Now if you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am decidedly not a foodie. If it’s not prepackaged, I don’t want to eat it. I’m the first to admit I have “food issues” and the second to ask you for an Uncrustable. I probably have scurvy. Thank the Good Lord of Butter I take my (expired) vitamins.

But I’ve occasionally been out to those restaurants that add a zillion ingredients – all with many descriptive terms – to their menu.

And I’ve decided that in lieu of blogging as a career, mayhap I should go into writing descriptions for Foodie Food.

Let’s try this and see how I do.

I’ll start with a diner hamburger.

“The moist, succulent quality of the 100% Angus beef is fried in the fat of dozens of it’s companions, topped by an onion that was left out for three hours aged onion and a single piece of lightly browned romaine lettuce, with the soft, unresisting paper-thin piece of tomato, cut so delightfully thin to save money because OMG Mexico costs a ton to ship vegetables all atop the soft, and yet firm hamburger bun, dotted perfectly with little pops that are at least 90% sesame seeds. Throw on a dollop of perfectly aged premium generic ketchup and you will never look at a burger (or the toilet) the same way.”

Isn’t your mouth WATERING? Mine is. But that may be nausea, not hunger. I can’t tell.

Next, an Old American Favorite, Split Pea Soup:

“As it arrived at the table, I’m struck first by the smell as it approaches. That vaguely earthy smell of mashed up legumes that puts me in mind of spoon feeding a baby. My first baby. He taught me to never try that again, by projectile vomiting the strained peas back as fast as I could get them to his mouth.

I’m reminded of the Exorcist as I suddenly lose my appetite. As it is set before me, I’m lost, staring into the thick, murky mire of the soup. It’s consistency reminds me vaguely of drywall putty, or perhaps of that stuff that people use to polish brass. How does one describe perfection except to say that you know it when you’ve found it?

And this? Was perfectly abominable.

From the earthy taste of the peas, to the dried pieces of cilantro that were used as a “garnish,” this was a hot mess, from back to front.”

Wait.

That wasn’t right. I was supposed to make you WANT it. Not think of The Exorcist.

Guess you’ll have to keep Your Aunt Becky around after all, Pranksters.

Saturday morning, as I blurrily drank my eighty-niner cup of coffee while trying desperately to wake my sorry ass up, Dave bounded into the room and announced, “YOU’RE TAKING ME OUT TO LUNCH TOMORROW.”

For someone who is normally soft-spoken, he was BEYOND loud. Or perhaps it was merely a loud morning. I’m SO not a morning person.

I tried to reach the dusty recesses of my brain to ascertain why, exactly, I was supposed to be taking The Daver out to lunch. His birthday? Our anniversary? National Pancake Day?

I bit the bullet. “Why?” I groggily spat out.

“IT’S DAVE DAY! ALL DAVE’S EAT FREE AT FAMOUS DAVE’S!”

I stuck my fingers in my ears to deaden the noise a bit. Since he did say FREE, and FREE is always better than paying, I wondered if I, too, could pass for a Dave.

The following morning, I peeled myself out of bed, completely forgetting that it was Dave Day (HOW did that ever slip my non-Daveish mind?). Downstairs, the kids were dressed, fed and ready to go for the first time, well, EVER.

Dave was practically bounding off the walls with glee. “IT’S DAVE DAY!” he announced, loudly enough that I nearly punched him in the throat, just to make him shut the fuck up. “WE’RE OUT OF COFFEE!” he screamed. “I DRANK IT ALL.”

Like that was a surprise or something. I mumbled, “fucker” under my breath as I hoped he wouldn’t stroke out from the excitement.

Once I swept the cobwebs from my brain and cleared the sleep from my eyes, I finally looked at The Daver. Dressed in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I must’ve given him a look, because he said, “I’M WEARIN MAH EATIN’ CLOTHES.”

I’m not exactly certain when his Wisconsin-bred ass developed a Southern Drawl, but it was apparently the moment in which he realized he could eat as much BBQ as he wanted. For free. I’m sort of surprised he didn’t bust out my maternity clothes for the occasion.

I shoved a baseball cap on, so that I would be incognito with the hickish Southern Wisconsinite and off we went.

