So I’ve frequently waxed on about how my daughter kicked neurosurgery in the balls because, well, anyone who undergoes brain surgery as a 3 week old and walks off with as wicked a scar as my Mimi did deserves to say that about themselves (or have their mother brag about it). Her scar is such that she’s going to have to come up with some kind of wicked story like, “bar fight” which is my go-to story when strangers ask.

Trust me, I get some looks.

Later, I said that Mimi kicked ass because she beat a diagnosis that often kills babies, or leaves them severely retarded. She’s entirely normal, if not a bit feisty, which, again, kicks ass.

What I didn’t count on was that my daughter would be a bruiser.

Sure, my mother often said that I was born “smoking a cigar and barking out orders” but I sort of thought that she meant that I was a short, fat, balding bookie kind of baby. I don’t know why I always pictured myself as The Penguin from Batman, but I did.

I didn’t think she meant that I was a BRUISER. Apparently, THAT was what she meant, not that I was a villain-baby, because to hear her talk about it, she STILL shudders when she describes me as a baby.

Maybe that was why my first word was “fuck.” I don’t know. But it does explain a whole lot about my personality now, doesn’t it? (just nod, it’s easier)

But that would be my daughter, who is, apparently, myself, who is, without a doubt, kicking all of our asses to get what she wants. It doesn’t really matter WHAT it is, she’ll fight you for it. Ear-bleeding shrieks followed by tiny fingered pinches, then followed by a gaze from those beautiful, luminous eyes, I mean, you IMAGINED that tantrum, didn’t you?

Nothing this sweet looking could be such a devil in disguise:

Underneath that sweet, cake-eating exterior, she’s plotting how to steal your wallet AND car-keys. Amelia, she’s a thug-a-lug.

Really, I thought that my testosterone-fueled middle son would have been the member of the Sausage Factory to contend with but it turns out that his sister is going to be the member of the family that will be all DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY, SOLDIER. Mimi, who will probably drop the fluffy sounding name and go by the more refined sounding “A-Dog” will make an excellent drill sergeant where she will inflict her torture on her troops so much that they will have nightmares that she is standing over them, pinching them.

Of course, she will be standing over them, pinching them while they sleep, because she is THAT kind of bruiser.

I’m wicked proud of my ickle A-Dog, even though I’m sure eventually she’ll try to cut my hair into a regulation buzz-cut every time she sees me, which is fine, so long as I don’t go to sleep (Aunt Becky doesn’t sleep, she waits). Because I bet she WOULD do it while I sleep.

It’s a good thing, I think. The world needs more strong, fearless, smart, pinchy females to stomp the earth in their combat boots making everything their bitch. Amelia will be like Chuck Norris, only cuter.

Just don’t tell her I called her cute. She’ll punch me in the throat.

Fear me world, because I have come to CONQUER you.

Once I finish my juicey.

—————

At Toy With Me, I’m talking about my BRILLIANT plan: Peckers of the Caribbean.

I started the morning by grousing about the state of the world in general, followed that with a piping hot bowl of prunes, and then watched my Matlock for a spell because I am an old person. Also, I do not eat prunes because I am not insane and prunes, no matter how tasty and fucking delicious they are, look like fucking cockroaches.

Sure, our old mattress was this ancient hand-me-down Tempur-Pedic thing that was actually ripped so badly that it was disintegrating, but because we are not normal, we bought an old people Sleep Number bed. I tried like crazy to get Daver to allow me to get the one that went up and down like a hospital bed with the radio and the TV remote built into the side, but he refused.

Apparently, me shrieking about “mah bedsores” in the middle of the mattress stores wasn’t enough to convince him that we needed a $4,000 bed. Ass.

The upside to getting a new mattress when one comes down with the flu, I suppose was that I spent most of the week in that bed. And I have to give it over to old people: that motherfucker is COMFORTABLE. I mean, sleeping on a box would be preferable to sleeping on the busted Tempur-Pedic because that thing had a gorge in the middle of it. A cavern. A chasm. It was kind of like a vagina in the middle of the mattress.

