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Dear Aunt Becky:

I am married (no kids).

I am from NJ living in the South; where people typically don’t like to speak their mind. I have some single gals (some recently divorced) who make horrible decisions with men! They date guys many states away, date the wrong guys, bring new guys around their kids on first dates, move waaaaaay to fast with creepers.

I am not conservative, but watching them spin their lives around even more is painful. So here’s my question Aunt Becky: do I sit back like everyone else and see what happens or do I speak my mind?  

These gals are fragile and I fear I may not help the cause much!

Ah Prankster, this is a conundrum that many of us find ourselves in from time to time. Been there, done that, proudly worn the t-shirt.

So you’re wondering if you should continue to shut your (un)whore mouth and see which shit rises to the top or you should attempt to dissuade your friends from making horrible decisions.

But here’s the problem with opening your presumably un(whore) mouth: a lot of times, people don’t want to hear the truth, no matter how obvious. I remember distinctly when people warned me away from the person who would become the father of my first child. They were clearly in the right, however, what I remember is being hurt that my friends simply couldn’t be happy for me.

When you’re in the middle of a bad idea streak, it’s hard to see what’s what.

As hard as it was for me to hear, my friends were, as I stated, right and I respect (now) that they opened their (un)whore mouths.

So, the question, dear Prankster, is this: can you handle it if your friends tell you to fuck off no matter how politely you phrase it? If the answer is yes, then I say speak up, Prankster! If the answer is no, I’d say to shut your (un)whore mouth, grab a vodka and sit the fuck back and watch.

Good luck, Prankster. I’ll be sitting here, wearing my t-shirt and, like you, waiting to see what happens.


Dear Aunt Becky,

I know this is probably a question asked allll the time, because what teenage girl DOESN’T (at one point) fall for their best guy friend?

He’s been my best friend since early middle school – six years now. We’ve gone through all the stages together: from sweet and innocent to hanging out to watch PG-13 movies, talking on the phone for hours, growing into rebellious teenagers, smoking pot together, stealing pills from our parents, and having amazing bonfires together.

Everything that I’ve done and grown into – or out of – was with him. He taught me stand up for myself when guys were dicks.

Then the day came, when all of a sudden, he wasn’t just my best friend – he was the guy I fell head of heels for. Now we’re both close to adulthood.

People encourage me to get over him, because there’s no chance we’ll be together, but I remember when he went to my uncle’s house (while I was in school) and sat and cried to my aunt; worried about my pill addiction. How he was “too in love with me” to see this happen. He never told me.

I dated his roommate. He told me he CAN’T be around me unless I break up with him. All the boyfriends I’ve had, he’s found a reason to hate. I don’t understand.

Recently, my other best friend died and it feels like my best friend died with him. I don’t know what to do. He’s changed – has his own life now – over-medicating himself and hanging out with horrible people.

I don’t miss the guy he is today, I miss the person I know he is.

Do I stay and see if he makes it through? Or do I move on with my life? For three years, I haven’t found an answer.

Prankster, I’d like to start this answer with a story. Once upon a time, Young Aunt Becky was In Love with her best friend. Only he wasn’t QUITE my best friend. And Young Aunt Becky, being a shyish (shut UP Pranksters) young thang, was nervous to tell him. So she didn’t.


Turns out, he was gay.

But that last bit is extraneous information. So let’s ignore it and focus upon YOU again.

Prankster, if I could go back in time and save Young Aunt Becky YEARS (yes, YEARS) of heartache by opening my whore mouth and spilling mah feelers to this (gay) guy, I would’ve. Why? Because saying something beats the FUCK out of wondering…for years.

So I suggest that you grab the balls I never had and tell him. The worst that can happen? You find out he’s gay. Or um, wait, that’s me again. The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t feel the same way you do. And then? At least you don’t have to spend a second longer wondering about it.

Grab those balls, Prankster. Grab ’em and use ’em.

Let us know how it goes.


Dear Aunt Becky,

I have been dating this guy off and on (mostly on) for 5 years now. Recently while waiting for him to get off work I over heard him tell they guys “I’m never getting married again..” which I thought was funny because just last April he told me that once we got some things worked out he would buy me THE ring and I could start planning a wedding (Yes, he used THOSE words).

Now, he denies that, and says he’s never getting married.  

We could possibly have the same address but never the same last name.

Am I just wasting my time here? Is it time to call it a day and move on? I really need an impartial opinion here and frankly I trust you the mostest.

Dearest Prankster,

This is the question you have to ask yourself: is it more important to get married or is it more important to stay with this guy?

If the answer is “it’s more important to get married, DUH, AB,” then you know what you have to do. You have to call the relationship off, tell him to piss off, and find someone who shares your desire to get married. There are dudes out there who will happily get married.

If the answer is “it’s more important to be together, DUH, AB” then you stay, forget about the comment he made about getting married and settle into a life wherein you do NOT share a last name. There’s no reason that marriage has to = commitment (although I do understand it’s a deeper level of commitment).

Either way, this is your call, my dear friend, and I wish you the very best of luck.


Pranksters, please help me help these brilliant question askers out by giving them better advice than I did. Please? PLEASE?

