My kids are home this week. After I realized what a job Band Back Together was going to be (and how freaking BORED they are with me), I enrolled the two smallest ones in preschool. Plus, that gives me ample time to sit on my ass and watch cactus videos. Those cacti are a laugh a minute!

Anyhow, for some strange reason, my preschool teacher decides once every six months or so to go on vacation. (I call bullshit) Then, the crotch parasites are home with everyone’s favorite Aunt Becky. Everyone, of course, but my small crotch parasites who are bored after two minutes of looking at my face. It sorta goes like this:

9:17 (AB): “Hey guys, let’s COLOR a PICTURE!”

9:18 (Alex and Amelia): “WE’RE DONE MAMA.”

9:20 (AB): “Let’s play a game called, “Make Mama a Martini!”

9:20 (Alex and Amelia): “NO.”

9:21 (AB): “How about, “let’s take a nap!” that’s a GREAT game!”

9:22 (Alex and Amelia): “That’s bullshit!”

9:22 (AB): *headdesk*

See, I’m just not cut out for playing games with toddlers for more than twelve seconds. And it’s approximately eleventy-billion degrees out now, which means I can’t boot them out the door to “play” and lock it behind them. Which is, I’m pretty sure, how my parents handled ages 2-18.

(come to think of it, perhaps I shouldn’t follow my parents lead)

So now I have two days left of “entertaining the children” and am about ready to sell them to the Hare Krishna’s because, well, I think they take kids and shave them and put them into wee orange robes. If not, they should.

When my preschool teacher gets back on Monday, I’m planning on tongue-kissing her. Or perhaps not. Anything to make her want to watch my children again. Because I think they’re sharpening their Play-Doh knives into shivs to attack me for ruining summer. I only hope that it takes them until Tuesday.

Until then, I’ll be counting down the minutes. And praying each one isn’t the one that brings me to my dramatic death-by-Play-Doh-knife.

———–

I wrote this on The Stir. It’s about Tattooed Moms. Because obviously.

Today, Pranksters, rather than sit around on my ass, watching cats do wacky things, I had an appointment downtown to get my tattoo “worked on.” Some may say “finished,” but those motherfuckers would be wrong. My tattoo may never be finished.

In several blood-stained hours, my tattoo went from this:

To this:

*groans*

Someone pass me the Vicodin. Then entertain me with your tattoo stories while massaging my feet.

It’s bad enough that it happens at blogging conferences: you’re standing there, minding your own business, talking to a friend, when out of nowhere, someone in comfortable sneakers and a blazer with shoulder pads comes up to you and before you know it, they’ve dumped their business cards into your drinks and scampered off, in search of their next victim.

The drive-by social networker strikes again.

Now, I have approximately a bazillion business cards. I intend to pass them out or use as coasters, whichever the case may be. But while I may hand you my card, it will be after we’ve had a conversation, perhaps a drink together. The drinks are optional. The business cards are EXTRA optional.

Because when you’re at a blogging conference? Everyone has business cards. And no one wants them in their drinks.

Perhaps I will create a bubble around myself to avoid drinking my vodka/diet with a side of your business card. That’s not to say I don’t want your card; I just don’t want it thrust into my hand while I try to check into the hotel with my bags freaking everywhere.

Maybe I’m just bitter.

In the past week alone, I’ve gotten at least twenty DM’s from The Twitter, and while I eagerly open them, humming and perhaps dancing the White Girl Booty Shuffle because, “I HAVE AN EMAIL MOTHERFUCKERS,” I’m shocked and saddened by it’s contents.

Instead of saying, “Hi Becky, let’s be friends,” or “Hi Becky, I’m sending you a cat that shoots REAL LASERS FROM IT’S EYES,” it’s this.

“Thanks for the follow. Check us out on Facebook (insert link to crappy company)”

A variation:

“Thanks for the follow, hope you read my blog (url).”

Well.

Now.

That’s not very friendly. In fact, that’s beyond impersonal.

MOST people I know unfollow after receiving automated DM’s because they hate The Drive By Social Networker as much (more) than I do. I, on the other hand, am lazy and have decided to plot my revenge upon them.

I’m simply going to start DMing them every time I have to take a poo, eat a sandwich, go to Target, and every other mundane thing people say on The Twitter. I’ll be as personal as I wanna be. Then, I’ll direct them BACK to my blog so they can “read more.”

