A couple of nervous breakdowns later, and after I realized that the July Birthday Curse would likely strike again, I figured I needed to come up with a Plan B for my birthday.

(for those of you unfamiliar with the July Birthday Curse, I imagine that it’s very similar to the Middle of December Birthday Curse, in that it SOUNDS like it’s a lovely time to be born, until you realize that no one is actually around to celebrate it with you, ever because something else is always going on. Or maybe it’s just me and no one likes me. Which is entirely possible.

Plus, you never get to bring cuppity-cakes to school, which is kind of like torture when you’re a kid and those things MATTER, yo.)

Vegas is going to wait until Fall or Winter because I’ll be dipped in pigshit before I roll over and accept that my birthday doesn’t need to be celebrated with a BIG ASS PARTY with my friends and glitz and glamor or maybe just Vegas (hint, hint, you’re all invited, Pranksters).

So Plan B was to go shopping, which sounds about as thrilling as dry toast, I know, but it was very necessary. Like half of The Internet, I’m going to that big thing in NYC in a couple of weeks, and thanks to a couple of children and a disappearing then slooooooowly reappearing waistline, I’m stuck in the limbo of What The Fuck Size Am I, Anyway? hell.

But I am a vain bitch, and even though this is a WRITING conference, which means that I should show up in what I when I write, which is no pants, I figure that public decency laws dictate I try and find something to swaddle my dimply butt. And rather than just shrug my shoulders, estimate, and order online, which is what I’d normally do when I’m too damn busy to drag the crotch parasites to the mall, I knew I’d have to face the fully dressed masses and try on clothes.

Nothing better to celebrate my 30th year than to face a little public humiliation, right?

So, after already tapping out H&M, where I’d decided what I’ve always thought about H&M: there are some semi-cute things in the piles of hideousness, I returned to Mecca. The Homeland. The Place Where Everyone Pretends To Know My Name To Separate Me From My AMEX.

Nordstroms.

And first, upon entering, I see what is sure to be full of the win!

Their Free People line, which is highly adorable, funky, and sequined. I make a beeline for it, and just as I pick up something like this…

I glance to the price tag. For something that I was planning to use SPECIFICALLY for the conference, because I do not intend to be this fat for much longer, I certainly am not about to spend $140.

Plus, and even more discouraging, there’s absolutely no room for el boobs. My children, who have also left me with some wicked grey hair, have also given me a considerable rack. This shirt runs to a Medium, and is designed for a waif.

My feelings are immediately crushed and I nearly cried into the shirt until the hovering salesperson snatched it from my hand.

So, Free People, you are dead to Your Aunt Becky (and sweet JESUS it hurts me to write that).

Figuring I’d probably have a better time in the Women’s Department, I headed upstairs, marveling at how much shopping at Nordies made me feel home again and how fucking HAPPY I was to be out of MATERNITY clothes. No more elastic-waisted pants for me, I cried to myself as I rode the escalator upstairs! No more clothes designed by tent-makers!

I WOULD NO LONGER LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING GRIMACE!

I nearly leapt off the escalator as I reached the Floor Of Women’s Stuff and looked around happily. Certainly, HERE I’d find some of the clothes I could wear!

As I made my way jubilantly around the loop, I kept looking for the section that would scream, “It’s Aunt Becky, Bitch!” as I passed the row of formal dresses (oh hail no), the row of plus sizes, and the row of yachting clothes (um, I’m on a motherfucking boat?). There were business clothes, pant suits, and Ralph Lauren as far as my eye could see.

Finally, I stopped at the William Rast (Justin Timberlake’s clothing line) display and stared, open mouth in horror.

Where the fuck were all the clothes I would buy?

Sensing my plight, a twig of a girl popped over to me and asked if she could help me and before I could stop myself I blurted out, “Where the hell are all the non-butt-ugly clothes?”

She didn’t laugh, she stared at me, confused.

I backtracked, because she clearly didn’t understand. “I mean, NONE of these look like ANYTHING I’d want to wear. I need SOMETHING to wear.”

She laughed uncomfortably as she led me to what she called the more “youthful” section. Apparently “youthful” is all in context, because I couldn’t see someone under 65 wearing anything she showed me.

It was all wooden embellishments:

Or metal studs:

I was aghast.

I got out of maternity clothes and got back into normal clothes so I could look like a wanna-be biker or a pseudehippie? My PARENTS were real hippies, and I’ll swear, Pranksters, hippies don’t spend $80 on a tank top.

Dejectedly, mumbling about the “good old days” I made my way over to Anthropologie and bought some hair clips to comfort myself.

Here’s hoping the 80’s fashion resurgence passes soon. And those damn kids get off my lawn. I have some Murder She Wrote to watch.

Sometimes, Pranksters, even Your Aunt Becky likes to take a couple of moments to pull her head out of her bejeweled ass to do some good in the world. Today is one of those days. I’m simply going to direct you to Save The Children, a charity that is trying to help local health workers bring basic first aid and health care to children around the world.

Every four seconds, a child survives THANKS to the health care provided by local health workers on the front lines.

Using our blogs, our facebook profiles, and our Twitter accounts, we can help Save The Children get the word out about this campaign. Throw up the badge, visit the site, see what you can do to help. You don’t have to pull out your wallet to help.

As a nurse, a member of the local medical reserve corp (stop gasping in fear, Pranksters, I won’t accidentally give you vodka rather than normal saline!), and a future traveling health worker, I can think of no cause I’d rather get behind.

<a href=”http://goodgoes.savethechildren.org/r/goodgoes?r=badge200″ target=”_new”><img src=”http://goodgoes.savethechildren.org/assets/goodGoesBadge.gif” border=”0″ alt=”GoodGoes.org”></a>

(that’s the code for the badge, display it with pride!)

Let’s do what we can.

Dear Aunt Becky,

So, I did something awesome today. I paid off the remainder of my unsecured rediculous debt (yeah me!)

