There are very few things I love as much as I love waffles. Even better than regular boring waffles are the ones I can order from Room Service, but really, what doesn’t taste better when delivered by a small man in a tuxedo? NOTHING.

Alas, this is not an ode to room service.

It is unfortunate that my children have also decided that waffles = full of the awesome. Not because they are wrong or anything (which is fairly common while dealing with small people who poop their pants), but because with waffles come condiments.

While I’m thankful that these condiments do not include ketchup, which, knowing my crotch parasites, could easily be the case, I sorta wish they’d decide to use something like WD-40 or super glue to top those delicious mounds of goodness.

Every morning, I wake up, blearily stumble down the stairs and pour myself a cup of coffee and, upon rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I realize that I’ve been victim of a minor terrorist attack. Sprinkled everywhere from the highest counter-top to the floor, is anthrax.

So, because I am still half-asleep, I begin yelling (to no one, as I am alone), “THE TERRORISTS DONE GOTTED ME! IMMA DIE OF ANTHRAX!“as I run around the house looking for expired antibiotics prescribed to my dog like eight years ago.

It takes me a couple minutes, a lick of the counter-top and a few laps around my house to realize that no, in fact, this was decidedly not a terrorist attack. I am in no more danger of catching anthrax in my kitchen than I am when I visit Urgent Care. In fact, Urgent Care is MORE likely to give me anthrax or polio or something.

No, what has now coated my kitchen in a deliciously sweet dust is powdered sugar. From the waffles that my kids eat.

For some reason, my benevolent children believe that the coffee maker, the dishwasher and the toaster oven like the taste of powdered sugar as much as they do. Or at least, that’s my suspicion as to why the powdered sugar is miles away from the kitchen table. I like to believe that my children are practicing kindness, not being lazy assbags, while they decorate my kitchen every motherfucking morning, trying to look out for the betterment of the appliances rather than opting out of using a spoon to scoop the stuff onto their waffles.

That is how I comfort myself each day as I scrub powdered sugar out of the most bizarre nooks of my kitchen.

If only the same could be said for their roaming sock colonies.

Somehow, I’d always pictured him somewhere on the delicate clouds of heaven, painting happy fucking clouds with Bob Motherfucking Ross.

Hello Aunt Becky!

I have a stupid, crazy, but amazing boyfriend that I have been with for almost a year now. We get along really well most of the time, but for some reason or another we ALWAYS end up fighting over the stupidest shit EVER! Seriously, stupid.

Last week, he got mad at me because at 5AM, after talking and hanging out all night, I passed out in the middle of a conversation. Okay, if it’s 5AM, and you’re talking to me laying in bed after a bottle of wine, expect me to fucking fall asleep!

So, we constantly have these stupid fights that turn into 3 or 4 days of yelling at each other, ignoring each other, or whatever, until I end up being a total fucking pushover and admitting EVERYthing I do and say is WRONG! And I’m sick of it! I’m not always wrong.

I don’t know if he really thinks that I’m that fucked up, or if he’s just trying to overpower me.

I really am in love with this man, and I don’t want to end it, but my self-esteem is about to hit rock-fuckin-bottom! He treats my spiritual views with respect, and he is a very sweet, and understanding man. I just can’t handle him yelling at me anymore! I’m a strong-minded woman, and now I feel like I can’t even make up my mind without disappointing him.

I don’t want to make him sound like a total ass-hat, because he isn’t – he’s truly an amazing man. He’s okay with me being a weird tree-huggin hippie. It’s a challenge to find a man I can get along with, because I live in Utah, where having an opinion that doesn’t match “the church” is evil, so he’s a breath of fresh air.

I can’t handle the fighting anymore, but I love him.

AB, what the fuck do I do!?

-Rainn

Dear Prankster Rainn,

You may have the coolest name ever. No, seriously, can I become “Aunt Rainn?” Because that would be FULL of the awesome.

Anyway. I’ve been in this relationship before (see also: my eldest’s father) and it’s not worth it. Not unless, of course, you can meet somewhere in the middle.

So that brings me to my point: can, Prankster Rainn, you bring this up to your boyfriend and actually have a civilized conversation about why the fighting bothers you? If you cannot, if he is that convinced of his Rightness and Your Wrongness, then I would move the fuck on.

