It was one of the first nights I’d worked in the brand-new restaurant. Anyone who has worked in restaurants before knows that the first months after opening are a fucking zoo: The pond scum slithers it’s way off the pond and into the joint to try it out – and torture the staff in the progress – the usually new management has no idea how much of everything to order and the waitstaff is so new they can’t tell you if they even stock honey. For tea. At a pizza place. In fact, no one knows if there’s any honey, so it’s a safe bet there’s no honey. It’s a pizza place, after all.

As one of the only servers who’d waited tables before, I got handed the biggest section and was frequently given tables that other servers couldn’t keep up with. It was pizza, not rocket science, and yet, I had the most experience.

One of the tables I’d gotten just as we’d run out of pizza sauce (at a pizza place!); something that sparked horror and general flailing about from management, cooks and servers alike, was a two-top, or deuce, as we called them. Old people. Whatever. I maintained that groups of women are the worst to wait on, so the old people, I wasn’t worried about.

Barely audible over the din of the shrieking waitstaff and patrons (no! pizza! sauce!), they placed their order. I, like I always did, wrote it down neatly in my notebook. It wasn’t to help me remember, no, it was so I could have BACKUP whenever anyone insisted I ordered something wrong. I’d take the fall for a lot of mistakes, but I wouldn’t own it unless it was mine.

I placed the order in the computer and got them their drinks. Pizzas took at least thirty minutes to cook, so I knew I had time to get caught up on the rest of my tables. Like I said, it was a busy night.

When their order came out, I brought it out and served it, just as I’d been showed.

I placed the pieces in front of the woman, she smacked my hand, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I ORDERED,” she screamed. I whipped out my hand-dandy notebook to show her that yes, in fact, it was.

“NO!” she screamed, “it’s not!”

Well, there wasn’t any point in arguing. I apologized. It had obviously been my error in both writing down and repeating back to them. Fine. I knew I was right.

I grabbed the manager and sent him over to deal with her. This was beyond my pay grade.

He fixed it somehow – maybe he gave them a coupon or a new pizza, I didn’t know and didn’t care – and when I brought over drink refills, I apologized again for what had happened.

They looked at me as though I had killed their puppy. Or Jesus. Or their puppy AND Jesus.

Okay then.

Except, they were in my section and every time I went near the table, their mournful, sad and somewhat hateful eyes followed me, just like those haunted house pictures. Every movement I made, they watched, hatefully.

I wanted to yell, “It was just a pizza, you assfuckers!” but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled more brightly with each passing glare. If you can’t win ’em, be cheerful as fuck about it.

Finally, they left, their eyes no longer murdering me every time I stepped foot near the table. My fellow servers patted me on the back. “Eh,” I said, “she looked like a bullfrog anyway.” Because she did.

The following day, I stopped by my pharmacy to pick up a wrist brace. I know what they say about us Midwestern chicks, but I don’t have cornfed ankles OR wrists. So carrying trays that weighed 6000000 pounds did a number on me. Hence the wrist braces.

Who should walk past me?

The bullfrog lady and her husband. They looked relatively normal until they spied me, squatting there, examining wrist braces. Then, again with the “you killed Jesus stares.”

This time I wasn’t at work. This time I was off the motherfucking clock.

So I did the only thing that made sense: I stuck my tongue out at them and blew a gigantic raspberry.

They glared harder (perhaps I’d been upgraded to “kills baskets of puppies and/or Jesus) as I walked back to the register, a bounce in my step, feeling that I, for once, had finally been able to speak my mind.

(they became regulars at the pizza place and I refused to wait on them ever again)

It was mentioned in the comments on a recent post that I do not discuss my middle son, Alex, nearly enough. I’d figured that since I’d devoted Year One of Mommy Wants Vodka to him, you guys were probably sick of hearing about him.

Alas, I was wrong.

———–

When Alex was two, I’d finally managed to wrangle my boobs away from him – he was a Boob Man – and *cue angels singing on high* put him in the shopping cart when we went to The Target. After spending the first year of his life as the ONLY person he’d allow to hold him – and in my arms was the only place he’d not shriek – this was no minor victory.

