Hi Aunt Becky!

My husband and I have found out that we are expecting a baby in October after 2 years of trying… I have had my first appointment with my Dr. and my husband and I are super excited! We are getting LOTS of advice and opinions that we haven’t asked for though. We have decided that we are going with a doctor instead of a mid-wife, are not going to baptize the baby, and have made other decisions that my in-laws and family aren’t comfortable with.

His family is into all-natural shit (to the point of not even listening to doctors which is where the advice comes is.. “oh your Dr. said that? No, you should do this instead!!”) and is super religious and mine is just religious and thinks that you are going to Hell if you aren’t baptized… How can we tell them to, you know, leave us the fuck alone to raise our child the way we want to??

Love,

Excited To Be A Mommy!

Well, first things first, Prankster +1, and let me say, CONGRATS! I’m so excited to hear that you’re having a baby, especially since it’s not mine. Because HELLO AWKWARD. Can’t wait to hear more about my new niece or nephew come October.

So, you’re running into the same thing all of us parents do: The Unwanted Advice-Givers. From “that baby needs to be wearing shoes!!!” to “your baby is going to HELL!!!!” you know you’re a parent when people start telling you your business.

Let me offer you a sympathetic cup of (decaf) tea and all of my deepest condolences for this introduction to parenting because it’s not going to stop. Ever. It’s as much a part of parenting as wiping butts and hemorrhoids.

My advice is this: you cannot control what other people will tell you about your children. You CAN control how you react to it. ALL new parents are FURIOUS by the unwanted advice. Rightly so, I should add.

By the second or third kid, you simply stop hearing it.

Why? Because it’s not fucking worth it to your sanity.

I’m pretty sure my mother thinks I’m a shitty mom. My mother-in-law does too. Frankly, they can both eat a hot bowl of dicks for all I give a fuck.

But I used to be outraged by it.

So my advice is to simply smile, nod, and turn the other cheek. Opinions are like assholes (presumably because everyone’s got one) and this is YOUR kid, not theirs. You can kindly tell them to shove their opinion up their puckered pooper with your words, or you can just ignore them. Or some combination of both.

But you are going to have to get used to it. And I’m sorry, because it IS annoying as hell.

Good luck, Prankster +1.

Dear Becky,

I’m in a curious doubt here. I’m the mother of a wonderful 3 years-old girl. I’ve never wanted a lot of kids. I did not enjoy being pregnant.
On the other side, all my girlfriends are having their second babies, and they look sooo cute. And I’m 33.

The question is: I went to my doctor, and asked to change my birth control method (from condoms to pills). Then I decided (by myself) to come back to using a diaphragm.
Am I trying to get pregnant or am I scared of getting pregnant? I REALLY can’t figure that one out… Pleeeease help me!

Well, Prankster, I’m not much of tie-breaker here, but what it SOUNDS like to me is that you feel like you SHOULD want a second baby because that’s what everyone else is doing. Which makes sense. Babies are squishy and cute and stuff. Baby envy is common.

But I’d take a long hard look at your motivation before you go throwing condoms out of the window just because. Trust me when I say that two is a FUCK of a lot more than one. For serious. And there’s not a damn thing wrong with a singleton. I promise.

Aunt Becky,

It seems I’ve come across a situation that even my vast problem-solving skills can’t solve. All the pro-con lists haven’t helped. I’ve asked therapists, I’ve asked my family and most of my friends and now I’m coming to you, ’cause Becky…I’m lost.

I’m a single mother of a beautiful 21 month old daughter. Her father and I split up about a year ago and though our relationship is still friendly, I don’t know what to do about a very glaring and disconcerting fact: he’s an alcoholic.

He pops in and out of our lives with no patterns or modicum of reliability. He can’t keep a job, he can’t finish school; he’s 22 years old and already falling apart. He’s not allowed to be alone with our child, but I just don’t know whether to cut him out of her life entirely.

I really don’t want her first memories to be of her drunk of a father, but I don’t want to give up on him either. I juggle being a young mom of a young child and finishing my senior year of nursing school. I have enough on my plate and I don’t want to have to be dealing with this drama as well. I just don’t know how to deal with him; no answer feels right. My daughter is my world and I love her more than anything so I need to make sure I’m doing the right thing for her. Whatever that is.

