Dear Aunt Becky,

I gave birth to the most wonderful baby boy – my first kid – several weeks ago and am in absolutely in love. However, I was I labor with him for 36 long and insanely painful hours that finally ended in a c-section, after which he was taken to the NICU for so something which has now been thankfully resolved. During my stay in the hospital, he was fed formula and I was so drugged up on painkillers that I was unable to start breastfeeding right away. He never really got the hang of breastfeeding and I decided to pump and supplement with formula, because really, kid’s gotta eat and hi, screaming baby biting at your nipple? Not pleasant. Of course, in the interim, my dad got sick, and I’ve been taking care of his business as well as working at my own job. , I started losing all hours of sleep and I haven’t pumped for a while now.

My son is now eating nothing but formula and I’m getting nothing but criticism for abandoning all efforts to breastfeed. I would love to…but I’m gonna have to split myself in two or five. I feel terrible, nevertheless. I want to provide my own milk for him and give him the immunity and benefits of breastmilk and all that good stuff. What say you? Am I a bad mom? I feel like I suck for just throwing the formula his way.

No. You’re not a bad mom AT ALL. HEAR ME? YOU ARE NOT A BAD MOM AT ALL. Don’t you DARE let a single person let you feel like shit about it because until they’ve walked a mile with your tits, they don’t have the space to judge you. And if they do? SEND THEM TO ME.

Sometimes? BREASTFEEDING DOESN’T WORK OUT AND THAT IS OKAY. You’re not feeding your kid apple juice or vodka or Diet Coke so you’re fine. Please, give yourself a break on this one. You’re one person and dealing with feeding issues on top of the stress of life PLUS a new baby? So. Not. Worth. It.

Want to step into the Way Back Machine With Aunt Becky?

I had every intention of breastfeeding my first son, Ben. Bought all the gear including the ugly ass nursing covers they made and when he was born? He was having NONE of it. I had no C-section, no sick mom or dad. I tried to feed him and he refused to latch on every time I tried. I do mean every time.

I tried SNS, the nipple shields, skin to skin, lactation specialists, I was bullied, I was shamed, I pumped and eventually? I said FUCK THIS and gave the kid formula. Because mealtime would end with us both in tears. Not. Worth. It. Ben was a colicky horrible baby and I didn’t need the extra stress.

I went on to nurse Alex and Amelia who had no problems (turns out that Ben had sensory issues) after feeling like a failure for five long years. I was ashamed of my inability to nurse my kid, which was “supposed to be” so easy. Well, it wasn’t.

What I’m saying here is this: you matter too, sweetie. Your son will love you every bit as much if you give him formula because he’s a baby. They’re love buckets. That’s what they do. And people are going to judge you for the breastfeeding thing because people are fucking assholes. They’ll judge ALL of your parenting choices, but the breastfeeding one is particularly annoying.

My advice to you is to try and NOT MENTION IT if people ask. Make a joke about feeding him steak or something and try and deflect it. If they persist, remind them that it’s REALLY none of their business and if they still persist, ask them how much they weigh. It’s none of their fucking business. It simply isn’t. That’s between you and your son. That’s it.

You’re doing a great job. That little boy is thriving and that’s all that matters. Take care of yourself, okay?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’d like to know how to handle my Hitler-esque husband when it comes to watching programs we DVR.

You see, we have a toddler and cannot watch the shows we like when he’s around due to either bad content or the extreme guilt that The Man puts on us for rotting his brain. So, we DVR.

After he is blissfully sleeping, we trudge to the basement to indulge and that’s when it happens. It doesn’t matter what or how many backed up episodes I have, we will watch whatever he wants.

I mean, really. What can I do? Sometimes I just want to watch a cake challenge instead of someone in a motorcycle club get brutally beaten. Am I asking for too much?

Signed,
Not Hailing to My Hitler

First off, Gentle Reader, you have a DVR? I am VERY jealous right now because, you see, Aunt Becky lives in The Dark Ages and has no DVR. She is lustful after yours.

*lust*

*lust*

*lust*

Anyway.

