We’d been tasked, The Guy (at the time) On My Couch and I with wrangling the children outdoors because the window guy was indoors, ripping out our old drafty windows and installing brand-spankin’ new ones. The house was an investment, and we couldn’t WAIT to have windows that properly opened and shut so that we could do things like, “feel the warm breeze” without the cats jumping out the windows in a desperate effort to save themselves from our formerly white (WHITE!) carpet.

(Pointless aside: who the fuck installs white carpeting? Answer: not I)

We’d spent the day gardening with el kids (a couple of neighborhood kids thrown in for good measure), laying down grass seed and puttering around doing old people shit. Dave, on the other hand, was indoors working on something very important – perhaps a game of Civ 5, I can’t be sure – I’m no gamer, so they all look the same to me (read: equally baffling).

Finally, we sat in the garage, sweating our nards off and talking to the window guy who was done with the install for the day. He explained that he was waiting for his partner to come and pick him up, but that he’d be back tomorrow to install some whoo-dillys and whacha-ma-callits. I just nodded, happy to be out of the blistering sun and away from the bugs, if only for a moment.

Soon enough, a child-napping van pulled up into our driveway – perfect for both kidnappers and tradespeople alike – and his “partner” popped out. When I’d envisioned “partner,” I assumed he meant an older, more grizzled version of himself, someone who likely wheezed upon any exertion – like getting out of the child-napping van. But no, his partner was a woman.

She practically ran into the garage, begging to use my bathroom.

“Sure,” I said, sympathetically. My parents had performed a procedure when I was quite small in which they replaced my own bladder with a squirrels, which means I have to pee approximately every four seconds, while somewhere, skulking around Illinois, is a squirrel who hasn’t peed in over seven years.

“It’s right behind this wall,” I gestured. She dashed inside as we continued talking shop – a euphemism for listening to someone who knows a lot about whoo-dillys talking wildly about Mr. Gadget shit while I sat there, nodding and trying not to drip sweat into my eyes – with the Window Guy.

The minutes crept past us as we jabbered on, The Guy On The Couch and The Window Guy, while I began counting the mosquito bites that had formed a particularly awesome pattern on my legs. Soon, my mind drifted and I began to look for patterns in the bites. Just as I thought I saw Jesus composed entirely of mosquito bites, imagining the lines of people who may line up to see my legs and pray over them for upwards of two days – or until the bites subsided – she flew back out of the house. She’d been gone so long I’d assumed she’d found Dave and had begun to talk to him about video games or sealing wax, or other fancy stuffs.

“Thanks again,” she said to me, as I nodded sympathetically. “I’ve been holding that a REALLY long time.”

“No problem,” I said to her, “happens to me all the time.”

“Yep,” The Guy (then) On My Couch affirmed. “Her bladder is the size of a Fruit Loop.”

The Window Guy and his partner made their way back to their child-napping van, where I hoped they would go home WITHOUT kidnapping innocent children, and I turned to The Guy (then) On My Couch, “Holy fucks, I gotta pee, motherfucker.”

He looked at me, deadpan, “This is my surprised face.”

I flicked him off on the way into the cool house, the sweat on my face practically freezing as I walked indoors and into the bathroom, ready to evacuate 2.5 ounces from my bladder.

It hit me like a freight train as I flicked on the bathroom light: the incredible, unmistakable stench of shit. I googled a bit, eyes watering, before closing the door and turning the fan on. Didn’t need that getting out into the general circulation.

After I made my way to the upstairs bathroom and back to the garage to watch The Littles, I pulled The Guy (then) On My Couch aside, “Holy balls, Ben,” I said, “She dropped a HUGE deuce in there.”

He laughed, “Really?”

“Yup,” I replied, my eyes wide as dinner plates. “I’m kinda shocked.”

“Me too!” He agreed with me. “Who goes and takes a monster dump at a complete stranger’s house? Isn’t that what gas station bathrooms are for?”

“Yes,” I said, eyes still open so wide they nearly fell out of my head. “That and weird creepy gas station bathroom sex.”

I thought for a minute.

“It’s always my fucking luck,” I confessed. “Or maybe it’s everyone’s thing – I can’t seem to find a bathroom to use that someone before me hasn’t taken a warm, steaming dump. I’m always fucking afraid that stench is going to get in my hair. I can’t TELL you all the times I’ve walked into to a bathroom to take a pee and I’m stuck gagging at the remnants someone’s dinner from the night before.”

“You do pee a LOT,” he replied flippantly.

Not really acknowledging what is, apparently, common knowledge, I continued. “But do you know what’s the worst?” I didn’t wait for a reply, “It’s when they’ve used that canned air freshener shit and I’m sitting in peach-scented poo. That shit never works like it’s supposed to – rather than mask the odor, it just ADDS to it. Fucking gross.” I shuddered as I dry-heaved a little. “Blech.”

