Pashmina: “Are you one of those freaks that doesn’t like getting older?”
Aunt Becky: “No, I mean I’m changing the DAY.”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “See, 3 ER visits in 5 years means that the day is cursed. I wasn’t supposed to be born July 15 anyway but I was in distress or some shit.”
Pashmina: “Maybe you’re just unlucky.”
Aunt Becky: “The first person to wish me a happy birthday is always either an ER doc or a pharmacist. So no more. July 15, you are dead to me.July 28, you are my new birthday.”
Pashmina: “Can you do that? Like, just change the day?”
Aunt Becky: “Why not? It’s like Your Number of People You Bone. As you get farther past it, you know, some just DROP off the list for whatever reason.”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “You know, Bob had a micropenis so he didn’t count, and Jim humped your leg instead of your naughty bits and what’s-his-face had a bit of a premature ejaculation problem?”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “So they drop of Your List!”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “What?!?”
Pashmina: “The way you do math is bizarre.”
Aunt Becky: “I can justify just about anything. Like why I need to buy a tapeworm. And move to LA to start a disco band!”
Pashmina: “Disco sucks.”
Aunt Becky: “You won’t be saying that when my band is on the cover of Rolling Stone. You’ll be begging for groupies.”
Pashmina: “I am pretending not to know you anymore.”
Aunt Becky: “You won’t be saying that when my tapeworm farm is famous, either.”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “You’re still mad at me about the buttsex check (Pranksters, go read those links in that order) aren’t you?”
Pashmina: “No. Well, maybe.”
Aunt Becky: “How about I let you into my disco band as an apology?”
Pashmina: “You shine on you crazy diamond, you.”
Aunt Becky: “That’s the spirit! Let’s get some go-go boots and blue eye shadow!”
Now, Pranksters, aren’t you glad I don’t IM you?
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It’s Toy With Me Tuesday! Where I talk about how to hide the sex toys. And by “how to” I mean that I have no fucking idea.
——————
Mushroom Printing. It’s up. It’s awesomer than ever. You can play, too.
Back when my first son was a baby, I had a real cat in addition to my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles, and his name was Pete. Pete was probably clinically retarded, but I loved him anyway, and we had adventures like, ‘LET’S RUN INTO WALLS HEADFIRST’ and ‘LEGS, LET’S USE THEM!’
Oddly, now that I see that typed out, it was the same sort of adventures I had with Ben, but I digress. Badly.
One weekend, my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, and his wife, Sister Uncle Aunt Becky were at my parents house, were Pete, Ben and Your Aunt Becky lived. While Your Aunt Becky went to work, slinging crappy pizzas and beers as a waitress, Uncle Aunt Becky and Sister Uncle Aunt Becky kidnapped Pete to take him for “just one week” to kill a mouse.
Why they thought a retarded cat could kill a mouse is beyond me. I’m pretty sure any mouse that would die on his watch would have to have committed suicide.
But then, of course, they fell in love with Pete. Stupid old Pete, my companion. But, Sister Aunt Becky has more maternal sweetness in one of her cells than Your Aunt Becky does in her entire body, so when it came time to bring Pete back home, Pete already had amassed a collection of soft kitty blankies, toys and treats. In a week.
Suddenly, I felt sort of…guilty taking him back, where he’d be forced to sleep on my BED without treats, toys or the soft caress of cashmere cat blankies.
So Pete became Uncle Aunt Becky’s cat.
Many years later, I adopted a similar orange cat from the shelter because I am a creature of habit and also because I have no imagination. When I got him, I brought him home and loudly proclaimed that his name was….(wait for it)
PETE.
And Pete II was possibly more simple-minded that Pete I.
Firstly, he used his head as a battering ram. Doors, windows, heads, walls, people, no matter what was in his way, he just bashed it with his head until it gave in or until he forgot what he was doing and decided to do something else.
Then, the moment he got happy, which was often, he’d start to salivate. Which was kind of funny, because you think, “hey, Aunt Becky, I drool when I see bacon!” but you know, the cat would drool when he saw ME. And since I LIVED WITH HIM, I was pretty much always cleaning up piles of cat drool.
Well, then I popped out two back to back crotch parasites and Pete II’s four measly neurons couldn’t handle the stress of having to deal with the peeing and pooing of two additional small humans.
So he did what any mentally challenged cat would do: he started peeing on stuff. Anything.
I called up my sister-in-law and started pleading with her. Shockingly, she listened to my pathetic bribes and ended up coming to take Pete home with her because she is a better human being than I am.
Which meant that she had not one, but two of my fat, orange, stupid cats named Pete.
Pete and RE-Pete.
I really shouldn’t be allowed to do anything. Ever.
———–
Further proof that I should probably be chained to a wall somewhere.
I made you a present. See, now The Internet is trying to get a role in this, uh (I think I have this right now) blogging reality show about, uh, bloggers? Well, this is why I SHOULDN’T be allowed on a reality show:
I made that! It’s new! It’s why I should NEVER be allowed near a video, uh, maker. Or YouTube, where I made a channel, so I can make NEW videos. (hide, Pranksters).
Hi Aunt Becky,
My fiance and I are planning on getting married in a little over a year, but with relocation, finding jobs after school, and a bunch of other things going on in our lives right now we have yet to plan a single detail.
It’s getting to be about that time to book churches, reception halls, and figure out colors or whatever (my sister is good at the planning so I’m passing it all off onto her). The problem is, I just started a job that is going to be able to pay my monthly bills and that’s it, and my fiance is still unemployed.