What I would do, my televisionally controlled friend, is to insist that a certain portion of the night be Your Part Of The Night. Because I’m sure that just as you hate the Motorcycle Gang beating each other, he hates the Ace Of Cakes or Biggest Loser Marathon (side note, be sure to eat cake while WATCHING Biggest Loser because it burns more calories if YOU are on a diet, FYI).

But he needs to compromise. I personally would rather gouge out my eyeballs with a spork than have to watch Star Trek and I’m pretty sure The Daver would rather eat his own vomit than be forced to watch reruns of Sex In The City, so we simply go our separate ways when we want to watch these things.

Otherwise, the heavy dramatic “I HATE that you’re making me watch this” sighing would never end. Ah, TRUE LOVE.

So a friend of mine at school and I are both graduating around the same time with similar degrees and we’re looking for jobs. She applied at a company for position X. Two weeks later a new position Y opened up and I applied. I let her know that I applied to the company for position Y and NOT position X. Although she claims that everything is a-ok, it is clearly not. She’s acting different and generally being very cool towards me. I feel that I didn’t do anything wrong, because I didn’t apply for the same job and I told her that I did it (didn’t try to hide it from her). I know I can’t change her reaction, but here is my question for you Aunt Becky.

How can I stop dwelling on the fact that she’s mad at me (but unwilling to admit it)? Any advice on how to let it go? She is (was?) a good friend, and I miss chatting with her. Help.

It looks like your friend is pulling a “Melissa.”

Let me explain the term. Melissa was a friend of mine from nursing school and one day she mentioned that there was these positions opening up at a hospital. Eagerly, I asked her for the HR information, figuring that, like I would, why not pass along the info to a friend? I knew she was going for it, but there were a couple positions because the hospital is a pretty big place.

She never did.

When I asked her about it (because I am oblivious) she ignored me. Obviously, she had no obligation to help me, but I couldn’t fathom why she wouldn’t help a friend.

Same way I can’t imagine why your friend could possibly be upset with you, except that she’s insecure about herself and afraid that you’re going to eclipse her and somehow take her position. It’s really stupid, but I’d be willing to guess that your friend is threatened and/or jealous of you.

I’m sorry, but this is clearly because you are full of The Awesome.

Good luck. I hope that you get the job.

——————–

As always, my Gentle Readers, please feel free to fill in where I left off, although I must insist that you do not berate my first guest for her choice to formula feed. Like I said in my response, you may take it up with ME, but not her. I’ve had years to make my peace with my decisions. She needs some good lovin’.

If you’d like to see some places I’ve been:

I’m over here at Skirt! with an column about finding yourself.

I’m here at Sodahead talking about Preppers, who are people preparing for The Worst, and here where I’ve posed a question about online support groups and whether they have an obligation to help.

Proving that I am a creature of habit, I couldn’t let the year end without completely my one and only meme. For past experiences, go here: 2008 here, 2007 here, 2006 here. The rest I believe have been lost somewhere. Probably for the better, eh?

1. What did you do in 2009 that you’d never done before?

I got myself a daughter, I watched my daughter go under the knife and defy all odds while I’ve struggled with some serious PTSD.

I’ve sent my second book proposal out with my agents and decided to incorporate and expand my freelancing career.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I’ve decided that I’ve put my own life on hold for long enough and that 2010 will be the year that I bring Aunt Becky back. Period. What that means is sort a nebulous “eh.” A constellation of things I’ll do.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes. I had a baby. So did a lot of people that I love.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Yes.

5. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?

An Empire and a discernible waistline.

6. What countries did you visit?

Unless you count my head, none.

7. What date from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

January 28, my daughter’s birthday. February 26, the day she had her surgery to fix her neural tube defect.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I’ve successfully decided what I want to be when I grow up. An heiress.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I clogged the kitchen sink.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Shockingly, few.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

My iPhone is pretty fucking awesome.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

I’d have to go with Mimi’s, who kicked BRAIN SURGERY in the balls. I mean, how much cooler can you be?

