I have a fuck-ton of swag from BlogHer that I just don’t need. Sure, I could give it to charity and be a Good Person, but I’m ALWAYS giving stuff to charity. So, I figured I’d run a contest.

I sent out my business cards to my friends who asked to play along–because of their infinite awesomeness–and they are planning to take pictures of my cards doing various things. No, not like THAT, you Uncle Pervy.

The links you see here are what, where, and who Aunt Becky has been doing (ooo! Scandalous).

The deadline for entries is September 8th at 11:59 PM and voting will open at 12:00 AM on September 9th. Voting will last for one week, and on September 15, at 11:59 PM, will dramatically cease. If all goes well (read: I can figure out the results without a Gideon’s Bible, a stack of tequila and a bottle of uppers), and it should, the winner, along with several runners-up shall be announced on September 16.

It’s like Where’s Waldo, but WAY cooler. Because it involves drugs, booze and The Internet.

———-

First, I tackled Florida, because I was in dire need of some R and R. Too many Sausages, not enough sleep.

Then, because I am a highly skilled nurse, I examined and cared for a wee puppy. I might have gotten a little misty at the cute overload.

Then I went to Canada, where a small girl named Munchkin played a game with me. And Aunt Becky smiled when she realized the small girl could not read. Aunt Becky is not, of course, intended for small children.

As further evidence of my R-rating, I offer you proof of my debauchery with my girl Beautiful Mess.

Aunt Becky returned to her PG roots with a couple of dinosaurs and some Storm Troopers. And of course, some cuddly kittahs.

After that, Aunt Becky traveled to a land of bobble-headed kids–not unlike her own–and rednecks.

Having been a Damn Yankee (a word, I should tell you, that online Scrabble does NOT recognize because it is an assbag), for most of her life, Aunt Becky had never been to The Dirty South to meet Cardboard Brad. Until, of course, NOW.

And then, Aunt Becky needed to work through the injuries sustained on Amy’s watch, so she went up North and went Skidoo-ing. Which, of course, we all know is good for healing.

Then off to Canada for some soccer balls, condoms and tampons, Aunt Becky traveled.

Knowing that Her Aunt Becky adores Dolly Parton, Aunt Becky was taken to Dollywood. Squee!!

Then, it was time for some vodka. And it was goood.

In a stunning fit of Awesomeness, I took my favorite food group, besides butter, and turned myself into it: Stuff on Sticks.

And nothing screams “Aunt Becky” like tripping it to Iowa. I turned into The Other White Meat.

Tasty.

After all that fried food, I figured a good fight might help me digest the food. My ass, it was kicked.

In a stunning fit of the utmost drunkenness, I was seduced and had a foursome with an old friend. And maybe some ice cream and romance novels. And fish food.

Also: why do waste management centers always smell like poo and farts?

Then she learned to play the ukulele (also: need to learn to spell that properly), cuddled a fussy baby, and then was placed in mortal peril. OH NOES!

Aunt Becky was cornholed before hitching a ride on a monkey’s ass, and eventually hoofed it back to safety on a moose’s toe. It. Was. Rad.

Aunt Becky decided that the best course of action was to go back and get re-socialized at preschool.

It worked, for awhile. Then, she was part of an encased meats sculpture. And. it. was. divine. We all know how much Aunt Becky loves her encased meats.

Other things that Aunt Becky both loves and requires include toilets and boobie beer steins. Welcome to Germany! Aww, YEAH!

Then, in a supreme effort of defiance, screamed “NOBODY PUTS AUNT BECKY IN A CORNER!” But after that, she held a friend’s hand as she went into her PET scan. HELLS FUCKING YEAH TO REMISSION BABY!

After that, I went to hang with my East Coast bitches, where I flung poo at small children (wouldn’t you?) and drank copious amounts of tequila. I’m starting to think I’m going to have a hell of a time detoxing after this is all over.

Where else would a wanna-be microbiologist go but to a lab to grow some bacteria. Oh, and play with some wicked cool weapons. Rock. Music. Fucking scientists are awesome.

Down to the land of Florida, my business card traveled to go to work with my friend RJ Flamingo. Watch as I get rowdy, Xerox my own ass, drink some mighty fine coffee and wish like hell I lived down there.

