Land’s End sent me a bathing suit. I know, I know, you’re thinking, “WHY would anyone send Aunt Becky ANYTHING besides a yacht?” and I’m wondering the same thing. In fact, I’m still WAITING for my yacht.

*taps foot impatiently*

Land’s End sent me a bathing suit so that I would post a picture of myself wearing it on my blog. You can see the error in their thinking, right?

I can.

This was probably NOT what they wanted:

Better yet, this:

Sorry, Land’s End.

I couldn’t resist.

In the eleventy-billion years I’ve been blogging, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a couple of days off. See, I’m too compulsive to do that. By noon, if I haven’t gotten something completely mediocre pecked out and posted here, I’m practically banging my head into the wall, yelling, “NOT WITHOUT MY BLOG.”

I took Monday and Tuesday off, not because I was frolicking around, doing awesome things with my Cabana Boy, Raphael, but because *flings hand against head dramatically* I was very close to death.

Well, no, I was probably not near death, but I wanted to be.

See, Pranksters, I had *cue Imperial Death March* The Stomach Flu.

I hate the stomach flu more than I hate cream-based condiments, smoove jazz and decaffeinated coffee (what’s the fucking point?).

I was the last one standing against it, too. Everyone else in my house had been felled by it and I was all LOOKIT ME, ALL EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER ON YOU, GASTROENTERITIS. IMMA MAKE YOU MY BITCH.

Three hours later, I was laying on the hideous tile in our upstairs bathroom, praying to the porcelain gods that they would spare me this agony and just let me die.

My cats, very helpfully, I should add in my most sarcastic tone, circled around me, trying to lick me back to health. Or, perhaps, decide where would be best to start gnawing on my corpse. I love my cats, but I don’t trust them not to chomp their way into my dead body to make a nice cozy home.

Monday morning found me in the ER for a couple of bags of fluids. I had dehydrated myself so thoroughly over the previous twelve hours that I couldn’t even produce tears. I hate going to the ER, but I was all, “I’M *wheeze* ALL *horks* EYE OF THE *splat* TIGER,” and then I passed out.

(I’m always pissed about going to the ER for things because, hell, I could give MYSELF a bag of Normal Saline or Ringers Lactate if I had the proper equipment.)

The following thirty-six hours were spent in a feverish haze, where I alternated between moaning on the couch and moaning in bed. The highlight? Drinking the most delicious blue-flavored slurpee in the world. Nothing, Pranksters, has ever tasted so good.

I also fulfilling one of my OCD dreams: I bought a carpet steamer. The excitement I feel over this is pathetic. I mean, who knows how to party, Pranksters? (answer: I do)

So this is Your Aunt Becky, telling you that I’m back. In black.

What did I miss while I was gone?

Dear Aunt Becky,

My grandpa died a few years ago. About a year after he died my grandma met Sam. He was a widower and they seemed to hit it off. No one else in the family was impressed. He isn’t very friendly, and did’t seem happy when Grandma insisted on coming to family events. I’ve only met him a few times, actually, because he doesn’t like to come around. That means I don’t see Grandma often because she doesn’t come without him. He had grandma sell her house and move away from the rest of the family about 4 hours away. We just wanted Grandma to be happy, and she seemed to be so we didn’t make a big deal about it.

A few weeks ago my cousin was staying with them, and they must have thought she was asleep, because she heard them arguing. She went to see what the noise was about and saw Sam hitting my grandma. Grandma admitted it happened but said it was the only time. Now we find out that Sam convinced my Grandma to put the proceeds of the sale of her house into a joint checking account. They have a pre-nup, but we’ve also discovered it only protects his money and not hers. Her money is now their money! Grandma is having significant health problems and we also found out that she is still expected to cook and clean and basically wait on Sam hand and foot even though he is in good health and she isn’t.

I am sick about this. We don’t know what to do. Grandma is from the generation that you don’t get divorced. Aside from killing HIM or kicking his ass, what can we do to get through to her?

I really want to go Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger on this asshole. Anyhow. My anger is not particularly valuable or helpful.

Elder Abuse is defined as a intentional or negligent act that causes harm or risk of harm to a vulnerable adult.

It’s clear that Sam is abusing your grandmother. Since she’s a vulnerable population, there are special agencies that you can contact about this.

If you (or anyone else) believe someone to be in danger, obvs call 911.

Please call Eldercare this week at 1-800-677-1116. They can give you specific information about how to get your grandmother the help she needs. It’s a directory of services in your area that you can utilize for help and additional resources.

