I’ve been asked by my pregnant friends what labor feels like, and each time, I’m stuck wondering how to respond. In the end, I always answer with something semi-true like, “strongest motherfucking period on the planet,” which is semi-true. It’s also completely wrong. Labor feels like, well, labor, and nothing else. Even after popping three kids outta my delicate lady bits, I’m not sure how else to describe it, beyond saying something completely unhelpful like, “It feels like labor,” alternately, “it feels like a thousand angry chipmunks gnawing your uterus.”

When the divorce talk came a-knockin’, my previously divorced friends offered me similar sentiments about what I could expect; excepting, of course, that none mentioned my uterus, which was thankful. That organ has seen enough. I was warned that, “it would be hard,” and that, “the first year would be the worst.” Of course, much like my labor speech, it was simultaneously unhelpful and the truth.

I sat the back of the U-Haul three weeks ago tomorrow, watching Dave and The Guy Formerly On My Couch moving, the weather unseasonably hot for a day in late September, working on my tan and watching my kids frolic in the yard I’d dearly loved. It was then that I truly realized that this marked the end of the life I’d had. I shed a few tears before lugging the rest of my belongings into the truck, wondering what the next chapter of my life would look like. I contemplated asking my aforementioned friends, but realized that they knew as much about what comes next as the squirrel who’d been intently staring at me while I tailgated on the U-Haul.

(hindsight being 20/20, I should’ve thrown a good-bye tailgating party and grilled out right there in front of The House Formerly Known As Mine – there are too few occasions that one can set up a grill in the street and roast encased meats)

We drove off, each car packed to the brims – some sent by my wonderful Pranksters, for which I am forever thankful, having those lifelines means the world to me – handily closing that chapter of my life. I didn’t cry. Not then.

At my new home, I pretended I was a pack animal, an alpaca, which probably doesn’t, in fact, lug things around on it’s back, but it helped get me into the moving mindset from, “I’m sweating (proverbial) balls and I think I just flashed my neighbors by accident,” to “I wonder if alpacas actually lug shit on their backs, because now I want one. I don’t know what they look like, but I think I need one as a pet. I bet they’re fucking adorable. I mean, even their name is awesome.” Soon, the boxes were all inside, ready for me to give their contents a home.

I spent the next two weeks unpacking, hanging pictures, decorating (badly), wishing I had more art for my walls because Pinterest had made me all, OMFG I NEED BEAUTIFUL THINGS MADE OUT OF THREE EASY KITCHEN INGREDIENTS (sidebar: Fuck you Pinterest for making me feel super NOT crafty), and slowly turning the empty apartment into a place I could call home. “Wow,” my mother said as she dropped by a few days after I’d moved. “You’re unpacking like it’s your job.”

I laughed, “I just want the kids to feel like my house is a home, too. It’s a big change for us all.”

Keeping busy was my salvation, even though there was a warning bell chim-chiming somewhere, a foreboding, “when you’re done with The Busy, it’s going to suck,” clanging.

Apparently, my brain knows me well, because once it was all over but the shouting (er, decorating), the truth sunk in: this wasn’t some white-carpeted (WHITE!) hotel suite. This wasn’t a vacation. I wasn’t going back to my old life. No, this was my new life.

And while it’s a hard thing to wrap my three remaining neurons around, it’s been… okay. Sure, there have been tears and fears (but not Tears FOR Fears because I am NOT an 80’s band) and doubts, but there’s been a lot of freedom, too.

For the first time ever, I’m living life on my terms. I’ve been given the opportunity to take the old, examine it, and toss out the bits of it that don’t work for me any longer and lovingly polish the parts that do. While it’s not an easy process, it’s an opportunity to turn something that’s shattered me into a life that is my own. The ability to take stock of what I stand for and what I don’t.

To put the pieces back together into a bigger, better whole.

While I know the process is going to be long and (at times) hard, I know that I can and will.

I’ve begun tossing the things pieces that no longer fit.

Starting with my hair:

Pranksters, I’d like you to meet Becky, As Herself.

When I found out that Hello Kitty was launching a line of wines, I was thrilled. Partially because I love everything Hello Kitty, but mostly because it means that I no longer have to shell out for juice. Because juice boxes are for pussies. And my babies aren’t pussies.

They’re not so much into hard liquor or meth, but my babies do like their wine. And wine with whimsical cartoon kitties is a win for us all. Why, it’s practically begging for my children to chug it!

I know, you’re not supposed to give babies booze until they’re at least 12, but they like it! I swear! Plus, it makes them sleepy, and when they’re sleepy, Aunt Becky is very, very happy. Because then I can drink more of that silly kitty wine without my crotch parasites crawling around at my feet, asking me to do shit for them like give them them more of Momma’s wine or help them with their dumb homework.

