Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

All That Remains


I stood in my kitchen, momentarily stunned, a vacuum whirring happily in my hands.

The feeling that washed over me was, for the first time, not dread. It was not a migraine either. Nor was I wasted. It was not fear either.

No, for the first time in as long as I can recall, I was calm. At peace. In the moment.

It seemed that for once, I had finally achieved peace.

While I’d not gone into the doctor, anxiously dreading that appointment to talk about my anxiety issues, believing I could actually be fixed, there I was: fixed. No longer broken.

After living, impatiently waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop already, for so many years, I could hardly imagine a world in which I did not wake with my heart pounding loudly, my guts churning painfully, my soul full of impending doom.

And yet, there I was.

I thought to myself, as I resumed vacuuming (no one can keep a good vacuum down, after all), this is the way the rest of the world feels most of the time. How shockingly simple this feels.

And then I tried desperately to kick myself for waiting as long as I did to seek help. (Pro tip: you cannot kick yourself while vacuuming without falling squarely on your ass.)

I could have spent years – years – not feeling that way, and I decided to tough it out. And for what? For WHAT? A jaw-grind disposition to a panic attack? Migraines? Insomnia? Unhappyness?

Hardly seems like a list of shit to be proud of. I toughed it out so I could break my teeth grinding them to nubs in my sleep. Spend my nights awake, weeping, reliving ghosts that could’ve been put happily to rest many years ago.

Even as we roll into the dog days of summer, it appears that my dog days are, in fact, over.

I couldn’t – haven’t – ever been happier.


When I found out my dear friend, Razing Mayhem, was throwing a blogathon for Band Back Together, I actually cried real tears without the aid of a stunt double or an onion. If you want to read about her efforts to help out a place where we kick stigmas in the vagina, Band Back Together, please go and visit her.

THEN I will give you a cookie.

Or twelve.

This Is Not A BlogHer Recap


I remember when my friend Pashmina got back from her honeymoon. I think I’d just popped out Crotch Parasite #2 and had the approximate dimensions of a whale. Not to mention, aforementioned Crotch Parasite was constantly chomping on my nipple and/or pooping on me, so vacation was entirely out of the question. Hell, taking a leak alone was out of the question.

Anyway, Pashmina called me and blearily I answered the phone. She cheerfully informed me about the places they’d had The Sex, the great shit they’d done, the meals they’d eaten while I silently wept onto my very cranky baby. I hadn’t eaten a meal without the kid hanging off a body part in months. And sex? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

It was kinda mean of her, you know, describing all the cool shit she’d done while I sat at home and watched my television husband, Vincent D’Onofrio, quirkily solve murders.

But the swag at BlogHer is legendary, I’m sure even if you’ve never been, you’ve heard about it. Mostly from the sorts of people who get invited to private parties and shit, which, SO not me. I got a couple of mini-boxes of cereal and a fuckton of those stupid bags everyone gives out. I’m sure the maid service thanks me tremendously for leaving them behind.

This year, I got one thing – ONE thing – that may shock and impress you, Pranksters. ONE THING. And it impressed me so much that I’m STILL reminiscing about it, all Missed Connections style. Because I had to leave my ONE THING behind. Parting WAS truly sweet sorrow.

I got a fucking toothbrush.


I know you probably think I’m being all sarcastic about it, but no, I’m not. I loved that toothbrush so much that I envisioned romantic fantasies – just me and the toothbrush dining by candlelight. Me and my beloved toothbrush running along a beach, holding, er, hands. Me and my toothbrush snuggling up together – I’d even get to be the Big Spoon (for once).

Brushing my teeth was a treat. I felt like a champion, my pearly whites all sparkling and clean, ready to take on the day. I was a WINNER thanks to that toothbrush.

(we all know packing a toothbrush is kinda bullshit because it gets all musty and shit)

On Sunday, it was time to bid my beloved farewell. I couldn’t take it home with me; no, our love was too pure to continue.


Missed Connection:

You: Johnson and Johnson toothbrush, 8 inches, blue and soft.

Me: Your Aunt Becky, leaving a hotel room.

