Enrobed = EN-AWESOME.

That is all.

It’s time to pick a winner, for the FIRST contest where one of you won my friend Chris Mancini’s book: Pacify Me. The winner, per Random Number Generator/Comment-Thingy, was: Chris in PHX! The contest for Stef’s book runs until next week, so get a MOVE ON, yo. (you don’t have to be my friend on Savvy Source, just join my group and comment over HERE on the contest post.)

Now I’m going to have to start buying stuff to give you guys because that was fun. Dave is groaning somewhere.

——————

When I was in college, there was this big thing about gender roles and gender stratification in children and how we shouldn’t limit tiny minds by dressing boys in all blue and girls in all pink. Or buying little girls get in the damn kitchen and make us some motherfucking pie while we buy our sons mini-work benches and cars.

It makes sense.

And both Ben and Alex have dolls and a small dollhouse, and Alex had pink binkies (while he liked binkies) and if he’d had a preference for pink clothes, well, I’d have let him wear them. The only reason I dressed him in blue was because I got a little tired of telling people–even in head to toe blue–that he was a boy, not a girl. For some reason, they assumed he was a girl. Poor kid.

Anyway.

For Christmas this year, I’d bought my daughter this (for anyone who doesn’t want to click, it’s a toddler to preschooler kitchen set) not because she’s a girl or anything, but because I know that they’ll ALL go wild for it. Trust me when I tell you it’s not any sort of “women belong in the kitchen” because I can barely be bothered to order takeout. I live on cereal and coffee mostly.

Well, I’d ventured to the seventh circle of hell to try and buy it (see above link) but the only one that they had in stock was so janky that I ordered it online AND PAID SHIPPING, which normally makes my cheap heart hurt so much that I will go to any lengths to avoid it. It came in the mail yesterday in the box that cheerfully shows precisely what’s inside and, it being Ass Cold here now, I brought it inside with the help of my eldest yesterday.

(by “help of my eldest” I mean that I directed him to carry it inside. Heh)

I left it in the hallway to warm up before bringing it up to my bedroom for a couple of minutes.

In that time, my two boys swarmed the box like sharks, BEGGING me to open it and making me swear up and down that they would have the opportunity to play with it. I explained that they’d certainly be able to play once Christmas came, and they accepted that before they scampered off, wrestling hand-over-foot like a couple of puppies.

I cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

So, while I’m certainly fucking them up when I laugh during sex talks and while I bare I my soul on The Internet, it’s nice to know that sometimes I do right by my kids.

—————-

I need more hilarious photoblogging ideas, yo.

—————-

*What that “something” is is to be determined.

**Also, Ben can live with here forever and be my cook.

I’m sorry that I know that I was a late in life OOPS baby and that I was conceived on Halloween* because really, what kid wants to know that stuff? The bonus to that, I guess, is that my parents weren’t exactly living in an abandoned barn by the time I was popped out, and while I didn’t didn’t have a safe full of golden coins and jewels that I could swim around in, I don’t remember going without.

My petitions, though, to build a safe full of golden coins and jewels were repeatedly denied as were my petitions to buy a Rolls Royce and re-carpet the whole house in mink. While they preferred teak and understated mahogany, I liked tinsel and glitter. I would have made an excellent glam rocker had I been able to tease my hair or have it ever hold a curl.

When I was 4 or 5, I decided that what my wee heart desired for Christmas more than anything else was actually something normal. Which, for me, is saying a lot. Instead of asking for a tiara with actual diamonds or my own phone line, I asked for a train set. A wooden train set.

My mother was a hippie tomboy and in hindsight, I’m shocked that she didn’t latch onto the idea and go running with it. I’d have thought that my normal requests of wearing princess dresses and patent leather shoes had left her weak-kneed enough that this should have been her cue to try and convert me to the Other Side, but no.

For some reason no.

Not for my birthday that July either.

Or for the next Christmas. Or my next birthday.

I’d play with the sets that they had at the toy stores that my mother brought me to, and sadly leave them behind when we left. By the time I turned 8, my grandfather bought me an electric train set which I fell in love with. But, I broke it because I am the reason we can’t have nice things.

