For a couple of weeks now, Amelia has been receiving weekly speech therapy. I’ve also taken My Pranksters’ advice and bought some Baby Signing Time DVD’s* which, which, while they have not necessarily helped my daughter (yet), they have succeeded in both annoying me (win), with their incredibly cheerful songs and entertaining my older two sons (double win).

Alex has taken to sign language like he takes to anything else: compulsively. So we watch the DVD’s (and their cheerful fucking songs) endlessly. He has them memorized and can tell you the signs for anything that he has learned. I’d be impressed, but I’m too busy trying to remove the Pizza Song from my long-term memory banks, where I’d much rather put my phone number or social security number or whatever.

The boys have been a huge help with trying to help their sister learn to speak and use sign language to communicate rather than point and shriek like a banshee.

The other night, however, the three kids were in the other room with the television watching their beloved Signing Time DVD when my daughter filled her pants. The boys, enraptured with the “I’m A Boy” song, didn’t notice.

Nor did they notice when their sister took off her loaded diaper and ran around the room.

It took a good couple of minutes before anyone noticed that my daughter was streaking around the room, covered in poo.

When we did, the entire room burst out into a single word. For all the words that we’ve tried to teach her that she’s stubbornly ignored, “Thank you,” “please,” “more,” “cereal,” “food,” my daughter learned this:

“EWWWWWW,”

Followed by, “Uh-Oh.”

Those totally count as words.

….right?

—————

*not a plug**

**I hate that I have to specify that.

————–

Over at Toy With Me, I spent more time swearing about cancer than I’ve ever sworn about anything ever.

I’m designing some Cancer is Bullshit shirts for Band Back Together with some of the proceeds going to charity. Doing good makes your ass look good.

P.S. If you don’t feel your story is “good enough” for Band Back Together, trust me, it is. We also are happy to take any reposts.

I’m also considering making some Prankster shirts. Is that lame or awesome? Shut Your Whore Mouth. If that’s lame, what’s better?

My awesome friend Katelyn’s Krafts is now featured on my sidebar, which is full of the win. She sells sassafrassy totes in her Etsy store. Win!

My older brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, who is ten years my senior, is still angry with my mother for dressing him in striped shirts for most of his childhood. Knowing my mother, she probably did try to stuff him into those hated striped shirts until he was well into college, so maybe he does have a point.

My mother gave me The Bangs that started at approximately the crown of my head and ended in a straight line at my eyebrows. The Bangs used most of my hair. The Bangs are the reason I shuddered when I saw that bangs came back into fashion a couple of years ago.

I cannot see bangs as anything other than The Bangs and I’m constantly terrified that a wandering pair of scissors is going to accidentally cut my hair into The Bangs again.

Uncle Aunt Becky, I don’t share your hatred of stripey shirts, but I totally get it.

Alex has made it abundantly clear that he’s all Sherrick (my middle/maiden name) and with the exception of the albino-translucent-don’t-let-him-in-the-sun-lest-he-set-on-fire-like-parchment he’s no “Harks” whatsoever.

Being a “Sherrick” means that there is only one way that things are done and that is the right way and if things do not go that way, you will simply poke-poke-prod-poke until they are done that way again. The PROPER way. If we eat ham on Easter, we’ll eat motherfucking ham every Easter until we have motherfucking PORK poisoning and it doesn’t matter if you hate ham, or if EVERYONE hates ham because we eat motherfucking HAM on motherfucking EASTER goddammit so you better get used to it!

I am *ahem* slightly less rigid than this (shut your whore mouth, Pranksters) but I certainly have quite a bit of Sherrick in me, too.

Alex, however is a miniature version of my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, minus the vampiric skin, of course. Uncle Aunt Becky is swarthy like Your Aunt Becky. I attributed a lot of his Sherrick-ness to being a toddler until I realized that actually, you can’t breed that shit out. Like the poo jokes he makes. Alex is 100% Sherrick.

(Man, I know I’m just making you all want to come to my house for Christmas. “NOW, it’s time for YOU to tell a fart joke, Uncle Aunt Becky! YES YOU!”)

Last night, I was ordering some cheap-ass clothes from the Old Navy website. I’m generally not a fan of disposable clothes, but I’m still losing the baby weight (thank you, my children for helping me pile on a fuck-ton of weight while barfing my brains out), and Old Navy is perfect for these sorts of things. Plus, I had a coupon, and buying things with coupons makes me happy in the pants.

So I was adding some fall clothes for me and I figured I’d be nice and grab The Daver some t-shirts while I was at it.

While I was looking at their men’s clothes, I saw that striped shirts for men were back in vogue.

Your Aunt Becky: “Uh, dude, weird. Striped shirts for guys?”

The Daver: “What?”

Your Aunt Becky: “Yeah, Old Navy is selling striped shirts for men.”

The Daver: “Really?”

Aunt Becky: “Steve from Blues Clues ruined those for grown men.”

