Just like Princess Di, only less ana and more arrhea

Nana's Nigerian nurse is telling my dog Juanita that she's going to sew her a traditional Nigerian outfit and that, when Juanita travels back to Nigeria with her to visit her family, they will have a parade for her. She's teaching Juanita a traditional dance that involves clapping to a fast rhythm.

"Dance along wid me, my little Nigerian princess! *clapclapclap* YA-YA-YA!"

Juanita is a rapt audience, but Nigerian Nurse doesn't realize that Juanita's eyes are only tracking her hand movements because she has a smear of sweet potato on her wrist.

She can't wait for Juanita to meet her newborn niece, who has a name that translates to mean "Honor."

Me: Honor, that's a nice name. Does your name mean anything in Nigerian?

Nigerian Nurse: My name, it means "Bone on a weekaind."

Me: Bone? Oh, born on a weekend? Hm. So you were born on a weekend then?

Nigerian Nurse: No, I was bone on a Too-esday.

Me: Right. Makes sense.

Nigerian Nurse: Juanita is a powahful name. Dees dog has de haht of a lion.

Me: Yeah, well. She's food aggressive, so maybe.

Nigerian Nurse: Yes I know! She try to bite me befoah!

Me: What? Why? I'm sorry! Why would she do that??

Nigerian Nurse: I try to pick huh up, and she show me huh teets, she is a warriah!

Me: She showed you her tits?

Nigerian Nurse: Yes. Huh sharp teets.

Me: Her...sharp...tits?? Her nipples are kind of...crusty, I guess.

Nigerian Nurse: No. Huh sharp teets! Teets...ths. *growly face*

Me: Oh! Her sharp teeth? That's odd. I wonder why she bared her teeth. How did you pick her up?

Nigerian Nurse: Like dees. *Puts both hands around Juanita's neck and tries to lift her*

Me: OH MY GOD!! STOP! WHA?? YOU CAN'T...HOLY SHIT!! She's not a fucking SNAKE!!

Nigerian Nurse: She deedn't like it, she tell me wid heh teets.

Me: Yeah, I bet she told you with her teeth. You don't have much experience with dogs, do you.

Nigerian Nurse: No, I don't know many dogs befo-ah Juanita. Juanita is my fehst dog friend.

Me: That's nice. She's a good dog.

...

Me: Um, whatcha doin?

Nigerian Nurse: Petteen heh on heh face.

Me: With a spoon?

Nigerian Nurse: Yes, I show heh dat I love heh wid deh spoon, because I am a-freed to touch heh. She is a wild dog, a fierce warriah. *pong, pong, pong, spoon on dog head*

Me: Hmm. She seems to love you, despite you rapping her on the head with a spoon like that. How strange.

Nigerian Nurse: It's because she know I love heh too. I give heh treats to show heh. Lot of treats like, oh, you know, like, de bah-nah-nahs, and de lettuce, and what else I geeve heh? Cereal, and crab meat, and chicken soup...

Me: What? Okay, no. You know what? My mistake. I should have mentioned this before, but she really shouldn't eat human food...

Nigerian Nurse: And she love hummus, and deh Skinneh Cow ice cree-am sandwich...

Me: ....you know, because she's a dog, and dogs eat dog food only, and sometimes she gets an upset stomach....

Nigerian Nurse: And sometime cookie, but not too much of de cookie because she has to keep heh fig-yuh, so I give heh deh healty Luna Bar, and deh yogurt for healty lady to make deh lady poop on time, it's called...I can't remembah, you know what I'm tinking of?

Me: *sigh* Activia?

Nigerian Nurse: Yes. She love dat. Acti-veeeahhhhh!!! *claps and sings for Juanita* Sing along wid me, my Nigerian princess! Acti-vvveeeaaahhh!!

Juanita: *circus dog jumps, waves arms in the air* ActiviAAAAHHHH!!!

Me (telepathically): Um...what are you doing?

Juanita (telepathically back): Jumpin' around with my new best friend, is what. Mind your own business. I'm a fucking Nigerian princess.

Me: We're going home. You are SUCH a food whore.

Juanita: Dude, she just GIVES it to me on a spoon. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Say no?

Me: Well, yeah, when she starts breaking out the ice cream sandwiches, maybe, I don't know, just maybe you could show some restraint.