Swallowing my hatred for DMB groupies, I went with Mrs. and Mr. Soup to a Dave Matthews Band concert. While I groaned and complained about it, we had a freaking BLAST. Cool Ranch Doritos and hot groupies are Where It’s At.

After a quick bath in bleach to rid myself of the Pachulli from those damn hippies, I drown my sorrows in tequila. LOTS of tequila. Which we all know gets us all fucked up. I’d tell you more, but then I’d have to kill you.

Then, I pimped a friend’s Escalade by being in the car with her after we baked *wink, wink* cupcakes. It was hot. She tried to make me go to rehab and I said, no, no, no.

I’m not entirely certain, since during the closing I said maybe one word to these people (that word, was “hello.” But I sadly did not follow it up with a “is it meeee you’re looking foooor?”) but I think that the people we bought our house from sort-of half-flipped houses. At the very least, they finished the basement and put in a whirlpool.

*cue porno music*

They weren’t here long, 2-4 years, depending upon if you ask The Daver or Yours Truly, but the people who lived here before them were. And they loved this house, much like we do.

Carefully, they landscaped the front of the house, filling it with lilacs, 2 rhododendrons, 4 evergreens, an amur maple, some bridal bushes and a handful of unidentified bushes. I’m sure that their visions were absolutely lovely and well thought out.

Unfortunately, the people who bought the house from them (the people who we bought the house from) were much like The Daver: the sort of people who should not own houses. Rather, they should own something where someone else is responsible for landscaping. Like a townhouse or an apartment or something.

Because we inherited a nightmare of epic proportions: in lieu of real flowers, we had plastic flowers both planted and strung through the trellis of our privacy screen.

In February.

In the Midwest.

With 2 feet of snow on the ground, we still had unidentifiable gaily colored stalks peeking up, oblivious to their inappropriateness.

Spring came and I noticed that I had a rose bush that was so overgrown that it literally towered over us. And no, for those rose aficionados out there, it was neither climbing or rambling (also, if you heart roses, will you be my BFF?). The bridal bushes hadn’t touched in years and easily reached into my neighbors lawn where they could have easily poked someone’s eyeball out.

The snowball bushes, carefully planted around the air conditioner unit to reduce the unsightliness of it had overgrown it so thoroughly that I couldn’t imagine the efficiency of the unit without shuddering.

And the front of my house, once rife with small, neatly trimmed bushes, now makes my house appear as though a recluse lives here. A CREEPY recluse. (I am not a recluse. I just opt to not go out with all of my children if I have a choice)(wouldn’t you?)

In a stunning fit of brilliance, unmatched since the day I decided to get my name on a belt (wait, no, that was AWESOME) I decided this year to prune the ever-loving shit out of my lilacs and my rhododendron. Smart move.

Because my bushes (heh) are now growing like hell and not helping the There Must Be A Murder Living There overall vibe of my house. This is apparently what happens when one takes a blade to plants: it makes them want to grow MORE.

Also not helping is my Ash tree, which, my pleas to the city to cut it back some have been sorely unanswered. Stupid Emerald Ash Boner Borer Boner

So, I’ve got a Master Plan.

It (freakishly) involves a chainsaw and the removal of at least 6, more like 8, bushes. OH, and a fucking mess of ground cover. Basically, it’ll be one of those things where Dave will sit in the house at the window, phone in hand, dial 9 and 1 and wait for the screams before he dials the next 1. There’s no doubt that this will end up with some missing digits but hopefully not limbs.

There is no doubt in my mind that this is a Bad, Bad Idea, but thankfully, it will have to wait until spring.

Because even though I know that I need to remove this stuff, I have absolutely no idea what to replace it all with. Thankfully, I have many months to painstakingly research whatever it is that I decide upon. It’s mostly shade (thank YOU Ash tree for casting such a shadow on my house) and I don’t know a lot about shade-a-philic plants.

The likely instrument of my demise. An unused saw blade, waiting, just waiting for me to get stupid enough to think that this a bright idea RIGHT NOW.

…..so who wants to come watch*? I should sell tickets to this event: Watch Aunt Becky Mangle Herself, extra if you want to film videos of it to put on YouTube later.

*By watch, of course, I mean that you’ll have to do most of the work while I sit in a lounge chair directing you while I sip a nice cold mojito. What’s not to love?

