He was born not in a cross-fire hurricane*, but with a perfectly heart-shaped tongue. Ankyloglossia, I remembered from my nursing days, was the medical term for it, but I preferred to call it a tongue-tie. It just seemed more appropriate for a baby whose mouth never stopped moving. Er, screaming.

I mentioned it to his pediatrician at his one week Well Baby check-up, not because I had concerns about his eating habits, but because I knew that as an infant, it was a quick office snip. His old-school pediatrician seemed unconcerned, providing he was eating.

And Alex, he was a boob man. Eating, screaming and DECIDEDLY NOT SLEEPING were the three things he excelled at.

The tongue-tie stretched a bit over time, but still, that delicious little heart-shaped tongue greeted me as he bleated for more food. Later, it began to affect his words…only very slightly. That heart-shape gave him the most delightful Jersey accent, and one feverish night, I wondered if I could potentially cast him in an upcoming episode of Jersey Shore. Once I realized the amount of spray-tan I’d have to invest in, I decided against it.

It was a matter of time, I knew, before we had to get it fixed.

What had once been a simple quick snip at the doctor’s office had now become a full surgical procedure. Mostly, I knew, because no four-year old will willingly let you near his mouth with a scalpel. Because four-year olds are smart.

I’d taken him last year, one summer day, to the ENT, who pronounced that it’d be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of procedure: give him the gas, snip it up, and POW! Heart-shaped no more.

I stopped listening after he said he’d be putting the kid to sleep. Not because I had any specific, rational fears about it. Hell, my girl had her head carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and this, this was the surgical equivalent of a paper cut.

But still, I couldn’t handle it. I tried to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about it. I even went as far as to schedule the appointment. When it came time to actually bring him in, I bailed. Cancelled the surgery, ashamed that I couldn’t do something so simple. Every time I went to reschedule this – such an easy procedure – my heart raced, my eyes went all blurry and three-hundred pounds sat upon my chest.

Every time Dave would mention the surgery, I’d suddenly busy myself with a new cactus video or waxing my dog, or really anything besides talking about the surgery.

As this morning at 7:45, Alex became officially tongue-tie-less.

What shocks me is not that he pulled this incredibly easy surgery like a champ. It’s not that he just inhaled 12 donuts post-op. It’s not that he’s complaining that I have not yet bought him Oreos.

No.

What shocks me is that I’d managed to entirely block out the surgery until yesterday. Last night, it hit me like a bag of oranges to the face, and when I began whining to whomever would listen to me on IM, each person was all, “OMG AB, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME?”

And that, really, would be the question.

All I could sputter out was that I’d forgotten. Which I had.

As Alex’s tongue became untied, mine knotted up, unable to share with even those closest with me.

*stands up and waves*

My name is Becky, and I am the Face of PTSD.

*that’d be me. Or Jumpin’ Jack Flash. OR BOTH.

I tend to get into television shows far later than most. In fact, if there’s a series that’s about to be cancelled or IS, in fact, cancelled, I will probably get into it, fall in love, then be devastatingly crushed when it is over. BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, DAMMIT.

I’m still not over the ending of Prison Break – I cannot think of it without weeping. I may have a little bit of a problem.

(shut UP)

A couple of months ago, probably while looking for tweets about laser kitties, I stumbled across The Twitter babbling on about a show called Mad Men. I sorta want to put it in inappropriate quotation marks just because.

Well, I figured that if the REST of the world was watching it, I’d probably hate it. Even though I’m married simultaneously to Dr. House and Dexter – both popular shows – I always assume I’ll hate popular culture. You can thank my parents for that one, Pranksters.

About a month ago, after reaching the end of Numbers, spending several days in mourning and then realizing I needed a new hobby besides becoming overly invested in television shows (see also: my marriages to Dr. House and Dexter), I finally queued up Mad Men.

I’m hesitant about any show that I alone pick because I spent at least three months watching Nip/Tuck while hating every goddammed minute of it. I screamed at the TV like it was a football game every night until I watched every single episode. And then? I’m STILL furious that I spent so much time watching a show while hating every. single. character.

Alas, I digress.

But I picked Mad Men, and I began to watch it, unsure of how I could handle a show where people aren’t eaten by sharks or otherwise horribly disfigured, depressed or maimed (see also: my love of Cold Case and Law and Order: You Lead A Charmed Life, Motherfucker).

