My tastes have always run from the garish to the downright tacky. Whenever I’d date someone new, my friends teased me, “Show him the BECKY BELT” and if he laughed and shook his head in a “oh THAT wily Becky” kind of way, well, he was a keeper. If he didn’t, he wasn’t. Any guy who wants to dump you because you like glitter and sequins and hot pink isn’t someone who loves you for the right reasons. Just saying.

Anyway, it’s the stuff of legends, my tastes, and I’m pretty okay with that. If you’re going to be larger than life, it might as well be because your tastes suck.

Shoes, especially, my Awesomely Tacky Light Shines upon. I own a pair of black pumps, but they were for a wedding I was in. The rest of my shoe closet isn’t so unrefined.

Yesterday, I finally got in the mail a pair of shoes I’d put in my Amazon.com shopping basket ages ago. I’d finally remembered to buy blue hair dye for my peek-a-boo highlights in the back and was all WELL HELLO THERE AWESOME SHOES and bought them.

They showed up and the kids swarmed because normally packages that show up are for them. Plus, kids are pretty self-absorbed like that, which is kinda something that I respect about them.

I explained that the package wasn’t, in fact, for them this time, and the boys went outside to look at constellations. My daughter, however, made like she didn’t hear me. She’s a stubborn one, my girl.

I said it again as I opened the package and still she ignored me, her big eyes on the box in my lap. Then, I uttered the words I shouldn’t have: “SHOES.”

Now I said, “These are shoes for Mommy, Amelia. Aren’t they pretty?”

What she heard was,” ‘BLAH BLAH BLAH, PREETTTY PRESENT FOR AMELIA, AMELIA!”

And then I whipped my new shoes out to show her.

To be fair, they look like shoes a child could wear, because of my lack of taste and all, but really, the heel is high and she’s not two years old yet. She already wears a small heel on her Mary Jane’s (her insistence) but her shoes can fit my big toe.

Well, all she saw was PRETTY SHOES.

So when I took HER pretty shoes and put them on MY feet, well, that Pranksters, that was unacceptable.

She screamed.

She wailed.

She tried to pry them off my feet.

When I took them off, confused by her ire, she tried to put them on her own tiny sausage feet. It didn’t work. This served to make her more angry so she screamed harder. Oh, my daughter has a temper, but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

My sons came running in to see if she’d been caught in a bear trap or had been run over by a truck and when they saw her standing with my shoes, they stopped and stared, mouths agape.

We all stared at her as she shrieked.

Pranksters, she yelled, cried, and beat her tiny fists against the floor for a full forty-five minutes until I put her into bed.

Guess this means that she’s inherited my tastes…

…and my temper.

Pranksters, I should have you know that Amelia spent the entire day yesterday yelling, “HI” and “THANK YOU” to the computer. I’m pretty sure she knows you were in the computer waving at her, so she was waving back. The gift of sight runs in my family…maybe she has it.

OR MAYBE SHE’S JUST RAD.

Either way, my daughter thinks that her Pranksters are full of the awesome. She’s right.

This week, however, has NOT been full of the awesome. My dog died yesterday. So did my transmission. I’d blame John C. Mayer, but I think that I need his karma like I need a stomach full of worms.

The only good thing about having a week of The Suck is that it’s forcing me to think about all of the ugly, unpleasant things I need to do that I’ve been putting off because I don’t want to deal with it. I get hyper-productive when I’m in The Shit.

So I’m doing the blog equivalent of dying my hair. I’ve needed to spend a good deal of time thinking about what exactly I want to do with the space other than where I write and while I wanted to just write I LOVE BACON and I HEART PRANKSTERS everywhere, I’m not exactly sure that would be helpful.

I’ve added an area at the top that includes direct links to each one of my five shirts called SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH SHIRTS. Because, obviously. I want to make a photogallery of the shirts you’ve bought, too, so if you have any snapshots, send ’em to me (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com).

I’m starting to think that I want to sell my own ads. Nothing fancy or anything. Is that a terrible idea?

Update: AM selling my own ads. Please click here if you want to be bored OR buy an ad.

It’s likely you’ll see a ton of different things around here since I am still stuck on my back staring at the wall and have very little to do besides pray people submit more stories to Band Back Together and Mushroom Printing. So, I suppose, pardon my dust.

And I promise Amelia (my sons call her Dr. Mimi) will help me make another vlog soon.

