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Back when I had a regular cell phone, I was all, “Blackberry’s look like talking wallets,” and mocked anyone who ever used one. Because HELLO, WHO TALKS INTO A WALLET? (answer: crazy people, that’s who). Then, I realized I, too, could talk into a wallet, and for the very briefest of time, considered buying a Blackberry, until I realized that I, too, would look like a crazy person.

So I held onto my Dumb Phone and occasionally made calls on it. More often, though, I played Bejeweled.

It wasn’t until Daver decided he needed a second generation iPhone that I realized that I, too, needed one. I wasn’t precisely sure WHY I needed one, but figured I could probably play Bejeweled on a bigger screen (I had a hot pink Razr) which meant that I was most certainly WINNING.

(apologies to Charlie Sheen)

And, if I was stretching, I could say that I was using this Smart Phone to tell me when I’d gone into labor with my daughter – with whom I was heavily pregnant. It was kind of EYE OF THE TIGER.

When I got it home, I marveled at it’s shininess. After all, my Razr was approximately 76372 years old and the screen was half-busted in places, so seeing such a purdy, clean screen was like music to my eyeballs. I promptly imported my email so I could never, ever miss a message about “Increasing Y0ur Pen1$ size,” because, well, obviously: I needed a bigger dick. I was only 787 quintillion million hundred months pregnant, after all.

I waited patiently for the day in which my Smart Phone would tell me I was in labor. I wanted that crotch parasite OUT of me once and for all. And not once, did my Smart Phone say, “Hey, Fuckface, you’re in labor.”

(turns out, I had to be induced, so perhaps my rant is misplaced)

After she was born, though, I hoped that my Smart Phone would be able to say, “Hey Fuckface, the baby’s crying because she’s hungry. Or tired. Or poopy. Or all three.” It didn’t. Not once.

My Smart Phone was officially on notice.

Later, I’d hoped that in addition to being an Angry Birds/Twitter Machine, it would also be able to tell me when I’d forgotten to do something. Like print out boarding passes or pick up my kids from school. Turns out? You have to ENTER that data into some stupid calendar thingy, which is DECIDEDLY not the same as it being SMART.

Then, one day, I tested the fucker out. Was it smart? Was it dumb? Was it a redesigned wallet phone?

So I screamed into it (one never knows if phones are as deaf as my children): “CURE CANCER, MOTHERFUCKER.”

And you know what? It didn’t. It just sat there, blankly, my face reflecting back at me through the smudges on the screen. It didn’t say, “does not compute,” or “you’re an asshole,” or even, “cure it your damn self, Aunt Becky.” No. It just looked at me dumbly, like I hadn’t just given it a task or something.

Fucker.

I’m getting even, though. I’m changing it’s name from “Smart Phone,” to “Angry Birds Machine.”

I suggest you do the same, Pranksters.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Any good books out there re. pregnancy over 40?  Most of what I see deals with fertility and/or doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty (breastfeeding vs. copious sag tit, etc…).  Seriously, would appreciate any advice.  We can dial it down to “over 35,” if that helps.

Regards,
Terry

Pranksters? I have no personal experience, Terry, so I’m going to let my Pranksters take this one.

I wish you the best of luck, mah friend. Tit sag is a BITCH.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Sooo… my older brother has been loud and proud for 15 years and I’ve always been more than supportive of him, having a blast at gay bars, going to dinner with the new flavor of the week, honestly, I don’t care (and never have cared) that he’s gay.

The thing is.. my brother is an asshole.  That’s the part I don’t like.  I’ve offered up my place for him to host parties and come home to find everything broken and condoms everywhere.  Oh and a passport under my bed from a boy I’ve never met who had just turned 18 years old.  Not fucking cool.  So, no more parties.  My brother has no respect for other people.  He’s 32 and lives at my parents place.

Blah blah blah.. it just came to my attention that my brother’s new boyfriend of a few months used to do a lot of gay porn.  I was sent the link.. it’s the new boyfriend.. and well, I mean to each their own, but I’m just not really cool with embracing a man whose images I can’t get out of my head.

No one in the family knows except for me and the family is in love with him.  It looks like he’ll be around for a long time.  And honestly, I don’t even know if my brother knows about his boyfriend’s past.

I have a ton of question for you.. but the main one is, how the hell do I handle this???

Thanks Aunt Becky!

Dear Prankster,

If it seems like this dude is going to be around forever, I’d go ahead and try and remember all those pictures we took in Cancun, that one drunken night, then decided to repost on The Facebook. Not that porn is the same as those stupid photos of my boobs from Cancun, but you get the idear.

I know your brother is an asshole, but perhaps you can take aside his partner and make sure he’s clean. You know, free from The Crotch Rot? Because honestly, that’s the only thing I can really take issue with or worry about. I mean, if he’s still making porn, there’s prolly another discussion to be had.