Like I tell them, what the fuck good has homework ever REALLY done for anyone anyway?

And I read some article in some medical magazine or heard it on Maury or some shit that wine is good for the heart. I want my babies to have strong hearts, so I make sure that I give them wine with every meal. It’s HEALTHY and shit. Especially because then they shut the fuck up for once and I don’t have to listen to them babble on and on and on.

I swear, no one told me kids were so fucking loud or I would have gotten some fucking muzzles from the hospital. Duct tape just doesn’t work as well.

So I’m serving Hello Kitty wine at every birthday party and if all those fucking crotch monkeys that my kids invite don’t like it, well, they can have some of the bourbon.

But not the good shit, like Old Crow because that’s reserved for me.

Um. I don’t think the people at McDonald’s want to be considered “wildlife.”

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.

I met Pashmina in college. She’s one of the few friends that I’ve written about here (Butt Sex Check ring any bells?), mostly because she was my old co-blogger back when Mushroom Printing was a personal blog where we talked about our vaginas and not the stunningly amazing group blog it is today.

I met her when I’d wandered into her dorm room to avoid my roommate, It Means Butterfly, who was probably composing sonnets to her boyfriend (Dave) and, upon spying an ashtray, plopped my ass down and lit a cigarette. We’ve been friends ever since.

While we met Loyola University Chicago, (she was an English major, I was pre-med) I popped a crotch parasite out of my delicate girl bits, she did not. I moved home. Figured my dorm had enough problems with 3AM fire drills; they didn’t need 3AM diaper changes, too. Pashmina stayed at LUC and I enrolled in the nursing program at Elmhurst College.

It was during this time that Pashmina met Dave.

(Dave must have been an extremely popular name from 1975-1985 because there are more Dave’s in my life than any other name)

Dave is not to be confused with The Daver, although, since Pashmina did introduce me to The Daver, initially, I confused the two.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Dave. I was up to my eyeballs in poopy diapers and colic while Pashmina was off gallivanting with her new boyfriend, Dave.

By the time I saw Pashmina again, Ben was a toddler and Dave was no longer Her Boyfriend. I’d taken the train up to her place in the city and as we sat on her couch with our Gay Friend James, overlooking the lake, she mentioned her old boyfriend, Dave. I was instantly riveted.

See, I play War with crappy ex-boyfriends. Like, “So-and-so beats your ex because he did this.” It’s tremendous fun, really. Especially if you’ve had a number of lousy boyfriends (or girlfriends, really), like I have.

So, I perked up. A crappy ex, you don’t say. TELL ME MORE.

James began to laugh. Pashmina joined in. I stared on, perplexed.

“Well,” she said, once she could breathe again. “He wrote me these love letters. And Becky, they were terrible. They were so terrible THAT I SAVED THEM.” She pulled them from a box in the living room.

She wasn’t kidding.

“Read them out loud,” she begged, knowing that acting out melodramatic garbage is something I excel at. She and James were practically pissing themselves.

I stood up, cleared my throat, and began in a voice that any dinner-theatre acting troupe would have admired.

“My Deeearest Pashmina,

I write to you today, my darling, from the train. Oh! (I flung my hand to my forehead to punctuate the emotion) The train is crowded. (I exhaled, dramatically). I thought of you, oh! love of my life! When I was standing in line to get coffee (I paused, to let the emotion roll over me) there was an asshole who cut in front of me! (I pointed my finger at the air, angrily) HOW DARE HE CUT IN FRONT OF ME. (I punched the air with every word)

I love you, my love of my life, oh! (more hand wringing) love of my life.

Dave

P.S. My cat box, OOOOOOOH! (I dragged that out for at least ten seconds) it smells.”

I threw myself back onto the couch in mock-anguish. Pashmina and James had tears coursing down their cheeks.

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” she choked out. “For Christmas,” she giggled, “he made me a calendar.”

Well, I thought, that was kind of lame. But the two of them were carrying on like it was the funniest thing ever. She went to her bedroom and brought it back out.

“He made me a calendar out of DUCT TAPE and COMPUTER PAPER and the FONT was THESE NAKED PEOPLE HAVING SEX, Becky,” she started laughing again. “Each day was something he loved about me.”

“Holy fuckballs,” I chortled, “that’s SO fucking stupid.” Pashmina wasn’t exactly the “I love you because…” kind of person.

“TELL HER THE BEST PART,” James chimed in.

“THE BEST PART IS,” she broke off, overtaken by laughter, “IT ONLY WENT UP TO FEBRUARY 8.”

“BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT’S….that’s so awesomely bad. ‘I only love you 38 days of the year, honey. The rest, you’re SOL,'” I was dying.

“AND,” she gasped, “most of those were repeats!” HE COULDN’T EVEN THINK OF 38 THINGS HE LOVED ABOUT ME.”