Now I can totally pick up dudes with my Sleep Number (40) rather than my zodiac sign. Because explaining that I’m not REALLY a Cancer and a lot more like a Leo makes me sound all kinds of neurotic.

Shut UP.

But that’s all kind of a moot point because until I can pick up dudes at the Urgent Care Clinic*, I’m kind of screwed. Flu Made Who is pretty much got me down for the count and is trying to make me his bitch.

This here, Pranksters, is motherfucking bat country.

How are YOU today, my Band of Merry Pranksters? I assume you’re not sweating with the exertion of sitting up and praying for the sweet release of sleep death dramatics Vicodin to overtake you.

*is it me, or does the word “clinic” make you think of STD’s?

Dear Aunty Becky,

So I finally figured out what I want to do when I grow up, and how I want to get there.  I’ve found the perfect college to go back to, enrolled, and am now trying to figure out how to pay for it.

This is where I need help.  I have anxiety issues and money is a HUGE trigger for me.  I’m at the point where I dream that I can’t fall asleep because I’m too busy thinking about how I can pay for my dream to come true.

I’m 33, I have 4 kids, I’m married, I’m recently laid off…. I don’t know how to make this work!  It’s what I want to do more than anything (except maybe live) but I don’t even know how to pay for it?  What can I do, besides drink more before I go to bed?

Yours truly,

The Neurotic One

Oh Neurotic Prankster, you are SO not alone in this one, and for good reason. The cost of college is damn daunting especially if you look at it from a beginning-to-end perspective (which I was smart enough NOT to d0)(or stupid enough)(whatever)(let’s not nitpick, Pranksters, I have the FLU).

Here’s where I’m going to veer away from the smart financial people who will no doubt rail on me in the comments and suggest that you will FIND a way to pay for your dream. If this IS what you want to do, Prankster, then you MUST do it. You’ll know in your bones if this is It, and if It is, then you simply must find a way.

There are always college loans, work-on-campus programs and ways to pay for the tuition. You can buy text books used from Amazon.com rather than take it up the butt from the bookstore. Take some of the prerequisites from a junior college (MAKE SURE THEY TRANSFER INTO YOUR FUTURE COLLEGE, FIRST. THIS IS MY WARNING TO YOU)

Go in and make an appointment with the admissions counselor and have them walk you through how you can pay for it. I assure you that most people don’t have hundreds of thousands just laying around to throw at college.

So, DO IT, Prankster. You only go around this crazy planet once. Might as well be doing something that fulfills you.

I’m considering going back to school to become a RN.  Only because I want to be a lactation consultant.

Would I kill myself?  Is it horrible?  Do I have to learn stuff with needles?

Any advice is appreciated, yo.

Zak

Aw, ZAK, this brings a tear of joy to my eye! I’m so proud of you for wanting to go to school to fondle boobies! Also: I will send you my scrubs so you have some to start with because, obviously.

Anyway. No, you totally won’t kill yourself, because you’re going to nursing school because you want to, not as a Long Suffering Aunt Becky who hated every moment of it because I really wanted to be somewhere (anywhere) else.

The things I have to say about nursing school are this:

It’s exhausting. The pace they put you at was a new class load about every 8 weeks, which meant that we were on the quarter system. It was a semester’s worth of material in half the time, but that’s pretty indicative of how the medical field works (sink or swim) so you do get used to it. I swear.

No one will coddle you. But I know you and I think you’d punch someone in the cock if they tried to, so this is good. Just keep it in mind that you’re on your own and you’re going to be doing a lot of work. Again, you get used to it. I’m pretty sure if I tried to go back and take a normal college class I’d be disgusted by how easy it was.

It’s satisfying. I never wanted to be a nurse, but a lot of what I did learn was highly satisfying even if I only use that knowledge to gleefully correct televised medical dramas and/or solve the mystery on House, MD before his team does. I bat a pretty good average on that one, actually.

