While I should have been working on meaningful things like meeting deadlines and washing floors, I’ve instead been infatuated with the idea of finding free pictures online and turning them into HILARIOUS greeting cards. Because that is what I do with my time: worthless things!

Also, my line of cards has a name. “Love, Aunt Becky.” Because OBVIOUSLY.

While many of you asked the cake redeemed itself in it’s deliciousosity, I regret to inform you that the burning hair smell put me off of it. Then, when I realized the fondant smelled exactly like I’d imagine the color Blue to smell, it further solidified my desire to never let it touch my delicate, refined, distinguished palate.

(the very same delicate palate that loves on Crunch Berry Cereal. Hard.)

So this, my friends, this is a requiem for a Cake Wreck:

Alas, I cannot submit my creation to the SITE Cake Wrecks, because they only accept professional cakes, and as we’ve all gladly seen, I am no professional.

Somewhere, a lone bugle is playing Taps for my sad, sad cake.

—————-

Yesterday as I was flitting about the house uselessly writing a couple of things that I had promised I would do, I noticed that my right ear was making an odd tapping noise. I have a cold, because it’s a day of the week that ends in “y” and I always have a cold, thanks to my three crotch parasites, and I chalked it up to odd inner ear congestion.

As the day wore endlessly on, the knocking in my ear continued, and as I was finishing up the last of my articles late last night, I had a horrible, awful thought that combined the most awful of my fears.

What if something had laid their hideous eggs in my ear canal and now it was hatching to eat my remaining three brain cells? Like an alien? Or a bug? Or an ALIEN BUG?

(what, ME neurotic?)

(shut up)

When I informed Dave of my fears, he rolled his eyes and laughed.

The Daver: “You do remember it’s January in the Midwest, right?”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

The Daver: “And that nothing is actually alive.”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

The Daver: “And that you’re being neurotic.”

Aunt Becky: “You’d be neurotic too if you were growing an alien bug baby in your ear canal.”

The Daver: (rolls eyes) “Clearly.”

Then I went and flushed my ear canal with water and hydrogen peroxide for a couple of minutes, figuring that it would kill whatever was eating my brain. While it fizzed merrily, I hate to report that my ear is still sort of thumpy today.

The alien baby CLEARLY is immune to hydrogen peroxide.

—————–

Today I am over at Toy With Me, where I am telling the not-at-all (SARCASM ALERT) embarrassing story of my bachelorette party. It involves a clogged toilet, a stripper, and balls on my face.

And, as always, if you’d care to vote for me in The Bloggies under best humor blog (voting ends in a couple of days), here is the link. I will love you all over in ways you never knew possible.

Ha! No, not me. Over at Toy With Me, I’m sharing the story of the break-up of Amy and her boyfriend (who many of you may know by her REAL name) which coincided with the break-DOWN of Amy. Were she not a complete lunatic, I’d probably have left sleeping dogs where they lay.

But, they’re also running a sweet ass in the mornin’ contest over there if you’re in the mood to share break-up horror stories. Because I’m sure you have some awesome ones (who doesn’t?).

Also, if you entered my Amazon.com giveaway multiple times, please make sure that every entry had a comment so that my tiny brain can randomly pick a winner (with some help from Random Number Generator).

I leave you with this:

My brand new super-villain hair cut.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to trample the dreams of some children or kick some adorable puppies.

So you’re thinking, Aunt Becky, it’s time to put up some REALLY BAD pictures of you as a kid. You know, shitty perm jobs and aqua-netted bangs and french rolled jeans and maybe some Blossom-style headbands, but I don’t have any of those.

I was a CHILD of the 80’s, but I wasn’t allowed a perm. Probably because my mother was actually smart and realized that I would look like a Koosh ball if I’d gotten one. I have thick hair. Instead, I had bangs that started at approximately the nape of my neck and teeth that stuck out like the claw end of a hammer.

But I don’t have those snaps either. It’s not because I’m trying to spare myself the pain and agony of showing The Internet that I am not perfect, because shit, I think I passed trying pretend to be perfect, uh, in 2004 when I started blogging about The Wet Spot.

So let’s start with what I DO have. Aunt Becky, circa 1985. It appears that it’s my birthday and that it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Probably because no one is sitting with me.

Or maybe I am crying because my mother is forcing us to sit on lawn chairs in the house.

The obligatory “I am drunk and annoying on Halloween” shot. HELL, my undies are hanging out. This is probably why my 5 year old self is crying.

This was as close as I could get to “funny hair pictures” because, well, look at it. It’s my homecoming picture! My awesome tiara says it all. It says “I am awesome. Obviously.” But my dress is from Ann Taylor and it’s not embarrassing. Yet. But I could fucking smile, no?

