Hi Aunt Becky!

I have kind of an awkward question. I went to hook up with my ex-boyfriend the other day (I know, bad idea to begin with) and he wanted to do something I didn’t want to do. Long story short, we argued, I insulted him, and he hit me — pretty hard. Then he apologized and I ended up having sex with him again.

I’m feeling really guilty about this, because I feel like I violated my sexual integrity and my rights as a woman, especially since I ended up doing what I didn’t want to do in the first place. I feel like a huge idiot, too.

My question is, was this my fault? I mean, I did insult him, so I guess it’s my fault for making him lose control. He kept screaming at me afterward, look what you made me do, and I guess I DID make him do it. But did I deserve to be hit? And am I a poor excuse for a woman, since I allowed him to touch me after that?

Thanks!

First, sweetheart, let me tell you that you’re not alone. I’m willing to bet that there are probably a hundred people reading this and nodding their heads saying “I’ve compromised myself before, too.” It’s a horrible, awful feeling when you’ve not been true to yourself, and it’s humiliating to know that you’ve done something that you didn’t want to do voluntarily.

You have to forgive yourself. It’s okay. We all make mistakes. We all do.

It may take awhile to forgive yourself (Lord knows, it took me years), but you can and you will. I know that you’ll look back on this as a momentary lapse in reason and never compromise who YOU are for someone else ever again.

I know that I never did. That’s how I know you won’t, either.

It’s an important lesson, I think, to learn to be true to yourself, and it’s not always something you can learn from a fortune cookie. I’m such a numb-nuts that I had to tattoo it on my foot* to remind myself of that one. It worked, though. I’ve never compromised myself for someone else again.

And you are NOT to blame for your ex hitting you. There’s no way you can possibly be responsible for someone else’s actions–even if you did provoke him–and no matter what he says, it’s his fault. Period. There’s no wiggle room on that one. He’s the one who was in the wrong, not you. End. Of. The. Fucking. Story.

You’re not a poor excuse for a woman–far from it. You had a minor error in judgment, which I’m sure all of us have had at one point or another, and I’m willing to bet that you’ll never do it. If you learned something from it, especially something as important as never compromising yourself for someone else ever again, well, it wasn’t all bad.

You deserve more than all of this (I’m looking at ALL OF YOU when I say this, Pranksters). Don’t ever sell yourself short, and don’t ever let anyone else sell you short either because that’s fucking bullshit. If they have issue with that, well, send ’em to Your Aunt Becky. She knows you deserve better.

Love you, girl.

*seriously.

————————

Normally, I post a couple of questions on Go Ask Aunt Becky Days, but today, I think that maybe we can just rally around my anonymous friend here. Maybe you guys could give her some love, too. I’m willing to bet that she’ll be reading your comments and it sounds like she could use some lovin’ or advice.

Alternately, why I should have no access to friends or instant messaging technology.

Aunt Becky: “OHMYGOD, I need your help!!”

Dad Gone Mad: “Okay, what’s wrong?”

Aunt Becky: “I have been up since Sunday and I can barely concentrate and I don’t know who else to ask because no one else will talk to me anymore because there’s this song, right?”

Dad Gone Mad: “A song…”

Aunt Becky: “YES! That Elton John song, “Levon,” and he goes, ‘he shall be-LEVON.'”

Dad Gone Mad: “……”

Aunt Becky: “I DON’T GET IT.”

Dad Gone Mad: “I think it’s a double entendre. You know, ‘he shall believe on.'”

Aunt Becky: “….”

Aunt Becky: “I see…Dude, I’m not sure I’m any happier knowing that.”

Dad Gone Mad: “But what can you really expect from some douchebag who sells cartoon balloons?”

Aunt Becky: “OR calls his child Jesus. Let’s be honest: that name has KINDA been taken.”

