You know when the Urgent Care doctor looks concerned after he’s examined you that you’re pretty much fucked. You know that you’re really fucked when he actively prescribes you narcotics and steroids that you’re really fucked. Sadly, I was able to procure no fentanyl lollies, but still, I have a big ass bottle of Vicodin with my name on it.

Rather than loll about the house in a narcotics filled haze (THEY ARE LEGAL, MR. DEA AGENT) occasionally hallucinating Cuban cabana boys (and, for that matter, a cabana), I am as tightly wound as a wee circus mouse on a crack bender. I’m desperately wishing that I had some houses to build or decks to pound together with my bare hands or perhaps a dozen orphans to care or maybe a small island to build with some dirt and a bucket.

This here, THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING BAT COUNTRY, Pranksters.

Or maybe I’m just on speed. And it totally and completely sucks.

I’ve never been on it before, but Ben had to take it for his chest years ago and I remember he was a total asshole whenever he was on it. Daver and I always dreaded it.

I’m just incredibly annoying to be around and I’ve apologized preemptively to anyone who deals with me on a regular basis because I’m now wired and COMPLETELY aggressive.

My internal monologue is something like this:

WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING TO ME? I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD. HELL, I WISH I COULD LAY OFF THE SPEED. WOW, I CAN GET SO MUCH DONE. WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING TO ME? WHY ISN’T PURPLE A FLAVOR? WHY ISN’T SOMEONE MAKING ME BACON RIGHT NOW?

So if I’m annoying to deal with, it’s actually MORE annoying to be inside my head.

Only. seven. more. days.

I am over at Toy With Me talking about how I annoyed a stalker into submission and shockingly, it’s safe for work, which means I am probably losing my edge and should be taken out back and shot.

My Dearest Darling Dexter, Dr. House, Anthony Bourdain, et. all,*

Dexter, remember just this past winter, when I had the swine flu and you helped me make cupcakes? That was probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me in years. Except okay, there was that guy who helped me put my groceries in my cart AND THEN HE HELD THE DOOR OPEN FOR ME because motherfucking chivalry isn’t DEAD.

Sure, okay you’re a vigilante serial killer and I like the IDEA of killing people and “serial” is ALMOST like “cereal” and I could write massive tomes about my love of cereal. And maybe I am too cheap to have gotten Showtime to watch your forth season, but know that I tweeted ANGRILY at the stupid fucking New York Times Blogger who insulted your hat.

And you, Dr. House, your Vicodin-popping ways made me fall in love with you every Monday night. PLUS, I use your show as a way to use my medical knowledge to feel smugly superior to upwards of two toddlers and a host of houseplants. I am often way ahead of your team when I diagnose your patient for you. (P.S. It’s never lupus or perineoplastic syndrome)(except when it is)(that, my friends, is medicine for you) and then I feel very lofty and important.

Mr. Bourdain, while you can say words like “pube” on national television and are snarky enough to make my girl bits jiggle with glee, I have a feeling you’d take my steady diet of Uncrustables and Diet Coke personally. But call me, we can can wear matching BFF necklaces because I sort of want to follow you around everywhere you go and see if you really are always that awesome. If you are, I’m going to admit that I’ll be VERY jealous.

THEN, I might have to sic Dexter on you.

But, gentlemen, while we may always have our nights of the week together, I am afraid that I have found someone else that has captured my heart. While trolling Craig’s List for love porn missed connections a new couch**, I found my new boyfriend.

(please click to enlarge. But don’t get any ideas. He’s mine)

Now, see, he KNOWS that I won’t mind if things get a little weird, because with me they’re ALWAYS a little weird. I mean, I’m AUNT BECKY, bitch! And while I normally can only handle 3.5 minutes on a bucking bronco, baby, for you, I’ll hold out for four.

I’ve never cried after sex, baby, unless it was really bad, but I’m planning to collect your tears and weave them into a throw rug. We can lay on it while we watch The Notebook. Then I will run my hands through your heart-shaped chest hair and thank GOD we’re together.

I CAN’T FIGHT THIS FEELING ANY LONGER, so I won’t even try.

But since you posted this in February and according to my faulty mathematics it’s been like a year or three, I am afraid some other vixen may have snatched you up. You’re clearly a catch that no woman could pass up. So I am posting my OWN Craig’s List ad.

Are You The Cheese To My Macaroni? Wait, That Came Out Wrong.

