My daughter Sara met this girl Abby when they were only about 2 years old.  My daughter fell in LOVE with Abby.  So the mom and I exchanged numbers and for the past 3 years we’ve had about 3 or 4 play dates per year.

They are a super nice family and I love them, I wish we could get together more often….but busy times, busy people.

Anyway, I think I can sort of tell that Abby sort of thinks of Sara in a …’could take this friendship or leave this friendship anytime’ sort of way.

They are only 4 and 5 years old.  When they are together they play really well.  But it just makes me wonder.  Why does my daughter LOVE this child so much and this child is sort of indifferent?

On the other side of that, another friend my daughter plays with, Cindy, loves my daughter Sara so very much.  And of course Sara is a bit indifferent.

I just always wonder about that.  Tell me what you think about it all?

(Names have been changed to make me feel clever)

I *love* changing names to make me feel clever, Gentle Reader! That’s full of the Awesome that you do too. Except I can never remember what I changed names TO, which is why I blog under my real name. Otherwise, you’d get wickedly confused when I called my son 74 different names in a single sentence. I’m clearly no genius.

But, tell you something you DIDN’T know, right?

ANYWAY.

Kids? Are fickle and weird creatures. That’s probably the shortest explanation I can give you. I’m sure a child psychologist could give you some more insight into WHY they’re weird and twitchy like that, but that’s just what they do.

Let me give you an example.

Ben (who is 8) has a best friend who lives in the neighborhood. All summer they were joined at the hip, and, in fact, they are in the same class in school. But they haven’t really played together since the end of August. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA. Ben has no idea.

Until this week, when they’re suddenly best of friends again.

No idea why.

So my answer is this: kids are weird and squirrelly.

Aunt Becky, I need help!  I don’t know what to talk about to people anymore! I just had my second baby on Halloween, and it seems like since then, all I can think to talk about are REALLY inappropriate things.  Like, the other day, I seriously considered changing my Facebook status to “Mommy’s nipple is super sore from nursing”.  WTF?! I know this isn’t appropriate! My DAD reads my status!! But right now, I’m crazy enough, I’d probably tell him to his face.  This is insane! Will this wear off?  Is there a support group?  People who don’t mind listening to this tmi minutia?

Thanks!!!

Oh Gentle Reader, I think that you’ve already FOUND that support group here. Or, at the very least, you’ve got a friend in Your Aunt Becky. Because you’re asking the same person who, just this week tweeted,

“My quest for honey uncrustables has been so far in a sad, sad word: fruitless. That so sounded like an exotic STD, didn’t it?”

and

“Sometimes, when I look like I’m staring into space, I’m really just imagining what I’d if I had a third arm.”

So, I suppose that what I’m saying is this: we’re all entertained by pointless TMI minutiae. Or, if we’re not, I have 4,668 people who follow me to point and laugh. Which is entirely possible. In fact, it’s likely.

If it bothers you, try picking up a newspaper and just reading the headlines so that you can talk a little bit about what’s going on in the world. Your brain will grow back once you start sleeping some more, I promise.

And I’m kind of a lost cause. But hey, I’ve got my Uncrustables, so I’m happy.

Dear My Band of Merry Pranksters,

I am in the middle of feverishly working on getting my new site design up and running and I need your help. What are your favorite posts that I’ve written? I know, I KNOW, I ask so much of you.

xoxo,

Your Aunt Becky

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P.S. If’n you’re going to BlogHer and want to vote to see The Mouthy Housewives and Your Aunt Becky (Sherrick Harks) speak, today is THE LAST DAY to vote for our room. So, go here, vote and let the people speak! Or not. Whatever. I’ll still BE there. Maybe I’ll speak in my OWN room. BY MYSELF.

Years of serving has wrecked my delicate, dainty wrists. I know we Midwestern girls are supposed to have thick, corn-fed wrists and ankles, but I never got those. Apparently, I was absent when they were passing those out.

My hands, too, are actually impervious to certain degrees of heat thanks to the hot plates which gave me topical nerve damage. Which is a great party trick, until it’s TOO hot, because then? I burn the bejesus out of my hands and that’s not full of awesome.

I have sissy wrists and sissy ankles and after years of lugging thousands of pounds of food and drinks around my wrists have sustained some injuries. So now and again, I bust out the wrist guards and mope about the house, cursing my former self and my genetics.

Tuesday, was one of those such days that I went a-courtin’ for my wrist guards, and having not needed them for years, I had no idea where they were. First stop, upstairs bathroom, which is rarely used.