Perhaps then, they’ll rethink their drive-by networking strategy. AND learn about my toileting habits in the process.

This will be a total win!

Hey Aunt Beckster. I have a 3 year old, a one year old and just found out I’m pregnant again. So I’ll have a newborn, a 2yo and a 4yo this December. Now this pregnancy is something we tried for. I was all eye of the mother fucking tiger Imma gonna get pregnant now! Now that I am though, I’m a little freaked out.

Am I fucking nuts? How the hell am I going to do this? Having two kids drives me nucking futs some days. How crazy is having 3 kids really?

Do you have a minivan?

*looks around shiftily*

*crosses fingers behind back*

Having three kids is EASY as PIE. Heh. Heh. Heh. Disregard every other time I’ve said, “three is a fucking LOT of kids” because, um, it’s not.

Think about it like this: you’ll have a couple of ridiculously hard years, then? The kids will play together and leave you ALONE.

And yes, I do own a minivan (SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH) that may win an award for the UGLIEST thing ever. I hate minivans. But they’re really fucking useful. So there’s that.

So three? *flips hair back* Three kids are GREAT. They’re the magic number.

Hi Aunt Becky,

Without going into tooooo many details, my ex-husband decided going into the divorce that I was going to be psycho. He has told everyone we know (including teachers, OT, PT, daycare, etc.) that I am psycho.

When we split up, he had the upper hand and I was essentially left with the one u-haul (one day early, along with with my baby).

How do I deal with this?  I FEEL psycho, because he makes me feel psycho because he treats me like it, in order to make the divorce work out in his favor.

In other words, he decides I am crazy, so anything I do fits into that mold, no matter what.  What should I do? Sometimes I want to just leave the m’f’ng country but that would mean leaving my baby behind.

Seriously, AB, I am at my wits end here. I am a mom, and the dad is obviously smarter than me. What do I do? I just want to curl up and die. Really.  Or go back in time, except that then I wouldn’t have my baby, except…maybe that would be for the best?

Hurting and lost here.

Aw, Prankster, that’s what ex’s are good for: making you feel nuts. What you need is a good therapist or someone who can remind you that you’re not fucking psycho. In a couple years, with some distance, you’ll manage to see that it was never, ever you, and hopefully, feel less alone.

My heart breaks for you because I remember the insidious way that my ex made me feel all those years ago. You DO end up feeling like it’s you. I know that.

But I also know that it’s not me. Nor is it you.

So I suggest you find yourself a good therapist and a good defense attorney, scream EYE OF THE TIGER whenever you’re feeling low, and fight this motherfucker. Or you can give him MY phone number and I’ll tell him precisely what I think of him.

Ain’t NOBODY messing with MAH Pranksters.

Much love to you. Let us know what happens.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have two not-so-related body image questions, and if you don’t mind I’m going to ask both now before they fly out of my memory.

First, I have a few acquaintances (FB friends, moms from school, etc.) who think nothing of publicly slamming other people’s bodies all the time.  You know, things like, “God, does she own a mirror?” or “To the lady in front of me at Target – you can’t pull off skinny jeans.”

This REALLY annoys me – and not just because I am a plus sized woman, which I only mention in the interest of full disclosure.  I have three daughters, and I don’t like the idea that their bodies could be seen as public property open to commentary from total strangers.  Life is tough enough for girls and women, and I hate the catty, competitive vibe that accompanies these comments.  Basically, I think a person’s body, style, etc. is no one’s business but their own.

Do I say something to these people?  Do I ignore it, or is that compromising my integrity?  I kind of wish I could cut some of them off, but I don’t want to create awkwardness that might trickle down to my kids.

My second question is about MY body.  Before having kids, I used to sleep naked all the time, especially in summer.  It was comfortable and cool, and it certainly made less laundry.  I find myself missing that, but I feel like good mommies should wear nightgowns and giant bloomers.  I have all girls, and I’d keep a nightshirt next to the bed to pop on in case of a middle of the night call (which, thank goodness, is not a regular event in my house anymore).  Obviously, I’d put something on before leaving my room in the morning.

Would I be a skanky, nasty mommy if I went back to the buff?

