I’m sitting there, ass glued firmly to the couch cushions, television on for background noise, baby happily babbling in his Exersaucer, and all of a sudden a female voice breaks into my thoughts:

“I have genital herpes” she confesses to me.

The camera pans to her partner, “and I don’t” he confidently informs us.

The commercial goes on and on while I sit there completely horrified, jaw gently grazing the cat-hair covered carpet. Why, oh why do I need to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to erase that image from my already addled mind?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that we need to pretend like STD’s don’t happen by shushing it up (Lord knows Aunt Becky has seen more STD’s than you have.)(Because I’m a NURSE, you pervert!) and shaming those who have them into institutions or anything, not at all. Hell, plenty of people have them, live with them, while others have managed to barely dodge that bullet, and I don’t think that it’s something to be ashamed about.

I just don’t need my Oprah interrupted by having to hear about and subsequently imagine sores on your flipping meat curtains.

Before you flog me for being insensitive to those who have herpes, let me assure you I also don’t really care to have my day interrupted by ads promising to rid me of that pesky yeasty discharge, freshen up the old curtains with a vinegar douche, or make sure I don’t piss myself in public anymore.

*ahem*

I kid, I kid.

I’m not going to pretend I haven’t dealt with some delicate conditions of my privates over the years. Hell, I’ve even gleefully documented When Monistat Attacks, went to the hospital after I peed my pants, TWICE but none of these things have put me on your television set. Sure, I talk about these delicate conditions on my blog, but I assure you that no one from Depends, Valtrex, or generic Monistat is paying me a single dime for writing this. In fact, I’m almost certain they’d pay me NOT to write this.

Alas, I digress.

But seriously, could we PLEASE put a ban on having to watch people talk about the state of their junk on television? Because OBVIOUSLY.

So dish, The Internet. What would YOU ban (besides Your Aunt Becky from polluting The Internet, because have you HEARD of a PEN NAME?)?

*Lest you think I’m a complete ass, I also cannot watch the ASPCA ones with the sad music in them because I cry. every. time. and then I want to adopt all the animals on the planet, even though my dog, Auggie, eats poo and there’s very little grosser than a dog that eats poo so WHY would I want another dog that might eat poo? (answer: I wouldn’t)

—————

Other places you’ll find Your Aunt Becky today if you care to look (also, I am humping all of you who have visited me elsewhere. THANK YOU.)

I’m discussing my New Years Resolution over at Toy With Me, and while it’s not one of my racier posts, it’s one I’m particularly proud of because it’s honest and real and true and sometimes that’s what matters.

At my SodaHead gig, I’ve named 2009 as the Year of the…

Lastly, at Skirt! it’s not the damn kids on my lawn or my collection of 8-tracks that have made me realize that I’ve gotten old and crusty. Nope, it’s BLOGGING.

My attempts to break into the artistic field included a rather pathetically rendered Easter Egg coloring contest that I was told that “I won” only to then be told when I went to claim my prize “WHOOPS, PSYCH! You didn’t!” and something I liked to call “donuts floating in pee” during my high school years (it was a still life). I may have many talents, like be able to properly blow spit bubbles, but being artistic is not one of them.

So, when I couldn’t find the proper phoenix tattoo years ago, I gave up and waited until I could. I certainly wasn’t going to draw it and because I really didn’t know what I wanted, I didn’t know anyone else who could do what I wanted, either. Last I checked, artists weren’t really mind readers.

Imagine my shock when I lazily googled “phoenix” last week, and this popped up (I can’t manage to resize it, sorry):

What makes it weird is that my old design, Notepad Chaos, was based on this design, from Web Designer Wall, which was created by Nick La, who made this design. It seems an odd bit of synchronicity to me. The Internet is a big place and to randomly come across this is just…

Anyway.

