When I entered the second grade, my mother dutifully signed me up for Brownies, which is sort of the baby version of The Girl Scouts (I THINK). I’d guess that I battled her for the honor because it seems like something she’d have been aghast by and something I would have found to be Full of The Awesome. Mostly because she hated it.

I proudly ran home from school after getting my poo-brown uniform and put it on. Back then, I was a sucker for anything that looked official.

Twirling in my mirror, even at 7, I knew it looked bad. The color was just…off.

But I looked official, and that’s what mattered to me. I strutted proudly around the house for awhile, alternating between marching and skipping, while my mother rolled her eyes at me. A couple of days later, she announced that I had to go to my first meeting.

Bwaaa?

Excuse me? I didn’t sign up for anything that required WORK. My mother laughed, the tables finally turned on me.

Dejected and annoyed by my lack of foresight, I trekked to the meeting and joined a bunch of ridiculously enthusiastic girls and their equally enthusiastic mothers who sat around in a semi-circle (women sitting in circles is something I would later be very, very afraid of).

They excitedly discussed how we could earn PATCHES!!! for our SASHES!!!! by doing THINGS!!!!

My own eyes began to roll back in my head as the meeting wore on and on. “Sisterhood” was discussed, as were things like overnight field trips and selling cookies. I was beginning to feel like the whole uniform thing really wasn’t worth the bullshit.

I never had any intention of selling anything and the very idea of sisterhood made me queasy and weak-kneed. I was pretty sure that I had to vomit and quickly.

At the next meeting, which my mother dragged me to, even after I faked the stomach flu and a fever of 109 degrees, it was time to make a “kneeling pad.” We had to sandwich two large pieces of vinyl between a piece of Styrofoam and stitch it up with green yarn. I wanted to actively kill myself, but I had no implements of destruction nearby. I considered trying to beat myself over the head with the Styrofoam, but I only managed to make it look like it was snowing.

On my head.

What the fuck was I going to do with a KNEEPAD besides try and smother my older brother with it?

My mother snickered when she saw me trudging back to the car with my creation.

“What the hell IS that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “We’re supposed to KNEEL on it or something.”

I’m pretty sure you could hear her laugh for miles.

My abysmal failure at selling any cookies when it came time to “FUNDRAISE!!!! GIRLS!!!” and my inability to earn a single patch, finally convinced her to allow me to quit. She’d never insisted I stick with anything I didn’t really like, and I’m sure she was tired of me bringing home my pathetic attempts at craft projects.

I mean, who could blame her? One of the cats started using the “kneeling pad” as a “peeing pad” and ruined one of the carpets and my older brother had actually broken a tooth on one of my attempts at making a ceramic cup. It was time to admit that I was never, ever going to cut it as a housewife.

Ha. If those scary Brownie People could only see me now…hey…wait a minute.

Shit. Is it too late to become a heiress?

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.

When I entered the second grade, my mother dutifully signed me up for Brownies, which is sort of the baby version of The Girl Scouts. I don’t know if I battled her for it or not, but I’m going to guess that I did, because that’s the kind of person I was am was back then. Always a sucker for a uniform, I proudly ran home from school after getting my poo-brown uniform and put it on.

Even at 7, I knew it looked bad. The color was just…off.

But I looked official, and that’s what mattered to me. I strutted proudly around the house for awhile while my mother rolled her eyes at me. A couple of days later, she announced that I had to go to my first meeting.

Bwaaa?

Excuse me? I didn’t sign up for anything that required WORK.

I trekked to the meeting and joined a bunch of girls and their mothers who sat around in a semi-circle (something I would later be very, very afraid of) and they all excitedly discussed how we could earn PATCHES!!! for our SASHES!!!! by doing THINGS!!!!

My own eyes began to roll back in my head as the meeting wore on and on. Sisterhood was discussed, as were things like overnight field trips and selling cookies. I was beginning to feel like the whole uniform thing really wasn’t worth the bullshit.

