One of the best things I learned in high school was not the phrase “semper ubi, SUB ubi” (always wear, UNDERwear) (oh, that AP Latin humor gets me every time), but that the one way to make sure that no one hassled you was to look as though you looked like you knew precisely what you were doing. If you LOOKED like you knew what you were doing, you were probably not setting fire to a locker somewhere. Probably.

It was an early version of the ‘fake it ’til you make it’ adage that they teach people suffering from mental illness, and it’s a good life lesson. Should I ever put together Aunt Becky’s Guide To Life, along with “Pants First, Then Shoes,” that will be up there high on my list of things to master.

I’ve always been remarkably good at it, maybe it’s because my home life was chaotic, maybe I just have a good p-p-p-p-poker face, I don’t know. But I always look like I know precisely what I am doing. And for the most part, I have always simply known that what I was doing was precisely what I should be doing for that time. Even during my blasted nursing school days, whether or not I was HAPPY, it was what I should have been doing because I knew with certainty it must be.

I never waffle much with my decisions, especially my decisions about how delicious waffles are, and I never much struggle with uncertainty. For me there is a single path to follow, and I simply follow it. It’s very dogmatic to be me, I guess, and even though my decisions aren’t always right, there’s never so much as a shred of doubt in them while I’m making them.

Lately, though, I’ve been struggling. Floundering, even, although when I say that, I think of the fish and then I giggle because I think of that Faith No More video with the flopping fish, and then I remember how much I fucking love Mike Patton.

But my decision to be a writer was something that came about as a shock to me. It was like I realized I could dip my head underwater and breathe without a mask. I simply didn’t know that I had any talent for it, and once I did, I was beyond stunned, because you think you’d know if you could do something cool like breathe underwater, right?

I’ve gone after it, balls to the wall, because I realized that this was what I was supposed to do. But for the first time in my life, I became doubtful. Was this really what I was supposed to do?

Where my path before had been brightly lit with gaily colored lights and lighted disco sidewalks (hey, this is MY path, Pranksters and I would bejewel all of you if I could), it turned a murky, cloudy grey. I couldn’t see what I was supposed to do next. I was all kinds of turned around and suddenly a mist crept in and I couldn’t even tell which way was up any longer.

I don’t even know how long I stood there alone, just standing and waiting for a sign. Months, probably. I’m not a big step-on-a-crack-break-your-momma’s-back kind of Magical Thinker, but I needed a sign from God, from you, my Pranksters, from ANYONE to tell me that Yes, YES, a million times yes! this was what I needed to do.

Yesterday, I got it.

All at once, the mist evaporated, the lights turned back on, the disco lights began flashing under my feet and suddenly I could see that I’d been facing the right way the entire time. I’ve always been facing the right way. This IS what I was supposed to be doing all along. Eventually, I will succeed.

In the meantime, I just have to remember that it’s not all given to me to know and that it’s not all within my power. I got my sign, and now it’s time to do my part.

It’s going to be another long, strange trip, but I’m beyond ready and more than thrilled. I’m going to buckle up and hope I don’t shit my pants along the way.

Much.

My big push for the year besides:

1) don’t die

2) don’t kill anyone

3) don’t die trying not to kill anyone

was to try and get involved in Ben’s schooling. Not like all PTA-style because I don’t think I could get away with stapling my mouth shut for hours at a time because that sounds painful and The Daver won’t buy me a handler to make sure I don’t say things like, “I say we teach our kids to practice ASS-tincence! GET IT? Bwahahahahaha!”

No, I signed up to be on the baking committee.

Before you all draw collective gasps of amazement at my gall, I can assure you that despite the way it looked when I made my not-so-delicious Cake Wreck, I am an excellent baker….

….providing it doesn’t have to look pretty. What I make will TASTE delicious, it just make look like a hot plate of ass. What can I say? Aesthetics isn’t my strong suit.

I’ve tried to sign up to bring in my delicious delectables before, but I’m guessing that someone reads my blog and probably saw my horrifying mini cake monstrosity and decided that they didn’t want their kid to die of dysentery THAT week.

I was turned down. I cried into my terrible, sad blue cake. (you have to read the other post to understand what I’m saying)

Months later, when all of the other people had been tapped out, and changed their email addresses,I was finally called into action. Your Aunt Becky, finally ready to prove her worth in front of God, The PTA and everyone.

My orders were about as hilarious and complex as you could possibly get. It was something so uniquely teacher-ish (this is for Teacher Appreciation Week, you see, Pranksters, a group that I appreciate SO VERY MUCH that I would happily give them fistfuls of cash rather than a crummy cake) that I immediately had to call The Daver out of a Very Important Meeting to inform him of it.

