Because I am not only stupid, but dumb too, I can’t back down from a fight.

I tried once, but it broke my arm.

So when I started getting the hairy eyeball for daring to sit on an unoccupied chair adorned with an unused beach towel, my fake-rock bruised ass was absofuckinglutly ready for the Thunderdome. Wearily, I hummed Eye of the Tiger and was all “I know EXACTLY what roadkill feels like” as the entire row of vultures, er, people in the chairs in front of me got up, one by one, and began to form a semi-circle around one man who appeared, from my vantage point, to be as tall as he was wide. By their goat-eyed stares, I assumed they were either talking about me, or the kid in the glasses in the corded-off area behind me devouring an ice cream sundae using absolutely no silverware at all.

Honestly, I couldn’t blame the group if the kid were the target – that’s pretty impressive.

The staring contest persisted far past my comfort level, and when bordering on “abject annoyance,” my opponent made himself known. Hoisting up jean shorts purchased (assuming) deliberately in size “comically large,” he waddled over to me. Not because he was overweight; not a bit, but because his pants were so enormous they needed their own area code and walking as a normal human being would have been damn near impossible. Nevertheless, he deliberately made every attempt to appear as though he was swaggering all macho toward me, which made him seem about as hardcore as Grimace or Big Bird. It was clear he was posturing in front of his crew and all 63,027,182 children in the pool, so I let him have his moment. Clearly, waddling is hardcore work, so it took him a good few minutes to travel the twenty feet to me; the one I’d “stolen” after I’d finished my days work of mercilessly butchering baskets of fluffy kittens, insulting a wee baby piglet in rain boots, and knocking over teacups filled with incy-wincy hedgehogs.

By the time he actually reached me, he was sweating so profusely that it looked for a small moment that the tattoo across his neck said, “Booby,” instead of “Baby.” Maybe that “art” was intentional – I’m not a fucking tattoo artist. Because I am also physically incapable of making a good decision, I stood up tall and proud as he tried to squash me with his eyeballs … this time from a closer distance. What he had misjudged as he postured before his crew was something very simple: I was easily half a foot taller than him. While this may seem a moot point, I’m sad to report that I’m only 5’5″ which does not a hulking Amazonian princess make. His eyes widened as I stood – I was even taller in the heels I was wearing.

It was clear he’d not thought this through. But could he back down in front of his crew? Could he? Could he be beaten into submission by a female? I wasn’t sure and, I like to think, neither was he. He got into my face to see if the whole “personal bubble” thing would, I don’t know, knock down and cause me to whimper for sweet mercy at his flippity-flops. I’d have said, “Ha, I have kids, motherfucker. I can’t even take a poo without someone trying to clamor up onto my lap,” but it was too fucking loud to communicate.

As we sized each other up and down and back up again, his eyes began tearing, which I’d initially attributed to fear, but in hindsight, was probably due to the heavily chlorinated air, he made his decision: he could. He COULD back down. There was no place, it appeared, for a street fighting (wo)man in this waterpark. Which was just as well – I didn’t want to brawl in front of my kids.

With that sad, sad realization, shame mingled with the sweat now traveling down his pants, making him appear to have pissed himself, he did a Waddle of Shame back to his friends, but not before he grabbed the free beach towel off the back of the chair, his eyes daring me brawl over the free towel. I simply stared, undeterred.

Once he was safely back into his pack of still-glaring friends, I settled back into the tacky beach chair, eyes squarely on my kids – well, two of them – no one’s returned my call about cosmetic surgery to add a third eye. Eyes daring between the three kids, I waved at Mimi who was happily splashing in the wave pool that was, no doubt, full of the pee of a thousand diapered asses, and smiled, no idea that evil was about to hit so very close to home.

 Part IV of this omfg-stop-talking-about-your-stupid-vacation-already-Becky will conclude this series. EVENTUALLY.

