I heard through The Twitter that there was some stupid mess over a commercial involving a mother painting her young son’s toenails. Apparently, there was some outrage over it. Who the fuck is outraged by such a thing?

Also: I’ve never seen it because I prefer to be smug without proof that the commercial sucks.

A loyal prankster (thank you Charlene) sent the offending ad into me.

It’s this:

Um. How inoffensive is that? It’s fucking CUTE.

I used to paint my son’s toenails because, well, he asked me to, and why not? He was a little boy and if he liked pretty toenails (like Mom’s), who was I to deny him? It was charming, really.

When my eldest was five, I got pregnant with his brother. So, I bought him a doll of his very own to play with. He loved that doll, “Seth,” and somewhere, Seth, a little gnawed upon, perhaps, still lives in my house. It took me ages to find him a doll that wasn’t swaddled in all things pink. Apparently, toy manufacturers aren’t keen on dolls dressed in blue.

Happily, I took no end of grief for Seth. My son will probably grow up to be a father and when he does, he’ll know how to properly care for a baby.

When I was pregnant with Amelia, Seth got a friend, “Amelia.” Another doll for both of the boys to care for. And they did, properly carrying their dolls around, feeding them with play bottles and pushing them around in their respective strollers.

(okay, Alex frequently tried to poke out the doll’s eyes. So?)

Again, I took no end of grief for it. I just rolled my eyes. Like dolls are going to “make” my boys gay or something.

(and if they are gay, well, so? I’d be fine with a gay son OR daughter)

For Christmas one year, I bought my son a doctor kit (by the aforementioned logic, my kid should grow up to be a doctor now, right?) to go with his dolls.

I didn’t notice until I was getting ready to wrap it up for Christmas:

Dear Fisher-Price,

Boys play with dolls, too.

Love,

AB

I got pretty Furious George about it. But it was Christmas, so I just ripped the tag off and wrapped it up. My sons? They loved the shit out of it.

I got a marginal amount of shit when I dressed Alex as a butterfly for Halloween this year. Much less than I’d anticipated, actually. I mean, he was three; he loves butterflies AND beating the shit out of things. If he wanted to go as a ballerina, I’d let him do that, too.

For his fourth birthday, Alex got some furniture for their dollhouse. He’s got a wild imagination and the stories he comes up with while playing with their dollhouse are incredible.

More furniture = full of the win.

Until I looked at the back.

Dear Target:

Being a hostess is bullshit.

Fondly,

AB

I do have a vagina and I’m not a “hostess.” In fact, my imagination sucks ass. You’d be shocked by how shitty my imagination is and what little desire I have to become a “hostess.”

No amount of doll furniture will change THAT.

Being a hostess may be bullshit.

Painted nails, however, are not.

Leaving this morning, this is what my phoenix tattoo looked like:

And this is what I came home with:

I’m a little orange in this shot, but I assure you I’m neither an Oompa Loompa OR a spray-tan addict. I just need better lighting.

Also: I’m going back to for color in July. Because THAT is how far out my tattoo artist books.

Also, Also: OUCH.

I’m off to get my tattoo today. What did I decide upon? YOU’LL HAVE TO WAIT AND FIND OUT. I’ll put up pictures as soon as humanly possible.

That is, if I don’t die in a fiery tornado of terror.

As you can see, I may very well perish.

Let’s see what the Weather Channel is REALLY saying about the storms today:

Well, okay. If I die, I can use Yes That Can Be My Next Tweet to keep my Twitter account active.

I mean, this sounds like something I would say:

It’s freakish how spot-on the thing is.

Catch you on the flip-side, Pranksters. Also: HOLD ME.

I came to the End of The Internet on Friday. I was searching for a laptop bag, right? And it turns out that laptop bags are the fugliest thing on the planet. Well, at least, the ones I could find.

Hence, the End of The Internet.

But I get all kinds of pissed off when I can’t find something that should be so simple, so I spent most of the day flopping around indignantly, occasionally shaking my fists at The Internet Gods, who had, for the first time, failed me.

After my daughter came home from preschool, she climbed up onto my indignant lap and demanded to look at what I’d been looking at. Which happened to be the kate spade website.

