Aunt Becky: “It’s almost my birthday.”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yup! I’ve been regularly petitioning the White House to change July to “Aunt Becky’s Birthday Month” rather than like, “Breast Awareness Month” because it seems like a good idea.”

The Daver: “I think the Breast Awareness people will be pretty pissed at you.”

Aunt Becky: “Well, in that case, we can SHARE it. Because really, we both like women AND boobs, AND pink! This is a total win!”

The Daver: “You keep on keepin’ on.”

Aunt Becky: “So far they’ve managed to ignore me, but I WILL NOT BE SILENCED!”

The Daver: “You have to fight, Becky, for what’s important.”

Aunt Becky: “I mean, maybe I should petition the French government to change the date of Bastille Day to the day AFTER and then change the name to “Aunt Becky’s Birthday SLASH Bastille Day.”

The Daver: “Are you French?”

Aunt Becky: “Um. No. But I’ve been to France! I like Brie!”

The Daver: “But are you French?”

Aunt Becky (thinks): “I’m Swedish, Scottish, and Black Irish, I think.”

The Daver: “That may not be enough.”

Aunt Becky: “Well, I could lie. Or maybe get impregnated by a Frenchman. THEN I would be FRENCH by…um…whatchu call it?”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “I WOULD BE FRENCH BY INJECTION!”

The Daver: “Good luck with that conquest, Becks.”

Aunt Becky: “What’s the president of France’s Twitter? Do you know it? I bet he’ll respond to me immediately. I mean, how could he not?”

The Daver: “You may have to ask Twitter.”

Aunt Becky: “WAIT, I WONDER IF HE’D KNOCK ME UP!”

The Daver: “Over Twitter?”

Aunt Becky: “Now you’re just being absurd.”

The Daver: “Me? I’M the absurd one?”

Aunt Becky (plots): “I should DM him and see if we can have a clandestine meeting. I think I read in People Magazine that he likes to have affairs.”

The Daver: “Good luck with the affair, Becky. Now, I have to get back to the meeting with the CEO of my company. I’d appreciate if you didn’t call me out of meetings to scheme with you.”

Aunt Becky: “Hey, can you ask your CEO if he knows the Twitter handle of the president of France?”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Ass.”

P.S. Lily Grace is out of surgery, off the vent and KICKING ASS! Pranksters, you humble me as always. Much, much love. Her mother, Nikki, her father, and her whole family read and will be reading all of the comments you left. Thank you so very much.

xoxo.

When I started blogging, it was mostly to make other people laugh and poke fun at the few blogs I’d ever seen. I co-blogged on my first blog, Mushroom Printing, with my home-slice Pashmina and I’m pretty sure that the only people that read it were people that had either seen my yapping maw in person or rampant spambots trying to sell me knock-off drugs at bargain basement prices (how could I resist? I mean, really).

I’m still not sure why I ventured out on my own.

I guess I’d found that I really liked to write.

I was lonely. Desperately lonely.

The people who liked stories about queefs and analogies about penises that looked like “a baby’s arm holding an apple” weren’t the same people who could possibly relate to how cripplingly lonely I now was, stuck at home with an infant who wouldn’t be held by anyone but Your Aunt Becky and a husband who was home approximately .0004 minutes a week.

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Of course, when you start a blog, readers don’t come flocking, and even after I’d gotten some readers, I’d never connected that people actually READ the words I wrote.

Even now, when I sit down to peck out a post on my keyboard, I don’t actually imagine that the words I write on my own screen are read by anything other than spambots. I know you’re out there because I keep up with most of you on your own blogs, but I still don’t realize that you know me.

And that my words might actually mean something.

My daughter was born in January of 2009 with a neural tube defect called an encephalocele. It’s a fairly rare defect of the bones of the skull. When she was a wee fetus, no more than a blob of cells really, those bones didn’t fuse properly and part of her brain developed outside of her skull.

Somehow, this was undetected throughout my pregnancy, despite many ultrasounds and various screening procedures, and when she rocketed into the world, all hell broke loose.

I was lucky enough to have my Band of Merry Pranksters here to hold me up when I was sure that the world was collapsing around me. In a room that had previously been full of oxygen, I could no longer breathe and you all brought me tanks of air, and stroked my hair, telling me that it was okay to be afraid because this was some fucked up shit, indeed.

