After failing so miserably at being Nurse Becky and every other “career” I’ve tried, I’ve been so fortunate to have found something that I really, truly loved to do. When I discovered that I could write, it was like suddenly learning I could breathe underwater.

I wrote stories not because I wanted to, or felt obligated to, but because I had to. Those words were locked inside my brain, just itching to get out, and I could hardly wait to get in front of my computer to type some more. On the rare occasion I couldn’t manage to string them together into sentences, flowing into paragraphs, forming entire posts, I wrote them in my head.

I had finally found my calling. After years of being certain I was an utter failure, I’d found what I was supposed to do.

The next logical progression was, of course, to turn all of these essays into a collection of essays. Only it didn’t happen easily. I expected that. If it had happened when I began, I’m entirely certain that it wouldn’t have worked out for one reason or another.

But as the months turned into years, I began to doubt myself. Was this really what I was supposed to be doing? Was living my life on The Internet enough for me? Did it really matter if I ever turned those books of essays into something more than semi-completed drafts?

I simply didn’t know anymore.

Rather than dwell, I busied myself living my life on The Internet. I founded Mushroom Printing in July of last year and Band Back Together in September. I wrote columns for other sites. I signed up to go to conferences like Type A Mom and BlogHer. I got better at The Twitter. I decided to wage war against Mark Zuckerberg and The Facebook. I decided to take Band Back Together and turn it into a non-profit. I made business cards. Sold ads.

And all that time, in the back of my head, that feeling of Failure at Books, with a Big Fat F, sat there, silently mocking me.

Things which, at the time I mention it, seem ridiculous to everyone around me, have always been spectacularly in focus to me. I know what I am supposed to do next because I just know. I don’t need the approval of a soul, I don’t worry about risks or being mocked, because I know I am right. In the end, I have always been proved to have been right.

I am excellent, it seems, at seeing things clearly.

Except when I cannot. Which is how I’ve felt about my books. They’ve felt out of focus for so long that the self-doubt has crept in around the corners, making me question myself. I hate to question myself more than I hate John C. Mayer.

But perhaps you all are right. Perhaps it is time to write – really write – them. If the publishing industry doesn’t want me, well, that’s their loss. If The Man wants to keep me down*, well fuck him.

Believing in myself – knowing my Pranksters have my back – maybe that’s enough to put things back into focus again.

As always, Pranksters, I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay.

It’s time, I think, to write the shit out of my books. Unless you have any better suggestions.

*a joke**

**sorta

Dear Aunt Becky & her Awesome Pranksters:

My most pressing question, only because it’s not something that can be answered by looking up local legal codes or consulting the legal counsel I can’t afford anyway, is how to tell my 3 year old, brilliant, observant, sensitive, & already adapting to the role of caretaker at age fucking THREE, Mama & Daddy won’t be loving together anymore.

See, I’ve been so busy trying to survive, take care of my daughter, & deal with the chest-tightening, ever-present, want-to-shoot-myself-anxiety, & not fall into a severe depression, that I didn’t have time to read the Guide on How to Get Out of a Bad Marriage Without Completely Destroying Your Child in the Process.

I know, right? You’d think I’d have carved out some time for that one. But thank god I haven’t lost my snark & sarcasm or my will to clean? Make my reservation in the asylum.

So, my dear Aunt Becky. What you got for me?

Well, first things first, if you’re actively suicidal, please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). I’m serious, here. That’s not like a joke phone number.

And I’m going to give you a couple of resource pages from Band Back Together to look at so that you can take care of YOUR mental health. Suicide Resources, Anxiety Resources, Depression Resources

Your daughter sounds to be very intuitive and has probably already realized something was wrong. I would recommend talking to her in very concrete terms. Children don’t understand euphemisms and are prone to interpret things differently than adults.