Turns out that my mom has been feeling kinda guilty about not buying me that train set all of those years ago and I never forgot how much I wanted a train set. When Ben was younger, she’d bought him some parts of a train set, but he never really played, well, okay, I’m just going to say it because then you guys can shock and gasp, HE NEVER REALLY PLAYED WITH TOYS.

Okay, go ahead. The kid didn’t play with toys until he had a brother who played with toys. NOW they BOTH play with toys.

So now, for Christmas, they are going to wake up to this:

This is me, fulfilling my childhood dream through my children through my mother’s bank account.

Next up, EZ Bake Oven, which my mother claimed was stupid because it “cooked the cake with a light bulb**” and a Power Wheels. Because if I can’t live vicariously through my children, WHAT GOOD ARE THEY?

I mean, besides to make do the annoying chores that I don’t want to do myself.

Did you have any toys that you didn’t get as a kid that you plan on buying your own kids? Or are you a better person than I am that can rise above material urges?

Also, you should join my group Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters (turns out you DON’T have to be my friend, just join my group) over at The Savvy Source and enter to win Stef’s book by leaving me a comment here. Because OBVIOUSLY.

*if I were goth, can you imagine how awesome I’d feel? I would SO rock the black eyeliner and be all morosely “it’s in my blood” when people made comments about listening to The Cure’s Disintegration for the 30th time in a row.

**That IS kinda dumb.

This week, in the vein of If You Can’t Be Awesome, It Pays To Know People Who Are, I am giving away a copy of my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s book, It’s Not Me, It’s You. I met Stef through her blog, Baby on Bored, which, if you’re not reading, you’re probably a serial killer, so go and read her. She sent me a copy right after I had Mimi and I stayed up all night one night reading it, which, if you have a newborn, you know is as smart as jabbing yourself in the eye with a dull pencil.

And YOU can win this book, o! Internet my Internet, very easily. This is what you need to do. Click on this link here (or the widget on my sidebar) and join my group Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Prankster’s at Savvy Source. You can even log in through your Facebook ID (also, if you want to be friends through Facebook, my name is Becky Sherrick Harks).

Then come back here and tell me you did so so I can easily count comments and let random number generator pick out a number on December 16.

The way it was explained to me, it’s going to be kind of like a big chat room where we can talk about stuff-n-things and braid each others hair and eat virtual pizza and drink virtual vodka. I think it’ll be a lot of fun, although I’m kind of nervous because WHAT IF I’M DOING IT WRONG? I’m not an early internet adopter, so if I’m all a/s/l? to you, please, forgive me.

Unless you’re into that stuff, of course.

Today is Beaver Talk With Aunt Becky day over at Toy With Me and I’m doing a companion piece to last week’s Girl Crush. The topic? FRENEMIES. I’d love it if you’d weigh in. It’s also shockingly safe for work, because besides rocking a couple of f-bombs, I don’t even think I talk about humping or my vagina at all.

Also: what the hell is WRONG with me?

It’s called “With Enemies Like This, Who Needs Friends?”

——————–

THEN, I guest posted on my friend Jen’s blog, “Maybe if you Just Relax,” because she is funny as shit and sweet and we have children who are roughly the same age. It’s an old post that I sent her because it’s so full of The Awesome that it needs re-running somewhere else. But, you need to go love on it and her because it’s hilarious.

I never posted the epilogue and I will do it in the comments because I will do anything for you o! Internet, my Internet.

——————

Tomorrow the winner to my Open Your Whore Mouth contest will be announced and THEN! I have a new contest which will be even easier to enter and it’s going to be ridiculously fun.

——————

And lastly, a blast from the past:

Aunt Becky: “Dude, I’m STARVING. I can’t wait to finish buying this car so we can eeeaaaattt.” (rubs stomach dramatically for effect)

Daver: “Me too.”

Aunt Becky (jokingly): “Are you saying I’m fat?”

Daver (rolls eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm) “Yes. You’re a damn beached whale.”

Aunt Becky (laughs): “Ass.”

Car salesman eyeball go back and forth and eventually become as wide as dinner plates.

Car Salesman: “So, heh-heh, how long have you been married?”

Aunt Becky begins to count on fingers as The Daver looks on, amused.

Aunt Becky: “Uhhhh….”