Dad Gone Mad: “And when was the last time the New York Times said “God is dead”? That’s just a filthy lie.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m pretty illiterate, dude, so I don’t read the paper. My next question is this, who names their child that? Really? Levon. I don’t know anyone named Levon. I pretty much know everyone, everywhere. I think it’s a conspiracy, Danny.”

Dad Gone Mad: “You’re pretty fucking weird, dude.”

Aunt Becky: “Just be glad that you don’t live with me.”

When I found out that last crotch parasite did not, in fact, come with a penis, I will fully admit to you, Pranksters, that I cried. Not like the big UGLY cry, but still, there were some tears. I’d wanted a daughter so badly and this was my last baby and I’d always sort of pictured my life surrounded by a sea of sausages. I’d never thought I’d be lucky enough to have a daughter.

And there she was, resplendent in her pixelated glory, mooning me on the ultrasound screen. My Amelia. Clearly, her mother’s daughter.

When she was born, she was a sleepy little thing, all big bush-baby brown eyes, sweet as pie, even through her brain surgery. We can all now safely say that she handled it better than the rest of us did, and it wasn’t until she started moving that I really noticed something.

Amelia is…okay, I’m just going to say it. Amelia is the Incredible Hulk. You take something away from her and she’s all “HULK SMASH, ME ANGRY, I KILL YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP WOMAN.” I’m actually sort of afraid to go to sleep without locking my doors, which is a FIRE HAZARD, yo. You know I am Captain Safety, Internet.

She’s just so fucking determined to get what she wants that I fear for anyone–or anything–that dares to get in her way.

See, I took the TV remote away from her the other day, because she’s destroying it, right? And I swear to Baby Jesus, the girl is now planning to somehow hoist a dead, bloody horse head into bed next to me now. She may weigh 23 pounds, but that is 23 pounds of DOOM that will fuck your shit UP when you don’t give her the motherfucking remote.

Because I am also a slave laborer, I make my eldest empty the dishwasher–a task that my youngest also loves to help with. And by “help” I mean, “strew the silverware around the kitchen.” So my mom was trying to hold Amelia OUT of the dishwasher so that it could be done in a fraction of the time and perhaps no one would get a concussion from a rogue, flying knife.

HA.

RIGHT.

Amelia was all, “FUCK YOU” and screamed and slithered and writhed until she was put down, where she very happily collected all of the clean spoons. Then she tried to beat her brother about the head with them until I pried them from her hands, and I swear she looked at me with murder in her mind. Luckily, she cannot kill me with spoons, because I hid them all.

The girl is seriously going to break bones, suck the marrow out and then beat someone to death with the hollow empty shells.

When I noted this to my mother, she said, “Oh, she reminds me of someone that I know.”

Thinking she probably meant John Wayne Gacy, I said, “Pogo, the Killer Clown?”

She didn’t even laugh before looking hard at me and saying, “No, Rebecca. YOU.” Then she kept staring at me like I was supposed to say something.

Eventually I retorted with, “Well…the prospect of eating bone marrow makes me want to puke.”

And then I reached for the number for my GP to see if he can put me in a coma for the next 18 or so years.

My daughter

Here you see Amelia rocking out with a homemade shiv. She’s about to cut her brother for hogging the water bucket.

Myself.

What I didn’t tell you is that every Easter, every time we got any sort of animal-themed cake, I ate the head. I INSISTED upon eating the head. This is the lamb cake BEFORE I ate the motherfucker’s head.

I guess that she’s my daughter after all.

After careful deliberation upon Monday’s Cake song fiasco, I have been thinking a lot about love songs. Sometimes, a girl likes to listen to a song that makes her want to eat a delicious Uncrustable and rub the food baby while thinking about love songs.

1) Bob Dylan When The Deal Goes Down I grew up teething on Blonde on Blonde, and was intensely wary of any of his new stuff (especially after he went Christian in the 80’s) but Modern Times is one of the most amazing albums you will ever listen to. It’s also the perfect album to have The Sex to, if you’re into that sort of thing. This song in particular, though, isn’t about humping, it’s about love. And, despite my wariness of such things, this is a beautiful love song.