I am so overjoyed.

… and I feel like humping my own leg.

My question, aunt becky, because you are so FULL OF THE AWE and a little bit of the SOME (AWESOME!) How do YOU keep from humping your own mother humping leg all the time?? Ya know, besides it’s physically impossible?

More importantly, how to reward yourself for something so cool without going out and spending money??? HMMM???

Now YOU are so full of the awesome that I’m here humping your leg from Chicago, which means that you either have insanely long legs or I have a very, very bendable crotch which is probably the grossest image ever so let’s move on, shall we?

Congrats, you! That’s a huge responsible thing to do and I’m super proud of you.

Clearly celebrating by going out and blowing a fistful of cash on stuff isn’t smart–even though it’s fun–so maybe you should go do something that makes you feel good about yourself. Give a concert for the homeless (snort!) or do some crossword puzzles (double snort!).

Sorry, I always hate those lists of things that “you can do while NOT spending money!!” because they always sound hokey to me. Not that they always ARE hokey, just that they SOUND that way. Taking a walk is nice, but when you’re all, “Strolling through the park on a spring day,” suddenly you’re in a Nicholas Spark novel and I’m vomiting in the corner.

So, if I were you, and you were as compulsive as I am *ahem* I’d pick some projects around the house to do that give you some sense of satisfaction. Clean your closets and purge the hell out of your basement. Or come to my house and give me a hand doing it. I’m swamped.

Bottom line: projects are an excellent distraction until you get used to not swiping that credit card all of the time. So long as they’re not like “take up scrapbooking” which is hella expensive (what the fuck?).

And if you’re still stumped, like I said, COME ON OVER AND HELP ME OUT.

Dear Aunt Becky,

About three weeks ago, I left my jerk of a husband a note telling him I was filing for divorce. Why a note, you ask? Because if I hadn’t, there was sure to be a scene. And he hasn’t let me finish a thought or a sentence in years. Anything on my heart was dismissed, ignored or argued with. (Sadly, there are two small children involved. So I’ve held on so long for them and for what!)

I wonder, if he hadn’t been so emotionally unavailable and such an ass all these years, would I still feel the same? I don’t think so. I don’t think I would have ever left. But would I have been in love? I don’t know that either. They (whoever they is) say that love grows over time and that love has its seasons – its ups and downs. And they say (again, who the hell) that when all is said and done at the end of the road, who you end up with after all the years is what matters most. I am not sure who that would have been for either him or me. Of course, I don’t have a crystal ball and there is no way I would have known, but I am not sure I would have been ME.

What I am doing now is trying to find myself (so cliché, but damn. So true!). I am just having such a hard time with this. I don’t want to be married to him. But I don’t want to be married at all. I know it’s probably still so fresh and I am still so raw. So I know I should give it some time.

While I have all these conflicting feelings, I do still want to be close to a man. I want to feel that desire and fulfillment. I think I now understand why some women in my position just go nuts and screw their brains out. I’m not that kind of girl, but I feel like I could be.

I think I am learning that I am a very loving person. And it’s soooo hard to be going through this and feeling this near-hate for the man I’ve been married to and supposedly in love with for years.

Do I need to just get this out of my system? Is this normal? Should Jesus be my husband for a while? I’ve always been annoyed at women who say that. Should I be chaste? Should I just get a boy toy for a while? I don’t think I have it in me to do either. Dr. Feelgood, what do I do?

Aw, Prankster, I’m so sorry. It’s hard when the relationship is insidiously difficult and there isn’t a simple explanation to why things were so hard. It sounds like you’re making some positive decisions for yourself now.

But you’re spinning.

So take a deep breath. Finding yourself is no easy task. You’re not hidden under a bed or around the corner and it’s not as easy as just snapping your fingers and wishing it was all better (trust me on this).

You’re on the right path, but you need to just step back and start living again. Start by breathing slowly, finding the joy in small things, and taking care of yourself one small thing at a time. It’s in those small places you’ll find yourself.

The beauty of it all is that you don’t HAVE to make up your mind as to whether or not you want a new relationship right now. Rushing into anything right now is a bad, bad idea, because it’s just too soon. These fresh wounds need to heal and you need to focus on you for awhile without having the pressure of any other adult to care for.

In time, you’ll know what you want, and you’ll be able to find it. But just remember to breathe and take care of yourself. There’s no rush.

Much love.

Pranksters, I heart you so much that my cold black heart has grown nearly thirty times it’s normal size. I hope it stays that way. I woke up to like 900 Facebook thingies and a bunch of tweets and YOU GUYS, *wipes tears* I’M NOT WORTHY.

Now I have to confess that my birthday is cursed because I ended up back on Vicodin and Prednisone (it’s a very boring story, actually) which makes me TOTALLY all ‘THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING BAT COUNTRY’ so I’m pretty sure I’ll be beating people with a banana all weekend.

Good damn thing The Internet is closed over the weekend. Heh.

Thankfully I have a guest post today so you’re avoiding me being all, “I HATE MOTHERFUCKING GENERIC TOILET PAPER, PRANKSTERS! IT’S BULLSHIT!”

P.S. I will be humping email today for all of you who I owe emails to, because I am on strict, “rest your sorry ass” orders.

——–

You can find me Allison blogging about absolute nothing over at Me and Mine, WHICH, by the way, is under construction. She’ll be moving on over to a new site, with a new look, at the end of the month! Oh! And you can also follow her nonsense on twitter ~ @allisonzapata.

* * *

Greetings, Pranksters! My name is Allison and I am scared shitless.

Hi Allison!

Hey guys.

Hi Allison!

Okay, stop it. Seriously. Hi.

So, when Aunt Becky so awesomely asked me to be a guest blogger this was pretty much what went down.

A. I screamed like a little bitch.

B. I fainted

C. I puked.

After cleaning myself off, it happened.