–Amber (Who is not witty)

Oh Amber, my heart hurts. My heart just hurts for you. I’m so sorry.

As the daughter of two alcoholics, the baby momma of a semi-unreliable daddy and the wife of a workaholic, I will try my best to answer this. I will also ask my Pranksters to answer this. I know that a lot of them have experience with this, too, and honestly, there is no “right” answer. It’s a shitty situation. Being an adult sucks sometimes.

I don’t think that your daughter’s father is in any place to be a responsible parent right now, and I don’t know that being around him will do your daughter any good. Now that I’m finally dealing with all of the bullshit that I was taught by my parents–when they weren’t “teaching” me anything–I see just how much they destroyed of my childhood.

I can’t get that back. I’ve spent many years forgiving them so that I don’t carry the anger around like a noose around my neck, but that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t give both of my legs to get a redo on my childhood. I don’t want that baggage, I don’t want these scars, and I don’t think that I could counsel someone to willingly allow that sort of negativity around their child; parent or no.

Kids need consistency, they need normalcy, and they need routine, especially as they get older. You can throw a toddler into an unfamiliar situation and they’ll adapt, but the older a child gets, the harder it is, and the worse it will be for them when the situation unravels.

I don’t think that you have to give up on him as a person, and trust me, I know how awful it is to watch someone swirl the tubes, but you can’t let him drag you and your daughter down. You can’t change an alcoholic. Period.

Before my father was in recovery, our relationship was incredibly volatile. He’d badger me, belittle me, and eventually, I’d leave in tears. I was 26 years old (I am 29 now). As a child, he was the only one who cared about me. As an adult, he seemed to hate me.

I was about to cut him out of my life (before he went into recovery), and the lives of my children, because I could not, as their mother, allow my children to see their grandfather to treat me like an asshole. What was I teaching them by doing that?

This is precisely what I told Daver about the workaholism.

I cannot, in good conscience, teach my children by proxy, lessons that I don’t want them to learn when they are small. There are plenty of times for them to be hurt, disappointed, and left crying. This is not the time for it.

I think that perhaps you need to think about it from that perspective.

And Amber, I do wish you the best. You deserve it. I’m sorry things are so hard right now and I hope that it gets better for you soon. There’s a big fat “EMAIL AUNT BECKY” button on my sidebar. You can use it any time.

————————

Pranksters, as always, please fill in where I left off in the comments.

Aunt Becky out.

———————

Funniest Blog, tomorrow’s the last day to vote!

Today, Pranksters, I bring you a post done by my friend Angie from A Whole Lot of Nothing. She’s my Co-Captain for Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion and my BFF OMG FB BBQ! She’s fabulous and sassafrastastic and also my sister, because I got adopted by her family, which, HI AWESOME.

(also, if you want to vote, blah, blah, it’s ALMOST over, and I’m sucking at asking people to vote this year, which, whatever. It’s all good.)

I expect a modicum of decorum from people. Not much. Just a smidge. A minor amount of consideration for the people around, sharing the same toxic air.

I know that sometimes I may not realize that I’ve cut someone off, or that I’ve accidentally stepped on a kid’s toe, or I’ve maybe, possibly amped up my walking pace to slyly beat you in the restaurant door to get my name on the wait-list ahead of you.

But when I realize the minor damage I’ve done, I always apologize and try to make my karma right.

Then again, I’m normal.

Some people, are douchebags.

Like this guy. This guy, to whom I wrote a blog letter back in 2008:

_____________________

Excuse me, sir, but when you cut in front of me to open the door to sneak your nasty ass inside of the bookstore, while I have two young girls, then DON’T EVEN FACKING BOTHER TO HOLD THE DOOR OPEN, you, sir, are an ass.

This may not seem like a big thing, the whole holding-the-door-open-for-the-lady-and-her-children. But it is.

I’m a Feminist. I’m even a member of NOW or I was until I forgot to pay for my dues for this year. Don’t worry; I’m not the bra-burning, death to Whitey, cut-off-your-nuts Feminist-type yet.

I want to be considered an equal when being considered for a job or picked for the team. I believe anything you can do, I can do better or equal.

But at the same time, I want to be able to cry to get out of a speeding ticket, I want the seat you’re sitting in if there are none left, and I want you to HOLD THE DURN DOOR OPEN FOR ME AND MY GIRLS.