At the next meeting, which my mother dragged me to, even after I faked the stomach flu and a fever of 109 degrees, it was time to make a “kneeling pad.” We had to sandwich two large pieces of vinyl between a piece of Styrofoam and stitch it up with green yarn. I wanted to actively kill myself.

What the fuck was I going to do with this besides try and smother my older brother with it?

My mother snickered when she saw me trudging back to the car with my creation.

“What IS that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “We’re supposed to KNEEL on it or something.”

I’m pretty sure you could hear her laughter for blocks.

My abysmal failure at selling any cookies when it came time to “FUNDRAISE, GIRLS!!!” and my inability to earn a single patch, finally convinced her to allow me to quit. She’d never insisted I stick with anything I didn’t really like, and I’m sure she was tired of me bringing home my pathetic attempts at craft projects.

I mean, who could blame her? One of the cats started using the “kneeling pad” as a peeing pad and ruined one of the carpets and my older brother had actually broken a tooth on one of my attempts at making a ceramic cup. It was time to admit that I was never, ever going to cut it as a housewife.

Ha. If they could only see me now…

Wait a minute.

Is it too late to become a heiress?

Pashmina lived down the hall from me and was one of the original merry pranksters (although we never called ourselves that). While SHE was blessed with a fucking awesome roommate, my own roommate, It Means Butterfly was about as passive-aggressive as they come. So rather than deal with her bullshit, I escaped to Pashmina’s room whenever possible.

Mostly to steal her booze and smoke, but you know.

Along with Pashmina, the Merry Pranksters included James, who was an RA on another floor. On James’ floor, he had a kid who had a brother who was a bouncer at a club. That kid, in exchange for…something, gave Pashmina and I fake ID’s.

I think we were supposed to give him money, but I never did because that’s the way I rolled.

The bar down the street was a college bar and pretty much so long as you showed them AN ID, they didn’t so much care if your picture showed that it you were actually Sasquatch.

But we were 19, and the ID I took showed a girl who was 30. On my best days, even now, I don’t look 30. She was also 5 foot 10 inches tall, and I’m, well, not. I’m 5’5″ and really, even in heels, I’m not like a commanding presence.

Her name was Arhontia, and she was very, very Greek. But Greek, is another one of those Middle Eastern ethnicities I can typically pass for, if you think about it really hard. But we decided that the best way to get me to pass for a 30 year old tall Greek lady was to pile on the makeup.

James immediately volunteered. So I let a not-out-of-the-closet-at-the-time-guy at my face with a makeup kit not designed for my face for my first ever trip to a bar. I sat there as the make-up was piled on. And on. And on. And on. And on.

I couldn’t see my face, but being the kind of person who wore makeup approximately 4 times a year, I began to panic slightly. But James seemed pretty happy to be working on my face, so I said nothing. Not that I could have, considering he was piling SOMETHING on my lips.

After about 30 minutes, he pronounced me done. My face felt sort of waxy and strange, but I went with it as I made my way over to the mirror to check it out.

What I found staring back at me was Aunt Becky, The Drag Queen.

Sort of like this:

Except that’s a Halloween costume. No, really, that’s me getting ready for Halloween.

Anyway. I looked exactly like a fucking drag queen. Heavy eyeliner, flourishy blush, thick, pancake foundation and lipstick that made me look like I’d just made out with a bowl of cherries. It was bad. Funny, but bad.

He scampered off before I could complain, luckily.

Because I found out later that the reason that I looked like a drag queen is because he’d had plenty of experience making up men to look like women. Several male members of his immediate family, in fact, had used his services to make them look like women over the years.

Which would be why I looked as though I’d walked off the set To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Aunt Becky.

Needless to say, it worked.

Now I need to strong arm Pashmina into telling the bar stories. They were awesome.

—————–

And? Today was the day for interviews!

I am here at my friend Miss Spoken’s bloggity-blog.

and here! at my home-slice Chris’s blog (Great Moment’s in Christory)(*giggles*).

