Aunt Becky: “You can trust me because I have CREDENTIALS!”

Ben (my friend, not my son): “So WHAT are your credentials?”

Aunt Becky: “I have a DIPLOMA!”

Ben: “You do not.”

Aunt Becky: “I do! I didn’t even make it on dot matrix paper!”

Ben: “Who made it for you?”

Aunt Becky: “Um…”

(looks at hands)

Aunt Becky: “Me.”

Ben: “You made your own diploma?”

Aunt Becky (proudly) “On NON dot matrix paper. It’s purdy.”

Ben: “Does it have unicorns?”

Aunt Becky: “On roller blades. It’s wicked.”

Ben: “Is it in Sharpie?”

Aunt Becky: “PINK Sharpie.”

Ben (laughs): “Figured.”

Ben:

Aunt Becky:

The truth, I suppose, is somewhere in the middle.

Expert Photoshopping done by Rachel.

Despite the fact that Twix had sent me 70 (70!) candy bars to “make my house the coolest on the block” (which, I have to add, is much cooler than the 3 Wolf Moon decals on my windows)(lie), I decided at 2PM – a mere hour before my children descended upon me – that we must! get! more! candy!

I’m going to blame the ten pounds of candy I went out to buy on my fever – not from more cowbell – but from my mysterious Oregon Trail disease.

(also: anyone want to come over and eat ten pounds of candy?)

By the time we got home, sweaty, feverish and hallucinating, it was nearly time for the crotch parasites to descend upon us in a whirling Halloween snowball of excitement. I realized it was probably in my own best interest to pull out the costumes and get them ready for the kids to whirl into.

So I trundled around the house, sweating on everything as I looked for Alex’s Halloween costume. He decided that he was going to recycle last year’s costume, because obviously.

See also:

The world’s manliest butterfly. Or Flutterbye. Whatever.

I found everything but the shirt, which is a fucking Halloween miracle.

That done, I figured it was time to get the costumes we HAD bought for the other two out of the bag and ready to be thrown on. I grabbed the costumes, as I reached for my camera and noticed that something smelled….funny. Like dank, dark, basement mildewy gross.

I assumed it was probably my Mysterious Oregon Trail Disease and continued trying to figure out how to turn on my DS-LR.

But…what WAS that smell?

After I’d managed to take the lens cap off – a good hour later – I grabbed the costumes from the bags and realized, much to my horror, that there was PEE on on them. CAT PEE.

In an unrelated note: anyone want four cats? They’re VERY well behaved.

Both the small one and the big one had cat whiz on their costumes. Shitballs.

Frantically, we threw them under the sink, trying to get the SMELL out of the costumes before the kids got home and freaked the fuck out. Which, I couldn’t blame them for. I mean, EW.

T-Minus five minutes found us trying to dry off the costumes with a hair dryer, making my kitchen smell delightfully like a tantalizing mixture of frying cat pee and burning plastic. Thankfully, the kids didn’t notice.

The small one – who picked out her OWN costume, thankyouverymuch – this year:

Rocket Grrrrrrl.

And while some parents may want their kids to grow up to become doctors, lawyers, or business executives, I couldn’t be prouder that my son chose one thing – the ONE thing – I’d always wanted him to be.

Like mother:

Like son:

*happy sigh*

If you came to my door last night, you saw this:

And probably died a little inside. I know I did.

I wore a blue shirt and pretended to be The Twitter Fail Whale.

However, I failed. I failed at failing.

My life is at an all time high.

Remember how awesome Oregon Trail was when you were a kid?

I do.

I’d purposefully name my banker and his mess of kids after people I hated and deliberately kill them by being all, “YEAH, FORGE THAT RIVER NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. SEE IF YOU CAN AFTER I’VE OVERLOADED YOUR BAGS.”

Then they’d drown or die of Typhus or something equally glamorous while I rubbed my small hands together, cackling evilly.

What? Don’t tell me you didn’t do it too.