Actually, you probably won’t have to do much with needles in school (which, ROCK ON). Not only is a hugemongeous liability for the school because y’all could be throwing around blood-borne pathogens thanks to poor needle practices, but every hospital uses different needles AND has a different set of standards for the way that their staff handles needles.

Needle work comes once you get hired somewhere or work somewhere as a patient care tech.

Other than that, I have a huge amount of respect for nurses and anyone who wants to become one. So to you, I take my hat off. Or I would if I were wearing one. Actually, I might be wearing one, but the flu has made me hallucinate.

Was my mother right: Does the white stuff around oranges have nutrients like iron? Is it good for you? I’ve gone my whole life choking on the stuff and/or painstakingly peeling it off. I have to know!

Thanks,
V

The white stuff around the oranges is called “pith” which sounds very properly English, doesn’t it? I can only picture English people saying it dressed in fancy 18th century garb (like those gigantic headdresses) while sipping tea, but THAT, Pranksters, is the drugs talking.

Anyway, my parents were always saying the same things to me, although they never quoted iron specifically. But it was always “nutritious things” in that pith. And when I went to look it up, the only word among the many, many I found, that made any sense whatsoever was “fiber.”

The rest sounded like New Age made-up words. Which, maybe they were. Because I’d never heard of them before. And clearly, if *I* hadn’t heard of them, they were fake words.

Either way, the pith of an orange tastes like butthole, that we can all agree on. And generally, the things on this planet that aren’t lethal that taste like butthole are really good for you. So my guess is that the pith is probably really good for you.

(I still peel it off. I like bitter things–like my heart–but that shit is WAAAAY too bitter for me)

—————–

As always, Pranksters, please feel free to fill in where I left off in the comments.

P.S. This probably makes no sense because I’m still hallucinating.

P.P.S. I am going to punch the flu in the cock.

P.P.P.S. I wish the flu had a cock so I could punch it there. Hard.

Of the past 48 hours, I’ve spent nearly 36 of them laying supine while the room spun around alarmingly. As I slurred to The Daver, it’s like being wasted while totally sober and if I felt any better, I’d be enjoying myself mightily because a free high is a free high.

But I can’t think straight which is frustrating to me because I have THINGS to do, like organize my Serial Killer of the Month Cards and rearrange my Garbage Pail Kids and I simply can’t. I can barely type this post, to be honest, because the room is tilting out of control and all I can think is that line from that awful song, “it’s hard to leave when you can’t find the door.” Because really, it’s TRUE even if that song sucks.

Considering I had the Swine Flu already, you’d think that I’d get a break and not get The (ever-loving) Flu again but apparently, the Swine Flu ruins your immune system for awhile afterward. Ain’t THAT a bitch?

So I’m going to shuffle back to bed, leaving my house in shambles and my children to run amok (which, hi, that word looks HILARIOUS to me. Is that even a real word? Because it doesn’t look like it. HOORAY FOR FAKE WORDS.) so I can go sweat and dream about hot dogs and zombies munching on what is left of my grey matter.

Good night and good luck, Pranksters.

I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest here because I am hallucinating tiny pink penguins marching over the monitor on my Big Mac and I don’t think that anything I say can be held against me in The Marriage Court and say it: Dave isn’t a great gift buyer. He’s gotten better over the years, for sure, but that’s only after I spent about four separate birthdays crying, “You mean, you bought me this pack of gum from a GAS STATION?”

I recognize that gifts and being thought of on the day of one’s birth (or on other holidays) isn’t important to everyone. For those of you who don’t care about such material things, I give you massive props. You are CLEARLY better, more evolved than I am.

I’m a slothly, mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragger of a person who likes my stuff-n-things and really, I want someone to THINK of me on my damn birthday (which, Pranksters, should be a national holiday).

That said, there are a couple of things that if The Daver thought to buy me on my birthday (or any other present buying day, really), I’d be Furious George.

Like this (brought to my attention by my new brother-in-law Patrick):

The BETTER MARRIAGE BLANKET. It officially reduces the incidences of those pesky Dutch Ovens and night farts. Which, to me, are like the best part of marriage.