Also: she just ran up to me yelling, COOKIE, COOKIE! Who gave her a cookie, Pranksters? And where is mine?

This spring, I made a deliberate attempt at making my house look as though a couple of serial killers didn’t live here. The 70’s, you see, seemed to be a time of Great Bushes, and the people whom we had purchased our home from hadn’t bothered to *snort* take care of their Bushes. So we had a Bush Overgrowth. *cackles*

Bush-Gate 2010 was born and I removed all 2,083 of the overgrown bushes in an effort to convince the neighborhood that perhaps my house was not populated by Dexter’s Biggest Fans. (you get your whore hands off my television husband)

And yet now, six months later, I ordered my groceries PeaPod AND attempted to use “dry” shampoo (turns out it’s bullshit) because I am so infirm. My skin is turning a milky-shade of white as I have been stuck on the couch, my muscles atrophying into puddles of goo. No longer can I say, “WHICH WAY TO THE GYM?” then kiss my arms as I flex.

Oh no.

I am a slug. A cockroach. An OLD PERSON. If I fell, I couldn’t get up. I need one of those Life Alert things. (much as one of my Pranksters suggested)

More than that, I’m afraid that my neighbors will think that I’ve been chopped up into tiny bits and shoved down the garbage disposal because they haven’t seen me. Every time the phone rings, I figure it’s the cops investigating a possible homicide at my residence. You know, since Becky Sherrick Harks hasn’t been seen in nearly two weeks and even had groceries delivered (I hate ordering PeaPod).

I may not be particularly smart OR handy, but I am the person who is outside puttering around and staring at the car, willing whatever problem its having (JOHN C MAYER) to be fixed by sheer mental power alone. I’ll stand there staring, waiting until the solution jumps out at me, or my neighbor comes and points out out. I’ll let YOU guess which comes first.

So for me not to be outside at all is troublesome.

I’d guess that the neighborhood is going to be covered with HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? signs soon. Not because I’m popular, just because if someone goes missing in your neighborhood, do you REALLY want to say, “Oh, I did NOTHING about it?”

No. No you do not.

There will be a search of the neighborhood, I’d bet and maybe even some of those rescue body dogs. Hopefully the dogs will uncover another murder since I am not actually dead. Merely pasty and slug-like.

Eventually, one of the kids will inform the search parties, or the weeping “WHY GOD WHY” ladies that have never known me, yet feel compelled to cry at my “death” that I am not exactly dead, merely bored and stuck on the couch.

The search people will be mad, of course, but really, who do they have to blame but themselves?

I would have told them I wasn’t dead or missing.

Just a quick note to let you know that Aunt Becky is recovering well with her Painkiller Button Of Goodness.

To all who have pestered me for status updates, tweeted your well wishes, IM’ed, texted, or just thought of Becky while she went under the knife: THANK YOU. You guys go to eleven.

I know that Guilty Squid is preparing a guest post for the Internets but there seems to have been some sort of delay…so until then, or until they take away the Happy Button and send Becky back home to her crazy chilluns, I’m off to…uh…do whatever it is I do when, uh…Becky’s not around.

This is so weird.

I pretty much live in the awesomest neighborhood ever. There’s a house that passes out beer and “severed fingers” (hot dogs) to the parents. Someone up the block makes Irish coffee. A couple other people make mini-haunted houses for the older kids. Really, you can’t go wrong.

And I love Halloween. I haven’t been feeling well lately, so I didn’t get as into it this year as I normally do, but you know, can’t win at life ALL THE TIME.

I didn’t know what to expect this year. Ben shrieked for his first three Halloweens, Alex was flabbergasted for his first two, and Amelia was merely indifferent last year.

This year, Alex and Ben were full of the excited for Halloween.

I’m motherfucking fluttering, okay?

When Amelia saw Ben dressed like this, she ran around the house going, “ARRRR!” Because she knows a pirate says, “ARRRR.”

She rules.

Now the only child without a costume was Amelia. It’s not that we didn’t WANT to get her a costume or that we were all, “YOU CAN’T HAVE A COSTUME, AMELIA,” it’s just that every time any one of us tried to explain the concept of Halloween, we realized how absurd it sounded:

“So, we dress up as other people and then go ask our neighbors for candy.”

“We put on costumes and trick-or-treat.”

“We go door-to-door dressed up and say, ‘trick or treat.'”

Yeah. It sounds like that.

