Easter in the Sausage Factory.

Dude, these eggs are full of candy. There is nothing not awesome here.

Why have OR when you can have AND?

The only picture I was allowed to take of His Majesty.

The Benner, before he cataloged his eggs by color and shape.

Dave is showing off how pleased he is by the white chocolate cross that I bought him (with realistic wood grain!!). It was my nod to the crucifix debacle and his holiness (vs. my heathenism).

Also, we just had an hour long discussion about hook worms complete with medical reference guides and power point presentations which means that yes, this is definitely a holiday at my house and yes, you’re very, very glad to not be here now.

Happy Easter, Pranksters. Aunt Becky loves you waaaaaay more than she loves baked ham.

If you haven’t gone here to sign up for my book, I’d love you thiiiiisss much if you did. Because OBVIOUSLY. I need some more peoples to sign up (chapters will go out this weekend) and to reward you? I am going to run a contest to give you guys stuff for being so awesome. Seriously. I love you all.

Also? I somehow got nominated for the Hot Blogger Calendar, maybe because I didn’t win The Bloggie, and clearly because they didn’t see my Suzie Bright Eyes picture. So, if you want to vote for me (it’s for charity, people!), you can go here, scroll to the bottom, and click VOTE. Then it takes you to a SECOND screen where you tick a button. Not hard.

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From the ages of, oh, I don’t know, 3 to 24, my brother hated me. Unresolved issues, a sprinkling of jealousy and a (now ex) wife who fanned the flames of contention with her equally fcuked-up relationship with her own little brother made for a gigantic cluster-fuck of a relationship. For years I was baffled, then sullenly resentful, then I got over it.

You can’t make people (even family) like you. Period. End of story. Fin as those wily French say. Or is it the Eye-Tal-Ians? I can’t be sure.

(Years later, thanks to my sister-in-law, we get along just fine, thankyouverymuch, to the shock, I think, of us both)

But back then, when I was a teenager and he was my current age (28), he and his shrew of a (then) wife who shared my name (first, then last) bought a house in St. Charles, not too far–maybe 5 blocks–from where I live now. The only difference is, my house is in a 70’s construction subdivision, and his house was one of the original in the town. And, because he has a penchant for the dramatic and macabre, the old house he bought wasn’t any old house.

No, not a bit. Not MY brother.

It was built in 1837 in the heart of what was then downtown St. Charles, by a builder whose wife was a member of the spiritualist movement. Her name was Caroline and she believed that she could send and receive messages from the dead. As a famous medium of her time, she held many seances in her home, including one for Mary Todd Lincoln, who came to St. Charles in hopes of communicating with her deceased husband Abe.

But no, the macabre doesn’t stop there.

Once Caroline passed away, one of her daughters picked up right where her mother had left off, conducting seances in the same house. Her daughter later married a man who was an undertaker. The house was then used as a funeral home with one of the basement rooms used as an embalming and viewing room. The name of the undertaker is still etched into the glass on the front door, my brother happily pointed out when we came to tour the house.

(To think I was happy that my own home had central air.)

Anyway.

My brother and his then wife bought this home in the later 1990’s when I was a teenager. Shortly after this, my brother began to travel for business, leaving the country for weeks at a time. Also around this time, my former sister-in-law asked for a divorce. Even less reason for Aaron to be home.

So, when he was gone, I was occasionally asked to house sit, which confounded me: here I was, 18 with a boyfriend, and I was asked to stay in a house ALONE without parents, by my brother who hated me? Surely, there was a catch.

Turns out there was.

For someone like me, who firmly didn’t believe in ghosts, I wasn’t scared by the rumors that the house was haunted. Sure, the chalk painting on the wall in the basement (later, I learned, was the embalming room) of a wide-eyed girl with the phrase “JUST A PURE GIRL” underneath it was a little creepy. But St. Charles is an old town and between the houses I’d been to that had passages for the escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad and all the other old weirdness, I chalked it up to nerves.

He’d bought a creepy house.

End of the ever-loving story.

But no.

One night, after I’d promised my mother that I would pop over there to water the plants and hang out so that it looked occupied and lived in, I dragged my then-boyfriend over with me. Figured we’d listen to some music, hang out without any interruptions and maybe get a chance to have The Sex.

But no.

We pulled up, parked and walked in after I unlocked the door. It was like walking into a wall of unease. All merriment, all joy, all laughter was suddenly just gone. Sucked out of the both of us, like we’d entered The Vortex of The Fun-Free Zone. I eyed him and he eyed me back. The disenchantment was mutual, but we were going to power through it. Maybe it was just nerves or something.

But no.