Now, had I been a teacher in the school, this is what I would have wanted the cake decorated like:

1) Me clubbing children

P) Me strangling children

**) Me torching the school

12) Me mowing over the crazy parents with my large SUV

8) A bottle of Vicodin with me in the background passed out (presumably from taking it)

5) A fluffy kitten perhaps doing something whimsical like playing the piano!!1!!

I am clearly unequipped to handle masses of children in one place at one time and if you are a teacher, I will personally bake you a cake if you come over to my house because that is how much I love you for doing what you do. I do not promise it will LOOK PRETTY but you know, it’ll taste good, so who gives a flying monkey shit?

If the teachers DIDN’T want cakes depicting violence against children because they are clearly better human beings than I am, what on earth DID they want?

Cakes that you can motherfucking SALUTE, Pranksters! Oh yes, they wanted FLAG cakes. Which, is just such a TEACHER thing to want, isn’t it? I’m happy if my cake is tinted a color that is certain to make my poo turn green, but the teachers wanted to have cakes made to represent the flags of 4 nations. Shockingly NO ONE wanted to make them.

So I offered to buy them because I know my limits. The last time I ended up making a cake that was supposed to look like something cute, it ended up looking like this:

Not exactly what I’d planned it to look like, but you know, the greatest plans and whatnot. So the prospect of ME making a cake that was supposed to look like a flag was, perhaps, the most amusing thing I’d heard in months. If this was me TRYING to make a nice cute cake, what would my attempts at a flag look like?

Short answer: I didn’t know and didn’t find out. But I DO plan on doing an In The Kitchen With Aunt Becky soon. Just not with a cake I have to actually GIVE people who then have to EAT it (not just submit it to Cake Wrecks).

My Flag? The AMERICAN Flag, of course (The American Flag was also the pattern of my retainer in high school! Oddly, I lost it in Europe. True story).

I had to explain that I wasn’t just feeling patriotic when I picked it up from the giggling teenagers at Target. The more I explained it, the harder they laughed at me. I suppose they’re not used to seeing Old Glory outside of July Fourth in such magnificent splendor.

Also, there are NOT 50 motherfucking stars on that flag. The teachers will be sure to point that out and be downright clucky that it’s not actually CORRECT. Maybe they will contact my Social Studies teacher and give me a very belated F.

When I picked up the cake, I found myself in the car looking down at Yee Old Flag in her Sugared Glory and singing my most favorite patriotic song.

I give you the INCREDIBLY NOT SAFE FOR WORK OH MY GOD PRANKSTERS LISTEN TO ME DO NOT PLAY THIS AT WORK song from Team America:

Tell me that’s not the funniest thing you’ve heard in forever (the video, well, that’s just what I could find on You Tube). Also, you can sing it to ANYTHING, so it’s like the most versatile song, ever. We should change it to our national anthem, I think.

American Flag Cake, FUCK YEAH.

So, I’m due any day now with Baby #2 and I have a girl name that I LOVE…but other people look at me and say, “What?” whenever they hear it.  Then they sit there and say it under their breath several times while looking confused.  And?  Since I’m 9 months pregnant, it totally pisses me off.

The name is Elodie.  (El-oh-dee)  Seriously, it’s not that different from Emma or Olivia!  It’s French!  It’s not like I snagged the name of some random elf from The Lord of the Rings or something.  It’s a real name, with a real history and real meaning.

So what is up with the weird looks?  And am I dooming my daughter to a lifetime of constantly repeating her name to morons who can’t think outside the name box of Jennifer or Emily?

Oh Momma, you poor thing, when I was nine months pregnant, people breathing near me made want to stab them in the eyeballs with forks, mostly because I was always holding a fork so it was handy as a weapon. Otherwise, I would have thought of something that would cause more damage.

Now Your Aunt Becky thinks that Elodie is a lovely name for a wee baby girl, but I’m afraid that your summation is correct: you are dooming yourself to a lifetime of repeating her name to hapless morons. I say this because my name is Becky and people call me Rachel. CONSTANTLY.

Elodie is an exotic for the US and exotic names are full of The Awesome, but they’re also not common enough that people are going to–off the cuff–say, OH RIGHT!

That said, if you love it, you’ll just have to get used to spelling it and then sounding it out and then spelling it for people. Your daughter will have to do the same. People aren’t always very bright.

Funky names are getting more common, so she won’t be alone in spelling out her name and having people butcher it. Maybe you can make up cards to hand people who don’t get it. Just try to be patient with them.

And remember that people with even the most common names get it, too (RACHEL? I mean, really?).

Good luck, Momma.