My friend, WhyIsDaddyCryin on Twitter recommended a local tattoo artist in Chicago who normally books out 3 months in advance who just happened to have an appointment on Sunday available. Trust me, I was more excited about this than I was about Christmas. Probably because it didn’t involve tearing apart more fucking twist ties and I could sit still without having to get anyone anything for more than 5 minutes at a time.

This is Step 1.

No, I am not that yellow.

See, I’m much more pasty than yellow.

My phoenix. I couldn’t be any happier if it were all done and I wasn’t in pain.

It took an hour and a half of sitting in really odd positions to get this done and it goes most of the way down my back which is MUCH BIGGER than I’d figured that I’d get. But it looks fabulous. Only now I’m all, it needs to have something on the OTHER SIDE to balance it out. What, I don’t know, but something.

And honestly, after the foot tattoo, the pain of this was nothing. Some areas were sensitivER than others but I never wept and I never had to have her stop because I couldn’t tolerate it for another second. Weeping in front of tattoo people is pretty embarrassing even if the tears are just kind of leaking out because, you know, how hardcore can you look when you’re CRYING?

I’m going back in 4 weeks on January 26 (because I know you’ll all want to stalk my ass) to get the color done–all vibrant colors, are you surprised?–and I’m pumped. The tattoo is AMAZING and better than I could have imagined.

I’m in some pain today, especially since it’s January and I can barely wear clothes, but that’s okay. I’ll lovingly caress my Vicodin bottle with my tongue as I tell you my OTHER secret. I got a job blogging for yet ANOTHER site.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try and find some position to sit in that doesn’t cause me excruciating pain and make out with my Tylenol bottle.

Dear Aunt Becky,

You seem to have really mastered this twitter thing. I mean, that’s how I found you, so it can’t be all bad. Just a few generics:
-Do you follow everyone who follows you?
-Is this the way to get more followers? Follow randoms and hope they follow you back?
-How do you make the magic where every person you respond to doesn’t show up in the twitter feed and only appears on your page? I’m sick of seeing @insertyourname here show up all over the place every time I need to respond to one of my flock.
That is all.
Well that, and really, followers? Did we have to call them followers Twitter? I feel like I drank the kool-aid.

Oh, my Gentle Reader, you are far too kind to compliment my Twitter prowess because really, I haven’t mastered it AT ALL. I’m pretty sure that 95% of my followers are the porn bot Blow Job Britney and the other 5% are people I’ve paid or blackmailed to follow me. If you’re still waiting on your check, by the by, sorry about that. I’m a terrible record keeper.

But I will try and answer your questions to the best of my ability.

First, let me explain blather on uselessly about Twitter for those blissful enough not to have an account. Twitter was designed to be a microblog which means that tweets are intended to be a mini-blog post. Also, it was designed to go to your cellphone as a text message (which is why you’re limited to such a short amount of characters).

When I first heard about it, from my source of all things social media-ish, The Daver, I was pretty dumbfounded because I was all, “dude, who would want to keep tabs on what I do 24 hours a day? I’m SO not interesting.”

I mocked it pretty heavily because it seemed to be the most narcissistic fucking thing I’d ever heard of, which, coming from me is saying a lot (I BLOG DAILY, PEOPLE). I mean, who gives a fucking shit about what I’m doing at 8:43 PM on Tuesday evening? Then I signed up for it myself. Then I doused my foot in ketchup and ate my humble pie and I liked every damn bite.

(full disclosure: I said the same thing about blogging, except for I was all, “what I ate for breakfast is NOT national news, Daver” and then I realized that the good blogs don’t have to be all about boring shit. MY blog is obviously not a GOOD blog).

Examples of tweets that suck (am using my own name as a reference):

*Come visit my store! Just listed adorable shoes for $7.99 http://marketersneedtogetafuckingclueyo.com

Marketing tweets are dull unless you’re actually a person and even then? People get annoyed when you’re all “COME BUY MY STUFF” because chances are, you don’t need to be reminded that something is for sale every 20 seconds.

*Am running to Target!!!!!!!!!!!!!