“That wins. YOU WIN. OH MY GOD. YOU WIN. I cannot top this,” my sides hurt from laughing so hard.

I’ve been asking her for a copy of this calendar for years now and I still haven’t gotten one, which means that I probably never will. I guess I’ll just have to make one for myself. And shit, to be fair to Dave, I can’t think of 38 things I love about anyone. Then again, I’d never want to make a cheesy calendar about it, either.

Pashmina still makes me perform impassioned readings of her old Love Letters whenever I see her. Some day, maybe I’ll vlog it for you, Pranksters. I never got Love Letters OR Love Calendars, probably because no one loved me enough. Or, more likely, because they knew I’d be unable to handle such grand gestures.

So, who wants to make me a Love Calendar for VD-Day?

YOUR TURN, PRANKSTERS. I want to hear your worst relationship stories.

Bloggies, yo.

———-

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’ll give away a “Shut Your Whore Mouth” shirt to one of you.

For one entry, leave a comment with a relationship story.

For a second entry, add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll (leave a comment letting me know that you did so).

Weddings shall be banned unless people are wearing something from my newly-minted gallery of Fug Wedding Dresses. Because obviously.

Everything shall be renamed in fanciful (likely rude) terms. Like the “Shut Your Whore Mouth Pie*” I’m making today. MUCH more tasty sounding than “Bourbon Vanilla Pecan Pie.”

I will ban the word “literally.” Most people MISUSE it (myself included). You are not “literally shitting your pants” unless you have a pile of dookie in your drawers. So let’s just call it a white-flag and remove the word from the English language before I grind my teeth into nubbins from hearing it.

You will be able to SAY what you’re looking for into the computer and the proper web page will be pulled up. That way, I can end my Ugly Cardigan Of Doom Campaign** and focus on the more worthwhile pursuit of staring at my wall.

Bloggers – no matter the size of their blogs – will be rock stars. We shall rise from the ranks of the fumbling nerds to snort cocaine off hot models and party into the night with our entourage of hangers-on.

Anything that’s undecided by a traditional argument will be taken to a dance-off. Especially in political forums. The White House will have a fucking sweet House Band and a disco floor to host these dance-offs. It will, of course, make the world interested in politics.

Speaking of that, the White House will be renamed “The Sequined House.” Why? White is drab and dull. With Richard Simmons as our mascot, we need fabulous. Plus, then we can finally put an end to people who make jokes about the color of the damn house.

Pain shall be outlawed and sent to the “Alot” island. Pain is fucking bullshit.

I will set the top scientists in the country to work on something to measure seriousness. Anyone who is too serious for too long will have to listen to ABBA  and watch dancing cat videos until they are smiling again. Even if they are smiling because they are now certifiable from listening to ABBA.

Abdominoplasty’s will be available to everyone who wants one.

Bret Michaels: Rock Of Herpes Love will come back on the air and NEVER LEAVE. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss that show.

Band Back Together will form a real band. I’ll totally play triangle. Or be a backup dancer. OBVIOUSLY.

**where the hell do you buy cardigans if you hate cardigans?

*am totally (fake) photoblogging it

——————

What are you going to do when you own The Universe?

Alternately, why I should have no access to friends or instant messaging technology.

Aunt Becky: “OHMYGOD, I need your help!!”

Dad Gone Mad: “Okay, what’s wrong?”

Aunt Becky: “I have been up since Sunday and I can barely concentrate and I don’t know who else to ask because no one else will talk to me anymore because there’s this song, right?”

Dad Gone Mad: “A song…”

Aunt Becky: “YES! That Elton John song, “Levon,” and he goes, ‘he shall be-LEVON.'”

Dad Gone Mad: “……”

Aunt Becky: “I DON’T GET IT.”

Dad Gone Mad: “I think it’s a double entendre. You know, ‘he shall believe on.'”

Aunt Becky: “….”

Aunt Becky: “I see…Dude, I’m not sure I’m any happier knowing that.”

Dad Gone Mad: “But what can you really expect from some douchebag who sells cartoon balloons?”

Aunt Becky: “OR calls his child Jesus. Let’s be honest: that name has KINDA been taken.”

Dad Gone Mad: “And when was the last time the New York Times said “God is dead”? That’s just a filthy lie.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m pretty illiterate, dude, so I don’t read the paper. My next question is this, who names their child that? Really? Levon. I don’t know anyone named Levon. I pretty much know everyone, everywhere. I think it’s a conspiracy, Danny.”

Dad Gone Mad: “You’re pretty fucking weird, dude.”

Aunt Becky: “Just be glad that you don’t live with me.”

We were at Target this weekend (also known as My Social Life) (also known as My Boyfriend) buying both groceries and pants for my middle child. The groceries, I should clarify weren’t strictly for Alex, but rather stuff that we could all safely enjoy. Deliciously, even. Especially Uncrustables, which are pretty much heaven in a wee package.