First thing they said when we walked in, “Is your name Dave?” Daver proudly bust out his wallet and showed off his driver’s license. He looks like the leader of the Aryan Nation in the picture, which made me wonder if they’d BELIEVE he was the same person.

Not only did they believe him, they also gave him a name-tag. I was SO JEALOUS. I love name-tags. I would have written “Shut Your Whore Mouth” on mine. I tried to score one from them, but was rebuffed because I am not ACTUALLY named Dave.

I sat jealously staring at Dave’s name-tag as everyone who walked by – also wearing Dave name-tags – said hello to Dave. A sea of name-tag wearing Dave’s sat in the dining room, each beaming as happily as The Daver was.

When Daver opened the menu, it was like the heavens poured out of his eyeballs, as he saw the amount of BBQ he could eat. For FREE. All for free. He happily chose some BBQ platter or another while I sipped my Diet Pepsi, amazed by the transformation of my normally geeky husband into a greedy BBQ-loving hick.

“I want ‘yer BBQ platter wif a side ‘o’ beans and cornbread.” I swear I’ve never heard him speak that way. But there he was, eating pants and everything, ready to take on the BBQ.

And he did. I’ve never seen such a small man put away so much food. When he was done sucking the marrow from the bones, he sat back, belched, and looked as contented as one can while wearing a stained tank-top and sweatpants.

I paid our check and rolled him contentedly out to the car.

He was in a food coma the rest of the day while I bitterly blamed my parents for not being forward-thinking enough to name me Dave.

Hey, Johnny Cash had a Boy Named Sue, I could totally have been a Girl Named Dave*.

*had I been a boy, my name would have been Leaf**.

**No, I’m not joking. Not even close.

Any time you go to a blogging conference or hear about blogging or really blog ever, you hear the word, “monetize” which, I recently learned, has NOTHING to do with Monet’s paintings. I feel both shocked and saddened – like my whole life has been a joke.

(I was also recently horrified to learn that “non-stick” does not ACTUALLY mean “non-stick)(nor do Crab Cakes have CAKE in them)(what is this world COMING to?)

Anyway, I’m not so great at monetizing anything, including my blog, because I’m not very good at anything. Also: who wants to read a hastily thrown together piece about why I think dish soap rules – even if it’s true? Not me.

But thanks to my cess-pool children, I do have a cold. And having a cold sucks. Much as I’d like to sit around the house, flailing my arms and raspily yelling, “WHY GOD, WHY?” I figured that this might be An Opportunity. A GOLDEN opportunity.

Oh yes, Pranksters, I think I finally know what to do to Monetize This Cold: I can become a temporary phone sex operator.

I can see it already.

Me (deep-voiced and raspy): “Hey baby.” *hack, hack, hack*

Him: “Um, so what are you doing right now?”

Me: “Drinking a diet coke and feeling sorry for myself. You?”

Him: “I meant, what are you wearing?”

Me: “A stained tanktop and some gauchos.”

Me: “The tank top is red.”

Him: “Um.”

Me: *coughs loudly*

Him: “So, uh, what do you want to do to me?”

Me: “I don’t know. Take flying lessons?”

Him: “I meant like, do you want to get me naked?”

Me: *sneezes wetly* “EW. NO. I don’t even know you.”

Him: “Do you want me to touch your breasts?”

Me: “GROSS, you creepy old fuck!”

Him: “This isn’t working.”

Me: “You got THAT right, Buddy.”

*clicks*

Hm. So maybe that’s a bad idea. Guess I’ll go back to Moneting things.

If there’s one thing awesome about being crammed in a metal tube, hurtling through time and space with a bunch of mouth-breathing strangers, it’s this: SkyMall. Here’s what I’ll be buying myself for Christmas, or Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, or whatever holiday comes next.

Who WOULDN’T want an attic lady popping randomly into your attic? CRAZY PEOPLE, THAT’S WHO. Rather than wait for the bitchy old lady who owned my house to come over and demand money again, I’m going to buy myself a lady! Who can pop in and out of my house! She’s an instant party – or instant sea hag – for sure.

