I had a fairly vivid series of dream/wake hallucinations (no, this isn’t a standard blog post about my dreams because, well, my dreams tend to involve eating cheeseburgers and/or marshmallow castles) after The Great Stomach Bug of ‘Eleven, Part II. Those hallucinations were, in part, fueled by the Demerol I’d been given by the ER, but they were fairly important, nonetheless.

See, one of them was all, “Get the fuck off your lazy ass and DO SOMETHING.” And by “something,” my hallucination didn’t mean to build a panic room in my tree. It was telling me to get over myself and go to some of those blogging conferences everyone angsts about.

So I did.

I bought my ticket to Type-A Mom the following day.

I’ve been saying “I’m going to Assville” ever since. I’m certain that the folks down in Assville appreciate that to no end, because, well, I’m sure they’ve never heard THAT one before. I sincerely hope I can get a shirt down there that says, “I’ve been to Assville,” because how classy is that? (answer: VERY CLASSY)

I’m pretty excited about going, actually, Assville or not. I know everyone gets all angsty about these conferences, and trust me, I’ve had my cases of ennui (whatever that means), but I’m really excited to see some of my friends.

Most bloggers spend months preparing for this sort of thing – carefully choosing outfits and coordinating nail polish colors – but me? I’ll be lucky if I pack BEFORE the limo comes to pick me up on Wednesday. Otherwise, I’ll make the driver help.

Nah, the only thing I’m doing to prepare is to get a bikini wax. Because, we all know everyone at this conference is going to see my beav. Or care what it looks like. I barely care, truth be told.

Like microwaving Peeps, it just seems like a good idea.

But I’m going to be dead honest with you, Pranksters: I’m nervous about the waxing. I’ve never done one before. Having some tiny, angry Russian lady pulling chunks of my hair out of my crotchal region sounds like the kinda party I don’t want to go to.

I mean, what if she MOCKS MY VAGINA? Because she totally could. And if I was laying there, all spread-eagled on the table, I don’t think I want someone MOCKING my crotch. I’ve delivered three children through that vagina: I’ve been through enough humiliation. I might cry. And then, I’d bet, because she’s all Russian and stoic and shit, she’d bitch slap me for crying.

Pranksters, OMG, what if the Russian waxer lady BITCH-SLAPS ME and then calls her OTHER waxer friends over to bitch-slap me, too! I’m dying inside just THINKING about it.

But if my dream/hallucination is correct, I must get a wax. I must! Well, okay, so the dream didn’t specify what I was supposed to do with my vagina, but you know, I’m sure that it MEANT I needed to wax.

So if you see me at Type A Mom this week, be sure to compliment my vagina.

Or buy me a drink. Whatever.

————-

I’m over at Cafe Mom talking about shared custody which seems especially timely since The Daver wrote about becoming a stepfather yesterday for Band Back Together.

For Father’s Day, instead of thanking all the men in my life which, GAG, we decided a blog carnival over at Band Back Together would be a better idear.

So all day today, you’ll see Father’s Day from some different perspectives: some good, some bad, some truly awful, but all real stories. Just like you like ’em.

If you’ve written about Father’s Day on your own blog, you can link up to The Master Blog Post here (that looks to me to say “Masturbater” but I think I’m exceptionally tired).

Please feel free to celebrate Father’s Day With The Band. I know I’ll be there.

Blog, Blog, GOOOSE!

My homeslice Crystal showed me this video yesterday:

And I died laughing.

If you’re like me and you normally don’t watch videos on blogs, I suggest you change your ways for a single day. This is SO worth it.

Because I made a video response.

You’re welcome.

Last year – or perhaps it was two years ago – I decided that my house looked like a serial killer lived here. Not just a serial killer’s GIRLFRIEND (I heart you, Dexter), but a reclusive serial killer who probably chopped up hookers to make light fixtures out of their boobs.

The overgrown shrubbery had practically obscured all the windows in the front and I intended to remove them. All 958 of them.

I’d bought myself a pickax and a number of loppers capable of removing my fingers with a quick motion and set to work. I did manage to remove a few of the bushes myself before I paid the neighbor kid to remove the rest. When I’d started the process, see, I hadn’t expected that the early landscapers would plant so many fucking bushes atop each other.

But they did. Thanks, old landscapers.

After my neighbor was off spending the check I wrote him on a new iPod, I surveyed my lawn. Clearly something had to go in the gigantic trench the bushes had left behind. But…what? I’m no arborist or botanist and frankly, by that point, I’d rather have gouged out my eyeball with my pickax than replant some.

I made mention of this requirement to The Daver.