So of course, Amelia was baffled and I wasn’t about to drop a significant amount of cash on something that baffled her, so instead, I picked her out a reasonable costume at Old Navy, and figured at worst, she could wear some jammies. She’s a little girl. Who cares? If someone had an issue with a non-dressed up ickle girl, they could talk to my Fists of Fury.

When I got the costume in the mail, though, I made a big deal of presenting it to her, like it was this big prize. “OH AMELIA, LOOK AT THIS PRETTY PRETTY THING!”

She took a look at it, grabbed it from my hands and threw it on the ground and began to stop on it. I grabbed it away before she could take a shit on it. Her fury was hilarious if not slightly baffling. It was a fairy princess costume, not something that should really have evoked ire in a toddler. I mean, this is the child who loves pink, sparkles and Mary Janes. She’s my daughter, after all.

But…okay. To the closet it went.

Until yesterday.

She saw her brothers dressed up, and as she was getting on her ballerina jammies, on a whim, I grabbed out the Fairy Princess costume to show her.

She grabbed it from my hands, and instead of attempting to take of her diaper to take a whizz on it, she lovingly caressed it, then hooted her desire to put it on. When it was safely on, she ran over to the mirror to take a look at herself in the pretty dress. She smiled.

Then she went up to her eldest brother, stole his sword and the costume was complete:

It’s Amelia The Pirate Fairy, BITCH.

Where Alex, my ickle Jay was afraid to go from house to house the first year he could toddle around, Amelia marched up to each door, hooted when she got her candy, and ran as fast as her thunder thighs would allow her to the next house, keeping handily up with her brothers.

I swear, Pranksters, I was misty with pride. My girl, she’s fierce.

AMELIA, FUCK YEAH.

P.S. You should visit my home slice Peggy and her Etsy shop. Why? Because she’s crafty and I’m not.

A couple of weeks ago, because I’d been too busy watching dancing cat videos, I forgot that I had Jury Duty. I’d actually been pretty excited to serve, because I watch Law and Order: Their Life Sucks More Than Yours So Shut Your Whore Mouth like it is my job and I was all, “IMMA JURY OF MAH PEERS, YO” so when I opened my date book and saw I was four hours to late to show up, I panicked.

Immediately, I tried to figure out what to do when the cops showed up to bust me for contempt of court. I put on a full face of makeup and hid in the bathtub for awhile while I contemplated blacking out a couple of my teeth, just in case COPS, the TV show, showed up, too. I mean, this was my television debut, and I should act the part, right?

Eventually, I got cold and bored and the lure of Uncrustables pulled me from the tub. I put on one of those fake mustache and glasses, which meant that when the cops DID show up, I’d fool them. Clearly, I wouldn’t look like Your Aunt Becky any more. I’d look like an entirely different person now!

The following day, I realized that I liked to wait as much as I liked to cook (read: not at all), so I called the number on the back of the Jury Duty summons.

Me: “I’m a total idiot and forgot to show up yesterday for Jury Duty. I considered fleeing the country, but figured I’d call you first. I’m really sorry.”

Her: “Bwahahahaha! Happens all the time. We weren’t going to arrest you.”

Me: “OHMYGOD I hid in the bathtub for an hour. But it was really like twenty minutes. But still, I’M SO SORRY.”

Her: “BWAHAHAHAHA! The cops do have better things to do than stalk people who forget Jury Duty.”

Me: “OHMYGOD that’s so relieving. I didn’t want to have to adopt a new identity!”

Her: “No! You don’t have to do that! We’ll just put you back in the Jury Pool. When is good for you?”

Me: “Doesn’t really matter. I don’t have a job or anything.”

Her: “How’s November 8th?”

Me: “Sign me up!”

Her: “You got it.”

So there I had it. My new date in court! I was all a-flutter! I was going to help DECIDE THE FATE OF SOMETHING OTHER THAN A DELICIOUS UNCRUSTABLE. I couldn’t have been more excited.

Until, looking at my slightly unexpected surgery date, November 3rd, I realized that November 8th was…uh…kinda close. Like, really close.

I debated what I should do. Should I call and try to reschedule AGAIN? Get a doctor’s note? Limp my sorry ass in there with a cane and sexy drains hanging out, all doped up on pain meds?

SHOULD I FLEE THE COUNTRY AND ADOPT A NEW IDENTITY?

