When I Get Sad, I Stop Being Sad and Start Being Awesome

It’s been no secret that I’ve been depressed.

I’ve stared at the blinking curser on a blank blog page, all Imma talk about it I don’t know how many times (at least twice), but realize that whatever I say will be all wah, wah, wah, bleeeerrrggg, because I’m not depressed about things that are entirely fixable with anything but time. I’ve done my best to keep my head up through the storms and keep one foot in front of the other – that is, when I’m not too busy falling over kitchen appliances and giving myself minor concussions – and keep on truckin’.

It’s the only thing I can do.

So instead of telling you my laundry list of things that have been depressing and/or heartbreaking, it’s time to take a gander at depression through the ages. That way, when I’m sad, I can stop being sad and start being awesome again.

Depression, Age 10:Wahhhhhhh, I broke a lace on my new skates and now I have to wear these rental skates and NO ONE will want to slow-skate with me because I’m going to be all stinky-foot on their asses. These skates smell like at least three people vomited inside of them. How does that even happen? I need my mom to buy me a new pair of these kicky shoes – Chuck Taylor’s. That’ll help with this OMFG humiliation of skating in barf skates.”

Depression, Age 15:Wah-Wah-Wah, I’ve just dumped this guy that I OMG loved so much with all my heart and I just knew we’d be together forever even though we only were “together” for a night or whatever, but he’s SUCH a good kisser and I’m SURE he’s my soulmate. I know we’ll work out*. In the meantime, I need some kicky motherfucking shoes. AND, I need my friend to pee in his mailbox. Clearly. Oh, if only I had a social network thing to quote very, VERY meaningful song lyrics and/or quotes that remind me of my lost looooovvvveee.”

Depression, Age 20: “Holy fuckstick, I got a baby in my belly and he’s all dancing on my bladder and shit and I have to pee two ounces every three seconds, and if he’d just lay off my liver, things would be okay again. Well, that and a simple, “Congrats!” from anyone – kinda sick of these angry looks. I’m twenty years old, not thirteen. I bet a new purse would do wonders to cover up my gigantic ass. Who the shit gets pregnant IN THEIR ASS?”

Depression, Age 25: “Ha! TAKE THAT! I proved those motherfuckers wrong – I raised that baby up, I got married and I graduated at the top of my nursing class. With the whirlwind I’ve been living in, I don’t see AT ALL how I didn’t notice that working as a floor nurse might just make me homicidal. Oh, and autism kinda sucks ass – I thought it would be better once I had real time to devote to the kid. Oh! I know what’ll help – ANOTHER BABY. So why can’t I get fucking pregnant?”

Depression, Age 30: “I got this. I may be miserable, but who the fuck wants to think about that shit? I can totally just push it on back there and be all, “MY LIFE RULEZ. It’s important that it has the “Z” in RULEZ, because obviously. No one needs to know how shitty things are, even IF I do have a social media network to whine on – who wants to read that? I bet a joke about squirrels in diapers would TOTALLY cheer me up. I should tweet that shit.”

Depression, Age 32: “Starting over again, huh? Not the way I thought it would be. I could put up some inspirational shit on my social media networks, but that might make me stab myself in the toe with a blunt fork. Who cares if “tomorrow is a new day” if today, like all the days before it, has sucked ballz. YES, ballz needs a “Z.” Why? Obviously. Being this whiny means I should probably shut my whore mouth until I’m able to say something awesome again. So that’s that – when I get sad now, I’m going to stop being sad and start being awesome.”

*he had a tiny wang – think pretzel rod, Pranksters – and we never did get back together. Thank the Good Lord of Butter. Bullet motherfucking DODGED.

(when you can’t find me here, you can find me here, which has some rad guest posts on it. Why? Because when I get sad, I stop being sad and start being awesome. Duh.)

Juice Boxes Are For Pussies

hello-kitty-wineWhen I found out that Hello Kitty was launching a line of wines, I was thrilled. Partially because I love everything Hello Kitty, but mostly because it means that I no longer have to shell out for juice. Because juice boxes are for pussies. And my babies aren’t pussies.

They’re not so much into hard liquor or meth, but my babies do like their wine. And wine with whimsical cartoon kitties is a win for us all. Why, it’s practically begging for my children to chug it!

