Hey, The Internet, did you hear? There’s this flu out there called the Swine Flu. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it. Also, there’s this website where you can upload pictures of cats and write hilarious (and not AT ALL ANNOYING) captions like “I CAN HAZ CHEEZBURGER.”

AWESOME.

and

ANYWAY.

I figured you could thank me later for letting you know about these two things that managed to fly under the radar.

Because LORD KNOWS, every time you turn on the television, they’re not doing another FEAR MONGER SECTION about the Swine Flu and how it killed yet another innocent family of 41 who was just casually minding their own business, not showing any symptoms (certainly their T-cell count was off the charts normal and not, you know, 1).

Or maybe how of the 6 billion people in the world, The Swine Flu has somehow infected 6 billion and ONE people because it is just THAT wily and awful.

Trust me, it’s not that I don’t take it seriously, because I do. I’m just tired of the media whipping the public up into a fucking frenzy about it. The flu happens every year and every year some people die from it and it sucks every year, but do you have to scare people into going to the ER in droves for a cold? I feel sorry for anyone in heath care right now.

Maybe the media should go back to stringing up people Mothers who Drink (FOR SHAME)(THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!) and burning them at the stake.

We had an outbreak here. A substantial one, truthfully. The high school was shut down for a week when 1,000 kids called in sick, and, well, now Casa de la Sausage has it too. Mostly, Your Aunt Becky has it. My kids seem to have developed minor symptoms while I am, apparently, dying.

So I tested the theory that the Swine Flu was universally scary by telling my children that I probably had it. This is what happened.

“Hey, Amelia, I have the Swine Flu. OOOOOOOH!” (pantomimes scary faces until overtaken by coughing fit)

Amelia’s response: “Amamamamamamama” (laughter) (gnaws on my leg)

Then I interviewed Alex:

“Hey Alex, I have the Swine Flu.”

Alex’s response: “OH NO MOMMY. THE STARS, MOON AND EARTH IS STUCK!” (falls on ground dramatically) “HELP ME FIX IT!”

Hoping that someone might care about my very important sickness, I interviewed Ben next.

“Hey Ben, I have the Swine Flu.”

Ben’s Response, “You should have washed your hands.”

Touche.

Lastly I informed The Daver.

“Hey, The Daver, I think I have The Swine Flu.”

The Daver’s response, “Well, SHIT, that means I can’t go into work and I have to work from home FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK.” (paces around the room nervously)

Aunt Becky, picturing the prospect of being home with The Daver, pacing the halls and chewing loudly ALL WEEK LONG: “I’m OKAY I’M OKAY.” (tries to get up and faints)

It seems as though no one in my family is altogether impressed by the flu. I’m certainly not, although the amount that I’m sleeping could put my high school self to shame.

And what’s keeping me giggling is the mental picture of some guy walking up and down my street ringing a bell and yelling “BRING OUT YOUR SWINE.”

The fever, she rages mightily.

—————–

Strap on a mask, kiddos, grab a bottle of vodka and come and tell Aunt Becky a story as she battles the mighty flu virus.

What is going on with YOU? Oh yeah, I’m talking to YOU!

What do you do if you have an annoying friend who lacks all originality and copies the shit you do while all the while trying to pretend she’s totally authentic? Buys the same stuff (clothes, accessories), tries to dress her kid like yours, and let’s not start on the blog…

*sighs*

So first off, let me say that I’m sorry and that it’s annoying and that while people will tell you to be flattered, I’ve never once been flattered. Mostly I’ve wanted to make sure that my brain matter didn’t pop out through my eyeballs because I was so mad. I loathe being copied nearly as much as I loathe pretentious American people who add a “u” in words like “favourite”.

(you get a pass if you’re European, Canadian or were raised that way. Because, obviously.)

Just like, I’m sure, you do.

It’s the highest form of flattery, MY ASS. Maybe when you’re 8 or something, but not when you’re an adult. But it happens.

Here’s the rub though, my love. You can’t go swinging around, accusing people of ripping off your ideas, your catch phrases, your awful awesome sense of style without looking like a complete jackass.

There’s just no polite way to say “STOP COPYING ME” without sounding like you’re either so full of yourself that you need an extra chair for your ego or like you’re 12 and decorating your Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with heart stickers.