He just nodded, laughing too hard to reply.

A lifetime later, a company sent me yet another bizarre item, which I promptly put into my box of items that were to be moved to my new home. As I was taking very little from our house, save for one set of the couches and a few odds and ends, I’d happily accepted anything anyone wanted to send me. You never DO know what you’re going to need.

The PR rep would occasionally email me to ask me about the item, which was called “ReJuvenescence,” and I promptly ignored her emails – my life was in boxes, and no, I hadn’t had a chance to try their new product, which sounded, each time I got the email, like something you’d use on your vagina.

It’s not.

Finally, once I was settled in my new place, I unpacked the box and stared into it – a little shocked. The wee box was filled with toilet paper plastic thingies (sadly no toilet paper). The instructions informed me that I was to peel some stickers off, pop a roll of TP on them, then relax and enjoy. Or something like that, I don’t really read instructions.

I wrangled the thing onto my toilet paper holder, curious as to what the nuts it would do. I hoped that it would:

A) Sing to me

2) Clap and/or cheer

73.7) Return my bladder to normal, human size.

It did none of those.

What it did do, however, was make my bathroom (and subsequently) my toilet paper smell kinda… nice. Not like that bullshit pine tree air freshener “nice” (which only serves to remind me of my days as a teenage delinquent), but sorta… good.

But let’s be honest with each other, Pranksters, I’d be more impressed if it sang Christmas Carols or various versions of the Pina Colada song.

Scene 1 – My new kitchen, middle of the work day on Thursday:

Me (humming the Flight of the Bumblebees and wondering how THAT became my theme song): “Man, I am THIRSTY. I should grab a nice, tasty beverage from my fridge.”

My Fridge: “You need to eat something.”

Me: “Says you – I’m not hungry.”

My Fridge: “All you use me for is to stow diet Coke and the occasional food for The Littles.”

Me: “One word: Divorce Diet.”

My Fridge: “That was two words.”

Me: “Yeah, well *sputters* SO?”

My Fridge: “If you’d EATEN something you’d have known that statement was, in fact, two words.”

Me: “Yeah, well, have YOU been through a divorce?”

My Fridge: “Nope. Still with the oven – we’ve been together since 1956.”

Me: “Well balls to you then, Mister.”

My Fridge: “No need to get hostile. If you ate something, you’d be less hostile.”

Me: “No, I’d be less hostile if you were the actual size and shape of a REAL fridge. You’re like the Napoleon of fridges – short man syndrome and all that.”

My Fridge: “It’s called “compact,” which you’d know if you’d EATEN anything in the last week or two.”

Me: “Shut your whore mouth. I just want a diet Coke. Can you let up for one fucking second about the “you need to eat” shit? It’s getting old.”

My Fridge: “You know you’re probably embalmed already by the amount of diet Coke you drink.”

Me: “So? Makes the mortician’s job easier.”

My Fridge: “That’s a dreary thought.”

Me: “YOU brought it up.”

My Fridge: “Touche.”

Me: “So are we done with this lecture yet? It’s been enlightening and all, but I gotta get back to work.”

My Fridge: “As you wish.”

I reach down to grab a diet Coke from the bottom shelf and, upon standing back up, thwump the back of my head on the door to the freezer, which was made well before anyone thought about safety or end user error. Rather than standing up and shaking it off, instead, I fall backward, prized diet Coke in hand, and adding insult to injury, bash my head against the chipped Formica floor and am knocked unconscious.

Minutes pass.

——————

Scene 2: I wake up in a pool of my own blood and a throbbing headache.

Me: “That wasn’t very nice.”

My Fridge: “Neither was implying I had “short man syndrome.” That was UN-nice, which you’d know if…”

Me: “…I’d eaten? Sorry Fridge, but eating doesn’t exactly cure all that ails you.”

My Fridge: “Still, it was a mean comment.”

Me (growls): “You wanna see mean? WHY DON’T YOU LOOK AT YOUR FUG COLOR IN THE MIRROR? I LIKE TO CALL YOUR COLOR “DOG PEE ON PLASTERBOARD.”

My Fridge: “I don’t have legs.”

Me: “SO not my problem.”

My Fridge: “Go clean yourself off – you’re dripping blood everywhere. It’s unsightly.”

Me: “So’s your FACE.”

My Fridge: “Now that was just stupid.”

Me (wobbling off to the shower): “Yeah, well.”

My Fridge (calling after me): “Don’t you think you should call someone about your head?”

Me: “I have a therapist.”

My Fridge (trails off as I get into the shower): “That’s not what I meant – you’re woozy and look like you have a concussion.”

Me: “Oh NOW you feel concern – this IS your fault, y’know.”

Refrigerator goes silent, for once, as I sit in the shower, washing off the blood.

Me (mutters): “Fucking appliances… always out to get me.

The Shower Faucet: “Have you eaten yet?”

Me: “Shut your whore mouth, assface.”

