Tomorrow, bright and blurry, I leave to go to our nation’s capitol. Which, I was shocked to learn, was not in Washington STATE, but actually on the East Coast. This was nearly as big a snafu as the time I claimed vehemently that Kansas City was a state. I was about to resort to blows to win my argument until The Twitter pointed out that, in fact, I was wrong.

The Twitter ruins all my fist-fights.

Anyway, so I’m headed for our nation’s capitol, not to learn more about history or anything, because UGH, but because I am going to a convention. A convention about Internet Culture, which, unlike the VaginaStocks I normally go to (read: BlogHer), it will be full of dudes.

Which leads me to this point: what does one wear to a convention full of slightly (read: very) geeky guys? I simply do not know. I don’t own a “Chicks Dig Unix” shirt nor do I own a shirt that says, “There’s No Place Like 127.0.0.1” because really, I’m not even sure that’s English. I don’t speak binary nor do I intend to. Hell, I barely speak English.

So I’ve spent most of the week trying to figure out what, precisely, one wears to a convention full of nerds.

The answer?

Pants.

Ascertaining that makes me feel loads better.

I’d almost forgotten I was speaking there until I got an email reminding me I’d been signed up to speak on a panel called, ‘Why Mommy Wants Vodka.” Alone.

Now, I can bullshit for an hour (or more!) if needed, but I’m desperately at a loss for what, precisely, it is one should say on this panel. If, in fact, anyone wants to listen to me answer that eternal question of the ages: Why Mommy Wants Vodka.

Frankly, I don’t know.

Perhaps I should bring cocktails so anything I say sounds desperately hilarious.

Any suggestions, Pranksters?

Dear Skype:

The first time I was asked if I could “Skype,” I believed that I was either being invited into some exclusive club OR being insulted by some bizarre Russian Army; likely the same army that bombards my site with pen1s enlargement pill ads. Imagine my surprise when I learned that you, Skype, were like a phone…ONLY WORSE.

Dutifully, I signed up for you, Skype, because, well, I think I was doing an interview with a cat or something. Or at least, that’s what he sounded like, Skype. If he wasn’t a cat, well, Skype, then you done fucked up.

AGAIN.

(how I feel when I use Skype)

Because for every word I understood, Skype, there were at least twenty I did not. Twenty to one, Skype. Those are particularly disappointing odds, Skype, especially since I can get the same type of blurry reception from my i(can’t)Phone WITHOUT having to sit on my computer, yelling WHAT!? into my screen.

(which, Skype, let’s be honest, is what happens every time I can’t find one of my dancing cactus videos.)

This weekend, Skype, I was counting on you to Do Better. I knew you had it in you, Skype, and yet, there you were, in the middle of my first non-profit board meeting for Band Back Together, five board members chatting through the miracle of the computer. With artificial flickering disco lights. And frozen pictures. And buzzing words.

Skype, you ruined my call.

Possibly, my life.

Don’t make me pull a John C. Mayer on you, Skype. Just. Don’t. You won’t like it, Skype.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. I’m totally pulling a John C. Mayer on you Skype.

I live in one of those subdivisions that has approximately three different house styles.

It’s an older subdivision, built in the 60’s or 70’s, with the trees to match. I love those trees. In the winter, as the new-fallen snow is caught by the branches, they create something as close to a Norman Rockwell painting as someone like me is gonna get. In the spring, the new buds and fresh leaves remind me that winter, like anything else, doesn’t last forever. In the summer, the curtain of leaves, nearly meeting in the middle of the road, make me giddy with happyness. In the fall, those leaves change to all of the brightest shades of red and orange, a stark contrast against the impossibly blue sky.

Last year, after a particularly riveting night in the ER with a case of Orbital Cellulitis, I blurrily got the mail as we got back home at five in the morning. In it, there was a piece of mail from our city, stating that there was something called the Emerald Ash Boner. Before I went to bed for the first time in twenty-four hours, I chucked heartily that there was an infestation of Boners in my town.

I hadn’t considered that the tree I loved so dearly, sweetly shading my house and occasionally dumping gigantic branches onto my lilacs, was an Ash Tree. In fact, I’d considered that a particularly stupid name for a tree (when I discovered it was, indeed, an Ash Tree) and vowed to make someone somewhere change it to the Ass Tree. It seemed more fitting.

