My favorite part of traveling, besides getting some Hot TSA Action, is Skymall. I don’t think there’s much I love more than Skymall. When Your Aunt Becky boards a plane, the first thing she does is scour the seats for a new copy of Skymall.

I then proceed to annoy everyone around me by giggling profusely and yelling things like, “Y’all, who needs a Kitty Shitter? Because I do.”

Today, Pranksters, after a weekend of blogging conference wherein I learned some bloggers actually get TRIPS paid for them, whereas I am pretty sure Uncrustables is gearing up to sue me for mentioning their name, I am bringing you a list. A list of what I want from Skymall. My birthday is coming up, you know*.

Because hey, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be getting my yacht for blogging any time soon.

*I’m not actually asking anyone buy me a gift because that’s just awkward.

The new push in social media is “branding,” right? The whole “branding” conversation makes my eyeballs bleed….unless, I am actually able to BRAND things.

Like I could with this.

I could brand EVERYONE I know with a fancy MWV rather than passing out business cards. This is a total win.

Over the weekend, I got into a conversation with some of my friends about death and cemeteries. Because I am a Fun-Guy to be with and we clearly know how to party.

And I decided that, along with the out-of-work-actors I’d pay to weep and howl at my graveside in shifts every day, I required THIS statue to go on my grave somewhere. This just seems to be an obvious choice for me.

Ah, the infamous Kitty Shitter.

Why HIDE that pesky Kitty Shitter when you can leave it RIGHT THERE IN THE OPEN? With a fake potted plant atop it to boot! Certainly, no one would suspect that it could be a place for cats to put their feces, right?

But here’s my question: wouldn’t you rather your guests SEE the litter box so that when your cat takes a wild dump, your guest isn’t sitting there uncomfortably wondering if YOU, perhaps, have just shit yourself?

It’s things like these that keep me awake at night.

I need this chair to continue blogging.

Period.

P.S. It’s not tacky AT ALL.

P.P.S. No. It’s not. Shut your whore mouth.

Talk about “where the magic happens.”

I require this.

But I’m nervous that when I install it, I’ll be that creepy person that’s all, “HAI, WANNA TAKE A SHOWER?” to every person that walks into my house. Including my parents.

#awkward

Now, they SAY there are “more sizes available” but do you think that any of these might fit someone who’s 5’5″? This is important, Pranksters. See, now, *I* have anxiety and no one has offered ME a soothing blanket. That’s bullshit.

I might need a Dog Anxiety Blanket for me.

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So what’s been up while I’ve been busily scouring SkyMall, Pranksters?

Dear Aunt Becky,

There is a burning question I think we all want, no NEED, to know that answer to.

Of the Uncrustables, (which I think we can agree are all awesome) – what’s your fav?  I personally can’t get enough of the PB/Honey….

Inquiring minds want to know.

As far as I am concerned, Prankster, there IS no other flavor than the Peanut Butter/Honey Uncrustables. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that all other flavors of Uncrustables are BULLSHIT.

Knowing that you’re a fellow Uncrustable lover makes my heart happy. And hungry.

(no, this blog is not sponsored by Uncrustables, just powered by it)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I was divorced a couple of years ago when my son was 2. Since then, he has been diagnosed with a (ultimately) terminal illness that will make him progressively mentally and physically impaired.

He is unable to report abuse (or even pain – he had an undiagnosed small bone in his foot for three weeks before we figured out what was going on because he never complained or even limped) because his vocabulary is approximately 50 words, all nouns like “apple”, “water” and “chicken” to let us know he is thirsty or hungry.

I am so fearful to get out into the dating world because I am afraid of predators who would love to get into a relationship with a woman whose 5 year old is unable to tell mommy about being molested. How many dates is appropriate before tell you tell a guy you have a kid, get to know that they like you for yourself and not for your luscious little boy? Yes, I have issues.

Signed,

MPS Mom

Dear Prankster, Living with a child with such an illness must be a tremendous stress and I’m very sorry. I’d love it if you wrote about it for Band Back Together.