I admit, I was bored by the show. But I kept on because I HAD TO SEE IF SOMEONE WOULD BE EATEN BY A GIANT BEAR.

And then, I sorta, kinda, maybe liked some of the characters. Like a little.

But mostly, I liked the clothes. So what if everyone is repressed, drunk, and chain-smoking? THEY HAVE KICKY CLOTHES THAT I COVET! So what if everyone is having The Sex with everyone else? LOOKIT THE FANCY HAIRS!

I’m making an executive decision. I will go back to being a repressed housewife in the 1960’s IF I can get clothes like that. Because have you BEEN to The Target recently?

One word: ROMPERS. For WOMEN.

(that was more like two words or like fifty-niner)

I’m SO not okay with that. I’m also not okay with the scrunchies, acid-washed jeans, or jeggings.

NOT OKAY, PRANKSTERS.

So bring on the copious amounts of booze, gimmie my pack of smokes and fancy lady lighter, and screw being liberated. IF I CAN WEAR A TWIRLY SKIRT, I’M YOURS.

I’m sorry, Pranksters, because I have to inform you of something.

I just won the Mother of the Year award. Certainly it’s better than my You’ve Been Blogging Since You Rode A Dinosaur to School award (highly UN-coveted, by the by), but it is no less an honor.

But nothing will replace the Mother of the Year award I just won.

Since Back To School stuff is long put away, it seems that Halloween is right around the corner. I myself can not actually read a calendar, so Halloween could be next year for all I know it could be tomorrow, which WHOOPS! SURPRISE! But I think I have a month to determine what, specifically, my children would like to be for Halloween.

I’m still pushing for the whole Land Shark thing, but if I don’t get any takers, I may be that myself….or the Twitter Fail Whale (which would be so much awesomer if I were pregnant this year. I could totally leash up my kids as wee birdies).

(for the three of you who haven’t seen it, I suggest taking a minute of your life and devoting it to basking in the glow of this)

Anyway, I’ve been trying for about thirty-five-niner years to get ONE OF MY KIDS to dress themselves as the Land Shark for Halloween. My kids are generally all, “PISS OFF MOM,” probably because they remember that I’d dressed them up as (in no particular order) a Grumble Bee, a Hot Dog and a Hedgehog.

Honestly, I think that ONE YEAR of being the Land Shark is WELL within my rights as someone who birthed these children out of my vagina, but NO. Which means that I will, one day, have to do it myself.

And I plan on eating many people. Just say we were together if anyone asks, okay, Pranksters?

Last year, Benjamin was a pirate (boring), Mili was a pirate princess and Alex was a Flutter-By. He won the award that year for having the best costume. I, myself, was pretty jealous of it.

This year, however, not one of my other children has decided what they would like to be for Halloween. Save for Alex.

Alex has his heart set upon being Saturn.

No, not the now-defunct car company, the PLANET.

The car, at least, I could’ve understood. But the planet? Um. Hi. How the FUCK do I make a Saturn costume? No really, I’m asking you. Because otherwise I’m going to stuff a yellow sweatshirt and call it a motherfucking day. And I’m sure that by not having the proper patterns around Saturn, I will be berated and probably cried upon for failing as a mother. Which, actually is not much different than any normal day around Casa de la Sausage + Mimi.

I really, really do not know how I am supposed to live through all of these creative-ass costume idears. I mean, I? I was a pirate as a kid. And potentially a Land Shark. Maybe a Fail Whale. Possibly wanted to be crazy pregnant Britney and K-Fed one year (but Dave wouldn’t have it). NOT CREATIVE, PRANKSTERS.

So until I come up with a better solution, I’m going to dose my coffee with Almond Extract and wait for the inspiration to strike. Probably in the form of “I NEED TO BE BILLY MAYS FOR HALLOWEEN!!”

Send vodka, Pranksters. Send lots of vodka.

P.S. How do I make a Saturn Costume? While drunk.

I walked into InterventionCon this weekend all puff-chested and proud, like, ‘WHO’S A BAD-ASS-MOTHERFUCKING GEEK? ME!” I was practically humming “Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger,” as I waltzed into the hotel, all ready to get my freak binary on. I was all ready to be all, “WHO’S ALL OPEN SOURCE NOW, MOTHERFUCKERS?!”

Imagine the look on my face when I finally opened up my eyes to the strains of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin,'” and realized that half of the attendees were in costumes. It was a COSTUME PARTY. And guess who had no costume?

