It seems only fitting that, like the dead horse this is, the first article I was actually INTERVIEWED for–about Drinking Moms (WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?!*) would have aired yesterday, when I was working on the post about using–and abusing–prescription drugs.

Here is the link.

And here is the guest post that I wrote for The Drinking Diaries. I am very, very, very proud of it, but since I didn’t know it was going to put up until right now, I will re-run it later in the week here.

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My Dearest Topamax,

I can call you Topamax, right? I know that technically I know you as Topiramate, but that simply doesn’t roll off the tongue with the same lilting lift as “Topamax” does, so we’ll just pretend.

Shh, baby, don’t be like that. It’s the insurance companies coming between us, that’s all.

Because for you, I would do anything. ANYTHING.

Until you, I was in a bad place, Topamax, see, I had a headache for 5 whole months. Maybe even 6. Now, wipe that look off your face, Mister, don’t you be acting like you don’t believe me. I don’t have secrets from you. WHY WOULD I LIE?

Shh, there, there. I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to shout, I’m just tired of people giving me that look. That look that says, “I don’t BELIEVE you.” That look that says, “how could any SANE person last for 5 whole months with a splitting headache?” That look that says, “Bitch, you be looking for my sympathy AND my Vicodin.”

While it’s true, I WOULD take Vicodin over pretty much anything, including (but never limited to): vodka, whiskey, diet Coke (*sobs*), food, water, air, my dogs, my cats, and Dr. House, I’m pretty sure you, Topamax, kick his pasty ass squarely out of bed on his chalky, addictive ass.

Now, sure, your side effects are, well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’ll just be out with it: they suck.

My friends on Twitter warned me so, my friends on Facebook pleaded with me to take care (ed note: how the hell did I function before my friends in the computer could tell me important stuff I wouldn’t otherwise know?) so I knew after popping the first of the delightfully teeny-tiny pills that I was in for a doozy of a ride.

First to go was my beloved diet Coke, but for you, Topamax, o! love of my life, anything, even the first love of my life. Honestly, I didn’t mind. If you rid me of my evil demon headaches, I wouldn’t mind if you turned my arms purple and green spotted. Priorities, people.

And, Topamax, please don’t tell anyone, especially that hateful bitch Imatrex, but I’m pretty sure that I’m pregnant with your baby because I am rife with the morning sickness and the nausea. I’d be stuffing my urpy face with saltines if my chemically exhausted butt wasn’t glued to the couch, so instead I moan pitifully at passersby. Like my children. Who are now so sick of me that they’re regularly petitioning for a new mother.

(can you blame them? THINK OF THE CHILDREN!)

This is chemical nausea, so I know better to pee on any sticks, so we’ll keep this between me, you and The Internet, but secretly, I’m thrilled. This is the only pregnancy with which I may actually lose weight instead of grow to water buffalo dimensions! The downside is, of course, chemical nausea which is very different than pregnancy nausea, but shh, honey, it’s okay, Momma still loves you best.

Because with you, my headaches, which have plagued me, making me wonder if maybe, just maybe I was slowly going mad(der), have slowly dissipated. They’re not gone, no, but they’re going. Which is more than that stupid whore Robaxin could ever have claimed to have done for me.

With you, Topamax, I may not be able to drink any longer. Maybe I can’t drive or operate heavy machinery. I may no longer be able to remember the words for certain things, but, between you and I, let’s face it, I couldn’t have done it before, either.

I may suffer morning sickness without the hint of a crotch parasite and vomit at the sound of mac-n-cheese being stirred in a pot. I may be the only un-pregnant, pregnant woman who loses 60 pounds (God willing) by eating approximately 8 calories a day, but I don’t care.

You, my sweet, sweet drug, are worth every blood draw, every dry heave, and every tingly extremity.

Always and forever, or at least until my body goes into toxicity and my organs shut down,

Aunt Becky

*You can quote me. OR Maude Flanders, which is who I am shamefully zoinking this from. But I’m pretty sure she’s a cartoon character who was killed off, so we’re probably all good.

What makes a blogger a great blogger? You’re awesome and I’m fascinated on a daily basis when I read your blog. I have a blog, and I imagine I have a few readers at least, or I hope. I get 2 or 3 comments every time I blog, which excites me…but what can I do to get more people to comment on my blogs, and how do I go from just having a blog to having a great blog?

Well, first, thank you kindly for your sweet words. Flattery will, as you well know, get you everywhere with me, so would you like to come over so that I can maybe wax your car and cook you a ten course lunch or something?

First, my not-so-inclusive-list-of-Blogging-For-Dummies-Tips

Blogging is a tricky thing to quantify, because although there are a lot of “experts” who write articles about it on google, as any quick search will pull up, most of them don’t have jack shit to say. Seriously. I totally don’t have jack shit to say either, but I have never claimed to be an expert on anything whatsoever.

