After careful deliberation upon Monday’s Cake song fiasco, I have been thinking a lot about love songs. Sometimes, a girl likes to listen to a song that makes her want to eat a delicious Uncrustable and rub the food baby while thinking about love songs.

1) Bob Dylan When The Deal Goes Down I grew up teething on Blonde on Blonde, and was intensely wary of any of his new stuff (especially after he went Christian in the 80’s) but Modern Times is one of the most amazing albums you will ever listen to. It’s also the perfect album to have The Sex to, if you’re into that sort of thing. This song in particular, though, isn’t about humping, it’s about love. And, despite my wariness of such things, this is a beautiful love song.

2) Christina Aguilera Save Me From Myself. Now, okay, those of you without vaginas are going to be all ZOMG Aunt Becky this song has to suck, but it’s actually a stripped down acoustic song. Just her and a guitar. It couldn’t be a sweeter, simple love song. Plus, for those of you wedding people out there, if you click the link, it’s the official video and you get to see some of her wedding.

3) Carlos Santana and Dave Matthews Band Love of my Life. I’ll be honest that half of the reason I love this song is because the guitar is like fucking melted butter because it is. Also it makes me sort of want to drink Coronas in the Caribbean with my Cabana boy Carlos, but, you know, what doesn’t?

4) Queen Somebody To Love. Recently this song was covered marvelously by the cast of GLEE and it was tasty as well, but this song? Ah-Maz-ING. I mean, who can’t relate to this song? It’s infectious and upbeat and it’s motherfucking QUEEN. That’s pretty much all you need to hear to know that it’s an awesome love song.

5) Prince Pussy Control. This song probably makes more people think of me than any other in the world. Is that a good thing? I DON’T KNOW. Anyway, this song is VERY not safe for work, like at all and it’s pretty much full of The Awesome and should probably be YOUR theme song too. He also wrote it for his wife which is probably the most romantic thing EVER. No, I am swooning, actually. LISTEN TO THIS AWESOME LOVE SONG.

6) The Darkness I Believe In A Thing Called Love. Okay, so this is the 2000’s first revival of glam rock and seriously people, it’s fantastic. Maybe you wouldn’t dance yourself down the aisle to it (although I threatened to dance myself down the aisle to it), but the song is a golden love song. And the video is amazing. Also, when it came out, I got 78 voicemails saying “ZOMG BECKY YOU NEED THIS ALBUM.” Apparently my friends know me.

Because I did need it. Just…watch it. You can thank me later. And if you DO happen to use it as your wedding song, I AM COMING TO YOUR WEDDING.

7) Beyonce Halo. Okay, this song proves that underneath it all I am a sap because it makes me tear up. Like a lot. I might even be crying as I type this. Shut the fuck up. And it isn’t just because Beyonce and I both go by “B,” it’s because the song is all about falling in love. Which, I think, is supposed to make you tearful. Or gassy. I don’t know. All I know is that I firmly throw this into the “love song” category.

8 ) Ray Charles/Van Morrison Crazy Love. You take two of my favorite voices, mash them together, and you have this song. Words can’t describe it. This is probably one of the best love songs I’ve ever heard.

9) The Village People YMCA. This was supposed to be my wedding song until a certain PARTY POOPER decided that it wasn’t a good first dance number. First, the church nixed dancing myself down the aisle to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” and then Daver nixed the YMCA. I should have eloped with a pillow after all. I bet IT would let me listen to this love song (that’s totally NOT a love song).

And I am not kidding. This was an ACTUAL fight we had. A BIG one too. The ONLY thing I won about the wedding was the cake.

Thank God the cake was awesome.

10) Faith no More Just A Man. This is probably not a traditional love song, especially since it’s included on an album with a song like “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies” (a great song), but shit, this is one of the best albums I’ve ever heard and this song is fucking fantastic. Actually, I’m not sure that Mike Patton even likes women. He might like to have sex with food, but really, who am I to judge? I wanted to dance to the fucking YMCA.

Scene: Friday/Saturday night in a tiny cinderbox of a dorm room.