Every email you ever sent to me, all of you who reached out to me during those times and every other time, telling me about your own children, how they struggled and how scared you had been, I saved them all. Maybe I didn’t answer you because I couldn’t; I was literally paralyzed on the couch, I cried every time I got one.

I cried because I wasn’t alone anymore. It didn’t matter where I was, I wasn’t alone.

I’ve never forgotten that kindness you continue to bestow upon me and I never will.

This January found me celebrating the my daughter’s birthday while struggling mightily with some Post Traumatic Stress Disorder related to her birth. I was floundering, clawing against the darkness and trying to find my light when I got an email.

Someone, by chance, had happened across my blog, searching for “encephalocele” or possibly “neural tube defect in babies.” Someone had just found out that their child, their 18-week fetus had what appeared to be an encephalocele and had been desperately searching for a success story on the Internet to give them hope.

I doubt I’m the first blog you come across when you search for those terms, but there in Google, somewhere, my blog, my profanity laden blog was found. And you can find no greater success story of someone kicking the ass of an encephalocele to give you hope than the hope of my daughter, Amelia Grace.

This is why I am so proud to be a March of Dimes Mom. This is why I am so proud to be a blogger. This is why I am so proud to be Your Aunt Becky and have a Band of Merry Pranksters to love on.

The email I got was from Nikki, who is now one of my best friends. I mentioned her in a Go Ask Aunt Becky, asking you guys to spare her and her baby some great thoughts and prayers back when she’d emailed me initially.

Well, Internet, Your Aunt Becky is an AUNT!

This is Lily Grace and she is my niece! Doesn’t she look like me? (just nod, Pranksters)

Lily is doing fantastically, neurologically intact and clearly adorable as hell, which goes without saying.

Lily is having neurosurgery today, a similar procedure to what Mimi had, although she does not have a true encephalocele. Her neural tube defect is filled with cerebrospinal fluid only, which is considered to be a win if you’re a neurologist. Being full of brain matter is much, much worse, so YAY for cephalocele or meningiocele, or whatever fancy thing the kids are calling it these days.

Today, Pranksters, I’m asking you to spare some love and light and prayers for sweet baby Lily Grace, who will, no doubt, kick brain surgery in the teeth like her cousin Amelia Grace, for whom she is named after (in part).

And I want to, once again, thank you for being there. Maybe I’ll never truly believe that actual PEOPLE read my blog, but I do know that the connections that I’ve made, the friendships I’ve made, those remind me of something that I desperately needed to know. Something we all need to be reminded of.

Every word we write, every tweet we send, every connection we forage, every friend we make, every breath we breathe, we are none of us alone.

Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion: Knotty By Nature takes to the high seas on March 7, 2011 for a four day cruise of the Bahamas out of Port Canaveral, Florida.

This is a mobile mischief, tomfoolery, drinking and merry-making trip where you can learn all about how to properly swear, blog, and lazily lounge about the bright blue ocean. There’s nothing not full of the awesome about this.

ALL ARE WELCOME. Let me repeat that for you in case you didn’t believe me: ALL ARE WELCOME. That means YOU, Prankster, who is lurking out there, reading this and wondering if I mean it. Oh yes, I do. We’re calling it a FAMILY REUNION, after all, because when you’re here, you’re family. SORRY.

You can bring your family, your friends, your kids, your spouse, your lover, your mistress, your master, but probably not your pet. I mean, unless it’s a pet rock. Because I don’t think that’s up to health code, not because I have a problem with pets. But that’s between you and the cruise ship.

If you have a vagina, you can come*.

If you have a penis, you can come*.

Frankly, if you have both, you can come*.

I have a feeling it’ll be a mix of both sexes because who doesn’t want to see THIS HOT ASS in a bathing suit? *smacks ass*

You don’t have to be a blogger or even like blogs because frankly, The Internet costs 6 bazillion dollars when you’re wearing your flipping floppy’s on the Lido deck, and while we may talk some shop, you won’t be out of place BECAUSE YOU’RE ON A BOAT.

So shut your whore mouth, quit your worrying, and GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR, PRANKSTERS!

Are you IN?