Something strange has been going on in my head.  I’ve been chewing on a little nugget of an idea for awhile now.  I’ve been thinking about nominating my child for Make A Wish.

Anyway, one day, I was reading a community blog for my child’s condition and an older child had mentioned she had recently been granted a wish from the make a wish foundation.  She was excited to get a wish because she didn’t think her condition would qualify her for anything special. (Her condition won’t kill her, just require yearly medical examinations by a few ‘ologists’, and treatment as they see fit.  And I thought to myself, wow, I was just thinking about Make A Wish.

A few days later, I was thinking about approaching my husband with the idea of starting the Make A Wish nomination process, but I chickened out thinking that he’d think I was dumb for thinking we should do Make A Wish cause our child is only 3 (will be 3 VERY soon).

The very next day, we got a Make A Wish packet in the mail (fund raising thing asking us for money)  So, I used that as a starting point and mentioned to my husband how I was wanting to tell him about what I had been thinking about and asked what he thought.  He said “The Kid is too young and won’t remember the trip anyway, besides, it’s not like the kid will talk and say anything to the people if they come out”

So, I left it at that….but yesterday, we got something from the grocery store that we normally buy, and it was labeled with Make A Wish advertisement.

Is this a sign that I should just donate to Make A Wish, or nominate my child?

My child was born with a few problems.  It seems that more problems are on the horizon.  Nothing that will kill the kiddo, but will definitely make life quite difficult for awhile.  It’s also pretty much a lifelong problem(s).

You know what? I’d say if it’s something that you think you want to do for your kid, I’d say that you should. The worst that the Make A Wish Foundation will do is turn you down, and in that case, well, you’re out nothing.

So I’d say onward, Prankster, ONWARD. And let us know what happens.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve been blogging for about a year and a half, and most of the time I really love it. But right now? I am completely. burnt. out. I spend way too many hours (hours I should be using to tame the laundry pile, clear the toxic waste out of the fridge and tear my hub away from his internet porn) brainstorming, blogging, commenting, and otherwise pimping my virtual self out, trying to attract more eyeballs (because, let’s face it, I am nothing without comments), and feel like I’m getting nowhere fast.

Have you, in all your awesomeness, ever found yourself at this crossroads? How do I get past it? I am not a quitter, and do not want to become one now, but the thought of writing another post right now makes me want to light a match and burn my blog back into binary code.

Help me.

Sincerely,

Considering Committing an Act of Bloggy Arson

Are you kidding, Prankster? Of course you are teasing Your Aunt Becky, because anyone who has been blogging for more than six months has experienced blogging burnout. If they haven’t, they’re delusional, or they haven’t actually felt The Pressure yet.

This is what I do when I feel The Pressure is to remind myself not to take myself so seriously. It’s hard because I’m supposed to be funny, and when I’m not feeling particularly FUNNY it makes for a post like dressing up a turd in a tutu. Not everything in my life is for public consumption.

Then I take a step back and remind myself not to take it all so seriously. If I miss a couple weeks of keeping up with everyone, well, I’m only one person. I cannot possibly do it all and make myself happy at the same time. Anyone who drops me because I need some time to myself isn’t exactly a friend, are they?

So don’t be so hard on yourself, Prankster, and remember it’s okay to need your space. Take the time you need and come back to your blog if you want. Anyone who loves you for you and not for the comments you leave on THEIR blog will keep you in their reader and welcome you back with open arms. Like Your Aunt Becky.

———————

As always, Pranksters, please feel free to fill in where I left off in the comments.

When the power went off yesterday at exactly 2:46 PM I tried to be all *hair flip* coy about it. I was all WHATEVER, I don’t NEED you MR. POWER COMPANY. You’re The Man and I don’t need to SELL OUT to The Man any more than I ALREADY DO.

By 2:48 I was sweating and on my knees praying to The Power Company Gods that the power be restored already, can’t you SEE that I’ve SUFFERED enough?? I NEED my TWITTER BACK! THE INTERNET MAY BE HAVING A SCANDAL THAT I DON’T KNOW ABOUT!

Now, I was born into a family of stinky hippies. I don’t mean the kind that shops at Whole Foods and occasionally recycles their plastics when they feel like it. No, my parents were hippies long past when it was cool to be a hippie and well before it was trendy to be organic. We had to drive all over town in our ancient VW Bug to go to the health food store, we grew our own sad, pathetic produce, and we made as much of our own food as possible.

That’s probably why I’m jubilantly happy that my rose food is made by Bayer, the same company that makes my aspirin. You cannot be TOO not organic when you live in Aunt Becky’s world.

Along with making our own food, we made our own maple syrup in the winter after we painstakingly gathered the sap from maple trees, we picked our own apples and strawberries from local (pesticide free) orchards, and my mother canned stuff. CREEPY, I know.

