After we’d taken the kids out – against my better judgement – for buffalo wings, I was ready for Mommy’s Time Where She Tongues A Bottle of Xanax.

So I took a bath.

No, Pranksters, I am not 91 years old. I just happen to like baths. Especially because I can hide in them without having errant crotch parasites popping in and out demanding things.

So there I was, happily scrub-a-dubbing my hairs, getting ready to hack the hairs off my legs, when it happened.

Sniff-sniff, went my nose.

Rub-rub, went my hand, figuring I’d somehow gotten shampoo UP my nostril. (it wouldn’t be the first time)

Bad move, Aunt Becky. Bad, BAD move.

The next thing I knew, a faucet had been switched on and my nose began to pour blood, all over me, my vagina and everything.

Fuck.

I’ve gotten bloody noses since I was a toddler (don’t do cocaine, kids!) so I know the types of bloody noses I get.

1) Mildly irritating, yet goes away in approximately three minutes

B) Should probably require a blood transfusion.

This was the latter of the two.

And I knew that I was stuck – rooted in place. If I dared make a move, I was going to spew blood all over the bathroom, my clean clothes, EVERYTHING. It would be a massacre.

So I sat there, trying to figure out what I could do. I had at my disposal 1 old washcloth and 1 plastic cup (from the kids washing their hairs).

First, I tried to staunch the flow with the washcloth. No way in HELL I wanted to sit in Shark Week water. Within 30 seconds, the cloth was soaked and I was freaking out.

Could I call someone? I was in the bathroom at the very back of the house and the likelihood of someone hearing me was about as great as the likelihood that I will, one day, win a Grammy for my mash-up of “Whoomp, There It Is” and “It’s My Party.” Besides, I knew that hollering would only increase the blood flowing freely from my nose.

I began thrashing around, upset at the unfairness of it all, perhaps pulling a WHY ME, GOD, WHY MEEEEEEE? as I splished and splashed, all histrionic-style. I gave up pretty quickly, because there was no one around to notice my plight.

I was already drenched in my own blood, trying to drain the bathwater as quickly as I could. Frantically, I looked around, spying the cup. Fuck, I thought. FUCK. That’s what I got to work with.

So I put the cup under my nose, tilted my head forward, and tried to breathe through my mouth. I could ride this out. I could do this. I was the brave fucking toaster without the toast or the er.

I don’t know how long I sat there, my blood pooling in the sad cup, but it had to have been awhile. Soon, my bathwater drained and there I sat, shivering, and wet, covered in blood, while my nose continued to do it’s best faucet impression.

Eventually, my nose decided that HEY! Clotting is REALLY cool! and I was able to rinse the blood off myself and exit the shower, a little light-headed, but fine.

I considered donating the blood to some wanna-be vampire (Breaking Cherries Dawn opened this weekend, right?), but decided that I didn’t know enough wanna-be vampires.

Which is sad, really. I could’ve gotten some pretty good cash for it.

Hi Aunt Becky!

Is there a way to subscribe to your blog via email?  I didn’t see it, but thought I’d ask on the off chance I missed it.

Best,
Lisa

Dear Lisa,

Thank you for pointing that issue out. Like my blogroll, which has gone missing, I think the email subscription is now back in black. Er…no. But it’s back. Go to the bottom of my sidebar and you’ll see it.

See?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Lately my best friend has been analyzing my relationship with my boyfriend and has deemed him unworthy of my time. I strongly disagree with her as I know for a fact that her idea of a relationship is vastly different than mine and that I am QUITE happy in my relationship.

See, I believe a relationship is a two-way street, we both give and we both take. My boyfriend is wonderful and always gives more than takes.

Her view of a relationship is that the female (aka herself) is the end all be all and if it isn’t her way, then it’s the highway. Her current boyfriend has bought her a car, paid for her school’s tuition, let her room in his house for 8 months without doing anything for the household and currently buys her and her family food. I cannot think of one thing that she has given him besides her time.

Because my boyfriend does not do all of this for me (heaven forbid that he works and makes money that he saves so that we can own a house one day!) she believes I am unhappy.

