Friday night, well ensconced in our Friday Night Ritual (Dinner at Chili’s with Amelia and The Guy On My Couch, followed by a trip to The Target Store, which, of course, is a sacrosanct tradition), she marched around the store, proudly showing off her pink Starbucks Cake Pop.

No matter how full of my sour cream and cheese she is, she insists upon a Cake Pop that she eventually feeds to The Guy on the Couch. Pure happiness for a buck-fifty.

Can’t beat it.

She’d found herself a bright green sparkly hat which she proudly wore during the times that she hadn’t placed it upon the head of The Guy on the Couch – they’d been playing some game with it while I grabbed food for the week.

Eventually we wound our way, just as we always do, to the Legos. Carefully, she had to inspect each box to find the one that she wanted. She vacillated between a lighthouse and a dinosaur but eventually ended up choosing a teeny red speedboat. A good, solid careful choice.

Soon – too soon for me – it was time to go home. Lovingly, she’d placed the clearance Hello Kitty Backpack onto her back, marching toward the checkout with a bounce and a wiggle.

“Lookit my Pack-Pack, Mama! It’s HELLO KITTY.” She turned and swiveled around so that I could admire it as we stood there unloading the cart.

“It’s beautiful, Mimi-Girl,” I replied, just as I had the last twelve times she’d showed it off to me.

“Can I show Dada?” She asked coyly, fluttering her eyelashes at me. “He home from work yet?”

“Yes, Mimi,” I replied. “I just talked to him – we’re going to grab him some dinner to take home to him.”

“Can he put me to bed?” She asked for the fifty-fifth time that night.

“Yes, Baby, he can put you to bed,” I replied for the fifty-fifth time.

“Mama, we’re at sixteen,” she pointed at the check-out lane. “Dere’s five-teen and seventeen,” she carefully showed me. “Why?”

“You chose it, Mimi,” The Guy on my Couch who is endlessly patient with her questions. She tilted her head up to him coyly, “You like my Pack-Pack, Big Ben?”

“It’s beautiful, Mimi,” he replied for the thirty-eleventy-niner time.

She spun and twirled in front of the mirror next to her, admiring her Pack-Pack. “I love you, Hello Kitty Pack-Pack.” I giggled at her pronunciation of the word, “Backpack.”

Eventually she got tired of preening in front of the makeshift mirror and turned to the lady in line in front of us, who had been casually watching my daughter twirl and whirl.

“You like my Hello Kitty Pack-Pack?” Amelia asked.

“Yes, yes I do,” she smiled down at my beaming daughter.

She turned to me and spoke, “How old is she?”

“Just turned three,” I replied proudly.

“Man, she’s such a chatterbox. I can’t believe she talks so much! My child is about her age and she doesn’t speak quite so well.”

I beamed, ear-to-fucking-ear.

If she only knew.

If she only knew.

Because The Guy on my Couch has a job that requires a car, and I am benevolent enough to allow him to use mine, I’m stranded at my house most of the time. It’s okay – really. I get to indulge in my workaholic ways as much as I want without the pesky Real World getting in the way.

It’s okay until I have to go to the doctor. THEN, I have to ask my mother to drive me. Which, I tell everyone, is a condition of my parole, but that’s a lie – I’m on house arrest.

On Tuesday, my mother picked me up and took me to the endocrinologist so I could a) note that I’d gained 10 pounds, and 2) cry because I’d gained 10 pounds. Also: my 6 month check-up.

Of all my doctors, my endo is my favorite and not just because I get to People Watch in the waiting room and loudly proclaim – I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM in a high nasally voice (although that helps)(it’s not like I can be all I HAVE A VAGINA in my OB’s office)(it’s redundant).

Anyway.

Having a glandular problem not NEARLY as glamorous as you might think – I was ultimately convinced that my thyroid – that asshole – had taken off for greener, less diseased pastures. Like Detroit or Wyoming or something.

Turns out that I was wrong.

My thyroid is still firmly ensconced in my neck and, here’s where shit gets awesome, has grown a friend. His asshole friend carries a 5% risk of cancer. With friends like these, you don’t need enemies.

I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a benign cyst or an oyster or diamond or something.

At least, I hope.

I sure do like diamonds. And horses. Not zebras. Never zebras.

My parents, when they remembered, measured my height on the back of the door to the basement. It was there that I could see how much I’d grown over the past years and a good way to be all, “I’m not THAT short” when my brother called me Stumpy. I was also, I recall, horrified by what my mother called “her handwriting.”

I’d probably do the same thing in my own house – for my KIDS, not ME – but all my doors are stained wood – nothing white here. So I have to do other things in order to see how much they’ve all grown.