That’s right, Your Aunt Becky.

I was, for the first time ever, somewhere without a spare costume!

Color me Furious George.

They weren’t costumes I wanted or even recognized, and somehow, I was flaming that I did not, in fact, own one. I could’ve been a wicked Britney Spears (post K-Fed) or even an Oompa Loompa. And still, nothing.

Somewhat dejectedly, I moped to my room – on the 7th floor – and threw myself down on the bed, trying desperately to coax some tears out of my eyes. First, I thought of the saddest basket of kitties with no one to love them. Then I thought about how cruel a world it would be if Uncrustables were discontinued. When that made me simply stabbity rather than tearful, I decided a new tactic  was in order. I decided that my next best bet would be to rub them, then poking them until finally, I was able to convince two actual tears to come out of my eyes.

It felt strangely vindicating and utterly unsatisfying.

Next order of business was to get onto the elevator and go downstairs to mope in public. I like to share my misery. I’m a giver like that.

Only an odd thing happened. Even weirder than the full-blown adults in costumes I couldn’t quite place.

Proper elevator etiquette, as explained by my mother is this: you back that ass up while waiting for an elevator to allow exiting passengers to, um, exit. Then, only after everyone who is getting off is off do you board the elevator.

Likewise, once on the elevator, you allow passengers to get off on various floors by moving graciously out of the way WITHOUT BITCHING ABOUT IT, while you wait for your stop.

It’s a simple enough concept that even my pea-brain can comprehend it.

And yet, for the first time in my life, even AFTER living in Chicago and riding 50 floor elevators crammed full of people, I was shocked and horrified by the elevators in MD.

Because, it appeared that the new way of things was this:

Elevator door opens -> stand in a line in FRONT of the elevator doors, ignoring all the empty space behind you -> groan loudly whenever someone dares try to enter the elevator with three goddamed people in it.

On the other side,

Elevator door opens and person behind you wants to get off -> rather than wait for the first in place to disembark -> push your way past the other passengers ALSO attempting to get off.

Because we all know it’s a motherfucking RACE to the fucking FINISH, motherfuckers.

First time it happened, I ignored it. Okay. Fine. Someone was having a grumbly day. Happens.

The second time? Maybe coincidence.

The third? I decided that the non-convention goers were some of the rudest people on the planet and should probably be relegated to the ALOT Island with John C. Mayer.

The moral of this story? ALWAYS PACK AN EXTRA COSTUME. Also? Wear body armor for elevators in Maryland.

P.S. I missed you, Pranksters.

Also, Also: We have an auction up at Band Back Together. You should go visit it.

Please tell me this is not a joke. Please?

Tomorrow, bright and blurry, I leave to go to our nation’s capitol. Which, I was shocked to learn, was not in Washington STATE, but actually on the East Coast. This was nearly as big a snafu as the time I claimed vehemently that Kansas City was a state. I was about to resort to blows to win my argument until The Twitter pointed out that, in fact, I was wrong.

The Twitter ruins all my fist-fights.

Anyway, so I’m headed for our nation’s capitol, not to learn more about history or anything, because UGH, but because I am going to a convention. A convention about Internet Culture, which, unlike the VaginaStocks I normally go to (read: BlogHer), it will be full of dudes.

Which leads me to this point: what does one wear to a convention full of slightly (read: very) geeky guys? I simply do not know. I don’t own a “Chicks Dig Unix” shirt nor do I own a shirt that says, “There’s No Place Like 127.0.0.1” because really, I’m not even sure that’s English. I don’t speak binary nor do I intend to. Hell, I barely speak English.

So I’ve spent most of the week trying to figure out what, precisely, one wears to a convention full of nerds.

The answer?

Pants.

Ascertaining that makes me feel loads better.

I’d almost forgotten I was speaking there until I got an email reminding me I’d been signed up to speak on a panel called, ‘Why Mommy Wants Vodka.” Alone.

Now, I can bullshit for an hour (or more!) if needed, but I’m desperately at a loss for what, precisely, it is one should say on this panel. If, in fact, anyone wants to listen to me answer that eternal question of the ages: Why Mommy Wants Vodka.

Frankly, I don’t know.

Perhaps I should bring cocktails so anything I say sounds desperately hilarious.

Any suggestions, Pranksters?

