It is so science. Aero... oncolo... molecular gaseocabinetry. ology. That's what.

Me: (grimace)

My friend, Belle: (glare)

Me: (grits teeth)

Belle: (raises eyebrows)

Me: (leans to the side)

Belle: Becky. I know you're farting and I want you to stop.

Me: What?? My shoe squeaked. Listen, when I scuff it... like this... It's hard to recreate the exact noise, but...

Belle: Oh really? Is the sole of your shoe made of ass?

Me: This place, it's just scary to me, it makes my tummy all nervous and upset.

Belle: Listen, if coming with me to my cancer treatments makes you so upset, you don't have to come. But if you're going to fart, just step outside.

Me: I promise I won't fart in your treatment cubicle again.

Belle: Well, thank--

Me: Oh my God I farted AGAIN, like RIGHT when I said the word "promise," how weird is that? So ironic.

Belle: I'm tied to this IV, you know that, right? I'm trapped here while you hotbox us in here. This is just like that movie "Saw." I'm gonna have to cut my arm off to get away from the smell.

Me: I'm sorry, I want to be supportive. I want to be a good friend and help keep things light and fun but uugghh! I swear it feels like I'm being smothered by a pillow made from the feathers plucked from the GOOSE OF CANCER! I can't breathe! Why does this whole place smell like hot coffee breath?

Belle: Take your head out of your sweatshirt.

Me: (Gasp!) Oh thank God. It's much better out here.

Belle: Listen, they said I should just relax while my IV drip is going, so I'm gonna just lean my head back and...

Me: (excited face) (makes trucker horn gesture) RAAHHPP RAAAAAAHHHPPP!!!

Belle: Wow. You're not even gonna try to hide it anymore? Alright, get out.

Me: No no no, I'll fix it. You won't even smell it. Watch. (Exhales to empty lungs, then breathes in long and deep through nose, moving head slowly from side to side)

Belle: Oh good. You brought your vacuum.

Me: (opens supply cabinet, blows it in, quickly closes door)

Belle: (dead stare)

Me: (excited face) Ta-DA!

Belle: (hateful, rueful, stare)

Me: All gone!

Belle: It's not gone.

Me: It is! I reversed the distribution of offending aromatic molecules. Science!

Belle: Science? Exactly what branch of science involves nose-vacuuming up your own fart and blowing it into a supply cabinet at a cancer clinic?

Me: What branch of sci...?? Bitch, do I look like freaking Steven Hawking to you? Why don't you cool it with the trivia, okay?

Belle: What? You brought it up! You said, "It's science!"

Me: I've stopped listening to you because you're boring, but hey check this out, if I blow up this latex glove like a balloon and stick it on my tummy, it's like I'm a cow kinda. Mooooooo!! Check out my udder, yo. It's full a milk. Moooooo!

Belle: ...

Me: Mooooooooo! No, wait. It's more like.... Mmmmmmuhhhhhhhhhh!!

Belle: ...

Me: MMMMUHHHHHHHH! MMMUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Belle: If you think I can't hear you farting over the sound of your cow noises, you're mistaken.

Me: Damn. Okay, sorry. Lemme just... (nose vacuums, nose vacuums...looks for a place to blow it)

Belle: Uh oh, what now? Can't use the cabinet, you'll let the other one out!

Me: (panicking, grabs her purse off the floor)

Belle: Not in my purse. NOTINMYPURSE!

Me: (Reaches for her boot)

Belle: Let go my foot! Oh my God!!

Me: (Grabs can of Pringles out of lunch bag, uncaps, blows inside, puts cap back on) Phew! That was close.

Belle: Um... I wasn't done with those.

Me: Holy shit, this Pringles can? Is this the best fart trapper ever or what? Look at this snappy little lid!

Belle: Yeah, that's what I was thinking when I packed it. I thought to myself, Hey I should pack these Pringles, in case Becky has her anxiety farts during my cancer treatment and nose-vacuums it up and needs a place to blow it.

Me: I mean, Ziplocs are handy and everything, but nothing like this Pringles can. You know what? Oh my God, you know what would be even better?

Belle: Not having cancer?

Me: If I just, like, lined the inside of the tube with strips of magazine perfume samples, and then cut a hole in the end of the Pringles can...

Belle: Yes! And then after that, what if you made an appointment with your doctor to discuss ADD medication...

Me: ...then I could blow the fart INTO the tube and it could come OUT the other side smelling good! And the magazine strips would flutter out the other end in celebration, like streamers! Like BRAAAHHHPP! HAPPY NEW YEAR! ALSO, WHOOSH! EXTREME FART MAKEOVER!

Belle: Okay, people are watching now. Could you just remove my Pringles can from your behind and stand up straight now?

Me: Man, what a neat invention. I'm like the Thomas Edison of farts.

Belle: Yeah. Hey, this is entertaining and everything, but I think I'm good. You can go now. I'm just gonna sit here and eat my sandwich and finish my can of fart, and I'll call you later.

Me: No, wait, I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I'm sorry I farted in your chips. I'll settle down.

Belle: Okay. You promise you'll leave if you get upset tummy again?

Me: (folds arms over gurgley tummy)

Belle: Uh oh. Becky? Say it. Promise.

Me: I promise I'll--No, wait, I just farted again. Start over.

Belle: Come on!!

Me: I promise I--hold on, time out. MOOOOOOOOOO!!

Belle: Again, not fooling anyone.

Me: (nose vacuums, blows into a potted plant) Perfect. Plant respiration will clean it up and shoot it back out all clean. Science!

Belle: It's a fake plant.

Me: Crap.

***

Hey you. Yes YOU. You in the skin. Did you know it was my birthday on Thursday? Well it was. Oh, you didn't get me anything? That's alright. No really. It's okay. Hey, you know what though? You could always just GO HERE and vote for me up in the top left-hand corner. I'm currently neck-and-neck with a woman jeweler named Wendy.

She is beautiful and fashionable. I am growing a beard.

She probably wins all the prizes all the time. I won a third place ribbon at a rodeo when I was 12 for "Best Horsemanship," but I think that was only because I liked to kiss my horse, Razzle Dazzle, on the mouth so much. I don't think I even participated in the rodeo.

Okay, Razzle Dazzle wasn't even my horse.

Okay, Razzle Dazzle was a donkey.