If it bothers you as much as it bothers me, I’d delete, delete, delete and get as far away as you can. Or I’d ignore her blatant rip-off and hope like hell that people see that she’s obviously the copy-cat.

Frankly, I don’t think I could be the bigger person here because I am highly immature like that.

You must let me know how you handle it, love.

So, my son has this doctor that people from all over the world come to see for a very specific problem. He has a great team of researchers, nurses, nurse practitioners, and office personnel. He, on the other hand, while as brilliant and smart as anyone I’ve ever met, has the bedside manner of Dr House, perhaps worse. We have to keep him. He’s hard to get, and knows what he’s doing. But for the love of all things good, how on earth can I handle this man’s attitude?

Ah, Dr. Asshole. My favorite.

Obviously, you can’t break up with him and that sucks. Any way that you can sneak in a Xanax for yourself to take before you have to see him? I know Mimi’s neurosurgeon was brilliant but was abrupt and made me want to kill myself, so I always went in medicated. I was also in crisis mode, so I didn’t feel a thing anyway and sat there hysterical anyway.

If that isn’t an answer, I’d arm yourself with a notepad and pen and write down whatever questions that you have to ask him and try to focus on the notepad in front of you. That’s how they teach smokers to get through a craving, to focus on one small thing in front of them, and it works.

I’d try and distance myself PERSONALLY from his attitude as much as I could–because I assure you that he’s not being kept up at night wondering how to deal with YOU–and remind myself through clenched teeth that he was a cocky motherfucker, but that he was a cocky motherfucker who got the job DONE.

What should you do if you keep thinking of your ex – in a good way? Not a terrible break up, divorced because of needing to be in different places at once. It’s been 10 years, and haven’t spoken to him again. He still lives where he originally moved to, and I still live where I wouldn’t move from. (and never the twain shall meet)

I just think about him more than normal I guess. Wonder what things would have been like. How dangerous is this thinking? And, do you think he is thinking of me? :o)

Oh Gentle Reader, Your Aunt Becky SUCKS in matters of the heart, but for your heart, I will make a stab at answering this very honest question to the best of my ability. I’m sure my much more qualified readers will be able to help wherever I leave you hanging.

I think that some people leave a mark on us that’s ingrained into our psyche deeper than we can ever erase, no matter how much time or distance we can put between us. I don’t mean that we all have some unrequited love out there, just waiting to have some crazy Hollywood ending, but just that some people leave a bigger impression on us–for some reason–than others.

In times of weakness, or happiness, or sorrow, or any sort of strong changing emotions, we draw back to those people, consciously or no and think about them and the what-might-have-been’s. Sometimes, these are just nice daydreams and fantasies and other times they can send you to places you probably shouldn’t go.

It’s up to you to figure out which this is.

I’m sure your ex husband thinks of you, probably fondly sometimes, maybe not so much others (your split certainly sounded amicable, which deserves a round of applause from me)(*applauds you*) but you need to remember that you got divorced for a reason.

Elizabeth Taylor married Richard Burton twice and divorced him, well, twice.

Perhaps you’re just thinking fondly back to that time in your life and remember how wonderful things were back then.

If I were you, I’d take a step back and try and figure out where these emotions are coming from. I wish you the best of luck, my friend. I’m sure my readers will have excellent advice for you wherever I screwed up.

So, readers, HALP ME.

And, as always, click the Ask Aunt Becky link on my sidebar to submit a question for my crappy noteworthy amazing should be banned from the internet advice column.

In addition to having Ask Aunt Becky Sundays (which, HOORAY! I’m getting a ton of questions I can actually answer!), I have a column every Tuesday here, at Toy With Me. My first column is up and I could use, well, some love.

HOWEVER.

It’s absolutely the raunchier side of me, so if you have any problems with hearing about my crotch or The Sex, it’s probably not for you. This includes anyone that may be related to me. I’m not like, BANNING you, but you know. Crotch talk isn’t for everyone.

And check it out! I got nominated and stuff for this award! If you’d like to vote for me, I’d be thrilled. If you don’t, well, I’m still thrilled. Thank you all for voting for me on the other awards, you know, the ones on my sidebar and stuff. I’m kind of ashamed to be asking for votes. Seriously.