She and I spent a good while perusing ridiculously expensive purses, which, apparently, she, like her mother, is enamored by.

Eventually, she slithered off my frustrated lap and stood on her head on the floor next to me. Seeing a perfect opportunity to teach her some gymnastics, I rolled her over, helping her perform her first somersault. Delighted, she stood up, clapped her hands, yelled, “YAY!” and then begged me to do it again. So I did. We probably did twenty somersaults together before it was time for bed.

And it was walking up the stairs that I noticed something. The scar on the back of her head was bright purple.

Now, she has a skull implant there, covered by a thin layer of imperfect scalp skin (thank YOU, neural tube defects), upon which no hair will ever grow. The scar is fairly visible, although it often looks like her part is just extra-long.

She’s also got a couple of birthmarks on her face, common for kids with midline skull abnormalities, all of which turn from mildly discolored to extremely red whenever she becomes Furious George (which, since she’s my kid, is fairly often).

But I’d never seen her skull turn that purplish shade before. Immediately, I thought of what a dumbass move it was to do somersaults with a kid who has a fucking skull implant.

I dragged her into the bathroom, where the light was a bit better, and took a closer look. It could be something…and it could be nothing. Either way, I was right back in that birthing room, delivering a sick baby again. Only this time, it really WAS my fault.

I called the doctor on call, snotting and crying all over the phone, as I kept her up well-past her bedtime, to assess her level of consciousness. When I realized that she seemed to be just fine, the purplishness had subsided, I decided to put her to bed.

Then I checked on her every forty-five minutes for the rest of the night.

The next morning, the on-call doctor finally called back. Apparently, the answering service sucks a fat one. “Keep an eye out,” she said, “for any other signs of head injury. Vomiting, loss of consciousness, swelling, bruising, irritability.”

Okay, this I could do.

The following evening, I put her in bed, where she promptly barfed everywhere.

Shit, I thought briefly, until I remembered that my own guts had been through hell that week. Okay, I told myself, it’s a flu-bug. She’ll probably be up half the night barfing her guts out.

But she wasn’t.

She got up late the following morning and ate a quick breakfast with her brother.

Then, on the way to the Computer Store, she yacked again. A full 14 hours after her initial vomiting episode. Which, to me, was a Very Bad Sign.

Off to the ER we went. After several very long hours, it seemed that was simply some very bad timing. A flu-bug was the most likely culprit for her illness.

She’s been grounded until her sixteenth birthday.

That is, after I buy her a pony and a Porsche.

————

I have a new column up every Thursday at CafeMom. It’s called (barely) Surviving Parenthood. It’s full of the awesome.

———–

Speaking of Full of the Awesome, I was thinking about using THAT for a shirt design. Is that lame?

Also: TODAY is Tax Day, not April 15, which, hi, why didn’t someone tell me it was changing? That’s bullshit.

Anyway, the winner of my shirt giveaway:

(P.S: if you’re interested, they’re giving away a couple of my shirts on Band Back Together, too.)

Dear Aunt Becky,

Who is the Mormon-Faced kid from American Idol?

Oh you mean the one I talked about on Friday?

(frantically googles)

MORMON FACE.

That guy. Kris Allen. He’s the Mormon-Faced kid from American Idol.

Tell me I’m not right.

Dear Aunt Becky,

This is probably a stupid question, but…

I would love to post on Band Back Together, but I can’t figure out how. Do you have to register on the website? Is there some kind of “submit post” button I’m missing?

Am I just a huge fucking idiot who can’t figure out something totally obvious?

That is most assuredly NOT a stupid question, Prankster. It’s a weird concept and we’re working on a new site design to make it a little…easier for everyone involved. But I don’t have it up yet, so just bear with me. (also: April’s BB2G theme is up!)

So, you go to the main screen, Band Back Together.com, right?

Looks like this:

For the how to contribute guidelines, well, it’s a little hard to read, but that’s all the boring stuff about how to write a wordpress post (it’s a brief, semi-decent wordpress tutorial), disclaimers, all the other stuff.

It also has a brief explanation of how to register for the site, which you must do to post anything. This box is found on the sidebar of the blog. Your other WordPress accounts will not (unfortunately) transfer, so you must register here.