Aunt Becky pokes at a water bra she is wearing that she’d borrowed from a girl down the hall marveling at the jiggliness of her new-found perky sweater kittens. She lays in her bed, chain smoking Parliament Light 100’s while occasionally poking her now very pert chesticles, drinking a vodka/diet coke and looking incredibly annoyed.

She scowls at the CD player, which is playing an endless loop of Cake’s “Never There” where two boys are standing, near-crying and singing it at top volume. Rolling her eyes every time they click the BACK button to hear it again, she takes a drag off her cigarette and wonders how to ditch the lamewads.

When I was in college, my two best guy friends would frequently come and stay with me for the weekends when my passive-aggressive roommate was off doing whatever it was she was doing when she wasn’t torturing me by IM-ing her boyfriend at all hours of the day. Maybe designing new POW interrogation techniques or something. We had a tiny dorm room, but somehow we managed to cram the three of us in there for the weekend and we’d make mischief and mayhem throughout the city.

Until they both got lovesick.

I had no issues with either of them dating other girls, since I wasn’t dating them and while we occasionally “slept together” really, it was actual sleeping and nothing else. Even then, I learned not to blur the lines.

But the two of them, Evan and Mikey, they both had girlfriends who went to schools in other parts of the country, and while I was single, it never seemed to matter much. Or if it did, I may have been known to their girlfriends as “their friend ‘BRIAN.'” I’m not sure that it was revealed to their womens that I had a vagina, even if they never saw it.

One weekend, the three of us got spectacularly drunk and rather than lock each other into the shower or go and try and wrap each in toilet paper (so we could look like mummies!) or something, they got moony over their ladies. And HOLY FUCKBALLS did they get melodramatical.

They somehow got their grubby hands on my Cake CD and decided that “Never There” was their theme song. Drunkenly, they wailed it. They cried to it. They pounded their collective fists at the injustice of having to wait weeks to see their lady-loves. They ruined the fucking song for me.

A song, I might add, that I barely liked in the first place because really, if you’re going to pick a song to be moony about, why not Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here?” I can think of 10 better songs* to be all “ZOMG!! I LOVE SOMEONE WHO IS NOT HEEERRREE!” and never, ever does “Never There” make the list.

So there I sat, on my bed, which was approximately 3 inches wide, poking my boob and giggling while it jiggled, rolling my eyes, blowing smoke in their direction (and hoping it would get into THEIR eyes, giving them a better reason to cry then over some trashy bitches). Eventually, I left them a box of maxi-pads to cry into and went out with my other friends to do…something else.

Really, anything was better than listening to those two vaginas cry over their girlfriends.

I say the term “vaginas” with the utmost love, because one of those vaginas was my Man of Honor at my wedding and stood up next to me while I promised to love, honor, and repay The Daver for slapping a ring on my finger. He’s the uncle to my kids and one of my best, most devoted friends. Even if he does have a gaping vagina.

ALLEGEDLY.

That would be this one:

Evan, shown here at my bridal shower. He was forced to sit between his mother and mine, who sat there for the entire shower, discussing how they’d planned out OUR wedding for years. In front of my future mother-in-law. Let’s talk about awkward, shall we, Pranksters?

Anyway. He’s clearly wised up and no longer is dating the Never There girl, and only this weekend was I able to listen to that song again after it randomly came on my Nano, without wanting to drive a spike through my brain.

Also, I am going to be murdered in an unusually gruesome way for posting this story, so it was really, really nice knowing you all.

*That is an utter lie. I could think of only one. “Wish You Were Here.” Which I referenced. What am I missing? I tried to think about it but got calliope music stuck in my head.

When I first started dating The Daver, it must have been right around a new school semester starting for me in school. He was already a Working Person, and while I did work, I slung beers and pizzas on the weekends while I cared for my son during the week. He had a Big Boy Job and I was a student.