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Okay, this one I can’t answer because it’s mean. If I answer it honestly, I’ll get bitches on my back, and if I don’t, I mean, okay, let’s go with, uh, OH LOOK A CUDDLY KITTY!

14. Where did most of your money go?

Diapers and pink frilly things.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

I got excited when I figured out what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life.

16. What song will always remind you of 2009?

Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”

(if you haven’t heard it, you really, REALLY should give it a listen. It’s gorgeous)

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? Happier. Much.

ii. thinner or fatter? Thinner.

iii. richer or poorer? Richer.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Noming on baby toes.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Crying. Because I am very ugly when I cry and I pour buckets of boogies out of my head and really, you’re welcome for that mental picture.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

This is awkward. Christmas is over, Meme. Perhaps you should GET WITH THE PROGRAM.

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question here, then. Hmmm.

Name one random thing that people would be surprised to know about you.

I am a (former) concert cellist. I know. Who the fuck knew?

22. Did you fall in love in 2009?

Only with myself.

23. How many one-night stands?

If you could my Husbands From Television, probably like 4,129.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Glee! And House! And Dexter! And…uh. What else?

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

This seems awfully loaded, doesn’t it? I’m going to go with yes. And then, no.

26. What was the best book you read?

US Weekly.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Glee! I’m a sucker for pop music and a capella groups.

28. What did you want and get?

A direction in life. Also, Hello Kitty Sushi!

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

Pan’s Labyrinth. I’m saying this because I seriously cannot remember seeing a movie this year.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 29 this year. I celebrated by… *scratches head*

……

Apparently it was very exciting. So exciting that I can’t remember.

OH WAIT. THAT’S RIGHT. I bought myself a vibrator. That’s really boring. And of course, it’s a crappy vibrator because I cheaped out on it. BAD CALL.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

More cowbell. Definitely more cowbell.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?

*sniff, sniff* IS THIS CLEAN? *sniff, sniff* CLOSE ENOUGH.

34. What kept you sane?

My Internet. Thank you, my friends.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I dunno. I normally answer with Britney Spears, and I guess that’s probably my answer again.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

Shaken or stirred? GET IT? Bwahahahaha! I don’t go political. You should KNOW that, Meme, because we’ve been together since 2005. Which, CREEPY.

37. Whom did you miss?

I still miss my friend Stef, who died in 2007, every. single. day.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

My cadre of Virtual Internet Pimps.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009:

When someone tells you that you can’t do something, the very best thing to do is to prove them gleefully wrong.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”

–Leonard Cohen, “Hallelujah”

So the rest of the meme calls for tagging, which I don’t do because I’m not A List person, so rather than tag you, I’m going to tag YOU to answer this meme on your blog OR in the comments.

“Now my friends are wearing worried smiles, living out a dream of what they was.

Don’t you think it’s sometimes wise not to grow up?”

–Rolling Stones, 100 Years Ago

In terms of blogging years, I’m practically a geriatric and I often have to stop myself from being all “IN MY DAY, BLOGGERS WERE HONEST AND DIDN’T EXPECT…” so I can safely say things like, “normally in my New Years wrap-up posts I say something about how happy I am to kiss the year goodbye” because I’ve had enough of them to choose from.

This morning, I sat here trying to figure out what I wanted to do for my New Years post because it felt weird to not mention that today is the last day of 2009. Normally I do the only meme that I ever do, but today it just didn’t feel right. Then I thought about doing a year-in-review-through-posts and that didn’t sum it all up either because seriously? January and February alone could have each had 10 or so links to posts.

So instead, I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest about my year.

2009 was not the worst year of my life. I don’t know how a year that started by bringing my last child, my daughter Amelia Grace Sherrick Harks, into this world could possibly be a bad one. I was so proud to finally have a daughter and nearly a year later, I am still so proud to have a daughter that even as I type this, my eyes fill with tears.

She was born with an undiagnosed neural tube defect, yes, an encephalocele and I very much feared that I’d birthed her only to send her in for neurosurgery to sacrifice her on the operating table, but would I have traded those three weeks with her? No. Even if she’d passed, I wouldn’t have traded those minutes with her. She’s my daughter.

