I don’t send Christmas Cards.

It’s a big source of guilt for me – I mean, I HAVE the cards (I’ve thoughtfully purchased them at 75% off throughout the years) in a big stash in the basement. I have stamps, which means I’m not just being post-office-phobic. I wonder if there’s a term for that. I mean, I’m TERRIFIED of the post office. I’ll explain sometime.

Anyway.

Since I don’t give Christmas Cards and, frankly, you Pranksters are the only people I’d send cards to, anyway, I’ll just give them to you now.

Enjoy!

This is actually what I’d send on my Christmas cards.

So pretend that’s what I sent you and you opened it today. Fair? Okay.

Merry Christmas, Pranksters. You’re mah family and I love you all.

————–

Also: could you visit this and comment if you haz time?

Back when I had a regular cell phone, I was all, “Blackberry’s look like talking wallets,” and mocked anyone who ever used one. Because HELLO, WHO TALKS INTO A WALLET? (answer: crazy people, that’s who). Then, I realized I, too, could talk into a wallet, and for the very briefest of time, considered buying a Blackberry, until I realized that I, too, would look like a crazy person.

So I held onto my Dumb Phone and occasionally made calls on it. More often, though, I played Bejeweled.

It wasn’t until Daver decided he needed a second generation iPhone that I realized that I, too, needed one. I wasn’t precisely sure WHY I needed one, but figured I could probably play Bejeweled on a bigger screen (I had a hot pink Razr) which meant that I was most certainly WINNING.

(apologies to Charlie Sheen)

And, if I was stretching, I could say that I was using this Smart Phone to tell me when I’d gone into labor with my daughter – with whom I was heavily pregnant. It was kind of EYE OF THE TIGER.

When I got it home, I marveled at it’s shininess. After all, my Razr was approximately 76372 years old and the screen was half-busted in places, so seeing such a purdy, clean screen was like music to my eyeballs. I promptly imported my email so I could never, ever miss a message about “Increasing Y0ur Pen1$ size,” because, well, obviously: I needed a bigger dick. I was only 787 quintillion million hundred months pregnant, after all.

I waited patiently for the day in which my Smart Phone would tell me I was in labor. I wanted that crotch parasite OUT of me once and for all. And not once, did my Smart Phone say, “Hey, Fuckface, you’re in labor.”

(turns out, I had to be induced, so perhaps my rant is misplaced)

After she was born, though, I hoped that my Smart Phone would be able to say, “Hey Fuckface, the baby’s crying because she’s hungry. Or tired. Or poopy. Or all three.” It didn’t. Not once.

My Smart Phone was officially on notice.

Later, I’d hoped that in addition to being an Angry Birds/Twitter Machine, it would also be able to tell me when I’d forgotten to do something. Like print out boarding passes or pick up my kids from school. Turns out? You have to ENTER that data into some stupid calendar thingy, which is DECIDEDLY not the same as it being SMART.

Then, one day, I tested the fucker out. Was it smart? Was it dumb? Was it a redesigned wallet phone?

So I screamed into it (one never knows if phones are as deaf as my children): “CURE CANCER, MOTHERFUCKER.”

And you know what? It didn’t. It just sat there, blankly, my face reflecting back at me through the smudges on the screen. It didn’t say, “does not compute,” or “you’re an asshole,” or even, “cure it your damn self, Aunt Becky.” No. It just looked at me dumbly, like I hadn’t just given it a task or something.

Fucker.

I’m getting even, though. I’m changing it’s name from “Smart Phone,” to “Angry Birds Machine.”

I suggest you do the same, Pranksters.

There is nothing not absolutely awe-inspiring about this. Especially since it MAGICALLY appeared in my iPhoto library. I think it’s a sign.

Is the best part that she’s named Cornfed? Or that he’s a white dude named Bill Cosby (WHO IS VERY CLEARLY NOT THE REAL BILL COSBY)?

No.

It’s her response.

P.S. The current front-runner for most inappropriately named porno is “Hairy Pooter.”

P.P.S. Outdo me. I dare you.