People do not give a shit if you’re running to Target, unless it’s to get ass-lube or hemorrhoid cream and even then, it’s only fun to laugh and point.

*lol my kids are so funny lol

Everyone thinks their kids are funny.

*Pick up your free dating report at whythefuckareyoufollowingmeyoustupidassbot.com

The Twitter bots, with the exception of BlowJob Britney are lame but probably an important part of the food chain. You don’t need to follow them back.

*Win an Olympus Camera RT: @pleasestoptweetingcontests to be entered.

The contest thing, well, everyone wants free stuff, but wow, that shit is fucking ANNOYING. My New Years Resolution (besides become an heiress) is to stop following people who tweet that shit constantly. Marketers are getting YOU to do their job for free.

*If you don’t respond to this tweet, you don’t love me enough and I’m deleting you from feed.

Histrionic people are dramatic whenever they’re not feeling like someone is paying them enough mind and they’re everywhere (usually Facebook, oddly). Whatever.

*@heidimontag I love you soooooo much!

I hate to break it to you, but @ing a celebrity is kinda douchy. They’re not going to reply to you, yo.

So that’s what’s annoying about Twitter, let’s get to the good shit, shall we? Because while most of you are no doubt bored shitless (as you should be), there is a point to all of this.

Do I follow everyone who follows me? No. Mostly, but no. Because why not? Except that it’s a fucking clusterfuck on there, but whatever. I miss a lot of stuff that goes on, so if something important happens DM me.

If you’re following BOTH parties who are having a private conversation, you get a lot of this:

@mommywantsvodka You are such a fucking spaz, Becky. Why did you put my Blackberry in the freezer?

@dwink well, at least I can properly manage to throw my socks down the laundry chute, Daver.

@mommywantsvodka what does that have to do with anything?

@dwink I’m deflecting. DUH. Also, did you happen to notice how light is playing off my face?

@mommywantsvodka Wait, huh?

@dwink I want a sandwich. Who is watching the kids?

@mommywantsvodka whoops!

What I’d suggest, my friend, is to download Tweet Deck and group your people into meaningful groups, or use the List feature on the Twitter home page so that you can make sure to catch the tweets you want to see, without having to see the bullshit like I showed you above.

So, if you want more followers, my suggestion is this: be interesting. The same goes for blogging. Make actual connections with people and be fucking interesting. And feel free to disregard every single piece of advice I have offered you. I don’t really understand Twitter either.

And the followers thing, that makes me totally uncomfortable too, because while I am very important (in my head) I think “followers,” I think cults, I think that guy in Texas and the people with the comet. So I say “Twitter,” “Facebook” or “The Internet.” Seriously. Or, if I’m referring to all of you, it’s just “This is what The Internet told me.”

As always, o! Internet, my Internet, I’d love to hear your take on The Twitter. My word, while The Gospel in my head, is totally not to be taken very seriously. Nor are any of my rules meant to be taken seriously. Notify your doctor of erections lasting longer than 4 hours. Viewer discretion, as always, is advised.

And *phew* now it’s the Best Day Of The Year: December…uh (looks at brand new Despair Calender, notes:

laughs deeply because it’s fucking true and returns)…December 26. The day AFTER Christmas. Not only is everything on SALE again, but that means that Christmas is OVER and I don’t have to deal with anything more pretending to be merry or liking other people again for another WHOLE year.

Which, hi, AWESOME.

No, don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas, but maybe it’s because I have a butt-load of children, but I’m about ready for it to be all over with by mid-December. I don’t want holiday themed hand-towels or soap or bras, I just want to go back to hating the world–besides me and my blog people–in peace and stop pretending to like everyone and everything in the name of Christmas.

Anyway, it’s over, I’m suitably happy, and while I’m now migrained, and sort of infirm, everything went well, even with the crotch parasites running around for the past two days like they were on crack. (note to self: do NOT put candy ANYWHERE near children at 7 in the motherfucking MORNING ever again)

I was roped into hosting Christmas Eve by the Persuasive Powers Of Guilt and I even managed to cook a turkey without making anyone sick. Turns out that the secret to a good turkey is a) shoving things up its’ butt and b) butter. Everything, except your cholesterol, is better with butter.

