First off, I want to say thank you to anyone who had something nice to say to me in the past couple weeks. It’s been a really hard time for me, and while I don’t really like to sit and whine about it, it’s nice to know that my friends in the computer love me. They really, really love me.

So, I’m going to lighten the mood here, and bring you an irregular feature I like to call Fan Mail, or Mail Bag, or something with the words “bag” in it. Especially if it’s a euphemism for testicles (nut bag). Then I’m happy (T-bag).

Either (ball-bag) way, I’m bringing to you, my lovely readers, a Q and A forum wherein *I* answer the questions that bring people to my doorstep. Any punctuation (fun bag) is usually mine, and any spelling issues are often theirs, since I’ve learned to use a little feature I like to call Spell Check (man bag).

Dear Aunt Becky,

what happens when you are having sex and a big wet spot occurs?

Signed,

Sticky and NOT Sweet.

Dear Drowning In The Spooge,

There are several things that one can do to prevent the big wet spot. Condom usage comes to mind, as does the pull-out-n-pray method. Or you could even designate a particular towel to mop up Lake Spoogekins before it seeps out onto your designer sheets.

My own personal favorite method, however, my sticky friend, happens to be something I like to call Making Damn Sure We Hump On His Side Of The Bed. Eliminates all problems for me.

Eternally Yours,

Aunt Becky.

————–

My Dearest Aunt Becky,

Why do I have extra skin on balls?

Yours,

Dangly Bits

My Dear Old Balls,

I hate to be the one that breaks the news to you that you might want to consider investing in a sort of man bra for your nuts. While a dangly scrote is typically considered a good thing for men wanting to impregnate their partner, due to the cooler temperatures away from the body, if you’re not trying to procreate, it’s just got to be kind of annoying.

But, sadly for your ball bag, as men grow older and their skin begins to lose some elasticity, the nuts themselves begin to droop lower and lower, until one day you realize that they are submerged while you’re taking a dump.

I only wish I were kidding.

Perhaps a bra might help?

HUGS,

Aunt Becky

————

Aunt Becky,

Where can i find maternity skinny jeans?

Signed,

Fashion Concious

Dear Slave to Fashion,

Even if I knew (I do), why would you want to know? Do you have any idea how stupid you’re going to look once you really start to get heavy up top? Imagine pulling those puppies over your swollen third trimester ankles, why don’t you?

Disgustedly,

Aunt Becky

———–

Dearest Auntie Becky,

Congratulations on your divorce.

Also:

Becky is a bitch.

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Will you marry me?

Love,

Becky

—————-

Now, these posts (of which I believe I’ve done one before) are pretty hard to do. You’d think they’d be easy, but as of today I have 305 search terms that have brought people here for the month of November, most of which are so fucking disgusting that I can barely stomach them before noon. I’d repeat them, but it’d bring more hits to me for these perverts.

The other sort of search term I often get are people searching for their own name. Which is, hello, HILARIOUS. Especially since the only person whose full name I’ve divulged is my own.

So who is gonna confess here? Who found me by searching for “Cheeseburger Crotch?”

*Remembering to post to NaBloWhatever every day. For some reason, this seemed easier last year. Perhaps I was cooler back then.

*Keeping my house clean. I’d like nothing more than to be able to clean the vents that taunt me from my ass-grove-worn couch. Honestly, sitting and staring at the mess makes you bonkers.

*Cooking any meals. I’ve never been a culinary genius–nor would I want to be–but I seem to have a hard time figuring out what to feed four picky people who eat at two separate times. Times separated by a two or more hour window. I admit to feeling some guilt over this.

*Using Target-brand diapers on my wee son. Who seems to break out into a rash the moment I buy a box, while I chant (mostly in my head. Mostly): “It’s 7 whole dollars cheaper!” Apparently, his ass cheeks don’t listen OR CARE about ways to save money.

*Thinking about the holidays without hyperventilating. My family is zero stress (no, seriously) and we gave up travel once Alex was born, and yet I cannot seem to let go of the feeling that I want to stamp my feet (okay, my non-busted foot) and yell, “didn’t we JUST do this?” every time I see a Christmas tree display.

