Dear Netflix,

I’m not entirely certain why you added to my list of recommendations, the show Hoarders, but since you did, I had the compulsion (see what I did there?) to watch it. I’d never seen the show, Netflix, because I figured that seeing 10,000 empty bottles and rotted animal carcasses was not exactly my idear of a good time. Now, if they’d showed people eating their weight in Captain Crunch, that’s another story. In fact, you should make that a show. I’d so be there.

Anyway.

For the first time ever, I chose to watch the show.

First, let me say that watching mentally ill people do wacky things isn’t my idea of a good time. I know mental illness. I HAVE a mental illness (PTSD IN DA HOUUUUSE!). I work with mental illness on Band Back Together. I’m intimately familiar with it and generally have no need to watch other mentally ill people be, well, mentally ill.

But you got me there, Netflix. You did. Since you told me I “should” watch it, I did.

I’m going to be honest here – I wasn’t as horrified as you might think. I’m not sure that’s an entirely good thing, though.

But I will give you some props, Netflix, for suggesting I watch Hoarders. Never, ever, have I wanted to get up at 11PM and clean my house. Never. Ever. And the only reason I haven’t done so yet is that I realized I’d wake up sleeping children which, Netflix, isn’t exactly full of the awesome.

Frankly, Netflix, I’m in debt to you. It’s like you somehow read my blog and knew that I had a super sekret (read: lame) resolution this year. No, not the whole, “not become Lil Wayne” thing, because that’s sorta a given. It would take a hell of a lot of sizzurp to turn me into that….um…thing.

But it’s made it hella easy for me to WANT to go down to the basement and somehow dry out 9,473 cans of ancient green paint to throw away. I suddenly cannot WAIT to donate my old clothing to charity. My children’s toy bins full ‘o’ crap shall be emptied!

(I think, Netflix, I’m going to donate some of the nice kids clothes to the Band Back Together auction this spring, because an Internet Garage sale seems awkward)

My resolution, thanks to you, Netflix, will be fulfilled.

So to you, Hoarders (and Netflix), I am forever indebted. Although, you do owe me some bleach for my eyes.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. If you recommend I watch Intervention, I’m canceling your ass.

P.P.S. You should know better than to suggest I watch the Super Mario Brothers Super Show. That’s just cruel.

7: cans of paint bought in the last 2 weeks

9,284: cans of half-used paint found in my basement, all of questionable color and/or origin

2: light fixtures bought in last two weeks

2: light fixtures that need to be disposed of in such a way that NO ONE will ever know they came from my house.

1: little girl who is determined she will be a “big three” as opposed to a “little three.”

0: times that has made sense to me.

15: bags of lollipops purchased to make topiary trees.

10: times I was given the stink-eye by the cashier who is probably suspecting that I have a hoarding problem and is therefore looking for evidence of dead cats somewhere on my person.

0: dead cats in my house.

0: percent certainty this is, in fact, true.

12: cupcakes eaten to fuel the sugar-rush that this level of cleaning and renovation requires.

36: cookies needed to back up the cupcake sugar rush

9: number of wrong cuts made by The Guy On My Couch while replacing mouldings

13: length in feet of wasted moulding caused by those cuts

2: people who think it’s hilarious that he can’t remember which way the angle goes on some of those cuts

0: times I have believed that “moulding” is a real word.

1,028,928,002: times I have been certain that “logicate” is a real word.

30,000: number of people who are probably showing up at my house this weekend.

30,000: number of people who are probably going to criticize my bad taste in decor and/or inability to make my house look like a magazine.

30,000: number of people who I will try to pawn aforementioned light fixtures off upon.

0: times I have understood why boob lights are all the rage.

0: boob lights currently owned by me.

0: other types of ceiling lights available for those of us who do not want to think, “HOLY FUCKBALLS, CHECK OUT THAT BOOB ON MY CEILING!” every morning.

9,726,043: minutes I have spent trying to understand boob lights.

Your turn, Pranksters. Pull up a nice glass of vodka and tell Your Aunt Becky what is going on with YOU today.

I am not a crafty person.

See also this:

Yes, yes I made that. And I wasn’t trying to suck AT ALL.

I know, understatement of the year, right? (why I just joined Pintrest is beyond me – prolly so I can feel bad about myself MORE often)

That’s why it’s beyond me why I decided to do a themed birthday party. Frankly, I could’ve just thrown a few bottles of vodka and a couple of shitty take-out pizza boxes out and called it a day and everyone would’ve been all, “sweet ass.” But no. I had to renovate my fucking house.

Then I had the brilliant idea to do a CandyLand themed birthday party. Seems simple right? A couple of bags of fucking candy WITH some pizza and beer.

