You Might Be A Douche Bag If…

(for the record, I can think of at least two of these that fit me. Prolly more. So don’t be TOO offended, Pranksters)

Your last name is Winlkevoss.

You write a blog called “Mommy Wants Vodka.”

You actually LIKE the taste of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

You believe that your i(can’t fucking)Phone screen says something about you:

You still own a beeper.

“Hey, watch this” makes up 75% of your vocabulary.

You actually think energy drinks are good for “energy.”

You UN-ironically call yourself a “hipster.”

You wear your collar popped up.

You back in to parking spaces.

You require at least two spaces to park your car.

You bought Snooki’s book.

You use more product than your wife.

If you claim you can tell the difference between Hardee’s burgers and Carl Jr’s.

You say, “Happy Friday.”

You wear Ed Hardy – non-ironically.

You still use the phrase “Girrrrrlllllllllll” or “Wasssssupppp!”

You leave an open book of poetry on the coffee table all the time, just in case someone drops by, even though you haven’t looked in it since 2004.

You have a liberal arts degree, work in a coffee shop and hate all of your customers for constantly ordering in Starbucks terminology.

You like the band Nickelback.

You drive any car that you’ve put more money into upgrading than you did into buying it.

You have any apparel on that gives out the name of a restaurant, band, comedy troupe, radio station or manufacturer (besides FCUK, because that stuff is awesome).

You every dated someone from Craigslist.

You are a guy and you like to drink Appletini’s. (sorry, iHubby)

You’ve ever used the phrase “kernel panic” in conversation.

You’ve ever been to a Miley Cyrus ANYTHING.

You own anything that says Kardashian on it.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and NOT gotten on camera.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and GOTTEN on camera.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for The X Factor, at all.

You subscribe to “Walking” magazine.

Your Facebook wall is littered with semi-meaningless quotes, random snippets of unattributed conversation and song lyrics that make you seem “deep”. Don’t worry, Friday’s post about “CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU GUYS DOWN AT THE CLUB TONIGHT!!!1! WOO!!” removed THAT illusion for us.

You’re unemployed, but refer to yourself as “looking for the next step.”

You try to take photos or movies with an iPad or Galaxy tab.

You still use the terms “Winning” or “Tiger Blood.”

Then again….maybe not.


Tell me, Pranksters, what other douchebaggy traits can you think of? I’ll add ’em to the Master List.

(insert joke about unleavened bread)

Now you’re probably not going to believe me, Pranksters, when I tell you that I occasionally bake. You’ve seen what happens when I try to cook (see also here and here) and we all know that while I’d like to PRETEND that what happened in those blog posts were just for show, they weren’t. Sadly.

But once or twice a year, I forget that I can ruin Jello and decide to bake something. This year, it was my mom’s famous Christmas bread.

Round about September, I got all, “IMMA MAKE HOMEMADE BREAD, BITCHES.”

Stop laughing.

I mean it.


I carefully mixed up all of the ingredients. I even followed the recipe rather than throwing a bunch of shit into a pan like they do in those cooking shows.

(I learned the hard way that this is not, in fact, how one cooks)

I threw it into a bowl, after I beat the fuck out of it, and waited. I’d started in the mid-afternoon, my cobwebby-memory banks telling me that it took a couple of hours to actually rise. I waited. And waited. I watched some annoying cat videos. I waited some more. I shook my fist in fury at the three toys that randomly come to life and play music whenever the fuck they want, scaring the bejesus outta me.

Still, I waited.

By 6PM, a full five hours after I’d lovingly placed the dough in the bowl? Fuck nothing. It hadn’t moved a millimeter.

By 8PM, I got frustrated enough that I slapped it into a pan and was all, IMMA EAT THIS, YOU’RE GONNA EAT THIS, WE’RE ALL GONNA EAT THIS.

