Years of serving has wrecked my delicate, dainty wrists. I know we Midwestern girls are supposed to have thick, corn-fed wrists and ankles, but I never got those. Apparently, I was absent when they were passing those out.

My hands, too, are actually impervious to certain degrees of heat thanks to the hot plates which gave me topical nerve damage. Which is a great party trick, until it’s TOO hot, because then? I burn the bejesus out of my hands and that’s not full of awesome.

I have sissy wrists and sissy ankles and after years of lugging thousands of pounds of food and drinks around my wrists have sustained some injuries. So now and again, I bust out the wrist guards and mope about the house, cursing my former self and my genetics.

Tuesday, was one of those such days that I went a-courtin’ for my wrist guards, and having not needed them for years, I had no idea where they were. First stop, upstairs bathroom, which is rarely used.

Shocked by the sheer quantity of feminine hygiene products in one small place, I congratulated myself at having the foresight to stock up and BE PREPARED in case a whole troupe of women came through with their periods ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

I could have been on an episode of Hoarders. Except that I had no idea that I had anything like that under there. If only it had been something like DIAMONDS.

My shock quickly turned to dismay when I discovered that most of the stuff underneath the sink was…damp. And some of it was…mildewy. There’s nothing more disgusting than damp mildewy shit, except for damp mildewy shit that you put on your cooter, so I was suitably horrified.

I looked under the sink, saw that among the losses was my trusty ACE bandage, which had sadly succumbed to death by mold, and then realized that my sink; the U drain in my awful, ugly sink is leaking. Only, by sheer luck, when it’s being used.

So I did what any self-respecting hoarder of feminine hygiene products would do: I hid the evidence of my obsession. I gathered a garbage bag, threw away all of the maxi-pads and tampons, bleached the bottom of the sink, grabbed a bucket, threw it under the U-drain and realized that I’ll have to deal with it this weekend. Time for a new vanity.

Just as long as Daver doesn’t see that I have enough maxi-pads to fill a gigantic vagina, we’ll be all good.

Thanks to my parents everlasting legacy, my genetic soup is kinda twisted. Not in the sort of way (thank God) that makes me REALLY sick, but in the sort of way that makes my morning pill ritual look like that of someone double my age. Almost all of my various maladies are handled by specialists, because my GP is overwhelmingly useless or doesn’t have the time to carefully watch my blood TSH levels go up and down like a yo-yo.

They’re not SERIOUS issues that I’m going to die from any time soon, just the sort that requires that I see a fucking ton of -ologists. I’m half-way afraid that the Munchausen* Police are going to burst down my door one day and be all, “Miss, you need to come with us. Bring your pills and your lab work.”

Earlier this year, I started getting My Grains, and when I did, initially I powered through them because I was all “totes stress-related.” Turns out, not so much. I blogged about it a little bit, but usually I leave my headaches out of it because talking about headaches is about as thrilling as talking about beige paint.

With the help of my GP, I went on Topamax, which is a daily maintenance medication for them with Vicodin for any break-through headaches.

All was happy in My Grain Land until my GP went on vacation and left Evil Bitch, RN in charge (under the supervision of another doctor). This happened to coincide with me a) getting a nasty My Grain and b) running out of Vicodin.

I went 35 rounds with the pharmacy and doctor’s office (unaware he was out of the office) until I had this conversation:

Evil Bitch, RN: “I cannot prescribe your Vicodin.”

Aunt Becky: “My GP (your boss) is fine with it. He knows I take it for my My Grains and that I am not an addict. Look at my chart and my medical history and you will see that I have asked him to write a note to authorize Vicodin refills if I need it.”

Evil Bitch, RN: “You are on too many medications.”

Aunt Becky: “Excuse me?”

Evil Bitch, RN: “If you have a headache, you can take Tylenol.”

Aunt Becky: “EXCUSE ME?”

Evil Bitch, RN (happily): “Yes, I am denying your Vicodin.”

Aunt Becky: “What??”

Evil Bitch, RN (obviously enjoying herself): “You don’t need it.”

(click)

Now, before any of you bother telling me that Vicodin is a narcotic and that she was well within her right to treat me that way, I’m aware of it’s addictive nature.

I’m also aware that I am not an addict and that I do not need to be treated like a felon when I am looking for something that I need to function. I wasn’t trying to get wasted, I was trying not to be in pain. I’m sure had I pressed the issue, I could have “gone to the ER.” She was being a condescending asshole to me because she could.

So I did what any self-respecting patient would do. I reported her ass to her boss and then I got myself a new doctor (a neurologist!!) with an office staff that’s used to dealing with patients who are in pain. Even if it means going to another specialist. Which, trust me, is something that’s about as appealing to me as pouring lime jello into my ear canal.

Maybe when I go to my appointment on Wednesday, I can get my specialist punch card punched and get some sort of prize at the gift shop.

And at the very least, this appointment doesn’t require that I carry my poo around in a bucket.

*Munchausen’s disease, I must clarify, is not Munchausen’s BY PROXY which is what those fucking awful parents do to their children. Munchausen’s disease is where people make themselves ill to illicit sympathy from others. And no, I do not have Munchausen’s. If I did, you’re hear about my -ologist’s a hell of a lot more.

————

Over at Skirt! I’ve put up a slightly-less-than-humorous essay about internet communities and cruelty and trolls.