If I Am Not Missing Or Dead


I’m no huge fan of blogging conferences, if I haven’t made that clear, and it’s in part because they keep me away from my beloved Pranksters. The internet in my hotel, even WITH my internet-in-a-box was a hot pile of bullshit. Every time I went to post this is what happened:

Me: “Man, what WILL the Internet do without me for four days? They might not hear of my stupidest exploits or the hilarious, wacky adventures of my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles! I should post something.”

The Internet: “We are connected to your wifi card.”

Me: “Oh YIPPEE! I can tell the world that I paid 13 bucks for a pitcher of coffee!”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well, the Internet TELLS me it’s connected. It must be user error. I am not very smart. Which I need to tell the Internet.”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well. That’s rather unfriendly of you, my zillion dollar laptop. Certainly, you’d treat me better than that. I must update The Twitter!

The Internet: “Hahahaha! You’re an asshole.”

Me: “That really hurt, The Internet, that really hurt. Now can I please just get online for ten minutes?”

The Internet: “Nope.”

Me: “What will The Facebook do without me?”

The Internet: “Facebook hates you. So do I.”


The Internet: “Guess you should’ve gone with a cheaper laptop.”

Me: “I’m going to replace you with a Dell, asswipe.”

The Internet: “You go ahead and you try. You know you cannot live without my luscious screen.”

Me: “Oooh! These windows open JUST ENOUGH so that I can throw waterballoons out.”

The Internet: “You’re such a mindless blathering moron.”

Me (yells out the window):LOOKOUT BELOW MOTHERFUCKERS.”

The Internet: “This is why I don’t bother to let you online.”

Me: “I win.”

The Internet: “No, you’re just pretending you win to make yourself feel better. You actually lose.”

Me: “Oh.”

The Internet: “Wait, what are you doing? Don’t toss me out of the open hotel window. What are you doing?”

Me: “Winning.”


So, what did you do while I was gone, Pranksters? Did you go to VaginaStock (BlogHer)? Did you have fun?


I have two columns up at The Stir: Why Yes I Let My Boy Dress Up In Girls Clothes and 8 More Things You Don’t Want To Do With Your Kids This Summer.

You should read them, like them, then come back and tell Your Aunt Becky all about your weekend.

Who’s Your Stalker Now?


During a game of drunken Truth or Dare in college, my friends and I decided that the best course of action was to go around the room talking about our sexual fantasies. By the time it was my turn, we’d already heard from everyone including Matt, my friend Matthias’s roommate. He’d spun some elaborate tale I hadn’t followed involving some older woman that he’d screwed in the pool room of the hotel he’d worked, but he had shifty eyes so I totally didn’t believe him. I was beyond loaded, so I couldn’t figure out why the room was looking at me expectantly.

When they nudged me to speak, I slurred out, “I…dunnooo…I just….like…sex?” In hindsight, I should have kept my whore mouth firmly shut.

Whether it was that drunken proclamation, punctuated by stabbing myself in the leg with a lit cigarette or that I’d said “hello” to him when I walked into the apartment, I can’t be sure, but I made a grave error in judgement. While the rest of the room rolled their eyes and laughed at me being a drunk asshole, Matt fell deep into..something with me.

I must have made quite the impression that night, because the following weekend when we were both in our hometown I got a phone call from him. It seemed that he wanted to meet up that evening for dinner. Being that I was in town to see my family, I politely declined and he hung up on me angrily. What I didn’t realize was that I was about to unleash an unholy shit storm neatly atop my own oblivious head.

I’ve since gotten better about reading people, but at the time, I was pretty naive and mistook his shifty eyes for “needing to replace his contacts” not “being a fucking psychopath.” Bad move, Aunt Becky, bad move. By the time I crawled back to my shoebox of a dorm on Sunday night, my roommate looked at me somewhat wide-eyed and said, “Someone named ‘Matt’ has been calling you every ten minutes for the past three hours. He won’t leave a message but he’s kinda creeping me out because he gets mad every time I tell him you’re not here.” Well, fuck.

The following week, I began to receive reports of Matt hanging around our dorm and the phone calls continued unrelentingly. Finally the following week, I stumbled blearily out of the dooms with the throngs of other students making their way to 9AM classes, when I saw Matt hanging out by the gigantic fountain that we called The Ashtray. He was scanning the crowd intently, clearly looking for someone and I kept my head down and managed to walk right past him without him noticing me. When I returned from class, I saw him there again. He caught my eye and trapped in his line of sight, I walked up to him. He asked if I wanted to get lunch, and I told him the truth, I had other plans, and rather than accept that gracefully, he stomped away, angry.

