Flying, for me, is never an easy feat. Not, you know, because I need to be medicated within an inch of my life to get on a plane or anything. I actually like to fly and am not a particularly nervous flier despite the whole nearly dying on the way back from LA thing that happened back in January.

(I submit that if I am to die on a motherfucking plane, there better be some motherfucking snakes, just because, you know, well, obviously)

But when I get on a plane, it’s always something with me.

Mostly, it’s because the world thinks I’m a terrorist or a super-secret-super-spy, which is probably the most laughable thing one could think about me because I can barely hide what I’m thinking, let alone if I were holding the world’s secrets in my bag or something.

(I do not play Poker, obviously, unless it is for pocket change)

This whole “Aunt Becky is a Terrorist” thing started when I was a kid, actually. I started getting pulled aside for extra searches long before 9-11 and the shoe bomber ever made headlines around the world.

When I was a kid, they’d often tear apart my stuffed animals in front of my stricken face to make sure that I wasn’t smuggling…uh…I don’t know what in them. Unsatisfied by the mere stuffing within, they’d move onto my luggage, and rip that apart, too.

Clearly, they never found anything. Your Aunt Becky may cop to many charges: ‘obnoxious,’ ‘painfully annoying,’ highly irritating,’ and ‘devastatingly handsome,’ but ‘terrorist’ and ‘drug smuggler’ are not two of them.

For some reason, every time I go through security, no matter what city I’m in, I’m constantly singled out for pat-downs, occasional strip-searches and the rare back-room interrogation.

My past is about as glamorous as dry toast, and while I have toured Europe (twice) with a traveling orchestra, it was never to any of the countries that might even raise an eyebrow. Even my current name: “Rebecca Sherrick Harks” or my given name “Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick” aren’t exactly inspired to make you think, ‘Wow, that’s a terrorist name!’

In fact, I am primarily Swedish, Scottish, English and Black Irish, if you must know my pedigree. My swarthiness comes from the Black Irish.

And you know, if it had happened a handful of times, I’d have written it off as a coincidence. But it’s happened far too often for that. There’s clearly something in My Permanent Record that says,

“Rebecca Sherrick Harks (a.k.a Rebecca Elizabeth Sherrick), VERY bad blogger, likes to hang out in serial killer section of hardware stores, possible person of interest and should ALWAYS be subjected to extra security.”

It took me watching the full two seasons of Life, (boo, NBC, bring that show back!) to realize what my problem was: I do kinda look a little Middle Eastern.

I guess this means that until I remarry someone with a TOTALLY vanilla name (I’m looking at YOU Mr. John Smith), dye my skin and hair, I’ll probably always get a little action with my plane ticket.

Which, I guess, is a bonus.

Remind me not to pack my teddy bear, okay?

——————–

P.S. LOOK ON MY SIDEBAR! See that big button that says, “Aunt Becky Tees?” Yes, Pranksters, you can buy a Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt now. Um, AWESOME.

For probably *counts on fingers* I don’t know, a LOT of years, I’ve been getting the same hair cut. A simple blunt cut to my shoulders that I eventually let grow out until I cut it back up again. Once in awhile I’ll put in a funky color or add some layers, but really, that’s about it. I’m not one of those people who looks good in trendy hair cuts so I leave those to people who do.

I blame my inability to venture out into the land of sassy haircuts on two things:

1) My mother gave me bangs in the third grade. These bangs started at approximately the nape of my neck and went to the bottom of my eyebrows. She’d cut them in a straight line across every couple of weeks. I STILL shudder when I think of bangs.

2) In a stunning fit of “I WILL LOOK LIKE AN ADORABLE PIXIEEEEE!” I allowed my friend Rory, who is neither a hairdresser, nor a great judge of anything to give me a haircut when I was in high school. The result?

I looked like a boy. I’m not a girl who can pull of that adorable pixie do no matter how hard I try.

So I stick with what looks mostly okay.

May, 2010

College Graduation, 2005.

Alex’s first birthday, 2008.

But this week, desperate for a little change, I figured I’d do something different. Which is probably not the brightest thing to do when you’re about to meet 2,000 people you’re trying to convince you’re not a Crazy Internet Middle Earth Person.

