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Like the 25-year old adult that I have freakishly become, I celebrated college graduation AND passing of the Nursing Boards by committing to a surprisingly adult job. I know. I KNOW.

I must admit that my job hunting, unlike my English Major cohorts, I have been blessed to enter into my chosen (for the VERY short-term) a field that is interested in 3 main criteria:

1. A CPR/ACLS card
2. A License
3. A Warm Body

It’s nice in one sense, as I have my pick of positions at any number of hospitals, kick-ass benefits, and shifts. It is, however, decidedly unflattering, in the way that you don’t actually get picked on merit or awards, more on pulse and respirations. If you’re a warm-ish body, you’re pretty much hired.

This has been one of two weeks of orientation that I have had to undergo and I’m stuck in a room with 40 people who are so toothfully chipper and GO NURSING that it almost makes me ashamed and embarrassed. Not one of them knows that I’m really not looking forward to getting onto the floor and wiping asses and taking shit from people. They’ve all been waiting years for this day and I would rather be applying latex paint to a house with my tongue.

I’m trying to be optimistic about the next week as it will be one of the only times that we get a free lunch and more or less free reign over what we do. I do not scoff at free lunches. The size of my ass should tell you that.

So, for eight hours every day I am forced to sit through lecture upon lecture from EVERY department in the hospital because they’re still dating us right now and trying to woo us and make us take off our panties so that we can go all the way with them. I don’t mind being wooed. I do mind that we’re about to be butt-raped, but that’s neither here nor there.

Of the more interesting things that I’ve learned is this: If you’re at work and you accidentally run into your co-worker who is carrying a sheet of glass and you cut yourself, and he picks up the pieces of broken glass covered in your blood, he SHOULD NOT stick the bloody glass in his eyes.

I am very glad that they cleared that up for me because I had spent most of the week before that wondering about that exact same scenario. It’s like the hospital is psychic or something.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off too find some glass to break before I have to listen to a scintillating lecture about what Laundry Services does. It’s certain to be a nail biter.

I got my first tattoo almost three years ago for my 22nd birthday. It’s a gecko that takes up most of my right foot, very niftily colored and adorable and he’s there to remind me to always be true to myself which is something that I had to learn the hard way.

Location was key because I needed to be able to hide it. I have enough foresight to know that in 50 years, getting “I HEART KURT COBAIN” on my boob probably wouldn’t be a huge hit at the rest home and might require a little explaining on my wedding day, so the foot it was.

It hurt like a motherfucker. Of course it did. For weeks.

To celebrate becoming Aunt Becky, RN, BSN, I decided to do something special for myself because what I just did–graduate school after completely flipping around my educational dreams and desires and change career paths entirely–that’s a Big Fucking Deal. It needed to be commemorated with something more than a haircut or a purse.

My other foot is now the proud new owner of a throbbing swollen foot covered by a large, pink tattooed seahorse.

It’s the other lesson I want to remember with The Wedding That Ate My Life looming just around the corner: I can always make it on my own.


My first nickname was given to me by my much older and very cruel creative older brother Aaron.


Apparently, because I was short* and and stubbly like a small, uh, stump, he decided that this would be my nickname. And it was for the first 23 years of my life, until his wife chewed him out for it.

My parents called me Rebecca because they seem to think Becky is a terrible name which seems awfully stupid to me, because Becky is the logical shortening of that name, but whatever. They’re hippies and hippies wear Patchouli Oil and THAT doesn’t REALLY doesn’t make sense. (also, spell check hates Rebecca but loves Becky. THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE, PEOPLE).

Throughout the years I’ve had other nicknames because really, who doesn’t?

Ben calls me “Mom,” my friends call me “Becks,” “Sherrick” or some variation of the two, and The Daver calls me “Baby” or “Motherfucker.” Both said with equal amounts of love, if you can believe it.

For my first blog, my nickname was Ren, although I usually used my real name because I never could believe that I was important enough that anyone would stalk me and here I absolutely use my real name.

With one addition.

One very IMPORTANT addition.

I am now Your Aunt Becky.

Okay, so I’m obviously not your aunt, because if I were, don’t you think you would have seen me around at some christening or maybe a birthday party somewhere? You’d have certainly gotten some sort of holiday card from me because I’m good like that, and you’d know that I am known for being such a bad cook that no one wants me near the kitchen.

So we’re not related.

But we are.

On the Internet, I am Your Aunt Becky because I am no one’s Aunt Becky in real life.

Admittedly, being The Internet’s Aunt is easier on my Amex because I don’t have to buy you guys frilly hats and booties and spoil you rotten because I don’t know what size you are anyway.

So there we have it.

Nice to meet you, Internet. I am Your Aunt Becky.

*for the record, I am 5 foot 5 inches. I’m hardly a stump.

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