Shaved Her Legs, Then He Was A She
Pashmina lived down the hall from me and was one of the original merry pranksters (although we never called ourselves that). While SHE was blessed with a fucking awesome roommate, my own roommate, It Means Butterfly was about as passive-aggressive as they come. So rather than deal with her bullshit, I escaped to Pashmina’s room whenever possible.
Mostly to steal her booze and smoke, but you know.
Along with Pashmina, the Merry Pranksters included James, who was an RA on another floor. On James’ floor, he had a kid who had a brother who was a bouncer at a club. That kid, in exchange for…something, gave Pashmina and I fake ID’s.
I think we were supposed to give him money, but I never did because that’s the way I rolled.
The bar down the street was a college bar and pretty much so long as you showed them AN ID, they didn’t so much care if your picture showed that it you were actually Sasquatch.
But we were 19, and the ID I took showed a girl who was 30. On my best days, even now, I don’t look 30. She was also 5 foot 10 inches tall, and I’m, well, not. I’m 5′5″ and really, even in heels, I’m not like a commanding presence.
Her name was Arhontia, and she was very, very Greek. But Greek, is another one of those Middle Eastern ethnicities I can typically pass for, if you think about it really hard. But we decided that the best way to get me to pass for a 30 year old tall Greek lady was to pile on the makeup.
James immediately volunteered. So I let a not-out-of-the-closet-at-the-time-guy at my face with a makeup kit not designed for my face for my first ever trip to a bar. I sat there as the make-up was piled on. And on. And on. And on. And on.
I couldn’t see my face, but being the kind of person who wore makeup approximately 4 times a year, I began to panic slightly. But James seemed pretty happy to be working on my face, so I said nothing. Not that I could have, considering he was piling SOMETHING on my lips.
After about 30 minutes, he pronounced me done. My face felt sort of waxy and strange, but I went with it as I made my way over to the mirror to check it out.
What I found staring back at me was Aunt Becky, The Drag Queen.
Sort of like this:
Except that’s a Halloween costume. No, really, that’s me getting ready for Halloween.
Anyway. I looked exactly like a fucking drag queen. Heavy eyeliner, flourishy blush, thick, pancake foundation and lipstick that made me look like I’d just made out with a bowl of cherries. It was bad. Funny, but bad.
He scampered off before I could complain, luckily.
Because I found out later that the reason that I looked like a drag queen is because he’d had plenty of experience making up men to look like women. Several male members of his immediate family, in fact, had used his services to make them look like women over the years.
Which would be why I looked as though I’d walked off the set To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Aunt Becky.
Needless to say, it worked.
Now I need to strong arm Pashmina into telling the bar stories. They were awesome.
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And? Today was the day for interviews!
I am here at my friend Miss Spoken’s bloggity-blog.
and here! at my home-slice Chris’s blog (Great Moment’s in Christory)(*giggles*).
Both blogs are full of The Awesome and warrant a read. And not just because I am ON THEM AS WE SPEAK, although that makes them DOUBLY awesome, I admit.
Go Ask Aunt Becky
I stole a lot of your material from your blog. Now I have herpes. What happened?
P.S. I am a virgin. So is my 16-yr old daughter.
You know what confuses me most? I am a virgin too. I was explaining this to my doctor when I got pregnant with Amelia and she rolled her eyes at me! I thought that was very nervy of her because it’s very obvious that I am a pure, pure girl.
And I also have The Herpes. Well, okay, I don’t, but I was trying to make you feel better about yourself and your diseased crotch.
But perhaps stealing my very important and obviously awesome (and by awesome I mean I should probably not quit my day job)(wait, I don’t have a day job) content is a bad thing. Because stealing content is what gave you herpes. Maybe you should give me tens of thousands of dollars as an apology so that your crotch goes back to normal. Then your herpes will go away.
P.S. Give me money.
Do you let your kids watch cartoons? How do they feel about the new computer generated graphics vs. the old hand drawn cartoons? Personally, I can’t stand the new Disney characters that are CG, even if they are slightly 3-dimensional. I was just wondering how an actual child felt about them.
I am going to guess that my family is not going to give you the normal spectrum of answers because my kids are full of weirdness and quirks. Which, I mean, with me as their mother, you can’t really blame them for.
Ben, the 8 year old, will succumb to peer pressure of the kids in his age bracket and watch a CG movie if they’re watching it. Otherwise, getting him to watch a movie is kind of like getting him to get a root canal. Actually, he’d probably prefer the root canal.
But, like I said, if his friends are doing it, he’ll do it. Likewise, if his 2 year old BROTHER is doing it, he’ll do it too.