Except AWESOMENESS! And winning at LIFE!

But since you asked, I’ll try to answer. If you’re talking about starting a blog about a niche market, though-knitting, gardening, cooking, technology-make sure that you scour those site and stick with that topic. Join a forum about said topic and try to connect with like-minded people. But don’t expect people interested in Linux to be wowed by your Orchid Lovers UNITE!!! (or UNTIE!1!!) blog.

Cross pollination rarely works unless you have an established core audience, and even then, they’re probably not reading about your Fantasy Football Picks if they came to read your cookie recipes.

If you’re talking about personal blogs, like mine, well, it can be a really tricky niche to break into (with the saturation of blogs onto the web, let’s face it, they’re ALL tough to break into) as well.

In the blogging world, you need to have a product that other people want.

Some people offer advice. Or recipes. Or humor. Or pictures. Or tips and tricks. Or porn. Or escapism. If you can successfully offer this to people, you will have a great blog.

I’d start off by just… writing. Stories are a good place to start, but not everything makes a good story and not every story needs to be told. You’ll learn what works by reading what other bloggers that have been at it awhile do. The best personal blogs offer readers something that they are able to relate to.

Unfortunately, there is no THAT WAS EASY button when it comes to blogging.

Blogging successfully takes a lot of work. It’s mostly unpaid, it opens you up to all sorts of criticism and it’s about as glamorous as saying that you clean toilets with your tongue for a living. I spend hours a day blogging, writing, reading, commenting, tweeting, and keeping up with my friends and readers.

And as for the comment quandary:

If you want comments and you want to build a Loyal Internet Army, the only way that I know of (save for inviting the spam bots in) is to comment until your fingers bleed on other people’s blogs.

Go to Google reader, hook yourself up with one, add a bunch of blogs, and comment like crazy. I’m a hell of a lot more likely to keep tabs on people who are loyal to me and I know that other people feel the same way. When I started blogging here, I had been blogging elsewhere for several years prior, and my friends (ACTUAL friends, as in people who personally have squeezed my hot ass) followed me here.

It took at least 2.5 months of solid comments and near-daily posting for a single person other than my friends to comment here. So before you feel too self-conscious about your own lack of comments, do remember that. That alone should keep you warm on many a cold night.

Also, a technique for getting comments much less distasteful than outright begging (or whining) for comments is asking a question or trying to engage your readers. If you want to build a loyal community, you should make sure to foster that part of it. Build your blog roll, know your readers, comment like mad.

If that is too much work for you then you probably won’t have a Blogging Empire.

But blogging, they say, is SO like 2002 anyway, so maybe that’s a good thing.

Besides, who the hell am I to tell you anything?

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Does The Daver ever totally freak out on you about your posts? My husband is having a hard time living with me when I write even a whisper that involves him. We normally get along pretty swell, except when he is featured in my blog. Then he gets paranoid and angry. Does the Daver every say, WTF, Becky?!

Will you be shocked to learn that my answer here is actually a “no?”

Hear me out: as I’ve said on countless occasions, and what will serve as Exhibits A, B, C AND D at my trial, Dave plugged me into a blog so that I would stop talking to him. When you see how prolific I am, this must make some sense to you.

If you do go back into the archives during a particularly boring masochistic (or is it sadistic? I cannot be sure.) day, you’d note that I did, at one point talk about The Daver more than I do now.

I’m not sure if I got more self-absorbed or if The Daver got more boring, or a little of both, but I just sort of…stopped. Maybe it’s because I don’t see him much anymore, or maybe because our private time is private and while it does appear that I do let it all hang out, I don’t really, I don’t know.

One time and only one time have I written anything scathing about The Daver and it was on the day before my birthday last year (I won’t link to it, but if you’re industrious, you can find it) and he told me that he just didn’t read it.

It’s weird, I guess, since Daver is really a private guy and I would probably let the mail-man examine my cervix if he asked nicely and it were for med school class or something, but we have it worked out pretty well. I suppose he trusts me not to fuck it up too badly or he knows that he has enough blackmail material on me to shame me underground for years.

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(DANCE PARTY!!)

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Anything you other bloggers out there care to add?

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As always, ladies and gentlemen, feel free to submit your questions to Ask Aunt Becky (the linky-poo on the sidebar). I have been trying answer them in an order that makes sense, in case you’re wondering why I haven’t been answering your question.

Ben, fiddling with a straw, leftover from a *gasp!* sugary soda, as we walk around Target.

Horrible, Awful Mother, “Hey Ben, here’s a garbage can. Please throw that away.”

Ben scowls in her direction and makes no move toward the garbage can.

Aunt Becky: “Ben, now. I don’t need any more weird garbage-y crap to clean up around the house.”