2) Christina Aguilera Save Me From Myself. Now, okay, those of you without vaginas are going to be all ZOMG Aunt Becky this song has to suck, but it’s actually a stripped down acoustic song. Just her and a guitar. It couldn’t be a sweeter, simple love song. Plus, for those of you wedding people out there, if you click the link, it’s the official video and you get to see some of her wedding.

3) Carlos Santana and Dave Matthews Band Love of my Life. I’ll be honest that half of the reason I love this song is because the guitar is like fucking melted butter because it is. Also it makes me sort of want to drink Coronas in the Caribbean with my Cabana boy Carlos, but, you know, what doesn’t?

4) Queen Somebody To Love. Recently this song was covered marvelously by the cast of GLEE and it was tasty as well, but this song? Ah-Maz-ING. I mean, who can’t relate to this song? It’s infectious and upbeat and it’s motherfucking QUEEN. That’s pretty much all you need to hear to know that it’s an awesome love song.

5) Prince Pussy Control. This song probably makes more people think of me than any other in the world. Is that a good thing? I DON’T KNOW. Anyway, this song is VERY not safe for work, like at all and it’s pretty much full of The Awesome and should probably be YOUR theme song too. He also wrote it for his wife which is probably the most romantic thing EVER. No, I am swooning, actually. LISTEN TO THIS AWESOME LOVE SONG.

6) The Darkness I Believe In A Thing Called Love. Okay, so this is the 2000’s first revival of glam rock and seriously people, it’s fantastic. Maybe you wouldn’t dance yourself down the aisle to it (although I threatened to dance myself down the aisle to it), but the song is a golden love song. And the video is amazing. Also, when it came out, I got 78 voicemails saying “ZOMG BECKY YOU NEED THIS ALBUM.” Apparently my friends know me.

Because I did need it. Just…watch it. You can thank me later. And if you DO happen to use it as your wedding song, I AM COMING TO YOUR WEDDING.

7) Beyonce Halo. Okay, this song proves that underneath it all I am a sap because it makes me tear up. Like a lot. I might even be crying as I type this. Shut the fuck up. And it isn’t just because Beyonce and I both go by “B,” it’s because the song is all about falling in love. Which, I think, is supposed to make you tearful. Or gassy. I don’t know. All I know is that I firmly throw this into the “love song” category.

8 ) Ray Charles/Van Morrison Crazy Love. You take two of my favorite voices, mash them together, and you have this song. Words can’t describe it. This is probably one of the best love songs I’ve ever heard.

9) The Village People YMCA. This was supposed to be my wedding song until a certain PARTY POOPER decided that it wasn’t a good first dance number. First, the church nixed dancing myself down the aisle to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” and then Daver nixed the YMCA. I should have eloped with a pillow after all. I bet IT would let me listen to this love song (that’s totally NOT a love song).

And I am not kidding. This was an ACTUAL fight we had. A BIG one too. The ONLY thing I won about the wedding was the cake.

Thank God the cake was awesome.

10) Faith no More Just A Man. This is probably not a traditional love song, especially since it’s included on an album with a song like “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies” (a great song), but shit, this is one of the best albums I’ve ever heard and this song is fucking fantastic. Actually, I’m not sure that Mike Patton even likes women. He might like to have sex with food, but really, who am I to judge? I wanted to dance to the fucking YMCA.

In high school, I dated a guy who had so much money that his father actually had gold bricks lying around the house. I always debated stealing one, but I’m not a thief and I never really knew what I’d do with one if I took it. I mean, I’m pretty sure those puppies are kind of well-tracked. It wasn’t like I could have taken that to the record store and bought Britney’s new CD without raising eyebrows.