Slap the official badge (code OVER THERE in the sidebar —>) up on your blog to let the world know you’re gonna be ON A MUTHER TRUCKIN BOAT.

We’ll have the t-shirts to match that you’ll pretty much want all over your chesticles up and ready to buy in the next few weeks. For now, Mr Linky yourself here when you’ve paid your deposit.

Itinerary

Monday, March 7th – Port Canaveral, Florida, Depart 4:30 PM
Tuesday, March 8th – CocoCay, Bahamas 8:00 AM-5:00 PM
Wednesday, March 9th – Nassau, Bahamas 7:00 AM-11:59 PM
Thursday, March 10th – At Sea (DRINKING)
Friday, March 11th – Port Canaveral, Florida 7:00 AM Arrive BACK TO REALITY

We wrangled the services of a group cruise agent to help us out (another Prankster, Amber) so if you want to be a part of this, which, you do, because obviously, you want to go through her (details below).

Cruise Rates

Rates are as follows (and may be subject to a fuel surcharge that will be no more than $10/guest/day):

Category H Oceanview Cabins: $426.34/person which includes all taxes, port charges AND gratuities.
Category N Inside Cabins: $381.34/person, which also includes all taxes, port charges AND gratuities.
(download this PDF flyer for more detailed information)

Here’s where it gets awesome. Deposit is $200 per cabin (or $100 per person), but the rest of the amount can be paid with payment plans up until December 1st. I mean, it would be MORE awesome if it were free, but hey, PAYMENT PLANS. Just like a vacation layaway plan.

Our cruise agent, Amber, will work with each of you individually to work out payment plans.

All deposits are fully refundable until December 1st, so if something comes up, you can pull out. Nothing will come up.

If Royal Caribbean drops fares, we’ll get the reduced fares. *score!*

We can also book other categories of rooms and still be a part of the group.

Booking Information

We convinced you, didn’t we? The promise of floating in a large ship on an Internet Family Reunion with Your Aunt Becky and Angie was too good to pass up. FLOATING BLOGGING CONFERENCE, yo. Want MORE information? Download this brochure.

So this is what you do. I don’t want to deal with money because I’d spend it or lose it and it’s not my thing.

If you are a US citizen, you DO NOT NEED A PASSPORT. It’s highly suggested, but you don’t need one. If you have one and it’s expired, no problemo – it’s still accepted. If you don’t have a US passport, then a certified copy of your birth certificate and driver’s license is all you need. If you’re not a US citizen, well, duh. Yeah. You need a passport to get into the country. doof.

Contact Amber, our group cruise booking agent. She’ll talk you through everything you need to know about a cruise, including passport information, travel insurance, the best things to wear for formal night, and whether or not I am actually insane.

amber@cruiseresource.com
Cruise One
4195 S. Lewiston Cir., Aurora, CO 80013
p: 303-690-8997 | f: 303-690-8986
TOLL FREE: 888-SAIL-123 (888-724-5123)
http://www.cruiseresource.com

Ship Details

I tried to get the ship named the S.S. Pranksters, but sadly, they insisted that the name was actually the Monarch of the Seas which has a sort of stately ring that made me happy in the pants. I accepted it THIS time, Royal Caribbean, but I WILL be back. *shakes fists.*

Port Canaveral, Florida

I don’t live in Florida, I live in Chicago, so I’m commuting in, which, I’m guessing, a bunch of you will be, too. The ship leaves out of a big ass dock in the port, but the area is RIGHT BY Orlando, Florida. And in Orlando is…DISNEY WORLD. It’s a pretty sweet set-up, yo.

Florida is also ASS HOT, so get used to it, those of you who will be coming from cold places, like me. In fact, I’ll probably be almost as white as a larva coming from Chicago in the dead of winter (March = winter in Chicago). In March, however, Florida is the land of tres awesome weather. Meaning, really, it’s nice. Nice as in high in the 70s, nice.

Angie lives in Orlando, but really only has room for 10-15 people to cram their asses on the floor, so unless you want to sleep 69-style on the floor in her Messy House, it’s suggested you either fly/drive in on Monday morning or find yo’self a hotel near the Orlando airport for Sunday night. Questions? Just ask Angie.

Additional Information

We’ll be adding more information as needed, so we’ll let you know when and what you need to to make this a crazy-awesome vacay.

