Now, I don’t watch much reality TV. Putting twenty people in an isolated bubble for six to nine months and expecting them to perform incredible acts and engage in weird wild behavior is kinda boring to me. If I want weirdness, all I have to do is look at my kids. Or in the mirror.

The only reality television show I’ve watched in recent years is American Idol, and I stopped watching after Mormon-Face won.

(I did, however, adore The Real World, with Puck and Pedro. ZOMGBBQWTF I am dating myself.)

I’ve occasionally tuned into the Biggest Loser for a minute or two, because it makes me feel good to eat cheeseburgers and be all, “YOU KNOW YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS, DON’T YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS?” to the poor contestants sweating of their pounds. Then I quickly switch to something MORE gruesome and dark, because that’s what I prefer.

It seems I only watch depressing, dark television shows AFTER they’ve been pulled off the air. I’m going to guess that my funk is due to the end of Prison Break, which still makes me weep.

Last year, I noticed half the blog world was doing something called “The 30 Day Shred,” a workout designed by the cute-as-a-button Jillian Michaels. Well, I thought flippantly as I ordered the workout DVD from Amazon, I bet I just lost like 7 pounds just ordering it.

I was gonna be a SHREDHEAD.

I got the DVD in the mail and stared it down, knowing that just OWNING it would make me lose a bunch of weight.

Eventually, I realized I should probably take it out of the plastic wrap and open it up. BINGO! Another 4 pounds gone, I figured, patting myself on the back heartily.

Now here’s the thing, Pranksters, I kinda love to work out. Which is probably not something you’d expect from me, but it’s true. There’s some sick part of me that loves to get all hot and sweaty and strong. So when I went to the basement (to avoid roving crotch parasites who would most certainly smack me on the ass while I worked out), I was pretty pumped to get my workout on.

I did it.

Then I did it again.

Then I did it the next day.

I felt great….for someone who couldn’t walk. My leg muscles had turned to jello, and the very act of rolling over in bed caused me to cry out in pain. Some sick part of me was awfully proud of this.

So I kept on it. Shredding my cares away.

Until, I noticed pain in a place that I couldn’t quite explain away.

My foot.

I’d hurt my foot when I’d fallen down the stairs, very early into my pregnancy with Amelia. I’d never been able to properly treat it, thanks to my gestating crotch parasite, instead, I wore Das Boot and iced it whenever possible.

(sidebar: do you KNOW how people treat you when you’re pregnant, wearing a gigantic boot? Like you’re suffering an IQ of 12. It was, quite possibly, the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. People talking to me slowly and loudly while making it clear they thought I was mentally-challenged.)

(Dubya-Tee-Eff)

And we all know what happens when I get pregnant: I get fat. All that extra weight on my poor injured foot lead to more pain. By the end of my pregnancy, my feet had swollen so badly that I couldn’t wear shoes and the hurt one was approximately the size and shape of a cinder block.

I delivered the girl and the swelling went down, and frankly, I had bigger fish to fry than my poor ickle foot. It could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Last spring, when I decided to do Das Shred, it aggravated my old injury. I had to stop.

I was a #ShredFailure

Unfortunately, this injury also put a stop to my gardening abilities last year. So it’s no surprise that my garden is half-complete, my roses sadly suffering from Black Spot. I’d managed to get outside this weekend, before it got Ass Cold again, to fix some of what was left undone, but I’m actually ashamed by the state of my yard.

So, Jillian Michaels, wherever you are; you can crawl out from under your piles of money and get your pert, perky ass to my house and help me fix it.

Hey, I’ll even let you wear your green sports bra and spanky short-shorts.

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.

*Cue Bevis-like laughter

Anyone who has read my blog for very long knows that I bring weirdness wherever I go. And not just because I’m weird; that might actually make sense.

Aunt Becky in ANY situation = abounding weirdness..

Back in December, I went to Las Vegas for the first time a mere five weeks after I’d had major abdominal surgery because I’m Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger like that. Also: dumb as a box of rocks.