Ben, if looks could kill, she’d be dead and buried.

Dave, “Benjamin MAXWELL, NOW.”

Becky snickers into her palm at the usage of the Middle Name Treatment.

Ben flounces dramatically to the garbage can and makes a huge production of throwing out the straw. Then, he pivots to face his parents.

“FINE, I’ll throw it AWAY” he stamps his feet. “Since you HATE MOTHER EARTH.”

Apparently, our son was brainwashed.

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“Dat a Pumpkin, Mama?”

“Right, Alex, that’s a pumpkin.”

“Dat’s notta pumpkin. Dat’s a GOURD.”

“Okay, it’s a gourd.”

“It’s not a gourd. It’s a pumpkin.”

*headdesk*

For the record: it was a jack-o-lantern.

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(Cacophony of dogs barking after someone knocks on the door)

“Who was at the door?” I barely looked up from my computer to ask Dave. My ass was tired from a strenuous day of sitting on it.

“Some high school kid selling magazines.”

Knowing my husband is a sucker for anyone selling anything, I sighed, wondering if he’d renewed our (never read) subscription to Golf Digest.

“What did you get us?”

“Nothing.”

Shocked, I was silent for a second.

“Wait, did the kid offer a subscription Playboy? Because I TOTALLY would have subscribed to that.”

“BECKY.”

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And then incongruently there is this:

Which leaves me alternately so full of joy and so full of survivor’s guilt that I can barely talk about it. I know it doesn’t make sense, survivors guilt makes no sense, but I don’t understand any of this.

How did we dodge this bullet? I don’t understand any of it. I just don’t understand.

21% with her type of encephalocele are born alive.

55% of those born alive are expected to survive.

75% of those who survive have some degree of mental defect.

She is a miracle. My sweet daughter, a miracle.

I sit here with tears streaming down my face, crying because she made it and crying because I know so many didn’t and crying because I am so grateful that she is so, so blessed to have so many people who have prayed for her and love her.

Thank you. Every day, I am grateful for you. All of you.

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Now if you’ll excuse me, I have something in my eye that requires my immediate attention.

While it was easily one of the quickest decisions we’d made, I haven’t been happier that we pulled our son from the hippie nut ban! school. Okay, so I was happier the one time I realized that marshmallows did really weird things when they were microwaved, but I’m pretty sure that I was wasted at the time.

I was unsure of our motives, because, quite frankly, Dave and I stuck out like a pair of brightly colored, mismatched, rain-forest-chopping-down, as-far-from-eco-friendly-as-one-can-be-without-driving-Hummers thumbs. Now, it’s not as though we don’t recycle or love Mother Earth, because we do, and if you’ve been around for any length of time, you know that I garden like I used to drink diet Coke (read: obsessively).

But, according to the other parents, it just wasn’t enough. Because if we shopped at Trader Joe’s, they shopped at Whole Foods. If we shopped at Whole Foods, they organically grew their own fruits and vegetables. While I am not a competitive person by nature, the other parents seemed to feel absolute moral superiority towards us both and quite frankly, it got old after 4 years.

Adding fuel to the fire was the poor communication between the school and the parents. Like this charmer of an example. What Dave was told was that our son “ran into a fence and got a little banged up.”

What I got was this:

This picture does not do justice to how beaten my child looked. It took ALL MY WILLPOWER not to comment on it, because with Ben, if you comment on something like a paper cut, suddenly he will expect sympathy cards and ice packs. And this? DESERVED SYMPATHY CARDS AND ICE PACKS.

So I admit that I was slightly annoyed by the downplaying of his injuries, mainly because I had to rely on acting skills *I* had never honed to not shriek when I saw him. I was also several weeks postpartum at the time, so the hormones may not have helped.

The nail in the proverbial coffin was the aw-shucks sort of after-thought type letter sent home right before school was set to begin for Ben, though, at the hippie nut ban! school. Because the school was so small, you see, we had to pack lunches for our children.

Maybe for other families, this was like the heavens opening up and shining down upon them, bento boxes neatly packed with nutritious choices like edamame and perfectly cut carrot coins, sandwiched between homemade whole grain crackers and cheese made from the milk of Buddhist cows.

There were, of course, lots of restrictions about what we could and could not pack. No refined sugars. No juice boxes. No chips. No candy. No cookies. No soda. Nothing that needed to be microwaved or prepared. Reusable containers. No brown paper bags.

In theory, none of this should have been an issue.

In theory.

But my darling son, Benjamin, is autistic. With food issues.

For an entire year, I tried all kinds of combinations of foods, and about 95% of the time, he’d come home with a full lunch bag, his lunch untouched. Certainly, while he was not starving to death, this troubled me.

