My friend Mitch sent this to me and I scoffed indignantly at the name of the picture: “The Best Picture on the Internet.”

Certainly, I said to myself, this cannot possibly be THE BEST PICTURE on the Internet. I mean, really. The Internet has porn and 3 Wolf shirts and who can forget (no matter how hard they try) my infamous Epic Soul Portrait? This couldn’t possibly be The BEST picture on the Internet.

You know what? I’ve thought about it for a week now.

It really, really is. This is the best picture on The Internet.

Pranksters, THIS is TRULY the best picture on the Internet. I challenge you to disprove me because I know that it is impossible.

This is possibly the best picture in the world.

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?

I started out a post this morning about how I missed having BFF’s and I got about halfway through and realized how WHINY it sounded. So I scrapped it. Sometimes, I think, things are better left unsaid. Or, at least, they’re better left unblogged, until such point that I can not sound like a sniveling whiny assbag.

Which will occur at a quarter past never o’clock.

Instead, I thought that I would share with you, Pranksters, a second glorious snapshot into the formative years of Your Aunt Becky. Back in the day before I was Aunt Becky.

And mostly, I should add, it should give you a good inkling as to why I am the way I am. Or, at the very least, it should give you a nice chuckle.

For those of you who don’t know, my parents were hippies. Nerdly hippies, but hippies nonetheless. My older brother and I weren’t allowed to have guns of any sort and I wasn’t allowed to play with Barbies (there was something about “skewed body image in there). I imagine that he wasn’t allowed to play with Barbies either, but I never asked and I sorely doubt he’d have wanted to anyway.

Well, I loved princesses and makeup and dresses and diamonds and pink and sparkles.

My brother, well. Yeah.

So this is what happens when you ban things like that:

(I’m pretty sure they made me take off the tiara for the picture)

And then there was the time I was in a bar fight.

Or actually, I just insisted on dressing up my cat in baby clothes. That’s what you get when you dress up things with claws in baby clothes. (Hey, I never claimed to be smart.)

But let’s just go ahead and say it was “a bar brawl.” It sounds better that way.

So, this one time I was a Catholic School Girl. No really, I was.

And I have the ten-yard “fuck you stare to prove it.”

Look, I still have it:

That Hairy-Eyeball Death Stare has prevented SCADS of unwanted advice from well-meaning strangers over the years. Seriously, Pranksters (especially those of you with new babies) I suggest you develop one.

I’m pretty sure this is the second-best-picture on the planet.

See, I don’t know if I told you this story ever (I probably did because it’s awesome) but one time, when I was like twenty-three, my mother gifted my sister-in-law MATCHING sweatshirts that had cartoon cats on them. Cartoon cats lounging on stacks of books. It said, “Cats. Books. Life is good” or something like that.

Now, my sister-in-law and I aren’t like old cat people who wear cat sweatshirts. She buys $900 underwear and shops at Anthropologie and other boutique-y stores. Got love for cats, but neither of us wear shirts with, uh, cats on them. Or any such cartoon animals. So we got them and were like.

….

….

…

uh.

huh?

It was bizarre.

I hadn’t realized UNTIL TODAY that the Cats, Books, Life Is Good shirt wasn’t the FIRST time I’d been horrified by a Cuddly Animal Sweatshirt. Oh no. I must have been five in that picture. The look on my face says it all.

When I was born, my dad, brother and grandfather got into photography. And when I say to you, Pranksters, that someone in my family “got into something,” you might think, “oh, they probably bought a Polaroid camera and took some snapshots,” but you would be WRONG. There would be whole alters erected to your WRONGNESS.

Because the Sherricks, they do not get INTO things in a small way (see also: my orchids)(see also: https://mommywantsvodka.com). No, they get OBSESSED with them. Hobbies? We don’t need no stinkin’ HOBBIES.

I grew up with an actual working college-appropriate darkroom in my basement. We have every kind of camera lens, camera, tripod, camera bag, photo paper, film type, chemical, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

I’ve had a camera shoved into my face since the moment I emerged from the womb with “a face only a mother could love” my entire life documented endlessly for posterity. I cannot tell you how many pictures I’ve had taken. I could give Britney Spears a run for her money.

Which is why I look incredibly sullen in many of them.

Like, for example, this:

Because that? A BAG of JELLYBEANS HALLOWEEN COSTUME? That’s freaking awesome.

But the best picture I came across today was this.

Who the hell are those people (I can hear you through the computer, Pranksters)?

And THAT, Pranksters, is why I’m like this. Part eleventy-five.

