Thank you to everyone who voted for me yesterday. I feel like a douchebag asking – trust me – but this would be so awesome for Band Back Together.

————

My children follow me around everywhere I go. I think they’re trying to ascertain what it is I’m going to do next, or at least, that’s what I tell myself when all three of them are crammed into my tiny bathroom, clamoring like a basket of wriggling puppies to sit on my lap as I pee. Or maybe they’re just trying to annoy me. Because really, who wants to yell, “ALEX GET YER ELBY-BONE OUTTA YER SISTER’S FACE” while peeing?

Not me.

My daughter is especially keen on following me around, yelling at me to do her bidding, because she’s two and that’s what two-year old’s do.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d wandered upstairs to look for a hot dog or get dressed or see if Rod Stewart was in my bedroom yet and, like a sassy puppy, my daughter followed me upstairs. Perhaps she, too, was wondering if Rod, The Bod, was in my bedroom.

I began to do whatever it was I was doing while Amelia spotted – in the corner – a bag. Not just any bag, mind you, a HELLO KITTY BAG. It had various office supplies in it, as I’m SLOWLY moving my office out of the dining room and upstairs (for better privacy to watch my cat videos) and I’d grabbed some things and hastily shoved them in what had been a birthday bag for me.

Mili, seeing the bag, immediately went nuts. Anything Hello Kitty is, by default, now hers, so before I could stop her, she dumped the contents of the bag out onto the floor, proclaiming, “DIS IS MILI’S HELLO KITTY BAG.”

Fair enough, kiddo. Fair enough.

While I had my back turned, the kid began to rifle through my jewelry box – a mixture of costume and fine jewelery – and delicately, she sifted through it. I remember that being one of my favorite things as a child – my mother’s jewelry box, not stealing my own crap – so I let her go through it, figuring she’d claim some of the more garish pieces as her own.

Nope.

Oh no.

No, my daughter carefully picked out the most expensive bits of jewelry and slowly placed each piece in the Hello Kitty bag. “Mimi’s necklace.” “Mimi’s ring.” “Mimi’s bracelet.”

When she’d thoroughly magpied my collection, she looked at me, smiled impishly, pulled the Hello Kitty bag up onto her shoulder like a purse, and walked happily out of my room and down the stairs. With my diamond collection.

She’s so her mother’s daughter.

Dear Pranksters,

I hate asking for shit like this nearly as much as I hate John C. Mayer (which, as we know, is a lot), but this is important. Like BIG important. It’s the nomination for Band Back Together (and me as an inspirational – not perspirational – Mom Blogger) and I could use your support.

Just go here and click “Like.” It’s not hard.

And it would mean the world to me if you helped me out. I’d love you bigger than Uncrustables AND hot dogs. Which is saying a LOT.

xoxo,
AB

It’s time to talk tattoos, Pranksters!

Now if you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am decidedly not a foodie. If it’s not prepackaged, I don’t want to eat it. I’m the first to admit I have “food issues” and the second to ask you for an Uncrustable. I probably have scurvy. Thank the Good Lord of Butter I take my (expired) vitamins.

But I’ve occasionally been out to those restaurants that add a zillion ingredients – all with many descriptive terms – to their menu.

And I’ve decided that in lieu of blogging as a career, mayhap I should go into writing descriptions for Foodie Food.

Let’s try this and see how I do.

I’ll start with a diner hamburger.

“The moist, succulent quality of the 100% Angus beef is fried in the fat of dozens of it’s companions, topped by an onion that was left out for three hours aged onion and a single piece of lightly browned romaine lettuce, with the soft, unresisting paper-thin piece of tomato, cut so delightfully thin to save money because OMG Mexico costs a ton to ship vegetables all atop the soft, and yet firm hamburger bun, dotted perfectly with little pops that are at least 90% sesame seeds. Throw on a dollop of perfectly aged premium generic ketchup and you will never look at a burger (or the toilet) the same way.”

Isn’t your mouth WATERING? Mine is. But that may be nausea, not hunger. I can’t tell.

Next, an Old American Favorite, Split Pea Soup:

“As it arrived at the table, I’m struck first by the smell as it approaches. That vaguely earthy smell of mashed up legumes that puts me in mind of spoon feeding a baby. My first baby. He taught me to never try that again, by projectile vomiting the strained peas back as fast as I could get them to his mouth.