So what if the pool I have is 8 feet by 8 feet with a depth of three inches? No, seriously, SO WHAT?

I want a musical light show while I soak in my wee pool. Hell, EVERYONE will want to come over for a pool party then! Won’t they be surprised when my “pool” is really a “puddle.” A puddle with motherfucking music and LIGHTS.

I can hear the clamoring of my neighbors already.

I genuinely do not know how I do not own this yet. No, I mean it, I need this AND a pack of Old Milwaukee. Because while he SAYS he’s from Texas, I’m in Chicago, and there’s nothing trashier than things from Milwaukee. Like their shit-ass beer.

I require this above all else. He will go in my china cabinet, with my six-pack of Spam with Bacon. And he will reek of style and sophistication.

Originally, I thought this was a singing toilet, which is like a dream come true. I’ve always wanted a toilet that sang for me while I pooed, cheered for me after I flushed, and then did a nice jaunty you-just-peed number (perhaps a nice Gershwin piece or the theme from Sanford and Son) as I exited the bathroom.

I was a little disappointed to learn that no, in fact, this toilet didn’t sing to me. It will, however, prevent me from dunking in the toilet at three AM like an overly-large kicky-haired tea-bag. Which is minorly awesome.

I still want the singing toilet, dammit.

So last time I shopped at SkyMall, I decided the statue of the little boy peeing would be what went above my grave. Along with the gigantic angel statues and weeping out-of-work actors. But I’d never given any thought as to what I wanted BELOW my grave. Besides the towers of flowers.

This, Pranksters, is what I want coming out of my grave.

I can think of no better way to “honor” me than a frightening zombie with a little boy peeing on it.

And oh holy fuck, do you need to see this video. There are no words. Only awesome (it’s totally safe for work):

As we all know, Your Aunt Becky is absolutely not a leading authority on anything…except traveling. Not because I am very good at it – no – but because I am very bad at it.

1) Whenever possible, do NOT pack dismembered human remains in your suitcase. And if you do, make certain that you check that bag. The TSA will certainly have a problem with dismembered body parts in your carry-on (like they’re going to DO anything now that they’re dead)

8 ) Do not bother paying extra money for the “extra space” or “premium seating.” Instead, loudly discuss your bowel movements – in chronologic order – with your seatmates. They will be clamoring to change seats within five minutes.

27) Get fully intoxicated before you get on the plane to avoid paying the exorbitant costs of those wee bottles of liquor.

64) Once entirely wasted and in the air, start a dance party with your fellow cabinmates. Winner gets your extra bag of dinky pretzels.

125) If your seatmates haven’t left after you’ve loudly discussed your poo, begin to regale them with stories of your fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles.

216) Eat as much garlic as possible at Sbarros before boarding the plane. The rest of the cabin will REALLY appreciate the smell of garlic as it wafts out of all of your orifices.

343) Wear particularly loose pants, so when you have to take off your belt at the TSA line, they fall down, exposing your glitter thong that reads “JUICY” on the back.

512) Ask to see the cockpit and when they show you the cabin, ask where the pit is with all the cocks.

729) Sing along with your iPod as loudly. Especially if you’re tone deaf. If you don’t know the words, simply hum them loudly. When the flight attendant asks you to keep it down, tell her that singing is part of your religion.

1000) When you’ve finally reached your destination, block the aisle and rearrange your luggage, saying, “I KNOW THAT DEAD CAT IS IN HERE SOMEWHERE.”

1331) If you should board a plane with screaming babies or crying children, make sure to go up to the parents and stare at them while they try to soothe the child. They’ll appreciate that. It’ll help ’em know you care.

1728) Whenever you use the bathroom, make sure to come out and exclaim loudly, “I never knew corn could look so beautiful!” alternately “Anyone have a camera? This poo looked like Abraham Lincoln!”

2197) Do not shower for many days prior to departure. The extra layer of skin will help protect you from the stanky germs living on the seats.

2744) If anyone asks you to do anything you disagree with, simply tell them you cannot because it’s “part of your religion.”

3375) If your seatmates are still not put off by the discussion of your poo or your fake dead cat, begin weeping. Loudly. Refuse to talk about it. It may get you bumped up to first class!

