I find it incredibly odd that anyone asks me for blogging tips. Certainly I’ve been blogging a long time, that much is not debatable, but my first blog was a sarcastic anti-blog used primarily to elicit as much horror out of the readers (who were our friends) as we possibly could. If you think I’m profane now, you should’ve seen me back then.

(this is me, in front of a fucking tree, assholes)

(this is me with CATS with frickin’ LASER BEAMS under a tree, assholes)

Anyway, here’s my yearly list of ways to be a better blogger. (see also: Blogging for Dummies)(Blogging For Dummies Deux) and (Blogging For Dummies Part Number C)

Feel free to ignore them all.

1) Forget about the numbers. I know how tempting it is to obsess over your stats, painstakingly calculating your unique visitors every day, closely following your subscriber count and The Twitter followers. I’m not a numbers person (just like I’m not a geography person) so to me, ignoring them is Easy-Peasy, but I know others are. Every other Tweet in my stream seems to be begging for more followers.

But here’s the down-low on blog statistics: they’re only a guess. And? They change dramatically depending upon which blog statistics tracking program you use.

I happen to use some geeky program The Daver installed which allows me to occasionally track the odd search terms that bring people here (sweater kittens and boring things always at the top of the list). For awhile, I hosted my blog with some crappy company that ALSO gave me blog statistics. And? The two were COMPLETELY different numbers. It’s likely that if I started looking at blog stats with ALL the programs I could find, I could average them out and MAYBE THEN get a better picture.

But that sounds like a shit-ton of work. Work = bullshit.

2) Don’t get all hot and bothered if you get lumped into a group of people. If you have a vagina and a blog, you’re probably going to be called a “Mommy Blogger” whether or NOT you have crotch parasites gnawing on your legs.

When I first started Mommy Wants Vodka, I was infuriated that I’d been called a “Mommy Blogger!” How DARE they! I thought furiously to myself as I blogged, occasionally telling stories about my kids, occasionally not. Fuck that, I thought as I clacked out a post about my vagina, how DARE they insinuate I am nothing without my children! I am more than my children! I am a PERSON!

It took awhile, but I realized that people will always slap a label on you – sometimes good, sometimes bad – and my anger was unfounded and, quite frankly, kinda dumb. I can let my blog, not the label, speak for itself.

Which brought me to Number Three:

3) Don’t take everything so fucking seriously. Take your blogging seriously and write the shit out of whatever it is you’re going to write about, but stop making every little thing into an outrageously Big Fucking Deal.

Why?

It adds stress and will eventually alienate readers. It’s one thing to be mad some of the time; but outrage! at! everything! gets old.

Life’s not always such serious business. Relax and enjoy it.

4) Blogging is important. It’s really easy to minimize what you do with your blog. Hell, I’ve done it time and again. But at the end of the day, your words all matter. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, people will stumble across your words and find whatever it is they are looking for in them.

In the past two years, I’ve met at least four families who have received the diagnosis of “encephalocele” (generally, prenatally) and have stumbled here to read about my daughter. Those words I hastily pecked out while writing Amelia’s Grace have provided a light in the darkness for them.

I can’t place a value on that.

So even if you’re writing a blog about knitting or cooking; know that what you do matters. All of it.

5) Blog because you enjoy it, not because you think it’s going to make you rich and famous. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing for an audience of 5 or 5,000, enjoy the time you spend blogging. I spend many, many, many hours every day writing, blogging, and working on my sites, and I couldn’t be happier.

Do I make a lot of money? Absolutely not. Thanks to my profane (whore) mouth, I scare off potential advertisers. But you know what? I’d rather write as Your Aunt Motherfucking Becky than as Aunt Becky Trying To Be A Famous Money-Making Blogger. I do a little freelancing, sell shirts and and ads on this blog in order to pay for servers and other boring things on my other blogs, one of which, Band Back Together, I intend to turn Non-Profit. Mostly, I run them at a loss. Which is fine with me.

Bloggers who do make it “big” are an unusual flash in the pan, not something that happens to everyone who gets a kicky URL and a great idea.

6) Be careful who you get into bed with. Your name, your blog, your unique voice and your audience all mean a lot. Be wary of those who want to take advantage of it.

You don’t have to be all distrustful or anything, just make sure to read the fine print.

————–

What are your suggestions for being a better blogger, Pranksters?

Of all the many things in this world I don’t understand, my greatest confusion lies in this: I don’t understand why ball-pits smell like pee.

I desperately want to make my basement a gigantic ball-pit, but I’m terrified that if I did so, people would simply come over to take a whiz in it. Like, RANDOM people would show up at my door to pee in my ball-pit* and then I’d have to call my television serial killer husband Dexter to take care of them. Because peeing in ball-pits is bullshit.

