Back in 2003, The Daver, being The Daver, saw the Discman I used on the train to and from school. He felt sorry for me, my pathetic Discman and collection of badly scratched CD’s.

(don’t ever loan me a CD)

He kindly gave me this:

It was the first generation iPod, 40 gigs of swinging death in a neat, cigarette-box of a case. It was also WAY over my head. I had no idea what a “gig” was if it wasn’t a band show, and the idea of putting music in a cigarette box made me suspicious.

But I fell in love with it.

I had it until The Daver took it back for some reason or another (I’d probably scratched it or something). I replaced it with this:

They’d been out of the green iPod mini I’d wanted, so instead I got the pink one, waggling my tongue at The Daver, whose iPod was now twice the size of my sleek Mini.

Last year, I decided that it was high time for a NEW iPod; the Nano. A chorus of “what the fuck’s?” met me when I showed off my new purchase. I do, of course, have an iPhone which neatly serves as an iPod as well.

I waggled my tongue maturely at the nay-sayers and explained that it was mostly for working out. The iPhone AND the iPod Mini weighed like 97 pounds and really, I couldn’t charge the damn Mini anymore. No power cord.

I’ve used it every day since. Beaten the shit out of it. Planned to continue beating the shit out of it because, well, the first two iPods still work. They’re like magic. The Nano, I figured, would last me forever.

I pictured us running off into the sunset together, me and my Nano. That is, of course, until my crotch monkeys left it in a puddle of bubbles on Sunday, sabotaging our relationship. Possibly, my life.

Dona nobis pacem, Blue Nano.

Rest in Peace.

*cries*

*weeps*

*wails*

*flops about the house*

*mopes*

….

….

…

Oooh! I can buy a SNAP BRACELET HOLDER for the new iPod.

On second thought, maybe I’ll buy my kids a pony instead of disowning them.

Before I became a mother, before I became Student Nurse Becky, before I became Your Aunt Becky, I was something else entirely.

(no, not a mail-order bride)

(like anyone would pay for that)

I was a waitress. Well, before that, I was a hostess and after I turned twenty-one, I bartended, too. In fact, working in restaurants is the only thing besides blogging that I’ve managed to do for more than a couple of months.

There was something electrifying about working in a place where so many people had to work in unison to achieve a common goal: namely, make as much money as possible with the least amount of effort. Of course, there was much effort involved. Carrying trays of hot food, trying to keep it on your shoulder, not trip over other servers while avoiding the crotch parasites that were always underfoot during the dinner rush.

The Us VS Them attitude (staff versus customers) united the lot of us. Didn’t matter who you were or where you came from, so long as you weren’t a jackass to the other servers.

You have some assbag at Table 65 staring you down because the kitchen fucked up your order and it’s late, and you get why they’re mad, but it’s not ACTUALLY your fault, but you can’t really explain that to them, because it sounds like a classic case of “pass the buck, SERVER EDITION?”

Send your friend, the one who can heap on the fake-sweetness without seeming insincere, over with their food when it pops up.

I worked in restaurants from the moment I turned 16 to age 23. The hours were flexible, which meant I could work weekends, and I’d make more money in a couple of hours than I’d make working all day in retail.

After work, the servers would sit around, drinking and shooting the shit. The sense of camaraderie made all of the bullshit we’d put up with worth it. We were an instant party, hitting up the bars that served late after we’d closed down. If you needed something; anything, you could count on the staff helping out. I have no doubt that if I’d murdered someone, my work friends would be there with black garbage bags and shovels to help bury the body. Without question.

Being a server also meant we fucked around a lot. There was the Pizza Suit we’d all take turns running around the restaurant wearing, the beers we’d sneak into the cooler and chug and this, the best thing ever.

This was the picture I’d carefully taped onto the front of my server’s book. I have to wonder how many people wondered what the fuck was wrong with me (more than normal). I’d never mention the picture to my tables, it was just THERE.

I stopped serving when I realized I was burnt out. Being asked for another Coke would be enough to set me off. I’d seethe as I handed them the Coke I’d ALREADY POURED.