(also, I would like to beg you to go over to that box thingy on my sidebar and vote for me if you would, please o! please? I’m pretty sure I’m being spanked by a coupon blog now and that makes me feel sad inside. SAD, Internet.)

If you’re reading this in a reader, because you are a brilliant soul (Google Reader is not only my BFF but my lover and also, I would tongue kiss it if I could)(maybe some days I do)(shut UP), I’d ask you kindly to click through and see my fancy new design! It was done by the fabulous admin at Mommy Brained.

See, now, I know her REAL name, but unlike my stupid ass, she goes by “admin.” Intentional or not, I’m not positive. But she rules, and you really should check her out if you want a site design. And a laugh.

Along with my new design, I have decided that I am going to start my own (crappy) advice column, because the world needs to know more of my worthless opinions, right? (don’t answer that) On my sidebar, you will see a new page added “Go Ask Aunt Becky” and if you click on it, a page will open! Like delicious magic!

Your questions can be submitted directly through the site allowing for some degree of anonymity, because sometimes, shit the things I want to know aren’t really something I want attached to my good name.

The answers will air on Sundays (also known in my house as Post Secret Days) and any other time I feel the need to answer something rather than try and come up with a real, actual post.

(also, I’ve been trying to answer comments IN the comments. Because I win at LIFE.)

To answer the most burning and frequent questions that I will no doubt get, let me strike preemptively:

1) I’d guess that my sexy ass is a gift from God and genetics.

2) That rash on your crotch is scabies and no, I will not look at it.

You’re welcome.

The absolute last person I expected to see on my front door stoop was the lady that we bought our house from in 2006. She hadn’t exactly been overly kind or pleasant during our interactions at closing, but after having a party during our condo closing, I think I kind of hit the Apex of Awesome right there. So I tried not to judge.

I also tried not to judge as I sat with a putty knife and an econo-sized vat of Goo-Gone trying to chip off the pieces of 3, 3! different kinds of flowered wallpaper in our teeny first floor bathroom. I’ll admit that maybe I cursed her a whole lot after I realized that they’d applied wallpaper DIRECTLY to the drywall.

This was the bathroom I painstakingly remodeled for my 27th birthday. It looks NOTHING like this anymore.

*pats self on back vigorously*

Maybe I wasn’t overly pleased by her choices of I-Want-To-Kill-Someone Green as colors in at least 3 rooms of the house.

But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I am certifiably colorblind* and perhaps I am the one who is wrong. Maybe the color is positively lovely, radiating goodness and light instead of making me want to ram my head through the wall. Or just any head, really. I’m not picky.

My dad was in the ICU post heart attack, I remember that day right before Christmas, and Alex was having his typical trouble sleeping. I’d finally gotten him down for his 2.5 minute afternoon nap and the sound of the doorbell made me nearly shatter my teeth as I ground them down.

I’d needed that 2.5 minutes, thankyouverymuch, and no door-to-door salesperson selling coupon books was going to make me happy about giving it up. The days leading up to this were hell and I had had absolutely zero opportunity to even begin to absorb the fact that one of the clots they’d found after the heart attack would have killed him instantly had it dislodged.

So, opening to door to find that the lady whose house I had bought years before–the house that I now owned–standing there was not exactly what I expected. A fleet of cross-dressing purple goats would have been less shocking. She was just one of those eminently forgettable people and, well, after I’d finished cursing her taste in wallpaper, I’d forgotten her entirely.

She walked in, the second I opened the door, no pomp, no hello’s, no circum-fucking-stance, she just pushed past me and walked in. I was too shocked and too Midwestern to respond with an, “I’m sorry, but pop off, lady.”

While I did recognize that she once owned this house, as I had seen the paperwork as I signed my life away, she hadn’t owned it in over 2 years by that point. Mouth agape, hanging in the breeze like a particularly human shaped trout, I just gawked at her. Daver was off somewhere else in the house (my guess would be either looking at horse porn or working, but it’s simply a guess) leaving me to deal with her.

“Did you get any mail delivered here for me?” She asked.

Still shocked, I replied, “I send all of your mail back, return to sender. It’s been 2 years. I don’t get much for you any more.”

