So I totally swallowed the red pill on Mother’s Day and forgot to make more of my cards-you-should-never-send-to-someone-unless-you-hate-them. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re probably better off, but here’s the link. As you can see, I have a lot of work to do (most of that is going to be finding artwork I can actually USE, which is shockingly difficult) (I’m all ears to suggestions)(if any of these are your images and I’ve taken them in error, please let me know and I’ll remove them immediately).

But Father’s Day is this weekend, and how could I forget with The Daver constantly telling me things like, “Oh, well, the new iPHONE is coming out!” and “I need a new computer!!” Because apparently, Father’s Day is cause for me forking over loads of cash. Who knew?

Since I borked on Mother’s Day, I figured I should make it up to all of the three dads out there who read my blog and might appreciate the sentiment. If Hallmark were smart, this is what they’d make because inappropriate is always better than appropriate.

Technology and I have a somewhat tenuous relationship. Without certain members of my family doing such things as “programming my remote” and “plugging in the microwave,” I’d probably still be stuck staring at a can of Spaghetti-O’s forlornly and wishing I could figure out how to open it. It’s not that I’m inept, it’s just that I’m inept.

I’m okay with this because while I have routinely explained that dirty socks actually do not have to roam about the house in pairs of two, looking for a family, but prefer to actually live in the basement by the washing machine, my pleas have fallen on deaf ears.

Division of labor, I guess.

The television, however, I have figured out.

Not maybe the fancy doo-hickeys that go along with it and all the buttons on the 57 remotes that we own (apparently they all do mystifyingly separate but all equally important functions and can never, ever be thrown away, ever), but I understand how televisions work.

See: my television is home to a number of very small actors who are incredibly versatile. While sometimes they boringly report the news (although never naked, because we’re not in the UK), when I switch channels, they seamlessly switch to contestants on American Idol, a wee Ryan Seacrest joyfully narrating and building the suspense. The tiny actors then whip out instruments and sing and dance and occasionally even have talent.

The actors that live in my television set are not the same as the ones that live in yours, though, so we’re never watching the exact same episode of Law and Order: Incredibly Depressing Episode Where You’re Reminded That At Any Moment Someone You Love Might Be Raped (and Probably Die), because having MY actors live in YOUR television set is positively absurd.

But the actors that live in my television are amazing, I’ll admit. They’re almost as awesome as the hamsters that live in my air conditioner that hold ice cubes in their mouths and blow cold air through the vents at me (but nothing, let’s be honest, is THAT awesome).

No, the actors are awesome because no matter how hard I try to catch them in the act of switching between programs, I simply cannot do it. That means that no matter what, I can’t catch Ryan Seacrest announcing, “THIS, is your NEXT RAPE VICTIM!”

But THAT, Pranksters, is what I so desperately require my television to do. If I could make my television set do anything at all, I would make it so that all of the programs did a mash-up.

Meaning, that at any time, you could catch Dexter Morgan mutilating one of the Desperate Housewives, his hair all sexy and askew, as he told them all of his secrets, yelling about his Dark Passenger.

Or maybe Dr. House could come in and do a musical number with some of the Glee kids about the wonders of Vicodin, because honestly, there’s nothing not wonderful about Vicodin, once you get past the potential for addiction and stuff. (WHATEVER)

The horrible contestants at the beginning of American Idol would be chased off the show by some roaming sharks from Shark Week, screaming as they were eaten alive, right in front of your very eyes. I mean, don’t tell me you haven’t thought “Jesus, people GET A FUCKING LIFE” when you’ve seen some of your fat male television actors traipse across the American Idol stage in a Star Wars themed thong bikini, making your ears bleed.

Kate Gosselin would find herself on Dog, the Bounty Hunter as his new wife and occasionally all of the actors would duke it out a la Celebrity Death March.

Then my television would have to make me popcorn. OBVIOUSLY.

On the list of things that I hate (including thousand island dressing and Farmville), shopping for pants is right up there. It’s probably in the top five, and if I were an organized list maker, I’d be able to tell you that for sure. But I’m an ENFJ which is like fancy mumbo-jumbo for saying that I don’t like making lists, I think.