I’m not a terribly gassy person, but The Daver, well, he is. So when he gets into bed and rips ass, I do the only thing a person CAN do in this situation. I grab the quilt and I quickly pull it over his head, trapping the noxious odors inside where he is forced to rebreathe his own stench for minutes at a time (this, Pranksters, is a Dutch Oven).

He’ll lay under there, howling for mercy, chocking on his own disgustingness while I lay on top of him cackling wildly.

If I had the Better Marriage Blanket, I could not do such a thing and that WOULD MAKE ME SAD. Because I consider that to be high sport and while I’m sure a good lot of you are shaking your heads wondering how I conned someone into marrying me, I can honestly tell you that I have no idea, either.

So BACK OFF, Better Marriage Blanket People, and let me have my fun.

And The Daver, if you buy me this, I will somehow manage to find a way to get Auggie to pee on your pillow. That’s a promise.

——————–

What’s the worst gift YOU have gotten, Pranksters?

I am, apparently, dying of what we shall call “airplane sickness” but is probably the flu. This means that I cannot effectively post anything or do anything of substance besides sit here and sweat and occasionally moan pathetically.

If this is the flu, I fully intend to sue, as I did with the Swine Flu and I expect that once again, I will win. Thank you, The People’s Court for ruling in my favorite over that fucking pig and it’s stupid virus.

But the cruise, Pranksters, well, it’s happening. I’m beyond excited that all of you are showing interest in it and Angie and I are putting together more information and we should have it all set up and neatly ready for take-off within the next couple of weeks.

We’re thinking March 2011 because March is a SHITTY ass month, but we’re not solid on dates yet.

Here’s what I CAN tell you.

You do NOT need a blog.

You do NOT need to have a POPULAR blog, if you are a blogger. Neither of us are A-listers or give a shit about that kind of thing, so don’t bother getting worried about that stuff.

You don’t even need to have an internet connection or know either of us.

You can bring your kids/spouse/family/whatever. Most ships have a daycare that you can send your crotch parasites to. Just don’t count on Your Aunt Becky to babysit. Imma be drinking heavily.

The cruise, however needs a name. So far, Angie and I have come up with: “Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion,” which is pretty awesome. But I want to see if you can do better. The “I’m On A Boat” is kinda funny, but won’t be by then. So we have to do better, y’all.

What do you think? What’s a good name? And what else do we need to do?

Because I called my cruise a business trip, Angie and I talked shop for a little bit when we were together. Although, I’m going to be honest, a lot less than you’d think. When I was a waitress, post-shift, the staff would pour out of the restaurant together like a bunch of lunatics that hadn’t seen the light of day in 16 years and we’d proceed to talk about “the assholes at table 24” for the next 2 hours while we drank ourselves into a pit of oblivion.

Server stories are endlessly entertaining to other servers, but blogging stories simply aren’t interesting to anyone…even other bloggers. I mean, could I really be all, “ONE TIME MY DNS THINGY CRASHED AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT EVEN MEANS” without making other people want to slit their own necks?

Plus, saying, “I have a blog” is kind of not full of the awesome because it STILL sounds like I could have a site devoted to my cat, Mr. Sprinkles, and his wacky anecdotes. Because let me tell you, Mr. Sprinkles is one wacky guy.

Angie and I did, however, talk conferences. Specifically the docket for next year.

I’m doing BlogHer this year, and I’m even speaking, which must have been some grievous error on BlogHer’s end because I am not classy and they are classy and maybe someone will spike my drink so that I won’t get up there and be all ‘YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH’ in front of people.

They probably thought I was the OTHER Aunt Becky.

Anyway, I don’t normally do conferences, but I guess I should start because there are OTHER people at conferences whose legs I should like to hump with my vagina (yes YOU Pranksters) and that’s essentially what I told Angie who is not the island of a blogger that I am.

*warbles Islands in the Streams*

It was there, over Strawberry Frozen Yogurt when we came up with our most brilliant idea.