Whenever I think of Alex, I think of the legend of the Monkey Paw, which apparently no one else has ever heard. Basically, there’s a long-winded, slightly creepy story involving wishes, dead monkey paws and gypsies. The moral of the story? “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” I’d have guessed the moral to be something more like, “don’t buy a dead monkey paw, you jackass.”

WHATEVER.

During his pregnancy, see, I’d cried and moaned and carried on about how much I wanted a baby that loved me best (Ben’s autistic and didn’t give a flying poo about me)(can you blame him?).

WHOOOOO-BOY did I get that in spades.

So there I am, in The Target, trying to soothe my savage son who is trying to wrangle his way from the cart and into my arms, where his newborn sister is. It’s nearly impossible to hold the two of them and walk around at the same time, so I decided that the only course of action was to begin to sing. So I did.

“C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me, OH C is for cookie. Um. A is for Alex, that’s good enough for me, OH A is for Alex, that’s good enough for me, oh Alex Alex Alex starts with A!”

Probably terrified a good number of shoppers with my horrifying amazing singing.

It was then that my son, son of my heart, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, told his first joke. In song form.

“P is for Poopy, that’s good enough for me. P is for Poopy, that’s good enough for me. Oh poopy poopy poopy starts with P!” Then he burst into gales of laughter.

Rather than scold him, yell, or even raise my voice for making an off-color, inappropriate joke, I busted a gut. Then I beamed in pride. It’s not like I sing the P is for Poopy* song myself or anything.

This Sunday, on the way home from picking the boys up from their sleepover at Grandma’s, my musical eldest began singing all 198 versions to London Bridge Is Falling Down. Apparently, in addition to dancing cat videos and porn, You Tube is ALSO good at teaching kids all the obscure verses to songs.

As my eldest sang, “Build it up with bricks and hay,” for the zillionth time, my middle son decided that what the song needed was a little pizazz. So he, in all his tone-deaf glory, began to chant, “Build it up with poop and hay, poop and hay.”

Rather than do the proper thing and be all After School Special on him, “Now Alex, we don’t say, ‘poop’ in this house,” I laughed. I laughed so hard that it actually hurt.

Yep.

He’s the kid that’ll net me a jillion angry phone calls from other parents. It’ll be all I can do not to laugh.

*Much.

(over at the Stir, this is how I will make my millions)

Now that I’ve lost the lion’s share of the baby weight – and yes, I WILL call it baby weight even though my daughter is two – I’ve taken to shopping again. For clothes, I mean. Clothing is more fun when you’re not staring at the tag, weeping about the number there.

(I learned to cut off the tags, but it didn’t help)

So there I was, at The Target, perusing the summer stuff, when I saw it. The Maxi-Dress.

Pranksters, I wanted so badly to love this dress. It looked like it would provide a nice crotch breeze while allowing me to continue my “pants are bullshit” campaign. And yet. I couldn’t.

My mother, a hippie in the 1980’s, lived in these things when I was a child – the very sort of thing I railed against. It was droopy and unpatterned, listless and tired, even fresh off the clothes line. As someone who favored twirly skirts, tiaras, and all the makeup one could slap on a face, I was horrified that my very own mother would wear such monstrosities.

Examining it closer, I realized that, like capri pants, the dress would look good on no one. Except, perhaps, models.

So I put it back, sadly denying my crotch an opportunity to vent in the breeze.

And then I saw this:

Motherfucking ROMPERS.

Have you seen these, Pranksters? ROMPERS. FOR ADULTS.

If I could manage to somehow get over the issue that these are ROMPERS for ADULTS, all I can see is the vagina wedgie you’d get while wearing this monstrosity. I mean, CAMEL TOE anyone?

Even worse, they’re ROMPERS for ADULTS.

I stopped wearing rompers at the same age that I stopped wearing diapers. Perhaps when I WEAR diapers again, I’ll go back to wanting to dress like an overgrown child. But somehow, I doubt it.

And don’t get me started on pajama jeans.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Let me just start out by saying, you are fucking hilarious, and great!

Okay, I have PTSD, depression, anxiety, OCD, and a bunch of other stupid shit that I can’t deal with. I don’t even know how to start with dealing with it. I have panic attacks nearly every day, but I don’t know where to turn to for help.