Here’s the kicker: He wants a big wedding with a DJ, food for people (a main meal and drunkie snacks at the end of the night) and other wild things that we just can’t afford without taking on more debt. I think we should just invite our guests down to the Church reception hall for coffee and cake after the ceremony and be done with it. I really don’t want to spend a ton of money on one day when we could be putting it toward a house or a kick ass honeymoon.
Help please!
-Unhappy Planner
Oh, my Unhappy Planner Prankster, how I empathize with you entirely, because Your Aunt Becky is SO not a wedding person. I’m very much a PARTY person, but not at all a wedding person. I’m the chuck-it-all-and-go-to-Vegas-and-get-married-by-Elvis-kind-of-girl, actually, but you know, apparently that’s not en vogue or something.
So here’s what my advice is to ALL of those out there planning weddings: this is your first step as a soon-to-be married couple in what marriage is all about: compromise.
I suggest you each make a list of what it is that you want in your ideal wedding without input from the other person. Then, add an approximate cost associated with each item. After that, rank each item from order from most to least important.
THEN, regroup and have a real discussion about what you can combine to make this work for you both.
Marriage is a partnership and nowhere is that going to be more evident than now. So I suggest you start getting accustomed to thinking like a twosome now. Two is the new one, you know.
Good luck, Prankster.
(for the record, I’d do Vegas)
Dear Aunt Becky,
I am turning 21 on July 21st. I really want to go out for my birthday. I don’t even want to drink- I just want to go dancing. Here’s the kicker. I am going to be 29 weeks pregnant on my birthday. And, as bad as I want to go dancing, I don’t want to deal with the fucktards that are going to be giving me the stink-eye the whole time I am there. It’s not like I am massively huge pregnant either, I have only gained 4 pounds, and I don’t have this raging prego belly, just a little bump.
So, Aunt Becky, does being pregnant mean I have to sit at home and act like I am dead because I have this thing growing in my stomach? Or can I go out and shake my ass?!? I mean, I am just pregnant, not dead!
Aw, Prankster, I missed answering this one in time for your birthday and I’m sorry. Happy Birthday, belatedly, my friend.
So, should you go out and celebrate on your 21st birthday while pregnant? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY! I was a whopping 37 weeks pregnant (or perhaps 48 weeks?) with Ben when I turned 21, and you bet your ass I walked into that liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne with my brand new driver’s license.
Why?
BECAUSE I COULD.
Then, I waddled my sorry ass home and went to bed. Of course, I didn’t DRINK any of it or anything, but I just did it because I had to.
And frankly, anyone who thinks that pregnant women should stay home with their feet up resting and watching TLC, hiding from the world, should be beaten about the head. If you want to go dancing on your birthday, baby, you shake that ass.
I’ll never forget back when I was a bartender, this very pregnant lady came in and ordered a non-alcoholic beer for herself. The bottle does, of course, look like, well, a BEER bottle, and the bar was bumping. That poor woman got SO many dirty looks that I eventually had to start stepping in and fending people off of her.
It’s bad enough to be hugely pregnant. If the woman wants to drink a non-alcoholic (blech) beer, let the damn woman do it (and yes, I know it has a tiny bit of alcohol in it. She had ONE).
So I hope you shook that ass and had a great birthday, Prankster.
Dear Aunt Becky,
I did not grow up with a gun in the house. It was never like an “oooh guns are scary” type of thing, they just were never a part of my life. And frankly, I’ve just never cared for the thought of one around.
My boyfriend on the other hand, has always had guns in the house. He competitively shot as a teen, and his father collects them.
Now basically he has just the one side arm that he keeps in his nightstand, unloaded, with the ammo far from it. He’s not an irresponsible gun owner in any way. But still the gun bothers me. He says its just for protection, that it helps make him feel safe. That there’s nothing for me to worry about, and still, I worry.
I know he won’t just get rid of it because I want him to, and I really don’t have a good reason other than it bothers me. How do I get over this? Should I just get over it?
It’s not a pressing issue, as we don’t live together at the moment, but we’re planning on getting married, and moving in with him means moving in with it…
Sincerely,
Annie Get Your Gun
Oh Annie, I so get where you’re coming from because my hippie parents wouldn’t ALLOW us guns of any sorts. Not even SQUIRT guns until I was much, much older (I wasn’t allowed Barbies either, which probably explains my personality a lot more, too).
So I’m actually a little afraid of them. Okay, I’m a lot afraid of them. And it’s a stupid fear, honestly.
But what I need to do, and what YOU need to do is to do something about it.
A gun is an inanimate object that can’t physically JUMP UP and hurt you, right?
So I think that first you should talk to your boyfriend about your fears about the gun. Then, maybe you should have him take you shooting, just so you learn how to use it. Clearly, he’s no amateur and isn’t going to be unsafe with it, so I’d trust that he knows what he’s doing. If you’re going to move in with him, you need to be comfortable with him and with his hobby and lifestyle.
Or, of course, not, if that’s a deal breaker for you.
And as for me, I need to confront this and learn how to shoot a damn gun.
I'm Aunt Becky...and you're not. This is my blog, Mommy Wants Vodka. My interests include encased meats, cherry lip gloss and single-stranded reverse-transcribing RNA viruses. I also like shiny things and imagining a life married to men from television. Also: my name is really Becky Sherrick Harks. And yes, I do my own stunts.
July 27, 2010
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