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.

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.