THINGS I LIKE IN A MAN…Not a sex offender and can preferably recite the entire opening monologue from Men In Black II. Enjoys frying bacon naked. Can handle upwards of 6-12 hours talking about my feelings and what they mean to you.

THINGS I LIKE ABOUT MYSELF…I dislike talking about my feelings, bacon and Men In Black II. I enjoy lustily holding hands, abusing prescription narcotics and giving blue balls. If you ever talk about cuddling, I will punch you in the throat….No pic, no reply. Also, shaved balls are a must.

————–

I’m pretty sure the replies will be rolling in.

*at the risk of making me sound like a hugemongous slutbag who puts out for her fake television husbands.

**Fidget sent it to me.

Dear Aunt Becky,

After your piece on Meat and Mushrooms… why do they call a beaver a “beaver”? Is it a “piece of tail”? Will it “chew your wood off”? I’m trying to put together a “dam” reference but failing.

I’ve asked nearly every straight man I know and you may finally be the source of enlightenment.

XOXO,

JohnOCinJP

The first time, Gentle Reader, that I heard a vagina referred to as a “beaver” was in the Primus song “Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver.” Probably because I was 14 when the song came out and hadn’t developed QUITE the repository of awesome slang terms for vagina that you see before you today.

Now, I believe what a beaver refers to is a hairy vagina. I googled the term to be sure and pretty much all I could come up with was a bunch of people going, “why the fuck do people call the vagina a beaver?” and everyone else responding with “I have no fucking clue.” (aside, Internet, do you know?)

So yes. A beaver = a full bush = a hairy vagina = a PIZZA slice vag.

You’re so welcome for that image.

I saw this, Aunt Becky, and I thought of you!  Would you ever consider getting “vajazzled”?

www.momlogic.com/2010/02/vajazzle_your_vajay-jay_would_ya.php/r:t

If so, what design would you have done?

-Sara

Oh Sara, girl you know that I would! Making my ladybits as sparkly as a discoball? Now, there is NOTHING not full of the awesome about that. My biggest gripe with the whole thing is that it lasts only a couple of days. Which, to me, seems kind of…sad. I kind of want a permanently sparkly crotch. Because OBVIOUSLY.

But if I were going to do it, I’d probably get a gigantic pink cursive B. Because I am so often called B. Or AB. Or maybe, if I was feeling daring, an ACTUAL bee. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

So I turn the tables, ladies (or gentlemen), would YOU get your dangly bits sparkly? What design?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I recently found out that both my sister and my best friend are pretty anti the blowjob… where as I would be referred to as something of a fan. The real issue that we seem to disagree on is whether giving/receiving oral is more or less intimate than actually having sex. I’ve always considered third base a much less intimate place than rounding home plate if you know what I mean… but apparently there is disagreement in this area.

What are your thoughts, opinions… shinning dollops of wisdom oh wise one (okay I may be laying it on a little thick in an attempt to elicit a response from you :-P)

Lex

Well, my sweet friend, I can see it from both sides.

On the one hand, having sex is more intimate because it’s THE SEX, MAN and it’s very emotional and you’re all up in each other’s face and then there’s the EYE contact and the breathing onto one and other and then you know, it’s SEX and of course it’s intimate.

But on the other, oral sex involves organs that, well, do things BESIDES provide sexual pleasure. Namely, they evacuate waste from the body. Plus, as we learned from Go Ask Aunt Becky Question 1, sometimes there’s a whole MESS of pubes there. Which can lend to some…unruliness and unpleasantness down below. You can get awfully up close and personal with something that doesn’t smell like roses really quickly, so on that hand, it’s pretty damn intimate.

Either way, there’s an exchange of bodily fluids into orifices, and anytime there’s bodily fluids, you’re pretty intimate.

What do you think, The Internet?

When I got pregnant with my second son, somewhere around week 16 he started moving. And once he started moving, he started using my internal organs as punching bags and target practice. I started to wonder if I’d somehow been impregnanted with a child with 6-8 arms and started to call TLC before the ultrasound tech informed me that, no, my son really only had 2 arms and 2 legs.

It doesn’t help that I have no torso and am mostly legs, so that at 5’5″, when I’m pregnant, I look frighteningly like a very chubby daddy long-legs.

At multiple prenatal appointments, he’d kick so violently at the fetal heart-tones doppler that it would go flying out of the nurses hand, across the room. I barely slept for six months, because no matter what position I managed to heave myself into, he’d find something that displeased him about it and kick.

