I know I’ve told you about the nasty note that I got when I was in 3rd grade. It was from my friend Becky, and while she wasn’t actually mad at me, it was kind of mean. I may never remember my phone number properly (also: bite me Topamax), but I can tell you that her note read:

Dear Becky,

I like you a little bit, but it grows smaller every day.

Love,

Becky

That she signed it “Love, Becky” proved that she didn’t really mean it and we were friends again within a couple of weeks, because that’s life when you’re 8.

Throughout the years there have been plenty of people who didn’t like me, and mostly, it hasn’t bothered me. I took great pride when I found “BECKY SHERRICK IS A BITCH” written on a desk in high school, because who wouldn’t? I mean, I consider that sort of high praise, which is probably what the writer intended, since it was written on the desk I always sat in.

Occasionally, my ass will chafe when I’m accused of something I didn’t do or someone will blatantly say something they don’t think I’ll see (note to Twitter: @-ing me means I see it). But if you don’t like me, well, that’s well within your right. I don’t have to like you either.

But I’m 29, not 8, and having people be MEAN to me isn’t something that ruins my day.

Turns out that my kid, my sweet autistic 8 year old, the kid who was born without a mean bone in his body, is being bullied again. And that, well, that chaps my balls and makes my blood boil.

Perhaps, I wasn’t suited to be the one to have the conversation with my son.

Aunt Becky: “So what’s this punk doing to you?”

Ben: “He’s trying to upset me. He’s mean to me.”

Aunt Becky (rifles through empty brain cavity trying to match this with a solution): “Okay, so here’s the thing with bullies: you have to figure out what they’re trying to do, okay?”

Ben: “…..”

Aunt Becky: “You know, if they’re trying to make you cry, or make you feel bad, or make you mad or whatever. Right? Because he’s trying to get a reaction out of you.”

Ben: “OKAY! I get it!”

Aunt Becky (thanks God for having an older brother and therefore frame of reference): “Once you figure out the reaction, DON’T GIVE IN TO IT. Don’t bother getting upset. That doesn’t do any good. Being mad? What good does that do? Nothing. Crying? Solves nothing.”

Ben: “Okay, so the first step is to figure out what they’re trying to do.”

Aunt Becky: “Yes. Then, don’t do it.”

Ben: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Then? You get even.”

Ben: “….”

Aunt Becky: “Not like, being mean BACK, but by telling the teacher or telling your mom, or telling the playground monitor, or telling an adult. You can’t let him get away with it! You have to stand up for yourself, Ben. You HAVE to.”

Ben: “Step one, figure out what he’s trying to do, step two, don’t do it, step three, get even. By telling an adult!”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

Ben: “I got it!”

Ben scampers off to play with his siblings.

(Later)

Aunt Becky: “So I told Ben how to deal with his bully.”

The Daver: “Oh yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “That bullshit our parents always spouted about ‘walking away’ was such crap. I mean, it never helped us learn anything about handling conflict. Kids can be such assholes.”

The Daver: “No shit.”

Aunt Becky: “So I taught him ‘don’t get mad, get even!'”

The Daver: “WHAT?”

Aunt Becky: “Well, yeah.”

The Daver: “Becky, you didn’t.”

Aunt Becky: “Not like with a machine gun. More like as a catch phrase. ‘Don’t get mad, get even by telling the teacher.’ You know Ben, he won’t tell the teacher anything.”

The Daver: *phew*

Aunt Becky: “Besides, he can remember phrases like that.”

The Daver: “Good call.”

I also put a call in to his teacher and am waiting on a call back. You know, this is the kind of stuff I always want to tell the new parents I see worrying over the car seats in the baby aisle at Target. Like, ‘ENJOY THIS!’ because it gets so much harder.

Colic was bad, but this, this hurts your soul and there isn’t jack you can really do to make it better. There’s no zantac for the heartbreak.

So Bully-Kid, wherever you are, you’d better lay the fuck off my kid. Because I don’t care what weakness you smell in him, he’s a thousand times stronger than you’ll ever be.

So back off.

One of the big things I was going to do this year, besides my normal To Do list which consists of “Survive,” was to start to pull myself out from behind the diaper pail and figure out who the hell I was now. Thanks to various circumstances, I’ve been kind of trapped in the house for one reason or another for the past three years.

While I haven’t reached Howard Hughes levels of creepiness by keeping my urine in jars, or growing out my finger nails to freakish lengths, it’s not been easy for me. I wasn’t cut out for this stay-at-home life style, and if I could figure out what it IS that I was good at besides, you know, being independently wealthy and shopping all the time, I’d do it.