That said, these are the key things you should try and touch on when you tell your daughter that you’re getting a divorce.

a) The divorce has nothing to do with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is not your fault.

b) Mom and Dad both love you dearly no matter what happens. We will always be your parents, even if we live in different houses.

c) Everything will be fine. Even if it seems scary and different now, everything will be just fine.

d) It’s okay to feel sad.

I hope that helps, dear Prankster.

Aunt Becky,
Is there a book on the way? I am unable to submit my request to your publishers or my e-mail for the chapter.

So I’ll do it here: hell yes, I’d buy Aunt Becky’s bookssss.

Dave

Dear Dave,

That seems to be the question plaguing me.

I’ve recently parted ways with my agents and realized the publishing industry is in the crapper, so I’m not entirely certain if I SHOULD write a book. I certainly can (although I’d need to ascertain what, exactly, I’d write about) and would be happy to, but I’m not sure if I should simply chuck the idear of finding new agents, praying for a publisher, then writing the thing. Certainly, I could try.

The logical step would be, of course, to simply write the damn thing and sell it as an e-book.

The question remains: should I? I’m asking you, Pranksters, because I trust your opinion. Should I bother trying to self-publish an e-book or is that as useless as the time I tried to cook dinner?

I’m having a mini-crisis over here about it and would genuinely love your input (not about dinner, of course. We all know I live on Uncrustables and cereal).

Should Your Favorite Aunt Becky bother writing and self-publishing a book? Do you know any publishers that would heart me? What type of book would you like to read? You can answer in the comments or send me an email: becky.harks@gmail.com

If you guys really think I can do this, then I will. MY FATE IS IN YOUR HANDS, PRANKSTERS.

Love,

Your Aunt Becky who may or may not be gulping Xanax while she writes this.

(P.S. if you are a publisher, please publish my book, no questions asked)

I’m the first in line to hump a teacher for all they do. I’m also first in line to have a retraining order filed when I hump an unsuspecting teacher.

Remembering that I’d chosen between nursing and teaching as majors makes me laugh especially hard these days, because I am SO not a teacher. Kids – even my own – make me twitchy. And I’m probably the LAST person on the planet you want ministering to young, impressionable minds.

Unless, of course, it’s teaching them how to ditch the 5-0, in which case, we’re ALL good.

Anyway.

School ended this week, the outcries of parents heard ’round the world. Kids seem to have a hard time going from a rigid structured environment to doing, well, nothing. My own crotch parasites can’t entertain themselves worth dick.

I distinctly recall summer vacation growing up. It started after I rode my bike home from school and said, “Hey Mom, school’s out, here’s my report card!” She’d glance at the report card (straight A’s as usual, except for PE, which I refused to participate in), toss it on the counter and say, “Okay, time to go outside.”

Then I was ushered outside to play, the door locked squarely behind me.

I was able to come in for lunch but then it was right back outside again.

I had one of those rusted-out old metal swingsets, probably teaming with lead paint, and when two people used the set, one of it’s poles would lurch unhappily out of the ground with a metallic screech. I’m surprised I didn’t inadvertently kill myself on the thing.

I also had a sandbox that neighboring cats and roaming raccoons shit in. We’d just fling the crusted-over poo out of the box and keep playing. We called them “poo crunchies.” It was generally the youngest’s job to handle the poo. Because obviously.

I recall many things about summer – the Ice Cream Man, (who even as a child seemed a little Uncle Pervy), cherry snow cones, selling lemonade on the street, non-stop games of Ghost in the Graveyard, chasing each other in Big Wheels up and down our street – but I don’t remember being bored.

And I certainly don’t remember my mother coming outside to play with me. In fact, no one’s mother came out to play with their kids. If they had, summer would have been a hell of a lot less fun.

My eldest is off in California until Tuesday while Alex and Amelia’s preschool teacher is on vacation until next Wednesday. It dawns on me that four and two are too young to simply boot outside to “play.” Especially since I don’t trust them not to find sledgehammers and break down a wall to get back inside and into Dora’s and her stupid fucking backpack’s loving grip.

