By the time I arrived in Maryland, I’d already been in the airport for what seemed like eleventy-billion years. Before I arrived – just as I arrived at the airport – my 9AM flight had been bumped to 11AM and I was set to miss my connecting flight. By a long mile.

It appeared, though, that fortune was about to favor the really stupid as I charmed the lady from US Airways into moving me to a straight-through flight from Chicago to Maryland. This was no small victory.

My day seemed as though nothing, save for sitting at the airport terminal for three hours, could touch it. I was invincible. I was brilliant. I was about to take the ride of my life.

(total lie)

And then, my friend Nic picked me up from the Maryland airport, new copy of SkyMall happily in hand, and we went out to lunch. Then? My day just got a hell of a lot awesomer. Because I found THIS:

For 5 bucks, I too, could have a kit for all of life’s unexpected moments. Eagerly, I wondered what could be in this quixotic pink case. A light saber? A NEW copy of SkyMall? A billion dollars? A unicorn on roller skates? I simply couldn’t guess.

I was understandably depressed to learn that all this brilliantly pink case contained was some tampons. Like one. Not even a CONDOM or a copy of “Your STD and You.”

Sad.

After leaving the sad pink case behind, Nic prepared to drop me off at my hotel when we saw this:

And then I spent the rest of the weekend confused.

I drove a shitballs Ford something or another that was probably manufactured well before I was born to learn to drive. And in Maryland they allow – nay ENCOURAGE – students to learn to drive on a Corvette?

I considered jacking the student driver, but I was suitably underwhelmed by Maryland and figured I probably didn’t need to spend the next 8-10 years there in jail. Better to be busted for something in Chicago, where my “mob” connections might land me a really spiffy cell.

The rest of the weekend was spent moaning in a dark bedroom. Migraine. It appeared that Maryland didn’t agree with me.

On the flight home, I got stuck in some southern backwoods airport for an extra hour. An hour I blissfully listened to a couple near me fight about The Bears and a drunken guy loudly complain about people from Chicago. I’d have knifed him with a homemade shiv, but I left my toothbrush at the hotel.

When I finally stopped laughing, I opened my eyes and saw this: something so magical I so as to evoke tears in my hardened heart. Something so magnificent as to require photographic evidence, if only to document that such a time was really, really, really real:

If you, Pranksters, are not weeping at the sight of a man, vigorously playing with his testicles while loudly on the phone with someone, well, your heart is more hardened than even mine.

And so, with a quick tug on his penis, this guy made certain that my trip to Maryland, was, for a moment, perfect.

A couple of weeks ago was my mother’s birthday. I know this because my eldest called me in DC and was all, “OMG MOM, IT’S GRANDMA’S BIRTHDAY,” to which I replied inelegantly, “oh FUCK.” I’ll blame the migraine and not my inability to keep track of dates.

Luckily, Daver ran point, got my mom a cake and sang Happy Motherfucking Birthday to her while I lounged about in my hotel room, ordering room service, bitching about the 26% surcharge.

Yesterday, we made my mom take us out for tapas to celebrate her date of birth. Also: the Daver’s.

It dawned on me while I was getting ready that morning that I had not thought to buy her anything. Like I said, I’m not particularly smart OR thoughtful, so you know.

On the way there, stunningly late (I abhor lateness, which should go against everything you’ve ever thought about me), I realized that there was only one cure for this horrifying oversight: AN AWESOME GIFT.

My mother, not being particularly sentimental, was going to love it, I knew. I just knew I was going to make up for YEARS of crappy gift certificates from places she’d never visited. All of those crappy shirts that said, “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH,” I’d given her would be erased with one. simple. gift.

I was stoked. I was relieved. I was thrilled. I was hungry.

What? We were going out to BRUNCH, not CHURCH.

So I waited, stuffing my face with bacon-wrapped dates until the moment was perfect.

And? It was:

I gave her the Bacon/Encased Meats Monster.

She seemed less thrilled than I thought, but I bet she’s simply containing her glee. Because, um, obviously.

Dear Aunt Becky:

I am married (no kids).

I am from NJ living in the South; where people typically don’t like to speak their mind. I have some single gals (some recently divorced) who make horrible decisions with men! They date guys many states away, date the wrong guys, bring new guys around their kids on first dates, move waaaaaay to fast with creepers.

I am not conservative, but watching them spin their lives around even more is painful. So here’s my question Aunt Becky: do I sit back like everyone else and see what happens or do I speak my mind?  

These gals are fragile and I fear I may not help the cause much!