What? What’s…this shit, Aunt Becky? I can hear you screaming from miles away. My delusions of grandeur are mighty, I know, but I’ve BROKEN THE CODE and posted a NON-Go-Ask-Aunt-Becky post today. I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m a bad person and you should probably disown me now.

Except that I’m that annoying aunt you simply can’t shake. Kinda like the clap, but more annoying and pestilent. But yeah, I’m in California for Binky Spohr’s baby shower RIGHT NOW AS I SPEAK (I informed Heather that this means that I get to shower WITH her because OBVIOUSLY she’s easy) and if I tried to answer questions they’d be all, “Purple should be a flavor, dammit!!”

So I offer you this post instead and my deepest, most patheticist apologies.

Also, I stole a Sky Mall magazine to laugh at it and felt shifty and ruthless until Dave pointed out that I was SUPPOSED to steal them. Apparently, I do not get out much.

————————-

Every winter, ’bout this time, when the cold days have dragged on and on to the point where a 100 degree day (Celsius even!) sounds more tolerable than bundling up the kids AGAIN and having the boogies in my nose freeze for the forty-millionth time that day, and when getting the mail at the end of my driveway seems like a drastic undertaking, I start to have this fantasy in which we move to more temperate climates.

And because, in my fantasy-land, I am also slightly practical and don’t have visions of moving to a completely foreign country and having to learn a new language (you mean people don’t speak American EVERYWHERE?), I envision us moving to one of the coasts.

For a good 290 days of the year, I like where I live, honestly I do (and probably in part as a defense mechanism, as moving out of state would be brutal as far as custody arrangements go for The Big One), and besides a small jaunt away from here several years ago, I have lived in the same town most of my life. It’s a sweet river town, and it’s great BECAUSE I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING IS.

But, for as teeny as my family is, I do happen to have some that live out of state in California, where I have been any number of times. And I genuinely love it out there, it’s interesting, it’s clean, people are nice, and if it weren’t for such amazingly high property prices, we might live out there for reals.

Well, the cost of living AND the fact that I am not positive that I am good-looking enough.

California is weird like that, and I’ll never forget being there as a teenager to attend my cousin’s wedding. A busboy (a BUSBOY!) in the joint where we were dining nearly caused me to choke on my steak, so uncanny was his resemblance to Brad Pitt (the 12 Monkeys/Seven version, whom I had many a naughty fantasy about).

A couple of years later, I was back again, and I noticed that even the bums on The Haight were sexy. BUMS were SEXY! Even the one who flashed me his penis was good looking (and well hung)!

It was like entering an alternate universe.

As I got older and every time I went back to Cali, I noticed more and more unlikely and attractive people. Airport baggage claim guys were hot! The chick at the rental car place looked as though she’d stepped off the runway to make my car rental experience a complete nightmare. I kept expecting the dude who took my toll money to start selling me shampoo, so magnificent was his shiny mane of hair, so full of body and style.

Just based on experience (and without real knowledge), I would even venture to guess that the people who worked at the DMV were extras on a movie set in their spare time (away from being nasty to people who were stupid enough to get into the wrong line– EVEN THOUGH IT WASN’T LABELED).

I don’t know about your state, but typically the DMV workers are thought to be the bitchy Missing Link anthropologists are always harping on about (I wonder if their studies would take them to the DMV, because it should), but I would venture a guess that in California, they, too, are beautiful, attractive, and of the highest genetic pedigree.

Even if I were rich enough to buy a shack in California, I’m fairly certain we’d be turned away at the border for being undesirably unattractive.

For now, I will take comfort living here in the Midwest, just outside of Chicago, knowing that while we may be ugly and dumpy, at least we’re landlocked, so no hurricane will make it to our doorstep.

DENIED ENTRY INTO CALIFORNIA DUE TO EXCESSIVE UNFLATTERING GENES.

Snuck across the border, yo. AND NOW YOU CAN’T GET RID OF ME. TAKE THAT CALIFORNIA.

I didn’t feel like writing today, in light of what happened with my fellow blogger Anissa, who suffered a stroke yesterday. For updates and how you can help, you can go here.

But I figured we could all use a distraction today, so this is one of my favorite old posts and you can have a good hearty laugh at my expense. Please. Laugh at me.

(JERKS.)

——————

I’ve mentioned before that after Ben was born, I was struggling mightily with what to Do (with a capitol D) for the rest of my life. Whomever thought that the 18-20 year old bracket was the appropriate age for people to decide what to Do should be strung out and shot somewhere, because, hi, at 20? I was still a blithering idiot.

Difference was, now I was pregnant. And looking to make paychecks larger than so-and-so-measly dollars every week so that Ben and I could (gasp!) move out of my parents’ house. My standards weren’t particularly high, but my options were limited.

Before I decided on nursing, my mom shelled out 20 clams for me to take some sort of career figurer-outer class at the community college. Perfect, I thought as I left my screaming child behind. I just KNOW that the people running this class will see my inherent star quality! Perhaps they will just HAND me a diploma and maybe even put me on Star Search! I just KNOW I’m miles ahead of the rest of the knuckle-draggers in this class!

I showed up to a motley band of scraggly people all sitting rather reluctantly in a small classroom. I was instantly confused. I mean, why would someone PAY to voluntarily subject themselves to this and be unhappy about it later?