Alex is 2. 2 year old’s that come forcibly ejected from my nether bits tend to be as stubborn as the day is long (whatEVER that means). Roughly translated, if I put his dinner on the wrong plate, he won’t eat it. So there’s a couple of videos he’ll watch, and that’s it. (I’m betting some of you are frantically reaching for your birth control pills right now)
Some of them ARE CG, though, but not to the exclusion of others.
And Mimi? I think she’s too busy beating on her brothers to notice.
What, praytell, does the tooth fairy bring to your house? How does she do the exchange without waking the kid? And why does that wiggly tooth make me want to throw up?
Thank the sweet merciful Lord in heaven that Ben sleeps like a stone. My other two, not so much, so when they start losing their wee teeth, I’m going to have to come up with some better solution than clomping in there half-asleep because I’d woken up from a dead sleep, panicked because I’d forgotten to leave a couple of bucks for my kid.
Now, Ben isn’t greedy and could give a shit what the Tooth Fairy brings to him, so I keep it at a couple of bucks. I could probably give him a shiny quarter, if it weren’t for his freakish memory. He’s the kid who is all “remember when we ate the red potatoes on the day that the snow piled exactly 4.3 inches high?”
And I’m like, “uh, and how is it that you can’t remember to wash your hands after you use the fucking bathroom?”
But this is neither here nor there (autistic people have amazing recall, something I could stand to borrow right about now).
So, HEED MY WARNING: once you give a dollar amount, you will be stuck with that amount, amazing memory regardless. Start SMALL, my friend.
And I get heebie jeebies with eyeball stuff, not so much with the teeth. *shudders*
Hey Aunt Becky,
My friend of eleven years has recently cut off contact with me. She’s blocked me on all social media sites (facebook, AIM, stopped following my blog, etc.). I’m not quite sure what prompted this. She was my best friend in high-school and a good portion of college, and then she started dating this guy.
You had to know a boy was involved, right? Well, he’s a scumbag. He’s not quite right in the head, and he has no respect for her or her friends. I told her when she started dating him that I didn’t like him and that I thought he was bad for her. She later found a few suspect text messages on his cell phone (to another woman…and they were of the ‘if you were here I’d so totally be making the sex with you’ variety), and they broke up…for a week and a half. She took him back, and they’ve been together ever since. She’s convinced that he’s going to propose to her soon. Urg.
And so that was that.
Since that point, we’ve been drifting apart. Almost to the point where we would only speak to each other about once a month. But, I figured that it was because we are both busy – I’m constantly job hunting, and balancing a full-time job with volunteering; she just started a new job, and she just moved. And then the blocking occurred.
So I’m just kind of left in limbo. I know that we’ve been distanced for a while, and I can accept that that might be why she’s cut off contact. But I feel as if I’ve done something (when I haven’t). What’s worse is that one of our mutual friends has also blocked me – I’m scared that all of our mutual friends will follow suit. I shot her an e-mail asking her what was up, but she hasn’t responded.
Help?
-Nyx, aka Confused and Less Two Friends
Oh Nyx, I’m so sorry. What your friend did was a shitty, low-ball thing to do and no matter what perceived wrong you did to her, that’s a really immature way for her to handle it. As adults, we should behave, well, like we’re adults and not like we’re 12 again, and you did the mature thing by trying to figure out what was going on.
What you have to do now is to accept that whatever happened is done and that it’s not your fault. Even if it is, you’re not the one who handled it like a jackass, the both of them are. The mature thing to do isn’t to hide behind not returning emails, it’s to respond, face up to problems, and then move on.
I’ve had this happen with two of my former best friends before (one was supposed to stand up in my wedding as my maid of honor and just stopped returning my calls. I’ve not heard from her again) and it sucks. You’ll probably never know what you did “wrong,” and whether it was “wrong” is a matter of personal opinion.
What I’ve tried to do (especially since one of them stalks my blog) is accept that you won’t ever know what exactly you did, and that anyone who so blatantly disregards you and your feelings isn’t really worthy of your time or energy. It’s sad and it’s hard and I’m sorry.
In this case, don’t beat yourself up too much, okay?
xoxo,
AB
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As always, please fill in where I left off in the comments, yo.
OH!
BlogHer ‘10 is coming to NYC this summer and some of the Mouthy Housewives and me!! have put together a proposal for a room, called Dear Abby 2.0: Giving Advice in the Blogosphere. We will tell you everything you need to know about creating a successful internet advice site, all while eating bon bons and swilling vodka. It’ll be a lot of laughs, and a fun discussion for sure.
Please help us bring this session to BlogHer! Whether you plan to be there or not, you can vote by going here, logging on to BlogHer and then clicking “I would attend this session” (it’s just above the title: Dear Abby 2.0). After you click it it will miraculously say, “I would not attend this session.” This means that your vote for the session has been successfully registered. Thank you!
Aunt Becky Slices Onion, Cries Real Tears
My typical emotional continuum ranges something like this:
I need a damn nap <-> Where is my Britney CD? <-> I can haz cheeseburger?
