Now I’m not a hoarder. I’m not even very sentimental.

(you’ll note that I am decidedly NOT a hoarder because every time someone comes over, I try to send them home with everything from Orchids to children)

I watch Hoarders as inspiration to clean my fucking house, and I’ll tell you that it has worked to curb any impulse buying I may or may not have experienced (so, so sorry, The Target, for breaking up with you like this. I know I should have done it more personally, but hey, you read my blog).

I’m also not attached to my stuff. Not most of it, at least. I’d throw down some fisticuffs if you threatened Big Mac II or my iPad. It’s not, however, because they remind me of “greener days,” and “happier times,” but because they allow me to work. Or try to get more than one star on those stupid Angry Birds game. Which is more complex than actual work, but I digress.

My Son: *carrying around a baby doll*

Aunt Becky: “Why are you carrying around that doll?”

Ben, My Son (Not the Guy on my Couch*): “We’re playing Oregon Trail at school and Sam needed a boy baby.”

Aunt Becky: *thinks about how awesome it would be to make the doll have “dysentery.” *

Ben: “It’s for school.”

Aunt Becky *still bitter that the i(can’t)Phone version or Oregon Trail is neither gory or has fun as it used to be. These are probably related events*. “Oh? What are you doing with it?”

Ben: “I told you. Sam needs a baby boy.”

Aunt Becky *grumbles* “Like THAT clears it up for me.”

Ben: “I have to bring it.”

Aunt Becky *looks at the stained baby and recalls how she’d lovingly gotten it for her then-five-year-old son Ben who was about to become a big brother*: “Ben, no. You can’t take it.”

Ben: “I HAVE TO TAKE IT.”

Aunt Becky: “Why?”

Ben: “SAM NEEDS A BABY BOY.”

Aunt Becky: “So you’re going to bring it to school and probably forget it there, right?”

Ben: “Yes.”

Aunt Becky: “NO.”

Ben: “But I’m GONNA GET LATE POINTS!”

Aunt Becky: “The doll’s for Sam, not you. If you need something to signify a baby that badly, take a stuffed animal instead.”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “You have your teacher call me and tell me why you need to bring this particular doll in.”

Ben: *stomps off in the way only a histrionic 10-year old can.*

Aunt Becky (to herself): “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Two adult male voices chime in simultaneously: “Waco.”

Turns out, Pranksters, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of that baby doll; the one he’d once named Seth.

*my BFF who moved here to start a new life.

…Post a picture of something random then link to this post. Which I wrote. I love it. I can’t read the comments, but I love the post.

And no, I wasn’t talking about you – ANY of you.

I don’t make lists.

Or, I should say, I don’t make GOOD lists. Every time I get overwhelmed by the sheer amount of dancing cactus videos on YouTube, I tell one of my Type-A friends that I am overwhelmed by the volume of dancing cactus videos. Rather than simply GO THROUGH THEM ALL AND TELL ME WHICH ONES ARE GOOD (in spreadsheet form, natch), they say the same words. ALWAYS the same words.

“Make a list.”

And every time, I’m all, “these are Type A people – they have color-coding and highlighters – they MUST know what they’re talking about.”

So I start a list:

• Watch dancing cactus video
• Drink Diet Coke
• Fantasize about owning boxing nun
• Google directions to nearest nunnery
• Pour cup of coffee
• Realize I’ll probably spontaneously combust should I step onto the sacred soil
• Wonder what nuns do all day
• Assume it’s not watch dancing cactus videos
• Go onto next dancing cactus video

Then I realize that I’ve spent 46 minutes making a list that’s now stressing me out because, well, THAT’S A LOT OF SHIT TO DO, I’D RATHER JUST DO IT AND NOT HAVE TO STOP AND WRITE IT DOWN, THANK YOU TYPE-A PEOPLE.

I rip up my lame-ass list and roll my eyes any time anyone says the words “Type” and “A” together in a sentence. Because who wants to make lists? The same people who thrive off Post-It Notes. NOT SANE PEOPLE.