Aunt Becky: “Oooooh, I should make KEY LIME BARS tonight. It’s only 8:30 and House, MD is delayed and OOOOOO TASTY.”

Aunt Becky (wanders to the pantry): “OH I HAVE RICE TOO.”

Aunt Becky: “Who the fuck eats rice around here?”

Aunt Becky (pours Key Lime crust into pan and throws it into the preheated oven for 8 minutes): “I should take some Vitamin V to properly enjoy The House Experience.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m not sure how I like the new storyline. I think there should be more singing cats.”

Aunt Becky: “OOOO The TWITTER. I SHOULD TWEET SOMETHING PITHY ABOUT CELERY.”

Aunt Becky: “I am the celery pundit!”

Aunt Becky: “That’s PROBABLY the crowning achievement of my life. How pathetic.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to doodle ‘Aunt Becky Rules’ on the fridge. Certainly they ALL need a reminder. Perhaps THEN I can get my fake monkey butler Mr. Pinchey!”

Aunt Becky: “Celery is fucking bullshit.”

Aunt Becky (wanders outside to check on roses): “Full moon. Explains a lot. I should give the full moon a FULL MOON.”

(gives full moon a full moon)

Aunt Becky: “I hope my neighbors saw that.”

Aunt Becky (wanders back inside): “Wonder if House, MD is on. We’re not getting back together until he gets a haircut. Prison mullet looks like, well, Prison Mullet. Why can’t he be all Michael Scoffield hot?”

Aunt Becky (spies pan sitting back atop stove, timer blaring): “OOOO. SHIT. DID I ACCIDENTALLY NOT THROW THE PAN IN THE OVEN? I’M SUCH A FUCKING DUMBASS, SWEET BABY JESUS.”

Aunt Becky (reaches to grab pan): “I can totally pretend I MEANT to leave that out….OH BLOODY FUCKING HELL HOT FUCK GODDAMMIT.”

—————

Moral of the story: when in doubt, use a test subject to handle all potentially hot items. Alternately, an oven mitt. But mostly a test subject.

If you’ve read my blog for any significant portion of time, you’ve probably heard me complain bitterly discuss happily my My Grains.

I had to switch medications recently, after the one I was taking started to make me bald, and decided, after being warned of liver toxicity or death or something (I stopped paying attention when he said THIS WILL NOT MAKE YOU BALD, BECKY), to check RxList to see what, in fact, I was now taking.

You’d think after being a nurse, I might have some recollection of each and every individual medication in the Universe, but you’d be wrong. I have a brain the size of a pea, and there are kajillions of medications out there. In fact, those wily drug people are always coming out with NEW ONES.

Anyway, for the three of you who care, I’m now taking Carbatrol, and using it as a migraine prophylaxis is an off-label use for this seizure medication.

For those of you who stayed awake for that sentence, here’s a cookie.

HA! Just kidding I don’t have cookies.

So there I am, patiently wading through the piles of ‘THIS DRUG WILL KILL YOU’ material, singing the Sky Mall Kitties song, when I finally looked at the top of the page:

Do you see what I see?

Here, let me show you what I saw:

I could absolutely watch any number of videos that involved small creatures singing, but the very VERY last thing in the world I’d ever willingly watch was a slideshow about migraines. Or, for that matter, much of anything.

In fact, there’s not a single slideshow/powerpoint that ever seems to scream, “HERE AUNT BECKY, YOU SHOULD WASTE TEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE WATCHING THIS.”

So I didn’t. And perhaps I should have. Because now I’m stuck wondering what the fuck was ON that damn slideshow.

Instead (lucky Pranksters) I made you what SHOULD have been on this slideshow.

Now THAT slideshow? I would watch.

Probably.

I was entirely shocked to find not a single Mountain Folk in Assville, NC, where I spent the weekend. I’d been hoping for some banjos, a dog named Blue, or perhaps, a fuckton of toothless yokels.

I saw none. I was mildly distressed by this.

In fact, Assville, NC, is a HIPPIE town. An EXPENSIVE Hippie Town. Who knew? My parents would have felt right at home.