My children are so bored that I cannot believe they haven’t drilled a hole into my head just to see what happens.

(spoiler alert: it’s empty in there)

I’ve come to terms with the idea I may not last the weekend (unless the rain goes away) and if I do, I’m buying their preschool teacher diamonds. LOTS of diamonds. And I’m buying myself a gigantic bottle of Valium. With a vodka chaser.

Summer, it seems, is why Mommy needs her vodka.

When I was a baby, I’d sleep so late in the mornings that my mother often rushed into the room, certain I was dead. And I was. DEAD TO THE WORLD.

As I grew up, it became clear that I was simply not a morning person. I’d wake up, stomp around the house for half an hour spitting venom at anyone who dared speak to me and then be…okay. Not great, but okay.

Rather than be offended by my mutterings of “I hate you, motherfuckers,” this delighted my family to no end. My brother and father often fought over who got to wake me up. My brother generally won.

So I’d be woken up to his frantic BANG BANG BANG on the door and just as I had rolled over, realizing that I was not, in fact, eating a castle made of marshmallows, he’d burst into my room.

Singing.

Off-key.

Often, he’d include a pot to bang.

“IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP, BE-CKY, IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP NOW!” was a favorite, although generally it was this: “RISE, AND SHINE, AND BRING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY, RISE, AND SHINE, AND SING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY.”

By the time I’d lobbed a pair of shoes at his head, I was downright furious. It’s bad enough to have to live THROUGH a morning, but to be woken up to my brother’s off-key warbling of church songs? That was fucking TORTURE.

Once I’d gotten dressed and stomped downstairs, my family would greet me one by one with, “WHY HELLLLLO, BECKY. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”

I’d let my middle finger respond.

While this brought no end of amusement to the rest of my family, I’d always hoped that I’d grow into a morning person. After I plotted their death by torpedo or frenzied shark attack, of course.

Not so much. Their untimely deaths OR an ability to enjoy anything before ten AM.

I’ve fought against it but it turns out that I will simply never be a morning person.

Mornings are bullshit.

This week, I have to be a morning person. My preschool teacher is gone for a week, which means that I have to entertain a very bored Alex and Amelia.

It’s gin and tonic o’clock somewhere, right?

—————–

Are you a morning person? Can you come over and watch my kids for me?

I’m entirely certain I was a difficult child. Especially knowing now* what an all-mighty, insufferable pain in the ass I can be, it’s not too surprising that my mother would try to off me. I’m only surprised that she’d wait until I was eighteen to do it.

While the rest of you Pranksters had cars as teenagers, I didn’t. Instead, I bummed rides from you. See how thoughtful I was? I could drive, I just didn’t care enough to buy my own car. I much preferred to spend my dough on cheeseburgers and jaunty hair accessories. Not much has changed.

For my high school graduation, my parents gave me a car.

Before you begin hurling coffee cups at your computer monitor in righteous indignation, I assure you that it was decidedly UN-like the car commercials where the graduate wakes up to a brand-new bow-wrapped Lexus in the driveway.

No.

My parents gave me a two hundred dollar Dodge Shadow in a color I can only call “road chocolate.”

(that is a rough approximation of the Dodge Shadow I owned)

You’d think with a carpool lane consisting of Range Rovers, Porsches, and Jaguars, I’d have been underwhelmed by this dingy road-chocolate colored piece-of-shit car, and it couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Sure, the window didn’t roll all the way up and okay, I had to put a portable boom box in the front seat if I wanted to listen to music, and sure, the seatbelt didn’t quite….well, buckle, but it didn’t matter. The car was mine. I loved it. Pink puffy hearts.

I’d tool around in my jalopy, cold in the winter and hot as balls in the summer, and once school started, I drove it to and from my college classes.

One particularly hot autumn day, I approached a long line of cars stopped in front of me and began to eeeeeeeeasse onto the brakes. I felt something snap. So I eased more. Then I eased even more. By the time I realized I was fresh out of easing room, I veered off the road onto the gravel shoulder, the brakes were jammed down to the floorboard.

