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.

Because Mommy Wants Vicodin Sounded Too Suburban

Tomorrow, bright and blurry, I leave to go to our nation’s capitol. Which, I was shocked to learn, was not in Washington STATE, but actually on the East Coast. This was nearly as big a snafu as the time I claimed vehemently that Kansas City was a state. I was about to resort to blows to win my argument until The Twitter pointed out that, in fact, I was wrong.

The Twitter ruins all my fist-fights.

Anyway, so I’m headed for our nation’s capitol, not to learn more about history or anything, because UGH, but because I am going to a convention. A convention about Internet Culture, which, unlike the VaginaStocks I normally go to (read: BlogHer), it will be full of dudes.

Which leads me to this point: what does one wear to a convention full of slightly (read: very) geeky guys? I simply do not know. I don’t own a “Chicks Dig Unix” shirt nor do I own a shirt that says, “There’s No Place Like 127.0.0.1” because really, I’m not even sure that’s English. I don’t speak binary nor do I intend to. Hell, I barely speak English.

So I’ve spent most of the week trying to figure out what, precisely, one wears to a convention full of nerds.

The answer?

Pants.

Ascertaining that makes me feel loads better.

I’d almost forgotten I was speaking there until I got an email reminding me I’d been signed up to speak on a panel called, ‘Why Mommy Wants Vodka.” Alone.

Now, I can bullshit for an hour (or more!) if needed, but I’m desperately at a loss for what, precisely, it is one should say on this panel. If, in fact, anyone wants to listen to me answer that eternal question of the ages: Why Mommy Wants Vodka.

Frankly, I don’t know.

Perhaps I should bring cocktails so anything I say sounds desperately hilarious.

Any suggestions, Pranksters?

Year One

I spent the last couple years of my twenties praying for the moment that I’d turn thirty. It’s like I genuinely thought being thirty somehow meant that “things would be easier” and yet they have. I was just happy to put my twenties behind me.

In Year One of my thirties, I’ve managed to begin eking out my way. Whereas my twenties felt like I was always fighting fire with gasoline, my thirties have found me thoughtfully, carefully making decisions, choosing the right way, and learning to become, well, me again.

Year One certain had it’s ups and downs and still, the down’s didn’t feel like they were the bottomless pit variety. The ups were even higher.

I have, in no small part, you, Pranksters, to thank for this. You’ve watched me fail, fall, and start again, cheering me on when I needed it and wiping my tears when things seemed insurmountable. You’ve been the one constant in my life and more than that, you became my family.

I cannot tell you how much that means nor can I thank you enough.

This year, I’ve watched my daughter lose her words, then find them again, and now, she spits them at me with a side of sass thrown in. Because she’s my girl.

My middle son has grown from a toddler to a child, all arms and legs and sweetness and light. Someone who hugs away my tears and makes me laugh from the bottom of my leg bones.

After so many years of believing that I was probably a child prodigy, I realize that the one who earns that title is my (almost) ten year old, the one who has found his way in his music.

This year, I founded not one but two group blogs (happy birthday to YOU, Mushroom Printing! who happened to be founded on my birthday last year).

Once I saw the need for a safe, moderated space on the Internet where we could share our secrets, reduce the stigmas of mental illness, abuse, rape and all the other skeletons in our closets, I created Band Back Together. I thanked my parents for the nursing texts as I began to create resource pages for the site. Now the site is a combination of knowledge and power, just like School House motherfucking Rock.

I created shirts (you should buy one. It’s my birthday, after all and you have to do what I say) and shattered my own expectations.

Today, Year One ends and I’m onto Year Two (I’ll be thirty-one). I’ll close this year out while gorging on tapas and drinking champagne.

I can hardly wait to see what happens next. Assuming it’s something good like a pony and not something shitty like a meat tornado.

Because nobody expects a meat tornado.