Luckily, I never claimed that my elevator ran to the top floor, so that’s precisely what I did when I went into get my hairs did. I said, “I need to do something different with my hair.”

I came out nearly sobbing. I called one of my Internet Friends, Jen, and said, “I LOOK LIKE FUCKING JOAN JETT. COME OVER NOW.”

And she did. Because I did.

Words cannot describe how upset I was until I broke out Mommy’s Little Helper:

And had a brilliant idea. Because the best ideas are always formed when you are half-drunk.

With a hair clip, lifted handily from my daughter’s unused collection, all was fixed.

Except, maybe, for my killer hangover the following morning.

——————

So pull up a chair and pour yourself a tall glass of vodka, Pranksters, and tell your Aunt Becky about your worst hair cut. Misery loves company, and all that.

—————

I’m over at Toy With Me today talking about how when you look good (heh), you feel better about yourself. Turns out that maybe Cosmo was right about something after all.

Did you ever see that movie where those yuppies sold all of their crap and RV-d it across America? THAT’S AWESOME and I TOTALLY want to do that. Except I wouldn’t bring my children because while they’re kinda cute and lovable, I really don’t want to deal with them complaining about stopping at seedy truck stops while I search for a lighter that looks like a gun.

(side note: I adore truck stops)(one time, I had a fantasy where I was going to BECOME a trucker until I realized it’s kind of a dangerous profession for a woman)

Anyway, I like to pretend that one day, I’ll be able to do just that: roam the country and hang out with my Pranksters. Perhaps I’ll even get drunk, make an ass of myself (which I do sober, too) and vomit on your carpeting! I know, don’t all line up to invite me over at once, hear?

For now, I have to settle for NYC at the end of the week, where I’ll hopefully meet at least SOME of my Band of Merry Pranksters.

Now I will attempt to answer a question I get a lot (also questions I get a lot: “why are you so annoying?” (answer: I was born that way) “why does anyone put up with you?” (I pay them highly) and “how do I get more blog traffic?” (mayonnaise!)):

Are you really like this?

And the answer is…yes. Mostly.

1) I really do want to meet you. I offered to exchange phone numbers a couple of weeks ago, and I meant it. My offer still stands, although I will pester you to then send me a picture of you flipping me the bird. I’m attempting to populate my address book with these gems.

So email me. I mean it.

2) If you happen to see me and I have a weird look on my face, I am probably very confused. I take high doses of a medication whose side effect is “cognitive impairment,” which is a fancy-pants way of saying, “this shit will make your ass stupid (er).” So, it’s likely I’m making a bad face because I am confused by something, not because I hate you.

3) Please come and say hello to me no matter what I am doing. Because chances are, even if I am in the middle of writing a thesis about why sausage is sorely underrepresented in today’s billboards (WHY GOD!?!), I’d much rather you said hello. And maybe came along to join in with whatever mischief I am managing.

C) With a few notable (read: my panel) exceptions, I have very little planned for the trip, which leaves the trip WIDE OPEN for all kinds of Pranking and Mayhem-Creating. I expect your help in this. Yes, YOU.

7) You should come to my panel, if you’re going to the conference.

It’s on Friday from 1:15-2:30 and I’m speaking with the Mouthy Housewives about stuff-n-things. Luckily, it’s on Friday, so we should all be fairly lucid. Mostly.

You will know me because I am the only swarthy dark-haired one.

5b) I’m perhaps a little nicer in real life, but that’s maybe subject to debate. I guess it depends on what your definition of “nice” is. But I’m not going to be all snarky on your ass if I don’t know you. I do have SOME manners. And by “some” I mean that I’m mostly housebroken.

9) I can’t say no to most dares. But I’ll make you reciprocate with a dare of your own. BE WARNED.

K) I may hump you while I eat a hot dog. It’s probable, actually. Sorry.

10) I have a gigantic inflatable #1 finger. It’s pretty much awesome and I plan to use it whenever possible.

87) I want to remake the Beastie Boys “Sabotage” video while we’re in NYC. With Ninjas. Because, obviously.

aa) I may spend all of my time trying to track down my 2nd television husband, Anthony Bourdain. I may not.