Important to note: THIS STORY IS NOT ABOUT THE DAVER. I JUST HAPPENED TO KNOW TOO MANY DAVE’S.

Back before the Internet, before I had crotch parasites, during the age Jesus copied my Bio/Chem 216 notes off me, I went off to college in the city. I wasn’t particularly excited to be going off to college, unlike my roommate, who told me, at one point that her name meant, “It Means Butterfly,” which is why, she explained, our room was covered in motherfucking butterflies and filled with her crap.

I’d always lived alone – my brother a full 10 years my senior – which meant that I wasn’t used to sharing my space with anyone, let alone a cell with electric pink carpeting I called the Maxi-Pad.

It Means Butterfly wasn’t, either.

I can’t recall if she had siblings or not, but I do remember that on certain days, she’d lovingly invite me to use anything from her razor to her underwear (which I did not), and others, she’d toss my bed, swearing I’d stolen the TV remote, even though I never touched the TV, which got a half a station if you considered watching television to be an act of trying to understand what one pixelated person? was saying to another? It could’ve been Animal Planet that I was mistaking for a sitcom for all I could tell as we did live on the 17th floor of a 17th floor building, that building was composed entirely of cinder-blocks.

Unstable? I’d say so.

(It Means Butterfly, not the building)

One day, as I tried to slip in and out of our doom room unnoticed by her (she was busily chomping down a salad dripping with ranch dressing – which I noted because she chewed with her mouth almost entirely open – and squawking at the hilarious things her boyfriend, Dave, said to her via instant messenger) she caught me.

“Becky,” she said. “Dave is coming to stay with us for a week. They close campus at SIU on Halloween because there were riots and he’s coming up to stay.”

I looked around our room, no bigger than a jail cell, that was overflowing with Precious Moments figurines, and shrugged. “Uh, okay?” I replied, trying to get out of the room before she could corner me – It Means Butterfly wasn’t overweight, but she was one of those girls built to plow the fields of corn or soybeans or whatever, whereas I was nearly a foot shorter and built like a bird, bones ready to snap if the crosswinds happened to be blowing the wrong way.

Dave arrived the next night while I was carousing about the town with my friends, eating delicious Thai food that cost (mostly) pennies, while plotting adventures and scheming our way into Gold Coast parties. I didn’t see him until I woke the following morning, my head thudding from too many Long Island Ice Tea’s the night before. Groggily, I noted from the bottom bunk, that there was a dude scratching his bung mere inches from my face. If I looked the right way, I could see into his boxer shorts.

(SPOILER ALERT! I didn’t look.)

I shuddered, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, while It Means Butterfly’s stupid seagull alarm clock went off, as I reminded myself that I did not, in fact, want to commit murder before I hit my 19th birthday.

Slowly, It Means Butterfly got dressed and made her way to her 8AM class, while I rolled over, trying to tune out the kissy-face noises she and Dave were making at each other. Finally, she left, and I got up ready to kick the ass of anyone who tried to elbow me in the elevator on the way down to campus.

It wasn’t until I came back in from changing in the bathroom and washing my face that I realized that yes, in fact, there was a dude in my room.

“HI,” he said, as I walked back into my room. “I’m Dave!” He reached out his hand for a shake and I took it, shaking it, shocked by It Means Butterfly’s boyfriend. He was kinda cute. And a metal head. This did simply not compute with everything I knew about It Means Butterfly and her Precious Moments Collection.

“Hi Dave,” I said warily, wondering if this was a trick. “I’m Becky. Nice to meet you.”

I went off to class, only to stop by Pashmina’s room to quickly tell her, “PSST – Check out It Means Butterfly’s boyfriend, dude. He’s not…he’s not gross!”

Pashmina, no friend of It Means Butterfly, as she’d not once, but twice, broken Pashmina’s precious bubble chair, which inducted her squarely into Pashmina’s Archenemy Hall ‘o’ Fame, was still half-asleep but managed to squeak a note of surprise behind me as I left for class.