Luckily, thanks to a stroke of mad genius and a couple of things that couldn’t have possibly been coincidence, I found something that I could do. I started to write, thanks to The Daver, who insisted that I start telling stories to people besides him. Probably because he wanted me to stop pulling him out of meetings to tell him about purchasing castles* in the area.

Then, I was contacted by Mr. Toy With Me out of the clear blue sky, who asked me if I’d like to come write for his site. Which, I mean, a sex column? Kind of the job I was born to do. I’m crass and gross and I always take stuff to 11.

I realized that while I waited for my book stuff to happen, I could do something else besides write on my blog. The Internet is ripe for the writing, I determined, with fist pumped to the sky, 2010 would be The Year Of My Empire.

And? It’s been a good year so far. I’ve managed to not only get out of the house, but I’ve gotten away from my children for two whole nights in another state. The downside is that now I want to permanently live in another state where it’s not always Ass Hot or Ass Cold.

Ah, California, all that I can’t leave behind.

I’ve also managed to get my hairs cut and a super-villain streak dyed into it. Which means that I’m also looking for a litter of puppies to make into a coat, but you know, that’s probably just fumes talking here. For me, this is huge.

Because I tend to put off being good to myself until I FEEL better about myself. It’s dumb because it’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. I’m still carrying some baby weight, so I should punish myself for some reason, even though that’s not quite fair. I’m not exactly rolling in free time, and really, my sanity has been more important than my waistline.

Speaking of waistlines, I’ve been adjusting that, too. At least, I think I have. I threw out my scale, because after years of being on WW, I got tired of having my week dictated by a half a pound variance. But, I’ve been on the Spark People and using that. It’s free and it’s awesome because you can use your MEASUREMENTS rather than your LBS.

And? I dropped one pants size already and am about to drop another (thank you, Topamax, for making me never want to eat again).

Probably the weirdest thing that I’ve done this year is to become a business owner, which makes me feel like I should invest in some power suits and some accordion folders for all the important documents that I barely have. Also, I should boss my cats around more since my kids just look at me like I’m stupid.

Yesterday, though, Stage Two, wherein I get shaded! Tattoo You! Or Me!

Here is Stage 1 (the BEFORE picture):

Here is after:

And another angle:

And lastly, this is what I call a Twitter Bait and Switch. What I tweeted was “Naked Lady Boobie Pictures.” The link gave you this picture.

And that, my friends, is not naked. I am barely a lady (unless you are being sarcastic). Also, I am not annoyed at all. I am bemused by my tattoo-ness.

But I am freshly inked and very, very happy. Also, very, very sore. I will get the color finished in 2 months or so and then? I want the OTHER side done. With…something.

So how are YOU doing on getting YOUR groove back, my gnomies?

*Yes, there are castles out here. No, I don’t live in one. But I am 100% sure I’d be cooler if I did.

One of the ways that my friend KC suggested that I think of Amelia’s encephalocele was that her brain was just so full of awesomeness that it just..exploded out the back. Obviously one skull cavity wasn’t enough to contain all that awesomesauce. She might have been onto something there, because the kid is wicked-smart.

Or, at the very least, she’s my last hope. The shining light of intelligence and common sense in my house. The last bastion of all that might be right in my house.

My eldest, Ben, has never had a whole lot of common sense. He’s the kid that would probably Superman jump off my two-story house with a sheet tied around his neck if he had any more imagination. Thank the powers that be that he was born with as much imagination as I was.

I mean, I’m the person who WANTED to have an imaginary friend but couldn’t even do that. I didn’t have enough imagination to have an imaginary friend. YEAH. Obviously my kid.

Alex, though, I thought might whip him into shape, since he has Ben doing his bidding. Alex, even at 2.5, is an evil mastermind of a child, so I figured that he’d be the brains while Ben was the brawn.

Turns out Alex is mini-Chris Farley. He’s the kid who throws himself into walls on PURPOSE only to bounce off, hop back up and yell “I’M OKAY!!” When Dave’s says he’s my clone, I’m not entirely sure he’s being flattering.

My faith in Alex steering Ben into perhaps having an evil empire where they, oh, I don’t know, maybe made me boat-loads of cash while being evil somehow screeched to an audible halt the other day.