It’s worse when I’m fatter because, obviously, who wants to go shopping for pants that look like they could be made by Olag The Tentmaker? And worse, who wants to PAY for that privilege? I know, I know, you’re supposed to just buy what fits you, but honestly, I’m a vain bitch and I don’t WANT to buy something that reads a number that makes me hyperventilate. I don’t CARE if I have to squeeze myself into it, I’ll take the smaller size, thankyouverymuch.

Or I did, until I had some babies, gained a fuckton of weight and realized that you can’t just magically make yourself squeeze back into your size 6’s without some real effort.

So, for every size that I am, I buy one or two pairs of pants and when I outgrow them–the DOWN way, I mean–I toss ’em and buy another, smaller pair.

I learned a long time ago that you should always buy pants a little snug when you’re dieting so you don’t have any room to grow, and really, who DOESN’T want to go down a size? Honestly, now. That’s pretty much cause for celebration with a nice, tall glass of water!

I’d bought myself new pants a couple of months ago, one a standard size, and the other with some what I like to call “torture panels” that are designed to suck you in in your gut and your thighs. Flattering for when you’re going out, for sure, but they were the step DOWN from the standard size.

I considered those to be a gradient from that same size. If you’re a man, you’re probably shaking your head because a 32 is a 32 is a 32 right?

Women’s sizes don’t run that way. A size 6 is NOT a size 6 is NOT a size 6 which is why our heads spin when we have to go clothes shopping if we have any problem areas. Me? I always have had a gut. I’m getting a tummy tuck when the weight is all gone, but for now, I have a gut and it makes pants shopping annoying.

So I’m in my bedroom, and I can find my Torture Pants, the size BELOW that, the pants I am currently wearing (dirty from the garden) but not the standard size I am looking for. I had seen them several weeks before, in my bedroom and now, nothing. They weren’t under my bed. They weren’t BEHIND my bed. I hadn’t been wearing them because they hadn’t fit properly before and now I was sure they WOULD fit.

Desperately I searched my bedroom. I pulled apart my closet, looking at all my skinny clothes mournfully while I diligently searched for my pants.

Where.the.fuck.were.my.pants?

I grabbed a shopping bag and carefully began to sort out the maternity clothes I SHOULD have gotten rid of months ago. I sorted sheets. I found an old bottle of perfume I’d thought I’d lost. And still, NO PANTS.

I went downstairs and looked in the basement to see if they’d gotten thrown in the laundry. NO PANTS.

I checked in Ben’s room to see if somehow, he’d overlooked that he could have fit his entire body into the leg of the pants, decided they were his and put them away into his dresser. NO PANTS.

I then checked in Mimi’s room. Had someone stashed them oddly into her walk-in closet? Nope, just toys. I made a mental note to clean it out this week and wandered off, furious. Where the HELL were my PANTS?

I had worn them in my room. I had taken them OFF in my room, deciding that I’d WAIT and wear them again when I could actually BREATHE while they were on my person. That meant that unless they’d become intelligent, they couldn’t have actually LEFT the room on their own.

I quizzed the usual suspects and as is the case when I ask about the poo stains on the toilet seats, it was all deny, deny, deny.

So if matter is neither created nor destroyed, where the shit are my pants?

———————

My conclusion to my search for the crystal ball-gag is up at Toy With Me.

*No, really, how do you do that without sounding a) overly deep? or b) callous? I don’t know quite what line to walk there.

*Because when I was on Twitter tweeting about #yellowballoons and #suicideprevention the rest of the day I was all, “um, can I tweet about anything normal like MY VAGINA ever again?”

*Most people probably wouldn’t call that NORMAL, but then again, most people don’t have the absurd kind of assumed familiarity of calling themselves Aunt Becky on The Internet so really, who is to say what is normal in that instance?

*At least I don’t call myself “Mrs. Justin Beaver” because that would be creepy. He’s like 12 and with the exception of his flippy hair I DO NOT understand the appeal.

*Thank you to all who took the time to tweet, comment, or send love yesterday or today. Unlike most of the causes, suicide and depression are two of the ones that people ACTUALLY can feel the support and effects from the the effort. I got probably 20 messages from people (not spammers!) who had been affected by this and really appreciated people talking about it.