As all good things do, eventually come to an end, I had to return my dorm room, where It Means Butterfly was sitting squarely on Dave’s lap, all but dry-humping.

Now, I’d just broken up with my long-term boyfriend, and if there’s one thing that people who have freshly broken up with their long-term boyfriends DO NOT need to see, it’s other happy couples cooing and humping each other. Especially if it’s on your desk chair.

I snuggled up in my cloud sheets for the night, wrapped up tight as a tick and listening to something vaguely depressing on my discman, because, well, I WAS MOURNING A BREAKUP and when you’re 18 A BREAKUP IS FOREVER WAH, WAH, WAH, even if your former boyfriend had a small penis, you get to be all emo about it. It’s written somewhere in the 18-year old guidebook.

Breakups = forever lost love (with a small wang) = emo time.

Just as I was falling asleep, I felt the bed begin to…shake a little. The bunk-beds we used were so unsturdy that if you breathed near them, it would set off an hour’s worth of rocking back and forth. This rocking, though, it was…rhythmic and OH MY FUCKING GOOD LORD OF BUTTER THEY WERE HAVING SEX. GROSS GROSS GROSS.

I practically levitated out of bed down the hall into Pashmina’s room where I began spitting out the story, It Means Butterfly trailing behind me, trying to explain herself. I’d been clear: no sex while I was in the room; the room was so small that there was a great likelihood that simply by being near two people humping, I’d get a penis put somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

By chance, a friend, Derek, an RA from floor 4, happened to be in the room hanging with Pashmina and her roommate at the time. “Oh poor Becky!” he said, accent dripping of California. “Come on down and stay on my floor,” he said. “I promise my guys will treat you well.”

I dragged my cloud blanket and tired ass down the stairs and onto the elevator. Finally, ensconced in Derek’s room, after he received several high-fives from his “guys” for having a girl in his room, I snuggled up to eat a peanut butter sandwich with James before we slumbered off into the Land of Nod.

“Night Derek,” I said, after we turned off the lights. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

I laid down on the concrete floor, covered thinly by a thready blue-carpet and tried to go to sleep. Was nearly there when I heard that old familiar squeak-squeak-squeak of the bed. Holy motherfucker, I thought as I sat upright. He’s fucking beating his meat.

I made up some excuse about having to “get back upstairs for something or another,” and made my exit as quickly as I could, leaving a baffled Derek in my wake.

I climbed, once more, back into my bed, before yelling, “You guys start fucking again, Imma make a porno of it.”

They were mysteriously quiet for the rest of the night.

“Do you think Ozzy is alive?” Dawn asked as we made our way to the Black Sabbath stage on Day One of Lollapalooza, trying to distract me from the guy wearing a skin shirt.

“Nah, he’s probably been propped up like the guy in Weekend at Bernies, or shuffling around backstage yelling, ‘SHAARRROOOON.’ I mean, it’s Ozzy, right?” I replied.

“Do you think they’ll be okay to play a full 2 hours? That’s a long time for an old man,” Dawn suggested.

“Shit,” I said. “How old IS he?” I asked.

“2,084,” Dawn said smartly.

“Well, I think staying here to see Black Sabbath one last time is important – yeah, the Black Keys are awesome and all, but let’s be realistic: Ozzy won’t be around for another tour,” Dawn brought up a very good point.

“Yup,” I agreed, neatly avoided the stray beer cans left on the ground, which, I’ll confess – I wanted to pick up and recycle.

We stood; a moment of silence for Ozzy, before finishing our walk to the stage.

Surrounded by metal heads again, I felt right at home.

I even found a boyfriend:

Stand back ladies (and gents), he’s taken. BY ME.