HOW DARE YOU ASK ME FOR SOMETHING I ANTICIPATED?

But before I left, I learned how important tips are for a server.

In Illinois, at least, I made $3.29 an hour, minus 10 cents each hour for food (company policy). That $3.29 was taxed to DEATH, as the government assumed we’d make cash tips.

That meant that most of the “paychecks” I got were between two and four dollars. Every two weeks.

Occasionally, I’ve lamented that I never actually framed the checks I’d received for $0.00. Asinine. The company had PAID to print said check.

Hil-arious.

As a blogger, I never expected to make money. I do the occasional freelance thing, but the concept of “money” and “blogging” seemed as odd as blogging, itself.

I’d joined BlogHer ad network awhile ago and was content until I noticed my checks grow smaller and smaller as my readership increased.

Huh. Inversely proportional ad network?

I dropped them once the checks grew so abysmal that I was actually offended.

Anyway, last week, I got my final check.

I am SO framing that.

Dear My Aunt Becky,

I am in my late 20’s and a virgin.  This is not something that has happened intentionally.  I am not saving it for marriage or anything like that.  It just hasn’t happened yet.

I have recently started dating someone.  We have gone on four dates, the most ever with one person for me.  I really like him, and kind of want to jump him.  The thing is, I feel like at my age I should know far more then I am going to. So I am torn.  Do I tell him of my condition before the fact?  I am concerned that if I do, I will scare him off, but if I don’t, he will just think I am exceptionally bad in bed, and it will scare him off.

What’s a girl to do?

As someone who has, in her day, had The Sex with people who did not deserve to stick their naughty bits in my own, I think that being a virgin is kinda awesome.

I’d be willing to bet that anyone who likes you will appreciate that about you.

If I were in your shoes, I’d go the honesty route. If it scares him off, fuck him. There is NOTHING shameful about being a virgin. Really, then he’ll know how to make sure your first time is special.

I bet he’ll find it charming.

Do let us know what you decide, Dear Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky.

So this may not be a totally unusual situation but I need answers. The other day my friend turned 35 and was the recipient of lots of love and adoration. Her hubby and friends threw her a surprise party and he surprised her with a beautiful bracelet. I am green with envy..

I’m several years older than her and have been married for 13 years, my no good lazy asshole hubby has never surprised me.

What should I do to attain my life long dream of having someone throw my a surprise party and shower me with adoration and gushing for just one night?

Yours,

Unappreciated of South GA.

Here’s my advice: tell your husband what you want. In no uncertain terms: “I’d like you to a surprise party sometime, like my friend had. That would mean a lot to me.”

I know, I KNOW, it kinda defeats the purpose of a “surprise” party, but honestly, some members of BOTH sexes (myself included)(I have a vagina, just in case you were curious) can be pretty thick about that stuff. I’d, for one, be shocked if someone had been pining for a surprise party. Why? I’d rather saw off my toes than have one thrown FOR me.

Maybe that’s how your husband feels about them.

Also: some people are more thoughtful than others. Sounds like your friend’s husband is particularly thoughtful, which is a win for her, but hard to watch when you live with someone who isn’t.

Clue him in, see what happens.

And, if all else fails, go the Aunt Becky Route: throw yourself a party, buy yourself something exorbitantly sparkly and enjoy it because you bought it yourself.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I started watching Grey’s Anatomy last season so I don’t know whether it’s just the actress who plays Meredith or whether this is done on purpose but (excuse any spoilers) she doesn’t seem to be very upset about her miscarriage, neither does Derek for that matter.

I mean, she miscarried at an incredibly traumatic time for her but she seems to be very que sera about it.

Derek asked why didn’t she tell him so he could help her to get through it, but the line made it sound like she was already over it. And this was in the second episode!

A couple of weeks ago I was on your fabulous new website Band Back Together and i was truly touched by the stories I read from some women who did miscarry.

I don’t have any kids and I haven’t ever had a miscarriage so I’m curious about Merdith’s portrayal of her storyline and was wondering whether you could shed some light on it for me.