*It solidified even further my feeling that people are almost entirely good.

*My luck with scales, however, is almost entirely bad. Not like you’d imagine, though. Somehow I’ve managed to encounter two SEPARATELY broken scales that registered my weight at….(wait for it)….0.0 pounds.

*I’m pretty sure that makes me VERY skinny and I should probably gorge on donuts.

*Except that filthy scale lies because it also informed me that chubby Amelia weighs 0.0 pounds and according to my back, that is a LYING LIE.

*But 2 broken scales (one brand new!) would give me a complex if the top weight on the newest one wasn’t 400 pounds and I hadn’t recently been to a doctor to determine that I weighed NOWHERE NEAR 400 pounds.

*Do you guys REALLY want me to talk about dieting and the Diabetic Diet any more? I feel like kind of a stooge blogging about dieting, but when I read about OTHER bloggers dieting I get all inspired, so I’m ASKING you if that’s inspiring or interesting or if it makes you want to stab out your eardrums out of boredom.

(I can always make it a separate series of pages at the top, I guess.)

*Tomorrow I’ll have the page up for the votes for the camera contest (today will be the last day to enter).

*Solidifying my desire to move down south, I found an energy drink called “Whoop-Ass.” I require this to live and I cannot find it up here. I could ORDER it from The Internet, but it’s not the same, you see.

*I just want to be able to say, “Imma open up a can of (sugar-free) WHOOP-ASS on you!”

What’s randomly on YOUR mind today, Pranksters?

Please forgive the double posting. I felt it this was worth it.

In seven days over 50,000 of you joined an online community offering encouragement and help.

Today (Sunday) at noon hundreds are meeting on the Golden Gate Bridge to take a stand against suicide at the very place where it happens most in the world. (You’re invited, look for the yellow balloons and ribbons).

This hopeful story has received international press coverage including this first report on Time Magazine’s NewFeed.

I haven’t heard from the person who mailed this postcard, but I have heard from many who have felt lifted by this flashmob of kindness.

Blatantly lifted from Post Secret.

I cannot be in San Fransisco today, but I am there in spirit. We are none of us alone. Please, if you’re ever feeling like this is the end, remember that we are all connected. None of us, we are none of us alone.

Call 1(800)SUICIDE [1-800-784-2433] for help, day or night.

Love to each of you, My Pranksters, who remind me that no matter how dark it is, there is always a light.

Please, pass on the message. Twitter is going strong with it #yellowballoons #suicideprevention.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Why are people, relatives at that, so damned mean?  My sister-in-law has thrown me aside like a dirty dishtowel time and again and never apologizes or explains what came over her. As she is such a mercurial person, people tend to accept her back into their life in some fashion rather than not have her at all.  This is the third time I’ve been burned and I’ve HAD IT!!!!

She’s my husband’s sister, but I don’t ever want to see or hear from her again.  I wish, in fact, that I’d never met her.  The hurt and agony I suffer every time she does this is more than I or my family want to deal with.  So Sage Aunt Becky, what do you recommend, should I kick her to the curb, or should I just call myself a sucker and sign myself up for more hurt and misery?

Frustratedly,
me.

Ah, Prankster, how I wish we could choose our family members like we choose our friends and just be able to cut people off when they treat us like dogshit. Sadly, it doesn’t work that easily without causing major drama with people choosing sides and split up holidays and all of that boo-yang.

What I would do, Prankster, in this situation, is to accept her back into your life and trust her as far as you can throw her (and with YOUR BUM KNEE, Ed, you shouldn’t be throwing anyone)(Ferris Bueller, man, HILARIOUS). I mean that in a “put up with her when you have to and ONLY THAT MUCH” sort of way.

There’s no reason you have to be the sucker in this situation or deal with her bullshit or get suckered back into it over and over. You can smile politely, nod, grit your teeth and think to yourself “yeah, whatever, bitch” and then move on when she’s out of earshot. You do yourself no favors by being sucked back into it time and time again.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

This is a weird question, be warned.

I am in minimal contact with *any* of my family outside of my brother. I used to talk to my mother, 2 years ago. Before that, we’d see our extended family maybe…once every 2-3 years, if that. Pretty distant.