You don’t need to spend the rest of your life bowing to the alter of Your Wrongness. It will only shatter your ego and frankly, there are better men out there.

So sit your boyfriend down, tell him that this fighting is not okay; that it cannot continue and see what happens.

Good luck, Prankster.

Hello Aunt Becky-

I must say I find your blog to be hysterical and awesome.

Talk to me about morning sickness. How bad is it? Just found out that I am knocked up and will soon have my own crotch parasite 🙂

So if you’re pregnant Prankster, does that make me Great Aunt Becky? Because I’m only 31.

Anyway, congrats on the crotch parasite! I love babies. Especially babies that don’t have to be shot out of my own girly bits.

I’m also hesitant to mention morning sickness to any pregnant person because it’s sort of like trying to describe how much labor sucks. Because it TOTALLY does. So why bring up the unpleasantness, unless it’s to torture pregnant women with. I remember the particular glee in which older women bestowed their most horrifying pregnancy tales upon me while I was gestating. Right, because I really wanted to know how you tore hole to hole during delivery.

Anyway.

Here’s the down-low on morning sickness: it sucks. It sucks a lot. It’s a continuum of suck that varies from pregnancy-to-pregnancy and person-to-person.

However.

It dos not last.

Pregnancy is a finite experience. There is a beginning, a middle and and end. And while you’re going through it, you may, at times, wish you were dead, but believe me, that baby cannot stay in there forever.

Best of luck. And stock up on starchy things and mint gum. That’s how I survived.

P.S. Please name the baby Aunt Becky.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I find it silly that I’m writing to you for advice, because I think that deep down I know the answer.

Let me start off by saying I’m a people-pleaser. I spend my life making sure that everyone else around me is content. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.  

My husband of 8 years has been diagnosed with Bipolar and Intermittent  Explosive Disorder. In the last 8 years, he has “blacked out,” becoming violent with me several times. I have given ultimatums, told him he needs to get help, threatened taking away the kids, life, everything… and until 6 months ago, he refused help.

Since then, he’s been on medication and undergoing therapy. 2 weeks ago, I received a text message from him that was supposed to go to a “friend” alluding to selling his medication. I didn’t say anything at the time because I knew he would lie.

When I got home, I snooped. I know it’s not kosher but if he’s partaking in illegal activity, I figured it was an exception. While looking through his text messages, not only did I find evidence that he was selling his medication, I also found loads of texts between he and a girl he’d met on a recent vacation. He mentioned possibly moving an hour a way to move in with her, dirty pics to and from each other. He even professed his love for her.  

I was devastated.  

So I confronted him. I got bullshit excuses like, “oh it was just flirting. She’s been helping him with our relationship,” more crap that I didn’t believe. Once again, I let it go, figuring we’d try counseling.

That brings us to Sunday. Sunday, my oldest son’s father called me at work and told me that he’d gone to pick up our son and my husband was freaking out on our 2-year old daughter. From what my son’s dad said, my husband spanked her several times very hard, smacked her hand on the floor and then threw her on to the couch.  

He threatened to notify DHS if I didn’t take care of the situation. I left work as so as possible, went home and kicked him out. With much protest, he left.

Last night, he came over to talk. Once again, he filled my head with the “I regret this so much” “nobody hates this as much as I do” “I am so sorry” bullshit. What do I do? Should give him a second chance, even after all the chances I’ve given him. After all, I cannot afford a divorce. I have no one that can help me. I have nowhere to go. Without his income, I will get evicted from our house. (He won’t give me any money unless its court-ordered) I cannot let my kids move to another school again.

Then again, I cannot let this happen to any of my children ever again. 

I don’t want to completely fuck him over. 90% of the time hes a good dad. He loves our kids more than anything. I know this. He says he loves me, but I don’t believe that. When the IED gets out of control, it’s terrible. 

I don’t know what to think or do or feel or say. I am totally lost. My son said, “Mommy please don’t divorce daddy. That would be sad.” What do I do with that?

What do I do, AB? I’m stuck!

Oh Prankster, I’m so fucking sorry. What a terrible, unenviable position you’re in.