When I met The Daver, my son – who is autistic and, at the time, had a very limited vocabulary – was two years old. The Daver knew from Moment One that I was “Becky, the girl with a kid” because that’s the way we were introduced. Ben has always been a part of my vocabulary and I’d never once considered that he might be after me for my kid.

If and when you’re ready to date, there’s no reason you have to introduce your kid to your dates until you trust them. That’s TOTALLY up to you!

However, I believe any future relationship may run into issues if your boyfriend learns way down the line that you have a kid. Might be a little off-putting and awkward.

I’d say tread lightly into the dating world if it worries you. Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky;

After reading almost all of your blog posts in a week (yes ma’am I have) I have determined: a) you’re the smartest person in the universe or b) slightly off key, and either way, I am seeking your advice, because I find I am not receiving good advice from my fam.

I’m a single mom, 2 years divorced, and trying one of the oft advertised “dating” websites, and wondering: WHY THE F**K ARE MEN SUCH F**KTARDS?

Why, after speaking to me for approximately two seconds, would anyone feel is it appropriate or appreciated to tell me the how’s and why’ of their sex life and what they prefer?

I clearly stated in my profile I want to know someone longer than a minute before divulging my preferences about having the sex, so why does anyone think that is appropriate? UGH.

I am destined to be single forever.

DOUBLE UGH.

I might prefer to be single.

Thank you, Aunt Becky (btw, you’re far cooler than any of my real aunts, even though I think you may be younger than me in real life, which would be very strange.)

-Aggravated at Dating in General.

Aw, Aggravated, I’d be happy to be your Aunt. Adopting The Internet RULES, especially because I don’t have to buy it all Christmas gifts. Although since you said I might be the smartest person ever, I’ll buy you LOTS of presents. LOTS.

I’m going to make the assumption that you’re not using Match.com (read: hook-up.com) or Craig’s List to find dates.

Do you remember Penis Gate? Are you on The Twitter? If you were, you probably would.

Basically, word got out that a certain well-known daddy blogger had been sending naked weenie pictures of himself to others (people tend to email me pictures of a) three wolf moon paraphernalia or b) orchids). Like a lot.

So I made a joke about it. And it comes to my attention that THIS IS A COMMONISH THING. Which makes me wonder a) why I don’t get naked weenie pictures and b) why the fuck anyone would WANT a naked penis picture. #blech.

There are certain men (and women) out there, I suppose Prankster, that are just morons. And the availability of Internet hook-ups makes enough of them think it’s perfectly normal to be all Uncle Pervy.

Just think of it like your Pervy Uncle who goes out to weddings and tries to grind with everyone from the cocktail waitress to the wall because he thinks you want to rub up against his sweaty wang. There’s those guys out there. And the guys who kindly ask you to dance.

They’re there. Just not as….prominently.

And should you decide to remain single together, you can move on in with me. I have cats AND orchids. We can be two freaks in a house. Maybe we should learn to KNIT!

This is gonna be EPIC.

Me (hobbling out of the bathroom 5-weeks post-abdominal surgery): “Oh my God.”

(flops on bed)

Me: “I shouldn’t have showered.”

Mandi: “Yeah.”

Me: “What are we watching?”

Mandi: “A documentary on hot dogs.”

Me: “Oooh! I’ve seen this before.”

(crawls under covers)

(silence ensues)

(time passes)

Me: “What the hell time is that party tonight?”

Mandi: “I dunno. Six? Seven?”

Me: “But we need to finish this show.”

Mandi: “Yeah. But you’ve seen it before.”

Me: “It was that fucking good.”

Mandi: “Oh fuck yeah.”

Me: “Parties are bullshit. Let’s fucking stay here and watch this show.”

Mandi: “We have go.”

Me: “Yeah. YEAH. Fuck. I’m so comfy.”

Mandi: “We need to finish this documentary. Period.”

Me: “I wonder what’s up next?”

Mandi: “Ooooooh! A documentary on Amelia Earhart.”

Me: “Let’s order room service, yo.”

Mandi: “Okay.”

Me: “We know how to PARTY.”

Mandi: (makes sign of the horns) “FUCK YEAH.”