I’m reminded of the Exorcist as I suddenly lose my appetite. As it is set before me, I’m lost, staring into the thick, murky mire of the soup. It’s consistency reminds me vaguely of drywall putty, or perhaps of that stuff that people use to polish brass. How does one describe perfection except to say that you know it when you’ve found it?

And this? Was perfectly abominable.

From the earthy taste of the peas, to the dried pieces of cilantro that were used as a “garnish,” this was a hot mess, from back to front.”

Wait.

That wasn’t right. I was supposed to make you WANT it. Not think of The Exorcist.

Guess you’ll have to keep Your Aunt Becky around after all, Pranksters.

Saturday morning, as I blurrily drank my eighty-niner cup of coffee while trying desperately to wake my sorry ass up, Dave bounded into the room and announced, “YOU’RE TAKING ME OUT TO LUNCH TOMORROW.”

For someone who is normally soft-spoken, he was BEYOND loud. Or perhaps it was merely a loud morning. I’m SO not a morning person.

I tried to reach the dusty recesses of my brain to ascertain why, exactly, I was supposed to be taking The Daver out to lunch. His birthday? Our anniversary? National Pancake Day?

I bit the bullet. “Why?” I groggily spat out.

“IT’S DAVE DAY! ALL DAVE’S EAT FREE AT FAMOUS DAVE’S!”

I stuck my fingers in my ears to deaden the noise a bit. Since he did say FREE, and FREE is always better than paying, I wondered if I, too, could pass for a Dave.

The following morning, I peeled myself out of bed, completely forgetting that it was Dave Day (HOW did that ever slip my non-Daveish mind?). Downstairs, the kids were dressed, fed and ready to go for the first time, well, EVER.

Dave was practically bounding off the walls with glee. “IT’S DAVE DAY!” he announced, loudly enough that I nearly punched him in the throat, just to make him shut the fuck up. “WE’RE OUT OF COFFEE!” he screamed. “I DRANK IT ALL.”

Like that was a surprise or something. I mumbled, “fucker” under my breath as I hoped he wouldn’t stroke out from the excitement.

Once I swept the cobwebs from my brain and cleared the sleep from my eyes, I finally looked at The Daver. Dressed in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I must’ve given him a look, because he said, “I’M WEARIN MAH EATIN’ CLOTHES.”

I’m not exactly certain when his Wisconsin-bred ass developed a Southern Drawl, but it was apparently the moment in which he realized he could eat as much BBQ as he wanted. For free. I’m sort of surprised he didn’t bust out my maternity clothes for the occasion.

I shoved a baseball cap on, so that I would be incognito with the hickish Southern Wisconsinite and off we went.

First thing they said when we walked in, “Is your name Dave?” Daver proudly bust out his wallet and showed off his driver’s license. He looks like the leader of the Aryan Nation in the picture, which made me wonder if they’d BELIEVE he was the same person.

Not only did they believe him, they also gave him a name-tag. I was SO JEALOUS. I love name-tags. I would have written “Shut Your Whore Mouth” on mine. I tried to score one from them, but was rebuffed because I am not ACTUALLY named Dave.

I sat jealously staring at Dave’s name-tag as everyone who walked by – also wearing Dave name-tags – said hello to Dave. A sea of name-tag wearing Dave’s sat in the dining room, each beaming as happily as The Daver was.

When Daver opened the menu, it was like the heavens poured out of his eyeballs, as he saw the amount of BBQ he could eat. For FREE. All for free. He happily chose some BBQ platter or another while I sipped my Diet Pepsi, amazed by the transformation of my normally geeky husband into a greedy BBQ-loving hick.

“I want ‘yer BBQ platter wif a side ‘o’ beans and cornbread.” I swear I’ve never heard him speak that way. But there he was, eating pants and everything, ready to take on the BBQ.

And he did. I’ve never seen such a small man put away so much food. When he was done sucking the marrow from the bones, he sat back, belched, and looked as contented as one can while wearing a stained tank-top and sweatpants.

I paid our check and rolled him contentedly out to the car.

He was in a food coma the rest of the day while I bitterly blamed my parents for not being forward-thinking enough to name me Dave.

Hey, Johnny Cash had a Boy Named Sue, I could totally have been a Girl Named Dave*.

*had I been a boy, my name would have been Leaf**.

**No, I’m not joking. Not even close.

Um. This is an ancient post. I have no idea why it posted here now. THERE’S A GHOST IN THE MACHINE.