Food issues were nothing new, but this particular medium–lunch food with millions of restrictions–was, and I was at a loss. The only, and I do mean the ONLY thing I could safely get him to eat was a peanut butter sandwich.

So the day that the leaflet arrived informing us that we could no longer pack anything with nuts, or nut oils, in our son’s lunch, The Daver and I looked at each other and (in uncharacteristic unison) said, “oh FUCK.”

(as a jaunty aside, what irritated me highly was that this was a very ill-researched ban. When pressed, after many desperate phone calls, the answer Dave got when he wanted to know how specific we needed to be about nuts–because nuts, nut oils, stuff that’s been manufactured in nut-producing facilities are in fucking EVERYTHING, was sort of a, well “ANYTHING with nuts.”

If you’re going to ban something, shouldn’t you understand it all a little better beforehand? Especially since the allergic child was a sibling of a student who didn’t even go to the school.)

So that was that, we plucked him out and plunked him into the public school system.

Where they have nut-free tables and nut-free snacks, but even better than that? THEY HAVE LUNCH LADIES.

*cue angels singing on high*

And with lunch ladies (*hums the lunch lady song*) comes lunch. HOT lunch. Lunch with choices! Glorious, glorious choices! Every single day *I* am not responsible for providing food for my son! If he doesn’t eat? I am none the wiser.

I no longer have to sadly throw out the old, pathetic, stale and untouched sandwich each night. I don’t have to throw out uneaten shriveled carrots, looking remarkably like flaccid penises (penii?), wondering how my child will gain weight. Nor do I have to flip coins or play rock, paper, scissors with The Daver to determine who is unlucky enough to have to try and make Ben a lunch he’ll never eat THIS time.

No.

It is with great pleasure, pomp and circumstance that I write out a check every month to the lunch ladies, signing my name with an extra dose of pizazz because I am just that mother-fucking happy to be letting someone else cook for my child. I would TIP the lunch lady if I could, I love her so much. I might even bear her children, if she asked me.

And if, for some reason, I had to pack my son a lunch, I could EASILY pack him, like Dave and I were always tempted to do while Ben was at the hippie nut ban! school: a 5 pound bag of white sugar and a can of Mountain Dew. I don’t think ANYONE would say anything.

God BLESS the public school system.

Now admit it, Internet, you thought one of two things when you saw this picture of me in my Emo Glasses.

Either you looked frantically around for the red and white striped sweater and stupid beanie penis-shaped hat.

OR.

You expected the picture to come to life and pull out a guitar from some behind the bookcase and a hidden book of beat poetry. Then you expected it to sing a song about feelings, comparing feelings to a) flowers b) colors c) something completely incongruent, like ketchup.

Whatever you expected, there you have it. A picture of me, circa 2005, taken by this adorable moppet:

with a camera that had seen it’s better days. We returned from our honeymoon, only to download the pictures and notice that it appeared as though the lens had been smeared thickly with Vasoline for every. single. shot we’d taken.

Even the one like this:

showcasing both my awesome cornrows and my floppy, saggy boobies (it actually was the dress)(like I would lie about that)(seriously, I would tell you about my pooper and lie about my saggy boobies? As if.) that appears to have been taken underwater.

(and I realize that I look mighty dour to be on my honeymoon in beautiful St. Lucia, but I wasn’t unhappy, just very, very ill. Like, I should have stayed at home in bed ill. Plenty of sleep and antibiotics when you’re dead, right?)(right)

And I’ll round out an entry about absolutely nothing with a shot of my daughter, whom I alternately call “Doctor Love” or “Twinkle Toes.” Okay, now that is a total lie, because I call her “Goo” but that’s okay because she’s wearing shoes that I would give my left testicle for if I had such a thing:

Dear Shoe Manufacturers,

Please make shoes like this in my size.

And for shits and giggles and to present further proof that I am not only certifiable but also nuts, there is this,

My cat among the orchids.

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And let me congratulate my friend, Mrs. Soup (that stinking hippie who took me to see Dave Matthews Band) for winning the contest, Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff!

In second place, I have Aunt Becky Does the Dirty South from my friend Amy D!

And in third, NOBODY puts Aunt Becky in a Corner! (now, more fitting than ever).

Winners, please send me your addresses to becky@dwink.net.

Hooray!

Today, my column over at Toy With Me airs over there, and I’m talking about The Undercarriage. If that’s not PC enough for you and you’re not feeling the raunch, I will present to you an oldie, but a goodie down below (pun actually, for once, not intended).

If you are, I’d be much appreciative if you’d swing on by and visit me at my new home away from home. I’m still feeling a little insecure because, obviously.

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If I have subscribed to your blog in that Google Friend Connect Doo-hicky Whodilly Thing, I hate to inform you of this, but it’s probably not working. Especially if I haven’t been back in WEEKS and you’ve posted. So, if you’d be kind enough to leave a comment here, I’ll add you PROPERLY to my reader.

Stupid reader drama messin’ with my doggy style.

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Also, today is the last day to vote in my contest so be sure to cast your vote for your favorite “Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff.”

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Some time in 2004 right before nursing school started for me again, I went to the eye doctor, with, among other things (like the ever-popular glaucoma test), the intent of getting a new pair of glasses. While in 3rd grade, getting new glasses was totally Full Of The Awesome, much like my spatter paint scruntchie* (complete with matching oversized shirt!!), it kind of loses it’s luster after 20 odd years.

I went alone because, well, it’s boring and dull and I can totally drive after they dilate your eyes because I’ve been doing it since Jesus was my classmate and I rode a dinosaur to school while wearing my hyper-color t-shirt.

Given the choice to come back at a more suitable time, let’s say, oh I don’t know, maybe when I could have actually read something that wasn’t on the floor or twenty plus feet away from me, I opted for the Wrong Way.

Two paths lay before me and I chose the one WRONG TRAVELED.

Door Number WRONG.

Oh yes. I decided to pick out a pair of glasses while my eyes were dilated. Alone.

They looked pretty cute on, I was completely convinced, my hazy recollection being one of looking extra-specially adorable, with the slightest touch of studiousness. I marched up to the surly cashier lady, ordered them happily, pink tint to the lens, per usual (cue rose colored glasses jokes now) and went back a week later to collect them.

I walked jauntily into the store, sat down at the counter and gave them my last name.

I waited a couple of minutes, marveling all of the ugly glasses that the store carried. We had the Iranian Taxi Driver Glasses, made so popular by white men with handlebar mustaches in the late 70’s/early 80’s (my father himself favored them).

Then there was the rack of the HUGE late 80’s/early 90’s school marm hexagonal pink glasses made famous by Sally Jesse Rafael and worn by women and children for long enough to be immortalized in many a class picture. I mused about how fortunate I’d been to escape that trend somehow.

I laughed to myself, chuckling about how my taste was eversomuch better than other patrons, congratulating myself HEARTILY for my awesome choices in glasses.

The smiling clerk returned after digging through a large bin of new glasses and handed me my prize. I greedily opened the package, hardly glancing at the frames before shoving them onto my face.

I looked eagerly into the strategically placed mirror and my happy, expectant look was quickly replaced by one of horror. The big black plastic frames, the angular edges, the thick frames all winked merrily, reflecting the sodium lights above me.

They carefully, thoughtfully, emotionally reflected one gigantic loser.

I had accidentally bought EMO GLASSES! How, oh HOW did I buy EMO GLASSES? These were popular among the whiny college rock bands who sing deep and meaningful songs about deep and meaningful feelings and EMOtions. These were things that I not only openly mocked, but things I openly mocked OFTEN.

“Oh no,” I whispered to no one in particular. “How did I do this?”

Now I had to WEAR EMO GLASSES! IN PUBLIC!

I shuffled away, tail between my legs back to show my (now) husband/then-boyfriend who was happily scarfing down a couple of bagels at Panera.

His eyes widened like saucers as I approached, whether is was my dirge-like march or the glasses now adorning my face and I slid into the booth across from him. Being the terrible liar that he is when I asked what he thought, he said diplomatically, “They’re…nice.” But his eyes told me the truth.

I looked like Lisa Loeb.

Possibly Waldo.

Well, I told myself as I bit off a chunk of his bagel and chewed bitterly, at least they finally fucking found Waldo.

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*If spattter paint shirts come back into fashion please, PLEASE put me out of my misery. PLEASE, Internet?

Now, you’re saying, Internet, because you are not only devastatingly handsome but ALSO witty and brilliant, which hardly seems fair, Aunt Becky, you haven’t had a good breakup in years. And you’d be right.

Sort of.

You see, I’ve been suffering in silence, my friends in the computer, not wanting to spill my pain onto your pixilated screen until I was ready to fully admit the truth to myself. Always the hardest to admit these things to yourself.

But it’s time. Brace yourselves.

I, (deep breath) have broken up with my old friend, my old BEST friend, my standby delicious zero-calorie nectar of the gods soft drink, Diet Coke.

I know. I KNOW.

Be still my heart, for it still flippity-flops in my chest so when I think of it.

While The Daver performs a merry victory dance on the grave of our failed relationship I am stuck screaming at the universe, flailing my hands at the heavens screaming “WHY GOD?” at the sky to no avail. No one hears my cries. No one responds.

And I am alone. Utterly alone.

Surrounded by my three children, loving (disease-man-cold-ridden) husband, two dogs, two cats, bunny and 57 orchids yet completely alone. I cry.

Alone.