Legacy

I knew from a very young age what I was going to be when I grew up. While the other kids focused their sights upon flying into space or fighting fires, in kindergarten I neatly drew a picture of myself, one that my mother has framed somewhere, that says, “Rebecca Sherrick” “Obstetrician.”

Because that was what I planned to be.

Would it have worked out if I hadn’t popped Benjamin from my nether regions, a pregnancy unexpected, a life forever changed by the furious meeting of two gametes?

I honestly can’t say. Who can see what might-have-been when what-is is right in front of our faces?

When I went back to school, a single mother with an autistic baby slung ’round her hip, I re-enrolled (which is highly UNLIKE Rick Rolling) as a nursing student, which meant two things:

a) None of the credits I’d obtained during my brief stint as a Bio/Chem major were accepted and I had to re-enroll in different, easier versions of similar classes.

2) I had to come to terms with letting go of a dream I’d had as long as I can recall.

The first year of pre-req’s was heaven for me. I’d already completed the more complicated and challenging versions of the same classes, so I quickly rose to the top of the class. I was chosen to TA for numerous science classes, putting me smack-dab back into the lab.

I couldn’t have been happier.

I left my first class as Student Nurse Aunt Becky in tears. I’m sure I looked half-insane, walking to the train, my bag full of books I didn’t give a shit about, openly sobbing the kind of ugly cry that comes from a broken heart.

Rather than entrench myself in sorrow any longer than I had to, I simply made new plans. I’d re-enroll in school and become a microbiologist once my son was old “enough.” I’d juggled single parenthood and schooling as much as I ever wanted to and I intended to see at least some fraction of the kid’s childhood.

I did and I have.

Nursing career handily abandoned as, for the first time ever, I was able to stay home with my son, things didn’t go quite as expected. The quirks I still found so charming made for lonely company as he preferred to live inside his head to being with his mother. Coming off an over-worked, beat-my-A’s-with-more-A’s high, I had hours upon hours each day to fill.

With something. Anything to make my life feel worth living again.

I obsessed over the grout between bathroom tiles – which, no matter how many toothbrushes I wore to nubs- could never quite come clean, my son happily watched the same video about the planets over and over. I waited for something, anything to tell me what the fuck I was supposed to do next.

“Why don’t you start a blog?” The Daver asked after I tearfully wept, once again, that “I hadn’t worked my ass off to sit around and wonder which fucking brand of dishsoap was better.”

I couldn’t have thought of anything I’d like to have done less than blogging. I’d never so much kept a journal, so blogging, writing down my thoughts so that someone, somewhere could be equally bored by them?

Fuck no.

Until I decided to do it.

Learning that I could write things that didn’t involve this:

was like learning I could breathe underwater. All this time that I tried to find meaning in the bathroom tiles had been for nothing. Because I had this ability and I could use it.

And now I do.

I’ve spent nearly four years here at Mommy Wants Vodka, and three before that at Mushroom Printing, telling stories. Some good, some awful, most mediocre. I’ve used my words to let you into my world. To see things as I do. To touch each of you reading these words in some way, even if it’s a disgusted “God, this chick sucks.”

The words I have written, the friends I have made, the connections I’ve foraged has been so much more than I’d anticipated. I have been beyond blessed.

And yet, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about going back into academia. To return to those glorious calculations and those beautiful microscopes, leaving the world of words squarely in my past. I wonder if that’s even possible; to shut one beloved door so firmly. I don’t have an answer.

So I’m left wondering: is this my legacy? A few pixels blinking on your computer screen? Words turned into sentences turned into paragraphs?

Moreover, is this enough?

Illinois Bans Fun. Because It’s Bullshit.

Well, at least it’s not me ruining THIS summer. Other summers, well, that was all me.

When I was a kid, it was all, “DON’T TOUCH THIS, OR IT’LL BLOW YOUR HAND OFF” followed by a brief burst of light, a huge bang, and a ton of smoke. THOSE were the good old days, even if they lasted mere seconds and scared me into pissing my pants.