I know, you’re not supposed to give babies booze until they’re at least 12, but they like it! I swear! Plus, it makes them sleepy, and when they’re sleepy, Aunt Becky is very, very happy. Because then I can drink more of that silly kitty wine without my crotch parasites crawling around at my feet, asking me to do shit for them like give them them more of Momma’s wine or help them with their dumb homework.

Like I tell them, what the fuck good has homework ever REALLY done for anyone anyway?

And I read some article in some medical magazine or heard it on Maury or some shit that wine is good for the heart. I want my babies to have strong hearts, so I make sure that I give them wine with every meal. It’s HEALTHY and shit. Especially because then they shut the fuck up for once and I don’t have to listen to them babble on and on and on.

I swear, no one told me kids were so fucking loud or I would have gotten some fucking muzzles from the hospital. Duct tape just doesn’t work as well.

So I’m serving Hello Kitty wine at every birthday party and if all those fucking crotch monkeys that my kids invite don’t like it, well, they can have some of the bourbon.

But not the good shit, like Old Crow because that’s reserved for me.

You Best Believe This Shit is Going Up On My Wall

shut-your-whore-mouth

There are no words to express the awesomeness of this except for #winning. Thanks, Prankster Dorothy for making this for me. It will be treasured always.

I’m off to Type A Parent, where I’m certain to horrify everyone with my Type B-ness (it’s a nice way of saying, “I’m lazy as fuck.”).

I’m hoping for some hot TSA action.

Because I AM Type A about mah blog, I’m certain that I’ll be blogging ON LOCATION. Which sounds so much fancier when I put it that way.

Happy Trails, Pranksters. Be good. Or as good as *I* am. Which isn’t very good at all.

 

A Tale of Two Hedgehogs

Back when everyone I knew owned Nintendo (NES), my brother convinced my parents to buy me the OTHER system: the Sega Genesis. I only had two games for the thing: Sonic The Hedgehog and Echo (the asshole) Dolphin before I realized that video games were bullshit.

But hedgehogs weren’t. In fact, life might be damn near perfect if I could have a lovable scamp like Sonic for a kicky sidekick! One day, I shook my fist at the dusty, unused Sega Genesis, that someday I too, would have a hedgehog-sidekick of my very own.

My twenty-fifth birthday found me in a brand-new house, desperately failing to getting pregnant with a second baby, working forty hours a week, with a menagerie of animals already in my care.

The Daver: “What do you want for your birthday?”

Me: “A pony.”

The Daver: “Our yard is too small for a pony. What ELSE do you want for your birthday?”

Me: “A turbo jet.”

The Daver: “Okay, someday, I’ll buy you a jet.”

Me: “You have to name my jet, “Fluffy.”

The Daver: “Okay. So what do you want for your birthday THIS YEAR?”

Me: “A hedgehog.”

Daver: “You’re not serious, are you?”

Me: (glares)

The Daver: “You don’t want a hedgehog, Becky.”

Me: (glares)

The Daver: “So you DO want a hedgehog. Why?”

Me: “I need a hedgehog sidekick like Sonic.”

The Daver: “….”

Me: “He can ride everywhere on my shoulders and we can solve crimes together while collecting those golden rings.”

The Daver: “What do you know about hedgehogs?”

(he was always asking questions like this)

Me: “Uh. Well, they like gold rings and they’re blue and they fight crimes.”

The Daver: “…”

Me (pulling something out of my ass): “Also, they’re indigenous to hot, aired climates and enjoy carrots.”

The Daver: “This seems like a bad idea, Becky.”

Me: “Nah, it’ll be great! Me and my crime-fighting hedgehog will have many adventures.”

Once he was safely out of sight, I googled “hedgehogs,” and found a breeder within ten miles of my house. I called to see if she had any crime-fighting hedgehogs for sale, and when she didn’t, I was crestfallen. She put me on a crime-fighting hedgehog waiting list.

A couple of weeks later, she called and informed Daver that she had a hedgehog for me. Thrilled, we drove to the breeder and I picked up my new crime-fighting sidekick, a cage, and some hedgehog food.

My albino hedgehog looked remarkably like a baked potato and absolutely nothing like Sonic.

albino-hedgehog

I named him Tate, short for “potato.”

“Oh well,” I sighed, “maybe hedgehogs aren’t blue.”