Mimi and I were playing trains in one room, and I watched as my son’s came in and mysteriously grabbed a couple of blankets and ran back out. I waited a couple of minutes and then yelled, “what are you doing?”

“Alex set up a slide!!” Ben happily replied to me.

Shockingly this did not make me feel any better.

Mimi and I followed them out to the other room where, in fact, Alex had set up a slide and we watched as the two lug-nuts we love so dearly slid off the back of the arm of the couch onto the floor below.

Onto their heads.

My son’s were sliding from the couch onto their heads.

Happily.

No one was crying or complaining that it hurt; no. They were just using their thick skulls and faces to wipe the floor with. I swear I have never been so flabbergasted. Let’s be clear, my own IQ might rival that of peat moss, but I have never had the idea to use my face as the landing spot for falling from heights.

As soon as I recovered from my shock, I stopped them.

Then I informed my daughter that without her, her brothers might be lost forever, a couple of goons stuck picking their noses and jumping off things in the misguided idea that they can fly for the rest of their lives.

Let’s hope that she uses her power for GOOD and not evil.

——————-

Sunday was the anniversary of Mimi’s discharge from the NICU. It was still a turbulent couple of weeks before we knew anything about anything, so it wasn’t like it was the anniversary of things being all right again. I mean, if your kid is sprung from the NICU, you’re pretty much grabbing her and getting the hell out of there.

I’m having a hard time talking about all of the chaos surrounding her first weeks of life, but I’m not having a hard time expressing my gratitude. With all of your help and support, I was able to turn what was a horrible, devastating time in my life into something else.

A couple of months ago, you helped vote for me in a contest with a cash prize. I promised I would donate that to the March of Dimes. Because the one bright spot in the whole fucked up situation was knowing that Mimi and I could help other people and other babies.

We are.

I officially became a March of Dimes Mom.

And I donated my winnings to the March of Dimes. I’d show you a receipt, but I figured you could just see that $250 was added to Team Mimi’s March of Dimes widget.

So thank you. All of you.

Mimi says, “Upon further inspection, cupcakes are deemed satisfactory.”

(why yes, yes, that is frosting in her eyebrows)

And for my work with March of Dimes, I was awarded this nifty button from Give it Forward, which is a sweet ass medical fund-raising blog. So thanks, guys! I’m all a-flutter!

I’ve just found your site, and you’ve probably answered this question a million times before, but here goes. Why do you call yourself Aunt Becky?

See, now that’s an awesome question, actually. I’ve dedicated an entire post to it right here.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I was just wondering where you draw the line between blogger Aunt Becky, and Becky in real life.

Let’s say you get introduced to someone, and they are a big fan of your blog (because obviously). Would you be wierded out if they asked (in a sincere, fanlike way) if Dave had gotten his penis ring yet, or if you were feeling better about the attractiveness of your “cooter”?

Do you refer to your children as crotch parasites at playdates :)? Or do you just pray that the “pretty vagina question” will not come up at the next PTA meeting lol?

What is Aunt Becky like when she is away from the shield of the screen?

Love,
Too Chicken To Blog

Dear Too Chicken,

The Daver here. Becky tried to answer your question but despite the fact that she talks about her life online every day ( 904 posts in the ol’ archive at last count. Nine. Hundred. Four. ), she has a terrible time answering questions about herself.

Which, in a strange way, should give you some idea as to the answer: she’s not that much different in real life. I don’t see her ever refer to people who read her blog as ‘fans’. They’re her people, her gnomies, her Internets; so if someone asked her about my penis ring, she’d probably tell you the truth: no, not yet.

I think the only time she’d be weirded out by someone is if they took it to another level, like showing up at our house unannounced wearing leather assless chaps and dancing around our yard chanting “Aunt Becky Is My HERO!” If if were *announced*, of course, that may be a different matter. MAYBE.

I’ve heard the phrases “crotch fruit” and “beef curtains” on more than one playdate, but she probably wouldn’t use those terms if she didn’t know you were down with it. Like, around my parents? She doesn’t even flip me the bird too often, and she limits her use of terms of endearment like ‘assbag’, ‘old balls’, and ‘shithead’, keeping it to ‘pooface’ and the ever-popular ‘dear’.

In real life, she’s a little less patient, a little more sarcastic ( some kinds of sarcasm just don’t translate well to blogs ), every bit as smart, and just as hilarious. I married her for good reason, y’know.

–The Daver

I would like to add to The Daver’s wonderful guest blog that I am also stunningly gorgeous.

who sang the song “the hardest part of love is letting go?