I got married last spring. My husband is from a *very* tight-knit family. His mom and dad are divorced, so that just means TWICE the amount of in-laws: they get together as often as possible.

I love that my husband is close to his family, but DAMN, I can’t handle spending our (rare) 3-day weekends with HIS family. It’s all we ever do when we have more than 2 days off together.

I’m just not used to such frequent trips spent gawking at cows or dominoes, when we could be at home watching movies or playing video games, or enjoying the nooks and crannies of our current town.

Also, his mother doesn’t like me and tells me in subtle comments, but that’s another question for our dear Aunt.

I’m on the verge of punching myself in the proverbial dick. I’ve tried explaining my weird family situation to the hubs, but he gets all butthurt and makes me feel weird for “not getting it.” I already feel weird about it, you know?

Halp me, Aunt Becky!

Love,
Douchey McInlaws

Oh Prankster, this situation just makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork except that it would do ME no good except make me blind in one eye and that wouldn’t exactly help me track down Mick Jagger and make him impregnate me. But it’s DELICATE and I’m about as good at being delicate as I am at refraining from saying “motherfucker.” SEE? It just SLIPS OUT.

So you clearly have to approach this one with DANGER WILL ROBINSON blinking all over the place because you can’t hurt your husband’s feelings about this and you’re not going to make him understand your childhood any more than you understand his (dominoes? REALLY? WEIRD!).

I’d probably tell a wee white lie if I were you. A “you know what, honey, I’d really like to spend some time with YOU this weekend because I’m so tirreeedd because work has been SO stressful.” Or maybe plan something for just the two of you at home to show him that maybe it’s time for you two to have a life together alone, too.

Clearly, it’s not going to work if it’s all his way all of the time or all your way all of the time and because marriage should actually be called “you’ll never get exactly what you want again,” maybe it’s time he learn that lesson, too. Not in a MEAN way, just a, you know, “my wife has needs too, that don’t include dominoes and my parents.”

Marriage = compromise. Marriage also = biting your tongue about your in-laws.

P.S. I don’t think ANY mother-in-laws like their daughter-in-laws. Awesome, isn’t it?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I got drunk.  I made out with my best friend’s husband, whom I might add is my husband’s best friend.  So, in one stupid night, I damaged a whole slew of relationships that have all lasted over a decade.

I told my husband right away and he has forgiven me.  I have cut off all contact between myself and his best friend.  I opted to let my friend’s husband tell her in his own time and way because (as if I’m not enough of a bitch already) she’s pregnant and no one wants to upset the pregnant lady.

She eventually found out via an e-mail between my husband and hers and called to get the story from me.  I told her all and accepted all of her anger and hurt because, well, that’s how it goes.

I have no idea how things are for her and her husband right now because I’m not speaking to him and she’s not speaking to me and my husband avoids drama like the plague.

My marriage is doing just fine and I know I should be happy for that, but here’s the thing.

Even though it’s all my fault, I still miss my best friend.  I can’t call her.  I can’t reach out to her.  And I can’t complain to my husband that I’m hurt and lonely because, well, duh.

So, Aunt Becky, will you just tell me it’s going to be okay and that you’re sorry that I lost my best friend, even if I did it to myself?

Oh Prankster, I AM sorry that you lost your best friend. It always hurts to lose someone you love, no matter what happened to cause the loss. I can tell that you feel guilty and awful about what happened–as you should–and I know you want to make it right. I wish I had any words of wisdom for you other than that you have to forgive yourself and accept that she may never forgive you and move on.

Easier said than done, I know.

—————–

As always Pranksters, please pick up where I left off in the comments.

Today, in an uncharacteristic display of “letting my OCD go” I’ve decided that it’s high time to let some new blood in around here. Cross-pollination is a win for us all because you get to meet some of my awesome homies.

I don’t know if you guys have met Anna, from her blog of initials that I can’t remember because I invert shit ABDPBT.com. You don’t have to remember the initials to know Anna, though, because she’s smart as fuck and twice as bold.

If you want to know about blogging, ad networks, The Internet, monetizing the blog, and you want to know from someone who KNOWS HER SHIT, you want Anna. I respect the shit out of her because she’s not afraid to stand up for herself and start stuff if she thinks there’s something amiss and she does her homework.