I woke up this morning and realized I wanted to make a list. Not a “life list,” (life list is apparently pretentious hipster-speak for being able to write things like, “climb the summit of a tall mountain wearing my Northface Jacket” and “drink fine wine on the backs of starving children.”) because those are lame, but a list of things I’d like to do someday, but, through the actual act of living a life in which every time I make a “plan,” things go horribly awry, so I’ll probably never get to do. Ever.

(Unfair Jab at Pretentious Hipsters: But hey, at least I’m good with straight-up iodized salt rather than sea salt carefully culled from the bottom of the dead sea, then breathed upon by unicorns until it made it’s way onto my $145 dollar entree.)

Return a movie on time to Blockbuster

Eat chocolate cake in the bath in a poufy dress

Figure out how many licks it takes to beat someone to death with a Tootsie Pop

Give up on the idea that Jen and Brad are EVER going to get back together

Get over my unresolved anger at Angelina Jolie and her sanctimonious pillowy lips

Find and purchase 2 smaller, angrier birds (the Winklevoss Twins!) to set deliberately behind Mark Zuckerberg

Use a Post-It note successfully – not just for lobbing insults in adorable wee form.

Buy all items on this screen AT ONCE

Especially the testicles. Because obviously.

Figure out why the hell someone made a testicle self-exam kit.

Figure out why a testicle self-exam kit costs $114

Inform everyone I know that this, in fact, is what I want for my birthday

Buy a cell phone that actually makes calls.

Become BFF with Tom from Myspace. That dude was EVERYBODY’S friend.

Immortalize Tom from Myspace in tacky lawn ornament form.

Figure out what happened to Justin Timberlake, you know, the guy who started Napster?

Punch someone while they’re in the middle of their “If you can dream it, you can DO it,” speech. BECAUSE I HAD A DREAM TOO, MOTHERFUCKER, AND IT’S BEEN RUINED.

Admit that I haven’t actually HAD a dream to ruin, so there’s that.

Get three stars on an Angry Birds level so that I can do a victory dance, tell The Twitter, then realize how lame I’ve become.

Meet someone from Delaware IN THE FLESH.

Become a real-life troll, and stand in the middle of The Target yelling “You’re fat!” and “You’re ugly!” until I am arrested.

Take the Route 66 road-trip through the States. With or without Mark Zuckerberg as my copilot.

Get raptured.

Get UN-raptured because Heaven is Bullshit.

Wear my Shut Your Whore Mouth to a Middle School Function.

Figure out what the hell Stumble Upon actually does.

Punch John C. Mayer in the ‘nads. Alternately, immortalize him in tacky lawn-ornament form.

—————-

What do YOU want to do, Pranksters? Alternately, what do you think *I* should do?

Pranksters,

Meet Mark Zuckerberg:

He’s dating The Bloggesses Beyonce.

He’s also the culmination of approximately 291,727 years of work on my house.

Some people, they get stressed and eat a cake. Others drink a bottle of wine. Still others go on mad shopping sprees until they’ve amassed a houseful of garbage and appear on Hoarders so that I may watch and then go clean my house obsessively.

When my kids were little and I got stressed, I’d vacuum. My formerly white carpets were spotless* whenever I had a particularly bad week (read: year). They were too small for me to bundle up and take out back so I could do what I really wanted: to get into my garden.

I know there are babies out there (reportedly) who sit in things like “strollers” and “hang out calmly,” but I’m telling you Pranksters, THOSE BABIES WERE NOT MINE. I got more snide comments from people – “well, I didn’t GIVE my child the option to NOT ride in the stroller,” during those years. I never responded with – but should’ve – “wanna give it a shot with them? How far can you take ’em before DCFS gets called due to reports of child abuse?”

I’ve owned three strollers. One was a shitty Graco stroller that made an uncanny clicking noise when we walked. Ben – as a baby – screamed whenever he got near it**. The second was an umbrella stroller I could occasionally coax my then-five year old son Ben into. The third was the Cadillac of Strollers (some overpriced Bumbleride), which I bought for Alex. That fucker is still sitting in my garage like an albatross, reminding me that I could’ve WAITED to see if my child would actually allow me to put him down.

(answer: no. Not ever)

Anyway, when they were small, gardening went like this:

Aunt Becky: “I’m going outside to garden.”

Daver: “Can you take the kids?”

Aunt Becky: “No, I’m working in thorny roses.”