So, I have never heard of this song, but apparently it’s sung by Stephanie J. Block and from a play “Children of Eden.”

Because I do not know it, I am forced to believe it’s probably not as awesome as some other songs. So I’d recommend things like Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow,” anything by ABBA, and the entire Red Hot Chili Pepper’s Blood Sugar Sex Magik album. Or really, anything by Queen.

Dear Aunt Becky

Where did I leave my keys?

Probably the best thing about being married is that Dave always knows where his keys are. I do not. I mean, I KIND OF know where mine are, but not really. Dave cannot imagine a life where people do not know where his keys are at any given moment in time.

By this statement, you’d think that of the two of us, Dave would be the organized one, all of his I’s dotted and t’s crossed, but no. HOLY SHIT no. I can’t find my wallet 98% of the time, yet I am the one who knows where everything else in the house is and what it does and what it should be doing tomorrow.

Everything except for my wallet, keys and phone.

I think your keys are behind the toilet right now. Or maybe on a plane to China. Or in the toy bin. Or up the street having dinner with a French prostitute.

But you should ask The Daver. He’d know better.

—————–

In the event that you are going to Blogher and would be interested in heckling me from the audience of an! official! panel, go here and tell them that you’d want to throw things at me. They’re just seeing if there’s any interest in the topic, so it’s not like all ‘get your rotted fruit ready’ yet.

And Bloggies close today.

When I was a preteen, I was convinced that my parents were inhumanely inhumane because they were so cheap that they wouldn’t spring the extra two bucks a month for call waiting. For someone who lived with the phone glued to the side of her head, this was a BIG DEAL INDEED. What if I missed a Very Important Phone Call? I mean, someone could have seen someone pass a note in class and if I missed it, I might diiiieeeeee!

Oh, like you weren’t dramatic as a thirteen year old.

It wasn’t until later that I wore them down and they got cable TV, either, so I was stuck watching the crappy network channels. Oddly, I became sort of enthralled by infomercials. They were like their own little comedy goldmine all rolled up into a neat 30 minute package.

The announcers–pre-Billy Mays, whom, you should know, I mourned heavily–bounded from one side of the room to the other, all convinced of the merit of a product that even I knew was probably bullshitty garbage. And yet! And how! But wait! There’s more!

When I decided that 2010 was the year that I needed to bring Aunt Becky back from under the pile of dirty diapers and Lego bits, one of the first things that I did was to get a piece of exercise equipment. I love the gym like it was my job, but getting to the gym is about as easy as teaching my cat to use the microwave, so I figured I should bring the gym here.

But! Wait! There’s more!

I was going to LEARN from the mistakes of my friends! And my parents! I wasn’t going to drop thousands of dollars on a nice piece of equipment that would sit there, gathering dust and laundry.

I’d remembered seeing a small, fold up elliptical machine at The Sharper Image a couple of years ago for a couple hundred bucks. Which? If you’re going to buy something that’s not going to be used very often, why not go cheap and portable?

Well, turns out Sharper Image doesn’t make it any longer.

An Amazon search brought me to something even cheaper. I didn’t recognize the name, but I didn’t give a shit. For $80 plus free shipping (order now and you’ll get bonus good reviews!!) it doesn’t exactly have to scream out “I LOVE YOU AUNT BECKY!”

Universally, I got this response when I told people what TYPE of elliptical I got, “Bwahahahaha!” Exercise equipment does many things to me, but it doesn’t normally make me LAUGH, so I had to investigate.

Turns out that I bought a piece of exercise equipment from this douche:

This would be Mr. Tony Little. He sells The Gazelle. And he’s a DILL-BAG!

The unfortunate side-effect is that now I will be unable to stop thinking of Tony Little as I exercise now. He’ll be right beside me, his stupid flouncy pony tail flopping up and down while he yells, “Show me those big old pecs!”

Or maybe he’ll motivate me by telling me that the Gazelle can help me by healing my mind, body and spirit. He and his big, freaky, shiny arms. I don’t WANT my mind, body and spirit healed, Tony! I WANT TO FIT INTO MY SIZE SIX JEANS! I could give a shit about my spirit!

I don’t need to share my exercise room with a dude who looks better suited to be making 80’s era porn. Because that makes me want to shower in bleach, not work my ass harder.

I knew I should have stuck with Jillian Michaels and her 30 Day Shred.

————

Bloggies? Me? WTF?