She writes about fashion and celebrity. I just wrote a post about farting in a Pringles can. My point is... vote for me because I'M ONE OF YOU!!

*awkward silence cricket*

Right? Right, you guys?

SAY RIGHT, BITCH.

***

UPDATE: Voting's closed, the contest is over and we KICKED ASS. Ripped that shit right up. Holy crap. You guys are like voter piranha.

I've never won anything before, and now I have, so I'm done. If I ever send out a plea for something again, it'll be for something unselfish and worthwhile. Now that I've seen what you can do, I won't waste it on some blog award.

Thank you.

Aura-cleansing sage bundles roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose job...

You probably saw it on the world news, but it's worse than the reports would have you believe. The city of Los Angeles was unrecognizable this morning after last night's horrific wafting-down of mist and condensation, which, according to the city's top meteorologists, "most likely originated from a cloud" and then "came down from the cloud and ruined everyone's stuff."

When word spread that the cloud had finally left the city, Los Angelenos slowly began to reemerge from their underground weather-induced ennui shelters, and I grabbed my camera and set out to survey the damage.

I was not prepared for what I saw this morning.

Soil from my neighbor's rosebush planters had seeped down onto the sidewalk, now virtually impassible with dirt and debris as far as the eye could see.

Note the treadmarks, no doubt left by garden looters, most likely members of the neighboring South Central Malibu senior citizen gang/watercolor club, "Las Floristas Del Diablo."

And... you may want to cover your children's eyes for this next close up. It's quite graphic and not suitable for sensitive viewers.

Oh, the humanity! The cruel, cruel winter wind had orphaned a petal from its mother rose. With the roads the way they were, all gross and splashy, there was no telling how long it would take for cleanup crews to arrive and remove the petal, this gruesome reminder of mother nature's wrath.

Passersby averted their eyes in horror and pulled up the necks of their t-shirts to cover their mouths and noses from the vile stench of one less rose petal than there had been before the storm.

With the 12-second power outage our neighborhood sustained, electric driveway gates remained open and once domesticated animals ran feral through the streets of Santa Monica. Labrador retrievers, yellow labs, black labs, chocolate labs, Labradoodles, Lab Blablabs, Golden Labhuahuas, every kind of lab and lab hybrid imaginable roaming the streets, disoriented, carrying rolled newspapers in their mouths and offering handshakes indiscriminately to anyone who would accept them, delirious from starvation.

I encountered one of these newly-feral animals, and attempted to rescue her.

Suffering from shock, she ran the other way when I called out to her. I chased her for a few feet, but soon arrived at an impassable roadblock. As you can see from the photo below, the water had accumulated on the sidewalk to the point where the pavement had just buckled under its weight, creating a sinkhole of rainwater between us, and I was unable to follow her without the aid of a canoe or life raft.

GOOD DOG! RUN! RUN AS FAST AS YOUR LITTLE FEET WILL CARRY YOU!

I called Animal Control, and they dispatched a helicopter to rescue the dog from where she was stranded a few houses down in the front yard of her own home. They quickly strapped her into a harness and airlifted her to the front door, where her family was waiting anxiously for her safe return.

A mixed breed of unidentifiable origin, who witnesses confirmed had "wide-set eyes that implied descent from a line that was probably not a champion of hardly anything" and who "took a bite of grass like some kind of animal" and who "didn't give me his paw when I asked for his paw" was shot with a chamomile dart and transferred to a mixed-breed dog sanctuary, just in case, before he could wreak more havoc than the havoc he had undoubtedly been rumored to have probably wreaked.

After an hour or so of walking, my shoes and pants were absolutely covered with filth and debris from trudging through the wreckage.

Now I know how the workers at Ground Zero must have felt.

Great. My pants and shoes were ruined. Completely unsalvageable.

I was forced to remove them and make my way home pantsless and shoesless. In earlier times, 45 minutes of yore, I might have felt embarrassed at my predicament, but I soon realized that most of my fellow Los Angelenos had also deemed their filthy shoes and pants unwearable, and had converted them into iphone koozies and windsocks, respectively.

The most tragic loss was that of our neighborhood's great old trees. The mist and drizzle that had befallen our great city had soaked right through their bark to whatever's underneath the bark, increasing the contrast of the trees' natural tones into something very tacky and overstated-looking.

Get over yourself, Liberace.

Women everywhere rubbed their temples and complained of migraines from the visual overstimulation. Many citizens were so upset by this development that most of the trees were quickly put out of their misery, felled at once by roaming tribes of interior designers and color consultants.

Others, reaching deep within their hearts to look past the hideously garish, bourgeois look of the bark, rallied together, and teams were quickly assembled in an attempt to revive the few remaining trees, using hair dryers, upright tanning beds, and tender hugs.

Other, very teeny weeny trees, lined the gutters and sidewalks. People gathered to stop and stare at these heretofore unseen mini-trees.

"They're kind of like branches, but kind of not like branches, because you can hang a Hammacher Schlemmer hammock swing from a branch, but you can't hang a Hammacher Schlemmer hammock swing from one these things, no way," said one witness.

"The tree is molting its feathers," said another. "We should hold hands and sing to the tree."

"Don't touch it, it could be a bomb!" shrieked a concerned mother, pulling her child away.

Suddenly, a street sweeper rounded the corner and glided along the curb, disappearing the mysterious objects. Following closely behind was a convoy of military vehicles, which pulled up next to us, the men inside looking down upon us with a solemnity that chilled us to the bone.

"You didn't see anything here, am I understood?" the man in charge said. We nodded.

"Things don't fall from trees in Los Angeles. If things fell from trees in Los Angeles, people might get scared. There's no telling what people will do when they're scared. Desperate things. Unthinkable things. Are we all on the same page here?" We nodded.

They were gone as quickly as they had arrived.

Rumors about the Tree Feather Coverup of 2010 floated around for a while but were eventually forgotten. Sometimes I see that concerned mother pushing her child on the swing in their front yard, her gaze empty, her cheeks gaunt, her mind full of images she can't escape, truths she dare not speak. We make eye contact, not a sound between us save the haunting, rusty squeak of the swing's chain... reeee, oooo, reee, oooo... and we remember.

Yes, we remember.

But any old thing will do, really.

Mom: I'm heading out for Christmas shopping. What stores do you like? Do you like that store Anthropologie?

