So, because I am lazy and unconcerned about facts, I often use Wikipedia when looking for such information as “How do you build a nuclear reactor?” and “What is my middle name?” Occasionally, I’ll use Wikipedia to make me laugh because, well, obviously. Once, they called my town, St. Charles (IL, not MO) “the land of the drunks” and once they quoted Brian “I Hate The North Shore” Parkins as saying, “I hate the North Shore.”

If I had screen shots, it would be better.

Anyway, Wikipedia is fine and I’m still all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about beating Wikipedia’s entry for John C. Mayer.

But the last time I was searching Wikipedia for “why are oranges called orange?” I had this horrible, awful thing happen to me. It was so bad that I had to lay down and shake like a purse dog (if I were on Wikipedia, I’d know what they were called) until I could get up again.

Why was I so afraid?

JIMMY MOTHERFUCKING WALES.

JIMMY MOTHERFUCKING WALES

PRANKSTERS, JIMMY MOTHERFUCKING WALES WAS STARING AT ME.

I’ve never been so afraid of the internet before. Look at his scary creepy eyes!

It’s like he’s one of those old time paintings from a haunted mansion and his eyes follow you EVERYWHERE.

Those eyes are JUDGING what you’re LOOKING UP. Jimmy Motherfucking WALES was JUDGING my Wikipedia searches. I knew it! I knew he was judging me! HOW DARE HE JUDGE ME WHEN HE PUT UP SUCH A HORRIBLE GUILT-RIDDEN “PERSONAL APPEAL?”

Jimmy Motherfucking Wales wants my MONEY or he’s going to creep me out half-to-death.

I did the only logical thing. I took to Twitter, horribly butchered his name and called him out on his creepy funhouse eyes.

TODAY JIMMY MOTHERFUCKING WALES IS GONE. VANISHED. POOF!

NOT JIMMY MOTHERFUCKING WALES.

This can mean only one thing, Pranksters:

We killed Jimmy Wales…

…and his creepy funhouse eyes.

Operating on about 3 hours of sleep combined, my husband of 40 hours sat across from me shoe-less, his shirt up around his pasty nipples while another man rubbed him up and down. While an awkward woman rubbed my butt and patted down my vagina, our eyes met. Without attracting any more attention, I mouthed “I’m sorry.” His eyes smiled right before the man grazed his balls with his elbow. Then he wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was all my fault. Honestly.

Later, he expressed, several screwdrivers to the wind, that this was his first experience with being singled out and searched by airport security.

Mouth full of egg and cheese biscuit and several screwdrivers drunk myself, I slurred, “Well, dude, at least they didn’t take you to that back room.” I took a long drag off my drink, “Because that shit is WHACK.” I paused. “And hey, they let me keep one of my lighters.”

The Daver looked less than pleased.

“I’m sorry,” I said, chastised. “It’s all my fault.”

But was it? Was the issue with having a face (presumably) like a terrorist my fault? Certainly I’d been stopped by customs and security more times than I could possibly count, singled out from a crowd each and every time I flew since I was a small child. My father and brother, who turn equally brown-skinned in the sun, get it also, but not as badly as I do.

I can’t put a toe into an airport without securing a nice frisking and potential strip-search.

While I can easily claim that I *am* an asshole, the moment I hit the airport, I turn into the idiot sister from Hee-Haw. I’m all “Golly Gee,” this and “Jeepers, Mister,” that with a side of “Gee wilikers” thrown in for good measure. You’ll never see a more ridiculously PC, G-rated version of me.

And still. And yet. And how.

I’ve learned to show up to the airport extra EXTRA early. I’ve learned that flip-flops–even in the dead of winter in Chicago–are the footwear of champions, and I know to wear loose baggy pants for easy up and down access.

But this begs the question. Why me? Was I marked as a potential terrorist when I was a baby? Is this on my ever-fucking Permanent Record?

I’m going to Vegas in two weeks at the ass-crack of dawn and I’m certain that on each leg of the trip, I will be searched up and down, and God forbid I pack the wrong toothpaste or something, because I am hoping to make it to my destination.