I respect the hell out of Anna and I’m honored that she’d post for me. Especially a random post because OBVIOUSLY.

1. You say “Yes!” in an uncharacteristically lighthearted way because you love Aunt Becky and love her blog, and love her Merry Band of Pranksters.

2. You wish that you had your own Merry Band of Pranksters.

3. If you did, you would have them follow you around with instruments, though.

4. Moreso than that, you wish you had something to call your own posse of readers that was even remotely as cool as “Merry Band of Pranksters.”

5. Dwell a few moments in envy, regret, and Diet-Coke fueled remorse.

6. Wonder if there would be a revolution of Pranksters once they realized that the Diet Coke would be served without vodka, even if only for one day.

7. One awful, dreary, vodka free day.

8. Clarify that you would gladly write about vodka if only vodka weren’t such a colossal asshole to you that one time in college.

9. Also the ten or forty times after college.

10. Also don’t forget about the time that vodka stole all your money and raped your dog.

11. You’re don’t really want to tell tales outside of school, but you think you saw vodka doing the wide stance in the airport bathroom with its intern.

12. And that was after vodka talking tough about the sanctity of marriage, too.

13. You’re just saying.

14. People in glass bottles.

15. Wonder why you chose the list format, yet again, as if to suggest that you are incapable of writing in paragraphs, when actually, you CAN write in paragraphs. Long ones. Tedious and boring ones, even.

16. Shine on, Merry Band of Pranksters.

What are YOU random about today?

Dear Doctor House,

I feel so FORMAL calling you that considering we’re MARRIED and all, but that’s okay because I know behind closed doors I can call you “Shnookems” just the way you like it. But for my blog which is all PUBLIC and stuff, I’ll just call you by Dr. House. You can call me Your Majesty.

Now, it was recently brought to my attention on Twitter that I am probably not a very good wife because I am a bad cook.

It all started when I tweeted:

I mean, it’s TRUE, right? Apparently, this means that I’ll NEVER find a husband, because men like the womens who can cook. And since I caught you CHEATING on me with that lady with the brown hair (AGAIN), maybe it’s time to show you that I can cook and that I desperately need a new husband.

While rummaging through the pantry, I noticed the very same thing that had brought me running into the arms of yet another television husband, Dexter, so many months ago. (yes, I can have affairs, YOU cannot).

Those damn beef sticks! I am all for encased meaty goodness, and I occasionally doodle pink puffy hearts around the person who coined the term “beef sticks” but the kind of person who would willingly put tubular meat products into his mouth THAT HAD EXPIRATION DATES INTO THE NEXT SEVERAL YEARS is not someone that I can see longevity with.

Mostly because of a little disease I like to call DYSENTERY, but you know.

Hoping that they’d be expired and I could possibly feed them to him so that he might suffer botulism and leave me with a hefty life insurance policy SPARKLE RAINBOW UNICORNS!!! I hopefully checked the expiration date:

Sadly, no. Looks like I will have to wait until the end of the year to enact my plan of doom CUTE FLUFFY KITTENS!!!

So, left to scour the pantry for things to cook for you, my husband, to show you that I am, in fact, worthy of wifedom, I was left with a) cocktail salt b) a scary looking bag of malak paneer and this:

Oh don’t look so disgusted by it. Ramen was the breakfast, lunch and dinner of MANY champions up to and including MYSELF. Now, of course, I prefer bacon flavored vodka and, uh, bacon flavored vodka, but you know. It’s ancient, though, but made of stuff that will probably outlast even the tiniest microscopic organisms on the planet.

PHEW, good for a couple more…uh, weeks. THANK GOD. I don’t want to kill my TELEVISION husband or anything.

Wow! Will you look at the WORDS on the back? I didn’t even know that there were INSTRUCTIONS on the fucker! I sure as hell never read them.

P.S. Holy fuck is it bad for you. Check out the awesome fat content in HALF the noodles. Rock. Music.

Eh, it said 2 cups, and that looks about like 2 cups, right?

WHATEVER.

I’d like you to note the flowering hibiscus in the back, a plant I only bought because it sounded like a rare STD.