*wrings hands*


*wrings hands*

Howdy, Pranksters. Today, I’m doing something I haven’t done in far too long: I have a guest poster.

Pranksters, meet my VP from Band Back Together and one of my very bestest friends, Jana, from Jana’s Thinking Place.

When Becky asked me to write a guest post for her site, I’ll admit, even after working with her on Band Back Together for over a year now, I got a wee bit nervous. I mean, I have to be funny and all, and quite frankly I’ve been having a bad week and don’t feel very funny. My antics over on my own site are typically laser-kitty-free and without lots of glitter and shit, but I do have a trick up my sleeve.

Have you met my kid Henry? He’s awesome. He’s almost 7 and thinks he’s 17. He loves iCarly and Seinfeld along with the normal little boy favorites like Star Wars and Phineas and Ferb.

He also ahem likes to cuss. I may or may not be to blame for this. I try to be good, I really do, but I kinda have a potty mouth. The occasional shit, damn or hell flies on a semi-daily basis while I try to contain my f-bombs to when little ears are asleep.

Anyway, we watch The Middle together. He thinks it’s hilarious and we do, too. This and iCarly are the only shows we all three agree on. The other night we were watching The Middle and the following conversation transpired:

Henry: Oh, I love this show. He’s my favorite character.

Me: Who is?

Henry: Asshole

Me: {head explodes}

Jason: {balding head explodes} Who? Who do you mean? ASSHOLE?

Henry: {pointing to the TV at the older brother}

Jason: OH, you mean Axl?

Henry: {the biggest, most disgusted sigh EVER} oh, shit, I thought his name was Asshole.

So for the next thirty minutes, every time Axl was on the TV, the word Asshole was muttered laughingly by my kid.

I’ve gotta say though, he’s got the whole cussing thing down pat. He knows when and how to use cuss words properly. He can throw around dammit and shit as well as the next potty mouth soccer mom’s kid. But we are fortunate that he DOES have a filter and knows when he can and can’t use the words.

School: No

Shower: Yes

Church: No

Bedroom alone: Yes

Well, now that I say that, I’ve probably jinxed it. He’ll come home from school tomorrow with a note saying he called some kid an asshole.

Who’ll be the asshole then?

(yup, probably me)

He was born not in a cross-fire hurricane*, but with a perfectly heart-shaped tongue. Ankyloglossia, I remembered from my nursing days, was the medical term for it, but I preferred to call it a tongue-tie. It just seemed more appropriate for a baby whose mouth never stopped moving. Er, screaming.

I mentioned it to his pediatrician at his one week Well Baby check-up, not because I had concerns about his eating habits, but because I knew that as an infant, it was a quick office snip. His old-school pediatrician seemed unconcerned, providing he was eating.

And Alex, he was a boob man. Eating, screaming and DECIDEDLY NOT SLEEPING were the three things he excelled at.

The tongue-tie stretched a bit over time, but still, that delicious little heart-shaped tongue greeted me as he bleated for more food. Later, it began to affect his words…only very slightly. That heart-shape gave him the most delightful Jersey accent, and one feverish night, I wondered if I could potentially cast him in an upcoming episode of Jersey Shore. Once I realized the amount of spray-tan I’d have to invest in, I decided against it.

It was a matter of time, I knew, before we had to get it fixed.

What had once been a simple quick snip at the doctor’s office had now become a full surgical procedure. Mostly, I knew, because no four-year old will willingly let you near his mouth with a scalpel. Because four-year olds are smart.

I’d taken him last year, one summer day, to the ENT, who pronounced that it’d be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of procedure: give him the gas, snip it up, and POW! Heart-shaped no more.

I stopped listening after he said he’d be putting the kid to sleep. Not because I had any specific, rational fears about it. Hell, my girl had her head carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and this, this was the surgical equivalent of a paper cut.

But still, I couldn’t handle it. I tried to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about it. I even went as far as to schedule the appointment. When it came time to actually bring him in, I bailed. Cancelled the surgery, ashamed that I couldn’t do something so simple. Every time I went to reschedule this – such an easy procedure – my heart raced, my eyes went all blurry and three-hundred pounds sat upon my chest.

Every time Dave would mention the surgery, I’d suddenly busy myself with a new cactus video or waxing my dog, or really anything besides talking about the surgery.

As this morning at 7:45, Alex became officially tongue-tie-less.

What shocks me is not that he pulled this incredibly easy surgery like a champ. It’s not that he just inhaled 12 donuts post-op. It’s not that he’s complaining that I have not yet bought him Oreos.


What shocks me is that I’d managed to entirely block out the surgery until yesterday. Last night, it hit me like a bag of oranges to the face, and when I began whining to whomever would listen to me on IM, each person was all, “OMG AB, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME?”

And that, really, would be the question.

All I could sputter out was that I’d forgotten. Which I had.

As Alex’s tongue became untied, mine knotted up, unable to share with even those closest with me.

*stands up and waves*

My name is Becky, and I am the Face of PTSD.

*that’d be me. Or Jumpin’ Jack Flash. OR BOTH.

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