If I were the sort of person that kept a day planner (hint, I’m not), the month of February would have exactly one task: SURVIVE. I don’t mean to sound all OH THE HUMANITY!! on you, it’s just the one month of the year where things just go horribly wrong.

If Caesar was all “Beware the ides of March,” Aunt Becky is all “Beware the month of February.”

Anyway, so I’m kind of in a bad place. I’m feeling pretty low because it’s Chicago and Ass outside right now and tired of myself and tired of being inside and kinda ready to get a sex change and move to Detroit. It seems like a wise idea, right? Don’t answer that.

So last night, I was lying in bed, not sleeping because that’s what people who have insomnia do: they lay in bed and they don’t sleep.

When I lay there, I think of a couple of different things:

1) I try to imagine all of the ways I’d kill the people who come up with the commercial jingles that run in an ever-loving loop in my head while I am lying there, not fucking sleeping. High on my list are the Daisy Sour Cream people and whomever cast Jamie Lee Curtis in the Activia commercial.

Because I’ll give you a motherfucking dollop of Daisy with my glock.

Also, I don’t want to think of your colon, Jamie Lee Curtis. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I don’t want to think of your COLON.

B) I think of all the words I will ban when I rule the world. Like hymen. And moist. And juxtapose. Because there was this AWFUL girl who sat at my lunch table in high school who was a pseudo-intellectual assbag who was all “juxtapose” ALL THE TIME.

Like, I could eat a sandwich and she’d be all “that sandwich is a juxtaposition of life.” And then I wanted to kill myself. Maybe with a bomb.

Last night, though, because I was feeling particularly vitriolic, I decided that what I needed to do was to create a line of horrible greeting cards for people that I hate. Not like funny cards designed to make you laugh, but cards that say what I really WANT to say.

I’m pretty sure it’s a cash cow waiting to happen. Or at the very least, it’s going to make damn sure you never have to waste a stamp on someone you hate again.

(yes, I made these cards)(no, not the PICTURES. What do you think I am, TALENTED!?! Yeah. RIGHT.)

I’m sure with all of the sleepless nights I have, I could go on and on and on and on. The market will be huge for my cards, I can feel it.

I’m off to wait for Hallmark’s call. I’m positive they’ll be all over my idea.

—————

I’m over at Toy With Me, talking about weird guys I want to have The Sex with. I just realized that I left my new husband David Cook off there which pretty much makes me the worst wife ever. Which, DUH.

The Daver: “Baby, what’s wrong? You haven’t asked me all night how I rate your awesomeness level.”

Aunt Becky (despondently): “I’m just feeling…so…sad.”

The Daver: “Aw, why?”

Aunt Becky (listlessly draws in circles on table in front of her): “Well, I’m pretty sure that none of my television husbands even know I exist. I pine for Dr. House night after night, and still, he’s never even once responded to my advances.”

The Daver: “It’s just because he doesn’t know you.”

Aunt Becky: “And Dexter, DEXTER, Dave. I never thought I’d say that I wish I had a friend who was a serial killer, but I do. I want to have a friend who is a serial killer. Like Dexter! (pounds table) I want Dexter to be my friend!”

The Daver: “Baby, if he knew you, he’d want to be your friend.”

Aunt Becky (looks up at him hopefully): “You really think so?”

The Daver: “Of course. Who WOULDN’T want to be friends with a creepy internet person who blogs about her television husbands?”

Aunt Becky: “When you put it like that, I mean, of COURSE he’d be my friend! I’m a shoo-in for his BEST friend. And then, I just know he’d want to marry me. It’s a very logical step.”

The Daver: “Clearly.”

Aunt Becky: “I think I need to expand my cadre of boyfriends to include some new genres. I’m thinking I need a rock-star boyfriend now.”

The Daver (has left the conversation and is busily typing on his Blackberry)

Aunt Becky: “I follow some on Twitter. Ice-T and David Cook. Those are my next boyfriends…(trails off)

Aunt Becky: “Look out, gentlemen, I have you in my sights. I’ll be the cheese to your macaroni. The Fun to your Fetti.”

The Daver: “Wait, I though it was just David Cook’s Fanclub that followed you on Twitter.”

Aunt Becky: “Semantics, Daver. Who gives a shit? Either way, he is my new boyfriend. *pumps fists* All that remains is me telling him that we are now officially dating. Also, did you know that David Cook was my best friend growing up? TRUE STORY. We shared the sandbox for years.”

The Daver: “And to think, you could have had fame and fortune…”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, well, Twitter and I are getting the DISCO band back together just as soon as I get my vocoder. Then I, too, will be famous for being in our ALL GIRLS disco band.”

The Daver: “You go ahead with your dreams, baby. Don’t let anyone get in your way.”