By 8:30, I admitted defeat. I pulled the bread from the oven, dumped it onto a baking rack and realized it could easily double as a brick (to throw through a window) or a paperweight (if people actually used such things). I tried to eat the thing, because I’m stubborn, but it was…it was not good.

A few weeks later, determined that it was, in fact, the YEAST that had fucked mah bread up, once again, I gathered up my ingredients, threw them together and practically sat there, trying to watch the bread rise.

It was like one of those optical illusions – if I looked at it with THAT eye, I could ALMOST see that the bread had moved. ALMOST.

After 8 hours (bonus points for being both stupid AND patient), I sadly accepted my fate: I would not be able to make this bread rise. Angrily I dumped the rock-solid hunks of dough, where, adding insult to injury, they succeeded in knocking over the garbage can.

Last week (or was it the week before), I picked up some frozen loaves of bread. I’m not certain if I was thinking, “Oooo! Bread!” or “Ooooo! Frozen weapon!” but I guess it doesn’t much matter. Same thing, if you ask the Atkins movement.

Yesterday, I dumbly was all, “IMMA MAKE SOME BREAD” because I’m still not on solid food. Fucking tooth socket.

So I pulled the frozen hunk of bread from the freezer and debated using it to kill someone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, tho, I merely threw it into a pan to “let it rise.” Which, after all that time making UN-risen bread, sounded like a conspiracy.

And um.


I’m now strutting around, feeling all accomplished, until I remember that I didn’t actually participate in the actual assembly of the bread.

Which, as I’ve learned the hard way, is how it should be.


So, Pranksters, tell me something. Anything. I’m in the mood for some stories.

An Epic Christmas, At Last

I’m a big fan of Christmas. If I could find one of those Number One fingers and write “FOR CHRISTMAS,” on it, I would. THAT is how much I love Christmas.

Sure, it’s going to be weird this year. Got some familial drama that I cannot (apparently) speak of here, that’s got me a wee bit nervous, but I push on through.

I still get all misty-eyed when I see decorations up, and there’s frankly nothing like a good version of “Blue Christmas” to get me solidly in the mood for some festive motherfucking cheer.

You think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.

I’m old now. I may get tearful whenever my Christmas tree is turned on (bear in mind it’s been up since LAST Christmas, which reminds me of that awful Wham! song, which is NOT something that makes Baby Jesus OR Your Aunt Becky smile), and I may wrap each present happily, open each Christmas card guiltily, but you know what?

I can never think of anything I want for Christmas.

Now I know what you’re saying, “Aunt Becky, Christmas – and Trix – are for kids. You don’t need any presents.”

And, o! Pranksters, my Pranksters, you would, indeed be correct. It’s a lean Christmas here at Casa de la Vodka, but the kids, well, they still have a butt-ton of small gifts to open. According to The Twitter, whom I trust implicitly, kids under ten prefer a fuck-ton of small things rather than one big present. So I have a ridiculous amount of tiny PlayDoh things to wrap.


When I’m asked, “Hey, what do you want for Christmas?” my mind goes blank. Don’t mistake me, I’m not one of those people who are all *waves hands dismissively* “Oh, give my gift to charity,” because, well, I like presents. A lot.

Problem is, I never know what the fuckballs I want. When asked, that is. It’s like my mind, normally filled with pictures of ponies and/or unicorns on roller skates, immediately empties and I’m stuck muttering the first few things that come out:

“Barbie Dream House.”

“Ball pit.”

“Shark pit.”

“Shark on Roller Skates.”

And the asker is left quizzically scratching his or her befuddled head, wondering if I have, at last, gone off my rocker.

Since I already HAVE a pony on Roller Skates:

I no longer need one.

Nor do I need anything else that I can think of on command. I tried, the other day, to create an Amazon wish-list. All the cool bloggers are doing it, so I figured THAT would be a great place to point family members to buy gifts for me.


I have two things on it.



Apparently, I suck at life AND picking out gifts for myself.