She’s so convinced that I need a new bf who will do this for me that a few weeks ago she told me about a guy who wants to take me out for coffee and she told me I should do it – while I’m still with my bf!

Now, I know our ideas of relationships are different, and I know she is looking out for the best of me but how do I tell her that I value our friendship but I want her to back the fuck off of me so that I can be happy with my bf?

Dear Prankster,

I would tell your best friend exactly what you think, since she seems to have no trouble telling you what she thinks. There are no two relationships that are exactly the same – nor should they be. That’d be like expecting that every brunette is brilliant or every blond is ditzy.

If you’re not unhappy in your relationship – which it sounds like you’re not – tell her so and if she insists that you are, ask her politely to drop the matter. There’s no reason to debate this. You’re not unhappy. Period. Back off. Period.

You don’t have to be a bitch about it, just tell her the truth.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Let me start by saying that I love my husband.  

We’ve been married for almost 15 years and have 4 kids.  He is my best friend.  Truly.  But.  There’s always a but, right?  I have had this on and off contact  (via mail or email only – no phone, no face to face ever) with my high school boyfriend for oh, the last 20 years.  This isn’t a “reconnected on facebook now want to dump my husband” thing.  This is an, “I have loved this guy for over half of my life, what do I do now” thing.  

I have always been a very private person. I have always kept a lot to myself.  My husband was aware of the deep connection I had with my HS BF, even knew that we kept in touch for several years into our marriage.  He was not threatened by this, as the HS BF lives about 2000 miles away.  There have been times when we wouldn’t be in touch for a couple of years, but then, with a random email or a text – we pick right back up where we left off.  I have never physically been unfaithful to my husband.

This feels unfaithful though, and I am horrified.  I feel like within the past year, the (virtual) relationship with the HS BF has taken a turn, and we’ve become much closer.  

He wants to see me.  

Can you be in love with two people?  I know you are going to say I am a terrible wife, mother, friend.  I know you are going to say that there is a reason we broke up in the first place, I KNOW all of that in my heart.  But I cannot seem to let this guy go!  What is wrong with me??  I KNOW that seeing him can only hurt someone that I honest to God love deeply, my best friend, my husband.  And my kids.  I’m so lost.  I feel so selfish.  I think about my HS BF constantly.  We chat (virtually) every day.  It’s like I have compartmentalized these two relationships, and I am afraid to make any decisions. I do not want to lose my HS BF.  Please, please just be mean to me and tell me I’m scum.  I’m so ashamed.  But I can’t walk away from either of them.

I don’t know what to do…

Dear Prankster,

I don’t think you’re scum. I don’t even think you’re mean – I think you’re confused. And understandably so.

However, you need to take stock of your virtual relationship with your high school boyfriend and decide what it is, really, that you’re getting out of it. Is it an escape? A friendship? Someone who makes you feel special?

Once you do some deep soul-searching, I think you need to come clean to each of them. Yeah, I know, it sounds scary as fuck, but you don’t have much of a choice. Let me tell you that living a life of duplicity isn’t exactly easy or fun. So stop doing it.

Take some time off to just think. Don’t contact your high school boyfriend, take a weekend away to a nice hotel WITHOUT HIM IN IT and just THINK. What is it that you want? What will make you happy? What do you need?

Once you can answer these questions, I think you’ll be able to see what it is you must do next.

There I was, sitting in my homeroom, trying to see how quickly I could write “Becky Rules” on my desk without being caught, when the teacher said, “Now kids, it’s time for us to meet our new teacher. It’s Officer Malone!”

We were enchanted. A real cop. In OUR presence! Not arresting us or even asking who had spray painted “STC Suckz!” on the playground (it was Jimmy).

He spoke.

“Welcome to DARE!”

(cool, I thought, DARE sounds awfully kicky! Like a superhero or something)

“Do you know what DARE stands for?” he continued.

(no, no I didn’t.)

“Drug Abuse Resistance Education!”

(well, I thought. That sounds RIDICULOUS. That barely even makes sense)

I opened my mouth to tell him so when I realized he could probably arrest me for insubordination. I shut my mouth and tried not to roll my eyes.