Now THIS pictures says “I have a friend who is in Photography class” now doesn’t it? The black -n- white photography, the subject in the woods, it just SCREAMS ‘high school photography class’ to me.

————-

So I am challenging you to a duel, The Internet. OUTDO my sorry stash of embarrassing pictures. That isn’t hard. I will continue my hunt as I search for how to become certified as a disaster preparedness RN (I wanted to go to Haiti, but can’t seem to find a way to get there).

If you find something cringe-worthy, leave a link to it in the comments and we can have a fashion party of all of our awesome pictures. I’m certain that you can outdo me.

————–

At Skirt! I’m talking about how it takes a village. Even if it’s not the village I’d planned on.

I’m sitting there, ass glued firmly to the couch cushions, television on for background noise, baby happily babbling in his Exersaucer, and all of a sudden a female voice breaks into my thoughts:

“I have genital herpes” she confesses to me.

The camera pans to her partner, “and I don’t” he confidently informs us.

The commercial goes on and on while I sit there completely horrified, jaw gently grazing the cat-hair covered carpet. Why, oh why do I need to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to erase that image from my already addled mind?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that we need to pretend like STD’s don’t happen by shushing it up (Lord knows Aunt Becky has seen more STD’s than you have.)(Because I’m a NURSE, you pervert!) and shaming those who have them into institutions or anything, not at all. Hell, plenty of people have them, live with them, while others have managed to barely dodge that bullet, and I don’t think that it’s something to be ashamed about.

I just don’t need my Oprah interrupted by having to hear about and subsequently imagine sores on your flipping meat curtains.

Before you flog me for being insensitive to those who have herpes, let me assure you I also don’t really care to have my day interrupted by ads promising to rid me of that pesky yeasty discharge, freshen up the old curtains with a vinegar douche, or make sure I don’t piss myself in public anymore.

*ahem*

I kid, I kid.

I’m not going to pretend I haven’t dealt with some delicate conditions of my privates over the years. Hell, I’ve even gleefully documented When Monistat Attacks, went to the hospital after I peed my pants, TWICE but none of these things have put me on your television set. Sure, I talk about these delicate conditions on my blog, but I assure you that no one from Depends, Valtrex, or generic Monistat is paying me a single dime for writing this. In fact, I’m almost certain they’d pay me NOT to write this.

Alas, I digress.

But seriously, could we PLEASE put a ban on having to watch people talk about the state of their junk on television? Because OBVIOUSLY.

So dish, The Internet. What would YOU ban (besides Your Aunt Becky from polluting The Internet, because have you HEARD of a PEN NAME?)?

*Lest you think I’m a complete ass, I also cannot watch the ASPCA ones with the sad music in them because I cry. every. time. and then I want to adopt all the animals on the planet, even though my dog, Auggie, eats poo and there’s very little grosser than a dog that eats poo so WHY would I want another dog that might eat poo? (answer: I wouldn’t)

—————

Other places you’ll find Your Aunt Becky today if you care to look (also, I am humping all of you who have visited me elsewhere. THANK YOU.)

I’m discussing my New Years Resolution over at Toy With Me, and while it’s not one of my racier posts, it’s one I’m particularly proud of because it’s honest and real and true and sometimes that’s what matters.

At my SodaHead gig, I’ve named 2009 as the Year of the…

Lastly, at Skirt! it’s not the damn kids on my lawn or my collection of 8-tracks that have made me realize that I’ve gotten old and crusty. Nope, it’s BLOGGING.

Actual REPOST of an IM conversation with Pashmina, my former blogging buddy:

Aunt Becky: “I don’t take laxatives but my ass is gonna try Alli** when I quit nursing”

Pashmina: “DON’T DO IT”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “Seriously. Do. Not. Do. It”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “First, the point of Alli is that it traps fat and makes you shit like crazy when you eat something with too much fat in it.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll deal with some anal leakage.”

Pashmina: “second: Alli takes a LONG ASS TIME to get out of your system
you stop taking it and you’ll still be shitting buckets for a month”

Pashmina: “Third: it prevents nutrients from being absorbed by the bowel
so you’ll lose weight. And muscle tone. And valuable nutrients”

Aunt Becky: “Man that shit is tough. But it beats a tapeworm.”

Pashmina: “Now that I’d rather have.”

Aunt Becky: “Why don’t you get one?”

Pashmina: “I don’t know how, but I wouldn’t mind.”

Aunt Becky: “I think you could order one off the internet. Lemmie see.”

Pashmina: “I VERY SERIOUSLY DOUBT THAT.”

Aunt Becky: “Dunno, I’m looking it up.”

Aunt Becky: “Got it. http://wormtherapy.com/”

Pashmina: “OH COME ON.”