Then she took a step backwards in my hallway and looked me up and down suspiciously. I’m sure that she saw the large bags under my eyes, the don’t-fuck-with-me turn of the mouth, and my shaking hands. It didn’t seem to dawn on her that maybe this wasn’t the best time to come over. Or if it did, she didn’t care.

“Are you suuuure you didn’t get anything delivered her? A friend was supposed to send me some money.” She continued sizing me up.

“I’ll check with Dave, but I’m the one who gets and sorts the mail. Anything that was yours would have been sent back.”

Dave had returned from Equus Lovers -r- Us after hearing the commotion, and I asked him if he’d seen any mail for her.

He hadn’t.

Again, she tested me like I was going to change my answer or something, and again, I told her no, absolutely not. It was obvious that she was beginning to suspect that I’d stolen whatever money had been in said envelope.

While I have been accused of being rude or tasteless, I am not a thief** and I never have been. Not, I should add, that someone who SHOULD have had her mail forwarded 2 years prior can really complain if she doesn’t get her mail…but still.

She stood there in my kitchen, uninvited and quite frankly unwelcome casting her suspicious eyes slowly back and forth between The Daver and I.

“Are you SUUUUUREEE you didn’t take the money?” She was starting to sound like a cross between my mother and an overzealous police detective.

Finally, I snapped, “NO!” I nearly shouted this, frustrated beyond belief and pushed to the end of my rope. The moment that Alex woke up, we had to go visit my father in the ICU and bring him the mini-Christmas tree I’d made for his room. No matter what the issue, using the phrase “visit my father in the ICU” never got easier to swallow.

And this bitch had the audacity to COME INTO MY HOUSE and accuse us of stealing money from an envelope mistakenly sent “from a friend” to my address of 2 years.

I don’t know if she was finally satisfied by my answer or realized that she’d really pissed me off, but she turned around and was off as abruptly as she came.

I’d have thrown the last scraps of her ugly wallpaper after her, but just then Alex started to scream. Looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any break after all. I gritted my teeth and marched up the stairs to collect my son.

Off to the ICU we went. Detailed sketches of elaborate poo flinging mechanisms I could use on her new house danced in my head as we listened to “The Little Drummer Boy” for the forty-fifth time that week.

*not being cute. Truthful. You may start feeling bad for my children….NOW.

**Okay, so I stole YOUR heart. And some hair picks once. When I was like 14.

——————-

Gentle Reader, please, have you had anything you’ve been falsely accused of? Or anything as freaking weird as this bitch?

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.

My daughter is teething, I think, but I’m not quite sure. I mean, I THINK she is, but I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that Alex was, too. Turns out that, no, Alex was merely unpleasant, and popped his teeth after his first birthday without pomp or circumstance. He went from zero to Jaws-like in the matter of a couple of days.

Ben, like Alex, was so full of The Screaming that it was impossible to ascertain if he was teething, or just displeased by being born (the NERVE!). He too, just popped out a set of chompers in a few days, looking not only like he was wearing a toupee, but also had a set of dentures.

For the last couple of weeks, though, my daughter has been damn near impossible to handle. I find myself on edge almost constantly, because the slightest rustling of the wind through my orchids, or the air conditioner clicking on will catapult her from sleep to wake. Once she’s awake, there’s almost no getting her back down until her next scheduled nap time.

With two other children, two dogs, two cats, and a husband who is not home, I’m sort of at my wit’s end (one may argue that I never had wits about me anyway, an accusation that is neither here nor there.).

The phone dares to ring and I verbally rip the face off whomever is unfortunate enough to call.

The neighbor comes by to see if I need my lawn mowed, and I cry, because the commotion woke Amelia up, and I cannot fathom another swaddle, bounce, pat, binkie, bottle, binkie, thrashing, sweaty, restraining I-love-you-baby-but-fucking-go-to-sleep session.

Alex operates on top volume whenever he is awake and my dogs like nothing more than to bark at innocent caterpillars that crawl in our front yard, and I. am. spent. Exhausted.

Sometimes, I cry into Amelia’s head, her tears mingling with mine, as we’re both incredibly frustrated by the situation: she cannot settle and there is nothing either of us can do about it. Other times, I just grind my teeth, giving me such migraines that if I had the luxury, I’d be incapacitated, in bed with my eyes closed.

We’re stuck here in this holding pattern.

