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One of the first things I did after we bought our house was lay down on the then-only-slightly-dingy-white (WHITE!) carpet and make a carpet angel. Because, well, OBVIOUSLY. Also: we’d gone from living in the three-bedroom equivalent of a dorm room into a house that had three floors. Like I could be in one room? And Daver could be in another? And we couldn’t hear each other.

(unless, of course, Daver was chewing, in which case, the squirrels in Siberia heard him)

It was beyond weird.

One of the second things I did was try frantically to make a baby (sorry for making you want to scrub your brain). For someone who got pregnant while on birth control just by being in the same room with a dude, I expected it to *ahem* be easier.

Eventually I got knocked up with Alex and 9 excruciating months full of  prepartum depression and lumbering about like a sea lion in maternity clothes later, he was born.

Hit your fast-forward button past the part where Alex looked like a garden gnome, his obsession with boobs, past the tremendous thyroid crash, past the near-nervous-breakdown, past the part where he wouldn’t let anyone but me hold him without shrieking, past the not-sleeping, past the insomnia and postpartum depression. Then go past the part where my friend of many years dies of cirrhosis at age 24 (or 25) and you’ll be caught up to Alex’s first birthday.

Or you can skip the words and just look closely at this picture to know all you needed to know about that year.

Anyway, when I told people I’d “planned to have another” I meant, “I’d planned to have another since I’ve been living in some sort of vaguely adorable hell and if I go too far from it, I’ll never go back.” They shook their head in disbelief – that is the kind of baby Alex was.

(thankfully, he’s merely grown into a maniacal mastermind who dresses up in butterfly costumes and watches My Little Pony)

A couple of days after Alex’s first birthday, once he’d finally decided that other people were not, in fact, Satan, I was out in the back yard, working in the garden I’d already painstakingly removed all traces of fake plants from (except, however, the petals, which I still, from time to time, find lurking in random places as a lil “Fuck You” from the previous owners, but I digress).

I realized, as I was sitting there, knee deep in dirt and mud, that I couldn’t actually recall the last time I’d had a period. Considering I hadn’t slept a full night in a year, I also didn’t know where my pants were and had just, upon waking one morning, poured an entire pot of scalding coffee on my hand before registering “FUCKING OW.”

I got up, left the kids out back with Daver, and went upstairs in search of an ancient pregnancy test. I’d had to stock up on them while we were TTC and had one leftover. One ancient test.

I bathed it in my urine, alone for once, quiet in the bathroom

Two lines popped up. The first – the “YOU’RE PREGNANT ASSHOLE” – line was there, but it was kinda…smeary.

Whatever, I said to myself (likely out loud, because I was that far gone). A line is a motherfucking line. Guess I’m having another baby!

I proudly brought my pee-covered stick outside to show Daver who had no idea what I’d been doing. “THERE,” I said, happily. “We’re having another baby!”

We did the happy dance for a second before returning to our children who were mucking around the backyard together.

The following morning, I woke up and, upon wiping, saw blood. Lots of it.

Okay, I figured, prolly a chemical pregnancy. That sucks.

I called my OB to make an appointment with the doctor to get my shot of Rho-Gam and make sure my beta was going down properly. He comforted me, I remember that, by saying that “sometimes these things do happen.” And while I was a little sad, I’ve known WAYYYY to many baby loss mamas for me to be sad about a bundle of cells that were never meant to be.

I called Daver at work and informed him that I’d lost the baby. We were both a little sad, but not like, prostrate (or prostate) with grief.

Until the next month.

When I got pregnant again.

The line was fainter, but, I told myself, it was still a line and hey, I’ve been drinking lots of water and shit, and well, LINE!

Two days after THAT positive pregnancy test, I began to bleed. Another chemical pregnancy.

I tried to comfort myself, but it didn’t work. I’d lost a lot in the previous year and, well, I’d really wanted that baby. I curled up on my couch and wept. And continued weeping until the hormones went back to normal. Dave just looked at me, unsure of what to do.

I did the only thing I could think to do – I went and bought roses. I come from a long line of rose growers, so I figured it was in my genetics.

It was.

It is.

Two climbing roses, I got that day at the greenhouse, 4 years ago. I didn’t know shit about climbing roses, besides that they prolly had spidey-sense and could be all, I WILL GROW ON TALL BUILDINGS WITHOUT TRAINING.

I was wrong.