I’d decided to room with my friend Mandi at the MGM Signature, which is like the MGM but better. (Better = more expensive.) When we arrived, we saw that the suite we’d gotten was actually in the Penthouse and directly adjacent to Jana’s room. We even double doors that that we could lock to create a nice fortress.

It was pretty fucking sweet.

On Saturday, the three of us left together to go to a party.

“People say I’m the life of the party…”

Turns out that abdominal surgery and partying are kinda like oil and water. Or me and John C. Mayer.

I left the party early because I felt like a hot slice of ass. Mandi and Jana were both whooping it up with Elvis as I cabbed it back to the MGM by myself. For as paranoid as I can be about colonies of earwigs nesting in my ear, I’m not really a paranoid person and I’m totally capable of taking care of myself.

When I got back up to our floor, I was in agony. All I wanted to do was to lay down.

But when I reached the double doors, I found them…open. I was almost certain that we’d shut and locked them behind us (I’m Captain Motherfucking Safety, you know).

When I entered the foyer, I saw that my OWN door was open, too. I’d have been shocked if I’d left THAT open, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

I walked into the room for a second to see what was going on – if anything obvious had been stolen – and I swear on the Good Lord of Butter that all of the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Prickly-style.

That’s only happened to me a handful of times.

Each time it’s happened, it’s been for good reason. I’ve learned to trust it. If something makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, something is amiss.

I ran out of the room.

Now what the fuck do I do?

I went back down 9870 flights on the elevator to the front desk. Closed for the night with a jaunty note that explained I could find help at Tower One, which meant hoofing it back down a zillion hallways. So I did. My cell phone reception was pathetic. Walking was the only option.

I limped to Tower One where I told the person behind the desk about what had happened.

Security was called. I asked them to walk up to my room with me to check it out, red-faced and embarrassed as shit. I mean, how do you explain to someone that you “just had a bad feeling” without sounding like a total fucking lunatic?

I joked as they walked me back that I’d seen too many episodes of Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck As Badly As Theirs to simply ignore the open doors. Security assured me that it was just fine: that I’d done the right thing. Still, I felt like an assjacket.

Fifteen minutes later, we were up at my room, where security gave me the green light: no one inside. I thanked them for their time and they left.

But I couldn’t shake the creepers feeling.

I sent Mandi a text explaining what had happened (trying not to sound as frantic as I felt) and then limped all the way back to the MGM Grand, where I sat in the food court until Mandi arrived. Safety in numbers.

Never did find out what had happened. Probably never will.

I guess what happens in Vegas DOES stay in Vegas.

———–

Have you ever had the hairs on your neck stand up like that? Do you trust it when you have That Feeling? Can I have some chocolate ice cream, please?

Last fall, I set my sights on a new coat. It wasn’t just any old coat, of course, but an electric-blue Goal Weight Magic Trench Coat that I immediately called “my Sgt. Pepper’s coat.”

I imagined all of the antics my coat and I would get up to; the places we’d explore, the mischief we would manage. I’d found my Magic Coat at French Connection, and just as I was imagining my Trench Coat and I running off into the sunset after Gold Thieves a la Young Guns, I saw the price.

As brilliant a coat as it was, it wasn’t worth $300 bucks to me. Even if it WAS made by French Connection.

French Connection, I hear you Pranksters saying, why the shiballs would YOU Aunt Becky, shunner of all things fashionable, care? I mean, you own a NECKLACE with your NAME on it. Not very high fashion.

And I’d say, “Pranksters my love for French Connection is a long-standing. I’ve loved them more than I’ve loved anything else, ever. A company that could be so brazen, hilarious, yet refined at the same time is right up my alley.”

Oh Pranksters, let me show you why:

The full name of the company is “French Connection, United Kingdom,” and I am classily showing you why I care very, very much for this company.

Trust me, you wear this puppy in public and people stare. You’re using profanity without using profanity.