Um. Anyway.

Moving on…

Also? You wanted fake flower shots?(why does that sound so dirty?) YOU GOT ‘EM.

How are YOU today?

Dear My Husband Doctor House,

I *can* call you Greg, can’t I? I mean, because it’s your name and all and because we’re married. Wasn’t our wedding day special? I’ll never forget how your mom cried when we said our vows, and how the light caught your eyes justso and they looked as blue as the Caribbean Sea. And that dress that I wore, how we laughed when the cake got smashed on my train, my elaborate, diamond-encrusted 40 foot train sewn with the tears of Bonsai Kitties.

It was the happiest day of your life.

Being married was the happiest you’ve been: we shared a love of Vicodin cuddly kitties and playing air guitar, of blues music and being cranky assbags, and the satisfaction of always being right. Hell, we’re both snarky windbags. It was a marriage made in heaven hell New Jersey.

I followed you through all of your stupid fellows and obvious attempts at emulating reality television–which, I frequently moaned, was kind of stupid. The cases got pretty annoying, especially when Cut-Throat Bitch was front and center. I hates me some Amber.

Shit, I even supported your co-dependent relationship with James Wilson (whom I find ridiculously attractive, but since I am your wife and he is your BFF, that makes it all pretty awkward)(let’s forget that I said this)(seriously, DROP IT) and your mousy coworker who was obviously in love with you.

But I’ve finally hit my breaking point with you. It’s not your addiction to narcotics rainbows and sparkly unicorns or your overall unpleasantness, no.

I CAUGHT YOU HAVING THE SEX WITH ANOTHER WOMAN ON TELEVISION. How DARE you come home to my television after you had sex with that lady with the fantastic rack? How COULD you flaunt that in front of THE WHOLE WORLD? YOU DIRTY BIRDIE!

How dare you act like you’re not married to some anonymous Midwestern blogger who is no longer anonymous but linked inexplicably in all sorts of places to the lady who drank a fifth of Absolut and killed all of those people? Because. OBVIOUSLY. The same thing.

(don’t compare poor taste with drinking a fifth and driving kids to their death)

So I wept to The Daver–sorry about not telling you that I was already married–and he tried to tell me that you weren’t a REAL PERSON. I screamed at him, yelled that our love, OUR LOVE was REAL and that NOTHING he could say could convince me otherwise.

Until he pulled up Wikipedia.

There you were, Greg House, THERE YOU WERE. Turns out that your name? NOT DOCTOR HOUSE. Your name is a ridiculously English one: Hugh Laurie. I could scarcely believe my own puckered eyeballs! I pulled up a Youtube Video to be sure.

And there you were again! Only this time, instead of sounding like a surly American tortured genius doctor, you sounded like you had a mouthful of marbles! And you were making jokes that simply WEREN’T funny and yet an entire studio of wily Brits were laughing like you were making actual jokes! My brain sort of melted because THEY WEREN’T FUNNY.

So I guess this means we’re over, Doctor House Hugh Laurie Vincent D’Onofrio whatever your name REALLY is. Because while I can overlook the 3 children with another lady–HEY, don’t you DARE point out my glaring hypocrisy! There are people in this world without legs and you shouldn’t…oh look! A blue car! Oh HAPPY DAY!

So good riddance, my third husband from television. I’m sure this fall line up will bring me a new husband, a new LESS OLD BALLS new husband.

Love

Sincerely

I Hate You You Philandering Misogynist

Your Bitch Ass Best Be Leaving Me My Vicodin

Your Former Wife,

Aunt Becky

P.S. Watch out, Cast of Glee. Momma’s HUSBAND-hunting.

Okay, so the title is a complete lie. Sure, I do have a Facebook account and yes, I’m probably friends with you on there, because if I already pour my heart and soul out (stop laughing)(no, I mean it) on my blog, why the hell can’t you see the meaningless bullshit I post on Facebook?