Last time I talked to my mom about it, she had me hospitalized, and put on suicide watch for a month (this was after 2 of my brothers killed themselves, so I know she was trying to help me not follow in their footsteps) so I can’t go to my family. I need help, I know I do. I just need help getting help, which is super fucked-up I know.

Please, please help me.. I don’t know how to get through a day with out drinking/cutting myself/or other things I know are completely unhealthy.

Do you have any suggestions, or anything? Thanks, sorry to bug you.
-M.J.

Oh Prankster MJ, my heart hurts for you. Mental illness can be such a motherfucker, can’t it?

Now, it sounds as though you’re aware that you need help, which is the first good step. The second step: finding good help, may be tougher. Many doctors will require parental consent for treatment, which it sounds like you need. Although, not the inpatient suicide-watch you’ve been on before. You don’t exactly sound suicidal to me.

It sounds to me that with the right combination of therapist and/or medication, you could begin to develop healthy coping mechanisms to replace the unhealthy ones you’ve learned to rely upon. Sure, it’ll require plenty of work on your end, but you can do it. It sounds like you’ve already managed to live through worse, which means that treatment should be breezier for someone as tough as yourself.

I’d start by calling these numbers:

Boys Town National Hotline:

1-800-448-3000

Self-Injury Foundation
1-800-334-HELP

Teen Contact:

972-233-8223

to see what sorts of advice they have for you in terms of getting the proper treatment you require. I’m not as familiar with the laws governing parental consent as I should be, but I’d be willing to bet that these people would know where to direct you to further help you.

If you’re over the age of consent, then, well, you don’t need to worry about telling your parents (unless you’re on their insurance plan). In that case, I’d make an appointment with a doctor who specializes in handling your types of issues (I’d start with PTSD for one) and see if you click. If you don’t, try another one. If you don’t like that one, KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU DO.

Because if you’re going to get treatment from someone, you do need to click. And you’ll know when you do. From there, you and your doctor can develop a proper treatment plan.

I wish you the best of luck, Prankster. Sending you loads of hugs.

Pranksters? Any other advice for MJ?

—————

Dear Aunt Becky,

This isn’t really an aunt becky question per se…

I mean I am asking you a question through this because I can’t figure out where else to ask you.  I know I read somewhere on you blog “It’s gin o’clock somewhere.”  I think that’s awesome and funny and I want to use that phrase of yours in a post.  I’m too scared about getting syphilis to just go ahead and steal it (and I am not normally prone to thievery), so I want to ask you before I go ahead and do that.  Also, I think it’s PERFECT for your next t-shirt!!  I would be first in line to buy it.  🙂  Did you always know you were awesome?

DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS MAKING MY ORDER?!?!

I kid, I kid.

But I did, seriously, say it, and I am totally going to make that into a shirt. “It’s Gin ‘o’ Clock Somewhere.”

I am also going to take this opportunity to shamelessly remind you to order one of my new shirts. And enter into this contest, which, um, I guess I’ll draw a winner next Friday?

—————–

So here’s my beef Aunt Becky,

All of my BFF’s are popping out tiny clones of themselves. I already have 3 1/2 year old twin boys. I love said boys but they are a shit-ton of work. As I see all these cute pregnant bitches and then corresponding cute little leeches, I start to think I may want one. Then the other side of me is like what the frick is wrong with you. When I was pregnant with the doublemint twins it was not the cakewalk I wanted it to be. Bedrest at 6months, delivery at 32weeks, I almost died and stuff. 7 weeks in the NICU and a few near deaths in between.

I am super freaked out that if I have another baby I will be all trauma and this time I have 2 kids at home who need me as well. And what if the new kid is all left out because the first ones are all “wonder twin powers combine.”

I’m sure that I am overthinking all of this and just being a freak.

Really though, if you were me would you have another?

FUCK to the NO.

I mean, I was done with having kids after three anyway, but after the horribly traumatic birth and brain surgery and shit with Amelia? I cannot fucking FATHOM having to go into that again. I’d be a mess. I’d be SUCH a mess. I mean, MORE THAN NORMAL EVEN.