Is it just bad acting? Or is it just different for different people?

This is me, treading VERY lightly and asking other Pranksters to weigh in.

I’ve had two miscarriages in my life, back-to-back, actually, right before I got pregnant with Amelia. At the time it happened, it was a horrible hormonal roller coaster. When I got pregnant the third month in a row and started spotting right away, I flipped my shit. My progesterone, which hadn’t been a problem in previous pregnancies, was low. Insert suppositories, pray for the best. It was touch and go.

In that way, my miscarriages were traumatic for me during my pregnancy with Amelia.

While I experienced those two early miscarriages, I was sad. Now, I rarely think about them.

That sounds cold, but I don’t mean it that way. I got my daughter out of it. She wouldn’t be here without having had those two miscarriages.

Since I’m the last person on the planet to watch Grey’s Anatomy, I’m not sure what her reaction to the miscarriage was, but different people handle things differently. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve a loss – any loss.

—————-

I’ll be VERY interested to hear your reactions to these questions, Pranksters.

Last summer, during the Great Bush-Whacking escapade, I spent quite a bit of time perusing the Serial Killer Section of the Hardware Store. I had to buy the proper supplies to remove the eleventy-million bushes that had taken over my yard; making me look like some creepy (ier) shut-in who probably killed people in her very secluded (looking) house.

I figured that anyone who spent as much time as I did ogling shovels and pickaxes was probably carefully watched by the FBI as a Potential Serial Killer. (if they’d seen the bushes in front of my house, they’d have redoubled their efforts to apprehend me)

Sadly, I’m not a serial killer. In fact, the pickax I’d so lovingly bought nearly broke both of my ankles when I tried to use it. I should know by now that I’m not coordinated to be a serial killer.

(insert awkward segue)

After my daughter was born so sick in 2009, I developed a pretty serious case of PTSD and PPD and probably some other acronyms, too. One of the ways I combated my misery was to buy myself flowers every week.

You may want to sit down for this.

Ready?

READY?

Good.

I’m an avid gardener.

I know, I know, you’re shocked. Everyone always is, especially since I’m such an awkward cook and a poor excuse for a female, but it’s true. Gardening is one of my favorite things to do.

My daughter was born in January and my garden covered in thick Ass Cold Chicago snow so there was no way I’d be able to get outside and tend to my plants. Seeing those beautiful cut flowers every week cheered me up intensely.

One week, while at the grocery store about to select this week’s batch of flowers, I came across a mysterious-looking plant.

An orchid.

(my first orchid as it is today)

Despite having roses that tower over me, I’d never tried to grow plants indoors, but at $15 – cheaper than the bouquets I normally bought – I figured I’d give it a shot.

But, like anything I set my mind to, rather than just enjoy that one orchid, I painstakingly researched the orchid family, learning about temperatures, light, and humidity levels. I poured over books, websites; anything I could get my grubby hands on.

I wasn’t going to grow orchids, I was going to Grow Orchids. Perhaps even Grow MotherFUCKING Orchids.

I started An Orchid Collection. Rather than buy cut flowers that would invariably die in a very stinky heap, instead, I combed hardware stores and greenhouses for these beautiful, exotic tropical plants.

Soon I had not one, not two, but a metric fuckton of orchids.

(This picture was taken a year and a half ago.)

In that year and a half, I learned more about orchids than any normal person should. In fact, I have grand plans to GO to an orchid show, but that’s mostly to see what kinds of people attend orchid shows. Are they like Dog Show People? I saw Best In Show, and I’m anxious to find out what Orchid People are like.

Believe me, I’ll take ridiculous pictures and show you.

After my painstaking research, I realized that I needed More Cowbell Light. I had The Daver build me a Light Box, which meant ANOTHER trip to the Hardware Store for Grow Lights and various other things. You know what MOST people use Grow Lights for, right?

Exactly.

The cashier looked at me and giggled as he rang up my lights. Like, “I can’t believe this lady grows The Pot.”