*(You know if it had to happen to anyone, it would be me)

But still, the allure of a basement ball-pit (along with my tree house Panic Room) is strong, Pranksters.

Last week, my son turned four. And thanks to Product Placement during Team Umizoomi, he decided that he was going to spend his birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese. Had I turned him down, I have no doubts whatsoever that he’d walk there. Alex will get what he wants, when he wants, period. Luckily, it’s normally just juice or something.

I dislike Chuck-E-Cheese for the same reasons I hate Worst Best Buy: total sensory overload. Chuck-E-Cheese has the added bonus of smelling like poo.

But for my son, I’d manage.

Bonus! I had a coupon for 6 kajillion tokens.

As we waited for our Mouse Pizza, I noticed that this particular Chuck-E-Cheese sold both beer AND cotton candy, I was pleased. I pink-puffy-HEART cotton candy.

The risk for Oregon Trail disease was at an all-time high, but I managed to sit down without a hazmat suit. Progress, not perfection.

I captured my children’s horrified reactions:

The Birthday Boy, himself.

I’m a bit disappointed that I couldn’t get beer in those cups.

After a solid lunch of Mouse Pizza, it was Game Time.

Happily, I noted that the once pee-infested ball pit was gone.

The boys crawled around in the tubes, probably infecting themselves with poo germs while I took my daughter around to see if there were any games SHE could play.

I didn’t find any Amelia-sized games, but I did find Skee-Ball, which she was immediately enamored with. Happily, she took the cup of coins, which she called “Treasure” and inserted them into the game while I Skee-Balled my ever-loving arm off. I won like 8 tickets and a sore arm for all of my hard work.

After she tired of Skee-Ball, I realized I still had a zillion and a half tokens. Shitballs.

So I went off to find a game where I could dump the tokens in and win “tickets,” because like it or not, the kids were going to beg for some sort of “reward” at the Redeeming Tickets For Overpriced Crap counter. It was tickets or spending 8 bucks on three tiny boxes of nerds.

I found a game where I could bang a button* and win tickets. Perfect. No effort or skillz necessary.

I’d blown through most of my Treasure in a minute or two when I was hastily shoved out of the way by a rolly-polly woman at least ten years older than me. I’d thought she’d merely bumped into me, but no, no, of course not. This WAS Chuck-E-Cheese, Home Of The KlassE, after all.

Nope, she’d shoved me out of the way so she could play the game.

Bitch.

Whatever. Instead of punching her in the taco, I dumped the rest of the tokens and headed back to my three overly-exhausted kids. We redeemed the tickets for three wee Halloween-Candy-Sized boxes of candy and headed home.

So far, I haven’t shown signs of Dysentery or Ebola, but it could happen at any moment.

And now I’m obsessed with the idea of my own personal ball pit. I’m adding a moat, razor wire and an electric fence to my previous ball-pit design.

Perhaps some guard-dogs, too.

You never do know when someone might pop into your house and take a whiz in your ball-pit.

*Cue Bevis-like laughter

Anyone who has read my blog for very long knows that I bring weirdness wherever I go. And not just because I’m weird; that might actually make sense.

Aunt Becky in ANY situation = abounding weirdness..

Back in December, I went to Las Vegas for the first time a mere five weeks after I’d had major abdominal surgery because I’m Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger like that. Also: dumb as a box of rocks.

I’d decided to room with my friend Mandi at the MGM Signature, which is like the MGM but better. (Better = more expensive.) When we arrived, we saw that the suite we’d gotten was actually in the Penthouse and directly adjacent to Jana’s room. We even double doors that that we could lock to create a nice fortress.

It was pretty fucking sweet.

On Saturday, the three of us left together to go to a party.

“People say I’m the life of the party…”

Turns out that abdominal surgery and partying are kinda like oil and water. Or me and John C. Mayer.

I left the party early because I felt like a hot slice of ass. Mandi and Jana were both whooping it up with Elvis as I cabbed it back to the MGM by myself. For as paranoid as I can be about colonies of earwigs nesting in my ear, I’m not really a paranoid person and I’m totally capable of taking care of myself.

When I got back up to our floor, I was in agony. All I wanted to do was to lay down.

But when I reached the double doors, I found them…open. I was almost certain that we’d shut and locked them behind us (I’m Captain Motherfucking Safety, you know).

When I entered the foyer, I saw that my OWN door was open, too. I’d have been shocked if I’d left THAT open, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

I walked into the room for a second to see what was going on – if anything obvious had been stolen – and I swear on the Good Lord of Butter that all of the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Prickly-style.