Juanita: Have you ever HAD Skinny Cow brand ice cream sandwiches? Seriously?? Only 150 calories? Half the fat, all the taste. Or...all the fat, double the taste, if you have two. Or if you have three, it's all the fat plus another half of the fat and triple the taste, which is the best way, I think.

Me: Well, this explains the dried diarrhea all over your ass-fur.

Juanita: That's not mine.

Me: Not your diarrhea? Some other dog made diarrhea on your ass fur? So, they backed up against you, butt to butt, and assploded all over you, is what you're saying?

Juanita: Maybe, or maybe I sat in diarrhea earlier. Some other dog left her diarrhea laying around and I sat in it probably, you know how it is. *sniffs butt* Nope, not mine.

Me: I'm not going to argue the source of your diarrhea ass-hair. This is insane.

Juanita: What. Come on. Like you never got someone else's diarrhea on your ass before? Oh, okay, Miss Hoity-Toity diarrhea snob. Oooh, look at Princess Becky, she's too good for other people's diarrhea...

Me: That's just hurtful. I'll have you know I am NOT too good for other people's diarrhea!!

Juanita: Heh. So you're not good enough for other people's diarrhea, is what you're saying?

Me: No. I mean...I...I'm just exactly good enough...equal in value to other people's diarrhea...Wait, this doesn't even make sense, what were we talking about before?

Juanita: We were talking about delicious Skinny Cow sandwiches and you lost your mind and started rambling about diarrhea. Now, please return me to the nurse lady, Princess Diarrhea, I have a date with a parfait.

Me: No, that's not gonna happen. I'm thinking it's time to go home.

Juanita: That's interesting. You know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking later tonight, maybe while you're brushing your teeth, your pillow's gonna sit in someone else's diarrhea.

Me: I'm thinking your threats don't scare me one bit.

Juanita: Again, interesting. Because I'm thinking maybe your pillow, in its infinite prescience in knowing you would respond to my threats that way, already sat in someone else's diarrhea this morning, right after you left the house.

Me: ...

Juanita: Yeah. Reckanize.

Why Jeff Bridges is not helpful during an anal leakage crisis

Do you know that, to this day, I've never seen The Big Lebowski in its entirety? I know, I know, you guys are all like WHAT?? SACRILEGE!!

I did intend to see it once. I even saw the beginning of it when it was out in theaters, on a date with a boy a few years back. But I had to leave 20 minutes into it when warm yellow oil started pouring out of my asshole.

Hahaha! *Shakes head* Classic Becky. *Sigh.*

So I'm sitting there next to my date in the theater, holding his penis his hand, when I lean forward to adjust myself in my seat and I feel a cold draft against my tush, and OMG do you love how I said tush just then? POW! Fancy manners explosion IN YOUR FACE!! *jerking off motion, throws pretend ejaculate in your eyes*

So I feel a draft, and reach back to check it out, performing that whole "smoothing out your butt" routine that girls do when they're actually checking for their period, and I feel wetness, but SO much wetness that I know it couldn't possibly have come from me, because I hardly ever pee my pants while I'm conscious.

"Hey, you know what?" I whisper to my date. "I sat in something, I think."

"Oh, shit, really? Lemme feel your seat." He reaches down and brushes his palm over my seat cushion. "Yeah, it's wet. *sniff, sniff* I think it's popcorn butter."

"I'll be back in a sec," I whisper, and run to the bathroom.

I pull down my pants and sit down on the toilet. Yep, whatever it was had soaked through my pants and onto my panties. And yep, it's bright yellow. Popcorn butter. Great.

I reach back with some toilet paper to see if there's any still on me, and the toilet paper comes back bright yellow. I'm soaked. When I stand up to collect paper towels to wring out my pants, I notice that the toilet water is also bright yellow. "That's strange," I wonder. "It was clear when I sat down." Something is not right.

I bend down to check out the yellow toilet water, and notice that the light is not reflecting off the surface of the water normally. The surface of the toilet water seems dull and matte, rather than glassy.

I toss my wadded up toilet paper into the bowl, expecting ripples. What happens instead is that the tissue lands on the surface of the toilet water, and within seconds, what I thought was yellow toilet water begins to crack and fissure like an iceberg, revealing clear water underneath.

