I didn’t get tattoos to rebel against my mother, who hates them with a passion normally reserved for Rush Limbaugh and canned gravy, but I got them because I needed a way to remind myself of the things that are important. Not, as you might imagine, “PANTS FIRST, THEN SHOES,” which might have saved me a ton of hassle and confusion over the years, but more important things*.

Deeper things.

I’ll keep it rather brief, since I think I’ve gone into more painfully boring detail before.

This is my seahorse, and it’s on my foot as you can see by my AWESOME pedicure. I could have cropped out my toes which I did in THIS POST, where I went into more graphic detail about the meaning of this one. Basically, it’s there to remind me that I can function JUST FINE on my own.

My first tattoo is this:

Also captured here (and why I chose this very crappy picture) is my fucking SWEET ASS phone. You wish it was yours, DON’T LIE. Anyway, this one has a really long story behind it and it’s not just because “I like Southwestern Stuff!!”

Pretty much, it’s on my foot to remind me that no matter what happens, I need to be true to myself. I’ve learned this one the hard way over and over again and now, well, it’s a permanent fixture on my person.

Foot tattoos, while they hurt like a mother-fucker are Full of The Awesome because when the need arises, you can simply pop a sock on and tattoos are covered! Insta-respectability! Like real estate it’s all about location, location, location. Plus, it was the one place that I figured wouldn’t get ridiculously fat when I had a baby.

While an excellent THEORY, that was shot to shit as Amelia’s late pregnancy turned my lower body into that of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I’d have laughed, had it not hurt so much to wear shoes in the dead of winter.

Anyway.

I’ve been eyeballing a new tattoo for awhile and by “eyeballing” I mean, languidly saying to myself, “I’m going to get a new tattoo someday” while I poured another diet Coke and forgot to parent my children.

What I thought was so awesome was that two of you rifled through my brain yesterday and guessed what I was going to get: a phoenix. Problem was, any time I googled “phoenix pictures” the results that I got were very distinctly un-Aunt Becky-ish.

Yesterday, I revisited the idea because OBVIOUSLY and imagine my surprise when THIS popped up:

(credit goes to Web Designer Wall, who has BAR NONE, the coolest fucking designs.)

It’s a phoenix. A colorful phoenix being reborn, not out of fire, it appears, but air. And that’s it. It’s what I want. I’ll tone down some of the intricate designs because that’s WAY too big for the space I need it, but that’s what I’m getting.

I figured out where to put it as well. The ball of my shoulder, spreading around to the front and back a bit. It’s a perfect compromise for me, because I can cover it up and let it show. I can’t wait. And by “can’t wait” I mean that I’m alternating between being crapping my pants and jumping around like a damn fool.

Which, I mean, what the hell else is new?

So, tattoos, o! Internet, my Internet! What do you think of them? Oh! And I discuss Christmas Balling over at Toy With Me today! It’s pretty awesome, mainly because I wrote it.

*like there is ANYTHING more important than the placement of pants. Heh.

In movies, you always know when the really important moments are about to happen because the music swells and ebbs and the soft focus lens sweeps through while time slows down capturing everything in full panoramic detail. It’s nice, I guess, if you’re a movie goer, and if your IQ is 12, because HI, they don’t normally put stuff in movies that isn’t related to the PLOT.

Anyway.

The day that I met The Daver wasn’t one of those days where I had any idea that my life was about to change. We were just meeting for the Einstein exhibit and breakfast in the city as friends, set up by a mutual friend, but it wasn’t all date-y and I certainly wasn’t impeccably dressed. Neither, I should add, was he.

Weeks later, I woke up in bed with him and I had A Moment. It wasn’t a Hollywood Moment, where we adorably shared breakfast in a perfectly fluffy bed, having coffee and witty reparte with our Chicago Tribune, no. I’m sure I was a drooly mess all bleary eyed and sleepy, and The Daver was actually asleep, but I rolled over and Had A Moment.

(I am not a person who has Moments.)

But I rolled over and said to myself: I am going to marry this guy.

And I did. It was one of those rare defining moments. You only have a certain number of those in your life, I think, where something happens maybe to you or maybe within you and nothing will ever be the same no matter what. Defining moments.

The first time I walked into my microbiology laboratory and realized that for once in a long time I was home. Having my naked, warm son laid upon my chest. Finding out that my son was autistic and that I wasn’t just a terrible mother. Knowing that from whatever destruction I found my life in, I would rebuild myself again and again.