When I told him casually that “I needed a day planner” I was envisioning the paper and pencil kind that I was accustomed to. Perhaps I’d find one with a trippy graphic on it that I could perhaps draw something lewd–like a whimsical penis!!–on. My only real stipulation was that it was notebook sized. I didn’t and still don’t particularly like to scrawl notes in tiny hieroglyphics with pens designed for mice.

“No way,” The Daver was adamant here, “You need a PDA.”

“Um.” I hated to break it to him when he was being so fucking cute and forceful, but I knew I needed a PDA like I needed more baby daddy drama.

“No, you do. Here, let’s go get you a nice one.” He quickly executed a 3-point turnabout and drove into the Worst Best Buy parking lot. Out of the car he sprung and leaving me no choice but to trail along behind him, I followed him into the store unhappily.

Best Buy is NOT my happy place.

Quickly he steered me over to the PDA section and handed me a box. “Here,” he said confidently, “I’ll buy you THIS.”

It was approximately 76,000 times as much as the paper one I was looking at but he was so fucking earnest about it that I said only, “Um. Okay.” Maybe he was right. I could probably learn something from him.

“On one condition, The Daver,” I bargained with him. “I need a Coach PDA case.”

“Deal.” He said quickly.

I spent the next 3 days painfully entering all of my information into the stupid thing, all of my contacts (which I took from my cell phone, which really WAS my lifeblood, lest you think I was a total technophobe), all of the syllabuses, all of the stuff that I’d need for the next semester and I put it in it’s happy pink Coach PDA case and stuffed it into my backpack.

THERE, I thought to myself. LOOKIT how professional I look!!

I practiced whipping the PDA case out and entering something furiously into it like I always saw the commuters doing on the train, and I felt pretty cool for upwards of 2.4 seconds. Until I realized that I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Then, I forgot to charge the fucking thing and lost all of my painstakingly entered data. Then I lost the power cord for the thing. I considered flushing it down the toilet, but decided against it since I didn’t ACTUALLY buy it myself.

I furtively went out and bought myself an actual day planner and happily used real ink to write down my schedule for the next several months, happy to be dating a technophile, but just as happy to not be one myself.

Which is why it’s weird that on April 3, Mr. FedEx will be bringing me–Your Aunt Becky–her very own iPad. I actually pre-ordered the newest piece of technology for myself. It’s like I’m looking in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself anymore because it’s not even the $20,000 diamond iPad.

The Daver has been mocking me since I pre-ordered it, which is even weirder. It’s like we’re turning into the other person which means I should develop a love of whiny emo music and he should turn into a huge Britney fan. I guess I’m not that worried, because I’ll still never, ever enter my calendar information into it. Like, ever.

Because entering “FUCKING SURVIVE” every day is kind of depressing.

Most of the essays went out last night for signing up for Das Book. If you haven’t gotten yours, shoot an email to dave@copyontherocks.com and you can tell The Daver your woes (or offer him a marriage proposal. Whatever.). If you haven’t Pledged Your Allegiance to the Book, you should! FREE! ESSAY!

——————–

Somehow, I managed to score the nomination AND won the pick for the Hot Blogger Calendar, Pranksters. Now. I have no doubt that this will be pretty hilarious, because I’m hoping to be dressed like a gigantic Uncrustables for the shoot. Really, there’s nothing hotter than a chick dressed as a peanut butter sandwich, am I right?

(please don’t answer that)

Anyway, as I was looking for a different, yet equally humiliating picture to share with you, I came across another stash of ridiculous shots. I thought today would be a perfect day to share with you some more shameful pictures. Pretty sure you can’t take back your vote now.

*rubs hands together evilly*

I’ll even throw down a Mr. Linky for those of you who want to play along on your own blogs, because Your Aunt Becky is a giver of all kinds of wonderful things. Like headaches! And VD! But that is neither here nor there.

First, we’ll start here. This is my brother and I (you can call him Uncle Aunt Becky) when I was in college. While I know my hardcore-ness might be freaking you out THROUGH THE COMPUTER and causing you to perhaps pee in your pants, I assure you that I am safe around children.

And for the record, we were leaving to go on a motorcycle ride.

Oh, shut up.