(time passes)

Pashmina: “Good, GOD. $1200 for a tapeworm?”

Aunt Becky: “dude. WILD.”

———
Meatloaf wrote “I Will Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” about–I shit you not–donuts.

What wouldn’t YOU do? What’s one thing you’d NEVER do?

Also: I freaking LOVE the Internet. Tapeworms, who knew?

**I did end up trying Alli and it didn’t work very well for me.

Last year, I sat on my couch wearing an ass groove into the cushions and going through the motions of the holidays while counting down the moments until it was all done. The only reason that I didn’t stay in bed entirely was because I had small children to care for and, well, they don’t give a shit how miserable and depressed you are, which is kind of the beauty of kids.

It was really out of the norm for me, someone who normally celebrates the magic of the season like a small annoying child, but I was very, very pregnant and on the tail end of a shit year. My friend had died in February, I’d suffered two miscarriages in April and May and while I’d gotten pregnant again in June, it seemed sort of uncertain for awhile.

August through October brought about The Daver’s Nervous Breakdown where he could barely get out of bed, which left me wondering how the hell I was going to support our family without selling pictures of my pregnant self for cash. By December, I was just done. I felt like a heaping pile of dog ass that peed herself when she moved, and really, there was no Christmas spirit to be had by me. I’d weep onto the top of Alex’s head as I rocked him to sleep at night, while my daughter kicked him from within and I’d wonder what I was going to do.

Obviously, January didn’t bring much better news. My daughter was born so sick and even after her surgery, things were so scary for so long. It took me so long to recover from all of that.

What’s shocking to me as I read back through the archives is that there’s not a whole lot of mention of this. Likely, I didn’t know quite what TO say, so I simply said nothing. Because I had no real concrete reasons to focus on and work through to be able to say “Hey Internet RIGHT THERE is why I’m so miserable” I just said nothing.

The skies didn’t really start to clear up for me until a couple of months ago when the PPD and the PTSD and all of those other fancy acronyms began to fade somewhat and in their place I realized what I had to do.

In all of these years, I’ve raised my crotch parasites and pushed them from my nether regions and paced and rocked and bounced and swaddled. And I’ve Wifed, by pushing Dave to succeed at a job that really, he does love and encouraged and listened and pretended to understand when he spoke in what may have been ancient Finnish and keeping the house running and organized and somewhat clean.

But what I’ve neglected all of this time was me.

Your Aunt Becky has been missing from this equation and this life. In all of the time that I’ve been Becky, Wifey of The Daver and Moooooommmmmyyyy of Benner, Alex (not Alexander–his declaration, not mine) and Mimi, Your Aunt Becky has been sorely neglected.

When I realized what I was going to do with the rest of my life–freelance, for those of you not playing along at home–or at least until I decide to actually inhabit my new house and become Lady of the House (Princess Grace Of Monaco) it was like I was finally seeing things as they are for the first time in years. I can be all of those things to my family and Your Aunt Becky too.

So this year, while my house is only haphazardly decorated for the holidays, it’s for a very different reason. I’m busily throwing myself into doing something for myself. Like my homie Pashmina has suggested, 2010 is going to be the year of ME (although, I think she means that it’s going to be the year of HER, because if she was taking a whole year to celebrate ME, well, I think that would be so awesome that I don’t even know how I would handle that. HEY PASHMINA, CELEBRATE ME! And, uh, BUY ME STUFF.).

2010 is going to be the year Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back. And hopefully, her fucking figure too.

I’m not sure how I’m going to keep you guys informed of what other projects I’m doing without ramming it down your throats, so any suggestions are appreciated. Maybe links at the bottom of posts like I do with my Toy With Me columns?

In that vein, I’ve started this: my boring professional website. It’s not done. OBVIOUSLY. It’s lopsided, but the picture plug-in is busted and I need The Daver to fix it. I’ve got some other things that I’m getting started on, but so far, nothing that I’m actually able to be all LOOKIT INTERNET, SEE WHAT I DID?

And come January, I’m going to incorporate and form a small company that will likely generate about $1 in income all year long. But because I need to keep my dollar separate from DAVE’S dollars, I need a company. Which means that I need a name. For a company. I’ll probably GO BY “Mommy Wants Vodka” but on the paperwork, I need something more professional.

All I’ve got so far is “Vodka Bandits.”

Halp me.

Also, how do YOU keep your groove, The Internet?

This week, in the vein of If You Can’t Be Awesome, It Pays To Know People Who Are, I am giving away a copy of my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s book, It’s Not Me, It’s You. I met Stef through her blog, Baby on Bored, which, if you’re not reading, you’re probably a serial killer, so go and read her. She sent me a copy right after I had Mimi and I stayed up all night one night reading it, which, if you have a newborn, you know is as smart as jabbing yourself in the eye with a dull pencil.

