Never shy, I swam up to the semi-circle of pregnant ladies in my prenatal water aerobics class noting that while they were all a good deal older than me, they all looked reasonably friendly, and introduced myself. “Hi,” I said cheerfully. “My name is Becky, and I’m 6 months pregnant with my first son, Ben!” I don’t know if they spied my lack of wedding ring or were put off by my age, but not a single one responded to me. I might as well have spoken in tongues or have burped the alphabet.

While my situation wasn’t perhaps ideal, I wasn’t sorry and I wasn’t about to apologize to anyone for it. But just as soon as I joined the semicircle, I quickly found myself wedged out of it, treading water just outside of the group. It was the playground all over again. Looking back on it, I told myself that I must have imagined it.

Three years later, my new husband and I walked into a roomful of parents at back-to-school night for Ben’s new preschool and took our seats, smiling happily. We’d not had a lot of other chances to interact with large groups of other parents before this, and while we were nervous, we were both very excited. Oddly, as we sat there among them, we noticed that we were receiving a number of unfriendly stares.

Trying to shrug it off, we listened to the director of the Montessori school lecture us, before we broke off into our volunteer groups to discuss what we were going to do for class projects. My husband and I split up and I headed over to my group.
Happily, I introduced myself and tried to make small talk with the other members of the group. Slowly, I realized that as I stood there nodding and smiling with a big stupid grin on my face, no one was actually talking to me, and I was being edged out of the group.

The circle closed with me clearly on the outside and I stood there for a second, still nodding like a fool. I tried to edge my way back into the group to no avail, but eventually, I gave up. Thankfully, I wasn’t in a swimming suit this time but I wondered why no one wanted to be my friend.

Confounding matters was my son, who was autistic, which made playdates with the few friends that we had tricky. The snide comments about the things he’d eat, or the meltdowns he’d have or the way he’d behave broke my heart. Yes, he was in therapy and no, he wasn’t like their children, and while I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, it was hard and it was lonely for a long time.

So really, it’s no surprise that when I drop my son off at school, I’m always waiting for the crowd of pitchfork-wielding parents to emerge from the playground to yell “get back in the car, Infidel! You don’t belong here.” Much as I’ve shed the insecurities of feeling like I’m a stranger in a strange land, I have a terrible time feeling like I’m an impostor of a parent when I’m around other parents.

Three children later, I realize that it’s clearly time to get my act together. I cannot allow the past events dictate the way that I live my life as a mother because I’m not an insecure person and I’m not an insecure mother.

I’m putting on my battle armor and getting myself out there so that I can meet other parents in the flesh. Time for me to join The Mommy Club. I’ve done an amazing job doing it through my blog, so I know that I’m not that defective, but I’m just not quite sure where to meet other parents without looking like a freak. I can’t exactly size up a potential New Best Friend by staring at her for the whole hour at story hour without scaring her off and perhaps landing me a fancy restraining order.

Couldn’t really blame her there.

I wonder if it’s this hard for other parents to make friends. I don’t have leprosy or gaping pustules dripping from my face, and while I certainly do have faults, they’re not the sort that one would notice off the bat. But it’s time for me to face my fears and deal with them.

I’m sure I’ll be excluded from plenty more parental circles and that’s okay because I’ve learned to make sure that anyone who ever wants to join my group of friends is included. No matter what.

But, I guess I’ll make anyone with leprosy wear a mask.

After getting some shit for writing about how uncomfortable I was in my skin when I was heavier, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to talk about weight, so let me preface all of what I say with this: I write satire and I also write from the heart. I do not, have not, and never will care about what anyone else does, weighs or looks like. I am not about to attack anyone for their weight because your weight does not matter to me (Aunt Becky loves you as you are) and I never have attacked someone on or offline for it.

When I talk about my struggles with weight, I am being honest. When I talk about my struggles with headaches, I am also being honest. I am not a doctor. I am not telling you what to do. I am also not asking you what you think of what I have done. You do not have to agree with it to be my friend.

ONTO THE POST.

In the LONG GONE days when I was skinny, I always had a bit of a pot belly. While the chick in Pulp Fiction thought they were cute, I counted down the years until I could have a tummy tuck. I think everyone has that feature they dislike tremendously about themselves. My stomach was mine.

The pooch got worse after I gained and lost 60-70 pounds three times (thanks, crotch parasites), most of the weight in my torso, and by the time I’d gotten down to the weight I was three weeks ago, (sixteen pounds away from my high school weight), I probably could have worn the excess skin as a handy scarf. It was a matter of when I’d get the skin lopped off and when always fell into the nebulous future along with “achieving total world domination” and “learning to make jello.” I figured I’d get to it when I’d get to it.

When I did end up in the plastic surgeon’s office to discuss a possible breast reduction, I’d made the appointment to discuss a tummy tuck as well. Figured I’d at least DISCUSS it with the guy while I was in there…right?

The breast reduction, he said, was probably going to leave me unhappy. Especially because according to the weird insurance criteria, it wouldn’t be covered, at least (according to you Pranksters) not without some major legwork. He said I’d probably want an augmentation with some reduction and other things I can’t remember and I trusted that coming from him.

The tummy tuck, I learned, could fix some of my abdominal muscles, something that had been long busted since I’d gotten pregnant with my first. Plus, it was going to fix something else I’d hated: my pooch.

My abdominal muscles were in sad shape, even I knew that, and were likely contributing to some of my migraines. Not my normal migraines, but the ones triggered by muscles spasms in my back and neck. It wasn’t necessarily a reason to do the surgery. It wasn’t necessarily going to fix anything.

Medicine is, after all, an imprecise science.

We all know that I signed up for a full abdominoplasty and had one three weeks ago tomorrow.

I paid out of pocket. Entirely. (for all of you who asked)

The full abdominoplasty differs from the mini-abdominoplasty in that it deals with tightening the muscles underneath. In my case, he repaired a diastasis recti (separation between the left and right side of the rectus abdominis muscle, which covers the front surface of the belly area.). A full abdominoplasty is also a more major surgery.

The surgeon thought that he could remove 2-3 pounds from my abdominal area. He removed 6 and fixed my abdominal muscles.

Not going to lie. The recovery has sucked far harder than I’d thought it would. I’m sawed more than in half. I’m in pain most of the time. I have to wear a delicious (read: hideous) binder all of the time, too (which reminds me, I need to buy a new one. I’m thinking that I’ll buy a Spanx or a Yummy Tummy rather than a medical one. Which do you recommend?).

As one of my Pranksters said, it does get better every day. And the results are amazing. My headaches are better. I’m swollen, but every day, I’m a little less so.

I’m happy that I did it.

I don’t have a before picture of my pooch before my operation. If I go up on the doc’s website, I’ll show you, but I didn’t take one. I was too embarrassed.

Instead, I can give you this:

Meet Fetus Amelia, Pranksters.

It’s the only shot I have of me while pregnant.

Now, for the dramatic reveal. Please excuse the lighting in my bathroom. I am not orange. I swear.

I know you want my binder. AND my phone.

And here’s the dramatic NO BINDER reveal*

The lines you’re seeing are mostly from laying on the binder. And yes, I am a little swollen.

My stomach, Pranksters, even swollen, has NEVER been so flat. EVER.

This totally beats a pair of boobs.

*I’ll take another picture next week BEFORE I get cast onto Baywatch**.

**Is that show even on anymore?

My day started out full of the win.

I normally find Sundays to be the most worthless days on the planet, a day that I feel should be blown off the map entirely to be replaced by The Day To Worship Baby Jesus AND Aunt Becky (or something other than Sunday), but this particular Sunday, I finally finished something that had been sitting in the back of my brain, beating to get out, and I knew that what I had finished was good.

It was the end of a series of essays and I’d managed to fit them all together perfectly. Months of waiting and finally, the right thing came out. The relief was enormous.

Monday dawned and it was like that part of my brain (admittedly very small) was open again so that I could once again fill it up with thinking about all of the reasons I hate Averil Lavigne, since I did call off my war against John C. Mayer.

Immediately after I got up, my daughter managed to, while getting her fingernails trimmed, slice the tippy-top of her thumb off. (this is why I beg other people to do it) Blood every-fucking-where. Fingers are way vascular, so it took ages to clot. Seeing my daughter’s blood triggered some pretty bad flashbacks from her first weeks of life for me.

But I’m all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, BECKY, SHAKE THAT SHIT OFF.

When I’m upset, I’m not all, mope-around-the-house, I’m all, let’s-get-r-done, so I started cleaning the shit out of the house and paying all the bizarre bills I owed. Like the ones for $2.10 that were all, “IF YOU DON’T PAY THIS, WE’RE GOING TO TAKE YOU TO COLLECTIONS” and I’m all, uh, you’re wasting your ink, because I just forgot because it’s two fucking dollars and they’re all, “I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS” and yesterday I’m all, “FINE, HERE IT IS.”

Because really, I wasn’t trying to keep the hospital away from their fucking two dollars, I just wasn’t rushing it because it was two fucking dollars. MY BAD.

So yesterday, I sat down to seven dollars worth of bills that I’d neglected for months because I am a lazy fuck who never has stamps because mailing things makes me break out in hives because I am lazy.

Then, I opened my day planner, which I have to use, because I take a really high dosage of a medication for my My Grains called “Topamax.” Topamax, for those of you unaware, is an old-ass epilepsy drug that has many side effects, including as my neurologist so kindly puts it: “cognitive impairment.”

The Max, as I call it, makes you dumb as fuck (or in my case, dumbER). You forget words, names, dates, times, things you’re supposed to do. It’s a well-documented problem and it sucks. My memory used to be full of the awesome now it’s full of holes. But, it helps with my My Grains, so that’s that.

(I have a particular problem with numbers and names)

Yesterday, I’m all, OH SHINY DATE BOOK! and I popped it open to see what I had inside for the week, knowing I had Jury Duty on Tuesday, 8AM.

And my heart thudded to a stop in my chest. There, right on the Jury Duty summons I’d neatly clipped into my date book was the actual name of the day: “MONDAY.”

FUCK.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon on Monday, hours after I was supposed to be in court.

I just SKIPPED Jury Duty by accident. I wasn’t doing anything better. I had no grand plans. I was going to show up in the courts on Tuesday, like I’d planned. I nearly died.

I checked to see if my jury number had been called and it had. Of course it had.

Immediately, I called the number on the back of the summons and got, you guessed it, voicemail. Nothing could have been resolved right then and there. No, not yesterday. I left a panicky message and waited for the cops to show up to arrest me. The back of the summons said that if I didn’t show up they COULD fine me! Or send me to JAIL!

I tried to figure out how Young Hollywood or COPS would handle it if they were waiting for the 5-0 to come and arrest them. I put on a full face of make-up and hid in the bathtub for awhile until I got cold and hungry and wandered back into the kitchen for an Uncrustables.

When nothing had happened by 7PM, I figured I’d the system might have lost me. Or maybe they’d wait until I least expected it. I put on a fake mustache and a hat because I knew THEN that the cops would totally not recognize me when they came for me. That way, I could watch House, MD and not have to sit curled up in the bathtub with a mattress on top of me any longer.

My name is now Senor Aunt Becky. I am officially a fugitive from the law.

So instead of being a good mother and writing some heartfelt post about how my kid started school today (he did) and I cannot believe I have a fourth grader (I totally can) and how fast summer went (it dragged like a cats’ ass), I’d much rather discuss something more interesting. Tattoos.

Specifically, the one I am going to get worked on today.

Back in January, I was all, IMMA GET A NEW TATTOO! on Twitter, and I decided that I had to do it now, RIGHT now, because I lack impulse control. I was fortunate to be referred to someone whose work I loved, who is like world famous and shit, and she got me in because someone canceled, which is kinda like kismet and stuff.

This is what I wanted, a phoenix tattoo:

And after my first appointment, I came back with this:

Then, I went back in February to get this done:

THEN, in April I went back to get the color filled in:

Awesome, no? (if’n you like tattoos, I suppose)

Today, though, I’m going back for touch-ups and, like I said before, because I don’t plan ahead very well, I’ve finally decided what I wanted to do. First I was gonna be all, “IMMA MAKE THAT PHOENIX RISE FROM SOMETHING!” because people are always like, “Nice Peacock,” and I’m all, “Imma shoot you.”

