Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

The Holidays Always Bring Univited Guests. Like Robots From The Future.


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?

Arnold 2

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

Arnold 3

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

Arnold 4

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.

Arnold 5

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.

Arnold 6

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.

Arnold 7

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.

The Vicious Martha Stewart In My Head Is Distracted By Blatant Sexism


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.


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.

Satan’s Little Helper (etc)


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.

Because The Real Reason I Had Kids Was To Buy All The Stuff My Parents Wouldn’t Buy Me


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:

We Are Suckers

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.

Oh, There’s No Place Like Home For The Holidays?


Anyone who has had to bear the burden of being married or in a long term relationship has inexplicably been stuck in the same predicament year after year. Who gets you for the holidays or any other day of the year that your family may deem IMPERATIVE that you be home.

I have been blessed with both in-laws and a family who do not become angry if I am unable to make a particular holiday. Neither of us gets outright YELLED at or threatened to be written out of a will or two. No, they’re MUCH more subtle than that. I’ve experienced the passive aggressive, sullen and disheartened, “Well, ooooookkkkkay, I GUESS it’s OKAY if you don’t make it. Your BROTHER would have made it.”

The Daver deals with the same stuff.

And I have to be honest, I ADORE the holidays.

It’s the most wonderful motherfucking time of the year, after all. There is nothing more magical than the Christmas season, aside from maybe a freshly shorn nutbag, but I digress. The lights, the smells, the sounds, the bells, I love it all. I love shopping for gifts, I love decorating for the holidays; I love that magical first snow of the year.

And I admit that I even love seeing my family and my in-laws. I adore both sides of our family; and I love seeing them for the holidays.

As usual, there is a catch: both sets of parents EXPECT that they are the most important members of the family,and are therefore entitled to certain unalienable privileges. Most of those being our time WHENEVER THEY WANT US TO for the holidays. It isn’t as though I don’t want to see them; I do.

But I can’t say that I enjoy my holidays spent in the car going from one place to another. Although traveling isn’t a problem for us; we like to get going as much as the next person. But spending 7+ hours a day in a car with a small child for a couple of hours with each set of families is going pretty far beyond what anyone else in the famil(ies) do.

It only compounds matters exponentially that my parents, living about 1 hour from us, see us far more than Dave’s do, living 3+ hours from us (although, by some untapped miracle Dave claims that it only takes an hour and a half. Aside from teleportation, I have no idea how he gets there with such speed), which makes us feel bad. This, in turn makes us try to bend over literally downward facing dog AND the tree trying to appease whatever holiday requests they ask of us.

But no matter how much we break our backs for the families, no one else will meet us halfway. We get no”Well you came out by us last time, now it’s our turn.” If we cannot attend a gathering, there will be no offer to see us or come out to our house at a rescheduled date. Which would explain why I found a couple of little gifts I had picked up for my in-laws LAST YEAR in my vanity. Just SHAMEFUL.

Let’s compound things once again: I have a child whose father is not Dave, and said father wants to see his child on the holidays, too. So Dave, Ben and I are stuck grappling with the seemingly senseless fragments of 3 timetables from 3 families.

We have to make it to cities, W, X, Y and Z in a matter of 1.5 days. These cities are 1-4 hours apart. So we could alternate the cities based on a number of factors (If we leave for W at 6pm after work, get there at 9, stay til 6am drive 4 hours, arrive at 10:30, open gifts, smile, laugh, eat, leave at 1pm if Ben has had nap, drive another hour, drive an hour back, open more presnets, better not nap b/c you’ll look like you’re not having fun, drive 1.5 hours home, utterly exhausted), but it essentially boils down to extra travelling time for us, but not for anyone else.

Here’s my resolution, dear Internet, next year this foolishness will be done, and we won’t exhaust ourselves traveling multiple hours in the car just to appease everyone for the holidays.

Next year, we’re embracing the “N” word.

The Great Pumpkin Queen


I had the worst possible experience this past Sunday when I attempted to show my son that his father is a worthwhile human being by going to Sonny Acres to pick out pumpkins together. What should have been a reasonably (you’re lying through your teeth, Becky, you were dreading this from the moment it was planned) fun time quickly turned into a nightmare.

The Ex, being pissed that I didn’t want to carve pumpkins that day, decided that NO ONE needed pumpkins so we had to leave. Sonny Acres isn’t exactly my thing anyway, so I didn’t protest too much. Besides, I figured Dave and I were taking Ben this Saturday with his future wife, Rose. We’d get some pumpkins then.

Now, to those who know me well, I do whatever I possibly can to get as much stuff as I can when I go out with Nat. Childish, perhaps, but it makes my ickle heart sing as I consider it payback for years of being so goddamn cheap.

So we go to catch lunch together at Olive Garden, per Ben’s request. Lunch quickly becomes a Jerry Springer episode when Nat calls me “the most selfish person in the world,” berates me for being unstable and screams that I’m “ruining my son’s life.”All this, right in front of our son.

Because THAT isn’t gonna fuck up a kid or something. He doesn’t care though, because it’s more important to Nat to be right and to cut me down than it is to take into account the eyeballs of his son watching his every move.

Although the food has just arrived, I made a tactical call. I stood up, kissed Ben goodbye and turned to leave. Nat pulls on my arms to get me to stay and I begin to cry. I quickly said goodbye to my son and walk out of the restaurant sobbing like a little bitch.

After bawling in front of the restaurant like a crazy person I decide that since Ben is upset and I am his mother, I need to go back inside and comfort him. When I went back inside and found Ben hysterical I informed Nat that I was taking my son home, where he belonged.

We paid the bill and EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE PLACE IS STARING AT US which makes me feel like an even bigger freak than I know I am. Awesome.

I strapped Ben into my car, safely out of earshot and gave Nat a piece of my mind, while he stood there, silently reproachful and apologetic. The anger drained out of him and into me and I drove away angry and sad.

I haven’t spoken to him since.

Tonight my dad called to me from the porch show me the freak show. My porch is the proud recipient of two brand new pumpkins.

Fucking weirdo.

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