Back in April, 2008, I bought myself Big Mac – a 24 inch computer that was hella awesomer than my previous computer – a 10 inch iBook with a broken screen. It was on that computer that I vowed I’d “write a book,” and “watch dancing kittens playing the piano.”

I did.

When I bought it, rather than simply take a picture of the technology, I decided to pose someone in front of it.

MUCH more interesting that way.

Also: SQUEE at chunky Baby Legs!

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Big Mac had been wheezing and choking along, trying to keep up with me as I beat on it day in and day out.

Last weekend, I’d finally had enough when, once again, Big Mac decided that I didn’t really NEED to be working any more (Big Mac LIES! I must! work! more!) for the eleventy billionth time that week. HOW DARE MY COMPUTER JUDGE ME FOR WORKING!

It was then that I realized Big Mac and I were soon to be parted.

Luckily I had just the thing to fix that.

Pranksters, meet Big Mac II.

Also: look at how far that chubby baby has come. He’s the one in the blue nerd shirt. His sister, Amelia, wasn’t even a twinkle in my eyes when Big Mac 1 came home.

(and no, that’s not Mountain Dew* OR pee in that bottle – it’s lemonade. They were playing “baby.”)

Amazing how far we’ve all come, isn’t it?

*my kids are NOT stoners.

Amelia loves books. Shocking, I know, since I’m barely literate, but there you have it: genetics are fucking weird.

Anyway, for her birthday, she got a good number of books. Being the last of three, it’s nice for her to get something that’s NOT a hand-me-down from her brothers, so she eagerly tears into them. And, really, anything else, but that’s neither here nor there.

I was laying on the couch trying to beat a particularly vicious level of Angry Birds on my iPad when she padded over and plopped a book – from her birthday – onto my lap. Politely she asked me to read it.

“Okay,” I said, giving the stink-eye to those stupid pigs on Angry Birds, “come on up.”

Wow. That’s fucking cute! I thought to myself as I began to read.

Aww, they’re friends. I bet this is gonna be an ebony/ivory kinda story – you can be friends with anyone! What a great moral that is for kids.

And now a monkey as a friend! Wow, what a great story this is. And the pictures? Amazaballs. Plus, I mean, a PRESENT? Who doesn’t love a good present?

Okay, now you’re losing me, book. Cooking is bullshit. CookBOOKs are bullshit. But okay, the kid prolly thinks this is great. I’ll soldier on.

Um.

WHAT?

I thought they were BFFOMGLOL. And now we’re talking about EATING our friends? What the shit kind of story IS this?

OMFG.

There’s dead mouse every-fucking-where! But! But! Mouse loved to PAINT! They were BFFLOLOMG!

How can you EAT your BFF?

I FEEL LIKE I’M GOING TO BARF.

It was then that I closed the book.

Who the hell WRITES these kind of books anyway?

*shudders*

In college, I had to take what I called, “Bible Class” and it was the first time I actually cracked open the Bible. Well, other than the times I read aloud random passages from the hotel rooms I was staying in (much, I should add, to the chagrin to whomever I happened to be staying with). Thank you I say now, o! wily Gideon’s, for supplying me with Bibles to read from to annoy my fellow travelers with.

I read the book cover to cover and learned a lot about what the rest of the religious world was talking about. Things that most of you probably just inherently knew, but for someone like me who grew up saying “Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat” as a bastardized version of Grace, I simply was flabbergasted. There really is, I should add now, no fucking separation of church and state.

Anyway. I married someone who grew up in a family who is so religious that they’re probably still reeling from the PTSD from meeting me and finding out that yes, their son loves a heathen.

For Ash Wednesday one year, I was working on the floor and the pastor happened to be walking around giving out the cross on the forehead, and in the name of Trying Something New, I had decided to give up using “fuck” for Lent. It should go without saying that I am not Catholic, but I was reading the Bible and figured that it was a good idea to TRY it out.

Aunt Becky Gives Up The Eff Word:

The Daver: “What’s on your forehead?”

Aunt Becky: “Ashes.”

The Daver: “From?”

Aunt Becky: “I gave up using “fuck” for Lent.”

The Daver: “You know that means you can’t say it, right?”

Aunt Becky: “FUCK.”

Lent FAIL.

Aunt Becky Goes Crucifix Shopping:

The Daver: “Shit, I need to pick up something for the Christening on Sunday. Can you pick up something for my new Goddaughter?”

Aunt Becky: “Something…?”

The Daver: “Just go to the religious store in town and get her something.”

Aunt Becky: “Bwahahahahahahahahaha!”

