I’ve just found your site, and you’ve probably answered this question a million times before, but here goes. Why do you call yourself Aunt Becky?
See, now that’s an awesome question, actually. I’ve dedicated an entire post to it right here.
Dear Aunt Becky,
I was just wondering where you draw the line between blogger Aunt Becky, and Becky in real life.
Let’s say you get introduced to someone, and they are a big fan of your blog (because obviously). Would you be wierded out if they asked (in a sincere, fanlike way) if Dave had gotten his penis ring yet, or if you were feeling better about the attractiveness of your “cooter”?
Do you refer to your children as crotch parasites at playdates ? Or do you just pray that the “pretty vagina question” will not come up at the next PTA meeting lol?
What is Aunt Becky like when she is away from the shield of the screen?
Too Chicken To Blog
Dear Too Chicken,
The Daver here. Becky tried to answer your question but despite the fact that she talks about her life online every day ( 904 posts in the ol’ archive at last count. Nine. Hundred. Four. ), she has a terrible time answering questions about herself.
Which, in a strange way, should give you some idea as to the answer: she’s not that much different in real life. I don’t see her ever refer to people who read her blog as ‘fans’. They’re her people, her gnomies, her Internets; so if someone asked her about my penis ring, she’d probably tell you the truth: no, not yet.
I think the only time she’d be weirded out by someone is if they took it to another level, like showing up at our house unannounced wearing leather assless chaps and dancing around our yard chanting “Aunt Becky Is My HERO!” If if were *announced*, of course, that may be a different matter. MAYBE.
I’ve heard the phrases “crotch fruit” and “beef curtains” on more than one playdate, but she probably wouldn’t use those terms if she didn’t know you were down with it. Like, around my parents? She doesn’t even flip me the bird too often, and she limits her use of terms of endearment like ‘assbag’, ‘old balls’, and ‘shithead’, keeping it to ‘pooface’ and the ever-popular ‘dear’.
In real life, she’s a little less patient, a little more sarcastic ( some kinds of sarcasm just don’t translate well to blogs ), every bit as smart, and just as hilarious. I married her for good reason, y’know.
I would like to add to The Daver’s wonderful guest blog that I am also stunningly gorgeous.
who sang the song “the hardest part of love is letting go?
So, I have never heard of this song, but apparently it’s sung by Stephanie J. Block and from a play “Children of Eden.”
Because I do not know it, I am forced to believe it’s probably not as awesome as some other songs. So I’d recommend things like Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow,” anything by ABBA, and the entire Red Hot Chili Pepper’s Blood Sugar Sex Magik album. Or really, anything by Queen.
Dear Aunt Becky
Where did I leave my keys?
Probably the best thing about being married is that Dave always knows where his keys are. I do not. I mean, I KIND OF know where mine are, but not really. Dave cannot imagine a life where people do not know where his keys are at any given moment in time.
By this statement, you’d think that of the two of us, Dave would be the organized one, all of his I’s dotted and t’s crossed, but no. HOLY SHIT no. I can’t find my wallet 98% of the time, yet I am the one who knows where everything else in the house is and what it does and what it should be doing tomorrow.
Everything except for my wallet, keys and phone.
I think your keys are behind the toilet right now. Or maybe on a plane to China. Or in the toy bin. Or up the street having dinner with a French prostitute.
But you should ask The Daver. He’d know better.
In the event that you are going to Blogher and would be interested in heckling me from the audience of an! official! panel, go here and tell them that you’d want to throw things at me. They’re just seeing if there’s any interest in the topic, so it’s not like all ‘get your rotted fruit ready’ yet.
And Bloggies close today.