*You know what’s bullshit? When people are all, “oh, well, that’s a pain in the….(pause) neck” instead of saying, “ass” or “taco” or “motherfucking asshole” or something. I’m a big fan of profanity. You might even say that I’m profanity’s number one fan. I could wear a Number 1 Finger for Profanity every day. Even if it’s not actually a swear word. Like “pube” or “crotch” which can be totally used in swear form, even if it’s not a swear word.

Aunt Becky + Profanity = BFFFFFFFF!

So, it grieves me to title a post “Pain in the Neck” because it looks like I’m trying to say something else.

I’m not.

For months, I’ve had a pain in my neck. It’s not like a TUMOR or like a little person living there or something, my neck just fucking hurt, and because I’m a responsible person, I ignored the shit out of it. I ignored it until I couldn’t, and finally, I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor almost as much as I hate cream-based condiments, and so I’m all *slink-slink* “my neck huuuuuurts” and when he said, “what did you do to injure it?” it was all I could do to not say something juvenile.

I refrained. I snickered, but refrained.

So he prodded my neck and was impressed by the spasms he felt. I felt impressed that he was impressed. I give good “spasms,” I guess. Then he gave me muscle relaxants, I nearly tongued him because by this point, I was in so much pain that I would have licked the toilet clean if it meant that it would stop hurting. I practically chewed the tabs after I got them and when I had no relief, I actually did cry (you shut your whore mouth. I can cry in pain, Pranksters) because it had hurt so much for so long and HOLY FUCK MAKE IT STOP.

I was back at the doctor within a week. This time, he prescribed Physical Therapy (in capitol letters).

I was Not Happy (in capitol letters).

Now, I know there are people that swear by Physical Therapy, and I’m sure they have had great experiences. That’s fabulous. PT is awesome for people who are going through rehab for actual injuries, trauma, you know, people who have a need to have P motherfucking T. Unlike me. I still don’t fucking know what I did to myself. It’s not like I was rescuing a basketful of cute kittens from a burning building or something.

My beef with Physical Therapy is this: I like stuff that doesn’t take me six motherfucking months to see results. I was in pain NOW, therefore I want relief, well, NOW. But the doc was convinced that therapy was where it’s at, so I left with my orders, and I promptly abandoned them at home. For a week. Until the pain was bad enough that I was all, ‘FINE, YOU WIN, PHYSICAL THERAPY.’

Turns out, this Physical Therapy shit isn’t so bad. Looks like I might have some “muscle spams” from being “unable to relax” or something.

The worst part is actually the massages. I know, I’m like the only person on the planet that hates massages, but I tell you, I hate to relax. Genuinely, I have issues with it. Laying face down on a table with my head in what appears to be a vagina isn’t my idea of a great way to spend the morning. I’d rather work. Or work out. Or uh, feed the homeless. OR ANYTHING ELSE.

This is not my massage table. But I had to show you the Vagina/Head Hole and why I find it incredibly dangerous (also: why I should never, ever be allowed to alter photos):

But after the massages, I do some weird electrical thing where they stimulate my neck. I’m hoping it’ll turn my neck into a Hulk Neck. Why be dainty when you can HULK SMASH?

Either way, it turns out, it might be helping a little. I hate to admit that Physical Therapy might actually be worth something.

Even if they don’t advocate drugs. Which, hi, that’s kinda bullshit.

—————–

Dude, check out who has an ANIMATED interview up over here at Mompetition. That? Is full of the awesome.

And CHARITY is full of the awesome too. Pulling a David Cook for free Cold Stone for a year, yo.

The David Cook

You know what? It’s DAMN hard to write about nice charity things. It was way easier to write about my ongoing war with John C. Mayer. You’ll be glad to note, Pranksters, that I have resumed my war with John C. Mayer.

I just thought I should mention that Pulling a John C. Mayer and being a snarky asshole is a hell of a lot easier than Pulling a The David Cook for Charity. And it’s a shame, too. I really do like The David Cook and John C. Mayer makes my vagina hurt with his douchiness.

That said, I’ll allow a couple more days to win a years worth of motherfucking ice cream for motherfucking charity. Who gives a fucking shit if you’re fucking polite about it and fucking shit? We can be charitable without being all vanilla. And shit.

Dear Aunt Becky,

What would you do if every (almost) morning you get to work there is a human pubic hair on your desk? Most often, one.singular.hair. – Aside from puke in your mouth.

Fact – It’s not mine, for sure! Aside from my overgardening in the pubic region, I don’t generally gear down at work and rub my box on my desk.

