Did you know that the original title of “Where The Red Fern Grows” was “A Boy and His Dog?” Now you do. I don’t know why I can regurgitate that particular bit of information and barely remember my middle name. Is it Sherrick or is it Elizabeth? I DON’T REMEMBER, Pranksters!

Anyway, the editors must have thought that the the original title lacked some pizazz, so they insisted it be changed to something more artsy. I don’t know shit about artsy, but the first title has a little something, but so does the second.

And: SPOILER ALERT: (the dog dies and it’s tremendously sad).

Anyway, yesterday, we were at The Target, otherwise known as MY boyfriend–he’s sleeping around on you, ladies–and I realized that I probably required some new kicky flippity-flops to take on my cruise. I mean, how else can I attract an older man and become a trophy wife like I’ve always wanted, but without a new pair of kicks?

Just don’t remind me that I’m not trophy wife material anymore because you’re CRUSHING my DREAMS, MAN. And that’s SO not cool.

So I picked out these hideous monstrosities that were later called, “like being fucked in the eye.” I thought they were rather charming.

First, my Gerber Daisy shoes (because, Pranksters, you should ALWAYS, as Alex would tell you, refer to a flower by it’s NAME, not simply as “flower” if you know the name):

I thought those screamed Aunt Becky lives here and has a wicked sense of fashion.

Next up were my more nautically themed shoes:

I do NOT believe that anyone at the nursing home would wear these charming shoes, despite what I was told…

…they have no firm arch support. OBVS.

We continued on in the shoe aisle where I was looking for more Garden Boots (it’s a proper noun in my house) for Alex when we happened upon the GIRLS shoe aisle. Since you Pranksters informed me that there was some nifty conversion between adult womens shoes and girls shoes, my shoe collection has increased exponentially, while the maturity level of it has dropped.

I’ve dropped a considerable sum on shoes for my daughter, who happened to be in the cart with me, throwing animal crackers at my head, but unless I planned to duct tape her feet into her shoes, there was no way she was going to wear them. She just…refused.

Amelia, it seems, is a force to be reckoned with. And, for someone who has been through all of the obstacles that she has, I’m really not going to sweat the small stuff. If the girl doesn’t want to wear some motherfucking shoes, well, FINE. There will be a day when she does, and I will REGRET it when I see what the shoes she picks out cost.

But, rather than continue assaulting me with animal crackers, my daughter did an odd thing. She began to squirm and shriek and indicate that she, would, Mom, you ignorant slut, like to look at those MOTHERFUCKING SHOES.

Baffled, I handed them to her. She indicated that she wanted me to place those shoes on her feet. So I did, but they didn’t match up to whatever it was that she thought in her head, so she shook her head “no.” (she’s not speaking much)(I know, I KNOW, I’m not happy either).

She’d then indicate that she’d like THAT pair of shoes, and I’d place THEM onto her feet. Again, she’d decide that they didn’t pass her elaborate standards and no, they’d too go back onto the shelf. For thirty minutes, we did this.

Finally, she spied these:

And by this time, I was pretty much fed up with looking for shoes and ready to go home. So I said, “Amelia, really?”

And she took one look at my incredulous face and said,

“YES!”

And so I dutifully strapped her sausage/marshmallow feet into the shoes and then? She lit up like a wee fireplug/Christmas tree. Turns out, the girl was just waiting for some Chuck T’s.

I’d only be more proud if they were Vans.

Aunt Becky: “Thanks for picking my ass up from the optometrist, yo.”

The Daver: “Not a problem.”

Aunt Becky: “I should have you know that the optometrist says that my optic nerve is BEAUTIFUL.”

The Daver: “Well, that WAS the first thing I noticed about you. Your sexy optic nerve.”

Aunt Becky: “Naturally! My optic nerve brings ALL the boys to the yard.”

The Daver: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “Oh, hey, can you run in to pick up my Thai food?”

The Daver: “You should SO go in while you’re wearing those disposable sunglasses.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll probably cause a riot with the guys throwing themselves at my feet. I mean, did you SEE how hot I am in these shades? THEY HAVE NO SIDES.”

The Daver: “You look like Morpheous from the Matrix.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m CLEARLY from the future and that will cause people to riot in the Thai place and plus my head is throbbing, so can you please get my food?”

The Daver: “RED PILL OR BLUE, BECKY?”

Aunt Becky: “The answer is ALWAYS “C,” The Daver.”