Turns out? You have to train the fuckers. Like the puppy I’d gotten who, rather than comfort me in my grief, ate his own vomit, then puked it out on the carpet.

By this time? I was pregnant again. With my daughter. And when I began to spot around six weeks, I was placed on activity restriction. So my roses languished.

They languished again the following year, when I was coping with PTSD. The year after that, I tried, but barely managed to keep them “trained.”

This year, though, I have some help in the garden.

(not actually my garden. But my actual children)

I fucked up this year. When I was all, “Imma be proactive and shit, but not like John C. Mayer because I don’t have acne,” I got out all my chemicals and sprayed the bejesus outta the climbing roses, who have been fighting with black-spot for years.

Then, in an odd twist, we have a sudden cold snap. Guess what happened with the roses?

Oh yeah, their leaves were all, “Fuck this noise.”

So I was all, “Fuck me gently with a pickax – I’m never gonna be proactive again.” Then I kicked myself and thought about bacne for awhile.

I’ve spent the better part of several weeks removing the unhappy leaves from each of the roses. For normal roses, of which I have a kajillion, there are like 20 leaves. Maybe 100. I don’t know. Climbing roses, though, are a different story.

This rose?

Mark Zuckerberg Naked

I can’t count past twenty, but I think it has more than 100 leaves. And half of them have had to go. Painstaking, but true.

I’ve been removing dead shit like a motherfucker. And yesterday? I fought the rose.

Mark Zuckerberg Naked

The rose won.

(Scene: Aunt Becky, outside, underneath the rosebed, cursing my climbing roses, my lack of gardening gloves, the cats for peeing on my last nice set of gloves, and the stupid privacy screen for holding onto the fungus that causes black spot. The voices of little children can be heard in the background.)

Aunt Becky (fantasizing) “Grumble, grumble, I’ll fucking turn this cat into a fucking pair of slippers for pissing on my gloves.”

Alex, Age 5, (swoops over and plops on a tiny blue child-sized chair): “Mama, I’m bored.”

Aunt Becky: “Go play with Mark Zuckerberg.” (points at the peacock statue under the tree).

mark zuckerberg

Aunt Becky (mutters): “Need to get some statues of the Brothers Winklevii. Flamingos? Gnomes? MOTHERFUCKING BUTTERFLIES?”

Alex (still sitting in the chair, grumbling): “Nah, that’s boring. I wanna swing.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait your turn, J.”

Alex (begins to smile broadly): “Hahahahahaah! Ben* peed in the yard!”

Aunt Becky (turns head in Exorcist-type fashion):Whaaaaat?”

Alex (laughing so hard he can barely breathe): “Yep. He peed on the swing!”

Aunt Becky (recalling a similar incident several days prior): “BEN – GET OVER HERE NOW.”

Alex (giggling manically- scatological humor is, apparently, genetic): “He just whipped his penis out and started peeing!)

Aunt Becky (Furious George – about to throw down)

Ben (wanders over and looks down at me, under the rosebush, clearly confused): “What’s up, Mom?”

Aunt Becky (teeth gritted): “Did you pee in the yard – AGAIN?”

Ben (confused look): “No?”

Aunt Becky (knowing this child conveniently “forgets” things he’s done unless I’m particularly specific with him): “Your brother just said you did.

Ben (still confused): “I did NOT! He’s lying!”

Aunt Becky (looks around for Alex for confirmation – does not see him in the chair): “Whaaaa?”


Alex (laughing so hard he can barely speak): “I. stole. your. swing!” (erupts into gales of laughter)

Aunt Becky (secretly high-fiving the kid for being so cunning): “Alex - we don’t lie. Off the swings, both of you!”

Ben and Alex scamper off to play in the tree house that is not yet, in fact, a panic room ***.

Aunt Becky (beaming quietly with maternal pride as she goes back to her roses): “Atta boy.”

*my son, not the Guy On My Couch**

**I hope

***I have plans – GRAND plans for a panic room in my treehouse.

Dear “John C. Mayer,”

I know we’ve had a tumultuous relationship – we’re like when a tornado meets a volcano or um, cheese meeting macaroni, or something poetic, John C. Mayer. Whatever, John C. Mayer – I’m not the singer – YOU are.

For years, John C. Mayer, I despised you. Not because I knew you, John C. Mayer, or even because you, John C. Mayer had done anything personally to me.

