounts to an ad because, well, there’s plenty of blogs out there that do that already. And I chafe at the idea of doing some ad agencies job for them without getting paid their salary. A $4 coupon isn’t a salary. My readers, my blog, and my space is worth a hell of a lot more than some crappy coupon.

Okay, I may need to lay down a second before I stroke out.

But this gem of a PR pitch was superb.

It was for corn dogs.

I love corn dogs, Pranksters. I could write a thousand posts about corn dogs and still not get close to how deeply I feel about corn dogs. They are sublime. Hot dogs, on a stick, covered in, uh, corn something, then deep-fried. Often found at the Fair, along with mullets, monster truck rallies, and cotton candy, I consider corn dogs to be one of Nature’s Perfect Foods.

(let’s disregard how unnatural corn dogs are, okay? Okay.)

But this pitch, oh, it had me rolling. I was dying. DYING. Let me give you a taste. I changed a bit of it around, but not the insulting (to you) bits:

Blah, blah blah. Here’s a video we want you to put on your blog. Your readers will like it, they will choose their own adventure and pick the outcome of the video.

If they choose the correct path, there’s a coupon at the end for them!

Please share this funny video on your fabulous and amazing blog. Your mom readers, who juggle the demands of everyday life and need quick and easy snacks, will truly appreciate this video and coupon.

Now, Pranksters, I like to think that I know most of you. I read your blogs (even if I haven’t been commenting – which, blame Google, who messed it all up for me) and I keep your comments pinned up on my wall.

I’d like to say this: I don’t think ANY of you would appreciate a video about corn dogs. Or, rather, a video about corn dogs sent to me by a PR firm.

I know I wouldn’t. But, I think there are some videos about corn dogs that I would watch.

I would totally watch a movie about killer corn dogs.

A corn dog so conflicted by it’s love of cheeseburgers that it turns Emo? AMAZING. That would be a true work of art.

Those are movies about corn dogs I’d happily watch. Just, you know, saying.

While we’re on the subject of truly superb spam, here’s the best thing I’ve gotten in years, possibly ever:

I’ll let you think on that. Because it’s spam. And I heart it so hard that I might cry.

Now, let’s talk about awesome PR pitches YOU get. Or spam. Or videos about corn dogs that should be made.

Really, the possibilities here are endless.

So Pranksters, it’s time for the March Edition of the BB2G: Bringing Happy Back World Tour, which is like New Years Resolutions except awesome (New Years Resolutions = Bullshit).

So get your glorious asses over there and join up. Mostly because you get that glorious badge. Which isn’t QUITE as awesome as the Best Picture on the Internet, but close.

Dear Aunt Becky,

How should I handle a little effin’ biotch who recently made my sweet angel cry at school?

My daughter is nine and has a heart of gold. Everyone she meets always compliments me on her lovely sweet personality and how she would not hurt a fly. Well yesterday, she told me about a girl at school who say behind her in assembly and made some really nasty comments about my child, calling her an ugly cry-baby with a big head!

My child just doesn’t understand this type of cruelty. She made me so sad when she looked at me confused and said “but Mommy, she doesn’t even know me!”

Please help, I’m so incensed with rage I’m trying hard not to head out and find this little shit and pinch her effin’ head off!

If there’s anything that pisses me off more than bullying, I’m not sure what it is. Do you remember when we were kids and we had kids that were total assjackets to us and the answer was pretty much a standard *shrugs* “kids will be kids?”

I do.

Or, at least, I remember my brother going through it. He’s a lot older than me and I’ll never forget watching my big brother – my strong, smart, tough big brother, who I thought the world revolved around – as he was tormented, endlessly mocked and beaten down, because he had a stutter. Oh yeah, bullies and I, we’re like peas in a pod. If peas in a pod want to watch each other burn to death in a fiery blaze of bullets.

Anyway.

Yeah, so back then, no one dealt with bullies. Now? The schools take bullying more seriously. AS THEY SHOULD.

My eldest was the target of a bully in Kindergarten and the school actually ended up suspending the child after the bullying continued. Ben’s emotional range isn’t quite as normal as a typical child (he’s autistic) so when he was being bullied, he was less upset and more confused by the whole situation. I, of course, was the one who was flaming pissed. Ben’s about as kind and gentle as they come.

So, what do you do about it?

Well, first, I’d try and talk to your daughter about what happened with the girl, let her know that it’s not her fault, and that you are, of course, 100% on her side. Kids don’t always know that you’re on their side unless you SAY it, and if you’re acting angry, sometimes they think that you’re angry at THEM.

Tell your daughter to talk to an adult the next time it happens. A teacher, you, another parent, a sibling, anyone. She needs to tell an adult that she’s having problems with a bully.