I own several FCUK shirts that say things like, “Bourbon FCUK,” “Too Busy To FCUK,” and “FCUK Me.” They rule.

Also: I put the “ass” in “classy.”

Anyway, my brilliantly gorgeous coat which, I should say, is not emblazoned with the “FCUK” moniker, well, it eventually went on sale. When the price dropped to $75, I decided it was Action Time.

Gleefully, I ordered my Magic Coat.

When it arrived, I hung it in my closet as added incentive for me to reach my Goal Weight. I’d see it magically hanging there, ensconced in plastic and remind myself that, hey, I didn’t need to eat bullshit food. Not when I had a jaunty blue Magic Coat eagerly waiting for me to wear it.

Weather in Chicago is one of three things: Ass Hot, Ass Cold, and Construction, and it’s been Ass Cold since I bought the coat. It wasn’t until this weekend that I had a chance to pull my jaunty Magic Trench Coat out.

It fit.

I’d made my goal weight*

#win!

It took a couple of hours for me to finally put my hands in the pockets of the Magic Trench Coat, and when I did, I was shocked when my fingers came across something. I’m not a person who uses my pockets as actual STORAGE (unlike my mother, who keeps the equivalent of a rolling suitcase in her pockets), so it was odd to feel ANYTHING.

I pulled out this mysterious object. Was it a bomb? A pen? A wad of used tissues? The Lindbergh baby?

Nope.

A set of car keys.

Not MY car keys. Not Dave’s car keys either. Not car keys that belong to ANYONE I know.

My Magic Trench Coat came with a free car. A free Jaguar.

That coat really IS magic.

Now…I just have to find my car. Perhaps THAT is what my Epic Road Trip will involve: finding my new car. It’s not technically stealing if I own it already, right?

*probably. I don’t weigh myself.

————-

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve found, Pranksters?

I’m was all lamenting that I hadn’t bought MYSELF a gift for Alex’s birthday because, well, I’m the one who expelled him out of my uterus. But then the heavens opened up and shone down upon me.

I got an email from my friend who makes my profanity-laden shirts.

My new shirts were READY. I nearly peed myself.

Behold the newest in my line of shirts:

It is so full of win that I can hardly stand it.

I also make other profane shirts. They’re available in “fashion fit” (order a size up) for The Ladies and Unisex for The Mens.

Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt, now available in purple, pink AND black:

A Not Your Bitch shirt:

A With The Band Shirt (now available in sizes up to 2X):

A Cancer Is Bullshit shirt:

I Kicked Cancer’s Ass shirt:

I may be weeping with The Awesome right now.

To celebrate my overemotional status, I’m going to do a giveaway of one of these fine shirts. Why? Because obviously. Also: I love you guys to pieces.

Let’s give this two weeks to play out. Tax Day, April 15, a winner shall be announced.

How do you win one?

First, tell me which shirt you’d want and why.

For extra! entries! you can do the following (please leave me an extra comment for each entry):

Write a POST about the contest (two entries!)

Be my BFF on The Facebook.

Follow Mommy Wants Vodka on The Twitter.

Follow Band Back Together on The Twitter.

Tweet about the contest.

Add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll.

Add Band Back Together to your blogroll.

YAY for new shirts!

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.

Back in July or June or something (dates, like geography, punctuation, and fractions, are not my strong suit), I lost my pants. While you might think that’s not particularly notable because I seem to be the type of person who is always losing things like my wallet, my iPhone and my children, you’d be wrong.

See, I lost my pants in my house. Specifically, my bedroom.

Let’s be clear here, Pranksters. My bedroom isn’t particularly large or filled with dark, spooky crevices or haunted by gnomes or anything. I simply woke up one day, decided to forgo my typical “pants are bullshit” mantra for the afternoon and wear the only pair of pants that I owned (at the time). I was in the middle of my lose-the-baby-weight-crusade, which meant that I didn’t own more than one pair of pants. A missing pair of pants was a pretty big deal, indeed.