With the new regulations, though, it’s likely I’ll have to have The Sex with the TSA to make my flights. Maybe I’ll walk.

Vegas or bust, baby.

What holiday would be complete without a discussion of my colon?

THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS: NONE.

Somewhere along my Mars Cheese Castled Journey (I’m thinking we Midwestern Bloggers need to field trip it up there, yo. It’s a CASTLE of motherhumping CHEESE) to Wisconsin, I seemed to have picked up a Ghost in my Colon, which effectively means that I’ve been crapping out the lining of my digestive tract for the past 12 hours. It’s pretty rad.

But this weekend has been FULL of awesome post ideas and excellent happenings. Most full of the awesome is that The Daver completed the new navigation for Band Back Together:

Full of The Awesome PICTURE Navigation

This matters to a whole three of you, but this means that you can simply click a picture and it will take you to the page with all of the subcategories. You can access it from the main page or the browse posts option at the top of the site.

ALSO, and probably most importantly, there’s a READ ALL POSTS option at the top of the screen on Band Back Together, too. Like any normal blog feed, it’ll take you to the most recent posts. Sweet ass in the mornin’! Just not *ahem* MY sweet ass. Not today.

Anyway.

ONTO THE DISPATCHES.

The moment my son saw his sister get dressed up for Thanksgiving, he wanted to bring his, you guessed it, AWESOME COSTUME. Who could blame him? I’m still stuck wearing happy pants and my binder. I’d totally have worn a butterfly costume if I could have.

And next year, he wants to be SATURN. The planet, not the car. I think I need to start searching for that costume, uh, NOW.

Thanksgiving Flutterby

While my son fluttered, his sister made my ovaries melt with her Hello Kitty dress. This was one of the first things I bought for her when she was a wee fetus and when she saw it, she was all, “KITTTTTYYYYY!” because she loves Hello Kitty. Just like her momma.

In this picture, it appears as though she is plotting world domination. She probably is. Just like her momma.

Hello, Kitty!

I have a third son but no Thanksgiving picture of him because he was staring gape-jawed at the television and all of the pictures made him look like he may have been catching flies rather than watching the game.

This is my first family portrait and proof that I am an artistic genius. I think I must’ve drawn this when I was 12 or maybe 20.

The picture is only funny when you notice one thing…

SMILE!

Look at the smiles on my mom and I. Then look at the smiles on my brother and my father. Could they LOOK any meaner?

HILARIOUS.

And this is only the best thing ever:

Notice, it does NOT say, “Aunt Becky, Mediocre Blogger.” Ah, how the (not-so) mighty have fallen.

—————–

How was your holiday, Pranksters?

Got some bad news from the Anonymous Asker:

Y’all, I need prayers. At the preliminary custody hearing they gave custody to my husband based on the lies he and his daughter told on the stand. I am heartbroken and I don’t know what to do.
Please pray for my son’s safety.
Crying real tears,
The Anonymous Asker

Dear Aunt Becky,

I tried to write this email a couple times and realized I keep including a thousand skank details that don’t matter.

How do you pick between two men who are polar opposites?

What if you’re made a pro/con list cause you’re that kind of person and Guy A makes more sense but your gut tells you Guy B and you CAN’T FIGURE OUT WHY?!

What if you can’t figure out how to break up with Guy B because his crazy ex-wife cheated on him and now he’s super super wrapped up in you and it would sort of devastate him (even though you feel conceited saying that, even anonymously-ish)?

What if you even feel silly writing this email because it makes you feel like a shallow, stupid high school girl?

Even if you don’t put this up with Go Ask Aunt Becky, I would really like to know what you think  Even it’s a smack down of what an idiot I am.  I don’t think my friends would tell me that, which is why they’re my friends, but I’m fairly confident you would.

– I can’t even come up with a moniker for this crap.