And I probably will, some day.

But today, I want to put something THERE, where the nifty arrow is pointing. Last night, because I am brilliant, I asked Twitter. Twitter said that I should put in that space:

1) a meatball

2) RIP Tupac

3) Bacon

4) a giraffe

5) OJ Simpson’s Face

Twitter is an asshole.

I’m adding something into that space because eventually I want half of my back done. My mother, she will shit a brick (she hates tattoos), but I’ve always wanted something part of the way down my arm. Not, like, SLEEVE style, because I am a chicken shit, but something that goes along with the Phoenix.

So, Pranksters, what would YOU put there?

It’s probably not a good idea to fly with me. If, for some reason, you want to go on vacation with me (you don’t), it’s best to meet me somewhere, because flying with me is sort of like being in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Minus, of course, the Family Truckster. And THAT’S only because planes don’t have wood paneling. Mostly.

Bright and blurry, Thursday morning I stood in the Special Line at the TSA Screening just waiting to see what the morning would bring. A strip search? A trip to the back room? Would I be able to board this flight? I simply wasn’t sure, but was anxious to find out. Big Girl was HUNGRY and ready to move on with her day.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long: my Barbie Pink bag was immediately singled out for Extra Searching, which was the least of my concerns, since, you know, I’d stopped packing my shotguns and napalm.

Turns out my BUSINESS CARDS, which I’d brought for no other reason than to explain that I was an Executive in AWESOMENESS, looked suspicious, and needed to be further investigated.

(shout out to my designer, who is amazing, reasonable and BRILLIANT: Robin, at Oppositional Design. You need her. I promise. I can also give you a recommendation for a printer if you need one, too. My cards are incredible. Mostly because I didn’t design them. Or they would suck balls.)

Anyway.

Got to NYC, and the hotel, of course, wasn’t ready. But when I finally got to my floor, it was the Suites Floor, where a shoe company was doing an expo. Which, hi, AWESOME, except that apparently a Sample Size for shoes is a size 6, which I am not. Apparently my size 8.5 makes me Bozo the freaking Clown in feet terms, so me and my boatish clown feet shuffled our canoe-like feet to our room.

Which was right across the hall from this:

Restricted Shoes.

What. The. Hell. Are. Restricted. Shoes?

I looked inside, because obviously, and I’m telling you, Pranksters, the shoes looked not like they were made of platinum and diamonds and nebulous black holes, but like…regular shoes.

I was so disappointed to realize that “Restricted Shoes” were also “Boring Shoes.”

I’d kind of hoped they were the shoes that ate your feet or gave you terrible rashes or were made out of the skin of dead saints or by extinct dodo bird feathers, but these shoes just looked…normal.

Talk about mislabeling AND misleading me. I considered suing them for misrepresentation until I realized that the shoe people were leaving that night.

My heart was sad. So were my gigantic boat feet.

I couldn’t believe I could even WALK in feet that big, now that I knew there were people out there walking around with a dainty size 6 foot. Then I wondered if they had toes. They couldn’t possibly have toes. My hugemongeous hobbit feet and I comforted ourselves knowing that the Size 6 people probably had no toes.

For the following (counts on fingers) bunch of hours, my super-sized feet and I got asked what our “plans” were.

Now, if you don’t know Your Aunt Becky, you wouldn’t know that she doesn’t really make plans. I’m more of a broad strokes person. I knew I would be GOING to NYC and going to my panel at 1:15 on Friday and an interview thing on Saturday at 11:00 and beyond that, *shrugs* I was going to see what happened.

What? The Type-A people on the other side of the screen are screaming. How could you not have any other PLANS beyond that?

And no, I didn’t. I never do. I always figure things will work out and I’ll have more fun if I wait and see what happens. There’s always SOMEONE around with the address of the party I’m supposed to attend and if not, well, I’ll do something else. I’m always content to make my own fun.