Both blogs are full of The Awesome and warrant a read. And not just because I am ON THEM AS WE SPEAK, although that makes them DOUBLY awesome, I admit.

One of the ways that my friend KC suggested that I think of Amelia’s encephalocele was that her brain was just so full of awesomeness that it just..exploded out the back. Obviously one skull cavity wasn’t enough to contain all that awesomesauce. She might have been onto something there, because the kid is wicked-smart.

Or, at the very least, she’s my last hope. The shining light of intelligence and common sense in my house. The last bastion of all that might be right in my house.

My eldest, Ben, has never had a whole lot of common sense. He’s the kid that would probably Superman jump off my two-story house with a sheet tied around his neck if he had any more imagination. Thank the powers that be that he was born with as much imagination as I was.

I mean, I’m the person who WANTED to have an imaginary friend but couldn’t even do that. I didn’t have enough imagination to have an imaginary friend. YEAH. Obviously my kid.

Alex, though, I thought might whip him into shape, since he has Ben doing his bidding. Alex, even at 2.5, is an evil mastermind of a child, so I figured that he’d be the brains while Ben was the brawn.

Turns out Alex is mini-Chris Farley. He’s the kid who throws himself into walls on PURPOSE only to bounce off, hop back up and yell “I’M OKAY!!” When Dave’s says he’s my clone, I’m not entirely sure he’s being flattering.

My faith in Alex steering Ben into perhaps having an evil empire where they, oh, I don’t know, maybe made me boat-loads of cash while being evil somehow screeched to an audible halt the other day.

Mimi and I were playing trains in one room, and I watched as my son’s came in and mysteriously grabbed a couple of blankets and ran back out. I waited a couple of minutes and then yelled, “what are you doing?”

“Alex set up a slide!!” Ben happily replied to me.

Shockingly this did not make me feel any better.

Mimi and I followed them out to the other room where, in fact, Alex had set up a slide and we watched as the two lug-nuts we love so dearly slid off the back of the arm of the couch onto the floor below.

Onto their heads.

My son’s were sliding from the couch onto their heads.

Happily.

No one was crying or complaining that it hurt; no. They were just using their thick skulls and faces to wipe the floor with. I swear I have never been so flabbergasted. Let’s be clear, my own IQ might rival that of peat moss, but I have never had the idea to use my face as the landing spot for falling from heights.

As soon as I recovered from my shock, I stopped them.

Then I informed my daughter that without her, her brothers might be lost forever, a couple of goons stuck picking their noses and jumping off things in the misguided idea that they can fly for the rest of their lives.

Let’s hope that she uses her power for GOOD and not evil.

——————-

Sunday was the anniversary of Mimi’s discharge from the NICU. It was still a turbulent couple of weeks before we knew anything about anything, so it wasn’t like it was the anniversary of things being all right again. I mean, if your kid is sprung from the NICU, you’re pretty much grabbing her and getting the hell out of there.

I’m having a hard time talking about all of the chaos surrounding her first weeks of life, but I’m not having a hard time expressing my gratitude. With all of your help and support, I was able to turn what was a horrible, devastating time in my life into something else.

A couple of months ago, you helped vote for me in a contest with a cash prize. I promised I would donate that to the March of Dimes. Because the one bright spot in the whole fucked up situation was knowing that Mimi and I could help other people and other babies.

We are.

I officially became a March of Dimes Mom.

And I donated my winnings to the March of Dimes. I’d show you a receipt, but I figured you could just see that $250 was added to Team Mimi’s March of Dimes widget.

So thank you. All of you.

Mimi says, “Upon further inspection, cupcakes are deemed satisfactory.”

(why yes, yes, that is frosting in her eyebrows)

And for my work with March of Dimes, I was awarded this nifty button from Give it Forward, which is a sweet ass medical fund-raising blog. So thanks, guys! I’m all a-flutter!

First off, let me thank all of you for voting for me, something I will say again on Monday because I was told yesterday that Mommy Wants Vodka won Divine Caroline’s Love This Blog Award! Look!