Questions? Leave a comment on the cruise info page (DON’T ASK CRUISE QUESTIONS ON THIS POST, only “yippee! i’m going! squeeee! comments here, please) and we’ll answer them cruise info page for everyone to see. Ask a question someone else has already asked in the comments? Lose a finger.

________________________________________

*that’s what she said

My grandfather was one of those whiz-kid types who graduated college while still in diapers. I think he went to Harvard then Johns Hopkins for Medical School, graduating with a full MD at something absurd like age 21. He then went onto be a family doctor back in the days when being a doctor was really something special to the general public, something revered and something that I desperately wish that the medical field could get back to.

He made house calls, delivered babies in the middle of the night and ministered to the sick and dying. His name was Joseph, just like my dad and my middle son (Alex’s middle name) and he missed out on most of my dad’s childhood because he was laid up with tuberculosis in a TB sanitarium.

My grandfather, Joseph, was also a doctor in the United States Army in World War Two and among the first to liberate the concentration camps.

What he saw there, the dead bodies amongst the living, those poor souls forced to live in what must have been hell, in the sorts of conditions that I cannot even fathom as I whine about it being “too hot” outside, he never spoke of.

I don’t know that he could.

My grandfather was a hero.

To be able to touch the lives of those people, even those who didn’t make it, or those who had already passed, and to tenderly care for them, that is what a hero is.

A hero is someone who leaves their own family, the comforts of their own home, and selflessly serves their country. They take care of what needs to be done, and they do it with pride.

I’m proud, too. Of all the soldiers, of their families, and of my grandfather, who would, were he alive, be horrified by my blog.

It’s a DAMN good thing he’s not here to read it.

AMERICA, FUCK YEAH:

Hi Aunt Becky,

My husband and I just found out we are having a boy, so our house will be a sausage factory too. After recovering from hearing the news, I picked a fight with the husband about circumcision. He’s pro sausage casing removal, and I’m kind of anti. He is “jewish” (mom is catholic dad is jewish), but he doesn’t have any religious reasons for his feelings.

He’s worried the little snot will get teased in the locker room and also thinks they look better. I think there isn’t a good medical reason to do it, they don’t look THAT weird, and circumcision rates are falling, so by the time he gets to school more boys will look like him. I would love it if you could please be our tie breaker.

*ducks*

*looks frantically around for cover*

*hides*

*sighs*

Oh Prankster, how I am afraid to touch this question beyond all others before or after it because circumcision is the new abortion in terms of making people want to hurl things at each other at maximum velocity. But you asked and I can try and help you here.

First, let me start by saying this: I do not court controversy on my blog because, well, I don’t like it. Second, I am neither pro nor anti-circumcision in terms of what you do to your child because frankly, I have better things to get worried about, like why Househusbands of Hollywood got canceled.

That said, there are a WHOLE LOT of people who feel beyond strongly about it and I have no doubts that they will come and discuss it here. I have hopes that my Pranksters, being the awesome people that they are, can keep this discussion civil. Because opinions are like assholes (everybody’s got one) and what’s good for the goose may not be good for the gander.

I think that means that this decision is personal and personal attacks don’t need to be made against one another here. In fact, I will not tolerate it.

Lengthy disclaimer aside, I decided to go ahead and do some research for you, Prankster, because I do not like to give emotional responses to such a topic. Specifically, I went to the Centers For Disease Control’s Website to see what THEY said about the matter. They tend to have good, non-biased EVIDENCED-based material, and they did not disappoint.

I was looking for the medical reasons to circumcise, because while it used to be a standard procedure for all male infants in the hospital, that’s come under fire recently as being medically unnecessary. I wanted the FACTS. Here is what I found (information can be found here):

*Male circumcision has been associated with a lower risk for HIV infection in international observational studies and three randomized controlled clinical studies performed in Africa.

*The reason for the lower risk of HIV infection is due to the makeup of the skin of the foreskin which may have a greater susceptibility to tears during intercourse, providing an entry for pathogens (including HIV). The space between the foreskin and the penis may also provide an ideal environment pathogen survival as most flourish at normal body temperatures.

*Male circumcision has been proven effective in reducing the risk of HIV infection through insertive vaginal sex.