The thoughts came flooding in.

Because the self-doubt?

I haz it, folks!

Why the hell would she ask ME to guest post?

Oh shit! She must think I am an actual writer or something.

OMG, they’re all gonna laugh at me!

I desperately tried to focus and figure out what the hell I should write.

And finally, it came to me! I would write about this mortifying little thing that happened to me in high school.  Something I have been a little hesitant to share on my own blog, since I have a few teenage nieces and nephews that follow it.

It was perfect!  I could share it with all you pranksters without looking like Aunt Ho to the fam.

I sat down at my computer, with a vat of wine, and began to type away.

And this is what came out.

* * *

When I was 16 17 years old, I snuck my boyfriend into my house while my mom was sleeping.

I drunkenly marched him right passed my mom’s room and into my own.

After explaining to him that we needed to hide on the floor on the other side of the bed in case my mom walked in, we proceeded to make awkward teen love. You know the kind? With all the weird noises (see: stirring mac n’ cheese sound. eww. sorry. barf.), the not knowing what to do with “it”, the “Oh no, I am so not ready for THAT. Well, okay, go ahead. Because if you leave me?  I. will. die.”

After we were finished 30 seconds later, Juan Doe (I grew up on the border) asked me where he should put his used condom (HOORAY FOR SAFE CHILD SEX!)  and I was all, “Just put it in that half empty coke can next to my bed.”

Because really, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Besides everything.

* * *

So, after getting to this point in my story, I got stuck.

“I mean, really Allison, this so isn’t that funny. And so not worthy of the Prankters. Gah! You are such a loooooser”,  said one of the voices in my head.

I slammed my MacBook shut and turned on the TV, telling myself I shouldn’t force it. That it would come to me.

After apologizing profusely to my MacBook, for being so rough with it (and not the good kind of rough), I french-kissed it a bit and caressed it in all the right places. Satisfied that we were all good, I gently closed it and turned my attention back to the television and The Bachelorette.

Oh Ali Fedotowsky!

As per usual, my ADD mind began to wander.

What if I were on a reality show?

I could SO be the next Bachelorette. I mean, if I wasn’t all married and shit.

I can see it now.

Oh hey, Roberto! They have a great day planned for us. First, we are going to ride in a helicopter and then we get to be in a Broadway show. And, well, while all this sounds really cool in theory, I hate helicopters and flying in general and moving and all that stuff. And I really hate dancing and singing in front of live audiences, especially since I can’t dance nor sing and also because I hate being around humans that don’t live in my computer or in my television.  And seriously, I pretty much hate leaving my house at all. Getting dressed in normal clothes, brushing my hair, my teeth, all of it!  Just UGH! It’s all such a drag my little Robertito. So, I was thinking, how’s about you and I just stay right here in our pajamas lounge wear and eat some of these here funny brownies I paid some guy for baked and drink some wine and watch stupid shit on TV? Hold me.

Annnnnd scene.

Snapping back into reality, the panic of not letting you Pranksters down came flooding back. Like a bitch.

I sat and looked at the crap I had just written.

I. Was. Stuck.

Sigh.

Annnnnyhoo, I thought about asking Aunt Becky if I could take her up on this awesome offer another time. After my mojo returns.

After junk punching and water boarding myself for having such a stupid thought, I reached for my laptop and tried to focus.

And this is what came out.

* * *

“I kicked Juan Doe out of my house after all the teenage awkward sex-like stuff went on.  Slowly locking the door behind him, I crept back to my room and dove into bed. I laid still for some time, making sure my mom hadn’t heard us or the sound of his big ass sub-wolfer when he drove away. Confident that I was in the clear, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and passed the fuck out drifted off into sweet, sweet slumber.

I woke up around noon the next day (ahhhh, the life of a teenager) to my mom washing dishes in the kitchen. Feeling like a monkey shit in my mouth while I was sleeping, and so thirsty I could not speak, I walked to the fridge to grab a Coke.

I plopped myself down on a stool and began chatting with my mom as she washed dishes. Her back turned towards me.

She was in such a good mood, so I was confident she had no clue about the skankiness that had just gone down in my room the night before.

And then? It happened.

She explained to me there was this new thing called recycling that would totally help the planet. And I was all, “Sounds awesome mom, anything for Mother Earth, you know! Go rainforest!”

We continued to chat….

And she continued to empty out the Coke cans she had collected, from ALL OVER THE HOUSE, into the sink to prepare them for, how you say? Recycling.

The second I realized what was happening, I ran over to her. I got to her just as she grabbed the remaining Coke can and began emptying it into the sink.

IN SLOW MOTION, the condom came rushing out with the flat, syrupy coke.

SPLAT!

Right in the sink. Both of us staring at it. Slack-jawed.

My super amazing mother looked at me and said, “I’m not sure I like what Juan Doe does with his Coke cans.”

I ran to my room and locked the door. Terrified.

The next day she drove me to the vagina doctor and I was put on the pill.

* * *

Then? I was stuck. Again. I couldn’t think of a single funny one-liner to wrap it up, all nice and purdy. No witty way to end the story.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I was back to stupid square one.

What in the hell am I gonna right about?

And guess what? I never thought of anything. I have had like three effin weeks to try and impress you lovelies and I totally blew it. Hard.

I suppose the only thing left for me to do is beg for forgiveness from all you guys and from the magnificent Aunt Becky.

You’re a kiss ass, GAH!

Anyway, I promise if you all give me another chance, one day when my mojo returns, I’ll do better.

And also? Thank you SO MUCH for not throwing tomatoes at my face.

Carry on Pranksters. Carry on.

Huge hugs and major gratitude,

Allison

On my twentieth birthday, I celebrated by going out to the diner I was working at with my boyfriend and some friends. I remember feeling terribly sad because I’d just moved in with my boyfriend at the beginning of the month, and while I didn’t expect a huge fuss for my twentieth, he’d bought me 3 CD’s–one of them, he boasted, for a penny.