My heart is black. Like my coffee. (except my coffee has skim milk and equal. well, fake equal, but black sounded better, like more dramatic and stuff)

And I am alone. Heartbroken.

So good-bye, sweet friend. I will always, always *sniff* love you. I am so, so sorry that the wretched beast Topamax has come between us, making your sweet caramel colored deliciousness taste remarkably like battery acid.

Now go, JUST GO. GO BE WITH SOME OTHER WOMAN (or sassy man) WHO WILL LOVE, HONOR AND CHERISH YOU like I am no longer able to.

1) Elvis, “Always On My Mind.”

Now, my parents let me teethe on “The Wall” and The Dead, so it goes without saying that we rarely listened to Elvis in my household growing up. But once I heard him on the oldies station, I was hooked. The first trip that The Daver and I took was down to Memphis, actually, and we fully intend to go back with the crotch parasites once they’re old enough to not make us insane in the car.

Anyway.

When he sings, “Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have,” I get shivers and then he crescendos into “You were always on my mind” and the tears start. They never really erupt into full-blown sobs, but the lump in my throat persists.

Because who hasn’t taken someone they love for granted?

(mental note: tell The Daver I love him)

Hey, The Daver, I love you.

2) Elvis Costello, “Good Year For The Roses.”

I never really got into Elvis Costello when all of the emo kids did, probably because I was never really emo. Although, under the spell of some particularly strong dilating solution, I did pick out–and woefully purchase–some emo glasses. The other group of people who were into Mr. Costello were the Really Smart People; a club that I am clearly not a member of.

I don’t remember the first time I heard it, but I remember feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room when he sang, “But at least you thought you wanted it, that’s so much more than I can say for me.”

If you’ve ever been in a committed relationship where someone else broke that commitment (one way or another) those simple looking words, really just drive that home. The song is heartbreaking, if you’ve been there, or if you imagine you’ve been there, and it’s worth a download or a listen.

ALSO, if you have roses? You can do like I do and casually remark to your spouse, “Hey, it’s a good year for the roses.” And then snicker.

I am a very Simple Person.

3) The Cure, “Pictures of You.”

Say what you will about the goths, but they certainly know how to feel things (wait, isn’t that a staple of the emo kids too? WAIT, ARE THE EMO KIDS AND GOTH KIDS THE SAME? I am so confused)(and obviously ill-informed) and no one knows how to feel things and sing about them then Robert Smith of The Cure.

Well before you had Twilight, you had this, “You were stone white, so delicate, lost in the cold, you were always so lost in the dark,” and you just knew he meant it. It even made someone as un-goth as me kind of yearn to shop at Hot Topic.

For a second.

But the song is haunting and it’s true and it’s absolutely a great breakup song.

4) Guns ‘n’ Roses “November Rain.”

Now it will either come as a dreadful shock or explain EVERYTHING when I share with you that most of my dearest friends are metal heads. Hair metal, especially the more commercial stuff, is the stuff I cut my proverbial milk teeth on and listening to it is like being transported back to high school.

While I never had big hair (I am a child of the 90’s), and the 80’s were something that saw me in grades measured in the single digits, in high school, we listened to hair metal like we’d discovered it ourselves. Which, we had. I even moonlighted occasionally on my friend Scottie’s metal radio show–Midnight Metal Madness.

I do feel I must tell you that I never actually listened to November Rain while mourning a break-up, but knowing that I could have is good enough for me. In fact, what I did sob post-break up while listening to were both Don’t Cry 1 AND Don’t Cry 2, but November Rain has such a fucking awesome guitar solo (marry me, Slash?) that I cannot ignore it.

5) Damien Rice, “Delicate”

This song is pretty much the opposite of hair metal in every way you can imagine: it’s like a guy in a coffee house singing the hell out a song and it’s good because you know he means the shit out of it. He’s kind of Jeff Buckley-ish but Irish. And, um, alive.

I think this song is probably best to listen to if you’re feeling especially duped by someone. Toward the end he climaxes (cue Bevis-like laughter) with this:

“And why’d you fill my sorrows
With the words you’ve borrowed
From the only place that you’ve known
Why’d you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you”

And it’s perfect.

It’s worth a listen.

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Your turn, Internet. Breakup songs. I want your favorites.

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Be sure to cast your vote for your favorite entry in “Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff.”

Voting ends on the 15th of September.

Since I am always wondering whether or not I should join the ranks of blogging, I am wondering how you figure out what your boundaries are as far as what you allow yourself to blog about?

I just cant figure it all out? be myself, kids with real names or not, pictures of kids or no, etc etc….. everytime I think yes I am going to do it, I get hung up in the details and am too afraid to start.

Hm, blogging, good question.

There are, of course, a ton of different opinions when it comes to blogging, because what would life be like without a zillion different people all claiming to be Know What’s Right? (answer: boring)

Anyway.