I sit there, staring at the yellow shards of waxy yellow substance bobbing in the toilet water, and decide that whoever had used the toilet before me had better get herself checked out quick, poor thing!

I look down at my underwear. Bright yellow.

I look at the toilet paper. Bright yellow.

The waxy shards of cooled, solidified oil floating in the toilet bowl. Heh. Gross. Not mine.

The smell of stale popcorn butter. Heh. Some people are gross. Not me though. Heh.

Can you believe the nerve of some people, pouring popcorn butter on movie theater seats, for other people to go sit on? Haha, real funny, guys. Nice job! Time slows down. Flashing montage of images...the toilet paper...my underwear...the toilet bowl...Jeff Bridges slow-motion laughing in my face... Nice job, pouring it in my underpants and all over my lady parts. Ha! Oh my God it's starting to make sense now. Nice work, strangers who aren't me, pouring popcorn butter all down my thighs! Oh mother of God, no. Oh, look, you're still at it, pranksters, aren't you? Because it's still dripping down my legs! I'm dying. Liquified organs leaking out my fufu. You people and your hijinks! Denial denial denial...

*pants up, zipped*
*sweatshirt around waist*
*flush broken waxy shards down the toilet*
*dry heave...dry heave...*
*wet paper towel on forehead*
*pay phone call to roommate*
*shaky shaky hands, please come get me*

"Psst," I tap my date on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go. You stay here though."

"What? Why? Where you going?"

"I'm gonna go to the doctor. I broke something, my lady parts exploded. I think my uterus ruptured, or my eggs cracked. I don't know. I'm in trouble though. Please don't follow me."

"The Dude abides," says movie screen Jeff Bridges, all relaxed on account of his not having any hot waxy oil pouring out any of his orifices.

*middle finger* says my hand to Jeff Bridges, because I fear hippie types in times of crisis.

Twenty minutes later, I've got my legs up in stirrups and a gynecologist's head between my thighs.

Gyno: I can't find anything. I can't imagine what that was! Hot waxy oil, you say?

Me: I think I had a miscarriage. *starts to cry*

Gyno: But...was there blood? Was there any pain?

Me: No, it must have been pretty early along. *sniffle* It must have been, like, at the yolk stage still.

Gyno: Um...yes, the yolk stage. Remind me to give you some educational pamphlets before you leave.

Me: Maybe it was my placenta. My water broke. My hot sack of baby wax.

Gyno: Seriously. Did you not take health in high school?

Me: My embryonic butter baby.

Gyno: Have you considered that it may have come from your anus? Not your vagina?

Me: Um, no, I didn't consider that, because nothing exits that hole without permits. That hole is my bitch. I've got that hole wrapped around my finger, so to speak. It's the other hole that gives me all the grief, doing whatever it wants all the damn time.

Gyno: What did you eat yesterday?

Me: *sigh* I dunno. Oatmeal, sandwich, fruit salad, veggie juice, fish, wine, the usual.

Gyno: The fish! It could have been keriorrhea, or anal leakage caused by certain types of butterfish. Was the fish oily?

Me: I guess, a little. Not, like, 10 gallons of ass oil kind of oily.

Gyno: Well, how much of it did you eat?

Me: *thinky face* All...of it? *smile*

Gyno: All of it? What do you mean? The whole fish? You ate an entire fish?

Me: It's good for you. It was escolar. Protein. Somethin somethin omega mu oil.

Gyno: Remember when we talked about portion size?

Me: Palm of your hand.

Gyno: Palm of your hand.

Me: It did fit in the palm of my hand. We didn't discuss height of the portion though. It was a tall portion. Like Jenga, but with fish.

Gyno: Okay, go ahead and play fish Jenga, but you now know that, the next day, you will leak hot waxy oil out of your anus. So...

Me: So...wear a diaper?

Gyno: Yeah, or a different choice that's not that.

Me: *thinky face* Wear...an adult diaper?

Gyno: Okay. We're done here.

Fin.

It wasn't a helicopter.

Me: Mom, cmere. I wanna tell you something.

Mom: Okay. *walks over and leans in* What is it?

Me: I wanna tell yooou?? thaaaaaat???....

Mom: ...

Me: ...

Mom: Tell me what?

Me: *FART*

Mom: ....

Me: *excited face*

Mom: Tell me what?

Me: Nevermind.

Mom: No, what? What do you wanna tell me?