*Getting out and about. I’m starting to feel like I’m in an imposed period of rest BEFORE the baby makes her debut. If I’d informed my old self that I was going to be required to rest most of the time (whenever possible) before this baby came, I’d probably have tongue kissed myself. Which, *shudder, shudder* yeah. It sucks much harder ass than you’d imagine being stuck at the mercy of any other adult who might help you out to the store.

*Carrying Alex up and down the stairs for his (lack of) naps. I’m starting to longingly look at those elevator thingies you can put in your house for wheelchair access. Next thing you know, I’ll be begging Daver for a Hooverround just to make it to the bathroom.

What do you suck at doing these days?

When I got married three years ago, it took me a good long time to reach the conclusion that I was going to change my name. It’s not because I felt like it was a super-antiquated tradition, or because I would now feel like The Daver’s property, not really.

Problem is, I liked my name the way it was. Becky Elizabeth Sherrick.

It had been my name for 25 years and I was rather attached to it. Plus, when I had birthed Ben, I’d given him my last name as one of his two middle names, so it was the one real link I had to my son.

Practicality won out, and once I deduced that my family would have three different last names to contend with, I decided to change my name along with my marital status. I would become Becky Elizabeth Sherrick Harks.

Despite Ben’s 4 names on his Social Security Card (and later, Alex’s), the administration refused to allow me to add a name without removing another. So, choosing between my last name and my middle name it was (unless I wanted to hyphenate, which I didn’t).

In the end, I dropped the Elizabeth and moved the Sherrick to the middle, adding the Harks to the end.

For ages, I still thought of my new last name as the rest of my in-laws names, not a name that belonged to me. Within the last two weeks, I noticed something strange: I now had begun to associate the name with me. It was now MY last name.

For ages, I didn’t understand how divorced women didn’t immediately go back to their maiden names. It made no sense to me, as I had far more pride in my maiden name than I had in my married one, so I always assumed I’d seamlessly return to who I was before I was married. Now, I’m just not so sure. Would I keep my name or change it back?

So, your turn, lovers. Dish. Did you change your name? Would you? Would you change it back? Were you as fucking conflicted as I was about changing your name?

I have now officially popped by guest posting cherry over at Bad Ass Geek. Here’s what I said:

———–

When both of your parents are hippies, there isn’t a whole hell of a lot of things that you can do to rebel. I mean, any parents who protested the Vietnam War and marched at the Democratic National Convention (the rioting one), and admitted to smoking the ganja often and with gusto aren’t exactly the sort that might ground you for being 3 minutes past curfew.

Hell, I didn’t even HAVE a curfew.

Nor did I have any real ground rules to follow other than to be kind to living things. And not vote Republican.

Between the admitted lack of boundaries and my incredible sense of Not Wanting To Get Busted, it was with many hooting and hollering friends that I called my mother to get permission to smoke The Weed for the first time.

I was 14, I’d just gotten my tonsils taken out (no small surgery for someone past the age of 6) and I wanted to make sure that nothing weird was going to happen. Like I specifically didn’t want to suddenly think that jumping off the roof was a great way to finally fllllyyyyyy, like always happened in the DARE movies.

She was taken aback, my poor mother, when I called her and asked her if I could toke up with my friends. To her credit, she didn’t laugh hysterically or anything, but she did sound pretty surprised even as she agreed to it. Providing, of course, that I drink a lot of water.

Drinking lots of water and going out in the sunshine are two of my mother’s favorite pieces of advice. I could probably be bleeding to death in the woods from a gunshot wound, and if I were to see her she would likely tell me to drink some water and lay out in the sunshine.

My first choice of Smoking Implement was a 3 foot purple glass bong I’d named Stinky, and as my friend Josh lit the herb at the bottom of the tube, I sucked in as hard as I could, my finger covering the rush hole. The smoke in the chamber reached a thick consistency we called “mayonnaise,” and after I held in my first toke and blew it out, I put my mouth back at the rim, unplugged the rush hole and sucked in.

In that moment, I suddenly earned the respect of each and every seasoned pot smoker I knew as I cleared the chamber. Apparently this was no small feat.

After I was done with my hit, I popped off the bed and bopped into the other room, squeaking out a “Thanks, guys!” as the room burst into rounds of applause for Wonder Girl, Pot Smoker Extraordinaire.

I didn’t get high that first time, despite the massive influx of Mary Jay into my system, I felt nothing. Perhaps I was a smidgen gigglier (no huge feat for an admittedly giggly 14 year old girl), perhaps it was just the atmosphere in that house that night.

