1) Oh PHEW! I’m relieved to note the chain email has not, in fact, died. How ELSE would I get those spangly angels praying at me?

2) Thank GOD The Facebook warned me about that crazed drug addict sticking needles under the gas pump to infect people with AIDS! I thought he disappeared back in the 90’s when those chain email forwards died off, but you know, I guess he’s back! Thanks, The Facebook!

3) “Hey, what ANGEL/Flavor of Coffee/Penis Size am I?”

4) You’re right. I do want a pink cow for my fake farm!

5) I should really email blast all my friends, asking them to vote for me. They’ll appreciate that.

6) Wow. This is great. So happy that I got tagged in THE WORST picture of me EVER. Now people are asking me if I have a penis. Isn’t that funny?

7) Phew. I’m so glad that The Facebook is trying to kill off blogging.

8 ) Did you know that breast cancer is caused by dioxins* in my water bottles? Because it totally is. The Facebook Said So. The internet NEVER lies.

9) I love logging into to a separate email so I can respond to my Facebook email that’s probably monitored by Mark Zuckerberg. It makes it so much less confusing to have 37 separate email addresses.

10) Oh now THAT’S HILARIOUS. Look, all the girls are posting their BRA color/where there purse is (none and I have no fucking clue) to make the boys think about The Sex! I should play along.

*plastics do not contain dioxins, no matter what that pinhead Sheryl Crow says.

Things I Have Thought While On The Facebook:

*sobs* WHERE’S TOM FROM MYSPACE? He was EVERYONE’S friend.

I saw it in his eyes – a brief glimpse of deep sorrow – before he began dictating to his nurse the clamps and implants he’d need to fix the encephalocele atop my daughter’s head. It was the same deep sorrow I saw in the eyes of every person in the waiting room at the neurosurgeon’s office realized that Amelia Harks was, in fact, not me, but a tiny baby in a carseat, no bigger than my arm.

In that brief moment, the neurosurgeon became human, not some arrogant doctor, about to saw into my daughter’s tiny head.

Now that tiny baby, no bigger than my arm, is a toddler with an attitude so reminiscent of my own that it’s hard for me to remember that they are one and the same.

As she grows, the scar does too. What once looked relatively small now encompasses much of head. Her curls, always in a halo, cover it, so I don’t receive the same sorrowful looks I once did. For that, I am grateful. For if I did, if I had to explain those turbulent first years of her life, I don’t know if I could stop the sobs.

People, well-meaning people, tell me the scar is “barely noticeable” that they can “hardly see it,” and I always thank them on her behalf. Inwardly, however, I wonder if they know how that hurts.

It would not matter to me if the scar somehow became invisible – although she might appreciate it some day – because it’s always there for me. The scar haunts me.

Most days, I am able to work through it, reminding myself that she, my warrior daughter, is here and that she is perfect – scars and all.

There are other days, though, that the limitless well of deep sorrow I once saw reflected in the neurosurgeon’s eyes, threatens to swallow me whole. The tears, hot and fast, course down my face and I am powerless.

I scoop that toddler, once a baby no bigger than my arm, up into my arms and I weep. Confused, she touches my tears with her tiny finger and asks, “Mama sad?”

“Yes, Baby,” I choke out. “Mama’s sad.”

And the three of them – flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood – climb atop me to squeeze the Sads out. It’s only then, with the pressure of three squirmy bodies on my chest, all elbows and knees now, that I finally feel whole again.

And I wonder, as they scamper down, screaming and chasing each other about the house, my tears drying to a hard crust on my face, the well of sorrow closing for the moment, how I got to be so lucky.

It’s taken me four years of painstaking work to get my house to look as though we’re not a family of squatters who just happened upon a house and moved in. Hell, I’m just now trying to get my downstairs painted from the hideous green that our previous owners decided was “soothing.”

It’s not fucking soothing. It’s INFURIATING.

(I’m also colorblind, so while it may APPEAR a nice color to you, it looks like cat shit smeared on the walls)

Anyhow, one of the first things I did, beyond repair our hideous downstairs bathroom was to start work on the landscaping.

Now you probably don’t think “landscaping” and “Aunt Becky” should appear in the same sentence, and you would be right. I nearly broke both ankles using a pickaxe last summer, to a chorus of laughter from everyone else involved.