08) Once I get an idea in my head about doing something off the wall, I can’t stop myself from doing it. If you’re with me and I’m in the middle of it, yes, I probably mean it. It’s better to either get out or buckle up.

42) Pictures = awesome. But we may have to find hilarious poses first. Because you don’t want to look back and be all, “wow, another stupid picture.” You want a hilarious picture of us flinging donuts at other (unassuming) bloggers. Then you want a picture of us being chased by aforementioned bloggers. CLEARLY.

11) There really is very little I won’t do.

——————–

So, Pranksters, are You, In Real Life, how you appear on your blog?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Just 3 weeks ago, I found out that my boyfriend of 7 years has been sleeping with an ugly, stupid woman he works with.  He used to make fun of her all of the time by forwarding her emails to me and to other people in her office.

Her emails contained such gems as “I am staying home with a migrant today.”  She meant “migraine,” but everyone speculated that she had swung by Home Depot and picked up a guy for the day.  She also claims that things aren’t “worth her wild.”  I still have those emails.  What should I do?

You’re the best!

ThreeBadDogs

Oh, Prankster, how my heart hurts for you, because I have SO been there before, and I can tell you that it’s bad enough when someone cheats on you, but it’s THAT MUCH WORSE when it’s someone with half a brain. Or someone who is, perhaps, butt-ugly WITH half a brain.

So I’m sorry. That’s lousy and I have total sympathy. It’s happened to me twice and it’s brutal.

As for what you should do with the emails, I can suggest posting them on Mushroom Printing (it’s the group blog and you can post them over there if you choose), and I’ll ask my other Pranksters for advice here as well. What should she do with these emails?

Dearest Aunt Becky,

I have a dilemma that I would love your advice on. I’m not close to any of my real aunts and I don’t have any sisters, but you are the best Aunt of the Internet out there so I figured you could help. Forgive me that it’s a bit long.

Anyway, I am having a problem with men. Just like every other woman in the world. However, I feel like my own judgment can’t get any worse and I need to dig myself out of this hole I am in.

I am 19 years old. I dated a much older man for about two months. He was mostly good to me and we had a great time together. Amazing chemistry. I found myself falling in love with him very, very fast and equally hard! I was head over heels for this guy (still am…) and I would do anything for him. Including “understanding” him being with his ex-girlfriend. They had a history and clearly he wasn’t ready to let go of her, although they broke up over a year ago. He stopped seeing her altogether when we were dating. In my naive little mind, things were going my way. Then, all the sudden, he meets up with his ex, they “talk” and she ends up spending 2 nights at his house, all while he ignores my calls and ruins our plans together.

So I was done with him. Extremely broken hearted and deeply in love, the last time I saw him was when I left his house sobbing so hard I couldn’t even drive straight.

Fast forward to the present day, about 3 weeks later. I met a really nice guy on July 4th. We have been dating since. However, I find myself really…not myself in this relationship. Normally I am sweet, fun, flirty, and very affectionate. I tend to get close to people quickly.

This hasn’t happened with the new guy.

I like him a lot, he’s a very sweet guy and nothing like the last prick I dated. I just find myself not caring if he calls me, not caring if he wants to see me, and not caring about…him in general.

I feel so numb from my last relationship that I don’t give a shit if I get close to this guy. I really, really want to give a shit, though. I want to be my old self. I want to let my guard down. But I feel like the last guy broke my heart so bad that it can’t even function.

I’m way too young to even be in this situation. Aunt Becky, what the flying fuck do I do?!

Much love,

Lauren

Aw, sweetie, I’m sorry you got your heart trampled on. Same thing happened to me at that age and I STILL remember driving away from his house sobbing like a baby (aside: I am not sure I have a heart anymore, but that is neither here nor there). When we fall, we fall hard, huh?

Anyway, that’s a good thing that you can love so deeply, even if it hurts now. Sometimes, we need time to get over the people we loved before we can let ourselves open up to someone new. It sounds to Your Aunt Becky like your heart is still hurting from the one who broke your heart before and that’s okay. There’s no time limit on the length of time it takes to get over something like that.

I think the people we loved are always a part of us even when we’re no longer together.