Daver: “Okay.”

Then the kids would stand sadly at the window, like a pile of weeping puppies, pointing at me until I let them outside.

I got nothing done unless it was naptime or bedtime (for babies).

That’s a fucking shame: the previous occupants of my home had let the landscaping done by the previous PREVIOUS occupants go to shit – the house was shrouded in bushes. My house, overgrown with bushes, looked remarkably like a serial killer lived here.

This was AFTER I’d removed a couple of bushes.

Turns out the seventies bush wasn’t just for pubic hair.

I was super embarrassed. Like, you can only claim, “it’s from the previous occupants” for so long before people start rolling their eyes.

So my front yard was full of bushes. My backyard was full of patchy grass and fake flowers.

Yes. Those are fake flowers. In the middle of February. It took a long fucking time to get rid of all that shit.

Luckily, I have. My house, while still a horrifying shade of yellow (the insurance quote only noted hail damage on TWO of the four sides = fuckers), is finally becoming something I’m not entirely horrified to show off.

I planted a rose garden. The gutter guy totally knocked one over and I am thinking about paying him a “visit” with my “shovel.”

I planted more roses. And gardened in a swim suit.

(don’t judge – I had the stomach flu)

So thank YOU, to the stress of the last few months, for allowing me to whip my yard into shape.

I think it’s time for a Prankster-Only Encased Meat Festival. Who wants in?

*yet still dingy – I need new carpeting. Terribly.

**He also, I should report, screamed when the sun shifted to a forty-five degree angle, any time anyone said the word, “the” and from 4-10PM on every day that ended in “day.”

First, go here. Read this. It made me cry.

Then write your story over there

Or here.

ALL of them.

————

Okay back? Good. Here goes:

I owe you a bit of an explanation, Pranksters. Without warning I stopped writing my Go Ask Aunt Becky column, which, as someone with a high degree of anal retentiveness (*waves*), drove me crazy.

I’d started my lame advice column as a joke, intended to write up dumb answers to such things as “why do I have so much sausage in the fridge?” and “where are my pants?”

Instead, you guys sent me real questions with real problems and I? Well, I got…overwhelmed? I guess that’s the word. My life has been a roller coaster of weird lately and I, well, I wouldn’t take any of my own advice. Ever. You don’t want to be like me.

The other non-serious questions had to do with blogging, mostly of the “how do I get famous?” variety. And while I’ve written my Blogging for Dummies Guide, I’m not sure how to answer that sort of question without getting all, “with fame comes great responsibility,” or whatever.

My own blog grew organically because I hit the right segment of the population at the right time, not because I had an excessively awesome theme or anything. Like anything else, blogging is a hit-or-miss kinda thing and some people make it and you’ll totally get why while others (*waves*) confound you – how could someone be so dumb?

Anyway.

I’ll get back into my advice column. Feel free to submit questions up at the top of my screen – and, as always, feel free to give your advice in the comments.

—————-

Dear Aunt Becky,

Why should I ask your advice if you’re not a real professional?

Dear Prankster:

You get what you pay for.

——————–

Hey Aunt Becky,

Recently I found out a friend I had lost contact with had been a victim of, carjacking, kidnapping, and sexual assault. She is almost a year survived from the attack, but having terrible ptsd, Keeping her from working and enjoying her young life. I no longer live near hear and wanted to send a care package to her to show her my love. Any ideas for this package? I thought spa, but really think that might not be the best idea, with the physical contact. Any ideas would be wonderful. (btw man was caught and charged for all these awful things he has done to her)
Love your niece,
Kay

Hello my darling Kay!

What happened to your friend is fucking hideous and you? Are full of the awesome for wanting to help her.

I’d suggest sending her a package of random stuff to make her smile – I agree that the spa thing is probably a bad idea. I’d fill a box with random things – some chocolate, some goofy craft stuff, a tiara, whatever – cute stuff she can go through and giggle at. And write her a nice letter telling her you’re thinking of her.

I’ve made you THIS for helping someone heal from sexual assault, and I hope it helps.

Send your friend all my love. And you too, for being such a kickass friend. We could all be so lucky.