Finally, the Prince of Motherfucking Darkness took the stage:

He looked good … for a dead guy. I noticed then that my feet, well, the flippy-flops I’d carefully selected (read: thrown on in seconds before walking out the door), they’d begun to…hurt. And not in a “oh that’s cute” kind of way: more like in a FUCK MOTHERFUCKER PAY ATTENTION TO ME sorta way. Standing didn’t help, but after watching the chick in front of me vomit onto the lawn only to have some guy then take her spot and PUT HIS HEAD IN HER VOM, I realized that I was better off standing than not.

Vomit – or the threat of sitting in vomit – does that to a girl.

And then, THEN true love began:

Really, I’d like to moan about my blisters, but that guy leaves me speechless.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Because I bet THAT guy has the joy, joy, joy, joy down in his heart. Or is very intoxicated – hard to tell the difference.

Normally, when I announce to all four cats, my children, The Daver, and/or The Guy On My Couch that “I’m taking the weekend off,” I mean this:

“I’m not actually going to work online – but I’ll be digging trenches, planting trees, mulching weeding, planting, seeding, watering, cleaning out the garage, making 47 trips to Goodwill, obsessing about painting my kitchen cabinets white, whine about my formerly white – now dingy grey – carpets, fantasize about buying attachments for my Dyson, sorting kid’s clothes, throwing away dead frogs, helping color pictures before realizing I have the artistic ability of a squirrel with five thumbs, then dropping into an exhausted heap on my couch to watch shitty television until it’s time to wake up and do it all again. But I mean I’m going to do that WITHOUT obsessively Tweeting. Or checking email.

MUCH.”

I don’t “take time off” like normal people. Or maybe that IS how normal people “take time off,” I don’t know; I write a blog on the Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I’m not the Poster Child for normal.

But, upon dragging ass outta bed Saturday morning to “not take time off,” I realized that I was kinda…reeling around. Like the drunken spins, except I haven’t had an ACTUAL drink in for-fucking-ever.

(stop gaping at me like that. You’re going to attract flies that LAND IN YOUR OPEN MOUTH AND MAKE FLY BABIES)

Be honest, Pranksters: Drinking at 31 < Drinking at 21

The spins kinda suck, just like making out with that random hot bartender, then vomiting all over the back of a cab is kinda shameful. Now. Then? It was hi-fucking-larious.

“…remember that time Becky barfed on the back of a yellow cab in downtown Chicago while that hot bartender rubbed her back, then made out with her? Bwahahahahaha!”

See? Hilarious.

(See also: why would that hot bartender want to make out with a barfy chick?)

Anyway, I had the spins. I blamed Dawn, who was passing a kidney stone that we’re sharing custody of, for sympathetic dizziness. I’ve never been dizzy, aside from being drunk, but I will note this: I walked into less walls while dizzy than while sober.

That being here nor there, Dawn decided to come over and join Ben (The Guy On My Couch) and I, who were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, playing on our respective phones.

And, because I am used to going! going! going! during weekends, I decided that I wasn’t actually dizzy – just….having issues with equilibrium – and that the only cure for a fucked-up equilibrium was not, in fact, more cowbell, but more mulch.

I pried my dizzy ass off the couch, and off we went to the hardware store. Hey, I needed my fucking mulch.

We were fine, the whole way there.

The problem started when the doors to Lowes, bless their hearts, opened. Suddenly, I felt like the world had been tipped on its side. I grabbed Ben and Dawn to steady me as we made our way to the back of the store for a non-bullshit neck massager.

(awkward segue: of COURSE I mean “neck massager.” I write a sex column. If I wanted another sex toy, I’m pretty sure SOMEONE would give me one.)

We made it all the way back to dishwashers before I began to sweat, the gorge of vom rising in my throat, as the world continued, uncannily, to spin. Ben and Dawn steered me to a set of chairs, where I sat, trying to figure out how to exit the store without:

a) Falling over

2) Alerting the store personnel that I was, in fact, in need of medical attention. The very LAST thing I wanted was to have to tell the world that I was in an ambulance because “I was dizzy.” If I had to be in an ambulance at all, I wanted to be

• delivering a baby

or

• delivering a basket of kittens I’d saved from a burning house.