I stood there for a couple of moments, dumbfounded. Certainly, I wasn’t going to date him, but I would have been his friend, jagged edges and all, before that little tantrum. After that stunt, however, absolutely not. I found out that he’d harassed all of the people that had been at the party about what a horrible bitch I was.

A couple of nights later, I called over to Matthias’s apartment in search of Matthias, and Matt answered the phone. Rather than call him out on his bad behavior, I figured it was best to pretend that the entire situation hadn’t happened, so I simply asked if Matthias was home. Recognizing my voice, he growled, “NO!” into the phone and hung it up without so much as asking if he could take a message.

Well, then. I’d had enough. I turned to the dorm room which was full of my friends and said, “Fucker just hung up on me.”

Outraged, and knowing that Matt had been a jackass to both Matthias—who wouldn’t hurt a fly—and me, who really didn’t deserve the anger, we hatched a plan. We didn’t get mad, we got even. My friend Pashmina acted first.

She grabbed the phone, dialed the number and when Matt answered, she said very sweetly, “Hi Matt, it’s Pashmina, you know, Matthias’s friend? Well, I was calling to see if Matthias was home. We were going out and wanted to see if he could come with us to the coffee shop…” On and on she droned about her boring plans. Eventually, she hung up the phone and handed it to James, who dialed the number.

“Hi, this is James. Is Matthias there? I was calling to invite him to study with me in the library for our history midterm and I know he likes to study with a partner…” on and on James went about his plans for the evening. Eventually he hung up, passing the phone to Pashmina’s roommate, Marcy. This continued no less than eight times. Each of us, calling with some long-winded, rambling story about why we needed to see Matthias and what we were doing and blah, blah, blah. It must have been excruciating for him to listen to.

What can I say? My friends love me. More importantly, my friends also know a good time when they see it.

After we all had made our calls to Matt, we sat around smoking our cigarettes and nursing our tall rum and Cokes looking at each other and laughing at our ingeniousness. There was no way Matt would be bothering any of us again because we were too fucking annoying. If he was childish, we could beat him at that game.

About half an hour after the last phone call, one by one, we all called Matt back, telling him not to have Matthias call us, after all, because, wouldn’t you know it? PLANS HAD CHANGED. I think after the third or fourth phone call, he finally took the phone off the hook. I can’t believe it took him that long.

After that, though, we all noticed that Matt would deliberately go out of his way to avoid all of us when we’d cross paths on campus. If he’d spy me walking his way, he’d walk across the quad so as not to accidentally sideswipe me.

I’d suddenly gone from hot ticket to plague-bearer and I couldn’t have been happier.

Finally. A Happy Period.


I was among the horrified masses when Kotex launched their “Have A Happy Period” campaign. It had clearly been thought up by dudes, because I don’t know a single chick who would be, “man, my period is SO MUCH HAPPIER.” Periods just ARE.

Anyway, over the one thing responsible for keeping my room at sub-arctic temperatures – the only way I can sleep – my window A/C unit – decided to start leaking. I, being the brilliant specimen of humanity that I am, didn’t realize it until I walked into my bedroom to put on a bra and was all, *sniff, sniff* “WHYZ IT SMELL MUSTY? IZ IT FUCKING GNOMES AGAIN?”

I turned on the overhead light and saw, much to my horror, that my brilliant, treasured and adored window A/C unit was leaking. It was motherfucking leaking onto my motherfucking carpet.

After I stopped wringing my hands and gnashing my teeth and throwing myself onto my bed dramatically saying, “WHY ME GOD, WHY ME?” I got up to assess the damage.

Okay. A couple of things got soaked, I could handle that. I threw them in the wash and lugged out my trusty steam cleaner. I’m going to insist they bury me with it because it is so full of the awesome.

Before I started steam-cleaning my way to heaven, I had to move a couple of things out of the way to allow proper access to the Wet Spot (very unlike the OTHER Wet Spot). Including half of my clothes from Type-A Parent. I’m an excellent bedroom-cleaner, OBVS.