My ribs. My pelvis. My sternum. My liver. My stomach. My kidneys.

My son kicked them all day, every day. All night every fucking night.

By the time he was born, I’d begged my OB for an induction, who must have taken pity on me. He apologized to me when he informed me that I wouldn’t be delivering at my choice of hospitals and glassy eyed, I told him that I would deliver in the back of a Pinto if that was all he would do. I meant it.

Hooked up to the monitors in the hospital, The Daver finally heard his son kick. And kick. And kick. And kick. For 12 hours straight, my son kick at the monitors strapped to my belly, which he found HIGHLY displeasurable, apparently. Dave laughed about it until he fell asleep.

Ass.

Anyway, after Alex was born, he didn’t sleep, and who was surprised? He never slept in utero, so why start now?

Shockingly, though, he also didn’t really move much. Late to crawl (10 months), I was too tired to consult Baby Center (dear Baby Center, I am not pregnant, plz be stopping emailing me) or give much of a shit. I mean, despite my awesome experience in the polo club in college, I am not very coordinated (dear Internet, plz be seeing the time I broke mah toe making a peanut butter sandwich).

When he did crawl, though, he just…took off. No hesitation, just BAM.

Several months later (15 months), late again to walk he just…took off one day. My jaw dropped as my son just started walking. I’d figured he was probably as uncoordinated as I was, but apparently I was wrong, he was like a Jedi or something.

The very next day, I noted that my son was standing there, foot next to a ball and I watched him to see what the hell he was doing. Angrily, he tried to use a single foot to make the ball move, and each time, he fell. Over and over, he stood back up, tried to use that foot to make the ball move and failed. The screams that came out of him made me close up the windows, lest my neighbors call CPS.

Alex was trying to learn to kick a ball.

It took him about an hour but he did it. I don’t know how this child was sprung from my loins, but somehow I have raised a wee jock.

He’s starting soccer soon and I can’t help but wonder if they’re going to look back and forth between me and my athletic son and laugh like I do. Couldn’t blame them, really.

Who the hell breaks their toe making a sandwich?

This was a pre-walking Alex who is already giving me the “you throw like a GIRL, Mom,” look. Which, I mean, I do.

ALEX, however, does NOT throw like a girl, Pranksters.

Don’t know WHERE he came from. Really. I’d say the mailman, but I don’t know if he’s more coordinated than I am.

Aunt Becky: “I know you’re trying to dress up more for work and all.”

The Daver (warily): “Yes.”

Aunt Becky: “So I did some shopping with Pashmina.”

The Daver: “Oh NO.”

Aunt Becky (continues on obliviously): “And we came up with the perfect solution. I know you were going to go to Brooks Brothers after work to buy some of those SOMBER suits, but I took the liberty of going downtown and buying you a new suit myself!!”

The Daver: “You didn’t.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh, I did.”

The Daver (puts his head in his hands): “Oh no”

Aunt Becky: “See, now here’s the bright red one, with a matching red shirt and a red jacket and red shoes!!”

The Daver: (groans)

Aunt Becky (whips out from behind her): “And look baby! I got you A MATCHING HAT!”

(puts it on his head)

Aunt Becky: “Don’t you look so nice in red!”

The Daver: “I hate you.”

Aunt Becky: “There, there. You won’t hate me when you see that I got a belt with your name on it! JUST LIKE MINE!”

(proudly points to her BECKY* belt)

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “You’re going to look FANCY.”

The Daver: “It’s bright red, Becky.”

Aunt Becky (eyes sparkling): “You’re going to look like a rainbow. Like me! Plus, the suit from Brooks Brothers is like 4 zillion dollars and this was $30. I saved you approximately, well, okay, math is hard, but it was A LOT of money. Pashmina even said so. And ENGLISH majors are VERY smart. She has like 8 degrees.”

(smiles happily)

The Daver: (looks doubtfully at the suit) “I’ll try it on.”

Aunt Becky: “PLUS. I got you socks. Some guy was selling them out of a garbage bag for $6. HOW COULD I REFUSE THAT? That is PRACTICALLY giving it away. I SAVED you money.”

The Daver: “Becky, these are pink WOMEN’S socks and they have HOLES in the toes. Plus, they smell like cheese.”

Aunt Becky: “Those are AIR holes, Dave. I am sure the MANUFACTURER intended them to be there. And you love cheese!”