There is nothing – and I mean not even listening to the collective works of John C. Mayer – that is worse than finding a rogue pubic hair floating around your space that doesn’t belong to you. Whenever I find one that is very distinctly not my own, I’m horrified and then I have to tell someone that I found it (God knows I need a muzzle).

Here is my question, Prankster: is it the same type of pube? Because that changes my answer entirely. If someone is plucking a singular pube from their crotch every night and arranging it neatly on your desk, well, perhaps they are trying to say, “Hey, I like you, let me show you my genital hair!” Maybe this suitor leaves a single pube instead of a rose!

That’s a very special way of saying how much he loves you! “Let’s get a drink! I’m showing you my pubes first!”

If it is not the same type of pube, if you are getting many different -single – daily pube deposits, well, it appears that you have many special suitors. They all want you to see their crotchal regions before you agree to have a drink with them. Aren’t you so lucky!

Or, perhaps you have a Pube Fairy at work. In which case I suggest you buy a shotgun and a trap. Those fuckers are assholes.

(P.S. I am declaring “Pube” as the new insult. Also: “Crotch”)(because, obviously)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I cannot remember how I got to your Website, I think it was Bloggess, but I could be wrong.  But that is not my question or even really important, sometimes I forget to start with the pertinent items.  Your site, which is way amusing and appreciated by me leaves me with one question.  I hate to ask, ’cause your entire post makes me think I really should know the answer.

Who is this John C. Mayer?  Is it the same guy who talked about J.Simpson as sexual Napalm and who seems to have J. Aniston on booty call speed dial?  If not, is this some other surname for John C. Maxwell that I haven’t heard of?  I need to know, ’cause I’m waiting to read your archives until I find out in advance if you like these asshats.

Thanx!

Oh Prankster, no day is complete without a rousing discussion of John C. Mayer. (I do not, however, know who this John C. Maxwell is, so perhaps you could enlighten me).

John C. Mayer is an extremely talented guitar player who wrote one of the worst songs in the world: “Your Body is a Wonderland.” It may have passed under my radar as only “acutely annoying” if I hadn’t had to listen to it 52,897 while every XX chromosome I knew cried about how beautiful it was.

It was not beautiful. It was stupid. It made me want to heave.

I waged war on John C. Mayer for being a douchy pop star for years. Turns out, he’s actually kind of witty and pretty funny.

Recently, he’s been in the news for making completely inappropriate comments about his penis, and while I appreciate penis comments, even I balked at them. He is the one who called Jessica Simpson “sexual napalm” which is something I cannot actually understand. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I’ve spent nights awake in bed wondering.

WHAT DOES SEXUAL NAPALM MEAN?!?

John C. Mayer is sort of my playful archenemy. It’s always important to have a fake archenemy who has no idea you exist, right?

hey Aunt Becky,

What are your views on porn? How much is too much?

Also, why is casting for Celebrity Rehab so unpredictable? I can’t tell if it’s still a show or when the new season starts. Can’t there be a minor league for instant call up? Always seemed like such a deep, rich vein of TV reality gold .

I find that porn is like bacon: there’s always room for more.

Porn + Porn = full of the awesome.

Unless you have a porn addiction in which case it’s probably not so much full of the awesome.

Also: really don’t need to see close-ups of the ballbags, porn makers. Just, you know, thought I’d throw that in there. Testicle skin looks a lot like chicken skin and while I find it absolutely hilarious, it’s not so much arousing as it is amusing.

Also Also: I just made sure that every male reader will never, ever want to have sex with me.

Also Also Also: Balls are awesome.

And I don’t understand Celebrity Rehab. I’ve never watched it. I’m certain my Pranksters will happily discuss it with you, though.

————————

As always, Pranksters, please pick up where I left off in the comments. Your questions can be always be submitted to Go Ask Aunt Becky.

The Pulling a David Cook for Charity post is here.

And Band Back Together, for any of you who wanted to put your charity posts up on that site, is here.

(phone rings)

Aunt Becky: (breathless) “Oh. My. GOOOOOOOD!”

The Daver: “What?”

Aunt Becky: “You’re not going to BELIEEEEVVVEEEEEE IT!!!”

The Daver: “Uh, what?”

Aunt Becky: “The most AMAZING THING JUST HAPPENED.”

The Daver: “Did an Uncrustables Truck break down in our driveway?”

Aunt Becky: “No! BETTER.”

The Daver: “Did you get contacted to write for Dexter next season?”

Aunt Becky: “Even cooler!”

The Daver: “Did you get a check for a million dollars that you DIDN’T have to pay back at 99.9% interest?”

Aunt Becky: “Nope! Guess again!”

The Daver: “Did you get your own Lifetime Original Movie where Tori Spelling would play you?”

Aunt Becky: “NO!”

The Daver: “Did you finally design a working robot monkey butler named Mr. Pinchey you’ve been carefully planning out for 3 years?”

Aunt Becky: “Not yet! Soon Mr. Pinchey will be MINE!”

The Daver: “Did you find out McDonald’s was actually good for you?”

Aunt Becky: “My ass wishes!”

The Daver: “Did you finish the Panic Room you’ve started in the treehouse?”

Aunt Becky: “Still trying to lug the lead doors up the trunk!”

The Daver: “Did you finally teach the cats to dance?”

Aunt Becky: “They’re getting a little funky fresh, but not yet!”

The Daver: “Did you find a way for our whites to get even whiter?”

Aunt Becky: “I miss Billy Motherfucking Mays.”

The Daver: “Did you find a source of non-addictive Vicodin?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s on my agenda for the weekend.”

The Daver: “Then I give up.”

Aunt Becky: “OH MY GOD. SO I GOT THIS EMAIL…I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY SENT IT TO ME!”

The Daver: “Wow. Must be quite an email.”

Aunt Becky: “It was from someone I’d been meaning to email for AGES. And SHE emailed ME first.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “IT WAS FROM THE SPINA BIFIDA ASSOCIATION. THEY WANT TO WORK WITH ME, DAVE. ME! MEEE!

The Daver: “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky (sings): “OH HAPPY DAY!”

Aunt Becky: “This is huge! Do you even know why!?! I’LL TELL YOU WHY. You know how Mimi has an encephalocele, right? That’s a neural tube defect. The Spina Bifida Association is a BIG DEAL for people with Spina Bifida! Spina BIFIDA is another NEURAL TUBE DEFECT!”

The Daver: “Yep!”

Aunt Becky: “They want to work with me to raise some awareness for Spina Bifida, which DUH, of course I’ll do. If Mimi’s encephalocele had been farther down her spine, it would have BEEN Spina Bifida, right? OF COURSE I’LL HELP ANY NEURAL TUBE DEFECT SOCIETY.”

The Daver: “Of course!”

Aunt Becky: “But this is exactly what we’re going to do with the encephalocele website we’re putting together. It’ll be for parents of kids with encephaloceles. There are so few of us out there, but still, we deserve a big website, too. IT MAKES ME SO UPSET THAT WE HAVE NOTHING, DAVE. But anyway.”

(breathes deeply)

Aunt Becky: “MAYBE THE SPINA BIFIDA ASSOCIATION WILL WORK WITH ME SOMEDAY! The March of Dimes is already thrilled about our website! And I have some of the top neurologists in the country waiting for us to get it all put together.”

The Daver: “Yay!”

Aunt Becky: “NEURAL TUBE DEFECTS UNITE!”

The Daver: “If anyone can make that happen, it’ll be you.”

Aunt Becky: “We’re going to do this. Katie, Nikki and I. We’re going to do this.”

The Daver: “You will. And it will help so many people.”

Aunt Becky: “This is better than the time I mixed Count Chocula and Frankenberry Cereal. Now I’m off to call the Spina Bifida Association.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll try not to sound like a creepy fangirl.”

The Daver: “Good luck. Because you kinda are a creepy fangirl.”

——————

Charity posts. ICE CREAM. DO IT, yo!

I’ve had a rough couple of weeks. And I don’t even mean because I’ve spent the better part of two nights “on the lam” (that’s prison speak for HIDING FROM THE POLICE) in my fake mustache and floppy hat.

Because I am not a “planner” and in fact my five-year plan still really is “don’t die” and if pressed is more like “don’t get scurvy and die,” I’ve been in the middle of several gigantic projects. Normal people might have let some of them slip so that they could focus more effectively on one, but since no one has ever accused me of being normal, smart, pretty, cool, awesome, or anything else that might be considered a compliment, I, instead, decided to plow through them. I’m happier when I’m in the middle of a zillion things anyway.

But in the middle of all of this, I realized that I’ve been sort of, well, frustrated.