That love you had changed who you were forever. Maybe for now, you’re a little more wary of opening up to someone new, but I promise, you will be able to love someone again. Just give yourself time to mourn what you lost before expecting yourself to bounce right back.

Love you, Prankster. Hard.

Dear Aunt Becky,

In the few months I’ve been following your blog, I’ve tried to come up with a suitable question for you. Unfortunately my mind seems to be stuck on a single question and until I ask it, I’m not going to be able to think of another. So, would you rather watch a porno with your parents, or one starring them?

Mystern

The answer is simple, my good friend: mayonnaise.

—————

As always, Pranksters, please fill in with the comments where I left off, yo.

Today, I have someone posting for me who I MET ON THE INTERNET. Do you remember when that was all scary and you had to be all, “I’m meeting someone FROM THE INTERNET” and then you were supposed to call and check in like 57 times with your BFF because Internet People were kinda like Mole People in that they rose from the Earth to kill you dead and were all all be shifty-eyed and shady?

And now, just LOOK AT US ALL!

(shifty-eyed and shady!)(also: pantsless!)

Anyway, this is The Next Martha, who is my friend in real life, which goes to show that I CAN MAKE FRIENDS (let’s be friends, Pranksters!), dammit, and that Internet People can also wear pants sometimes! Like me! Just not right now.

————————–

Here’s the situation. It’s not that I believe that penises are better than what I have because let’s face it, they’re not. I don’t see 8 lbs of anything coming out of their pipe. It’s just that being a woman and not having a penis really pisses me off when it comes to dealing with men.

For example: I decide to hire someone to help me with some of the edging and mulching that I am clearly not going to get to this year.

Man shows up. I show him the back (which sounds way dirtier than it is) and make some small talk about gardening, since he is in the biz after all.

Me: “So you see many butterflies this year?”

Man with Penis: “I think so.”

Me: “Really? Because I have hardly seen any.”

Man with Penis: “You know there’s plants you can attract them with.”

Me: “You mean like those? (I say as I point to my 8ft by 20ft butterfly garden)

Blah, blah, use us, blah, blah, easy job, blah

Man With Penis: “Oh and I only use American workers”

Me: “Oh?”

Man With Penis: “You know because you don’t want a bunch of Mexicans walking around your yard.”

If I had a penis, this is where I would whip it out, lay it on the patio table, and challenge him to a table check: “Okay, time to do a table check because I’m pretty sure mine is bigger and you should just shut your ass up now.”

Instead, I have no penis so I say:

“Oh, well I speak fluent Spanish so it wouldn’t bother me.”

I’m sure we can all agree that table checking our penises is clearly a superior scenario.

This type of situation happens to me all the time.

I take care of ALL of our outside services. I deserve a penis.

Phone rings. I pick up.

“Hi, Can I speak to the man of the house?”

I HAVE caller ID so I know it’s a damn lawn guy pulling his out early. Too bad it’s only a 6.

What’s that? Did you just challenge me? It’s penis time:

“Thanks for calling. Mine is 9 and a half so trust me when I say that I can handle the lawn, if you know what I mean.” I wish he were here so we could just have the conversation at the patio table.

Instead, I have No Penis:

“No, you can’t talk to him because he doesn’t even know what NPK is and I take care of the lawn.”

See? Penis time wins again.

Don’t even get me started with tools. I have a tool chest, jig saw, drill press, belt sander, and a compound miter saw. My tools. M-I-N-E. Oh, and can I use them. I know this makes you hot. That 9.5 just became 10, right?

So when I’m at the hardware store and the guy says “Do you know if you have a drill?” It’s table time again and I’m tempted to whip it out and smack his face with it. Or something like that. Not sure exactly but you get the point.

If I could order one for these situations, I would. I’ll even pay the overnight shipping because I have a contractor coming over on Thursday for a paint estimate.

I wonder how he’ll size up.

It was a good thing that I was lying down when they told me my first crotch parasite had a hot dog instead of a hamburger or I would have probably fallen over. I was 158% certain that the baby who had HER feet stuck up in MY liver was a GIRL, thankyouverymuch and her name was going to be Elise and excuse me?

SHE has a PENIS?

What the hell kind of GIRL has a PENIS?