I took a seat at a table by a large no-nonsense looking woman with extremely long fuchsia fingernails. Each had a nice sunset scene carefully painted upon it and I was semi-jealous. I’d never considered my fingernails as a medium for such wonderousness. I thought about telling her how much I dug her nails, but one look at the beady mean eyes peering out of her doughy face told me that I should keep my goddamned mouth shut.

Undeterred, but still sort of unsure if I was in the right place, I carefully pulled out some scratch paper from my backpack and waited patiently for the instructor to come in and recognize my obvious superiority.

I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, about 20 minutes after the class was set to begin, our instructor breezed in. Rather than scan the room to find the superstar among the drones (that would be me. The superstar, not the drones), he simply began passing out a big fat folder crammed with papers.

Once the folders were all passed out, he simply told us to begin filling out the test within the folder. Use the pencil, he warned us, or the Scantron machine wouldn’t be able to score it.

Well, okay, I said to myself. I like tests. I’m really GOOD at tests. I bet this TEST will tell me that I rule and that I should just bypass school entirely and become an heiress. Fucking SWEET.

I happily opened the test up and prepared to meet my destiny (or density. Whatever).

I noticed unhappily that the test was one of those gradient ones where I had to say from 1-4 how interested (one being least and 4 being most) I was in the statement. Like this:

1 2 3 4 I am interested in becoming a ditch digger.

Okay, I thought, brow furrowed in concentration. Is this a trick question? It sounds like a trick question. I mean, who would want to become a ditch digger? And wait, aren’t they called something more PC now, like a Hole Management Expert?

I looked around the room, expecting to see a sea of confused faces and to my dismay, everyone else was studiously filling out the form.

I furiously scratched a line into 1, praying this wasn’t a trick question, and went on to the next question.

1 2 3 4 I am interested in tracking statistical marketing data.

Uh…uh…uh, I thought frantically. Are they talking about the people who stalk you at the mall, begging you to do taste tests and surveys? EW. No thanks. That’s one of those jobs you just sort of fall into, not something that you aspired to.

1 2 3 4 I am interested in hosting parties.

Finally, I cried to myself, FINALLY! Something I could totally do! I LOVE hosting parties! Hooray!

I furiously scribbled a 4 and went on to the next.

1 2 3 4 People would call me a methodical person.

Hmmm….I thought. Is this a trick question? I don’t know that anyone that would think of me in those terms. I scribbled a 3, just guessing what people might say about me and moved on.

I spent the rest of the test, all 232 questions, in much the same vein. Finally, it was over and we were instructed to go on break. I took that opportunity to visit the computer lab and check my email. I laughed my way through a couple of those forward How Well Do You Know Me emails (which turned, I must add, into meme’s years later) and when it was time, slunk back in to the room.

My star quality was no longer sparkling.

The instructor passed out sheets of paper with our results on it, a certain combination of letters. Those letters, he explained, would correspond to a set of jobs that I was uniquely qualified for.

I frantically searched through page after page of letter combinations until I got to mine. My eyes rested on the job I would be happiest with:

Veterinarian (poultry).

Yes. A chicken doctor. Wow. The possibilities. Wow.

That must be a glitch, I said to myself. On down the line I went.

Brick Layer.

My third?

Mosaic Tile Layer.

Uh. Jesus. Uh. Yeah.

*blink, blink, blink*

I was uniquely qualified to become Becky Sherrick, Doctor Of Chickens or Becky Sherrick, Layer of Bricks. Fucking awesome.

I was not even REMOTELY of Star Quality ™. No one was going to beat down my door to be on Wheel Of Fortune or American Idol. No one was going to have me bikini model cars or become a sexy astrophysicist. No one was going to beat down my door: period.

Unless they happened to wear feathers and cluck. A lot.

For simplicity’s sake, I tell people that Becky is my college roommate. This is not entirely true, as she lived two doors down from me, but she might as well have lived in my room, seeing as how SHE SPENT PRACTICALLY EVERY WAKING MOMENT STEALING OUR BEER (ed note: I do not like beer. Rum, yes, I stole your rum, Pashmina. And your vodka. And your whiskey. And it was TASTEE). YES YOU, BECKY.

We have been friends for 10 years. It would have been, in fact, 10 years ago this fall that I was all, “Can I smoke in here?” and Becky was all “sure!” and her roommate was all, “SMOKING IS FOR PEOPLE WHO WANT TO DIIIIIIIIIIE.” So, it’s true that I’ve known Becky a long time.

It is also true (she denies this) that when we get together, your Aunt Becky and I suffer from revertigo. This is to say that when we get together, we behave like the 19 year olds we once were, which is to say that our collective average age when we get together is about 12. Dick and fart jokes are the norm, and whenever Bones and I leave an afternoon with Becky, he lovingly tells me, “You guys are fucking ridiculous.” It’s true. I am.

It would not surprise you, then, to learn that for our wedding, Becky made a check out to us and wrote in the memo “Butt Sex.” It certainly didn’t surprise ME, and Bones and I got a good chuckle out of it when, a couple days after the wedding, we went through our gifts so that we could deposit any money before going on our honeymoon.