That’s only happened to me a handful of times.

Each time it’s happened, it’s been for good reason. I’ve learned to trust it. If something makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, something is amiss.

I ran out of the room.

Now what the fuck do I do?

I went back down 9870 flights on the elevator to the front desk. Closed for the night with a jaunty note that explained I could find help at Tower One, which meant hoofing it back down a zillion hallways. So I did. My cell phone reception was pathetic. Walking was the only option.

I limped to Tower One where I told the person behind the desk about what had happened.

Security was called. I asked them to walk up to my room with me to check it out, red-faced and embarrassed as shit. I mean, how do you explain to someone that you “just had a bad feeling” without sounding like a total fucking lunatic?

I joked as they walked me back that I’d seen too many episodes of Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck As Badly As Theirs to simply ignore the open doors. Security assured me that it was just fine: that I’d done the right thing. Still, I felt like an assjacket.

Fifteen minutes later, we were up at my room, where security gave me the green light: no one inside. I thanked them for their time and they left.

But I couldn’t shake the creepers feeling.

I sent Mandi a text explaining what had happened (trying not to sound as frantic as I felt) and then limped all the way back to the MGM Grand, where I sat in the food court until Mandi arrived. Safety in numbers.

Never did find out what had happened. Probably never will.

I guess what happens in Vegas DOES stay in Vegas.

———–

Have you ever had the hairs on your neck stand up like that? Do you trust it when you have That Feeling? Can I have some chocolate ice cream, please?

Last fall, I set my sights on a new coat. It wasn’t just any old coat, of course, but an electric-blue Goal Weight Magic Trench Coat that I immediately called “my Sgt. Pepper’s coat.”

I imagined all of the antics my coat and I would get up to; the places we’d explore, the mischief we would manage. I’d found my Magic Coat at French Connection, and just as I was imagining my Trench Coat and I running off into the sunset after Gold Thieves a la Young Guns, I saw the price.

As brilliant a coat as it was, it wasn’t worth $300 bucks to me. Even if it WAS made by French Connection.

French Connection, I hear you Pranksters saying, why the shiballs would YOU Aunt Becky, shunner of all things fashionable, care? I mean, you own a NECKLACE with your NAME on it. Not very high fashion.

And I’d say, “Pranksters my love for French Connection is a long-standing. I’ve loved them more than I’ve loved anything else, ever. A company that could be so brazen, hilarious, yet refined at the same time is right up my alley.”

Oh Pranksters, let me show you why:

The full name of the company is “French Connection, United Kingdom,” and I am classily showing you why I care very, very much for this company.

Trust me, you wear this puppy in public and people stare. You’re using profanity without using profanity.

I own several FCUK shirts that say things like, “Bourbon FCUK,” “Too Busy To FCUK,” and “FCUK Me.” They rule.

Also: I put the “ass” in “classy.”

Anyway, my brilliantly gorgeous coat which, I should say, is not emblazoned with the “FCUK” moniker, well, it eventually went on sale. When the price dropped to $75, I decided it was Action Time.

Gleefully, I ordered my Magic Coat.

When it arrived, I hung it in my closet as added incentive for me to reach my Goal Weight. I’d see it magically hanging there, ensconced in plastic and remind myself that, hey, I didn’t need to eat bullshit food. Not when I had a jaunty blue Magic Coat eagerly waiting for me to wear it.

Weather in Chicago is one of three things: Ass Hot, Ass Cold, and Construction, and it’s been Ass Cold since I bought the coat. It wasn’t until this weekend that I had a chance to pull my jaunty Magic Trench Coat out.

It fit.

I’d made my goal weight*

#win!

It took a couple of hours for me to finally put my hands in the pockets of the Magic Trench Coat, and when I did, I was shocked when my fingers came across something. I’m not a person who uses my pockets as actual STORAGE (unlike my mother, who keeps the equivalent of a rolling suitcase in her pockets), so it was odd to feel ANYTHING.

I pulled out this mysterious object. Was it a bomb? A pen? A wad of used tissues? The Lindbergh baby?

Nope.

A set of car keys.

Not MY car keys. Not Dave’s car keys either. Not car keys that belong to ANYONE I know.

My Magic Trench Coat came with a free car. A free Jaguar.

That coat really IS magic.

Now…I just have to find my car. Perhaps THAT is what my Epic Road Trip will involve: finding my new car. It’s not technically stealing if I own it already, right?

*probably. I don’t weigh myself.

————-

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve found, Pranksters?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Do you make the Cancer is Bullshit shirts in men’s sizes?