Me: “It looks like we’ve dug a foxhole in our front yard.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “Like any moment, World War II vets are going to pour into the holes and start shooting at the neighbor’s dogs.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “Or maybe a moat.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “But it can’t be a moat without a fire-breathing dragon and some cannons. Can we get a fire-breathing dragon?”

The Daver (not even looking up from his work): “Nope.”

Me: “Well, I need to replant some shit in there.”

The Daver: “Yep.”

Me: “Maybe some of those plants that eat people.”

The Daver: “Nope.”

Me: “Okay, then what?”

The Daver: “That’s your job to figure out.”

Me: “I hate planning.”

The Daver (now looking up, exasperated): “You need to sit down, figure out what will grow in there, the supplies you’ll need to install them, the places you can purchase these plants, and how long it will take you to put them in. I want an itemized list.”

Me: “Hrms. Maybe I can put the old, dead bushes back.”

The Daver: “Nope.”

Me (flicking off the back of his head): “Bite me.”

Asking me for an itemized list, cross-indexed and color-coded is a lot like asking me to turn into a bullfrog. Much as you might like it, it just ain’t gonna happen.

So my foxhole sat through the winter, sadly unoccupied by any roving WWII vets or fire-breathing dragons.

This spring, rather than broach the subject again, I simply went to Lowe’s and bought a bunch of flowering shrubs, giggling because the term “flowering shrub” sounds like a wicked STD.

Feeling particularly eye of the motherfucking tiger, I planted them a couple of weeks ago. And when I did, I realized there was a conspiracy afoot.

I needed to buy dirt.

Let me say that again: I needed to buy DIRT. Somehow the shit manages to find it’s way into my carpets and all over my children, and yet, I had to go spend real dollar bills on DIRT. In fact, I needed to purchase a substantial amount of dirt. Clearly, this was The Man keeping us (me) down.

It was also bullshit.

I haven’t exactly BOUGHT the dirt yet, which means I now have what appears to be a foxhole with shrubs growing out of it. I suppose the roving WWII vets will be pleased that their foxhole has been decorated with some fancy new shrubs.

Even with the occasional rain of bullets from down below, I’m certain my neighbors are thrilled that it no longer looks like a serial killer resides here.

Probably.

—————

Who wants to come over and fill in my foxhole for with me?

1) You go to annual doctor’s appointments, not just when “it burns when you pee.”

2) You begin to care about the length of your lawn.

3) You dread summer vacation because WAIT A MINUTE, I have to PARENT these kids?

4) Rather than stopping to check out that rad couch on the side of the road to see if it has obvious pee-stains, you drive by, laughing, remembering when you’d say, “THAT LOOKS GREAT.”

5) You actually drink alcohol for the flavor.

6) You laugh at the Coors Lite commercials, because remember when you drank that shit?

7) You know how to reorder checks.

8 ) Staying out until the bars close is an impossibility.

9) You get excited about buying a steam cleaner for your rugs.

10) You become even MORE excited to USE the steam cleaner.

11) You know what a 401K is.

12) You can’t remember what month it is because they’re all the freaking same, right?

13) You have a mortgage.

14) You refinance your mortgage to get better rates.

15) You own jewelry that needs to be insured.

16) You take your car in for regular oil changes – not just when it starts making that weird thumpy sound.

17) Your fridge is stocked with things other than condiments and beer.

18) You buy mulch. And use it. HAPPILY.

19) Drinking until you shit now sounds like a bad idea.

20) You own – and occasionally wear – comfortable underwear.

21) You realize that spending the night in front of the television sounds preferable to getting smashed at the bar.

22) You can keep a plant alive.

23) You regularly change your wiper blades.

24) The prospect of dropping 5K on a new air conditioner thrills you.

25) You never turn a load of whites pink by accident.

26) You no longer use rope lighting as an accessory.

27) Putting up a Bud-Light poster in your living room is considered trashy. By you.

28) You’ve developed a plan that goes a little farther than, “drink as many PBR’s as possible before lunch today.”

After failing so miserably at being Nurse Becky and every other “career” I’ve tried, I’ve been so fortunate to have found something that I really, truly loved to do. When I discovered that I could write, it was like suddenly learning I could breathe underwater.

I wrote stories not because I wanted to, or felt obligated to, but because I had to. Those words were locked inside my brain, just itching to get out, and I could hardly wait to get in front of my computer to type some more. On the rare occasion I couldn’t manage to string them together into sentences, flowing into paragraphs, forming entire posts, I wrote them in my head.

I had finally found my calling. After years of being certain I was an utter failure, I’d found what I was supposed to do.

The next logical progression was, of course, to turn all of these essays into a collection of essays. Only it didn’t happen easily. I expected that. If it had happened when I began, I’m entirely certain that it wouldn’t have worked out for one reason or another.