But now, I can’t find a sparkler to save my own skin. I can’t yell at my children to “STEP AWAY OR YOU’LL DIE” because there’s nothing with which they can lose even a single leg. Some call this progress. I call it bullshit.

It is my God Given Right as an American to shoot my own fucking eye out.

Sure, you wouldn’t know that fireworks were actually banned by the amount going off in my neighborhood for the past week or two, but that only further enrages me. How could I have been so stupid as to NOT drive over to a neighboring state for some dangerous fun? I’m sure Missouri isn’t quite as big an asshole as Illinois.

(Dear Missouri, Let’s make out. Love, AB)

Considering our new state motto, “We Impeach Our Corrupt Governors,” one might THINK that Illinois had Fun on speed dial, but without fireworks, it’s simply untrue.

Sure, I can still buy those stupid things you can throw at the ground that make a big SNAP! noise, but those are kinda piddly bullshit, you know? What kid is all “LOOKIT THIS, I CAN MAKE A BANG?” How can I create ACTUAL MEMORIES of acrid gunsmoke and brief flashes of awesome?

Simply put, I cannot.

Until, I suppose, I buy a semi-automatic weapon and use THAT motherfucker instead of fireworks.

That’ll learn you, Illinois, for being such an assmunch.

lawn jarts

P.S. Despite my pleas, The Target won’t stock the lethal form of Jarts. I call bullshit.

Everything I Needed To Learn, I Learned From Skymall

My favorite part of traveling, besides getting some Hot TSA Action, is Skymall. I don’t think there’s much I love more than Skymall. When Your Aunt Becky boards a plane, the first thing she does is scour the seats for a new copy of Skymall.

I then proceed to annoy everyone around me by giggling profusely and yelling things like, “Y’all, who needs a Kitty Shitter? Because I do.”

Today, Pranksters, after a weekend of blogging conference wherein I learned some bloggers actually get TRIPS paid for them, whereas I am pretty sure Uncrustables is gearing up to sue me for mentioning their name, I am bringing you a list. A list of what I want from Skymall. My birthday is coming up, you know*.

Because hey, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be getting my yacht for blogging any time soon.

*I’m not actually asking anyone buy me a gift because that’s just awkward.

Iron-Brander-Skymall

The new push in social media is “branding,” right? The whole “branding” conversation makes my eyeballs bleed….unless, I am actually able to BRAND things.

Like I could with this.

I could brand EVERYONE I know with a fancy MWV rather than passing out business cards. This is a total win.

little-boy-peeing-statue

Over the weekend, I got into a conversation with some of my friends about death and cemeteries. Because I am a Fun-Guy to be with and we clearly know how to party.

And I decided that, along with the out-of-work-actors I’d pay to weep and howl at my graveside in shifts every day, I required THIS statue to go on my grave somewhere. This just seems to be an obvious choice for me.

kitty-shitter-skymall

Ah, the infamous Kitty Shitter.

Why HIDE that pesky Kitty Shitter when you can leave it RIGHT THERE IN THE OPEN? With a fake potted plant atop it to boot! Certainly, no one would suspect that it could be a place for cats to put their feces, right?

But here’s my question: wouldn’t you rather your guests SEE the litter box so that when your cat takes a wild dump, your guest isn’t sitting there uncomfortably wondering if YOU, perhaps, have just shit yourself?

It’s things like these that keep me awake at night.

skymall-king-tut's-chair

I need this chair to continue blogging.

Period.

P.S. It’s not tacky AT ALL.

P.P.S. No. It’s not. Shut your whore mouth.

disco-showerhead

Talk about “where the magic happens.”

I require this.

But I’m nervous that when I install it, I’ll be that creepy person that’s all, “HAI, WANNA TAKE A SHOWER?” to every person that walks into my house. Including my parents.