So, Mr. Oblivious, can you please take your dirty shoes off of Sir Chivalry’s balls, and hold the door open for me?

Love & kisses,

Me

The last straw was when Angie’s whole family called me a Mennonite. I think those are the people who don’t use zippers, but I don’t know because I’m not smart and I’m too lazy to Google it, but basically, her family was shocked that I didn’t have a DVR.

I do have zippers, however, although, my whore pants are nowhere to be found. I’m pretty sure I should make a MISSING PANTS poster for them if I ever want to see them again. They’re probably on their way to Vegas now. Whore pants.

Oddly, after I got back from my cruise, The Daver had gotten us a DVR, BEFORE I railed on him about being a Mennonite (whatever that is), and immediately, I asked him to record every episode of Law and Order: Your Life Doesn’t Suck As Bad As You Think It Does that was ever made.

Since you can find that show on TV just about any hour of the day, thanks to Dick Wolf’s tireless dedication to taking over the airwaves (TV waves?), that means that my very own DVR is always filled with Law and Order: This Is Depressing Shit.

And because I am a compulsive personality (see also: my blog, my orchids, my roses), this is what I watch every night.

Sure, back when my beloved television husband Dr. House was on air, I would watch his show, eyes glued to him for the entire hour. Likewise with Dexter, my serial killer husband.

(I had an Arby’s-type epiphany–Arby’s=RB’s=Roast Beef–I like men who are like me inside)

But summer programming pretty much sucks the fat one and so I am stuck with Law and Order: How Dare You Feel Bad About Your Life? But I like the shows and the puzzles and the characters, especially Ice-T (did you know he’s on Twitter? He’s one of two celebrities I follow and I adore him).

I’m starting to wonder if watching shows about rape, murder and suicide are the best thing for me to watch before bed.

See, I have insomnia. Now, I’m not talking about the once-in-awhile “I can’t sleep!! LOL!!” insomnia, I’m talking about the real shit. It’s not anxiety, but it is the absolute inability to sleep like a normal fucking person and it sucks.

Some nights, I’ll lay in bed, polishing my imaginary glock while I imagine killing the person who wrote the “Do-do-do a dollop of Daisy” commercial. Or the “Turn the Tub Around” one. Others, I write blog posts. Still others, I just lay there, half asleep and half awake, drifting in and out.

Not all nights are like this, but for the past 20 or so, I’ve gotten one good night of sleep.

Normally, I take Unisom and sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve tried Lunesta and actually got addicted to that stuff. When I went off of it, I actually went through withdrawals, which sounds insane, but I swear, it happened. And everything you read on The Internet is true, obviously.

The worst part about the past 20ish nights is the NIGHTMARES.

Pranksters, they’re AWFUL. Every night, all night, nothing but nightmares. I won’t launch into what they were about because reading about dream sequences is about as interesting as toast or beige paint, but suffice to say, it’s been almost unbearable to go to sleep because I don’t know what my subconscious will dredge up to torture me with.

I don’t know if this is part of recovery or a side effect of trying to cut down on my Topamax (which was an abysmal failure, I should add, even though my neurologist, the one with GERD, suggested I try it) or just part of bringing up all of my past again, but maybe I could just, you know, go through the rest of this UNCONSCIOUS or something. You guys probably know better than I do.

Then again, maybe I just need to stop watching gruesome shit before bed.

I should probably just look at pictures of adorable, fluffy kittens and big-eyed puppies, right?

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

And if you want to vote for my blog (funniest blog)(which, huh?), you may vote once per day here.

There’s this BIG ASS blogging conference going on in like a couple of weeks, Pranksters, and unless you’ve been living under a very large rock or perhaps are an alien, you probably have heard of it. It’s called BlogHer and pretty much it’s the Grandmother of Blogging Things.

(okay, we’ll forget how lame that sounds for a second and proceed)

It’s in NYC this year, and while I was all WHATEVER, I’m not going, I totally broke down and bought tickets because, it’s NYC which, like California, is sort of where I feel home. Not, incidentally, where my ACTUAL home is, but that’s just details. It’s further proof I need to marry Mick Jagger so I can get a sweet house on both of the coasts.