Amelia, all 8 pounds of her didn’t pass on the table and she’s gone on to beat all of the odds of her grim diagnosis and has proved to me that just because someone tells you that you shouldn’t be able to do something, doesn’t mean that you can’t. It’s a lesson we all could stand to remember now and again.

While Amelia has thrived and continued to place at or above level for every single test that she’s been given, I’ve sort of managed to tread water this year managing to keep my head mostly above water. Lately, I’ve been drinking gasoline to keep warm.

I’m not sure it’s working.

I was diagnosed with PTSD stemming from her traumatic birth and I don’t know if it’s that, or PPD or some other weird acronym, but I’m not sleeping well or eating well, and some nights I manage fight off the demons and others, I’m slain by them.

But I’m hopeful. I’ve been here before and I’ve always managed to claw my way back out of the hole and into the light again.

So I approach 2010 full of renewed hope for the future, because no matter how full of the darkness I feel, I can feel the light on my face and I know it’s all around me. Soon it will be within me.

I am hopeful.

I have hope.

Happy New Year.

Besides, “how does Dave put up with you*?” and “would you describe yourself as more achingly or hauntingly beautiful**?” people are always interested to know why the fuck I call myself Aunt Becky.

Because I am Your Aunt Becky. I adopted you. Sorry about that. The upside is, the Internet is a large place and it’s entirely likely that I WON’T show up on your doorstep on Thanksgiving in a festive Christmas Sweater, reeking of vodka and vomit, demanding that you cook me some motherfucking stuffing because I have other nieces and nephews to annoy. The downside is that I might.

There’s plenty of Aunt Becky to go around.

But I wasn’t ALWAYS Aunt Becky. Before I was Aunt Becky, I was Stimpy on my old blog, Mushroom Printing, when I could remember to be all cloak-and-daggery about my name. Pashmina, who I talk about here as my college roommate and the person I humiliated with the Butt Sex Check, was Ren.

When I moved here, I was just Becky. Because it’s my name and it’s full of The Awesome the way it lilts off the tongue, you know? Anyway.

Proving my theory that people with half a brain can pick any-fucking-thing to be incensed about, one day I was commenting on a friend’s blog and I saw someone else named Becky. Well, I thought to myself. Her parents were obviously very smart for naming her that. She must be a rocket scientist with a name like that!

Skimming the comment left by my new friend–I already had our slumber parties planned out because we just HAD to be friends–I sighed when I realized that she couldn’t spell to save herself and her grammar appeared to have been pecked out by a blind mole rat, but I decided that in the name of our friendship, I’d forage onward!

Several days later, revisiting the blog of our mutual friend, I happily checked the comments to see if my new BFF had commented, eager to see if she’d seen that she had a friend in me! I was shocked to note that where the space for “name” had been previous filled with “Becky” it now said “THE REAL BECKY” and the comment made hideous references to an IMPOSTOR BECKY.

Then she had the audacity to make some snide remarks about me and the “cussing” on my blog and how tasteless I was!

Oh HELL NO Becky, oh HELL NO you didn’t. For your information, I do not “cuss,” I fucking swear. I will be put down by someone who can spell without the aid of a spell checker, and I will happily correct my own grammar with a motherfucking SMILE on my motherfucking face when it’s pointed out tactfully to me, but I will NOT be put in my place by someone who accuses me of PRETENDING to be some toothless mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, slack-jawed yokel who happens to go by the 22nd most popular name of 1980. The year I was born.

Fucking bitch probably collected Precious Moments dolls.

Like I’d MAKE UP MY NAME OR SOMETHING.

What, you want proof or something?

No, I am not cross-eyed. It’s the water damage distorting the view of my AWESOMENESS. And no, no one had just threatened to kill me if I smiled. SHOCKING.

Maybe I was just remembering my earlier years. Like this one:

When my parents had BRUTALLY made me pose in front of a bear like that. Look at the mock terror on my toddler face!

Or maybe I was thinking about this:

The time when I was left with the creepy guy who I wanted to get away from.

