How To Lose Advertisers and Disgust People

Land’s End sent me a bathing suit. I know, I know, you’re thinking, “WHY would anyone send Aunt Becky ANYTHING besides a yacht?” and I’m wondering the same thing. In fact, I’m still WAITING for my yacht.

*taps foot impatiently*

Land’s End sent me a bathing suit so that I would post a picture of myself wearing it on my blog. You can see the error in their thinking, right?

I can.

This was probably NOT what they wanted:

girls in bathing suits with chainsaws

Better yet, this:

aunt becky drunk

Sorry, Land’s End.

I couldn’t resist.

Purple For The People

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:

purple-should-be-a-flavor-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:

shut-your-whore-mouth-shirt

A Not Your Bitch shirt:

not-your-bitch-shirt

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

with-the-band-shirt

A Cancer Is Bullshit shirt:

cancer-is-bullshit-shirts

I Kicked Cancer’s Ass shirt:

i-kicked-cancers-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!

Ring Your Bells.

They sat on the floor near the dollhouse I’d carefully chosen for Amelia’s second birthday, playing a matching game, putting together a puzzle and chatting. I sat nearby, as I always do, close enough for comfort, but not too close as to cause a distraction, my ears half-listening to their conversation.

Twenty minutes before, I’d watched her happily identify each of the planets on my iPad, squealing, giggling, clapping her hands and jumping at each image as it appeared.

I giggled whenever she got to “Uranus,” for obvious reasons.

And now, they were counting, “One, two, free, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN!Ten was met with a burst of applause and a butt-shaking dance, because sometimes, that’s how counting makes you feel. I smiled to myself. I do the applause and butt-shake whenever I’m about to eat an Uncrustables. Or find a new flash mob video. Or vacuum.

Then, they were done.

“Amelia has made incredible progress. What do you think about going down to twice-monthly speech therapy?” Her teacher addressed me now, as Amelia busily got her “MIMI’S Froggie Boots” on.

Words failed to form. I simply nodded.

Whenever I stopped to think about the road we’ve traveled, the one rife with uncertainties, “what-if’s,” “could be’s,” and “maybe’s,” I am overwhelmed. A sweet-and-sour mixture of joy and sorrow; happiness and guilt.

And I am, once again, thankful for everything she has taught me, just as I’m thankful for everything my children have taught me.

From Ben, I learned to become truly responsible for another. He taught me to see beauty in the smallest of things, from a garbage can to Jupiter and it’s moons. I found out just how far I would go to do right for someone else, and I’ve learned to accept people as they are, not as I want them to be.

From Alex, I learned what unconditional love felt like. He was the first person I’d known who loved me simply because. Alex taught me that I was a good mother. From him too, I learned to appreciate how far I’d come. I’d gone from that scared, single mother, the load on her shoulders heavy, praying I’d do right by my firstborn, to the luxury of simply reveling in my new baby.

It’s from Amelia, though, the one with curls like a halo, that I’ve learned the most. Maybe it’s because she’s my clone, looks and personality alike, or maybe it’s because the road we’ve traveled in the past two years has always been rocky, uncertain and scary.

From Amelia, I’ve learned that it is possible to be shattered in a few short moments, by a couple of words, a terrible diagnosis. I also learned that this kind of fragmentation gives you a chance to start again; slowly picking up the pieces of your former life, discarding what you no longer need, adding what you do. All of those fragments of who you were and who you are will be pieced back together through time and love, and the cracks?

The cracks are where the light gets in.

Amelia has taught me to face my dragons head-on, even when the outcome was uncertain: sometimes you slay the dragon, sometimes the dragon slays you. But you can’t run forever.

She’s found Mimi’s Froggie Boots and appropriately cheered, “YAY! I DID IT!” when she managed to put them on “by myself.”

I grabbed my keys and we were out the front door, on the way to preschool. When we got to the edge of the stoop, where she considers the step down treacherous, she automatically raised her hand to mine and asked, “MIMI’S HAND?”

I held out my hand, marveling at how how someone so small, someone with hands like tiny birds, could have an impact so large.

Firmly holding my hand, Mimi lead me into the future.

amelia-encephalocele-mommy-wants-vodka

She’s The Number One Super Girl

At one PM today, my daughter, Amelia, was feeling sad.

(note: Parts of My Daughter, Amelia, will be played by Your Aunt Becky)

Aunt Becky Mommy Needs Vodka
Not Actually My Daughter

Why could that be?

Could it be because she saw this scary poster hanging in a local eatery?

BUTTER IS THE DEVIL
That Kid Can Believe it's Not Fucking Butter.

No!

Could it be because she couldn’t find Mommy’s Boba Fett helmet?

Hot Girls in Boba Fett Helmet
Reality Doesn't Care If You Believe It. Neither Does Mom.

NO!!!

Could it be because no one bought her “Couch Jesus?” on eBay?

Kids drawing on couches
Couch Jesus

No way man!