I’m not the sort of person who’d been planning her wedding since the day I could walk. In fact, I always thought that the word ‘wife’ had a nasty sort of ring to it. My family also has also had zero interest in planning my potential wedding. In fact, they have threatened to show up to my hypothetical wedding wearing mascot heads and do ‘The Wave’ in the church. I am not and have never been mush-mush OR romantic in any way shape or form. That said, I must disclose a list of things that I believed would make my wedding ‘cool.’

First off, I wanted to dance myself down the aisle at the church to K.C. and the Sunshine Band’s ‘That’s the Way, Uh-Huh, Uh-Huh, I Like It.’ What better way to approach the man I’ll be spending the rest of my life with? EVERYBODY loves disco.

In addition to this, I was convinced that the man who would marry me would be a certified Elvis impersonator. I would be married by The King, lip snarl, rockin’ pelvis and all.

Now lastly on my list of hilarious things for my wedding, I planned to have my first dance be extra memorable. I would have the D.J. cue up the beginning of a romantic and dramatic song, I’d meet my husband on the dance floor” and the sweet music would screech to a halt as the Y.M.C.A. would come blasting out. Yes, folks, that’s right, my first wedding song would be the Y.M.C.A.

Now everybody who I have mentioned this to has given me the most horrific look. ‘Aunt Becky, weddings are supposed to be SERIOUS.’ I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it from their point of view.

Dave thinks that I’m insane.

Just wait until he sees the ice cream machine I bought for the reception.

Well, I never thought I’d have a question to ask Aunt Becky, but go figure. Although this may be a novel instead of a question.

Exhibit A – Nice divorced guy, friendly terms with his ex. My age. No apparent mental disorders (other than his last choice of girlfriends). Grown kids. Steady job that he’s been at for years in his chosen career field, doesn’t make a lot of money but it has nice perks. Thinks I’m gorgeous even though he’s seen me in a swimsuit.

Exhibit B – Nice guy. 23 years younger than I am. Single dad of a 18 month old daughter, baby momma is slightly psycho. Excellent work ethic with a good job. On probation for possession. Suffers from depression, anxiety disorder & panic attacks, OCD, bipolar disorder, probable borderline alcoholic. Thinks I’m sexy beyond description even though he’s seen me in flower-print cotton granny panties. Did I mention 23 f’in years younger than I am?

Guess which one I’m dating? Yeah. Exhibit B.

My question, you ask?

Why am I not making the logical, practical choice here?

A is a nice guy and a good friend…so is B. Both say I’m special and treat me like I am (and not the creepy ‘you can’t function without me’ sort of special).

But B makes me weak in the knees. Even better, we can sit in the same room and talk for hours, or not talk and all, and it’s still good.

So, WTF is wrong with me? IS there something wrong with me?

Signed,
Mrs. Robinson.

Well, I WOULD like to know a little bit about you for our files.

Sorry, couldn’t resist, Prankster. So, I’ve got a little bit to say about it, and I’m sure the other Pranksters will, too.

But it sounds like (I cannot believe I am about to type these words) you’re following your heart. And, in my opinion, that’s seldom a bad thing. Love is messy. It’s confusing. It’s fucked up. It has you do things like hitchhike across the country with a knapsack on your shoulder to be with The One, because that’s what you do when you’ve found The One.

Certainly practical Man A would be, well, practical. But life isn’t practical. And practical people are often dull as toast (says the woman who owns 800 Coach purses because you never know when you’re going to need another kicky purse).

I’d say, follow that heart of yours and remember that love isn’t a practical thing you can put in a box, quantify, and file away for later. It just is.

I wish you the best, Prankster.

Here’s to YOU, Mrs. Robinson!

——————

Dear Aunt Becky,

After 3 years of back-to-back shittastic relationships, I’m single for the first time. It’s great and fine and dandy. I’ve gone on dates with multiple guys and had fun with each of them. I’ve told them that I’m not looking for a serious relationship right now since I’ve been doing that for so long and only ended up getting hurt.

So ANYWAY. I recently went out with a former co-worker for drinks. We both had a great time, got flirtatious, but nothing happened. On Saturday he asked me to come over to his place to hang out. Once again, we had a great time.

This time, I put out. I usually don’t give it out to anybody, but I’ve known this guy for three years.

So now this is my problem: I like him, but there’s an age gap. He’s 39 and I’m 21. He has 3 sons who are 15 years old. How do I make these stupid feelings for him go away? It’s been established that we have a good time when we hang out, so can I keep dating him but leave those stupid feelings out of it?