The Daver: “Dude, I look kinda sweet.”

Aunt Becky: “See, I don’t steer you wrong, baby. Now let’s go get some shamrock shakes to celebrate. Just don’t, uh, stand too close to me. You’re giving me a headache.”

*Yes, I really do have a belt with my name on it. You should too.

OH! And delicious secret is revealed…

When Ben was a couple of months old, I went back to work as a waitress. I’d waited tables for years before, so I was eagerly hired at the new pizza place that opened up in town. In a sea of newbies, I was a Master of my Trade. Queen of the Kingdom.

The general manager of the restaurant was a guy I’ll call Phil (although, I am stating for the record, this was not his name) and he was a decent guy. For an over-worked underpaid restaurant GM, that’s a huge thing.

He’d show up on the weekends and despite occasionally trying to get us to unsuccessfully have team building meetings at 5PM when the dinner rush was beginning to discuss things like “selling more pizza,” and often telling a server who was so slammed that she was eyeball deep in the weeds to “smile more,” I always liked him. Probably because he called me “efficient” which is a label–unlike ’stupid bitch’ which I am called quite often–that I had never before heard.

Hokey and corny, yes, but Phil was a good guy. Which meant we’d often mock him behind his back–although, I must add, not unkindly–and try to do our best Phil impression. This often involved frowning a lot and bursting out conspiratorially with the often-heard “I think someone is stealing cheese,” and by far and away the best impersonator was one of the managers, a mexican dude named Cesar.

One Saturday night after close, Cesar, who was the night manager, pulled from the manager’s office this large cloth contraption. Mystified, we all grabbed our smokes and gathered ’round, our piles of tips left on the tables near the halfway rolled up basket of silverware. Cesar was laughing so hard that he was crying. Although this wasn’t uncommon as he was known for his excellent sense of humor, we all clamored to know what the hell was so fucking funny.

Once he’d caught his breath and wiped the tears, he turned around the cloth contraption he was holding. On the back it had been brown but on the front, it was red. With large circles of purple and dots of grey felt and slices of green felt. It took us a moment to realize what we were looking at, but we all saw it at the same time.

“Holy SHIT,” Amy–another server–yelled. “That’s a gigantic fucking pizza suit.”

And it was.

Phil had bought us, for no reason we could ascertain, a gigantic triangle-shaped pizza suit. I can swear to you, The Internet as my witness, that I have never, ever laughed so hard in my entire life. It was a typical Phil thing (it is killing me, I should add, to not tell you his real name not because it’s an exciting name, but because I can’t think outside the effing box) to do: pointless yet hilarious, hokey yet comedic, and one of those things that no one else would think was a good idea.

I mean, sure, I do sometimes see those poor fuckers, dressed up as a taco or a sandwich on the side of the road. We live far enough from stuff that driving from place to place is a necessity, so these people merely stand listlessly on the side of the road, wilting in the heat and freezing in the cold and choking on the exhaust of Escalades and Bentley’s. And I will tell you that I have never, ever, EVER stopped to eat somewhere because they had a person dressed as a chicken sadly standing at the side of the road.

If anything, I keep driving and pretend for both of our sakes that it never happened. I had not seen an actual humiliated person standing there, dressed as a large Chicago hot dog or a milk shake. Seemed healthier that way for all parties.

Anyway, there we were, a cluster of servers, bartenders and delivery drivers, staring slack jaw awash in awe of the possibilities that only a gigantic felt pizza suit would provide.

Which.were.endless.

Rick, one of the delivery drivers, acted first. He swooped down, all 6 feet of him, and grabbed the pizza suit from Cesar and held it up to his burly chest before running into the bathroom with it. He emerged, several minutes later, as a slice of pizza. A HUMAN slice of pizza with his face sticking merrily out of the middle of the slice.

It was just too much. I nearly soiled myself.

Who the hell thinks that a human dressing up as food is anything other than a) humiliating or b) hilarious? Phil had, obviously, seen this as an amazing way to attract attention and perhaps increase profits tenfold, but his thinking was predictably flawed.

While a dancing slice of pizza was sure to attract attention–the same way an afro on a white man attracts attention: it was, of course, the wrong KIND of attention. And it was such a uniquely Phil way of doing things, just like standing in front of the single pop machine during the dinner rush to inform some server or another that they were using too many napkins.

Valid point, stupid timing. Could be the slogan for restaurant GM’s.