Why yes, yes I do, thank you for asking. In fact, here are ALL the shirts I make. I’m considering doing a child-sized one too, because, well, cancer IS bullshit. I’m running a contest, actually, where you can WIN one of those fancy shirts.

Details here.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I keep telling myself that this question might be really dumb because it doesn’t necessarily involve me but I honestly have no idea what to do.

I work in a bakery in a local grocery store in a very small town. My co-worker (we’ll call her A), and I are somewhat close and I do consider her a friend. She has a habit that I don’t agree with, though. You see … she likes to flirt with and come on to married men (SO NOT MY STYLE). I figure if that’s her cup of tea then fine, since she hasn’t necessarily pursued anything more than flirtation. She is recently divorced and I feel like maybe she wants to explore this new-found attention from men, but I’ve given her the benefit of the doubt that she wouldn’t ruin someone’s marriage over it.

Lately, however, she’s been cozying up overly much to our store manager, or as we’ll call him, B (read: everyone’s boss) is MARRIED to another employee/manager of our store, who we can call C. C is not in the same department with A and myself but … I just feel like she is starting to cross a line. This man has a family, has a reputation and a career to think about … and while he doesn’t do anything directly to cross the line and indicate his interest … she sure as hell does. What is worse is he appears to be a sucker for the attention, and they do this on the clock … in front of me.

I know it’s none of my business and it doesn’t involve me but … at what point does it become inappropriate and at what point do I say something? I know that his wife, C, has noticed something strange is going on and I don’t want her to be blindsided or think that I was just okay with what was going on. Do I say something, or do I shut my whore mouth?

Sincerely,
KC

Oh KC, this is a tricky situation. I’ve thought long and hard about what you should do, and I can only come up with one solution. Keep your whore mouth shut.

Because if you open it, you can’t win. If you talk to A privately, you will no longer be in her good graces and working with an asshole coworker sucks a fat one.

Ultimately, B is responsible for how he behaves and how he reacts to her behavior (whatever her intentions may be) and that is between A, B, and C.

If you go to his wife and inform her that A is crossing lines with the way she behaves to her husband, B, you will be in the middle of it. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that anyone stuck in the middle is bound to lose.

You’re very well-intentioned here, and I appreciate that, but ultimately, you have to look out for Number One: you.

Good luck, Prankster.

Holy Fucker Balls!

I am not a freak, stalker or murderer so please don’t be weirded out when I say, I think I have found my cyber soulmate in you!!! You and your site are full of awesomeness and even though I just stumbled upon you whilst looking for a donut recipe on Pioneer Woman, I am already a huge fan!

I have always felt like I have to censor myself while amongst my peers but now I have found a home where I oddly feel normal! Thank you for all you do and for your friends and fans that share their stories.

Shit, I am supposed to fit a question in here.

Hmmm, Is it acceptable to swear in front of your children? I do. However, I don’t allow my children to use profanity. My theory is, this world is full of bad words and other fucked up shit.

I’m kinda sad that you’re not a freaky stalker (would make life…more interesting!) but it’s full of the awesome that you found me while looking for donut recipes. I heart donuts. I heart donuts so much that it’s obscene.

My first words were “Fuck You,” (no seriously) so it’s safe to say that my parents never held back when swinging swears around me. CLEARLY.

I was allowed to swear as a child…providing I didn’t do it in public. There is, apparently, a limit to the permissiveness in the household growing up. But I’ll save that for another story.

That said, I do swear in front of my children. They, in turn, yell at me for it. No sooner can I say, “where’s that asshole (insert noun here)?” before one of them is hollering at me to say, “Holy Smokes,” instead.

If pressed, I’d tell my kids the same things my parents told me: “you can’t swear in public or anywhere it’ll embarrass us,” because you know, I’m clearly a role model. I heart profanity almost as much as donuts. Profane donuts might be the Next Big Thing.

Swearing – especially colorfully – makes life interesting. Consider it a LESSON you’re teaching your kids the ART of swearing rather than something you’re doing wrong. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I’m sure I’m warping them enough in other ways.

Mental Note: Add Money To Kids’ Therapy Fund.

————-

As always, Pranksters, please fill in where I left off. What would you advise these Pranksters to do?

I’m was all lamenting that I hadn’t bought MYSELF a gift for Alex’s birthday because, well, I’m the one who expelled him out of my uterus. But then the heavens opened up and shone down upon me.

I got an email from my friend who makes my profanity-laden shirts.

My new shirts were READY. I nearly peed myself.

Behold the newest in my line of shirts:

It is so full of win that I can hardly stand it.

I also make other profane shirts. They’re available in “fashion fit” (order a size up) for The Ladies and Unisex for The Mens.

Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt, now available in purple, pink AND black:

A Not Your Bitch shirt:

A With The Band Shirt (now available in sizes up to 2X):

A Cancer Is Bullshit shirt:

I Kicked Cancer’s Ass shirt:

I may be weeping with The Awesome right now.

To celebrate my overemotional status, I’m going to do a giveaway of one of these fine shirts. Why? Because obviously. Also: I love you guys to pieces.

Let’s give this two weeks to play out. Tax Day, April 15, a winner shall be announced.

How do you win one?

First, tell me which shirt you’d want and why.

For extra! entries! you can do the following (please leave me an extra comment for each entry):

Write a POST about the contest (two entries!)

Be my BFF on The Facebook.

Follow Mommy Wants Vodka on The Twitter.

Follow Band Back Together on The Twitter.

Tweet about the contest.

Add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll.

Add Band Back Together to your blogroll.

YAY for new shirts!

Dear Alex,

I took a pregnancy test – the only positive one I’d seen since getting knocked up with your biggest brother – while drinking vodka and smoking a cigarette. I was so certain I was doomed to another month of negative tests, and the test was simply a way of dashing any lingering hopes for that cycle.

When the digital test read the elusive, “PREGNANT,” I’d been chasing, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “No fucking way.” I simply couldn’t believe that I’d actually managed it. I was finally knocked up.

After getting knocked up while on the pill, I figured another pregnancy was a Sure Thing, and frankly, from the moment I met your brother, I decided that he needed siblings (although not by his father).

When your father proposed to me I said, “Can’t we have some more babies instead?”

(I’m not much of a romantic)

Your dad insisted that no, in fact, we could not just pop out more kids, so he dragged me down that aisle in a while dress, slung a ring on my finger and made me an “honest woman.” I kept my eyes on the prize (more babies!) while month-after-month of negative pregnancy tests taunted me.

By the time I took that one positive test, I’d given up hope of conceiving without outside help. But there you were.

I quickly snuffed out my cigarette and dumped out the vodka I’d been drinking. I was a PREGNANT LADY now.

The nine months that followed were some of the most excruciating I’d had. I barfed until I had nothing left to barf and still I got fat. My ribs spread. I looked like Grimace (but less purple).

By the time March 30, 2007 rolled around, I was four centimeters dialed, and beyond ready to remove you from my body cavity. By force, if necessary. I’d told my doctor that I was going to induce labor in the back of a car – (and I would have) so that I could get you the hell out.

I waddled in to the hospital and a couple of hours later – and a mere three pushes – there you were.

You promptly whizzed all over your father, something I considered appropriate since he’d “had a headache” and slept through your entire labor. The nurse said that you looked like an angel. I thought you looked like a cross between a garden gnome and Elmer Fudd.

I didn’t care.

(I think I yelled “NORD-BERG” after you were born, as a joke.)

What I’d wanted, prayed for my entire pregnancy was to have a child that liked me. Years of being rejected by your older brother had left me feeling pretty shitty about myself, and this time; this time I wanted a baby who loved me.

You know the saying, “be careful what you wish for?” Because that’s exactly what I got. A child that liked me best. A child that liked me so much, in fact, that I couldn’t put him down. Ever.

For a full year, you only had eyes for me. I nursed you while walking through Target, I nursed you to sleep, I got up with you every two hours to nurse you more. You nursed 18 hours a day. Sleep-deprivation took on a whole new meaning.

God forbid anyone attempt to give me respite. It was Alex’s way or the highway. And all roads lead to Mama.

Mama got you back.

At four now, you’re still a Mama’s Boy, under duress you’ve learned to like others as well.

I’ve never met anyone quite like you before, Alex. You bring a whole new meaning to the word, “intense,” because you are so very intense. But that intensity has a streak of sweetness a mile wide, which is how we find your severely passionate quirks charming rather than difficult.

Child of mine, you march to the beat of your own drummer, the kind of drummer who doesn’t give a flying fuck what other people think of them. You wear your cupcake shirt with joyful pride, fluttering around in your Flutter-Bye costume (which is always worn, of course, for all holidays), and I’m certain if anyone questioned it, you’d just give them the hairy eyeball.

You like it, therefore everyone else should, too. If they don’t? Fuck ’em.

That’s an admirable quality, Alex. Don’t lose that.

Sometimes, I wish I’d been blessed with an imagination as vivid as yours. Your Playmobil Guys go on many adventures, sliding down slides, robbing banks, and other assorted escapades while the rest of us simply watch, stunned. I’ve never been creative like that.