The Daver: “You know, like a pearl something.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to go and get her a gigantic crucifix.”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Like a gigantic BLEEDING crucifix for them to hang in her room.”

The Daver: “NO!”

Aunt Becky: “I want it to have like realistic blood and everything. I’m thinking something in the market of…8 feet tall and 6 feet wide. That should take up at least part of the wall of the nursery.”

The Daver: “Becky, that’s not funny.”

Aunt Becky: “Maybe they can hang it over her bassinet! To keep out The Devil. I think it would be lovely to watch over her.”

The Daver: “Becky, that’s really not funny at all.”

Aunt Becky: “Neither is sending me into a religious store. I don’t know FUCK about this shit, Dave. Besides, YOU are the Godfather, not me. Also, YOU are the heavenly one.”

The Daver: “Please?”

Aunt Becky: “Do you think this sort of crucifix is a custom job?”

Christening FAIL.

(ed note: Dave didn’t speak to me for an entire week. Also, I bought the kid a nice bracelet with a tasteful non-gory cross on it.)

What religion will Aunt Becky mess up next?

It’s like Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? except with RELIGION.

I cannot allow myself to be motivated by fear. If I do that, I’ll spend the rest of my life not trying to do something I really think I should be able to do – even if I suck.

So I’m going for it. I read your comments yesterday and they made me do the ugly cry (luckily, I have no photographic evidence to support this) but they were right. YOU were right. And I thank you for it.

I don’t like to half-ass things. I go balls to the wall, y’all or I go home.

Deep breath. Don’t panic.

It’s time to put those essays into a single document and work my ass off on them.

And I will.

Because you believe in me, I can believe in myself.

Anyone have any suggestions for me? How the shit do I find myself an agent (AGAIN)?

“Okay guys, it’s time to get ready for bed! Ben, brush your teeth. Alex, go to the bathroom,” I holler from the other room, where I’ve been hiding from the Wii and it’s incessantly cheerful music. My head feels like someone stuck it in a vice and turned the crank to 11.

*Spinal Tap Interlude*

The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and…

Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?

Exactly.

Does that mean it’s louder? Is it any louder?

Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You’re on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you’re on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?

I don’t know.

Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?

Put it up to eleven.

Eleven. Exactly. One louder.

Why don’t you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?

[pause] These go to eleven.

—————

That was like a guitar solo – BUT BETTER.

Anyway. My headache. It’s one larger than ten. It goes to 11.

But I’m not gonna be all Mommy Dearest about it – the kids aren’t at fault, but I’m totally itching to lay down in the dark and watch some Pawn Stars* before sacking out myself.

I can hear Alex’s padded feet tromping toward me for a quick cuddle goodnight and I open my arms for his embrace – which generally occurs at about 827 miles an hour. You gotta brace yourself for that one.

The other one, my big son, begins to wail. Not actual tears but like the typical teenage bullshit, “Oh my GOD, how DARE you, blah blah blah.” I try to ignore his outbursts, but rather than tire himself out (like I’m hoping), he just keeps on. I’ve never MET someone so good at thoroughly beating a dead horse until it’s nothing but dry bones.

He’ll go on for hours – bemoaning his horrid fate of having to brush his teeth, which, I should tell you, Pranksters, is, according to him – “the WORST thing that could ever happen to him.” He’ll argue that point too. Just like he’ll argue that the sky is, last time he checked, green and not blue, and really Mom, how could you be SUCH an IDIOT**.

I’d probably let him continue to rail on and ignore him, but he’ll follow me around like the world’s crabbiest puppy, making damn sure I’m good and aware that he is not happy with me. Nothing is immune to his attacks – chores he’s been doing for four years are still the OTHER worst thing ever besides that one worst thing that was worser.

If I ask him to vacuum, it’s like I’ve asked him to vacuum with his nose. If I ask him to put something away, it’s like he’s stepping on broken glass to perform such a deadly chore. When I tell him to brush his teeth, it’s like I’ve told him to do so with tin foil.

I’m about ready to show him footage of kids in third world countries just to drive home the point that hey, it’s not THAT bad. But he’d probably tell me he’d rather be there, living in a hut, without a Wii, away from Yours Truly.

Ah, the teenage years. So glad you’ve visited my house.

Unrelated (totally related): Anyone want a surly 10 year old? He’s sure anywhere is better than here.

*Hey, at least it’s not the Kardashians

**the Internet wonders the same thing.

This gem was waiting for me in my inbox. It was too good to keep to myself (feel free to share your OWN fitness ideas in the comments):

Dear Aunt Becky,

Here is one of my favorite fitness tips: you MUST take it seriously or it WILL NOT WORK.