Me: Nothing. I farted but you didn't hear it.

Mom: You called me over to tell me I didn't hear your fart?

Me: No, I called you over to fart for you, but you didn't hear it.

Mom: Oh.

Me: The whole thing's ruined now.

Mom: Sorry.

Me: Will you PLEASE get your ears checked? This isn't the first time something like this has happened recently.

Mom: Becky. I'm fine. I have perfect hearing.

Me: Oh really?

Mom: Yes.

Me: ...

Mom: ...

Me: *excited face*

Mom: OH! God, Becky, that's gross!!

Me: I didn't fart that time. That was a trick.

Mom: Crap.

Me: You know, hearing loss can be a sign of other things too. You need to get it checked out.

Mom: Maybe try again. Here, I'll put my head down lower. *squats down behind me*

Me: No, mom. Get up. Seriously. Don't embarrass yourself.

Mom: Alright, fine.

Me: Just admit it. It doesn't mean you're old.

Mom: Maybe it's you. Was it a whiny fart or a flappy fart?

Me: What? You're blaming your failure to hear on the quality of my fart? What are you, a fucking dolphin? The frequency of my fart's wavelength isn't HIGH enough for you, princess? Nothing I do is ever good enough, is it?

Mom: I...I just meant...

Me: No, you know what? It doesn't even matter. Maybe it was whiny or maybe it was flappy, it doesn't matter, the point is...

Mom: Honey... you know how proud of you I am...

Me: NO, don't TOUCH me. Not yet, I just...I need some time. The point is you can't hear shit. Pfft. Whiny or flappy? I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.

Mom: Becky.

Me: Both. It was both. It was whiny, then flappy at the end. It was perfect. Ok, I'm done.

Mom: ...

Me: ...

Mom: A-HA!

Me: What?

Mom: I heard that one!

Me: That's a helicopter.

Mom: I'll go in on Monday.

Me: Thank you.

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.

Scratch me cosine, best best Internet friend

I like to imagine that one day, one of you blog friendishes will come to visit me, and we'll spend the day dressing up my dogs and typing bad words on the labelmaker and Swiffering the floors and watching old Degrassi DVDs. And when it's late at night, and we're relaxing after our busy day of fun, me in Nana's recliner and you in your fold-out camping chair with beer holder, after all the marshmallows and Aleve have been eaten, and the Ghost Whisperers have all been watched, I will pull the back of my shirt up over my head and drape my torso over your lap and make you scratch my back. I won't scratch yours, though, because I wouldn't want to impose upon your personal space. Also, icky. No offense. Your back is awesome, I just don't want any of it under my nails.

And you'll feel super-close to me at that moment because clearly this is what real friendship is all about. Naked backs in your face. And you'll notice, as you scratch, that I'm not wearing my sports bra anymore, but then you will realize that while you weren't paying attention, I fashioned it into a Maya Angelou headwrap. And we will laugh and laugh, but then we have to stop because it's distracting you from the scratching. You aren't a great multitasker.

You're kind of all over the place with your scratching. It's alright though, because I'm an unconditional friend. The back scratching is confusing for you, because I say "Go left!" and my left is your down on account of how I'm laying across your lap, and it's a huge inconvenience. So I teach you about Back Quadrants, and the problem is solved.

Now I say "Quadrant 3!" and pow, you're right there. Eventually, we abbreviate it to "Q3!" and then simply to the digits themselves. It's like our first inside joke. This is already a wonderful friendship.

And then I say, "Shh! Focus!" because I don't want to hurt your feelings but it's like you're not even trying anymore. And you say, "Becky, these quadrants are too large and unspecific an area for me to properly attend to your needs." And I was thinking EXACTLY the same thing, and that's how I know we're BFF's.

So I explain Back Subquadrants. Each of the four quadrants divided into four subquadrants, numbered with two digits, the first denoting the quadrant, and the second the subquadrant.

And you love this new system, I know you do, because it's so efficient. We run through a preliminary round, where I call out, "Q2, Sub4!!" and we see how fast you can find the area. You really shine at subquadrants. This new challenge is just what you needed. I tell you that you're earning a ton of gummy worms with all this back scratching, but I really don't need to tell you that because I'm using my dog training clicker. "Twenty more clicks and it's pancakes for breakfast!" I cheer. I couldn't be more supportive.