Perhaps it was all just one toke over the line (Sweet Jesus).

Tell me about one of YOUR first times. I could use some entertainment, dammit!

Some days the only appropriate response to the events of the day can be summed up by only one word. That word?

FUCK.

I’ll be sporadically around, but I just don’t have much good to say right now. Everyone is alive (as far as I know) and things will work out.

How do you get through something that seems insurmountable? Can you send me some good vibes, please?

Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.

‘Fran Lebowitz

Happy Birthday to the child who made me a mother for the first time, the child who reminds me simultaneously who was in charge and what REALLY matters, the child who constantly leaves me trying to be a better person for him.

My first son, Benjamin Maxwell.

He may not always like me, hell, I may not always like him, but in the end, he knows which side his bread is buttered on.

Happy Birthday, Small Fry.

Even I realize that my blog has gotten somewhat Gloom and Doom in the past couple of months, and that’s something that bothers me quite a bit. Although I may appear to wear thick liquid eyeliner and listen to The Cure while weeping about my past loves (or something), it’s really not who I am. Shock to the ole system, I know, I know.

But I was thinking that if Oprah can have a “Favorites” show, I can occasionally showcase my own favorite things. Because my blog isn’t self-indulgent enough, right?

1) Burberry. Now, I love the Burberry plaid so much that I might want to wrap myself in it and get married to the pattern. I was fortunate enough to have this Christmas be the Christmas of Plaid, so I’m frequently able to display JUST how I feel about Burberry. In the wintertime. In the summer? Probably not so much.

2) Vinegar. So, I don’t JUST drive The Daver insane while I’m incubating baby sausages, I tend to spread out the love over the course of, well, our lifetime, and as such, I frequently have cravings. Often they involve copious amounts of plain, cheap-ass, vinegar (did you know that they make DESIGNER vinegar? I HAD NO IDEA), which I sometimes maybe a little I’m not saying for sure…Okay, I drink it plain sometimes. There. HAPPY NOW?

3) Pedicures. I’m not much of a fan of such things as going to the spa or even getting my hairs did, but I do enjoy a good old fashioned pedicure given to me by someone who is simultaneously rude without speaking a lick of English. Did I say I loved that part? Because that’s a lie.

But I *do* like paying someone else to take care of the monstrosity that is my feet in the summertime. I’ve been trying to make it a monthly habit to go and get one, just me and my trash-tastic magazines, but I’ve been somewhat lax since my foot was hurt. It’s my birthday weekend–why yes, I spread my birthday into weeks ahead of time. Dave adores it–and maybe that’s what I’ll do.

Anyone wanna come with?

4) Purified Water. St. Charles water is notoriously disgusting, but I’ve put up with it and made do for years, adding lemon juice or lots of ice to make it more palatable, but these days, I cannot stomach the flavor. Yeah, go ahead, laugh at me: I don’t like the flavor of my tap water.

(assholes)

So I found a great alternative: Jugs ‘o’ Water! Who knew it could be so tasty and delicious?

5) My Birthday Weekend. I was so worried that I’d spend my birthday weekend sitting around and feeling sorry for myself (okay, okay, attached to the cross) because no one remembered it. And by “no one” I mean “The Daver” who is terrible, TERRIBLE about these sorts of things.

But with the help of my enterprising sister-in-law, a pilgrimage has been planned. A pilgrimage that involves both “tapas” and “omlettes.” As you might imagine, this makes me very, very pleased.

Now if only I could have birthday creme bruilee rather than birthday cake, I’d be one happy fat bitch.

6. Hilarious Television Reenactments. Especially those on Crime Shows or Ghost shows. Because they often put “reenactment” on the bottom, JUST IN CASE YOU WEREN’T AWARE THAT THERE WAS NOT A CAMERA CREW THERE WHILE SOMEONE WAS MURDERED.

All right, my party people, tell your Aunt Becky what some of your favorite things are.

Like any good blogger, I occasionally check my referrals and see where people clicked over from. And usually there are very few surprises.

But over the past couple months I’ve noticed a particular site refers people here. It makes no sense.

Why would this site have a link here?

And why am I so strangely flattered?