(he was actually my dad, and I was TRYING to get into the greenhouse)

Anyway.

So, I figured that I’d have a couple of different personas for my blog and change them around depending on my mood. I’d be Smoove B one day, Aunt Becky for a week and The Notorious BEX the next. Sometimes, I’d just be Becky, As Herself. Or Becky, In Real Life.

Well, guess which one stuck? (hint: it’s not The Daver) Can’t be all bad. Especially since it means that I’ll never have to cook for the holidays ever again.

Are you a nickname person on The Internet? Do you go by something else on your blog other than your real name? How did you come up with your nickname? Also, should I cock-punch The Other Becky***?

—————

*Bad karma in a past life OBVIOUSLY

*Why have OR when you can have AND?

***I swear on all that I am that I am not lying. If I could find the blog, I’d show you the comment but I never went back because I knew my head would explode.

I’m sitting there, ass glued firmly to the couch cushions, television on for background noise, baby happily babbling in his Exersaucer, and all of a sudden a female voice breaks into my thoughts:

“I have genital herpes” she confesses to me.

The camera pans to her partner, “and I don’t” he confidently informs us.

The commercial goes on and on while I sit there completely horrified, jaw gently grazing the cat-hair covered carpet. Why, oh why do I need to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to erase that image from my already addled mind?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that we need to pretend like STD’s don’t happen by shushing it up (Lord knows Aunt Becky has seen more STD’s than you have.)(Because I’m a NURSE, you pervert!) and shaming those who have them into institutions or anything, not at all. Hell, plenty of people have them, live with them, while others have managed to barely dodge that bullet, and I don’t think that it’s something to be ashamed about.

I just don’t need my Oprah interrupted by having to hear about and subsequently imagine sores on your flipping meat curtains.

Before you flog me for being insensitive to those who have herpes, let me assure you I also don’t really care to have my day interrupted by ads promising to rid me of that pesky yeasty discharge, freshen up the old curtains with a vinegar douche, or make sure I don’t piss myself in public anymore.

*ahem*

I kid, I kid.

I’m not going to pretend I haven’t dealt with some delicate conditions of my privates over the years. Hell, I’ve even gleefully documented When Monistat Attacks, went to the hospital after I peed my pants, TWICE but none of these things have put me on your television set. Sure, I talk about these delicate conditions on my blog, but I assure you that no one from Depends, Valtrex, or generic Monistat is paying me a single dime for writing this. In fact, I’m almost certain they’d pay me NOT to write this.

Alas, I digress.

But seriously, could we PLEASE put a ban on having to watch people talk about the state of their junk on television? Because OBVIOUSLY.

So dish, The Internet. What would YOU ban (besides Your Aunt Becky from polluting The Internet, because have you HEARD of a PEN NAME?)?

*Lest you think I’m a complete ass, I also cannot watch the ASPCA ones with the sad music in them because I cry. every. time. and then I want to adopt all the animals on the planet, even though my dog, Auggie, eats poo and there’s very little grosser than a dog that eats poo so WHY would I want another dog that might eat poo? (answer: I wouldn’t)

—————

Other places you’ll find Your Aunt Becky today if you care to look (also, I am humping all of you who have visited me elsewhere. THANK YOU.)

I’m discussing my New Years Resolution over at Toy With Me, and while it’s not one of my racier posts, it’s one I’m particularly proud of because it’s honest and real and true and sometimes that’s what matters.

At my SodaHead gig, I’ve named 2009 as the Year of the…

Lastly, at Skirt! it’s not the damn kids on my lawn or my collection of 8-tracks that have made me realize that I’ve gotten old and crusty. Nope, it’s BLOGGING.

My attempts to break into the artistic field included a rather pathetically rendered Easter Egg coloring contest that I was told that “I won” only to then be told when I went to claim my prize “WHOOPS, PSYCH! You didn’t!” and something I liked to call “donuts floating in pee” during my high school years (it was a still life). I may have many talents, like be able to properly blow spit bubbles, but being artistic is not one of them.