I slipped the check into the pile, deposited it, and Bones and I spent a week in the Caribbean. (ed note: Bitch)

When we came back, I had a letter from the bank. I opened it, and it contained three things:
1. A notice of error that said (and I quote) “Check Enclosed, Not Listed. Account Debited.”
2. A copy of the deposit slip
3. A copy of a check from your very own Aunt Becky, for Butt Sex.

Being that the whole thing was cryptic and confusing, I called the bank for an explanation. They told me I would have to go into the particular branch where we had made the deposit, since they didn’t quite understand either.

Not thinking anything of it at the time, I put “Bank” on my list of errands and headed over. Whatevs. I walked up to the teller, explained my confusion politely, and asked if he could provide me an explanation. He guessed at something. I asked a follow-up question. He called over his manager.

His manager came over to the teller window, looked at the documents and said–louder than she needed to–“OMG, who wrote you a check for butt sex?!”

The bank stopped for a split second and then erupted in peals of laughter around me. Me, I was caught between wanting to fall over laughing and being totally irritated that THE CHECK THEY PULLED OUT HAPPENED TO HAVE THE WORDS ‘BUTT SEX’ on it. There were several other checks for identical amounts, but no, the bank and to pull THAT ONE for me. Thanks, Bank. Thanks for making me explain that my college roommate decided that this would be a hilarious thing to do. I mean, it’s one thing when she writes me thank you notes that read “Dear Aunt P, Thank you so much for the Beer and Crack Whore money you gave Alex for his 2nd Birthday.” It’s totally another to have to take a check for Butt Sex to a business.

I explained that my college roommate had a sense of humor, in a way that implied that I didn’t while the bank continued to laugh around me.

Said the Teller, “Do you think maybe they didn’t deposit it because it said– because of the memo line?” (by now, the stern-faced, Chicago-bred security guard was smiling)

Manager, “Um, let me call corporate and ask.”

aw, fuck.

So, I took a seat and waited while the manager called the corporate headquarters and explained the situation and my confusion. Then I heard her say clearly, “Oh! Yes, it is Paisana!” She pulled the phone away from her mouth and said to me, “He remembers you!”

Oooof course he does.

A few more minutes with corporate–and several tellers who had to explain to the PEOPLE DRIVING THROUGH THE DRIVE UP WHY THEY WERE LAUGHING–later, the manager called me back over to her desk to explain to me what corporate had told her, assuring me the whole time that no, corporate had not rejected the check for Butt Sex. She was very happy to use the words “butt sex” freely, too, and every time she said it, the security guard got a chuckle and EVERYONE IN LINE looked my direction with a “WTF?” expression.

She then explained to me that my error had been in addition (I had added the check twice) and we went through the deposit slip line by line until I was satisfied that my bad math–and not bank error–was at play. I thanked her for the explanation and she said to me, “Tell your friend she’s funny!”

She’ll appreciate that.

Some days, I really wish that I was a dude, and no, not just so that I could write my name in pee in the snow (I have a feeling the “y” would be the hardest thing to get out there, but this is neither here nor there). I’m not trying to be all dramatical and like, oh em GE, Internet, I HATE women, I’m ONLY friends with men because that’s SO missing the point.

But seriously, I think that men have something on women when it comes to dealing with (quote, unquote) issues. You pop each other in the jaw, then you shake hands and have a beer: it’s done.

I only wish that this was the way that I could solve things. It beats the shit out of talking behind each others’ back, playing fake nicey-nicey at social events and commenting passive-aggressively about each other on Facebook.

(Status Update: Of course you’re “Hermione” because you’re bookish and annoying.)

It seems that no matter how hard I try to bring issues, problems and misgivings out into the open, nobody wants to address them. Suddenly, I can’t pin them down, or they respond in an equally passive-aggressive manner. Working on solving anything (including things that *I* have done and am ready to own and apologize for) becomes as easy as nailing jello to the wall.

So rather than actually resolving and moving past, it’s a clusterfcuk of swirling undertows whenever I see these people. Better not bring up this or that; best shut your mouth and smile kindly. Because bringing up your flakiness or my aggression or that you hate me and yet stalk my blog simply won’t do.

(because we all know stalking someone is just another way to say “I hate you,” right?)

I lost one of my best friends before I got married. She simply stopped returning my phone calls, emails, or the phone calls of anyone else in the bridal party. This was the way she handled conflict, I knew this beforehand, but I had hoped that our friendship meant more to her than just cutting me off.

I still don’t know what I did, but I wish that I’d had the ability to at the very least defend myself, apologize for whatever I’d taken a crap on, and parted ways on better terms. Then, 4.5 years later, I wouldn’t be stuck wondering. I still consider sending her a Christmas Card every year, and maybe that’s just what I should do, because what do I have to lose?

(answer: nothing)

Maybe this will be the year that I reach out again. Or maybe I won’t. 50 million Tibetan Monks don’t give a shit.

Maybe I just need to work on my sucker punch and call it a freaking day. Besides, being punched in the face would give me a good excuse to have a drink**.

—————–

How do you handle conflict?

**WON’T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!

Monday was just one of those days, you know what I mean? It had all the promise of being a good day until Ben burst into tears whenever I redirected him away from fixating–he’s normally not so tearful (the fixating is turning into the new normal, though).

Then, just as I was renewing my commitment to both Weight Watchers AND exercise, I realized that whatever had crawled up Alex’s ass and died last week had somehow made it’s viral way into my own digestive tract.