I woke up bright and bleary this morning (we shall not discuss the leaking, mmkay?) just in time to take Alex to the doctor. He has a rash. No, not a gross grody one, simple childhood excema.

This is not the interesting part of the story.

After we left, cortisone prescription in hand, I decided to reward myself for shoving stuff up my cooter with some Dunkin’ Donuts. Dunkin’ Donuts is possibly my favorite thing on the planet and for no apparent reason, we haven’t had it in ages. Probably because coffee makes me nauseous.

This is also not the interesting part of the story.

As I whipped my car around to the main street, where glorious Dunkin’ Donuts is located, I noticed that the KFC was out of business. This isn’t terribly surprising, as St. Charles isn’t known for loving fried chicken. Sadly.

Again, not very interesting.

When I pulled up to the stop sign, a two or three year old girl nearly darted in front of my car. I stopped, put the car in park and looked around for her parents. Not an intersection one would like a wee child roaming around in as it’s pretty fucking dangerous.

This is the interesting part of the story.

I saw another woman in a car trying to talk to this child, so I hopped out of my car to make sure that the child remained at least out of the road. Good, I thought, that lady must have that child. What was she THINKING letting a kiddo roam about here?

“Is this your child?” I bellowed to her.

“Nope.” She said as she joined me and Alex in the abandoned parking lot.

Years of little boys has made me perpetually nervous of little girls, but I looked at this one in her pretty Sunday dress and she melted my blackened heart a bit.

“Hola bebe,” I said to her, saying the first and last of my entire Spanish vocabulary that’s suitable for kids. I can say “You have small balls,” “More cheese, please,” and my favorite “Fuck your fucking mother, asshole” but save from screaming out colors at her (Rojo! VERDE!) my conversational Spanish is pathetic.

The lady and I looked at each other and looked around noticing a decided lack of concerned parents running out toward this child. I cannot stress enough how this is NOT the place a child should walk ALONE.

“We should call the police,” she suggested. I agreed, sadly. I’d wanted to just return this obviously well-loved child to her home and have my bagel and coffee without a side of remorse. I knew the police would probably give her to DCFS to sort out who she is.

We all sat down on the pavement waiting for the police to come. “GATO!” I nearly shrieked, remembering the word for cat. This kid–even at 2–was bound to think I was the Village Idiot. “Gato,” she replied, looking around for a cat.

Sure enough, the police showed up (there’s not much to do out here but bust underage smokers) and took my new wee friend to DCFS where they could locate her family for her. I felt terrible leaving her, maybe it’s the added progesterone, maybe it’s that I’m getting soft in my old age, or maybe I just felt maternal toward a child that was not my own. My heart is sad for her, and I hope that her family does report her missing and isn’t afraid of being deported in the process.

*sighs*

What’s the weirdest thing YOU’VE found on the side of the road?

Okay, okay, so I’m not really an emotional person. My tears are proportionally related to the amount of direct physical pain I’m in, and crying because I’m “sad” or “happy” is just not something I do. Unless I’m in pain WHILE being sad or happy or whatever.

I’m not certain if it’s because My Left Foot (oh yes, yes I did) that currently looks so swollen it’s like only a fraction of my body has pre-eclampsia and I have become an annoying invalid who has to plot out courses to such destinations as “the bathroom” and “the fridge,” or because I’m a touch *ahem* HORMONAL, but I’m a blubbery mess.

My eyes are permanently fused together and my face covered in a sheen of snot and tears. I’m possibly gorgeous.

Nothing is too insignificant to cry over now. My cats need to be fed? *sob, sob* My peony bush is blooming? *oh, the HUMANITY!* I want a burrito for breakfast? *CHIPOTLE ISN’T OPEN, sniff, sniff, sniff*

In short, I’ve become possibly the most annoying person on the planet (some may argue that I’ve always held that particular title). I kind of want to impale myself on my Diet Coke can and rid the world of another overly hormonal woman.

I’m so annoying that I feel badly for The Sausages who are stuck looking around for their much saner Fearless Female Leader and checking the calendar religiously to see if it’s February yet. NOW I’M CRYING BECAUSE I KNOW I’M ANNOYING! AAAAHHH!

So enlighten your Aunt Becky, who may blubber and snot all over you if you ignore her. Are you emotional? Or does emotion only show when a car has run over your foot?

And how the HELL do you snap out of it?

*sob, sob*