I didn’t want to tell you, Pranksters, until it was official, but I joined Momversation as a part-time panelist, which means that every now and again, I have to put my ugly mug on camera and talk about stuff.

Today, I answered the question, “would you let your boy wear girls clothes?”

You can see my answer. What’s yours? (oh, and you do NOT have to agree with me. I won’t be offended)

– Show quoted text –

There comes a time in every blobber’s life when you wipe the Pringles crumbs from your shirt, slurp the rest of your soda down and say, “Blobber-self, it’s time that I look deep within myself and find my soul.” Maybe you will have some mystical music playing or something because I feel soul-finding should have some Enigma or something playing (I don’t own any, but I may have to buy some).

Then, if you’re me, you spend a good bit of time wondering what your soul looks like. Mashed potatoes? Peas? Barry Manilow? A mashed potato sculpture of Barry Manilow? The possibilities are both endless and frightening.

This, however, this is epic.

Meet Adam. He’s also Avitable. And my BFF. Here we are in Vegas.

Adam and I decided that it was Time To Search Our Souls and find our Spirit Animals. I was scared. He held my hand.

We found the perfect person to guide us! Erial “meditates and tunes into you” to “get your unique essence”, and once he “gets an aspect of your celestial self”, he will transform a normal photo into a Celestial Soul Portrait!

This, Pranksters was a win! I needed something unique for a VD-Day Card (I’m too lazy to send out Christmas Cards) and this? This was just TOPS. So we anxiously sent off our questionnaires and waited.

Finally, the day come and I tore open my email and this is what slipped open.

The most beautiful souls on the planet:

Epic Fucking Soul Portraits

Apparently, THAT is what our souls look like. And THAT is our Spirit Animal.

Pranksters, which one of you is going to buy me an Epic Wolf Shirt to go along with it?

Photo courtesy: AngiePangie

It came to my attention through this very awesome email:

I have been reading for some time and now I am peeking from behind the corner to say, you know, “yo,” and also, possibly bring you a high five. Anyway, we have not seen many “after” pics since your procedure and I was wondering, how are you and your abs doing? How are your feelings and things?

that I haven’t exactly been talking about mah surgery very much.

So, Em, HIGH FIVE and this one’s for you.

Brief back story, I had a full abdominoplasty (which is a hardcore tummy tuck) at the beginning of November, 2010. My surgeon lopped off six pounds of stuff and then fixed the underlying muscles that were all bent out of shape in a condition called Diastasis recti. I’m shaped like a daddy long legs spider, relatively long legs and no torso, and after three eight pound babies, my abdominal muscles were all *coughwheeze* “I GIVE UP.”

I did it without a whole lot of warning because I knew that if I thought about it too much, I’d be all, HOLY SHITBALLS, THAT’S A HELL OF A SURGERY, AUNT BECKY, so it was really just a “let’s get ‘er done” kinda thing.

So it was done and I was all OUCH, because do you know how often you use your abdominals? A fucking lot. That’s how much. I couldn’t pee without crying.

It was like that for weeks.

Since I don’t lay around very well, I spent a lot of that time feeling kinda sad. It’s like all of those emotions you push down because you’re too busy to ever think about them, well, they come burbling out when you’re stuck on the couch and time goes by so slowly that you wonder if it’s a trick of the clock or something. But I think that was a good thing for me to finally have to sit down and focus on them.

I can say that because I’m feeling loads better. I still have pain – a lot of pain – where the nerves in my abdomen are trying to grow back. But that, too, will (probably) pass. I’ve weaned my Topamax dosage down to half of what it was and been able to keep it there without getting a fuckton of headaches. I’ve had less back spasms.

In short, my life = more awesome now.

I don’t have any Before Full Abdominoplasty Surgery Posts to show you because, well, I don’t think I want to see it.

Here’s my three week post op post.

And this is how I look today:

8 Weeks Post Full Abdominoplasty

With the exception of the quality of the photos, I’m really happy with the surgery. I’m back to the normal substandard quality of life of a blobber that I was used to before surgery (read: none. I live my life online).