Well, in that stash of crap were a couple of maxi-pads. I’d figured I’d just be shoving them into the BlogHer bag when I got around to packing this week, so I never bothered to put ’em away.

I grabbed ’em, snorting at the “Have a Happy Period” crap when I realized that the maxi pads had finally given me a reason to smile.

They’d absorbed a bunch of the water from my leaky *sobs* A/C unit.

Now THAT is a motherfucking happy period.

Fresh Ink


Today, Pranksters, rather than sit around on my ass, watching cats do wacky things, I had an appointment downtown to get my tattoo “worked on.” Some may say “finished,” but those motherfuckers would be wrong. My tattoo may never be finished.

In several blood-stained hours, my tattoo went from this:


To this:



Someone pass me the Vicodin. Then entertain me with your tattoo stories while massaging my feet.

Crimes Against Fashion AND Humanity.


(over at the Stir, this is how I will make my millions)

Now that I’ve lost the lion’s share of the baby weight – and yes, I WILL call it baby weight even though my daughter is two – I’ve taken to shopping again. For clothes, I mean. Clothing is more fun when you’re not staring at the tag, weeping about the number there.

(I learned to cut off the tags, but it didn’t help)

So there I was, at The Target, perusing the summer stuff, when I saw it. The Maxi-Dress.

Maxi Dress

Pranksters, I wanted so badly to love this dress. It looked like it would provide a nice crotch breeze while allowing me to continue my “pants are bullshit” campaign. And yet. I couldn’t.

My mother, a hippie in the 1980’s, lived in these things when I was a child – the very sort of thing I railed against. It was droopy and unpatterned, listless and tired, even fresh off the clothes line. As someone who favored twirly skirts, tiaras, and all the makeup one could slap on a face, I was horrified that my very own mother would wear such monstrosities.

Examining it closer, I realized that, like capri pants, the dress would look good on no one. Except, perhaps, models.

So I put it back, sadly denying my crotch an opportunity to vent in the breeze.

And then I saw this:


Motherfucking ROMPERS.

Have you seen these, Pranksters? ROMPERS. FOR ADULTS.

If I could manage to somehow get over the issue that these are ROMPERS for ADULTS, all I can see is the vagina wedgie you’d get while wearing this monstrosity. I mean, CAMEL TOE anyone?

Even worse, they’re ROMPERS for ADULTS.

I stopped wearing rompers at the same age that I stopped wearing diapers. Perhaps when I WEAR diapers again, I’ll go back to wanting to dress like an overgrown child. But somehow, I doubt it.

And don’t get me started on pajama jeans.

mom jeans

A Portrait Of The Mother By A Young Child




Thanks, Amelia.

P.S. I’m writing you out of the will for this.

P.P.S. HA! Like I have a will.

P.P.P.S. I’m actually giving your inheritance to out of work actors so they can howl at my graveside.

P.P.P.P.S. No, I’m not kidding.

Everything I Needed To Learn, I Learned From Skymall


My favorite part of traveling, besides getting some Hot TSA Action, is Skymall. I don’t think there’s much I love more than Skymall. When Your Aunt Becky boards a plane, the first thing she does is scour the seats for a new copy of Skymall.

I then proceed to annoy everyone around me by giggling profusely and yelling things like, “Y’all, who needs a Kitty Shitter? Because I do.”

Today, Pranksters, after a weekend of blogging conference wherein I learned some bloggers actually get TRIPS paid for them, whereas I am pretty sure Uncrustables is gearing up to sue me for mentioning their name, I am bringing you a list. A list of what I want from Skymall. My birthday is coming up, you know*.

Because hey, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be getting my yacht for blogging any time soon.

*I’m not actually asking anyone buy me a gift because that’s just awkward.


The new push in social media is “branding,” right? The whole “branding” conversation makes my eyeballs bleed….unless, I am actually able to BRAND things.

Like I could with this.

I could brand EVERYONE I know with a fancy MWV rather than passing out business cards. This is a total win.


Over the weekend, I got into a conversation with some of my friends about death and cemeteries. Because I am a Fun-Guy to be with and we clearly know how to party.