Dear Pranksters,

It’s hard to follow a post like Swan Song up with anything. Everything I’ve managed to come up with sounds too trite, too stupid, too (as a former troll called me) “navel grazing*”

So I’m going to do just that. Write a post that is entirely naval grazing, entirely stupid and entirely trite. Why? Because obviously.

I thank you for your love on the last post – I’m sorry I gave you guys the Sads. It took me ages upon ages to write and when I did, I feared the outcome. This IS the Internet, after all. But I was overwhelmed by your comments. They’re beautiful – thank you.

A couple of you have asked if I’m okay, and the truth is that I’m not. I’m aiming for okay. I’m hoping that one day, I’ll wake up and not feel the weight sitting heavily on my chest. Until then, I’ll continue with therapy and finding My Happy – which, thanks to you, Pranksters, I feel whenever I see the things you’ve sent me – your old towels and sheets. Paper towels. The things a very small apartment needs.

I’m carefully labeling them with your name, then mine, and when I am done with them, I will send them on to the next person who needs them, under the promise that when they are done with them, they too will send them on, once they’ve put their name on the item.

I’d call it the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but we all know that my pants have a terrible temper and, upon occasion, run off to Vegas without me.

Got any better names for this project, Pranksters?

Love Always,

Aunt (motherfucking) Becky

(the “motherfucking” is silent)

Most of you know that with The Big D comes the need to work – more than I already do. If you’re not aware, I already write for a number of places, including The Stir (the comments are amazaballs, and by “amazaballs” I mean, “cruel,” so I don’t read ’em – better for my overall sense of self-worth that way). I’ve spent countless hours working on Band Back Together, but, of course, that’s not paid work. Which means I have begun the job search.

The job search finds me with an odd skill set – I’m a nurse, but I haven’t practiced in so long that I’d guess dust would pour out of my fingers when I started an IV or shove a suppository up someone’s bung. And to be honest, it’s not that I didn’t like being a nurse, it’s that I LOATHED it – and frankly, I don’t have recent enough skill set for anyone to hire me (that’s not to say that I won’t do it – just that it’s not as simple an answer as it sounds)

I’m a writer – a versatile one – and that’s what I love to do. I’m not above trying something new – shit, with all the changes going on, new is no longer synonymous with bad. Imma embrace change if it kills me. (and it may)

My odd skill set non-withstanding (non-profit, BSN-RN, writer of Navel Grazing crap), I’ve been job hunting. It seems like every time I turn around, there’s a new job farm to check out. Which means I have to, once again, pull shit out of my ass to sound like a fully functional adult.

This is what I’ve learned on my job search:

0) Spraying your resume with Cool Water before handing it in to HR is a must – it let’s HR know that you’re flirty, yet casual (and probably NOT a date-rapist).

1) Adding things like, “Anus Bandit” under “skill set” is a good thing because you can simply say, “It’s Latin,” which makes you sound WAY smarter.

1) Make sure your email address stands out. Rather than the tame “becky.harks@gmail.com” send them the more flirty: “sex_kitten23@hotmail.com.” Everyone knows that Hotmail spells “classy.”

2) Make it very clear on your resume that you consider “office hours” to be “whenever you roll out of bed and no sooner.” Shows that YOU have the upper hand and know what you want outta life.

3) When setting up an interview, insist that it’s with “The Big Big Boss,” (even if – ESPECIALLY IF – he’s overseas and needs to be flown back in) and not some stupid HR slacker – you’re the best and you know it.

5) If you happen to spill coffee on your resume, remind the HR person that it shows that you’re a “multi-tasker.”

8 ) It’s not like anyone ACTUALLY checks out whether or not you have a degree – I mean, you can print one of those motherfuckers out on your computer! See?

THAT looks motherfucking OFFICIAL.

13) Bring a burly friend with you to interviews. Have him stand menacingly at the door with sunglasses on – if asked, say, “He’s my bodyguard.” If you want to REALLY stand out, launch into an off-key duet of “I Will Always Love You.” Bonus points of you can choreograph a dance scene involving the person interviewing you.

21) While choosing interview attire, choose one of those t-shirts you can make at Walgreens – preferably a picture of yourself giving the thumbs up. Like this:

(that’s frosting on my fingers)

34) Always include a link to your personal blog, especially if it’s something classy like, “Mommy Wants Vodka,” so potential employers can see just how stupid you are.

————–

Apparently, I’m going to have to ratchet it up a notch if I really want a job. Pranksters – do you have any jobbity-job idears for me?

———–

Also: what is my list missing? I feel like I’ve left out a veritable treasure-trove of awesome.

——————–

*riddle me WHAT you’d be grazing out of your navel *shudders* and I’ll give you a pony**

**probably***

***okay, that’s a lie, I’d keep the pony and put it on roller skates in my backyard

“Moment after moment, everyone comes out from nothingness. This is the true joy of life”

– Shunryu Suzuki

I’m not going to sit here and tell you that everything is okay, Pranksters.