Then, I was all, WOW, I turn 30 in July, I should do something rad for my birthday, because historically, my birthdays have sucked, so I immediately thought of Vegas. I’ve never been to Vegas, but it seems like the place that people should go when they want to be debaucherous and turn 30 and forget that the past year has pretty much sucked the life out of them.

But, I’m more of a broad stroke kind of person, so I got caught up in thinking about the adventures of my fake Monkey Butler, Mr. Pinchy, and how we were going to steal the purple coat from Shaft and probably some colorful jewels from somewhere and then the next thing I knew, it was JULY.

It’s July and I haven’t done fuck-all for my birthday OR BlogHer.

So, last night, I did the highly responsible thing and ordered 4 dresses for BlogHer that may or may not actually fit. Because, you know, it’s better to have cute clothes than it is to have plane tickets. My logic is damn near impeccable and should never, ever be followed by anyone, ever, unless you want to take a lesson from my personal playbook: “How To Never Get Things Done, Unless Other People Do Them For You.”

It looks like, with 8 whole days until my birthday proper, Vegas is out. DAMN YOU, MR. PINCHY.

Luckily, I’m not all that tied to having to celebrate my birthday on it’s actual date, so I’m going to do it ANOTHER time. Because I WILL celebrate my birthday in Vegas *shakes fist* dammit, I will. I may be celebrating my HALF birthday, but really, what’s it to you? (P.S. You’re all invited.)(P.P.S. I won’t be wearing my whore pants which are STILL MIA).

Today, I’ll probably have to beg The Daver to order plane tickets for BlogHer, so I don’t accidentally book them for the wrong month (which I HAVE done) because I signed a contract saying I’d be there to speak. Poor, poor BlogHer, won’t know what hit them when I open my whore mouth.

Then, I’ll try and find more places to buy cute clothes because it’s been so long since I’ve been clothes shopping that I genuinely do not know where to shop any more. So, Pranksters, where do cute clothes live for someone who likes Anthropologie and uh, ModCloth?

Next, I’ll ask my Pranksters who are going to BlogHer if they’d like to exchange phone numbers so that maybe we can meet up, because OBVIOUSLY. If you WOULD, just email me at aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. That’s my real email address, because I have a sense of humor. Or not, I guess, if you don’t think that’s funny.

(I have about a gazillion emails to return, and I’m sorry, they’ve been having babies in my inbox and I need to get on that STAT)

NOW no one will ever want to give me their number. Whoops.

Blah, blah, blah, if you want to vote for me for Funniest Blogger you can vote once per day.

Even amidst the turmoil of the past couple of weeks, there has been so much good.

In my struggles to maintain the carefully constructed facade of who I am, I’d never allowed myself the chance to fully grieve who I never was allowed to be. The secrets I kept were more toxic to me than I’d thought, and with every passing day, they dragged me lower and lower.

Letting go of those secrets has reminded me that I am free.

I’ve spent so long feeling tied down to my life, boxed in, and stuck, but I see now that the only way that I was bound was in my mind. There is a part of me that is still 8-year old Aunt Becky, scared and alone, wishing away her real life for something that makes her whole again.

She’ll always be in there, I think, searching for the love she was denied, but acknowledging that she’s in there, I think that is the first step to letting those skeletons out of my closet and making them do the foxtrot.

Knowing that I’m not alone, reading all of your comments and Tweets and emails and finding out that so many of you grew up in similar situations, I cannot tell you how much that helped. I know that there are others out there like me, statistics tell me there HAVE to be, but knowing that you, you people who I know, my PRANKSTERS, know how I feel, that made me realize that I had done the right thing by putting it all out there.

Sometimes, that’s all you need to be brave: knowing you’re not alone. But reminding yourself that it’s okay to be alone, too.

I don’t pretend to know what the future is going to bring for me. I don’t know that The Daver and I will make it. I don’t know that I won’t fall flat on my face tomorrow, breaking every bone in my face. I don’t know that I’ll ever truly succeed at anything I try to do in the way that will make me fulfilled.

But I do know that I will be honest about where I am going and where I have been. I owe it to myself and to 8-year old Aunt Becky.

I’m not afraid anymore. The truth cannot hurt me.

Not when the future is so full of light and laughter.

I promise to be back with something funnier. It’s time to bring some laughter back. I’m certainly not making a case for myself in the Funniest Blogger Thingy this year.