“From now on, we’ll have this box,” he gestured to a box in front of him. “To allow you to anonymously report any suspicious activity you’ve seen.”

(Wait a minute, I thought. Now we’re narcs?*)

We went on to learn about drugs. I was, for the first time in years, fascinated. You mean these drugs CAN MAKE ME SEE SHIT THAT’S NOT THERE? COLOR ME IN!

Week after blissful week, we learned about drugs and their effects. For the first time ever, I took judicious notes.

I can successfully attribute DARE to what I like to call “The Lost Girl Years.” Because who DOESN’T want to see shit that’s not there? Or feel blissfully happy? Or SEE SHIT THAT’S NOT THERE? Jesus wept.

I learned later that they disbanded DARE because a) it didn’t work and 2) it made a fuckton of kids (including Your Aunt Becky) WANT to do drugs.

This is why I was surprised when my son brought home paperwork from The New DARE which is called something like, “We’re Not DARE,” or “DARE V2.o,” or “We’re SO Not DARE, Please Don’t Cut Our Funding.”

I wonder how long The New Dare will be a part of the curriculum before it’s proved to cause a new generation of kids to snort toilet bowl cleaner or linked to zoophilia or something.

And I can only hope that my kid doesn’t try to turn me in for gratuitous overuse of the word “fuck.” Because I would be SO busted. Because really, who wants their kid to become a narc?

Answer: NOT ME.

*My parents were hippies. I knew what a narc was before I could shit in the toilet.

It may shock and sadden you, Pranksters, that I was once neither Your Aunt Becky nor a mother. It’s hard to believe, so I understand if you need a couple of minutes to compose yourself.

….

….

….

Done? Okay.

Approximately 383 sesquillion years ago, the girl who will be known as Your Aunt Becky went away to college. She packed all of her stuff into the back of her friend Scottie’s hot purple Neon and trundled off (very quickly) to college in the city. Loyola University Chicago, for those in the un-know.

Well, Loyola made a very, VERY grave error in judgement. They paired me with someone who I was so utterly unlike that it was a hot mess from the get go.

The first time I met my college roommate, she smelled like meat (she worked in a deli) which wasn’t too bad. What was too bad is that she was the most over-prepared person I’d met. If you know me, Pranksters, you know that I’m not exactly…*ahem* PREPARED. I’m not going to say that I fly by the seat of my pants because that’s not quite true, but I’m a definite Type B.

Sometimes (like in the case of Crys, Ben and Jana, my counterparts on Band Back Together), it works well. They can Type A me into submission whereas I can remind them that color-coding properly isn’t exactly a worthwhile investment of time.

*ducks*

But the true horror of my college roommate came to light when Scottie and I – both very drunk on vodka (which we were hilariously pronouncing with a very bad Russian accent) – moved my piles of crap into my room.

The door shut behind me, I looked at it to see that my roommate had decorated it. The quotes and the like weren’t exactly awful (albeit a little cornball). And there, in the middle of the door, it sat.

Three Family Circus cartoons.

There’s NOTHING I hate more, Pranksters, than Family Circus cartoons, with the exception of Precious Moments figurines, and GAH! next to those, were a couple of Precious Moment cartoons.

I died.

I literally died on the floor, laughing and crying. I mean, just, NO. We were 19, not 69. How was I gonna get laid with Grandma’s cartoons staring at me creepily?

It turned out, of course, that our relationship was not meant to be. She was too control-freak and I, well, I got knocked up and had to go home to pop out a crotch parasite. She meant well and all, but I couldn’t overlook the Family Circus crap. Could you?

(the answer should be a resounding no)(possibly a FUCK NO)

So thanks, Jason, for the flashbacks.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to vomit up what’s left of my breakfast.

Dish, Pranksters. Do you have any awesome roommate stories for Your Aunt Becky?

Last night, as I was sprawled out on my couch, watching Weeds and trying to ascertain just how many balls I’d need to turn my basement into a ball pit, I heard a rustling sound coming from my garage. Well, I thought to myself, it’s probably not someone delivering delicious cuppity cakes. And it’s probably not the Tell Tale Heart.