Love,
ChickaBoom

Dear ChickaBoom,

A) I find no reason why, if these people are commenting on the size, weight, or look, of others, that you can’t say something like, “I’m not sure that bitching about how other people look is the appropriate message to send our daughters.”

That, I’d think, would shut them right the fuck up.

2) Sleep naked. Period. If you like to sleep in the buff, go right the fuck ahead.

————–

Pranksters? What other advice can you give these people?

————-

Oh, and I’ll be picking a winner for the shirt contest on Monday.

————-

And my column from Cafe Mom is UP, yo!

I spent the last couple years of my twenties praying for the moment that I’d turn thirty. It’s like I genuinely thought being thirty somehow meant that “things would be easier” and yet they have. I was just happy to put my twenties behind me.

In Year One of my thirties, I’ve managed to begin eking out my way. Whereas my twenties felt like I was always fighting fire with gasoline, my thirties have found me thoughtfully, carefully making decisions, choosing the right way, and learning to become, well, me again.

Year One certain had it’s ups and downs and still, the down’s didn’t feel like they were the bottomless pit variety. The ups were even higher.

I have, in no small part, you, Pranksters, to thank for this. You’ve watched me fail, fall, and start again, cheering me on when I needed it and wiping my tears when things seemed insurmountable. You’ve been the one constant in my life and more than that, you became my family.

I cannot tell you how much that means nor can I thank you enough.

This year, I’ve watched my daughter lose her words, then find them again, and now, she spits them at me with a side of sass thrown in. Because she’s my girl.

My middle son has grown from a toddler to a child, all arms and legs and sweetness and light. Someone who hugs away my tears and makes me laugh from the bottom of my leg bones.

After so many years of believing that I was probably a child prodigy, I realize that the one who earns that title is my (almost) ten year old, the one who has found his way in his music.

This year, I founded not one but two group blogs (happy birthday to YOU, Mushroom Printing! who happened to be founded on my birthday last year).

Once I saw the need for a safe, moderated space on the Internet where we could share our secrets, reduce the stigmas of mental illness, abuse, rape and all the other skeletons in our closets, I created Band Back Together. I thanked my parents for the nursing texts as I began to create resource pages for the site. Now the site is a combination of knowledge and power, just like School House motherfucking Rock.

I created shirts (you should buy one. It’s my birthday, after all and you have to do what I say) and shattered my own expectations.

Today, Year One ends and I’m onto Year Two (I’ll be thirty-one). I’ll close this year out while gorging on tapas and drinking champagne.

I can hardly wait to see what happens next. Assuming it’s something good like a pony and not something shitty like a meat tornado.

Because nobody expects a meat tornado.

Every other week when I was a kid, some kid brought their store-bought cuppity-cakes into school, beaming benevolently as we wished them a perfunctory “happy birthday” before diving face-first into the sugar. The poor teachers had the task of dealing with us after we’d gotten our sugar high on.

I tried to rise above it as a kid. To say, “it’s okay; the teachers like ME better because I don’t bring on the sugar high.” But it was a steaming pile of bullshit. Had I been given the chance, I’d have jumped to bring my very own sugared treats into the class, my classmates bowing before me, a queen doling out cake to her loyal subjects.

Thanks to my parents humping schedule, I was never given the opportunity.

Nope.

My birthday falls into the absolute middle of the summer abyss. July 15th. Pay day.

Every year, I’d throw parties, and about half the class would show up. The rest were too busy vacationing up in Detroit or whatever and unable to attend. This meant less loot for me. Plus, I felt like a loser. My parents should buy me a pony to make up for this.

And now that I’m an adult, I swore off the 15th as my “birthday,” opting to celebrate on the more refined sounding 28th. That pushes my birthday just far away enough from July 4th that I might actually stand a chance at throwing a party with real! live! guests! Plus, I made it official on The Facebook, which means that it’s really real, right?

Plus, July 15th is cursed. Some gigantor percentage of the last ten years has found me, on my birthday, in the ER or Urgent Care. Happy Birthday! You have a scratched cornea!

But try as I have to deny it, I can’t help but feel like tomorrow IS my birthday. Which means that I’m both terrified by what the day will bring and hopeful that it involves presents.

Which, now that I think about it, is how I feel every day.