"Hey," I whisper. You stop scratching and listen.

"Yes?" you reply.

"Did I say to stop scratching?" I say. "No, I don't think I did. I just said 'Hey' because I'm going to explain my system for a moving itch, but I think we can transition seamlessly into this new system without losing any scratch time, don't you?"

You agree.

*click*

"Ok. Now, you're familiar with the xy axis, I presume?"

You take a minute to examine the Back Graph I've had printed on a laminated wallet-sized travel card for you.

"Um...where are my car keys?" you ask. LOL. Random.

"I hid them," I explain. "Because you've had a beer, and friends don't let friends drive drunk."

"I feel shleepy," you complain.

"It's the horse tranquilizer kicking in," I explain.

"The what?" you ask.

"The jetlag," I repeat myself, because you don't always listen very carefully.

You look so tired. I feel bad for you. But nobody'll get any pancakes for breakfast at this rate.

"Ready? Here we go. The formula for the Line of Itch is y= -2x + 2. GO!"

And then I realize that you're REALLY out of it! "Oh my God! Look at your eyes! You are such a horse tranqui jetlag lightweight!! What a pussy! Haha! Oh, don't feel bad. This is what's called 'Giving You the Business.' It's what friends do. Hello?"

You are one tired sonofagun! LOL!

Ok. I feel like maybe this is cheating, and how will you ever learn if I keep helping you out, but regardless, I reach over to the end table and grab a pink highlighter, and bend my arm behind me to trace over the Line of Itch for you on my back.

"Okay, just follow the line. Did you hear me? Hello??" I say, as I knock on your skull. "Anyone home?? HAHA!! Anyone in there??"

Alright, I realize this is the very definition of enabling behavior, but I go ahead and duct tape a fork to your hand, and reach behind me to hold your elbow while I move your forkhand up and down the Line of Itch. Sometimes I love too much.

You're vomiting now, which means the hors jetlag will be out of your system pretty soon. That's good. This fork business is kind of a drag.

Sometimes, new best friend, back itch follows a wave-like path. This is fun for you, because it breaks up the monotony of the back-forth scratch motion. You'll enjoy the way your wrist moves as you draw wavey sine, cosine, and tangent lines across my back. Careful, though, not to confuse "tangent" with "cotangent". That makes me so mad. Very angry feelings. My best best best best friend forever from the Internet.

Scratch me cosine. I love you.

Alright. Another day maybe. You're beat.

I hoist you over my shoulders, and carry you to bed. My new friend. I'm so glad to have a friend. I mean, a new friend to add to all my other large number of friends. I'll never let you go. Unless you want to go, and then we'll see.

On the agenda for tomorrow: Backleship.

Oh my GOD you are SO gonna LOVE Backleship!!

Steamy's Basic Beauty Tips for Beauty and Attractiveness, Part Doo

Due to the success of my last installment of Steamy's Basic Beauty Tips for Beauty and Attractiveness, which I just found in my archives and was like, who the fuck wrote this? was hailed as the preeminent guide to modern beauty by People in my head Magazine, I've decided to write a follow-up.

Guests often ask me, Becky, how do you keep your home looking so tasteful and inviting?

Well, friends, let me tell you...it's a labor of love, homemaking. It's a skill honed from years of research and practice, but I'll tell you, the reward of the surprised looks on my guests' faces makes it all worthwhile.

From my home to yours, it's my honor to present to you...

STEAMY'S BASIC HOSTESSING TIPS

FOR EXTREME HOME ATTRACTIVENESS

Tip 1: Make your "house" into a "home".

Your home has a history. It's more than just a house. Every good home has an element of nostalgia, whether it be grandpa's old rocking chair, or patchy threadbare heirloom quilt. Don't be afraid to boast the story behind these objects, it will make your guests feel welcome, like part of the family. For instance, recently, one particular guest asked me, "What are these stains all over your walls?"

Of course, I leapt at the opportunity to regale my guest with my home's history.

"Well, you see, before she died, that's where my dog would rub her itchy sides and butt against the walls before laying down for a nap. You can see where her favorite sleeping spots were, because of the dark oily stains!" I boasted. "More champagne?"

My guest was impressed, it was obvious. "This one looks different," she remarked.