But as the months turned into years, I began to doubt myself. Was this really what I was supposed to be doing? Was living my life on The Internet enough for me? Did it really matter if I ever turned those books of essays into something more than semi-completed drafts?

I simply didn’t know anymore.

Rather than dwell, I busied myself living my life on The Internet. I founded Mushroom Printing in July of last year and Band Back Together in September. I wrote columns for other sites. I signed up to go to conferences like Type A Mom and BlogHer. I got better at The Twitter. I decided to wage war against Mark Zuckerberg and The Facebook. I decided to take Band Back Together and turn it into a non-profit. I made business cards. Sold ads.

And all that time, in the back of my head, that feeling of Failure at Books, with a Big Fat F, sat there, silently mocking me.

Things which, at the time I mention it, seem ridiculous to everyone around me, have always been spectacularly in focus to me. I know what I am supposed to do next because I just know. I don’t need the approval of a soul, I don’t worry about risks or being mocked, because I know I am right. In the end, I have always been proved to have been right.

I am excellent, it seems, at seeing things clearly.

Except when I cannot. Which is how I’ve felt about my books. They’ve felt out of focus for so long that the self-doubt has crept in around the corners, making me question myself. I hate to question myself more than I hate John C. Mayer.

But perhaps you all are right. Perhaps it is time to write – really write – them. If the publishing industry doesn’t want me, well, that’s their loss. If The Man wants to keep me down*, well fuck him.

Believing in myself – knowing my Pranksters have my back – maybe that’s enough to put things back into focus again.

As always, Pranksters, I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay.

It’s time, I think, to write the shit out of my books. Unless you have any better suggestions.

*a joke**

**sorta

Dear Aunt Becky & her Awesome Pranksters:

My most pressing question, only because it’s not something that can be answered by looking up local legal codes or consulting the legal counsel I can’t afford anyway, is how to tell my 3 year old, brilliant, observant, sensitive, & already adapting to the role of caretaker at age fucking THREE, Mama & Daddy won’t be loving together anymore.

See, I’ve been so busy trying to survive, take care of my daughter, & deal with the chest-tightening, ever-present, want-to-shoot-myself-anxiety, & not fall into a severe depression, that I didn’t have time to read the Guide on How to Get Out of a Bad Marriage Without Completely Destroying Your Child in the Process.

I know, right? You’d think I’d have carved out some time for that one. But thank god I haven’t lost my snark & sarcasm or my will to clean? Make my reservation in the asylum.

So, my dear Aunt Becky. What you got for me?

Well, first things first, if you’re actively suicidal, please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). I’m serious, here. That’s not like a joke phone number.

And I’m going to give you a couple of resource pages from Band Back Together to look at so that you can take care of YOUR mental health. Suicide Resources, Anxiety Resources, Depression Resources

Your daughter sounds to be very intuitive and has probably already realized something was wrong. I would recommend talking to her in very concrete terms. Children don’t understand euphemisms and are prone to interpret things differently than adults.

That said, these are the key things you should try and touch on when you tell your daughter that you’re getting a divorce.

a) The divorce has nothing to do with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is not your fault.

b) Mom and Dad both love you dearly no matter what happens. We will always be your parents, even if we live in different houses.

c) Everything will be fine. Even if it seems scary and different now, everything will be just fine.

d) It’s okay to feel sad.

I hope that helps, dear Prankster.

Aunt Becky,
Is there a book on the way? I am unable to submit my request to your publishers or my e-mail for the chapter.

So I’ll do it here: hell yes, I’d buy Aunt Becky’s bookssss.

Dave

Dear Dave,

That seems to be the question plaguing me.

I’ve recently parted ways with my agents and realized the publishing industry is in the crapper, so I’m not entirely certain if I SHOULD write a book. I certainly can (although I’d need to ascertain what, exactly, I’d write about) and would be happy to, but I’m not sure if I should simply chuck the idear of finding new agents, praying for a publisher, then writing the thing. Certainly, I could try.

The logical step would be, of course, to simply write the damn thing and sell it as an e-book.

The question remains: should I? I’m asking you, Pranksters, because I trust your opinion. Should I bother trying to self-publish an e-book or is that as useless as the time I tried to cook dinner?

I’m having a mini-crisis over here about it and would genuinely love your input (not about dinner, of course. We all know I live on Uncrustables and cereal).

Should Your Favorite Aunt Becky bother writing and self-publishing a book? Do you know any publishers that would heart me? What type of book would you like to read? You can answer in the comments or send me an email: becky.harks@gmail.com

If you guys really think I can do this, then I will. MY FATE IS IN YOUR HANDS, PRANKSTERS.