That said, don’t let fear hold you back from your dreams, or some such movie quote with a wispy-haired heroine staring wistfully off into the sunset.

Can you live your life content with the wonder boys? Will you always be wanting one more? Or will you always be wanting one more if you have fifty-seven kids? THOSE are the questions I’d think as I’d hide my uterus from invading sperm.

As for me? My uterus is CLOSED for business. Until I meet my rockstar husband, of course. Then it’s wide open, baby.

—————–

As always, please pick up wherever I left off in the comments, Pranksters. Opinions are like assholes and we want to hear yours. The opinions, that is. Not the assholes. Because that’s just GROSS.

Me: (returning from my 7-11 pilgrimage wherein I purchased a Double Big Gulp of Diet Coke) “This Gigantic Diet Coke shall continue preserving myself from the inside out.

Me: “I like Britney Spears.”

Me: “Oh, I see the garbage has been taken away, I shall bring these recycling bins inside my garage so that I may fill them with more recycling stuffs.”

Me: “I’m Captain Motherfucking Recycling.”

Me: “I can’t carry three bins at once.”

Me: “I like donuts, too.”

Me: “I’m very lazy and do not wish to make a second trip down my twenty-foot driveway to carry in a bin.”

Me: “OOOOH PURPLE CAR.”

Me: “I shall use my foot to move the third recycling bin into the garage where I shall fill it with more stuffs.”

Me: “SHINY THINGS MAKE ME HAPPY.”

Me: “This is a BRILLIANT plan. I shall have to exert no more effort than I have to.”

Me: “HAHAHAHA. CREEPING PHLOX SOUNDS LIKE AN STD.”

Me: “I certainly admire these wooden-soled shoes that I am wearing.”

Me: (kick, kick, kick the recycling bin)

Me: “HAHAHAHA. CREEPING PHLOX.”

Me: (kick, kick, kick, CRACK)

Me: “OUCH MOTHERFUCKING OUCH.”

I knew from a very young age what I was going to be when I grew up. While the other kids focused their sights upon flying into space or fighting fires, in kindergarten I neatly drew a picture of myself, one that my mother has framed somewhere, that says, “Rebecca Sherrick” “Obstetrician.”

Because that was what I planned to be.

Would it have worked out if I hadn’t popped Benjamin from my nether regions, a pregnancy unexpected, a life forever changed by the furious meeting of two gametes?

I honestly can’t say. Who can see what might-have-been when what-is is right in front of our faces?

When I went back to school, a single mother with an autistic baby slung ’round her hip, I re-enrolled (which is highly UNLIKE Rick Rolling) as a nursing student, which meant two things:

a) None of the credits I’d obtained during my brief stint as a Bio/Chem major were accepted and I had to re-enroll in different, easier versions of similar classes.

2) I had to come to terms with letting go of a dream I’d had as long as I can recall.

The first year of pre-req’s was heaven for me. I’d already completed the more complicated and challenging versions of the same classes, so I quickly rose to the top of the class. I was chosen to TA for numerous science classes, putting me smack-dab back into the lab.

I couldn’t have been happier.

I left my first class as Student Nurse Aunt Becky in tears. I’m sure I looked half-insane, walking to the train, my bag full of books I didn’t give a shit about, openly sobbing the kind of ugly cry that comes from a broken heart.

Rather than entrench myself in sorrow any longer than I had to, I simply made new plans. I’d re-enroll in school and become a microbiologist once my son was old “enough.” I’d juggled single parenthood and schooling as much as I ever wanted to and I intended to see at least some fraction of the kid’s childhood.

I did and I have.

Nursing career handily abandoned as, for the first time ever, I was able to stay home with my son, things didn’t go quite as expected. The quirks I still found so charming made for lonely company as he preferred to live inside his head to being with his mother. Coming off an over-worked, beat-my-A’s-with-more-A’s high, I had hours upon hours each day to fill.

With something. Anything to make my life feel worth living again.

I obsessed over the grout between bathroom tiles – which, no matter how many toothbrushes I wore to nubs- could never quite come clean, my son happily watched the same video about the planets over and over. I waited for something, anything to tell me what the fuck I was supposed to do next.