That would be a lie. And despite what my relatives may or may not think of me, I am no liar. I am also not actually named “Aunt Becky,” because while my parents were hippies, they were NOT sadists (to be fair: had I been a boy, I’d have been Leif, so honestly being named “Rebecca” is like dodging a massive bullet.)

In a very short time, my life turned upside down. I had a nervous breakdown precipitated by ineffectual antidepressants. Divorce. Moving out. Learning about the world. Trying to do right by my children.

My life’s been an open book through this period – I have nothing to be ashamed of: while I have PTSD, that does not define me, nor does it make me a better or worse person. It’s just a tiny facet of what comprises who I am. Having PTSD and being an ACOA are as much a part of me as my issues with migraines and A GLANDULAR PROBLEM. They don’t define me, they simply are a part of me.

Such is the situation with my personal life.

I’m getting a very civilized divorce so that Dave and I can each find Our (well-deserved) Happy. We will be doing what’s best by the children and allowing them to stay in the home they’ve grown up in, rather than trying to sell our home and shuffling the babies back and forth. I will be here at the home more often than not – I will simply be sleeping elsewhere. I choose an apartment that is about 3 minutes from my home so I could specifically come over each day. But those individual components of what I am coping with; they do not define me; they do not make me who I am.

I won’t lie: the very thought of leaving my children overnight is heartbreaking (I cry every time I think about it), I know that I need this time to learn that I *can* do this on my own – that I *am* a capable adult and that I’ll (some day) be able to shove my successes down the throats of those who do not believe in me. I’ll be able to be a better mother by increasing my faith in myself – I’ve spent too many years of my life allowing what others think of me control my life.

I will be moving on October 13, which gives me two months to get my ducks in a row, set up my online garage sale (got some GREAT shit, Pranksters), continue working on recovering from my nervous breakdown, finding additional work, and getting ready to be on my own. (It’s important to note that paying rent on an apartment is cheaper than trying to take over the mortgage (unless I am somehow granted a visit from the money fairy, in which case, my dimply ass is staying here). We’d bought our home at the height of the market and now it is worth appreciably less than it once was. We have debt – more than I’d care to discuss.

(Blah-blah-blah)

This doesn’t make me a better or worse person. These are all just bits and pieces of me woven together.

I spoke with my therapist, whom I see twice a week, and we discussed my life as it stands today. Specifically, we discussed those things that are within my control and those that are not.

From this moment on, I’m choosing to put the things I cannot control on the back burner and moving forward with my life, rather than wasting another anxiety-filled second upon worrying about the “what-if’s” of my life. If I do not, I will go insane.

I will no longer be living in the past or the future. I have one moment; that moment is right now. What I choose to do with these moments, strung together to form a life, is up to me. I can choose to be happy, or I can choose to live a life of fearfulness.

I choose happiness.

And while my past has shaped me, I refuse to allow it to define me: I define me.

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

-William Blake

A friend of mine, a great many years ago, once told me, “Jesus Fuck, Becks, can you ever catch a break?”

I don’t believe he was being malicious – it was more a statement of fact than anything else – so I’m certain I simply nodded and smiled, made an off-color joke to distract us both from what would have been a decidedly awkward conversation. There’s very few places one can take a conversation like that without bursting into tears.

I’ve had others echo the same sentiments through the years (and I have met others like me, which makes me believe that I am, at the very least, not alone. If I have done anything good in my life, it is to have created a space with that simple pretext: we are none of us alone; we are all of us connected); my mother, at one point, said, “you can never learn anything the easy way – I feel for you.”

I’ve been so accustomed to these storms, that, most of the time, I can barely enjoy a moment’s peace without waiting for another to touch down, leaving me breathless and shaking, wondering what I’d done in a past life to deserve this. Because come, they always do. Most are (apologies to Douglas Adams) simply a series of unfortunate events strung together in time:

I couldn’t have a single miscarriage; no. I had to have two, back-to-back. When I finally got pregnant again, I immediately fell down the stairs and broke some of the small bones in my feet, which meant that not only could I only wave a bottle of Tylenol near my foot for pain, I then began bleeding, my progesterone levels dangerously low, which meant activity restrictions and the fear that this would be a third consecutive miscarriage. I spent the rest of my pregnancy in Das Boot, chasing after a toddler and house-breaking a puppy who liked to eat poo and then barf it up on the carpet, praying for the safe arrival of my daughter to be safe. She was born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect, an encephalocele, and had to go in for neurosurgery at the might age of three weeks. I developed PTSD after experiencing a nervous breakdown, and lost my (at the time) best friend in the world.

Rinse-lather-repeat.