Also, she churned butter.

Oh yes, Pranksters, my mom churned our butter. I’ll let you take a moment to let that sink in, or allow you to compose yourself, perhaps to run to the bathroom to wipe the pee from your pants.

…

…

…

…

Ready? (ASS)

Yeah, my mom churned butter. Sometimes, when I was a kid, I helped. Also, I should add, I was born in 1980, not 1880.

But to me, I’m really not into that whole lifestyle. I mean, I love Classic Rock fiercely…but I also love Bubble Gum Pop. Whole Foods is awesome…but I also call it Whole PAYCHECK. I have a garden which I love…but I don’t grow food in it. I don’t cook, if I can help it. I appreciate the organic lifestyle, but I lived it before most people and I am willing to admit that it has it’s drawbacks…like BUGS.

You can spare me the organic is better lecture because really, I HAVE been there.

Last night, after about 30 minutes with no power, the 3-year old hysterical because things! were! different! I realized that my iPhone was nearly dead and my house phone, well, that runs off The Internet, the stove and microwave both not working, I was pretty much ready to pull my graying hair out.

Luckily, the pizza guy came (thank you The Daver) and saved the day for the kids and 4 mother-humping hours later, the power came on to great fanfare in my house. Turns out, no one in my house–all of whom are used to sleeping with white noise–can sleep if there’s no power.

I’m pretty sure I would have been eaten by a large bear if I’d been a pioneer.

When I say that I’m a “big fan” of music, it conjures up the most delicious image of a gigantic fan, perhaps with a whimsical image of Your Aunt Becky in full geisha gear, doing something graceful and womanly painted on there. Then I giggle and forget what I’m saying because I’m on TOPAMAX, man, and that shit is BAD NEWS and I can barely remember your name, let alone what I was laughing at.

Anyway, for as long as my kid, Benner, has been alive, I’ve made him listen to music.

When he was a screamy baby, it was the only thing that kept me from driving off a cliff while he wailed on in the backseat (let’s just PRETEND I live somewhere besides the Midwest, where there actually MIGHT be cliffs). Later, it was one of the things that comforted him and soothed the savage beast within him when nothing else–save for his beloved Jupiter–could.

Never mattered what it was, could have been a commercial jingle, the kid would stop what he was doing, and start dancin’. Out of nowhere, I’d warble, “you could be dannnnccciiiinnnng” and he’d immediately stop, and start bouncing up and down. Which if you’re related to me, is dancing.

Don’t believe me? Go to BlogHer, or another place where I’ll be in front of a DJ and watch Your Aunt Becky dance. I call it The White Girl Shuffle, but really, white girls everywhere should be pretty mad at me for calling it that because it disgraces their name.

So the kid, he’s always been around music. And because I’m sort of Rainman WITH music, I’m always muttering the name of the song and who it is by to him. Like, he’ll be in the backseat listening serenely and I’m driving and out of nowhere I’ll scream, “SUPERTRAMP, GOODBYE STRANGER!!! MEMORIZE IT, BEN!”

If nothing else, the kid is going to be wicked good at bar trivia some day and probably scared of loud noises. He’ll thank me, I’m certain.

Music is the one thing we could agree on. Actually, it’s the only thing we agree on.

For years, the kids has been rejecting me. He preferred his crib to his mother, then his planets. Once he got his autistic spectrum diagnosis, I will admit that I was relieved because you know what Pranksters? It proved that the issue wasn’t with me. I wasn’t a bad mother (okay, maybe I was, but not for the reasons you’d think) and I cannot tell you the weight that was lifted off of me.

So music, I loved music too. Anyone who loved music as voraciously as I did is someone that I could love very, very much. Furthermore, it was someone who I could get along with quite well.

And so we do. He took up the violin when he was 6, took a year off when he changed schools, and is now back in the orchestra playing the violin. Yesterday, we went to his second concert.

I sat back in the hushed auditorium where I used to play my own concerts (I was a cellist), my seat-back assailed by a thousand tiny kicks from the turdlick behind me and I watched as my son took his seat. First chair, first violin.

That’s like watching your kid become quarterback.

My heart swelled with pride and I beamed ear to ear. I almost got up and announced to the packed auditorium, “Hey fuckers, that’s MY kid in first chair,” but I didn’t want to embarrass anyone. Especially Ben.

I sat there, glowing, and while I nearly passed out as the person in front of me farted and the turd behind me kicked my chair repeatedly, the orchestra of 300 third graders played Ode to Joy from Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. I’ve heard it countless times before, and while never quite so…discordant, it was beautiful.

Mostly because it was MY son, MY kid up there in the first chair, doing me proud.