4096) Wear a strap-on through security. If flashing your fellow passengers isn’t awesome enough, now you’ll confuse them. Forever. Plus, the TSA will be scared and let you through the line as quickly as possible.

4913) Tell the TSA agent that you’re really looking forward to some “hot TSA action today.” That should both perplex and horrify them.

5832) “If you’re roadtripping to your destination, it’s always best to bring a friend. They won’t take over driving when you get tired, but since they’re asleep, you can keep shaking them awake periodically and telling them it’s their turn to pay for gas. Again. Cheap road trips are worth sleep deprivation

I started blogging in 2004 when Moses was my classmate and I wrote a wee dinosaur to school. A Mushroom Print – for those not in the know – is a dick-smack, and that was precisely what my co-blogger Pashmina and I fully intended our blog to be. A verbal dick-smack.

It was.

My first post was something about a) pubic hair or 2) my vagina, something I know because that was generally what we wrote about. You take two youngish-twenty-somethings and you put them together, and you’d expect to hear about how we were trying to be Carrie Bradshaw or something.

Not so, Little Grasshopper, not so. We deliberately wrote about things no hot young thang would, in her right mind, put out there.

Some of the stuff has made it’s way over here, the rest was deleted when I reinvented Mushroom Printing as a snarky group blog for us Pranksters.

In 2007, I started Mommy Wants Vodka*, my less-snarky site. It was here that I wrote my heart out. Turns out, those who want to read about your vagina may NOT want to read about your colicky baby. The name was a deliberate poke at the other mom blogs who seemed to exist in a dream world, where everything was perfect all the time.

Because I am many things, Pranksters, but I am most decidedly NOT perfect. None of us are. Okay, maybe you are. But I’m sure as shit not.

It took me ages to write about the really hard shit. Sure, my kid was colicky and yeah, I never slept, but the first post I recall writing about something a) deep or 2) meaningful was when I wrote about how much I hated Mother’s Day. I wrote my heart out.

It was probably not good, but it was real and it was mine. Which is the only thing I’d tell anyone who “wants to increase their blog traffic.” Write honestly and from the heart and for god’s sake, do it in your own way.

ANYWAY. I digress.

Rather than eschew me for being unfunny that day, I had a number of people who spoke up and said, “you know what? ME TOO. Here’s why:” and they told their stories.

That was the moment that I realized we all had stories.

When Stef died, I wrote about my grief, albeit badly. I’ve never been properly able to write about her, although not for lack of trying. I’ve deleted thousands of words because they weren’t enough.

But once again, my Pranksters spoke up and told me their stories. In comments, in emails, in other posts, I read about how you, too, had lost someone you loved and how it changed you. Your stories made me laugh, they made me cry, and they sparked an idea in the back of my very tiny head.

Then my daughter was born, and she was so, so ill. You’ve all prayed with me, you’ve watched her grow from a very sick girl to Amelia, Princess of the Motherfucking Bells. You’ve told me your stories in emails, blog posts, comments and phone calls. I have an email folder specifically for your stories, did you know that? I read them sometimes and am reminded of how lucky I truly am.

Because I know you all. My Pranksters, I am so fucking lucky to know you.

I launched Band Back Together in September, a place that I envisioned like a library of stories, complete with resources to accompany them. I knew in time, we could fill all those empty shelves and we have. And more.

Yesterday, National CASA posted about Band Back Together. If you don’t know CASA, you should.

I was reminded of the immense power we have. Blogging has turned from a “hobby” into something that means something. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: our words have power. The power to connect, the power to unify, the power to change.

Alone, we may be small blogs, letting others into our lives, glimpse by glimpse, but when we unite, we have the power to change. I’ve learned so much from you, my Pranksters. Stories I’d never have been told on the street, things no one else may know about you, but things I do. Because you were brave enough to sit down in front of a computer screen and type out your words.

That is an act of bravery, you know. Every time you sit down in front of a computer and type out your words, that is brave. No. Let’s try that again, this time for Stef: it’s MOTHERFUCKING brave.

So I, once again, invite you into Band Back Together, a site I run, but a site that is owned by many, to share your stories, let others into your world and tell your truth. To commit an act of bravery.