The smallest ones didn’t really care about opening presents (!!!) which makes me wonder if I actually birthed them myself, because there’s nothing not awesome about presents with your name on them, but once opened, it turns out that The Daver and I are excellent about picking out gifts for them. To be fair, though, they’d have been equally thrilled with a package of straws and some Solo cups.

The big one was happy to help them open presents and was most thrilled by his R2-D2 backpack which makes me SURE he was adopted because Star Wars is SO not my thing (I did buy the backpack for him on my own. I was VERY proud of myself). Unless it’s LEGO Star Wars, the video game, which is full of The Awesome.

Because this was The Christmas of Practicality for me, I’d opened up most of my gifts ahead of time, and wasn’t about to rewrap them, because that’s REALLY a pain in the ass. But I was given the ultimate Housewifey Present of a new hand-held vacuum (a Dyson!). Dave joked that it was to remind me that while I was trying to build My Empire this year, he wanted to remind me that I should refocus my energies on housecleaning*.

Then, full of Christmas cheer, I vacuumed up his scrotum.

All in all, Christmas was completely lovely and I am more than happy to see it in my rear-view mirror. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try and extract toys from packaging that I’m pretty sure was designed by sadists. I will probably lose a finger, and barring that, at least many layers of skin.

Oh well, that’s why we have so many layers to spare, right?

Merry Day After Christmas, Internet! Your Aunt Becky wants you to gather ’round and tell her how your Christmas treated you.

*He really WAS kidding and I was the one oogling this vacuum like a freak for years. But I really did vacuum up the scrote. Because OBVIOUSLY.

When I was a kid, I always fantasized about having a big family. Maybe it was because I was the youngest by a factor of 10 years and I lived a lonely life at home, but the holidays always made me wish that my family was huge and robust, bursting at the seams with life and vitality. I’d have traded my toenails for the drama that goes along with that to have someone to sit with me at the kid table.

I sat alone there. Sad, right?

So, I always hoped I’d marry into a big, loud annoying family, but no. Dave’s family is small like mine. Or it’s not, but they’re not all unified because of The Dramaz, so whatever. I was kind of saddened by that. Especially because that means that I am stuck hosting holidays, something that I’m pretty much a failure at*.

But because we have this teeny-weeny family, we rarely have uninvited guests pop by on the holidays, which is full of The Awesome. Although it would probably make for more interesting anecdotes than “we sat around breathing and looking at each other a lot.” This year, however, because Things are going Wrong with me, my insomnia is raging which meant I was up on Black Friday morning to catch all of the fucking amazing cyber deals!

I inadvertently brought home a monster.

This does not compute. What is this ‘almond bark?’ and why are you making me stand near it? Don’t you know I’m made for more important things than this?

I am designed to kick ass not make candy, you assholes.

What the fuck is that smell? Why does your house smell like pee? Please send me away from here.

Those are Narcissus Lilies and they cover up the smell of death quite well. Please leave my non-television wife alone before I disassemble you. DON’T MAKE ME TELL YOU AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKER.

You punish me by making me wear a bow and then you show me your GIRLY chocolate covered pretzels! Who the fuck uses pink and blue sprinkles? You make me sick.

And that wrapping paper is something A GIRLY MAN would pick out. Why didn’t you find some skulls or barbed wire to wrap this in? You’re a couple of sissies.

What are you DOING to your children by giving them such LAME GIRLY gifts? They need machine guns and barbells or they’re going to turn into sissies. I’m slipping some raw meat and eggs into their milk because they need to build muscle. To turn into MEN.

Wait, why are you packing me up to send me to him? HOPEFULLY he’ll be a manlier man than you, Aunt Becky. Thank GOD I’m being sent to him for winning that contest and naming your company***.

