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.

If there’s one thing awesome about being crammed in a metal tube, hurtling through time and space with a bunch of mouth-breathing strangers, it’s this: SkyMall. Here’s what I’ll be buying myself for Christmas, or Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, or whatever holiday comes next.

Who WOULDN’T want an attic lady popping randomly into your attic? CRAZY PEOPLE, THAT’S WHO. Rather than wait for the bitchy old lady who owned my house to come over and demand money again, I’m going to buy myself a lady! Who can pop in and out of my house! She’s an instant party – or instant sea hag – for sure.

So what if the pool I have is 8 feet by 8 feet with a depth of three inches? No, seriously, SO WHAT?

I want a musical light show while I soak in my wee pool. Hell, EVERYONE will want to come over for a pool party then! Won’t they be surprised when my “pool” is really a “puddle.” A puddle with motherfucking music and LIGHTS.

I can hear the clamoring of my neighbors already.

I genuinely do not know how I do not own this yet. No, I mean it, I need this AND a pack of Old Milwaukee. Because while he SAYS he’s from Texas, I’m in Chicago, and there’s nothing trashier than things from Milwaukee. Like their shit-ass beer.

I require this above all else. He will go in my china cabinet, with my six-pack of Spam with Bacon. And he will reek of style and sophistication.

Originally, I thought this was a singing toilet, which is like a dream come true. I’ve always wanted a toilet that sang for me while I pooed, cheered for me after I flushed, and then did a nice jaunty you-just-peed number (perhaps a nice Gershwin piece or the theme from Sanford and Son) as I exited the bathroom.

I was a little disappointed to learn that no, in fact, this toilet didn’t sing to me. It will, however, prevent me from dunking in the toilet at three AM like an overly-large kicky-haired tea-bag. Which is minorly awesome.

I still want the singing toilet, dammit.

So last time I shopped at SkyMall, I decided the statue of the little boy peeing would be what went above my grave. Along with the gigantic angel statues and weeping out-of-work actors. But I’d never given any thought as to what I wanted BELOW my grave. Besides the towers of flowers.

This, Pranksters, is what I want coming out of my grave.

I can think of no better way to “honor” me than a frightening zombie with a little boy peeing on it.

And oh holy fuck, do you need to see this video. There are no words. Only awesome (it’s totally safe for work):

Oh yeah, who uses social network to do good (AND talk about my vagina)?

I DO.

Props to each of you who has contributed posts, lurked, and given love to each of our posts on Band Back Together.

(also, I am sitting awkwardly, which is why I look SORTA like a beached whale).

I’m no huge fan of blogging conferences, if I haven’t made that clear, and it’s in part because they keep me away from my beloved Pranksters. The internet in my hotel, even WITH my internet-in-a-box was a hot pile of bullshit. Every time I went to post this is what happened:

Me: “Man, what WILL the Internet do without me for four days? They might not hear of my stupidest exploits or the hilarious, wacky adventures of my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles! I should post something.”

The Internet: “We are connected to your wifi card.”

Me: “Oh YIPPEE! I can tell the world that I paid 13 bucks for a pitcher of coffee!”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well, the Internet TELLS me it’s connected. It must be user error. I am not very smart. Which I need to tell the Internet.”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well. That’s rather unfriendly of you, my zillion dollar laptop. Certainly, you’d treat me better than that. I must update The Twitter!”

The Internet: “Hahahaha! You’re an asshole.”

Me: “That really hurt, The Internet, that really hurt. Now can I please just get online for ten minutes?”

The Internet: “Nope.”

Me: “What will The Facebook do without me?”

The Internet: “Facebook hates you. So do I.”

Me: “WELL, I NEVER.”

The Internet: “Guess you should’ve gone with a cheaper laptop.”

Me: “I’m going to replace you with a Dell, asswipe.”

The Internet: “You go ahead and you try. You know you cannot live without my luscious screen.”

