Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

I’m Starting To Believe Comcast Doesn’t ACTUALLY Care About Me


One of the weirdest things I was stressed out about was not my decided lack of coffee mugs or my inability to properly assemble furniture, but the idea that I’d have to somehow get Teh Internetz into my new place. It’s not that I can’t make phone calls or decisions – if I ruled the world, I’d make texting illegal, and not just while driving, though it baffles me that people actually DO that, but because text conversations remind me of the notes I passed in high school, sitting in the back row with the Metal Heads. I’d prefer a phone call most days.


I was terrified of dealing with Comcast in the same way I loathe dealing with Jiffy Lube. Because I’m not smart enough properly know whether or not my air filter needs changing, for example, I’ll listen to them, have it done, and then realize that I’ve just dropped 40 bucks on some bullshit thing I don’t actually need, only to Rage Against (not, I should clarify, LOUNGE Against) The Machine, because being duped by the Jiffy Lube guys makes me want to taco punch both Captain and Tennile (which, frankly, is the way I feel most of the time) AT THE SAME TIME.

I figured that dealing with Comcast would be similar, our phone call something like:

Becky: “Hi, I need to set up new internet in my apartment.”

Comcast: “For that you’re going to need the Linux box modem coupled with Windows 92, plus a router box made by a Scandinavian company that starts with the letter C.”

Becky: “I just want the email box to make emails for me.”

Comcast (smelling a sucker): “Well, if I upgrade you, at a cost of 92,748,272 dollars a month, your “email box” will work.”

Becky: “Um.”

Comcast: “I’ll set you up with an appointment for next Tuesday between 1AM and 8PM.”

Becky: “Um, oooookay.”


I fretted awhile before I called them, first because I’d just gotten another NEW apartment number and wanted my keys to ensure I’d actually be living in aforementioned apartment rather than kindly hooking up the cable for another tenant, but by Tuesday of last week, I realized it was time – I’d be moving and I need an email box to do “work,” and Comcast, well, after my inability to make OR receive phone calls using AT&T’s network, was the best option, which made me die a little inside.

Besides, Comcast SAYS they care about me. ME!

I was delighted to see that I’d be able to do the whole thing online. Because while texting is bullshit, being able to take care of shit without the pressure salesperson is like a lil slice of heaven. I even managed to get all the way to the point where I was to chat with an online representative without needing a nap to continue.

Comcast Robot: “So you want to have XYZ set up in your new apartment at (address).”

Becky: “Yeppers.”

Comcast Robot: “You can’t.”

Becky: “…”

Comcast Robot: “The former tenant put his account on hold so he could keep his email address. We can’t hook up two lines to the same apartment.”

Becky: “Wait – he wants a COMCAST email? What about GMAIL? It’s FREE! Shit, I’ll give him one of my zillion addresses.”

Comcast Robot: “You’re going to have to go to the business office and show them a copy of the lease proving you live there now.”

Becky: “Um. Why can’t I scan it and email it to you?”

Comcast Robot: “Good Day.”

I closed the chat window, fuming. I still had a boatload of packing, not to mention a couple of saved videos of cats playing the piano to watch. I decidedly did NOT need to be driving an hour to show Comcast that I, in fact, was the new tenant. Instead of throwing things around or kicking the box fan, I put on my “fuck shit up” pants and drove over to the apartment complex.

When I informed the lady at the desk that I was, in fact, going to need thirty-seven types of proof that I’d be living here, she goggled at me, which was approximately the same response I got whenever from the rest of the world. “Woah,” she said. “That’s nuts. I’ve worked here 7 years and NEVER seen anything like it.”

I nodded, unhappily, clutching a ream of papers on official letterheads that all claimed that I was, in fact, going to be moving into the apartment on October 1.

Driving out to Comcast’s business center was fine, excepting the whole, “this road is closed” thing going on in front of their business office. I ignored all signs, crossed my fingers and drove on it anyway – I needed my email box to work. The woman behind the counter was nice enough, I guess, although she said maybe ten words to me the entire time, including the fateful, “do you want me to set this up for you?”

“Nope,” I replied breezily. “I’ll do it online.”

And like that, I sealed my fate.

Back home an hour later, I tried, once again, to order Comcast online. The conversation was identical to the first, and ended with, “let me look into this and call you back,” which, of course, never happened. Robots, man, they’re unreliable.

The following day, between packing and trying to find my keys, I decided it was time to put an end to the bullshit and call Comcast for the 8,373 time, hoping this time I’d actually manage to find the one person who had more than two brain cells knocking around their skull.