#awkward

dog-anxiety-blanket-skymall

Now, they SAY there are “more sizes available” but do you think that any of these might fit someone who’s 5’5″? This is important, Pranksters. See, now, *I* have anxiety and no one has offered ME a soothing blanket. That’s bullshit.

I might need a Dog Anxiety Blanket for me.

————-

So what’s been up while I’ve been busily scouring SkyMall, Pranksters?

Go Ask Aunt Becky

Dear Aunt Becky,

There is a burning question I think we all want, no NEED, to know that answer to.

Of the Uncrustables, (which I think we can agree are all awesome) – what’s your fav?  I personally can’t get enough of the PB/Honey….

Inquiring minds want to know.

As far as I am concerned, Prankster, there IS no other flavor than the Peanut Butter/Honey Uncrustables. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that all other flavors of Uncrustables are BULLSHIT.

Knowing that you’re a fellow Uncrustable lover makes my heart happy. And hungry.

(no, this blog is not sponsored by Uncrustables, just powered by it)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I was divorced a couple of years ago when my son was 2. Since then, he has been diagnosed with a (ultimately) terminal illness that will make him progressively mentally and physically impaired.

He is unable to report abuse (or even pain – he had an undiagnosed small bone in his foot for three weeks before we figured out what was going on because he never complained or even limped) because his vocabulary is approximately 50 words, all nouns like “apple”, “water” and “chicken” to let us know he is thirsty or hungry.

I am so fearful to get out into the dating world because I am afraid of predators who would love to get into a relationship with a woman whose 5 year old is unable to tell mommy about being molested. How many dates is appropriate before tell you tell a guy you have a kid, get to know that they like you for yourself and not for your luscious little boy? Yes, I have issues.

Signed,

MPS Mom

Dear Prankster, Living with a child with such an illness must be a tremendous stress and I’m very sorry. I’d love it if you wrote about it for Band Back Together.

When I met The Daver, my son – who is autistic and, at the time, had a very limited vocabulary – was two years old. The Daver knew from Moment One that I was “Becky, the girl with a kid” because that’s the way we were introduced. Ben has always been a part of my vocabulary and I’d never once considered that he might be after me for my kid.

If and when you’re ready to date, there’s no reason you have to introduce your kid to your dates until you trust them. That’s TOTALLY up to you!

However, I believe any future relationship may run into issues if your boyfriend learns way down the line that you have a kid. Might be a little off-putting and awkward.

I’d say tread lightly into the dating world if it worries you. Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky;

After reading almost all of your blog posts in a week (yes ma’am I have) I have determined: a) you’re the smartest person in the universe or b) slightly off key, and either way, I am seeking your advice, because I find I am not receiving good advice from my fam.

I’m a single mom, 2 years divorced, and trying one of the oft advertised “dating” websites, and wondering: WHY THE F**K ARE MEN SUCH F**KTARDS?

Why, after speaking to me for approximately two seconds, would anyone feel is it appropriate or appreciated to tell me the how’s and why’ of their sex life and what they prefer?

I clearly stated in my profile I want to know someone longer than a minute before divulging my preferences about having the sex, so why does anyone think that is appropriate? UGH.

I am destined to be single forever.

DOUBLE UGH.

I might prefer to be single.

Thank you, Aunt Becky (btw, you’re far cooler than any of my real aunts, even though I think you may be younger than me in real life, which would be very strange.)

-Aggravated at Dating in General.

Aw, Aggravated, I’d be happy to be your Aunt. Adopting The Internet RULES, especially because I don’t have to buy it all Christmas gifts. Although since you said I might be the smartest person ever, I’ll buy you LOTS of presents. LOTS.

I’m going to make the assumption that you’re not using Match.com (read: hook-up.com) or Craig’s List to find dates.

Do you remember Penis Gate? Are you on The Twitter? If you were, you probably would.

Basically, word got out that a certain well-known daddy blogger had been sending naked weenie pictures of himself to others (people tend to email me pictures of a) three wolf moon paraphernalia or b) orchids). Like a lot.