The Daver: “Ha, yeah.”

Aunt Becky: “Although, he’s got to get a lot of soccer mom ass.”

The Daver: “Maybe if I wore them, I’d get a lot of soccer mom ass.”

Aunt Becky: “Or maybe you’d look like Waldo.”

The Daver: “Touche.”

Alex: “I want a striped shirt.”

Aunt Becky: “What?”

Alex: “Will you get me a striped shirt?”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, really?”

Alex: “Yes, please. May I please have a striped shirt?”

(he thought I was asking him to ask politely)

Aunt Becky: “Ooookay, baby. I’ll get you a striped shirt.”

Alex: “YAAAAAYYYY!”

This morning:

Alex: “MOM! WHERE’S MY STRIPED SHIRT!?!”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, you were serious?”

Alex: “Yes please.”

Aunt Becky: “REALLY!?!”

Alex: “I would like a striped shirt from the store.”

Aunt Becky: “I can’t wait to tell Uncle Aunt Becky.”

Now, if Amelia wants bangs, I may have to have stage an Intervention.

———————–

Poke-poke-poke-prod-poke. CHARITY POSTS. I rewrote the intro for the Fans of The David Cook who have been finding their way here, confused and alone.

I brought you a new guest post today, Pranksters, so that I can spend today lazily writing up resources for Band Back Together on such light topics as “Rape!” and “Abuse!” I’m practically taking the day off, really. This is my home-slice LittleBig, and she’s fucking hilarious. Don’t forget your charity posts, yo.

————-

Recently Aunt Becky asked me to guest blog and several hours later when I regained consciousness I was almost bitten by a black widow. Coincidence? I think not. She made me an offer I can’t refuse.

I couldn’t fathom why she’d ask me to contribute until I realized she was probably needed time off to listen to her John C.Mayer albums. (Ed Note: I fucking hate you, slut) She’s doing recon to reveal his weak points. So far she’s uncovered the fact that this wonderland he keeps talking about is actually some sort of lame Euro-Disney.

Let me introduce myself: I’m a wife, mother and librarian living the agricultural center of California. My life is a glamorous mix of trying to make ends meet, surviving through an autoimmune disease, and savoring the small moments that make life worthwhile.

I took advantage of the fact I was interviewed by NPR to say ‘bird porn’ and ‘butt wiggle’ on the radio. My daughter is a year and a half and when I’m not playing outside with her I’m digging through bins of junk at the local thrift store. I love the thrill of tracking down good vintage items so much that in a former life I must have been a tomb raider.

I’m going to tell you a story about the time my house was invaded by bees. I wrote the original story in about two minutes so this version is revised somewhat. Why this specific story? Because if you know me then you know I get a ton of hits to my blog from people searching for “motherfucking wasp website.” That’s me! Your virtual source for angry hornets.

It started last year when Isobel was just two sweet weeks old. My sister, who was living with us at the time, noted that our 25lb cat Zorro was acting strangely, even for him, and she went into the kitchen to take a closer look.

SHE FOUND A BEE. IN MY HOUSE.

A BEE! IN MY HOUSE!

Zorro had stunned the poor thing and between the two of us and a shoe we managed to kill it.

Now, I like bees. In fact, I’d say I’m fond of bees and am keenly aware of their necessary role in our food supply. I’m worried about the loss of native pollinators in the Valley.

But I had a newborn baby in the house and I wasn’t taking any chances. How the bee got in my kitchen was a mystery. We don’t have window screens so we never open the windows for fear the cats would get out. The only thing that seemed to fit was the air vent in the ceiling. At the time we had a pest control service, so I immediately got on the phone and requested someone come over POST HASTE to fix our bee situation.

I explained that we had a newborn. I didn’t have to explain that I was on the edge.

As much as I loathe the idea of spraying poison around our yard we have something of a black widow problem. Our house sat vacant for a year before we moved in an black widows established so many colonies we had (a mourning? a murder? a poisoning?) a SHITLOAD of black widows. I’d find them daily, sometimes twice a day, whenever I went outside. We temporarily decided it was worth it to get pest control.

Our Very Nice Pest Man arrived and searched for an entrance. He sprayed and double-sprayed. He said that most likely the bees were getting in from the attic. He could spray there but we’d have to load up the baby and cats and be gone awhile. I was not happy with the idea of bug-bombing the place with a newborn, so we decided to wait.

After that first incident, our Bee Incidences died down.

Occasionally throughout that summer we’d noticed Zorro flipping out and we’d realize we had another bee in the kitchen. Zorro would either kill it for us or damage it and we’d finish it off with the fly swatter. I’d like to say right here, right now that our cat Zorro is THE BEST DOG EVER AND I LOVE HIM.

Once the weather started cooling down in October our Bee Incidences stopped altogether. Winter saved our home from insect invasion better than The Very Nice Pest Man could.

Winter passed, and summer rolled around again. But this time it was different.