Why not say “fuck it” and all get our assess onto a boat? We could do a Blogger Meet-up on a boat!

Let me break it down.

It’s cheaper than a hotel per night if you bunk up with someone (especially in the middle rooms like where Your Aunt Becky stayed)(because I am a cheap ass) AND the airfare down to Florida isn’t exorbitant depending upon when we go. A cruise would be no more than a conference, especially if you got a roommate.

So, I’m thinking that this is the wave of the future. GET IT? WAVE? It’s me being nautical again. HILARITY.

What’s not awesome about getting on a boat with a couple of bloggers and then proceeding to:

a) drink

2) sleep

@) drink THEN sleep

8) eat anything you want

*) swim

10) smuggle in narcotics

I mean, really, nothing not awesome.

The idea is still in it’s embryonic form because I have to research REAL blog conferences with you know, real speakers and stuff, so that I don’t book something that’s conflicting with it, but I’ll be on a motherfucking boat. Angie will too. You can join us.

If you guys are dead set on having some conference shit going on, I’m sure that Angie (who is a legitimate business owner) and I (who am a bullshit blogger) can come up with some sort of agenda.

Like this:

8-10: Motherfucking SLEEP

10-11: Eat breakfast, chew aspirin to work off hangover. Laugh at previous night’s antics once laughing doesn’t hurt.

11-11:20: Lazily discuss blogging. Ask if anyone else actually makes money blogging. Make the one poor sap that raises hand buy drinks.

11:20-11:30: Chug beer through makeshift beer bong.

11:30-1PM: Lay by pool trying to catch the elusive she-mullet on film. Winner gets free drinks.

1-2PM: Lunch. Lazily order “one of everything” on the menu. Laugh when server asks “really” then say, “of course.” Eat it all.

2-4PM: NAPPY TIME.

4-4:10- Discuss traffic levels on blog. Decide it really IS all about content. Get distracted by someone in a whimsical t-shirt.

4:10-5:00- Try to decide if anyone actually knows the words to the Macarana. Stop fist-fight between two irate (and drunk) bloggers who swear that it’s actually an Irish Folk Song.

5:00-7PM- SHOW TIME. Laugh at the awesome show put on by the band. Debate whether or not the show people know how bad their show is. Laugh more. Applaud loudly because NO ONE ELSE IS.

7-8:30- DINNER TIME. Marvel over how good dinner is. Marvel over how fat you are becoming. Marvel how you just don’t give a shit.

8:30-10PM- Back up to the deck to people-watch. Realize that no matter how bad you feel about yourself, really, it’s not so bad. EVER.

10-11PM BEDTIME, baby.

————-

Really, Pranksters, this is going to be full of the awesome. You should do it. You don’t have to be a blogger, like blogs, or even read them to join us. It’ll be a floating party of awesome.

Angie and I will be on a boat. Mr. Sprinkles, my fictitious cat, will not be.

————–

Also my column at Toy With Me, penis tattoos? WTF?

*If you didn’t get it, I was making a reference to the SEA, Pranksters by referencing knots, which I think are some sort of sea thingy, or maybe they’re actually not. I could be referring to DON KNOTS who isn’t from the sea, I don’t think. He could be a Poseidon for all I fucking know. I’m still half tripping from the Dramamine, which should come with the label “WILL FUCK YOUR SHIT UP, BITCHES.”

I want a sandwich. And a snowcone. Actually, I want a snowcone sandwich.

Anyway, so I am back from my cruise and let me tell you that it was FULL of the awesome. Technically, it was a WORKING vacation, and Angie and I have come up with a fantastic idea which I will reveal tomorrow when the walls stop moving and I stop walking into my dogs.

So we were on a motherfucking boat wearing our flippy-flops, with apologies AND accolades to T-Pain, which is sort of like a traveling NASCAR fan hotel with all of the assorted classiness and hilarity that went along with it. I’m telling you that people watching cannot be better anywhere.

I got my first decent massage AND my first taste of true bad taste on the trip.