Plus, I’m honest enough, and my conscience is guilty enough that the next time I saw his dad, and he’d said, “Hi Becks!” I would have responded innocently with, “OHMYGOD I’M SO SORRY I STOLE THE BRICK PLEASE DON’T HATE ME.”

Yeah. Not exactly coy, eh?

But in that neighborhood for 2 years of my life I learned a lot. Namely the term “trophy wife.”

As someone who, at age 18, had realized cleverly that she was allergic to a hard day of work, this seemed like an idea life to me. I’d marry an old rich guy, pop out some kids, occasionally sleep with him when Viagra could give him a boner, and live a life of leisure. I’d pop pills, have plastic surgery, hang out at the Country Club down the street. I’d lunch and spa and hand the kids off to the nannies to be raised.

Eventually, my husband would die, his First Wife would fight me in court for his estate, and eventually we’d settle. The only real kink in my Ultimate Plan so far as I could see was that I wasn’t blond, but that, I figured, could be remedied with a quick dye job.

A Trophy Wife, I liked the sound of that.

Age 22 found me unmarried with a kid, working my way through the prerequisites required to get into nursing school, and although I was pretty pleased with school, I was becoming increasingly aware that nursing school wasn’t going to be what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

Age 22 also found me to be The Date for any of my male friends going to any company parties, because, well, they knew I put out everyone needs a standby date. Evan had been one of my best friends since I could remember and when he invited me to be his date for one of his work dinners, I accepted immediately.

We showed up together at a swanky steakhouse, and in the vein of broke 20 year old’s everywhere, I began drinking immediately. Because OBVIOUSLY. So by the time dinner began, I was fairly lit and began drunkenly talking to the guy on my left, an attractive guy with an accent, probably 20 years my senior.

Evan, always one to ditch me at parties, had probably already ditched me by this point anyway, so I made this guy my date. Besides, Evan and I were just friends, and this guy was charming and funny, and, well, Evan was the same guy who had come over to my house and left a framed picture of his naked ass on my pillow a couple of years before.

A real charmer, that one.

It probably wasn’t until the end of the evening by which point I was BEYOND fairly loaded when the guy who was sitting next to me stood up and started addressing the room when I realized that the person that I’d been teasing and generally making an ass of myself in front of wasn’t The Boss. He wasn’t the Bosses Boss. Oh no.

He was the Big, Big, Big, Big BIG Boss.

And somehow? He found me ADORABLE.

Because I had no idea who he was, I wasn’t shoving my tongue up his ass trying to get a promotion or a raise or a car or whatever it is that people do around the Big Boss People and I think he found that refreshing. Maybe I was just an awesome drunk or just On My Game that night, I don’t know. All that I do know is that the second I was out of there, he was all over Evan to hook him up with me.

The problem is, I really wasn’t interested in dating him. The prospect of living a life of leisure, even though he was funny and attractive AND had a sexy accent AND a assload of money just didn’t do it for me. I tried to reframe my thinking for an entire week and I simply couldn’t do it.

Turns out that life as a Lady of Leisure, even with the prospect of free pills and unlimited plastic surgery just wasn’t enough for me.

I know. I KNOW.

I still don’t know what I was thinking.

—————

In sticking with the bizarrely romantic themed things around here this week, I’m over at Toy With Me today, talking about people who marry…things. No. Really. I am. You should come visit because seriously, I didn’t make it up. I COULDN’T LIE TO YOU, PRANKSTERS.

Scene: Friday/Saturday night in a tiny cinderbox of a dorm room.

Aunt Becky pokes at a water bra she is wearing that she’d borrowed from a girl down the hall marveling at the jiggliness of her new-found perky sweater kittens. She lays in her bed, chain smoking Parliament Light 100’s while occasionally poking her now very pert chesticles, drinking a vodka/diet coke and looking incredibly annoyed.