Dear Amelia,

The first thing that I thought when I saw you in the spotlight that had been aimed at my vagina was “holy shit, I gave birth to a statue!” But you have to remember that I was in extreme pain and had just found out that there was potentially something wrong with you.

And, well, you were covered in white goo.

My second thought was, “holy shit, that baby is PISSED the fuck OFF!” It sounds indelicate, saying that about a brand new baby, but I assure you, my girl, you have the lung capacity and vocal control of someone who is going to either be an Olympic swimmer (providing you’re not physically gimpy like me) or an opera singer (providing your not singerly gimpy like me).

It was a good thing they’d put us in the back corner of the L and D unit, or you’d have probably scared all of those women OUT of labor. THAT is how loud you were. Which, had I been forcibly ejected from my comfy home, I’d have been mad too.

Your temper is legendary in our house, but so is your sweetness. While both of your brothers had first years on the planet that made my hair go grey and my hand trembly, you were sweetness and love. And thunder of doom.

I think that combination will serve you well, actually. It’s always served me well.

I know as a mother, I’m supposed to be terrified of having a daughter. My own mother and I have a relationship that can at best be described as “complicated,” but with you, well, it’s just not. It will be maybe when you’re a surly teenager, but now it’s not.

I’ve never stopped proud when I say “I have a daughter” because to me, I always figured I would have a mess of sons. To me, having a daughter was the holy grail. The pink light in a sea of sausages. I am so privileged, so unbelievably honored to have you as my own, that I can’t imagine a day that I wouldn’t gnaw off my arm to give it to you.

(I’d do the same, of course, for your brothers)

The ways that you’ve changed me over the past year, I can’t even begin to put into words. If I could go back to those weeks when you were a wee embryo and have your neural tube fuse properly, I don’t think I would. Because through you, I’ve become a better person.

The world is a good place, Amelia, and you don’t know it, but you have made yourself quite a lot of friends already. People in all kinds of places have been praying for you since you were a wee thing and they’ve been watching you grow, cheering you on as you reach each milestone, and celebrating each victory.

You are so, so blessed.

As you grow, there are going to be times and places where people tell you that you can’t do something. Now, I’m not talking about spray painting your room silver or something stupid (the FUMES! GAH!), I’m talking about your dreams, your hopes, your aspirations.

Listen to me, my girl: DON’T LISTEN TO THEM.

Absorb every single bit of negativity into your soul and let it strengthen you. Let it fortify your resolve to do it. Let it feed you. Only you know what you need to do. Only you know the path you must take. And you do anything in your power to get there. Stop at nothing.

Live a life of no regrets, my love. Don’t say yes when you mean no. Say no when you mean no and don’t feel even slightly bad about it.

And remember that when you’ve taken over the world, call your mother. She loves you with all of her heart.

So today, my darling girl, on your first birthday, we shall eat pink cupcakes with hearts and pink sprinkles and we will play trucks and cars and trains because that is what you love.

Happy Birthday, big girl. I love you with all that I am.

I am so, so honored to be your mother.

Love,

Mamamamama

My family is big on traditions. Probably not the same ones that your family practices because, well, unless they make Shwetty Balls* for Christmas, it’s likely that ours may be unique to our twisted family. One of the more innocuous ones happens to be the Chicago Auto Show, which comes to town every February like clockwork, and like a well oiled machine, some members of my family always go.

It’s mandatory for some, optional for others.

Members of my family have braved blizzards, ice storms and power outages to make it out for the auto show. It’s just that important. I’m surprised that Mr. (Dr.?) Darwin doesn’t have something to say about that, but let’s just leave it at stupidity clearly being genetic a genetic trait and move on.

As for me, like my parents anniversary, which has always ended in disaster one way or another, I tend to keep it OFF my calendar because Something always comes up. That Something changes year to year, but it’s safe to say that I’ll probably never get to go again. And not, like you may imagine, because I want to avoid it.

I do happen to have a vagina and I do happen to like both power tools and cars, and the auto show is always a blast. But many years ago now when I was 16 or 17–before I was cursed–I went with my father and my uncle out to McCormick place and oogled cars at the Auto Show.

Nothing like looking at cars can make a person work up an appetite, so afterwards, we traditionally go to China Town for lunch/dinner (linner?). It’s been awhile since I’ve gone but I’d bet you that there’s a traditional restaurant they eat at every year as well.