To think straight, I put on the fake mustache and glasses. Then I called the Jury Duty lady and left it up to her.

January 3.

Watch out, petty criminals: AUNT BECKY is coming to give you JUSTICE.

Probably while wearing my fake mustache. Just so I can think straight. AND so they can’t find me and firebomb my car or something. Because, obviously.

No one will recognize me!

Under the best of circumstances, I sleep like a hot bag of dicks. No, I don’t actually know what that’s supposed to mean because I’m tired.

It’s not like I lay awake worrying about things like normal people. No, I lay awake night after night with that Do-Do-Do-Do A Dollop of Daisy commercial going through my head. Or the Dora the motherfucking EXPLORER theme song. It’s an endless loop of irritation that seems to inflict the maximum amount of annoyance for the minimum amount of effort.

Last night, however, in a blissful turn of events, I was tired. Like bone-tired.

Happily, I curled up like a tic in my blankets and prepared for the blissful embrace of sleep to overtake me.

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK

Whaaaa?

I pried my eyelids open and sat up, dismayed. It sounded as though someone was rattling the door, trying to get in. Probably my cat, I grumbled, as I got up, preparing to boot him down the stairs.

Opening the door and squinting into the bright lights of the hallway, I was shocked to see…nothing. No orange tabby stupidly looking up at me as if to say, “What, me annoying?” Harumphing my way back to bed, I once again curled up like a bedbug and closed my eyes. Just as I was munching my way to dreamland on a delicious marshmallow sandwich…

THWAP THWAP THWAP

What the fuck?

Again, no dazed-looking orange cat, no NOTHING in the hallway. Just a rattling door.

After the fifteenth time, I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to let any rattling door distract me from my delicious marshmallow mountain-top slumber. So I carefully turned myself into a nice fire hazard and pushed a number of things against my door.

It worked…sort of.

All night, my bedroom door rattled, the windows shook, and every time I fell asleep, THWAP THUNK THWAP

Finally, at 7 in the motherhumping morning, while the kids slept peacefully (lucky assholes), I heard the ominous sirens.

Thar be tornadoes afoot.

Grabbing the small ‘ens, my iPhone and a Diet Coke (you know, the ESSENTIALS), we headed to the basement.

This is what I pulled up from Weather.com, after typing in my zip code (I live in Chicago):

Gee fucking, THANKS. I need to think about ITALY now.

Then, I noticed this priceless bit of information. I mean, I couldn’t live without this at 7 in the morning when I was stuck in the basement waiting for a twister to suck me up and dump me off in Kansas somewhere:

We can find out about the fish. And what they’re doing today. PHEW.

WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE FISH!?!?

And then there was THIS gem:

If you’re in the fucking tornado, why are you uploading shit to YouTube?

Douchebag.

Then, I was happy in the pants to note SOMEONE had finally busted out the Scare Tactics. FINALLY. Fucking FINALLY.

It wasn’t quite “Stairway to DANGER” but it was good enough for me.

Then, the tornado looked for more mobile homes to uproot. Sensing that St. Charles did not, perhaps, have any, it moved on.

But we’ve been left with a Gusty Bags of Wind Alert.

Which pretty much means that shit can get fucked up most of the day.

Also: by the end of this, Kansas may not be in Kansas any more.

Things that keep me up all night long (allllllllllll niggghhttt looonnnggg!)

1) Salt and Vinegar Flavored Chips. It’s like a party in my mouth. Yet. Gross. Yet. Delicious. Yet. Gross.

2) This is the shoe I need:

I can buy it in a midget size six or a boat-like size twelve. My feet are a healthy size nine. Why must I know that this shoe exists only to be UNABLE to own it?

3) The Turn The motherfucking Tub Around Commercial.

…….enough fucking said.

4) What were these designers thinking?

No, seriously. Who was all, “WOW, let’s put a SHELL on the vagina of this dress! It’ll look whimsical and fresh and not at all like a fucking VAGINA! Right on top of the vagina! Sweet!”

Because they should be fired.

5) Why isn’t RuPaul my best friend?

6) How am I STILL number one on Google when you search for John C. Mayer? Is John C. Mayer responsible for my neck issues? Does John C. Mayer REALLY hate me?

7) What does “He shall be “Le-VON” mean?” Does it mean, “be Le-VON” or “believe on?”