She scowls at the CD player, which is playing an endless loop of Cake’s “Never There” where two boys are standing, near-crying and singing it at top volume. Rolling her eyes every time they click the BACK button to hear it again, she takes a drag off her cigarette and wonders how to ditch the lamewads.

When I was in college, my two best guy friends would frequently come and stay with me for the weekends when my passive-aggressive roommate was off doing whatever it was she was doing when she wasn’t torturing me by IM-ing her boyfriend at all hours of the day. Maybe designing new POW interrogation techniques or something. We had a tiny dorm room, but somehow we managed to cram the three of us in there for the weekend and we’d make mischief and mayhem throughout the city.

Until they both got lovesick.

I had no issues with either of them dating other girls, since I wasn’t dating them and while we occasionally “slept together” really, it was actual sleeping and nothing else. Even then, I learned not to blur the lines.

But the two of them, Evan and Mikey, they both had girlfriends who went to schools in other parts of the country, and while I was single, it never seemed to matter much. Or if it did, I may have been known to their girlfriends as “their friend ‘BRIAN.'” I’m not sure that it was revealed to their womens that I had a vagina, even if they never saw it.

One weekend, the three of us got spectacularly drunk and rather than lock each other into the shower or go and try and wrap each in toilet paper (so we could look like mummies!) or something, they got moony over their ladies. And HOLY FUCKBALLS did they get melodramatical.

They somehow got their grubby hands on my Cake CD and decided that “Never There” was their theme song. Drunkenly, they wailed it. They cried to it. They pounded their collective fists at the injustice of having to wait weeks to see their lady-loves. They ruined the fucking song for me.

A song, I might add, that I barely liked in the first place because really, if you’re going to pick a song to be moony about, why not Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here?” I can think of 10 better songs* to be all “ZOMG!! I LOVE SOMEONE WHO IS NOT HEEERRREE!” and never, ever does “Never There” make the list.

So there I sat, on my bed, which was approximately 3 inches wide, poking my boob and giggling while it jiggled, rolling my eyes, blowing smoke in their direction (and hoping it would get into THEIR eyes, giving them a better reason to cry then over some trashy bitches). Eventually, I left them a box of maxi-pads to cry into and went out with my other friends to do…something else.

Really, anything was better than listening to those two vaginas cry over their girlfriends.

I say the term “vaginas” with the utmost love, because one of those vaginas was my Man of Honor at my wedding and stood up next to me while I promised to love, honor, and repay The Daver for slapping a ring on my finger. He’s the uncle to my kids and one of my best, most devoted friends. Even if he does have a gaping vagina.

ALLEGEDLY.

That would be this one:

Evan, shown here at my bridal shower. He was forced to sit between his mother and mine, who sat there for the entire shower, discussing how they’d planned out OUR wedding for years. In front of my future mother-in-law. Let’s talk about awkward, shall we, Pranksters?

Anyway. He’s clearly wised up and no longer is dating the Never There girl, and only this weekend was I able to listen to that song again after it randomly came on my Nano, without wanting to drive a spike through my brain.

Also, I am going to be murdered in an unusually gruesome way for posting this story, so it was really, really nice knowing you all.

*That is an utter lie. I could think of only one. “Wish You Were Here.” Which I referenced. What am I missing? I tried to think about it but got calliope music stuck in my head.

It seems that it gets worse every year, and this year it was the worst yet. About December 15th, I started fantasizing about screaming in the streets “I F-ing hate Christmas!” (I actually thought about saying “F-ing.” That is how repressed I am–I censor even my fantasies.)

Between my mom and her “since you dad left, I have no one” and my sister and her “how can we make sure everyone is happy and never left out?” and my dad’s “when can I stop by for half an hour and drop off presents?” the ol’ Christmas spirit ends up nowhere near me. Finally it all came to a head at Christmas. My mom and husband got into a very short argument, he announced that we were leaving, I cried for two days straight, he sent my mom an email trying to explain why he’d been upset then and how he’s been feeling slighted for years.