Where did you get your ultrasound degree ANYWAY, lady? SEARS?

But she zoomed in and showed me a dangly bit and a comically large sack, and assured me that it wasn’t some circus freak of a girl/boy I was carrying. Nope, I was having a BOY. A bouncing beautiful baby BOY. (I made up the beautiful part because he sort of looked like a pixelated version of the blob)

I was TERRIFIED. We’d gone in for an emergency ultrasound because the doctor had heard “something” on the fetal heart tones that made him “unhappy” and I couldn’t get what specifically that was, and although I was only twenty at the time, I did love my baby, despite what all of the people who came up to tell me my business thought (oh, Pranksters, you have no idea, except those of you who do).

His heart turned out to be just perfect and his twig and berries, well, they were unexpectedly there, but fine as well.

And now, I was a mother. Of a boy. Pretty sure I was soon to be a single mother. Of a boy. I was shitting my pants. Or I would have been, had the prenatal vitamins allowed for it.

Several weeks before he was born, stuck for a name, it came to me suddenly and I named him Benjamin, meaning “son of my right side” and hoped that he could be a kind, strong, good and sweet person.

He is. That and so much more.

When I found out I was having his brother, Alexander, I scoured the shelves at the toy store to find him a non-girly baby doll, and when I did, Seth came home with us. Still Seth is a fixture in my house and he frequently is put down for naps, gets bottles, and gets his diaper changed.

Alex came rocketing into the world, in March of 2007 and I can tell you that no one was more excited than Ben.

I implore you to a) ignore the horrid jacket that my darling firstborn son is wearing because I DID NOT DRESS HIM and 2) please look at Alex’s face. It’s HILARIOUS. It’s also the way Alex looked for an entire year.

It turned out that all of the fears I’d had about having boys were unfounded. Of my children, if I am to fall down and hurt myself, it is my sons who will run over to comfort me and wrap their spindly arms around me until I assure them that I am fine. Amelia may come over and investigate, sure, but it will only be to then hurl something large at my head.

(she is her mother’s daughter and my clone in just about every way)

And Alex, oh sweet Alex, the small love of my life, he has his baby, too:

Sure, maybe he carries the thing around by the top of her head and sometimes throws her at the wall for a laugh, but his heart is so crushingly huge that I sometimes wonder if he really is related to me. And then he farts and laughs hysterically and I know that he clearly is.

It’s when they pile on top of me, the three of them, all elbows and knees and giggles, like a squirmy pack of puppies, that I know I’ve done right by them.

And I am happy. If I do nothing else in my life, I have done right by my children.

Several years ago, I wrote the first in a series of posts to my television husbands, this one to Vincent D’Onofrio, where I divorced him for having the audacity to impregnate someone else. This of course, was shortly after I’d popped out crotch parasite numero dos, Alejandro, and blatantly overlooked that I had recently had a baby that hadn’t been presumably sired by him.

I also frequently called myself the “anonymous Midwestern girl with kicky hair” which should have told anyone that I didn’t take myself SERIOUSLY. The letter was, of course, a total over-the-top joke. I had to Google his fucking name to even write the damn thing.

But after I wrote it, my tens of readers laughed, because writing a fake love letter to a fake TV husband is kinda funny (shut up) and then an odd thing happened: Google Reader picked the damn thing up as in, “if you like, “xxx” you’ll LOVE “yyy””

THEN the Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio showed up on my doorstep. I’m not talking about people who have some Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck So Hard on DVR, no, I’m talking about the people who have entire BLOGS devoted to him. Who know his wife’s name (he’s married?) and paint murals of him on their walls.

They were *ahem* displeased with Your Aunt Becky.

And I was shocked that so many people could devote so many hours a day to caring about celebrities. It just hadn’t dawned on me that anyone, well, WOULD.

I still get people who swing by and yell at me about it, just like the teens who yell at me on Twitter for misspelling David Archuleta’s name. Not, oddly, that I said “I thought about buying David Archuleta’s book until I realized he’d been a Barbizon Model and then punched myself in the face.”

(I’m bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me take Glamor Shots and for some reason I have my wires crossed and Glamor Shots = Barbizon = Be a Model, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

But now, I’ve realized that my true love is not Vincent D’Onofrio, Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio, so you can all back off.