Gratuitous action shot done in a SHOCKINGLY artful way. Now you KNOW I am a true photoblogger! I should win a photoblogging award or something like the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness in Artful Photoblogging of Gratuitous Action Shots That Serve No Purpose!

While we wait for this water to boil, I’d like to address a couple of things, namely that you cannot be going around kissing women your own age. I mean, I appreciate true love and all that yada-yada-yada, but don’t you know that your TRUE LOVE lives in a computer writing you LOVE LETTERS on her D-List BLOG?

There’s NOTHING wrong with that, you know. NOTHING. It’s not weird, or creepy, or stalkery, or ANYTHING. In fact, I think I’m going to change my blog name to “Mommy Wants Dr. House, Her True Husband Who REALLY Loves Her.”

I’d like to show you this picture that I think illustrates how I feel about your relationship with that OTHER woman:

SEE? I edited it MYSELF and I think it properly explains how I feel.

There, there, don’t be upset, just take some Vicodin to calm down. True Love is bullshit anyway.

There, don’t you feel BETTER? I do.

I’ll even let you use the LOVE bowl because nothing says “I Love You” like a plastic bowl with a heart on it. (I almost typed “bowel” but that would just be GROSS).

Aw, look at our LOVE NOODLES cooking! JUST LIKE OUR LOVE.

Mmmmmm….BEEFY.

P.S. My manicure is awesome.

Hopefully the Vicodin will have kicked in by now so these noodles won’t taste like a bowl of hot dicks because, let’s face it, Ramen is kind of not delicious.

But have no fear, my love, because I am also proficient at such things as “Spaghetti-O’s” and, um, well, Shamelessly Ordering Takeout.

Shit, maybe Twitter had a point.

Yours Until The End,

Your Wife, The Only One Who REALLY Loves You Enough To Write Creepy Love Blogs To You, Wait That Sounds Bad.

The first time I saw a brain, a real brain, suspended in some greenish liquid at the front of my gross anatomy lab, I stood there, staring at it for a good long while. I was long past being disgusted by the organs of the human body, and seeing the folds of the creamy white tissue struck me only with a sense of wonder. This was it, right there: all that you were, all that you thought, all that made you you was right there in that innocuous looking organ.

Really, it could have been a football for as glamorous as it looked.

But to know how it worked, studying the nuances of neurology, that is poetry. All of the mysteries that we still do not know about how the synapses fire to make one person want to maim and dismember and one person want to paint the Sistine Chapel, that is beauty. The smooth folds folding seamlessly into each other made up separate and distinct parts of the brain and instinctively I rattled them off in my head as I examined the brain in the jar: the cerebral cortex, responsible for how we are feeling, our emotions. Those that make someone laugh or weep, smile or scream, right there.

The parietal lobe, which is how we use all of our senses at once to make decisions, the back of the head responsible for sight, the very sense I was using to examine the brain I was so enthralled by. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to drive a car, see the deep brown of my son’s eyes, the bright red of the fall leaves outside of the classroom. One by one, I observed all of these structures on that brain, carefully preserved in formalin in a jar labeled ABBY NORMAL.

How could something that looked like a Nerf ball be so mystifying and so shockingly resplendent in it’s simplicity at the same time? Something that made each of us who we are should have looked unique, special, like a jewel and somehow, the more brains I saw, the more I realized that they all looked pretty much the same.

Maybe it’s what we do with those hunks of white matter that contains the beauty, because with the exception of the cerebellum (which is surprisingly beautiful), it’s a highly understated organ, especially when compared to something flashy like the kidneys.

When my daughter was born with part of her brain hanging jauntily out of the back of her head, the doctors pretty much shrugged their shoulders when we asked what that meant about her future. While she showed no signs of neurological damage, she could be profoundly normal or profoundly retarded, it simply wasn’t something that could be determined by a blood test or an MRI.

Up until she was a year old, Amelia was followed by Early Intervention, who came every couple of months, tested her, declared her normal and left. When she turned a year, I figured it was probably time to let them close the case on her for now and promise to make a call back if something changed. I know the drill with special needs kids well enough, and her medical diagnosis is an immediate qualifier for assistance.

It’s taken me until now to realize that there is actually something wrong with her beautiful brain.