There we were, on the same page at last. My son and I.

When he wins his Bar Trivia Trophy, I’m betting he’ll want to dedicate it to me, too. Because, really, what barfly doesn’t want to destroy all chances of getting laid by commemorating their crowning achievement to their mother? I guess I’ll have to start clearing out room for his future trophies now.

Maybe The Daver can start sleeping in the garden.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Pranksters, but since I’ve been blogging since Jesus was my classmate, I’ve noticed that the climate of blogging has changed. My friends have noticed this too. I was at a conference (last year) and they were talking about the Word of Mom advertising being the new It Thing because that’s who people believed now. Like, no one believed The Man, people believed The Mom.

Who the fuck blames them?

Anyway, that, of course, trickled down into blogging and I started to see PR blogs popping up. Then Sponsored Tweets appeared in my timeline (aka: “Come and try Standee’s* burgers!! They’re full of the awesome! #spon) and now pretty much every business has a Facebook page. Facebook, I have to laugh, used to be only open to COLLEGE students, and now I can keep up with what Crest toothpaste is doing (love their whitestrips by the way. No, that’s not sponsored, I just do.).

So last year, the FTC insisted that we bloggers maintain TRANSPARENCY when we talk about products that we were given which made me laugh until I nearly choked, not because it was far-fetched for OTHER people, but because seriously? NO ONE EVER GAVE ME DICK.

But that annoyed me because then suddenly I felt like I couldn’t possibly talk about something that I did happen to like (like my L’Oreal Eye Lifting Cream)(SO not sponsored), for fear of sounding like I was Shilling out to the Man. Which, let’s face it once more, no one ever sends me stuff to review probably because they’re afraid of me.

I’m asked more often than you’d think why I blog and the answer is simple: because I love to. To me, it’s not really about the subscribers or the page views or wacky search terms (although whomever is searching for “david cook nude,” back the fuck off my husband, yo), although I love knowing that my blog, my labor of love, is growing because I put a lot of work into it.

I remain slightly bewildered by this new blogging world order where I am supposed to stick to a strict 400-600 word count (because people TIRE of reading anything longer!) and break it up by SEO search term paragraph headers.

You know what that would look like, Pranksters? It wouldn’t be readable, that’s for sure. It would look like a fucking monkey hammered it out, and while I am certainly not winning a smart people contest unless I sit on the contestants, I take my writing seriously enough to care how it looks and how it reads. If that means Google search crawlers won’t direct people here, I don’t give a shit.

If I am also following the PR guidelines, I should take out all terms like this (and feel free to add more in the comments):

*fuckwad

*assbag

*venereal disease

*scrote

*fuckbag

*chesticle

*sweater kitten

*banana hammock

*funbags

*breasticles

Because while I would love for my smiling face to end up on national television–without having committed a mass murder–I also would like to keep my integrity about myself. I’d rather remain true to myself and my blog and my band of Merry Pranksters.

I read most of your blogs and I know that all of you blog with the same sense of integrity about what you do and that is why you’ll succeed. People can spot a phony a mile away which is why the Word of Mom advertising is going to fail as The Word of The Man advertising did.

So the climate of blogging may have changed, but I have faith that those of us who blog as we are and blog because we must, those of us will continue to do as we’ve always done. I have faith that this will be what sets us apart.

Maybe we can all get a big blogging house and live together like Three’s Company. Except it’ll be like, “7,000’s Company.” I’ll be the dude. Heh. Then I can finally pee standing up. SPEAKING OF THAT. I have to get The Daver to put the final touches on the community site and do a dramatical unveil.

P.S. The community site will be Full of The Awesome because you can ALL POST THERE. Like your own blog posts.

P.P.S. Can I please be the dude?

P.P.P.S. What do you think about blogging, Pranksters? Hit me up in the comments, yo.

*that’s for you, Pashmina.

Back when I had a life that could be documented in things beyond “seasons,” I took ridiculous amounts of pictures of myself doing bizarre things with my friends. I also threw outrageous parties, got drunk a lot and took more pictures of questionable quality. In short, my life was pretty much full of The Awesome.

Only problem was, I managed to somehow throw away the photo album that documented a lot of my more ridiculous times and while I don’t normally care about things, beyond my iPad, iPhone, iMac and Britney Spears Singles collection, I mourned this heavily. I had no digital copy of these exploits and my friends, while full of the awesome, had no copies of these pictures either.

So while I could TELL you that I did hilarious, nefarious things, I could also tell you that I’m really British royalty and then I could try to sell you shit.