(shut your whore mouth)

See what I had to work with here?

This summer has, thus far, been devoted to watching cat videos and replacing the stuff I ripped out last summer. So I’m outside a lot.

Last week, before I left for Assville, I was outside, planting some roses in the rain, humming the Pina Colada song (I always replace “pina” with “penis” because I am a classy broad) and I remembered something stored previously in the dark, dank recesses of my mind.

Those Geese.

Well, okay, I thought they were ducks, until The Twitter pointed out I was wrong. The Twitter is good for that.

But anyway, I was all, “self, whatever HAPPENED to those stupid ducks that people used to dress up in wee clothing? The ones that I may or may not have stolen clothing off of when I was an asshole teenager.”

I honestly couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen a goose in wee rainboots and that made me fairly stabbity. Not because I wanted to see one, mind you, but because geese are Of The Devil. Had they been otters – which rate high on the cuteness scale – I’d never have stolen their clothes.

But since the plaster geese seem to be extinct, I think it’s high time for something to replace it. ANOTHER animal for (old) people to dress up for the seasons.

And Pranksters, I’m thinking that what would sell like hotcakes are one of two items that I should probably get started on crafting immediately, if not sooner.

Don’t you want to PREORDER this guy in statue form?

Not convinced? Let me show you his wee clothes:

SEE?

Perfect for the holidays, Pranksters.

Now, Option Two is this Bad Boy:

You MAY have to include a note that says, “no this is not a vicious showerhead.”

But let’s see him in his clothes!

Oui! Oui! Oui! You can see the BASTILLE DAY Sea Lamprey has busted out the wine AND the adorability.

These motherfuckers are going to be selling like HOTCAKES. We should start preordering them IMMEDIATELY, if not sooner.

So that, perhaps Pranksters, will be how I finance the landscaping (and subsequent hospitalizations) I must do this summer. THAT is the way I can leave MY MARK on the world.

Statues.

Who wants in on this, Pranksters?

I was entirely shocked to find not a single Mountain Folk in Assville, NC, where I spent the weekend. I’d been hoping for some banjos, a dog named Blue, or perhaps, a fuckton of toothless yokels.

I saw none. I was mildly distressed by this.

In fact, Assville, NC, is a HIPPIE town. An EXPENSIVE Hippie Town. Who knew? My parents would have felt right at home.

(I did, however, eventually see a guy playing a banjo)

(that pretty much ruled)

Anyhow, I woke up Sunday morning and checked my email because I cannot possibly function if my email remains unchecked. I mean, what if TODAY is the day that House, MD calls me and begs me to write for his show?

My email was, as per usual, full of stupid sites whose email lists I cannot manage to remove myself from, and a curious thing. I had at least fifty new posts for Band Back Together. That’s, um, out of the ordinary. But, I congratulated myself, perhaps it was all the people I’d just MET. Maybe I had, in fact, strong-armed into writing for us and/or working WITH us.

So I clicked to see what the title of one of the posts was:

“The Many Benefits Related To Obtaining Superior Mortgages.”

FANCY. Also: SPAMMY.

I clicked through and saw that all of the fifty new posts were, in fact, spam. Well, that’s not so fancy. Spam users I’m used to. Spam posts? That’s a whole ‘nother ball game.

That put me in a not-so-sparkly mood.

As bloggers, we’re all familiar with spam. I currently have 500 spam comments that are awaiting my glistening eyes to sort through. That’s just from yesterday.

But Band Back Together is different than a personal blog because it’s not just my ass blathering away at you. See, everyone who posts must first create their own account – email, username, password – so really, it’s their blog too. Same goes for Mushroom Printing.

Spam users: joe@teethbrightening.com I expect. Spam posts? Not so much. But these posts just kept rolling in. I deleted over a hundred and thirty of them before installing a simple capcha for anyone registering. (It’s a math problem, not those stupid letters, because those letters are BULLSHIT.)

I was Furious George until I came across this gem in my inbox:

And then I felt my life was, in a word, complete.

Perhaps I should publish it. I’d bet that would help MORE than a few people.

————

I wrote this about Special Needs Parenting, over at Cafe Mom. You should read it.

————

What are you feeling ranty about, Pranksters?