"Oh!" I replied eagerly. Another golden opportunity. "That's because it is! THAT stain was from the time I tripped and threw a mug of coffee at the wall! That happened the VERY SAME DAY that Obama was inaugurated. So, pretty historical." I replied, trying not to sound too smug. "Would you like me to take a photo of you next to it?"

Tip 2: Dealing with pests

I'm pretty live-and-let-live when it comes to pest control, except when it comes to something that may jeopardize the safety of my guests. Safety first, which is why, when I had company for Christmas, I felt it necessary to provide a glass terrarium for the wasp that had entered my living room.

I placed the glass next to my Magical Holiday Snowscape 2009.

...which worked out pretty well because I told people the wasp was playing the role of Baby Jesus in my nativity scene, and that the glass was the manger, and yes the manger is upside down and Jesus is trapped but when you think about it, aren't we all trapped in this crazy metaphorical upside-down glass manger called life? *sigh* I know I sure am.

When I decided I was going to write about my home beauty tips and went downstairs to take a photo of my Holiday Snowscape/Wasp in a Manger yesterday, I noticed that the wasp had died, which was surprising because, I mean, there was at least two months worth of air in that glass. I don't really know who to call to dispose of such a thing, so I put the glass back over it and decided to just not be so controlley about it. Sometimes you just have to let the little things go.

Tip 3: Creating beautiful spaces

Guests will use the items you display as jumping off points for conversation, as well as a way to learn more about you. What do you want to express about yourself by the items on your shelves? Are you educated? eccentric? artistic? worldly?

I've created beautiful spaces in my own home that express my inner self. For example, in this image, notice how I have arranged the objects on my shelf in a way that tells my guests, "Here, look, I have stuff, and here's some of it on this shelf."

It's a pity, my thighmasters appear to be irreparably tangled.

I hope I won't have to throw them away.

It's important to show your guests that you're organized, so that they may find everything that they're looking for. I find that a label-maker comes in handy for this purpose. Labels show your guests that you run a tight ship, and it shows!

Oh, label-maker!

I swear, I would lose my own head if it weren't for you!

Tip 4: How to make your dinner guests feel welcome

A fancy dinner is all well and good sometimes, but remember, your guests want to feel at home. I prepare a meal for my guests that's typical of what I usually feed myself. And you know what? I think they appreciate it. I really do.

"We don't *usually* have marshmallows, but it's a special occasion,"

I whisper, with a wink.

Then I pull up a folding camping chair for my guest (with built in beer holder in the armrest!) and position it between the two recliners I took from Nana's house, which she doesn't need because she's too old to come downstairs ever again (SCORE!! THANKS NANA!!) and we eat and watch Ghost Whisperer 7th Heaven The [smart person] Show on [news network].

The adventure of a lifetime, now with more lethargy

A man who drives a truck and fixes things arrives this morning to tinker with something. I don't remember what. A tank or a meter, or some other type of most boring word on the planet. 

"You know where to go," I say with a wave toward the basement, where I've never been because nothing good has ever happened in a basement. Plus it's where all the boring things that I don't understand are stored.

Half an hour later he approaches me with some smug asshole blinky-light device. The Alex Trebek of poison gas detectors.

Man: Do you ever feel headachey when you wake up? Like a hangover?

Me: I knew it. This is my intervention, isn't it. Is Jeff here? Did I get Jeff?

Man: Do you feel sleepy alot?

Me: This is weird. It's like you know me.

Man: You know you have carbon monoxide coming through your vents at 25 parts per million?

Me: That's awesome! That's like, barely any parts!

Man: It's about half of what you'd find coming out of a tailpipe.

Me: Only half then? What are the side effects of that?

Man: Sleepiness and death.

Me: Huh. Well. This explains why I've gained so much weight this year.

Man: No it doesn't. It doesn't explain that at all.

Me: Or does it?

Man: No.

Me: *squinty eyes*

Man: Nope.

Me: *hopeful eyebrows*

Man: No.

Me: I've been breaking out on my forehead...

Man: No.

Me: My toes feel less bendy lately...

Man: No.

Me: Fine. Does it explain that gas smell down there?

Man: No, carbon monoxide is odorless. Wait. A gas smell?

Me: Yeah, like smoky gas. Mostly smoke, but I know there was gas too, because it made my tongue taste like perfume, so I closed the basement door and locked it. Cause petewy! I tell you what, it took about 15 York Peppermint Patties to wash that taste away!