Probably the best thing my mom has given me in years was a box of crap that we’d thrown in her basement years ago when we moved. In it was a couple of framed pictures, including one of me looking like I was about to have sex with a cup of Diet Coke (which, I mean, could be taken today), a picture of Ben in diapers, and an old wedding magazine.

At the very bottom, was my photo album: Aunt Becky, The Lost Years!

I nearly cried, except for crying is really lame and pointless, so instead I hid and looked at the pictures and marveled at how fun my life used to be.

Like this trip to Mexico that I took with my friend Jessica. We were both waitresses at the same place, and she was like the little sister I never had. She’d somehow managed to convince me to go onto a Party Bus and this was the Night Before Shot, taken right before I’d somehow found a cabbie to take us home.

See, she was so beyond drunk because she was 18 and thrilled that she could drink as much as she wanted that I couldn’t even count on her to help me find our crappy hotel, so I had to pool our money and find us a cab. Trouble was, I don’t think we had enough money and the cabbie probably put a hex on us because we were so annoying. Actually, I don’t remember getting into our room at all. Hm.

The Night Before.

And this was the Morning After Picture, right before we went down to the pool to start slamming tequila again. Hair of the Dog, baby.

Clearly, we are sexy broads. You know you want us (also: so much for the theory that bloggers only post very flattering pictures of themselves) to come over and drink your booze and then wake up in your bed looking like THAT. HA.

Now I can manage that same look WITHOUT having been wasted the night before. THANK YOU, my children. THANK YOU.

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I share my most humiliating story over at Toy With Me today. It’s a doozy. You’d better come hold my hand, yo.

It’s pretty safe to say that no one thinks that I’m very bright. I mean, I routinely give myself the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness just for existing, but after admitting that I have been inadvertently getting myself loaded in the morning WITHOUT REALIZING IT, I don’t think I’ll be winning any sorts of genius competitions. Mostly because I don’t know that there ARE any genius competitions, and let’s face it, if I knew of any, I’d just drive by and whip donuts at the contestants.

I’d like to blame it on my almond-extract-spiked-coffee, but really, this weekend, it’s actually just that I am that stupid.

So I’m going on this cruise, right? And I knew that I had a passport because I’m all wordly and shit, but I neglected to actually see if my passport was up-to-date. Turns out, it expired two months ago. Just realized it, yo.

Well, no worries, Pranksters, I can get use my birth certificate, right? Well, apparently I was dropped onto this planet by a mother-ship because no one actually has a physical copy of the record of my birth. So I rushed around like an asshole this morning and had to beg Lake County, IL to send me brand new copies certifying that I was, in fact, born of this world.

*crosses fingers wildly*

This weekend was The March of Dimes March for Babies, (not to be confused with the March ON Babies, which would be a completely different kind of march) and I’ve been looking forward to it since last year. I would have marched then, but I was kind of a quivering mass of Jello and I could barely organize myself to walk to the bathroom, let alone walk for babies.

But I’m not really a “details person.” I’m just sort of the person who organizes things broadly and let’s other people worry about the other things. Like dates, or plane tickets, or whatever. I assume that I’ll figure it out, or if I don’t, whatever.

So I thought the walk was on Sunday, although I didn’t specifically LOOK at the date and like circle it in big puffy hearts on the calendar, right? Then I made an appointment to get my eyes checked on Saturday and The Daver was all “ZOMG, THE WALK IS THAT DAY, YOU MORON!” and I was all, “Whoops!” sheepishly because that really is something I would do.

I canceled the appointment, got the kids off to my mom’s house on Saturday morning, printed out the sponsor sheets and got in my walkin’ gear. We showed up to the walk site and….

….

….

No one was there.

Yep.

Turns out I was motherfucking RIGHT all along. It was pretty hilarious to sit in the empty parking lot and laugh at The Daver, who was FURIOUS GEORGE (I should add that I was not furious when I thought that I was wrong).

We used the opportunity to sneakily eat some motherfucking breakfast without our crotch parasites and then ambled on home. BRILLIANTLY, I took it upon myself to do a bit of Bushwacking because the best thing to do when you are about to walk 5.5 miles with a foot injury is to do some really strenuous digging. Of course, I hurt myself. Of course it was with the pickax. Really, no one is surprised.

I mean, it’s just a giant knot on my leg and I knarfed up my foot again, but really, did I HAVE to get out there and attempt to dig out the bushes before the walk? CLEARLY I did. Anyway, the bushes, like my stupidity, are going nowhere. Those motherfucking roots are of The Devil. If I see the person who invented evergreen bushes, I will punch him in the testicle.

Sunday dawned beautifully, and while I may not have been able to move comfortably, I was beyond happy to be walking, although I was eying Amelia’s stroller jealously.

