Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Blame Canada!


So, I can’t respond to your answers to my last post in email like I normally do because it adds comments, but you guys are FUNNY. And also, most of you corrected my typo from question 4 “your” should have been “you’re” and yes, that was TOTALLY my bad. But you guys are full of THE FUNNY and I recommend that you read all of the answers that everyone is giving because, well, they’re awesome and it proves that I have the best people in the blog-o-sphere, SO THERE.

Next week, I’m going to see if I can get that bitch Mr. Linky to work so we can play that way.

Be sure to enter and play along because it’s fun. And, no, FTC Guidelines Person, I didn’t get paid a cent or get a thing for promoting my friend’s book. I am just a Special Person.


It may shock and dismay some of you to learn that I have friends. Well, I do. Like Sci-Fi Dad, from Tales From The Dad Side, for example. I overlook his Canadian-ness and like him anyway because I am a VERY special person. Well, my friend Sci-Fi got stood up for an interview, which I thought was actually kind of funny, but after I stopped laughing, I did what any friend who had already badgered her way into an interview with him would do: I graciously offered to be his interviewer.

I cannot believe he accepted, but he did.

Aunt Becky (only 29 minutes late to our scheduled interview time. A personal record!): dude. LOOKIT ME BEING HERE AND STUFF. I’m sorry I am late. I am a very bad friend.

Aunt Becky: So, Sci-Fi, my friend, for the first of my VERY IMPORTANT questions, on your ice cream, do you like sprinkles?

SciFi: No, I do not. I am more of a caramel sauce and whipped cream kind of guy. Oh, and bacon.

Aunt Becky (amazed): Would you put bacon on your ice cream?

SciFi: I would just eat bacon. Why cool it down with frozen dairy?

Aunt Becky: Really, everything is better with bacon.

SciFi: Everything.

Aunt Becky: Do you have bacon in Canada?

SciFi: We do. We have strip bacon AND back bacon (which I believe you call “Canadian bacon”)

Aunt Becky: I thought Canadian bacon was just more polite bacon. Because, you know, you guys are all polite and adorable. Bwahahahahahaha! Seriously, can I just follow you around for awhile so that I may revel in your niceness?


Aunt Becky: Is that a bomb?

SciFi: No, it’s a 7 minute youtube about bacon making everything better. But I’m more concerned with this misnomer that I am nice. Where did that vicious rumour start?

Aunt Becky: I think it’s just the general belief that Canadians say “ya” a lot and stand around being polite and nice to each other. It’s okay. I’m from the Midwest. Everyone assumes I have thick ankles.

SciFi: Also, I know about Midwest girls and their cankles

Aunt Becky: My ankles are quite prim, thank you.

Aunt Becky: And your cigarette packs have diseased lungs on them.

SciFi: When I was smoking, they had warnings… Now they have gross pictures.

Aunt Becky: ‘SMOKING WILL KILL YOU DEAD.’ Here they just say that smoking may cause low birthweight. Which, uh, okay. If you’re not pregnant or a fetus, that’s okay.

SciFi: People sold imitation stickers that went over the warnings that said stuff like “Smoking makes your penis bigger” or “Smoking is for the cool kids”

Aunt Becky: That’s it. I’m packing up and moving to Canada AND taking up smoking again.

(SciFi is very, very quiet at this proclamation)

Aunt Becky: Okay, so at some point in your life you lived above a strip joint, which had to have been kind of awesome. Was it as debaucherous as it sounded? And did I spell debaucherous right?

SciFi: Your spelling is accurate. It actually was as debaucherous as it sounds, but not for the reasons one would assume. I actually only went to that particular club once; it was overpriced and geared to the rich businessman set.

SciFi: HOWEVER, from my door, it was a five minute walk to seven other (more economical) strip joints and three sex shops

SciFi: I was 23, single, and made more money than I knew what to do with Also, it was Montreal, so the lines are a little more blurry.

Aunt Becky: Please tell me that you bought a large black fist from one of the sex toy shops and allowed someone to beat you about the head with it. Because I really need that mental picture.

SciFi: No, I did not. I never bought anything from the sex shops, and the one time I ventured into one, I was drunk. So I remember little.

Aunt Becky: Okay, so I’m going to pretend that the answer is yes. Because you don’t remember.

SciFi: OK.

Aunt Becky: You’re stuck on a desert island with a choice of either listening to Miley Cyrus or Britney Spears and you have to choose one. Who is it?

SciFi: I drown myself in the water.

Aunt Becky: ….

SciFi: OK fine, if I have to choose, I’d choose Britney, because she looks more slutty in her CD liners.

Aunt Becky: Okay, same desert island. 5 artists that you can have all of their works. Who?

SciFi: The Beatles (because a) they have a HUGE catalog and 2) they are full of awesome)

Aunt Becky: Oh totally.

SciFi: U2 (because I have listened to them since I was in the third grade and love them)

Led Zeppelin (at this point people want to know if I’ll choose something from outside the British Isles)

Nine Inch Nails (and there you go, because I am the god of fuck)


Aunt Becky: Britney Spears?

SciFi: close, but no. Charlie Parker. I play alto sax. For the record, if their catalog was larger, Screaming Trees, Nirvana and Pearl Jam would be there.

Aunt Becky: I had no idea that you could play the sax. Rock the fuck on, yo. How long have you played?

SciFi: I started playing when I was 12, so 23 years

Aunt Becky: That would mean you are counts on fingers

Aunt Becky: (math is hard)

SciFi: 35

Aunt Becky: 7463?