Because after years of searching, I’ve finally found The Love of My Life:

Rod Blagojevich’s Hair: (he’s the former governor of Illinois, where I live. State Motto: We Impeach our Crooked Governors! He’s also…just…wow.)

When we met, I was immediately smitten. Sure, politics aren’t my thing, but the hair, people, THE HAIR.

His magic hair and I went for long walks on the beach, looking at rocks, rotting fish and hypodermic needles.

And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, his hair took me for a long romantical visit to Detroit, where, over fried chicken and waffles and cans of Diet Coke,  his hair asked me to be it’s bride.

The day I married his hair was the happiest day of my life. My dad walked me down the aisle to strains of “Dude Looks Like a Lady” and when I met his hair at the alter, I promised to “Love, Honor and Repay” his hair for the rest of my days on Earth, til baldness (or Rogaine) do us part.

His hair just floated there, like a mystical being from another planet while I beamed serenely. My heart was finally happy.

His magic hair completed me.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

9 months later, the product of our Magical Union, the sweet Hair Baby baby popped out of my crotch.

The day I had his hairs’ baby, well, that was the second happiest day of my life. Second only to the day I became, Mrs. The Magic Hair Blago.

Of course, a mystical being like Blago’s Magical Hair can’t be contained for long, so I’ve been left to raise our Love Child alone, but that’s okay. I’m lucky to have had his Magic Hair for as long as I did.

If you love something as special as Magic Hair, you have to let it go to be free. If it comes back to you, it was always yours.

Or…uh, something.

Pashmina: “How was your birthday?”

Aunt Becky: “Eh.”

Pashmina: “We’re thirty now.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m changing my birthday.”

Pashmina: “Are you one of those freaks that doesn’t like getting older?”

Aunt Becky: “No, I mean I’m changing the DAY.”

Pashmina: “…”

Aunt Becky: “See, 3 ER visits in 5 years means that the day is cursed. I wasn’t supposed to be born July 15 anyway but I was in distress or some shit.”

Pashmina: “Maybe you’re just unlucky.”

Aunt Becky: “The first person to wish me a happy birthday is always either an ER doc or a pharmacist. So no more. July 15, you are dead to me. July 28, you are my new birthday.”

Pashmina: “Can you do that? Like, just change the day?”

Aunt Becky: “Why not? It’s like Your Number of People You Bone. As you get farther past it, you know, some just DROP off the list for whatever reason.”

Pashmina: “…”

Aunt Becky: “You know, Bob had a micropenis so he didn’t count, and Jim humped your leg instead of your naughty bits and what’s-his-face had a bit of a premature ejaculation problem?”

Pashmina: “…”

Aunt Becky: “So they drop of Your List!”

Pashmina: “…”

Aunt Becky: “What?!?”

Pashmina: “The way you do math is bizarre.”

Aunt Becky: “I can justify just about anything. Like why I need to buy a tapeworm. And move to LA to start a disco band!”

Pashmina: “Disco sucks.”

Aunt Becky: “You won’t be saying that when my band is on the cover of Rolling Stone. You’ll be begging for groupies.”

Pashmina: “I am pretending not to know you anymore.”

Aunt Becky: “You won’t be saying that when my tapeworm farm is famous, either.”

Pashmina: “…”

Aunt Becky: “You’re still mad at me about the butt sex check (Pranksters, go read those links in that order) aren’t you?”

Pashmina: “No. Well, maybe.”

Aunt Becky: “How about I let you into my disco band as an apology?”

Pashmina: “You shine on you crazy diamond, you.”

Aunt Becky: “That’s the spirit! Let’s get some go-go boots and blue eye shadow!”

Now, Pranksters, aren’t you glad I don’t IM you?

——————

Mushroom Printing. It’s up. It’s awesomer than ever. You can play, too.

Back when my first son was a baby, I had a real cat in addition to my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles, and his name was Pete. Pete was probably clinically retarded, but I loved him anyway, and we had adventures like, ‘LET’S RUN INTO WALLS HEADFIRST’ and ‘LEGS, LET’S USE THEM!’

Oddly, now that I see that typed out, it was the same sort of adventures I had with Ben, but I digress. Badly.