(answer, as always, is: because, obviously)

(and I will absolutely friend you)

(unless you hate me)

(or maybe even if you do)

Because I rode a dinosaur to school back when I was a wee lass, I had a Myspace account well before I had a Facebook account and before that, because I think I even had a Friendster account. But then Myspace got all blinky and annoying and so I stopped going on there because it took my computer 4 hours to load your stupid ass profile.

Eventually, I succumbed to The Facebook empire and got myself an account. People were ALWAYS (read: maybe once or twice) telling me how CRAZY COOL Facebook was and how many AWESOME people they’d reconnected with there. I logged on, signed up, and promptly refriended all my friends who’d similarly abandoned Myspace for less blinky pastures.

And then….

…..

….

….

Nothing whatsoever happened.

A year or so after the fact, I can appreciate that it does connect me with some of my blog friends, there hasn’t been a single soul from Back In The Day that I’ve found through there that has blown me away.

I’ve often bemoaned that I can’t stalk my exes through Facebook so that I can feel smugly superior towards them because everyone freaking ELSE has some “this was my first grade boyfriend,” “this was the first person I got drunk with when I was nine,” story to rub in my pathetic face. It appears the only ex with whom I am to have contact is my least favorite: Nat.

Dave is one of the frequent gloaters I put up with on a semi-regular basis. He’s always reconnecting with someone or another: exes, family maybe, old friends, old not-so-friends (because we all know that we’re judged on the amount of friends we have on Facebook and Twitter), and whatever. Maybe a prostitute or two.

I don’t really keep track. He’ll occasionally pull up a profile to show me someone’s kids or whatever, and I look, tell him the kid is cute, and then go about my day. It’s never dawned on me that Facebook could be seen as a den of intrigue and tomfoolery.

(why yes, yes I WAS looking to use tomfoolery in a sentence! Next up, I’m looking at YOU caterwauling or cacophony)

But apparently, there was even an ARTICLE on The Internet, which has to be true, because it’s online, that made mention of Facebook being kind of bad for marriages. According to the article, people are rekindling old romances through Facebook, while fitting in endless games of Bejeweled and/or Which Vampire Are You? Quizzes.

(my result: An Asshole)

For someone whose relationships prior to meeting The Daver ended after my boyfriend decided to use another vagina as a tea cozy, I’m shockingly trusting.

I’ve never read his email, I’ve never gone through the recently dialed calls on his phone, I’ve never considered logging onto his facebook account, and I have no plans to. To me? It just seems really boring. And he’s honest enough that if he is having cyber sex with someone (or whatever crimes against marriage these people commit), he’d probably tell me whether or not I cared to know.

And likewise. I’m not positive, but I do leave my email open 99% of my time and my phone around the house, and I’ve never caught Daver going through it. Probably because, like his, it’s very, VERY boring to anyone else. Plus, I firmly believe that he deserves privacy just as I do. Everyone should have small secrets, right?

(I will mention here that I absolutely CANNOT stand when someone stands behind me while I’m on the computer no matter if I’m surfing old lady porn or writing a blog post or checking Twitter. I’d be fine if you looked at it WITHOUT me there, but for some reason the hovering just drives me nuts)

But reading the article and hearing other people talk about how they guess passwords and check up on their significant others makes me wonder: am I in the minority here? SHOULD I be checking up on The Daver? Am I being naive?

Should I really be stalking him on Facebook?

One of the most frequently asked questions I get, besides “how does The Daver put up with you?” (answer: he’s not home much) and “do you want to increase the size of your manhood?” (answer: yes x 1000! Why even ask?) is this: how do you handle blogging with your real name?

It’s a good, fair question, and that’s the only reason I’ll answer it because I believe that the people who say shit like “there are no stupid questions” have horse shit where their brains should have been.

Back in Aught Four, when every single person on the planet didn’t have a URL, twitter handle, and a Facebook account, and children fucking RESPECTED their elders, dammit, Dave got me into blogging. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s probably so that I stopped talking the paint off the walls in our rental apartment, but he’ll tell you it’s because I’m a good storyteller. I think the answer probably falls somewhere between this, but I don’t know, you be the judge.

And when I started, I was “Ren” and my co-blogger was “Stimpy” but we frequently used our real names in part because the only people who read it were people that knew us in real life. And I thought that all the cloak and daggerness of the whole anonymous thing was kind of silly. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would want to stalk either of us young 20-something girls (Jesus, Pashmina, really? Has it been so long?) and I’m not clever enough to remember a pseudonym.