The year I’m talking about, though, it was just my uncle, my father and I that went. My brother was off being Continental and/or Worldly and I was just pumped to be able to take a day off from high school where I didn’t have to have one of my friends call me in. And going to China Town had a specific mission for me: I wanted a Kimono top.

(don’t judge)

(stop judging)

(seriously, knock that judgey shit OFF, I was COOL)

(shut UP)

My uncle had begged off, perhaps to go meet up with one of his motor head buddies–he’s an AVID Corvette Guy, which should mean something if you know any other Corvette People–so it was just my dad and I together in the store.

My father, I must explain, is one of the most modest people about the human body that I’ve ever met. I was an OOPS baby, I have an MUCH older brother, and I’d be willing to bet that my father had never imagined having a daughter, much less have to deal with her when she grew boobs.

As a teenager, whenever I’d pop back downstairs on the way back to bed in an oversized shirt (nothing, I should add was hanging out), he’d scream, “ACK, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, REBECCA!” Then he would cover his eyes dramatically and refuse to open them again until I went upstairs.

And they say drama doesn’t run in families. (don’t they?)

He’d carry on whenever I was nursing one of the babies like I was flagrantly prancing about the room in pasties and a g-string trying to give my relatives a lap dance, and it’s grown to be sort of a joke.

But the fact that I had boobies now made him uncomfortable, and while I certainly didn’t really worry about my dad seeing me in my bra since he had, at one point–although, I should mention, not for many years–changed my poopy drawers, I respected that.

So he stood very uncomfortably at the front of the woman’s clothing boutique in China Town while the owner, a very nice lady, was trying to fit my decidedly Western shaped frame (which, doesn’t Western-shaped give you the mental picture of a cowboy boot or the state of Texas? Because it does me) into a Kimono top. I probably tried on 10 or 15 until I found one that didn’t make me look stupid.

(shut UP)

I told her I’d take it, the beautiful dark blue silk shirt with those crazy-cool clasps at the neck, and she took it up front to the register to ring it up. I finished piling my layers of winter clothes back on and carefully made my way back to the front of the store. I had to contort myself into all kinds of odd angles to get past the wall-to-wall racks of clothes, but finally there I was, at the front of the store.

My dad looked relieved and somewhat red-eyed from the incense that was filling the room with sweet smelling acrid smoke and he whipped out his wallet and handed me some bills.

I went up to the register, where the lady had packed my new shirt into a plastic bag adorned with the store’s logo on it and looked at my total. As I was combining bills to pay her, she leaned forward, conspiratorially about to tell me something. Wondering if she was going to mention that she had an excellent supply of either opium or switchblades, I leaned it too.

“So,” she began, quietly but excited. “Is that your boyfriend?” Hand to God, she gave me a wink as she said boyfriend. She said it with unabashed glee, like a gossipy girlfriend who is about to tell you HOW FUCKING LUCKY YOU ARE to be dating the quarterback, because, like, he’s SO hot.

My mouth flopped open like a carp and I gaped openly at her. My BOYFRIEND?

“No,” I caught my tongue. “He’s NOT my boyfriend. He’s my father.”

She stared at me, I stared back and quickly paid. I guess there’s nothing like finding out that someone thinks that you’re

a) 20 years older than you are

b) that your father is 20 years younger than he was

3) People my age could actually manage to date guys my dad’s age.

I’m pretty sure when I loudly told him this as we left the store, that the remaining half of his hair just went made a FUUUMP sound and all popped out of their follicles in one big bang. Had I been in the process of balding myself, I have a feeling my follicles would have let ’em go too.

What I didn’t tell the shopkeeper was if I’d genuinely had a sugar daddy, I’d have insisted he take me to the Prada store, not some cheap shop in China Town. But that seemed kind of awkward and rude.

Unlike, of course, telling her that he was my father.

Now YOUR turn, Internet, come sit next to Aunt Becky here on the couch *pats seat.* I am on the edge of my proverbial seat here, itching to know what you are going to come up with.

Well, I’m not technically ITCHING but, you know.

*beats “no cowbell” for best SNL skit by a mile

While many of you asked the cake redeemed itself in it’s deliciousosity, I regret to inform you that the burning hair smell put me off of it. Then, when I realized the fondant smelled exactly like I’d imagine the color Blue to smell, it further solidified my desire to never let it touch my delicate, refined, distinguished palate.

(the very same delicate palate that loves on Crunch Berry Cereal. Hard.)

So this, my friends, this is a requiem for a Cake Wreck:

Alas, I cannot submit my creation to the SITE Cake Wrecks, because they only accept professional cakes, and as we’ve all gladly seen, I am no professional.