I’ve found myself in sort of a mixture of elation and sadness these days–kind of like chewing on a foil-wrapped candy–while I’m really thrilled by the way things are, I can’t help but feel I need to pay tribute and honor the year that we’re laying to rest in a couple of weeks. Never has a year been more filled with defining moments for me.

When I close my eyes, I can still hear my doctor as clearly as if it were yesterday, “Becky, there’s something wrong with your baby’s head” and I can still remember all of the anxious uncertainty. Her first weeks and months were a gigantic question mark. There were no NICU doctors coming to see us or tell us what was wrong, no group huddles or anything. It was all very, “here’s this, here’s that, you can go home, OH WAIT, NO, WE’RE TAKING HER BACK.”

No one comforted us or held us up.

That’s a lie. That’s a lie.

YOU did. As the year draws to a close, I need to once again thank you, my friends who are more than people who live in the computer to me. In a year full of defining moments, I learned who had my back. You did and I am so grateful for all of you. There were times when I all I could do was read and reread my comments and emails because it was like you were here, holding my hand and stroking my hair. Because you were.

I know that if you could have been, many of you would have been. That means so much to me and to The Daver and it will mean so much to my daughter too. I’ve saved every single email that anyone sent me about my daughter in a special folder, and while I don’t routinely open it, because I can’t bear it, it’s there.

I’m shocked and humbled and honored by all of you. Thank you.

I got word very late in the day on Friday that I’d won Divine Caroline’s Love This Site Award, and the only reason I’d won it was because of you. I admit it, I cried. Shut UP, I’ll fart on your TOOTHBRUSH if you laugh.

Sometime in January or February, I believe, we are supposed to get our gift cards, and when I do, mine will be given to the March of Dimes in honor of my daughter Amelia. Because in the midst of all this fucked up year, I’ve found the silver lining. I’m officially a March of Dimes Mom now and while this has been one of the hardest years ever, I wouldn’t change it.

2010 is going to find me rebuilding myself again*, and I’m proud to do it with my daughter, my sweet ass-kicking cinnamon girl by my side. And I know that you, The Internet, will be there too. Now if you tell ANYONE that I have feelings, I’ll kick you.

What are some of your defining moments o! Internet, my Internet? Why don’t you pull up a chair and a glass of Eggnog and tell Your Aunt Becky all about things that made you who you are?

*Am totally getting a tattoo.

Aunt Becky, this may sound like a frivolous question, given my many-year-happy-relationship with a NOT GAY dude. However, of the…ahem, more than 10 somewhat serious relationships I have had, over HALF have been with gay or bisexual men. Not OPENLY gay or bisexual men. The other kind – I am a many-year beard!

Not now, which is why my husband thinks I’m insane to dwell on this. And yet…I do. I check myself for residual gay-dude traits and wonder what it is.

You’re damn skippy I’d be dwelling on this, especially if my genitals resembled a vagina and not a penis and my chromosomes were, in fact, an XX and not an XY. I don’t know how you WOULDN’T develop a complex after being a beard for so many years.

But since so many of the gay men that I’ve known over the years have been some of the awesomest people I’ve ever met, I’d take that as a compliment. Rather than see it as “I turn men gay” I’d think of it as, these guys thought you were great enough to have a relationship with, and once the pressure of a relationship was there, it pushed the issue forward.

You were amazing enough to be their last relationship with someone of the opposite sex, obviously because you were just that cool.

I’ll turn this one over to my readers, because I’m interested to hear their perspective on this.

Dear Aunt Becky,

My BFF totally used to have my back. If my feelings got hurt, she would listen. If I was upset she was there to help. I could vent freely and without judgment. I was blindsided recently when all of a sudden I had someone do something rude to me, and when I went to talk to her about it, she told me that she did not want to comment on the situation since she was turning over a new leaf and trying not to “gossip”. Gossip? I was not asking her to yell the tale from the rooftops – I just wanted to be heard and sympathized with. I was not passing on info, this was something that was factual that happened to me…

What would you do, Aunt Becky, if your closest friend suddenly decided that if a problem you had involved another person, it was “gossip” and should not be discussed?

Signed,

Falling On Deaf Ears

Oh Gentle Reader, this HAS happened to me, and I remember that it made me feel like I was suddenly being a petty bitch. Really, I wasn’t, but it felt as though I was.