We dumped the blog and I moved to my new digs here and I saw no reason to bother operating under an assumed name. The only name I could conceive of was “Rachel” and not because I have any sort of feeling good or bad about it, but because if your name is “Rebecca,” people will frequently call you “Rachel.” I don’t know if it’s vice versa, but I’d be willing to bet yes.

I never made any real effort to hide my full name and who I am here. even though if you google my maiden name, you will find a very fancy lady (who is not me) dominates it, and my married name? I alone have it, so I don’t have the cloak of anonymity on my side and I have to own each of the words I put out there. Besides, there’s no REAL anonymity available, shockingly, just a false sense of security.

I like blogging in the open, most of the time. It keeps me honest, it makes me genuinely think before I hit the keys and say something nasty or foul and it quells my inner urge to gossip like a little bitch. I’d rather not wake up one morning to a string of nasty-grams in my inbox or my voicemail (ha! Like I check my voicemail or something.) because someone found out that I’d told The Internet that they have a fetish for sticking their fingers up puckered cat poo holes.

You’d be shocked to know that I cannot tell a lie to save myself and I think that the stress of simply having something up there that was Full of Mean would eat me up inside. I’m guilty until proven innocent on my best days, and on my worst, well, I’ve pretty much ruined the world AND killed Kenny. It’s easiest for everyone I know to have access to my blog, the good, the bad and the ugly.

But that doesn’t mean I always like it.

There have been times–MANY times–where I have wanted nothing more than to sit down here at my computer and peck out a rant-like post about Nat, Ben’s “father,” or my strained relationship with my mother and how it proves that I do, in fact have feelings. I’ve wanted nothing more than to lay it out on the line when Daver and I have a brawl and I just want The Internet to cheer me on and tell me, “You fucking rule and he fucking sucks.”

But most of the time, I don’t.

Not to say that I don’t write ’em, edit them mercilessly and then decide that it’s probably better to keep that to myself, because I have and I probably always will. Blogging is good therapy and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper. Now and again I might publish one, let you guys tell me what you think before I click the “MAKE PRIVATE” button. I’d publish them on the anonymous sites if I felt I needed to, but I probably never will because you know what? I don’t want THEIR readers, I want MINE and I can’t exactly direct my blog there. Kinda might defeat the purpose a wee bit, eh?

I guess it all boils down to this: “Don’t put anything on the Internet that you wouldn’t wear on a shirt.”

(You probably can’t believe it that I would own just about everything I’ve said here, but if you met me, maybe you would. I censor myself too, don’t you worry, because not everything that happens needs to be recorded for posterity.)

I haven’t decided if my approach is best, because, let’s face it, anyone who Knows Best and will tell you so is probably so full of hot air and self-righteousness that you’d not care whatever it was that they DID tell you was right. There are drawbacks to being out there like I am, even if my audience is composed primarily of Spam Bots offering me deeply discounted V!agra.

They just don’t outweigh the benefits.

————-

What about you, dear sweet Internet? Grab a mug of vodka, pull up a chair and tell Your Aunt Becky what you think. Why do you blog the way you do? Or if you don’t blog (GASP!!!), which would you choose?

You cannot tell me that no one maybe suggested to them that this might not be the graphic they…wanted to use.

———

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve found lately?

You know what I hate MORE than John Mayer’s douchiness* and mayonnaise combined? I know, what could top that?

What tops that is feeling like I walked into the middle of something I don’t quite understand. It’s probably what keeps me away from most TV series, which if my mother was correct and television truly DOES rot your brain, means that my grey matter is relatively unscathed. Well, what hasn’t been addled by illicit drug use and/or The Drink, I mean.

So please allow me to introduce myself, I’m (not) a (wo)man of wealth and fame. My name is Becky Sherrick Harks, and yes that is my real name and no I probably don’t talk about you, and yes it’s likely that most people I know read this blog and no that doesn’t squigg me out too much. But you can call me Aunt Becky.

