When I was in the third grade, I got my first hate mail:

Dear Becky,

I like you a little bit, but it grows smaller every day.

Love,

Becky

First, yes, her name was Becky also, and Part B, she signed it “Love, Becky” so I knew she wasn’t entirely serious. Third graders are notoriously fickle and she was probably pissed that my bejeweledness was awesomer than hers. Because it was.

Also, I had an older brother who could REALLY insult me and frankly, hers couldn’t hold a candle to what Uncle Aunt Becky could say.

But it DID hurt because those things DO matter when you’re eight and I vividly remember trying to tell my mom about “THIS ONE TIME THAT…”

She totally didn’t get it. My mother was never terribly hip about that sort of thing because she was too busy listening to folk music and churning butter and canning *shudder* tomatoes to care about what her “Ice-Ice-Baby,” bejeweled daughter could be upset about. I think that stuff just eluded her.

She just couldn’t possibly understand how it might matter that I have the right jacket and the right song to slow dance to at the skate rink and the perfect bangs that DID NOT start at approximately the back of my neck, like she always cut them.

Butter took precedence. Which, whatever. I MIGHT have a bang phobia now.

So my kid just graduated the third grade and yesterday he went over to a friend’s house on a playdate (okay, when we were kids, my mom just kicked us out and locked the door when the sun came up. There were no “playdates,” right?).

After he got home, he confessed that he didn’t have very much fun because they’d been fighting, and inwardly I groaned, because instantly I flashed back to all of the fights I’d had with my friends at that age over, well, anything. It seemed I was always stomping away from something or another or baffled because my friends were doing the same.

He explained what had happened, and it involved telling a secret that he hadn’t been informed WAS a secret, something I informed him wasn’t a particularly heinous crime, and he informed me that this was pretty much standard behavior for this friend.

Luckily, he wasn’t overly upset by this and isn’t planning on going back. This is the part of raising an autistic kid that’s fairly awesome. The hurt feelings aren’t quite of the same caliber as they are with someone like, oh, I don’t know, YOUR AUNT BECKY.

I submit this photo as proof:

This is Your Aunt Becky, circa 1989 (ish). Clearly, I am upset by something (and it’s not my uncle, who, despite the fact that he looks like he wants to throttle me or perhaps stone me to death or sell me for parts, is actually one of my favorite people).

What could that possibly be, you ask innocently, my Pranksters?

I have enhanced the photo for your digital pleasure so that you may see PRECISELY why I have such a look upon my face.

A-HA!

It’s because I hate Jethro TULL! CLEARLY at age 9, I already knew that while I enjoy most classic rock, Jethro Tull is one of the few exceptions! Aqua-Lung, one of the WORST songs out there!

Clever, CLEVER girl!

But did I have to look so fucking EMO about it?

The answer is OBVIOUSLY. Because at age 9, everything is very, very serious, I am learning, and nothing is not worth a good door-slamming.

On the upside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me. On the downside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me.

—————

So gather up around me, Pranksters, and grab a tall drink because I sure as shit need one and it’s only 9 AM. What were YOU like at this age?

—————

I am at Toy With Me talking about my, well, my sex-after-three-kids-life. And I need help. No, seriously, I’m asking for help.

—————-

If you’d like, you can vote for me for Funniest Blog once per day until like July 11 (it’s only an email address thingy, not like a big ass give-them-your-first-born-child-thing) and I would hump your leg. HARD. Consider it an early birthday present!

After my quivery “Not Without My Roses” post on Thursday, my friend Mitch, who is always sending me awesome links, sends me this:

Lightning strikes three of the tallest buildings in Chicago at the same time! from Craig Shimala on Vimeo.

I don’t tend to watch videos on blogs because I always assume it they are hilarious pictures of cats playing the piano and frankly, I have SCADS of (insert term for computer memory) of my OWN fake cat Mr. Sprinkles and his wacky antics! He’s quite an accomplished fake piano player, don’t you know!

But this, well, Mitch doesn’t send me bullshit, so I watched it. You should to. It’s like 40 seconds, and it’s WICKED AWESOME. DO IT, I’ll wait here.

Apparently, The Daver did have reason to worry…IF I WERE AS TALL AS THE SEARS TOWER*.

(hint, I’m not, but I’d be WAY cooler if I were)

Or perhaps had he come outside to see this:

I know, can you believe it? How had I not shown you photographic proof before? How had it not ruined my camera? How had I not been sucked off to Kansas City to be welcomed by a swarm of very tiny people?