It sounds as though your friend has been abducted by aliens and has been replaced by a clone who walks and talks like her, but acts nothing like her, and I’m sorry for that, because, well, that’s depressing. Maybe the new alien friend will learn the customs of female friendship and realize that this is something that we do for one another. We listen and we get each others back when we need to.

Barring that, I’d suggest that you start a blog where you can freely complain about anything from Farmville on Facebook to how annoying wrapping gifts can be. Just…don’t use names or identifying characteristics. Trust me on that one. You DON’T want that coming down on you like a load of bricks.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve been a mom for the last 13 years, most of it as a stay at home mom. I have 4 kids, a shitload of pets, and a hubby who can be a pain in the ass but is awesome nonetheless.

My question is about my brain. I have the attention span and brain power of a gnat now. (The “g” is silent.) Following complex thoughts, remember something other than appointments, and being able to read something longer than Chicka Chicka Boom Boom is… well… hard.

How can I wake my head back up with minimal effort? Cuz I’m lazy like that.

*scratches butt*

Wait…did you say something? I TOTALLY MISSED IT.

Hi Aunt Becky!

I am nineteen and I just miscarried my first baby. :\ The father had no idea that I was pregnant. My question is, do I tell him, even though the baby is gone? I feel like he would just be spiteful and make me even more upset than I already am… but does he have a right to know?

Thanks!

Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry that you had a miscarriage. I’ve had two and I know the hormonal ups-and-downs are terrible and that on top of everything else, I’m just so sorry. My heart hurts for you.

I don’t think that you need to tell the father that you had a miscarriage if you think that he’s just going to make you feel worse. You should find someone to give you some support, maybe a good friend, or someone close to you that you can really talk to. I know that a lot of local clinics and schools will have some sort of counselors that can arrange sessions to help you worth through some of what you’re going through because believe me, you’re not alone.

But no, I don’t think you need to tell him if you don’t want to. You should talk to someone, though.

Again, I’m really sorry. Picture Your Aunt Becky wrapping you up in a big fat hug.

—————–

As always, my Faithful Readers, please fill in where I left off, and rally around our friend who has miscarried her baby. She could use some love.

First off, let me thank all of you for voting for me, something I will say again on Monday because I was told yesterday that Mommy Wants Vodka won Divine Caroline’s Love This Blog Award! Look!

When I say “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I mean that. I certainly couldn’t have voted for myself 400 times. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. Amelia thanks you. All of the March of Dimes babies thank you. I am once again so humbled and honored by all of you and honestly, I don’t know what to say besides, thank you.

I am so glad to know all of you. I consider you my friends and I know that you all have my back. Please know that I have yours too.

Thank you again. I am honored to know you.

———————

Every August, when the stores start lugging out their holiday wares, my stomach sinks a little as I pass the wrapping paper aisle. Mile upon magnificent mile of tubes of gaily colored paper as far as my eye could see, bows twinkling and winking in the light, tags shining at me from their pegs, and bags lined up like small soldiers, ready to do battle.

While my OCD/alcoholic nature is very evident in such places as my blog, which is never, ever neglected, whether I have the swine flu or am deep with in the withdrawal effects from prescription sleep aids and my orchids, which are all flourishing so wildly that I am probably going to have to build a greenhouse to hold them all, it simply cannot stand up to decorating.

One time, many years ago, I saw a commercial, I think for Tylenol or something, and the lady was all “I have arthritis and I need to take THIS so I can get through my job!” Her job, we learn, is ARTFULLY WRAPPING OTHER PEOPLE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. The commercial wasn’t for THAT service, but I made it my mission in life to ONE DAY be able to pay someone to ARTFULLY WRAP my presents for me.

Because if it’s possible, Dave’s even less enthusiastic about the chore than I am. Probably because he’s a very smart person*. Not only do I hate doing it, but I’m really BAD at it, so it’s a double whammy for me.

Luckily I was able to channel my angst into something else last night. See, I’d bought my son a doctor’s kit for his doll, which he still loves. The doll, I mean.

Dear Fisher Price:

Boys play with dolls too. Get it through your thick skulls.

Love,

Aunt Becky

I fumed about this for a bit last night which distracted me from my angst about wrapping ugly presents. (maybe I should have been angstiER about the mystery spot on my floor.) My friends on Twitter agreed and pointed out that there aren’t Lego kits for girls either, something that I hadn’t thought about either. Then I fumed some more.

Now I just need to think of something else tonight to get me through another round of present wrapping. Or maybe I’ll just douse my eggnog heavily in rum.

My ultra-conservative mother-in-law may unwrap this: but in the end, maybe that’s worth it.