But this morning, the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. A good friend, who shall remain nameless because, well, I do not have a proper email address or name to thank this wonderful friend, sent me something. Something so incredible that I may never stop weeping with joy.

Something I want, nay NEED, for Christmas.

Behold, my Pranksters, and share in my joy.

If you think the 3-Wolf Moon PJ’s aren’t awesome enough, just read the description:

Pranksters! I can take a SHIT while wearing these glorious rags! These PJ’s come with a SHIT DOOR!

Frankly, I do not think that, once I own these, I will ever, EVER need to own another item of clothing in my life.

So WHAT if I find adult footie pajamas to be creepy? So what if I cannot imagine sleeping with cuffs around my feet again? I CAN TAKE A SHIT WHILE WEARING THEM.


And *shakes fist at sky dramatically* they WILL BE MINE.

Go Ask Aunt Becky

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’m writing to you for advice because you seem like a good advice-giver in general, and because you are awesome and it’d make my day to hear from you.

See, I want to do a Masters degree in Social Psychology, but at the same time I keep thinking I’m not good enough, or the course is a bad (read: fluffy) choice. And I know those self-doubting thoughts are wrong, and that I acquired them from a person who was in retrospect never a friend to me, and yet they bother me.

I worry that the subject is a bad one in the first place, that I’m settling for a masters degree rather than a phd because I’m not good enough to get a phd (never mind that I think a masters degree would be adequate for my purposes), that I’m not hardworking enough or creative enough to do a postgrad degree, that I’ll be wasting my dad’s money (he really wants me to further my studies and is willing and able to pay for it all, so on top of everything I feel like I should be grateful and shut up and stop worrying already), that I don’t have a suitable background to continue in academia because I didn’t do research assistantship or tutoring in college and am (horror of horrors) doing a job that has nothing at all to do with my psych degree whatsoever.

I know I’m being silly and insecure, but I don’t know how to snap out of it.

Do you have any advice that could help me?

your niece in a small tropical country

Dear Niece of Mine,

First and most importantly, can I come visit? Because this weather? BLOWS ASS.

Secondly, here’s my thoughts on your dilemma – if you want to get your degree in BASKETWEAVING because it makes you happy – fucking go for it.

Most people (read: Your Aunt Becky) have a degree in a subject they do not use very much. See, I’m a nurse. Last time I practiced nursing? 2007. Part of that is because I hated it and part of it is because I hated it. So really, when I tried to be practical and shit (I should get a degree in something that pays RIGHT OUT OF COLLEGE), I ended up miserable.

I would ask yourself why you want this degree, what you plan on doing with it, and if your answers make sense? Fucking GO for it.

(if your answers are like, “so I can sign my name with cool initials afterward, I’d reconsider. The work involved is a bit much for a few initials).

You can do whatever you want to do. Kick those self-defeating thoughts in the taco and get thee to school.


Your Aunt Becky, RN-BSN


Aunt Becky-

I’ve pretty much been an avid reader since the beginning of time..and I am just *now* realizing that we have (at least) 2 things in common. Migraines and thyroid BS. This isn’t a very exciting or cool Ask Aunt Becky question..but I’d like some advice from someone who has been there.

I’ve suffered from migraines since 2004. I had one a day for 3 months then, and they’ve been off & on since then. Now, since having my daughter (in Jan.) I started have 2-3 a week, then 4-5 a week and now I’m up to having one every day. My PCP started me on Topamax, but it doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. As bad as it might sound, the only thing that keeps them at bay is Percocet and I know there aren’t unlimited refills on that bad boy. But seriously, if I miss a dose, if I go more then 4 hours, it hits like a ton of bricks.

I’ve taken Maxalt in the past, but it just took the edge off and made me sleepy. And I know about rebound headaches,and I’ve actually stopped taking the Percocet to see if  that was the problem. It wasn’t.

So, any helpful hints or suggestions? I’ve got to get them under control and I feel like I’m losing my mind when I have them.

