Of all the many things in this world I don’t understand, my greatest confusion lies in this: I don’t understand why ball-pits smell like pee.
I desperately want to make my basement a gigantic ball-pit, but I’m terrified that if I did so, people would simply come over to take a whiz in it. Like, RANDOM people would show up at my door to pee in my ball-pit* and then I’d have to call my television serial killer husband Dexter to take care of them. Because peeing in ball-pits is bullshit.
*(You know if it had to happen to anyone, it would be me)
But still, the allure of a basement ball-pit (along with my tree house Panic Room) is strong, Pranksters.
Last week, my son turned four. And thanks to Product Placement during Team Umizoomi, he decided that he was going to spend his birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese. Had I turned him down, I have no doubts whatsoever that he’d walk there. Alex will get what he wants, when he wants, period. Luckily, it’s normally just juice or something.
I dislike Chuck-E-Cheese for the same reasons I hate Worst Best Buy: total sensory overload. Chuck-E-Cheese has the added bonus of smelling like poo.
But for my son, I’d manage.
Bonus! I had a coupon for 6 kajillion tokens.
As we waited for our Mouse Pizza, I noticed that this particular Chuck-E-Cheese sold both beer AND cotton candy, I was pleased. I pink-puffy-HEART cotton candy.
The risk for Oregon Trail disease was at an all-time high, but I managed to sit down without a hazmat suit. Progress, not perfection.
I captured my children’s horrified reactions:
The Birthday Boy, himself.
I’m a bit disappointed that I couldn’t get beer in those cups.
After a solid lunch of Mouse Pizza, it was Game Time.
Happily, I noted that the once pee-infested ball pit was gone.
The boys crawled around in the tubes, probably infecting themselves with poo germs while I took my daughter around to see if there were any games SHE could play.
I didn’t find any Amelia-sized games, but I did find Skee-Ball, which she was immediately enamored with. Happily, she took the cup of coins, which she called “Treasure” and inserted them into the game while I Skee-Balled my ever-loving arm off. I won like 8 tickets and a sore arm for all of my hard work.
After she tired of Skee-Ball, I realized I still had a zillion and a half tokens. Shitballs.
So I went off to find a game where I could dump the tokens in and win “tickets,” because like it or not, the kids were going to beg for some sort of “reward” at the Redeeming Tickets For Overpriced Crap counter. It was tickets or spending 8 bucks on three tiny boxes of nerds.
I found a game where I could bang a button* and win tickets. Perfect. No effort or skillz necessary.
I’d blown through most of my Treasure in a minute or two when I was hastily shoved out of the way by a rolly-polly woman at least ten years older than me. I’d thought she’d merely bumped into me, but no, no, of course not. This WAS Chuck-E-Cheese, Home Of The KlassE, after all.
Nope, she’d shoved me out of the way so she could play the game.
Bitch.
Whatever. Instead of punching her in the taco, I dumped the rest of the tokens and headed back to my three overly-exhausted kids. We redeemed the tickets for three wee Halloween-Candy-Sized boxes of candy and headed home.
So far, I haven’t shown signs of Dysentery or Ebola, but it could happen at any moment.
And now I’m obsessed with the idea of my own personal ball pit. I’m adding a moat, razor wire and an electric fence to my previous ball-pit design.
Perhaps some guard-dogs, too.
You never do know when someone might pop into your house and take a whiz in your ball-pit.
I spent a good deal of time yesterday trying desperately to be offended, Pranksters. I looked everywhere. We needed a CAUSE. A pet cause! Something to be Furious George about. Everywhere I looked, Bloggers were angry – really mad – about things.
We had nothing. HM. Maybe that’s a good cause.
(I’m still thinking. Maybe a Furious George Campaign? Fists of Fury? Something SUPER AWESOME that we can all link up together like the John C. Mayer thing)(Holler if you think of something)
Well, I had this, a memory I’d long repressed, thanks to years of painful flashbacks. Another example of how stupid I used to be before I simply shut my own whore mouth and kept my opinions to myself.