The brakes were d-e-a-d busted.

My mother, probably off buying cyanide to poison me with, didn’t pick up when I walked to the nearby elementary school to use the phone, so I had to call my boyfriend’s mother, who graciously came and rescued me.

I never saw my road-chocolate car again. I went back to bumming rides off my friends until the day I became suicidal and bought a two-seater cherry-red Honda del sol.

It was a bonus: a sweet ride that doubled as a coffin (in the event of an accident).

More importantly, it had a six-disc changer in the back. Even then, I was aware of the things that REALLY mattered in life: like air conditioning and the ablity to listen to all my Britney CD’s AT ONCE.

*teenagers are, of course, certain of their awesomeness and anyone who says otherwise is clearly a Communist.

Yesterday, I was standing at the sink, using my new reverse osmosis water system, giving my orchids a drink and silently going over the vertebrae subtypes (“Certain Doctors Love Saddling Coeds”), trying desperately to get the Facts of Life theme song out of my head, when he laid it on me.

“Mom,” my eldest asked. “What’s a ‘sexual favors?'”

Had I been drinking anything, it would have ended up on the window in front of me.

After I stopped choking on my tongue, I carefully said, “What do you mean?”

“In a Mario video, they said, ‘Why does everyone try to rescue the Princess?’ and then Bowser says, ‘Sexual favors, of course.'”

I silently thanked autism for giving him the inability to read my face, because if he had, it would have said, “OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT.”

“Well,” I said, the cranial nerves long-forgotten, “it means like, kissing and stuffs.”

“EWWWWWWWWWW!” he yelled. “GROSS.”

He scampered off to play with his siblings and I returned to watering my orchids. I stood for a minute, watching him before I sang under my breath, “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have, the Facts of Life, the Facts of Life.“

Now, we’ve established that I’m afraid of weird-ass things.

Jimmy Wales, founder of Wikipedia, for one. I’m afraid he’s – or one of his guilt-inducing minions – is going to knife me in my sleep because I didn’t donate ten bucks to him last year. Plus, I’m afraid that he’d judging me for all the shit I Google.

I’m afraid of showering while no one is home because, HELLO, have you SEEN a horror movie? That’s how they all begin.

I’m afraid of sitting with my back toward any open door because I’m pretty sure I was a mobster in a past life, and hello, have you seen how they always get the shit blown out of them when they’re sitting with their back away from the door?

I’m also afraid of this guy:

Because do you want that guy giving you a thorough rectal exam?

I THINK NOT.

Oddly, it turns out that I am absolutely terrified of commitment. Especially commitment to the government.

See, I’m taking Band Back Together and (spoiler alert!) turning it into a non-profit. And because I am terrified of screwing that up and then owing the IRS sixty-bajillion dollars plus my kidneys (not because I expect to MAKE a single dollar, mind you), I figured I’d call my lawyer.

Yeah, I have a lawyer. It’s not NEARLY as glamorous as it sounds.

So, we get on the phone and I’m all nervously trying to explain what the site is and stuff, and he’s like, “I’m sorry, Becky, but I don’t know much about non-profits. You can PROBABLY do it yourself.”

Which is precisely what the people who help me behind the scenes at Band Back Together said. But I didn’t believe them because do you KNOW how I fuck things up?

Anyway, I went and found the place where I’m supposed to start registering but I got all nervous and started shaking like a Chihuahua. Then I had to close the browser and perform some “deep cleansing breaths” (read: make a margarita).

Do these people not know how STUPID I am? I’ve documented that well, I think. And yet, the Illinois Secretary of State has not BLOCKED me from their website?

That is such an error on their end.

Pranksters, I don’t think I can do it by myself. I can barely go to the grocery store without forgetting why I’m there.

Now I’m waiting for someone to come over and hold my hand and tell me what to fill in for each box and when to click, “submit” and then I will hand them tens of dollars.