And I decided that, along with the out-of-work-actors I’d pay to weep and howl at my graveside in shifts every day, I required THIS statue to go on my grave somewhere. This just seems to be an obvious choice for me.


Ah, the infamous Kitty Shitter.

Why HIDE that pesky Kitty Shitter when you can leave it RIGHT THERE IN THE OPEN? With a fake potted plant atop it to boot! Certainly, no one would suspect that it could be a place for cats to put their feces, right?

But here’s my question: wouldn’t you rather your guests SEE the litter box so that when your cat takes a wild dump, your guest isn’t sitting there uncomfortably wondering if YOU, perhaps, have just shit yourself?

It’s things like these that keep me awake at night.


I need this chair to continue blogging.


P.S. It’s not tacky AT ALL.

P.P.S. No. It’s not. Shut your whore mouth.


Talk about “where the magic happens.”

I require this.

But I’m nervous that when I install it, I’ll be that creepy person that’s all, “HAI, WANNA TAKE A SHOWER?” to every person that walks into my house. Including my parents.



Now, they SAY there are “more sizes available” but do you think that any of these might fit someone who’s 5’5″? This is important, Pranksters. See, now, *I* have anxiety and no one has offered ME a soothing blanket. That’s bullshit.

I might need a Dog Anxiety Blanket for me.


So what’s been up while I’ve been busily scouring SkyMall, Pranksters?

Blogging Conferences Are Not As Painful As A Bikini Wax. Probably


I had a fairly vivid series of dream/wake hallucinations (no, this isn’t a standard blog post about my dreams because, well, my dreams tend to involve eating cheeseburgers and/or marshmallow castles) after The Great Stomach Bug of ‘Eleven, Part II. Those hallucinations were, in part, fueled by the Demerol I’d been given by the ER, but they were fairly important, nonetheless.

See, one of them was all, “Get the fuck off your lazy ass and DO SOMETHING.” And by “something,” my hallucination didn’t mean to build a panic room in my tree. It was telling me to get over myself and go to some of those blogging conferences everyone angsts about.

So I did.

I bought my ticket to Type-A Mom the following day.

I’ve been saying “I’m going to Assville” ever since. I’m certain that the folks down in Assville appreciate that to no end, because, well, I’m sure they’ve never heard THAT one before. I sincerely hope I can get a shirt down there that says, “I’ve been to Assville,” because how classy is that? (answer: VERY CLASSY)

I’m pretty excited about going, actually, Assville or not. I know everyone gets all angsty about these conferences, and trust me, I’ve had my cases of ennui (whatever that means), but I’m really excited to see some of my friends.

Most bloggers spend months preparing for this sort of thing – carefully choosing outfits and coordinating nail polish colors – but me? I’ll be lucky if I pack BEFORE the limo comes to pick me up on Wednesday. Otherwise, I’ll make the driver help.

Nah, the only thing I’m doing to prepare is to get a bikini wax. Because, we all know everyone at this conference is going to see my beav. Or care what it looks like. I barely care, truth be told.

Like microwaving Peeps, it just seems like a good idea.

But I’m going to be dead honest with you, Pranksters: I’m nervous about the waxing. I’ve never done one before. Having some tiny, angry Russian lady pulling chunks of my hair out of my crotchal region sounds like the kinda party I don’t want to go to.

I mean, what if she MOCKS MY VAGINA? Because she totally could. And if I was laying there, all spread-eagled on the table, I don’t think I want someone MOCKING my crotch. I’ve delivered three children through that vagina: I’ve been through enough humiliation. I might cry. And then, I’d bet, because she’s all Russian and stoic and shit, she’d bitch slap me for crying.

Pranksters, OMG, what if the Russian waxer lady BITCH-SLAPS ME and then calls her OTHER waxer friends over to bitch-slap me, too! I’m dying inside just THINKING about it.

But if my dream/hallucination is correct, I must get a wax. I must! Well, okay, so the dream didn’t specify what I was supposed to do with my vagina, but you know, I’m sure that it MEANT I needed to wax.

So if you see me at Type A Mom this week, be sure to compliment my vagina.

Or buy me a drink. Whatever.


I’m over at Cafe Mom talking about shared custody which seems especially timely since The Daver wrote about becoming a stepfather yesterday for Band Back Together.

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