Scene: Movado jewelry store, circa 2005. Movado, if you don’t know it, is a fairly fancy watch maker, who also makes modernish, interesting jewelry. It’s like Tiffany & Co, but way better.
I’d gone in with a friend of mine to buy something ridiculously expensive. My taste in jewelry runs from the stuff you have to ensure to this, which I wear most days:
It’s hit or miss.
But that day, I was buying something fancy-pants. I was chatting with the salesperson, who was my age (25) and relatively hip. She brought up engagement rings, something I cannot speak with any authority on, unless you want to talk metal (platinum) or size (big). The minute you start going on about clarity and grading, my eyes glass over. But she and my friend were having a grand old time. They pulled out engagement rings (much to my dismay) and started trying them on, cooing over each of them.
I was bored shitless so I opened my stupid trap.
“Phew, at least you don’t have any HEART-SHAPED DIAMONDS. THOSE THINGS ARE FUG.”*
Now, I love hearts. Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday because I love hearts so much. Hearts = rad.
But for my engagement ring, something I’m (presumably) supposed to wear every single day? Not so much. I like those uh, circle diamond ones. Whatever they’re called.
(I just got my vagina-license revoked)
Anyway, back at Movado, Girlfriend cast a WITHERING look at me.
She snapped the engagement rings back from my friend as she sputtered out, “MY MOTHER HAS A HEART-SHAPED DIAMOND ENGAGEMENT RING.”
Then she flounced off.
I’d found and managed to offend the only 25-year old in Oak Brook who loved and planned upon owning a heart-shaped diamond.
THAT took talent.
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Okay, it’s your turn, Pranksters. I need some embarrassing stories from you guys now. I’M STILL UPSET ABOUT THIS ONE. I hate hurting people’s feelers.
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Bloggies? Vote? PLEASE? If I win, I promise to do something incredibly embarrassing.
*I wear a necklace with my name on it. NO one should be offended by my taste in ANYTHING.
Okay, that came out wrong, because you’re thinking of me like I’m a piece of particle board or something, which I am most certainly not. I am much more glamorous than particle board, Pranksters. But I’m not always very smart when it comes to things that will deeply, mortally wound others. That’s why I was really hesitant to post the question from Prankster #1 yesterday.
The first time I really wounded someone unintentionally, I was in high school. It was Christmas time. I’d just gone shopping for my friends, and if you know me, I’m a great gift-buyer…so long as you don’t expect anything you want or anything useful. A light-up shower head, perhaps, or a toilet seat that sings “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” when you sit on it. These are things on my own want list, so you can imagine what I’d have picked out at 17, when my budget was a little tighter.
I’d bought one of my friends some sparkly Crayola* bath soap and another some Jack Daniels flavored coffee. The one that I deeply wounded, I’d bought some lotion.
It was called “Udderly Smooth.”
Now, I found this uproariously funny. The lotion, that is. It’s lotion, that’s all, “I’m for udders, motherfucker!” I really couldn’t see anything not awesomely hilarious about this. I was certain that my friend, who loved a joke as much as I did, would love it.
This was not what I expected to have happen. I’ve added some pictures so that you can better feel like you were there.
Aunt Becky: “Merry Christmas, yo! Sorry I didn’t wrap it. Wrapping is bullshit.”
My Friend: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
Aunt Becky: *giggles* “Isn’t it awesome? It’s like it’s for COWS but it’s NOT. It’s fucking WHIMSICAL. I FUCKING LOVE WHIMSICAL SHIT.”
My Friend: “How could you DO this do me?”
Aunt Becky (thinking that she’s joking): “….”
My Friend: “THIS IS NOT OKAY.”
Aunt Becky: “…”
My Friend: “I thought YOU WERE MY FRIEND.”
Aunt Becky: “….”
My Friend: “We are NOT on SPEAKING TERMS. (flounces away)”
Aunt Becky: “Uh….”