When I say “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I mean that. I certainly couldn’t have voted for myself 400 times. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. Amelia thanks you. All of the March of Dimes babies thank you. I am once again so humbled and honored by all of you and honestly, I don’t know what to say besides, thank you.

I am so glad to know all of you. I consider you my friends and I know that you all have my back. Please know that I have yours too.

Thank you again. I am honored to know you.

———————

Every August, when the stores start lugging out their holiday wares, my stomach sinks a little as I pass the wrapping paper aisle. Mile upon magnificent mile of tubes of gaily colored paper as far as my eye could see, bows twinkling and winking in the light, tags shining at me from their pegs, and bags lined up like small soldiers, ready to do battle.

While my OCD/alcoholic nature is very evident in such places as my blog, which is never, ever neglected, whether I have the swine flu or am deep with in the withdrawal effects from prescription sleep aids and my orchids, which are all flourishing so wildly that I am probably going to have to build a greenhouse to hold them all, it simply cannot stand up to decorating.

One time, many years ago, I saw a commercial, I think for Tylenol or something, and the lady was all “I have arthritis and I need to take THIS so I can get through my job!” Her job, we learn, is ARTFULLY WRAPPING OTHER PEOPLE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. The commercial wasn’t for THAT service, but I made it my mission in life to ONE DAY be able to pay someone to ARTFULLY WRAP my presents for me.

Because if it’s possible, Dave’s even less enthusiastic about the chore than I am. Probably because he’s a very smart person*. Not only do I hate doing it, but I’m really BAD at it, so it’s a double whammy for me.

Luckily I was able to channel my angst into something else last night. See, I’d bought my son a doctor’s kit for his doll, which he still loves. The doll, I mean.

Dear Fisher Price:

Boys play with dolls too. Get it through your thick skulls.

Love,

Aunt Becky

I fumed about this for a bit last night which distracted me from my angst about wrapping ugly presents. (maybe I should have been angstiER about the mystery spot on my floor.) My friends on Twitter agreed and pointed out that there aren’t Lego kits for girls either, something that I hadn’t thought about either. Then I fumed some more.

Now I just need to think of something else tonight to get me through another round of present wrapping. Or maybe I’ll just douse my eggnog heavily in rum.

My ultra-conservative mother-in-law may unwrap this: but in the end, maybe that’s worth it.

No, I take it back. If she unwraps that, it’s TOTALLY worth it.

—————–

Are you a present wrapper? Do you dread it? Can you wrap MY presents for me? How much do you think I’d have to pay someone to wrap my presents for me?

*This is me buttering him up so that he buys me the Cantigny mansion.

In order to be a Sherrick, you have to be willing to deal with traditions. I don’t mean the OCD type where you have to touch the laundry basket 17 times before you can go to sleep or lick the doorknob before you can eat dinner, but in my family there tends to be two types of things: the stuff that you do and The Way Things Are.

The stuff you do is the superfluous crap that goes with living, you know, laundry and work and sleeping and all that stuff, but The Way Things Are, well, this is DOGMA. TRADITION.

And you don’t fuck with TRADITION in my family. The square root of 4 is 2, Helium is the second element on the periodic table of elements and we have basil pesto mashed fucking potatoes on Thanksgiving. ALWAYS.

My brother, my father and my two- year old seem to be the most affected by this DOGMA of The Way Things Are. While I’m happy to try something different, like let’s say The Cheesecake of the Gods rather than my normal Bourbon Pecan Pie, well, that messes with the balance of the universe and well, we can’t have THAT. The universe might IMPLODE because I dared change tradition!

I have my own DOGMA of The Way Things Are, but I’m a little looser with my interpretation of it.

Every year, we sponsor a child from The Giving Tree at Ben’s school. And while my far more rigid BROTHER might have to sponsor the same GENDER or AGE bracket, I’m content to randomly choose one. Last year Dave chose a boy around Benner’s age who wanted socks. SOCKS. I know. I KNOW.