*That said, there are risks associated with male circumcision, which is generally performed in the hospital by the obstetrician before the mother and infant are sent home.

*The most common risks are bleeding, pain and infections and those are very rare. No long-term complications have been noted in the studies the CDC was referring to, and because the Internet is a vast and oftentimes incorrect place, I wasn’t about to Google it.

*The results of effects of male circumcision on penile sensation and sexual function give us a mixed picture: there is a report of decrease in sensitivity to fine touch. But several studies among adult circumcision patients report that there is no change or an improvement post circumcision.

From the American Medical Association (will open up a PDF if you click on it, but has a TON of information about it), here are the numbers for you number people, updated January, 2010:

*Human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) was reduced by 53%
to 60%.

*Herpes simplex virus type 2 (HSV-2) was reduced by 28% to
34%.

* Human papillomavirus (HPV) was reduced by 32% to 35%.

*Among female partners of circumcised men, bacterial vaginosis was
reduced by 40% and Trichomonas vaginalis infection was reduced by 48%.

(many of those studies were done in developing countries so the numbers may be lower in the US)

Probably the best, most medically sound information I could find was here, on the National Library of Medicine’s Website. The links are sound and up-to-date. Plus, none of them involve the same emotional tone that I so hate when it comes to this topic.

*The American Academy of Pediatrics takes this stance on circumcision: “The American Academy of Pediatrics believes that circumcision has potential medical benefits and advantages, as well as risks. The existing scientific evidence is not sufficient to recommend routine circumcision. Therefore, because the procedure is not essential to a child’s current well-being, we recommend that the decision to circumcise is one best made by parents in consultation with their pediatrician, taking into account what is in the best interests of the child, including medical, religious, cultural, and ethnic traditions.”

The Center’s For Disease Control and Prevention are launching an evidence-based study into the topic of male circumcision and have made no final recommendations.

And as for you, Prankster, I find it to be a very personal decision that should be made once you know all of the risks and benefits. Education is key here, and I hope that I’ve done an okay job gathering the facts for you.

————

Now I turn the table to you, my Pranksters, to discuss this topic. She asked for a tie-breaker, and I’m not giving her one because, well, that’s not my style. So have at it. Just be nice, yo.

A couple of years ago, when Atkins was The Thing everyone was doing to lose weight, a local lumber yard had this particular sign up on their marquee ensuring that I would always be a loyal customer, providing I ever needed a fence, “TRY OUR LOW CARB FENCE!!” Because if that wasn’t hilarious, I didn’t know what was.

Pretty much everyone I knew was doing Atkins besides Daver and myself because I was doing a regular old diet and Dave weighed 140 pounds. I simply couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that eating a pound of bacon a day (although highly tasty) was somehow good for your cardiovascular system.

Then again, I didn’t exactly run a mile a day or anything either, so I had no room to point fingers. I just jealously watched them pile the bacon on their cheeseburger, no bun, as I ate my spinach seasoned with…lemon, no salt.

It was no surprise to me that I found myself once again dieting away the sixty pounds of baby weight after Alex was born and now again after my daughter. I’d like to be all “Yeah, dude, those donuts were WORTH it,” but sadly, I am one of those unfortunate souls who just gets FAT when she gestates. I sort of look like McDonald’s Grimace before I deliver, if he were pink or I were purple, or maybe a fire hydrant, if I were more yeller.

With both Mimi and Alex I put on another 20 pounds of post-partum thyroiditis weight which to me just seems fucking UNFAIR, but it is what it is, and there’s no real use stamping around my house about it NOW. Mostly because I’ve already done my stamping. Luckily, I am the Worst Case Scenario for almost all of you reading, so you can all feel smugly superior to me and my wonky metabolism but for those .00002 of you reading who feel my pain, I AM HERE WITH YOU, SISTER/BROTHER.

At the end of March, I went back on Weight Watchers, even though I’d been eating well, it was good to keep an eyeball on it. It’s a good diet, genuinely, and I do the online stuff because while I know that the group is supposed to be good, let’s face it, I’m not in need of the help. Or if I am, I don’t want it.

Mostly, I don’t have the energy to sling my ass to meetings on a weekly basis when the online tools are RIGHT THERE (and the access to the forums alone are worth the membership fees)(because forums often = CRAZIES).

