Weddings shall be banned unless people are wearing something from my newly-minted gallery of Fug Wedding Dresses. Because obviously.

Everything shall be renamed in fanciful (likely rude) terms. Like the “Shut Your Whore Mouth Pie*” I’m making today. MUCH more tasty sounding than “Bourbon Vanilla Pecan Pie.”

I will ban the word “literally.” Most people MISUSE it (myself included). You are not “literally shitting your pants” unless you have a pile of dookie in your drawers. So let’s just call it a white-flag and remove the word from the English language before I grind my teeth into nubbins from hearing it.

You will be able to SAY what you’re looking for into the computer and the proper web page will be pulled up. That way, I can end my Ugly Cardigan Of Doom Campaign** and focus on the more worthwhile pursuit of staring at my wall.

Bloggers – no matter the size of their blogs – will be rock stars. We shall rise from the ranks of the fumbling nerds to snort cocaine off hot models and party into the night with our entourage of hangers-on.

Anything that’s undecided by a traditional argument will be taken to a dance-off. Especially in political forums. The White House will have a fucking sweet House Band and a disco floor to host these dance-offs. It will, of course, make the world interested in politics.

Speaking of that, the White House will be renamed “The Sequined House.” Why? White is drab and dull. With Richard Simmons as our mascot, we need fabulous. Plus, then we can finally put an end to people who make jokes about the color of the damn house.

Pain shall be outlawed and sent to the “Alot” island. Pain is fucking bullshit.

I will set the top scientists in the country to work on something to measure seriousness. Anyone who is too serious for too long will have to listen to ABBA  and watch dancing cat videos until they are smiling again. Even if they are smiling because they are now certifiable from listening to ABBA.

Abdominoplasty’s will be available to everyone who wants one.

Bret Michaels: Rock Of Herpes Love will come back on the air and NEVER LEAVE. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss that show.

Band Back Together will form a real band. I’ll totally play triangle. Or be a backup dancer. OBVIOUSLY.

**where the hell do you buy cardigans if you hate cardigans?

*am totally (fake) photoblogging it

——————

What are you going to do when you own The Universe?

After getting some shit for writing about how uncomfortable I was in my skin when I was heavier, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to talk about weight, so let me preface all of what I say with this: I write satire and I also write from the heart. I do not, have not, and never will care about what anyone else does, weighs or looks like. I am not about to attack anyone for their weight because your weight does not matter to me (Aunt Becky loves you as you are) and I never have attacked someone on or offline for it.

When I talk about my struggles with weight, I am being honest. When I talk about my struggles with headaches, I am also being honest. I am not a doctor. I am not telling you what to do. I am also not asking you what you think of what I have done. You do not have to agree with it to be my friend.

ONTO THE POST.

In the LONG GONE days when I was skinny, I always had a bit of a pot belly. While the chick in Pulp Fiction thought they were cute, I counted down the years until I could have a tummy tuck. I think everyone has that feature they dislike tremendously about themselves. My stomach was mine.

The pooch got worse after I gained and lost 60-70 pounds three times (thanks, crotch parasites), most of the weight in my torso, and by the time I’d gotten down to the weight I was three weeks ago, (sixteen pounds away from my high school weight), I probably could have worn the excess skin as a handy scarf. It was a matter of when I’d get the skin lopped off and when always fell into the nebulous future along with “achieving total world domination” and “learning to make jello.” I figured I’d get to it when I’d get to it.

When I did end up in the plastic surgeon’s office to discuss a possible breast reduction, I’d made the appointment to discuss a tummy tuck as well. Figured I’d at least DISCUSS it with the guy while I was in there…right?

The breast reduction, he said, was probably going to leave me unhappy. Especially because according to the weird insurance criteria, it wouldn’t be covered, at least (according to you Pranksters) not without some major legwork. He said I’d probably want an augmentation with some reduction and other things I can’t remember and I trusted that coming from him.

The tummy tuck, I learned, could fix some of my abdominal muscles, something that had been long busted since I’d gotten pregnant with my first. Plus, it was going to fix something else I’d hated: my pooch.

My abdominal muscles were in sad shape, even I knew that, and were likely contributing to some of my migraines. Not my normal migraines, but the ones triggered by muscles spasms in my back and neck. It wasn’t necessarily a reason to do the surgery. It wasn’t necessarily going to fix anything.

Medicine is, after all, an imprecise science.

We all know that I signed up for a full abdominoplasty and had one three weeks ago tomorrow.