The park where the March of Dimes walk was held was the very same park where we, in high school, used to hang out and party every night, so to be there in a very different fashion was completely discomfiting to me. But when we walked in and saw all of the March of Dimes families gearing up to walk, I’m going to admit to you that I got choked up.

Just knowing that we were there–that we’d all survived–it made it all that much more real to me. I don’t sit around all day every day thinking about my daughter or about all of my nieces and nephews that have been born too soon, or stillborn, or those who have passed. They’re always with me, but I couldn’t possibly function if I thought about that all the time.

But standing there in the park, the ghost of who I was and who I am, now a March of Dimes Mom, beside each other, my daughter chirping away in her stroller, her scar very visible in the morning sun, it was as much a celebration of life as it was a mourning of what could have been and what once was.

I walked for all of the names on my Wall of Remembrance, all of my nieces and nephews on that wall; I walked for my friend Heather’s daughter Maddie Spohr; I walked so that some day all babies will be born healthy.

And I walked proudly with you, my Amelia, who defied the odds. Born with a very serious neural tube defect, an encephalocele, that should have killed you, you now take life by the balls and you make it your bitch. There’s nothing about you that doesn’t make me proud to be your mother.

Because you will continue to help give a voice to those who cannot speak. You will give a face to babies who are sick or dying. You will help give hope to those who need it most. You will help make the world a better place.

I know this to be true, love, because you already have.

You let your light shine, baby girl. Clearly, you’re showing us the way.

So, I’m getting married this summer, and was struck with the realization that, while I am looking forward to taking my fiancee’s last name as my own, I’m going to miss the complete absence of my maiden name from my life.

After giving it some thought, I decided I like the idea of dropping my current (boring) middle name, and changing it to my current maiden name. I like the way it looks and sounds.

My fiancee doesn’t seem to thrilled by this new name, but the only thing he’ll actually say is “do whatever you want.”

What do you think, Aunt Becky? I need your wisdom as a second opinion.

Also! Do you think it would end up being weird whenever the question came up of my middle name being the same as my maiden name? Is it going to be a pain in the ass? This is starting to make me a little crazy.

Well, o! Prankster my Prankster, pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name. If you didn’t, it’s not actually listed as Aunt Becky on my birth certificate (which, by the by, if you’ve seen it, I kinda need it). My given name, Prankster, was Becky Elizabeth Sherrick.

When I got married, like you, o! wise one, I didn’t want to change my name. I liked being Becky Sherrick. I’d been Becky Sherrick for 25 years and I didn’t really LIKE the sound of Becky Harks. In fact, it sounded like a venereal disease.

But, my husband-to-be was slightly aghast by my reluctance, AND I had a kid with a different last name then my own, and I thought about all of the confusion that we’d suffer with subsequent kids and decided to change it.

I would be: Becky Elizabeth Sherrick Harks (NO HYPHEN)!

Then the Social Security Office called and took a massive shit all over my parade. Turns out, you can give a kid 4 names (all of mine have 4 names)(preemptively, you’re welcome, children of mine), but the sea hag at the SS office said no to adding a name, unless you hyphenate.

Stuck with a choice of dumping the Elizabeth or the Sherrick, I dumped the Elizabeth.

Like you, I became a First Name, Last Name, Last Name. Happily. That’s what I go by everywhere. The full three names.

This is my advice to you: if that’s what you want, and it helps you to feel connected to your past (which, I mean, I totally get.) as you’re turning in your old name for a new one, do it.

So fucking what if your fiance doesn’t like it? HE is not changing his name. Because his name clearly means enough to him to fight you to take it, he should respect that yours means enough to you to let it go.

He’ll get used to it.

Marriage does = compromise. Heh. Just ask The Daver.

If Mississippi lends Missouri her New Jersey, what will Delaware?

I don’t know but Alaska.

When my son died last May, my insurance company decided to show everyone why insurance companies are the devil…but refusing to pay for basically any & everything relating to my son, delivery, etc.  I’ll spare you all the details, I’ll just direct you to the blog I’ve wrote today about my recent appeal & denial.

http://yaycowsyay.blogspot.com/2010/04/help-dead-baby-family-convince.html

Anyway, if you read that I’m asking if anyone who is willing to help me provide letters as “evidence” I can use in my claim.  Knowing you care about fellow loss moms & loss moms care about you, I thought you could help me out by spreading the word of my letter effort.  I feel like I’m asking for a cheap blog plug or something, but I hope you realize I’m not.  I’d just like the chance to blow the company’s mind.  Even if I don’t win, I want them to know people know they suck.

So would there be any way you’d be willing to talk about my issue & let people know if anyone would like to help we’d truly appreciate it?  Again, I feel lame asking you, but I’m kinda sorta desperate & want any help I can get.  Can’t hurt to ask, right?