It was one of the first nights I’d worked in the brand-new restaurant. Anyone who has worked in restaurants before knows that the first months after opening are a fucking zoo: The pond scum slithers it’s way off the pond and into the joint to try it out – and torture the staff in the progress – the usually new management has no idea how much of everything to order and the waitstaff is so new they can’t tell you if they even stock honey. For tea. At a pizza place. In fact, no one knows if there’s any honey, so it’s a safe bet there’s no honey. It’s a pizza place, after all.

As one of the only servers who’d waited tables before, I got handed the biggest section and was frequently given tables that other servers couldn’t keep up with. It was pizza, not rocket science, and yet, I had the most experience.

One of the tables I’d gotten just as we’d run out of pizza sauce (at a pizza place!); something that sparked horror and general flailing about from management, cooks and servers alike, was a two-top, or deuce, as we called them. Old people. Whatever. I maintained that groups of women are the worst to wait on, so the old people, I wasn’t worried about.

Barely audible over the din of the shrieking waitstaff and patrons (no! pizza! sauce!), they placed their order. I, like I always did, wrote it down neatly in my notebook. It wasn’t to help me remember, no, it was so I could have BACKUP whenever anyone insisted I ordered something wrong. I’d take the fall for a lot of mistakes, but I wouldn’t own it unless it was mine.

I placed the order in the computer and got them their drinks. Pizzas took at least thirty minutes to cook, so I knew I had time to get caught up on the rest of my tables. Like I said, it was a busy night.

When their order came out, I brought it out and served it, just as I’d been showed.

I placed the pieces in front of the woman, she smacked my hand, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I ORDERED,” she screamed. I whipped out my hand-dandy notebook to show her that yes, in fact, it was.

“NO!” she screamed, “it’s not!”

Well, there wasn’t any point in arguing. I apologized. It had obviously been my error in both writing down and repeating back to them. Fine. I knew I was right.

I grabbed the manager and sent him over to deal with her. This was beyond my pay grade.

He fixed it somehow – maybe he gave them a coupon or a new pizza, I didn’t know and didn’t care – and when I brought over drink refills, I apologized again for what had happened.

They looked at me as though I had killed their puppy. Or Jesus. Or their puppy AND Jesus.

Okay then.

Except, they were in my section and every time I went near the table, their mournful, sad and somewhat hateful eyes followed me, just like those haunted house pictures. Every movement I made, they watched, hatefully.

I wanted to yell, “It was just a pizza, you assfuckers!” but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled more brightly with each passing glare. If you can’t win ’em, be cheerful as fuck about it.

Finally, they left, their eyes no longer murdering me every time I stepped foot near the table. My fellow servers patted me on the back. “Eh,” I said, “she looked like a bullfrog anyway.” Because she did.

The following day, I stopped by my pharmacy to pick up a wrist brace. I know what they say about us Midwestern chicks, but I don’t have cornfed ankles OR wrists. So carrying trays that weighed 6000000 pounds did a number on me. Hence the wrist braces.

Who should walk past me?

The bullfrog lady and her husband. They looked relatively normal until they spied me, squatting there, examining wrist braces. Then, again with the “you killed Jesus stares.”

This time I wasn’t at work. This time I was off the motherfucking clock.

So I did the only thing that made sense: I stuck my tongue out at them and blew a gigantic raspberry.

They glared harder (perhaps I’d been upgraded to “kills baskets of puppies and/or Jesus) as I walked back to the register, a bounce in my step, feeling that I, for once, had finally been able to speak my mind.

(they became regulars at the pizza place and I refused to wait on them ever again)

It was mentioned in the comments on a recent post that I do not discuss my middle son, Alex, nearly enough. I’d figured that since I’d devoted Year One of Mommy Wants Vodka to him, you guys were probably sick of hearing about him.

Alas, I was wrong.

———–

When Alex was two, I’d finally managed to wrangle my boobs away from him – he was a Boob Man – and *cue angels singing on high* put him in the shopping cart when we went to The Target. After spending the first year of his life as the ONLY person he’d allow to hold him – and in my arms was the only place he’d not shriek – this was no minor victory.

Whenever I think of Alex, I think of the legend of the Monkey Paw, which apparently no one else has ever heard. Basically, there’s a long-winded, slightly creepy story involving wishes, dead monkey paws and gypsies. The moral of the story? “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” I’d have guessed the moral to be something more like, “don’t buy a dead monkey paw, you jackass.”

WHATEVER.