The Daver: “I can’t believe you don’t remember our anniversary.” (sniffs loudly for effect) “Four and a half years. We’ve been married for four and a half years.”

Aunt Becky: “No shit?”

Daver: “No shit.”

Aunt Becky: “It seems like a freaking eternity.”

Daver: “You’d better mean that in a good way…”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, heh-heh, of course, dear.”

Car Salesman looks acutely uncomfortable and makes up an excuse to get up and walk away.

Daver: “We scare people.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehe.”

Dearest Darkly Dreaming Dexter,

When I first heard of a television show where a vigilante serial killer murdered the bad guys that the police weren’t able to catch, I admit that I was intrigued. But I am also very cheap, so while I have basic cable, the premium channels, my love, well, I don’t have them. Shh, shh, there there, it’s not you it’s me! Why, I don’t even buy premium vibrators and those go on my cootch!

But I was intrigued. Because hello! Being a D-list blogger is ALMOST like being a vigilante serial killer except not at all, but let’s totally gloss over that, shall we?

Then I had some more kids and sort of lost my mind and forgot about you, current love of my life for as long as you hold my interest or your show stays on the air.

But it was like The Fates, or as I like to call it, Twitter, brought us together again when I asked them casually one night if I should maybe watch your show. The result was a unanimous “FUCK YES,” and so I did.

And I thought it was great, although I will admit to finding you more like a bumbling friend than a fuck-buddy. People who like to kill other people just don’t make my vagina tingle. But you’re charming in the very same way that my husband charmed me, so there’s something about very sweet guys like you and he that I find just ADORABLE.

So, Dexter, my friend, we were platonic for months as I dated such television husbands as Vincent D’Onofrio, Anthony Bourdain and Dr. House.

And then three things happened at the same time:

First, I got infected with The Swine Flu and required buckets of this:

This is the Good Shit. The cough syrup that Daver gets carded for every time he goes to the store to buy it for me. Also, there’s a big fat warning label which means that if you take too much of it, it pretty much rots your brain. No, it does, so be careful.

At the same time, I managed to buy this:

And I was all, This is full of The Awesome, it was on sale for like a gazillion dollars off which made me moist AND high and I justified it by saying that Dave could give it to me for Christmas! But then I left it on the kitchen counter because how depressing is it to hide YOUR OWN Christmas presents in your room?

So you sat there, beloved Dexter, where you looked creepily at me any time I walked by to drink this:

The last thing that tipped me over the edge was when I found this, while rummaging through the pantry looking for some purple flavored Kool-Aid:

BEEF STICKS. The most repulsive, repugnant, disgusting thing I have EVER seen in my life. Not only were they NON-REFRIGERATED TUBES OF MEAT, Dexter, BUT THEY WERE GENERIC. While I am a connoisseur of most things encased-meaty, this, THIS was going TOO FAR.

I needed a new husband…

…..and cupcakes, FAST. Both were conveniently located IN MY KITCHEN!

Because nothing says, “I love you and like to murder and maim bad people like sprinkley holiday cupcakes! They’re so festively gruesome!” Suddenly that sinister creepy look is kind of a come-hither look. I bet YOU don’t like generic beef sticks, Dexter. Because you are a man of EXCELLENT taste.

Dexter, I don’t know much, but I know that you must think that any bag labeled “HOLIDAY BITS” must be totally FULL of The Awesome just like I did. So when I opened this, I was fucking FULL of holiday cheer all of a sudden. It was like Christmas exploded in my kitchen and my funking pants. I was suddenly whistling “Joy to the World” out of my butthole and it sounded like a choir of fucking angels!

That, Dexter, is how a shiny bag of Holiday Bits makes me feel.

And look at my whimsical fucking snowman cupcake liners, Dexter! It’s like I have Christmas Spirit flying out of my every orifice like funky sputum! When we are married and you go off and kill people while I stay home and, uh, blog and sit on my butt offering up the illusion of doing things, I will occasionally do stuff that is so corny that it’s almost cute. Then I will pepper it with swear words and gross imagery and it will almost make up for the fact that I did something normal.

You’ll get used to it.