No, I take it back. If she unwraps that, it’s TOTALLY worth it.

—————–

Are you a present wrapper? Do you dread it? Can you wrap MY presents for me? How much do you think I’d have to pay someone to wrap my presents for me?

*This is me buttering him up so that he buys me the Cantigny mansion.

I wrote Fear and Loathing at the Post Office here. It’s funny. Please hump me because I’m feeling insecure and neeeeedy. Also, it’s my first post for Skirt!

And then, When Good Holidays Go Bad about what a pain in the ass holidays become when you become a twosome (or, heh, a threesome).

Rounding it out is my interview with the person who stole my daughter, my friend, Mrs. Soup (our daughters look THE SAME).

———————–

Dude. Dude. Dude. DUDE. This is like having THE POPE guest post for you:

I asked Becky if I could do a guest post and she most graciously obliged. I am Lauren Leto from Texts From Last Night and TFLN has a book coming out on January 26, 2009.

You can pre-order the book for just $10 here:

We have all sorts of features in the TFLN book, most notably a “Relationship Timeline”, a “Choose Your Own Adventure” chapter and a “Hookup Flowchart”. Also, we have texts grouped into hilarious categories, such as “The Morning After” and “Grubbing Out”. Many of the texts have never been seen on the site before!

Best of all, for Mommy Wants Vodka readers, we have a category called “Don’t Let These People Near Children”.

Some of the funniest ones from that section:

(201): When my kids ask how I lost my virginity Im going to have to tell them of a mythical thing called “Myspace” and how strangers could lure you into their “den of love” thanks to clever quotes and graphics

(206): Sometimes I get depressed that my son is too young to understand how hot his babysitter is.

(404): In retrospect, pretending to punch a 9 year old girl in the face was a terrible analogy to use in a piano lesson.

(972): **i WaNt TO sLaP mY niECe wHO ThINks iT iS cUte tO WriTE LiKE tHiS**

(704): We’re pre-gaming then going to chuck e cheese’s.

(919): If you’re joking I’m going to be sad

(785): I wonder what percentage of toys r us merch ultimately becomes a sex toy…

(1-785): In my case? 100%

Some funny ones that I like from other sections of the book are:

(705): Fantastic night. drank beer from a wine bottle, danced on a van, chased a llama, and fell from a fence

(330): I don’t know where I am but the food in the fridge is awesome.

(215): i keep telling myself in the mirror “get undrunk”

Thanks!

Lauren Leto is the creator and co-founder of the site http://textsfromlastnight.com and http://momsmsgs.com

Last year, I sat on my couch wearing an ass groove into the cushions and going through the motions of the holidays while counting down the moments until it was all done. The only reason that I didn’t stay in bed entirely was because I had small children to care for and, well, they don’t give a shit how miserable and depressed you are, which is kind of the beauty of kids.

It was really out of the norm for me, someone who normally celebrates the magic of the season like a small annoying child, but I was very, very pregnant and on the tail end of a shit year. My friend had died in February, I’d suffered two miscarriages in April and May and while I’d gotten pregnant again in June, it seemed sort of uncertain for awhile.

August through October brought about The Daver’s Nervous Breakdown where he could barely get out of bed, which left me wondering how the hell I was going to support our family without selling pictures of my pregnant self for cash. By December, I was just done. I felt like a heaping pile of dog ass that peed herself when she moved, and really, there was no Christmas spirit to be had by me. I’d weep onto the top of Alex’s head as I rocked him to sleep at night, while my daughter kicked him from within and I’d wonder what I was going to do.

Obviously, January didn’t bring much better news. My daughter was born so sick and even after her surgery, things were so scary for so long. It took me so long to recover from all of that.

What’s shocking to me as I read back through the archives is that there’s not a whole lot of mention of this. Likely, I didn’t know quite what TO say, so I simply said nothing. Because I had no real concrete reasons to focus on and work through to be able to say “Hey Internet RIGHT THERE is why I’m so miserable” I just said nothing.

The skies didn’t really start to clear up for me until a couple of months ago when the PPD and the PTSD and all of those other fancy acronyms began to fade somewhat and in their place I realized what I had to do.

In all of these years, I’ve raised my crotch parasites and pushed them from my nether regions and paced and rocked and bounced and swaddled. And I’ve Wifed, by pushing Dave to succeed at a job that really, he does love and encouraged and listened and pretended to understand when he spoke in what may have been ancient Finnish and keeping the house running and organized and somewhat clean.