I also have a list of State-By-State resources for the elder abuse reporting and assorted programs for the elderly in your state. It’s an excellent resource.

National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-SAFE (1-800-799-7233)
Staff provide callers with crisis intervention, information about domestic violence, and referrals to local programs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Telephone assistance is available in many languages, including Spanish.

The Directory of Crime Victim Services is a Web-enabled, online resource sponsored by the U.S. Department of Justice, Office for Victims of Crime (OVC). The directory is designed to help service providers and individuals locate victim services in the United States and other countries. Search by location, type of victimization, service needed, or agency type.

(Shit, now you’re going to see that I may have exaggerated my cat video consumption. I’m showing you what a NERD I am. Damns. See I do a lot of researching and writing pages for Band Back Together, like THIS one, on Elder Abuse).

I wish you luck, Prankster. I’m so sorry your grandmother is being abused. If you need help “taking care of Sam” I’m in.

I’m not super-familiar with elder abuse, beyond this, so please, Pranksters, help me out here.

—————

As always, Pranksters, feel free to submit your most pressing questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky.

I’m getting a new central air conditioner today. It’s been dying a slow and painful death since Alex was a wee babe and we’ve put it off because, well, it hadn’t entirely bit the bucket. The guy came to install it and was all, “Holy shit, I can’t believe they hooked it up like this. It could have blown up.”

“Holy shit, I can’t believe XXX” is about what I think when I think back to our old first floor bathroom, so I think he and I are going to get along fabulously.

(yes, yes that’s right, Pranksters. That IS three types of wallpaper in that tiny room. And, why yes! How astute of you to notice that it’s GLUED TO THE FUCKING DRYWALL. GOD, that was a bitch to get off.)

Anyway. I couldn’t be happier to have this installed, even though it’s costing me a couple of G’s.

As I told The Daver this morning, “Hey, it beats the condo.” He laughed knowingly.

Back when I didn’t know better, The Daver and I bought a three bedroom condo in Oak Park. It was a beautiful red brick building, right on the edge of an “up-and-coming neighborhood.” (in this case, “up-and-coming” means “on the edge of the ghetto”)

Our condo was a charming thing, all tall ceilings and dark wood floors. Very beautiful.

Until we moved in.

It was only then when I realized what “vintage” really meant. It meant, “you’re a fucking sucker.”

We had a radiator in the basement, one that heated all of the units, and, well, it was on when it was on and when it wasn’t on, it was still on. Our condo was right below it, so during the winter, it wasn’t uncommon to see me walking around in a tank top and shorts.

We’d gone to a Condo Board Meeting to learn that our poor radiator was on it’s last legs…and there were no funds from our condo dues to pay for it. It cost something like ten billion dollars.

We’d just shelled out five grand for a new back porch.

Great.

And the lead-paint covered windows that may as well have been screens for all the air they kept out? Well, if we wanted to replace those, they were a thousand dollars.

Each.

A thousand dollars.

Each.

We had something like ten windows. Ten grand (plus installation!) for windows. Windows NOT made of solid gold.

See, we needed to get specialty windows – replicas of the original – to match building code.

(fuck you, vintage)

When we added fans (and learned about the faulty wiring that may have killed us in a fiery blaze, had we not gone up and fixed it) in our condo in the summer because it was 8000000 degrees and window AC units don’t work so well when the windows allow hot air to pour in? Well, we were in trouble with the condo board for not using their electrician.

I have never been happier to move back to the land of the pre-fab.

At least now, when our AC unit craps out on us, I can buy a FLOOR MODEL and have it installed. It’s not specially carved by small children in Zimbabwe to match my house. It’s just an AC unit.

And when I decide to recarpet my house, it will be regular carpet, not carpet hand-crafted on the backs of seventeen vestal virgins.

Which is fortunate. I don’t even know what a vestal virgin is.

Through the grandparental grapevine, I heard that my son had a girlfriend.

Ben, not Alex. Because if Alex had a girlfriend, he’d try and fart on her to woo her. Which, let’s face it, is how Daver wooed me.

When I asked Ben about his “girlfriend,” rather than chattering on for an hour and a half like he normally does, instead he turned red and ran out of the room laughing, yelling, “I DON’T HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.” Which is precisely how Daver wooed me.

Must run in the family.

Yesterday, he brought up his “girlfriend,” again. By again, I mean that he yelled I DON’T HAVE A GIRLFRIEND, then running around the house for a couple of minutes, before coming back to challenge me, “you can’t guess what my girlfriend’s name is.”

Daver warned him, “don’t challenge your mother unless you want her to know, Ben. If she wants to do something, she WILL.” My heart burst with pride.