I worked 5 grueling days a week slinging plates of cheap breakfast food from 8 AM to 4PM, making roughly $400 a week. It was, my boyfriend often rubbed smugly in my face as I wearily rubbed my feet at night, the same thing he made sitting on his ass working the help desk. He’d laugh cruelly at the irony of it all.

I was confused by my life.

I’d dropped out of the college I’d been planning to go to for ages, I was now living with someone who I was pretty sure wasn’t who I thought he was, and my mother had taken to leaving me horrible, mean letters rather than talk to me. My life didn’t make sense any more.

But it was a new decade, I reminded myself, and I sadly blew out the candles on my birthday sundae as my boyfriend said, “they’d BETTER pay for that.”

My early twenties were kind of like that. Moments of sweetness marred by intense, searing  sorrow.

I walked into my twenties with an abusive boyfriend on my arm, and today I walk into my thirties with my three hilarious crotch parasites bounding along by my side. They remind me that life is all about bounding and rebounding.

Alex runs into walls and bounces off them, laughs, gets up, and then does it all again just to make me laugh. I cannot grimace at one of his particularly fragrant diapers without him trying to swoop me up in his spindly arms and remind me that he loves me more than anything else. Ever.

His sweetness is breathtaking. His sense of humor reminds me that everything is worth a good solid belly laugh.

Amelia painstakingly crawls up onto the couch, her cellulite-dimpled butt struggling with exertion, then, finally gets up there triumphantly, flashes a four-toothed grin, claps her hands and yells triumphantly, “AAAAAAAAYYYYY!” It’s expected, of course, that since we are all mere mortals in Queen Amelia’s Court, that we all chime in with applause and screams of “YAAAY!”

Her triumphs over the small things in life remind me that everything should be celebrated.

And Ben, Gentle, sweet Ben. Who is trying so hard to learn the things that come naturally to other people that it breaks my heart into a million pieces. Ben who is only good inside. Ben who is made of only sweetness and light.

Ben who reminds me that we can overcome anything so long as it is what the heart desires.

And who could forget The Daver? He may not be the one who “swooped me off the streets and rescued me from a life in The Gutter” like my parents think he did, but he’s about the kindest person I could ask for. I smile as he swoops my babies up in the air and laugh as they breathlessly scream with joy.

Dave reminds me that sometimes I should TRY on the rose colored glasses for size, even if I don’t wear them.

—————–

I’m thirty today.

I’m no longer confused by my life.

A couple of weeks ago, it dawned on me that I’d been spending a hell of a lot of my time reacting to things rather than focusing on controlling the things I could. I was floundering in the water when I could have been handily doing the backstroke and Pranksters, that’s bullshit.

That’s been a hallmark of my twenties, that behavior, and frankly, I’m done, Pranksters. Certainly, life was chaos during these years, and the behavior is a learned one, but that’s done. I’m taking out my gigantic set of platinum-and-diamond-encrusted balls and I’m super-gluing them on.

It’s time to do the one thing I never managed to do in my twenties: get a career and make a name for myself (besides #1 Slore)(which, let’s be fair, is an awesome name).

Aunt Becky is back, world. Get ready.

———————

Thank you to everyone who gave me advice on Mushroom Printing, the new group blog. Been working my ass off on setting it up (also added CommentLuv and Comment RSS here, too!). Is there anything else I should add on my blog?

PLEASE, keep the advice rolling in. I don’t read any other community blogs and I want to make ours full of the awesome. Because, obviously.

——————–

And, uh, thank you for everyone who voted for me for this, uh, award I didn’t even know about but won:

Suzy and I decided it means we got our very own MBA now, so, rad. We’re business people now, Pranksters!

And as soon as I remember my login, I’m voting for Suzy for Best Humor Blog:

Because I’m up for Hottest Mommy Blogger (which means they DID NOT see the balls picture above)(heh):

Sadly, this is not a post announcing the return of my whore pants. I DID, however, get a mass email from Target announcing that they have “mean” pants, which means that Target is copying me. Because whore pants is ALMOST mean pants.

What can MEAN pants do, anyway? Like, taunt you for being a size 12? Change sizes drastically from one day to the next, making you feel like you’ve gained 20 pounds? Openly tell people how much you weigh?

Or perhaps, have a gigantic hole in the crotch that you don’t notice for most of the day because you’re very, very smart. Not that *ahem* I would know anything about that.

Really, the possibilities are endless.

ANYWAY.

Back in 2004, my boyfriend, The Daver got tired of hearing me flap my flapptity-flap jaw and started saying things like, “wow, you’re a GOOD writer. You should start a BLOG!” When I was done punching him in the throat for insulting me, I asked him what a blog was. It sounded like VD to me.

He’s all, “it’s an online journal!” which made me think of creepy people who lived in their parents basements and were afraid of sunlight. Then he showed me a couple, and I was like, “O.M.G. They’re written by creepy people that live in the dark!”

My friend Pashmina and I clicked around the very few blogs we knew for awhile, laughing at

the

bad poetry that

made thine hearts

oh!

our hearts!!

smell like poo.

the occasional report of what someone ate for lunch (kung pao chicken is soooooo good!!!!!!) always punctuated by multiple exclamation points, for added emphasis, of course, and the Jane Austin quotes:

“To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment.”

And we laughed. Because honestly, that just wasn’t my scene. I couldn’t believe that a) Daver thought I was a writer, and 2) he thought the world needed to read MORE regurgitated quotes from crazy cat ladies.

(I don’t like Jane Austen).

I mean, okay, Pashmina was an English major, but the most writing I’d done was for REAL research papers.

But then we came up with a most brilliant plan. We’d start a blog. An ANTI-Blog. A blog that NO ONE in their right mind would write! Oh yes, yes, we would.