Shocked by the sheer quantity of feminine hygiene products in one small place, I congratulated myself at having the foresight to stock up and BE PREPARED in case a whole troupe of women came through with their periods ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

I could have been on an episode of Hoarders. Except that I had no idea that I had anything like that under there. If only it had been something like DIAMONDS.

My shock quickly turned to dismay when I discovered that most of the stuff underneath the sink was…damp. And some of it was…mildewy. There’s nothing more disgusting than damp mildewy shit, except for damp mildewy shit that you put on your cooter, so I was suitably horrified.

I looked under the sink, saw that among the losses was my trusty ACE bandage, which had sadly succumbed to death by mold, and then realized that my sink; the U drain in my awful, ugly sink is leaking. Only, by sheer luck, when it’s being used.

So I did what any self-respecting hoarder of feminine hygiene products would do: I hid the evidence of my obsession. I gathered a garbage bag, threw away all of the maxi-pads and tampons, bleached the bottom of the sink, grabbed a bucket, threw it under the U-drain and realized that I’ll have to deal with it this weekend. Time for a new vanity.

Just as long as Daver doesn’t see that I have enough maxi-pads to fill a gigantic vagina, we’ll be all good.

While I should have been working on meaningful things like meeting deadlines and washing floors, I’ve instead been infatuated with the idea of finding free pictures online and turning them into HILARIOUS greeting cards. Because that is what I do with my time: worthless things!

Also, my line of cards has a name. “Love, Aunt Becky.” Because OBVIOUSLY.

We were at Target this weekend (also known as My Social Life) (also known as My Boyfriend) buying both groceries and pants for my middle child. The groceries, I should clarify weren’t strictly for Alex, but rather stuff that we could all safely enjoy. Deliciously, even. Especially Uncrustables, which are pretty much heaven in a wee package.

Alas, I digress.

In the children’s section, I happened to come across a shirt for my daughter that I found to be the proper amount of sass-a-frassery AND adorability and as such, I picked it up and exclaimed to Alex, who happened to be in the cart I was pushing (yes, we take two carts)(no we don’t FILL them), “Oh! Look at this cute cupcake shirt for Your Sister!”

Upon examination, Alex said “I want a cupcake shirt for Alex!”

What went through my head was this:

“Oh shit, Dave will kill me. This is a BABY FUCKING BLUE SHIRT with a frilly blue collar. And look at the cupcakes! They’re SPARKLY. I mean, there is not a single doubt that this shirt is for a girl. You couldn’t make this shirt more girly if you tried.”

“But I mean, he’s two years old! How the hell can you possibly tell a two year old that he can’t have a shirt because it’s for a girl? This is probably the most manly two-year old boy ever. His second word was penis. Who gives a fucking shit if he wears girl’s clothes? He’s a baby! HE’S STILL IN DIAPERS. I will CUT someone who looks at him funny for wearing girl’s clothes.”

So, I looked for the shirt in a 2T and I handed it to him. He grabbed it, hugged it and said, “I love you, Cupcake Shirt.”

Dave glared at me for a second before bursting out laughing because really, what the hell can you do? The shirt is pretty fucking cute. I kind of want one in my size.

(yeah, the coloring is off because I messed with the flash by accident)

The shorts, he insisted upon wearing, are actually Mimi’s.

Never one to let an opportunity pass him by, he insisted that his sister wear her cupcake shirt as well. This is exactly why I love kids, even if they poo their pants and teethe on my legs.

Probably the first thing that went through my shiftless, lazy, baby brain when I said my first word to a rousing round of laughter was “Holy shit, I have to do that again.”

The word? “Fuck.” I’m not kidding.

Over the years, it’s remained my favorite of the dirty words, but I’ve gotten more amused by pairing up other, less dirty words into combinations that, when combined, are even dirtier. Take the innocuous “meat” and the always fun “curtains” and pair them together and you have one of the best terms on the planet: “meat curtains.”

Shockingly, I am neither the user, nor the asker. This somehow ended up in my iPhoto account. I nearly died of happiness.

My first blog was named after another series of innocuous words strung together to make something even better: “Mushroom Printing.” I doubt you’ll find this in a Yahoo Answerbag forum, but if you don’t know what it is, let me tell you once and for all.

A Mushroom Print, My Merry Pranksters, is also known as a dick slap. To the face. Still confused? Think about it a little.

Anyway. There are lots of opportunities to make great combinations of dirty words out of NON dirty words if you do it right. I pride myself on that, especially as my kids get older and I can’t possibly run my mouth like I used to. So I just get more creative.