It’s almost like it hadn’t existed in nature before Photoshop was invented. (thank you Mrs. Soup for helping this bitch out).

While I was selfishly off pruning my roses, my daughter escaped from jail:

Then, proving that she learned what thug life means, she stole a cookie and ate it wearing her gold chains. Maybe SHE stole my pants!

And indeed, she never DOES say please. Or anything else, really.

(I do have to tell you more about that, but for now, know that I have read every single email, comment, Tweet and DM you have sent me, but I have been literally paralyzed by the gravity of the situation. I am sorry. I promise I am not being rude)

Then, my middle son decided to outdo us all and become half human-half arachnoid:

When he starts scaling buildings and fighting crime, I’ll totally claim it’s my awesome genetics.

And my last son, Benjamin, became a teenager at age 9. He is also for sale.

Actually, I may PAY you to take him for a couple of years. Attitude is included. All sales final.

And now that I have offered to sell my son (POOR TASTE, AUNT BECKY), I will advise you to pretty PLEASE vote for me (for funniest blog), which is ALSO in poor taste, I know. But what can you do? You may vote once per day.

If’n you are the voting type, you can also vote for me in the awards on my sidebar, which would be rad. Voting is good for karma, unlike stealing, which gives you herpes.

*No, I will NEVER, EVER call it the (Wesley) Willis Tower, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

My best friend has depression.  Not currently controlled by medication level depression. Evil, soul-sucking Dementor-level, capital D, Depression.  Besides listening, and being there for her (which I am trying to do, & hope I am doing enough of), how else can I help?

I’ve never had depression myself, so I feel completely incompetent here, and all of the “advice” I’ve gotten so far is in the “just be there” vein.  I’m HERE, but she doesn’t exactly always want me here.  I’m listening, but she’s sick of talking.  Any advice – from you or your pranksters – would be much appreciated.

Depression is a dog from hell.

I’m a sufferer myself, so all I can say is that you have to remember that depression changes how we feel about the smallest things fundamentally — when I’m depressed, I look at a computer and sigh and feel like it’s draining me just to think about it. When I’m not, I passionately solve problems with technology; it’s my job!

The same thing goes for my feelings about interacting with people. I will disappear into a hole, reading Twitter and — get this — desperately wishing that someone would notice how lonely and crappy I feel and reach out to me. But I don’t say a word. And if someone DOES reach out I probably wouldn’t respond except to claim that everything’s all right. It’s completely irrational and stupid. But that’s what depression does! And it’s self-fulfilling once it gets a hold of you.

So the important thing is, does she recognize her symptoms? Is she seeking treatment, and it just isn’t quite enough yet? Or is she denying it?

If she’s getting treatment, then all you can do is encourage her to stick with it. Sometimes it can take years to work out the right balance, but if she goes off her meds or skips therapy sessions then try to help get her back on the horse.

If not, then encourage her to get help. I can’t stress this enough: it took a LOT of gentle nudges and convincing to get me to go, but I’ve had a lot of good years thanks to it.

And here I lean on the Pranksters for further advice!

————

Aunt Becky, my love

I often randomly IM you on AIM and ask you little questions, or just talk about little nonsensical things with you. I understand you have children and as much as I would enjoy having a chance to just sit down and talk with you one on one, I realize you need to tend to their needs, your needs, and your 8 million plus Orchids’ needs.

I just read your Go Ask Aunt Becky about the woman who has depression. I am definitely feeling a bit of the same. I can’t snap out of it.

I was on antidepressants for a year, but I hated them, they actually made me miserable. I had quit taking the antidepressants (had a major crash) and quit taking my birthcontrol as well. I figured ingesting so many hormones was just fucking with me.

I felt a hell of a lot better afterwards. For about a month.

I am, in fact, more cheerful and much happier at home and with my relationship. I usually have no problems getting off my buttocks and going to the store or cleaning the house but, and there’s always a but! (heh heh..butt)

I cannot, for the life of me, get the motivation to go to school.

I go to a vocational school to learn to cut hair. So, basically I’m paying about 10k to work for free. I enjoy the work itself.

I love cutting hair, coloring it, styling it, etc. I just hate the people there.