And so, Mushroom Printing was born. The first entry, I think, was about shaving the vagina. I don’t remember whose, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s the sort of stuff we wrote about. 2 girls, 1 blog, being crass, making you laugh.

We kept it until 2007, when my second son was born, and then I needed another space to talk about my crotch parasites. That’s when I started Mommy Wants Vodka. I never really meant to let Mushroom Printing go, but it just happened. We outgrew it, and then shut it down. I imported (and heavily edited) my old posts, and said goodbye.

Yesterday, I got an email from the hosting company where I’d initially registered mushroomprinting.com asking me to update my records. I’d completely forgotten registering it back in 2005, but apparently I own it until November.

I sat around yesterday, imagining Mr. Pinchy, my fake monkey butler, and I stealing a Jeep and driving around, whipping donuts at kids with silly droopy hair, and then it dawned on me: I needed a new project. Something else to do.

What better to do than bring back something I always missed: Mushroom Printing. Probably the best blog name my feeble mind could come up with (it’s WAY better than Mommy Wants Vodka) but with a new concept.

Mushroom Printing as a group blog.

Finally, I’m getting my ass moving on putting together that group blog. Because what better to do than put together a place where we can all go to post about people, places, and things who need a big, fat, mushroom print?

The world is full of douchebags. Thanks to the social code, we can’t always call people out on their douchetastic behavior. Now, we can finally let it out.

To be clear: I don’t want this to be a slam site. Like, “I hate Dooce/Aunt Becky because she smells” or anything, because, Your Aunt Becky is bitchy, but she likes other bloggers and she’s not going to run a hate site. Period.

So, this site will be for OTHER things. The asshole in the parking lot that clipped the mirror off your car. Your mother-in-law. Your whore pants. Whatever.

But I don’t have the site quite up and ready yet. I’ll be working on it for the next couple of days. Now I need YOUR input as to what would make this site awesome and something you’d want to use. This is what I have so far:

1) Anyone can post, but they have to register first.

2) All posts will go into a queue before they go live to be edited and moderated. Because I don’t want anyone being a TOTAL asshole on it.

3) It doesn’t HAVE to be a smack down.

4) I have a Twitter account set up and I figure I’ll just RT stuff you tweet to it from there.

5) I’m going to get someone to design a masthead and button for it so you can be all, “I GOT MUSHROOM PRINTED.”

6) Imma to make a sister site to it for all the awesome stuff you find. Because obviously.

Okay, Pranksters, what else? Please, let me know. What would you want in a site like this. Besides, of course, my whore pants.

—————

Because I am not smart, I TOTALLY forgot to announce my Girls I’d Hump post yesterday at Toy With Me. DUH.

I came from, among MANY other things, a car family. Before I could talk, I was whisked to the Chicago Auto Show (a yearly tradition in Casa de la Sausage), and one of my earliest memories is of stealing a Sharpee Marker and decorating the inside of my uncle’s painstakingly restored 1969 Stingray with my finest doodles. It’s a wonder I made it past my first birthday.

Let’s pretend that I’m in a car, okay?

To me, there’s nothing more intoxicating than getting out on the open road, shifting seamlessly from fourth to fifth gear and just going. Seeing where the road takes me. Letting my mind crawl alongside the wheels while I roam the roads, my skull cavity blissfully empty and my heart filled with the happiness that only wandering can bring me.

I don’t often get the chance to do that anymore, because my minivan, although practical, doesn’t evoke the same sort of wanderlust that my cherry red sports car does. The gears don’t scream as I red line right before I shift from first to second, the engine doesn’t lurch comfortingly with every shift, and when it comes to gripping the road like a glove, well, the minivan always feels like it’s one toke over the line (sweet Jesus).

Yeah, I’m a wanderer.

———–

I’ve always meant to take a class on car maintenance. I know they offer one at the community college nearby and I’ve always thought that I should know how my car works. Especially since I got ripped off. What, ME bitter?

It’s happened a couple of times, where I’ve been taken for a ride (heh) because I simply didn’t know any better and each time it’s made me Furious George later on.

The first time, I nearly bought a rear-wheel drive sports car to be driven in the Midwest all year round. The car weighed all of 4 pounds, and when I asked the salesman about it, he’s all, “Oh, you’ll be FINE in the winter!! It’s FRONT WHEEL DRIVE.” When I asked my friend’s father about it, he’s all, “I NEVER drive that car in the winter! It’s totally rear-wheel drive.”

When I called to chew out the salesperson to his manager for being a lying douchebag, the manager said, “Well, that’s YOUR fault for not knowing.” That’s a safety issue. And I was lied to. Way to be an upstanding citizen!

The next several times, it was all done at a major oil changing place. I’m sure it’s happened to most of us.

Oil Change Person: “There’s something wrong with xxhasfigbfsdKfg.”

Aunt Becky: “Huh?”

Oil Change Monkey: “I SAID there’s something wrong with wntuifdhsvfdosG.”

Aunt Becky: “..uh, okay.”

Oil Change Guy: “You need this fixed NOW.”

Aunt Becky: “Why?”

Oil Change Dickhead: “If you don’t, your car will EXPLODE and you will DIE!!!!!!!!!”

Aunt Becky: “Holy crap.”

Oil Change Jerk: “Pretty much if you don’t get this done, you’re an idiot and you’re killing yourself and hundreds of innocent children.”

Aunt Becky: “Wow. When you put it that way…”

Oil Change Manipulator: “Give me your credit card now.”

Aunt Becky: “..fine.”

Oil Change Guy: “That will be $4,000.”

Aunt Becky: “WHAT!?!!”

Oil Change Shyster: “Saving the world isn’t cheap, sucker.”

—————

Because I do not want this to happen to any of my Pranksters, I have teamed up with Ford to do a Q and A with Cristina Rodriguez where I can ask her all about Car Maintenance. It’s going to be on Blog Talk Radio, which is pretty much going to win me an Oscar or something.