Love,

AB

—————

Dear Aunt Becky,

I feel really awkward calling you that but hey it’s whatever. One simple question I’m a mom and I want to start a mommy blog but I don’t want it to be traditional like the ones you read while you’re bored surfing the internet and the first sentence is … kat took her first poop in the big girl toilet.

haha big FUCKING woop.

Do you have any advice not to be that mom and where do I start?

Dear Prankster,

I love the awkward – assumed familiarity is beyond hilarious. And you don’t want to write about your kid taking a shit? THANK YOU, on behalf of the Internet, THANK YOU.

I wrote up this Blogging for Dummies Guide – let me know if it helps.

Love you,

AB

I spent a good deal of time yesterday adding things to the Anatomy of a Forum post from yesterday. I’m telling you, I’ve never laughed so hard at comments before – and you guys are good. Like I want to make an award for best! comment! ever! but I’d give it to everyone, which kinda dilutes the whole thing.

Anyway, the post has been updated and will probably be updated again – you Pranksters are hysterical.

—————

Last week, the hospital called.

I wasn’t sure if it was a matter of wondering where I was, since I hadn’t been in (knocks on wood) for a couple of months. Hell, maybe I’d accrued some frequent flyer miles with which I could purchase a lovely sandwich in the cafeteria!

I answered, my mouth watering with antici….

…pation

It was the dude who schedules shit. Shit like, oh I don’t know, ULTRASOUNDS of my THYROID that may or may not show that I have an evil twin or one of those tumors full of hair and nails. Or the dreaded Neck Baby.

I’d had every intention of calling for the ultrasound…just…sometime else. Like maybe in 20 years or something.

It seems silly to be worked up about learning that my neck was pregnant or something, but after you’ve fallen on the wrong side of statistics enough times, you know that “routine” and “ultrasound” and “thyroid” and “neck baby” don’t go hand in hand. So I was more than a little bit nervous about learning I had a neck baby or an evil twin or something.

On Good Friday, I chose to celebrate the chocolate rabbit rising from the dead by making Dawn and The Guy On My Couch go with me to my ultrasound. I had to promise them cheeseburgers, which, I can’t say I blame them for. Bargaining is an art form.

The ultrasound didn’t show any beating neck baby hearts or teeth or hair, from what I could tell, anyway.

“Your doctor should have the results in two business days,” the tech told me cheerfully as we walked out of the room.

Wait.

Two business days from today? Good Friday is a trading holiday (I’ve been in the financial industry too long, clearly), does that mean radiologists get it off too?

I didn’t know.

So when Monday rolled around, I spent it balled up on the couch, a bundle of nerves with kicky hair. By Monday afternoon, I decided I should call my endocrinologist…just to see if they had the results back. They did! OH HAPPY DAY!

I waited nervously.

I’d been told email = good.

Phone call = bad.

By 4:15 CST, the same time zone my MD lives in, I’d had enough – I called back. I HAD to know if I had a neck baby.

“This office is now closed. To reach the doctor on call…” I was livid. What the fuck kind of doctor CLOSES at 4PM on a MONDAY?

(answer: apparently my endocrinologist)

I thought about all the hackers I knew. Maybe one of THEM could get me my results. I can interpret them (*waves* HI MOM! Thanks for that nursing degree!) , I just needed to see them.

Okay, I thought, most doctors don’t actually leave when the office closes. I bet she’ll call with the results tonight.

When the phone rang as I was watching reruns of Sister Wives, at 8:30, I was just positive it was her. Nope. My mother. Asking how I was.

Eventually, I fell into a nervous sleep.

The following morning, I grabbed my iPad and frantically waded through 837 “Make your penis bigger” emails (responding to them, of course. Who DOESN’T want a bigger wang?). Nada. Fuck.

I plodded over to my computer, ready to put a call into the office when, *zing* it hit my email.

“Hi Rebecca,

Your results were normal.

Thanks!

Nurse’s Name”

Thank the Good Lord of Butter – I am not growing a neck baby.

Kinda sucks about the evil twin thing, tho. I could’ve used an evil alter-ego to blame shit on.

———-

So, when I’m not staple-gunning things to my walls and watching animated animals play the piano, I run a site you’ve heard me blather on about. It’s called, Band Back Together, which, like five people have noticed, is a direct riff off the Blues Brothers:

Here’s the plan: we get the band back together, do some gigs, earn some bread, bang!