WE FOUND WASPS.

MOTHERFUCKING WASPS!

IN MY MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE!

As horrible as the bees were, this was a million times worse.

Yellow Jackets.

Even the name makes me shudder.

Have you ever been stung by a Yellow Jacket?

Those bastards don’t die with the sting the way THOSE POOR SWEET BEES DO. Those bastards ARE SADISTS WHO ENJOY YOUR TERROR AND PAIN. They sting you OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

Nobody is ever stung just once by a wasp. They are stung multiple times before the wasp flies off, FREE AND CLEAR, LIKE A HIT-AND-RUN DRIVER.

Wasps are terrorists.

Wasps are bullies.

And they were in our house.

We finally were able to determine (after much angst and hand-wringing, and multiple wasp-blows with a shoe) that they were indeed coming in through a vent. Perhaps they were coming in through our dilapidated roof, or perhaps they were coming in through our attic.

Either way, they were using the vent.

At this point we could no longer afford the services of The Very Nice Pest Man but I convinced Anthony that something needed to be done.

I was tired of these MOTHER FUCKING WASPS IN THE MOTHER FUCKING HOUSE.

He said, you’re right. Let’s go to the store.

At our local Hardware Supply Store we talked to a very understanding and sympathetic girl who was probably half my age.

What could she possibly know about wasps? I thought. She’s still learning the ways of the world!

She told us where we could not only get Yellow Jacket traps for the attic but also filters to physically block the vents that would still let air through.

I said, Thank you. We’ll take seven.

At this point we were averaging about four wasps per week which in my opinion is ten too many. This situation disturbed me so deeply I started having nightmares about it.

I’m happy to say that since Anthony installed the trap and layered our vents with filters we’ve had only one wasp issue, and that was because Anthony did not layer up one vent completely like I requested him to.

Since then we haven’t been troubled by wasps inside our house, but the experience has scarred me for life.

——————–

If you missed me, Your Aunt Becky (which, hi, you totally didn’t because I’m still laughing at this motherfucking post), here’s where I was this week.

HOW TO HAVE BETTER THE SEX. I bolded it because, well, obviously. Also, I had a troll tell me I was prude, so I motherfucking SHOWED HER.

I got interviewed over at Sex (SEE, NOT PRUDE) and the Single Dad.

My essay about my friend Stef is up over at The Drinking Diaries.

And holy shitballs, Band Back Together needs you. Yes you. Get your whore mouth over there. I know you have a story. So get your pants on (or off) and tell it.

John C. Mayer, you are providing the Internet with more happiness than I’d ever thought possible from someone who emotes to his guitar and writes songs about wonderlands and bodies and previously made Aunt Becky want to vomit. I hope that you know, John C. Mayer, that in the minds of 95% of people I know, John C. Mayer, you and I will be forever linked. That, John C. Mayer, is your legacy. Apparently, it is mine, too.

I only wish, John C. Mayer, that I had chosen a better, more douchy target to use for Pulling a John C. Mayer, like Dave Matthews, whom I still hate with the fire of a thousand flaming STD’s. Because the more I think about you, John C. Mayer, the more I really do like you.

So, Pranksters, we’re still going strong with the John C. Mayering of the Internet. How could we not? (I’m still adding posts to the original John C. Mayer call for posts page, so please, leave comments, links and track-backs if you have not).

—————-

I’ve gotten a couple of nervous comments about the new site, Band Back Together, and I wanted to make sure that you knew, Pranksters, that you are personally invited by me, Your Aunt Becky, to write there. A lot of the submissions that we’ve received thus far have been of stories that are very tragic and heartbreaking and I’m proud to have them over there as I think that the site is going to do so much good.

But.

I want you to know that even if your problems, your stories, don’t feel like they stack-up, and you don’t feel like they are as important as the ones you have read, you are wrong. I cannot begin to tell you how wrong you are.

Because you never know who is on the other end of that Google box, searching desperately for someone to connect with, someone who may have exactly the same problem that you face, and whether or not it’s “stacking up” against someone else, that’s not going to matter at all to the person on the other end.

And frankly, it doesn’t matter to anyone else either. This isn’t a Pain Olympics. There’s no judgment of who is more worthy of our sympathy and support. There’s no prize for Saddest Story.

We want your stories. We want you.

We’re none of us alone, remember. That includes you, not just the person who is deeper in the shit than you may be. Please, stop worrying about whether or not you deserve to be on the site because if you feel like you want to be there, you already belong there.

There’s light in every word, every single word you write, and somewhere, someone is reading what you say. You never know who is connecting with you and who you are helping when you open that blank document and start typing out your story. If one person – one single person – reads one post on the entire site and decides to get help, feels less alone, or makes a positive step, you know what?

We’ve done something good.

And there’s no way of measuring which post that is. It may be the one floating around your head. The one you’re afraid to write because you don’t think it’s enough. It is enough, Prankster.