Ah Prankster, this is a conundrum that many of us find ourselves in from time to time. Been there, done that, proudly worn the t-shirt.

So you’re wondering if you should continue to shut your (un)whore mouth and see which shit rises to the top or you should attempt to dissuade your friends from making horrible decisions.

But here’s the problem with opening your presumably un(whore) mouth: a lot of times, people don’t want to hear the truth, no matter how obvious. I remember distinctly when people warned me away from the person who would become the father of my first child. They were clearly in the right, however, what I remember is being hurt that my friends simply couldn’t be happy for me.

When you’re in the middle of a bad idea streak, it’s hard to see what’s what.

As hard as it was for me to hear, my friends were, as I stated, right and I respect (now) that they opened their (un)whore mouths.

So, the question, dear Prankster, is this: can you handle it if your friends tell you to fuck off no matter how politely you phrase it? If the answer is yes, then I say speak up, Prankster! If the answer is no, I’d say to shut your (un)whore mouth, grab a vodka and sit the fuck back and watch.

Good luck, Prankster. I’ll be sitting here, wearing my t-shirt and, like you, waiting to see what happens.

————-

Dear Aunt Becky,

I know this is probably a question asked allll the time, because what teenage girl DOESN’T (at one point) fall for their best guy friend?

He’s been my best friend since early middle school – six years now. We’ve gone through all the stages together: from sweet and innocent to hanging out to watch PG-13 movies, talking on the phone for hours, growing into rebellious teenagers, smoking pot together, stealing pills from our parents, and having amazing bonfires together.

Everything that I’ve done and grown into – or out of – was with him. He taught me stand up for myself when guys were dicks.

Then the day came, when all of a sudden, he wasn’t just my best friend – he was the guy I fell head of heels for. Now we’re both close to adulthood.

People encourage me to get over him, because there’s no chance we’ll be together, but I remember when he went to my uncle’s house (while I was in school) and sat and cried to my aunt; worried about my pill addiction. How he was “too in love with me” to see this happen. He never told me.

I dated his roommate. He told me he CAN’T be around me unless I break up with him. All the boyfriends I’ve had, he’s found a reason to hate. I don’t understand.

Recently, my other best friend died and it feels like my best friend died with him. I don’t know what to do. He’s changed – has his own life now – over-medicating himself and hanging out with horrible people.

I don’t miss the guy he is today, I miss the person I know he is.

Do I stay and see if he makes it through? Or do I move on with my life? For three years, I haven’t found an answer.

Prankster, I’d like to start this answer with a story. Once upon a time, Young Aunt Becky was In Love with her best friend. Only he wasn’t QUITE my best friend. And Young Aunt Becky, being a shyish (shut UP Pranksters) young thang, was nervous to tell him. So she didn’t.

And?

Turns out, he was gay.

But that last bit is extraneous information. So let’s ignore it and focus upon YOU again.

Prankster, if I could go back in time and save Young Aunt Becky YEARS (yes, YEARS) of heartache by opening my whore mouth and spilling mah feelers to this (gay) guy, I would’ve. Why? Because saying something beats the FUCK out of wondering…for years.

So I suggest that you grab the balls I never had and tell him. The worst that can happen? You find out he’s gay. Or um, wait, that’s me again. The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t feel the same way you do. And then? At least you don’t have to spend a second longer wondering about it.

Grab those balls, Prankster. Grab ’em and use ’em.

Let us know how it goes.

—————–

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have been dating this guy off and on (mostly on) for 5 years now. Recently while waiting for him to get off work I over heard him tell they guys “I’m never getting married again..” which I thought was funny because just last April he told me that once we got some things worked out he would buy me THE ring and I could start planning a wedding (Yes, he used THOSE words).

Now, he denies that, and says he’s never getting married.  

We could possibly have the same address but never the same last name.

Am I just wasting my time here? Is it time to call it a day and move on? I really need an impartial opinion here and frankly I trust you the mostest.

Dearest Prankster,

This is the question you have to ask yourself: is it more important to get married or is it more important to stay with this guy?

If the answer is “it’s more important to get married, DUH, AB,” then you know what you have to do. You have to call the relationship off, tell him to piss off, and find someone who shares your desire to get married. There are dudes out there who will happily get married.

If the answer is “it’s more important to be together, DUH, AB” then you stay, forget about the comment he made about getting married and settle into a life wherein you do NOT share a last name. There’s no reason that marriage has to = commitment (although I do understand it’s a deeper level of commitment).

Either way, this is your call, my dear friend, and I wish you the very best of luck.

————

Pranksters, please help me help these brilliant question askers out by giving them better advice than I did. Please? PLEASE?