Alas, I digress.

In the children’s section, I happened to come across a shirt for my daughter that I found to be the proper amount of sass-a-frassery AND adorability and as such, I picked it up and exclaimed to Alex, who happened to be in the cart I was pushing (yes, we take two carts)(no we don’t FILL them), “Oh! Look at this cute cupcake shirt for Your Sister!”

Upon examination, Alex said “I want a cupcake shirt for Alex!”

What went through my head was this:

“Oh shit, Dave will kill me. This is a BABY FUCKING BLUE SHIRT with a frilly blue collar. And look at the cupcakes! They’re SPARKLY. I mean, there is not a single doubt that this shirt is for a girl. You couldn’t make this shirt more girly if you tried.”

“But I mean, he’s two years old! How the hell can you possibly tell a two year old that he can’t have a shirt because it’s for a girl? This is probably the most manly two-year old boy ever. His second word was penis. Who gives a fucking shit if he wears girl’s clothes? He’s a baby! HE’S STILL IN DIAPERS. I will CUT someone who looks at him funny for wearing girl’s clothes.”

So, I looked for the shirt in a 2T and I handed it to him. He grabbed it, hugged it and said, “I love you, Cupcake Shirt.”

Dave glared at me for a second before bursting out laughing because really, what the hell can you do? The shirt is pretty fucking cute. I kind of want one in my size.

(yeah, the coloring is off because I messed with the flash by accident)

The shorts, he insisted upon wearing, are actually Mimi’s.

Never one to let an opportunity pass him by, he insisted that his sister wear her cupcake shirt as well. This is exactly why I love kids, even if they poo their pants and teethe on my legs.

When I was a preteen, I was convinced that my parents were inhumanely inhumane because they were so cheap that they wouldn’t spring the extra two bucks a month for call waiting. For someone who lived with the phone glued to the side of her head, this was a BIG DEAL INDEED. What if I missed a Very Important Phone Call? I mean, someone could have seen someone pass a note in class and if I missed it, I might diiiieeeeee!

Oh, like you weren’t dramatic as a thirteen year old.

It wasn’t until later that I wore them down and they got cable TV, either, so I was stuck watching the crappy network channels. Oddly, I became sort of enthralled by infomercials. They were like their own little comedy goldmine all rolled up into a neat 30 minute package.

The announcers–pre-Billy Mays, whom, you should know, I mourned heavily–bounded from one side of the room to the other, all convinced of the merit of a product that even I knew was probably bullshitty garbage. And yet! And how! But wait! There’s more!

When I decided that 2010 was the year that I needed to bring Aunt Becky back from under the pile of dirty diapers and Lego bits, one of the first things that I did was to get a piece of exercise equipment. I love the gym like it was my job, but getting to the gym is about as easy as teaching my cat to use the microwave, so I figured I should bring the gym here.

But! Wait! There’s more!

I was going to LEARN from the mistakes of my friends! And my parents! I wasn’t going to drop thousands of dollars on a nice piece of equipment that would sit there, gathering dust and laundry.

I’d remembered seeing a small, fold up elliptical machine at The Sharper Image a couple of years ago for a couple hundred bucks. Which? If you’re going to buy something that’s not going to be used very often, why not go cheap and portable?

Well, turns out Sharper Image doesn’t make it any longer.

An Amazon search brought me to something even cheaper. I didn’t recognize the name, but I didn’t give a shit. For $80 plus free shipping (order now and you’ll get bonus good reviews!!) it doesn’t exactly have to scream out “I LOVE YOU AUNT BECKY!”

Universally, I got this response when I told people what TYPE of elliptical I got, “Bwahahahaha!” Exercise equipment does many things to me, but it doesn’t normally make me LAUGH, so I had to investigate.

Turns out that I bought a piece of exercise equipment from this douche:

This would be Mr. Tony Little. He sells The Gazelle. And he’s a DILL-BAG!

The unfortunate side-effect is that now I will be unable to stop thinking of Tony Little as I exercise now. He’ll be right beside me, his stupid flouncy pony tail flopping up and down while he yells, “Show me those big old pecs!”

Or maybe he’ll motivate me by telling me that the Gazelle can help me by healing my mind, body and spirit. He and his big, freaky, shiny arms. I don’t WANT my mind, body and spirit healed, Tony! I WANT TO FIT INTO MY SIZE SIX JEANS! I could give a shit about my spirit!

I don’t need to share my exercise room with a dude who looks better suited to be making 80’s era porn. Because that makes me want to shower in bleach, not work my ass harder.

I knew I should have stuck with Jillian Michaels and her 30 Day Shred.

————

Bloggies? Me? WTF?

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.