Would I have a tummy tuck again if I knew then what I know now? Without a doubt. Which is more than I can say about that weekend in Rio.

And short of a Baywatch audition, that’s about the best result I can hope for.

Dear Aunt Becky:

I asked a simple yet detailed question on an interweb “Moms-Helping-Moms” website and got a shitload of rude, demeaning answers.  I never meant to make myself come across as a terrible horrible person.  I even re-read my question but I guess I really am a huge bitch.  Whatever shall I do?

Sincerely,

Wicked Witch of Wisconsin

Well, Prankster, you’re clearly a miserable excuse for a human being who should not be allowed to live, breathe or walk among normal humans.

OR, wait, that had too many words spelled (mostly) properly. Let me retry that.

“U SUK WHOR.”

Was that better? That was my attempt at emulating an Internet Mole Person, or what I like to call “trolls.”

Internet Trolls, for those not versed in Internet Jargon, are people (I think they’re people, but a DNA test may be required) who post rude, mean, or otherwise inflammatory responses to a post on a site with the express purpose of evoking an emotional response.

There are a couple of different kinds of Internet Trolls (Pranksters, I’m sure I’m missing a few, so fill in, please):

Off-Topic Trolls (Internet Mole People) These people always make me wonder if they’re actually PEOPLE and not robots.

Your simple post on cats evokes this response, “WELL, I THINK iPOD’S ARE THE SPAWN OF SATAN’S PUCKERED POO HOLE YOU FILTHY, SOULLESS ASSWAD.”

Religious Trolls (Internet Mole People) These trolls use Bible Verses and religious scripture to justify being mean to others for no real reason.

Your same post on cats evokes: “Well, in (Bible Verse) something was said and THERE SHOULD BE NO CATS! YOU WILL BURN IN HELL!!! I will pray for your immortal soul, but it’s dammed already, so just get ready for hell.”

Let-Me-Hijack-Your-Post-To-Tell-My-Horrible-Story Internet Troll. These Internet Mole People almost always leave you wondering why they left you the comment at all, except that you’re now probably feeling guilty.

Cat post evokes this: “When I was a kid, we had a cat and that cat was named Sam and Sam was a mean cat and he gave my brother named Sam rabies and then we had to take them both out back and shoot them and then at the funeral, Sam The Cat’s Ghost came to haunt us and we were scared because it was a funeral and the whole town was there and there was a GHOST of a DEAD CAT who had KILLED MY BROTHER and oh my God the whole town came out and then my mom started breastfeeding a llama and I don’t know where the llama came from and then we went to the carnival and I thought I was getting rabies but really it was gangrene so I had to chop off my leg with a rusty ax and that is why you should shoot your cat.

The Pointless, yet Mean Internet Troll. These Internet Mole People usually speak in text-speak and only insult you. They’re usually found in forums and news sites with a misspelled very cutesy name.

Your cat story, responses vary, “U R a whore,” “U Suk,” “U R Dumb,” and occasionally the “Die Bitch.”

The “This Is My CAUSE” Internet Troll (Internet Mole Person): Person who defines themselves solely by their “cause,” and spends countless hours blathering on and on about it to anyone on The Twitter, The Facebook and blogs. They have a Google search set and hours each day to devote to blogs and they do that to leave comments about their “cause.” Which no one cares that much about. Or is a one-sided thing and almost always involves emotional manipulation and impassioned catch-phrases to get the very annoying point across.

Like this: Your cat post, “This Is My Cause!!!!” Internet Troll: “Well, you should know that new babies should never, ever be around cats because the cats smother them while they sleep. The cats try and SUCK THE MILK from the babies because cats like to SMOTHER BABIES and if you DON’T GET RID OF YOUR CAT, you’re basically saying that your BABY IS WORTHLESS and you should be sent to BABY JAIL if you do that you soulless ASSHOLE.

(never mind that you are a single 56 year old man without kids, because “This Is My CAUSE!!!!” Trolls don’t know anything about you or your life. Just their very, very irritating causes.)