Please help a poor girl out!

As it turns out, you probably can’t. Leave your feelings out of it, I mean. Since I’ve been doing work with these things called “feelings” myself, I’ve learned that they’re kinda tricky shit.

So I suggest that you sit down and be honest – really honest – with yourself. How will you feel if it turns out you were a booty call? Can you handle dating a guy with kids? Will you be okay if this truly becomes a casual dating thing and not True Love?

Once you know the answer to these, you’re off to a better start. But until then, I’ve recently learned these feeler-thingies can’t be turned off.

Good luck, Prankster.

——————

Hi Aunt Becky!

I was wondering if you and you kick-ass Band of Merry Pranksters could help me out.

I recently made a new friend who is going through a tough time. She recently went through a divorce to a man who isn’t worth the shit in my toilet. He cheated on her and left her for a woman who was over ten years younger with more children.

It’s just her and her child now and she’s completely heartbroken and devastated. I’m happily married so it’s hard for me to relate. I think she’s a great person and we really get along well, but I don’t know what I can say or do to go above just being a good friend and listener.

So help?

What else can I say to get her going on the right track?

Thank you so much for your help!

All right Pranksters, Your Aunt Becky needs your help with this (and the other two).

I don’t think there’s much you can do to ease her pain, besides letting her talk (and listen like a true friend) and being there for her when she needs you. It’s clear she’s devastated and needs someone to be a friend.

I’d suggest staying away from platitudes and advice, because I know how infuriating it is to hear advice when you’re really just looking to be comforted. There’s nothing you can do to take away her pain – unfortunately – and sometimes the best thing you can do is to be A Friend. Bring her meals, take her out sometimes (DO NOT TRY TO FIX HER UP WITH SOMEONE), arrange for help with the kid.

Because the betrayal of being cheated on, then left to be a single parent is something that only gets better over time. And I cannot imagine how gutted she must be at the moment.

I wish you luck and I’m sending her love and light.

—————-

Pranksters? Any advice? What should these (lovely, talented and drop-dead gorgeous) people do?

You know what we don’t talk about enough here on Mommy Wants Vodka (I used the Royal “we” here, Pranksters, meaning YOU)? Love songs. Mostly because the greatest love I feel is for the Hamster Dance video and bacon cheeseburgers.

But I am here to tell you that this! This is simply untrue. Your Favorite Aunt Becky DOES know how to feel love! Why, the other day, I looked at the most beautiful sunset and thought, “Mmmm. That looks like cotton candy. Now I’m hungry.”

And then, because I was listening to my iPod, a love song came on. Can you believe I own a song about love? I can’t. Nonetheless, I was stunned. The love song and the sunset nearly had me doubled over, barfing, and yet, no, I stood watching it.

So I figured, it’s time for a list of Love Songs That Don’t Suck. You can play along at home, Pranksters.

1) Behold A Lady – Andre 3000. I really have to say that I loved the song a lot more when Andre 3000 wasn’t like humping his personal trainer, but you know, the song is totally sweet. SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH, I CAN LIKE SWEET SHIT.

2) Bob Dylan’s – To Ramona (as sung by Sinead Lohen). Now, I’m not 100% certain this is a love song but it is probably my favorite song ever. Even more than the theme from Facts of Life. I probably shouldn’t mention that my dad sang me to sleep with this song every night and I sing my daughter to sleep with it too, because that makes it a little less romantical, but you know, when do I lie to you, Pranksters?

3) The Pretenders – “I’ll Stand By You” (as sung by Glee Cast). Okay. So this song? My television husband, Dexter, will totally sing this to me at our made-for-television wedding. I don’t care if he can’t ACTUALLY sing because I will be to busy kissing his feet. This song? The most romantical I know.

4) The Black Keys – Everlasting Light. I may just love this song because it makes me forget my migraines for awhile, but it also makes me happy in the pants.

5) The Rolling Stones – Let It Bleed. Like I could include a list of songs WITHOUT The Stones. That would be like macaroni WITHOUT the cheese.

6) G-Love and Special Sauce – Love. Dude. It’s called LOVE. What more can you ask for?
(I’d actually considered using Booty Call instead)

7) Michael Franti & Spearhead – Say Hey (I Love You). It’s not just because I heard this song first on Weeds during a fucking FLASH MOB, but the song? It’s cheerful. Like, you’ll probably fall in love with the person next to you when you watch it. So be careful.