Fresh from listening to Mambo #5 for the 804,746 time in a row while short Mexican men poured gaily colored tequila down my throat from industrial sized plastic jugs, I stopped to take a breather. This picture was snapped before I had to go do the motherfucking Macarena AGAIN.

And while that appears to be a pair of Tighty-Whities next to me, I genuinely have no idea what the hell it is. Knowing me, it probably is.

I liked this picture for 2 reasons.

a) it looked like I was either going to have sex with the camera or punch it (which is how I take most pictures)(watch out, BlogHer).

2)It shows off what a gigantic fucking nerd I am.

This is a shot of me in college taken from behind the bar where I worked. I don’t know if I was working or not, but clearly I was studying my balls off while drinking MILK. Lest anyone think I was exaggerating what an overachieving freak I was, there is the proof.

Also, if you look closely, my hair is highlighted pink! WHIMSICAL!

This is the best picture ever, and not just because you can clearly see my hot pink bra through the white shirt (what did I say about looking like I either want to have sex with the camera or beat the shit out of it?).

Okay, let me back up a second for anyone who doesn’t know the story behind this. When nurses graduate nursing school, they’re pinned (and no, sadly, not like in WWE Smackdown or like a porno) and there’s this big ceremony. A couple of days before, they get their pictures taken.

Except, I wasn’t all that excited, you see, so I was blowing off the whole thing. Really, I didn’t give a shit about it, so I showed up the day of the picture shoot looking like cat shit in a bag. I mean, who the hell was I gonna send my nursing school picture to? I don’t exactly have the sort of family that would happily display my picture on their wall.

My friends didn’t approve so they hijacked me, sat me down with some crusty old makeup they found lying around and made me take the picture. Wasn’t even my shirt, yo. And I was pissed because I couldn’t see a fucking thing because I didn’t have my glasses (or contacts) on.

So, I took the damn picture, paid roughly $500 for it, and still have the entire set of them in my room. I mean, really, who the hell wants a reminder that I was a nurse for like .005 seconds? I guess I could send them out as gag gifts to people or something. “Remember when I thought I was gonna be a nurse? PSYCH!!”

Now that I think about it, maybe it should be my Christmas Card pictures this year. It beats the one of the inside of my colon I was going to send.

Also, I don’t think that even based on these pictures, you can recant your vote for the hot blogger calendar. SORRY.

Alright, pranksters, for anyone who wants to play along with humiliating pictures on your OWN blog, here’s Mr. Linky:

2: Copies of “Build Me Up, Buttercup” that I now own.

1: IMPOSTOR copy of “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” that I unwittingly bought from iTunes like the moron that I am, making me angrily stamp my feet and mope about the house for being duped.

89: Golden Oldies in my collection.

Infinity: amount of shit I get for jamming out with my clam out to The Golden Oldies.

0: Times I have hit up the Blue Plate Special, despite my predisposition for Music That Brings Me Back to A Gentler Time.

0: Times I have hit up BINGO at the Old Folks home, despite listening to the Supremes croon on about their “Love Child.”

2: Teenage Death Songs in my collection of Golden Oldies.

2: Teenage Death Songs I used to sing as lullabies to my eldest son.

72,073,071,746: times I’ve wondered if that somehow warped him.

5: Members of my family who have succumbed to The Death Flu Round eleventy-five

3: degrees of fever I currently have.

98,746: Times I wondered if I could sue my children–and be victorious–for being demon germ factories.

1: Odd nomination for Hot Blogger Calendar.

28,975,757: times wondered if this was some sort of practical joke.

28,975,757: times decided this is THE BEST practical joke, EVER. SO VOTE, YO. It’s for charity.

0: Bloggies won.

1: Nobel Prize For Awesomeness awarded to self, BY self.

1: Nobel Prize For Awesomeness awarded to each of YOU for being awesome and helping me with my book sign up. (you should get your chapter this weekend, yo)

74: unread copies of The New Yorker, leading me to believe it’s time to cancel the motherhumping subscription already and go back to reading Highlights for Kids.