This year I chose a girl whose age was unspecified. I chose her and my eyes filled with tears, much like they always do every single year when I choose a kid from the tree.

Maybe it’s because I think of Christmas as such a magical time for children and I remember how much it hurt the year that I couldn’t afford any toys for Ben because I was so poor. Or maybe it’s because I remember having Christmas taken away from me as a punishment. Or maybe it’s because I think about how hard it must be to be on the other side as a child.

I cried there, though, as I picked up the tag with the gift choice on it because it was what I was going to get my daughter. No age, no identifying characteristics, just a parallel into my own life:

Baby Doll.

Amelia loves the baby dolls that we have, but those aren’t her dolls, they belong to Alex and Ben who begrudgingly share them. So I’d been planning to get her a doll for Christmas. In fact, I’d already been up and down the aisles at my boyfriend, Target searching for the perfect doll, so proud that I could finally go down the Pink Aisles at last.

Friday, Black Friday, we have another DOGMA TRADITION where we go out that evening to Target, my home away from home, to score some cheap DVD’s and see what they still have on sale. While we were there, I noticed that they had this baby doll and accessories pack on sale for half off which I promptly snatched up from the vultures in the toy aisle for my Giving Tree Girl.

This thing was AWESOME. I was admiring it as we walked along because it was precisely the sort of thing my hippie mother never would have bought me, eschewing it in favor of some wooden, anatomically correct doll I would have lobbed out the window. It had everything, though, crib, car seat, high chair and stroller along with assorted bottles and outfits.

I tend to go a little overboard for my Giving Tree Kids because it makes me feel good and why not?

We got it home and I left it on the floor downstairs so that I remembered to wrap it and send it back to school with Ben because I am FULL of The Forgetful. In the whirlwind of unpacking after Thanksgiving Part II, I didn’t really notice it until she was on top of it, but my daughter had made a beeline for the box with the baby inside.

She had pulled herself up on it and was trying her damnedest to get the baby out. Every side she explored, looking for a way in and OH was she pissed when she realized that she couldn’t get at it. I really hope that my Giving Tree Girl loves it as much as my daughter did.

Everyone had teased me that my daughter was going to eschew anything girly to be a tomboy like her brothers, just because I wanted her to be girly, and maybe that’s going to happen.

Then again, maybe not.

Let’s talk about how much I need that hat in my size, Internet, because I SO do.

Those shoes are for Binky Spohr, but Amelia dug them out and loves them. They’re much too small for her, but you know, a girl loves what a girl loves.

57: gallons of baby yogurt Amelia eats per day

2: times I’ve wondered if I could actually *make* baby yogurt before reminding myself that I am, in fact, the same person who ruined jello and has destroyed multiple muffin tins.

98,493,003: times I’ve wondered if people were actually bragging about their babies height/weight percentiles.

98,493,003: times I’ve decided that yes, people will find ANYTHING to feel smugly superior about

3: times that I’ve decided to feel smugly superior that my dog eats his own poo. Because, you know, he’s EFFICIENT and GREEN.

9,330,287: times I’ve considered donating him to the next motherf*$%ing person who wants to talk to me about being more EFFICIENT and GREEN.

2,220,128,203,494: times I’ve considered taxidermy instead.

89: prediction of trolly comments about what a POS pet owner I am this will evoke over the next 6-12 months.

7: bonus points for each use of the words or phrase: “irresponsible” “lawn” “neighbor” “pet shop” “puppy mill.” Double points for anyone who uses guilt, like there is anything I can do about it NOW.

36: syllables my middle child can currently stretch “Mooooooooom” out into

4: times each day I want to grind out my ear drums with a red hot poker so I do not have to listen to aforementioned version of “Mom.”

Super Great: on a scale of 1- 10 how awesome I am.