8 ) I forget what 8 was for.

9) Journey – Faithfully (as performed by Glee Cast). Okay. If you don’t love this song, I will punch you in the teeth.

10) Cake – Love You Madly. Only the coolest song ever. You should probably marry it.

————-

Your turn, Pranksters. Gimmie some good love songs.

Any time you go to a blogging conference or hear about blogging or really blog ever, you hear the word, “monetize” which, I recently learned, has NOTHING to do with Monet’s paintings. I feel both shocked and saddened – like my whole life has been a joke.

(I was also recently horrified to learn that “non-stick” does not ACTUALLY mean “non-stick)(nor do Crab Cakes have CAKE in them)(what is this world COMING to?)

Anyway, I’m not so great at monetizing anything, including my blog, because I’m not very good at anything. Also: who wants to read a hastily thrown together piece about why I think dish soap rules – even if it’s true? Not me.

But thanks to my cess-pool children, I do have a cold. And having a cold sucks. Much as I’d like to sit around the house, flailing my arms and raspily yelling, “WHY GOD, WHY?” I figured that this might be An Opportunity. A GOLDEN opportunity.

Oh yes, Pranksters, I think I finally know what to do to Monetize This Cold: I can become a temporary phone sex operator.

I can see it already.

Me (deep-voiced and raspy): “Hey baby.” *hack, hack, hack*

Him: “Um, so what are you doing right now?”

Me: “Drinking a diet coke and feeling sorry for myself. You?”

Him: “I meant, what are you wearing?”

Me: “A stained tanktop and some gauchos.”

Me: “The tank top is red.”

Him: “Um.”

Me: *coughs loudly*

Him: “So, uh, what do you want to do to me?”

Me: “I don’t know. Take flying lessons?”

Him: “I meant like, do you want to get me naked?”

Me: *sneezes wetly* “EW. NO. I don’t even know you.”

Him: “Do you want me to touch your breasts?”

Me: “GROSS, you creepy old fuck!”

Him: “This isn’t working.”

Me: “You got THAT right, Buddy.”

*clicks*

Hm. So maybe that’s a bad idea. Guess I’ll go back to Moneting things.

I remember when my friend Pashmina got back from her honeymoon. I think I’d just popped out Crotch Parasite #2 and had the approximate dimensions of a whale. Not to mention, aforementioned Crotch Parasite was constantly chomping on my nipple and/or pooping on me, so vacation was entirely out of the question. Hell, taking a leak alone was out of the question.

Anyway, Pashmina called me and blearily I answered the phone. She cheerfully informed me about the places they’d had The Sex, the great shit they’d done, the meals they’d eaten while I silently wept onto my very cranky baby. I hadn’t eaten a meal without the kid hanging off a body part in months. And sex? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

It was kinda mean of her, you know, describing all the cool shit she’d done while I sat at home and watched my television husband, Vincent D’Onofrio, quirkily solve murders.

But the swag at BlogHer is legendary, I’m sure even if you’ve never been, you’ve heard about it. Mostly from the sorts of people who get invited to private parties and shit, which, SO not me. I got a couple of mini-boxes of cereal and a fuckton of those stupid bags everyone gives out. I’m sure the maid service thanks me tremendously for leaving them behind.

This year, I got one thing – ONE thing – that may shock and impress you, Pranksters. ONE THING. And it impressed me so much that I’m STILL reminiscing about it, all Missed Connections style. Because I had to leave my ONE THING behind. Parting WAS truly sweet sorrow.

I got a fucking toothbrush.

GENIUS.

I know you probably think I’m being all sarcastic about it, but no, I’m not. I loved that toothbrush so much that I envisioned romantic fantasies – just me and the toothbrush dining by candlelight. Me and my beloved toothbrush running along a beach, holding, er, hands. Me and my toothbrush snuggling up together – I’d even get to be the Big Spoon (for once).

Brushing my teeth was a treat. I felt like a champion, my pearly whites all sparkling and clean, ready to take on the day. I was a WINNER thanks to that toothbrush.

(we all know packing a toothbrush is kinda bullshit because it gets all musty and shit)

On Sunday, it was time to bid my beloved farewell. I couldn’t take it home with me; no, our love was too pure to continue.

Sobs.

Missed Connection:

You: Johnson and Johnson toothbrush, 8 inches, blue and soft.

Me: Your Aunt Becky, leaving a hotel room.