This, I think, this is the real ass-kicker about having had a child whose life was, at one time, in flux: how can you possibly be upset with someone who you worried so very much about losing? I imagine this happens to many parents-of-children-who-survive-a-massive-trauma.

Life isn’t fair, you know this as you weep over your child in the NICU, the monitors alarming, the staff flitting from one emergency to another, because if it were, no children would be sick. Ever.

And somehow, after all that anxious uncertainty, all that worrying, teeth-gnashing and terror, your child was the one who made it out alive. His neighbor in the hospital may not have been so lucky and you know it. You’re blessed to even have this child. It’s like chewing on a piece of aluminum wrapped candy: sweet and shockingly painful at times.

Because you’re human, too.

I know how lucky I am that Amelia made it and is normal. I know that most children with her diagnosis don’t come home alive and breathing. I’ve watched my friends mourn their lost children and cried with them. Because the world–it is most certainly not fair.

But she–my daughter–she is a child, a human child. And if I know anything about children, it’s that they can make you so crazy that you’re nearly sane again. I’ve been through two of the toughest children already, the sort who screamed, and cried, and nearly (in the case of Alex) drove me to the brink, and I know that this is what kids do.

She’s not like other kids, and yet she is, and it’s this that is making my head spin.

I feel guilt, such massive crushing guilt, whenever I am at the end of my rope, like today. Today she slept for maybe an hour total, which is far, far less than she needs. And yet there was nothing, not one single ever-loving thing that I could do about it.

There’s that niggling part of me in there, too, the part that wonders if maybe her head is hurting her. I mean, she was born with a malformed skull, she has an implant in her head to correct it, and her head is growing. I know this because her scar is stretching, nearly taking up most of the back of her head now.

Or maybe it’s a new symptom of something more sinister. No one was able to tell us much of anything about her diagnosis besides it’s name (encephalocele) and what it was (neural tube defect). We’re not-so-casually waiting to see what happens next because no one knows precisely how this will affect her.

She could be normal, she could be profoundly retarded, or somewhere in the middle. Her issues with sleeping deeply may resolve themselves in a couple of years, like Alex’s did, or maybe she’ll be a Lifetime Member of The Unisom Club like I am.

On days like today, when I worry that the nape of her neck is becoming disproportionally large by comparison, and that the top of her head has begun to point in a cone, I can’t seem to talk myself out of it. Telling someone who is genuinely afraid of something–logical or no–to not worry is like asking them to hold their breath for a year. Or a week.

Im-freaking-possible.

I don’t sit around all day, every day crippled by grief and worry, and I try to live in the moment and not the might-be’s or the may-have-been’s because I know that they go nowhere.

And yet, this is who I am now, someone who hyperventilates in hospital parking lots and worries that every little stupid thing is the mark of something more sinister.

So I wait, and I watch, and I worry and I hope that some day we will all look back on these days and laugh.

And I hope.

I hope.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go here for a visit, then come back. It’ll make more sense that way.

Hm…It’s lunch time. What shall I cook?

Wow, those cookbooks are shiny and new looking! That must be painfully obvious that I do not cook. Unless one calls “shamelessly ordering take-out” cooking. Which, probably not.

WHY WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHIIILLLDREN?!?

*wrings hands dramatically for several minutes*

Man, being sanctimonious makes me hungry.

Wait, now THAT looks like a book I would like! Retro lady, the word “secret” in the title, and I’m pretty sure no foodies would masturbate onto it.

Phew! I can make lunch after all.

Let’s see…

Hm…

Well.

Now.

Not really quite what I had in mind. I left my bitter pants upstairs, and while I like cookies, I’m pretty sure this won’t be too tasty.

Well, hel-lo lover…

Hooray! Even *I* can use the microwave! And look at the whimsical packaging! I can’t go wrong here.

Okay, dude, Pad Thai box, I sort of hate taking direction. Remember the whole “nursing school” fiasco?

Yeah, me too.

But lookit all the cute individually wrapped packages! How wee!

I can artfully arrange them JUST LIKE BEN! He’d be so proud of my technique! I should show him. Oh…right.

*sighs*

Man, Day 1 of school and I already miss him.

Posing the water next to my orchid is very artsy. Maybe I could be…a photo blogger.