But what I’ve neglected all of this time was me.

Your Aunt Becky has been missing from this equation and this life. In all of the time that I’ve been Becky, Wifey of The Daver and Moooooommmmmyyyy of Benner, Alex (not Alexander–his declaration, not mine) and Mimi, Your Aunt Becky has been sorely neglected.

When I realized what I was going to do with the rest of my life–freelance, for those of you not playing along at home–or at least until I decide to actually inhabit my new house and become Lady of the House (Princess Grace Of Monaco) it was like I was finally seeing things as they are for the first time in years. I can be all of those things to my family and Your Aunt Becky too.

So this year, while my house is only haphazardly decorated for the holidays, it’s for a very different reason. I’m busily throwing myself into doing something for myself. Like my homie Pashmina has suggested, 2010 is going to be the year of ME (although, I think she means that it’s going to be the year of HER, because if she was taking a whole year to celebrate ME, well, I think that would be so awesome that I don’t even know how I would handle that. HEY PASHMINA, CELEBRATE ME! And, uh, BUY ME STUFF.).

2010 is going to be the year Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back. And hopefully, her fucking figure too.

I’m not sure how I’m going to keep you guys informed of what other projects I’m doing without ramming it down your throats, so any suggestions are appreciated. Maybe links at the bottom of posts like I do with my Toy With Me columns?

In that vein, I’ve started this: my boring professional website. It’s not done. OBVIOUSLY. It’s lopsided, but the picture plug-in is busted and I need The Daver to fix it. I’ve got some other things that I’m getting started on, but so far, nothing that I’m actually able to be all LOOKIT INTERNET, SEE WHAT I DID?

And come January, I’m going to incorporate and form a small company that will likely generate about $1 in income all year long. But because I need to keep my dollar separate from DAVE’S dollars, I need a company. Which means that I need a name. For a company. I’ll probably GO BY “Mommy Wants Vodka” but on the paperwork, I need something more professional.

All I’ve got so far is “Vodka Bandits.”

Halp me.

Also, how do YOU keep your groove, The Internet?

LAST week I ran ANOTHER contest to give away my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s book, It’s Not Me, It’s You, which is freaking amazing. The book, not my contest. If you haven’t read it, or her blog, Baby on Bored, you really, really need to. And I’m not just saying that because she’s a BFF of mine or because she’s standing behind me with a gun to my head. The book rules, so does her blog. Also, don’t shoot me.

PLUS, if you buy ANY of her books (yeah, plural. FEEL FREE TO HATE HER) now at Comedy Film Nerds, you can get them signed and personalized. I’d suggest getting them made out to Yer Anus or Mike Crotch. Hehehe. I think I have some shopping to do. Hehehe.

The rules were simple, join my group Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters over at Savvy Source (which you still can join me, even if you haven’t entered the contest, because it’s fun! The widget is on the sidebar) and leave a comment here. Random Number Generator was going to do the work for me because math is hard and I’m not a smart person. OBVIOUSLY. I’m a blogger. I don’t like to do REAL WORK.

And so, the winner-winner-chicken-dinner is…KARYN.

(also, because I am Captain Dumbass I have something I bought for The Daver that he already OWNS for the next contest. Now I’ll just have to write another interview because that was fun)

———————–

For something completely different, a reworked, awesome post from moi:

(ring, ring)

Aunt Becky (clearly jumping out of her skin with excitement): “Hey Fuckwad, I had a great idea!”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

(typing sounds resume in background)

Aunt Becky: “I want to buy a new house now.”

The Daver (warily) “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I found a new one.”

The Daver: “What?!?”

Aunt Becky (talking faster now): “I mean, I know the market sucks but I just realized my dream house!”

The Daver (tiredly): “Where is this place?

Aunt Becky: “Well, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?'”

The Daver (warily) (wearily): “….yes…”

Aunt Becky (triumphantly): “I’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!”

The Daver: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) “Becky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county”

Aunt Becky: “I KNEW you were going to say that! THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing! Give them an offer they can’t refuse!”

The Daver (rests head on desk) “Ohno.”

Aunt Becky (dreamily):“Think about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of the house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco when we got married!”

The Daver: “You know she’s dead, right?”

Aunt Becky: “So she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco. See, I think of EVERYTHING.”

The Daver: “You got me out of a meeting for THIS?”

Aunt Becky: “DUH. This is IMPORTANT.”

The Daver: “Dude. You’d better get this freelancing shit going soon.”

Aunt Becky: “When I am Lady of the House, I won’t have time to write any more. I’ll be too busy trying on my vast tiara collection and ordering the staff to taste my food to make sure it’s not been poisoned.”

The Daver: “I’m going to call some people to see if they’ll hire you.”

Aunt Becky: “Good luck with that.”

The Daver: “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait a minute…”

*click*

Tuesday brings me over to Toy With Me, where today I am bringing you the hilarious BEGINNING of my biggest insecurity. Shockingly, it’s not about my ass or jiggly post-baby belly. No, it’s something that was the subject of my SECOND column: my weird fear of my vagina.

While I was going through my archives, cleaning up my shitty grammar and the places where my computer lovingly substituted *#&@^@ for quotation marks, I discovered the birth of my neuroses. Which is actually kind of…well, full of The Awesome. It’s rare that you get to see where it all began.

Do I even have to tell you while I’m VERY proud of how this one turned out because it’s hilarious and bawdy and you need to read it, it’s REALLY not safe for work. Unless you have THAT kind of job, in which case, are they hiring?

So I give you The Vagina Monologues.

Below, you have what ran in Canadian Family’s Blog as my first Guest Post over there. It’s VERY safe for work.

And, as if I don’t ask enough of you, The Daver is asking for your help on his blog. Like actual serious help.

———————-

In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t know what he was thinking, but I don’t know what I was thinking either. The gigantic pizza slice costume was one thing, but this, this was something else entirely. But nonetheless, there I was, standing in the middle of the pizza restaurant where I worked, in a Santa costume feeling stupider than I’d ever felt before.

The customers you could tell, were even a little embarrassed for me. I looked like an idiot. But the district manager had gotten the inane idea in his head that for some reason having “Santa’s Helper” in the store for Christmas Eve would somehow bring flocks of customers in for lunch in droves. What he didn’t know could fill volumes. Sort of like the time he taken me aside, just as I’d gotten four new tables who were all waiting for me to get them drinks to whisper conspiratorially, “I think someone is stealing…cheese.”

But I needed the extra money because it was my son’s first Christmas, and as a single mother who was also in school full time, I took every shift that I could lay my grubby hands on. Debasing or not, it was money in my pocket. Shockingly, no one actually wanted to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” I’m not sure if it was the yellowed, fraying beard, or the fact that my pants fell down about every third step that I took, or that I was obviously female, but no one seemed interested. In fact, everyone seemed to avoid me, which was just as well. I used the time to get caught up on my homework. No rest for the wicked.

Finally, just before I was to go home to my son, some family agreed to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” Perhaps they hadn’t seen me. Maybe they didn’t like their kid very much. Or maybe everyone just had a fantastic sense of humor. Who knows.

All that I do know is that they thrust their tiny baby onto my threadbare lap. And all that the baby knew was that one minute, she was burbling on her mother’s shoulder and the next, she was shoved onto this stinky scary bearded lady in an saggy red Santa Suit. She did the only sensible thing to be done: she opened up her wee baby mouth and she bellowed. She screamed, she cried, and she wailed.

The picture was taken and a phobia of Santa was formed. This poor kid was going to grow up terrified of Santa. Jumping at holiday displays and wondering why the thought of Christmas always made her feel nervous and nauseous, always trying to get out of festive celebrations in favor of sitting in front of the television with her twelve cats and a pint of ice cream.

It would all be my fault.

Satan’s Little Helper.

————-

All right, o! Internet, my Internet, it’s time to bring Your Aunt Becky a bowlful of YOUR stories about Sandy Claws and how he terrified YOU as a child. SO BRING IT.

(I am pretty sure that you guys built The Daver up so thoroughly that he’s going to be fighting me tooth and nail to guest post on my blog. Which, hi, AWESOME. Except he’s WAY NICER than I am, so there’s that. Maybe I’ll make him blog on Saturdays for me after he’s done rubbing my feet and giving me a manicure and washing the floor with his tongue except OH WAIT HAHAHAHAHA!

That’s right, he barely posts on HIS BLOG!

If you bug him enough, maybe he’ll post here.)

Christmas in my house growing up was always a pretty understated affair. A simple candle in each window, popcorn and cranberries hung on the tree and tasteful ornaments hung just-so on the freshly-chopped-down-ourselves tree. It drove me bonkers.