9: Uncrustables eaten this week.

12: Times I’ve wondered if I was going to get scurvy for living off Uncrustables and edamame.

12: Times I’ve wondered if I really cared because then it meant that I could legitimately talk like a pirate.

My family is big on traditions. Probably not the same ones that your family practices because, well, unless they make Shwetty Balls* for Christmas, it’s likely that ours may be unique to our twisted family. One of the more innocuous ones happens to be the Chicago Auto Show, which comes to town every February like clockwork, and like a well oiled machine, some members of my family always go.

It’s mandatory for some, optional for others.

Members of my family have braved blizzards, ice storms and power outages to make it out for the auto show. It’s just that important. I’m surprised that Mr. (Dr.?) Darwin doesn’t have something to say about that, but let’s just leave it at stupidity clearly being genetic a genetic trait and move on.

As for me, like my parents anniversary, which has always ended in disaster one way or another, I tend to keep it OFF my calendar because Something always comes up. That Something changes year to year, but it’s safe to say that I’ll probably never get to go again. And not, like you may imagine, because I want to avoid it.

I do happen to have a vagina and I do happen to like both power tools and cars, and the auto show is always a blast. But many years ago now when I was 16 or 17–before I was cursed–I went with my father and my uncle out to McCormick place and oogled cars at the Auto Show.

Nothing like looking at cars can make a person work up an appetite, so afterwards, we traditionally go to China Town for lunch/dinner (linner?). It’s been awhile since I’ve gone but I’d bet you that there’s a traditional restaurant they eat at every year as well.

The year I’m talking about, though, it was just my uncle, my father and I that went. My brother was off being Continental and/or Worldly and I was just pumped to be able to take a day off from high school where I didn’t have to have one of my friends call me in. And going to China Town had a specific mission for me: I wanted a Kimono top.

(don’t judge)

(stop judging)

(seriously, knock that judgey shit OFF, I was COOL)

(shut UP)

My uncle had begged off, perhaps to go meet up with one of his motor head buddies–he’s an AVID Corvette Guy, which should mean something if you know any other Corvette People–so it was just my dad and I together in the store.

My father, I must explain, is one of the most modest people about the human body that I’ve ever met. I was an OOPS baby, I have an MUCH older brother, and I’d be willing to bet that my father had never imagined having a daughter, much less have to deal with her when she grew boobs.

As a teenager, whenever I’d pop back downstairs on the way back to bed in an oversized shirt (nothing, I should add was hanging out), he’d scream, “ACK, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, REBECCA!” Then he would cover his eyes dramatically and refuse to open them again until I went upstairs.

And they say drama doesn’t run in families. (don’t they?)

He’d carry on whenever I was nursing one of the babies like I was flagrantly prancing about the room in pasties and a g-string trying to give my relatives a lap dance, and it’s grown to be sort of a joke.

But the fact that I had boobies now made him uncomfortable, and while I certainly didn’t really worry about my dad seeing me in my bra since he had, at one point–although, I should mention, not for many years–changed my poopy drawers, I respected that.

So he stood very uncomfortably at the front of the woman’s clothing boutique in China Town while the owner, a very nice lady, was trying to fit my decidedly Western shaped frame (which, doesn’t Western-shaped give you the mental picture of a cowboy boot or the state of Texas? Because it does me) into a Kimono top. I probably tried on 10 or 15 until I found one that didn’t make me look stupid.

(shut UP)

I told her I’d take it, the beautiful dark blue silk shirt with those crazy-cool clasps at the neck, and she took it up front to the register to ring it up. I finished piling my layers of winter clothes back on and carefully made my way back to the front of the store. I had to contort myself into all kinds of odd angles to get past the wall-to-wall racks of clothes, but finally there I was, at the front of the store.

My dad looked relieved and somewhat red-eyed from the incense that was filling the room with sweet smelling acrid smoke and he whipped out his wallet and handed me some bills.