Could it be because Mommy hadn’t installed the Ultimate Disco Ball in her bedroom yet?

Disco Inferno
We're Getting The DISCO Band Back Together

NO!

Amelia,

Aunt Becky Mommy Needs Vodka
Not Actually Amelia

Why so sad, peanut?

Here’s a song for you.

It’s what Mommy sings when she’s in the shower. Let’s sing i..ouch, Amelia, that hurts. Don’t pry Mommy’s lips off.

Oh. You’re sad because you just started school today. I see.

I’m sorry you were sad…What’s that? You’ll only be less sad if I buy you these in your size?

Blue Patent Leather High Heels

Pretty sure your father would have my head.

I’ll go get my credit card.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl

(note: all artwork is original and should be revered as such. Perhaps you can say a prayer or do a dance or something when you see how epic it is)

I came down, yesterday, from putting my daughter down from her nap. I took a cursory glance at my sons, and was all, “Hey Guys,” and started to walk away in search of more dancing cat videos to soothe me. Also: a mop to try and remove the goo that my sick daughter had left all over me.

I noticed something.

While this is what I expected to see:

Why I Am Not A Good Mommy Blogger
That Devilish Imp!

Without, of course, the washout from the front door or the grainy pixelated quality of iPhone pictures. My son is not pixelated. NONE of my crotch parasites are pixelated.

This is what I saw.

Mommy Bloggers Hate Me
My brain exploded everywhere.

I stood there, jaw flapped open before I began to holler furiously.

Because then I saw this:

Ruined Couches. Without Mr. Sprinkles

After I stuffed my brains back into their cavity, I realized that there was only one guy to call.

Billy Mays Oxyclean
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

Billy Motherfucking Mays.

Now, if you know anything about me (note: you shouldn’t), you should know that I fucking love Billy Motherfucking Mays.

When I use Oxyclean, the voice in my head SOUNDS LIKE BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS. That’s comforting because I miss BILLY MAYS. A lot.

See, Pranksters, BILLY MAYS and I were BFF (best fucking friends) until he had to up and die on me. I’m still not over his death, but when I use his product, HIS VOICE SCREAMS IN MY HEAD, and it’s a little better.

The couches, I saw, they were a job for BILLY MAYS and OXYCLEAN. A job powered by ANGER and CAFFEINE.

I turned on my iPod and started in on them.

All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom of the Opera came on.

Me: *grumble, grumble* “GOD, this is a crappy wedding song. Why do people choose the worst songs to dance to as their First Dance?”

Billy Mays Oxyclean
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

BILLY MAYS: “THAT’S A BULLSHIT SONG, ALL RIGHT. MY WIFE AND I DANCED TO THE THEME SONG FROM THE SMURFS. NOW HOW’S THAT OXYCLEAN TREATING YOU? REMOVING YOUR STAINS? MAKING YOUR WHITES BRIGHTER? MAKING YOUR LIFE BETTER?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s kind of weird, BILLY MAYS. Even for you.”

*time passes*

Aunt Becky: “HOLY SHIT. I CAN’T FEEL MY FINGERS.”

Billy Mays Oxyclean
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS! FORGET ABOUT YOUR FUCKING FINGERS, YOU SNIVELING WHORE. HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?

Aunt Becky: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH ABOUT THE FUCKING STAINS, BILLY MAYS. I HAVE NO FUCKING FINGERPRINTS!”

BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS!! HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?”

Aunt Becky: “The worst part is that you’re in my head. And the BILLY MAYS in my head doesn’t care about my fingerprints being seared off by an Oxyclean bath.”

BILLY MAYS: “YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND SCRUB, WOMAN. THOSE STAINS AREN’T GOING TO UNDO THEMSELVES. BRIGHTER WHITES!”

*time passes*

BILLY MAYS: “JUST WORK ON YOUR COUCH, YOU FUCKING NIMROD!”

I Am A Shitty Mommyblogger

2 hours of work, 2 rolls of paper towels and 2 bowls of Oxyclean later, this is what I got:

Couch Art Sucks

Don’t recognize it?

(BILLY FUCKING MAYS DIDN’T EITHER)

Couch Art.
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl

That’s my daughter’s handiwork. It’s done in Pink Sharpie. On my couch.

BILLY FUCKING MAYS couldn’t touch that shit, ALTHOUGH HE GOT THE OTHER MARKER STAINS OUT.

Some day, I hope to auction this particular self-portrait off for many millions of dollars. Momma needs a yacht. And some new fingerprints.

Although having none could really launch my Life of Crime. Then I could by my OWN yacht. Wait a second…this idea is BRILLIANT.

Thanks, BILLY MAYS. You’re a fucking hero.

Dispatches From The Gremlins In My Colon. Er…Living Room

What holiday would be complete without a discussion of my colon?

THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS: NONE.