So hit me with your best shot in the comments. What can you put together to make us laugh?

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I’m at Toy With Me talking about lousy lovers. It was one of those articles that SEEMED like a good idea when I wrote it until I realized that it MAYBE wasn’t such a wise idea. Probably because I’m going to get my ass beaten.

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And if you haven’t checked out Part I of my Podcast with Dr. Dick, the podcast can be found here on his main site and here on his sister site.

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Lastly, I’m redoing my blogroll, and I need you to go and see if your blog is on there (if, of course, you should be). I periodically go through and delete blogs that appear to be abandoned. If I’ve done so in error, or if you’ve updated your link and I haven’t done so, or you’re just. not. there!! Please, oh please! send me an email to becky@dwink.net with BLOGROLL in the title.

In the body, of course, give me the full website address as well as any compliments or complaints or promises of lavish gifts to be bestowed upon me.

If you’re asking for a link on my blogroll, please make sure that I am on your blogroll as well, because obviously.

I may not get to it today, but I will get to it this week.

While I normally don’t do two posts in one day, I simply had to share with you Part One of the podcast that I did with one of my Internet Besties, Dr. Dick, of Dr. Dick’s Sex Advice. His site, as you might have guessed, isn’t safe for work, but he’s simply outstanding.

If you don’t know him, he’s a sex therapist and a pretty fucking big deal, so you probably SHOULD know him, so just PRETEND you do and we’ll forget that you didn’t and move on.

Our podcast isn’t actually very dirty and you get to hear me read some of my favorite stuff from over at Toy With Me. I was completely nervous to use Skype, because I’m a noob who doesn’t understand technology, and was terrified I’d sound like a jackass when I was recorded, but I think it turned out well. You be the judge.

And if I do sound like an asshole, just go ahead and THINK it. You don’t need to tell me.

You SO should check it out and give Dr. Dick a whirl. He’s like my friend Dear Redhead with a penis. He’s amazing.

The podcast can be found here on his main site and here on his sister site.

Now, I just have to work up the nerve to VLOG.

I got a bill in the mail last week, which is highly unsurprising, because between my “Get out of -ologist free card” I’m pretty much always sending off some payment or another. So it was with exactly NO emotion whatsoever that I opened a bill from the big umbrella corporation that is home to most of my doctors.

When I put it THAT way, it sounds so sinister.

Anyway.

I opened up a bill, looked at the dates of services, squinched up my eyebrows, wondering how my daughter had walked herself to the doctor, and then looked BACK at the dates of service and realized they were asking for a co-pay from last year.

From one of her many pre-surgical neurologist appointments. The dates just happened to coincide with this month, minus a year.

Somehow, in all of the hustle and bustle of taking our daughter to and from the doctor every day or two, our daughter–whose age was still measured in days–I’d somehow forgotten this one, single co-pay. Everything else has been long paid off, all the receipts and insurance pre-authorizations shoved into a manila folder somewhere.

It’s marked maybe “Amelia.” Or “encephalocele.” Or maybe it says nothing. It could say “Happy Birthday, Steve;” I don’t actually know. There are thousands of cross-sectional pictures of her brain in that folder too, should she ever want to see how her skull wasn’t properly put together, or where her brain hung out of the back of her head.

I thought about what a difference a year makes as I wrote out the check yesterday, because it’s been almost a year since my daughter had her brain surgery. I’m the same person who wrote,

“I cannot break this feeling of doom and foreboding. I cannot imagine a life past next Thursday one way or another. I cannot believe that I am lucky enough to have this baby AND KEEP HER.”

I wish I could go back and give myself a huge reassuring hug because I remember how horribly terrified I was that she was going to pass on the table. If I could do anything, I’d go back and do that.

She kicked brain surgery in the balls on February 26, 2009:

(she was very, very, very swollen from surgery)

And here she is now, my daughter, the girl with curls like a halo. The one who regularly breaks the bones of her foe and then sucks down the marrow for a snack. My ass-kickin’ little girl.

Not to be outdone by her oldest brother, she helps wash walls, even if it’s only with a wee Playmobil brush. Also: planning on how to remove that wall with her teeth. Because OBVIOUSLY.

She even helps with laundry. If by “helping” you mean, mischievously throwing all the “too small” clothes I’d sorted carefully out all over the house with her brother so that they could roll around in them. Which, I have to say, may have made my too-small heart grow 30 sizes.