I went up to the register, where the lady had packed my new shirt into a plastic bag adorned with the store’s logo on it and looked at my total. As I was combining bills to pay her, she leaned forward, conspiratorially about to tell me something. Wondering if she was going to mention that she had an excellent supply of either opium or switchblades, I leaned it too.

“So,” she began, quietly but excited. “Is that your boyfriend?” Hand to God, she gave me a wink as she said boyfriend. She said it with unabashed glee, like a gossipy girlfriend who is about to tell you HOW FUCKING LUCKY YOU ARE to be dating the quarterback, because, like, he’s SO hot.

My mouth flopped open like a carp and I gaped openly at her. My BOYFRIEND?

“No,” I caught my tongue. “He’s NOT my boyfriend. He’s my father.”

She stared at me, I stared back and quickly paid. I guess there’s nothing like finding out that someone thinks that you’re

a) 20 years older than you are

b) that your father is 20 years younger than he was

3) People my age could actually manage to date guys my dad’s age.

I’m pretty sure when I loudly told him this as we left the store, that the remaining half of his hair just went made a FUUUMP sound and all popped out of their follicles in one big bang. Had I been in the process of balding myself, I have a feeling my follicles would have let ’em go too.

What I didn’t tell the shopkeeper was if I’d genuinely had a sugar daddy, I’d have insisted he take me to the Prada store, not some cheap shop in China Town. But that seemed kind of awkward and rude.

Unlike, of course, telling her that he was my father.

Now YOUR turn, Internet, come sit next to Aunt Becky here on the couch *pats seat.* I am on the edge of my proverbial seat here, itching to know what you are going to come up with.

Well, I’m not technically ITCHING but, you know.

*beats “no cowbell” for best SNL skit by a mile

So you’re thinking, Aunt Becky, it’s time to put up some REALLY BAD pictures of you as a kid. You know, shitty perm jobs and aqua-netted bangs and french rolled jeans and maybe some Blossom-style headbands, but I don’t have any of those.

I was a CHILD of the 80’s, but I wasn’t allowed a perm. Probably because my mother was actually smart and realized that I would look like a Koosh ball if I’d gotten one. I have thick hair. Instead, I had bangs that started at approximately the nape of my neck and teeth that stuck out like the claw end of a hammer.

But I don’t have those snaps either. It’s not because I’m trying to spare myself the pain and agony of showing The Internet that I am not perfect, because shit, I think I passed trying pretend to be perfect, uh, in 2004 when I started blogging about The Wet Spot.

So let’s start with what I DO have. Aunt Becky, circa 1985. It appears that it’s my birthday and that it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Probably because no one is sitting with me.

Or maybe I am crying because my mother is forcing us to sit on lawn chairs in the house.

The obligatory “I am drunk and annoying on Halloween” shot. HELL, my undies are hanging out. This is probably why my 5 year old self is crying.

This was as close as I could get to “funny hair pictures” because, well, look at it. It’s my homecoming picture! My awesome tiara says it all. It says “I am awesome. Obviously.” But my dress is from Ann Taylor and it’s not embarrassing. Yet. But I could fucking smile, no?

Now THIS pictures says “I have a friend who is in Photography class” now doesn’t it? The black -n- white photography, the subject in the woods, it just SCREAMS ‘high school photography class’ to me.

————-

So I am challenging you to a duel, The Internet. OUTDO my sorry stash of embarrassing pictures. That isn’t hard. I will continue my hunt as I search for how to become certified as a disaster preparedness RN (I wanted to go to Haiti, but can’t seem to find a way to get there).

If you find something cringe-worthy, leave a link to it in the comments and we can have a fashion party of all of our awesome pictures. I’m certain that you can outdo me.

————–

At Skirt! I’m talking about how it takes a village. Even if it’s not the village I’d planned on.

(ring, ring)

The Daver: “Hello?”

Aunt Becky: “I’m leaving you.”

The Daver: “Oh yeah?”

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

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait, you’re not upset?”

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

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

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

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

The Daver: “Okay.”

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

The Daver: “A vocoder?”

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

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

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

The Daver (laughs) “Bye!”