Me: It's pretty pricey, but if you're up for it, sure. Just nothing too "French".

Mom: What does that mean? No can-can skirts?

Me: No, like, I don't want anything a girl riding a bicycle with a baguette in the basket would wear.

Mom: Okay...

Me: Nothing the virgin daughter of a small countryside village's chocolatier would wear.

Mom: You know the weird thing, is that actually makes sense to me.

Me: Like, you know that movie Amelie? Something Amelie would wear if she had genital warts. Like that.

Mom: Right. Amelie with genital warts. Wait, Amelie? Or Audrey Tautou? Because there's a difference.

Me: You're right. More like Audrey Tautou. What would Audrey Tautou wear if she were a rape counselor for Japanese orphans. Think like that.

Mom: Um... you lost me.

Me: Like, okay. Think of that movie Chocolat.

Mom: Okay?

Me: Now hit yourself in the vagina with a hammer. I want that in size 6.

Mom: Could you be a little less abstract maybe? For instance, could you use a jacket?

Me: Sure. Just think of that show "Three's Company," except everyone dies of tuberculosis. In a medium.

Mom: ...

Me: Think of AIDS, then a cure for AIDS, then a sandwich, but you just threw it up on the sidewalk in front of The Gap. In Germany. It's really embarrassing. I want that in blue.

Mom: How about a gift card?

Me: No, listen, it's easy. I want pants that will make me feel like the high note of Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas" crawled up my urethra like one of those parasites in the Amazon River and gave birth to a shooting star. Or how about you're in a horrible car accident and everyone in your car dies, but your airbag deploys, and it's made of bunnies! Imagine that. Oh, how painful the survivor's guilt. But mmmm soft bunnies feel so good on your face. Get me that.

Mom: So... socks?

Me: Think of the all people in the "hellscape" section of Bosch's triptych "Garden of Earthly Delights" working in a Forever 21 store. I want the essence of that infused into a body wash.

Mom: Do you like H&M?

Me: Yeah. But nothing that looks like Bjork dressed herself in Diane Keaton's closet.

Mom: Again, that makes perfect sense to me.

Me: Does it? Good. Okay. Now, think of Katherine Heigl on her period, hanging naked from a rain gutter, she's crying for help, but she's on fire! Quick, what do you do?!! That moment of panic and indecision you just experienced? Yes. I want that, in teal.

Mom: Could you perhaps communicate your list to me through interpretive dance? I'm more of a visual person.

Me: Sure. I'll need my strobe light though. And some hummus. And my unitard. I'll meet you back here in an hour.

I'm the sanest person you know, motherfucker.

I don't tell people that I'm afraid of losing my mind, because if I admit it, I'm pretty sure someone will use it against me, like that one time 20 years ago on Days of Our Lives when someone painted Marlena's office with hallucinogenic crazypaint and then piped scary voices in through the air duct and she went all bananas until John figured it all out and saved her, and yes, my life is very similar to Marlena's, why do you ask? *caresses cheek with a single red rose, silk nightgown falls to the floor*

Which is why sometimes when I get a comment on this blog that's all, "OMG someone forgot their medication today! LOL!" or "Oh Becky, you so crazy!" I overreact and get all scary and defensive in my comments back:

Lately I feel like everything around me is dipped in Marlena's crazypaint. It's not just one thing; there's been a rash of crazy lately.

It's the guy who sat down next to me at my smog check and told me about his plans to cut off his penis so that he might transform himself into the sexiest woman in the world, into the "all that and a bag of chips sexy" kind of woman he sees in the Victoria's Secret catalog. He will be so sexy once he is penisless, he explained, that he will literally give himself a boner just by looking in the mirror. "Wow," I replied, fighting my instincts to point out the fatal flaw in his plan. "That IS sexy."

It's Old Man Farley, who has survived both a brain tumor and meningitis this year, but who has recently taken a turn for the crazy. He walks around and around in circles, stares at me from behind doors as if to say, "I left a pile of poop in the living room yesterday and now IT IS REMOVED! WHAT SAY YOU, VILLAIN!" and who gets so disoriented that sometimes he

just...

can't quite...

make it...

onto the bed.

He sure is a sleepy sonofagun!

Yesterday morning I went to wake him, and during the night his head had slipped down between the pillows of his bagel-shaped dog bed, hiding his entire head from view. Everything has seemed so crazy lately that this just seemed par for the course, so in my half-asleep state I just accepted it, sighed, shrugged, and said, "Well that's just great, now he's headless," and started making plans for caring for a headless dog.

I'll have to lead him everywhere, first of all, which is going to be a huge inconvenience, but whattya gonna do? I love the old guy. Secondly, how will his collar stay on if he's only got a neck and nothing else? I need a harness if I'm really going to make this work...

I didn't even photoshop this. His head is really under there somewhere.

It's the hopeful transsexual, and it's Old Man Farley, but it's also my neighbor with dementia, who escaped from her Russian home care worker recently to accuse me of stealing her car. It's understandable, though, why she thought her car had gone missing, because, in much the same way you might look frantically for your sunglasses when they're sitting on top of your head, you can't very well see a car when you're sitting in its back seat.

From the comfort of her luxury car, she pointed to my own car parked in my driveway, leaned up to her cracked window, and asked me why, when we have always been such amicable neighbors, had I stolen her new black Lexus and parked it in my own driveway, somehow magically transforming it into a '99 white Volvo station wagon in the process. I am a thief and a wizard.

Her: I don't mean to accuse you of stealing my car, but I see that car parked in your driveway and, you have to admit, it does look suspicious. Just put yourself in my shoes.

Me: Hmm. I see your point, Helen. But the interesting thing is, the car in my driveway is a white '99 Volvo. Your car, this beauty right here (admiring pat pat on the door), is a new black Lexus.

Her: I know that, but that doesn't change the facts, does it, Becky. *looks pointedly at my Volvo, then back at me* Does it.

I used my keen redirecting skills to compliment her hair and her weight and her cat's manners until her Russian home care worker realized she was missing and came out to retrieve her.

The next day, though, as I was pulling out of our cul-de-sac, I spotted her in her bathrobe trying to break into our other neighbor's house through his side door. "NOT IN THE MOOD FOR YOUR BULLSHIT TODAY, CRAZYPANTS!! GOOD LUCK WITH THAT THOUGH!" I called out softly, as I smiled, waved, and drove on past.

I should be better equipped to handle her, though, because my dad had dementia for years. For how long? Five years? Twenty? The transition from eccentric into demented is so seamless, it's hard to tell sometimes. There's no Cosmo quiz for this kind of thing.

Dementia or Eccentric? The Sassy Girls' Guide to Understanding Your Dad

1) When your refrigerator gets low on food, your dad:

a) goes to the market and buys more food.

b) steals your student credit card and orders $200 worth of Omaha steaks from an 800 number.

c) brings home a package of Pudding Pops, points the shakyfinger at you, points the shakyfinger at the Pops, and drags his index finger across his neck.

d) hides all the bananas, times are tough and you gotta do what you gotta do.

2) In his free time, your dad

a) golfs.

b) cleans assault rifles in the den.

c) steals your student credit card and orders the sold-only-on-tv music compilation set of "Freedom Rock", because your birthday's coming up.

d) calls you at your friend's house to tell you he found a pen. Because he remembers you were looking for a pen that one time last summer.

3) At Christmastime, your dad

a) goes shopping at a store and purchases a sweater, which he wraps in paper and gives to you.

b) steals your student credit card and orders a giant $85 ring made of blue zircon, because "I don't know shit about jewels, kid, but look at it, it's a monster, isn't it? Try it on!!"

c) gives you a canister of tear gas and mounts it on the wall next to your bed with Velcro, because "I'm pretty sure the old guy next door is [makes crazy cross-eyes, frenetic jerk-off motion, drooly pedophile smile] over you, kid. Watch out."

A couple of months ago, I showed up at my mom's house to find my half-brother trying to blow open one of dad's old safes. After a few hours, he succeeded, only to find...

...that the only things the safe contained...

...were two tubes of Chapstick.

"That's bullshit!" he cried. Then he proceeded to hammer the padlock off one of my dad's old trunks. This attempt was slightly more profitable.

And buried in the corner of the trunk full of quarters and dimes was a single black sock.

Ah, hello, old coinsock. I remember you.

Me: I just need five dollars for a movie.

Dad: (counts out dimes and quarters)

Me: Paper dollars? Please?

Dad: Paper's over with, kid. When it all goes to shit we'll be warming our hands over money fires. It's all about metals. Everything else is bullshit.

Me: Why don't I spend the paper dollars now then? Use them up while they're still worth something?

Dad: Because here's why. (dumps coins into a long black dress sock) You're a young girl, out at a movie with her friends, right? And there's all sorts of dirty old creeps out there, following you and your friends around and doin' all sorts of... (crazy crosseyes, frenetic jerk-off motion, drooly pedophile smile*)... you read me?

Me: A bunch of old guys following us around and... what does that gesture even mean... stabbing themselves in the penis? That's crazy! We're just gonna go see Goonies down the street. Okay?

Dad: You'll go see your Goolies when I finish with you. Are you listening? So you get into trouble with one of these guys, and you take this sock full of change and you hold it by the end and spin it around your head, fast. It's popcorn money, yes. It's also a deadly weapon.

Me: (Sigh.) Thanks, dad.

Dad: Bring me change!

*Side note: My dad, in a flattering display of fatherly protectiveness, had it in his head that every old guy in the world was jerking it to the thought of me, like I was some kind of hot tamale on the pedophile circuit. If you knew me back then, we'd be laughing right now, because as you would already know, I was not what one would call a great beauty. Unfortunately for me, since you didn't know me then, I have no choice but to show you my 6th grade class photo.

I know. Boner city, right?

Anyhow.

Hopeful Transsexual, and Old Man Farley, and Dementia Helen bringing back those memories of my dad... All of it has me a little on edge. I like order and logic and I prefer everyone to say and do things that make sense. When things stop making sense, I'm hyperaware and begin to interpret the most subtle of clues to mean that I'm losing my mind.

Sometimes this causes me to jump to bizarre and illogical conclusions. Like, at breakfast:

Waitress: Want another pancake?

Me: Uh, I'm sorry, did you just say...Guatemala handshake? Did I mishear you or something? Because that doesn't even make sense! Oh. Oh, I see. I see what's going on here. I'm hearing things? I'm insane, is that it? It's finally happened? Fine! I'm fine with it! Ha! AHAHAHA! Look at you all, just looking at me, like a bunch of looker people, pointing your eyes at me! I'm craaaazzzyy, right? Well, boogadee-boo! You know what? I got your Guatemala handshake right here, fuckers!! *flips everyone the double bird*

Or at my mom's house...

Me: Hi mom.

Mom: (reading something online)

Me: Hi mom. Hi mom. Hi. Hi. Mom? Hi mom! Hi! Mom? I said hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.

Mom: (closes the laptop, starts to get up)

Me: Mom? Mom! Can you hear me? Hi! HI!! HI!! HI MOM! MOM! HELLO! HELLO MOM! MOM CAN YOU HEAR ME! CAN YOU HEAR ME! MOM! OH MY GOD I'M A GHOST! I'M A FUCKING GHOST! *slapping myself in the face* NO! GOD, NO! SOMEBODY PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!! I'M RIGHT HERE! LOOK! I'M STILL WITH YOU! *sweeps mug of coffee off table* I'LL NEVER GO INTO THE LIGHT! *tries repeatedly to spirit-pass through the wall* HOLY SHIT, I'M A SOLID GHOST? WAIT...WAS I EVER REALLY ALIVE!!?

Mom: Oh for cryin' out loud, will you calm down? I was just finishing this article.

Me: Oh. Okay. Heh. Sorry about your coffee mug. Why don't I... I'll brew another pot, yes? *whistling*

I know I'm asking for it with this post. Of course someone's going to comment and jokingly tell me I'm crazy, and I'll laugh hahaha and it'll be alright because you kinda know me and I kinda know you, and I know that you know I'm not really crazy, right? Haha. Right?

Right?

It started out as a holiday post...

Sister: So what're you doing in terms of holiday decor this year? Are you thinking of stepping it up from Magical Holiday Snowscape 2009? I mean, not that there was anything wrong with Magical Holiday Snowscape 2009.

Me: No, Magical Holiday Snowscape 2009 was awesome. But still, I think I can do better.

Me: I think I might actually open the bag of snow this year.

Sister: Oooh, that'll look nice! What about Keith?

Me: Yeah? What about Keith?

Keith the Holiday Wasp.

Entombed under this glass since

shortly before his untimely death last year.

Sister: He's still there? In that same spot?

Me: Um, yeah he's still there! Where else would he be? He's the star of my nativity scene!

Sister: Listen. I don't want to intrude on your "vision", but I don't think using a dead wasp to play the Baby Jesus in your nativity scene is very festive, and frankly it borders on sacrilegious. I think it's time to throw Keith in the trash.

Me: Do I look like I'm in the business of removing dead bodies? Um, no. Not my job. I'm the captain of my own ship, and that's it. Live and let live, that's my motto.

Sister: Captain of... live and let...what? Becky, you killed him. You trapped him under the glass and he died.

Me: Right. The "live" part of that motto applies to me only. Keith was a wasp, which according to science means he had a sword in his butt. He left me no other choice but to take his air away. If someone broke into your house threatening you with a sword in their butt, you'd take their air away too.

Sister: Okay, well. At least take the glass off him, he's not going anywhere.

Me: I did already! See?

Sister: Oh yeah, you did! And there he is! Hello Keith! You're looking quite hand...some...uh, Becky?

Me: Yeah?

Sister: What's that?

Me: What? Oh, that's Chantal, Keith's corpse bride. She just got here last week.

Sister: (SIGH)

Me: Right. Could you... I'm sorry to be a pain... but could you not breathe out so deeply? They're very brittle. Anyhow, Chantal died on her back, see? Keith died standing up, I think because of honor.

Sister: He died standing up, did he? That's amazing. Say, what have we here on the floor? Tweezers?

Me: Oh, yeah, the light... the light is really good in here, for... eyebrow plucking.

Sister: Two pairs of tweezers?

Me: One for each eyebrow.

Sister: ...

Me: He died standing up.

Sister: Sure. He died this way. Standing up. Next to these tweezers. Becky? What's been going on in here?

Me: Not someone playing with dead things, that's for sure.

Sister: Have you been getting enough "people time" lately?

Me: *shrug* People are stupid.

Sister: Oh, no. This is like that time with the finger puppets all over again. What is this, like, dead wasp theater or something?

Me: Dead wasp what? No! What? No! Pfft. What are you even... that doesn't even make sense! These are dead things! Why would I play with dead things? I don't even...pfft, whatever.

Sister: You are. You're totally playing with dead wasps.

Me: I swear on Jesus Christ Almighty himself that I am most definitely, without a doubt, NOT playing with dead wasps.

Dead Wasp Theater presents

KEITH and CHANTAL

in

JERRY MAGUIRE

Me: But if, hypothetically, I were playing with dead wasps in my living room, I don't see anything wrong with that.

Sister: Maybe you just need to get out. How about I take you out to lunch. Huh? Sound good? Fresh air? Sunshine?

Me: Daylight burns my eyes.

Sister: Come on.

Me: I'm really busy here.

Sister: I'll stay and help you!

Me: No. It's the kind of stuff I can do better alone.

Sister: Oh, really. Alone things? Like what?

ACCESS HOLLYWOOD:

UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH AMERICA'S SWEETHEARTS,

KEITH AND CHANTAL

Keith and Chantal Play Couples Charades

Me: Like, I don't know, just alone things. Masturbating?

Sister: You need me to go so you can masturbate?

Me: Apply to law school?

Sister: You're gonna masturbate then apply to law school. You're a regular Johnny-on-the-spot with excuses, you know that?

And now, the world premiere of

the Lifetime Original Movie

A DIFFICULT TRUTH

starring KEITH and CHANTAL

Me: (Sigh.) Alright fine. Please leave so I can play imagination games with my dead wasp friend Keith and his corpse bride Chantal.

Sister: Was that so hard?

Me: Don't slam the door on your way out. Last time the draft blew Keith clear across the room.

Dead Wasp Theater proudly presents...

KEITH AND CHANTAL

in

THE GRADUATE

Free Range Becky's Savvy Tourists' Guide to Urban Survival

I've learned so many things about big city life during my last couple of trips to New York City, and seeing as how I'm headed back east today, I thought it wise to sit myself down and review my acquired city skills so as not to make the same touristy mistakes as I did last time.

For instance...

1) Revolving doors go way too fast. In fact, one out of ten people has or will eventually lose a limb in a revolving door accident, according to data I overheard in a nightmare I had last night. This is why they require decisive action and a clear-cut plan of attack. Do whatever you need to do to get into the building. If you need to behave as if you're entering a double dutch jumprope, hands up and palms forward, rocking back and forth on your feet, eyes wide and scanning for the optimal moment of entry, that's fine. However, the doorman is not required to chant your "Cinderella dressed in yellah" rhymes. Leave him alone.

Remember though, once you're in your pie piece of revolving door space, you're in. No return, no regrets. No screaming and running back out, yelling "Oh my God it's too fast! Okay, do-over! Ready? *arms extended out, feet in runner's pose* And a-one, and a-two..."

No sharing revolving door compartments with others. Remember, it only looks like there's enough room for the both of you from the outside, but in reality they are much smaller than you think. Once you squeeze in behind someone, even if you do the little tippy-toe tiny steps behind them so they don't notice you, they will somehow sense your presence and they won't appreciate it. Even if when the ride ends, you jump out, grab their hand in yours and raise it above your heads like champions and yell "TWINS!" as you emerge together out of your compartment.

2) Subways go uptown, downtown, and sidewaystown, and there are maps to help you figure out which trains go where. None of them go to Vermont.

Riding the subway will make you feel confident and independent in this unfamiliar city. However, keep in mind that you are a grown woman, and therefore strangers will not be as impressed as you think they will be when you describe yourself smugly as "pretty much a free-range kid."

Note: In your attempt to "blend in with the locals" it's understandable if you don't want to carry a map. It looks touristy. But you know what else looks kind of touristy?

Arm-maps. Not as inconspicuous as one might think.

3) Shopping. Yes, shopping is bullshit. We are bad at it.

But remember, with the holiday season approaching, New York City is the perfect place to get some gift shopping out of the way. So let's give it another try, shall we?

We've had some trouble with purchases in the city before, but we're going to learn from our mistakes and do better this time. Now then, let's compare some Dos and Don'ts of Holiday gift shopping in New York City based on what we've learned from our previous mistakes:

Do Buy: A one-of-a-kind vintage hat or scarf in a small boutique downtown for your most eclectic friend!

Don't Buy: A bunch of rocks.

Seriously. Nobody wants your damn geodes. Not even the happy looking one.

Ask yourself this: For whom is this a gift? Who collects rocks and minerals? I mean besides you. No, not Nana. Nana does not collect rocks and minerals.

Ask yourself also: Is traveling home with 15 pounds of rock in your carry-on worth the hassle with airport security?

And no, it doesn't make you seem any more normal when you tell people that one of them is not a geode at all, but a fossilized dinosaur turd! And that it was free with purchase of a vial of wooly mammoth fur!

"Buy 8 rocks and a clump of hair, and get a free piece of old shit" is not the bargain you think it is.

Do: Look for holiday sales at your favorite stores!

Don't: Buy 3 of these sweatshirts in sizes 0, 0, and 16 because they're the last ones in the store and you feel sorry for them, then give them all to the same person because by the time Christmas rolls around you've named them (Kuk'uk, Nippikortuyok and Debbie) and you don't want to break up the wolf pack.

Do Buy: Stationary and funky pens are always a fun gift!

Don't Buy: Oh Jesus. Come on. What the fuck is that.

A bird? A graphite bird's head? Oh my God, I remember now. You tucked it away somewhere because you couldn't figure out whether to write with the beak or the tail, because both felt awfully non-consensual and and you are nothing if not respectful of animals, even inanimate ones.

Which reminds me...

4) You will experience things in New York City that might make you upset. Like rude cab drivers, for instance. Or overpriced coffee. Or litterbugs. Or a pile of disemboweled toad torsos made into change purses.

I know, it doesn't make sense. Disembowel a cat and you're a sociopath. Disembowel a toad and you're an entrepreneur. And yet? There they are, $24 bucks a pop. And the kid next to you who looks like he's spent his day passionately frenching a barrel of red dye no. 2 is yelling "Neato! Toads! I can fit all my Silly Bandz in here!" and you're steadying yourself against the counter fanning your face and doing the sign of the cross and shaking each of their little dead toad hands and mumbling "Espiritu sanctum" in a faint raspy whisper and all the kids are running to find their parents.

My point is, this is New York City. You need to harden that heart. Would Carrie and Miranda get Catholic vapors over a pile of dead toads? Hell no. They'd thread a gold chain through their glassy toad eyeballs and wear them as a necklace, or they'd glue them onto a yarmulka made of street-meat and wear them clubbing, is what they'd do.

Suck it up, you damn California hippie. And Godspeed.

It may have been the pico de gallo, now that I think about it

Me: (mouth clamped shut)

Hygienist: You're going to have to pay for the appointment regardless of whether you open your mouth, so you may as well just do it and get it over with.

Me: (mumbling through gritted teeth) I'm embarrassed, my breath is so bad today. I brushed my teeth like five times and I can't get it to go away.

Hygienist: What did you eat last night? Sometimes if you eat garlic, or something like...

Me: No, it wasn't what I ate. It was a dream.

Hygienist: What??

Me: You know when you have a dream that you're eating like, dirt or dogshit or something, then you wake up and your breath smells like dirt or dogshit or whatever you were eating in your dream?

Hygienist: No.

Me: Yeah you do. You know, it's like if your underpants creep up into a wedgie while you sleep, you dream that you have a poop that's stuck halfway out?

Hygienist: No.

Me: Yeah you do.

Hygienist: Just open your mouth.

Me: No.

Hygienist: Then go home.

Me: (mumbling) Muh bref schml lk pushe

Hygienist: No idea what you just said.

Me: (SIGH!) My breath smells like pussy.

Hygienist: ...

Me: I wasn't eating pussy though.

Hygienist: ...

Me: I like girls, but... for friendship.

Hygienist: (blank stare)

Me: It was a dream... I had a dream.

Hygienist: Stop. Okay. You had a lesbian dream last night, and this morning your breath smelled like a woman's vagina.

Me: OF COURSE on the morning I have a cleaning, I wake up with pussymouth. Isn't that always how it is though? Murphy's Law, I'm telling you. Haha! Right?

Hygienist: I'm inclined to believe it's the bad breath that causes the dream that explains the bad breath to your subconscious mind, not the dream that causes the bad breath. Are you listening to me? Becky? No, it's... give that to me... it's not time to kiss the suction wand yet.

Me: I'm doing it for you, to suck out all the bad smell.

Hygienist: Don't worry about me. I want to hear more about you. Who's the lucky dream lady?

Me: It was... it was me.

Hygienist: You went down on yourself?

Me: Yeah. I didn't fold in half or anything, it was a whole other me. So...

Hygienist: Well that's good. The other way would be creepy.

Me: Yeah. I've never seen anyone else's vagina up close, so I had to play both roles. I wasn't into it though, I only did it because I didn't want to say no and hurt my feelings. And I wasn't any good at it, but I didn't want to stop myself because...

Hygienist: You didn't want to hurt your feelings.

Me: I know how sensitive I can be sometimes.

Hygienists: So, to be clear, what you're saying is, you dream pity-fucked yourself last night, and now, as a result, your mouth smells like your vagina.

Me: Yes.

Hygienist: And...I'm about to put my hands in this mouth that, by your own admission, smells like your own vagina. I'm about to know what your vagina smells like, because it will be all over my hands.

Me: Yeah. Weird, huh? First me with the unwilling auto-cunnilingus dream, now you, the unwilling cleaner of vagina mouth. Totally came full circle. Circle of Life.

Hygienist: No, it's not really the circle of life.

Me: The irony of it all.

Hygienist: No. Not ironic. Tragic, yes.

Me: I'm just glad this is out in the open. I feel a lot better. Do you feel like we've bonded kind of? I do. I'm totally gonna facebook friend request you later today. Let's get started! You ready? (opens mouth, settles in)

Hygienist: (latex gloves snap, goggles snap, surgical mask snap)

Me: Hey. Cmere. Besties? (holds out pinky for bestie pinky-link, waits. waits. waits...) Besties?

Besties?

(hopeful eyebrows)

Besties?

Okay. You look pretty busy, we'll seal the deal later.

Hot stuff

You know how it is, when you decide to lose weight because you've spent your summer finding new and creative yet socially acceptable ways to put butter into your mouth, and as a result your doctor tells you at your most recent appointment that you have the cholesterol of a Hell's Angel...

...so you do what you always do when the going gets tough. You make yourself a graph, and you give it an inspirational title

and to help you lose weight, you draw little stars to keep you on track, and you plan little rewards for yourself along the way

And you have a few rough starts, which is when you realize you lacked foresight when you didn't account for the possibility of any weight gain when you drew the graph

But still, you persevere, and you slowly manage to drop ten pounds or so

To motivate yourself, you tape your Graph of Success on your bathroom wall above your scale, in the empty space right below the hooked rug your mom made for you of your cat Rufus

which she started in 1988 when Rufus was a kitten and didn't finish until years after he'd died, and gave to you for your birthday, and you were all "Wow! It's a rug of Rufus! My dead cat from middle school!" *concerned sideways eyes to your brother*

And you feel like hot stuff even though in your rational mind you know you're really about 15-20 pounds away from being hot stuff, but that part of your brain stopped working as soon as you got out of the shower the other night and saw that your belly had stopped casting a shadow down over your vagina, so you go shopping and buy your first ever pair of skinny jeans, purple ones, even though your high-waisted stone-washed Gap jeans, the ones with the permanent oil stains from using your knees and thighs as a cooling rack for your late-night butter and tortilla snacks (Butteritos!), are still totally in style, and you feel like a douchebag for buying skinny jeans after making fun of them for so long, but you're so happy at the prospect of wearing something other than workout capris for the first time in months that you don't even care.

And a longish fitted shirt to go over it, a shirt with buttons...yes, buttons! I know! Like a fucking CEO or something.

And you know what goes well with a shirt with buttons, don't you? A bra. A real one, not a sports bra, even though your sports bra is orange and for some reason that helps you rationalize wearing it out to fancy sushi restaurants and bridal showers.

And maybe some bootlets because even though the fleece lined bedroom slippers you've been wearing every day have treads on the soles, you know in your heart that you've been kidding yourself. Those aren't really shoes, are they Becky. Are they. No.

And as it so happens, you've recently discovered that there is a kind of makeup that you can buy, and also wear on your face, that covers up dark circles under your eyes. Instead of dark circles, you now have white circles, but it doesn't matter because you're pretty sure you've never looked so rested in all your life.

And guess what else? You hit the reward star labeled "Haircut!" on your Graph of Success, which actually means you get highlights, but you like to pretend it's the removal of all those split ends that magically brightens up your roots. So you go in for your "haircut" and decide, on a whim, because you have purple skinny jeans now and if there were a Graph of Cool your line would go off the paper way up past the dead cat rug and right into space, that your hair should be the color of FIRE!

But only the lower half of your hair, because you're chicken shit.

And the hair lady does it, and when it's all done, your hair isn't so much the color of FIRE! as it is the color of old scab. And you realize you should never try to go funky with your hair color at a place that has this sign on all the mirrors.

So many caregivers, they need actual SIGNS to tell them not to

leave their old people laying around everywhere all willy nilly.

You realize it's time to pull out the big guns if you're ever going to fix your scab hair. You need an Asian, and quick, because Asians rule at hair.

When you find the Asian, you tell her you want your hair to look like fire, and after a minor miscommunication which results in her leaving you waiting in the chair for ten minutes while she goes down the street to buy you a spicy noodle bowl, you eventually break through the language barrier and she does indeed make your hair look like fire.

She smiles and repeatedly tells you that your hair "looks like ass", but then she spells it out for you, "Ass. You know! A-R-T. Ass." You agree, your hair truly is a work of ass. You don't even care that the chemicals in the dye will likely weaken your hair to the point that you'll be hard pressed to find a strand strong enough to floss with after today, because you feel like hot stuff.

Even though you know you're not hot stuff, you feel like hot stuff. And that's just as good.

But now you are hot stuff with nothing to do, so you get all dressed up and head down to Pep Boys for a new car battery, with your purple skinny jeans, your fitted shirt with a bra under it, your white under-eye circles, and your half-fire hair. You hold yourself with the maturity of a 35 year old woman, but your whimsical color palette and your lack of dark eye circles suggest someone much, much younger. You're an enigma.

Except, the walking. You haven't quite gotten the hang of the high heel bootlets and instead of that land on your heel/push off with your toe thing that's supposed to happen when you walk, you're walking like a marionette, arms swinging in wide semicircles around your body for balance, knees up high, and heels and toes landing simultaneously. Like you're walking through an obstacle course made of monster truck tires.

And you haven't bought a new bra in so long that you're wearing an old A-cup, and because your boobs are not A-cup anymore, both your nipples and most of your right boob are hanging over the edge of your bra cups, which have accordioned themselves down against the underwire like little crybaby quitters. It's okay though, you decide. Own it, hot stuff.

Oh what's this now? A quick glance in a shiny new rims on the wall of the Pep Boys waiting area confirms your suspicion that your face is bleeding. Two bloody back-to-back crescent-moon fingernail marks on your cheek from that aggressive impromptu facial you gave yourself at that long red light a few miles back.

No problem. You lick the collar of your new fitted shirt, clean the wound, and apply pressure. Holding your collar to your cheek looks normal if you make a very concentratey face like it's just what you do when you're making tough decisions like which rims to buy.

It will stain, but it's okay because the shirt's plaid. You're not out of the game yet, hot stuff.

God, you have got to get a handle on your picking problem. You begin to brainstorm your newest reward graph (Becky's Chart of Victory Over Compulsive Picking!) and are trying to decide how many stars will earn you a bra, but all the planning is making you feel very picky, and you discover what might be a tick on the back of your head. Is it a tick? Or a skin tag? A scab?

Maintaining pressure with your collar against your cheek wound, you pull the back of your shirt up to the spot in question and press the cloth against the bump and then twist your shirt around back-to-front to check for a blood spot. This two-handed double skull-wound press and rotate is more difficult to pull off than the simple one-handed collar spit tourniquet, and requires some alone time behind the wall of rims.

In the reflection of the rims, your undereye circles really do look fabulous, you conclude, as you retrieve your therapist's business card form your wallet and use its corners to clean the dried head-blood out from under your fingernails.