A funny thing happened.

I did.

After dealing with Comcast for three days, I finally found someone with properly firing synapses. Quickly she disconnected the previous account and set me up with my own account, even managing to get me an install on Saturday, the day I’d rented the U-Haul and planned to finish moving. She was so kind that I actually began crying on the phone with her, which got HER crying, and we both ended up a soupy mess, which these days, not as uncommon as I’d like.

And now, I have a working email box.

Those damn cat videos have been waiting.


I haz a guest poster here talking about making your own cleaning products. Which, of course, scares the shitnuts out of me.

Next On Fox News At Nine: When Fireworks Attack


Dear Pranksters,

Before I get into my post “When Fireworks Attack,” I simply wanted you to know how grateful I am for you.

The love, kindness and advice you’ve given me has been what’s keeping me going. I know that being surrounded by items that were given out of love will help remind me that I am not alone, even when I am at my worst.

If you’re interested in helping or offering me advice, I’d more than welcome your help and advice.

I’ve been asked to create an Amazon Wish List for things I’m going to need in the future as the Internet is throwing me a house-warming party (which blows my mind). The only problem is that I have NO IDEA what to ask for.

I’ve also been offered any awesome stuff you have hanging around which I plan to write your name on as a reminder of the people who DO love me. Hokey? YES. But I don’t care.

Anyway, that being here nor there, I wanted you to know that I’ve been patiently going through your comments and have created a massive Google spreadsheet with all of your advice – I will be returning all comments and emails because, well, I love you dearly, and your support has overwhelmed in in the very best of ways.

Anyone going through a similar situation should be reading the comments on this post – the advice is incredible.


Your Aunt Becky

P.S. Remind me to screenshot my rad google document – it’s amazingly gorgeous.

PPS. SHUT UP, I am NOT Type A.*


I recall how deeply offended I was when Illinois banned sparklers, thereby banning fun, which I wrote about angrily a couple of summers ago. Because banning sparklers is bullshit.

Or so I maintained…

On our way down to NashTucky, we’d been powering on through as we drove, determined to get to the Gaylord Hotel – where we were staying – in time so that we could get a balcony that opened into the atrium of the hotel. It just seemed like a good damn idea and really, I wanted a damn cheeseburger WITHOUT a side of E. Coli, which is what I’d assumed I’d get if we stopped off to eat. Now that I think of it, spending my birthday weekend partying with E.Coli could’ve been pretty full of the awesome. Although, to be fair, not as awesome a time as the dude we met walking into the hotel who was carrying two boxes of shitty cheap beer to take to his room.

HE knows how to party.

Alas, I digress.

Our eyeballs floating in urine, we finally agreed that a piss break was necessary – I didn’t particularly want to check into the hotel reeking of urine and, well, I’m pretty sure Dawn would’ve dismembered my body and left it in her front seat as a reminder to anyone who dared think of peeing in her car again.

We pulled off the highway and noted that the area we’d walked into was fairly…shady (and I am being generous). Let’s leave it at: I was simply glad it was daytime.

When we saw the fireworks store attached to the gas station, Dawn and I both reached higher and higher heights of orgasmic potential because we’re both accustomed to Illinois banning fun (and impeaching our corrupt governors). It was so cornball, so cheesy, so hilarious that we laughed our way into the gas station, which, based on the dour expression of the dude behind the counter, was not appropriate behavior for those who enter HIS store. We made a beeline for the bathroom, and I graciously allowed Dawn to go first.

“Just don’t stink it up with shit,” I warned, “Or I may have to poop in your pillow tonight.”

She laughed, grabbing her bladder and yelling, “DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH, SLORE!”

I took the opportunity to mosey around the fireworks section of the store, seeing if I could find the one thing I remembered loving during my childhood: sparklers. Money was tight, which meant I wasn’t about to be buying my children (who want for NOTHING) lavish gifts. Sparklers it was. I gleefully handed them to Dawn, after she took what appeared to be six hours peeing in the dingy bathroom, pointing her at the large selection of pork skin related products on display.

“What. The. Fuck. Is. Up. With. Fried. Pork. Skins?” I asked, under my breath.

“Dude, it’s a Southern thing,” she whispered back, like that was supposed explain anything.

I took a befuddled pee while wondering what “It’s a Southern thing” meant, exactly, before returning to retrieve my beloved sparklers and pay for them and get the fuck out of what was now a decidedly creepy-ass place. The more we stayed, the higher my hackles rose.