After I got lost in thought about a heart-shaped cuppity cake, I realized I could still hear the rustling sound. Okay, it’s probably NOT the wind – that wily bastard – either.

Begrudgingly, I slunk off the couch and wobbled my way to the garage to see what, pray tell, was going on in there. Was it a nitrous party thrown by the kids next door? A Jehovah’s Witness attempting to stone my sinning ass? Had my car come to life?

(I may or may not have been feverish)(I also may or may not have stood there for several minutes giggling at the notion of the nitrous party kids being stoned by a Jehovah’s Witness)

No.

It was neither of those things.

It was an adorably large raccoon, scritchity-scratching at a bag of dog food. But, you’re saying, Aunt Becky, you do not HAVE a dog. And I would reply, languidly sipping my coffee, that I did have a dog. Once. He’s, however, died.

He had the audacity to die RIGHT AFTER I’d bought him a large bag of food. And as often as I’d tried to remember to toss the 8172 pound bag in the back of the Family Roadster and dropping it off at the pet store. I kept meaning to, Pranksters, but the idea of trying to wrangle three kids PLUS a 04780737 pounds of dog food through a busy parking lot, well, it was unappealing.

So in the garage it sat, that sad bag of food for my dead dog, until the raccoon found it and decided that it was, in fact, his food.

I couldn’t disagree.

As I approached the door, still giggling, the raccoon stared at me, eyes wide open, all, “FUCK, I got BUSTED.” I see that same look on my kids’ faces whenever I catch them playing in the toilet. We stared at each other for a moment until he decided to slowly back away, out of the garage.

It was then that I decided instead of a monkey butler named Mr. Pinchey, I instead needed a raccoon sidekick.

I shall call him Walter.

It was totally me.

When you stop laughing, let me know.

P.S. Confused? Go here.

I remember the tears I cried after my first son was born.

My kid hated me. I was a twenty-one year old mother. I was the approximate size and shape of a human fire hydrant or an overgrown Oompa Loompa. My friends had, thanks to aforementioned son’s screams, all but run for the hills. I barely slept. I had no idea where I was going or what I was doing – only that this wasn’t supposed to be the way of things. I had no goals. No ambitions. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

They were bitter – these tears – because I’d spent my entire life knowing where I was going and what I was doing. There was never the slightest hint of hesitation in my step.

Finding myself lost, questioning my every decision, wondering what I was doing wrong (because clearly the problem was with me), well, these were new for me.

My life confused me.

Luckily, with a few suggestions from an old friend, I was able to figure out the What Next and Move Ahead with my life. My son was autistic – I wasn’t a rancid mother. I had to scrap medical school for nursing school. School allowed me to succeed and feel pride in myself again. Slowly, those baby pounds melted off as my son found his voice.

Once again, I was back. My steps were confident and certain, my life on a new track.

It took a lot more this time, to bring back that useless girl. Migraines. Antenatal depression. Encephaloceles. Postpartum depression. Financial instability. Workaholism. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Uncertainty. Anxiety. That purposeless feeling pervaded.

Certainly, during the day, I was fine – I had my blog, I had my Pranksters, I had three wicked cool kids, I had new friends who didn’t mind babies screaming. I had purpose then.

But at night, when the rest of the house was either sleeping or working, those feelings crept back in. Slowly at first. Soon, I spent my nights weeping the kind of soul-shaking cry that only comes with utter heartbreak. I suppose, looking back, I was heartbroken.

I had it all – everything I had worked for, and it simply wasn’t enough. The strings it came with had turned into a noose.

Everyone else seemed to be fine – flourishing even – so the problem, well, the problem was clearly my own. *I* was the problem. Broken beyond repair. Useless. My steps once again a shuffle.

I cannot tell you, Pranksters, how long I felt this way – convinced I was, indeed, broken. Months? Years? I’m not entirely sure.