Other than that, try not to picture that dude getting plowed while you pass the potatoes on Thanksgiving and remember that we all have unsavory bits in our past.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Why the fuck do people wear white shirts and jeans for family portraits? Is there some special meaning or is it just a god-awful trend (using the word trend liberally)? I’m not one for professional portraits (neglectful mom) so the whole idea of any kind matching outfit or let’s-all-look-over-our-shoulders-whilst-at-the-beach is abhorrent to me.

But why THIS particular outfit?  I’ve seen it before, and I’m all MORMON! but now I think it’s a THING.  What is it? (Besides something insignificant that bothers me too much for no reason.  AKA people dipping everything they eat into ranch dressing).

Thank you,
Kristin

Dear Prankster Kristin,

I think that the whole matching white shirt and jeans thing is probably caused by people who are actually being held for ransom by the mafia. Like they’re taking these pictures to send a warning to friends and family, which is why they send YOU a copy (also: me). They’re saying, don’t FUCK with the mob or the MOB will fuck you BACK (by making you wear white shirts and jeans so you “match” your family, just like you’ll wear “matching” cement shoes into the river).

I cannot think of any other good reason for the uncomfortably posed, matching clothes pictures. Really, who goes and sits around a fake fireplace together, giving each other those sappy fucking grins?

PEOPLE BEING HELD AT GUNPOINT, THAT’S WHO.

Pranksters, any better idears?

—————–

As always, Pranksters, please submit your questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky and you, too, may receive a totally pointless response from me.

Today, Pranksters, I bring you a post from a good friend of mine. He’s asked to remain anonymous, but his story, of course, I wanted to share with you, so you can send him some love.

Much Love,

AB

I’ve always known that I had a problem with infertility. One of the advantages of being a boy is that there are particular things that happen when you’re gleefully getting your rocks off, and if they don’t happen, well, then ain’t nobody having a baby. Pretty simple equation, really. There have been a few times in my life where it all came together, the stars were in the right alignment, and everything worked, but those have been few and far between.

You can imagine my surprise when the love of my life came to me last week and told me that she was late. Now, there are a lot of potential explanations for that one. We’d both been under a lot of stress lately, which I know can take its toll. So, I waited patiently until she was definitely running late and decided that it was probably no big deal.

She came to me the next morning and showed me two lines. The first line was obviously there, bold as brass, practically screaming “YEP, YOU PEED ON ME!” The second was fainter, not as clear, but very definitely a line. It ran from the top to the bottom of the window, and got more solid as I watched it. Under ordinary circumstances my first thought would have been, “When on earth did you have time to slip on in on me?” This woman though, she’s never lied to me, never hurt me, never betrayed my trust even on something as simple as how I like my bagels toasted.

I was thrilled beyond words. I actually picked her up off the ground hugging her, and would have swung her around in a circle if we hadn’t been standing in an enclosed space. She made me feel the little bump that was already apparent to the touch, told me about the weird food cravings she’d been starting to have, and finally told me about how her clothes had started fitting a little bit differently the last week. Apparently she’d known a good week before circumstances forced her to pee on something.

In the matter of days, I’d already thought of all the things that were going to have to happen to get us ready to have a baby. The clothes, the room, the extra cash flow, the people we’d have to tell. I knew we were having a girl, somewhere deep in my heart, and I’d already seen the day that I first held her in my arms and stared into her beautiful eyes. Like her mother’s, they’d bore right into me like I was transparent. Like her mother, she’d wrap me around her little finger in four seconds flat. We told a few people who were really excited for us, figured we would tell other people as we saw them.

Five days ago, she had an early-term miscarriage. We talked it through, and we knew that things could have been better timed for us to bring a child into the world. That this was sad, but not devastating. This was better happening now than a few months later, and most definitely it just meant that something was wrong with the pregnancy and the body was taking care of it. I got a text message from a good friend later that day with a picture of a onesie, black with little skull and crossbones all over it. She said she’d picked it up for us because it was awesome. I got the message in public, while running errands, and it was all I could do not to break down and cry in the middle of the store.

Because I know that this was the best way for it to happen, if we were going to have to have a miscarriage. It had barely developed at all, we hadn’t told everyone we knew, we knew we’d have another chance later for another. Because of all that, I knew that it was the best way for this to happen. That doesn’t take away though, that I lost something last week. I lost not just the pregnancy that we were both excited about and happy to have, but also Possibility. Nights spent watching movies curled up on the couch, and days making cupcakes, and even afternoons spent taking care of a child when they’re sick.

All the possibilities of a lifetime, all burned out in an instant, like a matchstick being blown out in the wind. That’s why I finally broke down last night and cried about it. I feel better now than I did yesterday, and I’ll feel even better tomorrow, but the thing I mourn the most is all the things that could have been. I’d had all the love in the world, and I never even got to say so.

So today I’ll tell you. I loved a child that could have been, and I loved it hard. I was born to be a daddy, and I’d have showed this child all the things that are beautiful in this world. Tomorrow, I’ll think about trying again, but today I’m sorry that I never got to tell it so.

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