Daver grimly glared, his eyes on the road.

After we got Tate’s cage set up, I read the handouts the breeder had given me.

“It says here that I need to ‘socialize’ him so he gets used to people,” I read aloud. Okay, I could do that. Animals loved me.

When I grabbed Tate out of his cage, he became a hissing ball of pokiness. Well, sure, he wasn’t USED to me yet. No wonder he was scared. After a couple of minutes in my hand, he relaxed a bit and I was able to see how freaking cute he was.

He started licking my hand.

“Awwwww,” I said, “Lookit how much he loves me! He’s giving me hedgie-kisses!” As he continued to lick my hand, I imagined the bank-robbers we’d apprehend, the jewel thieves we’d bring to justice, and all of those gold rings we’d collect along the way.

Tate interrupted my vision of the two of us riding a horse, hotly in pursuit of Bad Guys when he chomped down onto my finger. It felt like a thousand tiny nettles of pain so I yelped. I tried to remove his tiny mouth from my finger, which was now oozing blood, but he held on, determined. I swung my hand back and forth trying to get him to let go of my damn finger. He dug in harder.

Finally, I pried his horrible mouth off my finger and ran to the bathroom to wash the wound, tears flowing. That motherfucker! How DARE he?

albino-hedgehog

For months, I carried him around in his specially-designed “hedgehog pouch,” as the handouts suggested, so he could “get used to me.”

He never did.

My zombie hedgehog was bullshit.

Luckily, I found a new hedgehog.

hedgehog-toddler-costume

This hedgie kinda liked me.

(Mostly because I gave him candy.)

hedgehog-toddler-costume

Tate was NOTHING like Sonic. When he died a couple of weeks before Amelia was born, no one was too sad. Our scarred fingers were a painful reminder that sometimes things just don’t work out.

I learned a valuable lesson from Tate: not all hedgehogs are crime-fighting sidekicks.

Which is why I’ve decided that I need a feisty camel sidekick named Mr. Spits instead.

Why Yes, Yes I DO Have An Abacus. Because I Am An Adult.

On my recent excursion to The Target to pick up my McDonald’s Headset to finally go “hands free,” I realized that I was also in dire need of an additional filing system.

(pithy aside, my brand new house phone, the only one I’m able to use in my HOUSE, is Blue Douche enabled. Which means that I can talk on the EAR PENIS but not my McDonald’s Headset. This seems like a steaming pile of bullshit, or at least, a conspiracy)

One of the many things I miss about school is purchasing school supplies. Buying them for my children isn’t nearly as full of the awesome, because, well, obviously. Their lists always require things so specific that I drive all over town in an endless pursuit of a twelve ring, three binder, red, plastic-covered notebook, wide-ruled, until I give up, convinced it’s a typo. Then I see the OTHER parents have managed to find said item and wonder what I’m doing wrong.

I digress.

Getting my corp. taxes done reminded me that my filing system of “throwing things into envelopes” was probably not going to cut it, especially if I wanted to go all official Non-Profit-ish for Band Back Together, so I eagerly went to see what else existed to make my life, well, BETTER.

It was like the heavens opened up and shone down upon me. There couldn’t have been a better day for it. I’d just gone to the Anxiety Doctor for a medication recheck, gone to the Tax Man, and was staring down the Pharmacist From Hell.

But there it was: A SALE on OFFICE SUPPLIES.

*cue choirs of angels*

I grabbed three or twelve-fifty-niner of those weird folding file folder thingies, a sassy three-ring binder – practically a Trapper-Keeper – and folders for it, a new notebook, a bigger day planner than the one I currently use, a white board for Daver and an address book. You know, the ones you use your hand to physically write a name and number next to? Oh yes. I’m proudly regressing.

I’ve somehow been placed in charge of all the stuff coming into and going out of the house. It’s amusing to anyone who knows me and annoying to me, who knows me.

When we prepared for the Great Move of Aught Six from Oak (no) Park (ing)* I in charge of sorting, organizing and packing up our condo. Daver can’t get rid of anything. He’s descended from a Pack Rat, but he’s not one himself, no, he’s merely incapable of sorting out what can stay and what should go.

So he saves it all and overlooks the glaring piles of crap.

When I was packing/sorting/cleaning the condo, I came across a receipt. Curious, I picked it up and looked at it.