My “coworkers”/”classmates”, the teachers. It’s like being in highschool s that one word or two?) all over again. We’re supposed to have theory on Wednesday and Thursday mornings. I stopped going a long time ago because it was just 3 hours of gossip. Talking about the students not there, mocking them, laughing at how they can’t do something.

I should point out that they’re speaking in a language I am not fluent in. I do understand what they’re saying, although I make it seem that I am clueless and stupid.

They’re very racist towards me. Most of the people I have met are racist towards anyone of a different nationality. If you are not fluent in the language, they are even more racist towards you.

It’s common that you meet someone at the bar and you’re a tourist or you’re not native, the first thing they ask you is “Why are you here” and then they ask you “When are you leaving?”

It’s happened to me on many occasions. I am even a citizen here, and it makes me crazy.
It’s horribly depressing and I just don’t know what to do anymore. My husband is worried about me and my father is being a dick. I have no idea how to handle this situation in a way that is socially acceptable.

If I’m lucky, I get to move back to the USA by the end of this year, but there are no certainties. I have nothing definite to look forward to to ease my troubles.

I’ve considered going to see a shrink, just to have someone to talk to about all of it. I just have an issue of having these expectations of said shrink. For instance I want them to ask me questions, talk to me, tell me what they think, see if they have advice to help me target these feelings.

I’m not sure if I am angry or if I am depressed.

I’m rambling and confused. I do get enraged over small, stupid little things. To the point of wanting to throw a bottle of bourbon through the funeral parlor window… (I hope you get the reference).

What do I do!?

-Gone to HEL

Dear Gone to HEL,

Firstly, let me just say that being frustrated and put off by gossiping racist fuckhead morons seems like a pretty reasonable reaction to your situation. I used to work in an office which was a lot more like a frat house than an office, including hazing and all the other BS.

At first, I thought that it was just a job and I would just ignore the antics and get the experience I wanted…but after a while I found myself straddling a fence: I wasn’t participating in the antics so I wasn’t respected and not included in the decisions I should have been. So I’d participate some, but then I felt I was betraying my own values. It wore me down and plunged me into the worst depressive time in my life.

I eventually quit and found another job, but I also got help for my depression. In doing so, I was able to make better decisions about what I wanted, and I was able to find a job a really liked — I have been there ever since.

So — step one: get through the depression symptoms. Once you can think about it clearly, then you can take a look at whether this school or career choice is right for you; perhaps this is only a step to tide you over until you find what you really want to do. But the important thing is to take a step. If the therapist isn’t what you wanted, try another one; if you had a bad reaction to one drug, try another. Doing nothing will feel much worse.

————-

I am 27 and I have been in two real relationships.  I’ve dated here and there but these two relationships were the serious ones.  Both lasted around three years.  The problem with this is they were both highly abusive relationships.  My partners were brilliant people but also mean, angry, and negative.  I spent most of both of those relationships being told what to do and paying high emotional and sometimes physical consequences for it.

I have taken almost a year off of having a serious relationship and have recently started to really fall for a guy.  There are many things that are different even at the beginning of the relationship.  He asks my opinions and seems to want to hear the answers.  He doesn’t push me when I don’t agree with him.  He has a career and future goals.  Really, he seems much different than my previous partners.

And I am different now.  I have been going to therapy and taking medications and doing all the things that are supposed to make you a better decision maker.

I can’t shake that I was the common denominator in my previous relationships though.  I don’t think I caused them to act the way they did but I let them.  I stayed for years in relationships that literally almost killed me.  How do I trust my judgment now and can I even actually trust my judgment at this point?  How do I know that this guy doesn’t suck just as much as my last two partners?

—

Okay, so look: the fact is, you simply won’t know for sure. But you DO know what you went through those last times, and you know that you don’t want to go through it again, right? So make yourself a promise RIGHT NOW: you will not stand for a mean, angry, negative person in your life.

If things change with this guy, if you see it going down that road, then you turn right around and walk out that door. As I said in my earlier response, depression makes you irrational, and it makes it seem so much easier to deal with what you already are dealing with than to make an unknown change — and THAT is likely to be more the common denominator than you as a person.

So, it sounds like this guy has some qualities that show he is deserving of a chance — I’d say the best thing you can do to be more confident in your judgment is to exercise it! Tread lightly, build the core friendship that a good relationship is founded on, and enjoy yourself.