Curious now, I asked Ben what “girlfriend” meant to him.

“Well,” he informed me, “it’s someone I like.”

“Does…” I asked hesitantly, worried that I hadn’t properly explained dating to him, “does she know you like her?”

“Well,” he looked at his hands. “No.”

I smiled and informed him that this was someone he had a crush on, not a “girlfriend.” He seemed taken aback.

I asked him if he was going to have her come over to play this summer, and again, he blushed furiously and ran around the house like a maniac. Running around like maniacs is what my children do best and why my single friends use visiting Aunt Becky as “free birth control.”

When he finally came back, he said he was too nervous to ask her to hang out this summer.

I knew I had to act. And now.

“Okay, Ben, when you’re all nervous, you think to yourself, EYE OF THE TIGER,” I pulled out the BIG guns.

He looked confused, so I hollered, “EYE OF THE TIGER.”

He looked even MORE confused. Daver queued up Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” as an A/V tool and I began my wicked Air Guitar Routine. Let me tell you, Pranksters, I would TOTALLY win at any air guitar contest EVER.

Well, the music helped. Soon all three of my children were running around the house, air-playing different instruments (we could form an amazing air rock band) yelling, “EYE OF THE TIGER.”

When the song was over, Ben came back and said, “It worked Mom. I feel like I can do ANYTHING now. I’m all EYE OF THE TIGER.”

Exactly, my child.

Exactly.

————-

Am over at Cafe Mom today. Got two columns for you.

(barely) Surviving Sleep Training

(barely) Surviving Extreme Parenting

When my mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it was a big secret. Not to me, of course, but to the insurance companies. I remember how she had to hide her treatments, her hospitalizations and her actual diagnosis from going “on record” so as to avoid being labeled as “A Crazy.”

I’m not sure anyone outside of our immediate family knew about her illness.

By the time I was in high school, depression wasn’t something that people expected you to be locked in a padded room for. Hats of to Prozac!

I’ve dealt with generic, boring-ass depression on and off for years; sometimes it’s better, sometimes it’s worse, and I’ve spoken out repeatedly about how I suffered terrible antenatal depression (depression while pregnant).

Antenatal depression is not quite as well-known as postpartum depression – probably because it’s even less glamorous. I mean, who can be depressed while creating a new life INSIDE you? A new life that’s using your liver as a punching bag, giving you insomnia and causing you to pee your pants when you waddle? Not a GOOD mother.

(that was sarcasm)

When my last child, Amelia, was born in a decidedly non-picturesque freakshow carnival that ended with someone drilling into her brain, removing part of it, and then implanting a prosthetic piece of skull into her delicious wee newborn head, that things went from manageable to so beyond anything I could handle.

But she was fine! I berated myself, night after night, as I relived those horrible awful first days in a series of flashbacks.

I was forever delivering that sick baby, having her ripped from my arms and sent off for neurosurgery. I was forever offering her up like Abraham sacrificing Issac, stuck between two horrifying alternatives. In what few dreams I had, I roamed the halls of the hospital, everything stuck in freeze-frame.

Why, I chastised myself, if she had survived, was I in such a state? I couldn’t answer that.

For months following her birth and surgery, I couldn’t leave the house. My beloved roses wilted from lack of care that summer because I simply couldn’t handle even that – a task which had brought me so much joy. I couldn’t do anything. I was mired in one place. Numb. Alone.

Those were the worst days of my life.

It wasn’t for many months that it smacked me upside the head: I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wrestled with the realization.

Well, I said to myself, Aunt Becky, that sounds dumb. Fucking man-up here. Get your bitch ass off the couch and fucking do something about it. You’re not a soldier. And sweet baby Jesus, your kid survived! How dare you be so fucking whiny-pants about it?

It took a long time for me to accept that I was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Acceptance, they say, is always the hardest part. But I finally did.

And here’s what I have to say to you, in honor of National Mental Health Month:

Having PTSD is not my fault. It’s not something I need to be ashamed of. It’s not a character flaw. It’s not a plea for sympathy. It’s not something I’m all, “would you like any cheese with that whine?” about. It’s something that is.

I am NOT ashamed to have a mental illness.

My name is Becky Sherrick Harks and I am the face of PTSD.

On Band Back Together, we spend countless hours working to reduce stigmas by bringing the world stories – real stories written by real people – about mental illness, child abuse, domestic violence, substance abuse and all of the other dark places in our lives.

That is what we proudly do.

We’re celebrating National Mental Health Month by doing a stigma-busting blog carnival. We’re telling the world exactly who we are. We’re breaking down stigmas and kicking ass. Mental illness isn’t a death sentence.

