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.

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.

———————

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.

—————–

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.

Tuesday brings me over to Toy With Me, where today I am bringing you the hilarious BEGINNING of my biggest insecurity. Shockingly, it’s not about my ass or jiggly post-baby belly. No, it’s something that was the subject of my SECOND column: my weird fear of my vagina.

While I was going through my archives, cleaning up my shitty grammar and the places where my computer lovingly substituted *#&@^@ for quotation marks, I discovered the birth of my neuroses. Which is actually kind of…well, full of The Awesome. It’s rare that you get to see where it all began.

Do I even have to tell you while I’m VERY proud of how this one turned out because it’s hilarious and bawdy and you need to read it, it’s REALLY not safe for work. Unless you have THAT kind of job, in which case, are they hiring?

So I give you The Vagina Monologues.

Below, you have what ran in Canadian Family’s Blog as my first Guest Post over there. It’s VERY safe for work.

And, as if I don’t ask enough of you, The Daver is asking for your help on his blog. Like actual serious help.

———————-

In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t know what he was thinking, but I don’t know what I was thinking either. The gigantic pizza slice costume was one thing, but this, this was something else entirely. But nonetheless, there I was, standing in the middle of the pizza restaurant where I worked, in a Santa costume feeling stupider than I’d ever felt before.

The customers you could tell, were even a little embarrassed for me. I looked like an idiot. But the district manager had gotten the inane idea in his head that for some reason having “Santa’s Helper” in the store for Christmas Eve would somehow bring flocks of customers in for lunch in droves. What he didn’t know could fill volumes. Sort of like the time he taken me aside, just as I’d gotten four new tables who were all waiting for me to get them drinks to whisper conspiratorially, “I think someone is stealing…cheese.”

But I needed the extra money because it was my son’s first Christmas, and as a single mother who was also in school full time, I took every shift that I could lay my grubby hands on. Debasing or not, it was money in my pocket. Shockingly, no one actually wanted to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” I’m not sure if it was the yellowed, fraying beard, or the fact that my pants fell down about every third step that I took, or that I was obviously female, but no one seemed interested. In fact, everyone seemed to avoid me, which was just as well. I used the time to get caught up on my homework. No rest for the wicked.

Finally, just before I was to go home to my son, some family agreed to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” Perhaps they hadn’t seen me. Maybe they didn’t like their kid very much. Or maybe everyone just had a fantastic sense of humor. Who knows.

All that I do know is that they thrust their tiny baby onto my threadbare lap. And all that the baby knew was that one minute, she was burbling on her mother’s shoulder and the next, she was shoved onto this stinky scary bearded lady in an saggy red Santa Suit. She did the only sensible thing to be done: she opened up her wee baby mouth and she bellowed. She screamed, she cried, and she wailed.

The picture was taken and a phobia of Santa was formed. This poor kid was going to grow up terrified of Santa. Jumping at holiday displays and wondering why the thought of Christmas always made her feel nervous and nauseous, always trying to get out of festive celebrations in favor of sitting in front of the television with her twelve cats and a pint of ice cream.

It would all be my fault.

Satan’s Little Helper.

————-

All right, o! Internet, my Internet, it’s time to bring Your Aunt Becky a bowlful of YOUR stories about Sandy Claws and how he terrified YOU as a child. SO BRING IT.

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.

As I previously stated, I am working on my New Years Resolution to Stop Being Such a Raging Bitch All of the Time, but I don’t think that I explained myself anymore than was necessary.

Because I was fat and drunk.

See, we’re moving. Without necessarily selling our old house. Money is about to be so tight as to possibly warrant shopping at Aldi and stealing food from my parents fridge without remorse. The remorse part, I mean. Not the stealing of food from my parents, because OBVIOUSLY. Wouldn’t you? Also, ketchup is SO a food group.

So when I was asked this year about what I wanted for Christmas, I was really vague about it, is always a bad idea when it comes to dealing with my spouse. Most of the men I’ve known need EXPLICIT instructions as to what items to buy from what store. It’s even better if you can cross reference it with some other files and use those colored tabs to make it look really official. My list (usually 278 million TIMES longer and better) went something like this:

1. Thin leather gloves. Black. From a department store. I think my glove size is about a 6.5. Ask at counter. Suede okay, too. I got some gloves from Dave pre-Christmas. They were red, fluffy, and waterproof. Purchased from Menards. Make hands look like stuffed sausages, but hell, they are warm. Do not fit and make hands sweat.

2. A ring for my right hand’s middle finger so you can have something to look at when I flip you the bird. Colorful and gaudy than wedding band. NO YELLOW GOLD, IT MAKES ME BARF. Ring size: 6.5, or maybe a 6.0. Big brightly colored stone but not from a gumball machine.

And then I ran out of things that I wanted, which is a scary phenomenon. I ALWAYS want something. I am a needy person who needs things.

The Friday before Christmas Eve, Dave began to hint that he’d gotten me something 1). Totally awesome, 2). that I wanted 3). that HE wanted, too, and I broke out into a cold sweat. Did I JUST get that NEW PRINTER THAT I HADN’T WANTED? Or was it a NEW video card for his computer THAT I HADN’T WANTED? OR could it be the yacht I’d be oogling?

Either way, I figured that the bathrobe that he had gotten from me wasn”t enough and that I had better re-hit the mall on Christmas Eve. I did, and happened to purchase him about 500 things that he’d mentioned that he wanted, none of them geek crap because I don’t buy that shit.

Christmas morning, in the form of a lanky 4 year old arrived, and we went downstairs to check out our stockings. Yes, we still get stockings. My mom is AWESOME. Dave was nearly swooning with excitement by the time actual presents were opened, and he eagerly thrust his gaily wrapped package (no, not THAT one, it was CHRISTMAS!) with gaudy oversized card (inscription: this was the last one at the store. I *guess* it’s sentiment is true) and I opened this magnificent gift!

A Nikon D50.

Made me feel bad because I had bought Dave half a dozen stars and stripes scarf sets with “World’s Greatest Mom” embroidered on the edge as a gag gift. He was shockingly touched and got all misty eyed and had to leave the room to compose himself.

Apparently, I was thoughtful.

What a freak.