Ford wanted me to ask YOU (which is the part where YOU become celebrities) what you want to know about car maintenance or repair so that I can ask their expert. Or, if you have no specific questions, just, you know, talk about cars and stuff in the comments. I can totally pull an interview out of stuff you talk about. The more stuff you say, the better.

So pull up a seat next to Your Aunt Becky, I’ll pour you a nice glass of vodka (only if you’re not driving), and tell me what’s on your mind.

The great god Britney posited that there were two types of people in the world (the ones that entertained and the ones that observed), but Your Aunt Becky–a lesser deity–thinks that there are 6 types of blogs.

1) Entertainment Blogs: You have your Perez Hilton, your Cake Wrecks, your LOL Cats and FAIL blog. These types of blogs exist as fluff to make you happy in the pants. With the potential exception of the one time you might see yourself or your property FEATURED on these blogs, there are very few times you’d be pissed off while reading these blogs.

2) Business Blogs: Since blogging got all popular, Big Business took notice, especially since their advertising campaigns had started to lose popularity. Word of MOUTH was king AND cheaper, with the widespread availability of free blogging platforms. Now, most businesses have their own blogs, Twitter accounts, and Facebook pages.

3) Blogs That Teach You Something: I’m going all BROAD STROKES here and including all newspapers online (New York Times), magazines (Wired), cooking blogs (Pioneer Woman), photoblogs, blogs about how to get rich (I Will Teach You To Be Rich). There are even blogs to help you learn to blog better, although most of them are written by non-bloggers.

4) Blogs That GIVE You Something. These blogs are designed to give away something, like coupons (Coupons.com) or a product (The Bright Side Project), often given to the blogger by the company to promote said product.

5) Blogs That Sell You Something: Enough Said.

6) Personal Blogs: Clearly, this is the majority of the blogs I read and the majority of what YOU, my Pranksters, are. Occasionally we cross lines and dabble in one of the other types of blogs, but on the whole, we are all personal bloggers.

*clearly there are subcategories within each genre.

————–

I do get enough people asking me for blogging advice, I figure that once in awhile, you guys probably do want to hear about blogging, even if it makes me feel like a douche to write about it.

So I want to tell you that I FINALLY figured out the secret of a successful blog.

Here it is, Pranksters!

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Oh noes! That wily Mr. Sprinkles, my fake cat! He’s ruined everything!

Okay, so there is no secret magical formula for what makes one blog Full of The Awesome and another one Not So Full of The Awesome. If I knew what the formula was, I would probably be rolling in my vault of golden coins while being waited on hand and foot by my imaginary monkey butler Mr. Pinchy.

Sadly, I am not.

So, I’ve given some basic advice here, Blogging For Dummies and Blogging For Dummies deux, and this will be my third long-winded installment.

If you look at my VERY broad breakdown of blogs you will realize that most of the blogs you read fall into those categories. Some of the blogs I read very handily crossover genres (ABDPT does this very well), but most fall squarely into one or the other.

I run a personal blog, and while I occasionally offer advice, my blog isn’t set up to do much else besides offer the occasional boring story about my life.

So what is the secret to running a personal blog? I think it’s multi-faceted, Pranksters.

1) People connect with bloggers who they relate to and they’re only going to relate to if you reveal something about who you really are. Writing is all about connections, and nowhere is that more important than blogging. So be honest, let it all hang out, and be authentic.

2) Stop fucking trying to be someone else. We get it. You like xxxx (insert popular blogger here). We all know xxxx. Be YOURSELF, not someone else. No one likes a second-rate impostor.

3) Organize your posts so they make sense. Readers need to be able to dive in and understand what you’re talking about without needing a cast of characters. I’ll write about what makes a nice layout when I am feeling particularly annoyed by music on a blog (GAH!!) another time.

4) Over time, you’ll find your voice and when you do, there’s going to be no stopping you. Just keep plugging on until you do.

5) It’s okay if you’re not a writer. Not everyone is a writer. Don’t let that intimidate you out of wanting to spill your guts onto a blank WordPress document. I’d prefer to read the honest words of someone who ISN’T a writer than the overly stylized words of someone who KNOWS they are.

6) Blog for YOURSELF. I think I’ve said that in every single other post about blogging because it’s so true. If you’re seeking external validation from comments and emails and tweets, you may wait a long damn time. It may never come. If you’re writing for fame and fortune, you’re 7 years too late. Write because you love to. Write because you HAVE to. Write because if you don’t, your brains will explode from all of the words that are trapped inside, itching to get out.

But don’t blog because you think some comment is going to make you feel good about yourself. Readers, they come and go. They’re fickle. Feedburner counts go up and down. You can be on top of the blogging heap only to find yourself all alone the next day.

The words are the one thing that will stay. So let those be what nourishes you.

Write hard, Pranksters.

————–

Every time (and by “every time,” I mean the other two times) I write about blogging, I get a couple of people who are like, “WOW, those are a lot of RULES and I don’t LIKE rules,” which means that they missed the part where I say explicitly that you should probably never, ever listen to anything I say, ever.

Plus, “rules” for blogging are about as laughable as the notion that any of us are ever going to be “famous bloggers” so please, if you’re going to yell at me about not wanting to follow the rules, know that I don’t even follow my own advice.

Ignore my advice, don’t ignore it, cross stitch it on a pillow, burn it on an Aunt Becky-shaped effigy while singing “Joy To The World,” I don’t particularly care. No skin off MY teeth, Pranksters.

————

Last day to vote for me for Best Humor Blog. I love you madly, Pranksters.

Hi Aunt Becky!

My husband and I have found out that we are expecting a baby in October after 2 years of trying… I have had my first appointment with my Dr. and my husband and I are super excited! We are getting LOTS of advice and opinions that we haven’t asked for though. We have decided that we are going with a doctor instead of a mid-wife, are not going to baptize the baby, and have made other decisions that my in-laws and family aren’t comfortable with.