My normal emotional range looks like this:

I want a nap <-> I want a cheeseburger <-> I really want a nap <-> OOOOH! SHINY

So when I feel anything beyond that, I’m never quite sure what to do. I’m going to therapy now, so I suppose I should start working on this “feelings” bullshit everyone is telling me about. Apparently not having feelings makes you a serial killer. WHATEVER.

But I’ve been feeling pulled in a zillion directions. More than that, I’ve been feeling kind of…used. And not in the dirty sex kind of way.

It’s hard to explain.

It’s like there are three kinds of Internet People: My Pranksters, Not My Pranksters and The Internet Mole People.

Pranksters = You = Awesome.

Not Pranksters = Not You = I don’t know you = could be awesome.

Internet Mole People = Creepy Forum People = trolls who occasionally pop up to say horrible things that are usually misspelled and cruel like, “PEOPL LIK U SHUD NOT HAV KIDZ” or “YOU AER FAT N UGLY N SHUD DIE.” Clearly you cannot take them seriously.

And my Pranksters, you know that I love you all hard. Internet Mole People, you know that I love you (most of you, except the ones I hate) because you remind me that no matter what, I could always be a mouth-breathing knuckled-dragging person who has nothing better to do than anonymously bully people on the internet.

It’s the Non-Pranksters that have been giving me feelings (barf). It’s not one thing, like they all came to my Target store and bought up all the Uncrustables and Diet Coke or something. It’s the pressure of trying to get to all of the projects + the issues that I have going on behind the scenes (what, me have issues?) that = actual feelings.

I got my feelers hurt because some Non-Pranksters were being assholes. That’s what it boils down to. I got my feelers hurt when I was in the middle of doing something I thought was awesome and worthwhile while going through some personal shit of my own and Non-Pranksters were all grabby and shit.

No, of COURSE it wasn’t any of you.

But I’ve been kinda upset about it for awhile. I’ve been working around the clock on Band Back Together and I couldn’t shake my anger, no matter how many videos of laughing babies I watched.

Last night, I was sent a message by a Twitter Prankster telling me another Prankster was being trolled by an Internet Mole Person. I assumed this was probably another case of being called a “fatty-fat-fat stupit hed” or something stupid, which Pranksters, IGNORE THOSE MOLE PEOPLE, or pretend they are calling you beautiful.

I was wrong.

This person was absolutely right. An Internet Mole Person (who could spell) was trolling the mourning mother who had recently lost a child so that this Mole Person could use his death as a means to show the world the evils of circumcision.

I don’t care what you think about cutting the penis, bullying a mourning family and saying, “YOU CAUSED THIS” to prove your own hysterical point is the lowest of the low. I’m beyond horrified to know that while wonderful healing is going on at Band Back Together, this horrible hatred and vitriol is being spewed at a family in mourning. I’m disgusted and appalled.

I woke up even more pissed off at people than I had been. I took to the Twitter and fired off a few tweets at the Mole Person. Then I stormed around the house, furious.

When I came back to the computer to find some dancing cat videos, I saw something. My Pranksters, you’d joined in. All of you were chewing this nasty bitch out and supporting this family who had just suffered an unimaginable tragedy.

And right then, suddenly, the anger I’d been feeling towards all of the people who’d been shitting on me was gone.

I’ve always believed in the inherent good of (most) people and I realized that’s it’s precisely that goodness that’s been missing from most of my interactions with people lately. To see it again, it made my heart smile. People are good. My Pranksters are good. I’m sure the Non-Pranksters are good people, too. They’re just not my people. Maybe they will be some day. Maybe they won’t.

And Internet Mole People can suck it.

Finally, I wrote about autism.

For a couple of weeks now, Amelia has been receiving weekly speech therapy. I’ve also taken My Pranksters’ advice and bought some Baby Signing Time DVD’s* which, which, while they have not necessarily helped my daughter (yet), they have succeeded in both annoying me (win), with their incredibly cheerful songs and entertaining my older two sons (double win).

Alex has taken to sign language like he takes to anything else: compulsively. So we watch the DVD’s (and their cheerful fucking songs) endlessly. He has them memorized and can tell you the signs for anything that he has learned. I’d be impressed, but I’m too busy trying to remove the Pizza Song from my long-term memory banks, where I’d much rather put my phone number or social security number or whatever.

The boys have been a huge help with trying to help their sister learn to speak and use sign language to communicate rather than point and shriek like a banshee.

The other night, however, the three kids were in the other room with the television watching their beloved Signing Time DVD when my daughter filled her pants. The boys, enraptured with the “I’m A Boy” song, didn’t notice.

Nor did they notice when their sister took off her loaded diaper and ran around the room.

It took a good couple of minutes before anyone noticed that my daughter was streaking around the room, covered in poo.

When we did, the entire room burst out into a single word. For all the words that we’ve tried to teach her that she’s stubbornly ignored, “Thank you,” “please,” “more,” “cereal,” “food,” my daughter learned this:

“EWWWWWW,”

Followed by, “Uh-Oh.”

Those totally count as words.

….right?

—————

*not a plug**

**I hate that I have to specify that.

————–

Over at Toy With Me, I spent more time swearing about cancer than I’ve ever sworn about anything ever.

I’m designing some Cancer is Bullshit shirts for Band Back Together with some of the proceeds going to charity. Doing good makes your ass look good.

P.S. If you don’t feel your story is “good enough” for Band Back Together, trust me, it is. We also are happy to take any reposts.

I’m also considering making some Prankster shirts. Is that lame or awesome? Shut Your Whore Mouth. If that’s lame, what’s better?

My awesome friend Katelyn’s Krafts is now featured on my sidebar, which is full of the win. She sells sassafrassy totes in her Etsy store. Win!

My day started out full of the win.

I normally find Sundays to be the most worthless days on the planet, a day that I feel should be blown off the map entirely to be replaced by The Day To Worship Baby Jesus AND Aunt Becky (or something other than Sunday), but this particular Sunday, I finally finished something that had been sitting in the back of my brain, beating to get out, and I knew that what I had finished was good.

It was the end of a series of essays and I’d managed to fit them all together perfectly. Months of waiting and finally, the right thing came out. The relief was enormous.

Monday dawned and it was like that part of my brain (admittedly very small) was open again so that I could once again fill it up with thinking about all of the reasons I hate Averil Lavigne, since I did call off my war against John C. Mayer.

Immediately after I got up, my daughter managed to, while getting her fingernails trimmed, slice the tippy-top of her thumb off. (this is why I beg other people to do it) Blood every-fucking-where. Fingers are way vascular, so it took ages to clot. Seeing my daughter’s blood triggered some pretty bad flashbacks from her first weeks of life for me.

But I’m all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, BECKY, SHAKE THAT SHIT OFF.

When I’m upset, I’m not all, mope-around-the-house, I’m all, let’s-get-r-done, so I started cleaning the shit out of the house and paying all the bizarre bills I owed. Like the ones for $2.10 that were all, “IF YOU DON’T PAY THIS, WE’RE GOING TO TAKE YOU TO COLLECTIONS” and I’m all, uh, you’re wasting your ink, because I just forgot because it’s two fucking dollars and they’re all, “I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS” and yesterday I’m all, “FINE, HERE IT IS.”

Because really, I wasn’t trying to keep the hospital away from their fucking two dollars, I just wasn’t rushing it because it was two fucking dollars. MY BAD.

So yesterday, I sat down to seven dollars worth of bills that I’d neglected for months because I am a lazy fuck who never has stamps because mailing things makes me break out in hives because I am lazy.

Then, I opened my day planner, which I have to use, because I take a really high dosage of a medication for my My Grains called “Topamax.” Topamax, for those of you unaware, is an old-ass epilepsy drug that has many side effects, including as my neurologist so kindly puts it: “cognitive impairment.”

The Max, as I call it, makes you dumb as fuck (or in my case, dumbER). You forget words, names, dates, times, things you’re supposed to do. It’s a well-documented problem and it sucks. My memory used to be full of the awesome now it’s full of holes. But, it helps with my My Grains, so that’s that.

(I have a particular problem with numbers and names)

Yesterday, I’m all, OH SHINY DATE BOOK! and I popped it open to see what I had inside for the week, knowing I had Jury Duty on Tuesday, 8AM.

And my heart thudded to a stop in my chest. There, right on the Jury Duty summons I’d neatly clipped into my date book was the actual name of the day: “MONDAY.”

FUCK.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon on Monday, hours after I was supposed to be in court.

I just SKIPPED Jury Duty by accident. I wasn’t doing anything better. I had no grand plans. I was going to show up in the courts on Tuesday, like I’d planned. I nearly died.

I checked to see if my jury number had been called and it had. Of course it had.

Immediately, I called the number on the back of the summons and got, you guessed it, voicemail. Nothing could have been resolved right then and there. No, not yesterday. I left a panicky message and waited for the cops to show up to arrest me. The back of the summons said that if I didn’t show up they COULD fine me! Or send me to JAIL!

I tried to figure out how Young Hollywood or COPS would handle it if they were waiting for the 5-0 to come and arrest them. I put on a full face of make-up and hid in the bathtub for awhile until I got cold and hungry and wandered back into the kitchen for an Uncrustables.

When nothing had happened by 7PM, I figured I’d the system might have lost me. Or maybe they’d wait until I least expected it. I put on a fake mustache and a hat because I knew THEN that the cops would totally not recognize me when they came for me. That way, I could watch House, MD and not have to sit curled up in the bathtub with a mattress on top of me any longer.

My name is now Senor Aunt Becky. I am officially a fugitive from the law.

My older brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, who is ten years my senior, is still angry with my mother for dressing him in striped shirts for most of his childhood. Knowing my mother, she probably did try to stuff him into those hated striped shirts until he was well into college, so maybe he does have a point.

My mother gave me The Bangs that started at approximately the crown of my head and ended in a straight line at my eyebrows. The Bangs used most of my hair. The Bangs are the reason I shuddered when I saw that bangs came back into fashion a couple of years ago.

I cannot see bangs as anything other than The Bangs and I’m constantly terrified that a wandering pair of scissors is going to accidentally cut my hair into The Bangs again.

Uncle Aunt Becky, I don’t share your hatred of stripey shirts, but I totally get it.

Alex has made it abundantly clear that he’s all Sherrick (my middle/maiden name) and with the exception of the albino-translucent-don’t-let-him-in-the-sun-lest-he-set-on-fire-like-parchment he’s no “Harks” whatsoever.

Being a “Sherrick” means that there is only one way that things are done and that is the right way and if things do not go that way, you will simply poke-poke-prod-poke until they are done that way again. The PROPER way. If we eat ham on Easter, we’ll eat motherfucking ham every Easter until we have motherfucking PORK poisoning and it doesn’t matter if you hate ham, or if EVERYONE hates ham because we eat motherfucking HAM on motherfucking EASTER goddammit so you better get used to it!

I am *ahem* slightly less rigid than this (shut your whore mouth, Pranksters) but I certainly have quite a bit of Sherrick in me, too.

Alex, however is a miniature version of my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, minus the vampiric skin, of course. Uncle Aunt Becky is swarthy like Your Aunt Becky. I attributed a lot of his Sherrick-ness to being a toddler until I realized that actually, you can’t breed that shit out. Like the poo jokes he makes. Alex is 100% Sherrick.

(Man, I know I’m just making you all want to come to my house for Christmas. “NOW, it’s time for YOU to tell a fart joke, Uncle Aunt Becky! YES YOU!”)

Last night, I was ordering some cheap-ass clothes from the Old Navy website. I’m generally not a fan of disposable clothes, but I’m still losing the baby weight (thank you, my children for helping me pile on a fuck-ton of weight while barfing my brains out), and Old Navy is perfect for these sorts of things. Plus, I had a coupon, and buying things with coupons makes me happy in the pants.

So I was adding some fall clothes for me and I figured I’d be nice and grab The Daver some t-shirts while I was at it.

While I was looking at their men’s clothes, I saw that striped shirts for men were back in vogue.

Your Aunt Becky: “Uh, dude, weird. Striped shirts for guys?”

The Daver: “What?”

Your Aunt Becky: “Yeah, Old Navy is selling striped shirts for men.”

The Daver: “Really?”

Aunt Becky: “Steve from Blues Clues ruined those for grown men.”

The Daver: “Ha, yeah.”

Aunt Becky: “Although, he’s got to get a lot of soccer mom ass.”

The Daver: “Maybe if I wore them, I’d get a lot of soccer mom ass.”

Aunt Becky: “Or maybe you’d look like Waldo.”

The Daver: “Touche.”

Alex: “I want a striped shirt.”

Aunt Becky: “What?”

Alex: “Will you get me a striped shirt?”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, really?”

Alex: “Yes, please. May I please have a striped shirt?”

(he thought I was asking him to ask politely)

Aunt Becky: “Ooookay, baby. I’ll get you a striped shirt.”

Alex: “YAAAAAYYYY!”

This morning:

Alex: “MOM! WHERE’S MY STRIPED SHIRT!?!”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, you were serious?”

Alex: “Yes please.”

Aunt Becky: “REALLY!?!”

Alex: “I would like a striped shirt from the store.”

Aunt Becky: “I can’t wait to tell Uncle Aunt Becky.”

Now, if Amelia wants bangs, I may have to have stage an Intervention.

———————–

Poke-poke-poke-prod-poke. CHARITY POSTS. I rewrote the intro for the Fans of The David Cook who have been finding their way here, confused and alone.

For the first time ever, I have had to rewrite a post, and not because I overused the word ‘fuck’ or got sued by someone (yet). In the original post, I made an unhelpful comment that started a comment thread that was unhelpful to the asker. The comment thread is important, so I left it on the post below, but I want this post to focus on the question and this Prankster.

It’s also very clear to me that we ASD people need a space to talk. I’m trying desperately to start something over at Band Back Together, so if you’re on the fence, please hop over.

The previous post is up for us to discuss our experiences with autism. This post is here to help, support and guide this Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Do you have any advice for mothers of children who have recently been diagnosed with autism? How did you figure out what was best for Ben? I feel so lost.

Oh Prankster, I’m so sorry for what happened in the last post. I tried to answer your question properly and give you some hope about your child’s condition. I wanted you to see that while you go through some of the really hard times, there are bright spots, too.

There is always hope. Special needs parenting does not always need to be as awful and overwhelming as it feels.

I’m afraid that the wealth of information of autism can sometimes overwhelm us. I did not have that when my son was born and in many ways, I am grateful. I was fortunate to have a child on the lighter end of the spectrum. I had a wonderful Early Intervention caseworker, we had some amazing therapies and putting him into a Montessori preschool full of physicists’ kids was the trick to help Ben.

Is he “cured?” Of course not. That’s not how it works. But I don’t regularly share the darker parts of autism and I didn’t figure that this would be the time to showcase it. Instead, I pointed out that my son was quirky and wonderful as he is. This is true. There are times when it has been dark and awful and hard. This is also true. As a newly diagnosed parent, you do not need to know the dark times, as your dragons will never be the same as mine.

What happened next was not what I wanted to have happen and for that I am deeply sorry. You wanted my help. I wanted to help you. I had hoped that my Pranksters could show you some resources that I did not know of to guide you in your journey. I’ve never used The Internet for autism resources. I’ve never connected with other autistic parents. I don’t have other special needs parents that I routinely talk to.

My son is older than most of the autistic parents I’ve seen online which makes it harder to connect with them.

I am trying to put together an autism resource page and get some of the autistic parents I’ve met to post over at Band Back Together so that we can form a community there. Perhaps there we can share our different perspectives and grow together. I think gathering in one place would be a good thing for all of us. I’ve never felt comfortable talking in great detail about my son here. I don’t know that I ever will. I’d be honored if you would come share with us over there.

Now, I am going to share some resources with you again.

Faces of Autism is a great resource for you.

US Asperger and Autism Association is another great source of information.

So, Pranksters, what would you tell a newly diagnosed parent?

And, if you’d like to talk about autism, I welcome in the post below, but now is the time to support this scared Prankster.

Autism. GO.

I brought you a new guest post today, Pranksters, so that I can spend today lazily writing up resources for Band Back Together on such light topics as “Rape!” and “Abuse!” I’m practically taking the day off, really. This is my home-slice LittleBig, and she’s fucking hilarious. Don’t forget your charity posts, yo.

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Recently Aunt Becky asked me to guest blog and several hours later when I regained consciousness I was almost bitten by a black widow. Coincidence? I think not. She made me an offer I can’t refuse.

I couldn’t fathom why she’d ask me to contribute until I realized she was probably needed time off to listen to her John C.Mayer albums. (Ed Note: I fucking hate you, slut) She’s doing recon to reveal his weak points. So far she’s uncovered the fact that this wonderland he keeps talking about is actually some sort of lame Euro-Disney.

Let me introduce myself: I’m a wife, mother and librarian living the agricultural center of California. My life is a glamorous mix of trying to make ends meet, surviving through an autoimmune disease, and savoring the small moments that make life worthwhile.

I took advantage of the fact I was interviewed by NPR to say ‘bird porn’ and ‘butt wiggle’ on the radio. My daughter is a year and a half and when I’m not playing outside with her I’m digging through bins of junk at the local thrift store. I love the thrill of tracking down good vintage items so much that in a former life I must have been a tomb raider.

I’m going to tell you a story about the time my house was invaded by bees. I wrote the original story in about two minutes so this version is revised somewhat. Why this specific story? Because if you know me then you know I get a ton of hits to my blog from people searching for “motherfucking wasp website.” That’s me! Your virtual source for angry hornets.

It started last year when Isobel was just two sweet weeks old. My sister, who was living with us at the time, noted that our 25lb cat Zorro was acting strangely, even for him, and she went into the kitchen to take a closer look.