(SPOILER ALERT: I DON’T)

But I AM a bit, uh, compulsive, so I kept buying orchids. (you shut your whore mouth)

(those are the same orchids today)

Soon I outgrew the lightbox and started a second table of orchids.

Earlier this week, for my second table of orchids, I bought another Grow Lamp. And since we all know what Grow Lamps are REALLY for, and because the Grow Lamps are sitting in front of my windows, I know one thing:

It’s only a matter of TIME before the FBI breaks down my door, looking for my Mary-J stash.

Man, won’t THEY be disappointed. Maybe I should bake them a cake.

On second thought, maybe not.

I find it incredibly odd that anyone asks me for blogging tips. Certainly I’ve been blogging a long time, that much is not debatable, but my first blog was a sarcastic anti-blog used primarily to elicit as much horror out of the readers (who were our friends) as we possibly could. If you think I’m profane now, you should’ve seen me back then.

(this is me, in front of a fucking tree, assholes)

(this is me with CATS with frickin’ LASER BEAMS under a tree, assholes)

Anyway, here’s my yearly list of ways to be a better blogger. (see also: Blogging for Dummies)(Blogging For Dummies Deux) and (Blogging For Dummies Part Number C)

Feel free to ignore them all.

1) Forget about the numbers. I know how tempting it is to obsess over your stats, painstakingly calculating your unique visitors every day, closely following your subscriber count and The Twitter followers. I’m not a numbers person (just like I’m not a geography person) so to me, ignoring them is Easy-Peasy, but I know others are. Every other Tweet in my stream seems to be begging for more followers.

But here’s the down-low on blog statistics: they’re only a guess. And? They change dramatically depending upon which blog statistics tracking program you use.

I happen to use some geeky program The Daver installed which allows me to occasionally track the odd search terms that bring people here (sweater kittens and boring things always at the top of the list). For awhile, I hosted my blog with some crappy company that ALSO gave me blog statistics. And? The two were COMPLETELY different numbers. It’s likely that if I started looking at blog stats with ALL the programs I could find, I could average them out and MAYBE THEN get a better picture.

But that sounds like a shit-ton of work. Work = bullshit.

2) Don’t get all hot and bothered if you get lumped into a group of people. If you have a vagina and a blog, you’re probably going to be called a “Mommy Blogger” whether or NOT you have crotch parasites gnawing on your legs.

When I first started Mommy Wants Vodka, I was infuriated that I’d been called a “Mommy Blogger!” How DARE they! I thought furiously to myself as I blogged, occasionally telling stories about my kids, occasionally not. Fuck that, I thought as I clacked out a post about my vagina, how DARE they insinuate I am nothing without my children! I am more than my children! I am a PERSON!

It took awhile, but I realized that people will always slap a label on you – sometimes good, sometimes bad – and my anger was unfounded and, quite frankly, kinda dumb. I can let my blog, not the label, speak for itself.

Which brought me to Number Three:

3) Don’t take everything so fucking seriously. Take your blogging seriously and write the shit out of whatever it is you’re going to write about, but stop making every little thing into an outrageously Big Fucking Deal.

Why?

It adds stress and will eventually alienate readers. It’s one thing to be mad some of the time; but outrage! at! everything! gets old.

Life’s not always such serious business. Relax and enjoy it.

4) Blogging is important. It’s really easy to minimize what you do with your blog. Hell, I’ve done it time and again. But at the end of the day, your words all matter. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, people will stumble across your words and find whatever it is they are looking for in them.

In the past two years, I’ve met at least four families who have received the diagnosis of “encephalocele” (generally, prenatally) and have stumbled here to read about my daughter. Those words I hastily pecked out while writing Amelia’s Grace have provided a light in the darkness for them.

I can’t place a value on that.

So even if you’re writing a blog about knitting or cooking; know that what you do matters. All of it.

5) Blog because you enjoy it, not because you think it’s going to make you rich and famous. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing for an audience of 5 or 5,000, enjoy the time you spend blogging. I spend many, many, many hours every day writing, blogging, and working on my sites, and I couldn’t be happier.

