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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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?