Nothing? Hrms.

Okay, maybe it’s a Chicago thing.

Anyway, the site is a group blog where anyone (YES YOU) can write their stories – stories of anything. Reposts of older posts, new posts you don’t want to share on your own blog, whatever. We pair the posts with a metric fuckton of resource pages (anything from how-to cope with depression to love resources to how to cope with a rape)

(*waves* HI MOM! Thanks for the nursing degree! I’m finally using for things other than diagnosing myself with testicular cancer)

Anyway, this isn’t the elevator pitch for the site. This is an answer to a question that was posed to me via my Go Ask Aunt Becky Form (and yes, I know I need to get back into writing my weekly assvice column – I’ve just been…floundering a bit).

I was asked: “how do I get in on this funfest?” and I don’t have an email address to reply privately, so here goes.

See, Band Back Together only runs because we have 60ish people working behind the scenes. We do everything from our Wednesday #withtheband Twitter Parties to creating pages, to brainstorming new ideas, to fundraising, to commenting, to using social media, to editing.

It’s a big fucking operation. And it’s entirely volunteer run. We’re waiting on our federal non-profit paperwork, but at the moment, since we don’t do ads or other revenue streams, no one makes a cent. In fact, we PAY for server space. Not a big deal.

If you’d like to work with us, and know how to tune your email settings to filter out some of the email (which can be overwhelming at first), shoot chibi@bandbacktogether.com an email. She’ll get you hooked up.

We’re a big dysfunctional family, which means we always need more volunteers.

Dear Mr. “Gmoney,”

I think I’d respond to you much more favorably if you’d included an “ESQ” behind your name. I feel the addition of ESQ to your name would give your name a true punch, it would go the proverbial distance, and ask, nay, DEMAND respect. Gmoney, ESQ sounds a lot more powerful than the pedestrian “Gmoney” you used to sign your comment.

I wanted to apologize for suggesting that I might, “sell my dog, Auggie, for animal testing” after he successfully ate – then vomited up – the fecal matter of my other dog under the table on the white carpet my dining room while I was large, pregnant, and queasy. You’re very right – I am both a shitty human being and was blaming my dog for my own failings.

Would it appease you if I, instead of suggesting I’d sell him for product testing, I suggested I might, as an alternative, make a pair of moccasins out of his hide? I feel that is a more fruitful, comfortable and appropriate idea.

Do let me know. I’ll be anxiously checking my spam filter.

Yours Always,

Your Aunt Becky

———————-

Dear Packs of Hot Dogs in my Fridge,

I share the semi-unpopular opinion that, there are no finer words in the English language than, “encased meats,” my friends. Except, perhaps, “Hooray Beer.” Or boner. But that’s only one word.

I’ve been warned, a time or two, that I am, in fact eating:

a) bits of fetal pig

b) lips

c) assholes.

I’m not entirely sure if the latter two are actually supposed to be bits of pig lips and/or assholes – I should probably ask for clarification about that.

It’s irrelevant, I suppose, as I will happily nosh upon crushed bits of tiny unborn pigs. We all know that suffering tastes like awesome.

Hungrily Yours,

Becky

—————-

Dear My Son,

I know that I, in a moment of sheer stupidity, said, “woah, these colored bubbles will make your poo turn colors!” I hadn’t been addressing you, and was not, in fact, suggesting that you should take it upon yourself to drink aforementioned bubbles. While  I understand that I hadn’t made it clear that “one should not drink colored bubbles, even if one’s poo may turn technicolor,” I would have hoped you’d have not assumed that my words were a green-light for drinking bubbles.

But since I was not more clear, I sincerely hope that you enjoy your colorful poo.

Next time, try Crunch Berries. They may make your mouth feel as though you’ve been chewing glass, but they taste like heaven.

Love,

Mom

——————

Dear Thyroid,

I understand that you’ve been upset with me lately and for that I do apologize. I’d like to point out that, at no time, did I:

a) threaten to sell you to the gypsies

b) threaten to send you to Lady Gaga to become her newest hairpiece

c) threaten to plaster you with ads for Viagra.