Like the other times I’ve done it, it’s WORKING. I’ve actually lost about 10 pounds, in addition to the 20 post-partum thyroiditis pounds that I’d dropped before.

BUT THEN, I got this great idea, because I am full of them: I incorporated the DIABETIC diet into my Weight Watchers Diet! I am not a diabetic and I cannot be all Wilford Brimley and “I have The Diabeeeetttuuusss” on your ass, but the Diabetic Diet is pretty much a fucking great diet for you.

(Diabetic Diet is NOT Atkins, by the by)

Um, holy shit, I lost an additional 4 pounds this week which is AMAZING because I barely eat carbs as it is because I know they’re like The White Devil and this wasn’t like a huge stretch. I never lost weight like that because I am not blessed with any sort of metabolism that does much besides wheeze and groan at me.

So maybe I won’t look like Grimace by the end of the summer after all. Or I will, but in a slightly LESS fluffy form.

After all, we’re going on a CRUISE, Pranksters (details coming on TUESDAY!) and I have to be DEAD SEXY for you.

Now I love teenagers, which makes me in the shallow minority of adults. I find them endlessly amusing probably in no small part because I share the same emotional range and maturity level as they do. I’m just older, so it’s more pathetic. I’m not a freak, though, so I don’t like hang around used record stores trying to relive my Glory Days and buy smokes for 16-year-olds in the vain attempt that I might “be the COOL adult” now because THAT is just sad.

Nah, I just like ’em. Much more, I should add, than I do most other age brackets, up to and including preteens.

Preteens, however, I’m convinced, rule the fucking world.

Case and point. On Twitter, for the three of you blissfully without an account, for like 4 weeks or 6 years, Justin Beaver was a trending topic. Trending topics are SUPPOSED to be things like “Oil Spill” or “Britney Spears Crotch,” you know, RELEVANT things, but instead, we had the preteens of the world automating twitter with “JUSTIN BEAVER” over and over again so that he remained a trending topic day after motherfucking day.

Twitter, God BLESS them, finally pulled the plug and refused to let his foppy hair-cutted ass trend any longer. Because really, unless someone assassinates him or proves that he does, indeed have a beaver (neither of which I am advocating), it’s not fucking national news.

So Twitter, this is Your Aunt Becky humping your leg for doing that AND removing #sponsored tweets. If you live under a rock and don’t know what those are, I applaud you because those make me Furious George.

MOVING ON BEFORE MY HEAD ESSPLODES.

Last night was the esteemed Glee Live tour. I won’t go as far as to say that I’m a “Gleek” because that’s a fucking DUMBASS name, but I love that show. Hard. Yeah, okay, it’s contrived and silly and a little soft, but you know what? IT’S COTTON CANDY. It serves no purpose other than to be there and make you happy. In a world where we very well may need to buy a large area rug to cover up the oil spill in the Gulf, maybe we can use some fluff.

I expected that the theatre would have some teenagers in it. And probably some awesomely gay men. What I did NOT expect was that the theatre would be packed wall-to-wall with screaming hoards of preteens bursting with irritating noise and energy.

Had I not been dying of the Flu Made Who and unable to stand for more than .2 seconds at a time, I would have found their exuberance merely funny rather than exhausting, but as it was, every time ANYTHING happened, they SHRIEKED. I couldn’t muster a single WORD without it making me tear up in pain and they were flaunting the use of their perfect vocal chords RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.

Had I had a cane, I would have swatted them with it.

They’re all clearly robots because NO ONE has that kind of energy without being high as a kite, insane in the membrane, or artificial intelligence. The amount of money and time put into their elaborately made “GLEE shirts” illustrate to me that they are clearly decepticons from the future, sent to destroy humanity, one decibel at a time.

The show, however, was worth the shrieks. I didn’t take pictures because really, it was kind of pointless because they were all DANCING and MOVING and shit, but I’m telling you this: if you like the show and you can somehow score tickets the next time they go on tour (which, they will because FOX will bleed those kids for every cent they can possibly make) DO IT.

You may be killed by decepticons posing as awkward preteens, but at least you’ll go out whistling “Sweet Caroline.”