However, no amount of apologies can change the facts. Your husband abuses you and your child. It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. It simply matters that he does and he has and he will again. If he genuinely cannot control himself during these attacks, I advise you to get as far away from him as possible and STAY there.

He’s not taking any personal accountability for his illness or trying to get better; he’s just feeding you lines of bullshit to keep you around. And for what? So you can be his punching bag?

You, Prankster, deserve loads better than what you’re getting. You don’t deserve this bullshit, you don’t deserve his abuse, and your children deserve better. Please get the hell out of there before the Pranksters have to come and get you..

I’m linking you to the Band Back Together resource page for domestic abuse, which has many different resources, including a state-by-state resource list, to help you get out of this situation.

And please, Prankster, keep us in the loop.

Let us know what happens.

We’re all rooting for you.

——————–

As always, Pranksters, please correct my shitty advice with your brilliant advice in the comments.

I stood in my kitchen, momentarily stunned, a vacuum whirring happily in my hands.

The feeling that washed over me was, for the first time, not dread. It was not a migraine either. Nor was I wasted. It was not fear either.

No, for the first time in as long as I can recall, I was calm. At peace. In the moment.

It seemed that for once, I had finally achieved peace.

While I’d not gone into the doctor, anxiously dreading that appointment to talk about my anxiety issues, believing I could actually be fixed, there I was: fixed. No longer broken.

After living, impatiently waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop already, for so many years, I could hardly imagine a world in which I did not wake with my heart pounding loudly, my guts churning painfully, my soul full of impending doom.

And yet, there I was.

I thought to myself, as I resumed vacuuming (no one can keep a good vacuum down, after all), this is the way the rest of the world feels most of the time. How shockingly simple this feels.

And then I tried desperately to kick myself for waiting as long as I did to seek help. (Pro tip: you cannot kick yourself while vacuuming without falling squarely on your ass.)

I could have spent years – years – not feeling that way, and I decided to tough it out. And for what? For WHAT? A jaw-grind disposition to a panic attack? Migraines? Insomnia? Unhappyness?

Hardly seems like a list of shit to be proud of. I toughed it out so I could break my teeth grinding them to nubs in my sleep. Spend my nights awake, weeping, reliving ghosts that could’ve been put happily to rest many years ago.

Even as we roll into the dog days of summer, it appears that my dog days are, in fact, over.

I couldn’t – haven’t – ever been happier.

———————

When I found out my dear friend, Razing Mayhem, was throwing a blogathon for Band Back Together, I actually cried real tears without the aid of a stunt double or an onion. If you want to read about her efforts to help out a place where we kick stigmas in the vagina, Band Back Together, please go and visit her.

THEN I will give you a cookie.

Or twelve.

A couple miles from my house which is a couple miles from my parents house (which goes to show you once you go St. Charles, you never go back), there is a road. Well, if you want to be technical about it, there are lots of roads, especially since I a) do not live in a cow town and 2) roads = easier ways to get to my Uncrustables.

But back in high school, we didn’t have a lot to do, so we drove around. Sometimes we’d play “Summer Car” in the dead of winter, dressing up in our tank tops and short-shorts, cranking the heat to 11. Other times we’d play Pants Off, Drive Off and drive around with no pants. Even then, it appears, pants were bullshit. Sometimes we’d drive around exploring the less developed areas surrounding STC.

An old favorite, though, was to explore Munger Road. An urban legend – completely unverified – passed down through generations of squeally teens said that the three mile stretch of road was haunted. As the urban legend goes, a busload of kids were killed crossing the train tracks. If you sit on the train tracks, baby powder on the bumper, leaving your car in neutral, the ghost train would come through and a buttload of kids would push your car out of the way. Inspection of the bumper would reveal dozens of tiny hand prints.

I cannot tell you, Pranksters, how many times we tried this trick. Which, let me tell you, is a brillz one. I mean, sitting on the train tracks, car in neutral, is probably the smartest thing you can do, when you stop a POS clunker called the Fatty-Bo-Batty-Caddy (Cadillac from the early 1800’s, I think, judging by the shape of the upholstery) ON TOTALLY FUNCTIONAL RAILROAD TRACKS.

Anyway.