Oh, and I replaced all of your Diet Coke with gasoline. You didn’t even know the difference, you fool.

———————

Merry Christmas, o! Internet, my Internet! Aunt Becky, The Daver, The Sausages and Mimi all love you more than is possibly healthy. Thanks for being there for all of us. And if you tell anyone we said nice things, we’ll punch you.

———————

*Because I LOSE** at life.

**ALSO because I hate to cook.

***Copy on the Rocks.

Actual REPOST of an IM conversation with Pashmina, my former blogging buddy:

Aunt Becky: “I don’t take laxatives but my ass is gonna try Alli** when I quit nursing”

Pashmina: “DON’T DO IT”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “Seriously. Do. Not. Do. It”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “First, the point of Alli is that it traps fat and makes you shit like crazy when you eat something with too much fat in it.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll deal with some anal leakage.”

Pashmina: “second: Alli takes a LONG ASS TIME to get out of your system
you stop taking it and you’ll still be shitting buckets for a month”

Pashmina: “Third: it prevents nutrients from being absorbed by the bowel
so you’ll lose weight. And muscle tone. And valuable nutrients”

Aunt Becky: “Man that shit is tough. But it beats a tapeworm.”

Pashmina: “Now that I’d rather have.”

Aunt Becky: “Why don’t you get one?”

Pashmina: “I don’t know how, but I wouldn’t mind.”

Aunt Becky: “I think you could order one off the internet. Lemmie see.”

Pashmina: “I VERY SERIOUSLY DOUBT THAT.”

Aunt Becky: “Dunno, I’m looking it up.”

Aunt Becky: “Got it. http://wormtherapy.com/”

Pashmina: “OH COME ON.”

(time passes)

Pashmina: “Good, GOD. $1200 for a tapeworm?”

Aunt Becky: “dude. WILD.”

———
Meatloaf wrote “I Will Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” about–I shit you not–donuts.

What wouldn’t YOU do? What’s one thing you’d NEVER do?

Also: I freaking LOVE the Internet. Tapeworms, who knew?

**I did end up trying Alli and it didn’t work very well for me.

I didn’t get tattoos to rebel against my mother, who hates them with a passion normally reserved for Rush Limbaugh and canned gravy, but I got them because I needed a way to remind myself of the things that are important. Not, as you might imagine, “PANTS FIRST, THEN SHOES,” which might have saved me a ton of hassle and confusion over the years, but more important things*.

Deeper things.

I’ll keep it rather brief, since I think I’ve gone into more painfully boring detail before.

This is my seahorse, and it’s on my foot as you can see by my AWESOME pedicure. I could have cropped out my toes which I did in THIS POST, where I went into more graphic detail about the meaning of this one. Basically, it’s there to remind me that I can function JUST FINE on my own.

My first tattoo is this:

Also captured here (and why I chose this very crappy picture) is my fucking SWEET ASS phone. You wish it was yours, DON’T LIE. Anyway, this one has a really long story behind it and it’s not just because “I like Southwestern Stuff!!”

Pretty much, it’s on my foot to remind me that no matter what happens, I need to be true to myself. I’ve learned this one the hard way over and over again and now, well, it’s a permanent fixture on my person.

Foot tattoos, while they hurt like a mother-fucker are Full of The Awesome because when the need arises, you can simply pop a sock on and tattoos are covered! Insta-respectability! Like real estate it’s all about location, location, location. Plus, it was the one place that I figured wouldn’t get ridiculously fat when I had a baby.

While an excellent THEORY, that was shot to shit as Amelia’s late pregnancy turned my lower body into that of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I’d have laughed, had it not hurt so much to wear shoes in the dead of winter.

Anyway.

I’ve been eyeballing a new tattoo for awhile and by “eyeballing” I mean, languidly saying to myself, “I’m going to get a new tattoo someday” while I poured another diet Coke and forgot to parent my children.