If I’d had it my way, Christmas would have vomited all over my house, spewing tinsel and garland from floor to ceiling, the more, the tackier, the blinkier, the better. I admired the displays in the stores with something akin to lust as my mother pulled me through, always calling my choices “tacky.”

The one year that I saved up my allowance, snuck off to the store and bought tinsel to decorate the tree with overnight, she was FURIOUS. Partially because it was “hideous” but mainly because our stupid cats ate the tinsel and dragged cat turds around the house dangling from their buttholes like homemade garland.

It was fucking hilarious.

Watching her chase our indignant and semi-retarded cats around the house pulling those strands of poo garland out of their poo holes, man, that was comedy gold. Consider that mental picture my Hanukkah gift to YOU.

As I got older and started to have to decorate for Christmas ourselves, we’ve toed the line between broke-as-shit and we-don’t-give-a-shit. I’m not a huge holiday decorator anyway, because that would imply that I’m some sort of decorator in the first place, which is something I’m going to have to eventually hire someone for. I have no eye. I’ll have to pay to use another person’s eye.

We’ve always done two trees, though.

My sweet Blue Christmas Tree that they will have to pry out of my cold, dead hands. I got it from my sister-in-law’s mother, and it’s a vintage aluminum white tree. Fuck to the YES:

And then your standard fresh Christmas tree with the hokey ornaments. Generally without garland and always with the garish plastic balls. We have small kids, puppies and, well, The Daver. OBVIOUSLY. I’m pretty okay with fake everything else (read: boob job) but I’m insistent on the real tree.

This year we also have Mimi, who is a crawling machine that likes to chew on everything from dog food to batteries and, well, we decided that maybe a real tree or a tree that was made in 1960 was perhaps a bad idea.

I considered trying to put one of my orchids on the floor, but then realized that no one was going to sing, O! Christmas Orchid and besides, I love my orchids too much to put them on the floor. I DO have priorities. Then I thought that maybe I could dress up one of the kids as a tree and they could rotate who had to Play Tree today, but I realized that that was probably torturing them more than was necessary, so I scrapped that idea too.

Eventually, Dave and I came to the conclusion that the only way to do this was to buy another fake tree that wasn’t dripping with lead paint and other combustible radioactive bits for our baby to eat. So we did. We bought a cheap fake tree and all the garland I could find (except that I totally didn’t buy enough*) as well as some glittery snowflakes that didn’t require those metal hooks that were certain to pierce my daughter’s colon after she ate them.

The final result, well let’s just say that no drag queen will ever speak to me again, but my younger self is beaming proudly:

My children had a freaking BLAST decorating it, and what you cannot see is my daughter climbing around underneath it like a monkey. She was probably looking for an electrical cord to munch on or some plutonium to make a bomb from. 1.21 GIGWATTS! **

Better than the tree, though, is wrapping paper. New parents, HEED MY WORDS, AND HEED THEM WELL: IF YOU WANT TO BUY TOYS FOR YOUR CHILDREN, GO AHEAD, BUT THEY ARE MOSTLY FOR YOU. CHILDREN PLAY WITH RANDOM THINGS.

For example, rather than toys, my children will be seen playing happily with:

*Red Solo Cups, like you paid $5 at keggers. Yes. A bag of those.

*A Bag Of Straws (not even the wrapped ones!)

*Wrapping Paper (and not even the fancy ornamental pretty stuff!)

Yes, I know, Aunt Becky just ruined your Christmas. Sorry. You can return those gifts and buy yourself stuff. Or better yet, send ME the money! YAY!

Amelia says, “Mom, if that’s so true, why the hell do you have a stockpile of crap for us upstairs?”

THAT DAMN BABY IS A MIND READER.

*math is hard

**WTF am I talking about?

After I smacked Becky with a Yard Of Shortbread today ( look at her twitter for details), I was informed that I needed to make up for my pigheadedness by answering some Go Ask Aunt Becky questions this week. So I broke in to her website and am shamelessly sharing my even-less-qualified opinions with you. Enjoy!

Dear Aunt Becky The Daver,

I started a short fiction site recently called Fiction Five Hundred. I was wondering if you could check it out, and maybe spread the word a bit to people that you know of that enjoy fiction.

The site URL is http://fiction500.blogspot.com .

I’ll pimp your blog and various projects in exchange if you’d like. Kinda like a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” type thing.

Thanks,
Badass Geek
(thebadassgeek.com)

Dear Badass,

I have run your Fiction 500 site through my own, carefully-calibrated, artificially intelligent Site Rating Software. It crashed horrifyingly, spewing electrons all over my desktop. In short, your site is so good that it literally blew my computer’s mind. I’m pretty sure it’s safe for people though, I’ve been reading through it and my brain hasn’t yet come squirting out of my nose. Bookmarked!