“Why don’t you start a blog?” The Daver asked after I tearfully wept, once again, that “I hadn’t worked my ass off to sit around and wonder which fucking brand of dishsoap was better.”

I couldn’t have thought of anything I’d like to have done less than blogging. I’d never so much kept a journal, so blogging, writing down my thoughts so that someone, somewhere could be equally bored by them?

Fuck no.

Until I decided to do it.

Learning that I could write things that didn’t involve this:

was like learning I could breathe underwater. All this time that I tried to find meaning in the bathroom tiles had been for nothing. Because I had this ability and I could use it.

And now I do.

I’ve spent nearly four years here at Mommy Wants Vodka, and three before that at Mushroom Printing, telling stories. Some good, some awful, most mediocre. I’ve used my words to let you into my world. To see things as I do. To touch each of you reading these words in some way, even if it’s a disgusted “God, this chick sucks.”

The words I have written, the friends I have made, the connections I’ve foraged has been so much more than I’d anticipated. I have been beyond blessed.

And yet, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about going back into academia. To return to those glorious calculations and those beautiful microscopes, leaving the world of words squarely in my past. I wonder if that’s even possible; to shut one beloved door so firmly. I don’t have an answer.

So I’m left wondering: is this my legacy? A few pixels blinking on your computer screen? Words turned into sentences turned into paragraphs?

Moreover, is this enough?

Aunt Becky: “Lookit my garden! I planted it full of things that sound like venereal diseases!”

The Daver: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “You’re not going to melt in the sunlight out here, are you? I know you’re allergic to air.”

The Daver: “I’ll dart back inside when I feel I’m getting crispy.”

Aunt Becky (sighs happily): “Isn’t it pretty?”

The Daver: “Yes. But I feel like it needs…something.”

Aunt Becky: (stares at him)

The Daver: “Like an accent or something. It all looks so random.”

Aunt Becky: (stares at him)

The Daver: “You know, an accent.”

Aunt Becky: “Like a clown that pops out with his penis dancing to the YMCA?”

The Daver: “Well, that or a rock or something.”

Aunt Becky: “A ROCK?”

The Daver: “Yeah, or something.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll get to work on the flamboyant clown.”

—————

(at the greenhouse)

Aunt Becky: “They have accent rocks, Daver.”

The Daver: “Nice.”

Aunt Becky: “But they all say lame shit like, ‘if you weren’t my mother, you’d be my best friend.'”

The Daver: (stares into his iPhone, playing Angry Birds)

Aunt Becky: “I want an accent rock that says, ‘GO THE FUCK AWAY.'”

The Daver: “That’d be classy.”

Aunt Becky: “Or ‘Shut Your Whore Mouth.'”

The Daver: “Even classier.”

Aunt Becky: “Accent rocks are bullshit.”

(time passes)

Aunt Becky: “What about a gigantic cross with a life-sized Jesus on it?”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “You’re bullshit.”

The Daver: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “I guess you better get to work, hiring the flamboyant penis-dancing clown to live in our front garden, huh?”

The Daver: “Guess so.”

Gee.

Thanks, Amelia.

P.S. I’m writing you out of the will for this.

P.P.S. HA! Like I have a will.

P.P.P.S. I’m actually giving your inheritance to out of work actors so they can howl at my graveside.

P.P.P.P.S. No, I’m not kidding.

Well, at least it’s not me ruining THIS summer. Other summers, well, that was all me.

When I was a kid, it was all, “DON’T TOUCH THIS, OR IT’LL BLOW YOUR HAND OFF” followed by a brief burst of light, a huge bang, and a ton of smoke. THOSE were the good old days, even if they lasted mere seconds and scared me into pissing my pants.

But now, I can’t find a sparkler to save my own skin. I can’t yell at my children to “STEP AWAY OR YOU’LL DIE” because there’s nothing with which they can lose even a single leg. Some call this progress. I call it bullshit.

It is my God Given Right as an American to shoot my own fucking eye out.