So, when I couldn’t find the proper phoenix tattoo years ago, I gave up and waited until I could. I certainly wasn’t going to draw it and because I really didn’t know what I wanted, I didn’t know anyone else who could do what I wanted, either. Last I checked, artists weren’t really mind readers.

Imagine my shock when I lazily googled “phoenix” last week, and this popped up (I can’t manage to resize it, sorry):

What makes it weird is that my old design, Notepad Chaos, was based on this design, from Web Designer Wall, which was created by Nick La, who made this design. It seems an odd bit of synchronicity to me. The Internet is a big place and to randomly come across this is just…

Anyway.

My friend, WhyIsDaddyCryin on Twitter recommended a local tattoo artist in Chicago who normally books out 3 months in advance who just happened to have an appointment on Sunday available. Trust me, I was more excited about this than I was about Christmas. Probably because it didn’t involve tearing apart more fucking twist ties and I could sit still without having to get anyone anything for more than 5 minutes at a time.

This is Step 1.

No, I am not that yellow.

See, I’m much more pasty than yellow.

My phoenix. I couldn’t be any happier if it were all done and I wasn’t in pain.

It took an hour and a half of sitting in really odd positions to get this done and it goes most of the way down my back which is MUCH BIGGER than I’d figured that I’d get. But it looks fabulous. Only now I’m all, it needs to have something on the OTHER SIDE to balance it out. What, I don’t know, but something.

And honestly, after the foot tattoo, the pain of this was nothing. Some areas were sensitivER than others but I never wept and I never had to have her stop because I couldn’t tolerate it for another second. Weeping in front of tattoo people is pretty embarrassing even if the tears are just kind of leaking out because, you know, how hardcore can you look when you’re CRYING?

I’m going back in 4 weeks on January 26 (because I know you’ll all want to stalk my ass) to get the color done–all vibrant colors, are you surprised?–and I’m pumped. The tattoo is AMAZING and better than I could have imagined.

I’m in some pain today, especially since it’s January and I can barely wear clothes, but that’s okay. I’ll lovingly caress my Vicodin bottle with my tongue as I tell you my OTHER secret. I got a job blogging for yet ANOTHER site.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try and find some position to sit in that doesn’t cause me excruciating pain and make out with my Tylenol bottle.

Dear Aunt Becky,

You seem to have really mastered this twitter thing. I mean, that’s how I found you, so it can’t be all bad. Just a few generics:
-Do you follow everyone who follows you?
-Is this the way to get more followers? Follow randoms and hope they follow you back?
-How do you make the magic where every person you respond to doesn’t show up in the twitter feed and only appears on your page? I’m sick of seeing @insertyourname here show up all over the place every time I need to respond to one of my flock.
That is all.
Well that, and really, followers? Did we have to call them followers Twitter? I feel like I drank the kool-aid.

Oh, my Gentle Reader, you are far too kind to compliment my Twitter prowess because really, I haven’t mastered it AT ALL. I’m pretty sure that 95% of my followers are the porn bot Blow Job Britney and the other 5% are people I’ve paid or blackmailed to follow me. If you’re still waiting on your check, by the by, sorry about that. I’m a terrible record keeper.

But I will try and answer your questions to the best of my ability.

First, let me explain blather on uselessly about Twitter for those blissful enough not to have an account. Twitter was designed to be a microblog which means that tweets are intended to be a mini-blog post. Also, it was designed to go to your cellphone as a text message (which is why you’re limited to such a short amount of characters).

When I first heard about it, from my source of all things social media-ish, The Daver, I was pretty dumbfounded because I was all, “dude, who would want to keep tabs on what I do 24 hours a day? I’m SO not interesting.”

I mocked it pretty heavily because it seemed to be the most narcissistic fucking thing I’d ever heard of, which, coming from me is saying a lot (I BLOG DAILY, PEOPLE). I mean, who gives a fucking shit about what I’m doing at 8:43 PM on Tuesday evening? Then I signed up for it myself. Then I doused my foot in ketchup and ate my humble pie and I liked every damn bite.