Except that you, John C. Mayer did. You wrote that stupid “You’re Body Is A Wonderland” song. I mean, John C. Mayer, how many times do I have to hear my girlfriends ovulate all over the place when that stupid song comes on? How many torturous nights, John. C. Mayer do I have to hear my sappy girlfriends be all, “I *love this song – John C. Mayer wrote this about ME and now I want to have his sensitive babies,” before I snap, John C. Mayer?

Answer, John C. Mayer: about two hundred times.

And frankly, how dare you, John C. Mayer, sir, have the audacity to be both funny AND play the guitar like that? It’s unfair, John C. Mayer, because despite how much, I wanted to hate you, John C. Mayer, I simply cannot. Your humor, John C. Mayer is not a fluke, and you, John C. Mayer, are someone with whom I’d like to be friends.

You may recall, John C. Mayer, when the Internet Pulled A “John C. Mayer” and beat Google’s search algorithm to be among the very top of the search terms for “John C. Mayer.” It was originally an accident, John C. Mayer, but it turned into a prank so large that “Pulling A John C. Mayer” made it into Urban Dictionary. That may be, John C. Mayer, the very pinnacle of my existence.

john c mayerA photo taken during the John C Mayer Prank, complete with my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles.

Today, John C. Mayer, I checked to see where I ranked on Google. It’s been over two years (I think) since I Pulled a John C. Mayer on the Internet – certainly my page rank must’ve gone down. After all, John C. Mayer, I do not write a blog about John C. Mayer – instead, I prefer to write narcissistically about, well, me. That is what blogging is all about, right John C. Mayer?

(answer: yes)

And yet. And how. And this:

Screen shot from today. I beat out John C. Mayer’s blog AND Wikipedia. John C. Mayer totally loves me.

Anyway, I’m sure that your publicist, John C. Mayer would like me to die in a fiery blaze started possibly by a “malfunctioning kitchen appliance,” because WHOOPS! Behold the Power of the Pranksters, John C. Mayer!

But I’m a little afraid, now, John C. Mayer, that while your publicist may want to murder me with a pitchfork, that you, John C. Mayer may be in love with me. Now, I know what you’re thinking: who isn’t in love with John C. Mayer and his luscious mane of hairs? The answer would be me, John C. Mayer. I am not in love with you. While I do respect your kickin’ guitar riffs and may (or may not)(I’ll never tell) own several of your songs, I am not, John C. Mayer, in love with you.

But you, however, are stalking me John C. Mayer. Why would I say such a thing, John C. Mayer?

Because I got this in the mail. No return address. Just this. Now when I saw that I’d gotten mail, John C. Mayer, I got all happy in the pants because who doesn’t love PRESENTS? (answer people who hate the color blue, baskets of kittens, and/or lemon meringue pie).

John C. Mayer

Yes, that’s right. I got an unmarked life-sized poster of you, John C. Mayer. And I cannot think of a soul who would send this picture of you, John C. Mayer, rocking out besides, well, YOU.

Which means that you’re clearly stalking me, John C. Mayer.

And while that’s well and good – who can resist a chick who gardens in a cocktail dress and chainsaw? – I must inform you that sending me a life-sized poster of you, John C. Mayer is not the quickest way to my bubble gum lips.

Besides, John C. Mayer, I’m engaged. To a Twitter Dog, Dublin Cook.


Warmest Regards,

Aunt Becky

P.S. You might want to try sending diamonds next time, John C. Mayer. Works better on loosening up the vaginal bits than a life-sized poster of you, John C. Mayer.


P.P.S. The original John C. Mayer Prank was done by accident – I’d written him this letter, which boosted me up to Google’s like 4th search term for “John C. Mayer.” Drunk on my new-found knowledge, I then taught the Internet how to prank Google so that we can get our blogs to be the top search term for a particular celebrity. Whacha think? Should we do it again, Pranksters?

The answer, John C. Mayer Pranksters, is YES. Things have been too damn serious for too damn long – it’s time to do some prankage, Pranksters. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

(Instructions for Pulling a John C. Mayer are here)

So it’s your turn. Link up, Pranksters, and help each other by leaving comments wherein you use THEIR celebrities name a lot in the comments, use Stumble Upon, Facebook, retweet them, you know – let’s get Google good! Let’s get PRANKING!Comments should look like this to get more traction with Google:

“Aunt Becky I can’t believe you’re pulling a John C. Mayer again. John C. Mayer will rue the day that John C. Mayer wrote “Your Body is a Wonderland.”

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