By the time that Alex came home from school (a term we loosely use around these here parts) and kicked a ball into one of those stupid reed diffuser things I really should have gotten rid of when Tate, the world’s grumpiest hedgehog bit the big one, and knocked clove oil all over the whole fucking house, I was just DONE.

Add in one precious sweet baby who won’t fucking go to sleep and the looming fear of Back To School Night (it always makes me feel like a fraud), couple that with the fact that The Daver has some ridiculous deadline at work AND garnish it with a side of nasty headaches on my end, and you have a day that I wanted to be over by 1 PM.

(also included at no charge to you, bonus World’s Longest Sentence Barf Bag! HOORAY!)

Pretty sure my Momma never said there’d be days like THIS.

It recently occurred to me that the mood swings I was having directly AFTER taking something for aforementioned headaches probably had a little somethin’-somethin’ to do with the drugs. And not just my shitty ass attitude about life in general. Because, Internet, I WIN at life. And so do YOU.

But, mood swings can be managed because I don’t have much of a choice with drugs to take, as The Good Stuff is kind of off limits when you’re parenting 3 children. Plus, I’m compulsive enough to either die of an accidental overdose or use up a month’s supply in 2.5 days if I were to get anything deliciously narcotic.

Besides, I don’t take it out on my kids or anything; no! Not when I can grind my teeth and be mad at the air for being so fucking AIR LIKE. ASSHOLE AIR PARTICLES. IT’S NOT EVEN 100% OXYGEN, WHY DON’T PEOPLE ACKNOWLEDGE THAT, HUH? I FUCKING HATE THE WORLD, AND AIR. AND SPACE. AND PEOPLE. BUT MOSTLY AIR! GAH!

By the time The Daver got home from work, I would have been in tears if that hadn’t seemed like such a futile waste of time and energy, we discovered that we had the same exact day. Well, his had (presumably) less poopy diapers, but one can never be too sure of that in finance. So, while I watched him eat a frozen pizza (I ruin dinner. And expectations), we commiserated and chatted with Amelia.

Amelia, like the other creatures in my house, has about a zillion nicknames. Alex is “Jay,” Ben is “Benner” and Amelia is…”Goo.”

Yeah, that’s right. My kid is called “Goo” at home.

But, in my defense, The Daver made THAT one up and once I realized what a fucked up nickname that was for a baby, I started to call her “Gooey-Gooey-Gumdrop.” Which, thanks to the combination of drugs, made me think of Candyland. Which reminded me that she’s six months old and that means I ONLY HAVE 6 months to plan her first birthday party! ACK!

(Why yes, my eldest turns 8 in a couple of weeks, but he’s beyond the age of wanting this sort of party. He’d much prefer bowling or a kegger or something. Or maybe the kid’s museum. And he gets like 200 birthday parties, most of which I have to plan and none of them Candyland themed. Lucky kid, huh?)

What, ME neurotic?

Once I realized that I could have a Candyland themed birthday party for Amelia, it was like the heavens opened up and shone an angelic light on the rest of my day. Which was, unfortunately for me, nearly over.

Immediately, I ran to the computer to scour Wikipedia for the name of the Princess in the game. Ben had been obsessed with the game for a year or so, and I’d remembered loving it as a child, and always longing to be the princess. But what was her name? I simply couldn’t remember.

Considering that you can get tapeworms online (no, seriously), it was no stretch to find the name for the characters from the game.

• The Gingerbread People
• Mr. Mint
• Gramma Nut
• King Kandy
• Jolly
• Plumpy
• Princess Lolly
• Queen Frostine
• Lord Licorice
• Gloppy the Molasses Monster

Dave and Amelia had gone downstairs to watch television (presumably Daver, but you never know with kids these days. Damn kids on my lawn!!) and told them of my findings.

Aunt Becky: “Dude. Mimi is going to be Princess Lolly. And ONE OF THEM WAS NAMED PLUMPER. BWAHAHAHAHA!”

Daver: “You’re so full of shit.”

Aunt Becky: “Maybe it was Plumpee or something. But STILL! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Daver: “Whatever. That’s SUCH BS.”

Aunt Becky: “I found it on Wikipedia! And I remember that they all had names! I always wanted to be the princess when I was a kid.”

Daver: “You do know that not everything they say on The Internet is true, don’t you?

Aunt Becky: “SAY IT AIN’T SO!”

Well, I pulled up the entry on Wikipedia and he STILL wouldn’t buy into it.

Daver: “Someone obviously forgot to edit this entry.”

Aunt Becky (clicks on Hasboro link and points triumphantly to the names of the characters): “HA. SEE! How’s that FOOT taste, Mister?”

What strikes me as oddest about this isn’t that he wouldn’t remember that they had names–I only did because I’d wanted desperately to be a princess–but that it was always the three of us who played Candyland until our eyes bled.

If I am IN the picture, I am not taking it. Therefore, SOMEONE else was taking the picture. But (dot, dot, dot) mayhap he was just an innocent bystander. Hmmm…

Oh noes, who is that man in dire need of a haircut? Why, that would be a very, very old picture of The Daver, now wouldn’t it? And what’s that that he’s playing? Why it almost appears to be CANDYLAND!

Fancy that.

Sorry baby, looks like you’ll be assuming the role of GLOPPY come January.