Today is today, and you are more aware, and you deserve to be with someone who treats you well. Don’t let the past hold you back, but don’t lose the lessons you learned from it either. Stick with your meds and your therapy, and just remember to never again compromise yourself the way you did in the past. I wish you luck!

———

And if you want to vote for Your Aunt Becky, who I graciously nominated for Funniest Blogger, you can do so here. Voting is once per day per person until July 11.

Greetings, fellow Pranksters! My name’s Paul Lundgren, AKA Cycle Ninja. Why the moniker? Because I’m a very slow cyclist, and the only martial art at which I’m any good is gamepad-fu (Becky’s full of The Awesome, I’m full of The Irony).

The first question that might come to you is, “Why is Aunt Becky letting a career bachelor drive the family blog? Isn’t this supposed to be about diamond-encrusted iPads, TV husbands, and F-bombs?” Well to answer your question, she let me do a guest post because—being the clever and charming chap that I am—I begged her to let me do so in exchange for helping her with yard work. Being the shiftless and lazy bugger that I am, I left the exact time-line of said yard work a bit vague, but anyway, here I am…

When Becky finally took pity on my groveling, however, I was left wondering what I was going to write about. I’m single, I don’t do bling, I’m not crazy about pink, and I don’t have crotch parasites (I am instead helplessly in thrall to The World’s Sweetest Cat). Then I realized Becky and I do have quite a bit in common.

Namely, we’re both at a point in our lives where we’re undergoing self-renewal. You’re aware of her campaign to bring Aunt Becky back. In my case, I turn 40 this year, and have decided it’s time to lose the 100+ pounds I put on since high school. I felt that sharing my goals and techniques would be a fitting way of thanking Becky for the inspiration she’s given me.

To that end, I’ve found two strategies to be highly effective. First, know your stuff when it comes to nutrition. In my case, I consulted a licensed dietitian. I learned there’s a vast difference between dieting and healthy eating. You don’t have to starve yourself; you have to feed yourself properly. That’s an important distinction. Writing down what you eat is invaluable, because watching the numbers add up on a spreadsheet will give you pause.

Second, set an ambitious goal for yourself, preferably one with a fixed date. You could, ohidunno, go on a cruise with Aunt Becky next year to be motivated to want to look good in a swimsuit again. Since I wanted to look at least respectable in bicycling clothes made of Lycra (shudder), I joined a local cycling club. Chasing after people who are younger and fitter than you will give you motivation in spades. I also signed up for the IMT Des Moines Marathon, which—conveniently—takes place 4 days after my 40^th birthday. Yes, preparing for a marathon when you’re 100 pounds overweight hurts a lot, thanks for asking. But it’s also making cycling much more enjoyable since I’m 30 pounds lighter than this time last year. It’s also gratifying to meet up with friends I haven’t seen in a while and watching their eyes pop when they see me ?

So I still have quite a ways to go before I look good in a dress suit or feel good in my birthday suit again, but I have the right tools to get there. And I’m grateful to Aunt Becky and Uncle The Daver for reminding us all that we don’t go through challenges like these in a vacuum. Now go heap some love on them, too, please.

Thanks for reading. Peace.

?

The Daver: “WHAT are you DOING?”

Aunt Becky (calmly): “What does it look like I’m doing?”

The Daver: “It LOOKS like you’re gearing up to go outside in the middle of a fucking tornado with your rose pruners.”

Aunt Becky (bored): “Yuppers.”

The Daver: “There was a TORNADO SPOTTED, Becky! You should get into the basement or something!”

Aunt Becky: “The storm has driven off the wasps, Daver, I can finally prune the fucking roses in daylight! Without the EARWIGS ATTACKING ME!”

*shudders*

The Daver: “There may be a TORNADO! It’s pouring buckets AND there’s a thunderstorm going on!”

Aunt Becky: “Don’t be such a puss. The tornado won’t come here. We’re in the middle of civilization. Tornado Alley is MILES out west. You Wisconsin people, I SWEAR*.”

The Daver: “But!!!”

Aunt Becky: “Besides, if I’m outside, I can hear the sirens of the town much more clearly than if I were inside. THEN, I can come in and alert you and we can make a break for the basement.”

The Daver: “Are you REALLY putting your roses before us?”

Aunt Becky: “Um. Dramatical much?”

The Daver: “YOU COULD GET SWEPT UP IN A TWISTER OUT THERE!! WITH COWS!! AND HORSES!!!”