It took her flouncing away for me to understand that the lotion had offended her. I, of course, was baffled. It was LOTION that was HILARIOUSLY HILARIOUS. I crawled back into the hot tub with my boyfriend who tried to comfort me with his penis.
I spent more time knocking my three brain cells around my skull trying to figure out what the problem with the lotion was than I’d spent trying to logicate who had the better version of “Hair of the Dog.” (the jury in my head is still out) I think I finally got it.
She thought I was calling her fat.
I wasn’t, of course. I’m not oblique or shy and if I have something to say, I’m not about to say it through a toilet seat or a bottle of lotion. And, quite frankly, the day that I end up caring about someone else’s weight is the day that I have entirely too much time on my hands.
Anyway, it was good preparation for blogging. Because you can’t say ANYTHING without pissing someone off. Or mortally offending them. It would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so annoying.
Like this:
Me: “Mayo is bullshit.”
Response: “My great grandfather invented Miracle Whip, you know, and it cures diseases. So I’d appreciate it if you never talked badly about it again.”
Response: “Mayo is my religion and we pray to it every night. Are you, Aunt Becky a blasphemer? *THROWS STONES* I SENTENCE YOU TO DEATH, SINNER!”
Response: “I cannot be friends with someone who hates mayo.”
Response: “U R a bitter asshole. Why can’t you be happy for other people who LOVE mayo? Why do you have to be MEAN to people who hate mayo?”
Well, I’m tired of being the person who isn’t offended by things. I’m SO tired of letting minor irritations pass me by unaware, each tiny infraction not complained about, not picked apart piece by ever-loving piece. I, too, can be outraged! I, too, have wells of untapped anger that I want to unleash on the world!
I want a Twibbon and a snappy blog campaign full of righteous indignation! Maybe I can even turn my avatar a different color to support my cause! I want to set a Google alert and troll blogs of people with the opposite viewpoint! I WANT A BUTTON, DAMMIT.
Now, I just need a cause. My broken fingernail? Black socks? Thousand Island dressing? …powdered gravy? These ideas all have merit.
Pranksters, I think that the time for Pranking is afoot. We need a fake campaign of indignation that sounds real.
Yesterday, everyone freaked out as the Great Storm of 2011, SnOMG made it’s way towards the Midwest. I was reminded of the Great Hamdemic of Aught Niner. I was one of the lucky ones felled by the Swine Flu (I actually ended up SUING it at the People’s Court. I won. No, seriously. I did.) (I owe my victory to I Eat My Kids Snacks.)
I remember laying around in a sick, feverish haze, watching Dexter – hating Lila – drinking buckets of Delsym when I saw on the Panic! section of the news, they’d interviewed a cat. A fucking CAT. A cat that had the swine flu.
Now, that brings up so many more questions than it could ever answer.
7) Where did that cat come from?
13) Was the cat actually a dog?
19) Did that news anchor go home and cry because she hadn’t gotten straight A’s in Journalism School to live her life interviewing animals?
23) Why would anyone care?
And now I have one more question:
31) Where was that cat during SnoPocalypse 2011?
All week, all I heard was “put on some fucking pants,” (my family) and “ZOMG STORM ZOMG” (the Internet) and I couldn’t help but wonder: was this going to be another HamDemic?
Yesterday, I sat, waiting for SnoGasm2011 to turn me into a Popsicle*, I felt kinda…unprepared. I mean, I had some candles somewhere (probably) and a flashlight without batteries somewhere else, and I even had some bottles of water. I went as far as to charge my phone as the sky remained bright and clear. SnoPocolypse 2011 seemed…a bit dull.
But Twitter hit a fever pitch. I’m not even sure anyone on The Twitter was actually in any areas affected by SnoTorious BIG.
Begrudgingly, I checked the weather.
Well, that looked mighty impressive. Especially since I live in the middle of the two arrows.
Why, those arrows made me want to get some cardboard and write THE END IS NIGH and run around my neighborhood screaming about the end of days. Or, at the very least, maybe find something to eat. Arrows make me hungry.