One weekend, my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, and his wife, Sister Uncle Aunt Becky were at my parents house, were Pete, Ben and Your Aunt Becky lived. While Your Aunt Becky went to work, slinging crappy pizzas and beers as a waitress, Uncle Aunt Becky and Sister Uncle Aunt Becky kidnapped Pete to take him for “just one week” to kill a mouse.

Why they thought a retarded cat could kill a mouse is beyond me. I’m pretty sure any mouse that would die on his watch would have to have committed suicide.

But then, of course, they fell in love with Pete. Stupid old Pete, my companion. But, Sister Aunt Becky has more maternal sweetness in one of her cells than Your Aunt Becky does in her entire body, so when it came time to bring Pete back home, Pete already had amassed a collection of soft kitty blankies, toys and treats. In a week.

Suddenly, I felt sort of…guilty taking him back, where he’d be forced to sleep on my BED without treats, toys or the soft caress of cashmere cat blankies.

So Pete became Uncle Aunt Becky’s cat.

Many years later, I adopted a similar orange cat from the shelter because I am a creature of habit and also because I have no imagination. When I got him, I brought him home and loudly proclaimed that his name was….(wait for it)

PETE.

And Pete II was possibly more simple-minded that Pete I.

Firstly, he used his head as a battering ram. Doors, windows, heads, walls, people, no matter what was in his way, he just bashed it with his head until it gave in or until he forgot what he was doing and decided to do something else.

Then, the moment he got happy, which was often, he’d start to salivate. Which was kind of funny, because you think, “hey, Aunt Becky, I drool when I see bacon!” but you know, the cat would drool when he saw ME. And since I LIVED WITH HIM, I was pretty much always cleaning up piles of cat drool.

Well, then I popped out two back to back crotch parasites and Pete II’s four measly neurons couldn’t handle the stress of having to deal with the peeing and pooing of two additional small humans.

So he did what any mentally challenged cat would do: he started peeing on stuff. Anything.

I called up my sister-in-law and started pleading with her. Shockingly, she listened to my pathetic bribes and ended up coming to take Pete home with her because she is a better human being than I am.

Which meant that she had not one, but two of my fat, orange, stupid cats named Pete.

Pete and RE-Pete.

I really shouldn’t be allowed to do anything. Ever.

———–

Further proof that I should probably be chained to a wall somewhere.

I made you a present. See, now The Internet is trying to get a role in this, uh (I think I have this right now) blogging reality show about, uh, bloggers? Well, this is why I SHOULDN’T be allowed on a reality show:

I made that! It’s new! It’s why I should NEVER be allowed near a video, uh, maker. Or YouTube, where I made a channel, so I can make NEW videos. (hide, Pranksters).

———————

Mushroom Printing! It’s live!

——————–

P.S. Now I feel like I should probably make more bad videos. This cannot possibly end well for anyone.

Hi Aunt Becky,
My fiance and I are planning on getting married in a little over a year, but with relocation, finding jobs after school, and a bunch of other things going on in our lives right now we have yet to plan a single detail.

It’s getting to be about that time to book churches, reception halls, and figure out colors or whatever (my sister is good at the planning so I’m passing it all off onto her).  The problem is, I just started a job that is going to be able to pay my monthly bills and that’s it, and my fiance is still unemployed.

Here’s the kicker: He wants a big wedding with a DJ, food for people (a main meal and drunkie snacks at the end of the night) and other wild things that we just can’t afford without taking on more debt.  I think we should just invite our guests down to the Church reception hall for coffee and cake after the ceremony and be done with it.  I really don’t want to spend a ton of money on one day when we could be putting it toward a house or a kick ass honeymoon.

Help please!

-Unhappy Planner

Oh, my Unhappy Planner Prankster, how I empathize with you entirely, because Your Aunt Becky is SO not a wedding person. I’m very much a PARTY person, but not at all a wedding person. I’m the chuck-it-all-and-go-to-Vegas-and-get-married-by-Elvis-kind-of-girl, actually, but you know, apparently that’s not en vogue or something.

So here’s what my advice is to ALL of those out there planning weddings: this is your first step as a soon-to-be married couple in what marriage is all about: compromise.