If we can unite, tell the world we exist, put our stories together and demand change, we can achieve it. That’s not a question.

I look forward to your stories.

Each and every one of them.

And I hope that we can work with other organizations, like CASA**, to show the world that we are unafraid, that our stories matter, that we matter.

Because we do. From the biggest blogger to the person who’s never written a single word, we all matter.

So let’s act like it.

*The original concept was “Mommy Wants Bourbon” but it didn’t roll off the tongue the same way “Mommy Wants Vodka” does.

**if you work with a site like CASA or another blog doing Good in the blog world, we’d love to work with you on The Band. Email me at becky (dot) harks (at) gmail.com and we’ll chat.

***or, if you’d like to work behind the scenes with us at The Band, we’d also love you to do so. Email me. We’ll chatty-chat.

On Monday, the UPS guy came to my house. Generally, that signifies something a) FULL of the awesome or b) mind-numbingly boring, but this week, I hadn’t ordered anything. So I figured it was probably the dyslexic UPS guy delivering something for my neighbor. Which is option three, I guess.

However, the package was addressed to me and it weighed approximately 600 pounds. That had to be good, right?

(I learned one year, after my brother wrapped up a small book in a large television box that size really doesn’t matter)

But heaviness? WIN.

Eagerly I tore into it, confused as to who had sent me anything – forgetting it had just been my birthday – and came to a nicely wrapped box from my friend Crystal.

In it, I found this:

Six motherfucking cans of Spam.

While I do admit to an unnatural love of encased meat products, my love does not and has never involved Spam. Especially Spam with bacon. There’s just something so terribly wrong with this.

I gagged as I neatly placed them in my china cabinet, next to the Cock Soup another Prankster sent me, and realized precisely what this Spam needed.

Fucking cats with fucking laser beams coming out of their heads.

I have the best Pranksters ever.

I hadn’t realized the heaviness I’d been carrying around with me until it was lifted. I’d like to be all dramatic and say (hand to head), “I don’t remember how long it’s been,” but that’s a lie. I think I may remember precisely the last time I felt like I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

February 10, 2008, 10 AM

The first time Alex slept through the night.

He’d been such a hard little baby – a Benevolent Dictator of a person – insisting that no, in fact, his mother would NOT be sleeping for a year because, in fact, absolutely no one else may touch His Majesty. My parents called him “Devil Baby” because, well, he kinda deserved it.

However, sleeping through the night meant that he’d finally turned a corner. I wouldn’t perhaps, be up every 1 to 3 hours for the rest of my life, so sleep-deprived that I’d manage to dump and entire pot of hot coffee on my hand without realizing or, quite frankly, caring. Functioning on that little sleep was hardly functioning; it was surviving. And I had.

Miserably.

Not two hours after waking up from my first full night’s sleep in nearly a year and writing that blog post, I got a phone call. My friend Stef had died in her sleep. Age 26. Cirrhosis.

I didn’t sleep, eat, breathe or function properly for a very long time. My grief was heavy. Dark. I couldn’t make even the smallest decision.

Then came Amelia’s pregnancy, which, all three of you who read my blog back then, was fraught with peril for the first twelve weeks as my progesterone bottomed out, followed by a nice heaping dose of prepartum depression.

My daughter was born gravely ill, but alive. And so began a nice fresh hell.

I’d told myself I was past it – that I’d accepted she was okay because she was…mostly. If you ignored the gigantic scar and the creepy diagnosis. I would accept whatever hand fate dealt me. If she was special needs, well, she was special needs. If she wasn’t, well, then she wasn’t. Either way, she was my kid, and I’d fucking love the shit out of her.

Which I do.

It was simply a matter of figuring out which kid I loved.

Turns out, being pulled out of limbo has lifted that feeling of dread, that heaviness, and replaced it with an emotion I can hardly recall: lightness. Joy.

While I can recall the last time – by date – that I felt so light, I’d forgotten what it felt like. The world, once again tinged with sky-blue-pink, my heart carefree and soaring, and, for the first time in so long: truly happy.