I cannot tell you either, Pranksters, when that feeling dissipated. Because it has. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know when that empty space was filled for the first time in my life. My footfalls now echo with confidence and occasionally stupidity. My future is not a question of “if?” but a question of “when?”

I can see now that I was never useless. Never less than. Never without.

And never, ever, ever – not even for a moment – broken.

I’ve never been one for family beds.

Before you fire off angry hate mail, let me remind you that I said “I” wasn’t one for them. You can sleep as a family all you want. I just happen to value my sleep and when I have an errant toddler kicking my kidneys, oddly enough, I can’t sleep. And shit knows, I’ve had ENOUGH problems sleeping, I don’t need kidney punches to compound them.

So I’ve done everything I can to make sure that my kids never ended up in bed with me.

Until now.

Amelia seems to have caught my mysterious Oregon Trail disease – or she’s teething – and has decided that sleep is bullshit. No. Sleep is FUCKING bullshit.

Which makes me sad in the pants. Because of all the things I love in the world, sleep is at the top of my list, right alongside cheeseburgers, dating television husbands and celebrity gossip magazines. I simply cannot understand how anyone who shares my genetics could be opposed to sleep.

You’d think after Alex I might’ve learned, but no.

So every night, right around midnight, she wakes up tearful and exhausted. Rather than just rolling over and going back to sleep, our conversations go like this:

Aunt Becky: “Are you hurting, baby pants?”

Mimi: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Do you need another binkie?”

Mimi: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Do you need a blankie?”

Mimi: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “A million dollars?”

Mimi: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “A pony?”

Mimi: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, what gives?”

Mimi: “BED.”

Aunt Becky: “Girl pants, you ARE in bed.”

Mimi: “MOMMY’S BED.”

Aunt Becky: “Mimi, no.”

Mimi (begins to scream): “MOOOOOOOOOMMMMY’S BED.”

Aunt Becky (fearful the other two will wake up): “Okay, okay.”

And off I go, toddler in arms, to go rest in my bed. And by “rest,” I mean, “get kicked in the vagina” or “get kicked in the face” until she decides that her bed is less bullshit than mine. At which point, I scoop her up and plop her into her own bed.

I wish someone would give ME a pony when I couldn’t sleep. I’d have a pony FARM by now.

————

How do you guys handle family bed? Do you do it? Can Mimi join you?

———–

I wrote this post about the first thing I thought when I held my son for the first time for ABC’s Million Mom Challenge. It’s worth a read. Even my son liked it!

Also: GULP. I cannot believe I actually wrote something my kid would read!

It started last week. Or the week before. Or sometime last year. I don’t know. Time isn’t my strong suit.

Alex, the four-year old, had a double ear infection. This on top of being poked in the eye with a piece of cable from my daughter made for one Unhappy Camper. Can’t really blame the kid for that.

Off to the doctor we went, where I was certain he’d gotten a corneal abrasion or some other eye condition that would squick me the fuck out. You’d think that because I’m a nurse, I’d be immune, but BLECH. No.

Turns out, it wasn’t related to his sister’s gentle, loving caress to the eyeball with a piece of metal. No. Pinkeye. Fuck. Ew. Gross. Nasty.

So we did our course of eye-drops, while I tried not to vomit because EW GROSS EYEBALL and then I got sick with the Mysterious Oregon Train Disease (which I still motherfucking HAVE)(talk about bullshit. Dysentery would be SO much more glamorous than this). Come to think of it, it’s probably from the doctor’s office. Remind me to pick up a hazmat suit, Pranksters.

Yesterday, my day care lady informed me that my daughter woke up with goo in her eye too. She, too, went on the eyedrops. Along with my son, whose eye goo has returned. The universe likes to torture me sometimes.

So now I wait, Pranksters. I wait for the day when I wake up with The Blob on my face. Because anyone who knows me knows I’m twenty-five-niner times more likely to get infected with kid crap than the average bear, I’m certain that when I do, it will be a Blob That Ate My Face. I’m altogether certain, in fact, that my Blob will mutate and become an actual living, breathing Blob, like the pink goo from Ghostbusters II.

Here’s hoping it’ll dance to “Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher.”