I swear that no one can add oil, eggs, or water as skillfully as me. Except for The Pioneer Woman, but she has a cookbook and I failed Home Ec, so there’s that. Don’t you agree, Dexter? OF COURSE YOU DO BECAUSE I HAVEN’T REMOVED YOUR SHRINK WRAP YET.

There, there, sweet-cheeks, I will. I will. Give me time. I am taking our relationship SLOWLY.

And look at me, all PHOTOBLOGGING. I swear, there is NOTHING I cannot do. Except for cook, and photoblog and really write anything of any value or, well, I could devote a blog to my many shortcomings, but that’s kind of depressing. Dexter, I am sure that you would want to see me beat things because you like to murder people.

SO LOOK AT ME BEATING STUFF.

Heh. Beating stuff. LIKE MEAT. Heh. She said beating meat. Heh.

MOVING ON.

This is me, whistling “Joy to the Motherf*cking World” because we are in the presence of some HOLIDAY BITS PEOPLE! HOLIDAY BITS!

There is nothing like Holiday Bits to get ME in the mood for some festive fucking EGG NOG and maybe a whimsical light up REINDEER SWEATER that sings “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” Because he KNOWS who has been NAUGHTY and who’s been nice. ME.

BRING OUT THE MISTLETOE, assholes!

If you don’t like cake batter, you’re dead inside. I mean, I know you kill people for a living, but cake batter is one of the true joys of this earth if you don’t like it Sweet Baby Jesus will cry. Also, I will be forced to store the Beef Sticks on top of you.

While at first, your look said, “I don’t know about these motherfucking holiday cupcakes, Aunt Becky,” your eyebrows now say to me “Not only do I love of the holiday cupcakes, but I also want to make desperate love to you. I WANT TO SHOW YOU MY HOLIDAY BITS.”

So to you, my new boyfriend, Dexter, I say this: steer clear of beef sticks and that fuck bag in Season 2 with the black hair because so help me GOD if she goes near you again I will kick her in the crotch.

I love you, never change, except win some Emmy’s and send me some diamonds.

Your New Wife,

Aunt Becky

P.S. I mean it about the bitch with the black hair.

P.P.S. And the beef sticks. That’s just…wrong.

Aunt Becky-

Do you think it’s wrong to dangle sexual favors like a carrot in front of the husband’s nose in order to get him to do stuff around the house (dishes, lawn etc.)??? If so, got any better ideas?

Oh Gentle Reader, here is where I have to turn the tables on you and ask you, does it work? Because Your Aunt Becky might be interested if it did. This is how a conversation about division of labor goes in my house:

Aunt Becky: Hey, The Daver, can you please mow the lawn? I lost the dog in it last week.

The Daver: I can’t hear you.

Aunt Becky: I’m standing right next to you.

The Daver: I don’t speak English.

Aunt Becky: Yes you do. You’re speaking English right now.

The Daver: No I don’t.

(walks away leisurely to go save the world from global economic meltdown)

Then I hire the neighbor kid to mow the lawn and rescue the dog.

I think if I implemented a chore chart or a system of smiley faces he might throttle me if I didn’t throttle myself first, especially because then I might be tempted to go buy those stupid things you put in the toilets for little boys to aim their pee at.

And if I nagged him to death about it, I’d feel like a shrew, or worse, his mother.

To me, a blow job would be cheaper than hiring someone. But, you know, depends, I guess.

(also: does it WORK?)

Becky –

I have known these people for fifteen long, and I mean long, years. I am the type of person who will let you know when you have pissed me off. These people prefer to lift proverbial rug and sweep under. If I do say something my MIL will cry, which sets off a full born shit storm. My son has a pair of Nike skateboard shoes. Or he had. When they last came to visit said in-laws threw them away because “they” don’t like skateboarding, “it’s dangerous”. They also removed the mouth guard from his school issued football helmet and put on one that FIL thought was safer (you’ll poke your eye out kid). This type of shit has been going on for years.

Everyone tells me that I should not take them to task, but I’m getting older and less able to eat shit (it is true what they say). My husband is afraid of them (Catholic guilt you see). They also went through my medicine cabinet and told my son that mommy takes to many pills. My husband says “Why do you care what they think” Durrrr my son? They also like to pump my three kids (including my 4 year old) for information that gets repeated back to me. Can’t I just tell them to go eff off?