Now I’m old and I bought the Oregon Trail app for my iPhone (it may be the only app besides Cat Paint I actually used) and was still all, “VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE! MINE!” until I realized that the game sucked. Like, I don’t know if it sucked so hard when we were kids but now? It blows ass. No one dies. No one gets mysterious diseases. No one can be easily drown in the river. Especially not computer people you’ve named after people you hate (see also: Starbucks Lady).

I don’t even think there are yaks in that game. And without yaks, what the fuck good IS it?

(answer: a hot pile of bullshit)

I was pretty mopey after I realized how much the game sucked now.

Just like I’m mopey at this particular moment because I woke up sick. Again. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, first let me give you my deepest apologies. Then, I will remind you that every other week I am sick.

You’re probably all, “Yo, AB, stop licking toilets and shit, and you’ll feel better!” and you’d be right. Except that I’ve never licked a toilet NOT EVEN ON A BET (which is saying a lot)(I love a good bet).

It turns out that some of us (read: me) have shitty immune systems. I have since I was a baby. And considering my mother was on Lithium while she got pregnant with me, I think that I got off pretty easy. I mean, that shit is HARDCORE.

Doesn’t make having to explain to people that “yes, in fact, I am sick again. Also: you can call me Typhoid Aunt Becky if you want to. Also also: send presents” any better. Why? Because people are like ‘HOLY FUCKBALLS, ARE YOU EATING POO OR SOMETHING?”

Which. Um. No. Ew.

But it makes me wish I could tell someone I was suffering from malaria or glandular fever or something more glamorous than being like “I Haz A Virus.” Then, at least, I’d have an excuse to feel like I’ve been run over by a truck ON MY FAVORITE FUCKING HOLIDAY. Then, I could mope around the house WITH REASON and moan histrionically because I had a glamorous Oregon Trail Disease.

Instead, I’m just going to ice my eyeballs and see if I can disable the doorbell so I don’t cry each time it rings tonight. Which, since I’m giving out big ass Twix bars (thank YOU, Twix) should be often.

But fuck, I wish I had one of those Oregon Trail Diseases.

Dear Aunt Becky,

So here’s the problem.  I’ve been writing a blog for a few years now. It has a decent following, with regular commenters. My issue is that one of my commenters is going overboard.  In a bad way.  Everything I say, she feels the need to one-up. Her comments are often longer than my posts.  And they are all about her.  It’s as if she’s writing a blog–she’s just using MY blog to do it.

Now, I don’t much care.  I ignore the comments.  Whatever–I’m busy and don’t have a ton of time for junk like this. The problem is that my readers REGULARLY email me and tell me they want to punch her in the face.  That’s a direct quote.  “I want to punch her in the face.”  They want me to call her out on her inappropriate behavior.  I’ve had readers tell me that they feel like they don’t want to read my blog anymore and they don’t want to leave a comment because of this woman.

So. . .what do I do?  I am embarrassed for her.  I feel bad that everyone is talking about her.  And I’m at the point where I’m frustrated that she can’t realize how inappropriate she’s being.  She’s a grown-ass woman, acting like an obnoxious pre-teen.  But I don’t know what to do without offending her.

Waiting for you to weigh in.

Signed,
Embarrassed For Her

Oh Prankster, that woman sounds like a tool. But, it’s the Internet and tools abound (see also: Mommy Wants Vodka).

The answer isn’t that simple, either. You can:

1) Email her privately and politely ask her to stop leaving such comments (I don’t know the context of these comments, so I cannot speak to how obnoxious or inappropriate they are).

Pros: make yourself look like less of an ass.

Cons: she’s bound to take it the wrong way. Why? Because from your question, she sounds like quite a crotch rocket.

2) Publicly oust her on your blog.

Pros: your readers can join in and help drive the point home.

Cons: You look like an asshole and possibly scare off OTHERS who may want to comment on your blog.

3) Let your readers take care of her.

Pros: You don’t have to do anything to look like an ass.

Cons: She may troll your readers.

4) Block her IP address and/or delete comments.

Pros: You don’t have to really DO anything.

Cons: She may not realize what a crotch rocket she is.

What would *I* do? I’d delete the comments. This isn’t to say that I regularly do (although my somewhat overzealous spam filter does), but I’m not a firm believer in anonymous internet dickwads having the right to fling shit all over my blog. Period.