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

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

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

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

I made posters:

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

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

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

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

My thyroid.

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

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

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

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

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

*a very long story

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

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

The More You Know, and all.

Consider that my blogging PSA for the year.

Anyway.

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

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

Roadtrips I design have been as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

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

———-

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

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

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

1) Texas

B) Kansas City

37) LA

Ba) My mind.

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

Figures.

*sighs*

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

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

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

Before I get into the meat-n-butter of anything, I have to fling some confetti and bacon around. While the rest of the world was watching a very intoxicated James Franco (um, I’ll have what he’s having thankyouverymuch) on the Oscars last night, The 11th Annual Bloggie Winners were quietly announced.

Mommy Wants Vodka didn’t win. That? Was fine by me. Because Band Back Together did.

I’d started Mommy Wants Vodka in 2007 precisely because I’d so desperately craved the community I’d seen on other blogs and what I found was so much greater than I’d ever imagined. I’m the first person to mock blogging as narcissistic and self-absorbed but I’m also it’s number one fan. I’d totally wear a BLOGGING IS NUMBER ONE shirt while waving one of those NUMBER ONE fingers around in the air.

(mental note: pack NUMBER ONE finger for next conference)

Band Back Together represents all of the best bits of the blogging world: the community, the empathy, the story-telling, the feeling of same-ness, the support, the love and the compassion. A win for The Band is so much more important than anything else. Including bacon and sprinkles.

(I fully expect to be struck by a bolt of lightning from the bacon gods now)

So congrats and a big thank to everyone (and I do mean everyone. It’s not my site anymore. It belongs to The Band) who has worked to make the site what it is.

And watch out, World. The Band is just getting warmed up.

———-

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I want to do next and I’ve realized that what I really need to do is to get some perspective. I need to blow the cobwebs and dust out of my brain and give my mind a chance to really wander.

It’s been so many years since I’ve really given myself a chance to do that. My choices have all been made with regard to the common good for so long that I don’t even know what I want anymore. I don’t even know how to begin to process what I want.

That means that I need to get out for a little bit. Live a little. Take a chance. Be brave; really brave. Do something different before I stagnate myself into actually believing that I do give a shit if my floors are clean enough to eat off of them.

I need to dust off my disco boots, fill my iPod until it’s bursting with new music, pack a bag and I need to go. I need to wander for awhile. Just me and the open road.

Someone mentioned in the comments that perhaps I wasn’t actually interested in self-publishing a book; that maybe I’d rather just take a “book tour” type of adventure, and I think that’s spot on. Shit, I’d love to write a book, but first, I’d rather know exactly what kind of book it is that I want to publish.

I need to go on an adventure, in search of My Happy. My Happy is out there somewhere, I know it. Perhaps it’s in a diner in New Mexico or a bar in Arizona or on a deserted street in Louisiana. I simply don’t know. But I intend to find out.

I’m tired of waking up and feeling bored by the drudgery of daily life. I’m tired of waiting for things to happen. I’m tired of praying that I’ll find my way; hoping that I’ll see a sign somewhere in the tea leaves. It’s time to make my OWN way.

It’s time find My Happy.

————–

I don’t have any timetable or route or any of those other “details” worked out yet. Hell, I still a laptop (and possibly a car) and a real, live companion to make this happen. In fact, I spent quite awhile convinced that Kansas City was actually a state (it is not a state)(nor is Las Vegas).

But I wanted to know where-ish you guys lived. Because if I’m taking a trip, it’s to visit with my Pranksters. You know how I’m always threatening to show up at your house drunk and warble “God Saves The Queen?” The time for that is soon.

I’ve been in a slump.

I’m not even certain why I was in such a slump; I mean, my Rod Stewart CD’s were all playing perfectly, there were no Uncrustables shortages at The Target, and I’d even managed to figure out how to work the washing machine! If I could somehow manage to work the coffee maker, my life would be a series of wins!

And yet, I was still feeling downright…sad. My emotional continuum is not used to dealing with complex emotions like that. At best, I’m used to handling such bumps in the road as “my People Magazine was not delivered on time” or “my cheeseburger arrived with mayonnaise.”

This, this slump was not exactly something I could easily handle. Especially since it involved more complex issues than Going on a Campaign of Doom to Get My Way.

I was Losing My Way.

I HATE Losing My Way, Pranksters. I hate it more than I hate anything, ever. Even at my worst, even when I seem the most scattered, the most illogical, the most twisted, I always have something brewing in the back of my mind. Some nefarious scheme. Something. Even if it’s “buy a pony and put it on roller skates,” or “turn treehouse into a panic room filled with ballpit,” there’s something back there.