During his pregnancy, see, I’d cried and moaned and carried on about how much I wanted a baby that loved me best (Ben’s autistic and didn’t give a flying poo about me)(can you blame him?).

WHOOOOO-BOY did I get that in spades.

So there I am, in The Target, trying to soothe my savage son who is trying to wrangle his way from the cart and into my arms, where his newborn sister is. It’s nearly impossible to hold the two of them and walk around at the same time, so I decided that the only course of action was to begin to sing. So I did.

“C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me, OH C is for cookie. Um. A is for Alex, that’s good enough for me, OH A is for Alex, that’s good enough for me, oh Alex Alex Alex starts with A!”

Probably terrified a good number of shoppers with my horrifying amazing singing.

It was then that my son, son of my heart, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, told his first joke. In song form.

“P is for Poopy, that’s good enough for me. P is for Poopy, that’s good enough for me. Oh poopy poopy poopy starts with P!” Then he burst into gales of laughter.

Rather than scold him, yell, or even raise my voice for making an off-color, inappropriate joke, I busted a gut. Then I beamed in pride. It’s not like I sing the P is for Poopy* song myself or anything.

This Sunday, on the way home from picking the boys up from their sleepover at Grandma’s, my musical eldest began singing all 198 versions to London Bridge Is Falling Down. Apparently, in addition to dancing cat videos and porn, You Tube is ALSO good at teaching kids all the obscure verses to songs.

As my eldest sang, “Build it up with bricks and hay,” for the zillionth time, my middle son decided that what the song needed was a little pizazz. So he, in all his tone-deaf glory, began to chant, “Build it up with poop and hay, poop and hay.”

Rather than do the proper thing and be all After School Special on him, “Now Alex, we don’t say, ‘poop’ in this house,” I laughed. I laughed so hard that it actually hurt.

Yep.

He’s the kid that’ll net me a jillion angry phone calls from other parents. It’ll be all I can do not to laugh.

*Much.

(over at the Stir, this is how I will make my millions)

Now that I’ve lost the lion’s share of the baby weight – and yes, I WILL call it baby weight even though my daughter is two – I’ve taken to shopping again. For clothes, I mean. Clothing is more fun when you’re not staring at the tag, weeping about the number there.

(I learned to cut off the tags, but it didn’t help)

So there I was, at The Target, perusing the summer stuff, when I saw it. The Maxi-Dress.

Pranksters, I wanted so badly to love this dress. It looked like it would provide a nice crotch breeze while allowing me to continue my “pants are bullshit” campaign. And yet. I couldn’t.

My mother, a hippie in the 1980’s, lived in these things when I was a child – the very sort of thing I railed against. It was droopy and unpatterned, listless and tired, even fresh off the clothes line. As someone who favored twirly skirts, tiaras, and all the makeup one could slap on a face, I was horrified that my very own mother would wear such monstrosities.

Examining it closer, I realized that, like capri pants, the dress would look good on no one. Except, perhaps, models.

So I put it back, sadly denying my crotch an opportunity to vent in the breeze.

And then I saw this:

Motherfucking ROMPERS.

Have you seen these, Pranksters? ROMPERS. FOR ADULTS.

If I could manage to somehow get over the issue that these are ROMPERS for ADULTS, all I can see is the vagina wedgie you’d get while wearing this monstrosity. I mean, CAMEL TOE anyone?

Even worse, they’re ROMPERS for ADULTS.

I stopped wearing rompers at the same age that I stopped wearing diapers. Perhaps when I WEAR diapers again, I’ll go back to wanting to dress like an overgrown child. But somehow, I doubt it.

And don’t get me started on pajama jeans.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Let me just start out by saying, you are fucking hilarious, and great!

Okay, I have PTSD, depression, anxiety, OCD, and a bunch of other stupid shit that I can’t deal with. I don’t even know how to start with dealing with it. I have panic attacks nearly every day, but I don’t know where to turn to for help.

Last time I talked to my mom about it, she had me hospitalized, and put on suicide watch for a month (this was after 2 of my brothers killed themselves, so I know she was trying to help me not follow in their footsteps) so I can’t go to my family. I need help, I know I do. I just need help getting help, which is super fucked-up I know.

Please, please help me.. I don’t know how to get through a day with out drinking/cutting myself/or other things I know are completely unhealthy.