The second thing she can learn to do is to stand up for herself without getting upset. The bully wants to get the victim upset. Tell your daughter to not let the bully see her respond emotionally. She doesn’t have to be an asshole back to the bully, but she doesn’t have to take whatever the bully is throwing out lying down. She can respond with a joke back or a firm, “Whatever,” and then get out of the situation. If the bully doesn’t get the reaction that she wants, she’ll stop doing it.

If she can learn to do that (which is extremely hard, I know) it will do wonders to foster her self-esteem down the road.

The third thing she can learn to do is to stand up for others who may be targeted by bullies. Sometimes, you just need SOMEONE on your side. I think every single one of us understands how THAT feels.

As for you, Prankster, I’d call the school if the bullying persists and see what their policy on bullying is. I imagine that your school now has some policy on bullying in place, what with all of the proof that bullying in the early days leads to all kinds of problems in later life.

Now, I’m giving you the link to a book that an actual online friend (I have friends? WOAH) wrote about bullies. He sent me a copy which I gave to my nine-year old son, Ben (the one who’d been bullied) and Ben has read it no less than 879 times. Seriously, he loves it.

It’s called The Skinny on Bullying and it’s been heartily endorsed by my son. So, there you have it.

Now, Pranksters, I know you’re going to have a honking buttload of better information than I do to give this Prankster, so please, share away.

My friend Mitch sent this to me and I scoffed indignantly at the name of the picture: “The Best Picture on the Internet.”

Certainly, I said to myself, this cannot possibly be THE BEST PICTURE on the Internet. I mean, really. The Internet has porn and 3 Wolf shirts and who can forget (no matter how hard they try) my infamous Epic Soul Portrait? This couldn’t possibly be The BEST picture on the Internet.

You know what? I’ve thought about it for a week now.

It really, really is. This is the best picture on The Internet.

Pranksters, THIS is TRULY the best picture on the Internet. I challenge you to disprove me because I know that it is impossible.

This is possibly the best picture in the world.

I have many irrational fears. I suppose you could just say, “I’m irrational,” but since this is my website, I’m going to tag on the part about fears and pretend that lalalalalaa I’m totally, completely, entirely, 110% sane.

Shut up.

I’m deathly afraid of earwigs. My earwig phobia can handily be traced back to the time when, many years back, when Young Aunt Becky actually drank a live earwig that had been evilly lurking inside a Diet Coke can. That’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

I’m also afraid of fish, the color orange and anything sung by Rush.

But the one that is most impactful is my fear of Garage Sales.

I like a good bargain like I like Orange-flavored Hostess Cupcakes (read: love) and I love weird, eclectic things and Garage Sales are notorious havens of such finds. Why once, I got a Plexiglas Goat’s Head for a penny! If that’s not a win, I don’t know what is.

I also love to purge my house of excess crap. I don’t like…well, I don’t like stuff. With five people under one roof, you can imagine how quickly stuff accumulates. I’m not a hoarder and having a bunch of stuff around makes me anxious(er) and twitchy(er) so every couple of months, I go through the house and remove everything we don’t need. When I’m done, I feel like I’m on top of the world. I’m all Leonardo DiCaprio King of the World, Bitches! I’m high on freaking LIFE. Stuff, BE GONE!

So the stuff is out of our closets and moved to a second location: my garage. That’s all well and good until I realize (as I have today) that I must now move it somewhere…else.

The obvious solution (and what I normally do) would be to donate it to the Salvation Army. There’s a drop-site within a mile from my house and I can load up a couple of bags and easily drop them off.

But there’s always that niggling voice in the back of my head that suggests that maybe, just maybe, I could have a Garage Sale! Maybe someone would actually WANT some of my stuff! Like all of my old Williams-Sonoma Cookbooks that I never used because, let’s face it, BUYING cookbooks doesn’t mean you suddenly BECOME a cook!

(who knew?)

Maybe someone would give me a dollar for one of those cookbooks! Or what about all of my hardly-worn Calvin Klein pants that I outgrew? (ungrew? I don’t know. I lost weight and now they don’t fit) Or those toys the kids never played with? SOMEONE MIGHT WANT AN AWESOME TOY FOR THEIR KIDS.

This is what the voice in my head says. For a brief moment in time, I listen. My eyes glaze over, and I think that it might be nice to make a couple of bucks. Hey, I could buy my laptop and start planning my Epic Road Trip to visit the Pranksters! The wheels in my head begin to turn. Slowly. Creakily.

Then, Cold Hard Reality bitch-slaps me across the face.

I think of the people who will haggle with me over a coffee cup I’ve reasonably priced at a whopping ten cents. I hate to haggle more than I hate anything. In fact, I’d rather give it away than have to haggle with Garage Sale People.

So I’m left back at Square One. A Garage full of Sale-able stuff that I guess I’ll just donate to charity. Unless you Pranksters have a better idea.

I hope that whomever ends up with that Williams-Sonoma Cookbook set knows what the hell “creme fraiche” is. Because I sure as hell don’t.

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Do you have any better ideas, Pranksters?