Not so much. Because I turned to Google and was all, SHOW ME YER CANDY THEMED PARTIES. And then I cried. Because they were so awesome and I couldn’t recreate that kind of awesome without the aid of the Lollipop Kids. And it turns out, the Lollipop Kids are like dead now.

And the more I thought about it (and the more I realized I hated the cartoons from the game), the more I realized that I’d be stuck as Gloppy, so CandyLand was PROBABLY a bad fucking idea. I mean, who wants to be covered in Gloop half a day?

So I decided that a generic Sweet Shoppe themed party (oh yes, I went there with the “e” on Shop) would a) be adorable and 2) be easy.

Har-dee-har-fucking-har.

Lollipop trees? I figured I’d be able to quickly throw some balls on a stick and poke suckers into them. Turns out? You need a fuckton of lollipops. I’m pretty sure the guy at Party City thinks I’m now a hoarder – of lollipops. I keep coming in to buy more. Turns out that lollipop topiaries take about a hundred zillion lollipops.

And the garland I’ve decided to make out of Froot Loops and twine? The sugar dust that is now coating my house is slowly turning me into a diabetic.

Great. Now I’m a diabetic hoarder.

Tell me that doesn’t look like unicorn poo.

I sure hope my kid appreciates her party. Thanks to my new Type 2 Diabeetus diagnosis (self-diagnosed!), my foot might fall off for her and I’ll never be able to find it in the gobs of lollipops now living in my house. See also: hoarder.

At least I have what appears to be unicorn poo living on my table. Things can always be worse. Even if my foot falls off.

This may win for most epic picture of the year. Altho, it’s still January and that picture is butt-ass old, so far, he is NUMBER ONE in my life.

Also number one, these posts (a lie):

I wrote about my new obsession. And it would be RAD if you could comment on it.

I also wrote about Amelia. I’m wicked proud of it.

We’re doing a birth defects/birth injury/birth trauma carnival on Sunday on Band Back Together if’n you want to join us!

So go read, then come back and tell Your Aunt Becky what YOU’VE been writing about this week. Let’s do a link-up, y’all.

“You should start a blog,” The Daver, circa 2003

“What the fuck is a ‘blog’?” Student Nurse Becky, circa 2003.

I had plans – grand plans – after graduation. Most times, they involved things like “never wiping old person ass again,” or “taking a nap,” or “eating thousands of cheeseburgers,” and “taking over the universe.” Upon occasion (generally when I was sleepy and/or drunk) I wondered what I would DO with the rest of my life. I simply couldn’t visualize it.

But it was that one statement, made by a much younger Daver that started me down a path I’d never expected. I became a blogger.

It was through my first blog, Mushroom Printing, I learned that I could write – albeit not very well. Like anything, it took years of practice and several good editors before I really learned what made a blog post good. And I might argue that I’ve never learned that trick.

It wasn’t until I started writing Mommy Wants Vodka in 2007, shortly after I turned 27, that I realized how powerful a voice could be. It was then that I began pouring myself out onto a blank WordPress screen. What came out was sometimes good, more often not, it was bad, but it was mine. Those words were mine.

Out of a twisted branch of a conversation I’d had many years before, I found my voice.

I’m not about to sit here and tell you how GREAT my voice is or that I’m SO RAD to be a blogger because some company gave me a yacht*, but I am going to tell you that through that voice, I found myself.

There’s no dollar amount, no traffic spike, no amount of comments that can ever compare to how powerful that is.

I went black yesterday to protest SOPA/PIPA (which I keep thinking of as “SOAP” and “Pippy Longstocking”) not because I am certain that these bills will be shutting me down – I don’t know that – but because I love my Internet. The verbage on these to bills is vague enough that something – anything – can happen.

Certainly, as someone who’s shit’s been stolen, I dislike piracy. I’d like to be able to take those who have stolen my material, passed it off as their own, and shove them in a hole and make them listen to the Facts of Life theme for days.

Let me be clear: stealing shit? That sucks. Buy your own fucking movies – I do. Come up with your own blog name – I did. Write your own damn words – I do.

That aside, those laws freak me out.

And I owe the Internet a debt of gratitude I can never repay. For helping a lost girl find her way. That is worth more than any yacht**.

I mean, where would I be without my crazy dancing cat videos?

*Bwahahahahahaahhahahaha!

**BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

10:52AM, my neurologist’s office.

Man, I hope that fish eats some more rocks. That’s hiLARious when he spits ’em back out.

I’d really like a fish tank. Salt water, tho. Freshwater fish poo too much. Shit, I’d probably kill them. Then I’d be depressed for months.

10:55AM, my neurologist’s office.

BUBBLES! BUUUUUBLES! BUBBLE BUBBLE BUBBLE!

Man, fish are hilarious.

11:05AM, my neurologist’s office.

Fuck, this is gonna be some shitballs news. I really should’ve put this off another day.