Like your brother before you, The Planets are everything. You mapped out your next Halloween Costume (Saturn) immediately upon returning home from Trick-or-Treating. I’m forever tripping over mini-solar systems you’ve set up around the house, only to be scolded, “Mom, you RUINED NEPTUNE.”

Sorry, kidlet.

Your sweet streak, well, it knows no bounds. Your preschool teacher is forever praising your behavior with your sister. You treat her with kindness, dignity and respect. You look out for her, gently leading her around and taking care of her. As well you should. Your teacher has never seen anything like it.

I know it won’t always be this way between you three, but I do know this: you three have each other, and someday that will matter. Never stop caring about your siblings. They’re your best allies and someday, I know they’ll repay the favor. Your sister, especially, will kick anyone’s ass for you if need be. I know this because she is like me.

We’ve had a rocky couple of years, you and me, but in the end, we’re better for it.

Remember when things go to shit – even when they’re at their worst – you’ll find inner strength that otherwise, you’d never know you had. In the end (and there is always an end), it’ll all be worth it. Somehow. You may not know precisely why you had to walk through bullshit until much later. When you do, it’ll all make sense.

I’m honored to know you and I’m honored to call you my son. You’ve given me redemption and love at a time when I needed it most. I cannot repay that debt to you. But I will try. You deserve that and so, so much more.

Love Always,

Mama

P.S. A Saturn Costume? You sure you don’t want to be a pirate or something?

When I was a wee Aunt Becky, there were many things I’d desperately pleaded, begged and bargained for in the hopes that my slightly boring parents might pull through.

When the EZ Bake Oven came out, I wanted one so badly I could almost taste the tiny, yet delicious cakes I’d create all by myself! My parents, being the dull-as-toast sort, informed me that I could, at any time, use the REGULAR oven, therefore I did NOT require an EZ Bake Oven of my own. Of course, I was never actually allowed to use the oven to make cakes or anything else for that matter. With my propensity for bizarre injuries, who can blame them?

Another time, I begged for a bunny rabbit, only to have to sit through a lecture (complete with pictures) about how our dogs would kill my bunny. They weren’t wrong, but I could have done without the the graphic images of dead bunnies forever seared into my brain.

Although my parents had plenty of money, I never managed to convince them to buy tasty and delicious movie popcorn, either. They’d claim it was too expensive; too fattening. Instead, we’d bring our own refreshments into the theater, stuffed handily into my mother’s huge purse. I’d munch on boring tasteless air-popped popcorn while the smells of fake butter intoxicated, taunted me.

My requests for a pony on roller skates and a wee sub-machine gun for my hamster were flat-out denied.

When the new mall opened up in my hometown, I noticed they had an fabulous place unlike anything I’ve ever seen; a place where I could wear a classy boa or rhinestone cowboy hat. A place where I could get fancy portraits done. This place even boasted Soap Opera Mood Lighting.

Glamor Shots.

Swoon!

Even the NAME had “glamor” in it. I was hooked. I wanted MY portraits done. My parents are sleek oak, teak, and fine china people, and even then, I knew that bedazzling anything made it classier.

I begged. I pleaded. I wrote page after page of letters to my parents, outlining all of the reasons I should be allowed to have my Glamor Shots done. “Why don’t you have me take portraits?” my father asked. “Have your father take your picture,” my mother said. Considering that I had 8 million pictures taken of me by my father – not a single one including pancake makeup or anything bedazzled – that was not what I had in mind.

Shortly after, Glamor Shots closed. I’d still see the portraits around; my friends got THEIR portraits done because their parents weren’t dull as beige paint, but eventually, I gave up. I thought the chain had gone out of business.

When I found Glamor Shots on The Twitter a couple of months ago, it was as though the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. I could still be a model…or just look like one! All this time, I’d thought the chain had gone under, donating their extensive boa collection to the drag clubs in the city. And yet, THERE THEY WERE. OH HAPPY DAY.

Quickly, I followed Glamor Shots and PRAISE BE, Glamor Shots followed me back.

Visions of Soap Opera Portraits swirled in my head now that I had a new-found friend on The Twitter.

Glamor Shots just unfollowed me on The Twitter.

My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. How could the very chain that I’d so badly wanted my Glamorous Soap Opera Portraits from UNFOLLOW me?

Generally, when people unfollow me on The Twitter, I ignore it.

(pointless aside: Nothing makes me quite as stabby as when someone thinks they’re “calling me out” on The Twitter. Like this one time after I tweeted about Alex calling SNOMG a “wizard,” I made a remark about liking the phrase, “The Undertoad.” No less than twenty people got all high-and-mighty because, “The Undertoad,” is a phrase from a book called ‘The World According To Garp’ and I had the audacity to tweet about The Undertoad without mentioning that it wasn’t my phrase. Um. Okay.)