The Daver: “Touche.”

Aunt Becky: “Now I want some freeze dried ice cream with Vicodin on top. Because it’s ALSO from the future. My drug addiction will go hand-in-hand with my new cat’s eye rhinestone glasses.”

The Daver: “Your optic nerve better hope it attracts a new husband. And fast.”

Aunt Becky: “My optic nerve won’t fail me, baby. Now grab me that motherfucking Pad Thai.”

For a third of my life now, I’ve been a mother.

I used to find Mother’s Day endlessly conflicting, especially as a new mother. Here was a day where I was supposed to celebrate being a mother, and there I was, working my ass off, trying to please the other mothers in my life; neither of whom particularly cared for me.

When I stopped trying to please them, I found that I was much happier.

I don’t feel conflicted anymore. Because while this is a holiday where I am supposed to be loved and cherished and honored by my children above all other mothers, I know that a shitty brunch of undercooked Eggs Benedict won’t ever say what your grimy outstretched arms do every day: you love me.

I know this.

So today is really about you, my children, the inexplicable three chunks of my heart forever walking around outside of my body. I’m not sure how they physically removed my heart and divided it up like that, but there you have it. In your veins, my blood flows; my heart pumps in your tiny, fragile chests.

I hope that you all grow to know how proud I am of you; how proud I am to know each of you. How I’ve marveled over each of your fingers and kissed them one by one while you slept on my chest as infants, and how my heart has swelled until I thought it would burst in my chest when you mastered something new.

How I’ve wept, wishing that I could save you the bumps and bruises that are coming down the road by taking them for you. How I want you to grow to be tall and proud, standing up for what you believe in and helping those who have no voice. How I want you to be sure that there is so, so much good in this crazy, mixed up world, and how I want you to add to this good by being who you are.

Because you are all such wonderful people.

I hope that you can forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made. I’m bound to fuck you up in all sorts of ways I can imagine and many that I can’t. I hope that you can forgive me for calling you crotch parasites (even though you all are) and teaching you to swear prolifically.

Preemptively, I’m sorry.

But there’s not a day that goes by that I’m not proud to call you all my children. So Happy Mother’s Day, my babies. Without you, I simply wouldn’t be me.

And a Happy Mother’s Day to you, my Pranksters. To all of you who have children to celebrate with here on Earth, to those of you who are struggling to be mothers, and to those of you whose treasures are in Heaven.

A Happy Mother’s Day to all of you.

People would all cluck sympathetically when I told them that I had a two-year old and I was always kinda stuck scratching my head. Now, I’m always kind of scratching my head because I’m stupid and things like “In” and “Out” doors leave me stuck outside for hours, but this was especially bad. Because my TWO year old was awesome.

My THREE year old is Of The Devil.

I know, I know, I’m not supposed liken my child to a mythical creature that lives in a fake underworld because that’s NOT NICE AUNT BECKY, but it’s true. The THREE year old is a beast and the TWO year old was a living, breathing angel sent from heaven.

I think the Terrible Two’s are full of bullshit, Pranksters because with both of the boys, I never saw it. Maybe my daughter, who already throws tantrums when she doesn’t get what she wants, will prove otherwise, but I remain unconvinced.

This is pretty typical in my house now:

Aunt Becky: “I have to go to the bathroom now.”

Alex: “NO!” (stamps foot)

Aunt Becky: (laughs) “Well, actually, Alex, I do. I don’t have the luxury of a diaper, baby.”

Alex: “NO!” (stamps feet)

Aunt Becky: (goes to the bathroom, is followed by Alex and Amelia)

Alex: “You don’t have a diaper, Mommy.”

Aunt Becky: “No baby, I don’t.”

Alex: “Can we buy a kitty?”

Aunt Becky: “Ask your daddy.”

Alex: “NO!” (stamps foot)

Amelia: (begins shrieking because she believes that we should now pack up and leave the house on an adventure. She lays down on the floor and begins to kick and scream until the hallway is wet with tears and boogers) (also, you’re welcome for the free birth control)

Alex: “Mimi STOP YELLING.” (STAMPS FEET LOUDLY)

Aunt Becky: (buries her head in her hands)

Alex: “Mommy, you sad?”

Aunt Becky: “Yes, my head hurts now.”

Alex: “NO!”