Do I make a lot of money? Absolutely not. Thanks to my profane (whore) mouth, I scare off potential advertisers. But you know what? I’d rather write as Your Aunt Motherfucking Becky than as Aunt Becky Trying To Be A Famous Money-Making Blogger. I do a little freelancing, sell shirts and and ads on this blog in order to pay for servers and other boring things on my other blogs, one of which, Band Back Together, I intend to turn Non-Profit. Mostly, I run them at a loss. Which is fine with me.

Bloggers who do make it “big” are an unusual flash in the pan, not something that happens to everyone who gets a kicky URL and a great idea.

6) Be careful who you get into bed with. Your name, your blog, your unique voice and your audience all mean a lot. Be wary of those who want to take advantage of it.

You don’t have to be all distrustful or anything, just make sure to read the fine print.

————–

What are your suggestions for being a better blogger, Pranksters?

Of all the many things in this world I don’t understand, my greatest confusion lies in this: I don’t understand why ball-pits smell like pee.

I desperately want to make my basement a gigantic ball-pit, but I’m terrified that if I did so, people would simply come over to take a whiz in it. Like, RANDOM people would show up at my door to pee in my ball-pit* and then I’d have to call my television serial killer husband Dexter to take care of them. Because peeing in ball-pits is bullshit.

*(You know if it had to happen to anyone, it would be me)

But still, the allure of a basement ball-pit (along with my tree house Panic Room) is strong, Pranksters.

Last week, my son turned four. And thanks to Product Placement during Team Umizoomi, he decided that he was going to spend his birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese. Had I turned him down, I have no doubts whatsoever that he’d walk there. Alex will get what he wants, when he wants, period. Luckily, it’s normally just juice or something.

I dislike Chuck-E-Cheese for the same reasons I hate Worst Best Buy: total sensory overload. Chuck-E-Cheese has the added bonus of smelling like poo.

But for my son, I’d manage.

Bonus! I had a coupon for 6 kajillion tokens.

As we waited for our Mouse Pizza, I noticed that this particular Chuck-E-Cheese sold both beer AND cotton candy, I was pleased. I pink-puffy-HEART cotton candy.

The risk for Oregon Trail disease was at an all-time high, but I managed to sit down without a hazmat suit. Progress, not perfection.

I captured my children’s horrified reactions:

The Birthday Boy, himself.

I’m a bit disappointed that I couldn’t get beer in those cups.

After a solid lunch of Mouse Pizza, it was Game Time.

Happily, I noted that the once pee-infested ball pit was gone.

The boys crawled around in the tubes, probably infecting themselves with poo germs while I took my daughter around to see if there were any games SHE could play.

I didn’t find any Amelia-sized games, but I did find Skee-Ball, which she was immediately enamored with. Happily, she took the cup of coins, which she called “Treasure” and inserted them into the game while I Skee-Balled my ever-loving arm off. I won like 8 tickets and a sore arm for all of my hard work.

After she tired of Skee-Ball, I realized I still had a zillion and a half tokens. Shitballs.

So I went off to find a game where I could dump the tokens in and win “tickets,” because like it or not, the kids were going to beg for some sort of “reward” at the Redeeming Tickets For Overpriced Crap counter. It was tickets or spending 8 bucks on three tiny boxes of nerds.

I found a game where I could bang a button* and win tickets. Perfect. No effort or skillz necessary.

I’d blown through most of my Treasure in a minute or two when I was hastily shoved out of the way by a rolly-polly woman at least ten years older than me. I’d thought she’d merely bumped into me, but no, no, of course not. This WAS Chuck-E-Cheese, Home Of The KlassE, after all.

Nope, she’d shoved me out of the way so she could play the game.

Bitch.

Whatever. Instead of punching her in the taco, I dumped the rest of the tokens and headed back to my three overly-exhausted kids. We redeemed the tickets for three wee Halloween-Candy-Sized boxes of candy and headed home.