Mental illness is a part of who we are. There’s no shame in being who we are. We should celebrate our flaws, embrace our differences and accept them.

It’s time to put a face to as many mental illnesses as we can.

Because stigmas? Stigmas are bullshit.

Please, I beg you Pranksters, help me kick stigmas squarely in the balls (or taco).

You can join us by posting on your own blog and linking up to Band Back Together (that’s the master link-up post) or you can write about it on Band Back Together. (Or both) Time to break down stigmas.

I am proud to be the face of PTSD.

Fuck stigmas.

If you haven’t heard, The Apocalypse is coming. I know this because I saw it on a billboard and billboards never lie. Just like The Internet. It never lies.

Here, see?

This is not NEARLY as Fear Mongering as it should be.

Here, try this one, Pranksters. See if you feel MORE afraid now:

*shudders* It’s the fucking daisies. They get me EVERY time.

Anyway, so this guy said it was SUPPOSED to be the apocalypse back in 1994, but apparently the guy was wrong then. It happens. I mean who WOULDN’T make mistakes while calculating The End of Days?

So this time, he’s sure he’s right. And you know what Pranksters? I’m GLAD. Here’s why.

1) I won’t have to pay off my credit cards! When I’m rotting away in the afterlife, my creditors will too! This is a win.

3) I won’t have to plant any of the shrubbery I bought for my front yard. Let’s be honest here: I’m tired of digging holes and then filling them with plants. Now, I won’t have to!

6) I’ll never have to pen the children’s book: “Shhhh, Baby, Mama’s Hungover.”

10) Hell, I’ll never have to pen ANY book, because I’ll be roasting away in the fiery pits of Hades. This will make looking for a new literary agent or self-publishing a total moot point.

15) I will never have to listen to that stupid fucking duck on the Wonderpets say, “This. Is. SEWIOUS” again, because he’ll be all BLAM! BLAM! DEAD.

21) I’ll never have to worry about getting past those stupid pigs in Angry Birds.

28) No one cares if you’re a size four in hell.

36) I’ll never have to clean another litterbox. Less poo = win for all of us.

45) I won’t have to watch Extreme Couponing and feel guilty that I can’t seem to save three hundred dollars every time I go to the store. Because there will be no stores!

55) I’ll get to hang out with most of LA down in hell.

66) I can stop plotting the demise of Mark Zuckerberg, John C. Mayer OR Jimmy Wales.

78) I’ll never have to hear the words, “social media,” “viral video,” “let’s connect!” or “bloggy” again.

91) I won’t have to worry that someone will send filler flowers (carnations, baby’s breath) to my funeral because there will BE no funeral.

105) I won’t have to hear about the Real Housewives again.

120) I can finally forget about that girl who reminds me of a Chicken McNugget, Snookie.

136) Maybe I can finally get a nap.

————-

Why are YOU excited for the Apocalypse, Pranksters?

I love sleep.

I love sleep so much that I would wear an “I Heart Sleep” shirt around WITHOUT losing a bet. I could compose a sonnet (if I knew how) to sleeping. If I ever hit it big as a Grammy-Winning artist, it would be for my song, “Sleep, You Are My Hero.”

(if I ever hit it big as a fancy director, it will be because of this video:)

On Thursday, Amelia was all, “sleep is bullshit.” And I was all, “um, are we related?” Because sleep is many things, but it’s not bullshit.

Now, part of the allure of sleep is that it eludes me. I can’t sleep like a normal person to save myself. No, I lay up, night after night with stupid commercial jingles and the annoying songs from kids shows running through my head. If I ever meet the person who wrote the “do-do-do Do A Dollop of Daisy,” commercial in person, I will punch them in the taco.

It doesn’t help that my bedroom is haunted.

Well, it’s haunted or the wind whistling through the attic sounds just like a baby screaming. I prefer to go with “it’s haunted” for street cred.

Either way, I’ll wake up because I hear a fake baby crying and run to check on my babies, who are all safely asleep and therefore not screaming.

That doesn’t help my insomnia.

So anyway, back on Thursday, I couldn’t get Amelia to sleep. She was all, “woah, this is pretty awesome to NOT SLEEP,” and I was all, “I love you, shut the fuck up and go to sleep, baby,” because I wanted to go back to the dream I was having where I was eating a castle made of cake. I did not want to get up.

Friday rolled around, and blearily, I went about my day, writing her sleeplessness off to Dave’s faulty genetics.

Friday night, we went through our normal routine: “Can Daddy take you up?”

