Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Aunt Becky Like You’ve Never Heard Her…


While I normally don’t do two posts in one day, I simply had to share with you Part One of the podcast that I did with one of my Internet Besties, Dr. Dick, of Dr. Dick’s Sex Advice. His site, as you might have guessed, isn’t safe for work, but he’s simply outstanding.

If you don’t know him, he’s a sex therapist and a pretty fucking big deal, so you probably SHOULD know him, so just PRETEND you do and we’ll forget that you didn’t and move on.

Our podcast isn’t actually very dirty and you get to hear me read some of my favorite stuff from over at Toy With Me. I was completely nervous to use Skype, because I’m a noob who doesn’t understand technology, and was terrified I’d sound like a jackass when I was recorded, but I think it turned out well. You be the judge.

And if I do sound like an asshole, just go ahead and THINK it. You don’t need to tell me.

You SO should check it out and give Dr. Dick a whirl. He’s like my friend Dear Redhead with a penis. He’s amazing.

The podcast can be found here on his main site and here on his sister site.

Now, I just have to work up the nerve to VLOG.

Breaking. Up.


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 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 Hairscut

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.

If I’m Going To Die On A Motherf*cking Plane, There Better Be Motherf*cking Snakes


The weather in Martina del Ray was predictably bright and sunny yesterday morning as The Daver and I blearily made our way downstairs to have breakfast before we had to leave for the airport. We mocked a couple of locals who were obviously cold and in boots and coats, because, well, we were going back to a place where it was a balmy 16 degrees.

Later, after spending some time in the airport where I hoped to spy even a C or D list celebrity (current tally of celebs seen in LA besides, of course, myself: 0) I squeezed myself into the window seat of the plane. I was slightly relieved to not be next to The Daver because it meant I could be quiet, and noted my seatmate was a 90 pound girl.

*phew* I sighed, as I settled in and strapped on my iPhone, as I happily envisioned a plane-ride where I didn’t have to fly with some mouth-breather all up on top of me.

My relief was short lived as my seatmate fell asleep and stretched her entire frame onto mine. Her legs snaked underneath my seat, her hands kneaded my side and she rested her head on my shoulder. Had I been a horny dude, I probably would have popped wood and smiled blissfully, but no, I was slightly annoyed.

I was kind of in shock that someone so small could manage to take up so much space.

As the plane ride drew to an end, I tried to enjoy my last hours as a free agent, albeit one with an external parasite, but inwardly I cheered as I recognized the lights of Chicago winking in the distance. My stomach flipped excited as the circling of the O’Hare airport began and I mentally checked off the places that we might have some dinner as I researched my column for the following day.

I live for take-off and landing.

As the plane began to descend, I realized this one was Just Bad. I’ve been flying regularly since I was 6 months old and I’ve been through 2-3 Bad Landings and this was setting off all kinds of warning bells. Why? I don’t know. I’m not a fearful flyer.

The plane was shaking wildly and I realized that the wings were covered were ice. They must have iced up when we switched climates and didn’t get de-iced properly. I don’t know. Either way, we were all shaking around like popcorn kernels in the cabin of the plane.

It was clear that something was Very Wrong.

The descent seemed to take forever, and finally, we approached the runway going way too fast. I waited for that comforting gnash of tires on the runway as the tires made contact and I braced myself against the seat in front of me.

It didn’t come.

Next thing I knew, we were going up, up, up again, the plane shaking and shuddering as once again we climbed back up to cruising altitude. The PA system was quiet and the passengers, most of us waiting to taking connecting flights which were now going to have been delayed until the following day, all had banded together the way people do in a crises.

Voices carried, people talked loudly, babies screamed, the skinny foreign chick slept on top of me, and the guy next to her and I looked at each other, scared.

But the PA was silent. Always a Bad Sign because it means it’s serious.

The plane circled and bounced and it was clear that the pilot wasn’t quite in control of the plane and I said a prayer, my thoughts of dinner and my column for SodaHead a distant and frivolous thought of the past. Eventually, the descent began again, and again, we shook and shuddered and afforded a lovely view of the wing, I saw yes, it was ice and the wing and yes, it was really probably serious.

I white-knuckled the hand-rests like that was somehow going to help me in the event that we crashed and tried to focus on anything but staring out the window.

Because really, if you’re gonna die, you might as well enjoy the ride down, right? On my list of Ways To Die: Plane Crash is on my list of ways that wouldn’t be so bad.

But I wanted to see my babies one last time, so I kept on praying and when we touched down, I cried a little.

We got stuck on the tarmac for quite awhile while the plane was de-iced and I swear to you, Chicago never looked so pretty or wonderful or good to me as it did last night, or this morning, or really, ever.

Today, I will count my blessings, count my angels on my shoulder, and know that it must not have been quite my time to go yet. Then I will go pour something in my coffee to quell the shaking and kiss my babies and cry a little bit.

The sun is shining very, very brightly today.

Come Fly The Unfriendly Skies (etc)


Operating on about 3 hours of sleep combined, my husband of 40 hours sat across from me shoe-less, his shirt up around his pasty nipples while another man rubbed him up and down. While an awkward woman rubbed my butt and patted down my vagina, our eyes met. Without attracting any more attention, I mouthed “I’m sorry.” His eyes smiled right before the man grazed his balls with his elbow. Then he wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was all my fault. Honestly.

Later, he expressed, several screwdrivers to the wind, that this was his first experience with being singled out and searched by airport security.

Mouth full of egg and cheese biscuit and several screwdrivers drunk myself, I slurred, “Well, dude, at least they didn’t take you to that back room.” I took a long drag off my drink, “Because that shit is WHACK.” I paused. “And hey, the let me keep one of my lighters.”

The Daver looked less than pleased.

“I’m sorry,” I said, chastised. “It’s all my fault.”

But was it? Was the issue with having a face (presumably) like a terrorist my fault? Certainly I’d been stopped by customs and security more times than I could possibly count, singled out from a crowd each and every time I flew since I was a small child. My father and brother, who turn equally brown skinned in the sun get it also, but not as bad as I do.

I can’t put a toe into an airport without securing a nice frisking and potential strip-search.

While I can easily claim that I *am* an asshole, the moment I hit the airport, I turn into the mentally challenged sister from Hee-Haw. I’m all “Golly Gee,” this and “Jeepers, Mister,” that with a side of “Gee wilikers” thrown in for good measure. You’ll never see a more ridiculously PC, G-rated version of me.

And still. And yet. And how.

I’ve learned to show up to the airport extra EXTRA early. I’ve learned that flip-flops – even in the dead of winter in Chicago – are the footwear of champions, and I know to wear loose baggy pants for easy up and down access.

But this begs the question. Why me? Was I marked as a potential terrorist when I was a baby? Is this on my ever-fucking Permanent Record?

We’re going to California this weekend (*squee!*) and while I’m certain I should probably just go in a thong and pasties, we’ll see how security handles me this time around. I am a married lady now with a new name and MAYBE I have made it off the DO NOT FLY list.

Then again, maybe not.

So, what gives, yo? Are you subjected to such inhumanities when you travel?


Join me over at Toy With Me for Beaver Talk With Aunt Becky where I give Cosmo a piece of my mind. Or, what’s left of it. It’s sure to…well, I’m interested to see what you think.

Over at SodaHead, I wrote about the dating site that just let 5,000 of their chubby members. Yeah. Seriously. Ouch.

Things That I Will Ban When I Rule The World.


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.


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.

Tattoo YOU!


I didn’t get tattoos to rebel against my mother, who hates them with a passion normally reserved for Rush Limbaugh and canned gravy, but I got them because I needed a way to remind myself of the things that are important. Not, as you might imagine, “PANTS FIRST, THEN SHOES,” which might have saved me a ton of hassle and confusion over the years, but more important things*.

Deeper things.

I’ll keep it rather brief, since I think I’ve gone into more painfully boring detail before.


This is my seahorse, and it’s on my foot as you can see by my AWESOME pedicure. I could have cropped out my toes which I did in THIS POST, where I went into more graphic detail about the meaning of this one. Basically, it’s there to remind me that I can function JUST FINE on my own.

My first tattoo is this:


Also captured here (and why I chose this very crappy picture) is my fucking SWEET ASS phone. You wish it was yours, DON’T LIE. Anyway, this one has a really long story behind it and it’s not just because “I like Southwestern Stuff!!”

Pretty much, it’s on my foot to remind me that no matter what happens, I need to be true to myself. I’ve learned this one the hard way over and over again and now, well, it’s a permanent fixture on my person.

Foot tattoos, while they hurt like a mother-fucker are Full of The Awesome because when the need arises, you can simply pop a sock on and tattoos are covered! Insta-respectability! Like real estate it’s all about location, location, location. Plus, it was the one place that I figured wouldn’t get ridiculously fat when I had a baby.

While an excellent THEORY, that was shot to shit as Amelia’s late pregnancy turned my lower body into that of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I’d have laughed, had it not hurt so much to wear shoes in the dead of winter.


I’ve been eyeballing a new tattoo for awhile and by “eyeballing” I mean, languidly saying to myself, “I’m going to get a new tattoo someday” while I poured another diet Coke and forgot to parent my children.

What I thought was so awesome was that two of you rifled through my brain yesterday and guessed what I was going to get: a phoenix. Problem was, any time I googled “phoenix pictures” the results that I got were very distinctly un-Aunt Becky-ish.

Yesterday, I revisited the idea because OBVIOUSLY and imagine my surprise when THIS popped up:


(credit goes to Web Designer Wall, who has BAR NONE, the coolest fucking designs.)

It’s a phoenix. A colorful phoenix being reborn, not out of fire, it appears, but air. And that’s it. It’s what I want. I’ll tone down some of the intricate designs because that’s WAY too big for the space I need it, but that’s what I’m getting.

I figured out where to put it as well. The ball of my shoulder, spreading around to the front and back a bit. It’s a perfect compromise for me, because I can cover it up and let it show. I can’t wait. And by “can’t wait” I mean that I’m alternating between being crapping my pants and jumping around like a damn fool.

Which, I mean, what the hell else is new?

So, tattoos, o! Internet, my Internet! What do you think of them? Oh! And I discuss Christmas Balling over at Toy With Me today! It’s pretty awesome, mainly because I wrote it.

*like there is ANYTHING more important than the placement of pants. Heh.

Satan’s Little Helper (etc)


Tuesday brings me over to Toy With Me, where today I am bringing you the hilarious BEGINNING of my biggest insecurity. Shockingly, it’s not about my ass or jiggly post-baby belly. No, it’s something that was the subject of my SECOND column: my weird fear of my vagina.

While I was going through my archives, cleaning up my shitty grammar and the places where my computer lovingly substituted *#&@^@ for quotation marks, I discovered the birth of my neuroses. Which is actually kind of…well, full of The Awesome. It’s rare that you get to see where it all began.

Do I even have to tell you while I’m VERY proud of how this one turned out because it’s hilarious and bawdy and you need to read it, it’s REALLY not safe for work. Unless you have THAT kind of job, in which case, are they hiring?

So I give you The Vagina Monologues.

Below, you have what ran in Canadian Family’s Blog as my first Guest Post over there. It’s VERY safe for work.

And, as if I don’t ask enough of you, The Daver is asking for your help on his blog. Like actual serious help.


In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t know what he was thinking, but I don’t know what I was thinking either. The gigantic pizza slice costume was one thing, but this, this was something else entirely. But nonetheless, there I was, standing in the middle of the pizza restaurant where I worked, in a Santa costume feeling stupider than I’d ever felt before.

The customers you could tell, were even a little embarrassed for me. I looked like an idiot. But the district manager had gotten the inane idea in his head that for some reason having “Santa’s Helper” in the store for Christmas Eve would somehow bring flocks of customers in for lunch in droves. What he didn’t know could fill volumes. Sort of like the time he taken me aside, just as I’d gotten four new tables who were all waiting for me to get them drinks to whisper conspiratorially, “I think someone is stealing…cheese.”

But I needed the extra money because it was my son’s first Christmas, and as a single mother who was also in school full time, I took every shift that I could lay my grubby hands on. Debasing or not, it was money in my pocket. Shockingly, no one actually wanted to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” I’m not sure if it was the yellowed, fraying beard, or the fact that my pants fell down about every third step that I took, or that I was obviously female, but no one seemed interested. In fact, everyone seemed to avoid me, which was just as well. I used the time to get caught up on my homework. No rest for the wicked.

Finally, just before I was to go home to my son, some family agreed to have their picture taken with “Santa’s Helper.” Perhaps they hadn’t seen me. Maybe they didn’t like their kid very much. Or maybe everyone just had a fantastic sense of humor. Who knows.

All that I do know is that they thrust their tiny baby onto my threadbare lap. And all that the baby knew was that one minute, she was burbling on her mother’s shoulder and the next, she was shoved onto this stinky scary bearded lady in an saggy red Santa Suit. She did the only sensible thing to be done: she opened up her wee baby mouth and she bellowed. She screamed, she cried, and she wailed.

The picture was taken and a phobia of Santa was formed. This poor kid was going to grow up terrified of Santa. Jumping at holiday displays and wondering why the thought of Christmas always made her feel nervous and nauseous, always trying to get out of festive celebrations in favor of sitting in front of the television with her twelve cats and a pint of ice cream.

It would all be my fault.

Satan’s Little Helper.


All right, o! Internet, my Internet, it’s time to bring Your Aunt Becky a bowlful of YOUR stories about Sandy Claws and how he terrified YOU as a child. SO BRING IT.

We Don’t Even Charge Admission To The Freak Show (et. all)


Today is Beaver Talk With Aunt Becky day over at Toy With Me and I’m doing a companion piece to last week’s Girl Crush. The topic? FRENEMIES. I’d love it if you’d weigh in. It’s also shockingly safe for work, because besides rocking a couple of f-bombs, I don’t even think I talk about humping or my vagina at all.

Also: what the hell is WRONG with me?

It’s called “With Enemies Like This, Who Needs Friends?


THEN, I guest posted on my friend Jen’s blog, “Maybe if you Just Relax,” because she is funny as shit and sweet and we have children who are roughly the same age. It’s an old post that I sent her because it’s so full of The Awesome that it needs re-running somewhere else. But, you need to go love on it and her because it’s hilarious.

I never posted the epilogue and I will do it in the comments because I will do anything for you o! Internet, my Internet.


Tomorrow the winner to my Open Your Whore Mouth contest will be announced and THEN! I have a new contest which will be even easier to enter and it’s going to be ridiculously fun.


And lastly, a blast from the past:

Aunt Becky: “Dude, I’m STARVING. I can’t wait to finish buying this car so we can eeeaaaattt.” (rubs stomach dramatically for effect)

Daver: “Me too.”

Aunt Becky (jokingly): “Are you saying I’m fat?”

Daver (rolls eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm) “Yes. You’re a damn beached whale.”

Aunt Becky (laughs): “Ass.”

Car salesman eyeball go back and forth and eventually become as wide as dinner plates.

Car Salesman: “So, heh-heh, how long have you been married?”

Aunt Becky begins to count on fingers as The Daver looks on, amused.

Aunt Becky: “Uhhhh….”

The Daver: “I can’t believe you don’t remember our anniversary.” (sniffs loudly for effect) “Four and a half years. We’ve been married for four and a half years.”

Aunt Becky: “No shit?”

Daver: “No shit.”

Aunt Becky: “It seems like a freaking eternity.”

Daver: “You’d better mean that in a good way…”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, heh-heh, of course, dear.”

Car Salesman looks acutely uncomfortable and makes up an excuse to get up and walk away.

Daver: “We scare people.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehe.”

Victory Tastes Like Bacon. Mmmmm Bacon. (etc)


Way back before we became full of The Sickness, Round Elventy-ninerish (I too am now full of The Sick) I caught what was likely The Dreaded Swine Flu of Ought Niner. I say that not because I was running around the house screaming “BRING OUT YOUR SWINE” and clanging a cowbell because honestly, I was too sick to even moan, let alone come close to anything resembling running.

Well, I was pretty fucking pissed at the pig who gave me The Swine and I decided in a feverish haze that I was going to sue the shit out of the pig on The People’s Court. Of course I told The Internet all about this, because obviously. I was very, very sick. Also, I was very, very stoned on cough syrup.

(did you know that they card you for cough syrup? THEY TOTALLY DO)

Well, Your Aunt Becky has a Best Friend who gave her a hand while she was sick (because she is full of The Awesome and you should hump her leg too).

And guess who won her case!!




*rips off shirt and runs around room knocking stuff over and trying to start a riot in my living room like they do on Jerry Springer before realizing I was alone*

The cat eyeballed me warily and then goes back to sleep after licking her butt, the dog looked annoyed for a second before realizing that I wasn’t going to give him a treat and then resumed his life as a houseplant. The baby and the toddler napped on, oblivious to their ridiculous mother.

Next up, I am TOTALLY giving that pig a paternity test on Maury.


While I wasn’t here, I was off doing other things (I am setting up a professional website like a BIG GIRL too!). It’s making me look way more prolific than I actually am.

First, I went to Divine Caroline and wrote about how I am an old fart this year for Christmas and what’s worse than anything is that it means that I’m turning into my parents. Since it’s the first thing I wrote there, the site is begging you to comment for some reason. Maybe it thinks I’m insecure or something. *shrugs*

Then I traveled up north to Canada to tell the story of when I was Satan’s Little Helper. I cannot believe I never blogged this before. Talk about previously repressed memories.

And lastly, it’s Beaver Talk With Aunt Becky at Toy With Me, where I’m talking about Girl Crushes. Besides my standard foul mouth, I think this is shockingly safe for work.


*Isn’t that the coolest thing you’ve ever seen in your WHOLE LIFE? It’s a REAL signed picture! She didn’t fake it or anything! I have been laughing my ass off ALL DAY LONG. That’s getting framed and going on my wall.

This Ain’t Your Momma’s Pioneer Woman (Redux)


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.



*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…





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.


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.



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



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?

« Older EntriesNewer Entries »
My site was nominated for Best Humor Blog!
My site was nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger!
Back By Popular Demand...