Prankster, while your dilemma is serious, your email had me laughing my ass off. I think I would very much like to be friends with you because you have the ability to crack me up even when I’m all Campaign of Doom on Anthropologie because I ordered a sweater on Wednesday and it’s Saturday and I have a canceled order (out of stock! They let me order it anyway!) and a depleted gift card (gift card department isn’t in over the weekend!) and nothing to show for it. They bent me over and took my monies!

HULK SMASH AUNT BECKY.

So, I see your dilemma and it’s a doozy and I found myself in that position a couple of times and here’s my best advice: go with your gut. My gut doesn’t lie. My head often skews things.

Guy Number B it is!

See, it’s much easier when I make decisions for you. Also: when I go on a Campaign of Terror, everyone around me who I am not chewing out laughs their ass off. The Daver turned blue in the face trying not to laugh where the person on the phone could hear him.

Thanks, Daver.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have a problem. I’m 18 years old and I only attract older guys. The youngest guy I have ever had interested in me is 21. Now, this isn’t such a terrible thing except that they all make big deals about my age. They say they like me but they just can’t bring themselves to do anything about it because I am too young! So, what do you propose I do?

Love
Way Too Young

P.S. I live in Australia, so I am legal to vote, drink, drive etc. so it’s not like it would be illegal!

HOLY SHIT, YOU’RE YOU...bwhahaha! I’m teasing you.

You’re mature for your age. I think that your email shows that and that’s full of the awesome. My guess is that your boyfriends are all, “she ACTS like she’s 25, not 18!” and then when they think about it, they feel all old and stuff.

I’d take it as a compliment as best as I can.

I say that because every time I do something with my eldest son, Ben, I get the same treatment. I had him at 21 and while it’s not geriatric or anything, it’s not scandalously young.  I get mistaken for the babysitter. When I inform people that I’m his mother, it’s all “YOU CAN’T HAVE A CHILD THAT OLD,” and I’m all, “uh, wow, this is awkward now.”

Try to remember that it’s their issue, not yours. Remind me of the same, okay?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I am in love with a wonderful man.  A man who loves me and loves my daughter as his own.  A man i could never turn my back on.  I am keeping a secret from this man and i have no idea how i will ever be able to tell him.  I have herpes.  I got it from an ex (i was extremely committed to him. him, not so much in return) who cheated on me and passed it to me.

I have told this man that i want to wait until marriage until I have sex again because of all the messed up relationships i’ve had in the past.  We have talked about getting married.  I’m able to tell him everything except this….Do you have any help on how i can and should tell him?

It sounds, Prankster, like this guy is a keeper. And if this guy is a keeper, then I can’t see The Herp scaring him off. But I can absolutely see why you wouldn’t want to tell him.

But you can’t wait until marriage. That, I think, would put a serious kink in your relationship, and not the whips-and-chains kind.

So I’d approach him armed with the facts and tell him openly and honestly what happened and how terrified you were to tell him about it. If he’s as good of a guy as you say, I don’t see herpes scaring him off. Plenty of people continue to have perfectly normal and happy relationships with only one infected partner.

——————–

As always, Pranksters, please fill in where I left off in the comments. You can always submit your burningest questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky.

Also: you need to check out Froggy Girl’s Etsy shop, Hamlet’s Mistress AND Shui Teas, all of whom were brave enough to get ads on my blog, allowing me to get out from under The Man. And robots. Always with the robots.

There’s very little I like more than a bargain.

Okay, that’s a total lie. I like many things more than a bargain, up to and including sleeping, heavy sarcasm, sitting on my ass, strawberry-frosted donuts, The Twitter, mocking the founder of Facebook Mark Zuckerberg, mocking myself, obsessing over cardigans, Vicodin-chip cookies, Hostess orange-flavored cupcakes, designing photon rings in my backyard, my roses, test-driving cars, napping, thinking about napping, and watching reruns of Law and Order.

But when I get a bargain, I get the rush that I’m pretty certain causes otherwise normal people to get up at midnight and stand out in the freezing cold to be the first in line to buy something abnormally cheap on Black Friday.

I just couldn’t bring myself to actually do it, rush or no.