It’ll take you to a log-in page. Register there.

You can change your password at any time, but your username cannot, so choose something you like.

When you are done, click the Register Button.

You must use a valid email address.

Why?

Your password (a jumbled up mixture of letters and numbers) will be emailed to you. Once you log-in for the first time, change your password.

Once on the site, click “Profile” from the sidebar. From there, you have a ton of different options.

If you want a link to your blog, add both first and last name (can be made up) and blog URL if you want your posts to link back to your blog.

If you want a custom avatar, instead of the generic monster-y looking one WordPress will assign you, go here.

If you need more instructions for how to post on a WordPress blog, please go here, to the wordpress tutorial. Any other questions, let me know.

Dear Aunt Becky,

My (adult) sisters are fighting – the kind of clawing at your soul, crying wracking sobs because it seems like it’ll never be ok, echoes forever fighting that you hope never to be a part of, ever.  Of course, each thinks the other is to blame, and (of course), they are both a little bit right.  Each of them has done hurtful things to the other, and the repercussions of those hurtful things seem never ending.

One did apologize and try to stitch a relationship back together, but it was thrown back in her face; the other thinks she has done nothing to apologize for and feels our family is blaming her for sticking up for herself.

It is just one of those situations where I am totally helpless, and yet everyone expects me to have the answer.  I’d like to help them, they’ve both asked me for help, but I am completely clueless as to how to do that when everything I say seems – to them – as if I am taking sides.  I don’t want to take sides, I just want things to get better.

I thought you, or your Pranksters, might have some suggestions for helping two sisters, who I know love each other but are just so hurt right now, to come back together.

I really appreciate any ideas you might have ~ thanks!

Sighs.

Families.

Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em.

Sorry to hear you’re being put in the middle of something that doesn’t have a thing to do with you. That’s a pile of bullshit right there.

Now, I’m sure the Pranksters will have plenty to say, but my advice to you is to make it clear that you are not taking sides. Unless you want to ally yourself with one of your sisters (thereby alienating the other), I don’t see any other alternative beyond declaring yourself neutral.

You’re not responsible for fixing any problems but your own, no matter how much you want to. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to stay back and let the fight take it’s course.

I’m really sorry I don’t have a better answer.

Pranksters?

I’m getting a tattoo on Tuesday (win!) but I’m not entirely sure what I want underneath, except that I do NOT want fire. I’d rather get a poorly misspelled name than fire under the phoenix tattoo. But you know, I need something else under there. A scene.

HALP ME, PRANKSTERS.

I NEED YOUR BRILLIANCE.

Now, I don’t watch much reality TV. Putting twenty people in an isolated bubble for six to nine months and expecting them to perform incredible acts and engage in weird wild behavior is kinda boring to me. If I want weirdness, all I have to do is look at my kids. Or in the mirror.

The only reality television show I’ve watched in recent years is American Idol, and I stopped watching after Mormon-Face won.

(I did, however, adore The Real World, with Puck and Pedro. ZOMGBBQWTF I am dating myself.)

I’ve occasionally tuned into the Biggest Loser for a minute or two, because it makes me feel good to eat cheeseburgers and be all, “YOU KNOW YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS, DON’T YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS?” to the poor contestants sweating of their pounds. Then I quickly switch to something MORE gruesome and dark, because that’s what I prefer.

It seems I only watch depressing, dark television shows AFTER they’ve been pulled off the air. I’m going to guess that my funk is due to the end of Prison Break, which still makes me weep.

Last year, I noticed half the blog world was doing something called “The 30 Day Shred,” a workout designed by the cute-as-a-button Jillian Michaels. Well, I thought flippantly as I ordered the workout DVD from Amazon, I bet I just lost like 7 pounds just ordering it.

I was gonna be a SHREDHEAD.

I got the DVD in the mail and stared it down, knowing that just OWNING it would make me lose a bunch of weight.

Eventually, I realized I should probably take it out of the plastic wrap and open it up. BINGO! Another 4 pounds gone, I figured, patting myself on the back heartily.

