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(over at the Stir, this is how I will make my millions)

Now that I’ve lost the lion’s share of the baby weight – and yes, I WILL call it baby weight even though my daughter is two – I’ve taken to shopping again. For clothes, I mean. Clothing is more fun when you’re not staring at the tag, weeping about the number there.

(I learned to cut off the tags, but it didn’t help)

So there I was, at The Target, perusing the summer stuff, when I saw it. The Maxi-Dress.

Maxi Dress

Pranksters, I wanted so badly to love this dress. It looked like it would provide a nice crotch breeze while allowing me to continue my “pants are bullshit” campaign. And yet. I couldn’t.

My mother, a hippie in the 1980’s, lived in these things when I was a child – the very sort of thing I railed against. It was droopy and unpatterned, listless and tired, even fresh off the clothes line. As someone who favored twirly skirts, tiaras, and all the makeup one could slap on a face, I was horrified that my very own mother would wear such monstrosities.

Examining it closer, I realized that, like capri pants, the dress would look good on no one. Except, perhaps, models.

So I put it back, sadly denying my crotch an opportunity to vent in the breeze.

And then I saw this:


Motherfucking ROMPERS.

Have you seen these, Pranksters? ROMPERS. FOR ADULTS.

If I could manage to somehow get over the issue that these are ROMPERS for ADULTS, all I can see is the vagina wedgie you’d get while wearing this monstrosity. I mean, CAMEL TOE anyone?

Even worse, they’re ROMPERS for ADULTS.

I stopped wearing rompers at the same age that I stopped wearing diapers. Perhaps when I WEAR diapers again, I’ll go back to wanting to dress like an overgrown child. But somehow, I doubt it.

And don’t get me started on pajama jeans.

mom jeans

Dear Aunt Becky,

Let me just start out by saying, you are fucking hilarious, and great!

Okay, I have PTSD, depression, anxiety, OCD, and a bunch of other stupid shit that I can’t deal with. I don’t even know how to start with dealing with it. I have panic attacks nearly every day, but I don’t know where to turn to for help.

Last time I talked to my mom about it, she had me hospitalized, and put on suicide watch for a month (this was after 2 of my brothers killed themselves, so I know she was trying to help me not follow in their footsteps) so I can’t go to my family. I need help, I know I do. I just need help getting help, which is super fucked-up I know.

Please, please help me.. I don’t know how to get through a day with out drinking/cutting myself/or other things I know are completely unhealthy.

Do you have any suggestions, or anything? Thanks, sorry to bug you.

Oh Prankster MJ, my heart hurts for you. Mental illness can be such a motherfucker, can’t it?

Now, it sounds as though you’re aware that you need help, which is the first good step. The second step: finding good help, may be tougher. Many doctors will require parental consent for treatment, which it sounds like you need. Although, not the inpatient suicide-watch you’ve been on before. You don’t exactly sound suicidal to me.

It sounds to me that with the right combination of therapist and/or medication, you could begin to develop healthy coping mechanisms to replace the unhealthy ones you’ve learned to rely upon. Sure, it’ll require plenty of work on your end, but you can do it. It sounds like you’ve already managed to live through worse, which means that treatment should be breezier for someone as tough as yourself.

I’d start by calling these numbers:

Boys Town National Hotline:


Self-Injury Foundation

Teen Contact:


to see what sorts of advice they have for you in terms of getting the proper treatment you require. I’m not as familiar with the laws governing parental consent as I should be, but I’d be willing to bet that these people would know where to direct you to further help you.

If you’re over the age of consent, then, well, you don’t need to worry about telling your parents (unless you’re on their insurance plan). In that case, I’d make an appointment with a doctor who specializes in handling your types of issues (I’d start with PTSD for one) and see if you click. If you don’t, try another one. If you don’t like that one, KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU DO.

Because if you’re going to get treatment from someone, you do need to click. And you’ll know when you do. From there, you and your doctor can develop a proper treatment plan.

I wish you the best of luck, Prankster. Sending you loads of hugs.

Pranksters? Any other advice for MJ?


Dear Aunt Becky,

This isn’t really an aunt becky question per se…

I mean I am asking you a question through this because I can’t figure out where else to ask you.  I know I read somewhere on you blog “It’s gin o’clock somewhere.”  I think that’s awesome and funny and I want to use that phrase of yours in a post.  I’m too scared about getting syphilis to just go ahead and steal it (and I am not normally prone to thievery), so I want to ask you before I go ahead and do that.  Also, I think it’s PERFECT for your next t-shirt!!  I would be first in line to buy it.  🙂  Did you always know you were awesome?


I kid, I kid.

But I did, seriously, say it, and I am totally going to make that into a shirt. “It’s Gin ‘o’ Clock Somewhere.”

I am also going to take this opportunity to shamelessly remind you to order one of my new shirts. And enter into this contest, which, um, I guess I’ll draw a winner next Friday?


So here’s my beef Aunt Becky,

All of my BFF’s are popping out tiny clones of themselves. I already have 3 1/2 year old twin boys. I love said boys but they are a shit-ton of work. As I see all these cute pregnant bitches and then corresponding cute little leeches, I start to think I may want one. Then the other side of me is like what the frick is wrong with you. When I was pregnant with the doublemint twins it was not the cakewalk I wanted it to be. Bedrest at 6months, delivery at 32weeks, I almost died and stuff. 7 weeks in the NICU and a few near deaths in between.

I am super freaked out that if I have another baby I will be all trauma and this time I have 2 kids at home who need me as well. And what if the new kid is all left out because the first ones are all “wonder twin powers combine.”

I’m sure that I am overthinking all of this and just being a freak.

Really though, if you were me would you have another?

FUCK to the NO.

I mean, I was done with having kids after three anyway, but after the horribly traumatic birth and brain surgery and shit with Amelia? I cannot fucking FATHOM having to go into that again. I’d be a mess. I’d be SUCH a mess. I mean, MORE THAN NORMAL EVEN.

That said, don’t let fear hold you back from your dreams, or some such movie quote with a wispy-haired heroine staring wistfully off into the sunset.

Can you live your life content with the wonder boys? Will you always be wanting one more? Or will you always be wanting one more if you have fifty-seven kids? THOSE are the questions I’d think as I’d hide my uterus from invading sperm.

As for me? My uterus is CLOSED for business. Until I meet my rockstar husband, of course. Then it’s wide open, baby.


As always, please pick up wherever I left off in the comments, Pranksters. Opinions are like assholes and we want to hear yours. The opinions, that is. Not the assholes. Because that’s just GROSS.

Me: (returning from my 7-11 pilgrimage wherein I purchased a Double Big Gulp of Diet Coke) “This Gigantic Diet Coke shall continue preserving myself from the inside out.

Me: “I like Britney Spears.”

Me: “Oh, I see the garbage has been taken away, I shall bring these recycling bins inside my garage so that I may fill them with more recycling stuffs.”

Me: “I’m Captain Motherfucking Recycling.”

Me: “I can’t carry three bins at once.”

Me: “I like donuts, too.”

Me: “I’m very lazy and do not wish to make a second trip down my twenty-foot driveway to carry in a bin.”


Me: “I shall use my foot to move the third recycling bin into the garage where I shall fill it with more stuffs.”


Me: “This is a BRILLIANT plan. I shall have to exert no more effort than I have to.”


Me: “I certainly admire these wooden-soled shoes that I am wearing.”

Me: (kick, kick, kick the recycling bin)


Me: (kick, kick, kick, CRACK)



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