For the next year, I watched in horror as the trees up and down the sides of my road – all Ass Trees – were marked with a hastily spray-painted purple dot. Purple dot = infected. Which isn’t entirely unlike herpes, I suppose.

Every week, I inspected my Ass Tree for that tell-tale purple dot, knowing that my Ass Tree was probably superior to all other Ass Trees and would therefore be immune the Emerald Ass Boner. Clearly.

Three weeks ago, I came home to see the dot. On my precious Ass Tree. The Boner had struck.

Purple Dot of Doom = tree infected = cut down.

Soon, my favorite Ass Tree will be cut down and replaced with a tiny new tree, so small that I’ll neatly be able to fit my hand around it. Certainly, I’ll watch the tree grow and turn into a non-Ass Tree (I think we’re getting maples instead). I’ll happily celebrate the day it grows large enough to provide shade and again when it’s branches are large enough to support the weight of my smallest child. I know there will be lemonade stands underneath it, the new tree will oversee the tending of my rose bed, and it will, someday, shade me with it’s leaves.

But that doesn’t stop me from feeling sad about my very own Ass Tree, who will soon enough, be reduced to a pile of stumps.

Change.

It even happens to Ass Trees.

———

In other news, I have two columns up at The Stir. Please report back to tell me if the comments are hateful. Actually, don’t. I don’t want to know:

Reason Number Eleventy-Five Being A Kid Today Sucks

and

7 Reasons Your Kid’s Summer Birthday Sucks

Also, here: Puberty. UGH.

…today, I will send you to Band Back Together, where we’ve compiled stories about the ten year anniversary of September 11, 2001. You’ll see perspectives from everyone from those who were physically there watching life lost to those who were giving birth to a new life. You’ll even find my story among them.

We’re all answering one simple question: “where were you?”

I hope you’ll join us.

We’re Banding Together for 9/11.

It started with half-eaten dinners left cold, sitting at the table, waiting for the work crisis to pass. It never did.

Chink.

Movies partially watched together, while a pressing work need called.

Blast.

Dueling mortgages with a pressure to sell our former house while waiting to sell our condo.

Thwack.

A pregnancy that made me so ill that I could no longer go into work, for fear that I would vomit all over myself while driving.

Zap.

A baby so needy that I didn’t sleep for nearly a year, during which point, I had a minor nervous breakdown.

Pow.

An unexpected string of miscarriages that left me in a puddle of hormone soup.

BANG.

A precarious pregnancy that seemed doomed from the get-go, hallmarked by severe, crippling prepartum depression.

Zip.

A baby born with a severe neural tube defect requiring neurosurgery within a few days of her entry into the world.

Smack.

A debilitating case of PTSD coupled with chronic, daily migraines.

Whack.

Work that can never be enough, never is enough, requiring total dedication to that, and that alone.

Slam.

Years spent overcoming my past only to have it wallop me upside my face.

Punch.

Realizing that what had once been a marriage, something so strong that I’d never doubted it, had turned into a yawning chasm between two very different people.

Wham.

Figuring out where to go from here. Unsure if that chasm can ever be crossed.

TKO.

There are traditions that are bullshit and traditions that are not bullshit. The whole groom removing the bride’s garter with his teeth? Kinda bullshit. It’s just too skeevy for me.

Decorating the Christmas tree while listening to Britney Spears croon, “My Only Wish?” Totally awesome.

One of my favorite traditions – besides drinking gallons of coffee and diet Coke – is to make something so ridiculous, so heinous, and so morally reprehensible as to embarrass as many people as possible. Namely my uber-conservative in-laws.

That’s right, Pranksters, I took a bit from a Saturday Night Live Skit and made my own.

What, I can hear you ask, could you possibly have taken? The weird cheerleader bit? The Church Lady? The Ambiguously Gay Duo?

Nope.

Schweddy Balls.