Sincerely, Ready to go all Chris Brown

I am pretty sure that you deserve a medal for putting up with these people for so long because I don’t have any idea how you’ve managed to do it. Certainly, you’re not going to change them because people like that get even MORE crotchety in their old age and you’re probably not going to change your husband either. The Daver, while he’s not going to throw me under the bus, he wouldn’t really stand up for me either, so I feel you.

You have the option of doing one of two things because the shit tornado is going to hit you or hit her and it’s really your call who it’s going to hit.:

1) Telling them to piss off the next time that they try and mess with your family and then dealing with the fallout. If they want to get in your business, bite back.

2) Dealing with it the way you’ve always dealt with it and have some extra margaritas when they’re in town.

Good luck.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I had the worst day humanly imaginable. Please feel free to take my story and make it an absolutely hilarious comedy, as I’m on prescribed vicodin and EVERYTHING is funny.

My four year old was diagnosed with respiratory distress and the doc diagnosed her with steroids. Steroids in my small child make her act like a ping pong ball in a shoebox. Within an hour after her discharge from the hospital, I begin to feel crummy. Sore throat, cough, runny nose. Oh joy.

I spent the weekend crashed on the couch, miserable and trying to recover. My child continued to be her lovable, completely wild self. Screaming, swinging, laughing and creating general mischief. She went back to school this morning. Praise God.

I went to work, hoping for the best. Within an hour, my boss said “No way, jose” and sent me home because I’m a germ-infested liability. Leaving the building, I fall. I fall down the freaking stairs. And I’m pretty sure besides my completely deflated and injured pride, my arm’s broke.

Too embarrassed to find someone, I hurry to the ER. After an exhausting wait, I was found to be not broken *I disagree since the dr couldn’t even remember what my illness was in the first place*, two ear infections and a viral lung something or other. But heaven-they prescribed VICODIN! Hours later, prescription in hand, I arrive home. To find that the city has issued a warning telling residents to not drink the water.

Of freaking course.

So I’m in pain, my kid needs her cocaine, er, I mean steroids and I need painkillers. Mommy’s dragging ass and my kid is chattering hers off.

What the hell did I do to karma?

Thanks for letting me vent. Your stories cheer me up greatly. Seriously. They do. 🙂

Then this one, baby, is for YOU.

——————–

As always, O! Internet, my Internet, please feel free to add your witty insights below because I have most certainly missed something.

OH! And I added an EMAIL ME link on my sidebar because that seemed like a good idea especially since I am trolling for writing projects and other assorted things to do. So, if you need a slightly sober writer, I am totally your bitch.

So, I can’t respond to your answers to my last post in email like I normally do because it adds comments, but you guys are FUNNY. And also, most of you corrected my typo from question 4 “your” should have been “you’re” and yes, that was TOTALLY my bad. But you guys are full of THE FUNNY and I recommend that you read all of the answers that everyone is giving because, well, they’re awesome and it proves that I have the best people in the blog-o-sphere, SO THERE.

Next week, I’m going to see if I can get that bitch Mr. Linky to work so we can play that way.

Be sure to enter and play along because it’s fun. And, no, FTC Guidelines Person, I didn’t get paid a cent or get a thing for promoting my friend’s book. I am just a Special Person.

——————-

It may shock and dismay some of you to learn that I have friends. Well, I do. Like Sci-Fi Dad, from Tales From The Dad Side, for example. I overlook his Canadian-ness and like him anyway because I am a VERY special person. Well, my friend Sci-Fi got stood up for an interview, which I thought was actually kind of funny, but after I stopped laughing, I did what any friend who had already badgered her way into an interview with him would do: I graciously offered to be his interviewer.

I cannot believe he accepted, but he did.

Aunt Becky (only 29 minutes late to our scheduled interview time. A personal record!): dude. LOOKIT ME BEING HERE AND STUFF. I’m sorry I am late. I am a very bad friend.

Aunt Becky: So, Sci-Fi, my friend, for the first of my VERY IMPORTANT questions, on your ice cream, do you like sprinkles?

SciFi: No, I do not. I am more of a caramel sauce and whipped cream kind of guy. Oh, and bacon.