I suggest you each make a list of what it is that you want in your ideal wedding without input from the other person. Then, add an approximate cost associated with each item. After that, rank each item from order from most to least important.

THEN, regroup and have a real discussion about what you can combine to make this work for you both.

Marriage is a partnership and nowhere is that going to be more evident than now. So I suggest you start getting accustomed to thinking like a twosome now. Two is the new one, you know.

Good luck, Prankster.

(for the record, I’d do Vegas)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I am turning 21 on July 21st. I really want to go out for my birthday. I don’t even want to drink- I just want to go dancing. Here’s the kicker. I am going to be 29 weeks pregnant on my birthday. And, as bad as I want to go dancing, I don’t want to deal with the fucktards that are going to be giving me the stink-eye the whole time I am there. It’s not like I am massively huge pregnant either, I have only gained 4 pounds, and I don’t have this raging prego belly, just a little bump.

So, Aunt Becky, does being pregnant mean I have to sit at home and act like I am dead because I have this thing growing in my stomach? Or can I go out and shake my ass?!? I mean, I am just pregnant, not dead!

Aw, Prankster, I missed answering this one in time for your birthday and I’m sorry. Happy Birthday, belatedly, my friend.

So, should you go out and celebrate on your 21st birthday while pregnant? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY! I was a whopping 37 weeks pregnant (or perhaps 48 weeks?) with Ben when I turned 21, and you bet your ass I walked into that liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne with my brand new driver’s license.

Why?

BECAUSE I COULD.

Then, I waddled my sorry ass home and went to bed. Of course, I didn’t DRINK any of it or anything, but I just did it because I had to.

And frankly, anyone who thinks that pregnant women should stay home with their feet up resting and watching TLC, hiding from the world, should be beaten about the head. If you want to go dancing on your birthday, baby, you shake that ass.

I’ll never forget back when I was a bartender, this very pregnant lady came in and ordered a non-alcoholic beer for herself. The bottle does, of course, look like, well, a BEER bottle, and the bar was bumping. That poor woman got SO many dirty looks that I eventually had to start stepping in and fending people off of her.

It’s bad enough to be hugely pregnant. If the woman wants to drink a non-alcoholic (blech) beer, let the damn woman do it (and yes, I know it has a tiny bit of alcohol in it. She had ONE).

So I hope you shook that ass and had a great birthday, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I did not grow up with a gun in the house. It was never like an “oooh guns are scary” type of thing, they just were never a part of my life. And frankly, I’ve just never cared for the thought of one around.

My boyfriend on the other hand, has always had guns in the house. He competitively shot as a teen, and his father collects them.

Now basically he has just the one side arm that he keeps in his nightstand, unloaded, with the ammo far from it. He’s not an irresponsible gun owner in any way. But still the gun bothers me. He says its just for protection, that it helps make him feel safe. That there’s nothing for me to worry about, and still, I worry.

I know he won’t just get rid of it because I want him to, and I really don’t have a good reason other than it bothers me. How do I get over this? Should I just get over it?
It’s not a pressing issue, as we don’t live together at the moment, but we’re planning on getting married, and moving in with him means moving in with it…

Sincerely,
Annie Get Your Gun

Oh Annie, I so get where you’re coming from because my hippie parents wouldn’t ALLOW us guns of any sorts. Not even SQUIRT guns until I was much, much older (I wasn’t allowed Barbies either, which probably explains my personality a lot more, too).

So I’m actually a little afraid of them. Okay, I’m a lot afraid of them. And it’s a stupid fear, honestly.

But what I need to do, and what YOU need to do is to do something about it.

A gun is an inanimate object that can’t physically JUMP UP and hurt you, right?

So I think that first you should talk to your boyfriend about your fears about the gun. Then, maybe you should have him take you shooting, just so you learn how to use it. Clearly, he’s no amateur and isn’t going to be unsafe with it, so I’d trust that he knows what he’s doing. If you’re going to move in with him, you need to be comfortable with him and with his hobby and lifestyle.

Or, of course, not, if that’s a deal breaker for you.

And as for me, I need to confront this and learn how to shoot a damn gun.

Good luck to you, Annie.