(you can publish any snarky rants over at Mushroom Printing, too)

My favorite part of traveling, besides getting some Hot TSA Action, is Skymall. I don’t think there’s much I love more than Skymall. When Your Aunt Becky boards a plane, the first thing she does is scour the seats for a new copy of Skymall.

I then proceed to annoy everyone around me by giggling profusely and yelling things like, “Y’all, who needs a Kitty Shitter? Because I do.”

Today, Pranksters, after a weekend of blogging conference wherein I learned some bloggers actually get TRIPS paid for them, whereas I am pretty sure Uncrustables is gearing up to sue me for mentioning their name, I am bringing you a list. A list of what I want from Skymall. My birthday is coming up, you know*.

Because hey, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be getting my yacht for blogging any time soon.

*I’m not actually asking anyone buy me a gift because that’s just awkward.

The new push in social media is “branding,” right? The whole “branding” conversation makes my eyeballs bleed….unless, I am actually able to BRAND things.

Like I could with this.

I could brand EVERYONE I know with a fancy MWV rather than passing out business cards. This is a total win.

Over the weekend, I got into a conversation with some of my friends about death and cemeteries. Because I am a Fun-Guy to be with and we clearly know how to party.

And I decided that, along with the out-of-work-actors I’d pay to weep and howl at my graveside in shifts every day, I required THIS statue to go on my grave somewhere. This just seems to be an obvious choice for me.

Ah, the infamous Kitty Shitter.

Why HIDE that pesky Kitty Shitter when you can leave it RIGHT THERE IN THE OPEN? With a fake potted plant atop it to boot! Certainly, no one would suspect that it could be a place for cats to put their feces, right?

But here’s my question: wouldn’t you rather your guests SEE the litter box so that when your cat takes a wild dump, your guest isn’t sitting there uncomfortably wondering if YOU, perhaps, have just shit yourself?

It’s things like these that keep me awake at night.

I need this chair to continue blogging.

Period.

P.S. It’s not tacky AT ALL.

P.P.S. No. It’s not. Shut your whore mouth.

Talk about “where the magic happens.”

I require this.

But I’m nervous that when I install it, I’ll be that creepy person that’s all, “HAI, WANNA TAKE A SHOWER?” to every person that walks into my house. Including my parents.

#awkward

Now, they SAY there are “more sizes available” but do you think that any of these might fit someone who’s 5’5″? This is important, Pranksters. See, now, *I* have anxiety and no one has offered ME a soothing blanket. That’s bullshit.

I might need a Dog Anxiety Blanket for me.

————-

So what’s been up while I’ve been busily scouring SkyMall, Pranksters?

Dear Aunt Becky,

There is a burning question I think we all want, no NEED, to know that answer to.

Of the Uncrustables, (which I think we can agree are all awesome) – what’s your fav?  I personally can’t get enough of the PB/Honey….

Inquiring minds want to know.

As far as I am concerned, Prankster, there IS no other flavor than the Peanut Butter/Honey Uncrustables. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that all other flavors of Uncrustables are BULLSHIT.

Knowing that you’re a fellow Uncrustable lover makes my heart happy. And hungry.

(no, this blog is not sponsored by Uncrustables, just powered by it)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I was divorced a couple of years ago when my son was 2. Since then, he has been diagnosed with a (ultimately) terminal illness that will make him progressively mentally and physically impaired.

He is unable to report abuse (or even pain – he had an undiagnosed small bone in his foot for three weeks before we figured out what was going on because he never complained or even limped) because his vocabulary is approximately 50 words, all nouns like “apple”, “water” and “chicken” to let us know he is thirsty or hungry.

I am so fearful to get out into the dating world because I am afraid of predators who would love to get into a relationship with a woman whose 5 year old is unable to tell mommy about being molested. How many dates is appropriate before tell you tell a guy you have a kid, get to know that they like you for yourself and not for your luscious little boy? Yes, I have issues.

Signed,

MPS Mom

Dear Prankster, Living with a child with such an illness must be a tremendous stress and I’m very sorry. I’d love it if you wrote about it for Band Back Together.

When I met The Daver, my son – who is autistic and, at the time, had a very limited vocabulary – was two years old. The Daver knew from Moment One that I was “Becky, the girl with a kid” because that’s the way we were introduced. Ben has always been a part of my vocabulary and I’d never once considered that he might be after me for my kid.