SHE FOUND A BEE. IN MY HOUSE.

A BEE! IN MY HOUSE!

Zorro had stunned the poor thing and between the two of us and a shoe we managed to kill it.

Now, I like bees. In fact, I’d say I’m fond of bees and am keenly aware of their necessary role in our food supply. I’m worried about the loss of native pollinators in the Valley.

But I had a newborn baby in the house and I wasn’t taking any chances. How the bee got in my kitchen was a mystery. We don’t have window screens so we never open the windows for fear the cats would get out. The only thing that seemed to fit was the air vent in the ceiling. At the time we had a pest control service, so I immediately got on the phone and requested someone come over POST HASTE to fix our bee situation.

I explained that we had a newborn. I didn’t have to explain that I was on the edge.

As much as I loathe the idea of spraying poison around our yard we have something of a black widow problem. Our house sat vacant for a year before we moved in an black widows established so many colonies we had (a mourning? a murder? a poisoning?) a SHITLOAD of black widows. I’d find them daily, sometimes twice a day, whenever I went outside. We temporarily decided it was worth it to get pest control.

Our Very Nice Pest Man arrived and searched for an entrance. He sprayed and double-sprayed. He said that most likely the bees were getting in from the attic. He could spray there but we’d have to load up the baby and cats and be gone awhile. I was not happy with the idea of bug-bombing the place with a newborn, so we decided to wait.

After that first incident, our Bee Incidences died down.

Occasionally throughout that summer we’d noticed Zorro flipping out and we’d realize we had another bee in the kitchen. Zorro would either kill it for us or damage it and we’d finish it off with the fly swatter. I’d like to say right here, right now that our cat Zorro is THE BEST DOG EVER AND I LOVE HIM.

Once the weather started cooling down in October our Bee Incidences stopped altogether. Winter saved our home from insect invasion better than The Very Nice Pest Man could.

Winter passed, and summer rolled around again. But this time it was different.

WE FOUND WASPS.

MOTHERFUCKING WASPS!

IN MY MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE!

As horrible as the bees were, this was a million times worse.

Yellow Jackets.

Even the name makes me shudder.

Have you ever been stung by a Yellow Jacket?

Those bastards don’t die with the sting the way THOSE POOR SWEET BEES DO. Those bastards ARE SADISTS WHO ENJOY YOUR TERROR AND PAIN. They sting you OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

Nobody is ever stung just once by a wasp. They are stung multiple times before the wasp flies off, FREE AND CLEAR, LIKE A HIT-AND-RUN DRIVER.

Wasps are terrorists.

Wasps are bullies.

And they were in our house.

We finally were able to determine (after much angst and hand-wringing, and multiple wasp-blows with a shoe) that they were indeed coming in through a vent. Perhaps they were coming in through our dilapidated roof, or perhaps they were coming in through our attic.

Either way, they were using the vent.

At this point we could no longer afford the services of The Very Nice Pest Man but I convinced Anthony that something needed to be done.

I was tired of these MOTHER FUCKING WASPS IN THE MOTHER FUCKING HOUSE.

He said, you’re right. Let’s go to the store.

At our local Hardware Supply Store we talked to a very understanding and sympathetic girl who was probably half my age.

What could she possibly know about wasps? I thought. She’s still learning the ways of the world!

She told us where we could not only get Yellow Jacket traps for the attic but also filters to physically block the vents that would still let air through.

I said, Thank you. We’ll take seven.

At this point we were averaging about four wasps per week which in my opinion is ten too many. This situation disturbed me so deeply I started having nightmares about it.

I’m happy to say that since Anthony installed the trap and layered our vents with filters we’ve had only one wasp issue, and that was because Anthony did not layer up one vent completely like I requested him to.

Since then we haven’t been troubled by wasps inside our house, but the experience has scarred me for life.

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If you missed me, Your Aunt Becky (which, hi, you totally didn’t because I’m still laughing at this motherfucking post), here’s where I was this week.

HOW TO HAVE BETTER THE SEX. I bolded it because, well, obviously. Also, I had a troll tell me I was prude, so I motherfucking SHOWED HER.

I got interviewed over at Sex (SEE, NOT PRUDE) and the Single Dad.

My essay about my friend Stef is up over at The Drinking Diaries.

And holy shitballs, Band Back Together needs you. Yes you. Get your whore mouth over there. I know you have a story. So get your pants on (or off) and tell it.