OH, hell, he’s asking me a question about my headaches. LOOK AWAKE. Nod. Yeah! Nodding is always good. WAIT, I just told him my headaches are getting better. RETRACT, RETRACT, RETRACT.

11:10AM, my neurologist’s office.

He really does look like a cowboy from a spaghetti Western. Wait, what the hell does “spaghetti Western” mean? Either way, he totally does.

Shit, more drugs. And these side effects. If the headaches won’t kill me, the treatment fucking will.

11:12AM, my neurologist’s office.

Is he still talking about side effects? I’m getting depressed. I know, I should think about something else.

Why is Jessica Simpson, reported to be due “this spring” so huge? I don’t believe it. I bet she’s popping out a kid any moment now.

11:17AM, my neurologist’s office.

Did Jay-Z and Beyonce REALLY shut down an entire NICU for their baby? That’s some bullshit.

hums, “it’s a hard knock life.”

11:22AM, my neurologist’s office.

He’s yelling at me for not getting a blood test done. Fuck. What was the test again? I love tests. Just yesterday I took an IQ test – I’m pretty sure I failed.

Should I tell him about my IQ test and ask if that’s what he wanted? NO. Bad call, SHUT UP BECKY.

11:24AM, my neurologist’s office.

Damns. More drugs. And a side effect that can kill me – another one. Lords.

THINK OF THE BUBBLES, BECKY. BUUUUUUUUBLES.

Not working. Imagining my funeral.

People better be crying at my funeral. None of this – “celebrate my life” bullshit – I want tears. REAL TEARS. I will PAY people to cry if I have to.

Shit, I wonder what the going rate is for funeral criers.

Hrms. Would I find them on Craigs List? That seems to be the best place to find ’em. Fuck. They took out Craigs List personal ads. Fuck. Now I’m gonna have to find a real job.

11:36AM, my neurologist’s office.

Ooooh! My brain is rewiring itself to become better at circumventing my migraine meds. That’s almost robotic.

Wait. No. That means my brain is becoming resistant to it. That’s not good.

11:42AM, my neurologist’s office.

Woah, he gave me a lot of instructions and all I can think is: “when is Jessica Simpson REALLY having her baby?” This is not good.

Ooooo! Bubbles!

When my crotch parasites came home to discover that my house, had, indeed been turned upside down and two formerly ugly rooms now had lickable colored walls (hey, purple’s a fucking flavor, dammit), they were impressed. I could tell that they had no idea what “painting the walls” meant, because they assumed that somehow The Guy on My Couch and I had painted pictures to put on the walls as well. And if they had any idea what sort of artistic aptitude I have, they’d have known better.

I have to admit, however, that I did appreciate being taken as someone artistic for a moment – even if it was by a four-year old.

Well, the rooms were a gigantic success. Not only am I no longer Furious George when I stare at my walls, slack-jawed and thinking, but they’re actually pleasant to be in.

Of course, there was an unexpected side effect. The moment my children realized that The Guy On My Couch and I hadn’t actually painted pictures, but changed the color of the walls entirely, they began to clamor for us to change their bedrooms, too.

Their bedrooms – two of the rooms that had BEEN previously painted by Your Aunt Becky. Of course. Two of the four rooms I’ve painted, and they wanted to repaint them.

I managed to stall the boys who are in a fierce deadlock between Purple and Green, but my daughter, o! my daughter, she chimed in, asking me to paint her room her favorite color. My heart, of course, grew three sizes and melted into an ooey gooey pile of mush on the floor right at my feet.

Why?

That tiny voice said, “Mama, I want a PINK room.”

Oh, my heart. My heart forever walking around outside my body.

Pink has been my favorite color well into my late twenties (I’ve now decided on a more grown-up “blue” as a favorite color, but only barely). As a tot, I loved pink – which horrified my hippie mother, who would’ve preferred that I like a nice brown burlap. I’d have shot someone dead for a pink bedroom (presuming, of course, I had access to a gun, which, hippies don’t like).

Under normal circumstances, I’d have fallen over myself to make this happen. But the room she lives in now? It WAS painted pink. A pink I couldn’t stomach. That room remained shut until I got pregnant with Alex, at which time Daver painted it a nice soft yellow.

My daughter is a rational creature, though, so I knew I could appeal to her logical brain.

“Okay, Mimi,” I said, hoping she’d forget it all. “Would you like me to paint your room instead of buying you a birthday present?”

“YES!” she screamed happily. “I want a PINK ROOM.”

For days, she told everyone we saw – including strangers wandering the aisles at Target looking for baking powder as well as the cashiers at Target – that she was getting a pink room.

So there you have it. For her third birthday, my daughter is getting a pink bedroom. Bubble gum pink if she has her way, which she will. You’re only three once, after all.