The Twitter can be a little weird. I mean, I just splat out whatever’s in my head (which is kinda scary) in 140-characters (or less). Twitter = a microblog.

Like this:

I’ll give you that some of my tweets can be marginally offensive but so am I. I’ve ALWAYS been marginally offensive. This is nothing new. And being marginally offensive does NOT cancel out my desire to have a Sparkly Boa Mood Lighting Soap Opera Portrait done. Why would they smite me like that, Pranksters? How could Glamor Shots DO this to me?

All I wanted was to look like THIS guy for a day:

Sighs.

Maybe it’s time to track down Barbizon. There I can be a model…or just look like one.

————-

So dish, Pranksters. Does anyone else get their feelers hurt when they’re unfollowed on The Twitter? What DOES hurt your feelers?

Back when everyone I knew owned Nintendo (NES), my brother convinced my parents to buy me the OTHER system: the Sega Genesis. I only had two games for the thing: Sonic The Hedgehog and Echo (the asshole) Dolphin before I realized that video games were bullshit.

But hedgehogs weren’t. In fact, life might be damn near perfect if I could have a lovable scamp like Sonic for a kicky sidekick! One day, I shook my fist at the dusty, unused Sega Genesis, that someday I too, would have a hedgehog-sidekick of my very own.

My twenty-fifth birthday found me in a brand-new house, desperately failing to getting pregnant with a second baby, working forty hours a week, with a menagerie of animals already in my care.

The Daver: “What do you want for your birthday?”

Me: “A pony.”

The Daver: “Our yard is too small for a pony. What ELSE do you want for your birthday?”

Me: “A turbo jet.”

The Daver: “Okay, someday, I’ll buy you a jet.”

Me: “You have to name my jet, “Fluffy.”

The Daver: “Okay. So what do you want for your birthday THIS YEAR?”

Me: “A hedgehog.”

Daver: “You’re not serious, are you?”

Me: (glares)

The Daver: “You don’t want a hedgehog, Becky.”

Me: (glares)

The Daver: “So you DO want a hedgehog. Why?”

Me: “I need a hedgehog sidekick like Sonic.”

The Daver: “….”

Me: “He can ride everywhere on my shoulders and we can solve crimes together while collecting those golden rings.”

The Daver: “What do you know about hedgehogs?”

(he was always asking questions like this)

Me: “Uh. Well, they like gold rings and they’re blue and they fight crimes.”

The Daver: “…”

Me (pulling something out of my ass): “Also, they’re indigenous to hot, aired climates and enjoy carrots.”

The Daver: “This seems like a bad idea, Becky.”

Me: “Nah, it’ll be great! Me and my crime-fighting hedgehog will have many adventures.”

Once he was safely out of sight, I googled “hedgehogs,” and found a breeder within ten miles of my house. I called to see if she had any crime-fighting hedgehogs for sale, and when she didn’t, I was crestfallen. She put me on a crime-fighting hedgehog waiting list.

A couple of weeks later, she called and informed Daver that she had a hedgehog for me. Thrilled, we drove to the breeder and I picked up my new crime-fighting sidekick, a cage, and some hedgehog food.

My albino hedgehog looked remarkably like a baked potato and absolutely nothing like Sonic.

I named him Tate, short for “potato.”

“Oh well,” I sighed, “maybe hedgehogs aren’t blue.”

Daver grimly glared, his eyes on the road.

After we got Tate’s cage set up, I read the handouts the breeder had given me.

“It says here that I need to ‘socialize’ him so he gets used to people,” I read aloud. Okay, I could do that. Animals loved me.

When I grabbed Tate out of his cage, he became a hissing ball of pokiness. Well, sure, he wasn’t USED to me yet. No wonder he was scared. After a couple of minutes in my hand, he relaxed a bit and I was able to see how freaking cute he was.

He started licking my hand.

“Awwwww,” I said, “Lookit how much he loves me! He’s giving me hedgie-kisses!” As he continued to lick my hand, I imagined the bank-robbers we’d apprehend, the jewel thieves we’d bring to justice, and all of those gold rings we’d collect along the way.

Tate interrupted my vision of the two of us riding a horse, hotly in pursuit of Bad Guys when he chomped down onto my finger. It felt like a thousand tiny nettles of pain so I yelped. I tried to remove his tiny mouth from my finger, which was now oozing blood, but he held on, determined. I swung my hand back and forth trying to get him to let go of my damn finger. He dug in harder.

Finally, I pried his horrible mouth off my finger and ran to the bathroom to wash the wound, tears flowing. That motherfucker! How DARE he?