Let us know what you decide.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I work in a typical office setting with people working in cubicals where you can hear everything everyone does: talking on the phone, clipping nails, ovulating, etc.  It’s just part of life and you get through it through by making silently disgusted faces with your office friends after someone hacks up a lung down the hall.  And by drinking.  That’s the background.  

Now we have someone who sits by the lunch room door and is suddenly very disturbed by all the talking and chewing sounds going on in here that he wants the door to be closed at all time, no matter what.  Apparently the hum of the vending machines is irritating the voices in his head.  

Having this door closed is a MAJOR inconvenience since it requires me to exert energy.  Not to mention nearly impossible if my hands are full carrying in my Hungry Man dinners.  Plus I hate him and don’t want to comply.  He has become the Lunch Room Door Hall Monitor and is up and out of his seat to close the door at the slightest level of ajarness.  

I would guess his work productively has taken a nose dive – but who cares about that.  I am a cordial type and begrudgingly close the door, but leave it open if it’s to just to do something quick, like wash an apple and then close it on my way out.  This is tantamount to mutiny and I have an appt with my parole officer next week for this grievance.  

It’s ridunk.  

I never say that, so you know I’m serious.  I’ve actually mentioned that it’s getting out of control to the highest of ups here and assumed they would agree with me.  Nope.  They say we need to keep the door closed.  For this ONE person, where the whole rest of the building could give a rip and hate it.  He’s getting combative and aggressive about his door patrols and I SO BADLY want to NOT close it or SLAM! it, but sadly that would be unbecoming.  

WHAT TO DO?  

(besides submit the idea to The Office).  

Thanks so much.

Well, I need photographic evidence of this guy. Like, I want a video of this guy being The Door Guy.

Then, I’d suggest a slow, subtle drip-drip method of annoyance. In no particular order:

1) Rip ass as you are walking past his cubicle. Every. Single. Time. If you have no extra flatulence, buy the Fart O Matic app from the iPhone store. It’s beyond awesome.

2) Whenever walking past his cube, make sure to make some really obnoxious noise. I’m talking an AAHHHHHHHH as you drink your soda. A MMMMMMMM as you inhale your undoubtedly delicious Hungry Man dinner. A SNOOOOOOORT as you breathe in. Really, there’s no end of it.

3) Insist that he get the door for you, every time. Make up reasons. Beg that he shut it, too. Just give him the AW SHUCKS face.

4) Give him a tip jar for his desk.

5) Begin storing your personal supplies on his desk. Say, “Oh I’m going to just be a moment.” Then never come back.

Pranksters? Other suggestions for these brilliant question askers?

Jimmy Fucking Wales.

I had to go to the doctor yesterday. Routine stuff, really. No new diagnoses, no new ailments, nothing of the sort, except that I still give good (neck) spasms. Like, the doctor seemed impressed by my neck spasms. Apparently, I excel at neck spasms. Who knew?

But as he was examining me, he noticed my chin.

You’re thinking, what, you give good chin, too, Aunt Becky? What does that even mean?

To which I would say a resounding, “probably not” and “I don’t know.”

I’ve been stuck with this rash on my chin for the past couple of weeks. On any given day, I was convinced it was typhoid, a tick bite, malaria, diphtheria, the bubonic plague, tetanus, or cat scratch fever. To be honest, with everything else that’s been going on, I’ve sorta back-burnered my chin. I mean, I’m pregnant with a FOOD BABY! Everything else comes secondary!

But my doctor looked at my chin and decided it was a “rash.” He didn’t share the TYPE of rash, so I’m assuming it’s face herpes. I mean, that’s the logical guess, right?

(right)

If it’s face herpes, it means that my face has been sleeping around on me. So much so that I now have a new strain of herpes that grows on your chin. It’s like evolution, on my face! Really, it’s a win.

Except, I guess, if you’re my chin.

—————

We’re doing a blog carnival over at Mushroom Printing. You should join us.

—————-

Also: my friend Amy sells Scentsy, if you like that sorta stuff (and I do).

I knew it was bound to happen.