When I can’t see what’s next, when I can’t find my way, when I have no wacky, off-the-wall-plans, I fall into A Slump.

That’s where I’ve been.

I guess I don’t know what to do next. I’d planned my life up until this point, “finish nursing school, have a couple more kids, then…” and now I’m at the “…” part of my life.

I’d expected to go back to school to become a virologist after my kids were old enough to be packed off to school themselves; that was always the plan. But when I realized that I could write – really write – it was like I’d found my missing piece. That was what I was supposed to do.

So what I do I do with that? What do I do knowing that this is what I am supposed to do?

I do not know. I’ve spun around in circles. I’m still spinning.

The publishing market is in the tank. Selling a book to publishers now isn’t exactly…easy. And yet, writing is what I do. It’s my missing piece. I cannot believe I was brought to this realization only to stop and say, “eh, MOVING ON TO THE NEXT THING.” I love to blog, I love living in Your Computer, but I want to make something more of myself.

I want A Career. Even if I make five bucks a year, I want A Career.

So now I have to figure out What Next. Even if it means “buying a pony and roller skates,” I need to figure out What Happens Next.

Any suggestions, Pranksters? I’m totally asking you because you’re smarter than me and stuff and I no longer have a Guidance Counselor and even if I did, he’d probably tell me to “apply myself more,” which is what he always said. I STILL don’t know what that means.

One of the first things I did after buying my house in Saint Charles was to marvel that two people could – simultaneously – poo at the same time. Going from the condo in Oak (no) Park (ing) which had one wee bathroom to a house with three bathrooms was like the ultimate in luxury…until I realized that the first floor bathroom looked like it had been decorated by Granny, On Meth.

This was pre-moving in. I don’t do angels. Ever.

But the three-patterned wallpaper remained until, in stunning fit of bad judgment, I decided I wanted to remodel the bathroom “for my birthday.” Which meant that I spent the next four months scraping tiny bits of the wallpaper off the drywall with a putty knife in the moments I wasn’t holding my incredibly fussy baby boy. It’s no wonder I hate my birthday.

Anyway.

Before the wallpaper was removed, I couldn’t stand to be in the bathroom for any longer than necessary, because, well, it looked like Little House On The Prairie barfed all over it. This was especially bad news for my eyebrows, who require constant upkeep lest they turn into unruly, beastly caterpillars perched nattily atop my face. Eventually, all the wholesomeness of the bathroom got to me and I broke down and bought one of those makeup mirrors that magnifies your pores like 8000000 times.

I opened the box, pulled out the mirror and about passed out. What the hell? When did my pores become the size of Texas? And when did I get to be so BLOTCHY? Look at those ROGUE hairs! It was disgusting. I was just GROSS looking. How had I not noticed how nasty I’d become?

I was about to rechristen myself “Sasquatch,” when I realized that I might be able to find photographic evidence of when I had become so haggard. I needed to know when this change had occurred, for my own peace of mind.

First I found this, from my old camera, which, I’d seen immediately, looked as though it had been dipped in Vasoline before the shot had been taken.

I was also horrified to see that the green walls – the same shade of green that I hate like mayo, in fact – followed me everywhere I went. Even to the Caribbean, where, in this picture, I am on the phone with Delta, arguing over my lost luggage, I am stuck in front of a green wall.

Fuzzily.

In fact, in EVERY picture I could find, I appear to be out of focus, underwater or in a Soap Opera.

Or rocking my sweet, sweet corn rows:

(let’s make out)

Also: could that dress, which I had to buy in the gift shop because Delta lost my bags, have made my boobs look any saggier?

So my photo expedition didn’t help much. I couldn’t figure out when I’d become Sasquatch so I had to assume that I’d always BEEN Sasquatch.

I did the only thing I could think to do: I bought a DSLR and got pregnant.

Then, I forgot about my Sasquatch-ness (rib-spreading seemed much more pressing an issue) until recently when I realized that I was rocking some pretty dark circles under my eyes. It was time to address my Sasquatch-ness with a facial.

Lady Giving Me A Facial: “OH MY GOD.”

Me: “….”

Lady Giving Me A Facial: *offendedly speaking in Russian*

Me: “…”

Lady Giving Me A Facial (picking at my face)(rolling eyes): *sighs deeply*

So, apparently, I am in such dire shape that even the Facial Lady was both offended and saddened by the state of my face. NOT ENCOURAGING, PRANKSTERS.