Since I was “simply dizzy,” I tried to look as non-stupid as one can while flanked by two people who are steering you toward the exit while your eyes are closed.

Yeah, I could feel the stares, even WITH my eyes closed. It didn’t help that I’d chosen, in a moment of personal irony, to wear my Genetics shirt from the Museum of Science and Industry, which proudly asks, “Why Am I So Beautiful?” (the back says, GENETICS).

After what seemed like 82,747 hours, I hit the yawning doors, holding onto Dawn and The Guy On My Couch like we were the last people on the RMS Titanic (the real one, not the one with Leonardo DiCaprio), I’d figured I was done with the humiliation of it all.

That is, until Dawn screamed, “Don’t judge our love!” at some couple gaping at us. I’d have grabbed both of their asses for effect, but I’d probably have toppled over only to be run over by a frantic couple from Delaware, desperately looking for some refuse bags.

Upside? I’d get cross two items off my (non-existent) bucket list.

1) Meet someone from Delaware

B) Get hit by a car.

Downside?

I’d have probably been dead. Dying over refuse bag purchases is just…pathetic.

I’m kind of a Mac whore (I suppose you could just say I’m kind of a whore, but that’s not a warm fuzzy, now is it?).

I own Big Mac, my desktop, the new iPad, an iPod, a MacBook Pro, and, of course, my i(CAN’T FUCKING)Phone. With the exception of my i(DON’T KNOW HOW TO)Phone, I love them all.

Hell, I even love my i(YOU’RE A SUCKER)Phone, although I have my days where I want to downgrade to a Not-Smart phone, just to be different than the rest of the world.

That, however, is neither here nor there.

When people started jabbering on about “Siri,” I honestly thought they were talking about Siri Cruise. I really did. I didn’t ask because

a) I don’t really care about Siri Cruise

and

2) I figured it would make me look like MORE of an idiot than I am. Which takes a LOT of work.

Anyway, I didn’t buy the new i(AM AN ASSHOLE)Phone when it came out. I have an i(fuck you)Phone 4, and really, there was no need for a new one. I mean, I’m always buying new technology (oh, how Old Aunt Becky would laugh at herself now), but that just seemed excessive.

Now that I learned what Siri is, I’m pretty sure I’m reversing my decision.

Siri can be my nanny!

Or my personal blogging assistant!

I just can’t wait to ask that bitch where my pants are.

What would you ask that bitch Siri, Pranksters?

P.S. Can you ask her where my pants are for me? I seem to have *ahem* misplaced them.

Photos by the illustrious iHubby.

I’d been off and on The Twitter all day on Friday, rather than out and about pepper-spraying people to get a wicked deal on a TV set or some diamond earrings thanks to a particularly bad gravy hangover (Xanax Gravy, you should try it!). Whenever I’m on The Twitter, I pay a little bit of attention to the Trending Topics on the sidebar. Mostly because I want to know if the Zombie Apocalypse is starting but also because The Twitter feeds me my news.

Well, I saw that Nickelback was trending.

Fine, I said, as I trundled off to get buffalo wings with The Daver. Whatever. Prolly a new album or something.

Over dinner, we began talking about (oddly) Nickelback, who happened to be playing at the Lions versus Packers football game. I figured that was reason enough for their appearance upon the Twitter, but no.

“It turns out,” Daver said, “That Nickelback is getting a fuckton of backlash for their appearance at the game.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows as I slowly devoured buffalo wings, which are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

“Yeah,” he replied. “So their record company released a statement saying that they’d sold 5 million copies of their latest album and we should all shut our whore mouths.”

This got me thinking (a semi-dangerous pursuit, as we all know).

5 million albums.

Presumably bought by 5 million people.