Otherwise, I’m going to end up without a set of kidneys and as that Nurse McPervy up there would like to point out, one cannot function without kidneys. Also: he’d like to give you a thorough rectal exam.

You know, when you’re ready.

Hey Aunt Becky –

I submitted a question once before and your answer was pretty awesomesauce, so I thought I’d have a another go at it.

I’m (I think) what you bloggers call a lurker.  I read several blogs every day but I don’t think I’ve ever commented.  A lot of the time I’m several days behind or I just don’t feel like I have anything interesting/relevant to add to whatever discussion is taking place but sometimes I just realize that it’s kind of weird to be sitting in my living room with my coffee reading up on some stranger’s life!

I don’t want to be a creepy non-contributing lurker.  Is it as rude and weird to just sit there creeping on blogs without commenting or should I suck it up and make comments every once in awhile?  I follow the blogs because they are interesting to me, have excellent writing or because I can relate.

I’m not a total weirdo recluse, I promise.

Thanks in advance for your complete awesomeness!

Oh, Dear Prankster, I don’t think you’re a weirdo recluse for not commenting. Not a bit.

It used to be that blogging “currency” (if I may)(and I always motherfucking may) was comments. It’s always been a little controversial to put up a donate button/tip jar* therefore a comment was the next best thing.

Since people began to read blogs in their readers (Google Reader, Feedburner, etc), commenting has gone the way of the condor. If the condor is actually dead. If he’s not, then I just lied. If you have a full feed published to your reader (which you should), people just read there.

The obvious answer would be to publish a partial feed so people click through, but partial feeds piss people off. For good reason. From a reader’s point of view, bloggers should make their blogs as accessible as they possibly can. EVEN IF IT MEANS LOSING A FEW CLICK-THROUGHS.

Also killing comments is that there are a number of commenting systems that are, flat out, a pain in the fucking ass to use. I read hundreds of blogs. If it takes me twenty minutes to figure out HOW to leave a comment, guess who loses a comment?

The Twitter and The Facebook don’t help. People comment there instead of on your blog.

And frankly? I don’t care. You don’t have to comment. I love comments, don’t get me wrong, but I’m happy enough to know my lurkers (and six kazillion robots) are out there.

And, lurkers, if you ever want to speak up, please do (or send me an email: aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com). I’m beyond happy to make your acquaintance.

*don’t hate the player, hate the game.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Did you know there’s a new sitcom on ABC called “Happy Endings?”  Whether you knew is important, Aunt Becky, because I recently watched a DVR’d episode of said show, and not once, but TWICE, they stole your “Shut Your Whore Mouth” phrase.  I do not know if you are secretly working on this sitcom and put it in there so only your lovely Pranksters would recognize it, or if the writers stole your phrase.

So, if you are a secret writer on Happy Endings, kudos–I heard your phrase and recognized your handy work.  If you are not, then you might want to go EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER on ABC.

Your call.

Dear ABC,

I want some fucking royalties, ABC. Now.

Do NOT make me unleash The Pranksters on you, ABC, because I so totally will. And, ABC, do you KNOW what they did to John C. Mayer? They made him a VERB.

Yeah.

ABC, you don’t want that.

I’ll be expecting your check in the mail, ABC.

Cheers!

Aunt (motherfucking) Becky

Hey, Aunt Beck!

Was wondering…are your tees cut for chicks?  You know, a little fitted, a little more narrow at the waist, more of a cap sleeve?

The nosy, and possible purchaser, want to know!

Thanks!

Excellent question, inquiring Prankster.

Fashion Cut shirts = girls shirts = more fitted and tightish around the waist. Now, let me tell you something and don’t get all vain about it when you order one. BUY ONE SIZE UP. Just trust me.

That said, they make your rack look TREMENDOUS.

In which case you’re a dude. Then you probably want to go with Unisex.

And you should buy one. All of you.

(or not)

P.S. Working on new designs, too. Loved your suggestions last week. Thank you.