Also, thyroid BS. Apparently I have a multi-nodular goiter? During my pregnancy everything was fantastic, but now, everything is whack-a-doo. I’m not cycling, and I just feel run down. I’m scared to go see the specialist because I don’t want a biopsy or any of that. Can you advise me as to what is going to happen at my first visit and what kind of treatment there is?

I’m sorry this is so long. I looked for an “actual” email address, and did not find one. I’ve been wanting to ask these questions for a few weeks, but felt like you were so out of my league that I couldn’t, lol.

Thanks in advance for listening.

Oh, Prankster, it’s like we’re twinsies! And not in a matching-shirt-kinda-way.

First and foremost, get thee to a neurologist. If The Max isn’t helping, fuck The Max. There are a zillion other drugs out there that can help control migraines. I now take Carbitrol, and frankly, it’s not working well. My migraines have become a daily thing. CLEARLY, I need to call my neuro for another drug. You may have to play around with various drugs to find out which works for you, but there will be SOMETHING. I promise.

As far as the thyroid goes, my endocrinologist is the best doctor I have. My thyroid goes balls out after I have babies, and doesn’t go back to normal. It’s like hey, motherfucker, you’re an asshole for having a baby!

So seeing an endo has been one of the smartest moves I’ve made. Been seeing her since after Alex was born, and I’d send her a Christmas card if I wasn’t too lazy to send such things.

Let me know how it goes. And good luck, Prankster.




Sometimes, I get around. I wrote about 5 Things Not To Do With Your Kids This Winter.

Your turn, Pranksters! What advice would you give these brillz Pranksters? Fill in where I left off in the comments.

Slack-Jawed Yokel

I should’ve known. I really should’ve known.

Sitting in the waiting room at the RotoRooter guy’s office, what happens to come onto the speakers but the Eagles. The fucking EAGLES, man. Not as bad as Rush, but still, up there on my Run Like Hell list.

Finally, after what appeared to be twenty-six hours (not the two minutes it took), I was called back into see my (new) dentist. First question, “Do you use nitrous?” I figured, if I’ve gotta be in agony, I may as well be wasted, too.

“No,” the nurse replied, “just local.”

So she strapped another one of those, “IMMA CHOKE YOU TO DEATH, ASSHOLE” X-ray things in my mouth, as I vowed to brush my teeth regularly. 8 times a day, even! 12! Anything so I didn’t have to have bite-wings in my mouth again.

The dentist with kind eyes came in and took a look almost instantaneously. I hadn’t even strapped on my iPod yet, and there he was, all bright-eyed and smiles.

(boring aside: I always, ALWAYS, listen to you, Pranksters. Y’all told me to listen to some tunes and I fucking DID. Er, was going to. I also held a tube of chapstick like it was my talisman)(if I knew what a talisman was)

He poked around in my mouth a bit, jostling my shredded tongue, before he sucked in his breath.

Uh. Oh.

Not a good sign.

Then, he went over and took a look at my x-ray. He sighed more deeply.

Fuck. How can I make two jovial dentists sigh in one fucking week? I should win an award for Worst Tooth Ever.

He then swiveled his chair over to me and said, the regret seeping out of his pores. “Well, we can do two things. I can TRY to give you a root canal, probably a couple procedures, then your dentist can work to lengthen the root and in a couple of years you may be back here.” That was clearly not the preferred method.

“OR, we can just extract the tooth. There seems to be some decay at the roots and I’m concerned by it.”

Well hell. I ruined his day AND made him concerned. Is there anything worse than hearing, “I’m concerned about you?” I think not.

It took me less than a second to come to my conclusion: “Let’s get that fucker outta there.”

“Okay,” he said mournfully. “We don’t do that here.”

Tears pouring, I began the process of calling every tooth-yanker in the area, begging them to get me in. Found one who’d do it, but only if I got there NAO. Which was no problem since I was approximately five feet away from their office.

They, at the very least, had The Nitrous. And no Eagles playing in the waiting room.