The elements change places somewhat, but really, I have the emotional range of a turnip and the depth of a small puddle of mud. I’ve always considered this to be something of a bragging point.
When I stuck my toe into the waters of mental health this summer before realizing that my mental health benefit blows ass, I made mention of this to my therapist, and rather than giving me a nice purple lollipop, he seemed alarmed.
Apparently, requiring a stunt double to cry isn’t a good thing.
Anyway, the one thing I learned in my appointment is that I needed to start at square one and relearn all about emotions. Nothing makes you feel more like Gimpy the Clown than realizing that you don’t know anything about actual emotions.
Perhaps I should go back to preschool and relearn colors too (because I’m colorblind too).
(shut up)
(no, really, shut up)
Part of Bringing Aunt Becky Back is trying to figure out who I am now.
My life took a different path when I inadvertently got knocked up with my firstborn at age 20. While my friends (and ex-boyfriend, his father insert other term here) were out crawling bars, I was dealing with colic, late night feeds, and a special needs child.
I scrapped my life’s plans to go to nursing school, which I hated. I graduated with high honors anyway. Got married, and domesticated, even though I’d never wanted that either. Stayed at home where I’d always wanted to be the one who did something else with her life.
I’ve never, ever done the things I wanted to do because it never made sense. I’m not sad about it, and I’m not sorry about it.
These are all facts, pure and simple. Dave knows them, I know them, everyone knows them.
But I’ve also never given myself the chance to feel anything about it. There are people in the world with no feet, after all, so how could I feel sad that I ended up where I put myself?
I should have given myself the opportunity to grieve the dreams that I gave up to do something else. Even if other people would kill to be where I am, I am not other people.
I can feel a change coming down the line. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that nothing is permanent except for change, and what I’m going through right now is growing pains. Something big is on the horizon. I can feel it.
Or maybe it’s just a cheeseburger and a nap.
Oh. And I want that purple lollipop now.
Oh Kid, You Don’t Know Who You’re Messing With
I know I’ve told you about the nasty note that I got when I was in 3rd grade. It was from my friend Becky, and while she wasn’t actually mad at me, it was kind of mean. I may never remember my phone number properly (also: bite me Topamax), but I can tell you that her note read:
Dear Becky,
I like you a little bit, but it grows smaller every day.
Love,
Becky
That she signed it “Love, Becky” proved that she didn’t really mean it and we were friends again within a couple of weeks, because that’s life when you’re 8.
Throughout the years there have been plenty of people who didn’t like me, and mostly, it hasn’t bothered me. I took great pride when I found “BECKY SHERRICK IS A BITCH” written on a desk in high school, because who wouldn’t? I mean, I consider that sort of high praise, which is probably what the writer intended, since it was written on the desk I always sat in.
Occasionally, my ass will chafe when I’m accused of something I didn’t do or someone will blatantly say something they don’t think I’ll see (note to Twitter: @-ing me means I see it). But if you don’t like me, well, that’s well within your right. I don’t have to like you either.
But I’m 29, not 8, and having people be MEAN to me isn’t something that ruins my day.
Turns out that my kid, my sweet autistic 8 year old, the kid who was born without a mean bone in his body, is being bullied again. And that, well, that chaps my balls and makes my blood boil.
Perhaps, I wasn’t suited to be the one to have the conversation with my son.
Aunt Becky: “So what’s this punk doing to you?”
Ben: “He’s trying to upset me. He’s mean to me.”
Aunt Becky (rifles through empty brain cavity trying to match this with a solution): “Okay, so here’s the thing with bullies: you have to figure out what they’re trying to do, okay?”
Ben: “…..”
Aunt Becky: “You know, if they’re trying to make you cry, or make you feel bad, or make you mad or whatever. Right? Because he’s trying to get a reaction out of you.”
Ben: “OKAY! I get it!”
Aunt Becky (thanks God for having an older brother and therefore frame of reference): “Once you figure out the reaction, DON’T GIVE IN TO IT. Don’t bother getting upset. That doesn’t do any good. Being mad? What good does that do? Nothing. Crying? Solves nothing.”
Ben: “Okay, so the first step is to figure out what they’re trying to do.”
Aunt Becky: “Yes. Then, don’t do it.”
Ben: “Okay.”
Aunt Becky: “Then? You get even.”
Ben: “….”
Aunt Becky: “Not like, being mean BACK, but by telling the teacher or telling your mom, or telling the playground monitor, or telling an adult. You can’t let him get away with it! You have to stand up for yourself, Ben. You HAVE to.”
Ben: “Step one, figure out what he’s trying to do, step two, don’t do it, step three, get even. By telling an adult!”
Aunt Becky: “Yes.”
Ben: “I got it!”
Ben scampers off to play with his siblings.