I know I’ve spoken of it before, but when I was a child, my parents listened almost exclusively to NPR and the local classical radio station. Don’t get me wrong, hearing about how 3000 children in Afghanistan by some horrible disease is pretty much UN-scarring for a kid (also: positive and uplifting), but I spent most of those years, stuck in the living room listening to the announcers drone on and on, praying, hoping, praying that one of them would slip up and swear.

They never did.

So when SNL put together a skit about Alec Baldwin’s Schweddy Balls, it was like a childhood dream come true. FINALLY, those announcers were talking about dirty shit WITHOUT skipping a beat!

Here’s the video for those of you who live in a cave and haven’t seen it.

I’ll wait here while you compose yourself; perhaps get a new chair or keyboard.

So I decided when Alex was a wee babe that what I needed to do was to make Schweddy Balls and put them out for Christmas. If I could successfully dead-pan the delivery of Schweddy Balls to my family, I would win.

(what would I win? Maybe a Mr. Peanut medal or something)

Each year, I’ve diligently made something with a dirty name (Meat Sticks, anyone?), and my own family has laughed uproariously, whereas my in-laws don’t even blink when I say, “Here, try my Schweddy Balls.” Perhaps it’s lost on them.

Either way, it may be September, but I’m already pondering what to make this year for “Schweddy Balls.” I’m thinking Rum Balls, but you know, it’s a Schweddy family recipe, so we’ll see.

Then, this morning, my sister-in-law sent me something on The Facebook. I’m not sure whether to be thrilled or furious at Ben and Jerry’s.

No, the more I think about this, the more I feel Furious George.

Also: hungry.

There are very few things I love as much as I love waffles. Even better than regular boring waffles are the ones I can order from Room Service, but really, what doesn’t taste better when delivered by a small man in a tuxedo? NOTHING.

Alas, this is not an ode to room service.

It is unfortunate that my children have also decided that waffles = full of the awesome. Not because they are wrong or anything (which is fairly common while dealing with small people who poop their pants), but because with waffles come condiments.

While I’m thankful that these condiments do not include ketchup, which, knowing my crotch parasites, could easily be the case, I sorta wish they’d decide to use something like WD-40 or super glue to top those delicious mounds of goodness.

Every morning, I wake up, blearily stumble down the stairs and pour myself a cup of coffee and, upon rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I realize that I’ve been victim of a minor terrorist attack. Sprinkled everywhere from the highest counter-top to the floor, is anthrax.

So, because I am still half-asleep, I begin yelling (to no one, as I am alone), “THE TERRORISTS DONE GOTTED ME! IMMA DIE OF ANTHRAX!“as I run around the house looking for expired antibiotics prescribed to my dog like eight years ago.

It takes me a couple minutes, a lick of the counter-top and a few laps around my house to realize that no, in fact, this was decidedly not a terrorist attack. I am in no more danger of catching anthrax in my kitchen than I am when I visit Urgent Care. In fact, Urgent Care is MORE likely to give me anthrax or polio or something.

No, what has now coated my kitchen in a deliciously sweet dust is powdered sugar. From the waffles that my kids eat.

For some reason, my benevolent children believe that the coffee maker, the dishwasher and the toaster oven like the taste of powdered sugar as much as they do. Or at least, that’s my suspicion as to why the powdered sugar is miles away from the kitchen table. I like to believe that my children are practicing kindness, not being lazy assbags, while they decorate my kitchen every motherfucking morning, trying to look out for the betterment of the appliances rather than opting out of using a spoon to scoop the stuff onto their waffles.

That is how I comfort myself each day as I scrub powdered sugar out of the most bizarre nooks of my kitchen.

If only the same could be said for their roaming sock colonies.

Somehow, I’d always pictured him somewhere on the delicate clouds of heaven, painting happy fucking clouds with Bob Motherfucking Ross.

Hello Aunt Becky!

I have a stupid, crazy, but amazing boyfriend that I have been with for almost a year now. We get along really well most of the time, but for some reason or another we ALWAYS end up fighting over the stupidest shit EVER! Seriously, stupid.

Last week, he got mad at me because at 5AM, after talking and hanging out all night, I passed out in the middle of a conversation. Okay, if it’s 5AM, and you’re talking to me laying in bed after a bottle of wine, expect me to fucking fall asleep!