16: orchids I currently own, making me officially 2 steps shy of the crazy cat lady, only with orchids

2: times I’ve said to myself, “well, at least the orchids don’t get me UP OVER NIGHT” officially making me MY MOTHER and therefore warranting a scrubby bath in bleach

0: current number of television husbands

4: current number of possible candidates, all of whom are flawed in some way or another. Momma’s still on the prowl for a new leg to hump.

4,329: squirrels in my 3 x 5 foot backyard currently trying to find AND hide nuts for winter.

56: times I’ve maturely cackled at the term “hide nuts for winter,” because OBVIOUSLY.

207: times I’ve craved a potato in the past two weeks reminding me a) of the time that Dan Quayle misspelled that word (which, who am I to talk?)(answer: nobody) and b) being pregnant (which who am I to talk?) (answer: not pregnant)

79-ish: comments roasting me about my delightfully tacky cellphone cover, all of which made me laugh so hard that I cried. You guys, YOU I love.

79-ish: times I was equally grateful that while although you guys rake me–justifiably–over the coals, you seldom get all Grammar Police on me.

——————

So, wanna make out?

And, more importantly, should I make my kid be the Land Shark for Halloween and knock on doors and say “CANDYGRAM” instead of “Trick or Treat?”

And really, threaded comments (the ones that you get an email reply to)? As awesome as I think they are?

First, I *knew* I had the Best Internet People reading my blog and your comments yesterday? HIGH-FREAKING-LARIOUS. I seriously want to wrap my hammy arms around each of you for making me giggle.

Second, I’m not here today, not really. I’m posting for my friend Badass over here with an oldie but a goodie. And wow, I mean this is one from the VAULTS.

Third, I have a friend who, heard it from a friend who, heard it from another that my friend Chris has a book out. He also has a blog. He also would like some people to review his book–it’s hilarious–if they’d be so inclined. Click over to his blog and shoot him–or me–an email if you’re interested in reading his book. He’s hysterical, you won’t be disappointed.

And lastly, in ass-related news other than my own, I need some help with my son’s poor chapped bleeding butt. The Internet always seems to know best, so let me outline the facts for you:

*He’s 2 and in disposable Pampers

*We’ve tried cutting out dairy to see if that helps with the…um.. consistency of his poo. It doesn’t seem to be helping this OR the rashes.

* He gets these vicious diaper rashes that just look terrible and make him scream his poor head off. They’re cleared up with creams after a couple of days, but there seems to be no rhyme or reason to getting them (his diet isn’t varied enough for this to be dietary if it’s not milk).

*I want to prevent them in the first place because, damn, ouch.

Any ideas?

Come out! Come out! Wherever you are!

I know you’re out there, my wonderful lurkers, I can seeeeee you.

Okay, I can’t REALLY see you, altho convincing my son that I am psychic is a stroke of pure genius. Honestly, you should do it.

So here’s where I beg of you, my lurkers and lovingest of the loving followers, to help a sister out. My Home Girl Emily (who has probably never been addressed as a Home Girl or Home Slice by anyone but me) nominated me awhile back for some awards.

I checked today after forgetting about it for ages, and I see that I’ve got about 28 votes. 28 is a lovely number. I am 28 years old right now. Soon to be 29. But I know for a fact that I have more readers than that.

So I propose a tit(s) for a tat (hehe TITS): If you go over to this site and vote for me:

(I was nominated twice, because THAT is how cool Em is)

Registering takes about 20 seconds and is not at all annoying.

Come back and leave me a comment telling me that you did. Then ask me a question you want me to answer–no topic off limit–or a special request of something you’d like me to do for YOU. (I cannot cook) I’ll vote for you if you want me to, I’ll write a post about a topic of your choosing, I’ll even do something embarrassing and humiliating and tell the internet all about it if that is what you want.

Thank you, Internet, for being there for me when I needed you to be. Have you lost weight? You’re wasting away in front of me. But your ass looks fantastic in those jeans.

I puffy heart ALL of you.

Alex asks, “Please vote for my mother. She’ll love you forever and somehow make you Rice Krispy Treat Cuppy-Cakes.”