Love,

Your Aunt Becky who may or may not be gulping Xanax while she writes this.

(P.S. if you are a publisher, please publish my book, no questions asked)

I’m the first in line to hump a teacher for all they do. I’m also first in line to have a retraining order filed when I hump an unsuspecting teacher.

Remembering that I’d chosen between nursing and teaching as majors makes me laugh especially hard these days, because I am SO not a teacher. Kids – even my own – make me twitchy. And I’m probably the LAST person on the planet you want ministering to young, impressionable minds.

Unless, of course, it’s teaching them how to ditch the 5-0, in which case, we’re ALL good.

Anyway.

School ended this week, the outcries of parents heard ’round the world. Kids seem to have a hard time going from a rigid structured environment to doing, well, nothing. My own crotch parasites can’t entertain themselves worth dick.

I distinctly recall summer vacation growing up. It started after I rode my bike home from school and said, “Hey Mom, school’s out, here’s my report card!” She’d glance at the report card (straight A’s as usual, except for PE, which I refused to participate in), toss it on the counter and say, “Okay, time to go outside.”

Then I was ushered outside to play, the door locked squarely behind me.

I was able to come in for lunch but then it was right back outside again.

I had one of those rusted-out old metal swingsets, probably teaming with lead paint, and when two people used the set, one of it’s poles would lurch unhappily out of the ground with a metallic screech. I’m surprised I didn’t inadvertently kill myself on the thing.

I also had a sandbox that neighboring cats and roaming raccoons shit in. We’d just fling the crusted-over poo out of the box and keep playing. We called them “poo crunchies.” It was generally the youngest’s job to handle the poo. Because obviously.

I recall many things about summer – the Ice Cream Man, (who even as a child seemed a little Uncle Pervy), cherry snow cones, selling lemonade on the street, non-stop games of Ghost in the Graveyard, chasing each other in Big Wheels up and down our street – but I don’t remember being bored.

And I certainly don’t remember my mother coming outside to play with me. In fact, no one’s mother came out to play with their kids. If they had, summer would have been a hell of a lot less fun.

My eldest is off in California until Tuesday while Alex and Amelia’s preschool teacher is on vacation until next Wednesday. It dawns on me that four and two are too young to simply boot outside to “play.” Especially since I don’t trust them not to find sledgehammers and break down a wall to get back inside and into Dora’s and her stupid fucking backpack’s loving grip.

My children are so bored that I cannot believe they haven’t drilled a hole into my head just to see what happens.

(spoiler alert: it’s empty in there)

I’ve come to terms with the idea I may not last the weekend (unless the rain goes away) and if I do, I’m buying their preschool teacher diamonds. LOTS of diamonds. And I’m buying myself a gigantic bottle of Valium. With a vodka chaser.

Summer, it seems, is why Mommy needs her vodka.

When I was a baby, I’d sleep so late in the mornings that my mother often rushed into the room, certain I was dead. And I was. DEAD TO THE WORLD.

As I grew up, it became clear that I was simply not a morning person. I’d wake up, stomp around the house for half an hour spitting venom at anyone who dared speak to me and then be…okay. Not great, but okay.

Rather than be offended by my mutterings of “I hate you, motherfuckers,” this delighted my family to no end. My brother and father often fought over who got to wake me up. My brother generally won.

So I’d be woken up to his frantic BANG BANG BANG on the door and just as I had rolled over, realizing that I was not, in fact, eating a castle made of marshmallows, he’d burst into my room.

Singing.

Off-key.

Often, he’d include a pot to bang.

“IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP, BE-CKY, IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP NOW!” was a favorite, although generally it was this: “RISE, AND SHINE, AND BRING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY, RISE, AND SHINE, AND SING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY.”

By the time I’d lobbed a pair of shoes at his head, I was downright furious. It’s bad enough to have to live THROUGH a morning, but to be woken up to my brother’s off-key warbling of church songs? That was fucking TORTURE.

Once I’d gotten dressed and stomped downstairs, my family would greet me one by one with, “WHY HELLLLLO, BECKY. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”

I’d let my middle finger respond.

While this brought no end of amusement to the rest of my family, I’d always hoped that I’d grow into a morning person. After I plotted their death by torpedo or frenzied shark attack, of course.

Not so much. Their untimely deaths OR an ability to enjoy anything before ten AM.

I’ve fought against it but it turns out that I will simply never be a morning person.

Mornings are bullshit.

This week, I have to be a morning person. My preschool teacher is gone for a week, which means that I have to entertain a very bored Alex and Amelia.

It’s gin and tonic o’clock somewhere, right?

—————–

Are you a morning person? Can you come over and watch my kids for me?