Do you have any suggestions, or anything? Thanks, sorry to bug you.
-M.J.

Oh Prankster MJ, my heart hurts for you. Mental illness can be such a motherfucker, can’t it?

Now, it sounds as though you’re aware that you need help, which is the first good step. The second step: finding good help, may be tougher. Many doctors will require parental consent for treatment, which it sounds like you need. Although, not the inpatient suicide-watch you’ve been on before. You don’t exactly sound suicidal to me.

It sounds to me that with the right combination of therapist and/or medication, you could begin to develop healthy coping mechanisms to replace the unhealthy ones you’ve learned to rely upon. Sure, it’ll require plenty of work on your end, but you can do it. It sounds like you’ve already managed to live through worse, which means that treatment should be breezier for someone as tough as yourself.

I’d start by calling these numbers:

Boys Town National Hotline:

1-800-448-3000

Self-Injury Foundation
1-800-334-HELP

Teen Contact:

972-233-8223

to see what sorts of advice they have for you in terms of getting the proper treatment you require. I’m not as familiar with the laws governing parental consent as I should be, but I’d be willing to bet that these people would know where to direct you to further help you.

If you’re over the age of consent, then, well, you don’t need to worry about telling your parents (unless you’re on their insurance plan). In that case, I’d make an appointment with a doctor who specializes in handling your types of issues (I’d start with PTSD for one) and see if you click. If you don’t, try another one. If you don’t like that one, KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU DO.

Because if you’re going to get treatment from someone, you do need to click. And you’ll know when you do. From there, you and your doctor can develop a proper treatment plan.

I wish you the best of luck, Prankster. Sending you loads of hugs.

Pranksters? Any other advice for MJ?

—————

Dear Aunt Becky,

This isn’t really an aunt becky question per se…

I mean I am asking you a question through this because I can’t figure out where else to ask you.  I know I read somewhere on you blog “It’s gin o’clock somewhere.”  I think that’s awesome and funny and I want to use that phrase of yours in a post.  I’m too scared about getting syphilis to just go ahead and steal it (and I am not normally prone to thievery), so I want to ask you before I go ahead and do that.  Also, I think it’s PERFECT for your next t-shirt!!  I would be first in line to buy it.  🙂  Did you always know you were awesome?

DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS MAKING MY ORDER?!?!

I kid, I kid.

But I did, seriously, say it, and I am totally going to make that into a shirt. “It’s Gin ‘o’ Clock Somewhere.”

I am also going to take this opportunity to shamelessly remind you to order one of my new shirts. And enter into this contest, which, um, I guess I’ll draw a winner next Friday?

—————–

So here’s my beef Aunt Becky,

All of my BFF’s are popping out tiny clones of themselves. I already have 3 1/2 year old twin boys. I love said boys but they are a shit-ton of work. As I see all these cute pregnant bitches and then corresponding cute little leeches, I start to think I may want one. Then the other side of me is like what the frick is wrong with you. When I was pregnant with the doublemint twins it was not the cakewalk I wanted it to be. Bedrest at 6months, delivery at 32weeks, I almost died and stuff. 7 weeks in the NICU and a few near deaths in between.

I am super freaked out that if I have another baby I will be all trauma and this time I have 2 kids at home who need me as well. And what if the new kid is all left out because the first ones are all “wonder twin powers combine.”

I’m sure that I am overthinking all of this and just being a freak.

Really though, if you were me would you have another?

FUCK to the NO.

I mean, I was done with having kids after three anyway, but after the horribly traumatic birth and brain surgery and shit with Amelia? I cannot fucking FATHOM having to go into that again. I’d be a mess. I’d be SUCH a mess. I mean, MORE THAN NORMAL EVEN.

That said, don’t let fear hold you back from your dreams, or some such movie quote with a wispy-haired heroine staring wistfully off into the sunset.

Can you live your life content with the wonder boys? Will you always be wanting one more? Or will you always be wanting one more if you have fifty-seven kids? THOSE are the questions I’d think as I’d hide my uterus from invading sperm.

As for me? My uterus is CLOSED for business. Until I meet my rockstar husband, of course. Then it’s wide open, baby.

—————–

As always, please pick up wherever I left off in the comments, Pranksters. Opinions are like assholes and we want to hear yours. The opinions, that is. Not the assholes. Because that’s just GROSS.