Understandably, I was a little upset. If for no other reason than it meant that if I didn’t find them, I had to go pants shopping again, something I enjoy about as much as a colonoscopy.

I made posters:

Sadly, even my crappy MISSING WHORE PANTS poster turned up nothing. I even went so far as to clean out my Magical Closet, which turned up several bags of loose diamonds* and a coupon for free pants (thanks, Gap!), but my whore pants remained recklessly in the breeze.

The Mysterious Case of Aunt Becky’s Magical Closet and Her Disappearing Whore Pants remains unsolved. The pants? They’d clearly taken off for greener, sexier, less flabby pastures. Probably the twinkly and exotic lights of Las Vegas.

I’m sure they’re happy, lovingly cradling the buttocks of someone else in some other, more glamorous locale like Detroit or Kathmandu. Besides, I comfort myself, I got a free pair of pants and some diamonds out of the whole deal. That’s kind of a win, right? RIGHT.

What I didn’t realize is that my asshole pants took something ELSE with them when they disappeared (no, not my sanity. That disappeared years ago).

My thyroid.

Apparently, my thyroid gland is lathered up in coconut oil, wearing a jaunty sombrero, sipping Mai-Tai’s on the shores of some remote beach somewhere while being fanned by a gigantic ficus branch, my missing whore pants nearby doing the Electric Slide, drunk on cheap tequila.

It’s unfortunate, really, because I don’t think that Gap sells replacement thyroid glands in sizes 2-14 and while I suppose I could search my Magic Closet, I’m fairly sure I won’t find an extra one there.

(pithy aside! When did Gap sizing become so deliciously…flattering? Seriously, now Pranksters. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Gap, but holy balls, I’ve never been so pleased to strap on a pair of pants in my life. Perhaps I should rethink my “pants are bullshit” stance to say, “sometimes pants are bullshit like when they say numbers that make me want to go on a killing spree or collapse into a puddle of The Sads.”)

I suppose that in the end, I should be pleased that it’s just my thyroid that’s gone missing in action and not something like my intestines or liver. You know, something irreplaceable.

Not like my brain or heart, both of which I’ve been living happily – cheerfully, even – without for years.

*a very long story

The last roadtrip I took was a “BBQ Tour of Memphis.” It may have had a snappier name, like, “Beef and Pork and Ribs, OH MY,” or “Let’s Call Into Work Fat” or something.

Either way, I earned my first nickname, “Leadfoot,” when I learned a little something about Southern Illinois: law enforcement has very little to do beyond design and execute elaborate speed-traps for people who like to drive over one hundred miles per hour on the highway. I also learned another fun fact: BBQ Spaghetti is, in fact, the least appealing food on the planet.

The More You Know, and all.

Consider that my blogging PSA for the year.

Anyway.

I didn’t design or execute that particular roadtrip but I did tag along. I jump at any excuse View Postto go to Memphis. That roadtrip, as I think of it, was the last time I remember feeling free. Life got pretty tough after that, and it’s been pretty tough (although not without it’s shiny points) ever since.

You can tell that I didn’t design that roadtrip, though, because it makes sense. Things I tend to design, well, they don’t. This is why I need a partner on my adventure.

Roadtrips I design have been as follows:

“Let’s go Down South to buy sunglasses.”

(“down south” is anywhere south of Chicago off I-47)

“Let’s take a bunch of left turns. Wherever we end up, that’s where Elvis will be. Or a natty pair of shades! Or that weird drink with the blobs floating in it.”

(Do you remember that drink? That shit was nasty)

“How about we go down to U of I Champaign/Urbana for some Chinese Food? By the time we get there, it should be morning and that Chinese place will be open!”

*shrugs* “We’ll know it when we get there. Let’s just GO.”