I popped out my crotch parasites well before most of my friends had steady boyfriends (birth control failure FTW!) because I like to win at life. See also: failed birth control.

Once I’d popped out the first crotch parasite, I realized that what I really wanted to do was to pop out more. I’m not saying my logic was failproof or anything (see also: birth control) but I knew I wanted my first kid to have siblings. What can I say? I’m a sentimentalist.

(outright lie)

But I wanted the kid to have siblings, and luckily, he did. Five years later, out popped Alex, and two years after that came Amelia. Which means I have a fuck of a lot of kids, but alas, I digress.

That meant, of course, that I spent my twenties in Fug-Ville. While my friends were out being cute and sexy, I ranged in size from “Is she fat or pregnant” to “that girl looks like Grimace… only not purple.” Postpartum thyroid issues piled even MORE pounds onto my already chunky frame, which lasted approximately until their first birthday. Which = two years of Grimace per baby.

What I’m SAYING, Pranksters, is that I’m a sexy, sexy pregnant woman. You can call me Pregnasaurus Bex if you’d like. I don’t mind.

So now that I’ve gotten done with crotch parasites, I’m returning to the “OMG CUTE CLOTHES” and “UNDERWEAR THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A SHIP’S SAIL” walk of life. Just in time to watch my friends obsess about every little pregnancy symptom or complaint.

I swear to you, Pranksters, everyone I know is gestating. Their Facebook profiles all show blurby ultrasound images of fetuses (fetii?) and updates include all the stats from each doctor’s appointment. It makes me GLAD I’m no longer gestating since my stats would look like:

Weight: *breaks scale*

BP: Non-existent

Measuring: 40 weeks pregnant at 10 weeks.

What Baby Is Doing: Some various state of fruit.

Pretty much, you’d be bored even MORE shitless than you are by my mediocre blog. (my autocorrect wants to change “shitless” to “shirtless” which is actually awesomer.)

However, I feel kinda left out. I mean, I’d rather suck on an icepick than get knocked up again, but still, I want the opportunity to complain about my swollen feet and ginormous rack. Unless I have a Love Child, it ain’t happening.

Luckily, I’m crafty. I came up with a BETTER solution.

Pranksters, let me be the first to announce that I’m having a food baby. His name is Frank.

He’s gonna be a soccer player.

Also: who wants to throw me a baby shower? I can TOTALLY feel him kicking!

Back when I had a regular cell phone, I was all, “Blackberry’s look like talking wallets,” and mocked anyone who ever used one. Because HELLO, WHO TALKS INTO A WALLET? (answer: crazy people, that’s who). Then, I realized I, too, could talk into a wallet, and for the very briefest of time, considered buying a Blackberry, until I realized that I, too, would look like a crazy person.

So I held onto my Dumb Phone and occasionally made calls on it. More often, though, I played Bejeweled.

It wasn’t until Daver decided he needed a second generation iPhone that I realized that I, too, needed one. I wasn’t precisely sure WHY I needed one, but figured I could probably play Bejeweled on a bigger screen (I had a hot pink Razr) which meant that I was most certainly WINNING.

(apologies to Charlie Sheen)

And, if I was stretching, I could say that I was using this Smart Phone to tell me when I’d gone into labor with my daughter – with whom I was heavily pregnant. It was kind of EYE OF THE TIGER.

When I got it home, I marveled at it’s shininess. After all, my Razr was approximately 76372 years old and the screen was half-busted in places, so seeing such a purdy, clean screen was like music to my eyeballs. I promptly imported my email so I could never, ever miss a message about “Increasing Y0ur Pen1$ size,” because, well, obviously: I needed a bigger dick. I was only 787 quintillion million hundred months pregnant, after all.

I waited patiently for the day in which my Smart Phone would tell me I was in labor. I wanted that crotch parasite OUT of me once and for all. And not once, did my Smart Phone say, “Hey, Fuckface, you’re in labor.”

(turns out, I had to be induced, so perhaps my rant is misplaced)

After she was born, though, I hoped that my Smart Phone would be able to say, “Hey Fuckface, the baby’s crying because she’s hungry. Or tired. Or poopy. Or all three.” It didn’t. Not once.