But for us, all of whom had been interrogated at one point or another about the Curious Incident Of The Cheese And The Nighttime, it was just that much more hysterical. I mean, really, a dancing PIZZA?

For the next several weeks, during the start of the dinner rush, well before the drivers were needed to shlep pizzas back and forth, the delivery drivers would take turns putting on the pizza suit and running through the dining room. I’m fairly certain that in this manner, many children were suitably traumatized. But it never failed to make us laugh: this a stupid, corny costume.

Once in awhile, Phil would convince one of the poor line cooks (poor as in the take-pity-on-him not in the broke-as-a-joke way.) during a slow lunch shift to go to the nearby road to wave at passing cars. As far as I know, it never attracted a soul into the restaurant to drop some bucks, but 50 million marketing geniuses (genuii?) can’t be wrong. Can they?

One Friday night after work, Rick and I were sitting and counting our tips and having our shift drink together, and I was grumbling and grousing about how he always made more bank than I did. Little did we know that the opportunity of a life-time was about to be hatched.

I don’t know who suggested it thanks, in no small part, to my tall Jack-n-diet-coke, I can’t full take credit for it so instead I will simply say that we mutually came up with a brilliant plan. The following Thursday night, when I was off work but while Rick was working, we would meet up at the restaurant so that I could help him deliver his pizzas.

Rick would, we decided, dress up in the pizza costume and deliver the pizza to our unsuspecting victims as a slice of pizza. Because short of throwing Rick into a thong, his bulge hanging out for all the world to see, I couldn’t think of anything weirder than getting a pizza delivered by a slice of pizza.

So that’s just what we did. With my friend from school, Arlene, manning the video camera, we–acting as normally as possible of course–drove Rick’s route that night. He’d ring the doorbell and hand the pizza to the victim while I would help make change. Just like this was the most normal situation. Just a random Thursday night delivering pizzas dressed as a slice of pizza lah-dee-dah.

Acting like this was nothing out of the ordinary was harder than it no doubt sounds.

Arlene took some footage that I am certain would rival The Blair Witch Project for most nauseating camera work on an independent film. I would pay a lot of money to see that footage now, but I haven’t seen Arlene since I graduated college and have no idea where to find her.

Shockingly, not a single person commented on this. Not one soul acted as though anything was out of the ordinary. It was as though we were being Punk’d while we were trying to Punk others.

In our efforts to behave as normally as possible, it seems that the houses we hit were full of people for whom this is an everyday occurrence. Maybe they are always served hot dogs by people dressed as gigantic wieners, Chicago-style. Maybe every ice cream cone is hand scooped by a walking, talking milkshake. In a world where a sandwich is always made by a sandwich, we were mere players; costumed pawns in this parade of nameless, faceless food mascots.

I would totally live in that world, you know. So long as I could make the rest of my family wear sausage costumes.

Just so I never have to wear the Santa costume again.

When I entered the second grade, my mother dutifully signed me up for Brownies, which is sort of the baby version of The Girl Scouts. I don’t know if I battled her for it or not, but I’m going to guess that I did, because that’s the kind of person I was am was back then. Always a sucker for a uniform, I proudly ran home from school after getting my poo-brown uniform and put it on.

Even at 7, I knew it looked bad. The color was just…off.

But I looked official, and that’s what mattered to me. I strutted proudly around the house for awhile while my mother rolled her eyes at me. A couple of days later, she announced that I had to go to my first meeting.

Bwaaa?

Excuse me? I didn’t sign up for anything that required WORK.

I trekked to the meeting and joined a bunch of girls and their mothers who sat around in a semi-circle (something I would later be very, very afraid of) and they all excitedly discussed how we could earn PATCHES!!! for our SASHES!!!! by doing THINGS!!!!

My own eyes began to roll back in my head as the meeting wore on and on. Sisterhood was discussed, as were things like overnight field trips and selling cookies. I was beginning to feel like the whole uniform thing really wasn’t worth the bullshit.

At the next meeting, which my mother dragged me to, even after I faked the stomach flu and a fever of 109 degrees, it was time to make a “kneeling pad.” We had to sandwich two large pieces of vinyl between a piece of Styrofoam and stitch it up with green yarn. I wanted to actively kill myself.

What the fuck was I going to do with this besides try and smother my older brother with it?

My mother snickered when she saw me trudging back to the car with my creation.

“What IS that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “We’re supposed to KNEEL on it or something.”