Aunt Becky: “Perhaps you should go hide in the bathtub, then. I’ll let you know when it’s all over.”

The Daver: “Maybe I just will.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll rescue you when it’s all over, okay?’

The Daver: “TELL IT TO YOUR ROSES, BECKY. Maybe they can keep you warm at night!”

Aunt Becky: *walks out into the sheeting rain whistling “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.”*

*There’s a longstanding rivalry between Wisconsin and Illinois (not, oddly, any of the other states surrounding Illinois). Wisconsinites call we Illinoisans FIB–Fucking Illinois Bastards–and we Illinoisans, uh, don’t have any clever names for our neighbors to the north. But shit, they can’t fucking DRIVE.

When I tell people that Alex, who is now three, wouldn’t let me out of his sight for the first year of his life, they normally give me That Look. The one that sort of implies that I’m a helicopter parent, you know, like I hover around him, so that Ickle Alex doesn’t DARE get a boo-boo wifout his Momma RIGHT THERE to cuddle him up and protect him from the big, bad world!!!

Considering I informed Twitter I was shopping for a bag of glass and new gun to give him for his birthday, I don’t think anything could be farther from the truth. I love my kid to chunky pieces, I could have done without the suffocation of the first year. Bumps, bruises, those are part of childhood. And shit, one look at my legs would tell you those are part of my adulthood too.

After his sister was born, I was fortunate enough to secure him a spot in an in-home daycare for three hours a day. It was probably the smartest thing I’ve done–even smarter than the time I tried to whittle a model of the Parthenon out of a marshmallow–because for three hours a day, the kid is with other kids the same age. He’s had to LEARN to adapt to a life outside of his mother.

Of course, he HATED. LOATHED it, even. The lady is fantastic, the other kids are all under five and she does stuff with them that’s full of the awesome like going to the fire station to see the trucks! Story-time at the library! They went to Costco to make cupcakes! I mean, life is good for Alex.

Now, my slow-to-warm-up son loves it. On the weekends he asks to go to her house.

Alex is just a particular brand of finicky that reminds me of both my father and brother, both of whom are so set in their ways that they can hardly stand it when things do not go according to plan. It appears that not only does my son resemble my brother in appearance, he’s taken after the Sherrick side of the family in temperament as well as sense of humor.

(Pithy aside: He told his first joke last week, which he found UPROARIOUSLY funny, “P is for POOPY! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” And Alex, he has the best laugh of any of my children, so we all laughed along, first out of shock that he’d told a joke and then because he was in hysterics.

My child, all right.)

St. Charles is a Soccer Town, you see, and we’re all practically expelled from the womb clutching a wee soccer ball. So it was merely a matter of time before Alex was handed his, and as he’s spent the better part of two years kicking soccer balls, I figured this would be like heaven for him.

What I DIDN’T realize is that Alex would have a problem with being on his own to do it.

But we don’t give up in my family, at least not on my fucking watch, so I’ll be dipped in pigshit before I let my kid leave soccer early because he’s unhappy about it being DIFFERENT. He’s slow-to-warm-up, which means that in a couple of weeks months I’ll have to pry him off the field, but for that moment, I was stuck, sweating my balls off, and holding my son, wondering what to do.

The other parents were all sitting in their lawn chairs watching their kids play soccer, looking at me, bemused.

Dave was wrestling with Amelia, who was trying like hell to wander into a Ebola-ridden puddle and shrugged at me.

I looked at Alex, still happily nestled in my arms.

Then I did the only thing I could think to do.

I put him down, grabbed his hand and marched my sandal-clad feet down to the soccer field and said, “Let’s play some soccer, kiddo.”

There I was, the World’s Most overgrown three-year old, playing a mean game of Red Light, Green Light on the field with the kids like a damn asshole, while the other parents looked on, laughing. I was Billy Madison, except in soccer.

You know what? It fucking worked. I mean, I looked like a bigger moron than normal, jogging around the field like an overgrown toddler, but still, the kid stayed, he’s happy about going back next week, and soccer is going to be just fine.

Thank Baby Jesus, Ben can play his violin (he has perfect pitch!) without me up there playing alongside him. Because I’d hate to upstage some little kid when I busted out my version of “Enter Sandman” on the heavy metal cello.