In the face of life, being, as my father always told me as I raged against this or that as a small child, unfair, I’ve learned to carry on, hold my breath and brace myself for the next storm, only occasionally finding the moment’s peace that allows me connection to the rest of the world. They’ll hit me, I know, these storms, knock me off my feet, leave me breathless, send me overboard; the desperation to find something – anything – in the murky chaos of the unknown, to hold tightly onto, until, once again, I can be reeled in, once again looking for my peace.

Life, I’ve begun to understand only recently, is much more about the storms than the peace they attempt to overwhelm.

These storms will always lurk down dark corners, or in the middle of a sunshine-filled day – the type of day that like nothing, ever, could go wrong – always present, always lurking, always ready to, once again, send me flying overboard, once again, looking for any way to get back on deck.

Only this time, I’m done with the notion of clinging for dear life to anything; anyone. Not out of bitterness; no. This time, there will be no one to save me; I’m not – never have been – “little girl lost,” and I don’t need a white knight swooping in to make me whole, to save my life.

It’s time to live life on my terms for the first time. Ever.

The storms won’t cease, and maybe that’s okay; maybe this is simply my lot in life, and instead of fearing these ever-lurking storms, I’m going to embrace them, just as I’ll embrace the few moments of peace and clarity I may have. The cracks, after all, are how the light gets in.

In the past week, I’ve been knocked out, knocked down, faced with one of the biggest storms I’ve (thus far) known, and you know what? My eyes may be blacked and blue, my heart shattered and healing, and yet, in spite of it all, still I remain standing.

It’s what I do.

It’s what I will always do.

And rather than rage at the things that are unfair, the breaks I haven’t caught, the things that will no longer be, I will, instead, embrace these cracks. For it is through these cracks, that even in the darkest of the nights, when my soul feels empty and hollow, that the light – my light – gets in.

0) Rebranding myself a “social media maven.”

1) Listening to John C. Mayer croon about my body being a wonderland.

1) Decoding passive aggressive Facebook status updates into anagrams about zombies.

2) Finding that bitch Carmen Sandiego.

3) Eating mayonnaise by the spoonful.

5) Trying to figure out why my phones have been tapped.

8) Blogging about my fake dead cat Mr. Sprinkles.

13) Watching a cooking show without rolling my eyes and/or trying to poke out my eyeballs with a spoon.

21) Understanding the origins of the word “teh.”

34) Bathing a light socket with my tongue.

55) Retaking Calc 3.

89) Trying to figure out Pinterest and StumbleUpon

144) Delivering a baby in the back of a moving taxi (or city bus) using only a 12×14 box, a blue felt-tipped pen, and a strawberry Starburst.

233) Dressing in a giant squirrel costume, occasionally throwing myself into the road to signify “roadkill” or “the denigration of society and it’s inhumane treatment of roadkill.”

377) Traveling from office to office delivering singing telegrams to unwitting executives.

610) Becoming an interpretive dancer. See also, “SOMEONE DO A DANCE AS A SALAD! QUICK! YOU’RE THE LETTUCE. NOW YOU’RE THE TOMATO!”

987) Rewatching Season Three of Glee: Who Gives A Shit About Plot? LET’S DANCE, MOTHERFUCKERS!

1597) Listening to anything ever produced by Katy Perry and/or Avril Lavigne.

So what’s new with YOU, Pranksters? TELL ME ALL THE THINGS!

Please note that any offensive words I’ve used were only thrown in to more properly illustrate my point that Forums = full of asshole pinheads, not to offend anyone. When I’m trying to offend you, you’ll know it.

-Aunt Becky

—————–

Ignorant Newbie Asks Innocuous Question: “Why are hedgehogs underrepresented in today’s media?”

Guy Who’s Been Ar0nd For Eleventy-Bajillion Years Who Gets Snippy When Rules Aren’t Followed: “Please search the archives for an answer to this – it’s already been discussed.”

Ignorant Newbie: “I’ve searched the archives. I can only see a question about Kumquats in the media.”

Person Who Has JUST Discovered The Internet: “OMG. YOU GUYS! I just got an email about people with HIV who stick there dirty needles underneath your car handle! BE CAREFUL!”

Self-Proclaimed Grammar Nazi: “Please use the proper word – “it’s their,” not “there.” Using the wrong one makes you appear to be a toothless yokel.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “I’m amazed by the blatant sexism here. ARE YOU REFERRING TO RAPE? RAPE ISN’T FUNNY!”

Pedantic Guy Who Has To Pick Apart Whatever Has Been Said Regardless Of Whether It Has To Do With The Subject: “You say, “blatant sexism,” yet, I see no mention of gender. Or rape. Perhaps you are trying too hard.”

Guy Who Makes EVERYTHING Political: “Abortion is murder! Obama is to blame!”

Woman Who Blames Everyone For Being Dramatic And Pretends To Flounce Off: “OMG. Can we PLEASE stop being dramatic? HEDGEHOGS ARE CUTE!”