Amelia, “NOOOOOO! Mommy rock me.”

The girl wouldn’t let Santa Claus, Jesus, or even Hello Kitty (her favorite) rock her. Nope. It’s gotta be Your Aunt Becky.

So I did. And when I put her in bed after rocking her for a couple minutes, instead of rolling over and saying “goodnight,” she screamed the sort of scream that makes me wonder if DCFS is going to bust down my door for child abuse.

I picked her up, rocked her until her eyes rolled back in their sockets, and when I tried to put her down, it was like I tried to submerge her in a vat of bumble bees. (she’s terribly afraid of bumble bees).

It had been an hour and I needed dinner, so I figured, “Okay, AB, time to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER and let her scream for a couple minutes. It won’t kill her.”

No, it didn’t kill her. It nearly killed me, though. I went back up and rocked her. Eventually, she did go to sleep…for a couple of hours. Then she was up.

Rinse, repeat, Saturday AND Sunday.

That makes four fucking nights of not sleeping, which makes hearing Shut Your Whore Mouth on Happy Endings so much less awesome.

I don’t know what’s wrong with her. It could be teething, it could be sleep regression, it could be a cold, it could be nothing.

Or…maybe she’s possessed.

Anyone know an exorcist?

Dear Aunt Becky,

You deleted me? Really? Why was my comment deleted?

When in doubt, assume gnomes.

P.S. I have an overly aggressive-spam filter that catches everything from Your Brilliant Comment to Penis Enlargement Tips in the multiples of thousands per day. Sometimes, I’m lazier than others. Perhaps you can do this for me to ensure not one of your comments goes deleted again.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I am an inconsistent, blogger, twitterer, 4squarer, facebooker, you name it.  All of which, I participate in because it’s fun. Were it not for TwitterSquareSpace, I would have never found you.  With that…

I am being stalked on a daily basis by my bosses wife who has too much time on her hands.

One day I 4squared from where I had lunch with the boss.  I have twittered how the boss is the devil.  All in innocent fun.   But it has now gotten ugly.  Wife watches my every move online, interrogates husband, threatens to kill me.  Do I quit my online shenanigans to appease, or pump it up and bring on the drama?

Oh Prankster, I’m the WRONG person to ask about this sort of thing, because the moment this sort of shit happens, I kick it up a notch. Possibly thirty notches.

So, DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO.

Sounds like Your Stalker is either wildly insecure or crazy or both but since she’s the one who has your bosses balls in a jar under her bed somewhere, you’d best back off the BOSS Tweets. I’d say that anything ELSE is fair game.

Especially gnomes.

Dear Aunt Becky,

John C Mayer is an Asshole, isn’t he….NOT

Is this one of those cryptic messages, like, “The dog barks at midnight over a bowl of saffron gravy?”

Because then I’d have to respond with, “The crow eats ranch dressing.”

Then we’d lock eyes across the room from each other and slowly do the chin-raise-nod, “you know what wins? YOU!” look of appreciation, right before we launched a nuclear missile and blew up whatever the USSR is calling itself these days.

A Manifesto:

by Anti-Social Media Ignoramus, Your Aunt Becky:

1) I wonder what My Toothpaste Brand is doing today on The Twitter.

8 ) It’d be awesome to “connect on The Facebook” with a brand who sent out an automatically-generated Direct Message via The Twitter.

27) I should raise my numbers by following people on The Twitter, then unfollowing them so that I look extra-special*.

64) Why yes, I would like to run a contest so that one of my Pranksters can possibly win a five dollar box of chocolates!

125) Woah, I really should spend actual money on my fake Farmville Farm.

216) I bet if I retweet this, I WILL win a free iPad!

343) I am a “social media maven.”

512) I cannot WAIT to read more about my toilet paper on their Facebook page!

729) You mean I can win a product worth twelve bucks if I spam the hell out of my friends? SCORE! This RULES!

1000) What would Jesus tweet?

1331) I should tweet @Justin Beaver because I just know he’s going to reply one of these days. He’s probably writing a song about me as we speak.

1728) I bet everyone is going to love hearing what I had for lunch today.

2197) I can’t believe I got ousted as Mayor of My Ass on Four-Square.

2744) Man, this blog music is really swell.

3375) I should tweet my blog post every hour on the hour just in case someone missed it.

4096) It’s impossible for two people to have the same idea for a tweet, therefore someone is stealing my tweets.

4913) There are not nearly enough blogs pontificating about the under-representation of kumquats in today’s social media.

5832) I should take myself MORE seriously.

*I don’t actually know why people do this.