Oh Amelia Grace, how wonderful life is with you in our world. We couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Dear Aunt Becky…

My best friend’s husband, who is a teacher, a married man, and a father of 2, was recently arrested for having “inappropriate” email contact with a 17-year-old girl. I think it’s horrific and told my best friend my honest feelings the day the story broke.

She is now mad at me because I’m not being supportive of her hubby and thinks I’m being judgmental. Keep in mind that she and he admitted the entire thing was true. I haven’t heard from her in a week and I’m not sure what to do. I realize now I should have kept my opinion to myself.

Any idea how to get the friendship back on track? Or should I just stay away?

Oh Gentle Reader, what a fucked up situation.

I always think about the parents of mass murderers, as they go on trial. The ones that weren’t shitty parents who chained their kids to a wall, you know? The parents who genuinely did a good job, but whose children were just born bad and ended up smashing heads in.

Then, when Judgment Day comes, you’ve got the whole world looking at you like “what did YOU DO to make such a monster?”

I think about that a lot. (I worked in juvenile prison for awhile)

In this case, no one wins. It’s terrible. I can’t imagine finding out that my husband–the father of my children–was carrying on inappropriately with a child. That’s got to be so twisted.

In this case, Gentle Reader, I think you need to put aside whatever feelings you have about your friend’s husband because what’s going with her isn’t about your feelings, and you need to apologize to her. She needs to feel less like the world is against her and more like someone is in her corner.

Her life has been turned upside down, and no matter how fucked up her husband is, this is about her. You don’t need to be supportive of him, you need to be supportive of her. Her head has got to be reeling right now. She’ll come to her senses.

If she doesn’t, well, I think it’s time to reevaluate your friendship.

What are your top ten favorite books to read to each of your kids, and why?

Now, if my children could handle reading books in a non-obsessive manner, I’d probably be able to answer this one, question, oh Internet, my Internet. But my children have sucked all joy out of each and every reading of Goodnight Moon and gnarfed the marrow from even such classics as Baby, Make Me Breakfast with their endless repetition.

I’m looking forward to getting past this particular stage with the small ones.

Benjamin loves the Captain Underpants, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Magic Treehouse, and Harry Potter Books and has read (I think) most of them.

I’m partial to the Dr. Seuss books, but my children can never sit still long enough to enjoy them.

*gets up to run laps around the house*

*pets the dog*

*chases the cat*

I have no idea where they get their inability to sit still from. I blame The Daver.

Okay, so I know our moms grew up during the sexual revolution and were all bra burny and such but today she’s 55. AND…when it was all going on in the 60’s and 70’s, she partook from an arms length. Don’t get me wrong, she did her fair share of The Pot, but was always well groomed and well dressed.

TODAY, however, my moms uniform is a tight cotton tee, jeans (that may or may not be from the women’s section), walmart slip-on tennis shoes, and NO BRA! She needs a bra. How on earth do I tell my mother that her melons need a sling and her wardrobe sucks? I am honestly embarrassed to go anywhere that might be even the slightest bit chilly with her.

So your mom needs an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, huh? And a complete makeover, it sounds like, because she’s sort of given up on trying to be attractive.

Well, here’s what worked for my dad, who, I should add, did NOT need a bra.

My dad, God Love Him, is a sucker for a bargain, and not because he doesn’t have money. Like, you see something on sale, and my dad is ALL fucking about it even if he doesn’t REALLY need it or if it actually like, FIT him or anything. So he was drawn to Kohl’s like a moth to flame when he realized that the store was always on sale.

I realized that my father had gone from looking like a respectable pharmacist to like Bozo the Clown’s sidekick, Joe, The Gimp (don’t feel too bad, my dad can take it. He raised me to be Your Aunt Becky, after all). It was painful to be near him because his clothes were so bright, garish, and fucking ugly.

So my brother, who shops only at Brooks Brothers and Ralph Lauren and I formulated a plan and one holiday we implemented it: we staged an Intervention.

“Dad,” I said very, very seriously. “Aaron and I have to talk to you. You can never shop at Kohl’s again. In fact, we’re taking all of your horrible patterned shirts and we’re donating them to some golf league somewhere.”

“What?” He gasped.

“Yes.” My brother continued soberly. “Dad, you cannot continue on like this. No one wants to be seen next to you. We all pretend like we don’t know you when we go out together.”

“You aren’t serious!” My dad was shocked.

“WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!” I cried. “My children are afraid of your clothes! Look! Mimi just puked on herself after she saw your shirt!”