It may surprise you to know that I have a brother. For brevity’s sake, we’ll call him Uncle Aunt Becky, but I’ll warn you that it’s not REALLY his name because he’s older than me, and how could my parents POSSIBLY have known they would have named their infinitely superior younger child Rebecca?

I am so superior, in fact, that my father recently informed me that when they saw my face, they knew they could do no better, so my mother was immediately neutered in the hospital after my birth. This was all delivered with a completely straight face, the sort that my father always uses when he delivers his jokes, which is precisely the same way I tell my horrible jokes, so it’s safe to say that these things DO run in families.

My mother claims that when SHE saw me that she said, “Well, that’s a face only a mother will love.”

My family is very, very nice.

Anyway, my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, he’s pretty much my opposite, and not only in that he’s male and I’m female because as far as I’m concerned, he’s a Ken Doll down there. BLECH.

See, he’s a beautiful writer and photographer, who actually got a degree in that stuff, and I pollute the Internet by saying things like, “meat curtains.” He’s a yuppie and my personal fashion sense is *sniff, sniff* Yup, clean enough for government work. I’m a science-type and he gets pasty when I say things like “NEEDLES!”

Mostly, our differences lie in that he’s kind of a gym rat who likes nothing more than sticking his muscled arms in my face and directing me to certain areas of his house. I like working out, Pranksters, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t have hours of the day to devote specifically to the deltoid muscle. I’m lucky if I can manage a workout at all, let alone an entire day devoted to my lower legs.

Uncle Aunt Becky’s new thing is triathlons.

The gear for them seems to hold particular interest for Uncle Aunt Becky, which is a topic Your Aunt Becky finds as interesting as toast. Apparently it is quite a topic for people who DO these things, but for those who don’t, it’s about as interesting as listening to me discuss the merits of the Twitter client for iPhone versus Tweetdeck (doooooowwwn with Tweetdeck!).

Beige paint, Pranksters.

So this weekend, Uncle Aunt Becky was supposed to do an Iron Man Triathlon that he’d been preparing for for as long as I can remember (which is approximately 6 seconds). I got a call from my father on Friday informing me that my brother was NOT going to be competing in the Triathlon as he’d broken his toe walking into some lockers at work.

You may assume that someone so closely related to me would be clumsy as I am (who the fuck breaks her toe making a sandwich?), but you’d be wrong. Uncle Aunt Becky got all of the graceful genes in the family where I inherited all of the clumsy, hair-brained, “it just seemed like a good idea!” ones.

In short, Uncle Aunt Becky is LOADS smarter and more graceful than his sister.

Like, if The Daver were to get a phone call that went like this:

“Um, so Dave, I’m at the hospital because I broke my foot chasing after a lemonade truck. See, I REALLY wanted some lemonade and the truck didn’t stop…well, okay, I don’t REALLY know if it was a lemonade truck because I’m not sure if there are such things as lemonade trucks, but it was yellow and it made me THINK of lemonade and then I got thirsty and decided to run after it and then when I got close it’s bumper fell off onto my foot. And now my foot is broken and the truck was ACTUALLY a DHL or DSL or whatever truck. So anyway, I need some lemonade. Can you pick some up on the way to the hospital please?”

He would just say,

“AGAIN, Becky?”

But my brother, that’s completely a different story.

So upon hearing this, both The Daver and I stared at each other, jaws flappity-flapping in the breeze for a solid two minutes before we wondered aloud what the fuck had REALLY happened.

He never did tell us, but I have a feeling the story involves aliens or zombies or zombie aliens.

It’s really the only thing that makes any sense.

—————

Incongruently, the story of the birthday blowjob is up at Toy With Me. It’s a great one.

On Friday, I saw one of those things that made me happiest in the pants: my friend Brittany over at Barefoot Foodie (who, if you don’t know her, you should, because she’s full of The Awesome, and you should trust me because I’m a doctor) had actually been featured on a Social Media Site (this one was Shamable).

Now this was beyond fucking awesome to me because Brittany isn’t a cookie-cutter blogger. She uses words like “fuck” and “asshole” and peppers her posts with all sorts of interesting imagery that make her as endearing to read as a doe-eyed puppy. But much fucking funnier.

This means that maybe–JUST MAYBE–the media is going to stop paying so much attention to blogs of user submitted photos and start focusing on blogs with REAL CONTENT. You know, WORDS? Because you can only look at pictures of cute kitties with funny captions for SO LONG until you realize that there is another world out there–a world of people who use words, REAL words to write with.