We walked around the house and if we’d been actors on a stage, the directions would have read “The couple walks about, trying their best to act normal.” Very awkward and highly unexpected for the both of us. I went to the CD rack to pick out a CD as I knew my brother’s collection was far better than my own, hoping, I guess that a little familiar music would still the feeling of disquiet.

But no.

We sat down on the rug in front of the stereo and began to listen to some Mazzy Star. Okay, I thought, maybe it was just a case of The Nerves. Then the phone rang. Startled beyond anything, I jumped up, my heart thudding unhappily in my chest as I realized I was sweating profusely. Better answer that, I thought as I went for the handset in the kitchen. Give the illusion that someone is home, yeah, that’s the ticket.

(my brother hates to talk on the phone, so in hindsight, this was NOT what he’d have done)

Having been somewhat of a phone aficionado for most of my life, I was shocked that I couldn’t answer it. I tried to answer it, I pushed the right buttons on his new-agey looking phone, but no one was there. On and on it rang, Tim and I looking frantically at each other like answering this fucking phone won us the right to live or die. I couldn’t manage to answer it. No way, no how.

Then, just as the phone stopped ringing, the sirens downtown began to go off. The house wasn’t super close to the police or fire department, but the sirens were loud and close. All of a sudden, I got a vision of a car wreck somewhere close where people I loved had died. Popped into my head out of the clear blue sky. My whole body was covered head to toe in goosebumps and I began to shiver uncontrollably in the warm summer air.

It was then that I knew we had to get the fuck out of there before something Really Bad happened.

I took one look at Tim who looked back at me, both of us ashen under our summer tan, and we ran. We fucking bolted from that house as quick as we fucking could, panting and breathless. I called my mom to beg her to come and lock up after me because I couldn’t do it. My hands were too shaky to work the key into the lock.

Aaron sold the house several years later, had a couple of good laughs at my experience with the ghost, whom he claimed “hated women.” My mother, conversely, loved the ghost in that house who, apparently, loved her back. So the ghost, just like anyone else, had preferences.

It sounds so flimsy when I retell it here, because I can’t inject terror into your body like it was injected into mine. The analytical side of me says that what happened was just a stress response to being in the house of someone who didn’t like me particularly. It says it that I was feeding off the emotions of my surroundings and letting it overtake me. It says that there’s no such thing as ghosts.

The irrational, emotional side of me, though, doesn’t agree. The emotional side of me calls bullshit.

————–

Do you believe in ghosts? Have you had anything like that happen to you?

When I enrolled in my second college (which was technically more like my 0743067290 college, but for sake of the story, we’ll call it College #2, the college where I graduated from), they, unlike the other colleges I’d attended, had a Philosophy credit. I had Philosophy products and philosophies (i.e. “do not get out of bed before noon WHENEVER possible”), but I’d never intended to take a class in philosophy on purpose.

Let’s face it: I’m not the sort of person who wants to sit around debating what it really means when a tree falls in a forest. I’m too busy plowing through the forest in my mother-humping baby pink Hummer.

(okay, that’s a lie. I don’t own a Hummer.)

Your Aunt Becky is simply not a philosopher. It’s just not in her nature. Books that don’t have colorful pictures or swear words don’t much appeal to me. I tend to tune out when books have long unnecessary words and sentences that exist simply to exist, and the smaller and denser the text, the more I’m likely to use the book as a drool cloth.

But that doesn’t mean that I can’t do it.

Apparently, however, walking into my Philosophy of Religion class dressed not in the requisite black trench coat and stringy black hair made me an instant misfit. Perhaps I should have stopped showering and started shopping at Hot Topic. Because when I walked in, the sneers of the obvious philosophy students were palpable.

I took a seat, grabbed the book out listlessly and took out a notebook where I drew myself with a noose around my neck. That, at least, should have given me SOME sense of goth cred, but no.

The professor was interesting and I always liked to hear him talk, so the class, save for my classMATES, was tolerable.

By the end of the semester, their disdain for me was palpable (it was prophetic of how nursing school would be for me the following year, but I didn’t know that yet). Particularly full of vitriol was the guy that sat in front of me. Maybe he thought I was cute, maybe he thought I was a vapid bitch, maybe he thought I should be sacrificed as a sheep, I don’t know. I called him Suzie Bright Eyes.

But the day that we were supposed to get our final papers back, worth something like 65 percent of our grade, he was incredibly nervous. Clacking his fingers and drumming them on the long tables, he jabbered on to the guy next to him about how this would determine his grade for the class.

Our teacher was a notoriously hard grader, it seemed, and he seemed terrified that he would somehow fail and be unable to progress to the following class (this was a really high level philosophy class and how *I* wound up in it is anyone’s guess).