So, on the one end of the spectrum, you have the people who feel that absolutely under no circumstances whatsoever should one put out on The Internet stories and/or pictures about your family. Why, there could be a Pervert looking! Or a Child Molester! Or Your Mother-In-Law!

They have a point: one cannot, even with a password protected blog, control who reads what they write.

Then you have the people who make up nicknames for their children and spouse, and often blur out their faces, so as to be as anonymous as one can be on The Internet (which we all know is never completely anonymous). I know a lot of people who go this route and mostly, especially in the cases of using initials rather than actual nicknames I get confused and click away.

(also, any variation of “Hubs” or DH is slightly more saccharine than necessary)

My brain is raisin-sized on a good day, and I am not about to fill it clear up trying to remember if FJ is Son #1 or Son #2 because life is too short. So my advice for anyone who wants to go this route: please, PLEASE give your kid a fake NAME. A REAL fake name. I can remember a name. Initials I cannot.

After this, you have the people like me, who use their real name, but don’t include everything about their life. Yes, you know my name because I am NOT clever enough to come up with a pseudonym and I do not believe that I am not interesting enough to warrant one. I find the cloak-and-dagger stuff a little silly, so I don’t bother.

BUT I SEE WHY OTHER PEOPLE DO.

I often do include pictures of my children, although not with every post and I do not blog exhaustively about them. Because, while I find them endlessly entertaining, they are just like any other child and I don’t think that their every syllable deserves a post. I, on the other hand, am ENDLESSLY fascinating.

(that was a joke)

So my advice to you, o! aspiring blogger is this: you must blog for the only person that matters: you. Because I have been at this for many years and am still waiting on both fame AND the legions of screaming teenage girls.

Whatever you do, make sure that you are absolutely comfortable with whatever it is that you do, prepared to own your words at any cost, because you never know whose eyeballs they will wind up in front of.

I hope, Gentle Reader, that this helps,

Love,

Aunt Becky

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All right, The Internet, dish. I want your take on this.

Throw your questions at me for next week’s round of Ask Aunt Becky. I’m getting some sweet ass questions that I can actually answer. Shocking, I know!

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Be sure to cast your vote for your favorite entry in “Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff.”

Voting ends on the 15th of September.

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I have been nominated for a couple of awards, two on my sidebar at the top and one here. They do both annoyingly require registration, but if you’d be inclined, I’d be thrilled.

Seriously, thank you to all who voted. I owe you deep tongue kisses. Or vodka. OR ALL OF THE ABOVE.

Why NO, I didn’t make that cuppy-cake. Of course I did not. Because if I had, it would not have been a) symmetrical or 2) frosting-ed. I am many, many things, none of which springs to mind is “aesthetically oriented.”

But that picture is important, not because it clearly shows my bully-ness as I am taunting my son with a cuppy-cake, because not two seconds after this shot, I gave him the delicious slice ‘o’ heaven, but because it fully solidifies that he is my son.

Historically, Alex has eschewed anything cake-related in favor of gnawing on, well, anything else, including, but not limited to edamame and well, lately, air. But now, NOW he sees that cake is next to godliness and occasionally allows me to ply him with sugary, springy goodness.

Anyway.

I was going to come here and whine to you about my My Grains. Give you a list of my symptoms and complain bitterly about what a pain in the pooper it is to find a cure for something that could be caused by, well, anything.

It would have been a rousing, self-serving, irritating post, full of long-winded descriptions of each of my symptoms, along with their possible causes, the likes of which, along with discussions of my recent colonoscopies are better suited for Thanksgiving Dinner Table Discussions (don’t all clamor to thank me at once, those of you who will, no doubt, be stuck with me at Thanksgiving).

I decided against it.

It served no purpose, this post I’d half written, other than to prune down my readership and annoy me later when I realized what a sniveling baby I was being. I have nasty migraines and they suck and 50 million red fire ants don’t give a shit.

So today, armed with my Topamax and Vicodin (which, squee!), I am going on a mission. No, thankfully not Mission: Manband.

I am dragging The Daver out to make a care package for my friend Heather, who is pregnant and sick as fuck. You, of course, know Heather and Maddie and Mike and Binky. If you do not, I’ll give you a moment to go and catch up and come back.

HEATHER, GO AWAY NOW AND EAT SOME MASHED POTATOES OR DORITOS OR SOMETHING.

I MEAN IT, HEATHER.

So, I want to make a care package for Heather, not really for Binky, because Heather is the sick one. I’ll make Binky one once my niece or nephew makes his or her debut, but this time, I want to make something for Heather.

Any ideas, Internet?

First, I am sunning myself with an old, navel-grazing post of mine over here today:

Because why aim high, when you can aim low?