Pranksters, it was three years old. Figuring that anything saved for that length of time must’ve been something good, I glanced down at it. Four items: a plastic garbage can, beef jerky, Fritos and…wait for it, wait for it….

…..

…..

…..

kitty litter.

Thank the Sweet Lord of Butter that he’d saved a copy of THAT! Otherwise, I’d never have known exactly what he was buying at 1:42 PM on October 22, 2003.

What was most baffling and/or frightening was that this receipt had also managed to move to three separate apartments.

While Daver was raised by someone who is physically incapable of throwing anything away, my father recently got a label-maker for Christmas. I swear to you, eyes wide with glee, he tore into that label-maker like it was a brand-new laptop. Before the day was through, I was wearing a “Stumpy**” label, Daver had a “The Daver” label, the kids each were wearing their names, and he was upstairs happily labeling everything in his extensive file cabinet.

He takes Organization Very Seriously.

He also takes Getting Rid of Shit Very Seriously.

If he’s found something that is very clearly mine, he will happily march it out to my car the very moment I arrive, lest I forget it. Or swing it by my house. In the odd event that I do not claim it in his arbitrary time-line, he donates it to charity.

Stuff = Bullshit.

Organization = Not Bullshit.

The man has it right.

I do not happen to personally enjoy labeling things, because I have a feeling if I started, I’d probably never stop. I’d be up all night, every night, labeling individual cans of diet Coke “DRINK ME,” just because.

What, ME COMPULSIVE? Why, I never!

Also, make all the Abacus Jokes you want, but I have NO CLUE how to use the damn thing.

Also, Also: new shirt idea.

This?

bullshit-strongerOr maybe this?

Bullshit-Makes-Me-AwesomeOr maybe something else. I dunno. Need a new idear (because my shirts aren’t Zazzle and are awesomely eco-friendly, organic, possibly made from recycled banana leaves) and screen-printed, I pay upfront, which is why I ask you guys about this stuff. You’re my brain, Pranksters. MY BRAIN.

EVEN THOUGH ME AND MY ABACUS ARE ORGANIZED.

*inside joke for anyone knows Oak Park. Parking is BEYOND bullshit in Oak Park.

**My brother nicknamed me “Stumpy.” Because I was shorter than him. I’m not exactly short: 5 foot 5 inches tall; not like 3 feet tall.

Technology Ennui

The first time I saw someone talking on a wireless headset was back in 2003. I was in the bathroom at the Atlanta airport, waiting for my connecting flight, washing my hands. There was a woman standing at the sink, looking in the mirror, having a conversation with herself.

As a student nurse who spent half her time in the hospital dutifully putting in clinical hours, wiping butts and taking names, seeing someone have an actual conversation with someone who was not actually all that uncommon an occurrence. Even now, I dismiss that sort of behavior where other people might lock their doors and run, shrieking, the other direction.

Anyway, I whispered to my friend, “woah, looks like SHE went off her meds,” to my friend Jenna, who was taking this Spring Break vacation with me.

She, always more up-to-date on this sort of thing, just laughed and said, “she’s on the phone, Becks. It’s a hands-free headset.”

Sure enough, when I looked more closely, curious now, I saw the wire dangling down from her ear to the phone. Hm. Odd.

A couple of weeks later, I saw what appeared to be a man talking into his wallet while lunching – once again, with Jenna – at Panera. I eyed him suspiciously, even though he was smartly dressed in a business suit. When I saw he was wearing impeccably natty shoes, I realized that he, too, was probably not recently released from the psych ward.

“What. the. fuck? Why is that man talking on a fucking wallet?” I whispered to Jenna, pointing him out.

She laughed. She was forever explaining these things to me; a Pre-Prankster version of the Internet.

“That’s a Blackberry, Becky. It’s like a PDA with a phone.”

“That is the DUMBEST thing ever. Does he KNOW how dumb he looks? Fucking jackass.” I had a very small phone that I loved very much. I would have married it, but it was stupid (also: illegal) to marry something that had a shelf-life of two years.

Fast-forward.

I own an i(can’t use my)Phone only because I like Apple products. Had I realized how craptastic the “phone” bit of it was, I’d have gone with a Blackberry. My very own Talking Wallet.

Also: my new anti-depressants are working which means I’ve engaged in one of my favorite past-times: talking paint off walls. On the phone.