Which makes me concerned that you’ve misunderstood the arrangement we’ve got – you function, and I continue to let you be groped by the pretty lady doctor every four to six months. I thought we had a deal.

Unless the “thing” growing on you is a tumor full of hair and teeth, I’m not happy with your behavior. Not. Happy. Thyroid.

Don’t make me send you to live with Marilyn Manson.

Always,

Becky

———————

Dear My Nigerian Relatives,

Words cannot express how happy I am to learn that you, of all people, have died and left me a substantial fortune. I’d always dreamed that blogging would be the reason I’d procure a yacht, and here you are, practically handing me millions of pounds, if only I return your email with my bank account number, my social security code, my mother’s maiden name, and my favorite sleeping position.

Since I have gotten no less than 30 of these emails in the last two weeks, I’ve begun to purchase luxury items on credit – like a snow-cone maker and a blinged-out Pimp Cup. As my creditors have been calling, demanding I pay for my “Meat on a Stick” machine, I sincerely hope that you are already on your way to transfer that money into my account. I’m pretty sure that my pony on roller-skates will soon grow weary of living in my (rather small) backyard. Or maybe she’s just mad that I spray-painted her pink.

Anyway.

Not to be rude, but thanks for dying – I’m finally going to realize my dream of turning my basement into a ball pit after I Velcro my bedroom wall so that I can stick to it. That, my dear Nigerian Family Member, is worth, in my biased opinion, more than life. Unless it’s mine. Because I’m worth about $3.28. So thanks for being dead!

Er.

Sorry you’re dead,

Aunt Becky

*sitting in the garage, drinking a diet Coke, taking a break from making the exterior of my home look as though recluses live here. CREEPY ones, I mean, not just boring old me.*

Aunt Becky: “I have no idea what I won in the [Band Back Together] auction.”

The Guy On My Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “I know I got outbid on a bracelet I wanted.”

The Guy On The Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “People are hardcore about auctions. That’s why I’m afraid of eBay. *shudders*”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’d get waaaaay too into it – I can see you with a garage full of your winnings.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehehe. Yeah.”

The Guy On The Couch: “You’d totally get a Storage Locker and end up defaulting and have your shit go up on Storage Wars*.”

Aunt Becky: “No. Fucking. Way.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Where would you put it?”

Aunt Becky: “Anywhere but there. I’m terrified of Storage Lockers. You know the ones over by the McDonald’s? I get the heebie jeebies whenever I go by it.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Hahahaha. Really?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. I’m always afraid there’s a dead body in there. I mean, WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU PUT IN A STORAGE LOCKER?”

The Guy On The Couch: “Crap from your dorm room?”

Aunt Becky: ” Ugh *shudders* no. Dead bodies.”

The Guy On The Couch: “I bet it’s safe to say that there’s a dead body in a storage locker somewhere around here.”

Aunt Becky (eyes widen): “Do you think it’s stuffed?”

The Guy On My Couch: (thinks)

Aunt Becky: “You know, all taxidermied and shit? Like people do to animals?”

The Guy On My Couch: “I’m sure there’s one out there SOMEWHERE. Prolly not as close as a regular dead body, though.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m gonna put in my will that I want to be taxidermied, dusted, and moved from children’s houses on a rotation schedule. Four to five months, I sit in each of my kid’s house. In the living room – potentially in the big picture windows, occasionally moving to the table for “dinner.””

The Guy On My Couch: “….”

Aunt Becky: “I’m getting back at them for making me birth them – shit, have you SEEN the size of their heads?”

The Guy On My Couch: *shakes his own large head* “Yeah, yeah I have.”

Aunt Becky: “Payback. And those twerps best not be throwing me into a storage locker. At least, not all year long.”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’re going to have a painfully long last will and testament, aren’t you?”

Aunt Becky: “We’ll be measuring it in miles, not sheets of paper.”

The Guy On My Couch: “Just don’t tell the kids – or they’ll be sure to stuff you in a locker they default on.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m adding it to my list, thanks.”

*surprisingly interesting show, by the by.

When I started high school, before Jesus was born, high school was done in split shifts. The underclassmen (read: me and my trouble-making friends) started at 9AM rather than 7:30AM, which, I have to say as a non-morning person, was pretty damn sweet. Soon enough, my high school decided that was bullshit and built a second high school about a half a mile from the first.