After I looked at the arrows, then sadly at my microwave, and back at the arrows again (microwaving is an awful lot of work!), I got that old familiar DING sound. Had I just won another 10000000$ from a Nigerian Relative? COULD IT REALLY BE? OH HAPPY DAY!
Frantically, I checked my email.
Oh. No. Not money. It was an email from the school district (BOO) telling me that school was being let out 45 minutes early (DOUBLE BOO) and canceled for the following day (TRIPLE BOO).
Apparently, those arrows did not make other people hungry.
It took many hours for the snow to begin. When it did, I checked the weather again.
Oh. So. Now we had 50 MPH winds, snow, ice storms, blizzards, and floods? Where were the plagues of locusts and cats and dogs living together in total anarchy?
But wait. The End of Days may have been upon us, but I was more concerned about one thing: that map had no arrows! It was just a map with blue stuff on it. This was not a map befitting the Storm of the Century. I mean, we had ThunderSnow!
I had to step in.
Well that was a little better. The arrows added a little something to it. But it was snowing AND thundering AND flooding. This map did not do SnotoriousBIG 2011 justice!
PHEW. This map is a little more impressive. When you add a skull-and-crossbones to anything, it’s WAY more hardcore. Plus, DANGER and NO with a line through it? This map is practically OSCAR-worthy.
It was missing something.
But…what?
PERFECT. It’s now a FESTIVE LET’S! PANIC! map befitting the end of the world in the Great Blizzaster of 2011. This map was getting pretty awesome!
It’s only missing one adorable thing. My fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles!
Why, that crazy fake cat gets into everything in a wily, yet adorable way!
Screw blogging. I’m going to make MAPS. Festive ones that SCARE people in a decidedly ADORABLE way.
79) What flavor would I be? That question will keep me up all night.
Once upon a blue moon, I came across this strange new craze. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, Pranksters. It’s called “scrap” “booking.” Scrapbooking, for those of you who haven’t heard of this strange and mystical art, is the process of putting photos and/or mementos into a specially designed with stickers and decorations to make it look, in clinical terms, “more full of the awesome.”
Back when I first graduated nursing school and was newly home with my kid, I decided to try this “scrapbooking” for myself.
I neglected to remember that I’m as crafty as a chimp with three thumbs and have about as much artistic vision as someone in a pitch-black room. If you think I’m trying to be funny or deliberately mislead you, I send you here, to my unintentional cakewreck.
I’ll wait.
…
…
(hums Jeopardy theme song)
Okay, that’s better. Got that image burned into your retinas? And that was me TRYING to make something cute.
So I invested a small fortune in scrapbook supplies. It appears that whomever is selling old bits of paper, crappy stickers and the kinds of paper hole punches we used as kids is laughing themselves into billions upon trillions of dollars.
I assembled my scrapbooking supplies on the dining room table in my condo and…
…left them there.
I simply couldn’t do it. As much as I tried to picture my crappy 3 x 5’s as anything other than crappy 3 x 5’s that’s all they were to me. I was too much of a perfectionist to do anything with the cute scrapbook stickers so I packed them into a box and have left them there for six years. They’re still in that box, actually.
But this weekend, I was at the local crafty store buying Valentine’s Day stuff for the VD Tree I was making with my kids (they can be as messy as they want with their projects, I should add) and I decided that I should probably check out my idol’s craft supply line.
Yeah, it’s probably a shock to you to know that I kinda idolize Martha Stewart, but there you have it. My dirty secret has been revealed. Martha Stewart + Aunt Becky = well, nothing. I just love her.
Normally, I roll my eyes at the thought of spending thirty bucks on some glitter (even Martha Stewart’s fancy-pants glitter!) but this time, something uniquely awesome caught my attention:
Oh Pranksters, my cold, shriveled heart opened up as the heavens shone down upon this glorious, glorious gold book. I twirled, I whirled, this book in my arms, as I imagined our life together. Why, it was almost as Martha, Herself knew I needed a photo album. And this, this was so much greater than a regular, boring photo album! It was a DISCO photo album! And I love disco! And Martha Stewart! And! And!