I didn’t die, obviously, because I went on to pop out some crotch parasites and become Your Aunt Becky. Nor did we see any tiny ghosticles. Once, I think, we saw a cat. (no, not a Laser Kitty, because OMG, how awesome?)

I’d mostly forgotten about our Munger Road antics until The Twitter informed me of a new movie. Shot in St. Charles, and NOT on Your Mom’s Camera. Like a real movie. In St. Charles.

What’s it about?

Munger Fucking Road*.

You should probably go see it. I bet there’s a scene with me accidentally in it all stumbling out of the bar like, “I fucking love you, street light. Will you marry me?”

*petitioning for a name change for that road, by the by.

 —————

Did your town have any urban legends, Pranksters?

If you’ve read my blog for any significant portion of time, you’ve probably heard me complain bitterly discuss happily my My Grains.

I had to switch medications recently, after the one I was taking started to make me bald, and decided, after being warned of liver toxicity or death or something (I stopped paying attention when he said THIS WILL NOT MAKE YOU BALD, BECKY), to check RxList to see what, in fact, I was now taking.

You’d think after being a nurse, I might have some recollection of each and every individual medication in the Universe, but you’d be wrong. I have a brain the size of a pea, and there are kajillions of medications out there. In fact, those wily drug people are always coming out with NEW ONES.

Anyway, for the three of you who care, I’m now taking Carbatrol, and using it as a migraine prophylaxis is an off-label use for this seizure medication.

For those of you who stayed awake for that sentence, here’s a cookie.

HA! Just kidding I don’t have cookies.

So there I am, patiently wading through the piles of ‘THIS DRUG WILL KILL YOU’ material, singing the Sky Mall Kitties song, when I finally looked at the top of the page:

Do you see what I see?

Here, let me show you what I saw:

I could absolutely watch any number of videos that involved small creatures singing, but the very VERY last thing in the world I’d ever willingly watch was a slideshow about migraines. Or, for that matter, much of anything.

In fact, there’s not a single slideshow/powerpoint that ever seems to scream, “HERE AUNT BECKY, YOU SHOULD WASTE TEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE WATCHING THIS.”

So I didn’t. And perhaps I should have. Because now I’m stuck wondering what the fuck was ON that damn slideshow.

Instead (lucky Pranksters) I made you what SHOULD have been on this slideshow.

Now THAT slideshow? I would watch.

Probably.

(the title has nothing whatsoever to do with what follows)

I haven’t managed to keep friends easily.

While I’d like to say something like, “it’s totally their loss,” or “it’s their fault,” there have been a number of mitigating circumstances, some of which were entirely my own fault (if one has to blame someone). I had three kids and was unable to leave the house for years. I moved from a central location to Bumfuck, Egypt. PTSD crippled my ability to let others really in.

And certainly, my former friends have done their fair share of shitballs things to me, too. I won’t fling poo, because that’s unladylike (snorts) but it has happened.

I won’t lie and say it’s been easy or particularly enjoyable, because who likes losing their friends?

Through all of the bullshit of the past couple of years, I’ve been lucky enough to maintain a few close friends; mostly people who’d once lived inside my computer but became real friends. We’ve managed to bridge the gaps in geography and, throughout it all, grow together, rather than apart.

(I include you, Pranksters, in this category)

Meet Kat.

I met Kat shortly after Amelia was born – her daughter Avi is roughly the same age – when she IM’d me to correct my grammar on a post*. And while this is an unlikely way to become friends with someone, it’s what happened.

I won’t lie or sugarcoat things here: Kat was instrumental in saving my life after Amelia was born. I was in a bad place; such a bad place that I’m not sure anyone else – including me – realized it. I would have easily told you that I was “fine,” but I was so far from fine that I couldn’t even recall what “fine” looked like any more.

Kat saved me.

Nine months ago, her husband had a stroke, spent a good amount of time in the ICU and was eventually diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder – alpha 1-angiotripsan deficiency – for which there is no cure. Her 2-year old daughter, Mimi’s clone, was also diagnosed with this.

On Friday, at the butt-ass crack of dawn, I got up and slogged my sorry ass onto an airplane to Seattle or Portland or one of those cities that is NOT Chicago on the West Coast. It was time to hug the person who had saved me.