(full disclosure: I said the same thing about blogging, except for I was all, “what I ate for breakfast is NOT national news, Daver” and then I realized that the good blogs don’t have to be all about boring shit. MY blog is obviously not a GOOD blog).

Examples of tweets that suck (am using my own name as a reference):

*Come visit my store! Just listed adorable shoes for $7.99 http://marketersneedtogetafuckingclueyo.com

Marketing tweets are dull unless you’re actually a person and even then? People get annoyed when you’re all “COME BUY MY STUFF” because chances are, you don’t need to be reminded that something is for sale every 20 seconds.

*Am running to Target!!!!!!!!!!!!!

People do not give a shit if you’re running to Target, unless it’s to get ass-lube or hemorrhoid cream and even then, it’s only fun to laugh and point.

*lol my kids are so funny lol

Everyone thinks their kids are funny.

*Pick up your free dating report at whythefuckareyoufollowingmeyoustupidassbot.com

The Twitter bots, with the exception of BlowJob Britney are lame but probably an important part of the food chain. You don’t need to follow them back.

*Win an Olympus Camera RT: @pleasestoptweetingcontests to be entered.

The contest thing, well, everyone wants free stuff, but wow, that shit is fucking ANNOYING. My New Years Resolution (besides become an heiress) is to stop following people who tweet that shit constantly. Marketers are getting YOU to do their job for free.

*If you don’t respond to this tweet, you don’t love me enough and I’m deleting you from feed.

Histrionic people are dramatic whenever they’re not feeling like someone is paying them enough mind and they’re everywhere (usually Facebook, oddly). Whatever.

*@heidimontag I love you soooooo much!

I hate to break it to you, but @ing a celebrity is kinda douchy. They’re not going to reply to you, yo.

So that’s what’s annoying about Twitter, let’s get to the good shit, shall we? Because while most of you are no doubt bored shitless (as you should be), there is a point to all of this.

Do I follow everyone who follows me? No. Mostly, but no. Because why not? Except that it’s a fucking clusterfuck on there, but whatever. I miss a lot of stuff that goes on, so if something important happens DM me.

If you’re following BOTH parties who are having a private conversation, you get a lot of this:

@mommywantsvodka You are such a fucking spaz, Becky. Why did you put my Blackberry in the freezer?

@dwink well, at least I can properly manage to throw my socks down the laundry chute, Daver.

@mommywantsvodka what does that have to do with anything?

@dwink I’m deflecting. DUH. Also, did you happen to notice how light is playing off my face?

@mommywantsvodka Wait, huh?

@dwink I want a sandwich. Who is watching the kids?

@mommywantsvodka whoops!

What I’d suggest, my friend, is to download Tweet Deck and group your people into meaningful groups, or use the List feature on the Twitter home page so that you can make sure to catch the tweets you want to see, without having to see the bullshit like I showed you above.

So, if you want more followers, my suggestion is this: be interesting. The same goes for blogging. Make actual connections with people and be fucking interesting. And feel free to disregard every single piece of advice I have offered you. I don’t really understand Twitter either.

And the followers thing, that makes me totally uncomfortable too, because while I am very important (in my head) I think “followers,” I think cults, I think that guy in Texas and the people with the comet. So I say “Twitter,” “Facebook” or “The Internet.” Seriously. Or, if I’m referring to all of you, it’s just “This is what The Internet told me.”

As always, o! Internet, my Internet, I’d love to hear your take on The Twitter. My word, while The Gospel in my head, is totally not to be taken very seriously. Nor are any of my rules meant to be taken seriously. Notify your doctor of erections lasting longer than 4 hours. Viewer discretion, as always, is advised.

And *phew* now it’s the Best Day Of The Year: December…uh (looks at brand new Despair Calender, notes:

laughs deeply because it’s fucking true and returns)…December 26. The day AFTER Christmas. Not only is everything on SALE again, but that means that Christmas is OVER and I don’t have to deal with anything more pretending to be merry or liking other people again for another WHOLE year.

Which, hi, AWESOME.