(I did, however, eventually see a guy playing a banjo)

(that pretty much ruled)

Anyhow, I woke up Sunday morning and checked my email because I cannot possibly function if my email remains unchecked. I mean, what if TODAY is the day that House, MD calls me and begs me to write for his show?

My email was, as per usual, full of stupid sites whose email lists I cannot manage to remove myself from, and a curious thing. I had at least fifty new posts for Band Back Together. That’s, um, out of the ordinary. But, I congratulated myself, perhaps it was all the people I’d just MET. Maybe I had, in fact, strong-armed into writing for us and/or working WITH us.

So I clicked to see what the title of one of the posts was:

“The Many Benefits Related To Obtaining Superior Mortgages.”

FANCY. Also: SPAMMY.

I clicked through and saw that all of the fifty new posts were, in fact, spam. Well, that’s not so fancy. Spam users I’m used to. Spam posts? That’s a whole ‘nother ball game.

That put me in a not-so-sparkly mood.

As bloggers, we’re all familiar with spam. I currently have 500 spam comments that are awaiting my glistening eyes to sort through. That’s just from yesterday.

But Band Back Together is different than a personal blog because it’s not just my ass blathering away at you. See, everyone who posts must first create their own account – email, username, password – so really, it’s their blog too. Same goes for Mushroom Printing.

Spam users: joe@teethbrightening.com I expect. Spam posts? Not so much. But these posts just kept rolling in. I deleted over a hundred and thirty of them before installing a simple capcha for anyone registering. (It’s a math problem, not those stupid letters, because those letters are BULLSHIT.)

I was Furious George until I came across this gem in my inbox:

And then I felt my life was, in a word, complete.

Perhaps I should publish it. I’d bet that would help MORE than a few people.

————

I wrote this about Special Needs Parenting, over at Cafe Mom. You should read it.

————

What are you feeling ranty about, Pranksters?

(you can publish any snarky rants over at Mushroom Printing, too)

Land’s End sent me a bathing suit. I know, I know, you’re thinking, “WHY would anyone send Aunt Becky ANYTHING besides a yacht?” and I’m wondering the same thing. In fact, I’m still WAITING for my yacht.

*taps foot impatiently*

Land’s End sent me a bathing suit so that I would post a picture of myself wearing it on my blog. You can see the error in their thinking, right?

I can.

This was probably NOT what they wanted:

Better yet, this:

Sorry, Land’s End.

I couldn’t resist.

Before I became a mother, before I became Student Nurse Becky, before I became Your Aunt Becky, I was something else entirely.

(no, not a mail-order bride)

(like anyone would pay for that)

I was a waitress. Well, before that, I was a hostess and after I turned twenty-one, I bartended, too. In fact, working in restaurants is the only thing besides blogging that I’ve managed to do for more than a couple of months.

There was something electrifying about working in a place where so many people had to work in unison to achieve a common goal: namely, make as much money as possible with the least amount of effort. Of course, there was much effort involved. Carrying trays of hot food, trying to keep it on your shoulder, not trip over other servers while avoiding the crotch parasites that were always underfoot during the dinner rush.

The Us VS Them attitude (staff versus customers) united the lot of us. Didn’t matter who you were or where you came from, so long as you weren’t a jackass to the other servers.

You have some assbag at Table 65 staring you down because the kitchen fucked up your order and it’s late, and you get why they’re mad, but it’s not ACTUALLY your fault, but you can’t really explain that to them, because it sounds like a classic case of “pass the buck, SERVER EDITION?”

Send your friend, the one who can heap on the fake-sweetness without seeming insincere, over with their food when it pops up.

I worked in restaurants from the moment I turned 16 to age 23. The hours were flexible, which meant I could work weekends, and I’d make more money in a couple of hours than I’d make working all day in retail.

After work, the servers would sit around, drinking and shooting the shit. The sense of camaraderie made all of the bullshit we’d put up with worth it. We were an instant party, hitting up the bars that served late after we’d closed down. If you needed something; anything, you could count on the staff helping out. I have no doubt that if I’d murdered someone, my work friends would be there with black garbage bags and shovels to help bury the body. Without question.