Aunt Becky (amazed): Would you put bacon on your ice cream?

SciFi: I would just eat bacon. Why cool it down with frozen dairy?

Aunt Becky: Really, everything is better with bacon.

SciFi: Everything.

Aunt Becky: Do you have bacon in Canada?

SciFi: We do. We have strip bacon AND back bacon (which I believe you call “Canadian bacon”)

Aunt Becky: I thought Canadian bacon was just more polite bacon. Because, you know, you guys are all polite and adorable. Bwahahahahahaha! Seriously, can I just follow you around for awhile so that I may revel in your niceness?

SciFi: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cZe4FpCMtk

Aunt Becky: Is that a bomb?

SciFi: No, it’s a 7 minute youtube about bacon making everything better. But I’m more concerned with this misnomer that I am nice. Where did that vicious rumour start?

Aunt Becky: I think it’s just the general belief that Canadians say “ya” a lot and stand around being polite and nice to each other. It’s okay. I’m from the Midwest. Everyone assumes I have thick ankles.

SciFi: Also, I know about Midwest girls and their cankles

Aunt Becky: My ankles are quite prim, thank you.

Aunt Becky: And your cigarette packs have diseased lungs on them.

SciFi: When I was smoking, they had warnings… Now they have gross pictures.

Aunt Becky: ‘SMOKING WILL KILL YOU DEAD.’ Here they just say that smoking may cause low birthweight. Which, uh, okay. If you’re not pregnant or a fetus, that’s okay.

SciFi: People sold imitation stickers that went over the warnings that said stuff like “Smoking makes your penis bigger” or “Smoking is for the cool kids”

Aunt Becky: That’s it. I’m packing up and moving to Canada AND taking up smoking again.

(SciFi is very, very quiet at this proclamation)

Aunt Becky: Okay, so at some point in your life you lived above a strip joint, which had to have been kind of awesome. Was it as debaucherous as it sounded? And did I spell debaucherous right?

SciFi: Your spelling is accurate. It actually was as debaucherous as it sounds, but not for the reasons one would assume. I actually only went to that particular club once; it was overpriced and geared to the rich businessman set.

SciFi: HOWEVER, from my door, it was a five minute walk to seven other (more economical) strip joints and three sex shops

SciFi: I was 23, single, and made more money than I knew what to do with Also, it was Montreal, so the lines are a little more blurry.

Aunt Becky: Please tell me that you bought a large black fist from one of the sex toy shops and allowed someone to beat you about the head with it. Because I really need that mental picture.

SciFi: No, I did not. I never bought anything from the sex shops, and the one time I ventured into one, I was drunk. So I remember little.

Aunt Becky: Okay, so I’m going to pretend that the answer is yes. Because you don’t remember.

SciFi: OK.

Aunt Becky: You’re stuck on a desert island with a choice of either listening to Miley Cyrus or Britney Spears and you have to choose one. Who is it?

SciFi: I drown myself in the water.

Aunt Becky: ….

SciFi: OK fine, if I have to choose, I’d choose Britney, because she looks more slutty in her CD liners.

Aunt Becky: Okay, same desert island. 5 artists that you can have all of their works. Who?

SciFi: The Beatles (because a) they have a HUGE catalog and 2) they are full of awesome)

Aunt Becky: Oh totally.

SciFi: U2 (because I have listened to them since I was in the third grade and love them)

Led Zeppelin (at this point people want to know if I’ll choose something from outside the British Isles)

Nine Inch Nails (and there you go, because I am the god of fuck)

and…

Aunt Becky: Britney Spears?

SciFi: close, but no. Charlie Parker. I play alto sax. For the record, if their catalog was larger, Screaming Trees, Nirvana and Pearl Jam would be there.

Aunt Becky: I had no idea that you could play the sax. Rock the fuck on, yo. How long have you played?

SciFi: http://www.imeem.com/scifidad/playlist/-AeLN7A2/high_school_stage_band_music_playlist/ I started playing when I was 12, so 23 years

Aunt Becky: That would mean you are counts on fingers

Aunt Becky: (math is hard)

SciFi: 35

Aunt Becky: 7463?

Aunt Becky: I mean, 35? YAY! I was RIGHT!