So far, I haven’t shown signs of Dysentery or Ebola, but it could happen at any moment.

And now I’m obsessed with the idea of my own personal ball pit. I’m adding a moat, razor wire and an electric fence to my previous ball-pit design.

Perhaps some guard-dogs, too.

You never do know when someone might pop into your house and take a whiz in your ball-pit.

*Cue Bevis-like laughter

Anyone who has read my blog for very long knows that I bring weirdness wherever I go. And not just because I’m weird; that might actually make sense.

Aunt Becky in ANY situation = abounding weirdness..

Back in December, I went to Las Vegas for the first time a mere five weeks after I’d had major abdominal surgery because I’m Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger like that. Also: dumb as a box of rocks.

I’d decided to room with my friend Mandi at the MGM Signature, which is like the MGM but better. (Better = more expensive.) When we arrived, we saw that the suite we’d gotten was actually in the Penthouse and directly adjacent to Jana’s room. We even double doors that that we could lock to create a nice fortress.

It was pretty fucking sweet.

On Saturday, the three of us left together to go to a party.

“People say I’m the life of the party…”

Turns out that abdominal surgery and partying are kinda like oil and water. Or me and John C. Mayer.

I left the party early because I felt like a hot slice of ass. Mandi and Jana were both whooping it up with Elvis as I cabbed it back to the MGM by myself. For as paranoid as I can be about colonies of earwigs nesting in my ear, I’m not really a paranoid person and I’m totally capable of taking care of myself.

When I got back up to our floor, I was in agony. All I wanted to do was to lay down.

But when I reached the double doors, I found them…open. I was almost certain that we’d shut and locked them behind us (I’m Captain Motherfucking Safety, you know).

When I entered the foyer, I saw that my OWN door was open, too. I’d have been shocked if I’d left THAT open, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

I walked into the room for a second to see what was going on – if anything obvious had been stolen – and I swear on the Good Lord of Butter that all of the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Prickly-style.

That’s only happened to me a handful of times.

Each time it’s happened, it’s been for good reason. I’ve learned to trust it. If something makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, something is amiss.

I ran out of the room.

Now what the fuck do I do?

I went back down 9870 flights on the elevator to the front desk. Closed for the night with a jaunty note that explained I could find help at Tower One, which meant hoofing it back down a zillion hallways. So I did. My cell phone reception was pathetic. Walking was the only option.

I limped to Tower One where I told the person behind the desk about what had happened.

Security was called. I asked them to walk up to my room with me to check it out, red-faced and embarrassed as shit. I mean, how do you explain to someone that you “just had a bad feeling” without sounding like a total fucking lunatic?

I joked as they walked me back that I’d seen too many episodes of Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck As Badly As Theirs to simply ignore the open doors. Security assured me that it was just fine: that I’d done the right thing. Still, I felt like an assjacket.

Fifteen minutes later, we were up at my room, where security gave me the green light: no one inside. I thanked them for their time and they left.

But I couldn’t shake the creepers feeling.

I sent Mandi a text explaining what had happened (trying not to sound as frantic as I felt) and then limped all the way back to the MGM Grand, where I sat in the food court until Mandi arrived. Safety in numbers.

Never did find out what had happened. Probably never will.

I guess what happens in Vegas DOES stay in Vegas.

———–

Have you ever had the hairs on your neck stand up like that? Do you trust it when you have That Feeling? Can I have some chocolate ice cream, please?

Last fall, I set my sights on a new coat. It wasn’t just any old coat, of course, but an electric-blue Goal Weight Magic Trench Coat that I immediately called “my Sgt. Pepper’s coat.”

I imagined all of the antics my coat and I would get up to; the places we’d explore, the mischief we would manage. I’d found my Magic Coat at French Connection, and just as I was imagining my Trench Coat and I running off into the sunset after Gold Thieves a la Young Guns, I saw the price.

As brilliant a coat as it was, it wasn’t worth $300 bucks to me. Even if it WAS made by French Connection.