I went back, begging the nurse to hold my hand, after she told me my headphones were too large to use during the procedure. She cranked up the Christmas music instead, and I began Aunt Becky’s Nitrous Trip. I realized that while under the influence, it was the most relaxed I’d been in years. Stress? What ME Stressed? HOW DARE YOU SIR.

The ceiling began to swim and I swore that the Christmas music began to skip, like the worst industrial remix of Deck the Halls, ever. But I didn’t care. I was RELAXED, motherfucker.

The tooth extraction went well, overall, except that I’m now missing one of my back molars. Perhaps Santa will bring me a new one, rather than the stocking full of, um, nothing I’ll probably get this year. (Long, LONG story).

I went home, where The Guy On My Couch, Ben, promptly made me some chocolate frosting that I couldn’t eat, while my kids clucked and fussed over me. (Daver was off at a play in the city all night).

Today, I look like an overgrown Cabbage Patch Kid, half of my face swollen and bruised. The pain is better, for sure, but I was just informed that I am still unable to chew things for the next few days. Which is probably good for my waistline.

And I’m overwhelmed by the amount of slack-jawed yokel jokes I’ll be able to make at my own expense for the next 50 or so years.

Or I will be, once I stop bleeding.


I bopped my way to the dentist yesterday, looking happily forward to having a tongue that wasn’t shredded to ribbons every time I moved, spoke, drank or breathed. Sure, I didn’t like the idea of a needle the size of a McDonald’s straw being unceremoniously shoved into my delicate gumline, but shit, my tongue!

*wrings hands*


/end hand-wringing

I waited and waited until 2PM, my appointment time, which seemed inexhaustibly far from whatever moment I was currently in.

Finally, the moment came when it was time to leave. I nearly lept into the the dentist’s chair, barely pausing to give my very talkative dentist a cursory “Yo, Dawg.” First thing he said, after we got through our discussion about how delicious almonds were and how they are, “Of The Devil,” was this, as he gazed upon the damage to my tooth: “Oh.”

Normally, I’d be okay with this level of noise, but for someone who spent ten minutes describing almonds and how GOOD they are for you, this was a downright frightening sound.

“Well,” he said, “let’s take some pictures of this tooth and I’ll optimistically get a filling kit ready.”

Not the most encouraging sounds one can hear. OH WELL, I thought as I bounded off to be gagged by one of those X-Ray things I’m halfway convinced is a torture device to teach kids to floss, I bet I’ll be LUCKY.

Famous. Last. Fucking. Words.

No sooner had my ass grazed the dental chair, did the hygienist hand my dentist the pictures of mah tooth. He sighed. Deeply.

Maybe, I thought, he’s sighing at the BEAUTY of my tooth. I bet it has a really awesome nerve or something. He’s geeky like that. I bet that’s it!

When he finally grabbed a piece of paper to draw a picture for me, I saw his face. It had fallen. He had a case of The Sads. He drew a picture kind of like this:

Normal Tooth:

Aunt Becky’s Tooth:

After he showed me that, he’s like, “Are you SURE you’re not in any pain?” That’s how you know shit is FUCKED the fuck UP.

Sadly, he wrote me a referral to someone who treats these things. I’m getting a “root canal,” on Thursday which, as far as I can ascertain, is sorta like a rotorooter for your tooth. Or something. I’m sorta “la-la-la” *covers ears* about the whole thing.

I’m hoping that, at the very least, I can get a new tooth that’s made of gold and covered in diamonds.

Then, I’m on my way to starting my grill.


I’m pretty sure there’s a piano hovered neatly above my doorstep, ready to crash on my head the moment I walk outside. I’m totally using the back door, FYI. And no, you Uncle Pervies, not THAT back door.

I’d accepted the poisoned cake. I’d accepted glass-filled eyes.

But the tooth? That just seems excessive.

Yeah, that’s right. I broke a tooth yesterday. ANOTHER tooth. That would be the second tooth in six months.