So I promptly threw out a tweet asking about it:

I wasn’t being glib – I was genuinely curious.

Because even as I said it, I realized I didn’t know a SINGLE Nickelback song. Not one. I got on my i(can’t)Phone and popped onto YouTube (we SO live in the future, y’all). I simply threw “Nickelback” into the search box, figuring their biggest hits would pop up first and I could be all OH so it’s THOSE guys. Got it. The ire, I get! Or, people should shut their fucking whore mouths, this song rules!

Didn’t find a single song I recognized.

So I decided iTunes would never let me down and clicked over there through my i(suck at making calls from my)Phone.

Nada.

Zilch.

Zip.

Not a fucking thing I recognized. All I was able to ascertain was this:

1) Nickelback songs sound the same.

B) They’re Canadians.

So I waited for The Twitter to enlighten me.

Hrms. She’s Canadian. Okay, fair enough.

Now THAT is a fucking good point!

(Altho, my mom would NEVER buy 5 million copies of anything I sang. Which is fair)

AH-HA! My arch-nemesis! John C. Mayer would do ANYTHING to fuck mah shit up.

The Twitter’s consensus was that Canadians and Nickelback’s Moms bought all of the CD’s. But not ALL Canadians (I think I got unfollowed by 30 or so Canadians for using that blanket statement), I quickly learned.

That leaves wondering: who DOES buy Nickelback CD’s?

This is where you get to help me, Pranksters. Survey below should clear it up. Also: results are anonymous, so I won’t laugh and point if you say you have bought the CD’s.

Mostly.

[poll id=”7″]

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

Shut up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(who knew?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

————-

Do you have any better ideas, Pranksters?

Life lessons are all around us.

Why, just look at this advent calendar that I bought for my 3-year old son, Alex. When I saw it, I got in front of the mirror (doesn’t everyone talk to themselves in front of the mirror?) and said, “Aunt Becky, you must teach this boy how to properly become a thug. Since the whole “Becky From The Block” thing didn’t work, maybe it’s time to let someone else take over. LIKE THIS ADVENT CALENDAR.”

Mostly, I want him to make millions of dollars so that I can have a Scrooge McDuck-like vault so that I can swim around in coins and colorful gemstones. It’s a goal of mine to have this vault in my house and clearly this whole “writing” thing isn’t going to work out for me so I have to exploit what I have.

MY KIDS.

Ben is too straight and narrow, so Alex it is.

I’m starting slowly. He’s only three, but still, it’s never too early to start him on a life of crime.

Why, just look at those fancy coins featured front and center on the advent calendar box! Who WOULDN’T want to own fancy, shiny, beautiful coins? And screw working for it! Let’s ROB BANKS! It’s an invaluable lesson.

But wait. Um.

Dude is on a BIKE. Who robs banks on a BIKE? That seems a little…dumb. Come ON, Robber. Get it TOGETHER.

Also, you’ve taught my son another valuable lesson: ALWAYS wear a disguise while robbing a bank. Those Wanted Posters are EVERYWHERE. If you look like your Wanted Poster and rob banks on bikes, you’ll get caught.

My son and I went over this in excruciating detail. Why? We can learn from the mistakes of others.

The Robber in action. Also: the Playmobil figure.

You’ve taught him well, Playmobil. Thank you. When he is a world famous bank robber, I hope that he can look back on this Advent Calendar as the pivotal moment in his life.

I will just look back at it as an excellent investment as I do the backstroke in my vault of coins.

SPOILER ALERT: I still have my drains. The upside? I’m feeling somuchbetter. Possibly because I’m ALSO weaning myself from The Max (Topamax)(GOD, I hate writing drug words, because then I am spammed to BALLS with “farmacies” selling me knock-off drugs, which is the opposite of awesome. Normally, I’m just spammed about Ugg Boots, which is working, because I’m now dying for a pair of them. Well played, Spammers) while I’m on hardcore narcotics.