Saturday morning found me fast asleep in my very own bed, dreaming contentedly about mountains of marshmallow frosting and inexplicably John Mayer (who, I should add, I find to be a complete douche. With amazing talent. But a douche. But damn, can that white boy play or what?), when through the door burst The Daver carrying Alex. Not entirely unlike the time the Incident When Alex Ate A Dime, but now Alex was 2 and no longer a baby.

Before I knew it, he’d thrust Alex into bed with me, unceremoniously, and while I was delighted to see my son, after a full two painful days away from him, I was suitably UNDERwhelmed to hear what came pouring from The Daver’s mouth.

“I’m sorry to wake you up, I know you got in late, but look at Alex’s eye.”

Alex was laying on his hands on top of me and all I could see was his gigantic hair covered head, and his eye was out of sight. Finally, he popped his face up to look at me (and thankfully did NOT thrust his tiny fingers into my eye socket as punishment for leaving him) and I saw it.

Since the last time I’d seen my son, his eye had…well, grown. It was now approximately the size and shape of a small nation and swollen nearly shut. I could see the purplish streaks that signified bruising from the sudden influx of fluid into his eyelid. Knowing that if something had happened, say, he’d been knocked out in a prizefight or maybe defended my honor against some other toddler who was knockin’ HIS mom, I’d have been told, my heart sunk.

By the grace of God, I forced myself as awake as I could be and sat up. As I wrapped my hammy arms around my son and pulled him close, I sighed deeply.

Alex had cellulitis. Again.

It’s been years since I actively practiced nursing, but I remember several things vividly from nursing school:

1) A code brown best avoided

2) I was a terrible nurse

3) Cellulitis was a big fucking deal.

This cinched it for me: I wasn’t going to be going back to Chicago for BlogHer. Nope. No more $36 dollar bottles of diet coke for me. No more swag and no more marketers. Hell, I wouldn’t even get to meet half the people I’d wanted to meet which is the only thing about the prospect of staying home that made my heart wear a frowny face.

But such is life.

I sent Dave downstairs to put a call in to Alex’s pediatrician while I put on pants as Alex stared at me, making me sort of uncomfortable. He eyed me warily; his one eye studying me very seriously. I’d left him once, he knew, and he wasn’t about to let me out of his (one-eyed) sight again until he was sure I wasn’t going to recklessly abandon him again.

The poor kid had had a bout of cellulitis mere months ago, also orbital (read: around the eye) but this time in the other eye, and I knew that we were about due for another ER visit. I’m telling you, my ER Frequent Flyer Punch Card is nearly full! I’m almost due for a free emesis basin OR I can wait and upgrade to some IV tubing!

The last time, we’d avoided being admitted for IV antibiotics by the skin of our teeth, and I wasn’t taking any chances this time around. We dragged our sad sacks to Alex’s normal doctor, who seemed shockingly unconcerned, discomfortingly telling us to “wait and see.”

Which, hi, I’m cool with waiting and seeing about, oh I don’t know, an ear infection, or a skinned knee, or what crazy outfit Britney will wear next but with orbital edema so severe that my son could now not see at all out of one of his eyes?

The doctor was, apparently as he told us, still pissed that someone had called him at 3AM complaining of a swollen hand from an earlier bee sting. Which sucks, no doubt, but this is my son’s eyesocket, not a boo-boo on his knee.

My professional opinion? Fuck you and fuck that.

It was back to the ER with us. And hey, all’s well that ends well, and we got the script for some antibiotics…

(I feel I should disclose here, in order to assure you that we are not exactly hypochondriacs, that this is the second time Alex has been on antibiotics in his 2.5 years on this planet. And the second time that he’s been to the MD for anything OTHER than a well-baby visit. The first time? Follow-up from the LAST bout of cellulitis)

…and he’s feeling much better. The swelling has gone down while the bruising has gone up, so he really looks like he’s got a pretty rad shiner. I’ve always been fond of a black eye, I told him today, and he just looked at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot.

Because, well, at 2 my son has discovered what the world already knows: I am the world’s biggest idiot.

But anyway. You read my blog. You know I’m a moron. This is not national news.

Here’s what is.

(no it’s not)

(no, really, it’s not)

So, BlogHer gives away a bunch of swag, no? I’m sure you heard of it, what with the hoards of stampeding bloggers rushing the bags and elbowing kids out of their damn way (damn fool kids!). These are not lies, no.

I have a fool ton of stuff. Some of it I’ll use, but most of it? I took because I did not know what else to do with it. It could be useful to other people, but for as much shit as I have in my house, I don’t need any additional, and I was struggling what to do with all of it. There’s some pretty good stuff among the ads and coupons (those I tossed).

I was also stuck trying to figure out what to do with the huge ass stack of business cards I’d been told I needed to bring to BlogHer but didn’t get to pass out because I am a loser who went home early and then had to take her very ill son to the hospital. The loser part is incidental and irrelevant, because, remember, I win at LIFE, Internet.

So let’s do something with this stuff, since it would be green to reUSE it. Anything you don’t like, you can give away to your least favorite relative for Christmas. Here’s what my friend Lola suggested.

Leave me a comment, I’ll email you for your address, or email me outright (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com) and then I’ll send you some business cards.