I will SO miss that yellow.

Hey Becky,

Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing…you sound down.  

Trust me I know how you feel.  Seasonal depression much less clinical depression sucks!  Add to that the fact I was off my Lexapro for 5 days and I was a step below Charles Manson..LOL!  If you need to vent, I’m here! 🙂

Hang in there & take care!

Oh Prankster, my Prankster, you’re making me cry here. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? I get all, “whatever,” whenever someone says something shitballs to me, but the moment someone is kind, I do the Ugly Cry.

The answer is somewhere in the middle – I’m up and down.

It’s January – my daughter’s birthday, which is always a massively triggering event for me. I feel so stupid to admit that, like I don’t have the right to be upset. She’s the girl that lived! I know in my head that she’s fine, but I see her disfigured head and the scar that grows each time she does, and my stomach drops – I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m left panting and panicking, my throat tight. The nightmares I can’t quite shake.

On the other hand, I’m beyond happy that I’ve made a teeny step – she’s getting the birthday celebration I’ve always wanted to give her. I’m having more fun putting together a Sweet Shop themed party than any adult should….but that PTSD monster is always lurking close at hand.

I’ve wanted so badly to come here to my own space and tell you all about it (you are, after all, my family, Pranksters) – but it all comes out a random jumble of letters and words that lead to nowhere, and I’m more frustrated that I can’t seem to do what I love most – write. The words don’t come. The sentences make no sense. The paragraphs don’t flow. It’s just gone.

I know the words, the words will be back – but there will still be this gigantic pile of things I can no longer speak of. I hate feeling like this whole host of things I need to share most must go unspoken. Someday it won’t matter. I know this, too. And yet, it’s been all I can do to breathe. And keep breathing.

This too will end. I know.

But tonight, tonight I am decidedly not okay. Thankfully, tomorrow is another day. It will, perhaps, be better.

I have hope. Indeed, it is all I have.

Or a mushroom print.

I know I’m MIA today, but I wrote this. It needs your sweet, sweet Prankster love.

Hopefully I’ll be able to crawl back from my January cave soon. This month is bullshit, Pranksters.

Dear Sarah McLachlan,

Let me start by saying you, Ms. McLachlan, have an impossible name to spell. I spent upwards of thirty whole seconds trying to ascertain whether or not that word grouping was properly spelled or a jumble of letters. That, however, is merely my issues with words, Sarah McLachlan. See, Sarah, I’m sorta illiterate.

Anyway.

I’m here today, Sarah McLachlan, to talk, not about your complicated name, but about you. Namely, how you ruined my day.

I’ll admit, Ms. Sarah McLachlan, that I, like most people with vaginas in 1993, that your album, Fumbling Toward Ecstasy was a favorite of mine (it seemed that there were two types of girls in the world at the time. Those who listened to Tori Amos and those who listened to you, Sarah McLachlan. And I, if I may, never was a cornflake girl.).

Mostly, because your lilting voice sang about all of the angsty shit that those of us who were both angsty and in possession of a vagina felt. Sadness. Emotions. Lame-ish songs (sorry, not your fault) that we could be all, OMG SARAH MCLACHLAN KNOWS WHAT I FEEEEEEELLLSSS.

I can’t say I much followed your career after I sacked up, but I was proud that you created that Lilith Fair, because I like a powerful woman, Sarah McLachlan, I like them very much. I heard a few of your songs on the radio, and while I never turned them UP, I rarely turned them off – see, Sarah McLachlan, I’m a sucker for a pretty voice. And that, my friend (can I call you my friend? Great – thanks), you do have.

You and me, Sarah McLachlan, we were friends. Or at least I thought so, until you released this particular bit of horror that’s since haunted me. Picture this, Sarah McLachlan: I was at home with my wee new babe, and I had one of two options – I could watch television or I could stare at the wall while I nursed him. He was a boob man, my guy.

Postpartum and hormonal, not to mention sleep-deprived, imagine my horror when this came onto my television:

I’ve never, ever gotten over it, Sarah McLachlan – the sad puppies, the hurt kitties, it was too much for me. I began to weep, which annoyed the hell out of my baby. That commercial, starring you, Sarah McLachlan, and a bunch of pathetic animals, seemed to play whenever I was at my lowest.

And the tears, my good friend, Sarah McLachlan, they flowed.

It’s January, and aforementioned baby is nearly five, but I wanted to tell you that I caught the tail-end of your ASPCA commercial, Sarah McLachlan, and I wept. You have no way of knowing, Sarah McLachlan, that January is the worst month of the year for me – that I’d like to curl up in a ball and wake up sometime in February. But your commerical, Sarah McLachlan, it nearly broke me this time.

And at the very least, you ruined my day.

So, Sarah McLachlan, thanks for that.

Love Always,

Aunt Becky