So GO. And Write Hard, my Pranksters. Believe me, we want your stories. All of them. Old stuff, new stuff, any stuff you want to give us. We want you.

And while you’re there, please, pass on the word about the site.

———————–

Friday, I sold my car.

Not my Honda Odyssey or my CR-V, but my Acura.

I’d been meaning to sell it for years. It’s been sitting in the garage, unused, since Alex was born. It was impractical for driving my two crotch parasites around. Shoving three of them in there was laughable.

But this was more than a car for me.

I am a wanderer. This car was my lifeline.

Nights when I couldn’t sleep, it was me and my red car, nothing but endless black sky above and the road slipping by under my wheels, the hum of the engine keeping me company as I shifted seamlessly from second to third, third to fourth and finally fourth to fifth gear. The car and I were one.

The discs in my CD changer would flip quietly to the next as they each finished their set and we’d drive on into the night, wandering. Just me on my red horse. The nights were silent then, peaceful, the green glow of the dashboard my only company as the wheels turned on and on, the road whispering, beckoning, just a little further, kid, what’s down here, let’s take this right, you haven’t been here before.

I had a baby. Another. Yet another. The nights were complicated, full of colicky babies and ghosts. My car cried from the garage, come on kid, let’s go out, let’s take the night back, reclaim it for our own, let’s wander, just you and me, for old time’s sake. I’m gassed up and ready for you, kid, and you need me. I know it.

And I did. I still do.

That life, I miss that life more than anything. The wanderer is in my bones. Staying home, being Mommy, that’s something I do, but it’s not what my soul cries for at night, when the hours yawn on, the numbers on the clock seem to stand still and the road beckons me like a siren.

The van is a van. The CR-V is a truck. They won’t know me. They can’t wander. They don’t hug the road like a tight red dress, screaming with pleasure as I power-shift from second to fourth. They’ll never beg me hey kid, take the long way or go down that road down that way just to see what’s down there.

Eventually, I’ll get another car and I’ll start wandering again. I can’t deny myself forever; it’s in my blood.

The red car went to someone who will love it and for that I am happy. But my heart, my heart is sad.

It still longs to wander.

————

I finally got the links to my Ford Story: What Women Want interview, and it’s up over here, at We Know Awesome, if you want to take a listen. If I sound douchy, blame John C. Mayer and the tornado.

I randomly wage war on celebrities in the same way that I marry them. Anonymously. Because, who the fuck am I?

It’s mostly on The Twitter, or randomly to people that I happen to be chatting with, and it’s one of those things that you either find endlessly endearing or endlessly annoying, and frankly, it don’t matter none, because I’m not changing. Like my hatred of Angelina Jolie. It burns, even though I’ve tried to overlook it, while I’ve gazed upon her pillowy, do-good, sanctimonious cheating whore lips, I simply can’t.

It’s the same way I’ve pledged to love, honor and repay Dexter Morgan, the murderous fictional antihero television character, for the rest of my life. We’re getting married even though he’s a fake person. It seems easier than having a real husband, you know?

Last night, in a fit of rage, I Tweeted about how John C. Mayer was bullshit. Because he is. You know why? I’LL TELL YOU.

I had to listen to that fucking, “Your Body is a Wonderland,” song for years on the radio and I am telling you that it is one of the worst, most annoying songs I have ever heard in my entire life. You know what’s a wonderland? BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE WHO WROTE SUCH A WHINY PIECE OF DOUCHE ROCK. Like John C. Mayer!

*bam* *thwack* Whose body is a wonderland now, bitch?

Every girl I knew was all, “oh my GOD that song is soo….amazing. It’s like he just…read my mind! I love John C. Mayer and want to make babies with him! They’ll be sensitive babies, like John C. Mayer!!!!” Then, they’d cry.

And then my head exploded into a pulpy mass because that song is so fucking stupid.

My hatred was mighty.

Then, I was watching the Dave Chapelle show, and who should appear, but John C. Mayer himself. And…John C. Mayer, he was funny.

Pranksters, I don’t need to tell you that this enraged me further. I don’t think that someone who writes, like John C. Mayer did: “One pair of candy lips and your bubblegum tongue, uh uh uh,” is allowed to be funny.

But I let it go as a fluke. Dave Chappelle drugged him. That was the only explanation I could think of that made any sense. Or maybe it was osmosis–particles of funny went from an area of higher concentration (Dave Chappelle) to an area of lower concentration (John C. Mayer). Either way, I put it out of my head.

And when “Heart of Life” came out and I heard it for the first time, I had to download it in super-stealthy secret mode. How could I possibly tell the world that I liked a song that had been written by someone who I’d called “as horrible as mayonnaise?”

Simply put, I couldn’t.

The icing on the John C. Mayer cake came when I finally ate my piece of humble pie and signed up for a Twitter account. I’d been mocking Twitter as the most worthless, narcissistic thing since blogging for months. I mean, I cried, how could anyone really want to know when I went to Target? Was I supposed to say things like, “I have to take a shit, PLZ RT?”