What I thought was so awesome was that two of you rifled through my brain yesterday and guessed what I was going to get: a phoenix. Problem was, any time I googled “phoenix pictures” the results that I got were very distinctly un-Aunt Becky-ish.

Yesterday, I revisited the idea because OBVIOUSLY and imagine my surprise when THIS popped up:

(credit goes to Web Designer Wall, who has BAR NONE, the coolest fucking designs.)

It’s a phoenix. A colorful phoenix being reborn, not out of fire, it appears, but air. And that’s it. It’s what I want. I’ll tone down some of the intricate designs because that’s WAY too big for the space I need it, but that’s what I’m getting.

I figured out where to put it as well. The ball of my shoulder, spreading around to the front and back a bit. It’s a perfect compromise for me, because I can cover it up and let it show. I can’t wait. And by “can’t wait” I mean that I’m alternating between being crapping my pants and jumping around like a damn fool.

Which, I mean, what the hell else is new?

So, tattoos, o! Internet, my Internet! What do you think of them? Oh! And I discuss Christmas Balling over at Toy With Me today! It’s pretty awesome, mainly because I wrote it.

*like there is ANYTHING more important than the placement of pants. Heh.

In movies, you always know when the really important moments are about to happen because the music swells and ebbs and the soft focus lens sweeps through while time slows down capturing everything in full panoramic detail. It’s nice, I guess, if you’re a movie goer, and if your IQ is 12, because HI, they don’t normally put stuff in movies that isn’t related to the PLOT.

Anyway.

The day that I met The Daver wasn’t one of those days where I had any idea that my life was about to change. We were just meeting for the Einstein exhibit and breakfast in the city as friends, set up by a mutual friend, but it wasn’t all date-y and I certainly wasn’t impeccably dressed. Neither, I should add, was he.

Weeks later, I woke up in bed with him and I had A Moment. It wasn’t a Hollywood Moment, where we adorably shared breakfast in a perfectly fluffy bed, having coffee and witty reparte with our Chicago Tribune, no. I’m sure I was a drooly mess all bleary eyed and sleepy, and The Daver was actually asleep, but I rolled over and Had A Moment.

(I am not a person who has Moments.)

But I rolled over and said to myself: I am going to marry this guy.

And I did. It was one of those rare defining moments. You only have a certain number of those in your life, I think, where something happens maybe to you or maybe within you and nothing will ever be the same no matter what. Defining moments.

The first time I walked into my microbiology laboratory and realized that for once in a long time I was home. Having my naked, warm son laid upon my chest. Finding out that my son was autistic and that I wasn’t just a terrible mother. Knowing that from whatever destruction I found my life in, I would rebuild myself again and again.

I’ve found myself in sort of a mixture of elation and sadness these days–kind of like chewing on a foil-wrapped candy–while I’m really thrilled by the way things are, I can’t help but feel I need to pay tribute and honor the year that we’re laying to rest in a couple of weeks. Never has a year been more filled with defining moments for me.

When I close my eyes, I can still hear my doctor as clearly as if it were yesterday, “Becky, there’s something wrong with your baby’s head” and I can still remember all of the anxious uncertainty. Her first weeks and months were a gigantic question mark. There were no NICU doctors coming to see us or tell us what was wrong, no group huddles or anything. It was all very, “here’s this, here’s that, you can go home, OH WAIT, NO, WE’RE TAKING HER BACK.”

No one comforted us or held us up.

That’s a lie. That’s a lie.

YOU did. As the year draws to a close, I need to once again thank you, my friends who are more than people who live in the computer to me. In a year full of defining moments, I learned who had my back. You did and I am so grateful for all of you. There were times when I all I could do was read and reread my comments and emails because it was like you were here, holding my hand and stroking my hair. Because you were.

I know that if you could have been, many of you would have been. That means so much to me and to The Daver and it will mean so much to my daughter too. I’ve saved every single email that anyone sent me about my daughter in a special folder, and while I don’t routinely open it, because I can’t bear it, it’s there.