Man: Well whatever that was seems to have resolved itself. The real problem is the lethal amounts of carbon monoxide. 

Me: Okay. Can you fix it?

Man: Well, I turned the furnace off down there for now. Your [insert nonsense stuff I don't understand] hasn't been replaced since 1986. And your [award for boringest words ever] looks like it's original to the house. You have [yawn] leaking down through your [I wonder if there are any more peppermint patties?] and causing [oh my god, my dog looks so cute right now] to rust. It's pretty serious.

Me: Okay. So, how long until I can flush the toilet?

Man: I turned off the furnace. That's all. Not the water.

Me: So, no hot showers for....

Man: Just the furnace. The hot water is fine.

Me: So the Internet...?

Man: Still works.

Me: Can I still send texts from my phone?

Man: Yes.

Me: And the milk will stay good for how long if I don't open the fridge?

Man: I don't think you understand.

Me: It's just so boring, what you're saying. It's hard to even focus. Could you just summarize it? Or write it on this post-it and I'll read it later?

Man: Listen...I. turned. off. your. furnace. so. that. the. carbon. monox....

Me: Oh my God you're killing me right now. I think I just fell asleep and had a dream in the middle of that sentence. Don't say "furnace" ever again. So boring.

Man: Don't use the heat. No more hot air. Look at me. It's simple. No. More. Hot. Air.

Me: UGGHH SO BORING MY BRAIN HURTS.

Man: Just say it.

Me: Nah. Mah. Hah. Ah. *falls asleep*

Man: You can do this. Focus.

Me: Fine. No More Hot Air. NMHA. I'll remember it that way. It's a mnemonic device. NMHA stands for: No Man Has Apples. or Nancy Makes Hot Appetizers. Or None More Heat Air.

Man: Or, No More Hot Air.

Me: Hey! That's catchy! I'll remember that!

Man: You're really lucky we caught this leak.

Me: See, this is why I don't go down in the basement. Nothing good ever came from poking around down there.

Man: Besides detecting carbon monoxide and possibly saving your life? You know, carbon monoxide sinks to the ground, where your dogs sleep. Have your dogs been listless?

Me: Um...let me think. 

Me: Maybe a little. It's hard to say, really.

Me: I suppose it's possible, now that you mention it.

Me: I cremated one last month. I wonder...

Me: *thinky face*

Me: I'm pretty sure she was dead.

Me: ...

Me: Pretty sure.

***

The best thing about living in an old house is that every day is a surprise and and adventure in survival.

Sometimes it rains pee in the hallway. The first time this happened I was like WHAT THE FUCK and I thought maybe it was the apocalypse or a house stigmata because whoever heard of such a thing, and I went upstairs to pack my suitcase because yeah, fuck that. But it turned out to be a broken pipe caused by somebody flushing a catcher's mitt wad of toilet paper down the toilet but you know what? Whatever, plumber. If my only luxury is 35 layers of tissue between my hand and my poop, then just let me be. I'll take a little pee rain now and then. That's why God invented buckets.

And sometimes my front gate opens, and sometimes it doesn't, and maybe it will be a climb over the wall and land in the hedges day, and maybe it'll be a use your key day. And maybe it'll be the kind of arid day where the gate shrinks and the little clicky metal piece doesn't even reach the other side and it becomes a swinging saloon door and I get to enter my patio like an old west cowboy. See? Every day is an adventure.

Then there are the rats. Rats like old houses. Lots of hidden holes and broken screens and old vines and stuff. Sometimes when I'm sitting outside, a rat will just walk by on a branch of a shrub next to me. Hello, Senor Raton! Make yourself at shrub!

Another fun part about living in an old house is remembering which outlets work, and which don't, and which ones make a BEZZERT noise and put on a tiny fireworks display and give you an electrical bitch slap and make you say nonsense things like Yeep!! and Shookaw!! and Whacha!! as your leg shoots out backwards in an involuntary donkey-kick when you go to plug something in. And then after a few years of this, some electrician tells you that your house is powered with cloth covered wires from the 30's and that you're lucky to be alive.

Hear that? Lucky to be alive. Like Evil Kneivel or Tom Daschle or Gary Busey. Not everyone gets pretty much constant life-affirming reminders from their house.