And I did.

I also got to meet Mimi Avi who is, just as I’d suspected, Mimi’s doppelganger in both looks and actions. When I met her, she covered her eyes shyly, only to look at me through the cracks in her fingers. I may have passed out from the cuteness.

But Kat isn’t leading an easy life now, which breaks my small, dark heart. The daily what-if stresses are, as you can imagine, crippling. I wish like hell I could say or do something more than visit; something that would matter.

When I figure out what that is, Pranksters, I’ll do it.

Instead, I’ll be thrilled that I finally got to hug my friend in person, meet her charmingly hilarious daughter, and hear my very mild-mannered friend say the one word I flew a jillion miles to hear come from her mouth: “fuck.”

*Prolly NOT the best way to become BFF with me considering both my grammar and spelling are atrocious AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.

I remember vividly trying to find places to make out when I was a teenager. It wasn’t that I was some gigantic slut—no, really—it’s just that there are only so many places that one can successfully get their legs properly humped far away from the prying eyes of parents and/or siblings. Bedrooms were preferred, because they contained, well, BEDS, but they were often strictly guarded by parents who knew exactly what two horny kids would do when allowed to be alone for more than five seconds. And it wasn’t Parcheesi.

Cars were okay, but the police in my hometown (where I still live) seldom have anything better to do than bust underage smokers or underage humpers, so screwing around in a car, while optimal in some regards because it’s mobile, isn’t exactly always a great idea. The Great Outdoors comes with bugs, lurking Uncle Pervies, hikers and picnickers and my personal favorite: Poison Ivy. No one wants Poison Ivy on their privates. Not, thankfully, that I would actually know from experience. So while I do appreciate the plight of the horny teen, I do know that there are plenty of places that can be made hump-worthy. I know I’ve gotten my leg humped in many, many places over the years.

While I do still live in my hometown, thank the Sweet Baby Jesus that I no longer live with my parents because that would be awkward mostly because I would have murdered them by now. The area that I do live is across the river and we happened to move into Teenager Row. Most people hate teenagers, but I happen to find them hilarious. Plus, they mow my lawn and do assorted chores around the house for me since I have about four thousand children and a husband who is around approximately three minutes every other week. To me, it’s a total win, and for that I can even put up with their annoying whiny emo music for the privilege of being able to work them to the bone. Cheap slave labor makes me very, very happy.

One of them in particular tends to mow my lawn on a semi-regular basis when he can be bothered to remember. He’s a teenager so I don’t hold him to any sort of high standards. One afternoon, I blearily noticed that he’d left his baseball cap on top of the treehouse in my children’s play-set. It’s a pretty sweet set-up they have and I’ll be the first to admit that I am totally making up for the fact that my own parents didn’t buy me cool shit buy buying my own kids what I deem to be the coolest shit ever. Their play-set is pimp. It’s beyond pimp, actually, and I’m halfway considering moving out there myself. Well, I would, except that my own house is cooler. Air conditioning trumps no air conditioning any day.

Anyway, the hat sits there and it annoys me because I’m a little OCD and it doesn’t fucking belong there, but my neighborhood kid doesn’t seem to notice that he’s missing his hat. I am simply stunned that he doesn’t notice that he’s missing his hat! Why, when I was that age, I would have noticed that I was missing my baseball cap! Okay, that’s a lie, because I’ve owned one baseball cap ever and it says “Mrs. Timberlake” on it and I bought it when I was twenty-four because OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t you? But weeks pass and the hat sits in the treehouse and every time I see it it’s like it’s TAUNTING me by simply being there because it doesn’t motherfucking belong there! The kid comes back a couple of times and mows my lawn and still, leaves the hat, and I am beyond mystified by this.

Finally, I catch him outside one day when all of the adults are standing around splitting some beers and noshing on encased meats.

“Kid,” I say to him, my excitement reaching a fever pitch. “I have your hat!” I probably got a little in his face because that’s how I get when I’m excited by something and trust me, Internet, I was beyond excited. Before he could say “restraining order,” I ran inside and retrieved the hat. Triumphantly, I brought it back outside where I handed it to him with a huge smile on my face. I was just THAT HAPPY to give the hat back to it’s rightful owner. I was sure that the hat was equally happy to be back home once again because I might have been a wee bit drunk at the time.