On our other papers, I’d gotten 99%’s so I wasn’t very worried. It just didn’t seem worth the extra anxiety, especially since I was lazy and tired. 50 million red pygmy hedgehogs didn’t give a shit, you know? It was fucking FINALS week and I had a 2 year old. I’d already DONE the best that I could do.

He got his paper back first and must not have done well because he looked miserable. His skinny, slimy pony-tail shook with emotion and his pale skin blotched red. I felt sorry for him, despite that he’d been a real ass to me for months before.

I got mine back and noted my perfect 100% with a “GOOD JOB” scrawled across the top and smiled to myself. I may look like this:

but I am a good student. Love me, hate me, say what you want about me, but I am an annoyingly good student.

So, Suzie Bright Eyes flips his greasy body around, glares at me and addresses me face first, instead of through snide whispers about “how they let ANYONE into the philosophy program these days.”

“What did YOU get?” he spat at me in a shockingly high voice, clearly hoping to rub a higher grade in my stupid-looking face. I could clearly see his “C” paper from my seat now.

Without waiting for a response, he looked down at my paper and noting the perfect score, his face literally dropped like a thousand toothpicks had been removed at once. A fwwwump!

You could literally see the wheels in his head turn as he simply didn’t know how to react. “How did YOU get this grade?” was the best he could sputter out, the disdain dripping from his every word. If a word could roll it’s eyes, each of his did.

I don’t know what he wanted me to say, but I’d had it with him and the rest of the class. I might look like a fucking idiot, but I’m not. I don’t have to wear all black and read Nietzsche in my spare time to understand philosophy.

So I said, for the first time since I entered the class, exactly what I thought.

“Fuck you, Suzie Bright Eyes.”

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If you haven’t signed up to pledge your allegiance to my book, I’d love it if you did. Just go here, drop in your name and email address and I’ll send out a chapter just as soon as The Daver shows me how. Tell your friends, your co-workers and your IMAGINARY co-workers!

Your Aunt Becky needs help and feels like a douche asking (sorry).

And *phew* now it’s the Best Day Of The Year: December…uh (looks at brand new Despair Calender, notes:

laughs deeply because it’s fucking true and returns)…December 26. The day AFTER Christmas. Not only is everything on SALE again, but that means that Christmas is OVER and I don’t have to deal with anything more pretending to be merry or liking other people again for another WHOLE year.

Which, hi, AWESOME.

No, don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas, but maybe it’s because I have a butt-load of children, but I’m about ready for it to be all over with by mid-December. I don’t want holiday themed hand-towels or soap or bras, I just want to go back to hating the world–besides me and my blog people–in peace and stop pretending to like everyone and everything in the name of Christmas.

Anyway, it’s over, I’m suitably happy, and while I’m now migrained, and sort of infirm, everything went well, even with the crotch parasites running around for the past two days like they were on crack. (note to self: do NOT put candy ANYWHERE near children at 7 in the motherfucking MORNING ever again)

I was roped into hosting Christmas Eve by the Persuasive Powers Of Guilt and I even managed to cook a turkey without making anyone sick. Turns out that the secret to a good turkey is a) shoving things up its’ butt and b) butter. Everything, except your cholesterol, is better with butter.

The smallest ones didn’t really care about opening presents (!!!) which makes me wonder if I actually birthed them myself, because there’s nothing not awesome about presents with your name on them, but once opened, it turns out that The Daver and I are excellent about picking out gifts for them. To be fair, though, they’d have been equally thrilled with a package of straws and some Solo cups.

The big one was happy to help them open presents and was most thrilled by his R2-D2 backpack which makes me SURE he was adopted because Star Wars is SO not my thing (I did buy the backpack for him on my own. I was VERY proud of myself). Unless it’s LEGO Star Wars, the video game, which is full of The Awesome.

Because this was The Christmas of Practicality for me, I’d opened up most of my gifts ahead of time, and wasn’t about to rewrap them, because that’s REALLY a pain in the ass. But I was given the ultimate Housewifey Present of a new hand-held vacuum (a Dyson!). Dave joked that it was to remind me that while I was trying to build My Empire this year, he wanted to remind me that I should refocus my energies on housecleaning*.

Then, full of Christmas cheer, I vacuumed up his scrotum.

All in all, Christmas was completely lovely and I am more than happy to see it in my rear-view mirror. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try and extract toys from packaging that I’m pretty sure was designed by sadists. I will probably lose a finger, and barring that, at least many layers of skin.

Oh well, that’s why we have so many layers to spare, right?

Merry Day After Christmas, Internet! Your Aunt Becky wants you to gather ’round and tell her how your Christmas treated you.