I know from years of dealing with a know-it-all ex-boyfriend that arguing with him is pointless so I just ignore him when he acts like that. Plus, he’s not sleeping, which isn’t making the situation any easier on any of us. It’s sort of making me want to send The Daver to get a SECOND vasectomy just in case this one didn’t take.

It’s a good damn thing that he’ll then counter all of his annoying three-ness with doing something full of the awesome like yelling, “LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL GERBER DAISY, MOMMY.”

Then I take a deep breath and remember that this too, shall pass. And I stop and smell the Gerber Daisies.

I have this question in my Go Ask Aunt Becky folder, where it’s sat since October:

Aunt Becky, what’s your favourite blog to read?  Or maybe your top five, since choosing one is probably as difficult as choosing between your children. Or is it?  I only have one child and therefore have never faced that particular predicament.  Anyhow, I’m always on the prowl for something new to read, so a nudge in the right direction would be appreciated.

I’ve tried to answer it probably no less than 20 times, but every time I do, I immediately feel guilty because the asker is indeed correct: it’s like choosing between my children. I want to grab up my blogroll and hold you all close and scream, “BUT AUNT BECKY LOVES YOU ALL IN YOUR OWN SPECIAL WAY, DAMMIT!”

I’m not much of a “favorites” person anyway. When asked to pick my favorite song, I’ll tell you what it is TODAY (Up on Cripple Creek, The Band) but tomorrow I can assure you it will be different. It’s not so much that I’m fickle, it’s just that I change my mind often. Unless we’re talking about hot dogs, which are God’s way of saying howdy.

But I’ve tried to think of my all-time favorite blogs and I can’t narrow it down past about 30.

On that top list, however, remains a blog that I’ve read since Your Aunt Becky started blogging on my old blog Mushroom Printing. I don’t know how I found Jason Mulgrew’s blog, Everything is Wrong With Me, but I assure you that it was probably the best thing I ever did find on The Internet, and that includes Poop Senders (thank you Kristin).

I peed a little when I found Jason, and then I immediately declared that he was my Internet Boyfriend, which is a little scary since most of my Internet/Television Boyfriends are actually fictional characters and Jason is a real person, but that’s pretty much the highest compliment I can give someone. But that’s just how worthy of admiration and restraining orders that Jason is.

Then proving that I have friends who are better than I am (which, Pranksters IS always the way to go), he joined the ranks of my friends like Lauren Leto, Gretchen Rubin, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, Danny Evans and Chris Mancini and wrote himself a motherhumping book.

When I got his book, Everything is Wrong With Me, I actually read it. I know, ME reading WORDS! And all this time you thought I was illiterate! Anyway, Pranksters, it’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve read in the longest time and that includes the warning on my hairdryer not to bathe with it (because, OBVIOUSLY, the picture shows someone being electrocuted).

The book is full of The Awesome and if you need any proof that Jason is as funny as I’m promising him to be, go here. Your Aunt Becky doesn’t lie about The Funny.

So, here’s the deal, Pranksters, you require this book. And I am giving you the opportunity to win a copy of it because OBVIOUSLY. Let’s do a contest, Pranksters.

For a chance to win a copy of this book (and if you don’t win, just buy the book because it’s really worth it). You have until May 18 to enter. Please leave a separate comment for each entry.

1) Leave a comment telling us YOUR top five blogs and why you love them.

2) Do an homage to Jason a la YOUR life in pictures on YOUR OWN blog but give a linkage back here. THEN leave the link in the comments here so people can laugh at your awesomeness.

3) Blah, blah, blah, follow me on Twitter.

4) Blog about who you would nominate for the Nobel Prize of Awesomness (I’m always nominating the person who made the cheeseburger) and why. Then link here, and leave the link in the comments so we can read it.

5) Squirt, squirt, use the Google Friend Connect follow button publicly, which looks like pubic, which makes me laugh.

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Good luck, Pranksters.

It appears to me that people in the 1970’s had a proclivity towards bushes* and assorted foliage, if prefab neighborhood is any indication. Because EVERYONE I’ve talked to has said precisely the same thing. FUCK THE BUSHES. We’ve all had to yank out miles of ’em to give our houses that “no, a serial killer doesn’t live here” or “no, this house is NOT abandoned” look.

As I showed you before, my own house is no different.

That was before I started.

Eventually, I made it to the Serial Killer Section of my hardware store and bought some very frightening implements of mass destruction which I promptly buried in my very own leg. Because I am not to be trusted with anything with a blade. Even a butter knife.

After much work, I got rid of…

Those motherfucking evergreen bushes, man. THE ROOTS ARE LIKE 8 MILES LONG.

In fact, this is precisely how I feel when I think about evergreen bushes. Sadness, mixed with anger, mixed with resentment. Also, is it bizarre that the kid’s hat is too big for me? DO I HAVE A PINHEAD?

The rest of those bushes in the front are dead to me, too (not the lilac or the rhododendron). They just don’t know it.

Before, Shot 2:

And the AFTER shot part number B (which also, isn’t done)(consider this the INTERLUDE, not to be confused with the QUAALUDE):

The rest of THAT ugly evergreen ground cover is going to be dug up (hopefully this week) so that I may perhaps not ever have to see an evergreen in my house so long as I live Jesus Christ AMEN.

And lastly, before any of you die of boredom, here is the only thing that looks marginally better, which you’d only see if you followed my Tweet stream and clicked over to see what I called “as boring as cat pictures.”

Before:

Butt-ass ugly, right? Like you just barfed on your monitor and now want to bill me for your keyboard? Well SORRY, Pranksters, but I can’t afford new keyboards for all of you. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Anyway, I didn’t plant that butt-ugliness, I just looked at it and shook my head for years. Then I got sick of it, got angry and took my rage out on it.

This is what happened:

I grow roses, Pranksters, which is probably making those of you who didn’t know that scratch your head quizzically because it seems like a contradictory thing for me to do. But I do. Mostly rambling roses, but this is a miniature rose. It also WASN’T the sign I was referring to, but I thought it was lovely, no?

—————

I’ll explain more about signs in another post because I was going to do it here, but I realized that it was going to be all LONG and shit and I know from my SEO tips that you cannot possibly read anything longer than 400 words.

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I’m obsessing over Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black. If you don’t know that song, GET THEE TO AN iTUNES AND DOWNLOAD IT. Also, Amy, please get sober and make amazing music again.

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Today is now Toy With Me day and I’m tackling cheating. It’s a tough, personal subject for me to talk about and I’d love to hear your thoughts, if you’d like to share.

*If my viewage of 70’s porn is any indication, there is a direct correlation between bush planting and rockin’ the full bush down below, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

One of the best things I learned in high school was not the phrase “semper ubi, SUB ubi” (always wear, UNDERwear) (oh, that AP Latin humor gets me every time), but that the one way to make sure that no one hassled you was to look as though you looked like you knew precisely what you were doing. If you LOOKED like you knew what you were doing, you were probably not setting fire to a locker somewhere. Probably.

It was an early version of the ‘fake it ’til you make it’ adage that they teach people suffering from mental illness, and it’s a good life lesson. Should I ever put together Aunt Becky’s Guide To Life, along with “Pants First, Then Shoes,” that will be up there high on my list of things to master.

I’ve always been remarkably good at it, maybe it’s because my home life was chaotic, maybe I just have a good p-p-p-p-poker face, I don’t know. But I always look like I know precisely what I am doing. And for the most part, I have always simply known that what I was doing was precisely what I should be doing for that time. Even during my blasted nursing school days, whether or not I was HAPPY, it was what I should have been doing because I knew with certainty it must be.

I never waffle much with my decisions, especially my decisions about how delicious waffles are, and I never much struggle with uncertainty. For me there is a single path to follow, and I simply follow it. It’s very dogmatic to be me, I guess, and even though my decisions aren’t always right, there’s never so much as a shred of doubt in them while I’m making them.

Lately, though, I’ve been struggling. Floundering, even, although when I say that, I think of the fish and then I giggle because I think of that Faith No More video with the flopping fish, and then I remember how much I fucking love Mike Patton.

But my decision to be a writer was something that came about as a shock to me. It was like I realized I could dip my head underwater and breathe without a mask. I simply didn’t know that I had any talent for it, and once I did, I was beyond stunned, because you think you’d know if you could do something cool like breathe underwater, right?

I’ve gone after it, balls to the wall, because I realized that this was what I was supposed to do. But for the first time in my life, I became doubtful. Was this really what I was supposed to do?

Where my path before had been brightly lit with gaily colored lights and lighted disco sidewalks (hey, this is MY path, Pranksters and I would bejewel all of you if I could), it turned a murky, cloudy grey. I couldn’t see what I was supposed to do next. I was all kinds of turned around and suddenly a mist crept in and I couldn’t even tell which way was up any longer.

I don’t even know how long I stood there alone, just standing and waiting for a sign. Months, probably. I’m not a big step-on-a-crack-break-your-momma’s-back kind of Magical Thinker, but I needed a sign from God, from you, my Pranksters, from ANYONE to tell me that Yes, YES, a million times yes! this was what I needed to do.

Yesterday, I got it.

All at once, the mist evaporated, the lights turned back on, the disco lights began flashing under my feet and suddenly I could see that I’d been facing the right way the entire time. I’ve always been facing the right way. This IS what I was supposed to be doing all along. Eventually, I will succeed.

In the meantime, I just have to remember that it’s not all given to me to know and that it’s not all within my power. I got my sign, and now it’s time to do my part.

It’s going to be another long, strange trip, but I’m beyond ready and more than thrilled. I’m going to buckle up and hope I don’t shit my pants along the way.

Much.

My big push for the year besides:

1) don’t die

2) don’t kill anyone

3) don’t die trying not to kill anyone

was to try and get involved in Ben’s schooling. Not like all PTA-style because I don’t think I could get away with stapling my mouth shut for hours at a time because that sounds painful and The Daver won’t buy me a handler to make sure I don’t say things like, “I say we teach our kids to practice ASS-tincence! GET IT? Bwahahahahaha!”

No, I signed up to be on the baking committee.

Before you all draw collective gasps of amazement at my gall, I can assure you that despite the way it looked when I made my not-so-delicious Cake Wreck, I am an excellent baker….

….providing it doesn’t have to look pretty. What I make will TASTE delicious, it just make look like a hot plate of ass. What can I say? Aesthetics isn’t my strong suit.

I’ve tried to sign up to bring in my delicious delectables before, but I’m guessing that someone reads my blog and probably saw my horrifying mini cake monstrosity and decided that they didn’t want their kid to die of dysentery THAT week.

I was turned down. I cried into my terrible, sad blue cake. (you have to read the other post to understand what I’m saying)

Months later, when all of the other people had been tapped out, and changed their email addresses,I was finally called into action. Your Aunt Becky, finally ready to prove her worth in front of God, The PTA and everyone.

My orders were about as hilarious and complex as you could possibly get. It was something so uniquely teacher-ish (this is for Teacher Appreciation Week, you see, Pranksters, a group that I appreciate SO VERY MUCH that I would happily give them fistfuls of cash rather than a crummy cake) that I immediately had to call The Daver out of a Very Important Meeting to inform him of it.

Now, had I been a teacher in the school, this is what I would have wanted the cake decorated like:

1) Me clubbing children

P) Me strangling children

**) Me torching the school

12) Me mowing over the crazy parents with my large SUV

8) A bottle of Vicodin with me in the background passed out (presumably from taking it)

5) A fluffy kitten perhaps doing something whimsical like playing the piano!!1!!

I am clearly unequipped to handle masses of children in one place at one time and if you are a teacher, I will personally bake you a cake if you come over to my house because that is how much I love you for doing what you do. I do not promise it will LOOK PRETTY but you know, it’ll taste good, so who gives a flying monkey shit?

If the teachers DIDN’T want cakes depicting violence against children because they are clearly better human beings than I am, what on earth DID they want?

Cakes that you can motherfucking SALUTE, Pranksters! Oh yes, they wanted FLAG cakes. Which, is just such a TEACHER thing to want, isn’t it? I’m happy if my cake is tinted a color that is certain to make my poo turn green, but the teachers wanted to have cakes made to represent the flags of 4 nations. Shockingly NO ONE wanted to make them.

So I offered to buy them because I know my limits. The last time I ended up making a cake that was supposed to look like something cute, it ended up looking like this:

Not exactly what I’d planned it to look like, but you know, the greatest plans and whatnot. So the prospect of ME making a cake that was supposed to look like a flag was, perhaps, the most amusing thing I’d heard in months. If this was me TRYING to make a nice cute cake, what would my attempts at a flag look like?

Short answer: I didn’t know and didn’t find out. But I DO plan on doing an In The Kitchen With Aunt Becky soon. Just not with a cake I have to actually GIVE people who then have to EAT it (not just submit it to Cake Wrecks).

My Flag? The AMERICAN Flag, of course (The American Flag was also the pattern of my retainer in high school! Oddly, I lost it in Europe. True story).

I had to explain that I wasn’t just feeling patriotic when I picked it up from the giggling teenagers at Target. The more I explained it, the harder they laughed at me. I suppose they’re not used to seeing Old Glory outside of July Fourth in such magnificent splendor.

Also, there are NOT 50 motherfucking stars on that flag. The teachers will be sure to point that out and be downright clucky that it’s not actually CORRECT. Maybe they will contact my Social Studies teacher and give me a very belated F.

When I picked up the cake, I found myself in the car looking down at Yee Old Flag in her Sugared Glory and singing my most favorite patriotic song.

I give you the INCREDIBLY NOT SAFE FOR WORK OH MY GOD PRANKSTERS LISTEN TO ME DO NOT PLAY THIS AT WORK song from Team America:

Tell me that’s not the funniest thing you’ve heard in forever (the video, well, that’s just what I could find on You Tube). Also, you can sing it to ANYTHING, so it’s like the most versatile song, ever. We should change it to our national anthem, I think.

American Flag Cake, FUCK YEAH.

So, I’m due any day now with Baby #2 and I have a girl name that I LOVE…but other people look at me and say, “What?” whenever they hear it.  Then they sit there and say it under their breath several times while looking confused.  And?  Since I’m 9 months pregnant, it totally pisses me off.

The name is Elodie.  (El-oh-dee)  Seriously, it’s not that different from Emma or Olivia!  It’s French!  It’s not like I snagged the name of some random elf from The Lord of the Rings or something.  It’s a real name, with a real history and real meaning.

So what is up with the weird looks?  And am I dooming my daughter to a lifetime of constantly repeating her name to morons who can’t think outside the name box of Jennifer or Emily?

Oh Momma, you poor thing, when I was nine months pregnant, people breathing near me made want to stab them in the eyeballs with forks, mostly because I was always holding a fork so it was handy as a weapon. Otherwise, I would have thought of something that would cause more damage.

Now Your Aunt Becky thinks that Elodie is a lovely name for a wee baby girl, but I’m afraid that your summation is correct: you are dooming yourself to a lifetime of repeating her name to hapless morons. I say this because my name is Becky and people call me Rachel. CONSTANTLY.

Elodie is an exotic for the US and exotic names are full of The Awesome, but they’re also not common enough that people are going to–off the cuff–say, OH RIGHT!

That said, if you love it, you’ll just have to get used to spelling it and then sounding it out and then spelling it for people. Your daughter will have to do the same. People aren’t always very bright.

Funky names are getting more common, so she won’t be alone in spelling out her name and having people butcher it. Maybe you can make up cards to hand people who don’t get it. Just try to be patient with them.

And remember that people with even the most common names get it, too (RACHEL? I mean, really?).

Good luck, Momma.

Something strange has been going on in my head.  I’ve been chewing on a little nugget of an idea for awhile now.  I’ve been thinking about nominating my child for Make A Wish.

Anyway, one day, I was reading a community blog for my child’s condition and an older child had mentioned she had recently been granted a wish from the make a wish foundation.  She was excited to get a wish because she didn’t think her condition would qualify her for anything special. (Her condition won’t kill her, just require yearly medical examinations by a few ‘ologists’, and treatment as they see fit.  And I thought to myself, wow, I was just thinking about Make A Wish.

A few days later, I was thinking about approaching my husband with the idea of starting the Make A Wish nomination process, but I chickened out thinking that he’d think I was dumb for thinking we should do Make A Wish cause our child is only 3 (will be 3 VERY soon).

The very next day, we got a Make A Wish packet in the mail (fund raising thing asking us for money)  So, I used that as a starting point and mentioned to my husband how I was wanting to tell him about what I had been thinking about and asked what he thought.  He said “The Kid is too young and won’t remember the trip anyway, besides, it’s not like the kid will talk and say anything to the people if they come out”

So, I left it at that….but yesterday, we got something from the grocery store that we normally buy, and it was labeled with Make A Wish advertisement.

Is this a sign that I should just donate to Make A Wish, or nominate my child?

My child was born with a few problems.  It seems that more problems are on the horizon.  Nothing that will kill the kiddo, but will definitely make life quite difficult for awhile.  It’s also pretty much a lifelong problem(s).

You know what? I’d say if it’s something that you think you want to do for your kid, I’d say that you should. The worst that the Make A Wish Foundation will do is turn you down, and in that case, well, you’re out nothing.

So I’d say onward, Prankster, ONWARD. And let us know what happens.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve been blogging for about a year and a half, and most of the time I really love it. But right now? I am completely. burnt. out. I spend way too many hours (hours I should be using to tame the laundry pile, clear the toxic waste out of the fridge and tear my hub away from his internet porn) brainstorming, blogging, commenting, and otherwise pimping my virtual self out, trying to attract more eyeballs (because, let’s face it, I am nothing without comments), and feel like I’m getting nowhere fast.

Have you, in all your awesomeness, ever found yourself at this crossroads? How do I get past it? I am not a quitter, and do not want to become one now, but the thought of writing another post right now makes me want to light a match and burn my blog back into binary code.

Help me.

Sincerely,

Considering Committing an Act of Bloggy Arson

Are you kidding, Prankster? Of course you are teasing Your Aunt Becky, because anyone who has been blogging for more than six months has experienced blogging burnout. If they haven’t, they’re delusional, or they haven’t actually felt The Pressure yet.

This is what I do when I feel The Pressure is to remind myself not to take myself so seriously. It’s hard because I’m supposed to be funny, and when I’m not feeling particularly FUNNY it makes for a post like dressing up a turd in a tutu. Not everything in my life is for public consumption.

Then I take a step back and remind myself not to take it all so seriously. If I miss a couple weeks of keeping up with everyone, well, I’m only one person. I cannot possibly do it all and make myself happy at the same time. Anyone who drops me because I need some time to myself isn’t exactly a friend, are they?

So don’t be so hard on yourself, Prankster, and remember it’s okay to need your space. Take the time you need and come back to your blog if you want. Anyone who loves you for you and not for the comments you leave on THEIR blog will keep you in their reader and welcome you back with open arms. Like Your Aunt Becky.

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As always, Pranksters, please feel free to fill in where I left off in the comments.

When the power went off yesterday at exactly 2:46 PM I tried to be all *hair flip* coy about it. I was all WHATEVER, I don’t NEED you MR. POWER COMPANY. You’re The Man and I don’t need to SELL OUT to The Man any more than I ALREADY DO.

By 2:48 I was sweating and on my knees praying to The Power Company Gods that the power be restored already, can’t you SEE that I’ve SUFFERED enough?? I NEED my TWITTER BACK! THE INTERNET MAY BE HAVING A SCANDAL THAT I DON’T KNOW ABOUT!

Now, I was born into a family of stinky hippies. I don’t mean the kind that shops at Whole Foods and occasionally recycles their plastics when they feel like it. No, my parents were hippies long past when it was cool to be a hippie and well before it was trendy to be organic. We had to drive all over town in our ancient VW Bug to go to the health food store, we grew our own sad, pathetic produce, and we made as much of our own food as possible.

That’s probably why I’m jubilantly happy that my rose food is made by Bayer, the same company that makes my aspirin. You cannot be TOO not organic when you live in Aunt Becky’s world.

Along with making our own food, we made our own maple syrup in the winter after we painstakingly gathered the sap from maple trees, we picked our own apples and strawberries from local (pesticide free) orchards, and my mother canned stuff. CREEPY, I know.

Also, she churned butter.

Oh yes, Pranksters, my mom churned our butter. I’ll let you take a moment to let that sink in, or allow you to compose yourself, perhaps to run to the bathroom to wipe the pee from your pants.

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Ready? (ASS)

Yeah, my mom churned butter. Sometimes, when I was a kid, I helped. Also, I should add, I was born in 1980, not 1880.

But to me, I’m really not into that whole lifestyle. I mean, I love Classic Rock fiercely…but I also love Bubble Gum Pop. Whole Foods is awesome…but I also call it Whole PAYCHECK. I have a garden which I love…but I don’t grow food in it. I don’t cook, if I can help it. I appreciate the organic lifestyle, but I lived it before most people and I am willing to admit that it has it’s drawbacks…like BUGS.

You can spare me the organic is better lecture because really, I HAVE been there.

Last night, after about 30 minutes with no power, the 3-year old hysterical because things! were! different! I realized that my iPhone was nearly dead and my house phone, well, that runs off The Internet, the stove and microwave both not working, I was pretty much ready to pull my graying hair out.

Luckily, the pizza guy came (thank you The Daver) and saved the day for the kids and 4 mother-humping hours later, the power came on to great fanfare in my house. Turns out, no one in my house–all of whom are used to sleeping with white noise–can sleep if there’s no power.

I’m pretty sure I would have been eaten by a large bear if I’d been a pioneer.