(this message has been removed by forum moderator)

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “HA! See? You just said RAPE. I SHOULD REPORT YOU TO THE POLICE!”

Self-Proclaimed Grammar Nazi: “It’s “sexual assault,” not “rape.” Please, get a dictionary, you slack-jawed FemiNazi.”

Forum Moderator: “Please read the rules of this forum. We do not tolerate threats – idle or otherwise. Also: foul language is not appreciated.

Pedantic Guy Who Has To Pick Apart Whatever Has Been Said Regardless Of Whether It Has To Do With The Subject: “What, pray tell, is an “idle threat?” Please explain.”

Guy Who Pops In Simply To Break The Rules: “I’m gonna kick your motherfucking ass.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “I am a woman. I can do anything you can do better. Therefore, I will kick YOUR ass, then report you to the police.”

Guy Whose Wife “Just Doesn’t Understand” Him: “Sighs, I wish my wife were feisty like that. My wife, well, she got fat and lazy after she popped out our kids.”

Guy With Badly Drawn Four-Leaf Clover Who Likes To Use His Irish Background To Grope Girls on St. Patrick’s Day but Never Has Anything to Say About the Conversation at Hand,” O’DOYLE RULES!”

 Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “I got a hedgehog for you, baby, right here.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “You are a DISGRACE TO WOMEN EVERYWHERE, YOU WHORE.”

Guy With Badly Drawn Four-Leaf Clover Who Likes To Use His Irish Background To Grope Girls on St. Patrick’s Day but Never Has Anything to Say About the Conversation at Hand, “Hey baby, wanna cyber?”

Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “24/F/Chicago.”

Guy Who Has Hooked Up With Inappropriately Flirty Girl Who Now No Longer Pays Attention To Him: “Sighs. I thought it was love. I knew I loved her. Why, o! why doesn’t she love me back?”

Chick Who Wants To Drive Traffic To Her Blog: “OMG, I just wrote something about this on my blog [insert link to unrelated blog entry].”

Guy Who Tries To Steer The Conversation Back To The Original Question: “Don’t you think Sonic the Hedgehog is big enough in today’s media?”

Guy Who Randomly Pops In To Hypocritically Tell Everyone That They’re Losers For Responding: “U R a bunch of losers.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “How dare you! You are clearly anti-women! We should burn you alive!”

Chick Who Wants To Drive Traffic To Her Blog: “Oh my GOD, I wrote about THAT too! [insert entirely unrelated blog entry link].”

Pedantic Guy Who Has To Pick Apart Whatever Has Been Said Regardless Of Whether It Has To Do With The Subject: “I cannot believe that anyone who talks in text-speak should be allowed on the Interwebs. You, sir, are the true loser.”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “If you’re such a feminist, why are you bashing another woman? Having a healthy sexuality is not the same as being a (as you put it) ‘whore.'”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “Women should have healthy self-respect and not fawn all over any guy who looks at her twice. Just look at me! 35 and still a virgin! Why? I haven’t met the right guy yet.”

Chick Who Wants To Drive Traffic To Her Blog: “Also, I am running a contest. Go vote for me!!!!! [insert link to contest]”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “You’re a virgin because you still live at home with your Mom and her 45 cats. You probably have a “A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle” bumper sticker.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: Mr. Muppets and Mr. Sprinkles are the only things that make my world worth living. And so what about my bumper sticker? ARE YOU DISCRIMINATING AGAINST WOMEN?”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “I bet you’re ugly as hell.”

Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “I’m pretty sure no man would dare stick his dick inside you. There’s prolly barbed wire in your vagina.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “THIS IS AN ATTACK ON ALL WOMEN EVERYWHERE.”

Guy Who Comes Onto The Board Simply To Whine About His Life: “I’d LIKE to respond to your question about hedgehogs, but my dog just died, my mother has cancer, I just got laid off, and my girlfriend left me for my best friend.”

Guy Who Simply Likes To Start Shit: “I bet you’re ugly too.”

Girl Who Inappropriately Flirts With Everyone: “Poor baby – wanna come over here? I got a webcam!”

Ignorant Newbie Tries To Steer The Conversation Back: “Uh, sorry about your Mom. Do you know much about the media and hedgehogs?”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “Do hedgehogs really like shiny rings?”

Ignorant Newbie: “Uh, no. That’s just a video game.”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “That’s bullshit. Hedgehogs ARE all blue, right?”

Ignorant Newbie: “Uh, no. That’s just a video game.”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “Now I can see why the media doesn’t give a shit about hedgehogs – they’re boring as hell.”

Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words: “U R A Fag. Who gives a shit about those stupid rodents, you fucking r*tard.”

Ignorant Newbie: “I’m uh, not gay – I’m married with three kids. And I take offense to you using the “r” word.”

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women: “How DARE you use the word “fag!?!?!” You should be sued!!!!!!”

Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words: “Your wife is prolly a fag, too, assmuncher.”

Emo Teenager Who Whines About Her Life At Every Opportunity: “My life is so hard. My mom, like, makes me fucking go to school and shit. All I want to do is work at 7-11. I don’t need a GED for that. She’s such a bitch.”

Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words: “U R A Cunt.”

Girl Who Is So Deadpan It’s Hard To Tell If She’s Being Serious: “I cannot wait for you to find some new, enlightening words with which to bash us. Try Thesaurus.com.”

Forum Moderator: Asshole Guy Who Occasionally Comes Around Simply To Use Inappropriate Words has been banned.

Woman Who Self-Identifies As “Feminist” And Uses Word To Bash All Other Women And Is Now Self-Righteous: “I’ve also reported him to the police. I think using the r-word is illegal. I’m sending an email to his employer, his wife, and left a message on his Facebook.”

Ignorant Newbie Tries One More Time To Steer the Conversation Back: “So, uh, HEDGEHOGS anyone?”

*crickets*

——————

What am I missing here, Pranksters? I’ll be adding throughout the day.

I remember when I got a pager. The thing was gold, tiny, and worn by a nice white suburban girl who was all Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster. I think it increased my street cred by at least -37 points. (those are NEGATIVE points, yo). If the thing played music, it’d have chosen with, “Up Town Girl.” It was THAT cliche.

Apparently, I’ll never be, “Becky From Tha Block.” Which is prolly good – I don’t want J Lo or Jennifer Lopez or whatever her name is now to be all, “bitch you be stealing mah shit,” as she smacked me in the face with stacks of fat cash. This is how I envision it – I’d probably just get a cease/desist letter from her lawyers, which, SO not fun.

Anyway, back when I got the pager, my friends would page me and I’d have to scramble to find 35 cents to call them back (like I was ever HOME or anything) Usually this was our conversation:

Aunt Becky: “Hey, what up fool?”

My Friend: “What up, stinky-butt?”

Aunt Becky: “Whatcha doing?”

My Friend: “Nothing. Wanna hang out?”

Aunt Becky: “Sure! I’m doing XYZ – come join us.”

My Friend: “Only if we can go whip donuts at old people.*”

Aunt Becky: “Whaaa? Okay.”

Then we’d scamper off into the night, merrily pranking our way through life.

I proudly showed it to my mom one day. And by “proudly” I mean that I said, “hey, can you pull over? I gotta make a call.”

She shook her head as she pulled over and allowed me to make my very unimportant call. When I popped back into the car, she sighed deeply and said, “I don’t know why you do that.”

My mother, always oblique, confused me, so I waited for her to go on. I knew a rant was a-brewing.

“You’ve gotten this thing that connects you to the world – why the hell would you want that? Don’t you want times of your life where you’re unreachable?”

No, no I didn’t. And I told her as much.

She shook her head, “Someday, you may feel differently.”

I was pretty sure she was full of shit. Until recently. Recently, I’ve been kinda digging on the time I’m able to unplug. I’ve got just about every sort of social media outlet, just about every type of communication device you can think of – usually multiple accounts. Therein likes the beauty (read: rub) of being the founder of a site that staffs upwards of 100 volunteers (that would be The Band Back Together Project) – someone always needs me for something.

Generally it doesn’t bother me. I love what I do, I’m thrilled to do it, and I’m over-the-moon that I’ve found such an amazing group of people to work with. I know how blessed I am.

But damns, it hurts to say this.

(small voice) My mother was right.

(somewhere she’s rolling her eyes at me, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction)

There are times that I simply don’t want to be dealing with anything but whatever is directly in front of me.

The worst part? My mother was right BEFORE her time – BEFORE email became the standard method of communication. Before The Twitter expected that you reply to each! and! every! response!

Before the world became so fucking urgent.

Sometimes, it’s nice to stop and remember that life? It’s not always such Serious Business.

Sometimes – it’s worth it to stop and smell the tulips**.

*still don’t know what that means.

**I don’t think tulips smell. But DAMNS they’re pretty.

I am not a crafty person.

See also this:

Yes, yes I made that. And I wasn’t trying to suck AT ALL.

I know, understatement of the year, right? (why I just joined Pintrest is beyond me – prolly so I can feel bad about myself MORE often)

That’s why it’s beyond me why I decided to do a themed birthday party. Frankly, I could’ve just thrown a few bottles of vodka and a couple of shitty take-out pizza boxes out and called it a day and everyone would’ve been all, “sweet ass.” But no. I had to renovate my fucking house.

Then I had the brilliant idea to do a CandyLand themed birthday party. Seems simple right? A couple of bags of fucking candy WITH some pizza and beer.

Not so much. Because I turned to Google and was all, SHOW ME YER CANDY THEMED PARTIES. And then I cried. Because they were so awesome and I couldn’t recreate that kind of awesome without the aid of the Lollipop Kids. And it turns out, the Lollipop Kids are like dead now.