Over at Toy With Me, I’m talking about why we need to talk about sex with our children before they learn about it from Internet Porn.

I was so tragically glib about how evolved I was; how I’d managed to escape my past unscathed. I called myself the Energizer Bunny, joked that I was made of Teflon, and marveled that someone could grow up as I did and become a mostly functional adult child of two alcoholics.

My home life as a child was far from simple. I pretended my family was like those I saw on television because in the television, the mothers loved their daughters every SINGLE day. Those children had meals cooked for them, had parents they could talk to, parents who took them to swimming lessons, parents who cared about them, parents who loved them no matter what.

They had what I wanted: parents who behaved like parents.

I had the illusion of a family, two parents, a much older brother, some cats and dogs, and then there was me. Caregiver. Cleaner-upper. Parent to myself. In reality, I was alone and I knew it.

I learned what so many of us children of alcoholics do, trust no one but yourself. It became a way of life. Carefully, I constructed a facade that even I began to believe. A life that I so desperately wanted, I could attain if I lied enough about it.

Eventually, I grew up. Waiting for the day when I itched to have a drink, and then another, and then another, I was surprised when it never came. I had a child out of wedlock, a happy accident, I changed my life around to accommodate that of a single mother, then I got married. I had another child. Then another.

I knew that I bore some of the scars of my past–who doesn’t?–but it twenty years for me to realize that I’d grown up to do the precise thing that 8-year old Aunt Becky always swore she never would do: I put myself in the same position that I would have done anything to get out of.

I married an addict.

We always joked about it, The Daver and I, his addiction to his work–Workahol, we called it, back when we still joked around about it–but for the past five years I’ve watched as it went from working to live to living to work.

It was all that he ever wanted to do, work, that is, and that’s where he got his joy, his rush, his feelings of accomplishment, his ego, and we were just periphery. Background noise. Particularly loud and unbelievably adorable background noise, but background noise nonetheless.

As he worked more, he needed more and more to feel that rush, that thrill, and his hours grew until he barely saw us. When we’d dare interrupt him for something like, oh, maybe the HOUSE being on fire, we’d get a terse, snappy reply, and stung, we’d walk away hurt.

I consoled myself that he was working so hard to support us, and when I’d bring it up, he’d swear that he was doing it all for us, but it wasn’t quite the truth. What we needed was a husband, a father, a friend, and someone who didn’t place something else above us every second of the day.

I’d never considered it a real addiction, not like gambling or drug addiction, because it was one of those things that we did, you know, NEED to do.

But there it was, from Adult Children of Alcoholics:

We either became alcoholics ourselves, married them, or both. Failing that, we found other compulsive personalities, such as a workaholic, to fulfill our sick need for abandonment.

When I read that, I dry-heaved, and then I bawled my eyes out. It’s a bitter pill to swallow to realize that your past is never as far away as you thought it was.

I finally brought it up to The Daver, and this time, rather than trying to pass it off as something else; my problem, money issues, whatever, he listened. He listened and he realized that it was a problem.

I explained that I had lived my entire life with addicts, always walking around on eggshells, and that things in our house had to change. I simply couldn’t–and wouldn’t–put my children through what I had been through.

We both started individual therapy this weekend. He’s looking for a balance, and I’m, well, I’m looking to put the ghosts of my past to bed. For the first time in many, many months, I feel hopeful about the state of my union.

Perhaps this is where the sidewalk ends and a road begins.

The Internet is always closed on major holidays, so I didn’t bother posting for the three spambots that would be trolling to send me links to supposed pictures of “Harry Potter nude” and “David Cook nude.” But not doing so totally kicked my OCD into hyperdrive, and I felt sort of like I was missing my right arm for most of the weekend.

Therefore, I am presenting to you, my beloved Pranksters, a new set of cards (if these images are yours and you want me to remove them, please holler). Because really, how better to say the things that you’d never want to say, that through a card you would never send?

(don’t answer that)

I’ll be back tomorrow with a post with words. I’m far too self-absorbed to stay quiet for very long.

(blah, blah, blah, if you want to vote for me for funniest blog which, btw, I am TOTALLY not rocking right now, you can vote right here, once per day)

Happy Fourth of July, my Pranksters.