Here goes:

Take a walk…a long walk..alone and away from the kids.(In your yoga pants and Reebok’s)(of course)(NOTE: I have not been compensated in any way to endorse Reebok’s)(I wanted to sound like a real, professional blogger for a minute)

Your walk will be very enjoyable. You will notice the things you’ve never noticed before while in a car. That interesting twist of the trunk of that tree. The amaaazing cloud formations, the squirrels bustling about woods (or are they humping?)

Your feet wont even notice they are walking! You may even get lost (WARNING: this is very probable if you are anything like me!)Don’t forget to bring your Ipod with some Ingrid Michaelson and Freddy Johnson…they have never sounded so good as when you are doing this regime!

(This is the calorie burning section of this essay, so please pay special attention)

After finally arriving home, go immediately to the top of the armoire, (or wherever your favorite hiding spot is) and reach down a Kit Kat from the Kit Kat Party Bag. (Reaching is imperative,as that is the stretching section  of the work out) (I am a big fan of parenthesis)(if you cant already tell) Continue reaching /opening/eating until you are sweating. This is how you know the workout is successful! Yay! You’ve done it!

I believe in you, Aunt Becky. I know you can do it, girl.

Call me if you need encouragement.

Love you lots,

Barbara

PS: you can further the benefits of this workout by following the Kit Kat section and going into the kitchen and cooking the family a fantastic dinner with the specific nutrients found in butter, cheese, deep fried foods and chocolate!

In a drunken fit of drunkenness, I agreed to wear a pedometer and set some fitness goals. Omron kindly asked me to join their Fitness Blogger Challenge Campaign, which, DUH, screams AUNT BECKY, right? They sent me some sweet ass swag (and some for YOU, too) and I was all, I am so going to beat the shit out of this challenge.

I just knew it.

I mean, as long as I could call it an “odometer,” I was pretty happy to try wearing the thing for a month. I mean, I walk all the time…right? Surely as a “writer”* on the Internet who spends her time watching zany cats do stuff while pecking out email after email on her Big Mac is probably an athletic superstar.

Really, how could I *not* be eligible for an award like, “most athletic blogger,” or “walks most steps in a day?” I scoffed at the suggestion of 10,000 steps a day – certainly I did at least a million steps each day. Probably TWO million!

In fact, I bet that I’d break the odometer with my awesome steps.

I couldn’t wait to go to the Omron factory, right in my backyard, to be all, “I broke this with my awesomeness.”

Happily I strapped it on the first day – I didn’t even drop it in the toilet. I hummed a little as I imagined the odometer getting all confused after I passed the 1 million steps mark.

At the end of the night, I glanced down at the thing and was all, OH EM GEE, this ridiculously expensive odometer is broken. Obviously.

Because there is NO WAY I only walked 2,398 steps. It probably had to roll over from 99,999 or something. Right?

The next morning, I got up and happily strapped the thing on again. This time I included some yoga pants (who cares if I never actually DO yoga in my yoga pants?) and a headband to catch all the sweat that I’d be dripping. I’d have used those weird 80’s wrist cuffs if I had any, but sadly, no.

I put up a picture of Bob Greene as a motivator-thingy and pictured him cheering me on each time I wrote an email.

“YOU GO AUNT BECKY. YOU BURN THOSE CALORIES AND YOU TAKE THOSE STEPS.”

His voice sounded like Billy Mays, so I got a little nostalgic. And when I get nostalgic, I have to take a nap. Kind of like when I have a cheeseburger. Or really, any time. I love naps. I bet Bob Greene does too. I get to talk to him next week and I plan to ask him about it.

The end of that night, after I was all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about shit? My odometer read 1,082.

Apparently, WEARING yoga pants isn’t the same as working out. Who the fuck knew?

Anyway.

It was a bad month to work on getting fit – pneumonia, now I’m dying of something that’s growing in my sinuses, then an ear infection, now Ebola – so I’m going to have to cram all of my Getting Fit With Omron into a week and a half. What can I say? I’m a procrastinator (although this time, not by choice).

So I’m setting a ridiculously low goal and trying to stick to it. I know that simple shit like parking far away from the entrance to Target (my boyfriend) is an easy way to get a little bit of exercise. If all else fails, I can throw the odometer on one of the kids and be all BOOO-YEAH.

Because Your Aunt Becky has GOT to get fit. Or die trying.

Oh yeah, and I’m being compensated to write this post by Bookieboo LLC in a blogger campaign with Omron Fitness.

*use of quotation marks is intentional.

Okay, Pranksters – I need some ridiculously awesome (or hilarious) fitness tips. Because obviously. Or if you’ve got none, tell me what your favorite flavor of cupcake is, because delicious. Obviously.