I know that most of you have an image of me, angrily ranting about John C. Mayer while eating delicious encased meats, and while that’s partially spot-on, I’m not normally all that ranty. Unless it’s about the lazy bastards who leave their shopping carts in the parking lots rather than the corral. Because that’s a hot pile of bullshit.

But I’ve been violated by the TSA in more ways that I can count and still don’t care. Hell, I like to think of it as “action” rather than “violation of rights.”

But as I stood in line yesterday, ready to get some hot TSA action, I couldn’t help but overhearing a conversation going on behind me. They were talking about a child who’d stolen a car from his stepfather to see his “real dad.”

Rather than become outraged by the stupid kid (he was 7)(we all know kids under 9 shouldn’t drive), I was pissed by the “real dad” comment. Because if there’s a “real” dad, there must be a “fake” one.

In Casa de la Sausage, there lives a man. He’s the one who takes the child to the doctor – he’s even got the doctor’s programmed on speed dial – and the one who is up at night when we have fevers. He cleans up puke and sputum. He goes to parent/teacher conferences and field trips. He soothes hurt feelers and rocks babies to sleep. He got a couple of poems written in his honor for Father’s Day. He – like the rest of us who know what it’s like to barf in a bucket while holding your kid’s head over the toilet – should get a medal.

He happens to be the favored parent in the house.

That, Pranksters, is a father. There is no one fucking fake thing about it. It chaps my ass that a single person would doubt it.

No, he wasn’t there for the conception (was I?) or the birth. But shooting a load into a vagina does not a “real” father make.

I *know* who fathers my children. There’s nothing fake about it.

There are no words to express the awesomeness of this except for #winning. Thanks, Prankster Dorothy for making this for me. It will be treasured always.

I’m off to Type A Parent, where I’m certain to horrify everyone with my Type B-ness (it’s a nice way of saying, “I’m lazy as fuck.”).

I’m hoping for some hot TSA action.

Because I AM Type A about mah blog, I’m certain that I’ll be blogging ON LOCATION. Which sounds so much fancier when I put it that way.

Happy Trails, Pranksters. Be good. Or as good as *I* am. Which isn’t very good at all.

So you popped out a couple of crotch parasites, eh? And now you’re all, dubya-tee-eff? You mean I have to PARENT these things? That’s bullshit.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Things You Probably Don’t Want To Do With Your Kids This Summer:

1) Hand them a bag of glass and say, “sshhhh, Mama’s playing Angry Birds.” Why? Because the glass could scratch the surface of your iPhone and that is so not cool.

2) Tell them to fry up some Kool-Aid for lunch. Why? Fried Kool-Aid is DINNER FOOD.

3) Make them cut the lawn with their teeth. Because, trust me, it’ll be SO uneven that way.

4) Introduce them to telenovelas. Now, I love me a good telenovela, but the very last thing my children need is to learn to be MORE DRAMATIC. Seriously, they could out-drama any Mommy Blogger out there.

5) Introduce them to Barney. Because if you end up listening to that motherfucking purple dinosaur sing about love for twelve hours a day, you might go homicidal.

6) Make them BBQ things. Because who knows, they’ll probably just use the BBQ to cook squirrels. Unless your Cletus, the Slack-Jawed Yokel, you don’t want that shit. Plus, I hear squirrels are high in calories.

7) Make them build you a deck. Because while the free manual labor is nice, you do need those boards to go together justso and frankly, kids are sloppy creatures.

8 ) Teach them to drive. Because we all know two-year olds can’t properly signal.

9) Teach them to Tweet for you. Because all they’d have to say is, “My butt smells like poop.”

10) On second thought, perhaps you SHOULD teach them to tweet for you. It sounds miraculously like something I’d say. Except I’d add a “PLZ RT” to it.

Things You SHOULD Do With Your Kids This Summer:

1) Teach them to make a mean martini. There’s always room for vodka, right? And learning to make a decent martini is a valuable Life Skill.

2) Use them as foot-rests while you’re playing Angry Birds or watching a telenovela. They’re just the right size for it. Just say, “We’re playing a game. You’re a rock! And rocks don’t move unless they’re smashed. YOU don’t want to be smashed, do you?”