So, we constantly have these stupid fights that turn into 3 or 4 days of yelling at each other, ignoring each other, or whatever, until I end up being a total fucking pushover and admitting EVERYthing I do and say is WRONG! And I’m sick of it! I’m not always wrong.

I don’t know if he really thinks that I’m that fucked up, or if he’s just trying to overpower me.

I really am in love with this man, and I don’t want to end it, but my self-esteem is about to hit rock-fuckin-bottom! He treats my spiritual views with respect, and he is a very sweet, and understanding man. I just can’t handle him yelling at me anymore! I’m a strong-minded woman, and now I feel like I can’t even make up my mind without disappointing him.

I don’t want to make him sound like a total ass-hat, because he isn’t – he’s truly an amazing man. He’s okay with me being a weird tree-huggin hippie. It’s a challenge to find a man I can get along with, because I live in Utah, where having an opinion that doesn’t match “the church” is evil, so he’s a breath of fresh air.

I can’t handle the fighting anymore, but I love him.

AB, what the fuck do I do!?

-Rainn

Dear Prankster Rainn,

You may have the coolest name ever. No, seriously, can I become “Aunt Rainn?” Because that would be FULL of the awesome.

Anyway. I’ve been in this relationship before (see also: my eldest’s father) and it’s not worth it. Not unless, of course, you can meet somewhere in the middle.

So that brings me to my point: can, Prankster Rainn, you bring this up to your boyfriend and actually have a civilized conversation about why the fighting bothers you? If you cannot, if he is that convinced of his Rightness and Your Wrongness, then I would move the fuck on.

You don’t need to spend the rest of your life bowing to the alter of Your Wrongness. It will only shatter your ego and frankly, there are better men out there.

So sit your boyfriend down, tell him that this fighting is not okay; that it cannot continue and see what happens.

Good luck, Prankster.

Hello Aunt Becky-

I must say I find your blog to be hysterical and awesome.

Talk to me about morning sickness. How bad is it? Just found out that I am knocked up and will soon have my own crotch parasite 🙂

So if you’re pregnant Prankster, does that make me Great Aunt Becky? Because I’m only 31.

Anyway, congrats on the crotch parasite! I love babies. Especially babies that don’t have to be shot out of my own girly bits.

I’m also hesitant to mention morning sickness to any pregnant person because it’s sort of like trying to describe how much labor sucks. Because it TOTALLY does. So why bring up the unpleasantness, unless it’s to torture pregnant women with. I remember the particular glee in which older women bestowed their most horrifying pregnancy tales upon me while I was gestating. Right, because I really wanted to know how you tore hole to hole during delivery.

Anyway.

Here’s the down-low on morning sickness: it sucks. It sucks a lot. It’s a continuum of suck that varies from pregnancy-to-pregnancy and person-to-person.

However.

It dos not last.

Pregnancy is a finite experience. There is a beginning, a middle and and end. And while you’re going through it, you may, at times, wish you were dead, but believe me, that baby cannot stay in there forever.

Best of luck. And stock up on starchy things and mint gum. That’s how I survived.

P.S. Please name the baby Aunt Becky.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I find it silly that I’m writing to you for advice, because I think that deep down I know the answer.

Let me start off by saying I’m a people-pleaser. I spend my life making sure that everyone else around me is content. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.  

My husband of 8 years has been diagnosed with Bipolar and Intermittent  Explosive Disorder. In the last 8 years, he has “blacked out,” becoming violent with me several times. I have given ultimatums, told him he needs to get help, threatened taking away the kids, life, everything… and until 6 months ago, he refused help.

Since then, he’s been on medication and undergoing therapy. 2 weeks ago, I received a text message from him that was supposed to go to a “friend” alluding to selling his medication. I didn’t say anything at the time because I knew he would lie.

When I got home, I snooped. I know it’s not kosher but if he’s partaking in illegal activity, I figured it was an exception. While looking through his text messages, not only did I find evidence that he was selling his medication, I also found loads of texts between he and a girl he’d met on a recent vacation. He mentioned possibly moving an hour a way to move in with her, dirty pics to and from each other. He even professed his love for her.  

I was devastated.  