Somewhere, a lone bugle is playing Taps for my sad, sad cake.

—————-

Yesterday as I was flitting about the house uselessly writing a couple of things that I had promised I would do, I noticed that my right ear was making an odd tapping noise. I have a cold, because it’s a day of the week that ends in “y” and I always have a cold, thanks to my three crotch parasites, and I chalked it up to odd inner ear congestion.

As the day wore endlessly on, the knocking in my ear continued, and as I was finishing up the last of my articles late last night, I had a horrible, awful thought that combined the most awful of my fears.

What if something had laid their hideous eggs in my ear canal and now it was hatching to eat my remaining three brain cells? Like an alien? Or a bug? Or an ALIEN BUG?

(what, ME neurotic?)

(shut up)

When I informed Dave of my fears, he rolled his eyes and laughed.

The Daver: “You do remember it’s January in the Midwest, right?”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

The Daver: “And that nothing is actually alive.”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

The Daver: “And that you’re being neurotic.”

Aunt Becky: “You’d be neurotic too if you were growing an alien bug baby in your ear canal.”

The Daver: (rolls eyes) “Clearly.”

Then I went and flushed my ear canal with water and hydrogen peroxide for a couple of minutes, figuring that it would kill whatever was eating my brain. While it fizzed merrily, I hate to report that my ear is still sort of thumpy today.

The alien baby CLEARLY is immune to hydrogen peroxide.

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Today I am over at Toy With Me, where I am telling the not-at-all (SARCASM ALERT) embarrassing story of my bachelorette party. It involves a clogged toilet, a stripper, and balls on my face.

And, as always, if you’d care to vote for me in The Bloggies under best humor blog (voting ends in a couple of days), here is the link. I will love you all over in ways you never knew possible.

Dear The Internet,

My name is Aunt Becky and this is my blog. I’m writing to you today to ask you for some prayers for a new friend of mine whose baby has been diagnosed -in utero- with the same type of posterior encephalocele that Amelia had.

In my travels around The Internet, I haven’t found many of us. In fact, she’s the only other person I know whose child has had this type of neural tube defect, and she’s understandably shocked and terrified. She has a much longer road to travel than I did because she’s only about 20 weeks pregnant, and I know how much your thoughts and prayers lifted me up.

If you could, please spare a thought and a prayer for my friend and her baby.

xoxo,

Your Aunt Becky

P.S. Have you lost weight? Because I’m not just saying that to butter you up or anything. You really do look amazing. Want to make out?

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Last night I was telling DH that when I get my check from the remainder of my student loan, I’m going to buy my breast pump. He immediately said “No! I forgot to tell you, [his sister] is buying it for me because she knows a good one”.

First of all, I’ve done a ton of research on pumping…reviews, word of mouth, recommendations from moms on message boards, and even my own doctor’s office. I’m very set on the pump I want.

Second of all, even if she did happen to get me the one I want, it’s $300. She borrows gas money and money for her own kids’ clothes and daycare from DH’s parents all the time. Why the heck would she spend that much money on a gift for me?

Third of all, we are not close at all. In fact, she’s never liked me and that’s obvious, yet she picks the most personal item to want to buy me for the baby.

So, DH mentioned to his mom that the pump is already taken care of, and she freaked out, basically saying that not letting my SIL get me the pump she wants to get me will ruin the semi-good relationship we all have going on right now.

WTF do I do? It’s supposed to be a surprise, so I can’t say to her “I know you want to get me the pump, but don’t”, and I see her once every month or so and she barely says hi to me. How do I make this go my way without causing WWIII? Drinking heavily isn’t an option, due to the mini human being I have wiggling around in my uterus, so what the hell do I do, Aunt Becky?

Well, now THAT’S awkward, isn’t it. And no, that wasn’t a question. I mean, anything related to breast pumps and in-laws who don’t like you is kinda awkward. Hell, BREAST pumps are kind of awkward. I mean, have you TRIED attaching them? (I kid, I kid) Alas, I digress…

So, you’re really stuck between a rock and a bigger rock, and when it comes to this, it seems you’ve got one big choice to make: do you want to potentially cause a fight? Because if you really want what you want (because, hello, they’re you’re boobies) you need to get the message to your sister-in-law that you want the breast pump you picked out.

PERIOD.