This, of course, drives my Planner Friends INSANE. Like, skull blowing off, brain matter spewing everywhere, insane. Which makes it all the more fun to be all, “uh, WHAT was I supposed to do next?”

So, when I came across this, at the Diesel Store, I was all, holy balls, Diesel took my motto:

And I laughed, because dude, Being Stupid is so much more fun. You should try it sometime.

Then, on the way back from dinner with my boss from Toy With Me (I love calling her my boss)(P.S. my column from yesterday is up about online dating), I saw what was on the SIDE of the Diesel Store and peed myself. And not just because I was drunk.

You’ll have to forgive the quality, but the iPhone 4 doesn’t take amazing night shots. It says:

Smart Has The Plans, Stupid Has The Stories.

You know what, Pranksters? I’ll take the stories any day. My ginormous feet and I will happily tread all over town like the village idiots that we are, plan-less and happy, making stories–and children cry–wherever we go.

Because if you’re stupid, you’ll never wish you were anywhere else.

Except not on a plane with me. Obviously.

Flying, for me, is never an easy feat. Not, you know, because I need to be medicated within an inch of my life to get on a plane or anything. I actually like to fly and am not a particularly nervous flier despite the whole nearly dying on the way back from LA thing that happened back in January.

(I submit that if I am to die on a motherfucking plane, there better be some motherfucking snakes, just because, you know, well, obviously)

But when I get on a plane, it’s always something with me.

Mostly, it’s because the world thinks I’m a terrorist or a super-secret-super-spy, which is probably the most laughable thing one could think about me because I can barely hide what I’m thinking, let alone if I were holding the world’s secrets in my bag or something.

(I do not play Poker, obviously, unless it is for pocket change)

This whole “Aunt Becky is a Terrorist” thing started when I was a kid, actually. I started getting pulled aside for extra searches long before 9-11 and the shoe bomber ever made headlines around the world.

When I was a kid, they’d often tear apart my stuffed animals in front of my stricken face to make sure that I wasn’t smuggling…uh…I don’t know what in them. Unsatisfied by the mere stuffing within, they’d move onto my luggage, and rip that apart, too.

Clearly, they never found anything. Your Aunt Becky may cop to many charges: ‘obnoxious,’ ‘painfully annoying,’ highly irritating,’ and ‘devastatingly handsome,’ but ‘terrorist’ and ‘drug smuggler’ are not two of them.

For some reason, every time I go through security, no matter what city I’m in, I’m constantly singled out for pat-downs, occasional strip-searches and the rare back-room interrogation.

My past is about as glamorous as dry toast, and while I have toured Europe (twice) with a traveling orchestra, it was never to any of the countries that might even raise an eyebrow. Even my current name: “Rebecca Sherrick Harks” or my given name “Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick” aren’t exactly inspired to make you think, ‘Wow, that’s a terrorist name!’

In fact, I am primarily Swedish, Scottish, English and Black Irish, if you must know my pedigree. My swarthiness comes from the Black Irish.

And you know, if it had happened a handful of times, I’d have written it off as a coincidence. But it’s happened far too often for that. There’s clearly something in My Permanent Record that says,

“Rebecca Sherrick Harks (a.k.a Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick), VERY bad blogger, likes to hang out in serial killer section of hardware stores, possible person of interest and should ALWAYS be subjected to extra security.”

It took me watching the full two seasons of Life, (boo, NBC, bring that show back!) to realize what my problem was: I do kinda look a little Middle Eastern.

I guess this means that until I remarry someone with a TOTALLY vanilla name (I’m looking at YOU Mr. John Smith), dye my skin and hair, I’ll probably always get a little action with my plane ticket.

Which, I guess, is a bonus.

Remind me not to pack my teddy bear, okay?

——————–

P.S. LOOK ON MY SIDEBAR! See that big button that says, “Aunt Becky Tees?” Yes, Pranksters, you can buy a Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt now. Um, AWESOME.