And that people like to read those words, even when those words are dirty. It doesn’t matter how profane we are, PEOPLE READ US. I like to imagine that if she, or I changed our MO and started simply writing posts like,

“Today, I looked at my beautiful glorious children who shone like diamonds in the sun, and then I smiled.”

(insert over-processed picture of my Photo-shopped beaming kids)

I’d lose my Band of Merry Pranksters. Why? That’s fucking VANILLA. Sure, it’s a fine sentence, I GUESS, if you like boring, old tripe that’s pretty much the same thing you can find at any other flowery blog.

No, you come here to read this sentence:

“My crotch parasites shrieked and wailed as they all dog-piled onto my pants (oh, no, not my WHORE pants that are STILL fucking MIA!), that had pooled around my ankles as I tried in vain to take a crap without an audience. I laughed as they fought over the prime spot, closest to the bowl of the toilet, and thought, “I guess I’ll take dump alone in about 15 years, eh?””

There’s a difference, clearly, and that’s what keeps YOU here (the good ones, at least) and bloggers like Brittany and I off the radar of the social media sites and the mainstream media sites. We’re too…profane, I guess. Not cookie-cutter enough. We swear, we curse, and we talk about the sort of stuff other people don’t. It’s why you read us, and why I read you.

Sometimes, I am marginally funny. Sometimes I shock you. Sometimes, I am heartfelt and then I make you nervous that I might have had a lobotomy and lost some of my brain function. Either way, I write the hell out of my blog. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s all Your Aunt Becky.

I write because I have to. I write because I love it. I write because I don’t know how not to. I write because that is what I do. I am damn proud of it. My ickle blog is a labor of love. My Band of Pranksters are my friends. They inspire me.

To be able to Write Hard and to do it genuinely, you have to do it without fear. Do I get people who come here and hate me? Of course I do. It’s not terribly often, and typically on posts over five years old but I have been called names and insulted. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, but I’d also be lying if I said it hurt a lot. But if someone coming and trying to hurt me is the worst thing that happens to me today, well, shit, that’s a damn good day, Pranksters.

In the end, so fucking what? Plenty of people don’t like Your Aunt Becky. The haters can take a number.

To those of you who have your own blog, I encourage you to Write Hard. Write because you love it. Write because it fulfills you. Write because it makes you happy and because without it, you feel like your arm is missing and your pants are on backwards. Write because you’re empty inside when you don’t. Stick your neck out and say what you mean. Be authentic. Be REAL. Show the world who you are. Write without fear.

Write Hard, Pranksters. Write Hard.

On August 20, 2001, after nearly 24 hours of hard labor, my husband’s first son, Benjamin Maxwell, was born. He was hundreds of miles away, out of state, likely on campus for class, and I have no way of knowing if he knew that his first child had been born.

Did something stir within him at the highly civilized hour of 2:50 in the afternoon? Did he shiver as his son drew his first breath and screamed his bloody head off? Did he stop for a second, not knowing why, as his some-day-will-be-wife cried as she looked at her new son for the first time, marveling at his beauty and how damn HEAVY he was?

I don’t have any way of knowing that, of course, and The Daver, he doesn’t remember. The pictures my mind paints, though, that’s what they all look like. Two realities, separate, then intertwined.

The Daver, he met Benner and I when Ben was two and I was twenty-three, and while he confessed to being nervous about dating a girl with a kid, all traces of nerves were evaporated when Ben raised his stubby arms up to him to be carried across the street for the first time. When Ben wrapped his arms around Dave, a father was made.

That night, on the drive home, Ben spoke one of the only sentences he had, and certainly one of the only ones he’d made up, “Awww…..(sniff)….BYE DAVE.” The kid, he loved his Dave. For an autistic kid, that’s huge.

From then on, they were like cheese and macaroni. When Ben was obsessed with the planets, Dave had a friend paint the walls of Ben’s bedroom in our condo with Jupiter and Mars. When Ben needed to potty train, Dave went to poop class with me. When we needed to find a preschool, Dave helped me look.

When we got married, Dave asked Ben for my hand in marriage. Ben didn’t hesitate before he said said, “Yeah, okay!”

After Ben walked me down the aisle, he stood up as Dave’s best man, and Dave’s vows to Ben had the entire church weeping. I could have skipped the white dress entirely (and trust me, I would happily have done so. I am SO not a wedding person) and left my kid and his dad up there alone.

