We're not calling it brain surgery. We're calling it semi-permanent tampon hat. Just go with it.

Me: How was your playdate, pup?

Farley: Bullshit. Seriously. That was a bullshit playdate. Don't ever take me back there.

Me: Why? You didn't have fun?

Farley: No, no fun at all. I don't even remember most of it, that's how bullshit is was.

Me: Seems like you made lots of nice friends there, though. Lots of nice ladies came to say goodbye when you left.

Farley: Yeah, that's true. I got plenty of kisses, but still. Zero playtime. That place sucks.

Me: What did you do while you were there?

Farley: You know what's weird? I don't even know. I took a nap, and then I was tired so I took another nap, and ...*sigh*... I'm sorry, I can't even focus right now because I have the WORST fucking headache. Like, splitting headache.

Me: Oh, really? That's weird.

Farley: Do I look okay? Look at me, do I look different to you? Do I look sick? Because my head is just pounding like you wouldn't believe.

Me: You look fine to me. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Farley: You sure? Look closer. Something just feels...off. 

Me: Hmmm.

Farley: I look the same as I did when I went in there?

Me: Actually, I think you're even more handsome now.

Farley: Heh. I am pretty handsome.

Me: *covers all the mirrors*

Farley: What are you doing? 

Me: Nothing.

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.

Seeking the answers, part 1: Open up for the choo-choo!

I've stumbled upon an Internet goldmine. At first glance, it appeared to be some kind of "Yahoo! Answers" for refined, cultured types. A site where erudite, sophisticated people come together to seek the answers to life's most meaningful questions.

Questions like, "WHAT IS A CERVIX AGEEN I CRNT BELIEVE I FORGOT LOOL"

Looling indeed, m'lady! You forgot ageen? I daresay, you'd lose your head if it weren't attached.

After thoroughly perusing this treasury of queries and responses, I feel I have come away enlightened and with a greater sense of self-awareness and inner peace. Allow me to share with you some of the finer points of this site...

One inquisitive young woman wonders:

"How to stop queefing?"

and a young gentleman comes to her aid with a prompt reply:

"Making a girl queef, to a guy, is just a sign that you're really hiding it up good. If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Also, the more aroused a girl gets, the more predictable she is to queef, so it's only a bad point if you don't know what it is."

If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Are you taking notes, men?

Another young woman wonders:

"What chemicals could be put within panties to tighten up loose flaps?"

and receives her answer: "Aluminum."

Aluminum! Who knew! There is no reason to ever visit a doctor again! What use is medicine and science when we've got all the answers we need right here at this virtual oracle of sound advice? Get lost, physicians, we've got it covered!

Another woman is desperate for help:

"God, i need some good comebacks for those boobless attacks.? people r constantly teasing me and my friend about being flatcheasted (she's more flat that me so she get's tham more often. this is 4 her. well...sorta lol, me 2) I don;t kknow weather to laugh or be angry or... idk. COMEBACKS?"

Well, young lady, you have come to the right place. Let's see what cutting witticisms your fellow scholars have devised for your retorts.

"like, at lease my boobs arent so big that I can;t see my toes!" 

Zing!

"do you need a life jacket when you have one attached?" 

Oooh, count it!

"who needs a car with air bags?" 

Absolutely nobody, that's who.

"when you run do you smack yourself in the face?" 

Lool!

"at least i can find bathing suits in my size" 

Up top, girlfriend!

"less fun on top equals more fun on the bottom" 

It's true, do the math!

"at least they dont flat in the wind when i run" 

No flatting in the wind for you!

"If its a guy, just say, they are probably bigger than your dick!" 

Um...*confused face*...yes.

"At least i wont have back pains from those two tvs on your chest" 

TVs! How creative! Televisions are indeed large and bulky, like breasts, it's true.

So clever! I can't just stand back as a participant. I must step in and humbly propose my submissions for boobless comebacks:

"I'm rubber you're glue, your TV breasts flat in the wind like big floppy dicks."

Oh, heavens. This is harder than it looks. How about:

"Your large breasts are garbage breasts!"

Well, lesson learned. Leave the advice-giving to the experts.

Lastly, it appears even the most refined intellectuals seek sexual advice from time to time. It's quite possible they're more like us than we realize:

"Is it bleak to put a toy up your Virgina?"

"Depends, probably not if the toy is a train set or something big with a lot of moving metal parts."

Are you in need of some good advice? Start here: Go, learn, grow. 

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.