SciFi: (claps sarcastically)

Aunt Becky: So, with the help of The Daver, I have a Lightening Round for YOU. Transformers or Go-Bots?

SciFi: Transformers

Aunt Becky: Transformers or Voltron?

SciFi: Voltron

Aunt Becky: Which Thundercat is your favorite?

SciFi: Panthro

Aunt Becky: Star Trek or Star Wars?

SciFi: Star Wars

Aunt Becky: Jar Jar Binks: awesome or full of the awful?

SciFi: AWFUL

Aunt Becky: (duh)

SciFi: more egregious than Ewoks in terms of marketing to kids

Aunt Becky: Yeah, but less midgets were harmed (says the Daver)

SciFi: true, WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE MIDGETS?

Aunt Becky: *wrings hands*

Aunt Becky: Lego Star Wars? Amazing?

SciFi: Beyond amazing.

Aunt Becky: How did you come up with your tattoo? The large one on the top of your blog.

SciFi: it’s actually a western zodiac calendar that I designed myself using AutoCAD (a computer aided drawing program typically used in drafting) and the Wingdings font. I used AutoCAD to make a perfectly spaced 12-point sun and the font has the 12 symbols of the zodiac.

Aunt Becky (looks around nervously): Is it because YOU are the Zodiac Killer?

SciFi: I believe you have something called the fifth amendment in the US?

Aunt Becky: Uh, yes. Let’s pretend I DO NOT KNOW YOU THEN. Because this is the second interview that I might end up dead if I fuck up. How do *I* end up interviewing all of the badasses?

(frantically signs off)

—————-

In a case of mistaken identity, I’m sure, I was sent a copy of the new show Men of a Certain Age, and let me tell you, in addition to having a Letter To My Newest Television Husband, Dexter, coming on Monday, this show is my boyfriend. It’s awesome.

Months ago, I was asked by my friend Megan who is the editor of Canadian Family Magazine and she asked if I would be down with posting on their blog, The Family Jewels. With a name like that, how could I possibly say no? I confessed to her that I wasn’t actually Canadian because I am full of honesty and integrity (unless there are diamonds involved) and she assured me that this was okay, they’d welcome me anyway.

Canadians are nice like that.

Given my choice of weeks, I chose the first week in December because I am kind of in love with the holidays and I figured that I would lose My Hardcore Edge if I told you guys how much your Aunt Becky squealed during the first snowfall. Or how misty-eyed I got every time I heard “Silent Night” or “Ave Maria.” Or how maybe how I begged The Daver to put up the Christmas tree in July.

But whatever.

I’ve written three posts for them. Satan’s Little Helper (which if you haven’t read, you should), one that will air later in the week and the one that I am most proud of. Here it is.

Just don’t tell anyone that I have feelings, okay?

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Because I am full of The Holiday Cheer, I have bugged my friend Chris Mancini to give you a copy of his book, Pacify Me, which is a great read. Even though I am not a father or in possession of a penis, I read it and loved it. Plus, it’s the holidays and you can totally give it to someone.

So, it’s giveaway time. Which makes EVERYONE happy.

Especially since this giveaway comes with an extra-awesome idea. AN INTERVIEW.

Oh yes, I am interviewing you. ALL OF YOU.

So, if you want to be entered into this giveaway, and I don’t know why you wouldn’t, because obviously, you have one week from today–December 9–to answer these questions and post my rocking button on your blog. Then come BACK here and leave a comment saying that you did so with a link to your entry. If you don’t have a blog, just answer in the comments, yo.

On December 9, at midnight, random number generator will choose a number and Chris will send you a book. Merry Christmas to you! THEN, I have another person tapped to give you stuff next week. I AM SO GENEROUS WITH OTHER PEOPLE’S STUFF!

It’s very simple.

Let’s get started, shall we?

I’m always telling you to shut your whore mouth. Now it’s time to open it.

1) Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?

2) If you had to choose one word to banish from the English language, what would it be and why?

3) If you were a flavor, what would it be?

4) What’s the most pointless annoying chore you can think of that you do on a daily/weekly basis?