(Pithy Aside/Reassurance: do not worry about me stalking you, should you disclose your address to me. I have 0% attention span AND I am lazy. Plus, Dave is the only other adult in the house and I just asked him my middle name, so that I could prove to you that he is forgetful. His answer? Elizabeth. My middle name? Sherrick)

Do something high-larious with the cards–you know, take ’em out for drinks, give ’em to your friends, whatever–send me the pictures documenting what you did.

No, not like rubbing one off on them, because ew, but you know. Something creative, or funny, or just plain weird. I’ll throw up the pictures with a link to your site and we can vote. Whomever wins, gets some of the BlogHer stuff and some other obviously hilarious crap that I pick out for you. No, not like old banana peels and breast pump parts. It’ll be like a grab bag of The Awesomeness. But in gigantic box form.

And if THAT doesn’t sound appealing, leave me a comment telling me something else I can do with these cards. I mean, I feel like a tool keeping them, because what the shit do I do with them? No seriously, WHAT do I do with them?

We’ll run this contest until, oh, I don’t know, how about September 8? Because that’s Daver’s birthday and this should help me remember it. See, Internet, I love YOU more than I love The Daver.

Then you cannot say that Your Aunt Becky never gave you anything besides the urge to punch her in the head. Because that, my friends, is the universal gift Your Aunt Becky gives to everyone who meets her.

*Blogher didn’t REALLY break my kid. Just my soul. Whatever was left of it, I mean.

I’ve said it before, and I’ve meant it every time: I don’t tend to win stuff. I mean, I win at LIFE and all that, but that’s one of those things people say to The Losers when really they’re snickering behind your back because shit, no, you really don’t win anything. Sucks to be YOU.

Here is a brief rundown of the things I have not–and will not–won:

• The Lottery. While I don’t ever PLAY it, I’m as shocked as you to report, they don’t just give you the winnings for saying off-handedly to the overweight and stoned cashier that you’d like to win it one day as you bought your large Diet Coke.

• My 3rd Grade classes 3-legged race. Because I fell down and ruined it all. Hey, what else is new?

• Prom Queen. Because I was too busy being drunk and hot-tubbing at a party to remember to get all gussied up and shake my booty to a PG version of “Brown Eyed Girl” with the whole “makin’ love in the green grass” part taken out. Because THINK OF THE CHILDREN! *cue handwringing*

• The genetics that would make me 5’11 with long blonde hair (that is always romantically windblown, even inside), a teeny waist, and a nice rack.

• Class President. Now, I wasn’t campaigning for it, nor would I have wanted to actually BE Class President, but I need to tell you that there was no grass-roots movement to get me elected. I KNOW, right? The UNFAIRNESS of it all.

• An Heiress. I’m not really particular about which family, so long as I can sleep in a vault of money and pay someone to wipe my butt after I poo. While I know this isn’t something that’s really “won,” it’s another example of how wanting something badly enough doesn’t do any good.

After all, not everyone can be an astronaut.

When I was nominated for Funniest Blogger, a contest I didn’t even know was going on until a sweet Twitter Gnomie put me up for it, I was shocked. I told The Daver that I was now up for the award and then proceeded to laugh as I listed my competition. Because the competition should have kicked my lily-white ass to the curb and then made me buy it breakfast at IHOP.

And yet.

And somehow.

I won.

I tied for winner with Cake Wrecks, which is pretty much saying that Dooce and I won the same award. It’s like winning something alongside THE POPE. Which, hi, not going to happen. Except when it does. Because it did.

I’m as shocked as you are.

I’ll give you a minute to let this sink in because I’m still all, “I thought Punk’d went off the air when the dude from it married that old lady from Ghost.”

….

….

….

….

….

Done? Angrily writing nasty-grams to the organizers of the Social Luxe awards informing them of how very wrong their decisions were? I kind of want to send one myself, although, not for Cake Wrecks. They were a shoo-in. Starting hate blogs devoted to me yet? Telling Barrack Obama that he should fire me from life?

But no. They’re never going to pry the awesome award out of my nubbly little fingers as long as I live and breathe. I’m considering naming the trophy something like, “Bob” or “Earl” or “Princess Grace of Monaco” and sleeping with it at night. Maybe I’ll take it for carriage rides and long walks on the beach; maybe I’ll dress it in the teeny-tiny new baby clothes that my children will never wear again. Maybe I will take it out to dinner in lieu of going with my family members.

Because that’s what Winners do, right?

Wait, I thought you were up for Funniest LOOKING Blogger, Mom!

Nom, nom, nom, so THAT’S what victory tastes like. Hm. Minty.

Keep your hands off my deranged looking husband, and I will cut a bitch if you go near my award. I have a feeling absolutely no one will try and touch the award now. He’s like my own personal vault. Only human.

Thank you so much to everyone who voted for me, even if you’d interpreted it as the Funniest LOOKING Blogger. I really, honestly couldn’t have done this without you. Shut up! I am NOT crying! I have ALLERGIES. And a GLANDULAR problem, people!