No, no, relax, I’m not REALLY your aunt. If I was, you’d probably have at least gotten a coffee stained Christmas card from me or heard some story about how this one time That Aunt Becky did something really stupid and man, let’s make sure to hide the china when she comes over, because she has Those Shifty Eyes. So we’re not really related. Except on The Internet. The assumed familiarity of such a nickname never fails to crack me up, because I normally find that kind of faux closeness sort of irritating.

But this is The Internet, and we’re all friends here.

(don’t tell me otherwise. Because THINK OF THE CHILDREN PEOPLE. *wrings hands nervously*)

This is my blog.

I started blogging back in Aught Four over at another blog, sort of an anti-blog, blog, back when I didn’t realize that you could have a blog and somehow not be lame at the suggestion of my then-boyfriend now-husband The Daver. Apparently he got tired of me flapping my flippity-flap jaw at him and decided that plugging me into a computer was a wiser idea. I’m still not sure on that one, but I’m imagining that Daver’s ears are all high-fiving him for nice call, bro.

I started Mommy Wants Vodka sometime in Aught Seven after my second son was born and all my childless friends started blocking my calls. I guess there’s something really fucking boring about having to listen to someone endlessly whine about having a ridiculously crabby, clingy baby when you’re out clubbing and having hot sex on kitchen tables with random people. Somehow diaper rash and spit up doesn’t compare.

Sometimes I blog about my kids. Benjamin, who is staring down the nose of Eight (which, I should mention, is a much better time than Seven), the clone of The Daver, aside from that pesky biological aspect of it. But what’s biology got to do with it anyway? (this is a rhetorical question, people) He’s on the autistic spectrum, but who isn’t? (apparently this paragraph is all about rhetorical questions)

Alexander is my two-year old and requisite Momma’s Boy. Most days I think he’d happily crawl back into my uterus for the foreseeable future, not because he’s shy or anything, but because he loves me THAT MUCH. He’s loud and abrasive, obnoxious and charming, kind of like me.

Our last crotch parasite is Amelia, who was born in January of Aught Niner. She’s had a string of health-related issues stemming from a neural tube defect called an encephalocele. The really abridged version is that part of her skull was badly formed–stupid skull–and some of, well, I don’t know how to say it without freaking you out, but here goes: part of her brain developed out there. This is not, as you may imagine, a particularly good thing.

All’s well though, or as well as it can be for now, after corrective surgery and her development is being followed by so many government agencies that next year when I have to renew my driver’s license, I’m pretty sure the DMV clerk is going to take a look at my last name and say, “OH! You’re AMELIA’S mother. We know ALL ABOUT HER.” But it will sound less creepy and lecherous when they say it. Our fingers are crossed that she continues down The Normal Path, and so far, so good.

The Daver, as previously mentioned, is the husband I didn’t know I would be lucky enough to have is one of the few people who can tolerate me for long periods of time. Which is probably a good thing, since I happily remind him now and again as I point at his wedding band, “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

I’m only half kidding.

He blogs too, or he SAYS he does, but we all know that is a lie, but now and again I convince him to guest-post for me here and he says the same thing I always do. He tells me that I have the nicest audience ever. Which is totally true. I do.

As for me, I was born in 1980, July 15, to be exact (the day after Bastille Day), which makes me a Cancer and according to my astrological dohickey, I should probably be more sensitive. Like by nature or something. But sensitive is something I’m pretty sure no one has ever described me as unless they’re being completely sarcastic, and that’s just fine by me.

I’m a retired nurse, which sounds awfully shady when you work out the details and realize that that makes me retired by age 26, but it turns out for all my overachieving student ways, you can’t fake being a nurse. I’d gotten my bachelor’s in nursing in 2005, the profession chosen for the ability to net paychecks–upon graduation–that netted me did not read so-and-so measly dollars. I’d been a single parent when I walked into the program, and I walked out 2 months short of my wedding day and as my cards fell, it turned out that my happiness was worth more to Daver and I than my paychecks.

If you can believe it (and I can’t really believe it myself), I have netted myself a set of agents and put together a book proposal that’s currently sitting on the desks of some major publishing houses. Don’t be too jealous, though, my chance of getting published–unless a publishing house is exercising some excruciatingly bad judgement–is about three tenths of a percent. I only mention it here because occasionally I do reference it, and, well, who the hell would have thought that I was a writer?