And the more I thought about it (and the more I realized I hated the cartoons from the game), the more I realized that I’d be stuck as Gloppy, so CandyLand was PROBABLY a bad fucking idea. I mean, who wants to be covered in Gloop half a day?

So I decided that a generic Sweet Shoppe themed party (oh yes, I went there with the “e” on Shop) would a) be adorable and 2) be easy.

Har-dee-har-fucking-har.

Lollipop trees? I figured I’d be able to quickly throw some balls on a stick and poke suckers into them. Turns out? You need a fuckton of lollipops. I’m pretty sure the guy at Party City thinks I’m now a hoarder – of lollipops. I keep coming in to buy more. Turns out that lollipop topiaries take about a hundred zillion lollipops.

And the garland I’ve decided to make out of Froot Loops and twine? The sugar dust that is now coating my house is slowly turning me into a diabetic.

Great. Now I’m a diabetic hoarder.

Tell me that doesn’t look like unicorn poo.

I sure hope my kid appreciates her party. Thanks to my new Type 2 Diabeetus diagnosis (self-diagnosed!), my foot might fall off for her and I’ll never be able to find it in the gobs of lollipops now living in my house. See also: hoarder.

At least I have what appears to be unicorn poo living on my table. Things can always be worse. Even if my foot falls off.

On Saturday, after an arduous day trying to entertain two small crotch parasites, I sat down, at long last, to a nice egg white omelet (pointless aside: don’t you HATE it when people call food “nice?” Like I could have been eating a MEAN egg white omelet or something).

After devouring approximately half of it, I realized what this Prankster needed: MOAR CAKE. (also: moar cowbell and moar vodka, but again, something that’s neither here nor there)

Happily, I remembered that just last weekend, The Guy On My Couch, Ben, had, upon my pathetic request, made me cake. It was especially delicious cake and I nearly bounded in to the kitchen to cut myself a piece.

Hrms, I thought to myself, that cake looks a little bit…soggy. Oh well, I thought, it’s probably soggy with MOAR delicious.

Overcome with my brilliant idear, I cut myself a piece, licking the frosting from my finger. Hrms, I thought, as Daver and Ben talked about something incredibly boring like life on Mars in the other room, that tastes a little, well, FUNNY. It’s probably my broken taste buds, right? I mean, you can’t chug hot sauce day in and day out without having something rot. Like my taste buds.

Not-quite-soothed, I stood there, trying to connect two misfiring synapses, a conclusion elusive. Something wasn’t quite…right.

But…what? I rolled the piece of frosting around in my mouth, thinking.

After several minutes, standing in the kitchen, blinking stupidly, I leaned down to smell the cake.

Rotten.

It was rotten.

I spat out the piece of frosting and immediately guzzled antibacterial hand gel. Ugh. I was probably going to die from poisoned cake. What an inelegant way to go.

So I did what any potentially dying person would do: I went to Target. Figured my family would want to some food in the house as they mourned my untimely death. I waited for the bright light, the singing of angels, the fiery pit of hell to open and swallow me whole in Aisle 6. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I had, thankfully, eluded Death’s cold embrace.

The following day, I woke up to no wracking stomach pains, no feverish death bed, a little disappointed. I had, after all, eaten poisoned cake. I should’ve at least ran a fever so I could mope about the house, bitterly bemoaning my fate, shrieking WHY GOD WHY? at random intervals. But…nothing.

Eventually, I got bored and decided that what this Prankster needed was MOAR MOVIE. I don’t typically like movies, but once in a blue moon, I’m all MUST.SEE.MOVIE. So we rented the last two Harry Potter movies and prepared the big television downstairs for our invasion.

As Daver was hooking up the DVD thingy, I realized that what stood in front of me, what had to be moved, was a lamp. You probably own this very same lamp.

I call it the Boob Lamp.

Many, many years ago, I lifted the Boob Lamp, attempting to move it, and slammed it into the ceiling of the basement, where it lived. That shattered the boob, into a ton of plastic bits, but, rather than dump the thing like I should’ve, it remained in the basement, a lone, sad lightbulb shining blindingly.

Last night, when I was all IT’S MOVIE TIME, Y’ALL, I stupidly ignored my self-imposed “don’t touch stuff” rule, grabbed the boob lamp, and lifted it. Not taking into consideration the height of the basement ceiling. Or, really, my propensity toward breaking shit.

I stood there, thinking about delicious cake, and deliberately smashed the lamp into the ceiling. For the second time.

This time, however, there was no boob to protect me.

The cake long-forgotten, I stood there, now bathed in the shards of a broken lightbulb. I stood there dumbly, blinking shards of glass into my eyes, as Daver and Ben ran around, getting vacuums and cleaning up after me.

(insert blinded by the light joke here)

I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be dead by now. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in a hole somewhere, trying to evade Death.