It might shock you, Pranksters, that Your Aunt Becky is a weeeee bit compulsive.

Okay, stop nodding so hard – it’s giving me a headache.

So I’m compulsive. One look at my orchid farm will tell you that much.

I mean, I’m so compulsive that days like yesterday, even though I had a perfectly valid reason (I was sick and had to go to the doctor ALSO Alex was sick – ear infection this time – and had to go to the doctor) not to post here, because it would’ve turned out like, “GAHHHH! WHY DO I FEEEEEL SO SICK! IT’S MARK ANTHONY’S FAULT!” I still felt off. All day.

Had I had three remaining brain cells, I’d have grimly come up with SOMETHING. Because OMGWTFBBQ it’s my BLAWG and peoples READ MAH BLAWG.

Last year, right around this time, I was all OMGWTFBBQ GLEE IS AWESOME. I DON’T CARE IF THE GIRL EVERYONE SAYS IS LIKE ME, HAS A MOUTH THAT THREATENS ME WHILE I WATCH. IT’S SO FUNNY AND AWESOME AND OMGWTFBBQ.

But Glee, sadly, was on hiatus for some American Idol crap or something. And I was recovering from surgery which meant I wasn’t supposed to be sitting up. I had a LOT of hours to fill. Vertically.

So I’m all, YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOTTA BE AS AWESOME AS GLEE? THE OTHER SHOW THE GLEE CREATOR MADE: NIP/TUCK.

Netflix and I had a love affair, see, and I TRUSTED Netflix not to do me wrong.

Happily, I noted that I had six (SIX!) entire seasons of the show to watch. I’d have done a happy dance if I’d be able, but I settled on a lone *fistbump* and queued up the first episode.

Okay, I said, so there’s this really nice doctor guy and he’s got this perfect wife and two kids – the boy looked like Michael Jackson – and then there’s this cocky playboy doctor and puts his peen in lots of things. Instantly, I was horrified. Crazy-balls Anne Hesche was in it. Until I learned that it wasn’t actually Crazy-Balls Anne Hesche and felt bad for hating the pretty blonde NON-ANNE-HESCHE lady.

But whatever. The kid looked like Michael Jackson and the two doctors were semi-likeable.

By episode two, I found myself bored.

By episode three, I’d begun to hate each and every character – including the hamster.

Any normal person would have then stopped the show, shrugged, and written it off as a crap-ass show. But not Your Aunt Becky.

No, I grimly sat through each show, all of the ridiculous scenarios, and hoped for a better episode. The next one HAD to be better, right?

Turns out, not so much.

My favorite moment of the entire show was when someone got hit by a bus. It was great.

The rest of it? I hated each and every character. Equally. At no point did I say, “wow, that was great. I really connected with that character.”

(to be fair, I’ve never said something so hokey in my life, unless I was stoned and/or drunk)

So this week, when The Guy On The Couch, The Daver and I ran out of Pawn Stars episodes on Netflix, we searched desperately to find something to fill the void. Anything.

“I’ve heard good things about Parking Wars,” Daver suggested.

“Me too,” The Guy on the Couch chimed in.

“Uh, I’ve never heard of it, but okay,” I agreed.

We settled down to watch the first episode.

Instantly, I hated everyone on the screen – these are the fuckheads who give me tickets and they’re talking about how they think they’re doing some great job for the world? HOW IS CHARGING ME TWENTY BUCKS ALTRUISTIC?

By the time some lady began weeping over her car, calling it “her BABY,” I had to turn it off. I mean, who can feel a connection with the douchebags that give me parking tickets for being ONE MINUTE PAST MY METER TIME? Like, aw, thanks Buddy, for making MY world a WORSE place to be. Way to RID the world of those of us who FORGET TO PAY OUR METERS. YOU’RE TOTALLY SUPER-FUCKING-MAN, BUDDY!

It’s like trying to be sympathetic to the chick who has brought in 8 different guys for five different Maury shows. WHO HAS SEX WITH THAT MANY PEOPLE IN A MONTH?

Only thing worse than Parking Wars would be watching people at the DMV…

Wait, so long as the DMV people were antagonists, I might be okay.

Anyway.

I am pleased to report to you, Pranksters, that I DID, in fact, learn my lesson. Rather than muddle through the entire catalog of Parking Wars, I deleted it from my “you might like this” queue.

BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT, NETFLIX, I DON’T LIKE IT.

Hoarders, however, well, let’s just say I miss seeing people poo into bags AND SAVE IT.

(okay, that’s a lie)

P.P.S. I’m probably delirious.