He sat there, thinking. Finally he spoke, “All right. If you guys say so.”

Dave, Aaron, Joy (my sister in law) and I all simultaneously said “YES!!” so loudly that Mimi jumped.

It’s actually worked. I mean, he still teases us about it. Like today when I asked them to watch the kids so we could go shopping for some clothes for Dave, he’s all “I hear Kohl’s has a great sale going on!” But he hasn’t been back.

So maybe that’s your best course of action. An INTERVENTION.

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As always, Merry Pranksters, fill in where I’ve left off in the comments. And feel free to submit YOUR burning questions to Your Aunt Becky through the form on the sidebar (under Pages).

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And remember, whether you’re going to BlogHer or not, we need your votes!! Aunt Becky, Marinka, Wendi, and I (of The Mouthy Housewives and Mommy Wants Vodka) have put in for a Room of our Own on how to create a successful, entertaining advice site.

So please just click here, log on to BlogHer and then click “I would attend this session” (it’s just above the title: Dear Abby 2.0). After you click it it will miraculously say “I would not attend this session.” This means that your vote for the session has been successfully registered. Thank you!

The Daver: “I was reading your friend’s blog, and she was talking about how she’d gotten some nasty look from some parent when she said she was taking her kid to McDonald’s.”

Aunt Becky: “Ha! Figures.”

The Daver: “I said that ‘The Daver would give them a McSmackdown.'”

Aunt Becky: “Totally, yo. What the hell is wrong with McDonald’s once in awhile? Let kids be kids, man.”

The Daver: “Exactly! People like that can take their organic bento boxes and shove them up their asses.”

Aunt Becky: “I tweeted last night that whomever wrote the ‘I could be your hero baby’ song was singing about Chicken McNuggets. And I meant it.”

The Daver: “That’s fucked up.”

Aunt Becky: “The only thing wrong with McDonald’s is the ball pits. They always smell like pee.”

The Daver: “What the hell are you talking about?”

Aunt Becky: “You never noticed that?”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Dude. Kids are always whizzing in the ball pits. It’s disgusting.”

The Daver: “….”

Aunt Becky: “It’s kind of awesome if you don’t play in there.”

The Daver: “….”

Aunt Becky: “You totally played in the pee balls, didn’t you? That sucks.”

The Daver: “….”

Aunt Becky: “That’s okay. I think there’s some bleach leftover from the time I accidentally saw pictures of Carrot Top naked. You can bathe with that.”

The Daver: “I have a sudden hankering for a Shamrock Shake.”

I’m always amazed when my kids do something clever. It’s not that I don’t think they’re smart…okay maybe it is. But I don’t really think any kids are smart. Shit, I wasn’t smart as a kid. Unless you call eating an entire tub of frosting with my tongue smart, which you cannot unless you’re a lying liar who lies.

People who are all “my kid is a fucking GENIUS!” make me sort of itchy because it’s very clear that they’re annoying.

Kids aren’t SUPPOSED to be smart because they’re kids. They’re supposed to do dumbass things like jump off the back of the couch onto their heads because it seemed like a good idea and they’re supposed to eat toothpaste because it’s tasty and they’re supposed to annoy the hell out of you by asking you over and over things like “WHERE’S MY HAND?” even though it is VERY CLEARLY attached to their arm.

They’re kids.

So when mine do things that are reasonably smart, I’m all “who the hell ARE you short people?”

But my middle son, the one that I’ve pegged to be a mini-Chris Farley at the ripe age of 2, because he routinely runs into walls on purpose so that he can fall down, only to spring back up and yell “I’M OKAY!!” he appears to have developed some odd habits.

I may have to stop lovingly calling him “Buckethead” and start calling him “The Professor.”

In the past month or so, he’s developed an obsession with two things. Two weird, maybe related, but nonetheless, strange things. Perhaps all of the jumping off the couch onto his head has jangled something loose. Because he now is infatuated with:

1) numbers (specifically the number 0)

B) The Andromeda Galaxy

This is the second of my children to take a more than passing interest in the planets (my first son could, by Alex’s age, name all 63 of Jupiter’s moons), and before you think that I’m somehow indoctrinating them with my own adoration of cosmology, let me assure you that I am not THAT kind of scientist. I’m a virus kinda girl, myself.

Ben has since grown out of his love of the planets and Alex has fallen headfirst in love all on his own. It’s beyond weird.

So watch out, Carl Sagan. Alex Harks is coming for you.

Just as soon as he gets his diaper changed.