(answer: not me)

My life has pretty much not gone at all the way that I expected it to, and while you could read that statement as: “Oh my GOD, she’s whining about her life when there are people in the world without FEET” it’s not the way I mean it. It’s just that everywhere I thought I’d be is nowhere where I actually wound up.

It’s a good thing, I think. Never thought my life would be so un-glamorous, always figured that I would travel to third world countries** while curing ingrown toenails and cancer, but I’m okay with that. Less chance for ebola here. I like to think.

I typically yammer out a post a day here, because it’s nearly impossible for me to get back into writing once I’ve taken a break. Whether what I say is good or not is debatable, but it’s my blog and I’ll post stupid pointless drivel if I want to. And just so you know, I really meant the whole kumbaya I heart the blogging community. I do try and catch up with anyone who catches up with me because I am married to a geek, I have a twitter account, a facebook account***, 47 email addresses (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com) and a nifty comment box.

If you want me, you got me.

I’m happy with what I do, I write, I raise kids, I sleep when I’m able, and usually have more heaped on my plate than I can ever possibly accomplish. It’s not where I thought I’d be, but then again, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

Now that you’ve met me, Internet, Your Aunt Becky, what about you? Tell me about YOU. Or, alternately, what did I thoughtlessly not answer here that you’re going to lose sleep over if I don’t explain?

*But man, can he play a mean guitar

**A goal of mine always has been and will be (until such time as I am able to realize it, several years down the road) to join Doctor’s Without Borders or, if you want me to sound more cultured Médecins Sans Frontières. Yes I am serious.

***We can totally be BFF! On FB! OMG, IDK!

So, yeah, now, I’m at BlogHer, likely streaking or soiling myself or some combination thereof, and I asked my friend Badass Geek to take over for me. It’s rare I con someone into beg someone have someone agree because I have annoyed them to death to do a guest post for me.

In the same magical vein, I asked The Daver to do another post and he’s all “what about” and I’ll all “I don’t know.” I put the likelihood of him doing it around 27%. Because that is how The Daver rolls.

—

‘What’s this?’ my younger sister asked.

My family and I were settling into our hotel room while on vacation somewhere in Pennsylvania. My older sister was listening to her portable CD player and didn’t hear the question. My dad was out getting ice or something from the vending machine, and my mother was in the bathroom washing up. Being the only one left to pay any attention to her, I looked up see what she was referring to.

She was sitting on the side of the bed, the drawer to the nightstand open. In her hands was a teal-colored foil wrapper. Even from where I sat on the other side of the room, I could see the words ‘Latex’, ‘Spermicidal’, and ‘Ribbed For Pleasure’ printed on it.

Dear Lord, I thought to myself. This is going to be interesting.

‘I think you better ask Mom about that,’ I said evasively.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Hey, Mom?’

‘Yeah?’ she called back from inside the bathroom.

‘I found something in the nightstand, and I’m not sure what it is.’

There was a heavy pause then. As a parent, I imagine that if there is one question you hope never to hear when staying at a cheap hotel, it is this one. The mind races with all the possibilities as to what it could be, and odds are, as you turn to see the object in question, you pray that you remembered to pack that commercial-sized bottle of Purell.

My mother emerged from the bathroom. She locked her eyes on the object in my sisters hand, and her eyes widened. Trying to keep her voice steady, she asked, ‘Where did you get that?’

‘I found it in the nightstand next to the Bible,’ my sister said. ‘What is it?’

Those Gideon’s are kinkier than I imagined them to be. I looked over to my mother to see her mouth opening and closing, at a complete and utter loss for words.

My sister could not have sounded more innocent. ‘It says it’s a latex condom. What’s a condom?’

My mother cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s something that married couples use when’ they don’t want to have a baby.’ She walked briskly over to my sister and snatched it out of her hands.

‘How does it work?’

Oh, God. Please don’t give her the Birds And The Bees talk right here in front of me.

‘Well,’ my mother grasped for words. ‘Why don’t you ask me that when we get home.’ She glanced sideways at me. ‘I’ll tell you all about it then.’