Human anatomy I’ve always found to be a strikingly tender science. Certainly, I always loved the dryness of the carbon chains and the satisfaction of growing new strains of bacterium, but seeing the human body and lovingly learning all of the nooks and crannies, all of the ways that we are all the same underneath, that is beautiful.

I always heard civilians shudder when I explained that I would be assisting with a dissection.

“Gross,” they would say. “I could NEVER do something like that.”

When pressed, I never got anything more specific from them, which meant that they’d never seen one, because the body, well, the human body is not gross. It is resplendent. It is powerful. It is amazing. It is beautiful.

All of the organ systems functioning in synchronicity so that we are able to walk upright, speak, form words, paint beautiful pictures, draw pictures with our written words, love, that is not gross. And that is what human anatomy is.

Inside, we are even more beautiful than out.

Rarely, however, do the names of the parts of the body reflect their beauty.

Often, they’re named after the anatomist who found them because scientists are about as self-serving and obnoxious as bloggers. The Islets of Langerhans, for example may bring to mind a nice set of islands found off the coast of Ireland, but no, they’re actually endocrine-producing cells of the pancreas.

Even the very word pancreas sounds more like something you’d find dead on the side of the road than something that creates the body’s most important enzymes. But to say it aloud sounds dirty, something you spit out of your mouth, a splat, an inelegant word for a very elegant organ.

The day we learned of the heart, I came across the words chordae tendineae, and I stopped for a moment. Latin words make me happy, which is probably, in part, why I am so attracted to virology. Continuing on, I read what this curious, elegant term meant.

The chordae tendineae are tendinous cords of dense tissue that connect the two atrioventricular valves to their papillary muscles in the hearts ventricles.

The chordae tendineae are the heart strings.

That is probably the most graceful and magnificent term I have ever heard and the best representation of why I find human anatomy so intoxicatingly lovely.  We human beings actually have heart strings.

Whenever I am sad, I think of those tiny strings, which I have seen with my own eyes, felt with my fingers, those strings of fibrous tissue, so very much stronger than they look, and I am comforted by the heart strings that bind us all.

On my refrigerator hangs a report from Early Intervention with my daughter’s name on it. It is a discharge sheet that states that she is at or above level for everything. It was true then. It is not true any longer. I cannot bear to take it down, because to take it down would be to admit defeat.

I will not be defeated. My daughter will not be defeated.

When I called my case worker, she sounded so sad to hear from me, her voice mirroring my own. It didn’t help that the only sheet of paper I could find with the phone number on it was her discharge from the program with a jaunty, “We enjoyed working with your family!” on it.

The therapist will come several days after my 30th birthday to evaluate my daughter and to tell me what I already know: Amelia is not normal. Amelia needs help. I am a trained diagnostician and I am aware of both of these facts. I am also aware that I am doing the right things. But knowing this doesn’t make this any easier for me.

There is something between her brilliantly big brain and delicate rosebud mouth that isn’t connecting properly. It fills me with a well of sorrow I didn’t even know I had, because I want so badly to hear her words. All of her words. Stories of Saturn and the planetarium and pleas for cookies and candy and the injustice of it all when I deny her.

I want to know my daughter.

Instead, I kiss her head and rub her scar and apologize to her for what is certain to be a hard road ahead. My heart strings clench painfully and I cry bitter tears, wishing I could make it easy for her, knowing I can’t.

We’re gearing up for a battle over here and we’ll win.

Eventually. Some way, somehow, we’ll win.

Aunt Becky: “So I was reading in Time Magazine about our oldest living relative, Ardi…”

The Daver: “Oh yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “It’s pretty interesting, actually. She’s kind of like the Missing Link between humans and chimps.”

The Daver: “That’s pretty wicked. But don’t tell the Christians about it.”

Aunt Becky: “I wasn’t going to.”

The Daver: “Good, because they’ll torch you.”

Aunt Becky: “Actually, I was planning to call Time Magazine myself. What are you doing Thursday night?”

The Daver: “Why?”

Aunt Becky: “Well, I think they’re going to want to interview you.”

The Daver: “Huh?”

Aunt Becky: “Well, I’m going to explain to them that YOU are the Missing Link.”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “You and your Carnie Feet.”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “They’re practically flippers, Daver. I mean, do you actually need to use those feet-thingies when we go scuba diving?”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “Remember that time we were at Wal-Mart and I screamed at you to cover your feet because I was afraid the Carnies would take you away if they saw your feet because they’d see you were one of them and then you’d have to live out your life manning the Ring Toss Booth?”