For months, I carried him around in his specially-designed “hedgehog pouch,” as the handouts suggested, so he could “get used to me.”

He never did.

My zombie hedgehog was bullshit.

Luckily, I found a new hedgehog.

This hedgie kinda liked me.

(Mostly because I gave him candy.)

Tate was NOTHING like Sonic. When he died a couple of weeks before Amelia was born, no one was too sad. Our scarred fingers were a painful reminder that sometimes things just don’t work out.

I learned a valuable lesson from Tate: not all hedgehogs are crime-fighting sidekicks.

Which is why I’ve decided that I need a feisty camel sidekick named Mr. Spits instead.

Hi Aunt Becky,

First of all, you rock.  I hate feeling like I’m being a whiner, since I know so many other people are going through hardships worse than mine.

But here’s my current crapola.  I have gone through a layoff, drained my savings, and been struggling to make ends meet since last summer.  I also battle depression, so when multiple areas of my life start crumbling, I have a really hard time coping.

I had a best friend that I’ve known for 14 years who has apparently decided to cut me out of her life.  I have attempted to contact her to no avail. I know I haven’t done anything wrong, and I do have a lot of other great friends, but this one stings.  I don’t have a great relationship with my family, and she was always like the sister I didn’t have.

I have no clue what’s going on with her, but I really hate feeling like I suck because she has decided to not be my friend.  I know deep down it’s her issue, but how do I just shut down that big part of me that cares, and say “Whatever!” and move on?  I am the kind of person that takes situations like this to heart.

Any advice about how to stop letting my self-worth be dictated by others?

It’s tough to handle the break-up of a friendship no matter what the circumstances, and when a good friend stops talking to you out of the clear blue, closure is nearly impossible. It’s a rejection without the courtesy “thanks but no thanks; fuck you very much” letter. A breakup with a friend can be just as hard (if not harder) a breakup with a lover.

(I have decided “lover” is much awesomer than saying “life partner,” “husband,” “wife,” “boyfriend,” or “hostage.”)

When I was planning my wedding, I had two maids-of-honor, both my good friends. All of the bridesmaids met at the seamstresses house to get measured for the dresses I was forcing them to wear. One of my maids-of-honor had been a bit…off but I hadn’t thought much of it. We were both extremely busy.

I tried to get in touch with her a couple of days later and she didn’t answer her cell. I called back a the next day: no answer. Like me (back when I had a cell phone able to make and receive calls) she had her phone glued to her ear, so I knew she’d been getting the calls.

Weeks went by and…nothing.

I haven’t seen her since.

It’s been six years and I still have no idea what happened. It also still sucks.

And I guess my rambly point is this: being dumped sucks. Being dumped by an old friend is worthy of feeling sad. Everyone feels like a loser when they’re dumped or rejected.

On the flip-side, maybe there’s something going on with her. Her own demons. The kinda stuff she needs to battle alone.

I wish you the best. When you’re feeling extra-sad, try to remember it really is her loss. Or buy a voodoo doll. Whatever.

—————

Dear Aunt Becky,

The bushes in front of our house are pokey Barberry’s that were planted every-other-style in terms of color.  Obnoxious. How do I make them go away “on accident” so the spouse is none the wiser?

(in my best Clint Eastwood voice) I. HATE. BUSHES.

Shrubbery is my mortalest enemy. My house was way over-landscaped by the original owners because people in the 70’s loved full bushes (heh). The people we bought the house from did absolutely no maintenance on the yard, which meant that it looked like a serial killer lived here when I moved in.

I spent last summer digging out the 9474632 moldy, ancient, ugly bushes. Now, I’m guessing, I must find something to replace them with.

(IF YOU SAY “MORE BUSHES” I WILL CRAM THOSE BUSHES UP YOUR ASS.)

I’m going to make the assumption that you’re going to eventually have to dig out the roots, because, obviously, but here’s the best way to kill bushes that I know of.

Cut off some the branches waaaaaaaay at the bottom of the bush, closeish to the roots.

Then, spray that “open wound” of the bush with weed killer. I happen to use Weed-B-Gone. Mostly because I own some and am too busy adding cats shooting lasers out of their eyes to my pictures to go find anything else.

If you’re trying to stealthily remove (heh) shrubs, it may take you awhile to kill them if you don’t just whack (heh) the whole bush down (heh) and douse those fuckers with Weed-B-Gone. You may have to do it a couple of times to get it to work.

Or get a voodoo doll.

—————

As always, Pranksters, pick up where I left off. Because I’m sure you have much sager advice than I do. (Obviously.)

Or get a voodoo doll.