Consider it done, my friend. Baby Loss Mommas, if you can help, please do.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have been working at a new company for a year. I am the highest seniority person there since I was hired right after the company was formed. My problem is with the secretary. She hasn’t even been there a year yet, but she is driving me insane. I often hear her steal my ideas and claim them as her own. She also tries to blame me for her shortcomings.

I’ve spoken to my bosses twice about this, and they do not see it. Everyone that works under me has come to me with complaints about her. It’s my job to take take those complaints to our bosses, but they don’t see it so they don’t really do anything about it. To add insult to injury I recently found out that my bosses have given her two raises in the eight months she’s been there, and I have never received one in over a year (though I have to admit I get more perks than she does)!

I make this company a lot of money, they know I am valuable. When I returned from vacation recently I found out this secretary was bad mouthing me to my bosses. She lies about me, but they just don’t see it.  How do I show my bosses the true colors of my co-worker?

There is nothing–and I mean nothing–more discouraging than a shifty coworker (I think the word “shifty” needs to make a comeback, don’t you?). Been there, done that and it’s a fucking bitch. Literally.

If I were you, Prankster, what I would do is this: get some sort of documentation that you can take to your bosses. Because without it, you’re never going to convince them that she’s not some sort of saint or Jesus or something. With the rest of the staff on your side, it shouldn’t be quite as much of a task as it sounds. But you need real proof to get her in your cross-hairs.

People like this tend to eventually dig their own graves. So if you don’t get proof in time, eventually she’ll fuck up so badly that even your bosses will see what an assbag she is. In the meantime, you need to make sure you’re on your best behavior around her so that she doesn’t try and throw you under the bus.

Also, you should start bringing Ginsu knives to work. Not because you’re going to ACTUALLY cut a bitch, but just to have them and look threatening. You never know when you might have to cut up a nice stir-fry.

—————

As always, Pranksters, fill in where I left off in the comments.

And I wanted to thank all of you who have supported Amelia and I. Today, we’re walking for March of Dimes and Team Mimi and I’m beyond touched by how many of you have chimed in over the past year to tell me how you’ve read her story.

Without you, I really don’t know where I’d be. I certainly don’t think I’d be in one piece.

Thank you, my Band of Pranksters. Thank you for everything.

Team Mimi FOR THE WIN!

Because I gain a metric fuck-ton of weight when I’m gestating crotch parasites, I am also stuck removing it once I am done expelling the parasite from my body. Shockingly, the weight doesn’t just “fall off” of all of us. Especially those of us with GLANDULAR PROBLEMS.

*kicks thyroid*

Anyway, so I’m on a diet*. Why? Because I really don’t want to be fat.

One of the things that I had to give up was the delicious sugared syrup in my coffee. It’s not that I couldn’t use it because I COULD, but I’m trying to use less carbs and I know that you can use the stuff with Splenda, but honestly I think Splenda tastes like licking the devil’s butthole (and I am being GENEROUS here) so I just go without.

Until I came up with a BRILLIANT solution!

Extracts! I could use VANILLA fucking EXTRACT! There was nothing not awesome about that solution!

Until the cap got all stuck on and shit and I was denied the delicious vanilla flavor I had grown to love. So then I turned to it’s more delectable cousin: ALMOND extract.

Now, I love an almond latte like it’s my job, so this was an ideal solution for me, except in those rare moments when I’d wonder if I was being poisoned (I have a vivid imagination, y’all) until I remembered that I was in charge of the almond flavor addition to my coffee.

The other day, I was drinking my almond flavored coffee and I noticed that it had a bit of, well, BITE to it. Almost an alcohol flavored bite. It was weird, because I certainly didn’t add any alcohol to my coffee, but there it was. I could taste the booze, just underneath it all.

Hm, I thought to myself. That’s curious.

Then I promptly got distracted by staring at my cat’s butthole (there are SPIES in there, Pranksters!!) and forgot about it.

Yesterday, I finally read the bottle of fancy-pants almond extract. There it was, in bold letters: 35% ALCOHOL. DO NOT LEAVE AROUND CHILDREN.

Turns out that all of this time, I’ve been wondering why the hell I’ve been so fucking TIRED in the mornings, it’s because I’ve been getting sauced by accident. What the fuck kind of fool gets inadvertently drunk off ALMOND EXTRACT?

So I’m off the sauce this morning, and I’m going to guess that coffee will be a hell of a lot more effective in waking my ass up this way.

Also: I will probably have less of a hangover by lunchtime.

*Weight Watchers**

**Yes, it works.

What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done lately (besides read my blog)?