I’ve thought about why I wouldn’t do it most of the week  (still flat on my back in pain)and I think it boils down to not being a Team Player. I’m just not a Team Player. Shut your whore mouth.

Even if I could get my spot in line and guarantee that the item I wanted would be mine ALL MINE, I would be carted off to jail well before the doors opened.

How the hell do I know this without ever having stood in a single line? SIMPLE. I read your blogs. You guys DO stand in those lines. And between my Pranksters are peppered The Crazies. Aunt Becky don’t play with The Crazies. Especially the PUSHY crazies.

The very moment some asswad threw an elbow, tried to cut in line (HATE! THAT!) or made a comment about my happy pants (they have hearts on them!), I’d be all, “Nice teeth, Cleatus, why don’t you and your recessive genes kiss my white ass and crawl back under the rock that you crawled out from under.”

Then, his fifteen cousins would come over and beat my very small-wristed ass into a bloody pulp. Not before, of course, I got in a couple of squirrelly kicks. Then the cops would come and we’d all get hauled to jail and I wouldn’t end up with the electric back-hair groomer I’d so desperately wanted for 90% off.

What a mess.

So instead, I’ll sleep leisurely in and when I wake up, I’ll catch a few shitty sales online. None will give me the same sort of thrill that getting my nose-hair trimmer would, but I really need to let my surgical scar heal before I can go to jail. That way, I can avoid being someone’s bitch by beating the shit out of someone when I first get there.

It’s not the same, I know, so instead, I’ll live through you.

Tell me your stories. I’m sure someday I’ll go shop the Black Friday sales and bring a video camera to capture it all for maximum hilarity (for my blog, of course). Hopefully Cletus will avoid the lens when he beats me silly.

So tell me all about your experiences with the sales. My delicate wrists are going to live vicariously through you this year.

While my initial plans for Thanksgiving included sitting on my ass at home alone, I’ve been kidnapped by my savage crotch parasites (who were aghast that I was planning to avoid the festivities) and am in a car on my way to Wisconsin. I’m hoping they’ll drop me at the Mars Cheese Castle, but I doubt it’s open.

Simply put, the Mars Cheese Castle is the 9th Wonder of the World (my ass is #8) and while Wisconsin and Illinois have a longstanding war, I like to think the Cheese Castle is really in Illinois.

I’d been planning to write something different here today about what I’m thankful for, but really, I think I said it best over on Band Back Together. And since the Internet is closed on holidays, I expect a whole lot of Viag!a robots to “read” this.

But I did mean it and it showed that somewhere in there, I do have feelers beyond “pass the donuts.”

Happy Thanksgiving, Pranksters.

Weddings shall be banned unless people are wearing something from my newly-minted gallery of Fug Wedding Dresses. Because obviously.

Everything shall be renamed in fanciful (likely rude) terms. Like the “Shut Your Whore Mouth Pie*” I’m making today. MUCH more tasty sounding than “Bourbon Vanilla Pecan Pie.”

I will ban the word “literally.” Most people MISUSE it (myself included). You are not “literally shitting your pants” unless you have a pile of dookie in your drawers. So let’s just call it a white-flag and remove the word from the English language before I grind my teeth into nubbins from hearing it.

You will be able to SAY what you’re looking for into the computer and the proper web page will be pulled up. That way, I can end my Ugly Cardigan Of Doom Campaign** and focus on the more worthwhile pursuit of staring at my wall.

Bloggers – no matter the size of their blogs – will be rock stars. We shall rise from the ranks of the fumbling nerds to snort cocaine off hot models and party into the night with our entourage of hangers-on.

Anything that’s undecided by a traditional argument will be taken to a dance-off. Especially in political forums. The White House will have a fucking sweet House Band and a disco floor to host these dance-offs. It will, of course, make the world interested in politics.

Speaking of that, the White House will be renamed “The Sequined House.” Why? White is drab and dull. With Richard Simmons as our mascot, we need fabulous. Plus, then we can finally put an end to people who make jokes about the color of the damn house.