You also have a family (parents, siblings) and in-laws and a desire to create memories and traditions for your kids. Any advice? My mom forwarded the email to my sister, which I don’t appreciate, but she responded by emailing everyone in the family and suggesting that we start a conversation, which I do. I just feel like no matter what I say–or to whom–I’m going to end up breaking what was already a very fragile dynamic between my husband and my family.

This is crazy long, and feel free to edit. I’m trying not to be one-sided or too complainy, but I’m just so worried that not only am I never going to have this close relationship between my husband and family (which my brother-in-law seems to enjoy), but they’re not even going to tolerate one another, which leaves me feeling like I have to choose one.

Ah, The Holidays, where Your Aunt Becky likes to imagine that she really enjoys drinking or perhaps medicating herself heavily to get through them (side note: I do not)(sadly).

I don’t think you’re being one-sided in wanting to have some sort of traditions of your own at all because you’re an adult, and that’s kind of what adults do: they branch out on their own and start their own. Or, in the case of others, they do not.

This is where you are at an impasse, my friend. You must decide what is important to you. Not to your mom or your dad or your sisters or your brother or Aunt Sally down the block. (Because we have so much family that has to celebrate holidays at odd random times throughout the season, we’ll end up dragging Christmas out for 4 months if we’re not careful, so believe me when I say that I know this from experience)

But it’s your turn to decide what you want. You get to make the call.

Sure, you may piss some people off along the way, because everyone wants you for something because OBVIOUSLY, but this is where it ends: you cannot kill yourself over the holidays.

Or, if you decide that that’s how you want to play it, and you’re going to cater to everyone else, then you have to just accept that the holidays really aren’t about you anymore. Then you can set aside your own feelings and just accept that the holidays are fucking stressful. Plenty of people do it that way and manage just fine.

In the Sausage Factory, we simply say “no” to the things we’re not going to do. It’s not fair to my kids to drag them to every-fucking-thing that we’re invited to just because we’re invited and we feel like we should. My family, my children, well, we matter too. I’m not guilty or sorry about that. And if other people have a problem, well, they can come over and deal with the post-Holiday Meltdown while I go home to their quiet house.

Don’t feel guilty about standing up for yourself, okay? You matter too.

Aunt Becky,

I need your help.  We all – except for the receptionist – have nice offices where I work.  For over a year now, she comes in my office every day for lunch and sits at my meeting table eating and reading.  At first I thought it was cute, but now its just annoying.  What if I need to call my doc about a raging case of vag herpies? What if I’m interviewing for a new job?  I’ve tried closing my door at 11:50 – she just comes in anyway.  Help!

Hungry for Silence

I am BEYOND sympathetic for your plight, my friend, because I cannot even work on my computer with someone standing near me (and believe me that I’m using the term “work” veeerrry loosely here) so I cannot imagine how annoying it’s got to be to have someone with you during your one period of solitude.

I’m sure that she, on the other hand, sees no reason that this would be any sort of intrusion, the same way people who kiss hello on the cheeks don’t find that to be off-putting to those of us who do not. Clearly, if she’s not getting the “door shut” thing, she’s not going to get any other sort of subtle gesture and obviously you don’t want to hurt her feelings.

So, can you put her in a conference room saying that you need to make some “personal calls” a couple of times a week? Certainly, it’s not like HONEST or anything, but you don’t want to make it all weirdness at work and you can’t exactly be all “here, sweetie!! Let’s go sit it SUSAN’S office today!!!” Because she’s not a toddler. (I’m assuming.)

Or, you could start trying to sell her every sort of Avon, Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, Candlight Party, Sex Toy Party thing, Ginsu knives imaginable. That normally works like a charm to get people the hell away from you.

OR, better yet, you could start polishing your knife collection during your lunch break and pretend to be a serial killer. Then she’d leave YOU the hell alone.

OR, you could pretend to have just married a pillow.