And I looked closer.
This was no ORDINARY disco photo album, all right. It was a SCRAPbook disco album. Not a photo album at all.
My heart sunk.
How could something so beautiful be something I just couldn’t use? I nearly wept.
Then I got an idea.
I could be Martha Fucking Stewart, too. Why did SHE need all the glory? So what if she had a million-billion dollar empire and I had some stained socks? I was gonna DO IT.
So I bought it. And now is the time when I turn a scrapbook into a disco photo album.
Take THAT, Martha Stewart. You and your smugly superior voice are THROUGH.
Once, um, I finish figuring out how. Pretty sure the Three Wolf Shirt will help.
Edit: NOT SO FAST, Martha Stewart! You can’t throw me off your tracks THAT easily! Throwing up some pictures of orchids won’t change my plans to dethrone you!
Oh yeah, you know what?
You know what? I AM offended.
DEEPLY OFFENDED.
———-
OH! And I wrote something about House, MD, for BlogHer, yo.
Also Also Also: comments are being weird. If you have an issue with comments, specifically, not being able to SEE what glorious things the other Pranksters say, please let me know. Especially what browser you’re using.
There comes a time in every blobber’s life when you wipe the Pringles crumbs from your shirt, slurp the rest of your soda down and say, “Blobber-self, it’s time that I look deep within myself and find my soul.” Maybe you will have some mystical music playing or something because I feel soul-finding should have some Enigma or something playing (I don’t own any, but I may have to buy some).
Then, if you’re me, you spend a good bit of time wondering what your soul looks like. Mashed potatoes? Peas? Barry Manilow? A mashed potato sculpture of Barry Manilow? The possibilities are both endless and frightening.
This, however, this is epic.
Meet Adam. He’s also Avitable. And my BFF. Here we are in Vegas.
Adam and I decided that it was Time To Search Our Souls and find our Spirit Animals. I was scared. He held my hand.
We found the perfect person to guide us! Erial “meditates and tunes into you” to “get your unique essence”, and once he “gets an aspect of your celestial self”, he will transform a normal photo into a Celestial Soul Portrait!
This, Pranksters was a win! I needed something unique for a VD-Day Card (I’m too lazy to send out Christmas Cards) and this? This was just TOPS. So we anxiously sent off our questionnaires and waited.
Finally, the day come and I tore open my email and this is what slipped open.
The most beautiful souls on the planet:
Epic Fucking Soul Portraits
Apparently, THAT is what our souls look like. And THAT is our Spirit Animal.
Pranksters, which one of you is going to buy me an Epic Wolf Shirt to go along with it?
Once a year, every year since dinosaurs typed out blog posts with their wee dinosaur hands on their gigantic Stone Age laptops, I do a Meme. Generally speaking, I do not like Memes. I do not think that my Pranksters give a fucking shit how I best like my coffee or what is in my purse right now. HOWEVER. I am compulsive. And since I do this every year, I do this EVERY YEAR.
1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
Lost my marbles and managed to find them all again. I also got a phoenix tattoo on my back that I’m incredibly proud of (although it’s not yet finished).
They call me Miss Site Master Ma’am, I call them schnookems.
I also went to Las Vegas for the first time. You can see how excited I was by this particular picture. You might want to get up and dance around the room because you will be unable to contain your own excitement upon seeing this photo.
Ready?
…
…
…
…
…
…
Aunt Becky can Party
2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I wrote this last year: “2010 is going to be the year Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back. And hopefully, her fucking figure too.”
Done and done.
And as far as the New Year, we have a project in the works on Band Back Together that we’re putting together.
In the end, I hope that 2011 will bring me less bullshit and more happiness. More orchids and less backstabbing. More writing and less email. More cowbell and less synthesizers. Clearly.
There’s always room for cowbell.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My food baby just kicked!