Being a server also meant we fucked around a lot. There was the Pizza Suit we’d all take turns running around the restaurant wearing, the beers we’d sneak into the cooler and chug and this, the best thing ever.

This was the picture I’d carefully taped onto the front of my server’s book. I have to wonder how many people wondered what the fuck was wrong with me (more than normal). I’d never mention the picture to my tables, it was just THERE.

I stopped serving when I realized I was burnt out. Being asked for another Coke would be enough to set me off. I’d seethe as I handed them the Coke I’d ALREADY POURED.

HOW DARE YOU ASK ME FOR SOMETHING I ANTICIPATED?

But before I left, I learned how important tips are for a server.

In Illinois, at least, I made $3.29 an hour, minus 10 cents each hour for food (company policy). That $3.29 was taxed to DEATH, as the government assumed we’d make cash tips.

That meant that most of the “paychecks” I got were between two and four dollars. Every two weeks.

Occasionally, I’ve lamented that I never actually framed the checks I’d received for $0.00. Asinine. The company had PAID to print said check.

Hil-arious.

As a blogger, I never expected to make money. I do the occasional freelance thing, but the concept of “money” and “blogging” seemed as odd as blogging, itself.

I’d joined BlogHer ad network awhile ago and was content until I noticed my checks grow smaller and smaller as my readership increased.

Huh. Inversely proportional ad network?

I dropped them once the checks grew so abysmal that I was actually offended.

Anyway, last week, I got my final check.

I am SO framing that.

The first time I saw someone talking on a wireless headset was back in 2003. I was in the bathroom at the Atlanta airport, waiting for my connecting flight, washing my hands. There was a woman standing at the sink, looking in the mirror, having a conversation with herself.

As a student nurse who spent half her time in the hospital dutifully putting in clinical hours, wiping butts and taking names, seeing someone have an actual conversation with someone who was not actually all that uncommon an occurrence. Even now, I dismiss that sort of behavior where other people might lock their doors and run, shrieking, the other direction.

Anyway, I whispered to my friend, “woah, looks like SHE went off her meds,” to my friend Jenna, who was taking this Spring Break vacation with me.

She, always more up-to-date on this sort of thing, just laughed and said, “she’s on the phone, Becks. It’s a hands-free headset.”

Sure enough, when I looked more closely, curious now, I saw the wire dangling down from her ear to the phone. Hm. Odd.

A couple of weeks later, I saw what appeared to be a man talking into his wallet while lunching – once again, with Jenna – at Panera. I eyed him suspiciously, even though he was smartly dressed in a business suit. When I saw he was wearing impeccably natty shoes, I realized that he, too, was probably not recently released from the psych ward.

“What. the. fuck? Why is that man talking on a fucking wallet?” I whispered to Jenna, pointing him out.

She laughed. She was forever explaining these things to me; a Pre-Prankster version of the Internet.

“That’s a Blackberry, Becky. It’s like a PDA with a phone.”

“That is the DUMBEST thing ever. Does he KNOW how dumb he looks? Fucking jackass.” I had a very small phone that I loved very much. I would have married it, but it was stupid (also: illegal) to marry something that had a shelf-life of two years.

Fast-forward.

I own an i(can’t use my)Phone only because I like Apple products. Had I realized how craptastic the “phone” bit of it was, I’d have gone with a Blackberry. My very own Talking Wallet.

Also: my new anti-depressants are working which means I’ve engaged in one of my favorite past-times: talking paint off walls. On the phone.

Now, because (insert hilarious joke) I have Neck Issues. I also have lots! of! energy! which means that when I am on the phone, I am also washing walls, doing dishes, waxing my cat, cleaning the garage, scheduling posts, watching dancing cat videos, and/or photoshopping pictures of myself into pictures of celebrities.

Okay, that last bit was a lie, because I don’t own photoshop. I can’t do that stuff! Gnomes can, though, and I’m TOTALLY not a gnome.