Me: “Oooh! These windows open JUST ENOUGH so that I can throw waterballoons out.”

The Internet: “You’re such a mindless blathering moron.”

Me (yells out the window): “LOOKOUT BELOW MOTHERFUCKERS.”

The Internet: “This is why I don’t bother to let you online.”

Me: “I win.”

The Internet: “No, you’re just pretending you win to make yourself feel better. You actually lose.”

Me: “Oh.”

The Internet: “Wait, what are you doing? Don’t toss me out of the open hotel window. What are you doing?”

Me: “Winning.”

—————-

So, what did you do while I was gone, Pranksters? Did you go to VaginaStock (BlogHer)? Did you have fun?

————–

I have two columns up at The Stir: Why Yes I Let My Boy Dress Up In Girls Clothes and 8 More Things You Don’t Want To Do With Your Kids This Summer.

You should read them, like them, then come back and tell Your Aunt Becky all about your weekend.

As we all know, Your Aunt Becky is absolutely not a leading authority on anything…except traveling. Not because I am very good at it – no – but because I am very bad at it.

1) Whenever possible, do NOT pack dismembered human remains in your suitcase. And if you do, make certain that you check that bag. The TSA will certainly have a problem with dismembered body parts in your carry-on (like they’re going to DO anything now that they’re dead)

8 ) Do not bother paying extra money for the “extra space” or “premium seating.” Instead, loudly discuss your bowel movements – in chronologic order – with your seatmates. They will be clamoring to change seats within five minutes.

27) Get fully intoxicated before you get on the plane to avoid paying the exorbitant costs of those wee bottles of liquor.

64) Once entirely wasted and in the air, start a dance party with your fellow cabinmates. Winner gets your extra bag of dinky pretzels.

125) If your seatmates haven’t left after you’ve loudly discussed your poo, begin to regale them with stories of your fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles.

216) Eat as much garlic as possible at Sbarros before boarding the plane. The rest of the cabin will REALLY appreciate the smell of garlic as it wafts out of all of your orifices.

343) Wear particularly loose pants, so when you have to take off your belt at the TSA line, they fall down, exposing your glitter thong that reads “JUICY” on the back.

512) Ask to see the cockpit and when they show you the cabin, ask where the pit is with all the cocks.

729) Sing along with your iPod as loudly. Especially if you’re tone deaf. If you don’t know the words, simply hum them loudly. When the flight attendant asks you to keep it down, tell her that singing is part of your religion.

1000) When you’ve finally reached your destination, block the aisle and rearrange your luggage, saying, “I KNOW THAT DEAD CAT IS IN HERE SOMEWHERE.”

1331) If you should board a plane with screaming babies or crying children, make sure to go up to the parents and stare at them while they try to soothe the child. They’ll appreciate that. It’ll help ’em know you care.

1728) Whenever you use the bathroom, make sure to come out and exclaim loudly, “I never knew corn could look so beautiful!” alternately “Anyone have a camera? This poo looked like Abraham Lincoln!”

2197) Do not shower for many days prior to departure. The extra layer of skin will help protect you from the stanky germs living on the seats.

2744) If anyone asks you to do anything you disagree with, simply tell them you cannot because it’s “part of your religion.”

3375) If your seatmates are still not put off by the discussion of your poo or your fake dead cat, begin weeping. Loudly. Refuse to talk about it. It may get you bumped up to first class!

4096) Wear a strap-on through security. If flashing your fellow passengers isn’t awesome enough, now you’ll confuse them. Forever. Plus, the TSA will be scared and let you through the line as quickly as possible.

4913) Tell the TSA agent that you’re really looking forward to some “hot TSA action today.” That should both perplex and horrify them.

5832) “If you’re roadtripping to your destination, it’s always best to bring a friend. They won’t take over driving when you get tired, but since they’re asleep, you can keep shaking them awake periodically and telling them it’s their turn to pay for gas. Again. Cheap road trips are worth sleep deprivation