I’m pretty sure you could hear her laughter for blocks.

My abysmal failure at selling any cookies when it came time to “FUNDRAISE, GIRLS!!!” and my inability to earn a single patch, finally convinced her to allow me to quit. She’d never insisted I stick with anything I didn’t really like, and I’m sure she was tired of me bringing home my pathetic attempts at craft projects.

I mean, who could blame her? One of the cats started using the “kneeling pad” as a peeing pad and ruined one of the carpets and my older brother had actually broken a tooth on one of my attempts at making a ceramic cup. It was time to admit that I was never, ever going to cut it as a housewife.

Ha. If they could only see me now…

Wait a minute.

Is it too late to become a heiress?

Most of the essays went out last night for signing up for Das Book. If you haven’t gotten yours, shoot an email to dave@copyontherocks.com and you can tell The Daver your woes (or offer him a marriage proposal. Whatever.). If you haven’t Pledged Your Allegiance to the Book, you should! FREE! ESSAY!

——————–

Somehow, I managed to score the nomination AND won the pick for the Hot Blogger Calendar, Pranksters. Now. I have no doubt that this will be pretty hilarious, because I’m hoping to be dressed like a gigantic Uncrustables for the shoot. Really, there’s nothing hotter than a chick dressed as a peanut butter sandwich, am I right?

(please don’t answer that)

Anyway, as I was looking for a different, yet equally humiliating picture to share with you, I came across another stash of ridiculous shots. I thought today would be a perfect day to share with you some more shameful pictures. Pretty sure you can’t take back your vote now.

*rubs hands together evilly*

I’ll even throw down a Mr. Linky for those of you who want to play along on your own blogs, because Your Aunt Becky is a giver of all kinds of wonderful things. Like headaches! And VD! But that is neither here nor there.

First, we’ll start here. This is my brother and I (you can call him Uncle Aunt Becky) when I was in college. While I know my hardcore-ness might be freaking you out THROUGH THE COMPUTER and causing you to perhaps pee in your pants, I assure you that I am safe around children.

And for the record, we were leaving to go on a motorcycle ride.

Oh, shut up.

Fresh from listening to Mambo #5 for the 804,746 time in a row while short Mexican men poured gaily colored tequila down my throat from industrial sized plastic jugs, I stopped to take a breather. This picture was snapped before I had to go do the motherfucking Macarena AGAIN.

And while that appears to be a pair of Tighty-Whities next to me, I genuinely have no idea what the hell it is. Knowing me, it probably is.

I liked this picture for 2 reasons.

a) it looked like I was either going to have sex with the camera or punch it (which is how I take most pictures)(watch out, BlogHer).

2)It shows off what a gigantic fucking nerd I am.

This is a shot of me in college taken from behind the bar where I worked. I don’t know if I was working or not, but clearly I was studying my balls off while drinking MILK. Lest anyone think I was exaggerating what an overachieving freak I was, there is the proof.

Also, if you look closely, my hair is highlighted pink! WHIMSICAL!

This is the best picture ever, and not just because you can clearly see my hot pink bra through the white shirt (what did I say about looking like I either want to have sex with the camera or beat the shit out of it?).

Okay, let me back up a second for anyone who doesn’t know the story behind this. When nurses graduate nursing school, they’re pinned (and no, sadly, not like in WWE Smackdown or like a porno) and there’s this big ceremony. A couple of days before, they get their pictures taken.

Except, I wasn’t all that excited, you see, so I was blowing off the whole thing. Really, I didn’t give a shit about it, so I showed up the day of the picture shoot looking like cat shit in a bag. I mean, who the hell was I gonna send my nursing school picture to? I don’t exactly have the sort of family that would happily display my picture on their wall.

My friends didn’t approve so they hijacked me, sat me down with some crusty old makeup they found lying around and made me take the picture. Wasn’t even my shirt, yo. And I was pissed because I couldn’t see a fucking thing because I didn’t have my glasses (or contacts) on.

So, I took the damn picture, paid roughly $500 for it, and still have the entire set of them in my room. I mean, really, who the hell wants a reminder that I was a nurse for like .005 seconds? I guess I could send them out as gag gifts to people or something. “Remember when I thought I was gonna be a nurse? PSYCH!!”

Now that I think about it, maybe it should be my Christmas Card pictures this year. It beats the one of the inside of my colon I was going to send.

Also, I don’t think that even based on these pictures, you can recant your vote for the hot blogger calendar. SORRY.