———-

I tend to lack common sense which is why I surround myself with people who DO have common sense so that I don’t decide to invest my life’s savings (read: five dollars) in Fry Daddies and Twinkies because *shrugs* “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

So that’s kind of why I figured that if I was going to, in fact, get in the car and drive around, I should probably meet up with you Pranksters. I mean, I’m sure there’s a significant number of you who will lead me into situations where I will be forced to yell, “SOMEBODY GET THIS FREAKING DUCK OUTTA HERE,” alternately, “WHERE THE HELL IS ALL THE DUCT TAPE AND WHY AM I NOT BEING SPOON-FED ORANGE SHERBET?” but most of you are probably smarter than me by a shocking margin.

I’m pretty upset that I still haven’t found a duck OR the proper WordPress Plugin to allow me to see where you guys are physically located (besides inside my computer). I assume, though, that if you’re anything like The Twitter, you’re mostly located in:

1) Texas

B) Kansas City

37) LA

Ba) My mind.

So, that should narrow it down until I get the plugin hacked and working properly. It also allows me to procure a laptop, make “arrangements,” download every song about ducks and roadtrips I can find as well as find a proper traveling companion. I assume, though, that by now I’ve scared off everyone who might have considered traveling with me.

Figures.

*sighs*

I wonder if I can program a duck to talk to me.

Also: what Mission should this roadtrip have? Like, do I collect snowglobes or guns or different cheesy shirts from each truck stop I visit or something? Or pictures of amazing, luscious mullets? The Roadtrip needs a name and a purpose.

Also; also: even if you’re not actually coming with, you’re virtually coming with because the computer is a magical box powered by gnomes and a trainwreck is always awesome to watch as it unfolds.

I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that while I was sleeping, gnomes snuck into my room and scooped out my brain with an ice cream ladle. At least, that’s the story I’m telling myself these days to explain away the decided lack of motivation and utter inability to form even the most simple of thoughts. I’m just not quite feeling…myself.

I’d considered consulting Dr. Google, but then I realized I’d probably be diagnosed as dying from some rare and mysterious illness like “Ebola” or “Dysentery,” or whatever it was that killed me when I played Oregon Trail (by the by, the new Oregon Trail for iPhone app is not NEARLY as awesomely gruesome as I remember it being when we were kids).

So I’m sticking to the Gnomes Stole My Brain theory because it’s more glamorous-sounding. When in doubt, blame gnomes. It beats the hell out of dealing with actual problems, right? I mean, who wants to admit, “hey, I have no idea what I’m supposed to DO with the rest of my life; send a guidance counselor, STAT?” (answer: not me)

Anyway, I’m not overly interested in talking about it because it’s SO emo sounding and really, sometimes I need to take life a little less seriously.

So I went to the Chicago Auto Show last week with my family which is a Sherrick Family Tradition. I think if they ever closed the Auto Show down for some reason, my family would still go down to McCormick Place the second week of February and walk around whatever convention was going on (even if it was like Unicorn Lovers Fair or Charlton Heston Look-Alikes or something) because NO ONE in my family can handle change.

*whistles*

*flips hair*

*looks around*

Shut your whore mouth.

I’d been invited for the social media event the week before (which happened to fall on the coldest day in like five hundred years or something), but between my busted tooth and my double ear infection, I’d decided to skip it and go with my family instead. Plus, I didn’t know anyone that was going and I didn’t really think that going up to rando news outlets and being all, “LET’S MAKE OUT” would be good for anyone.

So, this is what I learned:

0) McCormick place no longer has storage lockers for rent which left me in quite a pickle. I had nowhere to store the severed head I’d brought precisely for those storage lockers. #awkward

1) The Chicago Auto Show had a hashtag and was projecting the tweets sent out onto a big-ass screen overlooking the show. I was glad because then maybe the people who ran the show could possibly look into alternate means of disposal of said severed head for me. Since the storage lockers were a no-go.

Social media = win.

(also: I did not realize that tweets were being broadcast until AFTER I’d been running my mouth. WHOOPS)

1) The American Car companies have done the best job BY FAR of working with bloggers, twitter and other social media outlets. I give them serious respect for that.

Also: they did not pay me a cent for that opinion.