Aunt Becky: “Are you…are you ROLLING YOUR EYES at me?”

The Daver: “I would never mock something you were so serious about. Your unrequited love for people who you don’t know that you’re going to go off and marry is one of those things I couldn’t DARE mock you for.”

The Daver: “Much.”

When I was a kid, I always fantasized about having a big family. Maybe it was because I was the youngest by a factor of 10 years and I lived a lonely life at home, but the holidays always made me wish that my family was huge and robust, bursting at the seams with life and vitality. I’d have traded my toenails for the drama that goes along with that to have someone to sit with me at the kid table.

I sat alone there. Sad, right?

So, I always hoped I’d marry into a big, loud annoying family, but no. Dave’s family is small like mine. Or it’s not, but they’re not all unified because of The Dramaz, so whatever. I was kind of saddened by that. Especially because that means that I am stuck hosting holidays, something that I’m pretty much a failure at*.

But because we have this teeny-weeny family, we rarely have uninvited guests pop by on the holidays, which is full of The Awesome. Although it would probably make for more interesting anecdotes than “we sat around breathing and looking at each other a lot.” This year, however, because Things are going Wrong with me, my insomnia is raging which meant I was up on Black Friday morning to catch all of the fucking amazing cyber deals!

I inadvertently brought home a monster.

This does not compute. What is this ‘almond bark?’ and why are you making me stand near it? Don’t you know I’m made for more important things than this?

I am designed to kick ass not make candy, you assholes.

What the fuck is that smell? Why does your house smell like pee? Please send me away from here.

Those are Narcissus Lilies and they cover up the smell of death quite well. Please leave my non-television wife alone before I disassemble you. DON’T MAKE ME TELL YOU AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKER.

You punish me by making me wear a bow and then you show me your GIRLY chocolate covered pretzels! Who the fuck uses pink and blue sprinkles? You make me sick.

And that wrapping paper is something A GIRLY MAN would pick out. Why didn’t you find some skulls or barbed wire to wrap this in? You’re a couple of sissies.

What are you DOING to your children by giving them such LAME GIRLY gifts? They need machine guns and barbells or they’re going to turn into sissies. I’m slipping some raw meat and eggs into their milk because they need to build muscle. To turn into MEN.

Wait, why are you packing me up to send me to him? HOPEFULLY he’ll be a manlier man than you, Aunt Becky. Thank GOD I’m being sent to him for winning that contest and naming your company***.

Oh, and I replaced all of your Diet Coke with gasoline. You didn’t even know the difference, you fool.

———————

Merry Christmas, o! Internet, my Internet! Aunt Becky, The Daver, The Sausages and Mimi all love you more than is possibly healthy. Thanks for being there for all of us. And if you tell anyone we said nice things, we’ll punch you.

———————

*Because I LOSE** at life.

**ALSO because I hate to cook.

***Copy on the Rocks.

Enrobed = EN-AWESOME.

That is all.

Dearest Darkly Dreaming Dexter,

When I first heard of a television show where a vigilante serial killer murdered the bad guys that the police weren’t able to catch, I admit that I was intrigued. But I am also very cheap, so while I have basic cable, the premium channels, my love, well, I don’t have them. Shh, shh, there there, it’s not you it’s me! Why, I don’t even buy premium vibrators and those go on my cootch!

But I was intrigued. Because hello! Being a D-list blogger is ALMOST like being a vigilante serial killer except not at all, but let’s totally gloss over that, shall we?

Then I had some more kids and sort of lost my mind and forgot about you, current love of my life for as long as you hold my interest or your show stays on the air.

But it was like The Fates, or as I like to call it, Twitter, brought us together again when I asked them casually one night if I should maybe watch your show. The result was a unanimous “FUCK YES,” and so I did.

And I thought it was great, although I will admit to finding you more like a bumbling friend than a fuck-buddy. People who like to kill other people just don’t make my vagina tingle. But you’re charming in the very same way that my husband charmed me, so there’s something about very sweet guys like you and he that I find just ADORABLE.

So, Dexter, my friend, we were platonic for months as I dated such television husbands as Vincent D’Onofrio, Anthony Bourdain and Dr. House.

And then three things happened at the same time:

First, I got infected with The Swine Flu and required buckets of this:

This is the Good Shit. The cough syrup that Daver gets carded for every time he goes to the store to buy it for me. Also, there’s a big fat warning label which means that if you take too much of it, it pretty much rots your brain. No, it does, so be careful.

At the same time, I managed to buy this:

And I was all, This is full of The Awesome, it was on sale for like a gazillion dollars off which made me moist AND high and I justified it by saying that Dave could give it to me for Christmas! But then I left it on the kitchen counter because how depressing is it to hide YOUR OWN Christmas presents in your room?