(shut UP)

And that’s ABOUT a cup. Close enough for me.

5! More! Flavors!

I might actually eat lunch properly again! O! Thank you, box of prepackaged Thai food!

Add the bag of noodles.

Wait. Um. That sauce looks semi-unappetizing.

But wait! Look! Whimsical packaging!!!

What was I saying again? I totally forgot.

Look at me all using the microwave like a big kid. Daver is going to be SO PROUD of me.

*hums Jeopardy song loudly*

Aww, yeah! END. I know what THAT means!

Uh. Well.

YUM?

Maybe this is what will make my lunch more delicious: one more microwaved minute.

Aww YEAH.

And just like that, I have noodles glued together with an unidentifiable sauce! I should TOTALLY WRITE A COOKBOOK. That’s EXACTLY what I should do! WRITE COOKBOOKS!

Uh, MOM? Hi. Are you a total idiot?

My friend Marinka went on vacation this week because she is a lazy slacker, so she asked me to fill in for her at The Mouthy Housewives. I’m all giving advice and shit (although this isn’t the Ask Aunt Becky column that I’ll be setting up)(it’s not ready yet)(because, obviously).

Below you, or click this link in your reader, you can see all the sweet ass places my business cards have been. Deadline for entries is September 8th, y’all.

Also, because I am trying to be more like Marinka in my laziness–especially if it gets me a vacation (bwahahahaha! Yeah RIGHT) what should I post about?

I’ll be back tomorrow with either a love letter to one of my television husbands or Aunt Becky as the Pioneer Woman.

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**.

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How do you handle conflict?

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

On my list of things that I am feeling even more neurotic than my standardish garden-variety neuroses:

1) Being on time. Daver, it appears after six of the longest happiest years of my life, might actually be allergic to being punctual. Not, you see, because he is TRYING to drive my blood pressure into the high 200’s, but because he dawdles.

I’d prefer to be at least 15 minutes early; maybe even more like 30, so watching him do just one more thing on his Linux box makes me wild. I suppose having the Sausages is a great cover for our constant, uninterrupted tardiness.

2) Having a clean sink. My bedroom is STILL not quite unpacked from BlogHer–my bedroom, I should add, is also the place that my daughter sleeps so lightly that the cat farting in the basement can make her eyes open like that kid from The Exorcist. So getting in there to clean it must be when I am without kids.

Which, hahahahaha!

But anyway. Having a dirty sink is one of those things I can’t handle. I can be blitzed from the night before, so zonked from my Lunesta that I’m hallucinating fleets of rabid Attack Squirrels bombarding me from strategically placed corners of the kitchen, and still, you will find me scrubbing pans and loading them dutifully into the dishwasher.

3) Having an empty dishwasher. I cannot handle the thought of having clean dishes in the dishwasher that haven’t been put happily back to their ickle homes in my cupboards. I also hate emptying the dishwasher like it was a Nazi Hitler who ate babies–similar to how I feel about getting gas–so it’s fortunate that my eldest can help.

4) Running out of the sweet, sweet nectar of the Gods, Diet Coke. Now, my love affair with all things nutra-sweetly kissed by that delicious combination of chemicals and tin, is well documented. Dave has often considered putting in a soda fountain to save money on Diet Coke–Diet Pepsi will NOT do, sir, NO–but so far, nothing.

Why yes, yes I am an addict. I swear on all that is holy that Coca-Cola puts something into DC cans to make we weight-obsessed women go ga-ga over it, and I’m not going to complain. Certainly, water is better for me. But water is NOT Diet Coke, the yardstick to which all liquids are measured. And is therefore sub-standardly good.

Besides, there is water in Diet Coke.

Daver calls it “battery acid” which is something I take with several tons of salt, as he is the person who will eat not only beef sticks, but pig skins. So he’s not exactly one to talk on the relative flavor of things.

5) Blogging. On the days that I am not quite sure what I feel like talking about, I feel anxious and sweaty until I am able to find something more that I can pollute The Internet with. Because Lord knows, the Internet will not be able to handle it, and the world may stop turning if I can’t blather on and on about my butt cheeks or something.

Unrelatedly but kind of related if you squint kinda, I am trying to respond to comments IN the box of your initial comment. Because, yeah.

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So what are YOU feeling neurotic about today, Internet?