3) Make them clean out the spiders in the garage. Because they’ve got to get over their fear of spiders SOMEHOW. May as well be now.

4) Teach them to ride their scooters to the liquor store to pick up “Mama’s Medicine.”

5) Outsource them to a third-world country to learn how to properly stitch clothes together. That way, they can make their OWN clothes AND they’ll see what it’s like to live in a third-world country! It’s a WIN!

There you go, Parents! It’s Aunt Becky’s Guide To Summer Activities With Yer Crotch Parasites!

Happy Summer!

I had a fairly vivid series of dream/wake hallucinations (no, this isn’t a standard blog post about my dreams because, well, my dreams tend to involve eating cheeseburgers and/or marshmallow castles) after The Great Stomach Bug of ‘Eleven, Part II. Those hallucinations were, in part, fueled by the Demerol I’d been given by the ER, but they were fairly important, nonetheless.

See, one of them was all, “Get the fuck off your lazy ass and DO SOMETHING.” And by “something,” my hallucination didn’t mean to build a panic room in my tree. It was telling me to get over myself and go to some of those blogging conferences everyone angsts about.

So I did.

I bought my ticket to Type-A Mom the following day.

I’ve been saying “I’m going to Assville” ever since. I’m certain that the folks down in Assville appreciate that to no end, because, well, I’m sure they’ve never heard THAT one before. I sincerely hope I can get a shirt down there that says, “I’ve been to Assville,” because how classy is that? (answer: VERY CLASSY)

I’m pretty excited about going, actually, Assville or not. I know everyone gets all angsty about these conferences, and trust me, I’ve had my cases of ennui (whatever that means), but I’m really excited to see some of my friends.

Most bloggers spend months preparing for this sort of thing – carefully choosing outfits and coordinating nail polish colors – but me? I’ll be lucky if I pack BEFORE the limo comes to pick me up on Wednesday. Otherwise, I’ll make the driver help.

Nah, the only thing I’m doing to prepare is to get a bikini wax. Because, we all know everyone at this conference is going to see my beav. Or care what it looks like. I barely care, truth be told.

Like microwaving Peeps, it just seems like a good idea.

But I’m going to be dead honest with you, Pranksters: I’m nervous about the waxing. I’ve never done one before. Having some tiny, angry Russian lady pulling chunks of my hair out of my crotchal region sounds like the kinda party I don’t want to go to.

I mean, what if she MOCKS MY VAGINA? Because she totally could. And if I was laying there, all spread-eagled on the table, I don’t think I want someone MOCKING my crotch. I’ve delivered three children through that vagina: I’ve been through enough humiliation. I might cry. And then, I’d bet, because she’s all Russian and stoic and shit, she’d bitch slap me for crying.

Pranksters, OMG, what if the Russian waxer lady BITCH-SLAPS ME and then calls her OTHER waxer friends over to bitch-slap me, too! I’m dying inside just THINKING about it.

But if my dream/hallucination is correct, I must get a wax. I must! Well, okay, so the dream didn’t specify what I was supposed to do with my vagina, but you know, I’m sure that it MEANT I needed to wax.

So if you see me at Type A Mom this week, be sure to compliment my vagina.

Or buy me a drink. Whatever.

————-

I’m over at Cafe Mom talking about shared custody which seems especially timely since The Daver wrote about becoming a stepfather yesterday for Band Back Together.

For Father’s Day, instead of thanking all the men in my life which, GAG, we decided a blog carnival over at Band Back Together would be a better idear.

So all day today, you’ll see Father’s Day from some different perspectives: some good, some bad, some truly awful, but all real stories. Just like you like ’em.

If you’ve written about Father’s Day on your own blog, you can link up to The Master Blog Post here (that looks to me to say “Masturbater” but I think I’m exceptionally tired).

Please feel free to celebrate Father’s Day With The Band. I know I’ll be there.

Blog, Blog, GOOOSE!

My homeslice Crystal showed me this video yesterday:

And I died laughing.

If you’re like me and you normally don’t watch videos on blogs, I suggest you change your ways for a single day. This is SO worth it.

Because I made a video response.

You’re welcome.