And YOU can win this book, o! Internet my Internet, very easily. This is what you need to do. Click on this link here (or the widget on my sidebar) and join my group Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Prankster’s at Savvy Source. You can even log in through your Facebook ID (also, if you want to be friends through Facebook, my name is Becky Sherrick Harks).

Then come back here and tell me you did so so I can easily count comments and let random number generator pick out a number on December 16.

The way it was explained to me, it’s going to be kind of like a big chat room where we can talk about stuff-n-things and braid each others hair and eat virtual pizza and drink virtual vodka. I think it’ll be a lot of fun, although I’m kind of nervous because WHAT IF I’M DOING IT WRONG? I’m not an early internet adopter, so if I’m all a/s/l? to you, please, forgive me.

Unless you’re into that stuff, of course.

Okay, I have officially died and gone to Blog Heaven. Why? I am on SLATE.COM today. No, I am. REALLY. It’s ME.

Since is it Thanksgiving week and you should really be cooking me stuff, I am dusting off the ONLY food post I’ve done, if you don’t want to visit my other, racier *ahem* faking orgasms *ahem* over at Toy With Me.

But, The Internet, I’m thinking next week may bring you Aunt Becky As The Pioneer Woman, Part B. Because this was probably my favorite post to write.

*claps hands*

This is a dish best served for your relatives that you totally hate and want to never come back. Because, obviously.

———————

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go here for a visit, then come back. It’ll make more sense that way.

Hm…It’s lunch time. What shall I cook?

Wow, those cookbooks are shiny and new looking! That must be painfully obvious that I do not cook. Unless one calls “shamelessly ordering take-out” cooking. Which, probably not.

WHY WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHIIILLLDREN?!?

*wrings hands dramatically for several minutes*

Man, being sanctimonious makes me hungry.

Wait, now THAT looks like a book I would like! Retro lady, the word “secret” in the title, and I’m pretty sure no foodies would masturbate onto it.

Phew! I can make lunch after all.

Let’s see…

Hm…

Well.

Now.

Not really quite what I had in mind. I left my bitter pants upstairs, and while I like cookies, I’m pretty sure this won’t be too tasty.

Well, hel-lo lover…

Hooray! Even *I* can use the microwave! And look at the whimsical packaging! I can’t go wrong here.

Okay, dude, Pad Thai box, I sort of hate taking direction. Remember the whole “nursing school” fiasco?

Yeah, me too.

But lookit all the cute individually wrapped packages! How wee!

I can artfully arrange them JUST LIKE BEN! He’d be so proud of my technique! I should show him. Oh…right.

*sighs*

Man, Day 1 of school and I already miss him.

Posing the water next to my orchid is very artsy. Maybe I could be…a photo blogger.

(shut UP)

And that’s ABOUT a cup. Close enough for me.

5! More! Flavors!

I might actually eat lunch properly again! O! Thank you, box of prepackaged Thai food!

Add the bag of noodles.

Wait. Um. That sauce looks semi-unappetizing.

But wait! Look! Whimsical packaging!!!

What was I saying again? I totally forgot.

Look at me all using the microwave like a big kid. Daver is going to be SO PROUD of me.

*hums Jeopardy song loudly*

Aww, yeah! END. I know what THAT means!

Uh. Well.

YUM?

Maybe this is what will make my lunch more delicious: one more microwaved minute.

Aww YEAH.

And just like that, I have noodles glued together with an unidentifiable sauce! I should TOTALLY WRITE A COOKBOOK. That’s EXACTLY what I should do! WRITE COOKBOOKS!

Uh, MOM? Hi. Are you a total idiot?

The God Britney postured that there were two types of people in the world:

1) the ones that entertained

and

2) the ones that observed

but I’m adding another one.

What about those who are not clever enough to come up with their own costume for Halloween so that they’re merely forced to turn into someone else? Because I am not.

I’ll never be smart enough to put a bunch of pictures of Dick Cheney in a box so that I can be “Dicks in a Box.”

You won’t catch me dressing as a giant tampon or a smurf or an olive or any of the awesome things that you guys had dressed up as for Halloween in years past.

Instead, you’ll catch me painting on bruises and black-eyes, drinking can after can of PBR teasing my hair into a huge cloud and beating a doll (a stand-in for a child), ass cheeks hanging out of short-shorts, going as white trash.

(I am very classy)

The year I was pregnant with Alex, I wanted to get a pink wig and go as Britney and Kevin, but Dave wouldn’t play along. Party pooper.

But this year, I decided to do something different, and as reward for voting for me for this: