*No, really, how do you do that without sounding a) overly deep? or b) callous? I don’t know quite what line to walk there.

*Because when I was on Twitter tweeting about #yellowballoons and #suicideprevention the rest of the day I was all, “um, can I tweet about anything normal like MY VAGINA ever again?”

*Most people probably wouldn’t call that NORMAL, but then again, most people don’t have the absurd kind of assumed familiarity of calling themselves Aunt Becky on The Internet so really, who is to say what is normal in that instance?

*At least I don’t call myself “Mrs. Justin Beaver” because that would be creepy. He’s like 12 and with the exception of his flippy hair I DO NOT understand the appeal.

*Thank you to all who took the time to tweet, comment, or send love yesterday or today. Unlike most of the causes, suicide and depression are two of the ones that people ACTUALLY can feel the support and effects from the the effort. I got probably 20 messages from people (not spammers!) who had been affected by this and really appreciated people talking about it.

*It solidified even further my feeling that people are almost entirely good.

*My luck with scales, however, is almost entirely bad. Not like you’d imagine, though. Somehow I’ve managed to encounter two SEPARATELY broken scales that registered my weight at….(wait for it)….0.0 pounds.

*I’m pretty sure that makes me VERY skinny and I should probably gorge on donuts.

*Except that filthy scale lies because it also informed me that chubby Amelia weighs 0.0 pounds and according to my back, that is a LYING LIE.

*But 2 broken scales (one brand new!) would give me a complex if the top weight on the newest one wasn’t 400 pounds and I hadn’t recently been to a doctor to determine that I weighed NOWHERE NEAR 400 pounds.

*Do you guys REALLY want me to talk about dieting and the Diabetic Diet any more? I feel like kind of a stooge blogging about dieting, but when I read about OTHER bloggers dieting I get all inspired, so I’m ASKING you if that’s inspiring or interesting or if it makes you want to stab out your eardrums out of boredom.

(I can always make it a separate series of pages at the top, I guess.)

*Tomorrow I’ll have the page up for the votes for the camera contest (today will be the last day to enter).

*Solidifying my desire to move down south, I found an energy drink called “Whoop-Ass.” I require this to live and I cannot find it up here. I could ORDER it from The Internet, but it’s not the same, you see.

*I just want to be able to say, “Imma open up a can of (sugar-free) WHOOP-ASS on you!”

What’s randomly on YOUR mind today, Pranksters?

This post is sort of like a scavenger-hunt on the way to an Easter Egg or whatever it is that those video game nerds always call it when you’re looking for something hidden, you know, like seeing Ariel’s boobs in the Little Mermaid? (tell me that wasn’t hilarious because being an animator for kids movies has to be pretty monotonous sometimes).

Anyway.

It’s not REALLY a scavenger hunt because I’m about to tell you precisely where to go and why you’re going.

I wrote a really hilarious post (if I do say so myself)(and I do)(because I’m narcissistic, DUH) and I had to hide it because at the end of it, I’m giving away a video camera that was given to me by a company. It’s part of the stipulation of my BlogHer Ads contract; I can’t actually give away stuff over a certain dollar value on a page with BlogHer Ads.

So I hid the page since I have no review blog.

But! Lest any of you get all, AUNT BECKY, NO REVIEWS OF SHIT, I’m not reviewing the camera. I didn’t even LOOK at the camera because I didn’t GET the camera because rather than KEEP the camera, I opted to give it away to my Pranksters. OBVIOUSLY.

The page is at the top of my blog under TOP-SECRET!! and I’m giving away a Flip MinoHD to yooouuuu!

But honestly, the post above the contest is just like any other. Not just annoying but stupid, too*.

And if you see anything wrong with the site, please email me at aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. I know that there’s a bug with email address cashing and I do not know why. Probably because of zombies slathered in mayonnaise.

For now, all comments for the contest will have to go onto the bottom of this post or on the page (woo-hoo, FIXED)! Because I will be compiling them into one big post, it’s not going to matter where they go, so don’t worry, Pranksters, ALL IS NOT LOST.

*also my 6 word autobiography.

Back when I had a life that could be documented in things beyond “seasons,” I took ridiculous amounts of pictures of myself doing bizarre things with my friends. I also threw outrageous parties, got drunk a lot and took more pictures of questionable quality. In short, my life was pretty much full of The Awesome.

Only problem was, I managed to somehow throw away the photo album that documented a lot of my more ridiculous times and while I don’t normally care about things, beyond my iPad, iPhone, iMac and Britney Spears Singles collection, I mourned this heavily. I had no digital copy of these exploits and my friends, while full of the awesome, had no copies of these pictures either.

So while I could TELL you that I did hilarious, nefarious things, I could also tell you that I’m really British royalty and then I could try to sell you shit.

Probably the best thing my mom has given me in years was a box of crap that we’d thrown in her basement years ago when we moved. In it was a couple of framed pictures, including one of me looking like I was about to have sex with a cup of Diet Coke (which, I mean, could be taken today), a picture of Ben in diapers, and an old wedding magazine.

At the very bottom, was my photo album: Aunt Becky, The Lost Years!

I nearly cried, except for crying is really lame and pointless, so instead I hid and looked at the pictures and marveled at how fun my life used to be.

Like this trip to Mexico that I took with my friend Jessica. We were both waitresses at the same place, and she was like the little sister I never had. She’d somehow managed to convince me to go onto a Party Bus and this was the Night Before Shot, taken right before I’d somehow found a cabbie to take us home.

See, she was so beyond drunk because she was 18 and thrilled that she could drink as much as she wanted that I couldn’t even count on her to help me find our crappy hotel, so I had to pool our money and find us a cab. Trouble was, I don’t think we had enough money and the cabbie probably put a hex on us because we were so annoying. Actually, I don’t remember getting into our room at all. Hm.

The Night Before.

And this was the Morning After Picture, right before we went down to the pool to start slamming tequila again. Hair of the Dog, baby.

Clearly, we are sexy broads. You know you want us (also: so much for the theory that bloggers only post very flattering pictures of themselves) to come over and drink your booze and then wake up in your bed looking like THAT. HA.

Now I can manage that same look WITHOUT having been wasted the night before. THANK YOU, my children. THANK YOU.

—————–

I share my most humiliating story over at Toy With Me today. It’s a doozy. You’d better come hold my hand, yo.

Because I gain a metric fuck-ton of weight when I’m gestating crotch parasites, I am also stuck removing it once I am done expelling the parasite from my body. Shockingly, the weight doesn’t just “fall off” of all of us. Especially those of us with GLANDULAR PROBLEMS.

*kicks thyroid*

Anyway, so I’m on a diet*. Why? Because I really don’t want to be fat.

One of the things that I had to give up was the delicious sugared syrup in my coffee. It’s not that I couldn’t use it because I COULD, but I’m trying to use less carbs and I know that you can use the stuff with Splenda, but honestly I think Splenda tastes like licking the devil’s butthole (and I am being GENEROUS here) so I just go without.

Until I came up with a BRILLIANT solution!

Extracts! I could use VANILLA fucking EXTRACT! There was nothing not awesome about that solution!

Until the cap got all stuck on and shit and I was denied the delicious vanilla flavor I had grown to love. So then I turned to it’s more delectable cousin: ALMOND extract.

Now, I love an almond latte like it’s my job, so this was an ideal solution for me, except in those rare moments when I’d wonder if I was being poisoned (I have a vivid imagination, y’all) until I remembered that I was in charge of the almond flavor addition to my coffee.

The other day, I was drinking my almond flavored coffee and I noticed that it had a bit of, well, BITE to it. Almost an alcohol flavored bite. It was weird, because I certainly didn’t add any alcohol to my coffee, but there it was. I could taste the booze, just underneath it all.

Hm, I thought to myself. That’s curious.

Then I promptly got distracted by staring at my cat’s butthole (there are SPIES in there, Pranksters!!) and forgot about it.

Yesterday, I finally read the bottle of fancy-pants almond extract. There it was, in bold letters: 35% ALCOHOL. DO NOT LEAVE AROUND CHILDREN.

Turns out that all of this time, I’ve been wondering why the hell I’ve been so fucking TIRED in the mornings, it’s because I’ve been getting sauced by accident. What the fuck kind of fool gets inadvertently drunk off ALMOND EXTRACT?

So I’m off the sauce this morning, and I’m going to guess that coffee will be a hell of a lot more effective in waking my ass up this way.

Also: I will probably have less of a hangover by lunchtime.

*Weight Watchers**

**Yes, it works.

What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done lately (besides read my blog)?

First, I have to say that I love you. Seriously. I love you all hard. Thank you for signing up yesterday. I was beyond touched. I have a post about it, but seriously, you guys made me cry.

SHUT UP.

I still need more help and people to sign up here for the pre-pre-order of my book. Just names and email addresses, really, so that I can dazzle publishers and show that really, I do have people who’d buy my book. But thank you, Pranksters. Thank you. I owe you all a big bottle of vodka and some sloppy wet kisses. If we manage to pull this off, drinks are on me.

——————

I might be a little obsessive, Pranksters.

Okay, stop laughing. Seriously, stop laughing. It’s not funny. Okay, it’s really funny. Because anyone who knows me well knows that the minute that I get an idea in my head, I can’t get it out until it’s done. One look at my orchid collection (which will kick YOUR orchid’s ass) will tell you that.

I’d be an awesome Evil Drug Overlord* if I had any desire to be evil, because I’d stop at nothing until I was, well, full of The Evil and I owned most of the Midwest. But anyway. My desire for evil is about equal to my desire to listen to Michael Bolton albums, which is to say that I don’t really want either. MUCHLY.

My desire for deliciously filled sandwiches with the crusts cut off, though, knows no bounds. You might be thinking, “Now, Aunt Becky, you’re 29 years old. What would you want with a product designed for 6 year olds?”

And that is where I would point out that you’d never had a clearly crack-filled Uncrustables. Which are as close to heaven in a neat, frozen package as I can find, EVEN if they sound like a rare STD**.

Sunday-Sunday-Sunday, rather than watching a monster truck rally, I set out on a mission to find me some Uncrustables. Clear over on the other side of town, I figured I’d simply POP into another grocery store and nab some more.

NOT SO, Little Butterfly. It was not to be. They didn’t have my Peanut Butter Filled treats. I nearly cried. Only the PB and & J filled ones, which, I’m sorry, I don’t think so.

Grimly I drove to grocery store number two, joking with The Daver and the two small kids who weren’t thrilled to be along for the ride that “Heh-heh, Mommy is SO SILLY!” They didn’t look amused. I wasn’t amused when I realized that the second grocery store didn’t CARRY the damn things for the love of sweet baby Jesus. THEN, to soothe my son, I had to drop $12 on a balloon arrangement. Because he’s 2 and balloons and red Solo cups are his obsession and really, I can’t deny him that.

Surely the THIRD grocery store would have my delicious, delicious Uncrustables! Why, I nearly pictured the boxes of neat little sandwiches and I running down the beach together, hand in, well, sandwich, laughing and playing, before I ate them.

My dreams fizzled into an audible pop as I realized the store did, yet again, NOT carry the brand that I wanted no NEEDED. Sadly, dejectedly, I walked back to my mini-van and faced up to my fate: I’d have to go back to Target yet again.

Dave said the words no one should say to someone who is obsessive: “Maybe they discontinued the plain peanut butter ones.” He might as well have said, “Maybe you should stop breathing for awhile.” I cried a little.

Once the kiddies were firmly ensconced in their wee beds, I took the first opportunity I could to run out to Target. And, as the lot of you told me that Target is also YOUR boyfriend, I should warn you to get tested for VD. We don’t use protection.

I nearly ran to the frozen food aisle, pushing aside little old ladies and strollered children, and finally, finally, it was like the light of heavens opened up and shone upon me. There they were: my savory morsels of peanut buttery-goodness.

All.for.me.

Before anyone in the vacant aisle could rush up and elbow me out of the way, I quickly shoved them all in my cart and furiously ran to the front of the store to check out. I dared anyone to look sideways at the 8 boxes of Uncrustables in my cart because I would have run them down without hesitation.

If the checkout girl was surprised to see a grown woman with a cart full of children’s food, she said nothing. I half-expected a manager to come by and try and stop me from buying them out of plain Uncrustables, but no, nothing like that happened. I happily walked out of Target with my bag of loot, grinning vacantly like the simpleton that I am.

And they were worth it. Every single bite.

*Heh-Heh. I am TOTALLY kidding, Mr. (OR Mrs.) DEA Agent. Drugs are for LOSERS. The DARE Program taught me WELL.

**By that sentence alone, you should know, Mrs (or Mr.) FTC Agent, that I was not paid to say this.

———————-

I am over at Toy With Me talking about things people stick up their, uh, YOU KNOW. Yeah, I know, it’s weird and awkward. But I actually SAW this stuff as a nurse! It’s REALLY not safe for work.

———————

The second half of my podcast with the fabulous Dr. Dick is up here and here. It’s full of The Awesome and I hope that you take a listen.

If I were the sort of person that kept a day planner (hint, I’m not), the month of February would have exactly one task: SURVIVE. I don’t mean to sound all OH THE HUMANITY!! on you, it’s just the one month of the year where things just go horribly wrong.

If Caesar was all “Beware the ides of March,” Aunt Becky is all “Beware the month of February.”

Anyway, so I’m kind of in a bad place. I’m feeling pretty low because it’s Chicago and Ass outside right now and tired of myself and tired of being inside and kinda ready to get a sex change and move to Detroit. It seems like a wise idea, right? Don’t answer that.

So last night, I was lying in bed, not sleeping because that’s what people who have insomnia do: they lay in bed and they don’t sleep.

When I lay there, I think of a couple of different things:

1) I try to imagine all of the ways I’d kill the people who come up with the commercial jingles that run in an ever-loving loop in my head while I am lying there, not fucking sleeping. High on my list are the Daisy Sour Cream people and whomever cast Jamie Lee Curtis in the Activia commercial.

Because I’ll give you a motherfucking dollop of Daisy with my glock.

Also, I don’t want to think of your colon, Jamie Lee Curtis. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I don’t want to think of your COLON.

B) I think of all the words I will ban when I rule the world. Like hymen. And moist. And juxtapose. Because there was this AWFUL girl who sat at my lunch table in high school who was a pseudo-intellectual assbag who was all “juxtapose” ALL THE TIME.

Like, I could eat a sandwich and she’d be all “that sandwich is a juxtaposition of life.” And then I wanted to kill myself. Maybe with a bomb.

Last night, though, because I was feeling particularly vitriolic, I decided that what I needed to do was to create a line of horrible greeting cards for people that I hate. Not like funny cards designed to make you laugh, but cards that say what I really WANT to say.

I’m pretty sure it’s a cash cow waiting to happen. Or at the very least, it’s going to make damn sure you never have to waste a stamp on someone you hate again.

(yes, I made these cards)(no, not the PICTURES. What do you think I am, TALENTED!?! Yeah. RIGHT.)

I’m sure with all of the sleepless nights I have, I could go on and on and on and on. The market will be huge for my cards, I can feel it.

I’m off to wait for Hallmark’s call. I’m positive they’ll be all over my idea.

—————

I’m over at Toy With Me, talking about weird guys I want to have The Sex with. I just realized that I left my new husband David Cook off there which pretty much makes me the worst wife ever. Which, DUH.

(ring, ring)

The Daver: “Hello?”

Aunt Becky: “I’m leaving you.”

The Daver: “Oh yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yup! I’m forming an all-girls disco band and we’re touring the country.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait, you’re not upset?”

The Daver: “You’ve got to follow your dreams, man. Who is going to be in the band?”

Aunt Becky (gestures to empty room): “Oh, you know…TWITTER.”

The Daver: “That’s a big band. What are you going to do?”

Aunt Becky: “Wear roller skates and play the triangle. It’s DISCO. And it’s making a comeback. I CAN FEEL IT.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh, and I need one of those voice thingies. So I can actually sing. What are they called?”

The Daver: “A vocoder?”

Aunt Becky (happily): “YES! I need one. Can you get me one of those?”

The Daver: “Okay. I’ll pick up Chinese food for dinner?”

Aunt Becky: “Sure. See you soon! Before I’m gone with my all girls Twitter disco band. I’ve got to go order some more go-go boots!”

The Daver (laughs) “Bye!”

(both parties hang up)

——————

Because I am in the process of forming My Empire, which means I’m trying to think of more projects, I’ve come up with the idea of a couple of community-based forums for us. The ROYAL “us.” Problem is, I’m not sure exactly what we should be about.

I’ve had a bunch of people suggest that I cobble (and by “I” I mean “The Daver”) together a site where we could go to put together weight loss articles and articles about self-improvement and Getting The Band Back Together (it wouldn’t be like a boring site or anything) where we could cheer each other on.

I think this could work. I also think there are other things we could do and I’m eagerly thinking of them, but my brain is small and yours, well, is not, so this is the part of the post where I ask for your input. What do you think? Honestly. I’m open to any ideas, providing they’re feasible and full of The Awesome. I love the idea of a community-based site.

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.

And *phew* now it’s the Best Day Of The Year: December…uh (looks at brand new Despair Calender, notes:

laughs deeply because it’s fucking true and returns)…December 26. The day AFTER Christmas. Not only is everything on SALE again, but that means that Christmas is OVER and I don’t have to deal with anything more pretending to be merry or liking other people again for another WHOLE year.

Which, hi, AWESOME.

No, don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas, but maybe it’s because I have a butt-load of children, but I’m about ready for it to be all over with by mid-December. I don’t want holiday themed hand-towels or soap or bras, I just want to go back to hating the world–besides me and my blog people–in peace and stop pretending to like everyone and everything in the name of Christmas.

Anyway, it’s over, I’m suitably happy, and while I’m now migrained, and sort of infirm, everything went well, even with the crotch parasites running around for the past two days like they were on crack. (note to self: do NOT put candy ANYWHERE near children at 7 in the motherfucking MORNING ever again)

I was roped into hosting Christmas Eve by the Persuasive Powers Of Guilt and I even managed to cook a turkey without making anyone sick. Turns out that the secret to a good turkey is a) shoving things up its’ butt and b) butter. Everything, except your cholesterol, is better with butter.

The smallest ones didn’t really care about opening presents (!!!) which makes me wonder if I actually birthed them myself, because there’s nothing not awesome about presents with your name on them, but once opened, it turns out that The Daver and I are excellent about picking out gifts for them. To be fair, though, they’d have been equally thrilled with a package of straws and some Solo cups.

The big one was happy to help them open presents and was most thrilled by his R2-D2 backpack which makes me SURE he was adopted because Star Wars is SO not my thing (I did buy the backpack for him on my own. I was VERY proud of myself). Unless it’s LEGO Star Wars, the video game, which is full of The Awesome.

Because this was The Christmas of Practicality for me, I’d opened up most of my gifts ahead of time, and wasn’t about to rewrap them, because that’s REALLY a pain in the ass. But I was given the ultimate Housewifey Present of a new hand-held vacuum (a Dyson!). Dave joked that it was to remind me that while I was trying to build My Empire this year, he wanted to remind me that I should refocus my energies on housecleaning*.

Then, full of Christmas cheer, I vacuumed up his scrotum.

All in all, Christmas was completely lovely and I am more than happy to see it in my rear-view mirror. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try and extract toys from packaging that I’m pretty sure was designed by sadists. I will probably lose a finger, and barring that, at least many layers of skin.

Oh well, that’s why we have so many layers to spare, right?

Merry Day After Christmas, Internet! Your Aunt Becky wants you to gather ’round and tell her how your Christmas treated you.

*He really WAS kidding and I was the one oogling this vacuum like a freak for years. But I really did vacuum up the scrote. Because OBVIOUSLY.

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!!

Oh yes. The judge ruled FOR ME OVER SWINE FLU. I WON MY CASE ON THE PEOPLE’S COURT.*

I AM A CELEBRITY NOW BECAUSE I WAS ALMOST ON THE PEOPLE’S COURT! TAKE THAT SWINE FLU!

*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.