BETTER YET, I’ll open up the floor to my faithful Pranksters who will probably have much better ideas than I do because my next course of action was to suggest filling her car with balloons. CLEARLY I am the unbalanced one.

As always, submit your questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky on the sidebar, yo, and fill in ANYWHERE I left off. Please, Pranksters, HELP THESE PEOPLE.

When I first started dating The Daver, it must have been right around a new school semester starting for me in school. He was already a Working Person, and while I did work, I slung beers and pizzas on the weekends while I cared for my son during the week. He had a Big Boy Job and I was a student.

When I told him casually that “I needed a day planner” I was envisioning the paper and pencil kind that I was accustomed to. Perhaps I’d find one with a trippy graphic on it that I could perhaps draw something lewd–like a whimsical penis!!–on. My only real stipulation was that it was notebook sized. I didn’t and still don’t particularly like to scrawl notes in tiny hieroglyphics with pens designed for mice.

“No way,” The Daver was adamant here, “You need a PDA.”

“Um.” I hated to break it to him when he was being so fucking cute and forceful, but I knew I needed a PDA like I needed more baby daddy drama.

“No, you do. Here, let’s go get you a nice one.” He quickly executed a 3-point turnabout and drove into the Worst Best Buy parking lot. Out of the car he sprung and leaving me no choice but to trail along behind him, I followed him into the store unhappily.

Best Buy is NOT my happy place.

Quickly he steered me over to the PDA section and handed me a box. “Here,” he said confidently, “I’ll buy you THIS.”

It was approximately 76,000 times as much as the paper one I was looking at but he was so fucking earnest about it that I said only, “Um. Okay.” Maybe he was right. I could probably learn something from him.

“On one condition, The Daver,” I bargained with him. “I need a Coach PDA case.”

“Deal.” He said quickly.

I spent the next 3 days painfully entering all of my information into the stupid thing, all of my contacts (which I took from my cell phone, which really WAS my lifeblood, lest you think I was a total technophobe), all of the syllabuses, all of the stuff that I’d need for the next semester and I put it in it’s happy pink Coach PDA case and stuffed it into my backpack.

THERE, I thought to myself. LOOKIT how professional I look!!

I practiced whipping the PDA case out and entering something furiously into it like I always saw the commuters doing on the train, and I felt pretty cool for upwards of 2.4 seconds. Until I realized that I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Then, I forgot to charge the fucking thing and lost all of my painstakingly entered data. Then I lost the power cord for the thing. I considered flushing it down the toilet, but decided against it since I didn’t ACTUALLY buy it myself.

I furtively went out and bought myself an actual day planner and happily used real ink to write down my schedule for the next several months, happy to be dating a technophile, but just as happy to not be one myself.

Which is why it’s weird that on April 3, Mr. FedEx will be bringing me–Your Aunt Becky–her very own iPad. I actually pre-ordered the newest piece of technology for myself. It’s like I’m looking in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself anymore because it’s not even the $20,000 diamond iPad.

The Daver has been mocking me since I pre-ordered it, which is even weirder. It’s like we’re turning into the other person which means I should develop a love of whiny emo music and he should turn into a huge Britney fan. I guess I’m not that worried, because I’ll still never, ever enter my calendar information into it. Like, ever.

Because entering “FUCKING SURVIVE” every day is kind of depressing.

Whenever I go to post something on The Internet that discusses heavier things, I confess, Pranksters, that I am afraid. Of what, I don’t really know. What are you going to do? CALL MY MOM and tell her that you hate me? I’m sure she’d roll her eyes because that’s my mom for you.

On the same token, yesterday, even though that post had been published twice in other places, I was as nervous as a cat to post it again. According to the handy chart of characteristics that I found (opens into a PDF if you click it), apparently we adult children of alcoholics are afraid of our feelings. Tell me something I DON’T know, right?