Dear Skype:

The first time I was asked if I could “Skype,” I believed that I was either being invited into some exclusive club OR being insulted by some bizarre Russian Army; likely the same army that bombards my site with pen1s enlargement pill ads. Imagine my surprise when I learned that you, Skype, were like a phone…ONLY WORSE.

Dutifully, I signed up for you, Skype, because, well, I think I was doing an interview with a cat or something. Or at least, that’s what he sounded like, Skype. If he wasn’t a cat, well, Skype, then you done fucked up.

AGAIN.

(how I feel when I use Skype)

Because for every word I understood, Skype, there were at least twenty I did not. Twenty to one, Skype. Those are particularly disappointing odds, Skype, especially since I can get the same type of blurry reception from my i(can’t)Phone WITHOUT having to sit on my computer, yelling WHAT!? into my screen.

(which, Skype, let’s be honest, is what happens every time I can’t find one of my dancing cactus videos.)

This weekend, Skype, I was counting on you to Do Better. I knew you had it in you, Skype, and yet, there you were, in the middle of my first non-profit board meeting for Band Back Together, five board members chatting through the miracle of the computer. With artificial flickering disco lights. And frozen pictures. And buzzing words.

Skype, you ruined my call.

Possibly, my life.

Don’t make me pull a John C. Mayer on you, Skype. Just. Don’t. You won’t like it, Skype.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. I’m totally pulling a John C. Mayer on you Skype.

I live in one of those subdivisions that has approximately three different house styles.

It’s an older subdivision, built in the 60’s or 70’s, with the trees to match. I love those trees. In the winter, as the new-fallen snow is caught by the branches, they create something as close to a Norman Rockwell painting as someone like me is gonna get. In the spring, the new buds and fresh leaves remind me that winter, like anything else, doesn’t last forever. In the summer, the curtain of leaves, nearly meeting in the middle of the road, make me giddy with happyness. In the fall, those leaves change to all of the brightest shades of red and orange, a stark contrast against the impossibly blue sky.

Last year, after a particularly riveting night in the ER with a case of Orbital Cellulitis, I blurrily got the mail as we got back home at five in the morning. In it, there was a piece of mail from our city, stating that there was something called the Emerald Ash Boner. Before I went to bed for the first time in twenty-four hours, I chucked heartily that there was an infestation of Boners in my town.

I hadn’t considered that the tree I loved so dearly, sweetly shading my house and occasionally dumping gigantic branches onto my lilacs, was an Ash Tree. In fact, I’d considered that a particularly stupid name for a tree (when I discovered it was, indeed, an Ash Tree) and vowed to make someone somewhere change it to the Ass Tree. It seemed more fitting.

For the next year, I watched in horror as the trees up and down the sides of my road – all Ass Trees – were marked with a hastily spray-painted purple dot. Purple dot = infected. Which isn’t entirely unlike herpes, I suppose.

Every week, I inspected my Ass Tree for that tell-tale purple dot, knowing that my Ass Tree was probably superior to all other Ass Trees and would therefore be immune the Emerald Ass Boner. Clearly.

Three weeks ago, I came home to see the dot. On my precious Ass Tree. The Boner had struck.

Purple Dot of Doom = tree infected = cut down.

Soon, my favorite Ass Tree will be cut down and replaced with a tiny new tree, so small that I’ll neatly be able to fit my hand around it. Certainly, I’ll watch the tree grow and turn into a non-Ass Tree (I think we’re getting maples instead). I’ll happily celebrate the day it grows large enough to provide shade and again when it’s branches are large enough to support the weight of my smallest child. I know there will be lemonade stands underneath it, the new tree will oversee the tending of my rose bed, and it will, someday, shade me with it’s leaves.

But that doesn’t stop me from feeling sad about my very own Ass Tree, who will soon enough, be reduced to a pile of stumps.

Change.

It even happens to Ass Trees.

———

In other news, I have two columns up at The Stir. Please report back to tell me if the comments are hateful. Actually, don’t. I don’t want to know:

Reason Number Eleventy-Five Being A Kid Today Sucks

and

7 Reasons Your Kid’s Summer Birthday Sucks

Also, here: Puberty. UGH.

…today, I will send you to Band Back Together, where we’ve compiled stories about the ten year anniversary of September 11, 2001. You’ll see perspectives from everyone from those who were physically there watching life lost to those who were giving birth to a new life. You’ll even find my story among them.

We’re all answering one simple question: “where were you?”

I hope you’ll join us.

We’re Banding Together for 9/11.