Alright, pranksters, for anyone who wants to play along with humiliating pictures on your OWN blog, here’s Mr. Linky:

So today, Pranksters, I have a fill-in for Your Aunt Becky. May I introduce my friend Stacia from Failure To Nap. You can call her Aunt Statia because OBVIOUSLY.

Also? My friend Kate could use a hand bringing her daughters Bethany and Laura home. If you don’t know her, you should. She’s a good friend of mine, has been for a long time, and has supported me for ages, through thick and thin. I love her dearly and she’s working to adopt two children with Down’s Syndrome from the Ukraine. She’s good people. CLEARLY.

Without further tongue wagging from Your Aunt Becky, I give you Aunt Statia!

My five year old may get a male teacher next year. I have nothing against this guy. He seems lovely… but I have a bad abuse history which has left me very very wary of men when it comes to kids. Also, one of my own teachers was convicted of abusing children (boys) and recently another teacher from my area has been charged with over 40 offenses. I haven’t got any good reason to request my son be moved but I hate that I have to give a man the benefit of the doubt. I also don’t want to get a reputation as the nutcase mum.

Do I say anything? I have gently asked other mums whose children have been in his class and have had variable results as to how he is.

First of all, I’m really sorry that you had to go through such a trauma. No one should ever have to go through the hell that is abuse. Ever. I think it’s one of the meanest things anyone could ever do to another human being.

And let me ask you, have you sought therapy for your pain? I say this because therapy has saved my life. I’ve been in therapy for various reasons over the years, but after having two kids close in age, I was suffering badly and it took a lot for me to ask for help and if it weren’t for having someone that I could confide my deepest darkest secrets to, knowing they were bound by HIPAA laws, I might have been a lot worse off. So please, first and foremost, it’s OK to take care of yourself.

Secondly, I know it’s really really hard to trust people with your children. Especially in the age of media and technology being so in your face about predators and Bad Things. Not to nullify your fears, but it’s a lot less common than you think. But I hear you. It’s one of my biggest fears too. I lay awake at night worrying about stuff like this, and this is what people don’t tell you when you have kids. That you worry a lot about people hurting your babies. Here’s what I would do:

1. Ask yourself. Do you have a bad feeling about this guy? And if so, is it because of your past history, or does he truly give you a creepy vibe?

2. Ask some of his past students (if you have friend’s whose kids have had him in the past), if they’ve liked him. Asking parents can be helpful, but also tricky, as it’s easy to get mixed results, given that not everyone is going to jive in personality. Kids might be a better gauge of how the teacher really is.

3. Find out more about him. How long has he been a teacher? Does he have a family? Don’t be afraid to ask him questions about him, if it makes you feel at ease.

4. Just be your mama bear self. There should be no reason for him to be alone with your child or any student. And teach your child the basic rules of body awareness and that it’s never ok for anyone to touch them for any reason. And that if anyone should hurt them or touch them inappropriately, to tell you immediately, and never be afraid.

I wish you all the best.

Dear Aunt Becky Stacia,

PLEASE HELP!!!!!!! My ignorant in-laws are constantly ruining the Christmas season for me! I want to appreciate the season, but all I find is that it brings me stress, anger and exhaustion.

We have three wonderful, beautiful children (11, 9, 2). They have one SPOILED, 8 year old husky that is their “child”. The problem – if the children go near something the dog likes, or touch him/brush against him in the wrong way, he GROWLS AT THEM!

Because of this, we RARELY see them. But every Christmas my husband wants to do the obligatory visit (they rarely come our way, and we only live 1 1/2 hours apart).

Despite my best efforts, the dog growled at the baby when he was walking by us on the way to the backyard. I scooped her right up, but then had to listen to them tell me how he would NEVER EVER actually bite. That when he growls he doesn’t mean anything by it, he can just be “vocal”. OH MY GOD THOSE IGNORANT FOOLS.

The holiday visiting has turned me into a big scrooge.I have to be the one to demand that the dog is always kept in another room, and I am still on high alert the WHOLE time (as the dog does need to be let out to use the restroom, etc…)!!!! My husband doesn’t say much, preferring me to look like the bitch so he can keep some semblance of a relationship with his father (and step mother).

My hubby is very upset by this, but he does not want to completely cut his father out of his life. He feels that by limiting our visits to once per year, and allowing me to be the dog police is the best we can do.