For probably *counts on fingers* I don’t know, a LOT of years, I’ve been getting the same hair cut. A simple blunt cut to my shoulders that I eventually let grow out until I cut it back up again. Once in awhile I’ll put in a funky color or add some layers, but really, that’s about it. I’m not one of those people who looks good in trendy hair cuts so I leave those to people who do.

I blame my inability to venture out into the land of sassy haircuts on two things:

1) My mother gave me bangs in the third grade. These bangs started at approximately the nape of my neck and went to the bottom of my eyebrows. She’d cut them in a straight line across every couple of weeks. I STILL shudder when I think of bangs.

2) In a stunning fit of “I WILL LOOK LIKE AN ADORABLE PIXIEEEEE!” I allowed my friend Rory, who is neither a hairdresser, nor a great judge of anything to give me a haircut when I was in high school. The result?

I looked like a boy. I’m not a girl who can pull of that adorable pixie do no matter how hard I try.

So I stick with what looks mostly okay.

May, 2010

College Graduation, 2005.

Alex’s first birthday, 2008.

But this week, desperate for a little change, I figured I’d do something different. Which is probably not the brightest thing to do when you’re about to meet 2,000 people you’re trying to convince you’re not a Crazy Internet Middle Earth Person.

Luckily, I never claimed that my elevator ran to the top floor, so that’s precisely what I did when I went into get my hairs did. I said, “I need to do something different with my hair.”

I came out nearly sobbing. I called one of my Internet Friends, Jen, and said, “I LOOK LIKE FUCKING JOAN JETT. COME OVER NOW.”

And she did. Because I did.

Words cannot describe how upset I was until I broke out Mommy’s Little Helper:

And had a brilliant idea. Because the best ideas are always formed when you are half-drunk.

With a hair clip, lifted handily from my daughter’s unused collection, all was fixed.

Except, maybe, for my killer hangover the following morning.

——————

So pull up a chair and pour yourself a tall glass of vodka, Pranksters, and tell your Aunt Becky about your worst hair cut. Misery loves company, and all that.

—————

I’m over at Toy With Me today talking about how when you look good (heh), you feel better about yourself. Turns out that maybe Cosmo was right about something after all.

After my quivery “Not Without My Roses” post on Thursday, my friend Mitch, who is always sending me awesome links, sends me this:

Lightning strikes three of the tallest buildings in Chicago at the same time! from Craig Shimala on Vimeo.

I don’t tend to watch videos on blogs because I always assume it they are hilarious pictures of cats playing the piano and frankly, I have SCADS of (insert term for computer memory) of my OWN fake cat Mr. Sprinkles and his wacky antics! He’s quite an accomplished fake piano player, don’t you know!

But this, well, Mitch doesn’t send me bullshit, so I watched it. You should to. It’s like 40 seconds, and it’s WICKED AWESOME. DO IT, I’ll wait here.

Apparently, The Daver did have reason to worry…IF I WERE AS TALL AS THE SEARS TOWER*.

(hint, I’m not, but I’d be WAY cooler if I were)

Or perhaps had he come outside to see this:

I know, can you believe it? How had I not shown you photographic proof before? How had it not ruined my camera? How had I not been sucked off to Kansas City to be welcomed by a swarm of very tiny people?

It’s almost like it hadn’t existed in nature before Photoshop was invented. (thank you Mrs. Soup for helping this bitch out).

While I was selfishly off pruning my roses, my daughter escaped from jail:

Then, proving that she learned what thug life means, she stole a cookie and ate it wearing her gold chains. Maybe SHE stole my pants!

And indeed, she never DOES say please. Or anything else, really.

(I do have to tell you more about that, but for now, know that I have read every single email, comment, Tweet and DM you have sent me, but I have been literally paralyzed by the gravity of the situation. I am sorry. I promise I am not being rude)

Then, my middle son decided to outdo us all and become half human-half arachnoid:

When he starts scaling buildings and fighting crime, I’ll totally claim it’s my awesome genetics.

And my last son, Benjamin, became a teenager at age 9. He is also for sale.

Actually, I may PAY you to take him for a couple of years. Attitude is included. All sales final.

And now that I have offered to sell my son (POOR TASTE, AUNT BECKY), I will advise you to pretty PLEASE vote for me (for funniest blog), which is ALSO in poor taste, I know. But what can you do? You may vote once per day.