If you’re not interested in rocking the familial boat, I’d sit back, see what she brings and if you don’t like it, return it and buy what you wanted in the first place. Either way, it’s a win-win. And it’s never a bad idea to have a back-up pump.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Are we supposed to wear pantyhose anymore? Pictures in In Style magazine, and the people on What Not to Wear never seem to have hose on. What’s up with that?

Am I supposed to expose my blinding white calves to the world?

Thanks!

Apparently, it’s not in vogue to wear pantyhose anymore and it’s better to blind your date with your pasty whiteness than to wear the hose. Who knew? No seriously, WHO KNEW? You flash your crotch around like the celebs to to distract from your white skin.

Tights are apparently okay, pantyhose are not.

Aunt Becky,
My very best friend rocks. She is a great person and has the greatest family who always make me feel like part of their family too. She and her husband have no children, but being the only married sibling, she has been feeling pressure to have children for her 60ish year old parents (and obviously herself and her husband too.).

Friday she found out that her dad’s lymphoma is back and in a secondary location. On Monday he went to another doctor and found out that his cancer is inoperable and the only treatment is painful and usually unsuccessful. They told him he has 6-9 months which obviously doesn’t give them time to have a baby. My question to you Aunt Becky is how can I help my amazing friend and her family in their time of need?

‘Need help being a great friend

Oh Gentle Reader, it’s obvious that you already are a great friend because you care so much about her and her family. She’s so lucky to have you. I’ll give you some advice here and then I’m sure my readers chime in. Here’s a website I found.

Be sure to give her time to talk about what she’s feeling and going through without trying to make it all better. Just shut your mouth and listen if she wants to talk.

Bring over meals, clean the house, take care of chores that you can without waiting to be asked. It’s really hard to ask for help, so it’s good to just DO rather than sit around waiting to be asked.

Try and follow through with anything you’ve promised you’re going to do.

Allow her to be upset or sad without interrupting her grieving.

Give her a break when you can by taking her out to do fun stuff that you both enjoy doing when you both are able.

Help coordinate any care-related stuff for her dad and see if you can be of any help (picking up medication, etc)

And really, just avoid saying stuff like, “I know how you’re feeling,” “don’t worry,” “I don’t know how you’re handling it all so well” because it’s really offensive. I have a feeling you know better than that, but I figured I’d mention it.

You’re a wonderful soul and I wish you and your friend and her family all the best.

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As always, dear Internetters, please fill in the gaps where I’ve left off and feel free to share your wisdom in the comments. If you are so inclined, you can vote for me in the Bloggies under Best Humor Blog.

Then I might be inclined to show you my hooters.

I read an article recently about how passing the blame was contagious. The article sited a couple of boring studies where people were told some stuff which I’d recount for you but it was BORING so I stopped paying any attention because HELLO, I’m not being TESTED on this stuff any more because I am an adult and not in school.

I can only imagine that it’s no one’s fault that my mailbox now looks like this:

Perhaps it was an act of GOD that sheared the mailbox from it’s wee little mailbox perch atop that piece of wood where it has happily lived for well over 5 years. Because clearly, no one else is to blame. Certainly not a snow plow.

This, my friends, is a Mail Box FAIL.

I still snicker every time I see it because it’s really funny. Trashy, but funny. Nothing to be done about it until the ground dries out, though. I’m sure my neighbors are thrilled. It sure adds something to the neighborhood.

ANYWAY.

I don’t know quite how to thank you for this, but last night I was roused from my near-catatonic state on the couch to be informed by my friend on Facebook (who shall remain nameless because I don’t that she wants me to shout her name out here) I have actually made it to Bloggie nominations and am on the ballot for Best Humor Blog.

Seriously, you guys, THANK YOU.

I know that you did it, because I voted for myself exactly once because I was all *scoff* “YEAH RIGHT, LIKE I COULD GET A BLOGGIE NOMINATION.” So I pretty much shit myself when I saw that I was on the ballot.

I’ll never make it, which isn’t something I’m saying to be coy or shy, but because my competition is miles beyond me.

Let me put it this way: if each of you told every single person YOU knew to vote for me, I’d still not win because I am up against the greats. And that? I am completely okay with. Because when I lose I will be all “awesome, I lost to xxxx, and I respect them.” It doesn’t mean I won’t beg you to vote for me because that’s the kind of bitch I am, but you know, I won’t expect to win. There’s simply NO WAY.

But my name is on the ballot and I am shocked and honored and this is me loving on you up and down and left and right. Thank you.

Marry me?