2 years after we were married, March 20, 2007, Ben became a big brother and Dave became a father once more. I don’t know who was prouder. I still don’t, actually.

2 years after that, Ben and Alex became big brothers and Dave became a father for the last time.

Fathering a child may be easy, but being a dad, that’s the hard shit. I know that.

I have more male readers than most blogs with “Mommy” in the URL  (thanks to saying things like “beef curtains,” “sweater kittens” and “anal leakage”) and I’m honored to know all of you.

Happy Father’s Day, Pranksters.

And Happy Father’s Day, The Daver. We’re damn lucky to have you.

[flashvideo file=wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Having-My-Baby.flv /]

Today’s guest post comes from a Russian blogger named Marinka who is freakishly hilarious (notice the word “freak” in there). You’ve PROBABLY seen her skulking around such blogs as Motherhood in NYC and The Mouthy Housewives. I’m also speaking with her on a panel at BlogHer so I figured I should play nice in the sandbox with her for awhile before I throw sand in her eyes and pee on her dress.

Plus we’re friends, although I’m guessing that I probably won’t be inviting her to any dinner parties any time soon. She might have rabies or try and use one of my crotch parasites as a coaster. If she offends you, blame it on being lost somewhere in translation. I always do, although she probably doesn’t ACTUALLY speak a single word of Russian and is actually just insulting me every time we talk.

Ass.

Remember, any insults should be directed AT Marinka, not Your Aunt Becky, who loves you and thinks you look fantastic in those pants. Wait, are those MY MISSING PANTS? Because 7 days later, the pants are still gone.

———————-

I’m so happy that Aunt Becky asked me to guest post because I have something to get off my Marilyn Monroe-like chest and I sure as hell don’t want to do it on my own blog.

Let’s say that you’re invited to a dinner party. Would you appreciate being told in advance if one of the guests were a dwarf? Because I’m firmly in the HELL YES! camp whereas my friend who hosted the party was all “what? Oh, yeah, I guess he’s a dwarf” about it. Which is fucked up.

So I walk into this dinner party and see the people and THEN there’s this short person and of course I immediately think “OMG” because I am very socially awkward and am only allowed to mingle with people occasionally, (ed note: GEE, I WONDER WHY) so I’m worried about how I’m going to mess this up.

Of course I don’t want to appear like I’m ignoring Peter the Dwarf because I’m uncomfortable, so I rush to him and engage him in some kind of conversational torture that he would like to end as soon as possible, without actually going through the exertion of having me killed.

During the whole conversation, which I totally dominate, because I don’t want him to think that I only came over there because he’s small, I am hyper-aware not to use words that imply shortness at all, even a little bit. Therefore, I am choosing my words carefully, but also speaking really fast, for a complete psychotic freak touch.

“You could have warned me,” I seethed to my friend later.

“What? Peter’s great,” she said.

“He is great, but he’s SO SHORT! And I was completely unprepared. I made a fool out of myself.”

“How do you prepare for HEIGHT?” she asked.

“Fuck do I know. I wouldn’t have rushed over to him like a moron and started talking nonstop. I would have been nonchalant. Like oh, hi!”

“Yes, the oh, hi would have been a nice touch. You were fine.”

And then I married a man whose secret pet peeve, unbeknownt to me (because apparently that’s how secrets work if you’re not a blabbermouth) is  how badly dwarves are portrayed in movies. “I don’t understand,” he told me. “Why does Hollywood think that dwarves are funny and that it’s ok to laugh at people because of their height?”

“Why are you talking about dwarves?” I asked.

“It bothers me,” he said.

“Well, since we’re sharing,” I decided to strike, “if you were going to a social event, would you want to know if there was a dwarf in attendance?”

“What social event?”

“Like a dinner or a party.”

“A fundraiser?”

“No, just with friends. For fun.”

“Why would I need to know who was attending?”

“You know, to prepare yourself.”

“Prepare myself for what?”

“For…for the dwarfhood.”

“Why do you need to prepare for meeting a dwarf?”

“So that I’m not unprepared, obviously.”

“…”

“I wouldn’t want to look surprised.”

“…”

“I’m not the weird one here.”

He sighed the sigh of the ages. “Maybe people should warn their guests that you will be attending.

“Also a good idea,” I conceded.