Pain shall be outlawed and sent to the “Alot” island. Pain is fucking bullshit.

I will set the top scientists in the country to work on something to measure seriousness. Anyone who is too serious for too long will have to listen to ABBA  and watch dancing cat videos until they are smiling again. Even if they are smiling because they are now certifiable from listening to ABBA.

Abdominoplasty’s will be available to everyone who wants one.

Bret Michaels: Rock Of Herpes Love will come back on the air and NEVER LEAVE. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss that show.

Band Back Together will form a real band. I’ll totally play triangle. Or be a backup dancer. OBVIOUSLY.

**where the hell do you buy cardigans if you hate cardigans?

*am totally (fake) photoblogging it

——————

What are you going to do when you own The Universe?

After getting some shit for writing about how uncomfortable I was in my skin when I was heavier, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to talk about weight, so let me preface all of what I say with this: I write satire and I also write from the heart. I do not, have not, and never will care about what anyone else does, weighs or looks like. I am not about to attack anyone for their weight because your weight does not matter to me (Aunt Becky loves you as you are) and I never have attacked someone on or offline for it.

When I talk about my struggles with weight, I am being honest. When I talk about my struggles with headaches, I am also being honest. I am not a doctor. I am not telling you what to do. I am also not asking you what you think of what I have done. You do not have to agree with it to be my friend.

ONTO THE POST.

In the LONG GONE days when I was skinny, I always had a bit of a pot belly. While the chick in Pulp Fiction thought they were cute, I counted down the years until I could have a tummy tuck. I think everyone has that feature they dislike tremendously about themselves. My stomach was mine.

The pooch got worse after I gained and lost 60-70 pounds three times (thanks, crotch parasites), most of the weight in my torso, and by the time I’d gotten down to the weight I was three weeks ago, (sixteen pounds away from my high school weight), I probably could have worn the excess skin as a handy scarf. It was a matter of when I’d get the skin lopped off and when always fell into the nebulous future along with “achieving total world domination” and “learning to make jello.” I figured I’d get to it when I’d get to it.

When I did end up in the plastic surgeon’s office to discuss a possible breast reduction, I’d made the appointment to discuss a tummy tuck as well. Figured I’d at least DISCUSS it with the guy while I was in there…right?

The breast reduction, he said, was probably going to leave me unhappy. Especially because according to the weird insurance criteria, it wouldn’t be covered, at least (according to you Pranksters) not without some major legwork. He said I’d probably want an augmentation with some reduction and other things I can’t remember and I trusted that coming from him.

The tummy tuck, I learned, could fix some of my abdominal muscles, something that had been long busted since I’d gotten pregnant with my first. Plus, it was going to fix something else I’d hated: my pooch.

My abdominal muscles were in sad shape, even I knew that, and were likely contributing to some of my migraines. Not my normal migraines, but the ones triggered by muscles spasms in my back and neck. It wasn’t necessarily a reason to do the surgery. It wasn’t necessarily going to fix anything.

Medicine is, after all, an imprecise science.

We all know that I signed up for a full abdominoplasty and had one three weeks ago tomorrow.

I paid out of pocket. Entirely. (for all of you who asked)

The full abdominoplasty differs from the mini-abdominoplasty in that it deals with tightening the muscles underneath. In my case, he repaired a diastasis recti (separation between the left and right side of the rectus abdominis muscle, which covers the front surface of the belly area.). A full abdominoplasty is also a more major surgery.

The surgeon thought that he could remove 2-3 pounds from my abdominal area. He removed 6 and fixed my abdominal muscles.

Not going to lie. The recovery has sucked far harder than I’d thought it would. I’m sawed more than in half. I’m in pain most of the time. I have to wear a delicious (read: hideous) binder all of the time, too (which reminds me, I need to buy a new one. I’m thinking that I’ll buy a Spanx or a Yummy Tummy rather than a medical one. Which do you recommend?).

As one of my Pranksters said, it does get better every day. And the results are amazing. My headaches are better. I’m swollen, but every day, I’m a little less so.