Hot stuff, Becky, you think to yourself. Hot stuff.

You know how it is.

Foiled. The elusive Jeff Foxworthy escapes my clutches once again, snarls Becky as she twirls her villain moustache

This is Steve Foxbury.

In this photo he's watching two rats hump, he tells me. The humpee rat is dead.

Is it weird that I find that romantic?

Steve has contributed a song to the children's album Do Fun Stuff, the proceeds from which go to benefit Smith Magenis Syndrome.

Clicky click. You know the drill.

Steve is the lead singer for the band The Battle Sigh. I've been googling Steve's band's name for months now, waiting for an album release. I told Ryan from Pacing the Panic Room this, and he asked me to interview Steve for the album release. Then my facial twitch began to flare up and I had to go downstairs and self-medicate with food. Twenty minutes later, with a perfect semicircular line of of hummus traveling from one cheek over the bridge of my nose to the other cheek from French kissing the bottom of the family-sized tub, I wrote him back and agreed.

Steve Foxbury is super dry and insanely witty and I like him even more now. Here's what happened:

SMUK: Tell me about your travels, Steve Foxbury. Do you spend a lot of time on a tour bus? Are you a member of the "meter high club"?

Steve: I can see where you would think that a guy whose musical accomplishments include writing the theme song for The WB's hit series, "Zoe, Duncan, Jack and Jane" would require a tour bus to meet the rigorous demands of his busy touring schedule, but you'd be wrong. I'm really lucky because I live in Pittsburgh and the rest of the band lives in Orlando, so I get to divide my creative time between these two cultural Meccas. Like Ansell Adams, my work is informed by the beauty that surrounds me.

As for your last question, I will only say that once you've done it in a burning building, everything else is for sissies.

SMUK: Steve Foxbury, your contribution to Ryan Marshall's album "Do Fun Stuff" is a beautiful song called "Nothing." Is this the first ever nihilist children's anthem known to Western civilization? Or something else entirely?

Steve: I wish that I could be the guy to plant our (awesome!!!) flag in this burgeoning form of expression, but I'm certain that pretty much any children's music written in Gary, IN or in either of the Dakotas would have to have roots deeply sown in nihilism. Kid's music was kind of a stretch for me. I usually write songs that people would listen to while crafting the first few drafts of their suicide notes, so while the melody and tempo might say "fun for young learners", it was of critical importance to me to still convey the message that ultimately, we exist (or do we?) in a void.

SMUK: The mysterious guest performance at the very end of "Nothing." Who is that? Some have speculated that it is indeed Sting, his most surprising cameo since "Money for Nothing.” Care to comment?

Steve: The little voice at the end is my son, Whistle. It took us, like 30 hours to get that. I'd like to say that he has some natural talents here, but that would be a lie. In the end, I ran the whole take through auto-tune and passed it through a couple really expensive filters; without which, he would've sounded like Ma Fratelli from the Goonies. I mean - I love the kid, but yeesh.

SMUK: I love the quality of your voice, although I haven't the musical lexicon to describe why. I do know a lot of food words, though. Your voice, to me, is like black licorice, the kind you get from Holland with the salt on it. And the woman who sings backup with you, her voice is like melted Havarti cheese. In this metaphor, you have to pretend that licorice and cheese combine perfectly together, but I didn’t plan ahead that far. Perhaps her as the margarita, you as the salted rim is a better analogy. What foods would you assign to your voice?

Steve: I think my voice sounds like the sixth pie eaten in a pie eating contest. It's that point where all novelty associated with eating pie is long gone, but at least it's still pie, so maybe that counts for something? Mindy's is like ketchup on a meatloaf.

SMUK: How is this interview going so far? I'm nervous and I'm sweating behind my knees. Do you find that erotic in any way?

Steve: I love this interview. Behind-the-knee sweat is the third sexiest type of woman sweat.

SMUK: That’s kind of you to say. Okay, back to business. You are a musician who makes music. According to my research, sound travels in waves.

Steve: Heresy!

SMUK: It’s true. Steve, how did you approach writing a children's song for Ryan's album, seeing as how it's a departure from your usual work with your band, The Battle Sigh?

Steve: Whether I'm writing for small children or for the band, my approach is the same: Gobble pharmaceuticals till the world becomes a soft, fuzzy hug of a place and then try to come up with a hook that will sell enough copies to rescue me from a day job that I would gladly swap out for getting kicked in the balls every day by a gorilla in Gene Simmons boots if the pay and benefits were the same.

SMUK: Steve Foxbury, was that last question the most professional-sounding thing anyone's ever asked you or what? I just shit my pants that was so professional. Ryan fed that question to me. Could you tell?

Steve: You're a regular Nancy Grace! How are my answers at this point? I feel so greedy and self-centered. I'm not learning anything about you in this process, except where you sweat when you get nervous.

SMUK: You’re doing a great job, that's probably why all the knee sweat. Steve Foxbury, are you or are you not, in any way, related to Jeff Foxworthy?

Steve: It's tough to tell. We're not a very close family.

SMUK: Complete the line "You know you're a redneck when..." in a way that might bring all conversation to an awkward, dead halt at a dinner party.

Steve: My mother died of lung cancer in January.

SMUK: Nice one. Finally, Steve, when do you think we can expect to be able to buy your band's CD? And when we can, will you sign mine? And will you be selling it in vinyl? Cause I scratch on the weekends.

Steve: If all goes well or even a little wrong, we should have the album ready sometime in November, so probably February? We're pressing vinyl as well because I saw this thing on CBS Sunday Morning that said people will buy your album if you put it out on vinyl and I really, really need people to buy this album. I mean it's cool that people are buying Do Fun Stuff, but it's not exactly lining my pockets, you know? No, seriously. I love kids. What was your question?

Fin.

I'm ending this with a video of Steve and his band The Battle Sigh playing their song "Raised by Wolves" at a small house party. I've watched this video elevens of times. Click and listen, and you'll understand why the sudden knee sweat problem.

Raised By Wolves from The Panic Room Videos on Vimeo.

For more information on Steve Foxbury's band, The Battle Sigh, check out his blog at thebattlesigh.blogspot.com or listen, download, and all that stuff HERE.

Have you checked out DO FUN STUFF yet? It's already topping itunes, friendishes. Good things are happening.