His family is into all-natural shit (to the point of not even listening to doctors which is where the advice comes is.. “oh your Dr. said that? No, you should do this instead!!”) and is super religious and mine is just religious and thinks that you are going to Hell if you aren’t baptized… How can we tell them to, you know, leave us the fuck alone to raise our child the way we want to??

Love,

Excited To Be A Mommy!

Well, first things first, Prankster +1, and let me say, CONGRATS! I’m so excited to hear that you’re having a baby, especially since it’s not mine. Because HELLO AWKWARD. Can’t wait to hear more about my new niece or nephew come October.

So, you’re running into the same thing all of us parents do: The Unwanted Advice-Givers. From “that baby needs to be wearing shoes!!!” to “your baby is going to HELL!!!!” you know you’re a parent when people start telling you your business.

Let me offer you a sympathetic cup of (decaf) tea and all of my deepest condolences for this introduction to parenting because it’s not going to stop. Ever. It’s as much a part of parenting as wiping butts and hemorrhoids.

My advice is this: you cannot control what other people will tell you about your children. You CAN control how you react to it. ALL new parents are FURIOUS by the unwanted advice. Rightly so, I should add.

By the second or third kid, you simply stop hearing it.

Why? Because it’s not fucking worth it to your sanity.

I’m pretty sure my mother thinks I’m a shitty mom. My mother-in-law does too. Frankly, they can both eat a hot bowl of dicks for all I give a fuck.

But I used to be outraged by it.

So my advice is to simply smile, nod, and turn the other cheek. Opinions are like assholes (presumably because everyone’s got one) and this is YOUR kid, not theirs. You can kindly tell them to shove their opinion up their puckered pooper with your words, or you can just ignore them. Or some combination of both.

But you are going to have to get used to it. And I’m sorry, because it IS annoying as hell.

Good luck, Prankster +1.

Dear Becky,

I’m in a curious doubt here. I’m the mother of a wonderful 3 years-old girl. I’ve never wanted a lot of kids. I did not enjoy being pregnant.
On the other side, all my girlfriends are having their second babies, and they look sooo cute. And I’m 33.

The question is: I went to my doctor, and asked to change my birth control method (from condoms to pills). Then I decided (by myself) to come back to using a diaphragm.
Am I trying to get pregnant or am I scared of getting pregnant? I REALLY can’t figure that one out… Pleeeease help me!

Well, Prankster, I’m not much of tie-breaker here, but what it SOUNDS like to me is that you feel like you SHOULD want a second baby because that’s what everyone else is doing. Which makes sense. Babies are squishy and cute and stuff. Baby envy is common.

But I’d take a long hard look at your motivation before you go throwing condoms out of the window just because. Trust me when I say that two is a FUCK of a lot more than one. For serious. And there’s not a damn thing wrong with a singleton. I promise.

Aunt Becky,

It seems I’ve come across a situation that even my vast problem-solving skills can’t solve. All the pro-con lists haven’t helped. I’ve asked therapists, I’ve asked my family and most of my friends and now I’m coming to you, ’cause Becky…I’m lost.

I’m a single mother of a beautiful 21 month old daughter. Her father and I split up about a year ago and though our relationship is still friendly, I don’t know what to do about a very glaring and disconcerting fact: he’s an alcoholic.

He pops in and out of our lives with no patterns or modicum of reliability. He can’t keep a job, he can’t finish school; he’s 22 years old and already falling apart. He’s not allowed to be alone with our child, but I just don’t know whether to cut him out of her life entirely.

I really don’t want her first memories to be of her drunk of a father, but I don’t want to give up on him either. I juggle being a young mom of a young child and finishing my senior year of nursing school. I have enough on my plate and I don’t want to have to be dealing with this drama as well. I just don’t know how to deal with him; no answer feels right. My daughter is my world and I love her more than anything so I need to make sure I’m doing the right thing for her. Whatever that is.

–Amber (Who is not witty)

Oh Amber, my heart hurts. My heart just hurts for you. I’m so sorry.

As the daughter of two alcoholics, the baby momma of a semi-unreliable daddy and the wife of a workaholic, I will try my best to answer this. I will also ask my Pranksters to answer this. I know that a lot of them have experience with this, too, and honestly, there is no “right” answer. It’s a shitty situation. Being an adult sucks sometimes.

I don’t think that your daughter’s father is in any place to be a responsible parent right now, and I don’t know that being around him will do your daughter any good. Now that I’m finally dealing with all of the bullshit that I was taught by my parents–when they weren’t “teaching” me anything–I see just how much they destroyed of my childhood.

I can’t get that back. I’ve spent many years forgiving them so that I don’t carry the anger around like a noose around my neck, but that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t give both of my legs to get a redo on my childhood. I don’t want that baggage, I don’t want these scars, and I don’t think that I could counsel someone to willingly allow that sort of negativity around their child; parent or no.

Kids need consistency, they need normalcy, and they need routine, especially as they get older. You can throw a toddler into an unfamiliar situation and they’ll adapt, but the older a child gets, the harder it is, and the worse it will be for them when the situation unravels.

I don’t think that you have to give up on him as a person, and trust me, I know how awful it is to watch someone swirl the tubes, but you can’t let him drag you and your daughter down. You can’t change an alcoholic. Period.

Before my father was in recovery, our relationship was incredibly volatile. He’d badger me, belittle me, and eventually, I’d leave in tears. I was 26 years old (I am 29 now). As a child, he was the only one who cared about me. As an adult, he seemed to hate me.

I was about to cut him out of my life (before he went into recovery), and the lives of my children, because I could not, as their mother, allow my children to see their grandfather to treat me like an asshole. What was I teaching them by doing that?

This is precisely what I told Daver about the workaholism.