(that is not a trick question)

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Second, don’t forget to vote for your favorite entry in Aunt Becky Travel’s The World, Making Mischief.

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Be sure to submit your rockin’ questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky because, obviously.

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And lastly, the dorkiest post, well, ever.

Like any addict, I’m not really sure when it started, although I seem to remember it first after Amelia was born. Besides sticks of butter and cupcakes, one of the few things that would comfort me were cut flowers. Every week, as I dutifully churned out batch after ever-loving batch of white cupcakes, I’d go to the store and buy myself flowers.

A vase of fresh flowers cheered me up in a way that only Vicodin normally could.

At some point, my cheap-ass nature won out and I realized that for the same $20 a week, I could buy a real! live! plant! that I could keep for longer than 5 days. Midwestern winters are notoriously brutal, and seeing even the slightest sign of plant life is welcome.

(my front yard is so over-landscaped that I genuinely cannot find anywhere to stick tulip bulbs)

In that manner, my first orchid was bought.

Because he is a good, kind man, The Daver didn’t point out, as he sat among the cats, dogs, bunny and kids, that I needed something else to take care of like I needed a hole in my head.

Nor does he gently mock me like he could when he comes home from work to find another couple of plants sitting in the sink or sunning themselves merrily on the printer. Although that may be a product of his inability to notice anything other than unopened cans of cheese-whiz or his Linux box.

He shares my love of plant life in the same way I share his love for gadgets, which is to say, not at all. Of all the things I could get into, especially with the streak of alcoholism that runs a mile wide running rampant in my genetic code, this is probably the most healthy.

Unlike the alcoholic gene, though, I do seem to have inherited some of my father’s *ahem* OCD tendencies. Because if one orchid is good, ten is better, right? RIGHT?!?

(shockingly, I am the same way about plants as I am about soap. Did you see that movie with Jack Nicholson, “As Good As It Gets?” When he opens his medicine cabinet and it’s stocked with like 25 of the same bars of soap I nodded appreciatively while everyone else laughed. Someone had to explain the joke which, I should add, I still don’t find funny.) (probably because it is NOT funny)

Slowly but surely, I’ve added to my collection, quickly outgrowing the small Southern facing window by my computer. I’ve begun researching the different diseases, had to treat a few, and started collecting different types. While I am afraid of vaginas, and orchids look remarkably like vaginas, I seem to be fascinated by studying them. The orchids, not the vaginas, you pervies. Freud would, no doubt, have a field day with that.

(Freud can also kiss my lily white butt)

As the orchids in various stages of life slowly creep outwards, spilling off the table and onto other surfaces, I’m starting to feel like I’m doomed to be a crazy cat hoarder, except without the cats. I guess when I die alone in my apartment, the orchids, unlike the cats, won’t eat my face. Thank God, I suppose, for small favors.

My youngest son seems to have inherited my love of flowers which makes me completely appreciate how a parent could push a colorblind kid to paint just like mom did, because man, does that feel cool to be like, “ALEX likes flowers TOO!” Hearing him shriek indignantly, “Come ON Mom, socks and shoes ON” when he hears me mention “greenhouse,” because he’s that jazzed to go see flowers gives me a huge sense of pride.

So at the greenhouse, after we examined the koi fish, which were deemed “cooool” I asked the greenhouse guy about some special moss that I was specifically looking for, and he claimed ignorance of such a thing. While he showed me what might have been reasonable substitutes for some, I declined his offer, preferring to drive my fat white butt (with cranky toddler in tow) across town.

He laughed, saying something like, “yeah, this probably wouldn’t work for someone who names their orchids,” like those-crazy-assholes. I sputtered out a “heh-heh” and ran away as quickly as possible before he realized that I was thisclose to naming my plants after my television ex-husbands.

On our anniversary, after scoring a prescription for both Topamax and Vicodin for my My Grains, I’d requested a quick stop to pick up a new orchid. (shut UP) But, not being totally in season, there were no orchids to be had (there were, however mini-roses! SCORE!). Really, buoyed by the ever-hopefulness–followed by the inevitable letdown–that a new prescription brings, I was okay with this.

But, The Daver, he suggested that take a trip to a nearby orchid greenhouse. That’s right, 4 acres of swinging orchid awesomeness.

(shut UP)

And as I roamed the aisles, sweaty and smelly, happily picking up new species to try my hand at growing destroy what is left of my window space, while contemplating how to make it to an event that I will affectionately call Orchid Stock*(certain to be filled with little old ladies), I realized that the greenhouse guy wasn’t that off base.

It’s time to find some new television husbands to divorce.

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*I am not kidding**

**Want to go with me?***

***No, seriously, please? I’m pretty sure I’d get launched from the car like a particularly chubby missile if I tried to trick my family into going with me.