We’d get stuck in classes in both buildings, which meant we had to hustle to get from place to place. And by “hustle,” I mean, “smoke pot out of soda cans” as we ambled our way too and from the North building.

We had one road to cross to get there, a thoroughfare that wound throughout campus, that had a nice crosswalk painted on it. One of our deans, who happened to be both the football coach and a major douchebag, would occasionally patrol the area, giving PM’s (detentions) to those of us who walked out of the lines. We also had Mr. Shields*, a prehistoric relic that seemed to arise from the very dust of the earth.

Mr. Shields, well, he had a golf cart, and he liked to ride it around the parking lots of the school, busting people for parking in the wrong area, always on the lookout for those of us who cut class to go joyriding and eat tacos**. He communicated to the other deans and Parapros (paraprofessionals? I don’t actually know anything other than their name made them sound like dinosaurs.)(*puts on Nature Show Voice and whispers* “Beware of the roaming Parapros – they’re hungry and getting ready to write PM’s”) via a fairly elaborate system of walkee-talkies. Keep in mind, this was when cell phones weighed as much as a small bus.

(not actually Mr. Shields)

(probably)

Being hippies and anti-establishment meant that my parents didn’t give much of a shit if I got in trouble – only if I was STUPID about it. Like on Senior Ditch Day – I didn’t even TRY to get my boyfriend’s cleaning lady to call me in – I just didn’t show up. This pissed off my mother – not that I ditched class, but that I hadn’t bothered TRYING to cover it up.

She’d taught me many years before how to forge her signature so I could avoid these very same situations. I’d often go into the office, note written in purple crayon, begging out of school so I could “see the doctor.” The office staff must’ve thought I was the world’s sickest teen OR the world’s biggest hypochondriac.

Generally, these “doctor’s appointments” involved a lot of tacos and/or Jim Beam drunk straight from the bottle in the parking lot behind the Taco Bell.

Tonight, I must go back. No, not to Taco Bell. After a particularly vicious battle with food poisoning, I sadly swore it off for life.

I’ve been back, upon occasion, to my high school. My son, Ben, (not to be mistaken for The Guy On My Couch, Ben) he plays a ridiculous amount of instruments and my high school has a pretty kick-ass stage – we even get like famous people there sometimes, doing, erms, FAMOUS PEOPLE THINGS.

But the North Building, the scene of so many of my days as a Prankster, has since been turned into a Junior High.

The Junior High that my son will attend next year.

(I don’t know how the fuck my kid got so old)

Tonight, I get to go back and “take a tour” of my old stomping grounds. This is gonna be the kind of tour that I can’t say things like, “Wow, I puked up Jim Beam in that corner!” or “We used to smoke pot there – see? You can’t be seen from any of the windows.”

No, I have to go in and nod and smile and pretend to be a normal parent around other parents.

*whimpers*

Someone pass the vodka.

*his actual name

**raises hands

Part I.

Part II.

“Okay,” Josh said, “Give me your ‘I want you’ face.”

Immediately, I started laughing – I’ve known Josh for close to ten years, and the very idea of giving him a Come to Aunt Becky face was beyond comical. I’m not even sure I have a sexy face – when I want to have sex, my idea of foreplay is this, “Let’s have sex.” Occasionally, “I want to have sex now.”

Let’s face it, my idea of a “romantic evening” involves a 12-pack of condoms and a bottle of bourbon.

So yeah, back to my “Come Hither,” face.

Eventually I stopped laughing, but I’m not gonna lie – it took awhile. It’s not that Josh isn’t attractive – he is* – but it’s just not like that. Plus, I had both Dawn and The Guy on my Couch, Ben, sitting there, watching me as I tried to twist my neck into positions no porn star should consider.

Every time I grimaced, Josh said, “Turn your neck farther – I don’t care if it doesn’t go that way. DO IT.”

So I did. For thirty minutes I did. While listening to death metal. Because shit, there’s nothing like thrash metal to get you in the mood to get down and dirty.

Bow-chica-wow-wow. Awwww-YEAH.