So I made a joke about it. And it comes to my attention that THIS IS A COMMONISH THING. Which makes me wonder a) why I don’t get naked weenie pictures and b) why the fuck anyone would WANT a naked penis picture. #blech.

There are certain men (and women) out there, I suppose Prankster, that are just morons. And the availability of Internet hook-ups makes enough of them think it’s perfectly normal to be all Uncle Pervy.

Just think of it like your Pervy Uncle who goes out to weddings and tries to grind with everyone from the cocktail waitress to the wall because he thinks you want to rub up against his sweaty wang. There’s those guys out there. And the guys who kindly ask you to dance.

They’re there. Just not as….prominently.

And should you decide to remain single together, you can move on in with me. I have cats AND orchids. We can be two freaks in a house. Maybe we should learn to KNIT!

This is gonna be EPIC.

When I Say He Looks Like A Vanilla Ice Wanna-Be, I Mean It In A Good Way

While I was dying of the stomach flu from hell last week, my daughter took it upon herself to throw rabbit food all over the family room. When I say, “all over” I mean motherfucking EVERYWHERE.

A week later, I’m still cleaning it out of the most random of places. Amelia has been grounded until age sixteen.

I was in the middle of frantically vacuuming it out from under my end table, mentally adding a couple more years to her grounding, possibly a moat and a fire-breathing dragon, when Daver asked me to cut his hair.

“I’m going short for summer,” he informed me.

“Sure,” I said, wiping sweat from my face. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

He grabbed his clippers and began to cut his hair. Eventually, he called me. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

With that he handed me the clippers.

He didn’t SAY anything about the clippers, so I assumed that they were on the proper setting. Or whatever. I’m no clipper expert.

So I just grabbed ’em and started clipping.

If this were a sitcom, this is where you guys would start to groan.

I neatly shaved a two-inch stripe on the left side of Daver’s head before I realized he’d set the clippers to their lowest setting so I could shave up the back. Not shave his whole head with them.

“Oh FUCK,” I said.

“What?” He replied, somehow oblivious that I’d just made him look like a second-rate Vanilla Ice.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” This was very bad. Very bad indeed. “I just shaved a vertical stripe on your head!”

“WHAT?” With that he ran to the bathroom to look.

“BECKY!” he hollered. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I, um, I can FIX it,” I promised.

He sat back down and handed me the clippers again, proving that he’s a masochist.

“Maybe I should Bic it,” he said.

“Dave, your head is shaped like an alien. You can’t Bic that shit. You’ll scare small children.” I said as I tried to blend the hair.

I stood back to admire my handiwork.

“Um, maybe you can use some makeup or something.” I suggested.

“Makeup? What the fuck can I do with MAKEUP?”

“Well, um, you could apply brownish eyeshadow to that area some so your pasty whiteness doesn’t shine through. Like that spray paint shit they sold to bald guys.” I said it, then remembered it was an SNL skit.

“I’ll just wear a hat.”

(hours pass)(I eat a cheeseburger)

“The hat doesn’t cover that bit of my head, Becky. YOU OWE ME,” Daver said.

“Well, you could wear a ski cap. I have several…oh, wait, they have rhinestones on them. Plus, um, it’s summer.”

Yeah,” he said, annoyed.

“From THIS angle, it looks fine,” I suggested, starting to laugh.

“You’re sitting on the OTHER SIDE OF ME.”

(I begin to laugh uproariously)

“I can try and make it look intentional. Shave a swish on either side of your head.”

“I CANNOT GO OUT IN PUBLIC LIKE THIS.”

“Bwahahahahahaha! (wipes eyes) People will just think you have some horrible condition that makes you bald on one side. You can tell them you have leprosy. Maybe people will give you free things!”

I’m laughing so hard that I’m crying.

“Oh great,” he said, playing the straight man. “People will think that I’m rotting. That’s just GREAT, Becky.”