If and when you’re ready to date, there’s no reason you have to introduce your kid to your dates until you trust them. That’s TOTALLY up to you!

However, I believe any future relationship may run into issues if your boyfriend learns way down the line that you have a kid. Might be a little off-putting and awkward.

I’d say tread lightly into the dating world if it worries you. Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky;

After reading almost all of your blog posts in a week (yes ma’am I have) I have determined: a) you’re the smartest person in the universe or b) slightly off key, and either way, I am seeking your advice, because I find I am not receiving good advice from my fam.

I’m a single mom, 2 years divorced, and trying one of the oft advertised “dating” websites, and wondering: WHY THE F**K ARE MEN SUCH F**KTARDS?

Why, after speaking to me for approximately two seconds, would anyone feel is it appropriate or appreciated to tell me the how’s and why’ of their sex life and what they prefer?

I clearly stated in my profile I want to know someone longer than a minute before divulging my preferences about having the sex, so why does anyone think that is appropriate? UGH.

I am destined to be single forever.

DOUBLE UGH.

I might prefer to be single.

Thank you, Aunt Becky (btw, you’re far cooler than any of my real aunts, even though I think you may be younger than me in real life, which would be very strange.)

-Aggravated at Dating in General.

Aw, Aggravated, I’d be happy to be your Aunt. Adopting The Internet RULES, especially because I don’t have to buy it all Christmas gifts. Although since you said I might be the smartest person ever, I’ll buy you LOTS of presents. LOTS.

I’m going to make the assumption that you’re not using Match.com (read: hook-up.com) or Craig’s List to find dates.

Do you remember Penis Gate? Are you on The Twitter? If you were, you probably would.

Basically, word got out that a certain well-known daddy blogger had been sending naked weenie pictures of himself to others (people tend to email me pictures of a) three wolf moon paraphernalia or b) orchids). Like a lot.

So I made a joke about it. And it comes to my attention that THIS IS A COMMONISH THING. Which makes me wonder a) why I don’t get naked weenie pictures and b) why the fuck anyone would WANT a naked penis picture. #blech.

There are certain men (and women) out there, I suppose Prankster, that are just morons. And the availability of Internet hook-ups makes enough of them think it’s perfectly normal to be all Uncle Pervy.

Just think of it like your Pervy Uncle who goes out to weddings and tries to grind with everyone from the cocktail waitress to the wall because he thinks you want to rub up against his sweaty wang. There’s those guys out there. And the guys who kindly ask you to dance.

They’re there. Just not as….prominently.

And should you decide to remain single together, you can move on in with me. I have cats AND orchids. We can be two freaks in a house. Maybe we should learn to KNIT!

This is gonna be EPIC.

Me (hobbling out of the bathroom 5-weeks post-abdominal surgery): “Oh my God.”

(flops on bed)

Me: “I shouldn’t have showered.”

Mandi: “Yeah.”

Me: “What are we watching?”

Mandi: “A documentary on hot dogs.”

Me: “Oooh! I’ve seen this before.”

(crawls under covers)

(silence ensues)

(time passes)

Me: “What the hell time is that party tonight?”

Mandi: “I dunno. Six? Seven?”

Me: “But we need to finish this show.”

Mandi: “Yeah. But you’ve seen it before.”

Me: “It was that fucking good.”

Mandi: “Oh fuck yeah.”

Me: “Parties are bullshit. Let’s fucking stay here and watch this show.”

Mandi: “We have go.”

Me: “Yeah. YEAH. Fuck. I’m so comfy.”

Mandi: “We need to finish this documentary. Period.”

Me: “I wonder what’s up next?”

Mandi: “Ooooooh! A documentary on Amelia Earhart.”

Me: “Let’s order room service, yo.”

Mandi: “Okay.”

Me: “We know how to PARTY.”

Mandi: (makes sign of the horns) “FUCK YEAH.”

I know that most of you have an image of me, angrily ranting about John C. Mayer while eating delicious encased meats, and while that’s partially spot-on, I’m not normally all that ranty. Unless it’s about the lazy bastards who leave their shopping carts in the parking lots rather than the corral. Because that’s a hot pile of bullshit.

But I’ve been violated by the TSA in more ways that I can count and still don’t care. Hell, I like to think of it as “action” rather than “violation of rights.”