8 ) Why did Elton John sing about it anyway? Because either way, that sentence makes no damn sense. I’m going to sue Elton John for lack of sleep and emotional distress. You all are witnesses. Sorry.

9) Are perms going to come back into vogue, too? The bang thing is bad enough. Because if perms are coming back too, I’m moving to…uh….Mars. Or wherever bangs perms aren’t.

10) These don’t seem much like deals to me:

Except that like everyone I know on The Twitter lives in Kansas City, so I could probably go there and not have to stay in a hotel. I could be all, IT’S BECKY, BITCH, and The Twitter would be all, COME OVER, and if they weren’t, I’d be all, I’M HERE, and come over anyway and then get drunk and vomit all over everything which is totally making me sound like the kind of guest you DO NOT want. WHOOPS.

Mostly, I want to be all, “IS KANSAS CITY, KANSAS,” and then, “IS KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI,” and take gratuitous pictures of myself posing in the different states.

Because I thought Kansas City was a state for like a week.

(shut UP)

These pictures will join my coffee table book, “Aunt Becky Visits Various Traffic Islands.” It’s my new goal to make a book of pictures of myself in all KINDS of Traffic Islands all over the country.

This means I need to start traveling. Immediately. Pranksters, this has to happen. I need to physically visit Traffic Islands. Starting…now.

So pretty much, I need to go to Kansas City. But the rest of the “deals” are hilarious.

PS. THIS:

(how do you clean it?)

—————-

What keeps you up at night, Pranksters? Also: AUNT BECKY MEETS TRAFFIC ISLANDS.

When I first started blogging, I found myself fitting in, not with the other mom bloggers, but with the fringe groups. The infertility bloggers, the baby loss bloggers, the special needs bloggers, those were people I could identify with much more so than the people I was supposed to fit in with. Maybe I hadn’t lost a child, maybe I hadn’t struggled in that very same way, but I had struggled in my own way.

We were the outsiders. The misfits. We had stories that no one wanted to hear about. Elephants sat at our tables, in corners and we were forever on the outside of normal, looking in. It’s the natural progression, I suppose, that I would create a space for us to gather. I’m proud of that. There are many of us outsiders. So many more than I’d thought.

When my daughter was born sick, it was no surprise that it was these people that came to my side with swords to help me slay my dragon, fluffy tissues to wipe the tears, and a barf bucket for when it all came to be too much.

I have an email folder that I’ve carefully saved every email I’ve gotten from that time that someday, I will print out to show my daughter. Most of the emails are from the people like me. Like most of you. The outsiders. The people who have been through hell but know how to make the ride a little…easier.

Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss day. Every year, I do a Wall of Remembrance for the people who have picked me up, dusted me off and wiped the barf off my face when I needed it most.

For that, I owe them everything.

According to the Center’s For The Disease Control’s Website, about 1 in every 100-200 births in the United States results in a stillbirth. The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 4 million stillbirths occur yearly worldwide. The numbers for neonatal and postnatal deaths run into the tens of thousands.

Those numbers seem large to me, but even after having to take a statistics class to get through nursing school I can’t say that I’m much of a numbers person. My son, he likes numbers, which is why he’ll be off saving the world, one string of code at a time, while Your Aunt Becky sits here, mouth breathing and occasionally wondering aloud, “Is the INTERNET working?”

Numbers aren’t my thing. People are my thing. 1 in 100-200 sounds like a hell of a lot bigger number when you attach faces to those numbers. Faces, stories and names. People. My friends. My nieces, my nephews, their parents. Tables forever missing one. Lives cut short. Unlived.

Still born. Born still.

My friends. Their children.

Shale

Matthew

Charlie

Cora

Thalon

Maddie

Peyton Elizabeth

Hannah

Sarah Kay

Paige

Ashley

Hannah

Baby Morgan

Baby Twin lost at 8 wks

Kiara Jolie

Jellybean

Baby C miscarried at 12 weeks on 1/7/07

Robin

Brian

<3 speck, Peanut, and Bean <3

Mindy’s three angels

Baby Jersey Girl Gets Real

Caleb

Gabriel

Anne & Jed’s babies

Sydney

Athena Rose Moore – 24 weeks Gestation (2nd loss, only one named)

Baby 1 – 9 weeks

Baby B – Twin to my 13yo, 12 weeks

Baby 2 – 9 weeks

Baby JP

Kathlyn

Baby Cherry

Nicholas

Ellis

Tevin, Taylor & Tristen

Elijah Michael

Brenna

Kherrington Faith

Baby H and Baby Boy H

Kalila

Baby J A and Baby J B

Anna

William

Robert Alan

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Lilee

James and Jake

Aodin

Selena- lost pregnancy at 9 weeks

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Jacob Lane

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot and Andrew

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

Nathan Michael

Eva and seven additional losses

Timothy, Taea, and Thomas

Kyle S.