My Smart Phone was officially on notice.

Later, I’d hoped that in addition to being an Angry Birds/Twitter Machine, it would also be able to tell me when I’d forgotten to do something. Like print out boarding passes or pick up my kids from school. Turns out? You have to ENTER that data into some stupid calendar thingy, which is DECIDEDLY not the same as it being SMART.

Then, one day, I tested the fucker out. Was it smart? Was it dumb? Was it a redesigned wallet phone?

So I screamed into it (one never knows if phones are as deaf as my children): “CURE CANCER, MOTHERFUCKER.”

And you know what? It didn’t. It just sat there, blankly, my face reflecting back at me through the smudges on the screen. It didn’t say, “does not compute,” or “you’re an asshole,” or even, “cure it your damn self, Aunt Becky.” No. It just looked at me dumbly, like I hadn’t just given it a task or something.

Fucker.

I’m getting even, though. I’m changing it’s name from “Smart Phone,” to “Angry Birds Machine.”

I suggest you do the same, Pranksters.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Any good books out there re. pregnancy over 40?  Most of what I see deals with fertility and/or doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty (breastfeeding vs. copious sag tit, etc…).  Seriously, would appreciate any advice.  We can dial it down to “over 35,” if that helps.

Regards,
Terry

Pranksters? I have no personal experience, Terry, so I’m going to let my Pranksters take this one.

I wish you the best of luck, mah friend. Tit sag is a BITCH.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Sooo… my older brother has been loud and proud for 15 years and I’ve always been more than supportive of him, having a blast at gay bars, going to dinner with the new flavor of the week, honestly, I don’t care (and never have cared) that he’s gay.

The thing is.. my brother is an asshole.  That’s the part I don’t like.  I’ve offered up my place for him to host parties and come home to find everything broken and condoms everywhere.  Oh and a passport under my bed from a boy I’ve never met who had just turned 18 years old.  Not fucking cool.  So, no more parties.  My brother has no respect for other people.  He’s 32 and lives at my parents place.

Blah blah blah.. it just came to my attention that my brother’s new boyfriend of a few months used to do a lot of gay porn.  I was sent the link.. it’s the new boyfriend.. and well, I mean to each their own, but I’m just not really cool with embracing a man whose images I can’t get out of my head.

No one in the family knows except for me and the family is in love with him.  It looks like he’ll be around for a long time.  And honestly, I don’t even know if my brother knows about his boyfriend’s past.

I have a ton of question for you.. but the main one is, how the hell do I handle this???

Thanks Aunt Becky!

Dear Prankster,

If it seems like this dude is going to be around forever, I’d go ahead and try and remember all those pictures we took in Cancun, that one drunken night, then decided to repost on The Facebook. Not that porn is the same as those stupid photos of my boobs from Cancun, but you get the idear.

I know your brother is an asshole, but perhaps you can take aside his partner and make sure he’s clean. You know, free from The Crotch Rot? Because honestly, that’s the only thing I can really take issue with or worry about. I mean, if he’s still making porn, there’s prolly another discussion to be had.

Other than that, try not to picture that dude getting plowed while you pass the potatoes on Thanksgiving and remember that we all have unsavory bits in our past.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Why the fuck do people wear white shirts and jeans for family portraits? Is there some special meaning or is it just a god-awful trend (using the word trend liberally)? I’m not one for professional portraits (neglectful mom) so the whole idea of any kind matching outfit or let’s-all-look-over-our-shoulders-whilst-at-the-beach is abhorrent to me.

But why THIS particular outfit?  I’ve seen it before, and I’m all MORMON! but now I think it’s a THING.  What is it? (Besides something insignificant that bothers me too much for no reason.  AKA people dipping everything they eat into ranch dressing).

Thank you,
Kristin

Dear Prankster Kristin,

I think that the whole matching white shirt and jeans thing is probably caused by people who are actually being held for ransom by the mafia. Like they’re taking these pictures to send a warning to friends and family, which is why they send YOU a copy (also: me). They’re saying, don’t FUCK with the mob or the MOB will fuck you BACK (by making you wear white shirts and jeans so you “match” your family, just like you’ll wear “matching” cement shoes into the river).