Oh Aunt Becky, how do I survive stomaching these ignorant, foolish idiots?

Signed,

Doggone Tired

Oh sister, I FEEL your pain. I think next to money problems, this is the second biggest source of tension in a marriage. And I know of few people that actually get along with their in-laws. I myself have had my fair share of in-law troubles. My husband has a tendency to be very diplomatic.

When I was pregnant with my son, my mother-in-law gave me a whole heap of trouble and my husband didn’t want to rock the boat. It took me finally being outright in his face in terms of what I expected from him as a husband. This is such a tricky issue, because men generally don’t want to rock the boat when it comes to their parents, and that gives the in-laws free reign to walk all over you, and that is just not OK in my book.

If your husband really wants to keep the peace and help keep you happy in the process (because my thought is, if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t no one happy, and I realize that’s just bad grammar, but sometimes life just calls for bad grammar), he would at least have them come visit you.

I realize that in-laws also tend to be stubborn, but let him know that you’re truly afraid of the dog hurting the children and rather than have to stress yourself out over the thought of a possible accident, it might be best to at least have them over your house at least until the kids are old enough to understand that they have to leave the dog alone.

If all else fails, you can always feign illness and stay home with the kids, and then as a treat, you can all have ice cream for dinner. Because you deserve it.

3) How do you get revenge on the snarky, obnoxious, superior critic of your success as a mother when it’s you?

How do make the bitch SHUT UP!

Ok, here’s the deal. Sometimes, it’s OK to be smug as mother. Sometimes, you have to toot your own horn from time to time. Because let’s face it, being a mother is a thankless job and sometimes the only appreciation is going to come from you.

However, there is a time and a place for it. When you’ve successfully bribed your child with broccoli and they ate the whole plate? Pat yourself on the back.

You can be smug. And if you want to share that with your friends, you can say something like “Oh my god, I can’t believe it, but I totally got my child to eat BROCCOLI, oh glorious day, maybe I should play the lottery!” Make it seem as if you’re so proud of yourself because stuff like this NEVER happens.

You may think that you’re a better mother than everyone else. You may think you’re super mom, but you know what? We’re all trying to do the best job we can, so being smug around other parents is just not cool. No one likes a one upping, judgey mom.

Because you know what? At some point, your kids are going to do things that will pull that perfectly clean sparkling rug out from underneath you and make you question every single thing you ever did as a parent.

Case in point? My son was an angel baby. Never questioned a thing I said, never got into trouble (I could leave oily rags and a lighter out and he wouldn’t even so much as glance at them, seriously). Now? He’s a HELLION.

Just remember. What goes around, comes around, and at some point, it’s going to come back to you.

2: Copies of “Build Me Up, Buttercup” that I now own.

1: IMPOSTOR copy of “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” that I unwittingly bought from iTunes like the moron that I am, making me angrily stamp my feet and mope about the house for being duped.

89: Golden Oldies in my collection.

Infinity: amount of shit I get for jamming out with my clam out to The Golden Oldies.

0: Times I have hit up the Blue Plate Special, despite my predisposition for Music That Brings Me Back to A Gentler Time.

0: Times I have hit up BINGO at the Old Folks home, despite listening to the Supremes croon on about their “Love Child.”

2: Teenage Death Songs in my collection of Golden Oldies.

2: Teenage Death Songs I used to sing as lullabies to my eldest son.

72,073,071,746: times I’ve wondered if that somehow warped him.

5: Members of my family who have succumbed to The Death Flu Round eleventy-five

3: degrees of fever I currently have.

98,746: Times I wondered if I could sue my children–and be victorious–for being demon germ factories.

1: Odd nomination for Hot Blogger Calendar.

28,975,757: times wondered if this was some sort of practical joke.

28,975,757: times decided this is THE BEST practical joke, EVER. SO VOTE, YO. It’s for charity.

0: Bloggies won.

1: Nobel Prize For Awesomeness awarded to self, BY self.

1: Nobel Prize For Awesomeness awarded to each of YOU for being awesome and helping me with my book sign up. (you should get your chapter this weekend, yo)

74: unread copies of The New Yorker, leading me to believe it’s time to cancel the motherhumping subscription already and go back to reading Highlights for Kids.

9: Uncrustables eaten this week.

12: Times I’ve wondered if I was going to get scurvy for living off Uncrustables and edamame.

12: Times I’ve wondered if I really cared because then it meant that I could legitimately talk like a pirate.