I paid out of pocket. Entirely. (for all of you who asked)

The full abdominoplasty differs from the mini-abdominoplasty in that it deals with tightening the muscles underneath. In my case, he repaired a diastasis recti (separation between the left and right side of the rectus abdominis muscle, which covers the front surface of the belly area.). A full abdominoplasty is also a more major surgery.

The surgeon thought that he could remove 2-3 pounds from my abdominal area. He removed 6 and fixed my abdominal muscles.

Not going to lie. The recovery has sucked far harder than I’d thought it would. I’m sawed more than in half. I’m in pain most of the time. I have to wear a delicious (read: hideous) binder all of the time, too (which reminds me, I need to buy a new one. I’m thinking that I’ll buy a Spanx or a Yummy Tummy rather than a medical one. Which do you recommend?).

As one of my Pranksters said, it does get better every day. And the results are amazing. My headaches are better. I’m swollen, but every day, I’m a little less so.

I’m happy that I did it.

I don’t have a before picture of my pooch before my operation. If I go up on the doc’s website, I’ll show you, but I didn’t take one. I was too embarrassed.

Instead, I can give you this:

Meet Fetus Amelia, Pranksters.

It’s the only shot I have of me while pregnant.

Now, for the dramatic reveal. Please excuse the lighting in my bathroom. I am not orange. I swear.

I know you want my binder. AND my phone.

And here’s the dramatic NO BINDER reveal*

The lines you’re seeing are mostly from laying on the binder. And yes, I am a little swollen.

My stomach, Pranksters, even swollen, has NEVER been so flat. EVER.

This totally beats a pair of boobs.

*I’ll take another picture next week BEFORE I get cast onto Baywatch**.

**Is that show even on anymore?

Should you, Pranksters, decide to start dicking around with your blog, please take it from me and do it on a TEST site. Then you will not have to throw up garbage posts like this that serve no particular purpose, save from allowing me to test one thing.

I will leave you with this:

This is a picture of The Daver. I took it at my surgeon’s office. He’s smiling because I just gave him a pamphlet on Male Breast Reduction.

This has been the longest time that I’ve had to sit around and do nothing while I wasn’t acutely dying and/or pregnant (I don’t handle pregnancy very well) and I’ll be honest that I haven’t exactly been a model citizen to anyone I live with. While some people may long for the time when they can sit around like a banana slug, I will tell you that I am not that person. It’s always been my biggest nightmare (besides being stuck in an episode of 7th Heaven) that I become stuck in bed for days on end.

I’m not exactly in bed but I am wearing a healthy ass-groove into the couch. I sort of fear for the moment that I am released from the couch because I’m deathly afraid that I will go leaping off into the wilderness wearing a tinfoil hat screaming “THEY’RE AFTER MEEEE!”

There is one sliver of good that has come of this whole “sitting around like a cockroach” and that’s that it’s forced me to consider things like, “who is the best detective on Law and Order?” and “How can I hate The Who so much?” and “How can I take better care of my blog?”

The latter sounds douchier than it should, but this is the year of Bringing Aunt Becky Back. My blogging cohorts all seem to be a bit better business-people than I ever have been, and I was sitting there on the couch, the voice of the motivational speaker from Dexter echoing in my head, “TAKE IT!” Trust me, it’s creepy as hell.

I’ve been saying that if I can’t make it as a writer (hel-lo shitty market!)(read: hel-lo shitty writer!), I’ll try and make it as a blogger.

So that’s what I’m doing.

I parted ways with my ad company, I’m selling my own ads and I’m making some changes on my bloggity-blog. Most of all, I’m trying to get motivated to do more.

Why?

Because this is what I do. This is what I love to do. And I needed to remind myself that I am worth it. I need to take myself seriously as a business-person, even if I don’t own the powersuit and sensible heels.

If I don’t take what I do here seriously, why would anyone else?

As female/mommybloggers, people don’t take us very seriously anyway and we all know that’s bullshit. But how are people supposed to take us seriously if we don’t take what we do with some semblance of seriousness? I don’t mean like we need to play our “We Are Women Hear Us Roar” records and dance around the room but I do mean that we are mighty and we are many and we should act like we deserve the power we have. We need to own it.

And I am. One thing at a time.

——————

Here’s where I’m asking you, Pranksters, The Question. The question of the ages (that’s a lie).

I pulled down my blogroll while I revamp it (= it’s gone right now) and I’m wondering honestly what you think of my blogroll. I’m adding a poll and I’d love your comments. Do I bother revamping it and putting it back? Do you guys like having it? I kind of do, but I get upset sometimes because non-Pranksters will be all, PUT ME ON YOUR BLOGROLL, BITCH, and then I realize they’re using me for the free real estate.

Oh, and I will always keep it as an open-door policy, meaning it won’t ever be just like 5 people on it. Does that change your opinion of it?

[poll id=”5″]

Rad, yo.

Dear Aunt Becky,

what is the name of the tool you use that allows you to see what people are googling to find you…or something like that but I’m sure you know what I mean! 🙂

Well, Prankster, I’m not sure if you mean finding you personally or finding your blog, because as far as I know, those are two different answers. I’ve seen websites that boast that you can “find out who is searching for you” (I assume by your name) but from a purely practical standpoint, I do not know how. Do you know how HARD it is to track down a troll just to make sure they’re not sitting in the house next to yours?

Well, it is.

I assume you can only find out who is searching for you personally by their IP address and if it works, well, you Pranksters will have to let me know.

If you meant, “how do I know what people are using to find my blog,” the short answer is that I don’t care to know. Most of the search terms that get people hear are variations of my blog name or “boring things” and the things I ignore are those which are so disgusting and depraved that I will not repeat them.

I happen to use a program called awstats to measure the site stats. With that comes a search term analyzer. It, if I hadn’t blocked all but the top five search terms, would tell me what people use to find my blog. There are other programs like Google Analytics around to help you find what people use to find you. Although, if you talk dirty like me, you may never, ever want to know.

Did I answer your question, Prankster?

—————–

Dear Aunt Becky,

I had no idea you did an advice column.  That is what I am trying to start a career doing as well.  Any advice?  Is there a network for us advice bloggers out there?

I think I might use the term “advice” rather loosely in this case, but yes, what started out as a joke turned into a weekly advice column. I even spoke about it with the Mouthy Housewives at Blogher10 this year.

I’ve never found a network for advice bloggers, although I do imagine one exists out there. The beauty – and drawback – of the internet is that there really IS something for everyone.

As for advice on starting your own column, my best advice is to try and make sure that your commenters don’t rip the asker to shreds. I happen to have the best audience on the internet *waves* HI PRANKSTERS! and it’s rare that I have to stop anyone from going after someone else, but it has happened.

The mob mentality that happens once a blogger takes issue with another isn’t helpful to anyone anyway, and once there’s blood in the water, it’s like everyone wants to start getting in on the act (well I’M OFFENDED BECAUSE YOU…) I feel that when I answer a question on my site, it’s almost like a mini-guest post and they deserve respect since they cannot come behind the scenes and delete any inflammatory comments themselves.

Other than that, I wish you the best of luck, Prankster. Email me if you have any other questions.

——————

I wanted to let you know that you can, in fact, advertise here now. I put together an incredibly dull page on the whole thing if you are interested. All are welcome (although I figure it’s mostly bloggers who will want the space). The page I’m directing you, I warn you, it’s beyond dull if you’re not into that sort of thing.

My tastes have always run from the garish to the downright tacky. Whenever I’d date someone new, my friends teased me, “Show him the BECKY BELT” and if he laughed and shook his head in a “oh THAT wily Becky” kind of way, well, he was a keeper. If he didn’t, he wasn’t. Any guy who wants to dump you because you like glitter and sequins and hot pink isn’t someone who loves you for the right reasons. Just saying.

Anyway, it’s the stuff of legends, my tastes, and I’m pretty okay with that. If you’re going to be larger than life, it might as well be because your tastes suck.

Shoes, especially, my Awesomely Tacky Light Shines upon. I own a pair of black pumps, but they were for a wedding I was in. The rest of my shoe closet isn’t so unrefined.

Yesterday, I finally got in the mail a pair of shoes I’d put in my Amazon.com shopping basket ages ago. I’d finally remembered to buy blue hair dye for my peek-a-boo highlights in the back and was all WELL HELLO THERE AWESOME SHOES and bought them.

They showed up and the kids swarmed because normally packages that show up are for them. Plus, kids are pretty self-absorbed like that, which is kinda something that I respect about them.

I explained that the package wasn’t, in fact, for them this time, and the boys went outside to look at constellations. My daughter, however, made like she didn’t hear me. She’s a stubborn one, my girl.

I said it again as I opened the package and still she ignored me, her big eyes on the box in my lap. Then, I uttered the words I shouldn’t have: “SHOES.”

Now I said, “These are shoes for Mommy, Amelia. Aren’t they pretty?”

What she heard was,” ‘BLAH BLAH BLAH, PREETTTY PRESENT FOR AMELIA, AMELIA!”

And then I whipped my new shoes out to show her.

To be fair, they look like shoes a child could wear, because of my lack of taste and all, but really, the heel is high and she’s not two years old yet. She already wears a small heel on her Mary Jane’s (her insistence) but her shoes can fit my big toe.

Well, all she saw was PRETTY SHOES.

So when I took HER pretty shoes and put them on MY feet, well, that Pranksters, that was unacceptable.

She screamed.

She wailed.

She tried to pry them off my feet.

When I took them off, confused by her ire, she tried to put them on her own tiny sausage feet. It didn’t work. This served to make her more angry so she screamed harder. Oh, my daughter has a temper, but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

My sons came running in to see if she’d been caught in a bear trap or had been run over by a truck and when they saw her standing with my shoes, they stopped and stared, mouths agape.

We all stared at her as she shrieked.

Pranksters, she yelled, cried, and beat her tiny fists against the floor for a full forty-five minutes until I put her into bed.

Guess this means that she’s inherited my tastes…

…and my temper.

Pranksters, I should have you know that Amelia spent the entire day yesterday yelling, “HI” and “THANK YOU” to the computer. I’m pretty sure she knows you were in the computer waving at her, so she was waving back. The gift of sight runs in my family…maybe she has it.

OR MAYBE SHE’S JUST RAD.

Either way, my daughter thinks that her Pranksters are full of the awesome. She’s right.

This week, however, has NOT been full of the awesome. My dog died yesterday. So did my transmission. I’d blame John C. Mayer, but I think that I need his karma like I need a stomach full of worms.

The only good thing about having a week of The Suck is that it’s forcing me to think about all of the ugly, unpleasant things I need to do that I’ve been putting off because I don’t want to deal with it. I get hyper-productive when I’m in The Shit.

So I’m doing the blog equivalent of dying my hair. I’ve needed to spend a good deal of time thinking about what exactly I want to do with the space other than where I write and while I wanted to just write I LOVE BACON and I HEART PRANKSTERS everywhere, I’m not exactly sure that would be helpful.

I’ve added an area at the top that includes direct links to each one of my five shirts called SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH SHIRTS. Because, obviously. I want to make a photogallery of the shirts you’ve bought, too, so if you have any snapshots, send ’em to me (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com).

I’m starting to think that I want to sell my own ads. Nothing fancy or anything. Is that a terrible idea?

Update: AM selling my own ads. Please click here if you want to be bored OR buy an ad.

It’s likely you’ll see a ton of different things around here since I am still stuck on my back staring at the wall and have very little to do besides pray people submit more stories to Band Back Together and Mushroom Printing. So, I suppose, pardon my dust.

And I promise Amelia (my sons call her Dr. Mimi) will help me make another vlog soon.

Also: she just ran up to me yelling, COOKIE, COOKIE! Who gave her a cookie, Pranksters? And where is mine?

Pranksters, you have watched my daughter grow tall and strong. You have cheered her on, loved her from afar (and from – in rare cases – close by), and helped her by helping me. You are the Prankster Army of aunts and uncles she so deserves and one day, I hope that you all can meet my Princess of the Bells in person.

I wanted her to tell you something that she’s been waiting a long time to say:

Dear Speech Therapist:

I am writing to you today on behalf of my daughter, Amelia.

It took me a long time to admit that the birth defect that my daughter had been born with had caused her to develop abnormally. No one wants to imagine their child has problems and all that we’ve dealt with in Amelia’s short life have been problems. Potential problems. Wait-and-see problems. Real problems, too.

Thanks to an improper aligning of cells around 28 days gestation, my daughter’s brain developed (in small part) outside of her head. At three weeks of age, she had surgery to remove this brain matter and fix the skull that hadn’t properly formed.

In her short life, she’s dealt with more than most and she’s handled it with more grace and dignity than I ever could.

So today, I write to you on her behalf.

You are her second therapist, hired by Early Intervention to help my daughter find her words. I like to picture them floating around her beautiful brain like fireflies, someone like you hired to help her find and catch them. If I could have done it without you, believe me, I would have. Accepting help is not something that I excel in.

But I have realized that you have a talent that I do not and I reached out and asked you to help my daughter, the girl with curls like a halo, to help her find her words.

The first therapist Amelia had was fantastic…but was allergic to my cats. She stuck it out and worked with my daughter as long as she possibly could, attempting to EYE OF THE TIGER through it until my daughter was able to find a replacement.

Then we found you. Therapist Number Two.

I’ve met you twice now. My daughter likes you. That says a lot. Amelia is rather picky about Her People.

Three weeks ago, you called off services, claiming you couldn’t make it. Some sort of meeting you wouldn’t be back from. How you didn’t know that ahead of time, I wasn’t sure, but I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. It happens. Things come up.

Two weeks ago, you called off again. Sick this time. Again, that’s fine. Sick happens. I’d rather you not bring sickness into my home anyway. I’d just had surgery and needed to be sick again like I needed to be kicked in the face by a donkey.

Yesterday, you had your scheduler call. This time, you claimed that you were allergic to my cats. You wanted to continue services by meeting at the mall. THE MALL. Along with the Mall Walkers and teenagers, we were somehow supposed to meet with you at the mall. Right. That makes sense. Because the entire point of having services in the home is because children my daughter’s age learn better in their own homes. The mall is not an environment that is conducive to learning and as an “educator” you should know better.

What offends me most about this is not that you wanted to meet at the mall. It’s that you are lying to me. If you had such a problem with my cats (I have 2 cats, not 23), you should have said so three weeks ago when I had the ability to start the search for someone new then.

Instead, you’ve given me three flimsy excuses and now my daughter has had no therapy in three weeks. Three. Weeks.

While that is not a long time to an adult or even, perhaps, a three-year old, this is a huge amount of time for a child her age. You should know that and you should be ashamed of yourself for putting her in this position.

You left me no choice but to fire you. So I did. I can’t have someone so obviously flaky trying to teach my daughter to find her words.

But I’m hurt that you’d do this to her. She’s had a hard life. You’re not making it any easier on her.

My daughter, though, she’s a fighter. She’s doing just fine on her own. She’s come up with a number of words you never taught her because you’d never bothered. Really, it’s your loss.

You’re lucky I’m too infirm to hunt you down and make you blow bubbles with her.

I honestly hope that your other patients are treated with more respect and regard than my daughter has been.

Sincerely,

Aunt Becky

This spring, I made a deliberate attempt at making my house look as though a couple of serial killers didn’t live here. The 70’s, you see, seemed to be a time of Great Bushes, and the people whom we had purchased our home from hadn’t bothered to *snort* take care of their Bushes. So we had a Bush Overgrowth. *cackles*

Bush-Gate 2010 was born and I removed all 2,083 of the overgrown bushes in an effort to convince the neighborhood that perhaps my house was not populated by Dexter’s Biggest Fans. (you get your whore hands off my television husband)

And yet now, six months later, I ordered my groceries PeaPod AND attempted to use “dry” shampoo (turns out it’s bullshit) because I am so infirm. My skin is turning a milky-shade of white as I have been stuck on the couch, my muscles atrophying into puddles of goo. No longer can I say, “WHICH WAY TO THE GYM?” then kiss my arms as I flex.

Oh no.

I am a slug. A cockroach. An OLD PERSON. If I fell, I couldn’t get up. I need one of those Life Alert things. (much as one of my Pranksters suggested)

More than that, I’m afraid that my neighbors will think that I’ve been chopped up into tiny bits and shoved down the garbage disposal because they haven’t seen me. Every time the phone rings, I figure it’s the cops investigating a possible homicide at my residence. You know, since Becky Sherrick Harks hasn’t been seen in nearly two weeks and even had groceries delivered (I hate ordering PeaPod).

I may not be particularly smart OR handy, but I am the person who is outside puttering around and staring at the car, willing whatever problem its having (JOHN C MAYER) to be fixed by sheer mental power alone. I’ll stand there staring, waiting until the solution jumps out at me, or my neighbor comes and points out out. I’ll let YOU guess which comes first.

So for me not to be outside at all is troublesome.

I’d guess that the neighborhood is going to be covered with HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? signs soon. Not because I’m popular, just because if someone goes missing in your neighborhood, do you REALLY want to say, “Oh, I did NOTHING about it?”

No. No you do not.

There will be a search of the neighborhood, I’d bet and maybe even some of those rescue body dogs. Hopefully the dogs will uncover another murder since I am not actually dead. Merely pasty and slug-like.

Eventually, one of the kids will inform the search parties, or the weeping “WHY GOD WHY” ladies that have never known me, yet feel compelled to cry at my “death” that I am not exactly dead, merely bored and stuck on the couch.

The search people will be mad, of course, but really, who do they have to blame but themselves?

I would have told them I wasn’t dead or missing.