And you’re probably thinking, “That Wiley Aunt Becky, she looooooves gnawing on boulders,” and you would be wrong. I prefer pebbles, if I’m going to gargle rocks at all (I have a small mouth).

See, I was all, “LOOKIT THIS DELICIOUS ALMOND! I AM GOING TO EAT THIS DELICIOUS ALMOND!” so I did. Then, I was all, “THAT FUCKING ALMOND DONE LODGED IN MAH TOOTH SOMEFIN’ WEIRD.” Apparently, I was also playing the part of Cletus, The Slack-Jawed Yokel.

So I stuck mah old finger on into my mouth to inelegantly dislodge that particular bit of feisty almond, when I all but sheered my finger off. Either that was some fucked-up almond, exacting revenge upon me for gnawing on it, or my tooth had broken. (the third, less popular option was that I’d eaten a razor blade, but that was quickly discarded as a possibility. I am dumb but I am not THAT dumb).

I waddled to the bathroom to attend to my bloody stump of a finger and to look in a mirror.

Sure enough, as I bled every-fucking-where, I saw it. A chunk of my waaaaaay back molar was gone. Presumably down my digestive tract, probably wrecking havoc and possibly killing me dead before the day is out (I don’t have high hopes of seeing tomorrow).

Well, fuck.

My tongue is shredded to ribbons from having the audacity to move, and I’m trying to fashion a tongue-bra to tide me over until 3:00, when my dentist can finally see me.

And fix the second tooth I’ve broken this year.

I expect a lecture on stress and how I should find some relaxing things to do, like take a bath! Eat some yogurt! Run five miles! But I won’t be listening to him. I’ll be too busy working on my i(don’t bother using it as a)Phone.

Hope he’ll get out of the way so I can see my screen. Otherwise a lot of people are going to be getting really bizarro emails.

If I don’t see you again, Pranksters, know that I love you. Each and every one of you.

(*waves* Hi Lurkers!)

And if I am back tomorrow, expect that I’ll be missing an arm, a leg, or possibly a face. You should probably start a betting pool.

Just, you know, sayin.

I’m Not Dead…Yet.

On Saturday, after an arduous day trying to entertain two small crotch parasites, I sat down, at long last, to a nice egg white omelet (pointless aside: don’t you HATE it when people call food “nice?” Like I could have been eating a MEAN egg white omelet or something).

After devouring approximately half of it, I realized what this Prankster needed: MOAR CAKE. (also: moar cowbell and moar vodka, but again, something that’s neither here nor there)

Happily, I remembered that just last weekend, The Guy On My Couch, Ben, had, upon my pathetic request, made me cake. It was especially delicious cake and I nearly bounded in to the kitchen to cut myself a piece.

Hrms, I thought to myself, that cake looks a little bit…soggy. Oh well, I thought, it’s probably soggy with MOAR delicious.

Overcome with my brilliant idear, I cut myself a piece, licking the frosting from my finger. Hrms, I thought, as Daver and Ben talked about something incredibly boring like life on Mars in the other room, that tastes a little, well, FUNNY. It’s probably my broken taste buds, right? I mean, you can’t chug hot sauce day in and day out without having something rot. Like my taste buds.

Not-quite-soothed, I stood there, trying to connect two misfiring synapses, a conclusion elusive. Something wasn’t quite…right.

But…what? I rolled the piece of frosting around in my mouth, thinking.

After several minutes, standing in the kitchen, blinking stupidly, I leaned down to smell the cake.


It was rotten.

I spat out the piece of frosting and immediately guzzled antibacterial hand gel. Ugh. I was probably going to die from poisoned cake. What an inelegant way to go.

So I did what any potentially dying person would do: I went to Target. Figured my family would want to some food in the house as they mourned my untimely death. I waited for the bright light, the singing of angels, the fiery pit of hell to open and swallow me whole in Aisle 6. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I had, thankfully, eluded Death’s cold embrace.