The “WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN” Pseudo-Concern Trolls. These people are precisely as you’d imagine. They take any instance in which there might be an issue of perceived impropriety and exploit it.

Your cat post: “WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?”

The Emotionally-Charged Troll. These Internet Mole People pop up, usually in the form of some other type of troll, to make you feel bad by playing on your emotions.

Same cat post, “well, I HOPE you got that cat from a shelter because these (grim shelter statistics) cats die every year while breeders force cats to pop out kittens by the barrel and if you didn’t, you’re supporting that and really, you should make sure to always get an older cat because they are hardest to adopt.”

The Not A Troll, Trolls: Not everyone expressing a dissenting opinion on your website is an Internet Mole Person.

———–

That’s Your Aunt Becky’s guide to Internet Mole People, (I prefer that term because they’re people that pop up randomly to say stuff that makes you feel badly before retreating back to the holes to which they crawled out from), and I’m sure I’m missing some. So, Pranksters, FILL IT IN.

And as for YOU and your EVIL POST, you wicked bitch, the moderators at that site should have been watching to see that you didn’t get creamed. I don’t understand the logic behind allowing someone to submit or answer a question (or post), only to allow them to get their ass handed to them by Internet Mole People. As site admins, they should get YOUR back or, if they hate your question, NOT ACCEPT IT (my queue is backed up, which is why I haven’t gotten to YOUR question, Pranksters).

I know that’s what happens at a lot of those sites and it makes me sad. I cannot imagine submitting a serious question only to have 98 moms jump down my throat, telling me “U R doing it wrong ASSHOLE.” Because most days, I’m all too sure I’m doing it wrong. I don’t need Internet Mole People telling me so. There is a difference between answering a question and being deliberately cruel.

You’re not a terrible, horrible person. Not by a long shot.

Especially since I know that the next time you see another person getting their ass handed to them by a Mole Person, you’ll jump in to show them some kindness.

Internet Mole People can SUCK IT.

————–

Pranksters? What am I missing here?

How did you guys not tell me this existed until YESTERDAY?

Furthermore, HOW DID NONE OF YOU BUY ME THIS?

You Shut Your Whore Mouth When Dr. House Is Talking

On second thought, don’t buy me this. I’d NEVER sleep again. Ever. In fact, I may never sleep again knowing that it exists: I have more questions than can possibly be answered.

THIS is why mommy wants needs vodka.

One might think that after telling The Internet that my son Alex had fallen in love with a cupcake shirt and wore a butterfly costume for Halloween this year, that he might be a little, well, girly.

Not so, Pranksters.

Alex’s second word was “penis.” Alex is also a frat boy.

I’ve mentioned that my son is being potty-trained, which means he’s been sitting around in his Cars-Themed Tighty Whities most of the day, here in the Sausage Factory, while I frantically insist he go to the bathroom every 4.8 seconds so as to not further ruin the horrifying once-white (WHITE!!) carpeting in my house. Potty-training! Ain’t it grand!

While I was upstairs, putting my daughter to bed last week, Ben (who is, for those not keeping score at home, nine) and Alex, aged three, decided that it would be best if they BOTH stripped down to their underwear to hang out.

My sons popped out from behind the couch to show me that they were both in their undies and because I am so used to seeing the house torn from it’s hinges after my brief “I’m putting the baby to bed” absence, I was a bit relieved. No one had knocked the ceiling fan off…yet.

“Okay,” I said to them, laughing. “But DON’T PEE ON ANYTHING.”

Still chuckling, I returned to my computer to scour the internet for some singing cat songs or dancing cacti videos. Those wily cactus videos get me going EVERY time!

Not two minutes later, my eldest tore through the living room, chasing my youngest son, both laughing so hard they was crying. I tore myself away from the cactus and looked up.

I saw a pair of naked butt cheeks as they disappeared around the bend.

What the hell?

And then again, the laughter and my youngest son, holding something up over his head as my eldest chased him, both giggling so hard they could barely stand it.

This time, as they came into my line of sight, I looked more closely. What the hell was going on?