John Addison

Raime, Elora & Connor

Ava and Nathaniel

Rose

Micaela, Angelica, and Frankie

Donald Angus

ETW’s seven losses

Becca’s twin siblings

Piper Isabelle

Libby’s Baby

Baby Cline

Addison Hope

Ryne Moyer

Marcus Reeves

Julian Ulysses

Becky

Caleb

Sean Isaac

Clayton and Skylar

Jessica Anne

Paul James

Ashlynn Brooks

David Lee

Babies Boone

David

Olcott-Lueke angels

Baby A and Baby B twin girls

Baby Girl B and Baby Boy A

Becca’s Twin Siblings

Jackson

Kaitlyn Grace

Brennan

Ellery

Robert Daniel

Quinn

Josie Ree Smith

Isabel

Issac

Samuel and Amelia

Draven Fredrick

I’ll add any names to this list so if you’d like me to add a name, please don’t hesitate to email me aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com or leave me a comment.

I will be cross-posting this to Band Back Together as well. We also have a baby loss, child loss, and miscarriage category over on that site, so any stories you’d like to share over there would be more than welcome. The site has two loss mommas as founders.

At 7 pm tonight, October 15th, A Day To Remember, I will burn a candle in memorium.

Dona nobis pacem.

(give us peace) Lord, give us peace.

Last week was pretty much the best week ever. It was one of those weeks where everything, for once, just fell into place. Even my therapist and I joked, “you’d better watch out for falling anvils this week.”

So far this week hasn’t been the absolute antitheses of last but I do have a case of the Bluey-Blues. It’s mostly related, I think, to a migraine that I’ve had since Saturday. I’m tired of migraines and after awhile I do end up feeling kind of sad. Pain has a way of doing that to you, I guess.

Last night, I was determined to make myself feel better in the only way I know how: bedazzling things.

Now, you all know that Your Aunt Becky is not crafty, right Pranksters? If I tried to bedazzle anything, I’d end up gluing my face to the wall or accidentally bedazzling my cat. I’m not crafty. I’ll never be crafty. I’m okay with this.

So when I popped onto The Twitter and said that I was going bedazzle something, and quickly, I meant that I was going to BUY something sparkly. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

My go-to thing to buy when I’ve come down with a case of the bluey-blues are necklaces. I’m a fan of proFANity, but I’m also a huge fan of things that make me sparkle like a diamond. Pretty sure I’m part crow. Or magpie. Or, at the very least, octopus.

I’d been meaning to buy a Becky Necklace to match my Becky Belt for years. Last night, I thought happily to myself, was the night! The necklace, though, had to be sparkly (not real diamonds, of course), unlike my belt, which is a drab silver. That was my one stipulation, and I figured that would be no big deal.

I set my happy fingers to google and went to work.

I found many websites where I could easily make a “BECKY” necklace. That wasn’t going to do. I required bling.

I found a website where I could make a BECKY necklace out of diamonds. That also would not do. (if I am going to make a horrifyingly tacky necklace out of diamonds, I will go to the diamond district, thank you)

I found a website where I could add a single crystal to my BECKY necklace. Also, not enough.

It seemed that absolutely nowhere could create the masterpiece that I wanted. I simply couldn’t believe it. Certainly, I was not the only tack-a-rific person out there.

The best I came across was this:

I mean, not the Corinne, but “BECKY” because, obviously. But those aren’t crystals, they’re bits of silver. Which photographed well, but I’m not sure it will be as full of the awesome under the the lights of day. Which make me wonder, is it living up to it’s full bling potential? I can’t be sure.

Google, you’ve failed me. My bluey-blues have returned where they could have been easily fixed by a tacky necklace with my name in blinged out letters.

That makes me full of the bluey-blues, Google.

P.S. Pretty sure I’ve lost all “Becky” privileges. I will forever be known as Aunt Becky. EITHER WAY, I WANT A BLINGY NECKLACE WITH MY NAME ON IT, GOOGLE.