Anyway. As per usual, I could have better spent that energy rearranging my underwear drawer or bleaching out my garbage cans because you were wonderful and for that I am grateful. In fact, I’m always grateful for you, my Pranksters.

Whether it’s a condescending article (s) in the newspaper or some blurb on the national news, for some reason the blogging community is still seen as a pathetic little coffee club. How DARE we get mad when someone bashes us in the paper? We’re just silly little women/men/ people who should get our silly butts back to tending our children and off the computer! Our children are practically raising themselves while we selfishly DO NOT LIVE FOR THEM.

How DARE we have a drink or a life? WE’RE PARENTS, NOT PEOPLE! How DARE we talk about our FEELINGS in PUBLIC where some day our KIDS might see them!!1!! ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG! Let’s go back to a life of repression, y’all.

Some day, my children are going to read my blog and know that some days, I wanted to strangle myself because they behaved so horrifically. Some day, my children will know that I am a human being. I hope that they take comfort in that, rather than grow up in a repressed, sad home. Sure, they’ll hate me for plenty of things, my blog included (also included, my singing, my hairstyle, and my morning breath).

I never claimed to give up my life when I popped my first crotch parasite out and I’m not starting now.

Some day, someone will look back on blogging and see that we were building a community. Because like it or not, you, my Pranksters, are my friends. Some of you I haven’t met, some of you I do know pretty well, some of you are my FB BFF and some of you I would be lost without.

All of you, I cherish. I do.

I’m proud to know all of you and whenever I talk about you to The Daver or whomever ear I have selfishly stolen, I am always filled with happiness that I know so many amazing, diverse people. It’s not about subscriber numbers or Twitter feeds, it’s about people. YOU. I’m happy I know you. All of you. Thank you for being my friend.

So for those of you who do blog, and those of you who want to blog, I’m here to encourage you to do it. Ignore the critics and the naysayers and those who dismiss your “stupid little habit.” Write even if no one reads your blog. Write LIKE no one reads your blog. Write for yourself, and write authentically.

Write hard, Pranksters, write hard.

And know that no matter what, Your Aunt Becky loves you. Hard.

A version of this ran in The Drinking Diaries last year (it’s been rewritten for you, Pranksters) and today they’re running a follow-up interview with me today so I thought I’d be brave and post it on my real blog today.

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I am an adult child of two alcoholics, and although there are nifty acronyms used to refer to us, I prefer my real name: Becky (unless you want to call me Princess of Power). The Internet knows me as Aunt Becky and there’s probably a number of you scratching your head over my incongruently named site: “Mommy Wants Vodka.”

I’ve been mixed up plenty into articles about Diane Schuler, the lady who killed her kids, bashing me for being a Cocktail Mom. Hell, I even made it into the New York Times for that, even though I seldom blog about drinking.

In reading up on the other issues facing my cohorts, my fellow children of alcoholics–who also, presumably, have names–I think that in spite of the flack that I get, humor is the far healthier way to handle it. I’ve somehow, by the grace of God, perhaps, been able to avoid many of the nastier lasting effects of my childhood. I am not shy, I do not suffer from low self-esteem, and I don’t obsessively hoard china cat figurines or keep my toenail clippings in jars.

I do have anxiety and guilt and the emotional range of a toddler and I frequently blame myself for things that never had anything to do with me. I’m about as trusting with even those closest to me as an abused animal. There are probably three people on the planet who really know me. Maybe less.

But I’m trying to work through this because I know I deserve better than I got.

Every day; every single day that I wake up, I wonder if today will be the day that it hits. We adult children of alcoholics are four times more likely than the general population to develop issues with substance abuse. FOUR TIMES. For someone like me, who has not one, but two alcoholic parents, this number must be infinitesimally higher. So I wait.

It’s exhausting, this waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So I sit and I wait, and while I do this, I build a new life for myself: I’m a mother, a writer, a friend. A daughter. A sister. A niece and a cousin.

My name is Becky, and I am not an alcoholic.