I saw it: Alex was holding a pair of underwear over his head as Ben chased him.

They were…they were BEN’S underwear.

Oh sweet Lord.

The next time they rounded the bend, still chortling, I stopped Ben and asked him what was going on.

“Alex took my underwear off and now he,” *giggle, giggle* “now he” *giggle giggle* “now he won’t give it back!”

Alex was rolling on the floor, clutching his gut, laughing so hard that he was crying.

And then I said the words I’d never expected to say: “Alex, give your brother back his underwear. And you two, KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR ON. PENISES BELONG IN THE BEDROOM OR THE BATHROOM. THEY ARE PRIVATE.”

And then, I died.

At one PM today, my daughter, Amelia, was feeling sad.

(note: Parts of My Daughter, Amelia, will be played by Your Aunt Becky)

Not Actually My Daughter

Why could that be?

Could it be because she saw this scary poster hanging in a local eatery?

That Kid Can Believe it's Not Fucking Butter.

No!

Could it be because she couldn’t find Mommy’s Boba Fett helmet?

Reality Doesn't Care If You Believe It. Neither Does Mom.

NO!!!

Could it be because no one bought her “Couch Jesus?” on eBay?

Couch Jesus

No way man!

Could it be because Mommy hadn’t installed the Ultimate Disco Ball in her bedroom yet?

We're Getting The DISCO Band Back Together

NO!

Amelia,

Not Actually Amelia

Why so sad, peanut?

Here’s a song for you.

It’s what Mommy sings when she’s in the shower. Let’s sing i..ouch, Amelia, that hurts. Don’t pry Mommy’s lips off.

Oh. You’re sad because you just started school today. I see.

I’m sorry you were sad…What’s that? You’ll only be less sad if I buy you these in your size?

Pretty sure your father would have my head.

I’ll go get my credit card.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d say to her, given the chance. It’s a pointless endeavor, for sure, considering she’s been dead for almost three years. Or is it more than three years? She died when Alex was a baby, a couple months before I got pregnant with my daughter.

One last conversation. What would I say to her?

I could tell her that I admired her from the moment I met her, when we were eleven and thirteen, respectively; just kids, really. There was an instant chemical reaction between us, the kind that occurs once or twice in a lifetime, if you’re really lucky. It’s like our cells pulled us toward other. We would be friends. Our cells were determined. So were The Fates.

We’d always be thrown in front of each other, at this party or that. She dated one of my best friends for a very long time. She was friends with the little sister of one of my older friends. We were both talented cellists – although her talent was far beyond mine – which meant we were in orchestra together for a couple of years.

In Beethoven’s String Quartet Number, he scribbled Grave, (Muss es sein?/Must it be?), Allegro (Es muss sein!/It must be!), and that’s how I thought of our friendship, of any good friendship:

Must it be? It must be.

I’ve stopped believing in the randomness of the universe and when I think back to all of the times we happened upon each other, once again, I realize: It Must Be.

Would I tell her how I admired her when she walked tall and proud so sure of herself, while the rest of us shuffled along; all elbows and knees, not sure what we stood for? Because I admired the hell out of her. Bracelets jangling, jeans hugging her hips, a vintage Stones t-shirt effortless put together, she was larger than life at age sixteen.

I’d never known anyone like that before.

I’d never known anyone who would take my side, either. Every other friend I’d had shoved me under the bus at wink of an eye or waggle of the hips; the betrayals vaguely reminiscent of my childhood, where no one had ever been on my side. When she showed up to tell my cheating boyfriend to fuck off or my former friend that she was being a total asshole, I was stunned. It had always just been me. Defending, well, me. Maybe I’d tell her that it was sad that I was twenty before I knew that kind of friendship.

Maybe I’d tell her that I’d lived my life the daughter of a bipolar alcoholic and I was sorry that she’d found herself there, too. Because I was. So sorry. We’d tried to reach her, my God we tried, but she was lost in the bottle and not a single one of us who had loved her back when she sparkled and shone, not one of us could get through. But we tried because we still loved her and we still believed that she was in there.