*wrings hands*

WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?

*wrings hands*

Howdy, Pranksters. Today, I’m doing something I haven’t done in far too long: I have a guest poster.

Pranksters, meet my VP from Band Back Together and one of my very bestest friends, Jana, from Jana’s Thinking Place.

When Becky asked me to write a guest post for her site, I’ll admit, even after working with her on Band Back Together for over a year now, I got a wee bit nervous. I mean, I have to be funny and all, and quite frankly I’ve been having a bad week and don’t feel very funny. My antics over on my own site are typically laser-kitty-free and without lots of glitter and shit, but I do have a trick up my sleeve.

Have you met my kid Henry? He’s awesome. He’s almost 7 and thinks he’s 17. He loves iCarly and Seinfeld along with the normal little boy favorites like Star Wars and Phineas and Ferb.

He also ahem likes to cuss. I may or may not be to blame for this. I try to be good, I really do, but I kinda have a potty mouth. The occasional shit, damn or hell flies on a semi-daily basis while I try to contain my f-bombs to when little ears are asleep.

Anyway, we watch The Middle together. He thinks it’s hilarious and we do, too. This and iCarly are the only shows we all three agree on. The other night we were watching The Middle and the following conversation transpired:

Henry: Oh, I love this show. He’s my favorite character.

Me: Who is?

Henry: Asshole

Me: {head explodes}

Jason: {balding head explodes} Who? Who do you mean? ASSHOLE?

Henry: {pointing to the TV at the older brother}

Jason: OH, you mean Axl?

Henry: {the biggest, most disgusted sigh EVER} oh, shit, I thought his name was Asshole.

So for the next thirty minutes, every time Axl was on the TV, the word Asshole was muttered laughingly by my kid.

I’ve gotta say though, he’s got the whole cussing thing down pat. He knows when and how to use cuss words properly. He can throw around dammit and shit as well as the next potty mouth soccer mom’s kid. But we are fortunate that he DOES have a filter and knows when he can and can’t use the words.

School: No

Shower: Yes

Church: No

Bedroom alone: Yes

Well, now that I say that, I’ve probably jinxed it. He’ll come home from school tomorrow with a note saying he called some kid an asshole.

Who’ll be the asshole then?

(yup, probably me)

He was born not in a cross-fire hurricane*, but with a perfectly heart-shaped tongue. Ankyloglossia, I remembered from my nursing days, was the medical term for it, but I preferred to call it a tongue-tie. It just seemed more appropriate for a baby whose mouth never stopped moving. Er, screaming.

I mentioned it to his pediatrician at his one week Well Baby check-up, not because I had concerns about his eating habits, but because I knew that as an infant, it was a quick office snip. His old-school pediatrician seemed unconcerned, providing he was eating.

And Alex, he was a boob man. Eating, screaming and DECIDEDLY NOT SLEEPING were the three things he excelled at.

The tongue-tie stretched a bit over time, but still, that delicious little heart-shaped tongue greeted me as he bleated for more food. Later, it began to affect his words…only very slightly. That heart-shape gave him the most delightful Jersey accent, and one feverish night, I wondered if I could potentially cast him in an upcoming episode of Jersey Shore. Once I realized the amount of spray-tan I’d have to invest in, I decided against it.

It was a matter of time, I knew, before we had to get it fixed.

What had once been a simple quick snip at the doctor’s office had now become a full surgical procedure. Mostly, I knew, because no four-year old will willingly let you near his mouth with a scalpel. Because four-year olds are smart.

I’d taken him last year, one summer day, to the ENT, who pronounced that it’d be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of procedure: give him the gas, snip it up, and POW! Heart-shaped no more.

I stopped listening after he said he’d be putting the kid to sleep. Not because I had any specific, rational fears about it. Hell, my girl had her head carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and this, this was the surgical equivalent of a paper cut.

But still, I couldn’t handle it. I tried to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about it. I even went as far as to schedule the appointment. When it came time to actually bring him in, I bailed. Cancelled the surgery, ashamed that I couldn’t do something so simple. Every time I went to reschedule this – such an easy procedure – my heart raced, my eyes went all blurry and three-hundred pounds sat upon my chest.

Every time Dave would mention the surgery, I’d suddenly busy myself with a new cactus video or waxing my dog, or really anything besides talking about the surgery.

As this morning at 7:45, Alex became officially tongue-tie-less.

What shocks me is not that he pulled this incredibly easy surgery like a champ. It’s not that he just inhaled 12 donuts post-op. It’s not that he’s complaining that I have not yet bought him Oreos.