Also, Also: I want a muscle car now.

2) For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to get a DMV picture that looks like this:

The finger-guns? HILARIOUS. The DMV does not think so and I have thus far been rejected. Or, at least, my pictures always make me look like a knuckle-dragging mouth-breather (shut UP).

This is the best approximation I’ve found.

I’m sad that I do not have Rod’s angelic hair, but alas, one cannot have it all.

2) The first thing my family said upon seeing me was not, “Oh hi, Becky,” but “HOLY SHIT YOU HAVE TO GO SEE THE GUY IN THE THREE WOLVES SHIRT.” So, you should know, Pranksters, that the Epicness of the Wolf Shirt has followed me everywhere. I tried to get a surreptitious shot of me with the guy in the shirt, but was unable to capture it’s splendor.

The Wolf Shirt, it appears, is both elusive and mysterious.

3) It is probably a very bad idea to wear brand new boots to any place that requires walking great distances even if they are particularly kicky boots.

5) Churros are never, ever wrong.

8) The desire for swag appears to be universal. I find it slightly baffling.

Next year, you’re all invited, Pranksters. Let’s get a party bus. I’m so serious that it hurts.

I’ve been joking that “purple should be a flavor, dammit,” for as long as I can remember. I probably got the idea from somewhere else, I can’t be certain.

I used to have a blog theme with a changeable tagline, probably intended for people to say things like, “Mommy Wants Vodka: The Best Gosh-Darn Blog Ever,” but I’d change mine to say things like “Mommy Wants Vodka: Now THAT’S Fucked Up,” and then, “Mommy Wants Vodka: Encased Meats Are The Two Finest Words In The English Language Besides ‘Hooray Beer’,” because I am classy and that is what classy people do.

Someone recently said that “her name tastes like purple” because she’s got Synethsesia, a neurological condition wherein the activation of one sensory stimulation automatically evokes stimulation from a second sensory pathway. Basically, using one sense (touch, taste, hearing, smell, sight) stimulates another sense. My Metal Head friend Scottie once, while very, very intoxicated, informed me that he could see the music coming from the speakers.

So, there you have it.

Synethesia.

It’s kind of a neat way of looking at things, although, of course, I don’t have it. I just like to put together words in unusual ways. When I’m not here, I write groups of essays that I will one day put into a larger collection. A “book,” if I may. And watch dancing cactus videos.

Fucking love dancing cacti.

Today, Pranksters, I’m off to the Chicago Auto Show, probably annoying The Twitter with tweets like, “Wonder if I can steal a fucking car and run these assholes OVER,” because, well, obviously.

And I’m offering you a chance at immortality.

My friend Jimmy, who makes tea, (it’s his hilarious ad on the sidebar) and sent me a story to cheer me up yesterday about how he was once beaten up by a gang of Jewish guys dressed up as the Pope, wants to do something for you. I laughed, of course, because I knew it was probably true.

So anyway, now that I’ve explained what an asshole *I* am because I laughed at my friend who had been hurt by a group of Jewish thugs dressed as the Pope, here’s your shot at immortality, Pranksters.

He wants you to describe your perfect tea blend. Maybe it’s a green tea with rose. Or maybe they want unicorn blood and the tears of angels. Either way, for the randomly selected winner, I’ll do my best to create the blend and then I’ll even put a photo of themselves on the tea created.

Your own tea blend WITH A PICTURE OF YOU. You could probably make him put a picture of whatever. I mean, the ad picture is Mr. Sprinkles, my fake dead cat.

(oh, and he gave you all a free shipping code: ShutYourWhoreMouth )

Mine might look like this, for example:

Although, I’d want him to use this picture:

Because I’m still laughing at it.

(modeling agencies, CALL ME)

So, HAVE AT IT, PRANKSTERS. You can be IMMORTAL.

P.S. Make him work.

P.P.S. Modeling agencies, CALL ME.

P.P.P.S. I cannot wait to see what you come up with.