Amelia has no words.

She has no words.

No glorious words, the very thing that I make my (pathetic) living from, she has none. I’ve always derived so much happiness in putting together combination of words to titillate, horrify, or move people, and she has not one word.

She’s had words before, they’ve slipped out of her mouth for a couple of days until it appears that she forgets them and goes back to shrieking and grunting to get her point across. In many ways, this terrifies me more than seeing my mute autistic son did, because it seems as though she has words, then loses them again.

It’s time to call the specialists back in and help my daughter find her words.

For good, this time.

I have a lot of delicious combinations to teach her.

One of the first things my friend Ashely said when I started to date someone new was, “Has he seen a full-on Becky outfit?” She wasn’t trying to be mean, just curious at how a guy would take my funky sort of “did she get dressed in a dark closet and intentionally go out looking that way?” sort of style. Part of the problem is that I’m colorblind. The other part of the problem is that I’m unabashedly tacky.

So you know when bloggers do style blogs and they’re all “these are my favorite things” and you’re all “holy shit that’s awesome” because it’s awesome and you realize you have no style and/or no money with which to buy style? This is pretty much the reverse of that. This blog should make you feel like you’re the most stylish person on the planet.

Exhibit One: My Belt

That’s right, Pranksters, a belt with my motherfucking NAME on it. Why? Because I can. And do! It’s a multi-purpose belt, really, because not only does it announce to the world, “Hey World, I have a name,” IT TELLS THE WORLD WHAT MY NAME IS! Then, when I forget my name, all I have to do is look down and BOOM, THERE IT IS. (kinda like WHOOMP, THERE IT IS, but not).

The only thing that would make this gem of a belt better would be if it were encrusted with bling.

(bonus points when I give it to people to wear who are NOT named Becky because it’s just hilarious because OBVIOUSLY).

Exhibit Two: My Hat.

We all know that I might aim a little higher than I should when it comes to the men I date in my head and nowhere is that more evident than my Mrs. Timberlake hat.

In hindsight, I think I’ll get my next one to read: “MRS. DEXTER MORGAN” because I think I find the concept of being married to a serial killer more appealing than being married to a former boy-bander. Either way, the hat, it’s hot. You know you want it AND YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T HANDLE IT.

P.S. Maybe I could have gone TANNING before I got this picture taken. I’m pretty much Edward Cullen’s relative without the sparkle.

Mimi couldn’t handle the greatness of the hat, see?

She had to take it off before the AWESOMENESS of it burned her.

Exhibit Three: My TELEPHONE

Hello hello baby you called I can’t hear a thing I have got no service in the club, you say? say? Wha-Wha-What did you say, oh, you’re breaking up on me. Sorry, I cannot hear you I’m kinda busy.

Actually, I wasn’t ka-kinda busy (yes I was), it’s just that my crystal-coated cellphone had a tendency to drop calls almost as much as my iPhone does. But do you see the looping, poorly executed “B” on there? Oh yeah, that’s right Pranksters, Your Aunt Becky did that. Badly, even. This right here is evidence of why you should never do yourself what you can pay someone else to do for you.

Gluing a gazillion tiny crystals onto a cellphone in a pattern that can only be described as “pathetic” isn’t something that I would recommend, even if the glue did give me a wicked high. But oh, how I loved on that phone. The crystals added a good five pounds to an already ridiculously heavy phone (you had that phone too, I know, because EVERYONE did) and they flaked off, leaving an odd Cinderella-style trail of pink crystals back to wherever I was, and they messed with the reception and my ability to make and receive phone calls, but I didn’t care.

Because that phone was where the MAGIC HAPPENED. PRETTY PRINCESS CRYSTAL SPARKLE UNICORN MAGIC!! Just as soon as I get my new iPhone and find someone who can properly bling it out, you bet your ASS Imma do it.

So there you have it, Pranksters. Several of the things in my closet that will never find their way into YOUR closet because you are FAR more tasteful and refined than I’ll ever be. Because OBVIOUSLY.

———————-

The contest to win the Flip MinoHD is on until Saturday and can be found here, under my TOP SECRET PAGES.

Today, over at Toy With Me, it’s my second installment of my Bondage Conference! Part One! Part Two!