It was probably a full year before I realized that certain celebrities also had Twitter accounts. Despite my aforementioned Television Husbands, I don’t actually follow many celebrities, mostly because I’m not a starfucker, but at some point, it came to my attention that John C. Mayer had a Twitter account.

A-ha! I cried. Victory will be MINE!

Most of the celeb accounts are pretty vanilla OR they show that the star is a blithering moron, and this, I was sure, would show me that John C. Mayer had bad grammar! John C. Mayer must spell “a lot” as “alot.” Then I could go back to feeling smugly superior about how much better I was than John C. Mayer and all would be right with the world.

Then, the unthinkable happened. My world came crashing down around me. I read John C. Mayer’s Twitter page. And JOHN C. MAYER WAS WITTY.

I could hardly tolerate the humiliation of knowing that my fake archenemy John C. Mayer was smart. And funny. And motherfucking witty.

It wasn’t fair! I wailed, that someone so douchy could be so fucking witty. But there it was, in 140 characters or less. John C. Mayer. Witty. Funny. Pithy. Smart.

John C. Mayer was someone I could see myself being friends with.

But last night, I went on a Twitter Rampage:

I routinely go through and block celebrities who won’t know or care that I block them because really, why the fuck not? I block and reblock Justin Beaver constantly.

Pants are totally overrated. Like condiments. And John C. Mayer.

Well, karma is a motherfucker. Not only did my server die, then, this morning, John C. Mayer broke my car. The TRANSMISSION on my car.

So, John C. Mayer, I’m sorry. I think you’re fantastically witty and terribly funny and it pains me to say that I’d love to be friends with you.

Even if that song sucks fucking ass.

————-

And then? There’s this (I didn’t get this today, though, because John C. Mayer still hates me), in response to the blogger who stole all those posts from people, including my Mother’s Day post.

So that? Is proof that sometimes you do win.

Even when you piss off John C. Mayer.

Now you can put on your Judgment Hats BEFORE I tell this story, which I would surmise, look as awesome as this:

Whatever, don’t act like you’re not jealous of my hat.

It’s my THINKING Cap, y’all (no it is. I wear it when I need to think of stuff-n-things).

So, Pranksters, you know and love me and my foul mouth, just like my children do. If I wanted to be all Blame Game about it, I could pin it on my mother, who taught me my first word: “FUCK,” and say that’s where it all began, but really, I’m kind of over the Blame Game.

I know these things to be true: I have a *ahem* colorful mouth, a dirty mind, and I’m the kind of person you don’t want to live with because I’m prone to warble Rod Stewart (love, love LOVE him!) and microwave marshmallows.

I’ve toned down most of my more awesome pairings of words in front of the kids (meat curtains, anyone?) because that’s what I needed to do, but I’ve never managed to stop swearing entirely. I know that I should and I know that it’s bad and I know that I should also grow my own organic food and stop drinking Diet Coke and probably live a life devoted to something more than polluting the Internet with my dim-witted drivel.

A couple of months ago, I was feeling masochistic and started watching 24, until I realized that I was more stressed out AFTER watching it than I was before (which is saying a lot, considering my stress level is always very high) and could no longer suspend my disbelief that Jack Bauer could hold his bladder for 24 hours a day.

That’s fucking BULLSHIT.

But I picked up Jack Bauer’s, “DAMMIT!” which I would say with precisely that inflection every single time I dropped something (read: every 2 minutes), stubbed my toe (read: every 10 minutes), or tripped over something (read: every 15 minutes).

So Alex, my three-year old picked up, “DAMMIT!” just the way Jack Bauer says it. When he dropped something, “DAMMIT!” When he fell down, “DAMMIT!” When something didn’t go his way, “DAMMIT!”

Which, when I found out it was a college drinking game, made it all the more hilarious.

I mean, okay, dammit is like the least offensive swear, and while I could have done better, IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE HOLY FUCKING SHIT, this is MY kid we’re talking about.

So, really, my speaking kids, the ones that whose minds I am responsible for shaping (don’t call CPS now) are 9 and 3 and somehow neither of them run around yelling, “WELL FUCKING SHIT, MOMMA, YOU GET YER DAMN WHORE ASS BACK IN THE KITCHEN AND MAKE ME SOME MOTHERFUCKING PIE!”

It means I’m doing okay.

Well, then you have The Daver, who is much more mild mannered than Your Aunt Becky. He’s quieter and more thoughtful and swears much less. No one would ever describe him as outrageous or colorful or obnoxious or brash or annoying or really anything negative.

Sunday, Alex was working on this gigantic marble contraption that he’d conned The Daver into buying:

And he dropped a handful of marbles onto the floor, which upset him very much, because Alex is a very focused and determined ickle guy.