The Daver: “Yes. I tried to leave you at Wal-Mart, if you remember correctly.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ve done some thinking and I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re actually The Missing Link between Man and Ape.”

The Daver: “Gee, thanks.”

Aunt Becky: “Or part duck.”

The Daver: “This conversation keeps getting better.”

Aunt Becky: “Do you have any relatives that are ducks?”

The Daver: “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Aunt Becky: “Either way, I’m calling Time Magazine to tell them that I have the Missing Link in my house so please be home on Thursday so the film crew can see your Carnie Feet in person.”

The Daver: “You’re fired.”

—————-

If’n you want to vote for me in the BlogLuxe awards for funniest blog (which I am, of course, not), you may vote once per day here.

When I was in the third grade, I got my first hate mail:

Dear Becky,

I like you a little bit, but it grows smaller every day.

Love,

Becky

First, yes, her name was Becky also, and Part B, she signed it “Love, Becky” so I knew she wasn’t entirely serious. Third graders are notoriously fickle and she was probably pissed that my bejeweledness was awesomer than hers. Because it was.

Also, I had an older brother who could REALLY insult me and frankly, hers couldn’t hold a candle to what Uncle Aunt Becky could say.

But it DID hurt because those things DO matter when you’re eight and I vividly remember trying to tell my mom about “THIS ONE TIME THAT…”

She totally didn’t get it. My mother was never terribly hip about that sort of thing because she was too busy listening to folk music and churning butter and canning *shudder* tomatoes to care about what her “Ice-Ice-Baby,” bejeweled daughter could be upset about. I think that stuff just eluded her.

She just couldn’t possibly understand how it might matter that I have the right jacket and the right song to slow dance to at the skate rink and the perfect bangs that DID NOT start at approximately the back of my neck, like she always cut them.

Butter took precedence. Which, whatever. I MIGHT have a bang phobia now.

So my kid just graduated the third grade and yesterday he went over to a friend’s house on a playdate (okay, when we were kids, my mom just kicked us out and locked the door when the sun came up. There were no “playdates,” right?).

After he got home, he confessed that he didn’t have very much fun because they’d been fighting, and inwardly I groaned, because instantly I flashed back to all of the fights I’d had with my friends at that age over, well, anything. It seemed I was always stomping away from something or another or baffled because my friends were doing the same.

He explained what had happened, and it involved telling a secret that he hadn’t been informed WAS a secret, something I informed him wasn’t a particularly heinous crime, and he informed me that this was pretty much standard behavior for this friend.

Luckily, he wasn’t overly upset by this and isn’t planning on going back. This is the part of raising an autistic kid that’s fairly awesome. The hurt feelings aren’t quite of the same caliber as they are with someone like, oh, I don’t know, YOUR AUNT BECKY.

I submit this photo as proof:

This is Your Aunt Becky, circa 1989 (ish). Clearly, I am upset by something (and it’s not my uncle, who, despite the fact that he looks like he wants to throttle me or perhaps stone me to death or sell me for parts, is actually one of my favorite people).

What could that possibly be, you ask innocently, my Pranksters?

I have enhanced the photo for your digital pleasure so that you may see PRECISELY why I have such a look upon my face.

A-HA!

It’s because I hate Jethro TULL! CLEARLY at age 9, I already knew that while I enjoy most classic rock, Jethro Tull is one of the few exceptions! Aqua-Lung, one of the WORST songs out there!

Clever, CLEVER girl!

But did I have to look so fucking EMO about it?

The answer is OBVIOUSLY. Because at age 9, everything is very, very serious, I am learning, and nothing is not worth a good door-slamming.

On the upside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me. On the downside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me.

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So gather up around me, Pranksters, and grab a tall drink because I sure as shit need one and it’s only 9 AM. What were YOU like at this age?

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I am at Toy With Me talking about my, well, my sex-after-three-kids-life. And I need help. No, seriously, I’m asking for help.

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If you’d like, you can vote for me for Funniest Blog once per day until like July 11 (it’s only an email address thingy, not like a big ass give-them-your-first-born-child-thing) and I would hump your leg. HARD. Consider it an early birthday present!