French Connection, I hear you Pranksters saying, why the shiballs would YOU Aunt Becky, shunner of all things fashionable, care? I mean, you own a NECKLACE with your NAME on it. Not very high fashion.

And I’d say, “Pranksters my love for French Connection is a long-standing. I’ve loved them more than I’ve loved anything else, ever. A company that could be so brazen, hilarious, yet refined at the same time is right up my alley.”

Oh Pranksters, let me show you why:

The full name of the company is “French Connection, United Kingdom,” and I am classily showing you why I care very, very much for this company.

Trust me, you wear this puppy in public and people stare. You’re using profanity without using profanity.

I own several FCUK shirts that say things like, “Bourbon FCUK,” “Too Busy To FCUK,” and “FCUK Me.” They rule.

Also: I put the “ass” in “classy.”

Anyway, my brilliantly gorgeous coat which, I should say, is not emblazoned with the “FCUK” moniker, well, it eventually went on sale. When the price dropped to $75, I decided it was Action Time.

Gleefully, I ordered my Magic Coat.

When it arrived, I hung it in my closet as added incentive for me to reach my Goal Weight. I’d see it magically hanging there, ensconced in plastic and remind myself that, hey, I didn’t need to eat bullshit food. Not when I had a jaunty blue Magic Coat eagerly waiting for me to wear it.

Weather in Chicago is one of three things: Ass Hot, Ass Cold, and Construction, and it’s been Ass Cold since I bought the coat. It wasn’t until this weekend that I had a chance to pull my jaunty Magic Trench Coat out.

It fit.

I’d made my goal weight*

#win!

It took a couple of hours for me to finally put my hands in the pockets of the Magic Trench Coat, and when I did, I was shocked when my fingers came across something. I’m not a person who uses my pockets as actual STORAGE (unlike my mother, who keeps the equivalent of a rolling suitcase in her pockets), so it was odd to feel ANYTHING.

I pulled out this mysterious object. Was it a bomb? A pen? A wad of used tissues? The Lindbergh baby?

Nope.

A set of car keys.

Not MY car keys. Not Dave’s car keys either. Not car keys that belong to ANYONE I know.

My Magic Trench Coat came with a free car. A free Jaguar.

That coat really IS magic.

Now…I just have to find my car. Perhaps THAT is what my Epic Road Trip will involve: finding my new car. It’s not technically stealing if I own it already, right?

*probably. I don’t weigh myself.

————-

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve found, Pranksters?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Do you make the Cancer is Bullshit shirts in men’s sizes?

Why yes, yes I do, thank you for asking. In fact, here are ALL the shirts I make. I’m considering doing a child-sized one too, because, well, cancer IS bullshit. I’m running a contest, actually, where you can WIN one of those fancy shirts.

Details here.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I keep telling myself that this question might be really dumb because it doesn’t necessarily involve me but I honestly have no idea what to do.

I work in a bakery in a local grocery store in a very small town. My co-worker (we’ll call her A), and I are somewhat close and I do consider her a friend. She has a habit that I don’t agree with, though. You see … she likes to flirt with and come on to married men (SO NOT MY STYLE). I figure if that’s her cup of tea then fine, since she hasn’t necessarily pursued anything more than flirtation. She is recently divorced and I feel like maybe she wants to explore this new-found attention from men, but I’ve given her the benefit of the doubt that she wouldn’t ruin someone’s marriage over it.

Lately, however, she’s been cozying up overly much to our store manager, or as we’ll call him, B (read: everyone’s boss) is MARRIED to another employee/manager of our store, who we can call C. C is not in the same department with A and myself but … I just feel like she is starting to cross a line. This man has a family, has a reputation and a career to think about … and while he doesn’t do anything directly to cross the line and indicate his interest … she sure as hell does. What is worse is he appears to be a sucker for the attention, and they do this on the clock … in front of me.

I know it’s none of my business and it doesn’t involve me but … at what point does it become inappropriate and at what point do I say something? I know that his wife, C, has noticed something strange is going on and I don’t want her to be blindsided or think that I was just okay with what was going on. Do I say something, or do I shut my whore mouth?