I was shocked by how much space my new house had. We’d gone from cramming ourselves into a wee three-bedroom condo without storage space to a house that had three floors and so much storage space that it seemed obscene.

It was beyond startling when, the weekend that we moved in, my new neighbors began showing up at my doorstep with plates brownies and cookies and treats to introduce themselves and to meet us. Our condo building was filled with incredibly unpleasant older, single cat ladies who didn’t like us. They’d have been more apt to leave a bag of poo on our doorstep than a plate of cookies.

With the exception of the people we shared a porch with, there was no one in the building who didn’t hate us. I still don’t know why.

We’d just happened to move into Pleasantville, which is what I STILL call my neighborhood. House after prefab house filled with pleasant, kind people. On Halloween, there’s a house that hands out hot chocolate and hot toddy’s. Another grills hotdogs and passes out beer and soda. If I had a binder, I’d write, “Aunt Becky + Her Neighborhood = Tru Luv” in loopy letters, surrounded by a bunch of pink, puffy hearts.

(sorta like I do with my Pranksters. You all have pink puffy hearts around you)

So when my neighbor, my son’s friend’s mother, invited me over for a “Pampered Chef” party, I was thrilled. Well, thrilled might not be the proper word. I was thrilled to be invited, but I liked cooking about as much as I liked grinding a lightbulb into my eye socket.

But I marched on over there for the party and sat down with a number of older women I didn’t know. Everyone was, of course, way friendly, but the person who was demonstrating the products began to blab. And she kept blabbing.

OMFG she kept on blabbing. I’d never SEEN someone talk so much. (as someone who routinely “talks paint off walls, THAT’S saying a LOT).

It was like one of those cooking shows I never watch because I cannot stand the blabbing. I mean, I love a good meal, but I’d rather cut my leg off than prepare it, or worse, watch someone who isn’t going to GIVE me the meal prepare it.

In the middle of her blabbing, I decided that I, too, could cook. And that I, too, needed THOSE SPECIFIC TOOLS to cook with. Certainly it wasn’t MY problem I couldn’t cook. It was because I didn’t have the Pampered Chef chopper-thingy! Or the cutting board! Or the grill thingy!

I blew a hundred bucks that night on crap so I, too, could be a COOKER-PERSON.

It took a week or so before my order came in. Immediately, I opened my miracle chopper thingy and put it together. I had fajitas I was gonna make! This was a WIN! Plus, my stuff looked so FANCY in the empty cabinets!

Only…the chopper thing didn’t really, well, WORK. The blades were always falling off, which meant that someone as dumb as me was tasked with slipping the blades BACK IN TO their rightful place. Without losing part of my thumb. It took me half an hour to cut up a green pepper, not including the time spent washing the stupid thing out. Had I used a knife, it would have taken less than five minutes.

That Chopper-Thing Was BULLSHIT.

The tiny spatula I’d bought, well, the handle fell off after a couple of months. The cutting board was fine, but nothing I couldn’t have bought anywhere else more cheaply.

I was a little discouraged, knowing I’d never become a Cooker-Person, but I cheered up when I realized that this meant I could eat more McDonald’s.

Those golden arches, they NEVER disappoint me.

——————

Tell me, Pranksters, what do you think of those in-home parties like Pampered Chef or Tupperware? Love ’em? Hate ’em? I need a good laugh today.

This would be the pictures you wanted after yesterday’s post, Pranksters.

I suggested that he get a spider tattoo there for street cred, but he said no. Shockingly. Even AFTER I gave him this awesome mock-up of what he COULD look like.

Some people (psssst *nudge, nudge* THE DAVER), it seems, don’t appreciate HIGH ART.

He says he’s going to “get me back while I’m sleeping,” but I’m not worried about my hair. I’m worried he’ll rig up something I can’t turn off that will play to every single Rush album throughout my house over and over again.

Hair grows back. Being traumatized by Rush is for LIFE.