(Later)
Aunt Becky: “So I told Ben how to deal with his bully.”
The Daver: “Oh yeah?”
Aunt Becky: “That bullshit our parents always spouted about ‘walking away’ was such crap. I mean, it never helped us learn anything about handling conflict. Kids can be such assholes.”
The Daver: “No shit.”
Aunt Becky: “So I taught him ‘don’t get mad, get even!’”
The Daver: “WHAT?”
Aunt Becky: “Well, yeah.”
The Daver: “Becky, you didn’t.”
Aunt Becky: “Not like with a machine gun. More like as a catch phrase. ‘Don’t get mad, get even by telling the teacher.’ You know Ben, he won’t tell the teacher anything.”
The Daver: *phew*
Aunt Becky: “Besides, he can remember phrases like that.”
The Daver: “Good call.”
I also put a call in to his teacher and am waiting on a call back. You know, this is the kind of stuff I always want to tell the new parents I see worrying over the car seats in the baby aisle at Target. Like, ‘ENJOY THIS!’ because it gets so much harder.
Colic was bad, but this, this hurts your soul and there isn’t jack you can really do to make it better. There’s no zantac for the heartbreak.
So Bully-Kid, wherever you are, you’d better lay the fuck off my kid. Because I don’t care what weakness you smell in him, he’s a thousand times stronger than you’ll ever be.
So back off.
Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back: Clings To Former Vestiges Of Cool
One of the big things I was going to do this year, besides my normal To Do list which consists of “Survive,” was to start to pull myself out from behind the diaper pail and figure out who the hell I was now. Thanks to various circumstances, I’ve been kind of trapped in the house for one reason or another for the past three years.
While I haven’t reached Howard Hughes levels of creepiness by keeping my urine in jars, or growing out my finger nails to freakish lengths, it’s not been easy for me. I wasn’t cut out for this stay-at-home life style, and if I could figure out what it IS that I was good at besides, you know, being independently wealthy and shopping all the time, I’d do it.
Luckily, thanks to a stroke of mad genius and a couple of things that couldn’t have possibly been coincidence, I found something that I could do. I started to write, thanks to The Daver, who insisted that I start telling stories to people besides him. Probably because he wanted me to stop pulling him out of meetings to tell him about purchasing castles* in the area.
Then, I was contacted by Mr. Toy With Me out of the clear blue sky, who asked me if I’d like to come write for his site. Which, I mean, a sex column? Kind of the job I was born to do. I’m crass and gross and I always take stuff to 11.
I realized that while I waited for my book stuff to happen, I could do something else besides write on my blog. The Internet is ripe for the writing, I determined, with fist pumped to the sky, 2010 would be The Year Of My Empire.
And? It’s been a good year so far. I’ve managed to not only get out of the house, but I’ve gotten away from my children for two whole nights in another state. The downside is that now I want to permanently live in another state where it’s not always Ass Hot or Ass Cold.
Ah, California, all that I can’t leave behind.
I’ve also managed to get my hairs cut and a super-villain streak dyed into it. Which means that I’m also looking for a litter of puppies to make into a coat, but you know, that’s probably just fumes talking here. For me, this is huge.
Because I tend to put off being good to myself until I FEEL better about myself. It’s dumb because it’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. I’m still carrying some baby weight, so I should punish myself for some reason, even though that’s not quite fair. I’m not exactly rolling in free time, and really, my sanity has been more important than my waistline.
Speaking of waistlines, I’ve been adjusting that, too. At least, I think I have. I threw out my scale, because after years of being on WW, I got tired of having my week dictated by a half a pound variance. But, I’ve been on the Spark People and using that. It’s free and it’s awesome because you can use your MEASUREMENTS rather than your LBS.
And? I dropped one pants size already and am about to drop another (thank you, Topamax, for making me never want to eat again).
Probably the weirdest thing that I’ve done this year is to become a business owner, which makes me feel like I should invest in some power suits and some accordion folders for all the important documents that I barely have. Also, I should boss my cats around more since my kids just look at me like I’m stupid.
Yesterday, though, Stage Two, wherein I get shaded! Tattoo You! Or Me!
Here is Stage 1 (the BEFORE picture):
Here is after:
And another angle:
And lastly, this is what I call a Twitter Bait and Switch. What I tweeted was “Naked Lady Boobie Pictures.” The link gave you this picture.
And that, my friends, is not naked. I am barely a lady (unless you are being sarcastic). Also, I am not annoyed at all. I am bemused by my tattoo-ness.
But I am freshly inked and very, very happy. Also, very, very sore. I will get the color finished in 2 months or so and then? I want the OTHER side done. With…something.
So how are YOU doing on getting YOUR groove back, my gnomies?
*Yes, there are castles out here. No, I don’t live in one. But I am 100% sure I’d be cooler if I did.