Now, because (insert hilarious joke) I have Neck Issues. I also have lots! of! energy! which means that when I am on the phone, I am also washing walls, doing dishes, waxing my cat, cleaning the garage, scheduling posts, watching dancing cat videos, and/or photoshopping pictures of myself into pictures of celebrities.

Okay, that last bit was a lie, because I don’t own photoshop. I can’t do that stuff! Gnomes can, though, and I’m TOTALLY not a gnome.

So, while I’m jabbering away, annoying whomever I’ve conned into chatting with me, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my ear, like it’s a wee babe. Don’t think it’s helping my neck issues.

It was time to take! action!

wham!

bam!

pow!

robots!

I needed an ear thingy for my phone. Except, there are only two options (besides speakerphone, which makes everyone sound like they’re talking from inside a tin can which = bullshit):

1) Ear Penis, a.k.a  bluetooth headsets. I hate them. No, that’s not right: I loathe them. I loathe them so much that I should probably make up a new word for how I feel about them. I know, I know, they’re useful and you can’t live without yours and blah, blah, blah, squirt, squirt. Fantastic. Yay for you!

blue-tooth-blue-doucheThat guy is a Blue DOUCHE.

My second option:

B) McDonald’s Headset: you know, like the OLD SKOOL phone headset, with the plastic bits that go to your mouth and stuff? I had to wear one when I worked for United. It was pretty awesome, actually, but I think I’ve earned my comeuppance because every time I see The Daver use his, I walk up to him and try to order a “cheeseburger and a diet Coke, please.”

(be glad you don’t live with me)

Today, after agonizing over it for weeks (read: months), I finally broke down and bought an Old Skool headset. My neck deserves it, dammit, and hey, if all else fails, I can totally work at McDonald’s.

Welcome To The Frat House

One might think that after telling The Internet that my son Alex had fallen in love with a cupcake shirt and wore a butterfly costume for Halloween this year, that he might be a little, well, girly.

Not so, Pranksters.

Alex’s second word was “penis.” Alex is also a frat boy.

I’ve mentioned that my son is being potty-trained, which means he’s been sitting around in his Cars-Themed Tighty Whities most of the day, here in the Sausage Factory, while I frantically insist he go to the bathroom every 4.8 seconds so as to not further ruin the horrifying once-white (WHITE!!) carpeting in my house. Potty-training! Ain’t it grand!

While I was upstairs, putting my daughter to bed last week, Ben (who is, for those not keeping score at home, nine) and Alex, aged three, decided that it would be best if they BOTH stripped down to their underwear to hang out.

My sons popped out from behind the couch to show me that they were both in their undies and because I am so used to seeing the house torn from it’s hinges after my brief “I’m putting the baby to bed” absence, I was a bit relieved. No one had knocked the ceiling fan off…yet.

“Okay,” I said to them, laughing. “But DON’T PEE ON ANYTHING.”

Still chuckling, I returned to my computer to scour the internet for some singing cat songs or dancing cacti videos. Those wily cactus videos get me going EVERY time!

Not two minutes later, my eldest tore through the living room, chasing my youngest son, both laughing so hard they was crying. I tore myself away from the cactus and looked up.

I saw a pair of naked butt cheeks as they disappeared around the bend.

What the hell?

And then again, the laughter and my youngest son, holding something up over his head as my eldest chased him, both giggling so hard they could barely stand it.

This time, as they came into my line of sight, I looked more closely. What the hell was going on?

I saw it: Alex was holding a pair of underwear over his head as Ben chased him.

They were…they were BEN’S underwear.

Oh sweet Lord.

The next time they rounded the bend, still chortling, I stopped Ben and asked him what was going on.

“Alex took my underwear off and now he,” *giggle, giggle* “now he” *giggle giggle* “now he won’t give it back!”

Alex was rolling on the floor, clutching his gut, laughing so hard that he was crying.

And then I said the words I’d never expected to say: “Alex, give your brother back his underwear. And you two, KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR ON. PENISES BELONG IN THE BEDROOM OR THE BATHROOM. THEY ARE PRIVATE.”

And then, I died.

The Frat House

Tea Bags Are Total Bullshit. So Is Potty Training.

The good news: Alex is nearly potty trained.

The bad news: Amelia decided that she, too, needed a potty chair.

