Stop me if you’ve heard this one, Pranksters, but did you have any idea that raising children was a lot of work? Because holy fuckballs, is it ever! If I’d have known that, I might have stuck with hamsters. Actually, no, because the last hamster I had (and I am not kidding here) actually threw his own excrement at you if you walked near his cage.

So depending on who you asked, I was either the BEST hamster owner or the worst. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

The way I see it, when you pop out a couple of crotch parasites, it seems that one of the adults in the family–should you be lucky enough to have more than one parent–has to put their own life on the back burner to attend to said crotch parasites.

Well, in our family, I was the one who put my own life on the back burner, because, let’s face it Pranksters, I wasn’t exactly batting 100% with stellar life choices and The Daver’s star was on the fucking rise. So the decision to shelve my nursing career was pretty much a no-brainier for everyone involved and it was frankly kind of a relief because then I didn’t have to pretend that I was going to squeeze a turd into a tutu anymore.

Since I’ve been home, I’ve done everything I said I was going to do, besides date a cabana boy named Carlos (mostly because I have no cabana), and I’ve been waiting for it to be my time. It’s all been a matter of “when I can do what I want to do again” spoken in terms of years from now, not days or even weeks from now. Long term goals are great, but mine have always been “don’t die,” not “go back to school in 5 years” or even worse, “keep waiting for your own life to begin.”

Because my life as Mommy (or “Becky” as Alex calls me right before he scampers off so that I chase him around the house with my Tickle Claw out) is all of those crocheted platitudes and more, but it’s not all that I am. It can’t be. Mommy and Aunt Becky will exist together because they have to.

I don’t think I was ready before, but I do now. Change is in the air and it is throwing poop at my head. Universe, let’s do this.

I’m ready to find out what comes next. I’m playing “Eye of the Tiger” and punching the air. I’m doing visualization exercises and drinking green tea. diet coke. I’m ready, Universe.

I just hope it doesn’t involve poo-throwing hamsters.

—————–

How do you find balance, Pranksters? Better yet, how do you train a hamster to throw poo at someone RELIABLY?

Aunt Becky: “So I’ve decided that I’m not really a Cancer. I mean, I was born UNDER DURESS, many weeks early. The doctor says that I busted my way out of the amniotic sac somehow. I’m now a Leo.”

The Daver: “Can you do that?”

Aunt Becky: “Spoken like a true Virgo, Daver.”

The Daver: “I mean, does it really matter to you that your astrological profile doesn’t fit you? You’re not even INTO astrology.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, so Cancers are all supposed to be in the kitchen and making fucking motherfucking PIE for you and all crying into their pies about how they FEEL and blah, blah, blah even the INTERNET knows that I need a stunt double to cry. I mean, Cancers are all about feelings and crying and they’re all moody and shit. Do I look like I’m getting my bitch ass back to the kitchen for you?”

The Daver: “Heh. No.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, then. So we can agree that I am not a Cancer?”

The Daver: “Absolutely.”

Aunt Becky: *does a little dance*

The Daver: “I didn’t realize this was bothering you for so long.”

Aunt Becky: “I don’t cry into my pies and I barely have feelings and it’s always made me wonder if I was just a lousy judge of personal character. A Leo just makes more sense.”

Aunt Becky: “While we’re at it, can you call me Princess Grace of Monaco instead of Becky? It’s just such a DRAB name.”

The Daver: “Whatever, Princess. Oh! I took your birthday off as a “floating holiday.”

Aunt Becky: “Well, it IS a holiday. It’s my fucking birthday, yo. It should be a national holiday.”

The Daver: “Clearly.”

Aunt Becky: “I should probably write to Congress and tell them to make July 15 a National Holiday. Then I can call the Zodiac people and tell them that they need to make an exception and make me a Leo.”

The Daver: “Clearly.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m all over this, Daver.”

The Daver: “You go get ’em, Tiger. Or shall I say, LION.”

Aunt Becky: “That’s the spirit!”

*sprints off warbling Eye of the Tiger*

——————-

Last day to enter my contest, Pranksters!

4: approximate weeks until my cruise

12.8: times each day The Daver references my cruise by saying “well, I don’t know what I am going to DO without you for those 5 days!”

90: times a year that Dave mentions that he’d be “just fine” if left as a stay-at-home parent.

90: times I roll my eyes when he says that because brother, he’s talking out of his asshole.

0: times a day I plan to call and check in with him from the cruise to hear, “pant, pant, pant *crash* THESE KIDS ARE INSANE! PLEASE COME HOME, I WILL CALL THE COAST GUARD NOW.”

0: idea of where this cruise is going because frankly, big boat in the middle of the ocean where I can pee alone (but probably not IN the ocean)? Doesn’t matter where the hell we’re going.

7: bushes I pulled out yesterday (from a view that I didn’t even show you), thereby rendering me unable to move today without swearing wildly.

68: times my son has said, “OUCH, SHIT” when he moved, just repeating what I’ve said.

68: times I’ve wondered if I should probably cut out my tongue.

12,000,000: times I said, “I. Fucking. Hate. Bushes.” in my best Clint Eastwood voice, which, let’s be honest, isn’t very good.

87: times I cursed the previous, PREVIOUS owners of my house for loving both bushes and wallpaper. Fucking wallpaper.

3: times a day I have to put eye ointment into my poo-eating dog’s eyes.

16: pounds my poo-eating dog weighs

2-3: people it takes to restrain my poo-eating dog in order to put the ointment in his eyes

.2 million: times I’ve wondered if my poo-eating dog was actually a mutant Incredible Hulk dog.