No, don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas, but maybe it’s because I have a butt-load of children, but I’m about ready for it to be all over with by mid-December. I don’t want holiday themed hand-towels or soap or bras, I just want to go back to hating the world–besides me and my blog people–in peace and stop pretending to like everyone and everything in the name of Christmas.

Anyway, it’s over, I’m suitably happy, and while I’m now migrained, and sort of infirm, everything went well, even with the crotch parasites running around for the past two days like they were on crack. (note to self: do NOT put candy ANYWHERE near children at 7 in the motherfucking MORNING ever again)

I was roped into hosting Christmas Eve by the Persuasive Powers Of Guilt and I even managed to cook a turkey without making anyone sick. Turns out that the secret to a good turkey is a) shoving things up its’ butt and b) butter. Everything, except your cholesterol, is better with butter.

The smallest ones didn’t really care about opening presents (!!!) which makes me wonder if I actually birthed them myself, because there’s nothing not awesome about presents with your name on them, but once opened, it turns out that The Daver and I are excellent about picking out gifts for them. To be fair, though, they’d have been equally thrilled with a package of straws and some Solo cups.

The big one was happy to help them open presents and was most thrilled by his R2-D2 backpack which makes me SURE he was adopted because Star Wars is SO not my thing (I did buy the backpack for him on my own. I was VERY proud of myself). Unless it’s LEGO Star Wars, the video game, which is full of The Awesome.

Because this was The Christmas of Practicality for me, I’d opened up most of my gifts ahead of time, and wasn’t about to rewrap them, because that’s REALLY a pain in the ass. But I was given the ultimate Housewifey Present of a new hand-held vacuum (a Dyson!). Dave joked that it was to remind me that while I was trying to build My Empire this year, he wanted to remind me that I should refocus my energies on housecleaning*.

Then, full of Christmas cheer, I vacuumed up his scrotum.

All in all, Christmas was completely lovely and I am more than happy to see it in my rear-view mirror. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try and extract toys from packaging that I’m pretty sure was designed by sadists. I will probably lose a finger, and barring that, at least many layers of skin.

Oh well, that’s why we have so many layers to spare, right?

Merry Day After Christmas, Internet! Your Aunt Becky wants you to gather ’round and tell her how your Christmas treated you.

*He really WAS kidding and I was the one oogling this vacuum like a freak for years. But I really did vacuum up the scrote. Because OBVIOUSLY.

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.

Actual REPOST of an IM conversation with Pashmina, my former blogging buddy:

Aunt Becky: “I don’t take laxatives but my ass is gonna try Alli** when I quit nursing”

Pashmina: “DON’T DO IT”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “Seriously. Do. Not. Do. It”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “First, the point of Alli is that it traps fat and makes you shit like crazy when you eat something with too much fat in it.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll deal with some anal leakage.”

Pashmina: “second: Alli takes a LONG ASS TIME to get out of your system
you stop taking it and you’ll still be shitting buckets for a month”

Pashmina: “Third: it prevents nutrients from being absorbed by the bowel
so you’ll lose weight. And muscle tone. And valuable nutrients”

Aunt Becky: “Man that shit is tough. But it beats a tapeworm.”

Pashmina: “Now that I’d rather have.”

Aunt Becky: “Why don’t you get one?”

Pashmina: “I don’t know how, but I wouldn’t mind.”

Aunt Becky: “I think you could order one off the internet. Lemmie see.”

Pashmina: “I VERY SERIOUSLY DOUBT THAT.”

Aunt Becky: “Dunno, I’m looking it up.”

Aunt Becky: “Got it. http://wormtherapy.com/”

Pashmina: “OH COME ON.”

(time passes)

Pashmina: “Good, GOD. $1200 for a tapeworm?”

Aunt Becky: “dude. WILD.”

———
Meatloaf wrote “I Will Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” about–I shit you not–donuts.

What wouldn’t YOU do? What’s one thing you’d NEVER do?

Also: I freaking LOVE the Internet. Tapeworms, who knew?

**I did end up trying Alli and it didn’t work very well for me.