Window open, neighbors right outside my son, clear as a motherfucking bell yells…

“FUCKING XXXX”

Something I can’t even repeat because it’s that offensive.

The pairing, however, of the two words he used together exonerated me, just as the pairing of the swear words that our FIRST son used. When I swear, it’s background noise. When Dave swears, the kids pay attention.

Turns out that The DAVER has taught both of our children to swear. Alex has given him a nice choice phrase–easily something to offend everyone*–just in time for his 32nd birthday, which is today!

Happy Birthday, Daver!

*I cannot wait for Alex to use this one around Dave’s parents. No, really, this will be EPIC.

Yay Pranksters! Today, I have my homeslice Miss Grace of Miss Grace’s Disgrace doing a GUEST BLOG for me. Which is rad because she’s one of the nicest bloggers you’ll ever meet. AND she’s hot. AND she’s snarky. Which is an odd mix. Normally when you say, “she’s nice” you’re saying, “she’s ugly” or something, you know?

Not so, Little Butterflies. Miss Grace is smoking. She was my inaugural BlogHer Hump. But she’s here and she’s awesome and I’m proud to have her.

—————–

It’s time! Time to break one of the cardinal rules of blogging! Gather round children, cuz I’m totes talking about Hated Coworkers.

Yay!

People!

PEOPLE WHO I WANT TO PUNCH IN THE THROAT!

1.  I’m Controversial Because I’m GAY!!1! coworker.

Incredibly irritating, accomplishes NEGATIVE work via diminishing work of others.
Unfathomably bitchy, and, as a bonus, he ENRAGES me by presuming that if anyone doesn’t like him, it’s because he’s gay.

It’s not because you’re gay, you ASSHOLE, it’s because you drain the life force out of my body with your presence, crushing my will to live. I don’t hate you because you’re gay, and now I hate you EXTRA for thinking that I hate you because you’re gay.

2.  Girl with the Unfortunate Tits.

Now I have no high horse about boobs.  Mine served their mammalian function for a year and a half and now they’re all milk-flappy and….unpleasant. No.High.Horse.

However. I don’t come to work with my chi-chis spilling over the top of my two-sizes-two-small skank shirt. Anyhow. This girl? Aside from an irritating personality I mean. This girl? She dresses like a whore for male attention, which, fine. Do as you will. But her bewbs are super fucking disturbing in that they start sagging from like, the collarbone?

Kind of?  It’s impossible to explain but ifyou’ve ever ogled her tits then YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. And OF COURSE PEOPLE ARE STARING AT YOUR TITS.  They are staring in HORROR. And it kills me because her goal is, in fact, the stare-at-my-tits attention factor. But I don’t think you realize why I’m staring.

3.  Old Men Who Ogle Me, exhibits A, B and C. (Hypocritical Much?)

I try REALLY hard not to show my ‘tas at work, because that’s not….just….these men are, all of them, older than my father, and I don’t think they REALIZE that they’re older than my father?

I mean, my dad’s pretty young. But still. STILL. Anyhow, bewbage in the workplace is never the plan. And these men, they are not TRYING to look at my chest, or stare, or anything. But! I’m a girl and I can tell when someone checks out my rack and GAH THIS HIGH NECKED SHIRT WAS INSUFFICIENT.

4.  Dude who wears the cologne of a marine trying to date rape 19-year-old girls in Tijuana. (AKA Cool Water)

5.  Lady who wears the perfume of someone’s dead grandmother, at ten times the recommended potency.

6.  Inability to Read Social Cues Girl!

I HATE YOU STOP TALKING TO ME CAN’T YOU SEE THAT YOU MAKE ME FEEL DEAD INSIDE OHMYGOD ENOUGH.

7.  Passive Aggressive Email Chick.

8.  Lady who sends all the
forward-this-to-ten-people-and-an-angel-will-kiss-your-soul emails.

9.  Profusely Sweating Dude, who smells like he lacks a sphincter.

Your turn to dish on some annoying coworkers, Pranksters! Yay!

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I’ve been publishing a post a day (which is why there’s a delay in it being posted) on Mushroom Printing, and if you’ve submitted one and you’re interested in promoting it once it’s up, just leave your email address on the top with a request to be emailed when it’s up.

Otherwise, I’ve been putting them up in the order they’ve been submitted.

Keep on, keeping on, Pranksters. Mushroom Printing is full of the awesome.

Summer holidays always confuse me. Not just because I think the only one worth celebrating is my birthday, which, *ahem* I did change from the actual date of my entrance into the world (July 15) to a day that should be less, well, cursed (July 28) on Facebook, which is kind of like when you say you’re “in a relationship” on there. It means it MATTERS now.

We’re going STEADY, me and my birthday!

With the exception of my national-holiday-birthday, I don’t get summer holidays. I mean, day off, FUCK YEAH, but we’re not like Jello Mold Salad people who burst out the limbo stick and dust off the old camper on Memorial Day or Labor Day. Probably because I don’t HAVE a camper but mostly because my idea of “roughing it” involves staying in a hotel without room service.