Dear Becky The Daver,

I’m trying to type this on the sly so my boyfriend doesn’t come stomping in asking me what I’m doing and catching me.

So, my boyfriend and I have been together for a year, and it’s pretty serious. We live together and all that awesome fun stuff.
I would like to take it a step further and become engaged. We’ve talked about this before, and so I’ve ruined the surprise and he knows I would say yes.
But every time we talk about it he says it’s too soon.
I don’t know if he’s waiting for a blow job or if I should propose.
I’ve been thinking about proposing, I figure it would prove I’m serious, and I’ve even considered a speech to tell him I love him and I want to spend the rest of my life with him and I’m in it for the long haul and just because we’re engaged doesn’t mean we have to get married now.

Anyway, my question(s) is/are: is it okay for me to propose, how should I propose, and do I give him a ring?

-Listener of Beyonce

Dear Listener,

I totally understand where you’re coming from — when something Just Works, it’s an amazing, wonderful, excellent feeling, and it sounds like you’ve found someone you feel ready to put your trust in, who you are ready to take the next step with. Each of those steps feels lighter and more giddy than the last.

But hold on to it! Being married has a whole lot of baggage associated with it; more than living together, sleeping together, having a joint checking account, or even having kids together. It’s a commitment that has to meet in the middle, with both people reaching out to each other for support, listening to and appreciating each other’s ideas & feelings. And sometimes, you’ll find that what you discover about your lover is not what you wanted to hear. Different people feel different pressures about marriage, and chances are his concerns aren’t anything like what you would think.

If you’ve talked to your boyfriend and he says he’s not ready, it could very well be that he is nervous about the commitment that goes into being married; most guys (at least, the good ones) wonder if they’re good enough, prepared enough, if they make enough money and if they can afford to take care of you; if they have their lives figured out enough to make a promise like this.

My advice to you is this: if you’re talking about marriage, he probably believes you’re serious already. Listen to him, give him the space he needs to work out his thoughts on the subject, and give him the support he needs to feel comfortable reaching his arm out to meet you in the middle.

It takes a maddening amount of patience to respect that someone else takes a lot longer to come to the same conclusion as you, but trust me — it’s good practice for marriage. Becks figures things out that take me weeks (I made her wait a year for a wedding rather than just heading to the courthouse!), and I figure things out that take her forever ( she was meant to be a writer! ).

If he’s a guy who’s worth giving your heart to, then he’s a guy whose opinions, concerns, fears, and ideas should matter to you. Treat him that way, and I suspect you’ll do fine. But I’d hold off on proposals and speeches and rings until you’ve had a good listen to what HE really wants. Then, if he’d dig being proposed to, go for it with gusto. If he wants to be the one to get down on one knee, then make sure the restaurant has a carpeted floor for him.

Dear Aunt Becky The Daver,

I have a huge problem – I can’t say No. Need something baked/sewn/driven/picked up/cleaned/organized/written – I’ll say Yes. Most of these projects aren’t five minute deals – they are HUGE. Why can’t I say No???

Dear Can’t Say No,

Can you babysit for us this week? We could use a break.

I tease! Saying No is a learned skill for a lot of people, including me. Most people who have a problem with it don’t like to feel that they are disappointing someone, or don’t take the time to think about the trade-offs. Try this:

Think about what you won’t be able to finish if you say Yes to whatever you’re being asked to do. Now, think about whether you want to say No to that person, or the person in front of you. You don’t have any other option, because that is what will happen when you can’t get done all the things you committed to: someone won’t get what they were asking for. (And, worse, they will be more hurt by you saying Yes and not doing it than if you just said No to begin with!)

And don’t let yourself think that you can just stay up late or get up early or push something back: all of those are saying No to being 100%, being healthy, being prepared for your regular life. If you aren’t 100%, then you have to say No even more!

It’s uncomfortable, but true: saying No now, or saying No later when you can’t get it all done, you MUST say No. The question is whether you say it up-front and save everyone time, or whether you say it later — possibly at the last minute, when they can’t ask anyone else, or possibly to yourself (!!).

Hope that helps,

The Daver.

Did I do OK, y’all? Becky always says to share your advice in the comments, so I say the same. ‘Cause it’s, like, my first time and stuff. Happy Sunday!