But as I stood in line yesterday, ready to get some hot TSA action, I couldn’t help but overhearing a conversation going on behind me. They were talking about a child who’d stolen a car from his stepfather to see his “real dad.”

Rather than become outraged by the stupid kid (he was 7)(we all know kids under 9 shouldn’t drive), I was pissed by the “real dad” comment. Because if there’s a “real” dad, there must be a “fake” one.

In Casa de la Sausage, there lives a man. He’s the one who takes the child to the doctor – he’s even got the doctor’s programmed on speed dial – and the one who is up at night when we have fevers. He cleans up puke and sputum. He goes to parent/teacher conferences and field trips. He soothes hurt feelers and rocks babies to sleep. He got a couple of poems written in his honor for Father’s Day. He – like the rest of us who know what it’s like to barf in a bucket while holding your kid’s head over the toilet – should get a medal.

He happens to be the favored parent in the house.

That, Pranksters, is a father. There is no one fucking fake thing about it. It chaps my ass that a single person would doubt it.

No, he wasn’t there for the conception (was I?) or the birth. But shooting a load into a vagina does not a “real” father make.

I *know* who fathers my children. There’s nothing fake about it.

There are no words to express the awesomeness of this except for #winning. Thanks, Prankster Dorothy for making this for me. It will be treasured always.

I’m off to Type A Parent, where I’m certain to horrify everyone with my Type B-ness (it’s a nice way of saying, “I’m lazy as fuck.”).

I’m hoping for some hot TSA action.

Because I AM Type A about mah blog, I’m certain that I’ll be blogging ON LOCATION. Which sounds so much fancier when I put it that way.

Happy Trails, Pranksters. Be good. Or as good as *I* am. Which isn’t very good at all.

So you popped out a couple of crotch parasites, eh? And now you’re all, dubya-tee-eff? You mean I have to PARENT these things? That’s bullshit.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Things You Probably Don’t Want To Do With Your Kids This Summer:

1) Hand them a bag of glass and say, “sshhhh, Mama’s playing Angry Birds.” Why? Because the glass could scratch the surface of your iPhone and that is so not cool.

2) Tell them to fry up some Kool-Aid for lunch. Why? Fried Kool-Aid is DINNER FOOD.

3) Make them cut the lawn with their teeth. Because, trust me, it’ll be SO uneven that way.

4) Introduce them to telenovelas. Now, I love me a good telenovela, but the very last thing my children need is to learn to be MORE DRAMATIC. Seriously, they could out-drama any Mommy Blogger out there.

5) Introduce them to Barney. Because if you end up listening to that motherfucking purple dinosaur sing about love for twelve hours a day, you might go homicidal.

6) Make them BBQ things. Because who knows, they’ll probably just use the BBQ to cook squirrels. Unless your Cletus, the Slack-Jawed Yokel, you don’t want that shit. Plus, I hear squirrels are high in calories.

7) Make them build you a deck. Because while the free manual labor is nice, you do need those boards to go together justso and frankly, kids are sloppy creatures.

8 ) Teach them to drive. Because we all know two-year olds can’t properly signal.

9) Teach them to Tweet for you. Because all they’d have to say is, “My butt smells like poop.”

10) On second thought, perhaps you SHOULD teach them to tweet for you. It sounds miraculously like something I’d say. Except I’d add a “PLZ RT” to it.

Things You SHOULD Do With Your Kids This Summer:

1) Teach them to make a mean martini. There’s always room for vodka, right? And learning to make a decent martini is a valuable Life Skill.

2) Use them as foot-rests while you’re playing Angry Birds or watching a telenovela. They’re just the right size for it. Just say, “We’re playing a game. You’re a rock! And rocks don’t move unless they’re smashed. YOU don’t want to be smashed, do you?”

3) Make them clean out the spiders in the garage. Because they’ve got to get over their fear of spiders SOMEHOW. May as well be now.

4) Teach them to ride their scooters to the liquor store to pick up “Mama’s Medicine.”

5) Outsource them to a third-world country to learn how to properly stitch clothes together. That way, they can make their OWN clothes AND they’ll see what it’s like to live in a third-world country! It’s a WIN!

There you go, Parents! It’s Aunt Becky’s Guide To Summer Activities With Yer Crotch Parasites!

Happy Summer!