Somewhere along my Mars Cheese Castled Journey (I’m thinking we Midwestern Bloggers need to field trip it up there, yo. It’s a CASTLE of motherhumping CHEESE) to Wisconsin, I seemed to have picked up a Ghost in my Colon, which effectively means that I’ve been crapping out the lining of my digestive tract for the past 12 hours. It’s pretty rad.

But this weekend has been FULL of awesome post ideas and excellent happenings. Most full of the awesome is that The Daver completed the new navigation for Band Back Together:

Full of The Awesome PICTURE Navigation

This matters to a whole three of you, but this means that you can simply click a picture and it will take you to the page with all of the subcategories. You can access it from the main page or the browse posts option at the top of the site.

ALSO, and probably most importantly, there’s a READ ALL POSTS option at the top of the screen on Band Back Together, too. Like any normal blog feed, it’ll take you to the most recent posts. Sweet ass in the mornin’! Just not *ahem* MY sweet ass. Not today.

Anyway.

ONTO THE DISPATCHES.

The moment my son saw his sister get dressed up for Thanksgiving, he wanted to bring his, you guessed it, AWESOME COSTUME. Who could blame him? I’m still stuck wearing happy pants and my binder. I’d totally have worn a butterfly costume if I could have.

And next year, he wants to be SATURN. The planet, not the car. I think I need to start searching for that costume, uh, NOW.

Thanksgiving Flutterby

While my son fluttered, his sister made my ovaries melt with her Hello Kitty dress. This was one of the first things I bought for her when she was a wee fetus and when she saw it, she was all, “KITTTTTYYYYY!” because she loves Hello Kitty. Just like her momma.

In this picture, it appears as though she is plotting world domination. She probably is. Just like her momma.

Hello, Kitty!

I have a third son but no Thanksgiving picture of him because he was staring gape-jawed at the television and all of the pictures made him look like he may have been catching flies rather than watching the game.

This is my first family portrait and proof that I am an artistic genius. I think I must’ve drawn this when I was 12 or maybe 20.

The picture is only funny when you notice one thing…

SMILE!

Look at the smiles on my mom and I. Then look at the smiles on my brother and my father. Could they LOOK any meaner?

HILARIOUS.

And this is only the best thing ever:

Notice, it does NOT say, “Aunt Becky, Mediocre Blogger.” Ah, how the (not-so) mighty have fallen.

—————–

How was your holiday, Pranksters?

Amelia And The Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day

My tastes have always run from the garish to the downright tacky. Whenever I’d date someone new, my friends teased me, “Show him the BECKY BELT” and if he laughed and shook his head in a “oh THAT wily Becky” kind of way, well, he was a keeper. If he didn’t, he wasn’t.¬†Any guy who wants to dump you because you like glitter and sequins and hot pink isn’t someone who loves you for the right reasons. Just saying.

Anyway, it’s the stuff of legends, my tastes, and I’m pretty okay with that. If you’re going to be larger than life, it might as well be because your tastes suck.

Shoes, especially, my Awesomely Tacky Light Shines upon. I own a pair of black pumps, but they were for a wedding I was in. The rest of my shoe closet isn’t so unrefined.

Yesterday, I finally got in the mail a pair of shoes I’d put in my Amazon.com shopping basket ages ago. I’d finally remembered to buy blue hair dye for my peek-a-boo highlights in the back and was all WELL HELLO THERE AWESOME SHOES and bought them.

They showed up and the kids swarmed because normally packages that show up are for them. Plus, kids are pretty self-absorbed like that, which is kinda something that I respect about them.

I explained that the package wasn’t, in fact, for them this time, and the boys went outside to look at constellations. My daughter, however, made like she didn’t hear me. She’s a stubborn one, my girl.

I said it again as I opened the package and still she ignored me, her big eyes on the box in my lap. Then, I uttered the words I shouldn’t have: “SHOES.”

Now I said, “These are shoes for Mommy, Amelia. Aren’t they pretty?”

What she heard was,” ‘BLAH BLAH BLAH, PREETTTY PRESENT FOR AMELIA, AMELIA!”

And then I whipped my new shoes out to show her.

To be fair, they look like shoes a child could wear, because of my lack of taste and all, but really, the heel is high and she’s not two years old yet. She already wears a small heel on her Mary Jane’s (her insistence) but her shoes can fit my big toe.

Well, all she saw was PRETTY SHOES.

So when I took HER pretty shoes and put them on MY feet, well, that Pranksters, that was unacceptable.

She screamed.

She wailed.

She tried to pry them off my feet.

When I took them off, confused by her ire, she tried to put them on her own tiny sausage feet. It didn’t work. This served to make her more angry so she screamed harder. Oh, my daughter has a temper, but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

My sons came running in to see if she’d been caught in a bear trap or had been run over by a truck and when they saw her standing with my shoes, they stopped and stared, mouths agape.

We all stared at her as she shrieked.

Pranksters, she yelled, cried, and beat her tiny fists against the floor for a full forty-five minutes until I put her into bed.

Guess this means that she’s inherited my tastes…

…and my temper.