More interesting, I birthed MY FIRST VIDEO!
4. Did anyone close to you die?
I’m trying to think of the happy, Meme.
5. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
A disco band and a rock star husband.
6. What countries did you visit?
Las Vegas is considered a country, right?
7. What date from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:
Meme, I’m on The Max (Topamax). Dates were the first thing to go.
I guess I’ll choose July 28. My new birthday.
Okay, let me explain. I had to change my date of birth. Turns out that my first DOB, July 15, it’s kinda cursed. After I ended up in Urgent Care for like the 34th birthday in a row, I decided that I was done with that birthday. So I chose a new one!
HAPPY NEW BIRTHDAY, AUNT BECKY!
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Creating Band Back Together is probably what I am most proud of. Having a safe place for people to share their stories about really, anything, even the good things in life, ALONG WITH the resource pages (some of which, of course, still need to be created), so that the reader may find the help that they need, I think that was something that was needed.
Also: we pulled a John C. Mayer on the Internet. That was fucking rad.
OOOH! And how could I forget this! MY DIRECTORIAL DEBUT!
9. What was your biggest failure?
I did NOT get molested by the TSA, even though I tried really, really hard.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I always hate to answer this one positively because I feel like I’m tempting fate to drop a piano on my head or something. I had abdominal surgery in November. Does that count?
11. What was the best thing you bought?
That seems braggy and slightly obnoxious. I bought new abdominal muscles. They’re nice, if you’re into that kind of thing.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Everyone who has been brave enough to contribute to Band Back Together.
Also: every person who nominated me for a Bloggie last year. I don’t need to tell you that being a finalist for Best Humor Blog was the biggest honor of my (blogging)(possibly adult)(okay, not possibly, FOR SURE) life. Thank you.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
OH LOOKIT, A BLUE CAR.
I’m kidding. I don’t actually remember having a real beef with anyone this year. I did, however, realize that I was holding onto some old friendships that I probably should have let die awhile ago. I let those go.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Um, Meme, we clearly need to have a talk. Isn’t money a particularly tacky topic of conversation, especially on blogs?
Unless, of course, you want to give me some, in which case, OBVIOUSLY NOT.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
I’m not a record producer. I don’t “discover” anything. However, I do love music. The new Santana album is pretty full of the win.
28. What did you want and get?
A discernible waistline. Unrelated, many cups of coffee.
30. What was your favorite film of this year?
*scratches head*
Um.
Shit.
I don’t remember.
I’m going to make up a new question:
Where are your pants?
I have no idea. Pants are bullshit.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I went to Urgent Care. No. Fucking seriously, that’s what I did after I went off on a rant on The Twitter about how much clothing sucks these days. Because SRSLY, metal embellishments can kiss my fucking ass.
Then, I decided to change my birthday to another day of the month. My mother, the one person who might have a say in it (she did, after all, pop me out of her vagina on that date) completely agreed with me that the day is cursed.
I celebrated my birthday instead in Las Vegas in December. I was 30. I am beyond happy to be 30.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
This:
Swarovski Toilet
33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
First half of 2010: “Holy shit, why did the 80’s come back? Holy shit, does complaining about fashion make me old balls? Holy shit, don’t answer that.”
Post-abdominal surgery 2010: “My abdominal binder brings all the boys to the yard.”
34. What kept you sane?
Um, I write a blog on The Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I haven’t been “sane” in years.
35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.
36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Butter-side-up or butter-side-down?
37. Who did you miss?
I’ll always miss my friend Stef. She passed away in 2007 at the age of 26 due to complications of chronic alcoholism, leaving behind her two sons.
38. Who was the best new person you met?
My Band of Merry Pranksters.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010:
It’s time to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, AUNT BECKY.
40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
(God, that seems so MySpace/Emo).
First, I’d like to quote this very, powerful and meaningful song. I think you’ll agree with me that this may be the most important song of our lifetime:
“C is for cookie.
That’s good enough for me.
C is for cookie.