The following day, I woke up to no wracking stomach pains, no feverish death bed, a little disappointed. I had, after all, eaten poisoned cake. I should’ve at least ran a fever so I could mope about the house, bitterly bemoaning my fate, shrieking WHY GOD WHY? at random intervals. But…nothing.

Eventually, I got bored and decided that what this Prankster needed was MOAR MOVIE. I don’t typically like movies, but once in a blue moon, I’m all MUST.SEE.MOVIE. So we rented the last two Harry Potter movies and prepared the big television downstairs for our invasion.

As Daver was hooking up the DVD thingy, I realized that what stood in front of me, what had to be moved, was a lamp. You probably own this very same lamp.

I call it the Boob Lamp.

Many, many years ago, I lifted the Boob Lamp, attempting to move it, and slammed it into the ceiling of the basement, where it lived. That shattered the boob, into a ton of plastic bits, but, rather than dump the thing like I should’ve, it remained in the basement, a lone, sad lightbulb shining blindingly.

Last night, when I was all IT’S MOVIE TIME, Y’ALL, I stupidly ignored my self-imposed “don’t touch stuff” rule, grabbed the boob lamp, and lifted it. Not taking into consideration the height of the basement ceiling. Or, really, my propensity toward breaking shit.

I stood there, thinking about delicious cake, and deliberately smashed the lamp into the ceiling. For the second time.

This time, however, there was no boob to protect me.

The cake long-forgotten, I stood there, now bathed in the shards of a broken lightbulb. I stood there dumbly, blinking shards of glass into my eyes, as Daver and Ben ran around, getting vacuums and cleaning up after me.

(insert blinded by the light joke here)

I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be dead by now. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in a hole somewhere, trying to evade Death.

Go Ask Aunt Becky

Hey, Aunt Becky,

I have a problem. All of my life I’ve thought of myself as straight, but now I’m starting to doubt myself. I still want a husband and to have babies, but I’m also thinking about girls too. I don’t want to say anything to my Mom because even though I know she wouldn’t care, I’m so unsure I don’t want to upset her if it’s not really necessary. I just don’t know what to do or who to talk to to find out what I’m really feeling.


Here’s the thing, Prankster – sexuality exits on a spectrum and we may feel anywhere from completely straight to completely gay. Sexuality is also something that doesn’t have to be labeled – you might be bisexual, homosexual or straight, but you can also fall somewhere in the middle. You like who you like.

So my advice is this: explore your feelings (SAFELY) and see where it takes you. Maybe you’ll end up married with a wife and babies. Maybe you’ll end up with a husband and babies. Maybe you won’t. You don’t have to decide right now.

I wish you luck, mah Prankster. It’s going to be an awesome journey for you!

Hi Aunt Becky,

I don’t really have a question I just need to get this out. My five year old  told me tonight that a classmate has been grabbing my child’s butt while they wait in line at school. My child hasn’t told anyone but me because they aren’t allowed to speak while they are in line.  

I feel sick for my child but also for the other child involved.  What the hell is this poor kid exposed to that grabbing ass at school becomes okay?  I need a drink but at this point I’ll settle for a (nice, clean) hug.  🙁        



Dear Heartsick, first things first: HUGGGGGGGS!

Now, onto the depressing bit. You need to report what happened to the teacher and/or principal. Like you said, you don’t know what’s going on at home – maybe it’s nothing or maybe it’s something. Either way, this should be reported.

Here is the Band Back Together resource page for child abuse and the page for child sexual abuse.

Child abuse is rarely faked, so it’s important to take any allegations of abuse seriously. If a child comes to you with claims of abuse, call 1-800-4AChild to report abuse or get help.

I wish you the best, Prankster. I’m so sorry.


Pranksters, it’s time for YOU to help! What advice do you want to leave for these posters?

Also: feel free to submit any questions so I can poorly answer them. The link is at the top of the screen!