Immediately, I went home, my face all swollen, blotchy and sore, and asked The Twitter about eye cream.

The Twitter + The Pranksters = Smarter Than Anything Else. How did people make decisions before The Internet?

Then, I ordered a whole bunch of stuff. I need to combat the Sasquatchness in a MAJOR way.

Problem is, it’s fucking annoying. Who the hell enjoys putting 87 different kinds of cream on their face three times a day?

Hm. I wonder if I can just install mood lighting wherever I go.

————

Here’s where I turn the tables, Pranksters. What do you use to combat Sasquatchness? Do you enjoy slathering your face with creams? Is this something I’ll get used to? Can I install mood lighting at your house and come over?

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

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

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

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

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

*whistles*

*flips hair*

*looks around*

Shut your whore mouth.

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

So, this is what I learned:

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

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

Social media = win.

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

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

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

Also, Also: I want a muscle car now.

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

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

This is the best approximation I’ve found.

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

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

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

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

5) Churros are never, ever wrong.

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

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

Last summer sometime, I was doing my best Tom Cruise “Risky Business” impression in front of the mirror. I was probably singing some Neil Diamond (badly), warbling like someone was kicking a bag of kittens, as I prepared to go about my day. I’d just showered, you see, and nothing gets me in the mood to live life like singing some “Cracklin’ Rose.”

I’d gotten about halfway through the second verse when I finally looked back at my mirrored reflection, holding a hairbrush like it was a microphone, hair wet, butt-ass naked. My second story window was open, normally no big deal, since it overlooks my roof and not much else, (I’ve probably traumatized my share of squirrels)(so what?) but on this particular morning, I saw something horrible. Something I’d not seen before my shower. Something, had I not been screaming Neil Diamond songs, I would have noticed:

My neighbors were getting a roof installed.

I had an audience. An audience of men watched me perform Neil Diamond’s greatest hits, butt-ass naked.

Good times never seemed so good.

I did the only thing I could think to do: I waved. Then I slapped some clothes on and went downstairs. Whoops! My bad!

Later on, hoping they’d gone on break, I sneaked out of my front door on my way to do whatever it was that I was doing that day. Nope. Of course not. I smiled, red-faced as they chatted about me; at least they’d called me the “hot chick” with the “nice rack.” Clearly, they didn’t know that I spoke Spanish. I resisted telling them they had “small balls,” just because it seemed mean. Especially since they thought I had nice boobs.

I hadn’t given the incident much thought beyond, “close the fucking blinds when you’re naked, moron,” because really, what’s there to say?

Last week, in the middle of The Migraine, I’d had a contractor come out to the house to talk color choices for the new siding we’re getting installed. I’ll pause here so you can laugh at the notion of a colorblind chick with a migraine picking out colors for a house.

….

….

….

Done?

Okay.

Ass.

So, you’re probably wondering what the hell I was doing picking out anything that’s colored and going to be seen by the world and that’s totally fair because I’d wondered that myself. Or I did for about five minutes.

See, now, let’s suppose I invite you over for a delicious BBQ. I give you my address. You plug it into your GPS. But, if you’re like most of the world, you probably want a description of some landmark or something that’ll tell you that you’re at The House Formerly Known As The Sausage Factory, and my house is one of three different models in the neighborhood. Got to love the 70’s for it’s unoriginality. And shrubbery. What the hell was up with all of those BUSHES they planted?

Anyway.

What I would have said is this, “It’s the ugly yellow Colonial-ish one.”

And it is.

You couldn’t miss it if you tried, and believe me, I’ve tried. It is the only house in the neighborhood that has this particularly hideous color and if a shade of yellow can be offensive, this color is. Brown would be better than this color, and I hate brown like I hate digital alarm clocks.

I can honestly say that there was nothing in the contractor’s color book that was as bad as the color my house currently is. (although, there was a green shingle option, which I have spent a great amount of time thinking about)(a green roof?)(seriously?)(this is what keeps me up at night, Pranksters)

So I picked out an inoffensive greyish color and a black roof and white gutters because while I love garish colors, I’m not sure that my house should qualify as a “painted lady.”

The work should begin when it’s no longer Ass Cold, which means anywhere from tomorrow to July. Chicago weather is a fickle bitch.

It hadn’t dawned on me until today that it was possible to get the same contractors who had seen me traipsing around the bathroom like a fool last summer.

Guess I’m going to spend the rest of the day wig shopping.