That’s good enough for me.
C is for cookie.
That’s good enough for me.
(cue guitar solo)
Oooooh! Cookie cookie cookie starts with C.”
And one more…for the road:
“Ring your bells that can still ring,
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”
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The rest of the meme says I should tag some people but, eh, I don’t like lists. They make me twitchy. Mostly because I’ll forget someone and then, then I’ll feel sad in the pants.
INSTEAD.
I’m tagging each of you. If I can do one Meme a year, SO CAN YOU, Pranksters. DO IT. It’s full of the awesome. JUST like 2011 is going to be. Even if I have to beat it into submission and make it my fucking bitch.
Happy New Year, Pranksters. If I you need me, I’ll be hiding under my bed until it’s officially the New Year. There are still a couple of hours yet for an anvil to drop on my head.
Even I figured that I was slightly mad for trying to squeeze in major surgery five weeks before I was going to rip the shit out of the strip in Vegas, but EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER is the way Your Aunt Becky rolls* and really, it’s no more insane than the normal stunts I manage pull off. And I always manage it one way or another. Why? Because I’m Aunt Motherfucking Becky.
But I underestimated precisely how laid-up I’d be by this surgery, which, frankly, is a good thing, because otherwise, I probably never would have gone through with it and although I may be in a lot of pain, so far, it’s been totally worth it. I’ve cut my dose of Topamax in half. I’ve had less headaches; less spasms. AMAZABALLS.
That all said, I’m still leaving for Vegas on Friday (by my lonesome) which means that I have to navigate the airport by myself.
The airport itself is no big deal. I’ve flown in and out of O’Hare a kajillion times. The problem is, well, me.
We’ve established that I’m a lightening rod of bad luck for security searches and weird, random stuff happening. Last January, the plane I was on nearly crashed. In May, my luggage was pilfered and stuff was stolen out of it. It’s better that I travel alone, lest I bring down the fury of The Airplane Gods, but still, it’s not terribly easy to walk to the bathroom, let alone try and travel a couple of hours with twenty pounds of crap.
Which means that I’m going to have to voluntarily bring myself out into the open at the airport, rather than the person who tries to behave like a nice ficus, blending into the background.
I’m going to have to be That Person.
I’ve thought about it thirty different ways, and there’s simply no other way. I’m going to have to ask for Airport Help. I’m going to be The Passenger With Special Needs. I may need a skycap.
Now, you might be saying, Aunt Becky, that’s okay. Who cares?
Well, if you’re the person who has been so thoroughly desensitized to the TSA’s searches that the NEW searches make you say, “Um, wait, that’s NOT what normal people have to go through?” then you know that calling more attention to yourself is like standing in the middle of a rainstorm on a golf course with a lightening rod. I’ll be the asswipe who needs to be screened in private because I cannot stand in a security line for an hour; the contents of my bags under total scrutiny. Can you say, “body cavity search?”
(I can)
So maybe I’ll just play into it. I’ll wear my white patent leather hooker boots and an extremely short skirt.
Maybe I can find a strap-on somewhere, just for shits and giggles.
I mean, if this is going to be a disaster, it might as well be a disaster of epic proportions.
Okay, that’s a total lie. I like many things more than a bargain, up to and including sleeping, heavy sarcasm, sitting on my ass, strawberry-frosted donuts, The Twitter, mocking the founder of Facebook Mark Zuckerberg, mocking myself, obsessing over cardigans, Vicodin-chip cookies, Hostess orange-flavored cupcakes, designing photon rings in my backyard, my roses, test-driving cars, napping, thinking about napping, and watching reruns of Law and Order.
But when I get a bargain, I get the rush that I’m pretty certain causes otherwise normal people to get up at midnight and stand out in the freezing cold to be the first in line to buy something abnormally cheap on Black Friday.
I just couldn’t bring myself to actually do it, rush or no.
I’ve thought about why I wouldn’t do it most of the week (still flat on my back in pain)and I think it boils down to not being a Team Player. I’m just not a Team Player. Shut your whore mouth.