I have lots of traditions, but none of them involve setting up a tent in the middle of the woods where there are earwigs and trees and possibly rabid squirrels that might want to eat my face off while I sleep. I mean, if I want to “get back to nature” I can turn on the National Geographic Channel and not immediately flip through to a Law and Order: You’re About To Be Depressed marathon.

I’m all for a good BBQ, don’t get me wrong, so long as it doesn’t involve any additional planning on my end. Encased meats are kind of my thing, so any chance to roast weenies on a grill makes me happy in the pants (GO MEAT!), but if I have to turn a relaxed, “get your ass over, fuckwad,” invite into,

“Miss Rebecca Sherrick Harks kindly requests your presence at Casa de la Sausage at one ‘o’ clock in the afternoon on…”

then I’ve lost something in translation. I don’t want to have to turn a Labor Day BBQ into a LABOR DAY BBQ. Because then I have to clean and make appetizers and put on pants and we all know how much I hate pants.

This Labor Day, I’m torn. Since I’m clearly not going to be camping or hosting a Jello Mold Party, I’ll be doing one of two things (while eating encased meats pantsless, of course). Making Skittles Vodka or designing a proton accelerator.

Or maybe both. Why have or when you can have and?

———

Are you a Summer Holiday Family? If so, can I come over and celebrate with YOU? Even if I’m not wearing pants? Because pants are BULLSHIT.

First, I have to say that I love you all so much that I am thoroughly overwhelmed by all of your love. Thank you.

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So when I say that I’m “not a wedding person,” it’s kinda like saying, “I’m a little stupid.” They’re both understatements that lead to things like, oh, losing your best friends and having to go topless, while riding an angry llama down the aisle of a church* as retaliation.

Weddings are bullshit, Pranksters. I’m love a party like I love a parade, but maybe it’s too many years of serving rubbery chicken and listening to the same vows over and over, or maybe it’s attending the same wedding over and over, I don’t know, but I’d rather gnaw off my fingers than go to a wedding.

I need to be clear: marriage, I’m all for marriage. I am also all for parties, open bar, and gatherings that include dressing up and/or humiliation of my best friends. But please, spare me the Funky Chicken. Take back your plate of gelatinous fish. It’s all the same rinse, repeat, cycle over and over again.

As for me, I’d be down with a quickie Vegas wedding, if I had to have one at all. Frankly, I’d get married in a Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt and happy pants at the JOP office. I love Pomp and Circumstance and any chance to drip with diamonds, but not when I have to fake brideliness.

Last weekend, I’d been invited to a wedding for one of my oldest friends, and, oddly (I say oddly because you’ll actually know them, Pranksters), the friends who make my SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH SHIRTS.**

I had no freaking idea what to expect out of this wedding other than that it was in Indiana, which is a state (apparently) that borders the state that I live in (no, not chaos. Illinois) where I have never been. I’ve lived in Illinois my whole life and never been to Indiana or *looks at map* Iowa.

So it was going to be an adventure. Especially since shit has been so fucked up that I’ve been more scattered than normal and barely got a babysitter for the kids in time to go. Because I thought the wedding was this weekend. (I also booked the wrong plane tickets for Type A Mom, which goes to show that my mind has really been elsewhere).

Hitting the road Saturday morning, it dawned on me that Indiana is one of those fucked up states that is a different time zone than Illinois, which operates under the superior time zone of Central Standard Time. Quickly, I whipped out my iPhone and googled the name of the teeny town that the wedding was held in and sure enough, there it was, Eastern Standard Time. Which meant that I was now an hour late.

I’m sorry, but states that butt-hump each other should NOT be on different time zones. When I rule the world, along with mandatory naptime I will make sure that this is the law.

Because I can’t keep anything to myself, I told Twitter, who had a hearty laugh at me, patted my head like the good dumbass that I am, and then the open road called to me. Shockingly, through some miracle of space and time, the wedding was NOT on EST and therefore I was early. Huh.

Indiana, oh, Indiana, I have to say that I love you since you are not Wisconsin, the archenemy of Illinois, but really, I’m not sure that you altered my perception of the world. Except that I learned that Air Supply was still touring. Casinos. In Indiana. I got horribly depressed about that, even though I didn’t know any Air Supply songs.

Anyway, back to the wedding.

First thing I noticed was that although the invitation said this would be a wedding in a barn and backyard, it was freaking awesome. I think barn, I think people humping sheep. This was not that kind of barn, Pranksters. THIS barn had stainless steel appliances, a full bar, a full bathroom with a shower, a pool table, slot machines, and immediately I tried to move in.

I probably would have to remove the bar signs, but I was okay with that. It also needed a pinball machine. I desperately require a pinball machine.

I was aghast that a barn could be cool. I’d always assumed that barns were merely used as a place for animal husbandry.