No.

What shocks me is that I’d managed to entirely block out the surgery until yesterday. Last night, it hit me like a bag of oranges to the face, and when I began whining to whomever would listen to me on IM, each person was all, “OMG AB, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME?”

And that, really, would be the question.

All I could sputter out was that I’d forgotten. Which I had.

As Alex’s tongue became untied, mine knotted up, unable to share with even those closest with me.

*stands up and waves*

My name is Becky, and I am the Face of PTSD.

*that’d be me. Or Jumpin’ Jack Flash. OR BOTH.

I tend to get into television shows far later than most. In fact, if there’s a series that’s about to be cancelled or IS, in fact, cancelled, I will probably get into it, fall in love, then be devastatingly crushed when it is over. BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, DAMMIT.

I’m still not over the ending of Prison Break – I cannot think of it without weeping. I may have a little bit of a problem.

(shut UP)

A couple of months ago, probably while looking for tweets about laser kitties, I stumbled across The Twitter babbling on about a show called Mad Men. I sorta want to put it in inappropriate quotation marks just because.

Well, I figured that if the REST of the world was watching it, I’d probably hate it. Even though I’m married simultaneously to Dr. House and Dexter – both popular shows – I always assume I’ll hate popular culture. You can thank my parents for that one, Pranksters.

About a month ago, after reaching the end of Numbers, spending several days in mourning and then realizing I needed a new hobby besides becoming overly invested in television shows (see also: my marriages to Dr. House and Dexter), I finally queued up Mad Men.

I’m hesitant about any show that I alone pick because I spent at least three months watching Nip/Tuck while hating every goddammed minute of it. I screamed at the TV like it was a football game every night until I watched every single episode. And then? I’m STILL furious that I spent so much time watching a show while hating every. single. character.

Alas, I digress.

But I picked Mad Men, and I began to watch it, unsure of how I could handle a show where people aren’t eaten by sharks or otherwise horribly disfigured, depressed or maimed (see also: my love of Cold Case and Law and Order: You Lead A Charmed Life, Motherfucker).

I admit, I was bored by the show. But I kept on because I HAD TO SEE IF SOMEONE WOULD BE EATEN BY A GIANT BEAR.

And then, I sorta, kinda, maybe liked some of the characters. Like a little.

But mostly, I liked the clothes. So what if everyone is repressed, drunk, and chain-smoking? THEY HAVE KICKY CLOTHES THAT I COVET! So what if everyone is having The Sex with everyone else? LOOKIT THE FANCY HAIRS!

I’m making an executive decision. I will go back to being a repressed housewife in the 1960’s IF I can get clothes like that. Because have you BEEN to The Target recently?

One word: ROMPERS. For WOMEN.

(that was more like two words or like fifty-niner)

I’m SO not okay with that. I’m also not okay with the scrunchies, acid-washed jeans, or jeggings.

NOT OKAY, PRANKSTERS.

So bring on the copious amounts of booze, gimmie my pack of smokes and fancy lady lighter, and screw being liberated. IF I CAN WEAR A TWIRLY SKIRT, I’M YOURS.

I’m sorry, Pranksters, because I have to inform you of something.

I just won the Mother of the Year award. Certainly it’s better than my You’ve Been Blogging Since You Rode A Dinosaur to School award (highly UN-coveted, by the by), but it is no less an honor.

But nothing will replace the Mother of the Year award I just won.

Since Back To School stuff is long put away, it seems that Halloween is right around the corner. I myself can not actually read a calendar, so Halloween could be next year for all I know it could be tomorrow, which WHOOPS! SURPRISE! But I think I have a month to determine what, specifically, my children would like to be for Halloween.

I’m still pushing for the whole Land Shark thing, but if I don’t get any takers, I may be that myself….or the Twitter Fail Whale (which would be so much awesomer if I were pregnant this year. I could totally leash up my kids as wee birdies).

(for the three of you who haven’t seen it, I suggest taking a minute of your life and devoting it to basking in the glow of this)

Anyway, I’ve been trying for about thirty-five-niner years to get ONE OF MY KIDS to dress themselves as the Land Shark for Halloween. My kids are generally all, “PISS OFF MOM,” probably because they remember that I’d dressed them up as (in no particular order) a Grumble Bee, a Hot Dog and a Hedgehog.

Honestly, I think that ONE YEAR of being the Land Shark is WELL within my rights as someone who birthed these children out of my vagina, but NO. Which means that I will, one day, have to do it myself.

And I plan on eating many people. Just say we were together if anyone asks, okay, Pranksters?