I cannot think of any other good reason for the uncomfortably posed, matching clothes pictures. Really, who goes and sits around a fake fireplace together, giving each other those sappy fucking grins?

PEOPLE BEING HELD AT GUNPOINT, THAT’S WHO.

Pranksters, any better idears?

—————–

As always, Pranksters, please submit your questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky and you, too, may receive a totally pointless response from me.

Today, Pranksters, I bring you a post from a good friend of mine. He’s asked to remain anonymous, but his story, of course, I wanted to share with you, so you can send him some love.

Much Love,

AB

I’ve always known that I had a problem with infertility. One of the advantages of being a boy is that there are particular things that happen when you’re gleefully getting your rocks off, and if they don’t happen, well, then ain’t nobody having a baby. Pretty simple equation, really. There have been a few times in my life where it all came together, the stars were in the right alignment, and everything worked, but those have been few and far between.

You can imagine my surprise when the love of my life came to me last week and told me that she was late. Now, there are a lot of potential explanations for that one. We’d both been under a lot of stress lately, which I know can take its toll. So, I waited patiently until she was definitely running late and decided that it was probably no big deal.

She came to me the next morning and showed me two lines. The first line was obviously there, bold as brass, practically screaming “YEP, YOU PEED ON ME!” The second was fainter, not as clear, but very definitely a line. It ran from the top to the bottom of the window, and got more solid as I watched it. Under ordinary circumstances my first thought would have been, “When on earth did you have time to slip on in on me?” This woman though, she’s never lied to me, never hurt me, never betrayed my trust even on something as simple as how I like my bagels toasted.

I was thrilled beyond words. I actually picked her up off the ground hugging her, and would have swung her around in a circle if we hadn’t been standing in an enclosed space. She made me feel the little bump that was already apparent to the touch, told me about the weird food cravings she’d been starting to have, and finally told me about how her clothes had started fitting a little bit differently the last week. Apparently she’d known a good week before circumstances forced her to pee on something.

In the matter of days, I’d already thought of all the things that were going to have to happen to get us ready to have a baby. The clothes, the room, the extra cash flow, the people we’d have to tell. I knew we were having a girl, somewhere deep in my heart, and I’d already seen the day that I first held her in my arms and stared into her beautiful eyes. Like her mother’s, they’d bore right into me like I was transparent. Like her mother, she’d wrap me around her little finger in four seconds flat. We told a few people who were really excited for us, figured we would tell other people as we saw them.

Five days ago, she had an early-term miscarriage. We talked it through, and we knew that things could have been better timed for us to bring a child into the world. That this was sad, but not devastating. This was better happening now than a few months later, and most definitely it just meant that something was wrong with the pregnancy and the body was taking care of it. I got a text message from a good friend later that day with a picture of a onesie, black with little skull and crossbones all over it. She said she’d picked it up for us because it was awesome. I got the message in public, while running errands, and it was all I could do not to break down and cry in the middle of the store.

Because I know that this was the best way for it to happen, if we were going to have to have a miscarriage. It had barely developed at all, we hadn’t told everyone we knew, we knew we’d have another chance later for another. Because of all that, I knew that it was the best way for this to happen. That doesn’t take away though, that I lost something last week. I lost not just the pregnancy that we were both excited about and happy to have, but also Possibility. Nights spent watching movies curled up on the couch, and days making cupcakes, and even afternoons spent taking care of a child when they’re sick.

All the possibilities of a lifetime, all burned out in an instant, like a matchstick being blown out in the wind. That’s why I finally broke down last night and cried about it. I feel better now than I did yesterday, and I’ll feel even better tomorrow, but the thing I mourn the most is all the things that could have been. I’d had all the love in the world, and I never even got to say so.

So today I’ll tell you. I loved a child that could have been, and I loved it hard. I was born to be a daddy, and I’d have showed this child all the things that are beautiful in this world. Tomorrow, I’ll think about trying again, but today I’m sorry that I never got to tell it so.