Sure, you wouldn’t know that fireworks were actually banned by the amount going off in my neighborhood for the past week or two, but that only further enrages me. How could I have been so stupid as to NOT drive over to a neighboring state for some dangerous fun? I’m sure Missouri isn’t quite as big an asshole as Illinois.

(Dear Missouri, Let’s make out. Love, AB)

Considering our new state motto, “We Impeach Our Corrupt Governors,” one might THINK that Illinois had Fun on speed dial, but without fireworks, it’s simply untrue.

Sure, I can still buy those stupid things you can throw at the ground that make a big SNAP! noise, but those are kinda piddly bullshit, you know? What kid is all “LOOKIT THIS, I CAN MAKE A BANG?” How can I create ACTUAL MEMORIES of acrid gunsmoke and brief flashes of awesome?

Simply put, I cannot.

Until, I suppose, I buy a semi-automatic weapon and use THAT motherfucker instead of fireworks.

That’ll learn you, Illinois, for being such an assmunch.

P.S. Despite my pleas, The Target won’t stock the lethal form of Jarts. I call bullshit.

Hey Aunt Becky!

First off, I’d like to say that I think you are an amazing, hilarious, smart, talented person. I’m not trying to suck up, I really do think this.

Secondly, my question is kind of simple, but I just don’t know what to do.

See, I’m probably one of your younger readers. As in, I can’t get my license right now because I’m not quite old enough. I am also depressed with borderline OCD, self-mutilation problems, and struggling with an eating disorder. As a teenage girl, most people just chalk all of this up to teenage angst and silly attention-whoring.

To be honest, they might be right. I’ve been getting better, slowly, but it’s difficult. Anyway, I’m just lost. You see, my older brother is going off to college in a few months and I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I’ve had to deal with(and still do) years of emotional and sometimes physical abuse. I have an extremely difficult time talking about all of this, even to an anonymous place like Band Back Together.

Anyway, with my brother leaving, and more issues, I feel like I’m spiraling back down where I used to be. I don’t want to go back to the place I was in. I just don’t know what to do. Talking to people, is pointless, as they just tell me that my life isn’t that bad, so why am I depressed?

I realize this is long and rambling and kind of pointless, but I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do to pull myself back out of this…shithole(excuse my french) that I’m stuck in. What do I do? Thank you for reading all of this.

-Stuck in CS

Oh Prankster, you’re breaking my heart.

First, you’re not an attention whore. People who suffer from mental illness – especially self-injury – often are told that it’s just an “attention getting thing.”

They couldn’t be more wrong or more dangerous. Self-injury is a symptom of disease, just like high blood sugar is a symptom of The Diabeetus. Mental illness is no different than The Diabeetus.

I’m sorry that no one takes you seriously, because I a) understand and b) think it’s bullshit anyone else doesn’t. Mental illness is a serious disorder and should be taken as such.

Clearly, you need to find someone better, who is not bullshit, to talk to. Do you have a guidance counselor at school (shut your whore mouth, I loved my counselor) that doesn’t suck? Will your family listen? A family friend? Because you need to get into treatment of some type.

I’m going to give you some phone numbers that I’d like you to call:

Boys Town National Hotline:

1-800-448-3000

Self-Injury Foundation
1-800-334-HELP

Teen Contact:

972-233-8223

You don’t have to be a dude for the Boys Town hotline, and I’m certain they’ll have some valuable information and insight to give you.

If you are still being abused, please call this number to report it: 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453) then push 1 to talk to a hotline counselor.

Prankster, you’re not alone, and we’re all rooting for you. I know how hard life can be sometimes (boy, do I ever) and I wish I’d had someone to talk to me during those turbulent teen years. I hope that you do write for Band Back Together, that you tell your story over there so it can help both you and others like you.

If I could tell my teen self one thing, it would be this: “it all passes.” Because it does. You’ll get through this because I can tell by your email that you’re a fighter. And anyone who doesn’t take you or your problems seriously because you’re a teenager is bullshit. Fuck them.

Keep reaching out. Grab the edge of that spiral and make it your bitch. You can get through this. I wish like hell it was easier for you.

Sending you love and light and a big, fat, hug,

Aunt Motherfucking Becky

———-

Pranksters, please help me help this girl. Give her some love and/or advice.