You know what I hate MORE than John Mayer’s douchiness* and mayonnaise combined? I know, what could top that?
What tops that is feeling like I walked into the middle of something I don’t quite understand. It’s probably what keeps me away from most TV series, which if my mother was correct and television truly DOES rot your brain, means that my grey matter is relatively unscathed. Well, what hasn’t been addled by illicit drug use and/or The Drink, I mean.
So please allow me to introduce myself, I’m (not) a (wo)man of wealth and fame. My name is Becky Sherrick Harks, and yes that is my real name and no I probably don’t talk about you, and yes it’s likely that most people I know read this blog and no that doesn’t squigg me out too much. But you can call me Aunt Becky.
No, no, relax, I’m not REALLY your aunt. If I was, you’d probably have at least gotten a coffee stained Christmas card from me or heard some story about how this one time That Aunt Becky did something really stupid and man, let’s make sure to hide the china when she comes over, because she has Those Shifty Eyes. So we’re not really related. Except on The Internet. The assumed familiarity of such a nickname never fails to crack me up, because I normally find that kind of faux closeness sort of irritating.
But this is The Internet, and we’re all friends here.
(don’t tell me otherwise. Because THINK OF THE CHILDREN PEOPLE. *wrings hands nervously*)
This is my blog.
I started blogging back in Aught Four over at another blog, sort of an anti-blog, blog, back when I didn’t realize that you could have a blog and somehow not be lame at the suggestion of my then-boyfriend now-husband The Daver. Apparently he got tired of me flapping my flippity-flap jaw at him and decided that plugging me into a computer was a wiser idea. I’m still not sure on that one, but I’m imagining that Daver’s ears are all high-fiving him for nice call, bro.
I started Mommy Wants Vodka sometime in Aught Seven after my second son was born and all my childless friends started blocking my calls. I guess there’s something really fucking boring about having to listen to someone endlessly whine about having a ridiculously crabby, clingy baby when you’re out clubbing and having hot sex on kitchen tables with random people. Somehow diaper rash and spit up doesn’t compare.
Sometimes I blog about my kids. Benjamin, who is staring down the nose of Eight (which, I should mention, is a much better time than Seven), the clone of The Daver, aside from that pesky biological aspect of it. But what’s biology got to do with it anyway? (this is a rhetorical question, people) He’s on the autistic spectrum, but who isn’t? (apparently this paragraph is all about rhetorical questions)
Alexander is my two-year old and requisite Momma’s Boy. Most days I think he’d happily crawl back into my uterus for the foreseeable future, not because he’s shy or anything, but because he loves me THAT MUCH. He’s loud and abrasive, obnoxious and charming, kind of like me.
Our last crotch parasite is Amelia, who was born in January of Aught Niner. She’s had a string of health-related issues stemming from a neural tube defect called an encephalocele. The really abridged version is that part of her skull was badly formed–stupid skull–and some of, well, I don’t know how to say it without freaking you out, but here goes: part of her brain developed out there. This is not, as you may imagine, a particularly good thing.
All’s well though, or as well as it can be for now, after corrective surgery and her development is being followed by so many government agencies that next year when I have to renew my driver’s license, I’m pretty sure the DMV clerk is going to take a look at my last name and say, “OH! You’re AMELIA’S mother. We know ALL ABOUT HER.” But it will sound less creepy and lecherous when they say it. Our fingers are crossed that she continues down The Normal Path, and so far, so good.
The Daver, as previously mentioned, is the husband I didn’t know I would be lucky enough to have is one of the few people who can tolerate me for long periods of time. Which is probably a good thing, since I happily remind him now and again as I point at his wedding band, “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”
I’m only half kidding.
He blogs too, or he SAYS he does, but we all know that is a lie, but now and again I convince him to guest-post for me here and he says the same thing I always do. He tells me that I have the nicest audience ever. Which is totally true. I do.
As for me, I was born in 1980, July 15, to be exact (the day after Bastille Day), which makes me a Cancer and according to my astrological dohickey, I should probably be more sensitive. Like by nature or something. But sensitive is something I’m pretty sure no one has ever described me as unless they’re being completely sarcastic, and that’s just fine by me.
I’m a retired nurse, which sounds awfully shady when you work out the details and realize that that makes me retired by age 26, but it turns out for all my overachieving student ways, you can’t fake being a nurse. I’d gotten my bachelor’s in nursing in 2005, the profession chosen for the ability to net paychecks–upon graduation–that netted me did not read so-and-so measly dollars. I’d been a single parent when I walked into the program, and I walked out 2 months short of my wedding day and as my cards fell, it turned out that my happiness was worth more to Daver and I than my paychecks.
If you can believe it (and I can’t really believe it myself), I have netted myself a set of agents and put together a book proposal that’s currently sitting on the desks of some major publishing houses. Don’t be too jealous, though, my chance of getting published–unless a publishing house is exercising some excruciatingly bad judgement–is about three tenths of a percent. I only mention it here because occasionally I do reference it, and, well, who the hell would have thought that I was a writer?
(answer: not me)
My life has pretty much not gone at all the way that I expected it to, and while you could read that statement as: “Oh my GOD, she’s whining about her life when there are people in the world without FEET” it’s not the way I mean it. It’s just that everywhere I thought I’d be is nowhere where I actually wound up.
It’s a good thing, I think. Never thought my life would be so un-glamorous, always figured that I would travel to third world countries** while curing ingrown toenails and cancer, but I’m okay with that. Less chance for ebola here. I like to think.
I typically yammer out a post a day here, because it’s nearly impossible for me to get back into writing once I’ve taken a break. Whether what I say is good or not is debatable, but it’s my blog and I’ll post stupid pointless drivel if I want to. And just so you know, I really meant the whole kumbaya I heart the blogging community. I do try and catch up with anyone who catches up with me because I am married to a geek, I have a twitter account, a facebook account***, 47 email addresses (firstname.lastname@example.org) and a nifty comment box.
If you want me, you got me.
I’m happy with what I do, I write, I raise kids, I sleep when I’m able, and usually have more heaped on my plate than I can ever possibly accomplish. It’s not where I thought I’d be, but then again, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.
Now that you’ve met me, Internet, Your Aunt Becky, what about you? Tell me about YOU. Or, alternately, what did I thoughtlessly not answer here that you’re going to lose sleep over if I don’t explain?
*But man, can he play a mean guitar
**A goal of mine always has been and will be (until such time as I am able to realize it, several years down the road) to join Doctor’s Without Borders or, if you want me to sound more cultured MÃ©decins Sans FrontiÃ¨res. Yes I am serious.
***We can totally be BFF! On FB! OMG, IDK!