5) Of all the nicknames I’ve ever had in my life, Aunt Becky is the most widely known and probably my favorite. What’s your favorite nickname? (for yourself)

6) You’re stuck on a desert island with the collective works of 5 (and only five) musical artists for the rest of your life. Who are they?

7) Everything is better with bacon. True or false?

8 ) If I could go back in time and tell Young Aunt Becky one thing, it would be that out of chaos, order will emerge. Also: tutus go with everything. What would you tell young self?

In order to be a Sherrick, you have to be willing to deal with traditions. I don’t mean the OCD type where you have to touch the laundry basket 17 times before you can go to sleep or lick the doorknob before you can eat dinner, but in my family there tends to be two types of things: the stuff that you do and The Way Things Are.

The stuff you do is the superfluous crap that goes with living, you know, laundry and work and sleeping and all that stuff, but The Way Things Are, well, this is DOGMA. TRADITION.

And you don’t fuck with TRADITION in my family. The square root of 4 is 2, Helium is the second element on the periodic table of elements and we have basil pesto mashed fucking potatoes on Thanksgiving. ALWAYS.

My brother, my father and my two- year old seem to be the most affected by this DOGMA of The Way Things Are. While I’m happy to try something different, like let’s say The Cheesecake of the Gods rather than my normal Bourbon Pecan Pie, well, that messes with the balance of the universe and well, we can’t have THAT. The universe might IMPLODE because I dared change tradition!

I have my own DOGMA of The Way Things Are, but I’m a little looser with my interpretation of it.

Every year, we sponsor a child from The Giving Tree at Ben’s school. And while my far more rigid BROTHER might have to sponsor the same GENDER or AGE bracket, I’m content to randomly choose one. Last year Dave chose a boy around Benner’s age who wanted socks. SOCKS. I know. I KNOW.

This year I chose a girl whose age was unspecified. I chose her and my eyes filled with tears, much like they always do every single year when I choose a kid from the tree.

Maybe it’s because I think of Christmas as such a magical time for children and I remember how much it hurt the year that I couldn’t afford any toys for Ben because I was so poor. Or maybe it’s because I remember having Christmas taken away from me as a punishment. Or maybe it’s because I think about how hard it must be to be on the other side as a child.

I cried there, though, as I picked up the tag with the gift choice on it because it was what I was going to get my daughter. No age, no identifying characteristics, just a parallel into my own life:

Baby Doll.

Amelia loves the baby dolls that we have, but those aren’t her dolls, they belong to Alex and Ben who begrudgingly share them. So I’d been planning to get her a doll for Christmas. In fact, I’d already been up and down the aisles at my boyfriend, Target searching for the perfect doll, so proud that I could finally go down the Pink Aisles at last.

Friday, Black Friday, we have another DOGMA TRADITION where we go out that evening to Target, my home away from home, to score some cheap DVD’s and see what they still have on sale. While we were there, I noticed that they had this baby doll and accessories pack on sale for half off which I promptly snatched up from the vultures in the toy aisle for my Giving Tree Girl.

This thing was AWESOME. I was admiring it as we walked along because it was precisely the sort of thing my hippie mother never would have bought me, eschewing it in favor of some wooden, anatomically correct doll I would have lobbed out the window. It had everything, though, crib, car seat, high chair and stroller along with assorted bottles and outfits.

I tend to go a little overboard for my Giving Tree Kids because it makes me feel good and why not?

We got it home and I left it on the floor downstairs so that I remembered to wrap it and send it back to school with Ben because I am FULL of The Forgetful. In the whirlwind of unpacking after Thanksgiving Part II, I didn’t really notice it until she was on top of it, but my daughter had made a beeline for the box with the baby inside.

She had pulled herself up on it and was trying her damnedest to get the baby out. Every side she explored, looking for a way in and OH was she pissed when she realized that she couldn’t get at it. I really hope that my Giving Tree Girl loves it as much as my daughter did.

Everyone had teased me that my daughter was going to eschew anything girly to be a tomboy like her brothers, just because I wanted her to be girly, and maybe that’s going to happen.

Then again, maybe not.

Let’s talk about how much I need that hat in my size, Internet, because I SO do.

Those shoes are for Binky Spohr, but Amelia dug them out and loves them. They’re much too small for her, but you know, a girl loves what a girl loves.