It’s bad enough that it happens at blogging conferences: you’re standing there, minding your own business, talking to a friend, when out of nowhere, someone in comfortable sneakers and a blazer with shoulder pads comes up to you and before you know it, they’ve dumped their business cards into your drinks and scampered off, in search of their next victim.

The drive-by social networker strikes again.

Now, I have approximately a bazillion business cards. I intend to pass them out or use as coasters, whichever the case may be. But while I may hand you my card, it will be after we’ve had a conversation, perhaps a drink together. The drinks are optional. The business cards are EXTRA optional.

Because when you’re at a blogging conference? Everyone has business cards. And no one wants them in their drinks.

Perhaps I will create a bubble around myself to avoid drinking my vodka/diet with a side of your business card. That’s not to say I don’t want your card; I just don’t want it thrust into my hand while I try to check into the hotel with my bags freaking everywhere.

Maybe I’m just bitter.

In the past week alone, I’ve gotten at least twenty DM’s from The Twitter, and while I eagerly open them, humming and perhaps dancing the White Girl Booty Shuffle because, “I HAVE AN EMAIL MOTHERFUCKERS,” I’m shocked and saddened by it’s contents.

Instead of saying, “Hi Becky, let’s be friends,” or “Hi Becky, I’m sending you a cat that shoots REAL LASERS FROM IT’S EYES,” it’s this.

“Thanks for the follow. Check us out on Facebook (insert link to crappy company)”

A variation:

“Thanks for the follow, hope you read my blog (url).”

Well.

Now.

That’s not very friendly. In fact, that’s beyond impersonal.

MOST people I know unfollow after receiving automated DM’s because they hate The Drive By Social Networker as much (more) than I do. I, on the other hand, am lazy and have decided to plot my revenge upon them.

I’m simply going to start DMing them every time I have to take a poo, eat a sandwich, go to Target, and every other mundane thing people say on The Twitter. I’ll be as personal as I wanna be. Then, I’ll direct them BACK to my blog so they can “read more.”

Perhaps then, they’ll rethink their drive-by networking strategy. AND learn about my toileting habits in the process.

This will be a total win!

I spent the last couple years of my twenties praying for the moment that I’d turn thirty. It’s like I genuinely thought being thirty somehow meant that “things would be easier” and yet they have. I was just happy to put my twenties behind me.

In Year One of my thirties, I’ve managed to begin eking out my way. Whereas my twenties felt like I was always fighting fire with gasoline, my thirties have found me thoughtfully, carefully making decisions, choosing the right way, and learning to become, well, me again.

Year One certain had it’s ups and downs and still, the down’s didn’t feel like they were the bottomless pit variety. The ups were even higher.

I have, in no small part, you, Pranksters, to thank for this. You’ve watched me fail, fall, and start again, cheering me on when I needed it and wiping my tears when things seemed insurmountable. You’ve been the one constant in my life and more than that, you became my family.

I cannot tell you how much that means nor can I thank you enough.

This year, I’ve watched my daughter lose her words, then find them again, and now, she spits them at me with a side of sass thrown in. Because she’s my girl.

My middle son has grown from a toddler to a child, all arms and legs and sweetness and light. Someone who hugs away my tears and makes me laugh from the bottom of my leg bones.

After so many years of believing that I was probably a child prodigy, I realize that the one who earns that title is my (almost) ten year old, the one who has found his way in his music.

This year, I founded not one but two group blogs (happy birthday to YOU, Mushroom Printing! who happened to be founded on my birthday last year).

Once I saw the need for a safe, moderated space on the Internet where we could share our secrets, reduce the stigmas of mental illness, abuse, rape and all the other skeletons in our closets, I created Band Back Together. I thanked my parents for the nursing texts as I began to create resource pages for the site. Now the site is a combination of knowledge and power, just like School House motherfucking Rock.

I created shirts (you should buy one. It’s my birthday, after all and you have to do what I say) and shattered my own expectations.

Today, Year One ends and I’m onto Year Two (I’ll be thirty-one). I’ll close this year out while gorging on tapas and drinking champagne.

I can hardly wait to see what happens next. Assuming it’s something good like a pony and not something shitty like a meat tornado.

Because nobody expects a meat tornado.