Been spendin' most my life, ridin' on a gangsta's motorized stair seat

I woke up in my bed last Saturday morning, shivering and wondering why my lips felt like a tempurpedic neck pillow, wearing a short black dress and one high heel. I had been dreaming about a life as a Russian acrobat, which I knew without even checking meant I had fallen asleep wearing a thong.

I limped unevenly to the bathroom, 5'7" on one side and 5'3" on the other.

High heel, bare foot...

Click, plop... click, plop... click, plop...

tall, short... svelte, dwarf... queen of the world, troll doll...

I pulled Hoodie and pj bottoms out of my pile of laundry limbo, redressed, and sat on the toilet in my thinking position--pajama pants down around ankles, chest on thighs, arms dangling, face in panties like a little head hammock. So comfy.

I remembered a marachino cherry.

There was another cherry, later. An orange slice too.

Sugar on the rim.

Lime wedge in the bottle. Like in Mexico. Damn, that gets me every time. I love Mexico.

I will drink anything if it has a cherry or some kind of fruit or accessory in/hanging off the glass. You know those plastic monkeys that hang by their tails off the rim? Done. You could fill a martini glass up with phlegm and kitty litter and hang a monkey off the glass and maybe an umbrella, and I'd be all, "Holy crap is this a party or what? This drink sure tastes like vacation!"

I remembered my drink order at dinner: "I want that foamy drink with the round thing bobbing around in it. I want to say frankenberry, but that's not right. Dingleberry? Help me out. Floaty thing."

(If you're interested, it was a CRANberry.

*smug Trebek pause*

CRAN. berry.

*taps answer cards*)

I love festivities. I'm like a 15-year old boy who ejaculates in his jeans before his girlfriend has even begun to fiddle with his zipper. I'm like him, only with fun. Or even the suggestion of fun. Those floating cranberries and plastic monkeys dry hump my brain until I ejaculate seratonin in my metaphorical jeans. Yeah, I just wrote that.

My funjaculation condition doesn't apply to just drinks though. I'm not a big drinker. Now I realize I can't keep posting about drunk bachelorette trips and lessons in how to be photographed drunk and continue to be all "Heavens above, I can't even remember the last time I consumed liquah, I wouldn't even know what to order." *coy eyes over Southern belle fan*

I sound like a hypocrite, but I'm not. I'm not a big drinker, but I'm a master celebrator, is what I am. A master 'brator. Okay, yes, I forced that. It's embarrassing. Let's move on.

It's not just the drinks. It's carnivals (Oh my God, get off the highway NOW, I see a ferris wheel I WANT A CHURRO GOGOGO!!) or elaborately decorated cakes (I want the piece with the Superman, but I also want a rose and a balloon and a corner piece, so maybe Gerrymander it around a bit when you're cutting, m'kay? I don't care if my piece looks like Tajikistan, just make it happen) or any Journey song (*air punch, air punch, air punch, scary rock n' roll face*) or Jai Ho (*delicate Bollywood turny wrists, serious multicultural face*) I just get too excited sometimes.

Yesterday I went over to visit my Nana at my mom's house, dressed in my workout clothes because really I was there to use the treadmill, not to visit Nana, but I like to pretend I'm just killing time on the treadmill until Nana wakes up, but Nana never wakes up. If she were a goldfish she'd be the kind who's been resting on the rocks at the bottom of the tank with the same delicate tendril of poop hanging from her ass for so long that you decide to flush her and all of a sudden just as you've said your goodbyes to your Nanafish laying there in the net scooper, she opens one eye and you're like WAIWAIWAIT SHE'S ALIVE and everyone feels super bad for almost flushing Nana and you never talk about it again. Man, I am KILLING with the metaphors today.

Frankly, I wouldn't know what to say to her if she did ever wake up. Maybe I could talk about our common interests, like breathing:

Me: Breathe any good air lately?

Nana: *breathe*

Me: Oh, dang girl, save some for me!

Nana: *wink* *breathe* *sleep*

Me: You crazy, Nana.

So anyway, I showed up in my workout gear at around noon and discovered a half-empty frozen margarita machine sitting in the patio from a party the night before, promptly funjaculated, removed my sports bra and running shoes and began to gather beautiful flowers with which to decorate my drink.

And you know the saying, "Where there's a half-empty margarita machine, there's leftover fish tacos," right? So true.

And you know the saying, "I'd rather drink alone for the right reasons then drink with other people for the wrong ones?" Also true. It was hard, but I think I did the right thing.

And you know the saying, "It's better to have had a few drinks by yourself on a lovely spring day and then taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair-seat and broken the motor from over-enthusiastic make-believe gangsta hydraulics than it is to have never taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair seat at all?" No? Well, write it down. Words to live by.

I have the camel toe of a much younger woman

The thing I didn't expect about being in my 30's was how young and hip I would still seem, which is odd because when I was 23 and out at a bar on a Saturday night, if I saw a 30 year old woman I'd be like, "Oh my God, who brought the Golden Girl?! Somebody tell the Cryptkeeper to hit the road!!" and then I'd throw maraschino cherries at her head until she cried.