(both parties hang up)

——————

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

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

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

Even with the cancellation of Christmas, I’ve always been sort of a childish freak about the holidays. I’m the person you see jumping up and down and clapping like a goddamed monkey as they put up the displays of holiday wares in August.

I cannot wait for the stores to start playing Christmas music and as far as I’m concerned, they can skip back-to-school stuff entirely and stock Christmas and Halloween stuff year round. I’d keep the house decorated all year long if it didn’t piss off my neighbors and make me look like more of a freak than my electric yellow house already makes me.

(deep breath. You DON’T buy a house for the color of the siding. Yellow is cheerful. It is unique. It is ass ugly. It is cheerful. It blinds me on a sunny day. It is unique. I loathe love the color of my house.)

And I’ll admit, part of the allure of squeezing an 8 pound bowling ball from my cootch was the hope that one day, I could live out all of my holiday fantasies through my child.

But my first child, well, he does love the holidays…sort of. I mean, Ben has a lust for life that even Iggy Pop couldn’t rival. He loves the holidays, he loves Tuesdays, and he loves, well, everything except for bedtimes (which have convinced him that I am a communist dictator from HELL) and scooping cat poo from the litter boxes.

At age 8, his love of the holidays is only now being cultivated. At age 2, he was the oddest person I’d had the pleasure of knowing.

Conversely, at age 2, his younger brother has such a feverish love of the holidays that I wonder if I simply grew him on my body like a pod and shed him like a second skin. Were it not for his nearly translucent skin, which is eerily like his father’s, he would be my clone in every single way.

Daily, he begs to go to the greenhouse so that he may look at the pumpkins and the huge decorative gazing balls there (please, o! please make the jokes that I cannot make because they would be o! so inappropriate) and the trickies (fountains) and flowers.

Carefully, he selects the smallest pie pumpkin and brings it over to where the Christmas balls hang off of a fake Christmas tree and he carefully shows each of the balls his treasure: a pumpkin.

Neatly, sweetly he has personified both the pumpkin and the ball as beings rather than inanimate objects, in the same way he has to bid goodnight to “Venus” and “Mars-Gots-Moons” and my personal favorite “Purple Ball.”

“Blankie” is so much more to him than a piss-stained, ugly white blanket. It’s his best friend and playmate, his lovey, and his bedmate, one that I have to wrastle away from him many times each week for a bath in bleach, always amid tears and heartache. On his end, not mine.

It shocks me that this rough and tumble creature, this all-testosterone fueled boy could be so soft and gentle too. These days, this is one of the things–along with this blog–that keep me going.

I realize that I’ve been living in a fog: between the Topamax and the headaches, my wonky thyroid, the insomnia and the postpartum depression, I haven’t been myself lately. I put one foot carefully in front of the other, never faltering, because I have too much depending on my anymore to really falter without my house falling apart around me.

But seeing my son, a pint sized see-through version of me, all of the best parts of who I am coming to light, exuberant and alive, relishing the small things: the string of pumpkin lights I have hanging over my mantle that he dances in front of every morning.

His body wriggling with unabashed joy, barely containing his glee at what a genuinely wonderful world we live in, moving to music that only he can hear and I smile, the tears close. Tears of pride, of happiness and of joy.

And I know that I will be okay. Soon, the music that I’ve always danced to will start back up, because if I listen closely craning my ears, I can start to make out the sounds, way in the background, underneath all of the noise and dirt.

I am hopeful. I have hope.

The toddler, he trips over his own feet, looks around, bewildered by gravity and then gets back up, taking off running again after looking around warily to see if that wily gravity is going to punch him again, he knows that this is the way things are.

We all fall down. We all get back up again.

Gather ’round Aunt Becky’s knee, Internet, because she’s gonna give you today’s word of the day.

Tacky.

Bejeweled.

Unrefined.

Be glad that you’re not ACTUALLY related to me so I don’t whip THIS out in front of your friends or family:

Behold my old cell phone, which not only was delightfully bejeweled, but also weighed about 3.6 pounds.

Happy Wednesday.