The massage was by a British woman and she was alarmed by the state of my stress level (an 8)(what, is that bad?) and the state of my back. Apparently, it was all kinds of tight and wound up and that’s apparently bad. Pretty much, she said that I would die unless I got more regular massages and stopped being so stressed out and maybe took better care of myself.

I tried to interject with “does Vicodin count as a stress reliever?” but then she sort of laid on my back with her elbows and I wept in pain and couldn’t speak. Or I could, but it would be a scream. I tried to make her tell me that my back was “knotty” so that she’d say something like, “Oooh, Rebecca, you KNOTTY girl,” and maybe then smack me around, but no such luck.

Just more of the elbows and threats of reducing my stress or “death.” WhatEVER.

The ship wasn’t exactly decorated from this era. In fact, it’s pretty much the LAST sort of decor that you want to see if you’re drunk and/or seasick, but it’s pretty much full of the hilarious. Brightly patterned carpets and brass and wall paper and colors! every! where!

It’s going to be vintage soon.

The worst place that I found was this: a HAND bar. I want whatever they were smoking when they decided that THIS was a great concept for a bar, because it had to be strong.

So you’re walking down the way and you see THIS:

Two giant hands. I assumed, nail salon. TACKY nail salon, but nail salon. Nope. The strains of a bad keyboard player ministering to a group of cougars wafted out and I could make out “My Girl.” Badly.

I was intrigued.

THAT is over the bar. I cannot impart how scary that looks. It’s a gigantic hand. Over the bar. What. The. Fuck.

The horrible keyboard player belts out shitty songs and drunken cougars vie for his attention and suddenly I’m horrified AND embarrassed.

The wall is home to the handprints of his conquests? OR VICTIMS…

The fingers wave creepily as I back out of the bar, happy to have escaped with my hands intact.

I’ll never listen to “My Girl” the same way again.

In roughly two hours, I’m leaving for my cruise, which is pretty much full of WIN for me and pretty much full of LOSE for my family. I’m traveling alone down to Florida to meet up with Angie because stupid CHICAGO doesn’t have a stupid OCEAN it’s rapidly losing whatever awesomeness quotient it had. Chicago, I am moving away.

I’ve been on a cruise once before as a broke college kid and they put us in what HAD to have once been servant’s quarters, but I’ll tell you that it was awesome. Even when we hit a major storm and everyone started yacking in the hallways like the Great Pie Eating Contest in Stand By Me, it was pretty much the best vacation ever. My friends didn’t have a very good time, but I did.

I mean, it’s a big boat in the middle of the ocean. Occasionally, when you sail close to hostile countries, you get surrounded by men with semiautomatic weapons. What’s not to love?

This time, I’m going to relax, workout, get a motherfucking tan and write. I have a lot of writing to do on my book and a lot of thinking to do. I know, that makes me sound very deep and meaningful, but it’s true. YOUR AUNT BECKY, a THINKING person. Who would have THOUGHT it?

(answer: not me)

I’m hoping to come back with a camera full of hilarious pictures. It’s going to be like BINGO for Cruising Bloggers. This is what I want:

1) A picture of someone in a tuxedo shirt

2) Someone with a mullet

3) Someone with a SHE-mullet

4) Someone using a garbage bag for luggage

I’m not sure quite what else to expect, but I’m sure that will be an excellent start.

I’ve gotten a couple of guest posts lined up, and The Daver will be doing Go Ask The Daver this week, so if you want THE DAVER to answer your questions, go ahead and submit them to Go Ask Aunt Becky in the sidebar (if you don’t, he’ll just answer some Go Ask Aunt Becky questions). He’s more thoughtful and nicer than I am anyway and it’ll take him like 10 hours to write the column so that will be HILARIOUS if you do it. I can’t wait to get back and see what you make him do.

SPEAKING of book stuff, Dave will be home with The Sausages and sending out the sample chapter for my book, so check your spam filter if you’ve signed up because that’s where they’ve been ending up. See, I sent them from a DUMMY email address because I didn’t want people being all “WHO THE FUCK AR U SLUT?” in my real email case one of you had entered your email all wrong.