So it was surprising to arrive here in my 30's and discover that I still totally fit in with young people. I don't think anybody even notices that I'm older.

For example, the other day at Lucky Jeans, I was browsing through stacks of gloriously low-waisted skinny jeans named "The Zoe" and "The Lola" when the teenaged salesgirl did that up-down-up look at me that girls do to each other sometimes, and then led me way, way back to the VIP section because clearly she could tell I had an edgier style than her typical customers. She handed me a couple of pairs of special jeans to try on with names like "The Dame Judy" and "The Sassy Widow" or something and I was like, "You sure the elastic waist and velcro fly are fashionable right now?" and she's like, "Oh, totally, I have five pairs at home just like them in my grandma's closet," and I tried them on and was like, "Is my camel toe too obvious?" and she's all, "You mean, is it obvious enough? That's what we kids call vaginal cleavage, ma'am, and you're STACKED. You look super sexy."

Every girl hopes for the day when her particular brand of pretty will come into style, and if the salesgirl is right and cleavag© is what all the kids are flaunting these days, then for me, that day is now. The era of the fat labia has arrived, bitches!! *THUNDERCLAP*

Yeah that's right. Showin' off the goods in my new Dame Judys. Got something to say? Write it on a post-it and stick it twixt my bedenimed labia. Just don't mess with my moneyclip while you're down there. Or the packets of Equal. Oh, and I have a receipt for a pair of Easy Spirit loafers down there too, don't throw that away.

Strutting home from Lucky Jeans in my crisp new Dame Judys, I happen upon a group of young people milling about behind the middle school. Now here's the thing about kids: They can never really get a handle on me. I'm an adult, yes, but I look so young and stylish that they relate to me as if I'm one of their own.

So I flash them the sideways peace sign and kissface that I saw my niece Katie and her friends doing on the MyFace, before she blocked me and started a group called "I bet this used tampon can get more fans than my Aunt Becky." Haha, Katie, FTW!!

"Hey kids, your mural is def on the fresh tip!" I call out. They look up from their cellphones and stare at me. Oh my God, they can't believe an adult can be this cool.

"Hey, um, we didn't draw it!!" one of them calls out.

"Oh, don't be shy," I laugh, "It's lovely, really a lovely mural."

They look confused, but who can blame them, really. It's hard to know how to act around an adult who just "gets" them so completely.

"Man, it's hot out, right? LOL! I sure am snizzweaty! Check out my armpizznits!!"

Am I a grown up or a kid? They can't figure it out! I'm that awesome!

"Hey, I'll tell you what, I sure could use a refreshing squirt in the mouth, like that guy in your mural," I joke, pointing up at the wall.

The kids think I'm hilarious. I'm so funny I don't even realize it sometimes. It's just my nature.

I run with it. "Where'd he find that fire hydrant?? I'm thirsty too!! Get in mah belleh, water!!"

They love me! They're all laughing and texting now, probably typing, "LORFL, woman of indeterminate age can totally hang!!"

"Guess who has two thumbs and wants a big gulp of THAT refreshing stuff??" I yell. *Hands up, raising the roof* "Holllaaaa!!"

I pose beneath the mural, my mouth open and my neck craning to get my imaginary hydration on. They whip out their phone cameras. "Don't EVEN tag me on Faceplace, you guys! LOL! Don't EVEN!" But I know they will, because by that point we're tight, yo.

"Hey, PacMan, save some for me!" I waggle a finger, admonishing the head above me for hogging all the water from the giant fire hydrant. (Hello? PacMan? Nice video game reference! Sometimes I amaze even myself.)

"Awwww, snap, kids. Way to go with the prokaryotic bacterium off to the left. I feel that, I really do." I point up to the left of the fire hydrant.

"First sign of life on earth, yo, paired with the image of the man drinking water creates a clear theme of survival, as unicellular organisms join modern man in the collective struggle for survival. Yo."

One of the kids nudges me. "Hey lady, that's a pussy."

"Pussy? Yeah right. Prokaryotes are hardly pussies. They can live in extreme temperatures and even thrive under radiation!"

(Oh, blush, my teaching credential is showing. Always with the teachable moments, Becky.)

After a round of high fives, an act which apparently has evolved since I was young to look more like one person putting their hand up high and yelling "Up top!" while the other people try to hit her with snotrockets, we say our goodbyes and head out.

Later, checking out Katie's page to see how I'm doing up against the dirty tampon (I love competition!) I see a new group gaining followers on the sidebar. "I bet this random lady's camel toe can get more fans than Ke$ha." Random lady? I won't pretend I'm not flattered. I really made an impression on those kids with my impromptu lesson on cells.

I won't tell you who's winning because I'm humble, but I'll tell you she has two thumbs and is pretty much the Edward James Olmos of Internet camel toe sensations.