Sincerely,
KC

Oh KC, this is a tricky situation. I’ve thought long and hard about what you should do, and I can only come up with one solution. Keep your whore mouth shut.

Because if you open it, you can’t win. If you talk to A privately, you will no longer be in her good graces and working with an asshole coworker sucks a fat one.

Ultimately, B is responsible for how he behaves and how he reacts to her behavior (whatever her intentions may be) and that is between A, B, and C.

If you go to his wife and inform her that A is crossing lines with the way she behaves to her husband, B, you will be in the middle of it. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that anyone stuck in the middle is bound to lose.

You’re very well-intentioned here, and I appreciate that, but ultimately, you have to look out for Number One: you.

Good luck, Prankster.

Holy Fucker Balls!

I am not a freak, stalker or murderer so please don’t be weirded out when I say, I think I have found my cyber soulmate in you!!! You and your site are full of awesomeness and even though I just stumbled upon you whilst looking for a donut recipe on Pioneer Woman, I am already a huge fan!

I have always felt like I have to censor myself while amongst my peers but now I have found a home where I oddly feel normal! Thank you for all you do and for your friends and fans that share their stories.

Shit, I am supposed to fit a question in here.

Hmmm, Is it acceptable to swear in front of your children? I do. However, I don’t allow my children to use profanity. My theory is, this world is full of bad words and other fucked up shit.

I’m kinda sad that you’re not a freaky stalker (would make life…more interesting!) but it’s full of the awesome that you found me while looking for donut recipes. I heart donuts. I heart donuts so much that it’s obscene.

My first words were “Fuck You,” (no seriously) so it’s safe to say that my parents never held back when swinging swears around me. CLEARLY.

I was allowed to swear as a child…providing I didn’t do it in public. There is, apparently, a limit to the permissiveness in the household growing up. But I’ll save that for another story.

That said, I do swear in front of my children. They, in turn, yell at me for it. No sooner can I say, “where’s that asshole (insert noun here)?” before one of them is hollering at me to say, “Holy Smokes,” instead.

If pressed, I’d tell my kids the same things my parents told me: “you can’t swear in public or anywhere it’ll embarrass us,” because you know, I’m clearly a role model. I heart profanity almost as much as donuts. Profane donuts might be the Next Big Thing.

Swearing – especially colorfully – makes life interesting. Consider it a LESSON you’re teaching your kids the ART of swearing rather than something you’re doing wrong. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I’m sure I’m warping them enough in other ways.

Mental Note: Add Money To Kids’ Therapy Fund.

————-

As always, Pranksters, please fill in where I left off. What would you advise these Pranksters to do?

I’m was all lamenting that I hadn’t bought MYSELF a gift for Alex’s birthday because, well, I’m the one who expelled him out of my uterus. But then the heavens opened up and shone down upon me.

I got an email from my friend who makes my profanity-laden shirts.

My new shirts were READY. I nearly peed myself.

Behold the newest in my line of shirts:

It is so full of win that I can hardly stand it.

I also make other profane shirts. They’re available in “fashion fit” (order a size up) for The Ladies and Unisex for The Mens.

Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt, now available in purple, pink AND black:

A Not Your Bitch shirt:

A With The Band Shirt (now available in sizes up to 2X):

A Cancer Is Bullshit shirt:

I Kicked Cancer’s Ass shirt:

I may be weeping with The Awesome right now.

To celebrate my overemotional status, I’m going to do a giveaway of one of these fine shirts. Why? Because obviously. Also: I love you guys to pieces.

Let’s give this two weeks to play out. Tax Day, April 15, a winner shall be announced.

How do you win one?

First, tell me which shirt you’d want and why.

For extra! entries! you can do the following (please leave me an extra comment for each entry):

Write a POST about the contest (two entries!)

Be my BFF on The Facebook.

Follow Mommy Wants Vodka on The Twitter.

Follow Band Back Together on The Twitter.

Tweet about the contest.

Add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll.

Add Band Back Together to your blogroll.

YAY for new shirts!