So you sat there, beloved Dexter, where you looked creepily at me any time I walked by to drink this:

The last thing that tipped me over the edge was when I found this, while rummaging through the pantry looking for some purple flavored Kool-Aid:

BEEF STICKS. The most repulsive, repugnant, disgusting thing I have EVER seen in my life. Not only were they NON-REFRIGERATED TUBES OF MEAT, Dexter, BUT THEY WERE GENERIC. While I am a connoisseur of most things encased-meaty, this, THIS was going TOO FAR.

I needed a new husband…

…..and cupcakes, FAST. Both were conveniently located IN MY KITCHEN!

Because nothing says, “I love you and like to murder and maim bad people like sprinkley holiday cupcakes! They’re so festively gruesome!” Suddenly that sinister creepy look is kind of a come-hither look. I bet YOU don’t like generic beef sticks, Dexter. Because you are a man of EXCELLENT taste.

Dexter, I don’t know much, but I know that you must think that any bag labeled “HOLIDAY BITS” must be totally FULL of The Awesome just like I did. So when I opened this, I was fucking FULL of holiday cheer all of a sudden. It was like Christmas exploded in my kitchen and my funking pants. I was suddenly whistling “Joy to the World” out of my butthole and it sounded like a choir of fucking angels!

That, Dexter, is how a shiny bag of Holiday Bits makes me feel.

And look at my whimsical fucking snowman cupcake liners, Dexter! It’s like I have Christmas Spirit flying out of my every orifice like funky sputum! When we are married and you go off and kill people while I stay home and, uh, blog and sit on my butt offering up the illusion of doing things, I will occasionally do stuff that is so corny that it’s almost cute. Then I will pepper it with swear words and gross imagery and it will almost make up for the fact that I did something normal.

You’ll get used to it.

I swear that no one can add oil, eggs, or water as skillfully as me. Except for The Pioneer Woman, but she has a cookbook and I failed Home Ec, so there’s that. Don’t you agree, Dexter? OF COURSE YOU DO BECAUSE I HAVEN’T REMOVED YOUR SHRINK WRAP YET.

There, there, sweet-cheeks, I will. I will. Give me time. I am taking our relationship SLOWLY.

And look at me, all PHOTOBLOGGING. I swear, there is NOTHING I cannot do. Except for cook, and photoblog and really write anything of any value or, well, I could devote a blog to my many shortcomings, but that’s kind of depressing. Dexter, I am sure that you would want to see me beat things because you like to murder people.

SO LOOK AT ME BEATING STUFF.

Heh. Beating stuff. LIKE MEAT. Heh. She said beating meat. Heh.

MOVING ON.

This is me, whistling “Joy to the Motherf*cking World” because we are in the presence of some HOLIDAY BITS PEOPLE! HOLIDAY BITS!

There is nothing like Holiday Bits to get ME in the mood for some festive fucking EGG NOG and maybe a whimsical light up REINDEER SWEATER that sings “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” Because he KNOWS who has been NAUGHTY and who’s been nice. ME.

BRING OUT THE MISTLETOE, assholes!

If you don’t like cake batter, you’re dead inside. I mean, I know you kill people for a living, but cake batter is one of the true joys of this earth if you don’t like it Sweet Baby Jesus will cry. Also, I will be forced to store the Beef Sticks on top of you.

While at first, your look said, “I don’t know about these motherfucking holiday cupcakes, Aunt Becky,” your eyebrows now say to me “Not only do I love of the holiday cupcakes, but I also want to make desperate love to you. I WANT TO SHOW YOU MY HOLIDAY BITS.”

So to you, my new boyfriend, Dexter, I say this: steer clear of beef sticks and that fuck bag in Season 2 with the black hair because so help me GOD if she goes near you again I will kick her in the crotch.

I love you, never change, except win some Emmy’s and send me some diamonds.

Your New Wife,

Aunt Becky

P.S. I mean it about the bitch with the black hair.

P.P.S. And the beef sticks. That’s just…wrong.

Dear My Husband Doctor House,

I *can* call you Greg, can’t I? I mean, because it’s your name and all and because we’re married. Wasn’t our wedding day special? I’ll never forget how your mom cried when we said our vows, and how the light caught your eyes justso and they looked as blue as the Caribbean Sea. And that dress that I wore, how we laughed when the cake got smashed on my train, my elaborate, diamond-encrusted 40 foot train sewn with the tears of Bonsai Kitties.

It was the happiest day of your life.

Being married was the happiest you’ve been: we shared a love of Vicodin cuddly kitties and playing air guitar, of blues music and being cranky assbags, and the satisfaction of always being right. Hell, we’re both snarky windbags. It was a marriage made in heaven hell New Jersey.