—————————–

Here are the other winners as I don’t think they’ve been put up online yet. You should absolutely go and check them all out:

Blogs We’ve Learned the Most From: I Heart Faces & The Pioneer Woman Cooks

Most Inspiring Blog: Nie Nie Dialogues & The Spohrs are Multiplying

Most Provocative Blog: The Bloggess & Her Bad Mother

Tastiest Blog : This Week For Dinner & The Pioneer Woman Cooks

Funniest Blog: Cake Wrecks & Mommy Wants Vodka

Best Eye Candy Blog: I Should Be Folding Laundry & whatever

Guiltiest Pleasure Blog: MamaPop & Craftastrophe

Pretty much every time anyone asks me what I want or what turns me on (which is a surprisingly frequent occurrence for someone who is not yet a Penthouse Pet. Notice I said YET.) I have a stock answer: sleep. I want more sleep. If there was a 12 Step for Sleepaholics Anonymous I would probably have to join. Maybe I could actually NAP there.

Sleep, like my precious 6 pack abs, is a dwindling commodity around here as you might have guessed by my menagerie and The Sausages. Any moment of the day, someone or somebody wants something from me. I’m used to it by now, although, like anything else, it has it’s days where I want to pull what’s left of my postpartum hair from my head and run down the street naked and screaming about dingoes and my baby.

With the addition of each child, my sleep issues have gotten worse. And once my glandular issues (I HAVE GLANDULAR ISSUES, PEOPLE!!) were solved and the Synthroid was happily on board, I suddenly found that I had developed that tried and true, suicide-inducing insomnia. This happened to occur right as I got pregnant with Alex, and this was before I knew that pregnant ladies could take Benedryl, so I spent all of his pregnancy sleeping horribly. I’d fall asleep only to flit in and out of the land of nod all night.

WARNING! WARNING! IF YOU HAVE A NEW BABY AND IT IS YOUR FIRST BABY DO NOT READ WHAT FOLLOWS. LET ME DIRECT YOU HERE.

Alex was born and the issues deepened. Not only did he not sleep through the night until he was a over a year, he was still UP every 1-3 hours during this year. I nearly lost what was left of my addled mind. (insert joke here about how someone who calls herself “Your Aunt Becky” can maintain that she was EVER sane) I hallucinated, I hurt myself unintentionally, I was afraid to drive, lest I crash into something while I nodded off at a stop light, I got into a fist-fight with Daver, I fantasized about being institutionalized.

It.Was.Torture.

Every time I was able to fall asleep, Alex would wake up, which is comical for a couple moments until you remember that this is a method of torture the soldiers used on POW. I have no doubts of it’s efficacy.

To make matters worse, I got so agitated that even the nights Alex DID sleep for 6 glorious hours at a stretch, I couldn’t sleep. Pair-a-docks indeed.

Alex has since been squared away and I take a lovely combo of meds to insure that I go to and stay asleep, which is certainly not something of which I am proud, but with 3 kids, I don’t quite have the luxury to evacuate my bowels alone, let alone find an hour to nap.

(pointless aside time! BONUS!!

When I finally went to the doctor about these persistent and kind of frightening headaches I’ve been having for the past 4-5 months, he asked if I could lie down when I got one. I laughed until I cried. Then DAVE laughed until he cried, because, seriously, doc, do you write your own jokes?! I’ll make sure to try the salmon and I *always* tip my waitress)

Amelia has decided that sleep is for (and I quote) “fucking pansies” and doesn’t care to partaketh in such pointless activities now that she’s realized what a cool place the world is. And while I see her point–I do–the world is a much HAPPIER place for everyone when baby naps.

But no.

I don’t remember–or give much of a shit–or two shits–or even three shits–if this is some sort of developmental thing, because knowing it’s a developmental thing that most babies grow out of until said baby is old enough for Benedryl, doesn’t exactly fucking help you a whole lot. I lost faith in the term “most” as it applies to children, oh, I don’t know, about 8 years ago?

Either way, Miss Mimi is not sleeping. Dave is bearing the brunt of the overnight stuff because he is not only awesome but amazing too (and he knows that once I get up with her, I’m up for a good couple of hours afterwards and although this does not directly affect him, me whining, pissing and moaning incessantly about it later does) and I have to deal with the juggling act of two small ones.

One of whom is my Alex, who would, most days, like to crawl back up in the old uterus (it’s not UTER-YOU, Mom, it’s UTER-US!) and stretch out in there and the other is my precious daughter. Who now, just like her mother, wakes up from a dead sleep when a frog in Siberia farts or a raccoon in the Catskills considers walking on some crunchy leaves.

(Alex was the same way)

This really becomes a problem because we have stupidly never installed a soundproof room which, after these two babies, would have been wiser than the velcro wall we installed instead.

My house is loud. It just is.

Alex has a voice that could shear glass into nifty seascapes, my dogs bark whenever someone thinks about walking past my house, the phone is always ringing, kids are always banging through, recklessly slamming doors, my cats yodel from different vantage points about the house, and well, if you can’t sleep for shit anyway, you’re effing screwed.

As frustrating as it is sometimes after I’ve carefully put my daughter to sleep through a combination of bottles, swaddling, bouncing and/or patting and binkies, and I get her upstairs and she bolts upright, looking at me mischievously as if to say “yeah RIGHT, Mom. Nice freaking try!” I feel sorry for her. If she’s anything like me, she’s going to discover the wonders of pharmaceuticals early and learn to punch people who tell her to try warm milk.

Either that, or I am going to have to surgically implant her somewhere on my body. Then at least, I could have my hands back. So that I can, you know, pick my nose and check for dirty diapers.

The important stuff.