Because I am a narcissistic asshole, I have carefully chronicled the problems I have had with flying. While I am sure that MOST have you have carefully poured over my archives while wearing an “I HEART AUNT BECKY SHIRT” while burning incense at your Aunt Becky Alter, for those of you who haven’t had time, I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes Version:

(P.S. I’d use real bullets, but the make the font REALLLLY tiny and then I get upset because it LOOKS BAD and then I get anal and wring my hands about it and then I realize that maybe I SHOULD have been a graphic designer except that I am not THAT anal because I am distracted by the promise of hot dogs)

*I have been singled out and strip searched by the TSA for most of my flights since I was a small child. I used to think that it was because I was devastatingly sexy, but no, I realized that I actually look sort of maybe Middle Eastern. Racial profiling does, in fact, exist.

*All of my luggage was lost on my honeymoon. In fact, my honeymoon was a disaster from the moment it began until it ended. We did get our luggage back, BUT LOOK AT MY CORNROWS:

*On our trip to Heather Spohr’s baby shower, the tickets we printed at home were all ‘SEE TICKETING AGENT’ which never bodes well, because obviously. So we were all nervous because we’d never been away before and then the tickets were MYSTERIOUS and turns out, we were on an exit row.

*Flight HOME from Heather’s baby shower, the plane nearly crashed. No, seriously. It wasn’t funny.

So I wasn’t exactly happy to be getting on a plane to go to my cruise because, well, something always seems to be amiss and airline travel now is a HUGE pain in the butthole. But CRUISE! How could I go wrong?

The flight out was delayed about an hour, but whatever, I was coming in the day before and it all worked out.

The flight HOME, see, now, THIS is where I got fucked.

I’d made the mistake of buying some ridiculously overpriced shit at the salon on the ship. Those of you (read: ALL of you) who will be going on our cruise, HEED MY WARNING, the cruise ship’s salon is INSANELY expensive. So, I bought some shit before I knew what it cost and then realized it was over the 3 ounce limit the TSA allows.

(the terrorists are SO winning)

So I’m all, okay, I’ll check my motherfucking bag. WHATEVER. I drop my twenty-five bucks at the American Airlines curbside check-in and the guy is all “I’ll take care of it for you.” And then I said bye to my bag as it was loaded onto the back.

I got home and couldn’t walk straight which should have been the first sign that I was coming down with the flu, but I’d been traveling all day, so I was all “WHATEVER” and went to bed. The next day, I was equally mumbly and went around in a fog and basically walked into walls and still couldn’t figure out why my brain felt like it had been attacked by ice cream scoops.

The FOLLOWING day, I finally attempted to unpack my suitcase, where it had languished in the hallway, and, upon looking closer at one of my ridiculously overpriced salon boxes, I realized something: it was empty. After calling a meeting of the usual suspects, I realized that it couldn’t POSSIBLY have been my children, who lacked the dexterity to open such a box.

Which meant one thing: I’d been robbed by American Airlines, not the TSA, because they didn’t leave their calling card.

Also missing: my iPod/iPhone/iPad charger (the same piece of equipment).

American Airlines has tried to help but is basically like “*shrugs* We opened a case for you.” Did you know they have a whole DEPARTMENT for this shit? A PILFERED BAGGAGE department? That’s fucked up, yo.

I’m planning to call American EXPRESS (the card I used to buy my ridiculous face cream on) who may be able to leverage a little more weight than me and my Twitter Campaign of Doom will be able to, because genuinely, I’m not thinking much will come of this at all.

It’s just all so fucked up. I mean, we can’t really LOCK our baggage to keep them out because the TSA has to be able to access our stuff at all times to search it, and we can’t do anything about getting our stuff back because how can I really PROVE that my stuff is missing?

If this is the new world order, I don’t like it, Pranksters.

So I’ve frequently waxed on about how my daughter kicked neurosurgery in the balls because, well, anyone who undergoes brain surgery as a 3 week old and walks off with as wicked a scar as my Mimi did deserves to say that about themselves (or have their mother brag about it). Her scar is such that she’s going to have to come up with some kind of wicked story like, “bar fight” which is my go-to story when strangers ask.

Trust me, I get some looks.

Later, I said that Mimi kicked ass because she beat a diagnosis that often kills babies, or leaves them severely retarded. She’s entirely normal, if not a bit feisty, which, again, kicks ass.