I could tell her that her funeral was so full of people who loved her that it was standing room only.

That when the string trio started playing “As Tears Go By,” the entire room wept. We all wept at the tragedy of losing someone who had so much of that sparkle, so much of that shine.

How the image of her two sons screaming and wailing to, “See MOMMY!” as they shut the casket will be forever seared into the brains of so many as the most heartbreaking thing we’ve ever seen.

She is so, so loved.

I could tell her that two years later, I still cannot talk about her without crying. How I cannot hear “Tears Go By” without weeping. How I still have her phone number in my address book. How I dedicated Band Back Together to her because I think the stigma of mental illness and alcoholism and all those demons we hide, I think that’s bullshit. How I think she’d like the site.

I guess I could tell her any of those things if I saw Stef again. But I think she’d already know.

Maybe I’d just hug her one last time, have one last laugh and say the right words: Must it be? It must be.

(note: all artwork is original and should be revered as such. Perhaps you can say a prayer or do a dance or something when you see how epic it is)

I came down, yesterday, from putting my daughter down from her nap. I took a cursory glance at my sons, and was all, “Hey Guys,” and started to walk away in search of more dancing cat videos to soothe me. Also: a mop to try and remove the goo that my sick daughter had left all over me.

I noticed something.

While this is what I expected to see:

That Devilish Imp!

Without, of course, the washout from the front door or the grainy pixelated quality of iPhone pictures. My son is not pixelated. NONE of my crotch parasites are pixelated.

This is what I saw.

My brain exploded everywhere.

I stood there, jaw flapped open before I began to holler furiously.

Because then I saw this:

After I stuffed my brains back into their cavity, I realized that there was only one guy to call.

BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

Billy Motherfucking Mays.

Now, if you know anything about me (note: you shouldn’t), you should know that I fucking love Billy Motherfucking Mays.

When I use Oxyclean, the voice in my head SOUNDS LIKE BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS. That’s comforting because I miss BILLY MAYS. A lot.

See, Pranksters, BILLY MAYS and I were BFF (best fucking friends) until he had to up and die on me. I’m still not over his death, but when I use his product, HIS VOICE SCREAMS IN MY HEAD, and it’s a little better.

The couches, I saw, they were a job for BILLY MAYS and OXYCLEAN. A job powered by ANGER and CAFFEINE.

I turned on my iPod and started in on them.

“All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom of the Opera came on.

Me: *grumble, grumble* “GOD, this is a crappy wedding song. Why do people choose the worst songs to dance to as their First Dance?”

BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

BILLY MAYS: “THAT’S A BULLSHIT SONG, ALL RIGHT. MY WIFE AND I DANCED TO THE THEME SONG FROM THE SMURFS. NOW HOW’S THAT OXYCLEAN TREATING YOU? REMOVING YOUR STAINS? MAKING YOUR WHITES BRIGHTER? MAKING YOUR LIFE BETTER?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s kind of weird, BILLY MAYS. Even for you.”

*time passes*

Aunt Becky: “HOLY SHIT. I CAN’T FEEL MY FINGERS.”

BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS! FORGET ABOUT YOUR FUCKING FINGERS, YOU SNIVELING WHORE. HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?

Aunt Becky: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH ABOUT THE FUCKING STAINS, BILLY MAYS. I HAVE NO FUCKING FINGERPRINTS!”

BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS!! HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?”

Aunt Becky: “The worst part is that you’re in my head. And the BILLY MAYS in my head doesn’t care about my fingerprints being seared off by an Oxyclean bath.”

BILLY MAYS: “YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND SCRUB, WOMAN. THOSE STAINS AREN’T GOING TO UNDO THEMSELVES. BRIGHTER WHITES!”

*time passes*

BILLY MAYS: “JUST WORK ON YOUR COUCH, YOU FUCKING NIMROD!”

2 hours of work, 2 rolls of paper towels and 2 bowls of Oxyclean later, this is what I got:

Don’t recognize it?