I cannot, in good conscience, teach my children by proxy, lessons that I don’t want them to learn when they are small. There are plenty of times for them to be hurt, disappointed, and left crying. This is not the time for it.

I think that perhaps you need to think about it from that perspective.

And Amber, I do wish you the best. You deserve it. I’m sorry things are so hard right now and I hope that it gets better for you soon. There’s a big fat “EMAIL AUNT BECKY” button on my sidebar. You can use it any time.

————————

Pranksters, as always, please fill in where I left off in the comments.

Aunt Becky out.

———————

Funniest Blog, tomorrow’s the last day to vote!

Today, Pranksters, I bring you a post done by my friend Angie from A Whole Lot of Nothing. She’s my Co-Captain for Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion and my BFF OMG FB BBQ! She’s fabulous and sassafrastastic and also my sister, because I got adopted by her family, which, HI AWESOME.

(also, if you want to vote, blah, blah, it’s ALMOST over, and I’m sucking at asking people to vote this year, which, whatever. It’s all good.)

I expect a modicum of decorum from people. Not much. Just a smidge. A minor amount of consideration for the people around, sharing the same toxic air.

I know that sometimes I may not realize that I’ve cut someone off, or that I’ve accidentally stepped on a kid’s toe, or I’ve maybe, possibly amped up my walking pace to slyly beat you in the restaurant door to get my name on the wait-list ahead of you.

But when I realize the minor damage I’ve done, I always apologize and try to make my karma right.

Then again, I’m normal.

Some people, are douchebags.

Like this guy. This guy, to whom I wrote a blog letter back in 2008:

_____________________

Excuse me, sir, but when you cut in front of me to open the door to sneak your nasty ass inside of the bookstore, while I have two young girls, then DON’T EVEN FACKING BOTHER TO HOLD THE DOOR OPEN, you, sir, are an ass.

This may not seem like a big thing, the whole holding-the-door-open-for-the-lady-and-her-children. But it is.

I’m a Feminist. I’m even a member of NOW or I was until I forgot to pay for my dues for this year. Don’t worry; I’m not the bra-burning, death to Whitey, cut-off-your-nuts Feminist-type yet.

I want to be considered an equal when being considered for a job or picked for the team. I believe anything you can do, I can do better or equal.

But at the same time, I want to be able to cry to get out of a speeding ticket, I want the seat you’re sitting in if there are none left, and I want you to HOLD THE DURN DOOR OPEN FOR ME AND MY GIRLS.

So, Mr. Oblivious, can you please take your dirty shoes off of Sir Chivalry’s balls, and hold the door open for me?

Love & kisses,

Me

The last straw was when Angie’s whole family called me a Mennonite. I think those are the people who don’t use zippers, but I don’t know because I’m not smart and I’m too lazy to Google it, but basically, her family was shocked that I didn’t have a DVR.

I do have zippers, however, although, my whore pants are nowhere to be found. I’m pretty sure I should make a MISSING PANTS poster for them if I ever want to see them again. They’re probably on their way to Vegas now. Whore pants.

Oddly, after I got back from my cruise, The Daver had gotten us a DVR, BEFORE I railed on him about being a Mennonite (whatever that is), and immediately, I asked him to record every episode of Law and Order: Your Life Doesn’t Suck As Bad As You Think It Does that was ever made.

Since you can find that show on TV just about any hour of the day, thanks to Dick Wolf’s tireless dedication to taking over the airwaves (TV waves?), that means that my very own DVR is always filled with Law and Order: This Is Depressing Shit.

And because I am a compulsive personality (see also: my blog, my orchids, my roses), this is what I watch every night.

Sure, back when my beloved television husband Dr. House was on air, I would watch his show, eyes glued to him for the entire hour. Likewise with Dexter, my serial killer husband.

(I had an Arby’s-type epiphany–Arby’s=RB’s=Roast Beef–I like men who are like me inside)

But summer programming pretty much sucks the fat one and so I am stuck with Law and Order: How Dare You Feel Bad About Your Life? But I like the shows and the puzzles and the characters, especially Ice-T (did you know he’s on Twitter? He’s one of two celebrities I follow and I adore him).

I’m starting to wonder if watching shows about rape, murder and suicide are the best thing for me to watch before bed.

See, I have insomnia. Now, I’m not talking about the once-in-awhile “I can’t sleep!! LOL!!” insomnia, I’m talking about the real shit. It’s not anxiety, but it is the absolute inability to sleep like a normal fucking person and it sucks.

Some nights, I’ll lay in bed, polishing my imaginary glock while I imagine killing the person who wrote the “Do-do-do a dollop of Daisy” commercial. Or the “Turn the Tub Around” one. Others, I write blog posts. Still others, I just lay there, half asleep and half awake, drifting in and out.

Not all nights are like this, but for the past 20 or so, I’ve gotten one good night of sleep.

Normally, I take Unisom and sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve tried Lunesta and actually got addicted to that stuff. When I went off of it, I actually went through withdrawals, which sounds insane, but I swear, it happened. And everything you read on The Internet is true, obviously.

The worst part about the past 20ish nights is the NIGHTMARES.

Pranksters, they’re AWFUL. Every night, all night, nothing but nightmares. I won’t launch into what they were about because reading about dream sequences is about as interesting as toast or beige paint, but suffice to say, it’s been almost unbearable to go to sleep because I don’t know what my subconscious will dredge up to torture me with.

I don’t know if this is part of recovery or a side effect of trying to cut down on my Topamax (which was an abysmal failure, I should add, even though my neurologist, the one with GERD, suggested I try it) or just part of bringing up all of my past again, but maybe I could just, you know, go through the rest of this UNCONSCIOUS or something. You guys probably know better than I do.

Then again, maybe I just need to stop watching gruesome shit before bed.

I should probably just look at pictures of adorable, fluffy kittens and big-eyed puppies, right?

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

And if you want to vote for my blog (funniest blog)(which, huh?), you may vote once per day here.