I’m happy that I did it.

I don’t have a before picture of my pooch before my operation. If I go up on the doc’s website, I’ll show you, but I didn’t take one. I was too embarrassed.

Instead, I can give you this:

Meet Fetus Amelia, Pranksters.

It’s the only shot I have of me while pregnant.

Now, for the dramatic reveal. Please excuse the lighting in my bathroom. I am not orange. I swear.

I know you want my binder. AND my phone.

And here’s the dramatic NO BINDER reveal*

The lines you’re seeing are mostly from laying on the binder. And yes, I am a little swollen.

My stomach, Pranksters, even swollen, has NEVER been so flat. EVER.

This totally beats a pair of boobs.

*I’ll take another picture next week BEFORE I get cast onto Baywatch**.

**Is that show even on anymore?

Should you, Pranksters, decide to start dicking around with your blog, please take it from me and do it on a TEST site. Then you will not have to throw up garbage posts like this that serve no particular purpose, save from allowing me to test one thing.

I will leave you with this:

This is a picture of The Daver. I took it at my surgeon’s office. He’s smiling because I just gave him a pamphlet on Male Breast Reduction.

This has been the longest time that I’ve had to sit around and do nothing while I wasn’t acutely dying and/or pregnant (I don’t handle pregnancy very well) and I’ll be honest that I haven’t exactly been a model citizen to anyone I live with. While some people may long for the time when they can sit around like a banana slug, I will tell you that I am not that person. It’s always been my biggest nightmare (besides being stuck in an episode of 7th Heaven) that I become stuck in bed for days on end.

I’m not exactly in bed but I am wearing a healthy ass-groove into the couch. I sort of fear for the moment that I am released from the couch because I’m deathly afraid that I will go leaping off into the wilderness wearing a tinfoil hat screaming “THEY’RE AFTER MEEEE!”

There is one sliver of good that has come of this whole “sitting around like a cockroach” and that’s that it’s forced me to consider things like, “who is the best detective on Law and Order?” and “How can I hate The Who so much?” and “How can I take better care of my blog?”

The latter sounds douchier than it should, but this is the year of Bringing Aunt Becky Back. My blogging cohorts all seem to be a bit better business-people than I ever have been, and I was sitting there on the couch, the voice of the motivational speaker from Dexter echoing in my head, “TAKE IT!” Trust me, it’s creepy as hell.

I’ve been saying that if I can’t make it as a writer (hel-lo shitty market!)(read: hel-lo shitty writer!), I’ll try and make it as a blogger.

So that’s what I’m doing.

I parted ways with my ad company, I’m selling my own ads and I’m making some changes on my bloggity-blog. Most of all, I’m trying to get motivated to do more.

Why?

Because this is what I do. This is what I love to do. And I needed to remind myself that I am worth it. I need to take myself seriously as a business-person, even if I don’t own the powersuit and sensible heels.

If I don’t take what I do here seriously, why would anyone else?

As female/mommybloggers, people don’t take us very seriously anyway and we all know that’s bullshit. But how are people supposed to take us seriously if we don’t take what we do with some semblance of seriousness? I don’t mean like we need to play our “We Are Women Hear Us Roar” records and dance around the room but I do mean that we are mighty and we are many and we should act like we deserve the power we have. We need to own it.

And I am. One thing at a time.

——————

Here’s where I’m asking you, Pranksters, The Question. The question of the ages (that’s a lie).

I pulled down my blogroll while I revamp it (= it’s gone right now) and I’m wondering honestly what you think of my blogroll. I’m adding a poll and I’d love your comments. Do I bother revamping it and putting it back? Do you guys like having it? I kind of do, but I get upset sometimes because non-Pranksters will be all, PUT ME ON YOUR BLOGROLL, BITCH, and then I realize they’re using me for the free real estate.

Oh, and I will always keep it as an open-door policy, meaning it won’t ever be just like 5 people on it. Does that change your opinion of it?

[poll id=”5″]

Rad, yo.