My mother promptly wrapped the unused rubber in a tissue and threw it in the trash. ‘Now, go wash your hands in the bathroom.’

‘Why?’ my sister wanted to know.

‘Just go do it!’ my mother snapped. She looked at me with an expression that seemed to promise injury or death if I said anything about what had just made it’s way into the trashcan. She didn’t have anything to worry about, though. The last thing I want to talk about with my mother in earshot is condoms.

—

I hope you have a good time at BlogHer, Aunt Becky. May there be no condoms in your nightstand.

So, Internet, did you hear? There’s this big ass conference this weekend about blogging (dude. How lame does THAT sound? SHUT UP) and it’s in Chicago and at least 103% of the Internet is going. I won’t dare say it’s name, lest I annoy everyone more than they already are, but let’s just say it rhymes with “FlogHer.”

But I’m going, in fact, because I am Super Becky Overachiever, I am going down to the city on Wednesday night so that I can peel myself out of bed the following morning to go to this Ford-Motor-Car thingy. I’m not really sure what it is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s very James-Bondy and I might be doing death-defying stunts and saving the planet from peril. I’ll be like Jack Bauer, WITH A (floppy) VAGINA.

You’ll be happy to say that “you knew me when.” Hell, maybe you can even raffle off the comments I leave on your blog for big ca$h money! Rock. Music!

Or maybe, just maybe, we’re forming focus groups to discuss What Women Want In A Car, which is not nearly as Double O Aunt Becky as I thought. Like at all. THIS is why I need someone to read the fine print FOR me, since I am obviously not capable of it whatsoever. But whatever, it should be fun as hell. Even if I’m doing the opposite of fighting The Terrorists.

What I cannot believe is that for the first time in 4 years, I am going to go away for 3 nights. 3! whole! nights! without my children. I plan to spend the time either blitzed out and drooling in bed–alone–or running around like a previously caged beast.

[excruciatingly pointless details redacted for boringness]

Let’s just leave this at this: I haven’t been out of the house without my kids for an extended period of time in 3 years. This will change soon either way, because I plan to either get a double stroller and force my wee beasties in it, or become independently wealthy, whichever comes first.

(I figure the wealth will, no doubt, buy me some Wild Baby Handlers)

This means that since I quit my last job as a nurse case manager 3 years ago, I haven’t been required to be in public for any length of time. Sure, I do go out and about, but only for short periods of time, and always with a purpose.

While other people may be afraid of not having anyone to talk to or eating alone or maybe they’re afraid of a gigantic gaggle of women (shit, right?) all in one place, I’m afraid I might soil myself. Or streak. Or soil myself while streaking.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in public, what if I can’t remember not to pick people up and gnaw on their necks while blowing raspberries? Or what if I check to make sure YOU haven’t pooped your pants by popping a finger down your crack and looking for the telltale smudgey pooness? Or worse: what if I just bend down and smell your ass?

WHAT THEN, INTERNET?

What if I have gotten so used to being with small kids that I try to cut up your steak or try and airplane your mashed potatoes into your mouth? What if I nag you to put your cup away and finish your drink?

Maybe I should take some sage advice given to me on Facebook and just roofie the hell out of myself and take to bed for 3 days. Then I couldn’t shame myself in a room full of bloggers who could happily report on my misdeeds for days. Which, wouldn’t you?

I would.

(also: completely unrelated segue leading to pictures of my babies, if listening to an a cappella version of “Don’t Stop Believin'” is wrong, Internet, I don’t want to be right)

Turn off the fucking Journey, Mom. This is child abuse!

Oh, and maybe you want to see who *I* am so that you can properly identify me and run like hell, lest I come over and nom your ears?

(whispered voice-over from guy with indiscriminate European accent: “so, we’ve cornered the Aunt Becky in her natural habitat. Here, let’s ply her with vodka and cupcakes. QUICK, NOW INJECT THE SEDATIVE! WHEW, that was a close one! Wild Aunt Becky’s should be approached with care.”)

Except I’m fatter now. Also: will not be wearing my wedding dress. I am saving it to wear to my BFF Pashmina’s wedding. Because wedding dress = something you wear to a wedding, right?

RIGHT?