*He really WAS kidding and I was the one oogling this vacuum like a freak for years. But I really did vacuum up the scrote. Because OBVIOUSLY.

It’s time to pick a winner, for the FIRST contest where one of you won my friend Chris Mancini’s book: Pacify Me. The winner, per Random Number Generator/Comment-Thingy, was: Chris in PHX! The contest for Stef’s book runs until next week, so get a MOVE ON, yo. (you don’t have to be my friend on Savvy Source, just join my group and comment over HERE on the contest post.)

Now I’m going to have to start buying stuff to give you guys because that was fun. Dave is groaning somewhere.

——————

When I was in college, there was this big thing about gender roles and gender stratification in children and how we shouldn’t limit tiny minds by dressing boys in all blue and girls in all pink. Or buying little girls get in the damn kitchen and make us some motherfucking pie while we buy our sons mini-work benches and cars.

It makes sense.

And both Ben and Alex have dolls and a small dollhouse, and Alex had pink binkies (while he liked binkies) and if he’d had a preference for pink clothes, well, I’d have let him wear them. The only reason I dressed him in blue was because I got a little tired of telling people–even in head to toe blue–that he was a boy, not a girl. For some reason, they assumed he was a girl. Poor kid.

Anyway.

For Christmas this year, I’d bought my daughter this (for anyone who doesn’t want to click, it’s a toddler to preschooler kitchen set) not because she’s a girl or anything, but because I know that they’ll ALL go wild for it. Trust me when I tell you it’s not any sort of “women belong in the kitchen” because I can barely be bothered to order takeout. I live on cereal and coffee mostly.

Well, I’d ventured to the seventh circle of hell to try and buy it (see above link) but the only one that they had in stock was so janky that I ordered it online AND PAID SHIPPING, which normally makes my cheap heart hurt so much that I will go to any lengths to avoid it. It came in the mail yesterday in the box that cheerfully shows precisely what’s inside and, it being Ass Cold here now, I brought it inside with the help of my eldest yesterday.

(by “help of my eldest” I mean that I directed him to carry it inside. Heh)

I left it in the hallway to warm up before bringing it up to my bedroom for a couple of minutes.

In that time, my two boys swarmed the box like sharks, BEGGING me to open it and making me swear up and down that they would have the opportunity to play with it. I explained that they’d certainly be able to play once Christmas came, and they accepted that before they scampered off, wrestling hand-over-foot like a couple of puppies.

I cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

So, while I’m certainly fucking them up when I laugh during sex talks and while I bare I my soul on The Internet, it’s nice to know that sometimes I do right by my kids.

—————-

I need more hilarious photoblogging ideas, yo.

—————-

*What that “something” is is to be determined.

**Also, Ben can live with here forever and be my cook.

Dear The Internet,

Last week was Thanksgiving which meant that my eldest son was off of school for the whole week. Back when I was in school, up hill, both ways in the rain, when kids respected their elders, we did not have the whole week off school for Thanksgiving to annoy our parents. Because my mother would have sensibly locked me out of the house so that she could have some goddamn peace and quiet.

Instead, we had some Family Fun Time.

Because The Daver got sick. VERY sick. So sick that he had to stay home from work so that he could mope about the house, dropping used tissues around, coughing dramatically and sighing deeply whenever I asked him to do anything. Like pick up his used tissues.

Probably because he found one of Dave’s used tissues, Alex got sick and I wasn’t sure if The Terrible Two’s were rearing their head or if he was really getting sick because when I would say something like, “Alex, would you like some pudding?” His response was to throw himself onto the floor and kick and scream, which is sort of how I feel about pudding, but you know, he’s a kid. Kids like pudding.

Well, turns out that that the kid’s ears were full of bacterial pudding*. Awesome.

Not to be outdone by the elder sausages, Amelia jumped into the mix with a sweet sounding cough while my sinuses filled up with sludge just as all of the doctor’s offices closed for the holiday. I began to curse Thanksgiving until I made what was probably the best cheesecake on the planet. It was like the heavens opened up and smiled down upon THIS cheesecake.

Thanksgiving Day was shockingly nice, considering it’s a holiday I normally loathe and detest. We had my parents over for lasagna and The Cheesecake of the Gods and with the exception of Ben behaving like a monkey on crack, it was highly enjoyable. That night The Daver and I remarked that it was the best Thanksgiving that we’ve had, well, ever.

Say it with me now, Internet: you shut your whore mouth.

Thanksgiving Day Take Two was an EPIC disaster. Even though we were just driving the seven minutes across town to my parents house, Alex was hysterical and thrashing about like a greased weasel, insisting that we stay home to watch the fucking Backyardagains, Mimi was tearful, boogery and in dire need of a nap while Ben was alternating between the two of them whining about his canker sore.

Finally, I snapped at him and offered to cut off his lip if he didn’t stop carrying on about it and that sent HIM into a tailspin of despair. Whomever says boys can’t be dramatic can shut their whore mouth. Eventually we did make it over to my parents house with only a couple of hysterical children who were placated by several pounds of stuffing because who doesn’t like stuffing? Nazis, that’s who. And people who are dead inside.

Today I am thankful for donkey porn, penicillin, Vicodin, vodka, and mostly that Thanksgiving is fucking OVER.

——————

How was YOUR holiday? Are you thankful for donkey porn too? And for Cyber Monday (which, I should say, makes me feel kind of dirty to say, like I’m about to have The Sex with you all)(because I TOTALLY AM)?

And because I am going to give you stuff this week, I need your help now (because I am a TAKER). If you had to pick some of your favorite posts that I wrote, what would they be?

*You’re welcome for that visual.

The highlight of the third grade was our musical production of Music Throughout The Years, a fanciful medley of songs from the 1920’s to the present day 1980’s. We began with a rousing rendition of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and rounded out the evening with a heartful version From a Distance. Whomever put the music together was obviously a genius.

I was pretty stoked, though, because I got to play two whole parts in the play. First, I was a trippy 60’s party goer in our totally rockin’ version of Splish Splash, who came in and danced. Later, I was to come in and shoot someone with a fake bow (but no arrow).

Just like I knew that I was supposed to be an actress. I could tell.

Unfortunately no one had showed me how exactly to work the bow. Living in the suburbs, the hunting experience I’d had was limited to stalking my prey–the canned frosting tubs–at the grocery store. Perhaps if I’d lived somewhere in Montana, say, I’d have known how to properly hold a fake bow.

But I stood backstage, certain that my future as an actress shone brightly in the stars. Why, I had dark hair and teeth like chicklets and liked hats. I could certainly be like one of those sitcom stars. I could smell my destiny like some exotic perfume. I was going to be an ACTRESS.

When it came my part to shoot someone, I aimed the motherfucker right at my own face. In front of Baby Jesus, my whole school, our parents, and worst of all, my whole class.

I was mortified.

Thankfully, it was later when I realized my colossal fuck-uppery but I still remember that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Which, at age 8, you can’t just separate it and be all “Dude, I didn’t fucking know, okay?” It’s like the end of the world.

Luckily, I was only ostracized for a day or so until some girl peed her pants and somehow I wasn’t the biggest asshole in our class. But for that day I got the meanest note I’ve ever gotten. Fuck Monotizing the Hate, this is the real hate mail! I can actually still remember it:

Dear Becky,

I like you a little bit. But it grows smaller every day.

Love,

Becky.*

Her name was Becky too! How’s that for the kicker in the ass! Also, she signed it “Love Becky” which means that she was writing the note for show anyway.

After my stint as the class punching bag for accidentally holding the bow the wrong way, Becky and I made up and were pretending to be The Babysitters Club again by the week’s end. Those books were wicked fun.

This week, Ben had his third grade musical, and he was all nervous that he was going to screw it up, and so I started telling him this story, right? So he could see that I fucked up and that I had somehow made it to adulthood as a semi-functioning adult (shut UP!).

That somehow my bowing mishap hadn’t made it onto my permanent record and I hadn’t had to spend the rest of my life living down “The Girl Who Shot Herself In The Face With A Fake Bow.” And then I realized that being teased by my friends EVEN FOR A DAY probably wasn’t his idea of no consequences, so I uncharacteristically shut my mouth mid-story.

Ben: “Mom, I’m just nervous about this.”

Aunt Becky: “Don’t be nervous, dude. See, when I was in third grade, I was supposed to shoot this bow, and I turned it around and shot it the wrong way and…”

Ben: “And?”

Aunt Becky: “And, uh, WOW! Look at that cat! Isn’t he, uh, FAT?”

Ben (looks around and sees our cat, Peekachoo): “That looks like the same cat, Mom. He looks the same as he always does.”

Aunt Becky: “But isn’t he fat?”

Ben: “What happened after you shot the bow wrong?”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, well, nothing?”

Ben: “I don’t believe you.”

Aunt Becky: “Some, uh, girl peed her pants.”

Ben: “GROSS!”

Aunt Becky: “So if you trip and fall while you’re dancing, how’s this, I’ll bum rush the stage and TAKE OVER FOR YOU. Everyone will be so busy focusing on what I’M doing that they’ll ignore you and focus on me. They’ll forget all about your fall.”

Aunt Becky: “Or you can imagine everyone in their underwear.”

Ben: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “And I’ll take you out for ice cream afterward. So, if you’re scared, just think about ice cream. That ALWAYS works for me.”

And, you know what? The kid did his Momma proud. I was all set and ready to bum rush the stage and it turns out that being stupid isn’t genetic. He didn’t trip, fall, or embarrass himself in anyway.

I can’t say the same for myself, but you knew that.

*actual note!

Today, my column over at Toy With Me airs over there, and I’m talking about The Undercarriage. If that’s not PC enough for you and you’re not feeling the raunch, I will present to you an oldie, but a goodie down below (pun actually, for once, not intended).

If you are, I’d be much appreciative if you’d swing on by and visit me at my new home away from home. I’m still feeling a little insecure because, obviously.

——————

If I have subscribed to your blog in that Google Friend Connect Doo-hicky Whodilly Thing, I hate to inform you of this, but it’s probably not working. Especially if I haven’t been back in WEEKS and you’ve posted. So, if you’d be kind enough to leave a comment here, I’ll add you PROPERLY to my reader.

Stupid reader drama messin’ with my doggy style.

—————

Also, today is the last day to vote in my contest so be sure to cast your vote for your favorite “Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff.”

——————–

Some time in 2004 right before nursing school started for me again, I went to the eye doctor, with, among other things (like the ever-popular glaucoma test), the intent of getting a new pair of glasses. While in 3rd grade, getting new glasses was totally Full Of The Awesome, much like my spatter paint scruntchie* (complete with matching oversized shirt!!), it kind of loses it’s luster after 20 odd years.

I went alone because, well, it’s boring and dull and I can totally drive after they dilate your eyes because I’ve been doing it since Jesus was my classmate and I rode a dinosaur to school while wearing my hyper-color t-shirt.

Given the choice to come back at a more suitable time, let’s say, oh I don’t know, maybe when I could have actually read something that wasn’t on the floor or twenty plus feet away from me, I opted for the Wrong Way.

Two paths lay before me and I chose the one WRONG TRAVELED.

Door Number WRONG.

Oh yes. I decided to pick out a pair of glasses while my eyes were dilated. Alone.

They looked pretty cute on, I was completely convinced, my hazy recollection being one of looking extra-specially adorable, with the slightest touch of studiousness. I marched up to the surly cashier lady, ordered them happily, pink tint to the lens, per usual (cue rose colored glasses jokes now) and went back a week later to collect them.

I walked jauntily into the store, sat down at the counter and gave them my last name.

I waited a couple of minutes, marveling all of the ugly glasses that the store carried. We had the Iranian Taxi Driver Glasses, made so popular by white men with handlebar mustaches in the late 70’s/early 80’s (my father himself favored them).

Then there was the rack of the HUGE late 80’s/early 90’s school marm hexagonal pink glasses made famous by Sally Jesse Rafael and worn by women and children for long enough to be immortalized in many a class picture. I mused about how fortunate I’d been to escape that trend somehow.

I laughed to myself, chuckling about how my taste was eversomuch better than other patrons, congratulating myself HEARTILY for my awesome choices in glasses.

The smiling clerk returned after digging through a large bin of new glasses and handed me my prize. I greedily opened the package, hardly glancing at the frames before shoving them onto my face.

I looked eagerly into the strategically placed mirror and my happy, expectant look was quickly replaced by one of horror. The big black plastic frames, the angular edges, the thick frames all winked merrily, reflecting the sodium lights above me.

They carefully, thoughtfully, emotionally reflected one gigantic loser.

I had accidentally bought EMO GLASSES! How, oh HOW did I buy EMO GLASSES? These were popular among the whiny college rock bands who sing deep and meaningful songs about deep and meaningful feelings and EMOtions. These were things that I not only openly mocked, but things I openly mocked OFTEN.

“Oh no,” I whispered to no one in particular. “How did I do this?”

Now I had to WEAR EMO GLASSES! IN PUBLIC!

I shuffled away, tail between my legs back to show my (now) husband/then-boyfriend who was happily scarfing down a couple of bagels at Panera.

His eyes widened like saucers as I approached, whether is was my dirge-like march or the glasses now adorning my face and I slid into the booth across from him. Being the terrible liar that he is when I asked what he thought, he said diplomatically, “They’re…nice.” But his eyes told me the truth.

I looked like Lisa Loeb.

Possibly Waldo.

Well, I told myself as I bit off a chunk of his bagel and chewed bitterly, at least they finally fucking found Waldo.

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*If spattter paint shirts come back into fashion please, PLEASE put me out of my misery. PLEASE, Internet?

Saturday morning found me fast asleep in my very own bed, dreaming contentedly about mountains of marshmallow frosting and inexplicably John Mayer (who, I should add, I find to be a complete douche. With amazing talent. But a douche. But damn, can that white boy play or what?), when through the door burst The Daver carrying Alex. Not entirely unlike the time the Incident When Alex Ate A Dime, but now Alex was 2 and no longer a baby.

Before I knew it, he’d thrust Alex into bed with me, unceremoniously, and while I was delighted to see my son, after a full two painful days away from him, I was suitably UNDERwhelmed to hear what came pouring from The Daver’s mouth.

“I’m sorry to wake you up, I know you got in late, but look at Alex’s eye.”

Alex was laying on his hands on top of me and all I could see was his gigantic hair covered head, and his eye was out of sight. Finally, he popped his face up to look at me (and thankfully did NOT thrust his tiny fingers into my eye socket as punishment for leaving him) and I saw it.

Since the last time I’d seen my son, his eye had…well, grown. It was now approximately the size and shape of a small nation and swollen nearly shut. I could see the purplish streaks that signified bruising from the sudden influx of fluid into his eyelid. Knowing that if something had happened, say, he’d been knocked out in a prizefight or maybe defended my honor against some other toddler who was knockin’ HIS mom, I’d have been told, my heart sunk.

By the grace of God, I forced myself as awake as I could be and sat up. As I wrapped my hammy arms around my son and pulled him close, I sighed deeply.

Alex had cellulitis. Again.

It’s been years since I actively practiced nursing, but I remember several things vividly from nursing school:

1) A code brown best avoided

2) I was a terrible nurse

3) Cellulitis was a big fucking deal.

This cinched it for me: I wasn’t going to be going back to Chicago for BlogHer. Nope. No more $36 dollar bottles of diet coke for me. No more swag and no more marketers. Hell, I wouldn’t even get to meet half the people I’d wanted to meet which is the only thing about the prospect of staying home that made my heart wear a frowny face.

But such is life.

I sent Dave downstairs to put a call in to Alex’s pediatrician while I put on pants as Alex stared at me, making me sort of uncomfortable. He eyed me warily; his one eye studying me very seriously. I’d left him once, he knew, and he wasn’t about to let me out of his (one-eyed) sight again until he was sure I wasn’t going to recklessly abandon him again.

The poor kid had had a bout of cellulitis mere months ago, also orbital (read: around the eye) but this time in the other eye, and I knew that we were about due for another ER visit. I’m telling you, my ER Frequent Flyer Punch Card is nearly full! I’m almost due for a free emesis basin OR I can wait and upgrade to some IV tubing!

The last time, we’d avoided being admitted for IV antibiotics by the skin of our teeth, and I wasn’t taking any chances this time around. We dragged our sad sacks to Alex’s normal doctor, who seemed shockingly unconcerned, discomfortingly telling us to “wait and see.”

Which, hi, I’m cool with waiting and seeing about, oh I don’t know, an ear infection, or a skinned knee, or what crazy outfit Britney will wear next but with orbital edema so severe that my son could now not see at all out of one of his eyes?

The doctor was, apparently as he told us, still pissed that someone had called him at 3AM complaining of a swollen hand from an earlier bee sting. Which sucks, no doubt, but this is my son’s eyesocket, not a boo-boo on his knee.

My professional opinion? Fuck you and fuck that.

It was back to the ER with us. And hey, all’s well that ends well, and we got the script for some antibiotics…

(I feel I should disclose here, in order to assure you that we are not exactly hypochondriacs, that this is the second time Alex has been on antibiotics in his 2.5 years on this planet. And the second time that he’s been to the MD for anything OTHER than a well-baby visit. The first time? Follow-up from the LAST bout of cellulitis)

…and he’s feeling much better. The swelling has gone down while the bruising has gone up, so he really looks like he’s got a pretty rad shiner. I’ve always been fond of a black eye, I told him today, and he just looked at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot.

Because, well, at 2 my son has discovered what the world already knows: I am the world’s biggest idiot.

But anyway. You read my blog. You know I’m a moron. This is not national news.

Here’s what is.

(no it’s not)

(no, really, it’s not)

So, BlogHer gives away a bunch of swag, no? I’m sure you heard of it, what with the hoards of stampeding bloggers rushing the bags and elbowing kids out of their damn way (damn fool kids!). These are not lies, no.

I have a fool ton of stuff. Some of it I’ll use, but most of it? I took because I did not know what else to do with it. It could be useful to other people, but for as much shit as I have in my house, I don’t need any additional, and I was struggling what to do with all of it. There’s some pretty good stuff among the ads and coupons (those I tossed).

I was also stuck trying to figure out what to do with the huge ass stack of business cards I’d been told I needed to bring to BlogHer but didn’t get to pass out because I am a loser who went home early and then had to take her very ill son to the hospital. The loser part is incidental and irrelevant, because, remember, I win at LIFE, Internet.

So let’s do something with this stuff, since it would be green to reUSE it. Anything you don’t like, you can give away to your least favorite relative for Christmas. Here’s what my friend Lola suggested.

Leave me a comment, I’ll email you for your address, or email me outright (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com) and then I’ll send you some business cards.

(Pithy Aside/Reassurance: do not worry about me stalking you, should you disclose your address to me. I have 0% attention span AND I am lazy. Plus, Dave is the only other adult in the house and I just asked him my middle name, so that I could prove to you that he is forgetful. His answer? Elizabeth. My middle name? Sherrick)

Do something high-larious with the cards–you know, take ’em out for drinks, give ’em to your friends, whatever–send me the pictures documenting what you did.

No, not like rubbing one off on them, because ew, but you know. Something creative, or funny, or just plain weird. I’ll throw up the pictures with a link to your site and we can vote. Whomever wins, gets some of the BlogHer stuff and some other obviously hilarious crap that I pick out for you. No, not like old banana peels and breast pump parts. It’ll be like a grab bag of The Awesomeness. But in gigantic box form.

And if THAT doesn’t sound appealing, leave me a comment telling me something else I can do with these cards. I mean, I feel like a tool keeping them, because what the shit do I do with them? No seriously, WHAT do I do with them?

We’ll run this contest until, oh, I don’t know, how about September 8? Because that’s Daver’s birthday and this should help me remember it. See, Internet, I love YOU more than I love The Daver.

Then you cannot say that Your Aunt Becky never gave you anything besides the urge to punch her in the head. Because that, my friends, is the universal gift Your Aunt Becky gives to everyone who meets her.

*Blogher didn’t REALLY break my kid. Just my soul. Whatever was left of it, I mean.

God knows why, but today Becky told me that what she really wanted for her birthday was for me to write a guest post on MommyWantsVodka. I think she felt bad for me when she saw me notice her ogling a handbag with more more digits in the price than my car payment and turn ashen. And if I, pale as I am, turn more white, you know it’s serious.

Anyhow, she informed me in her Aunt Becky way (the not-so-subtle drip-drip method: “You’re going to post on my blog right? Tomorrow?… Hey Daver, how’s my blog post coming? Are you done with it yet?”) that I would be writing something for her birthday. It had to be something good, an explanation to Her Internets of how I put up with savor every moment of being married to the talented and dead sexy Aunt Becky. ( She’s not MY Aunt Becky, that’d be creepy, she’s just Becky to me. AND still Rock-n-Roll to me, too. AND only a woman. AND more than a woman. ) So here we are. It’s my turn to raise the roof off the mutha, to tell it like it really is…

…and I don’t know what to say.

I mean, there are tons of things to say; I have never known anyone who has made a more positive impact on my life. I am healthier because she made me see the doc. I am successful at work because I have her support at home, and I have wonderful children because she’s my teammate in raising them the way we think is best. She drives me crazy, and I drive her crazy, but if either of us is upset at the other we’re both misesrable about it until we work it out. Despite all the books and advice and people wondering about what makes a relationship work, we just…work. It’s refreshing not to need to think about it too much.

Way back when, I was single, with an apartment in the city, and she was commuting from the far Western ‘burbs to be at her clinicals by 6am. We went on a date, and that night I offered for her to stay at my apartment the night before clinicals so she could get an extra couple hours of sleep. I think at the time I just thought I was being nice, she was a friend of a friend and needed a hand, right? But as I look back I realize that I really just wanted an excuse to see her again, and deep down I already knew she was special to me.

It’s just…something about her. And honestly, you guys know already what it is, because you keep coming back here and reading her writings, laughing along and getting that feeling that she’s right there with ya. ‘Cause, well, she is. Her blog is a reflection of who she is, who we are; we’re not afraid to laugh at ourselves and we think our kids are the best and there’s very little in life that can’t be made better with a good laugh, some good music, and maybe a little vodka to take the edge off.

So, Happy Birthday, baby. One more year of living with your Sausages, being married to your Daver, thanks for being you and putting up with us, making us laugh, and putting us first. We may not always tell you, but you make us who we are, and that makes us pretty damn great.

I’d better close this out now. Becky’s hovering, telling me that maybe SHE should just write the damn thing for me, because I’m too slow. I told her that I was already over 600 words and she told me that was “decent”, with a smirk like it was decent for a moron with a hangover. I laughed and gave her the finger.

Welcome to our family.