This was the point where I realized that the more pictures I took in the place, the more I could claim that, yes, I did live there. Why the hell else would I have so many pictures of myself there?

It’s also the point where I realized that this barn had a kitchen nicer than my own.

It’s at this point when the homebrew of my Metal Friend Scottie kicked in. Oh, did I mention this was a METAL wedding? And that these people are REALLY why I’m like this? Because it’s true.

The Metal Heads started popping into my pictures. There’s Scottie.

And that would be Evan, one of my BFF’s.

After we got suitably toasty, I watched one of my oldest friends get married. I’ve known him since we were both 14, and it was just so awesome to see, which means that my heart is slowly melting. Shut UP.

Then, the coolest thing I’ve ever seen at a wedding happened: a Moon Bounce was blown up. Dude. Pranksters. At my next wedding, I am SO getting a Moon Bounce AND a Ball Pit (one that hasn’t been peed in by small children) and it’s going to be epically awesome.

During the toasts, which normally are only interesting to the people involved (and then only marginally, because let’s face it, not everyone is a good speech writer, myself included), we toasted to meat. MEAT! Meat is like my third favorite thing on the planet, only beaten by the word “cacophony” and strawberry lip gloss.

Toasting to meat is very serious business, you see.

Metal Weddings are, apparently, the best kinds of weddings. I even remembered all of the stuff I’d learned from strippers over the years. Who knew?

*Okay, it was leading the prayers, but still.

**I’ve been asked about the sizing, and I wanted to tell you that for women, I’d order up a size. They’re SUPER-flattering (in a bizarre twist that I couldn’t even predict), but they do run a little small. For example, I have big boobs, and normally wear a M or L. I wear a L or XL in these shirts. But trust me, you’ll look fucking hot.

Also, colors? I need to reorder shirts and what colors should I order, yo?

P.P.S. If you do buy them, I want to make a Flickr group of Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts and you should send me a picture of yourself in one. Or doing something weird in one. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

It was a good thing that I was lying down when they told me my first crotch parasite had a hot dog instead of a hamburger or I would have probably fallen over. I was 158% certain that the baby who had HER feet stuck up in MY liver was a GIRL, thankyouverymuch and her name was going to be Elise and excuse me?

SHE has a PENIS?

What the hell kind of GIRL has a PENIS?

Where did you get your ultrasound degree ANYWAY, lady? SEARS?

But she zoomed in and showed me a dangly bit and a comically large sack, and assured me that it wasn’t some circus freak of a girl/boy I was carrying. Nope, I was having a BOY. A bouncing beautiful baby BOY. (I made up the beautiful part because he sort of looked like a pixelated version of the blob)

I was TERRIFIED. We’d gone in for an emergency ultrasound because the doctor had heard “something” on the fetal heart tones that made him “unhappy” and I couldn’t get what specifically that was, and although I was only twenty at the time, I did love my baby, despite what all of the people who came up to tell me my business thought (oh, Pranksters, you have no idea, except those of you who do).

His heart turned out to be just perfect and his twig and berries, well, they were unexpectedly there, but fine as well.

And now, I was a mother. Of a boy. Pretty sure I was soon to be a single mother. Of a boy. I was shitting my pants. Or I would have been, had the prenatal vitamins allowed for it.

Several weeks before he was born, stuck for a name, it came to me suddenly and I named him Benjamin, meaning “son of my right side” and hoped that he could be a kind, strong, good and sweet person.

He is. That and so much more.

When I found out I was having his brother, Alexander, I scoured the shelves at the toy store to find him a non-girly baby doll, and when I did, Seth came home with us. Still Seth is a fixture in my house and he frequently is put down for naps, gets bottles, and gets his diaper changed.

Alex came rocketing into the world, in March of 2007 and I can tell you that no one was more excited than Ben.

I implore you to a) ignore the horrid jacket that my darling firstborn son is wearing because I DID NOT DRESS HIM and 2) please look at Alex’s face. It’s HILARIOUS. It’s also the way Alex looked for an entire year.

It turned out that all of the fears I’d had about having boys were unfounded. Of my children, if I am to fall down and hurt myself, it is my sons who will run over to comfort me and wrap their spindly arms around me until I assure them that I am fine. Amelia may come over and investigate, sure, but it will only be to then hurl something large at my head.

(she is her mother’s daughter and my clone in just about every way)

And Alex, oh sweet Alex, the small love of my life, he has his baby, too:

Sure, maybe he carries the thing around by the top of her head and sometimes throws her at the wall for a laugh, but his heart is so crushingly huge that I sometimes wonder if he really is related to me. And then he farts and laughs hysterically and I know that he clearly is.

It’s when they pile on top of me, the three of them, all elbows and knees and giggles, like a squirmy pack of puppies, that I know I’ve done right by them.

And I am happy. If I do nothing else in my life, I have done right by my children.