Now here’s the thing, Pranksters, I kinda love to work out. Which is probably not something you’d expect from me, but it’s true. There’s some sick part of me that loves to get all hot and sweaty and strong. So when I went to the basement (to avoid roving crotch parasites who would most certainly smack me on the ass while I worked out), I was pretty pumped to get my workout on.

I did it.

Then I did it again.

Then I did it the next day.

I felt great….for someone who couldn’t walk. My leg muscles had turned to jello, and the very act of rolling over in bed caused me to cry out in pain. Some sick part of me was awfully proud of this.

So I kept on it. Shredding my cares away.

Until, I noticed pain in a place that I couldn’t quite explain away.

My foot.

I’d hurt my foot when I’d fallen down the stairs, very early into my pregnancy with Amelia. I’d never been able to properly treat it, thanks to my gestating crotch parasite, instead, I wore Das Boot and iced it whenever possible.

(sidebar: do you KNOW how people treat you when you’re pregnant, wearing a gigantic boot? Like you’re suffering an IQ of 12. It was, quite possibly, the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. People talking to me slowly and loudly while making it clear they thought I was mentally-challenged.)

(Dubya-Tee-Eff)

And we all know what happens when I get pregnant: I get fat. All that extra weight on my poor injured foot lead to more pain. By the end of my pregnancy, my feet had swollen so badly that I couldn’t wear shoes and the hurt one was approximately the size and shape of a cinder block.

I delivered the girl and the swelling went down, and frankly, I had bigger fish to fry than my poor ickle foot. It could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Last spring, when I decided to do Das Shred, it aggravated my old injury. I had to stop.

I was a #ShredFailure

Unfortunately, this injury also put a stop to my gardening abilities last year. So it’s no surprise that my garden is half-complete, my roses sadly suffering from Black Spot. I’d managed to get outside this weekend, before it got Ass Cold again, to fix some of what was left undone, but I’m actually ashamed by the state of my yard.

So, Jillian Michaels, wherever you are; you can crawl out from under your piles of money and get your pert, perky ass to my house and help me fix it.

Hey, I’ll even let you wear your green sports bra and spanky short-shorts.

I have a zillion things to say and I’ve sat here, fingers at the ready and still, nothing comes out. Hope to be back to myself again tomorrow. Until then, pull up a vodka, sit down next to Your Aunt Becky and tell her what’s going on with YOU, Pranksters.

Now I should start by saying that I am not an English Nerd. Before writing on The Internet, I was all science, all the time. I had (have) grand plans of going BACK to science as soon as humanly possible. I’ve not taken more English classes than the minimum required to receive my diploma, because, well, I’d rather poke out my eyeballs than read anything Jane Austen ever wrote.

Let’s be honest. Read anything I’ve ever written and you’ll see that blogging is free publishing for a reason: anyone can do it.

That said, I’ve clearly turned into an Old Fart. When I heard that Oxford English Dictionary had added text-speak to it’s formidable definitions, I got Furious George.

Why?

THEY’RE NOT WORDS.

At the end of March, nine hundred words were added to the famous, respectable Oxford English Dictionary. Including “LOL,” which, for those of you living under a rock, means “laughing out loud.” According to justifications by the Dictionary Maker People, LOL is okay to add because it once stood for “little old lady.” RIGHT, Oxford English Dictionary People, play the Little Old Lady Card so I can’t call you out on your bullshit. Who can POSSIBLY be angry at a Little Old Lady?

This blogger. Right here.

See, Oxford English Dictionary Makers, I see nonsense text-crap like “LOL” and “OMG” and those weird heart symbols all over the place. They annoy me. More than mayonnaise. Rather than stand united in our hatred of pointless acronyms like I’d expect, you bowed down and added A HEART SYMBOL (that I can never properly make which is part of the reason I hate it) TO THE DICTIONARY.

This is not okay.

First we have to accept microblogs like The Twitter and The Tumbler because people “didn’t like to read words,” and now IMHO (“in my honest opinion”) is there, right next to real words like “infarction” and “imbecile.”

Guilt me with your Little Old Ladies all you want; there’s very little that will get me off your ass for this disgusting, horrifying mutilation of the English Language, Oxford English Dictionary.

Unless, of course, you add me to the dictionary, too, under “full of the awesome.” Then we’ll be BFF again.