So I confronted him. I got bullshit excuses like, “oh it was just flirting. She’s been helping him with our relationship,” more crap that I didn’t believe. Once again, I let it go, figuring we’d try counseling.

That brings us to Sunday. Sunday, my oldest son’s father called me at work and told me that he’d gone to pick up our son and my husband was freaking out on our 2-year old daughter. From what my son’s dad said, my husband spanked her several times very hard, smacked her hand on the floor and then threw her on to the couch.  

He threatened to notify DHS if I didn’t take care of the situation. I left work as so as possible, went home and kicked him out. With much protest, he left.

Last night, he came over to talk. Once again, he filled my head with the “I regret this so much” “nobody hates this as much as I do” “I am so sorry” bullshit. What do I do? Should give him a second chance, even after all the chances I’ve given him. After all, I cannot afford a divorce. I have no one that can help me. I have nowhere to go. Without his income, I will get evicted from our house. (He won’t give me any money unless its court-ordered) I cannot let my kids move to another school again.

Then again, I cannot let this happen to any of my children ever again. 

I don’t want to completely fuck him over. 90% of the time hes a good dad. He loves our kids more than anything. I know this. He says he loves me, but I don’t believe that. When the IED gets out of control, it’s terrible. 

I don’t know what to think or do or feel or say. I am totally lost. My son said, “Mommy please don’t divorce daddy. That would be sad.” What do I do with that?

What do I do, AB? I’m stuck!

Oh Prankster, I’m so fucking sorry. What a terrible, unenviable position you’re in.

However, no amount of apologies can change the facts. Your husband abuses you and your child. It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. It simply matters that he does and he has and he will again. If he genuinely cannot control himself during these attacks, I advise you to get as far away from him as possible and STAY there.

He’s not taking any personal accountability for his illness or trying to get better; he’s just feeding you lines of bullshit to keep you around. And for what? So you can be his punching bag?

You, Prankster, deserve loads better than what you’re getting. You don’t deserve this bullshit, you don’t deserve his abuse, and your children deserve better. Please get the hell out of there before the Pranksters have to come and get you..

I’m linking you to the Band Back Together resource page for domestic abuse, which has many different resources, including a state-by-state resource list, to help you get out of this situation.

And please, Prankster, keep us in the loop.

Let us know what happens.

We’re all rooting for you.

——————–

As always, Pranksters, please correct my shitty advice with your brilliant advice in the comments.

I stood in my kitchen, momentarily stunned, a vacuum whirring happily in my hands.

The feeling that washed over me was, for the first time, not dread. It was not a migraine either. Nor was I wasted. It was not fear either.

No, for the first time in as long as I can recall, I was calm. At peace. In the moment.

It seemed that for once, I had finally achieved peace.

While I’d not gone into the doctor, anxiously dreading that appointment to talk about my anxiety issues, believing I could actually be fixed, there I was: fixed. No longer broken.

After living, impatiently waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop already, for so many years, I could hardly imagine a world in which I did not wake with my heart pounding loudly, my guts churning painfully, my soul full of impending doom.

And yet, there I was.

I thought to myself, as I resumed vacuuming (no one can keep a good vacuum down, after all), this is the way the rest of the world feels most of the time. How shockingly simple this feels.

And then I tried desperately to kick myself for waiting as long as I did to seek help. (Pro tip: you cannot kick yourself while vacuuming without falling squarely on your ass.)

I could have spent years – years – not feeling that way, and I decided to tough it out. And for what? For WHAT? A jaw-grind disposition to a panic attack? Migraines? Insomnia? Unhappyness?

Hardly seems like a list of shit to be proud of. I toughed it out so I could break my teeth grinding them to nubs in my sleep. Spend my nights awake, weeping, reliving ghosts that could’ve been put happily to rest many years ago.

Even as we roll into the dog days of summer, it appears that my dog days are, in fact, over.

I couldn’t – haven’t – ever been happier.

———————

When I found out my dear friend, Razing Mayhem, was throwing a blogathon for Band Back Together, I actually cried real tears without the aid of a stunt double or an onion. If you want to read about her efforts to help out a place where we kick stigmas in the vagina, Band Back Together, please go and visit her.

THEN I will give you a cookie.

Or twelve.