Even if I could get my spot in line and guarantee that the item I wanted would be mine ALL MINE, I would be carted off to jail well before the doors opened.
How the hell do I know this without ever having stood in a single line? SIMPLE. I read your blogs. You guys DO stand in those lines. And between my Pranksters are peppered The Crazies. Aunt Becky don’t play with The Crazies. Especially the PUSHY crazies.
The very moment some asswad threw an elbow, tried to cut in line (HATE! THAT!) or made a comment about my happy pants (they have hearts on them!), I’d be all, “Nice teeth, Cleatus, why don’t you and your recessive genes kiss my white ass and crawl back under the rock that you crawled out from under.”
Then, his fifteen cousins would come over and beat my very small-wristed ass into a bloody pulp. Not before, of course, I got in a couple of squirrelly kicks. Then the cops would come and we’d all get hauled to jail and I wouldn’t end up with the electric back-hair groomer I’d so desperately wanted for 90% off.
What a mess.
So instead, I’ll sleep leisurely in and when I wake up, I’ll catch a few shitty sales online. None will give me the same sort of thrill that getting my nose-hair trimmer would, but I really need to let my surgical scar heal before I can go to jail. That way, I can avoid being someone’s bitch by beating the shit out of someone when I first get there.
It’s not the same, I know, so instead, I’ll live through you.
Tell me your stories. I’m sure someday I’ll go shop the Black Friday sales and bring a video camera to capture it all for maximum hilarity (for my blog, of course). Hopefully Cletus will avoid the lens when he beats me silly.
So tell me all about your experiences with the sales. My delicate wrists are going to live vicariously through you this year.
That sounded so epic in my head. Like something you’d hear from a particularly dramatic scene in one of those annoying dramatic movies I don’t watch because they’re filled with trite dialog like, “Tomorrow, I will surgery…” stares off into the distance poignantly, perhaps clutching a heart locket or maybe a tattered book.
Either way, I’m scheduled to go under the knife tomorrow sometime. Because it’s the hospital, they don’t exactly GIVE you a time and then stand by it or anything. Dave can’t comprehend that, which means it’s a good thing he doesn’t work in medicine, or his head might explode into pulpy bits because he simply cannot comprehend how something cannot be at! a! given! time!
I mean, I get it. When I worked as a floor nurse, people would be all, “when is radiology coming to get me for my imaging study?” and I’d be all, “sometime today,” knowing ‘today’ is a nebulous concept in a hospital, where variables upon variables stack upon one another. Someone urgent needs the CT scan or the OR and you get booted from your time slot. Tough shit, home slice. Except you can’t SAY that to a patient even if you want to because, well, OBVIOUSLY.
So I’m assuming that I’ll have surgery. Except that maybe I won’t. Because shit happens, man.
But in the event that I do indeed have The Surgery, I’m really excited. I’m nervous, too, but really, I’m excited. It’s nice to finally be able to have a dream that I can accomplish. Okay, that was too Lifetime Movie of the Week for me.
In the event that I have The Surgery tomorrow, I’m thrilled because I’ll FINALLY have an excuse to lay around pop pain pills while I make others do my bidding. THAT is pretty much my life’s dream.
And uh, DRUGS ARE BAD, KIDS, Look at Your Aunt Becky. You don’t want to turn out like Your Aunt Becky. Remember that the next time you’re offered drugs by a gang of peer-pressuring street thugs. Or Lil Wayne. He’s a walking anti-drug campaign.
Scared straight yet, bitches?
Tomorrow it is.
Hopefully, I won’t die. Because that would suck.
I’ll update as I can from the hospital (yay! WI-FI) as I am staying overnight and likely housed with a roommate who will probably be a total psychopath, which means I will get zero sleep, so YOU will get drug-addled posts about the BUBBLE PEOPLE ATTACKING ME ZOMG THE BUBBLE PEOPLE, but I may or may not be up to returning emails.