I’m shocked and humbled and honored by all of you. Thank you.

I got word very late in the day on Friday that I’d won Divine Caroline’s Love This Site Award, and the only reason I’d won it was because of you. I admit it, I cried. Shut UP, I’ll fart on your TOOTHBRUSH if you laugh.

Sometime in January or February, I believe, we are supposed to get our gift cards, and when I do, mine will be given to the March of Dimes in honor of my daughter Amelia. Because in the midst of all this fucked up year, I’ve found the silver lining. I’m officially a March of Dimes Mom now and while this has been one of the hardest years ever, I wouldn’t change it.

2010 is going to find me rebuilding myself again*, and I’m proud to do it with my daughter, my sweet ass-kicking cinnamon girl by my side. And I know that you, The Internet, will be there too. Now if you tell ANYONE that I have feelings, I’ll kick you.

What are some of your defining moments o! Internet, my Internet? Why don’t you pull up a chair and a glass of Eggnog and tell Your Aunt Becky all about things that made you who you are?

*Am totally getting a tattoo.

Aunt Becky, this may sound like a frivolous question, given my many-year-happy-relationship with a NOT GAY dude. However, of the…ahem, more than 10 somewhat serious relationships I have had, over HALF have been with gay or bisexual men. Not OPENLY gay or bisexual men. The other kind – I am a many-year beard!

Not now, which is why my husband thinks I’m insane to dwell on this. And yet…I do. I check myself for residual gay-dude traits and wonder what it is.

You’re damn skippy I’d be dwelling on this, especially if my genitals resembled a vagina and not a penis and my chromosomes were, in fact, an XX and not an XY. I don’t know how you WOULDN’T develop a complex after being a beard for so many years.

But since so many of the gay men that I’ve known over the years have been some of the awesomest people I’ve ever met, I’d take that as a compliment. Rather than see it as “I turn men gay” I’d think of it as, these guys thought you were great enough to have a relationship with, and once the pressure of a relationship was there, it pushed the issue forward.

You were amazing enough to be their last relationship with someone of the opposite sex, obviously because you were just that cool.

I’ll turn this one over to my readers, because I’m interested to hear their perspective on this.

Dear Aunt Becky,

My BFF totally used to have my back. If my feelings got hurt, she would listen. If I was upset she was there to help. I could vent freely and without judgment. I was blindsided recently when all of a sudden I had someone do something rude to me, and when I went to talk to her about it, she told me that she did not want to comment on the situation since she was turning over a new leaf and trying not to “gossip”. Gossip? I was not asking her to yell the tale from the rooftops – I just wanted to be heard and sympathized with. I was not passing on info, this was something that was factual that happened to me…

What would you do, Aunt Becky, if your closest friend suddenly decided that if a problem you had involved another person, it was “gossip” and should not be discussed?

Signed,

Falling On Deaf Ears

Oh Gentle Reader, this HAS happened to me, and I remember that it made me feel like I was suddenly being a petty bitch. Really, I wasn’t, but it felt as though I was.

It sounds as though your friend has been abducted by aliens and has been replaced by a clone who walks and talks like her, but acts nothing like her, and I’m sorry for that, because, well, that’s depressing. Maybe the new alien friend will learn the customs of female friendship and realize that this is something that we do for one another. We listen and we get each others back when we need to.

Barring that, I’d suggest that you start a blog where you can freely complain about anything from Farmville on Facebook to how annoying wrapping gifts can be. Just…don’t use names or identifying characteristics. Trust me on that one. You DON’T want that coming down on you like a load of bricks.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve been a mom for the last 13 years, most of it as a stay at home mom. I have 4 kids, a shitload of pets, and a hubby who can be a pain in the ass but is awesome nonetheless.

My question is about my brain. I have the attention span and brain power of a gnat now. (The “g” is silent.) Following complex thoughts, remember something other than appointments, and being able to read something longer than Chicka Chicka Boom Boom is… well… hard.