(BILLY FUCKING MAYS DIDN’T EITHER)

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl

That’s my daughter’s handiwork. It’s done in Pink Sharpie. On my couch.

BILLY FUCKING MAYS couldn’t touch that shit, ALTHOUGH HE GOT THE OTHER MARKER STAINS OUT.

Some day, I hope to auction this particular self-portrait off for many millions of dollars. Momma needs a yacht. And some new fingerprints.

Although having none could really launch my Life of Crime. Then I could by my OWN yacht. Wait a second…this idea is BRILLIANT.

Thanks, BILLY MAYS. You’re a fucking hero.

Dear Aunt Becky,

After reading your blog for a while, I know you’re familiar with The Crazy.  Since I don’t know a lot of people personally who really get it, I’d love your advice on recovery.  Long story short, I have a great life – wonderful husband, three amazing daughters, the opportunity to stay home full time, etc.

BUT.

The past two years have been bullshit.  I developed anxiety/panic disorder while pg with baby #3, which I’m still dealing with.  I’m better than I was a few months back, thanks to therapy and meds, but life events have not helped at all (the biggest one being the death of my 6 yr old niece, who was born with a terminal illness.)  I have to fight with phobias and hypochondria on a daily basis.  Of course, I feel guilty to complain since I know there are others who have been dealt worse cards – but this is MY Hell, so it sucks shit through a straw to ME.  I still don’t feel like “the real me”, and I’m not sure I ever will.

I’m sick of it.  I want my life back.  So I ask you, as someone who has been through a similar process: What advice would you give someone who is hoping to get themselves back is the New Year?

Thanks for listening,
Mermama3

Oh Prankster, I so get it and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wish like hell shit wasn’t so fucking hard sometimes. I’ll spare you the platitudes because they’re bullshit and if you wanted one, you could get it crocheted on a pillow or something. Sometimes, life is just fucking tough. And then, when you think it can’t get worse? It totally does.

It’s an asshole like that.

Luckily, eventually it stops and you learn to roll with the ups and downs because, well, we’re adaptable.

But you, you sound like you’re on your way to where you need to be. You’ve realized that there’s a problem which, as we all know, is the first step. It SOUNDS trite, but it’s not. Pinning down what it is that’s wrong is hard – harder than people give proper credit. So props to you for that.

Acknowledging that I was sick to fucking death of pretending I was someone that I wasn’t was huge for me. Mentally ditching all of the excess baggage, all of the old ties I didn’t need to people who didn’t deserve my love or loyalty, examining my relationships to see them as they really are, those were all things I had to do to figure out who the fuck Aunt Becky really is and what she stood for.

It sucked.

A lot.

But it was also kinda empowering. Because knowing I was able to fix this, that I could actually control my own happiness and fix my own emotions; that’s a big revelation. I was in charge of my happiness. I was. Me. Your Aunt Becky. In charge of her happiness.

I started with small things.

An orchid plant or three. Some time in my garden alone with my headphones. My phoenix tattoo (that was like 64 kajillion sessions). Creating Mushroom Printing. Then Band Back Together. Getting my hair cut. Walking around Target alone for half an hour. Taking a long drive.

Small things. Small things that made me happy.

I’ve done a lot of crying, too. I can’t believe my eyeballs haven’t exploded, actually. Somehow, I’m still here. More or less intact. You’ll make it, too. I promise. I’m so sure that I made you something. Something to help you along the way. No one should have to walk through The Shit alone when there’s so much good in the world. I know that because I see it all the time here with my Pranksters and over at Band Back Together.

I made you a present. It’s over on Band Back Together.

Go on, go see it. All of you. It’s for everyone – bloggers or not – to join.

You will find yourself again. It may take a lot longer than you’d like and it may suck a lot harder than you think is fair, but you’re in there. I know it.

Sending you a big ass hug without a platitude. Because platitudes are bullshit.

——————-

So, Pranksters, do you have any advice to offer? I know that she and I are not the only two people in the universe who have been in this situation before. How have you found yourself after you’ve been lost for some time?

Also: JOIN THE WORLD TOUR, YO.