So, while I’m jabbering away, annoying whomever I’ve conned into chatting with me, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my ear, like it’s a wee babe. Don’t think it’s helping my neck issues.

It was time to take! action!

wham!

bam!

pow!

robots!

I needed an ear thingy for my phone. Except, there are only two options (besides speakerphone, which makes everyone sound like they’re talking from inside a tin can which = bullshit):

1) Ear Penis, a.k.a  bluetooth headsets. I hate them. No, that’s not right: I loathe them. I loathe them so much that I should probably make up a new word for how I feel about them. I know, I know, they’re useful and you can’t live without yours and blah, blah, blah, squirt, squirt. Fantastic. Yay for you!

That guy is a Blue DOUCHE.

My second option:

B) McDonald’s Headset: you know, like the OLD SKOOL phone headset, with the plastic bits that go to your mouth and stuff? I had to wear one when I worked for United. It was pretty awesome, actually, but I think I’ve earned my comeuppance because every time I see The Daver use his, I walk up to him and try to order a “cheeseburger and a diet Coke, please.”

(be glad you don’t live with me)

Today, after agonizing over it for weeks (read: months), I finally broke down and bought an Old Skool headset. My neck deserves it, dammit, and hey, if all else fails, I can totally work at McDonald’s.

368: times people have searched for “John C. Mayer” and found my blog.

3: page number on Google for my blog when you search for “john c mayer.”

4: page number on Google for Urban Dictionary entry “Pulling a John C. Mayer” when you search for “john c. mayer.”

0: Times I made it to #1 for Google Search “John C. Mayer.”

Too Many To Count: Times I was pleased by my Pranksters ability to get to #1 by pulling a John C. Mayer.

1: Conference I was supposed to fly to Assville, North Carolina for (Type A Mom) this week.

0: Conferences I am actually attending this week.

45: times I’d planned to gorge on Chick-Fil-A while in the South as we Northerners do not have this tasty and delicious treat.

Too Many To Count: Calories I am saving by not eating Chick Fil A.

1: Dates I settled upon for Vegas to make up for my decided lack of travel this week.

11: weekend of December that I am inviting you, my Pranksters, to Vegas to celebrate my fake birthday.

0: Times I have been to Vegas

Infinity: Times I will beg you to come with me to Vegas so that I may get suitably wasted in front of an entire cadre of people who can then document my dumbass-ness on The Internet.

43: Times I will sing ‘Vivaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Viagra‘ while in Vegas with you until you tell me to shut my whore mouth.

172: Posts published so far on Band Back Together. In a week and a half. (there are many in the editing queue)

55: Posts published so far on Mushroom Printing. In two months. (there are many in the editing queue)

1,105: Posts published on Mommy Wants Vodka….in 6 years.

1: times this week Amelia has taken off her diaper and finger-painted her entire body with poo.

1: new word she learned from the experience: “EWWWWWWW.”

98: times I’ve wondered if my 9-year old is a teenager already.

98: times my 9-year old has stomped around the house when I’ve dared to ask such things as, “have you had a bath yet?”

0: naps Alex has had this week.

5: naps Alex had last week at this time.

87.3: extra pots of coffee I have had since Alex has stopped napping.

98,766: times I have considered changing my name and moving to another state.

1: times I’ve been called a prude. Ever.

6,483,986: times I’ve laughed about being called a prude.

1: times I’ve been told I should “kill myself.”

4,827,474: times I’ve laughed about that, too.

1: post I will write tomorrow about driving traffic to your site to save my fingers from typing it in an email ever again. Won’t SOMEONE think of my poor, poor fingers!?!

Too Many To Count: times I will feel douchy blogging about blogging.

0: times I have said, “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade!!”

0: times I have wanted to crochet a platitude on a pillow.

0: times I have wanted to crochet, period.

0: times I have found a platitude helpful.

81, 768,330, 912, 875, 031: times I have wanted to punch someone who uses platitudes squarely in the taco.

1: Full Moon last night. PHEW.

1: ridiculously huge gift card that I’d won that I’m going to give away next week in some sort of John C. Mayer style prank.

—————-

How’s your week, Pranksters?