How can I wake my head back up with minimal effort? Cuz I’m lazy like that.

*scratches butt*

Wait…did you say something? I TOTALLY MISSED IT.

Hi Aunt Becky!

I am nineteen and I just miscarried my first baby. :\ The father had no idea that I was pregnant. My question is, do I tell him, even though the baby is gone? I feel like he would just be spiteful and make me even more upset than I already am… but does he have a right to know?

Thanks!

Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry that you had a miscarriage. I’ve had two and I know the hormonal ups-and-downs are terrible and that on top of everything else, I’m just so sorry. My heart hurts for you.

I don’t think that you need to tell the father that you had a miscarriage if you think that he’s just going to make you feel worse. You should find someone to give you some support, maybe a good friend, or someone close to you that you can really talk to. I know that a lot of local clinics and schools will have some sort of counselors that can arrange sessions to help you worth through some of what you’re going through because believe me, you’re not alone.

But no, I don’t think you need to tell him if you don’t want to. You should talk to someone, though.

Again, I’m really sorry. Picture Your Aunt Becky wrapping you up in a big fat hug.

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As always, my Faithful Readers, please fill in where I left off, and rally around our friend who has miscarried her baby. She could use some love.

First off, let me thank all of you for voting for me, something I will say again on Monday because I was told yesterday that Mommy Wants Vodka won Divine Caroline’s Love This Blog Award! Look!

When I say “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I mean that. I certainly couldn’t have voted for myself 400 times. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. Amelia thanks you. All of the March of Dimes babies thank you. I am once again so humbled and honored by all of you and honestly, I don’t know what to say besides, thank you.

I am so glad to know all of you. I consider you my friends and I know that you all have my back. Please know that I have yours too.

Thank you again. I am honored to know you.

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Every August, when the stores start lugging out their holiday wares, my stomach sinks a little as I pass the wrapping paper aisle. Mile upon magnificent mile of tubes of gaily colored paper as far as my eye could see, bows twinkling and winking in the light, tags shining at me from their pegs, and bags lined up like small soldiers, ready to do battle.

While my OCD/alcoholic nature is very evident in such places as my blog, which is never, ever neglected, whether I have the swine flu or am deep with in the withdrawal effects from prescription sleep aids and my orchids, which are all flourishing so wildly that I am probably going to have to build a greenhouse to hold them all, it simply cannot stand up to decorating.

One time, many years ago, I saw a commercial, I think for Tylenol or something, and the lady was all “I have arthritis and I need to take THIS so I can get through my job!” Her job, we learn, is ARTFULLY WRAPPING OTHER PEOPLE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. The commercial wasn’t for THAT service, but I made it my mission in life to ONE DAY be able to pay someone to ARTFULLY WRAP my presents for me.

Because if it’s possible, Dave’s even less enthusiastic about the chore than I am. Probably because he’s a very smart person*. Not only do I hate doing it, but I’m really BAD at it, so it’s a double whammy for me.

Luckily I was able to channel my angst into something else last night. See, I’d bought my son a doctor’s kit for his doll, which he still loves. The doll, I mean.

Dear Fisher Price:

Boys play with dolls too. Get it through your thick skulls.

Love,

Aunt Becky

I fumed about this for a bit last night which distracted me from my angst about wrapping ugly presents. (maybe I should have been angstiER about the mystery spot on my floor.) My friends on Twitter agreed and pointed out that there aren’t Lego kits for girls either, something that I hadn’t thought about either. Then I fumed some more.

Now I just need to think of something else tonight to get me through another round of present wrapping. Or maybe I’ll just douse my eggnog heavily in rum.

My ultra-conservative mother-in-law may unwrap this: but in the end, maybe that’s worth it.

No, I take it back. If she unwraps that, it’s TOTALLY worth it.

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Are you a present wrapper? Do you dread it? Can you wrap MY presents for me? How much do you think I’d have to pay someone to wrap my presents for me?

*This is me buttering him up so that he buys me the Cantigny mansion.