“Um,” he looked at the hat and back at me. “That’s actually not my hat.”

My mouth hit the ground. What the fuck? I have a fenced in back yard, three small children and two loud dogs. Really, my yard isn’t a free-for-all of movement and no one really gets in or gets out without me noticing. Sort of like the Hotel California. What the hell did he mean, “that’s not my hat?”

My OCD kicked into hyperdrive at this revelation because if it wasn’t his hat and it wasn’t my hat and it wasn’t Dave’s, Ben’s, Alex’s or Amelia’s, then who the fuck owned the hat? Squirrels? The fucking Invisible Man? Gnomes? I couldn’t figure it out and it ate at my brain for weeks. Trust me, I don’t have enough brain for it to be taken over with such a thing for so long. I’m pretty sure nothing else got done for those weeks.

Facebook finally cracked it for me. The neighbors behind me frequently held bonfires attended by scads of teenagers. Those teenagers were using my fucking treehouse as, well a fucking treehouse. Which, I mean, if you think about it, is kinda awesome for them, kinda gross for me, because my kids go in there all the damn time. Without knowing it, I’d been hosting an orgy of teenagers in my backyard, probably humping legs with wild abandon. My very own den of intrigue! The hat must have replaced the tie as a symbol for “do NOT come in here.” If I took a black light in there, I’d be willing to bet it would look like Fight Club, only replace the blood and hair with spooge. Thankfully, I’d thrown out the black light along with the beaded curtains years before, so I won’t torture myself, but let’s just say I hit it up with some Lysol after that, and immediately threw out the hat.

More than anything, I was happy to have solved the mystery and a little jealous that I’d never been so creative when I was a teenager. Kids these days, man. They’re so fucking smart. Too bad that Imma booby trap the damn thing at night now. They may be smart, but I have a AMEX black card.

Score one for Aunt Becky.

We went through a phase a couple of months ago, in which my middle son, Alex, decided that showing off his penis was hilarious. I mean it kinda is hilarious, but you know, having him walk around with it hanging out to receive the express reaction he was looking for: “Alex, PUT AWAY YOUR PENIS,” led to other problems.

And not just the development of MORE grey hair.

No, now my daughter believes that she, too, has a penis.

Nothing can be done to dissuade her. I’ve tried everything, “Girls have vaginas, Amelia. And you have a vagina because you are a girl,” only enrages Her Majesty.

“NO, MAMA, MIMI’S PENIS,” she shouts indignantly whenever I dare question Princess Amelia’s Way of Thinking.

Thinking on my feet (no easy task when you have a brain the approximate size and shape of a pea), I pointed out her girl bits as proof that she, like me, is sans penis.

“NO MAMA, THAT MIMI’S BUTT.”

Head in hands, I realized that I wasn’t going to win this argument and besides, I had to give her points there: it does kinda look like a butt.

The Daver was reading a book recently (he’s the literate one around these here parts) that had in it something I found more interesting than the cat video I was watching.

He said to me, that there had been a scientific study in the 1980’s in which groups of people talked about a negative experience with an untrained individual. These participants believed that sharing these experiences out loud may have helped them cope with their feelings, but it was not so, ickle Pranksters.

In fact, talking about these experiences did nothing to change the manner in which they coped with their problems.

Instead, The Daver told me, the individuals who engaged in a daily writing exercise, jotting down their most personal feelings and thoughts about their personal trauma in a journal, found a huge boost in their psychological – and physical – well being. The people who wrote down their innermost problems became happier.

Turns out that thinking and writing are actually very different. When we think about something – and chat about it – our conversations are chaotic and disorganized. However, when we write them out, we’re more invested in creating a story-line; a structure to our thoughts. While we write out our pain, we begin to make sense of what has happened and systematically approach a solution.

Those who write it out are happier.

And, Dear Pranksters, this would be why I blog, even after all these years.

That’s why I’m honored to receive all of the stories – your stories – on Band Back Together or Mushroom Printing.

And mostly, that is why I’m grateful to have found a family. My Pranksters.

SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH.

I DO SO HAVE FEELERS SOMETIMES.