Aunt Becky: I mean, 35? YAY! I was RIGHT!

SciFi: (claps sarcastically)

Aunt Becky: So, with the help of The Daver, I have a Lightening Round for YOU. Transformers or Go-Bots?

SciFi: Transformers

Aunt Becky: Transformers or Voltron?

SciFi: Voltron

Aunt Becky: Which Thundercat is your favorite?

SciFi: Panthro

Aunt Becky: Star Trek or Star Wars?

SciFi: Star Wars

Aunt Becky: Jar Jar Binks: awesome or full of the awful?


Aunt Becky: (duh)

SciFi: more egregious than Ewoks in terms of marketing to kids

Aunt Becky: Yeah, but less midgets were harmed (says the Daver)


Aunt Becky: *wrings hands*

Aunt Becky: Lego Star Wars? Amazing?

SciFi: Beyond amazing.

Aunt Becky: How did you come up with your tattoo? The large one on the top of your blog.

SciFi: it’s actually a western zodiac calendar that I designed myself using AutoCAD (a computer aided drawing program typically used in drafting) and the Wingdings font. I used AutoCAD to make a perfectly spaced 12-point sun and the font has the 12 symbols of the zodiac.

Aunt Becky (looks around nervously): Is it because YOU are the Zodiac Killer?

SciFi: I believe you have something called the fifth amendment in the US?

Aunt Becky: Uh, yes. Let’s pretend I DO NOT KNOW YOU THEN. Because this is the second interview that I might end up dead if I fuck up. How do *I* end up interviewing all of the badasses?

(frantically signs off)


In a case of mistaken identity, I’m sure, I was sent a copy of the new show Men of a Certain Age, and let me tell you, in addition to having a Letter To My Newest Television Husband, Dexter, coming on Monday, this show is my boyfriend. It’s awesome.

The Daver Gets Knocked Up


‘Oh my God, LOOK at this! LOOK at my belly! I have FAT ROLLS up to my arm pit. Have you ever SEEN someone with fat rolls there?’

‘No baby. You look FINE.’

‘If you squeeze my belly button, it looks like a butt.’ (simulates farting noises) ‘That’s fucking disgusting.’

‘You’re weird. Seriously, you look FINE!’

‘LOOK at these rolls! WHO gets rolls like that?’ (pokes belly disgustedly)

(sighs) ‘You look wonderful, sweetie.’

‘NO, I DON’T! I look FAT!’

‘If you don’t stop pissing and moaning about it, I’m going to put a moratorium on you walking around without your shirt.’

‘But YOU distracted me from putting it back on. LOOK, I can’t see my belt! EWWWWW!’

‘You know, if all of your friends could see you right now, NO ONE would have any sympathy for you.’

‘Do YOU have any sympathy for me?’ (sniffs dramatically)

Aunt Becky: ‘Dude, I’m pregnant, what do YOU think?’

The Daver: ‘I’m fatter than you and YOU’RE pregnant! LOOK my belly is BIGGER THAN YOURS’

Aunt Becky: ‘You know full well that I’ve lost weight.’

(interrupts) ‘And now you’re skinnier than me!’

Aunt Becky: ‘But I’m going to put it right back on soon.’

The Daver: ‘And I’m STILL gonna be fatter than you!’

(buries head in hands)

Aunt Becky: ‘I cannot believe I’m having this conversation. I suddenly understand men everywhere in a whole new way.’

The Daver: ‘I’m gonna go take a BUBBLE BATH! I’m too upset to deal with you right now.’

(flounces off upstairs.)

Daddy’s Little Girl Loves Disco


I make it no secret that almost no one appreciates my musical tastes, aside from possibly 13 year old girls and aging homosexuals. The last CD I bought was strategically placed into the cart, which was then taken to the checkout aisle, wherein I disappeared into the bathroom leaving my tender husband and 5-year old to pay for it.

Justin Timberlake done BROUGHT Sexyback.

Aunt Becky: ‘I totally need to get into more disco.’

The Daver: ‘Oh NO.’

Aunt Becky: ‘What the hell is wrong with disco? It’s cheerful and doesn’t evoke thoughts of suicide like *someone’s* music.’


Aunt Becky: ‘I mean, come ON! I love that ‘Electric Avenue’ song. You were serenading me with it earlier!’

The Daver: ‘That’s not disco!’

Aunt Becky: ‘Of COURSE it is! What else could it be?’

The Daver: ‘I think it’s reggae.’

Aunt Becky: ‘That can’t be reggae. It’s too ludicrous. (singing) ‘We’re gonna rock down to Electric Avenue”

The Daver: ‘That song is NOT ludicrous. It’s a GREAT song.’

Aunt Becky: ‘No doubt. But it’s INSANE. What the fuck is Electric Avenue?’

The Daver: ‘Don’t you DARE mock that song. It’s amazing!’

Aunt Becky ‘How can I NOT mock it, Dave?’

The Daver: ‘It’s an amazing song.’

Aunt Becky: ‘Are you fucking with me? That song is almost as bad as ‘Disco Duck’ which was in my head all of last week.’

The Daver: ‘I’m no longer speaking to you.’

Aunt Becky: “You no longer have any room to mock my Britney collection.”

The Daver: “I hate you.”

Aunt Becky: “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

My Place Is Anywhere I Make It, Asshole


I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am FAR more concerned about my needs.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when The Daver walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidentally microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that The Daver does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?


*wipes tears from eyes*


Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until The Daver stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

The Daver and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘the cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.



That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.


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