If’n you are the voting type, you can also vote for me in the awards on my sidebar, which would be rad. Voting is good for karma, unlike stealing, which gives you herpes.

*No, I will NEVER, EVER call it the (Wesley) Willis Tower, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

I started the morning by grousing about the state of the world in general, followed that with a piping hot bowl of prunes, and then watched my Matlock for a spell because I am an old person. Also, I do not eat prunes because I am not insane and prunes, no matter how tasty and fucking delicious they are, look like fucking cockroaches.

Sure, our old mattress was this ancient hand-me-down Tempur-Pedic thing that was actually ripped so badly that it was disintegrating, but because we are not normal, we bought an old people Sleep Number bed. I tried like crazy to get Daver to allow me to get the one that went up and down like a hospital bed with the radio and the TV remote built into the side, but he refused.

Apparently, me shrieking about “mah bedsores” in the middle of the mattress stores wasn’t enough to convince him that we needed a $4,000 bed. Ass.

The upside to getting a new mattress when one comes down with the flu, I suppose was that I spent most of the week in that bed. And I have to give it over to old people: that motherfucker is COMFORTABLE. I mean, sleeping on a box would be preferable to sleeping on the busted Tempur-Pedic because that thing had a gorge in the middle of it. A cavern. A chasm. It was kind of like a vagina in the middle of the mattress.

Now I can totally pick up dudes with my Sleep Number (40) rather than my zodiac sign. Because explaining that I’m not REALLY a Cancer and a lot more like a Leo makes me sound all kinds of neurotic.

Shut UP.

But that’s all kind of a moot point because until I can pick up dudes at the Urgent Care Clinic*, I’m kind of screwed. Flu Made Who is pretty much got me down for the count and is trying to make me his bitch.

This here, Pranksters, is motherfucking bat country.

How are YOU today, my Band of Merry Pranksters? I assume you’re not sweating with the exertion of sitting up and praying for the sweet release of sleep death dramatics Vicodin to overtake you.

*is it me, or does the word “clinic” make you think of STD’s?

Aunt Becky: “So I’ve decided that I’m not really a Cancer. I mean, I was born UNDER DURESS, many weeks early. The doctor says that I busted my way out of the amniotic sac somehow. I’m now a Leo.”

The Daver: “Can you do that?”

Aunt Becky: “Spoken like a true Virgo, Daver.”

The Daver: “I mean, does it really matter to you that your astrological profile doesn’t fit you? You’re not even INTO astrology.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, so Cancers are all supposed to be in the kitchen and making fucking motherfucking PIE for you and all crying into their pies about how they FEEL and blah, blah, blah even the INTERNET knows that I need a stunt double to cry. I mean, Cancers are all about feelings and crying and they’re all moody and shit. Do I look like I’m getting my bitch ass back to the kitchen for you?”

The Daver: “Heh. No.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, then. So we can agree that I am not a Cancer?”

The Daver: “Absolutely.”

Aunt Becky: *does a little dance*

The Daver: “I didn’t realize this was bothering you for so long.”

Aunt Becky: “I don’t cry into my pies and I barely have feelings and it’s always made me wonder if I was just a lousy judge of personal character. A Leo just makes more sense.”

Aunt Becky: “While we’re at it, can you call me Princess Grace of Monaco instead of Becky? It’s just such a DRAB name.”

The Daver: “Whatever, Princess. Oh! I took your birthday off as a “floating holiday.”

Aunt Becky: “Well, it IS a holiday. It’s my fucking birthday, yo. It should be a national holiday.”

The Daver: “Clearly.”

Aunt Becky: “I should probably write to Congress and tell them to make July 15 a National Holiday. Then I can call the Zodiac people and tell them that they need to make an exception and make me a Leo.”

The Daver: “Clearly.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m all over this, Daver.”

The Daver: “You go get ’em, Tiger. Or shall I say, LION.”

Aunt Becky: “That’s the spirit!”

*sprints off warbling Eye of the Tiger*

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Last day to enter my contest, Pranksters!