I walked up to the front counter with my requisite diet Coke and the package of sparklers, marveling at how, in a mere seven hours, I’d managed to get ALL my kids something I just KNEW they’d love. Sure, they might like the explodey-rockets better, but I was no dummy – I get broken toes from making sandwiches, what could those scary fireworks do to me?

I didn’t intend to find out.

The man behind the counter simply glowered at me as he rung up my items, not, for one moment, taking his eyes off of me, even as I noted things like the large collection of “tobacco” pipes prominently displayed at the front register. I figured that as my kids aren’t allowed to consider smoking until they’re AT LEAST 12, I’d made a stellar decision with the sparklers. I mean, sparklers, WHAT’S NOT TO LOVE?

His eyes never left me, even after he was done ringing me up. I could GUESS what I owed, but wasn’t sure, so I looked around to see if there was some sort of price total thing I wasn’t noticing, and therefore, should be pulling out my wallet and handing over ten bucks.

“Uh,” I started, “What do I owe?”

He rattled off some number and I handed him a ten-spot.

Soon, Dawn and I were back in the car.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” she all but screamed.

“Wait, dude, I need to snap a picture before the fucking zombies come and eat us,” I pleaded.

So I did.


Ha! GOTCHA – that’s NOT the picture of the store (but that’d be rad)


That totally is. And with a storefront like that, how can you go wrong?

(answer: zombies)

“Do I bring this shit inside?” gesturing to my fireworks, I asked Dawn as we parked the car at the hotel.

“Do fireworks explode in the heat?” she countered.

“I don’t fucking know,” I replied.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” she said smugly.

“I hope your mouth hurt a little from saying that,” I said, as I grabbed my bag which weighed approximately 73,625 pounds.

I considered putting them in the room safe just because, but decided I’d probably forget them and then I’d get the hotel all bomb squad on my ass.

I got home late on July 15, my birthday, to find that my (now crabby) kids were waiting up for me. It was a shining moment in a fairly depressing day. My three kids swarmed me, begging for hugs, love, and other types of birthday wishes, as they sang an off-key version of “Happy Birthday.” I melted inside.

That sweetness was, of course, followed up by “What’d you bring us?” which I’d expected. Frankly, I’m shocked they hadn’t started with that. Kids, man, I tell you.

I grabbed the box of sparklers from my bag and said, “SPARKLERS!”

Dave smiled, “COOL!”

My kids were decidedly nonplussed until I said, “they’re fireworks, kiddos.” That seemed to assuage the hurt of not being brought a) Batman or 2) Large amounts of candy. “Can we do dem now?” Mimi was the first to ask, already getting her shoes on heading for the back door.

“No, babies. Mama’s tired. Maybe we can do them another day – like Saturday!”

They grumbled and moaned about it, stomping up to bed, clearly having forgotten it was my birthday and, therefore, a day to be “nice to Mama.” I just laughed. Kids, man. They know how to knock your ass the fuck down.

By the following weekend, I decided that it was high time we get our sparkler on (kinda like getting your sexy on, but better). I grabbed the two Littles (the big one was at his grandmother’s house in Wisconsin) and headed out back with Dave, ready to dazzle and delight them. I don’t know who was more excited – the kids or the adults.

I’d grabbed a lighter and the box of fireworks – three! whopping! colors! and sat down on the back patio under the spiffy umbrella I’d saved up to buy for five years. The kids danced around me, and I decided that rather than wait for Dave, I’d get a sparkler started on my own. I mean, I was being fucking BRAVE and shit, now, right? And for fuck’s sake, they were sparklers not some of those weird rocket things.


I snapped the lighter so the flame grew as I hovered the sparkler over it.


That seems to be taking a HELL of a long time to light. Perhaps I simply didn’t remember that sparklers took 800 years to light. Seemed about my speed, considering I can never find my pants.

I kept holding the lighter over the sparkler, which looked a lot more chode-like than I’d recalled, but childhood memories being what they are, what can you expect.

After a couple more seconds, and the addition of Dave onto the patio, BAM, it lit.

Boy, did it light. It lit so fucking well that this happened:

when-fireworks-attack-chemical-burnsSo that, my Pranksters, is why Illinois banned sparklers. Not because they wanted to “ban fun,” but because they wanted to ban 3rd degree chemical burns.

Let my busted finger be a lesson to you, Pranksters: fireworks = bad. Especially if Aunt Becky is involved.


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