After the music began chanting about killing someone, I asked him to change the selection to something more porn-y. It’s hard to be all sexy while you’re listening to Motorhead.

It seemed to take hours for him to finish shooting my pictures. Hours I spent wondering:

1) Why I’d chosen to get pantyhose without an easy-access crotchal opening (for PEEING, you pervs)

B) What the German death metal song was ACTUALLY saying – it sounded like they were screaming about bratwurst.

3) How many digits of pi that I could rattle off (3.141536…) before I was told to “make the sexy face” again

i) Why the fuck my dress was giving my arm rug burn.

C) If my arm looked like a hunk of ham.

II) How far I’d go to get a diet Coke – murder? theft? drive-by?

D) Why two – but only two – of my toes were cold.

But mostly, I wondered how I’d gotten myself into this damn mess in the first place. It’s not that I don’t like having my picture taken – to me, it’s as natural as breathing. See, Pranksters, I was born at a time when my father (who maaaaaay be a bit Aspie), grandfather (likewise, Aspie) and brother were into photography. I may be the most well-documented child on the planet. Every family shot was arranged, then rearranged, then rearranged again, by which time those of us in the shot were ready to take the camera and insert it neatly into the photogs rectum.

So photos? Not the end of the world.

Finally, after I’d been contorted into positions that would make a stripper blush, I was done. Immediately I slipped out of my bastardized Beyonce dress and back into my happy pants before sitting my ass on the couch while The Guy On The Couch** got his snaps done.

We all considered keeping me in the outfit just to see if I could get any cash working on the side (the demise of the Craig’s List personals have left me with no extra income), but we realized no one had a pimp stick. So back into my PJ’s I went.

What the fuck were we all doing there? I can hear you, Pranksters, wondering, the wheels in your head turning. Certainly I’m as narcissistic as the next blogger, but rarely would I willingly drive into the Ghetto to further my obsession with myself. Why, I can look into the mirror and have the same results.

So let me take you back a year, Pranksters, where this all began.

Amy, from the site formerly known as Blogger Body Calendar, approached me – she was overwhelmed by the whole project and very sweetly asked if my site, Band Back Together, would be willing to take it over. Of course I agreed – I mean, part of what we do is to break down stigmas through stories of mental illness, rape, trauma, child loss, infertility, and anything else you can imagine. We always take submissions (hint, HINT) so that none of us will ever feel alone in our struggles.

So of course I was willing to help her out. In turn, this year, we’d be doing our own calendar.

Which we are.

For our 2013 Band Back Together Calendar, we are doing, “I Am The Face Of…” Rather than head-shots, each of us is going to shoot a picture inspired by an actual album cover. This is either going to be the most brilliant – or most horrendous – idea ever.

At long last, The Guy On My Couch was done with his shoot. I wondered aloud whether or not the car would still be there when we got back – I mean, we HAD parked in front of an abortion clinic and those are known hot-beds of violence. Apparently, we are not only suburban, but stupid, too.

But there she was, my natty suburban SUV, sitting there, probably with a bomb rigged somewhere (I, apparently, have been watching too much 24) so we’d die when we got in. Alas, it was not to be.

Sorry, Pranksters, you’re not that lucky – I’m still alive and ticking.

I begged Ben to stop at the side of the road, where some guy was selling “Tide” from the back of his pick-up truck. He refused. He also refused to stop for the guy selling cotton candy. I love me some cotton candy.

Back on the highway, we breathed a sigh of relief. We’d made it out alive, even if I DIDN’T get any cotton candy out of the deal. I don’t have any pictures of the photo shoot yet – I’m scared to death to see what they look like – but I’ll let you know when I do.

To stop me from pouting, Ben and Dawn took me out for gloriously suburban cheeseburgers.

Now, I just have to figure out how best to dispose of the fug ass dress. I’m pretty sure Goodwill will ban me for life if I try to drop that shit off.

*Shut the fuck up, Josh. I will never admit that I said that.

**The Guy on my Couch is named Ben (my kids call him Big Ben)(hehe). Ben works with me on Band Back Together and has relocated to Chicago because it’s truly the best city on the planet. As far as I’m concerned “Chicago” should be labeled on a map and the rest of the world should be labeled, “Not Chicago.”