What I didn’t count on was that my daughter would be a bruiser.

Sure, my mother often said that I was born “smoking a cigar and barking out orders” but I sort of thought that she meant that I was a short, fat, balding bookie kind of baby. I don’t know why I always pictured myself as The Penguin from Batman, but I did.

I didn’t think she meant that I was a BRUISER. Apparently, THAT was what she meant, not that I was a villain-baby, because to hear her talk about it, she STILL shudders when she describes me as a baby.

Maybe that was why my first word was “fuck.” I don’t know. But it does explain a whole lot about my personality now, doesn’t it? (just nod, it’s easier)

But that would be my daughter, who is, apparently, myself, who is, without a doubt, kicking all of our asses to get what she wants. It doesn’t really matter WHAT it is, she’ll fight you for it. Ear-bleeding shrieks followed by tiny fingered pinches, then followed by a gaze from those beautiful, luminous eyes, I mean, you IMAGINED that tantrum, didn’t you?

Nothing this sweet looking could be such a devil in disguise:

Underneath that sweet, cake-eating exterior, she’s plotting how to steal your wallet AND car-keys. Amelia, she’s a thug-a-lug.

Really, I thought that my testosterone-fueled middle son would have been the member of the Sausage Factory to contend with but it turns out that his sister is going to be the member of the family that will be all DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY, SOLDIER. Mimi, who will probably drop the fluffy sounding name and go by the more refined sounding “A-Dog” will make an excellent drill sergeant where she will inflict her torture on her troops so much that they will have nightmares that she is standing over them, pinching them.

Of course, she will be standing over them, pinching them while they sleep, because she is THAT kind of bruiser.

I’m wicked proud of my ickle A-Dog, even though I’m sure eventually she’ll try to cut my hair into a regulation buzz-cut every time she sees me, which is fine, so long as I don’t go to sleep (Aunt Becky doesn’t sleep, she waits). Because I bet she WOULD do it while I sleep.

It’s a good thing, I think. The world needs more strong, fearless, smart, pinchy females to stomp the earth in their combat boots making everything their bitch. Amelia will be like Chuck Norris, only cuter.

Just don’t tell her I called her cute. She’ll punch me in the throat.

Fear me world, because I have come to CONQUER you.

Once I finish my juicey.

—————

At Toy With Me, I’m talking about my BRILLIANT plan: Peckers of the Caribbean.

I started the morning by grousing about the state of the world in general, followed that with a piping hot bowl of prunes, and then watched my Matlock for a spell because I am an old person. Also, I do not eat prunes because I am not insane and prunes, no matter how tasty and fucking delicious they are, look like fucking cockroaches.

Sure, our old mattress was this ancient hand-me-down Tempur-Pedic thing that was actually ripped so badly that it was disintegrating, but because we are not normal, we bought an old people Sleep Number bed. I tried like crazy to get Daver to allow me to get the one that went up and down like a hospital bed with the radio and the TV remote built into the side, but he refused.

Apparently, me shrieking about “mah bedsores” in the middle of the mattress stores wasn’t enough to convince him that we needed a $4,000 bed. Ass.

The upside to getting a new mattress when one comes down with the flu, I suppose was that I spent most of the week in that bed. And I have to give it over to old people: that motherfucker is COMFORTABLE. I mean, sleeping on a box would be preferable to sleeping on the busted Tempur-Pedic because that thing had a gorge in the middle of it. A cavern. A chasm. It was kind of like a vagina in the middle of the mattress.

Now I can totally pick up dudes with my Sleep Number (40) rather than my zodiac sign. Because explaining that I’m not REALLY a Cancer and a lot more like a Leo makes me sound all kinds of neurotic.

Shut UP.

But that’s all kind of a moot point because until I can pick up dudes at the Urgent Care Clinic*, I’m kind of screwed. Flu Made Who is pretty much got me down for the count and is trying to make me his bitch.

This here, Pranksters, is motherfucking bat country.

How are YOU today, my Band of Merry Pranksters? I assume you’re not sweating with the exertion of sitting up and praying for the sweet release of sleep death dramatics Vicodin to overtake you.

*is it me, or does the word “clinic” make you think of STD’s?