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.
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.
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.
Me (hobbling out of the bathroom 5-weeks post-abdominal surgery): “Oh my God.”
(flops on bed)
Me: “I shouldn’t have showered.”
Me: “What are we watching?”
Mandi: “A documentary on hot dogs.”
Me: “Oooh! I’ve seen this before.”
(crawls under covers)
Me: “What the hell time is that party tonight?”
Mandi: “I dunno. Six? Seven?”
Me: “But we need to finish this show.”
Mandi: “Yeah. But you’ve seen it before.”
Me: “It was that fucking good.”
Mandi: “Oh fuck yeah.”
Me: “Parties are bullshit. Let’s fucking stay here and watch this show.”
Mandi: “We have go.”
Me: “Yeah. YEAH. Fuck. I’m so comfy.”
Mandi: “We need to finish this documentary. Period.”
Me: “I wonder what’s up next?”
Mandi: “Ooooooh! A documentary on Amelia Earhart.”
Me: “Let’s order room service, yo.”
Me: “We know how to PARTY.”
Mandi: (makes sign of the horns) “FUCK YEAH.”
I know that most of you have an image of me, angrily ranting about John C. Mayer while eating delicious encased meats, and while that’s partially spot-on, I’m not normally all that ranty. Unless it’s about the lazy bastards who leave their shopping carts in the parking lots rather than the corral. Because that’s a hot pile of bullshit.
But I’ve been violated by the TSA in more ways that I can count and still don’t care. Hell, I like to think of it as “action” rather than “violation of rights.”
But as I stood in line yesterday, ready to get some hot TSA action, I couldn’t help but overhearing a conversation going on behind me. They were talking about a child who’d stolen a car from his stepfather to see his “real dad.”
Rather than become outraged by the stupid kid (he was 7)(we all know kids under 9 shouldn’t drive), I was pissed by the “real dad” comment. Because if there’s a “real” dad, there must be a “fake” one.
In Casa de la Sausage, there lives a man. He’s the one who takes the child to the doctor – he’s even got the doctor’s programmed on speed dial – and the one who is up at night when we have fevers. He cleans up puke and sputum. He goes to parent/teacher conferences and field trips. He soothes hurt feelers and rocks babies to sleep. He got a couple of poems written in his honor for Father’s Day. He – like the rest of us who know what it’s like to barf in a bucket while holding your kid’s head over the toilet – should get a medal.
He happens to be the favored parent in the house.
That, Pranksters, is a father. There is no one fucking fake thing about it. It chaps my ass that a single person would doubt it.
No, he wasn’t there for the conception (was I?) or the birth. But shooting a load into a vagina does not a “real” father make.
I *know* who fathers my children. There’s nothing fake about it.