And while you’ve been busy, living your life, THIS is what I’ve been thinking about:

*I’ve started writing a weekly Open Letter To Something on Mushroom Printing. This week, I wrote to my abdominal muscles. Last week, I wrote to vomit. Because OBVIOUSLY.

*When presented with this, the answer is always yes:

You all know how badly I want a Robot Monkey Butler named Mr. Pinchey, right? I used to want a REAL monkey butler, but I think PETA would be all up my ass if I got one, and besides, I don’t want my face ripped off. *makes Zoolander Face*

*Zoolander Face*

*I require this dress.

Okay, so not THIS one specifically, but one JUST LIKE IT.

So, Pranksters, if you should choose to accept this mission and find me this dress, I will hump you forever. Or, at least, uh, NOT hump you? WHATEVER YOU WANT.

*OR, I could give you this cookbook I found.

Aunt Becky + Rachael Ray = NOT BFF.

Why? I DON’T KNOW. I think she’s too happy for me.

I found THIS cookbook on my shelf and got WICKED confused. Like REALLY confused. We ALL know I don’t cook. And EVERYONE who knows me knows that Rachael Ray and I are NOT OKAY with each other. And somehow, THIS was on my shelf. THIS was NOT DIAMONDS. THIS WAS RACHAEL RAY.

I was stampy. HORRIFIED. This may be the source of all bad karma in my life. How long had it sat on my shelf? And WHERE had it come from? I simply didn’t know.

I STILL don’t know. At least the Williams-Sonoma books came from a recognizable source (my stupidity). I think I’m going to run some sort of contest to get rid of those cookbooks. Like, MAKE ME AWESOMESAUCE and get some ridiculous cookbooks.

*Earlier today, I tweeted this post on Band Back Together about Gender Non-Conformity.

(my manly butterfly says FUCK YOU to gender stereotypes, by the by)

Normally I tweet Band Back Together stuff from the Band Back Together Twitter Account. I recognize that the people on my Mommy Wants Vodka Twitter are normally expecting status updates like, “I JUST TOOK A POO, PLZ RT” so I try to keep the do-gooding to a minimum on there. But the gender non-conformity piece and occasional other pieces, well, when I see awesome ones (and don’t be offended if I do not, because I do not edit everything), I tweet them. I just can’t overwhelm people who expect status updates on my vagina.

(P.S. I hate having to think like that).

Well, this is what happened.

Let me show that to you a little closer.

That cause would PROBABLY be you. WHOOPS. And ROCK ON. I’m PROUD. Crash away, Pranksters. CRASH AWAY.

(no seriously, please crash the shit out of it. I’ll buy more space)

*Also: my rose is defiantly thumbing its nose at November.

Note my finger at the bottom. I expect a GRAMMY for this picture.

I do not honestly know how to thank you. I have a post, sitting in drafts, that I want to finish, and I will, because I’m a compulsive freak of nature, but for now, I want to say that I am shocked and humbled by your kindness. I am always shocked and humbled by you, my Pranksters.

I’m proud to know you and prouder to call each of you what you are: my friends.

But for today, when my words fail me, and I sit here, trying to pick out something, anything to follow up the post that I am most proud of, I know that I cannot. Nothing will come out that will make any sense.

So, instead, I give you this. A montage of photos from my iPhone. Someone should give me an award for the breathtaking quality and composition.

P.S. Am I the ONLY blogger with no interest in becoming a decent photographer? I mean, I want to BE a fucking amazing photographer, I’m just not interested in working at it. At all. Or spending time, money or effort towards becoming one. Ever.

If I cannot store my drugs or money in the Quest Diagnostics Laboratory box, well, where the fuck CAN I store it?

Mmmmm…Soapy mealtime snacky-poo. Who isn’t smacking their lips now, Pranksters? (seriously, drug companies, GO BACK TO PENS)

And I call this, “I’m About To Shiv My Brother:”