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Especially if you flail around a little bit. You should practice flailing around. OHMYGOD WE NEED TO GO OUT IN PUBLIC NOW.”

No.” Dave replied.

“Well,” I snorted. “It’ll grow back. Remember that time I had a mullet?”

He laughed.

“Exactly.”

Sleepless in St. Charles

I love sleep.

I love sleep so much that I would wear an “I Heart Sleep” shirt around WITHOUT losing a bet. I could compose a sonnet (if I knew how) to sleeping. If I ever hit it big as a Grammy-Winning artist, it would be for my song, “Sleep, You Are My Hero.”

(if I ever hit it big as a fancy director, it will be because of this video:)

On Thursday, Amelia was all, “sleep is bullshit.” And I was all, “um, are we related?” Because sleep is many things, but it’s not bullshit.

Now, part of the allure of sleep is that it eludes me. I can’t sleep like a normal person to save myself. No, I lay up, night after night with stupid commercial jingles and the annoying songs from kids shows running through my head. If I ever meet the person who wrote the “do-do-do Do A Dollop of Daisy,” commercial in person, I will punch them in the taco.

It doesn’t help that my bedroom is haunted.

Well, it’s haunted or the wind whistling through the attic sounds just like a baby screaming. I prefer to go with “it’s haunted” for street cred.

Either way, I’ll wake up because I hear a fake baby crying and run to check on my babies, who are all safely asleep and therefore not screaming.

That doesn’t help my insomnia.

So anyway, back on Thursday, I couldn’t get Amelia to sleep. She was all, “woah, this is pretty awesome to NOT SLEEP,” and I was all, “I love you, shut the fuck up and go to sleep, baby,” because I wanted to go back to the dream I was having where I was eating a castle made of cake. I did not want to get up.

Friday rolled around, and blearily, I went about my day, writing her sleeplessness off to Dave’s faulty genetics.

Friday night, we went through our normal routine: “Can Daddy take you up?”

Amelia, “NOOOOOO! Mommy rock me.”

The girl wouldn’t let Santa Claus, Jesus, or even Hello Kitty (her favorite) rock her. Nope. It’s gotta be Your Aunt Becky.

So I did. And when I put her in bed after rocking her for a couple minutes, instead of rolling over and saying “goodnight,” she screamed the sort of scream that makes me wonder if DCFS is going to bust down my door for child abuse.

I picked her up, rocked her until her eyes rolled back in their sockets, and when I tried to put her down, it was like I tried to submerge her in a vat of bumble bees. (she’s terribly afraid of bumble bees).

It had been an hour and I needed dinner, so I figured, “Okay, AB, time to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER and let her scream for a couple minutes. It won’t kill her.”

No, it didn’t kill her. It nearly killed me, though. I went back up and rocked her. Eventually, she did go to sleep…for a couple of hours. Then she was up.

Rinse, repeat, Saturday AND Sunday.

That makes four fucking nights of not sleeping, which makes hearing Shut Your Whore Mouth on Happy Endings so much less awesome.

I don’t know what’s wrong with her. It could be teething, it could be sleep regression, it could be a cold, it could be nothing.

Or…maybe she’s possessed.

Anyone know an exorcist?

Celebratin’ Easter The Right Way.

Purchased at the pharmacy on Saturday night:

  • 1 box vinyl gloves (in a kicky purple!)
  • 1 bottle Maalox regular
  • 1 bottle Maalox extra-strength
  • 1 bottle body lotion
  • 1 bottle Imodium
  • 1 bottle Pedialyte
  • Tin of Bag Balm
  • 1 box Chewable Pepto-Bismol
  • Air Freshener Spray

The teenage cashier looked mortified as she rang up my purchases until I said, “oh we’re just having a party tonight. Celebrate the whole Jesus-Thing.”

Then she looked very, very frightened.

————

How was YOUR Easter, Pranksters?