So the email address is a dummy.

But, if you haven’t gotten it by Sunday, send an email, marriage proposal, or complaints to dave@dwink.net. That’s Dave’s email address and he likes email, I think. Internet access on the boat is like 50 dollars a minute and while I might go through withdrawal, I can’t justify tweeting at that rate.

Bon Voyage, my Pranksters. If my plane does not go down in a fiery crashball like the last one I was on almost did, I will see you on Monday.

Also, for any of you who asked how old I was in that picture, it was taken on Sunday and I am actually 12.5. I’m aging backwards.

Did you know that the original title of “Where The Red Fern Grows” was “A Boy and His Dog?” Now you do. I don’t know why I can regurgitate that particular bit of information and barely remember my middle name. Is it Sherrick or is it Elizabeth? I DON’T REMEMBER, Pranksters!

Anyway, the editors must have thought that the the original title lacked some pizazz, so they insisted it be changed to something more artsy. I don’t know shit about artsy, but the first title has a little something, but so does the second.

And: SPOILER ALERT: (the dog dies and it’s tremendously sad).

Anyway, yesterday, we were at The Target, otherwise known as MY boyfriend–he’s sleeping around on you, ladies–and I realized that I probably required some new kicky flippity-flops to take on my cruise. I mean, how else can I attract an older man and become a trophy wife like I’ve always wanted, but without a new pair of kicks?

Just don’t remind me that I’m not trophy wife material anymore because you’re CRUSHING my DREAMS, MAN. And that’s SO not cool.

So I picked out these hideous monstrosities that were later called, “like being fucked in the eye.” I thought they were rather charming.

First, my Gerber Daisy shoes (because, Pranksters, you should ALWAYS, as Alex would tell you, refer to a flower by it’s NAME, not simply as “flower” if you know the name):

I thought those screamed Aunt Becky lives here and has a wicked sense of fashion.

Next up were my more nautically themed shoes:

I do NOT believe that anyone at the nursing home would wear these charming shoes, despite what I was told…

…they have no firm arch support. OBVS.

We continued on in the shoe aisle where I was looking for more Garden Boots (it’s a proper noun in my house) for Alex when we happened upon the GIRLS shoe aisle. Since you Pranksters informed me that there was some nifty conversion between adult womens shoes and girls shoes, my shoe collection has increased exponentially, while the maturity level of it has dropped.

I’ve dropped a considerable sum on shoes for my daughter, who happened to be in the cart with me, throwing animal crackers at my head, but unless I planned to duct tape her feet into her shoes, there was no way she was going to wear them. She just…refused.

Amelia, it seems, is a force to be reckoned with. And, for someone who has been through all of the obstacles that she has, I’m really not going to sweat the small stuff. If the girl doesn’t want to wear some motherfucking shoes, well, FINE. There will be a day when she does, and I will REGRET it when I see what the shoes she picks out cost.

But, rather than continue assaulting me with animal crackers, my daughter did an odd thing. She began to squirm and shriek and indicate that she, would, Mom, you ignorant slut, like to look at those MOTHERFUCKING SHOES.

Baffled, I handed them to her. She indicated that she wanted me to place those shoes on her feet. So I did, but they didn’t match up to whatever it was that she thought in her head, so she shook her head “no.” (she’s not speaking much)(I know, I KNOW, I’m not happy either).

She’d then indicate that she’d like THAT pair of shoes, and I’d place THEM onto her feet. Again, she’d decide that they didn’t pass her elaborate standards and no, they’d too go back onto the shelf. For thirty minutes, we did this.

Finally, she spied these:

And by this time, I was pretty much fed up with looking for shoes and ready to go home. So I said, “Amelia, really?”

And she took one look at my incredulous face and said,

“YES!”

And so I dutifully strapped her sausage/marshmallow feet into the shoes and then? She lit up like a wee fireplug/Christmas tree. Turns out, the girl was just waiting for some Chuck T’s.

I’d only be more proud if they were Vans.