I followed you through all of your stupid fellows and obvious attempts at emulating reality television–which, I frequently moaned, was kind of stupid. The cases got pretty annoying, especially when Cut-Throat Bitch was front and center. I hates me some Amber.

Shit, I even supported your co-dependent relationship with James Wilson (whom I find ridiculously attractive, but since I am your wife and he is your BFF, that makes it all pretty awkward)(let’s forget that I said this)(seriously, DROP IT) and your mousy coworker who was obviously in love with you.

But I’ve finally hit my breaking point with you. It’s not your addiction to narcotics rainbows and sparkly unicorns or your overall unpleasantness, no.

I CAUGHT YOU HAVING THE SEX WITH ANOTHER WOMAN ON TELEVISION. How DARE you come home to my television after you had sex with that lady with the fantastic rack? How COULD you flaunt that in front of THE WHOLE WORLD? YOU DIRTY BIRDIE!

How dare you act like you’re not married to some anonymous Midwestern blogger who is no longer anonymous but linked inexplicably in all sorts of places to the lady who drank a fifth of Absolut and killed all of those people? Because. OBVIOUSLY. The same thing.

(don’t compare poor taste with drinking a fifth and driving kids to their death)

So I wept to The Daver–sorry about not telling you that I was already married–and he tried to tell me that you weren’t a REAL PERSON. I screamed at him, yelled that our love, OUR LOVE was REAL and that NOTHING he could say could convince me otherwise.

Until he pulled up Wikipedia.

There you were, Greg House, THERE YOU WERE. Turns out that your name? NOT DOCTOR HOUSE. Your name is a ridiculously English one: Hugh Laurie. I could scarcely believe my own puckered eyeballs! I pulled up a Youtube Video to be sure.

And there you were again! Only this time, instead of sounding like a surly American tortured genius doctor, you sounded like you had a mouthful of marbles! And you were making jokes that simply WEREN’T funny and yet an entire studio of wily Brits were laughing like you were making actual jokes! My brain sort of melted because THEY WEREN’T FUNNY.

So I guess this means we’re over, Doctor House Hugh Laurie Vincent D’Onofrio whatever your name REALLY is. Because while I can overlook the 3 children with another lady–HEY, don’t you DARE point out my glaring hypocrisy! There are people in this world without legs and you shouldn’t…oh look! A blue car! Oh HAPPY DAY!

So good riddance, my third husband from television. I’m sure this fall line up will bring me a new husband, a new LESS OLD BALLS new husband.

Love

Sincerely

I Hate You You Philandering Misogynist

Your Bitch Ass Best Be Leaving Me My Vicodin

Your Former Wife,

Aunt Becky

P.S. Watch out, Cast of Glee. Momma’s HUSBAND-hunting.

Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,

I fell for you when I was a crazy pregnant loon, and I learned that plugging myself into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with anyone over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my inability to move without waddling.

I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly round actor almost as old as my father. They showed me pictures of you as Sgt. Pyle (which was a terrible name. Did you know that the Brits call hemorrhoids “piles”? You should have negotiated for a better name when you took that role. I’m just saying.) and as the bug from Men In Black, and I let it roll off my back like so many drops of water into the ocean of our love.

As an avid People reader, I was shocked to learn that not only are you married, but your wife is having a baby. YOU ARE HAVING A BABY WITHOUT ME, and I don’t appreciate that one teeny bit, Vincent. Sure, we’ve never actually ‘met,’ but that shouldn’t have stopped you from pining for some anonymous, but fabulous, Midwestern girl (with bonus kicky hair!), AND NOT KNOCKING SOME OTHER LADY UP!

How COULD YOU?

I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, in between arranging my socks and shaving my cats, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend: Anthony Bourdain.

Okay, okay, so I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook,” I can hear you laugh, my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t be in the same room with.

You might even say to me, “Now Aunt Becky, you don’t even CARE about food,” and you would be correct, I don’t. But I do care very much that he can work the phrase “Oh look, there’s a pube in my drink,” ONTO MY TELEVISION. I care about that very much.

As you should know, Vincent, “pube” and “moist” are two of my favorite unintentionally hilarious words, and to hear him use one of those appropriately made me swoon with love. For him. Not you.

Because the best that you can give me is acting like more of a lunatic and forgetting to shave your face, WITHOUT using either of those words, the words that are the key to my heart (like hot dogs!)(and bacon!).

I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.

With Former Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),

Aunt Becky

PS. I hope that your baby cries. A lot.

PPS. A quick internet search has led me to realize that many other people shared my love for you, and they make me feel quite gooshy (in a bad way) inside. They’re creepier than me, right?

PPPS. Hope that you’re not getting any sleep with that new baby.