You’re all, “AUNT BECKY, THAT’S A GOOD THING,” and that’s where you’d be right…sort of. Because my daughter isn’t one of those kids who will just DO as she’s ASKED. Oh no. That would be too simple.

On Sunday, I marched wobbled my happy ass to Target to get her her Very Own Potty Chair. Awesome! It’s sitting in my kitchen. It makes noises and cheers sometimes. I’ve decided that I need a cheering section for the bathroom. It would make peeing a lot more exciting.

Alas, I digress.

Monday, Amelia took off her diaper and streaked no less than three times. Cute, right? ADORABLE. She’s a mini-frat boy.

THEN, as she was eluding my shuffly arms, she took a gigantic pee in the hallway. She was probably holding her bladder for 12 hours just to do that. As I screamed “AMELIA, NO!” she began to tap dance IN HER PEE as she laughed. Mouth open, head tilted back, uproariously laughing as she splashed around in her pee puddle. It was like Singing In The Rain…but with pee.

She was so proud of herself.

I aged 20 years.

The teenage years are going to be incredible.

————–

When my friend Jimmy from Shui Teas sent me some tea, I was pretty excited. Mail makes me happy in the pants because normally all I get is bills and anytime I get something that’s not a bill, I do a Snoopy HAPPY Dance.

Jimmy from Shui Teas, who is also one of my advertisers, sent me the Vodka Tea Infusion Pack to try out because, well, obviously, and suggested that I give one away to my Pranksters as well. He’s also given you a 10% off code: MOMMYVODKA for any orders from his site through December 12.

So to enter the Vodka Tea Infusion Pack from Shui Teas, you must leave me a comment telling me if you were a flavor, what flavor tea you’d be.

For additional entries (up to four total), you can follow me on The Twitter, follow Band Back Together on The Twitter, follow Mushroom Printing on The Twitter or become my Facebook Friend. Just leave a separate comment for each of the things you do.

The contest will end at midnight on December 14 and a winner will be randomly selected on the 15th of December.

In the meantime, I’ll be engaged in a battle of the wills with my daughter.

Send help.

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?

That’s *ahem* MISTER Butterfly To You

Because Pottery Barn is an asshole and I cannot possibly resist their tempting overpriced wares, every time they come out with their Halloween Issue, I tear into it like it’s a brand new issue of Maxim magazine. Eagerly, I examine the overpriced costumes and figure out which ones my kids MIGHT allow me to dress their very particular bodies in before the inevitable day when they say, “Mom, I want to be a ghost” and beg for a simple sheet.

This year, I managed to grab the magazine as I was headed out with Alex, who was highly INTERESTED in what I was looking at.

I’ve been TRYING to get one of my children to be the Land Shark for years, and no, every year they deny me. Which means that I need a costume party to be the Land Shark and be all ‘CANDYGRAM’ and then no one will laugh but me, but I will laugh enough for everyone else.

Well, anyway, I’m in the car with Alex and I’m all, “you could be popcorn! or rootbeer! or a carton of milk!”

And Alex, my miniature clone, said, simply, emphatically, with his mind made up, “No.”

Perhaps he is paying me back for these costumes.

The Halloweenier.

Or this:

The Hedgehog of DOOOOOOM.

Because he said, “I’m going to be a beautiful butterfly. But be careful, Mom, don’t step on my wings!”

The butterfly costume is this, Pranksters:

Pottery Barn, you win again. My son will be the most beautiful, manly butterfly in a dress, ever.

And I will never, ever stop hearing the end of it from his father, grandfather, my brother and every other male he comes into contact with. But I don’t fucking care. If my kid wants to be a beautiful butterfly, he can be a beautiful fracking butterfly.

I just might buy him some wee combat boots to go along with it. And maybe a spike collar. He will be the most beautiful butterfly on the block.

And I will punch anyone who looks at him funny. Because it’s a MANLY TUTU and he’s just a little boy who likes butterflies and flowers and light and for GOD’S SAKE his first word was PENIS and he can throw a ball better than most 20-year old’s I know, and really, Alex is composed primarily of sweetness and light and snips and snails and puppy dog tails and I have never met anyone more wholly good than him.

So yes. A butterfly. My son, Mister Butterfly. Spike The Butterfly.

Sounds kinda manly.

Right…?