Last year, Benjamin was a pirate (boring), Mili was a pirate princess and Alex was a Flutter-By. He won the award that year for having the best costume. I, myself, was pretty jealous of it.

This year, however, not one of my other children has decided what they would like to be for Halloween. Save for Alex.

Alex has his heart set upon being Saturn.

No, not the now-defunct car company, the PLANET.

The car, at least, I could’ve understood. But the planet? Um. Hi. How the FUCK do I make a Saturn costume? No really, I’m asking you. Because otherwise I’m going to stuff a yellow sweatshirt and call it a motherfucking day. And I’m sure that by not having the proper patterns around Saturn, I will be berated and probably cried upon for failing as a mother. Which, actually is not much different than any normal day around Casa de la Sausage + Mimi.

I really, really do not know how I am supposed to live through all of these creative-ass costume idears. I mean, I? I was a pirate as a kid. And potentially a Land Shark. Maybe a Fail Whale. Possibly wanted to be crazy pregnant Britney and K-Fed one year (but Dave wouldn’t have it). NOT CREATIVE, PRANKSTERS.

So until I come up with a better solution, I’m going to dose my coffee with Almond Extract and wait for the inspiration to strike. Probably in the form of “I NEED TO BE BILLY MAYS FOR HALLOWEEN!!”

Send vodka, Pranksters. Send lots of vodka.

P.S. How do I make a Saturn Costume? While drunk.

I walked into InterventionCon this weekend all puff-chested and proud, like, ‘WHO’S A BAD-ASS-MOTHERFUCKING GEEK? ME!” I was practically humming “Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger,” as I waltzed into the hotel, all ready to get my freak binary on. I was all ready to be all, “WHO’S ALL OPEN SOURCE NOW, MOTHERFUCKERS?!”

Imagine the look on my face when I finally opened up my eyes to the strains of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin,'” and realized that half of the attendees were in costumes. It was a COSTUME PARTY. And guess who had no costume?

That’s right, Your Aunt Becky.

I was, for the first time ever, somewhere without a spare costume!

Color me Furious George.

They weren’t costumes I wanted or even recognized, and somehow, I was flaming that I did not, in fact, own one. I could’ve been a wicked Britney Spears (post K-Fed) or even an Oompa Loompa. And still, nothing.

Somewhat dejectedly, I moped to my room – on the 7th floor – and threw myself down on the bed, trying desperately to coax some tears out of my eyes. First, I thought of the saddest basket of kitties with no one to love them. Then I thought about how cruel a world it would be if Uncrustables were discontinued. When that made me simply stabbity rather than tearful, I decided a new tactic  was in order. I decided that my next best bet would be to rub them, then poking them until finally, I was able to convince two actual tears to come out of my eyes.

It felt strangely vindicating and utterly unsatisfying.

Next order of business was to get onto the elevator and go downstairs to mope in public. I like to share my misery. I’m a giver like that.

Only an odd thing happened. Even weirder than the full-blown adults in costumes I couldn’t quite place.

Proper elevator etiquette, as explained by my mother is this: you back that ass up while waiting for an elevator to allow exiting passengers to, um, exit. Then, only after everyone who is getting off is off do you board the elevator.

Likewise, once on the elevator, you allow passengers to get off on various floors by moving graciously out of the way WITHOUT BITCHING ABOUT IT, while you wait for your stop.

It’s a simple enough concept that even my pea-brain can comprehend it.

And yet, for the first time in my life, even AFTER living in Chicago and riding 50 floor elevators crammed full of people, I was shocked and horrified by the elevators in MD.

Because, it appeared that the new way of things was this:

Elevator door opens -> stand in a line in FRONT of the elevator doors, ignoring all the empty space behind you -> groan loudly whenever someone dares try to enter the elevator with three goddamed people in it.

On the other side,

Elevator door opens and person behind you wants to get off -> rather than wait for the first in place to disembark -> push your way past the other passengers ALSO attempting to get off.

Because we all know it’s a motherfucking RACE to the fucking FINISH, motherfuckers.

First time it happened, I ignored it. Okay. Fine. Someone was having a grumbly day. Happens.

The second time? Maybe coincidence.

The third? I decided that the non-convention goers were some of the rudest people on the planet and should probably be relegated to the ALOT Island with John C. Mayer.

The moral of this story? ALWAYS PACK AN EXTRA COSTUME. Also? Wear body armor for elevators in Maryland.

P.S. I missed you, Pranksters.

Also, Also: We have an auction up at Band Back Together. You should go visit it.

Please tell me this is not a joke. Please?