0: times I have eaten beef sticks, even though they are technically encased meats (which I adore).

90,093: times Daver has eaten beef sticks.

84: times I have gagged, thinking about Daver eating beef sticks.

2: times I have enjoyed American Idol this season

infinity: amount of love I have for Glee, even though the show contains NONE of my boyfriends.

4: current television husbands.

infinity: dorkiness quotient I will achieve after going to the Glee concert (oh yes, yes I am).

0: likelihood of Daver eating beef sticks at a Glee concert.

0: likelihood of me caring about American Idol, even though one of my husbands was on that show.

0: likelihood that I will ever learn how to properly use a comma or apostrophe.

12.8 million: likelihood that you will go read this, my post about the Grand Gesture guy.

Last year, when Mimi was still one of those babies who STAYED where you motherfucking PUT THEM, I went outside of my house for a second. And when I was standing there, looking at my bright yellow house, I noticed something that I hadn’t previously seen with my bleary post-partum eyes.

Knock out a couple of windows and board them up and you suddenly have a house that looks like a creepy recluse lives there. I mean, I sort of WAS a recluse, thanks to a baby who screamed every time she got near the car, but that wasn’t the point.

The point WAS, Pranksters, the fucking bushes. I had to do SOMETHING about those bushes.

See? WIRE HANGERS, Y’ALL.

Those are a lot of motherhumping bushes. (also, not all are going)

But not then. OH NO, not then.

The Daver, bless his tiny heart, doesn’t like change. Nor does he like anything that requires manual labor (on his part) and I wasn’t exactly doing well mentally thanks to some wicked PTSD, so I decided that Bush-Wacking was going to have to wait until 2010.

He told me that I needed some elaborate plan as to what I needed to DO with the area where I was going to remove approximately 3,082 bushes, but really, I am kind of a less-is-more person anyway and the house is so fucking over-landscaped as it is, I was going to haul them out and see what happened.

I can see how ominous that sounds given my history of just “doing things” (see exhibit: Aunt Becky’s Cake Wreck), but I swear to you, Pranksters, I am actually an avid botanist. I mean, I grow ORCHIDS, and those things are notoriously hard to keep alive.

Anyway, it’s now the Spring of 2010 and Bush-Gate has officially arrived which means that I’m running around the house yelling, “I NEED TO GO BUSHWACKING, Y’ALL,” and Dave rolls his eyes at me a lot, because this is pretty much the way our relationship works. If you’re wondering how I got married, really, I don’t know either.

But I still don’t have elaborate blueprints created to show at precisely what trajectory I will put the new plants I haven’t chosen to go into the holes I haven’t yet created because do I look like I listen to The Daver? (answer: CLEARLY NOT)

Mostly because I am aware that his technique of making me do something painfully annoying is mostly just a stall tactic on his part so that I throw in the towel on my original project. Which, hi, not going to happen because I’m one busted out window and lamp made out of hooker boobs short of a Serial Killer Recluse looking house. The Daver, he doesn’t notice such things.

But, in order to perform such tasks, I was stuck surveying my sad stash of Bush-Gate materials in my garage. Nothing was quite up to par.

So much to the dismay of my search engine (who, of course, judges me based upon the shit that I search for, because OBVIOUSLY), I searched for “how to remove bushes.” Turns out? MOST OF THOSE SITES WERE NOT SAFE FOR WORK, PRANKSTERS.

Left to my own pea-brained devices, I decided that the best way to complete this project was to get a pickax. Obviously. Mostly so I could go BUY a pickax and then carry it around like Paul motherfucking Bunyan.

So I loaded my family into the car to go to what the three-year old calls the “hammer store” because he was convinced that I was stupid enough to buy him a hammer. While I was stupid enough to buy MYSELF a pickax, I didn’t think he needed to act out “If I Had A Hammer” on his sister’s head.

The pickaxes, it turns out, are in a special part of the hardware store that I like to call “Serial Killer Row.” They’re right next to the regular hardcore axes and while I carefully perused them, I can almost swear that I was being recorded. Probably because the hardware store people are very smart. Most people buying pickaxes are probably not doing anything but putting them into eye sockets and stuff.

Me, for as much swagger as I have, I am busting up roots and probably a finger or two because anyone who allows me near sharp pointy things has probably just increased my life insurance policy. But I’m guessing that I’m probably on some secret database now, maybe cross-indexed with RIDICULOUSLY BAD BLOGGER and POSSIBLE VICODIN ABUSER.

Which is why I made sure to have The Daver bring in the hardcore insecticide, pickax, gigantic loppers, and saw from the back of the mini-van before I took the kids to school. I didn’t need Ben piping up and telling his teacher that I’d threatened to cut off his fingers one by one if he didn’t stop slamming the door.

Even if I HAD promised him a shiny hook in return.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Girl, I need advice.

I’m 28, have never married, and do not have any children – although I am hopeful for both in the future. So here’s the dilemma. I have been dating the same fellow for the last 3 months. Pretty early on I picked up from his conversations with other people that he had a daughter from a previous relationship, but he never spoke about her with me.

I should clarify that it was apparent who this mystery person X was, although she was never referred to by her status as his child, only by her first name, so it took a few instances of her being brought up before I caught on who this person X really was.

Although I don’t have children, I understand that being a dating parent must come with complications I don’t have to typically face as a childless dater.  So I tried to be patient and let him tell me in his own time.  However, after 2  ½ months of exclusive dating my patience had worn thin. We had become physically intimate; he had introduced me to his parents;  he had dropped the L bomb. But he still hadn’t brought up his daughter.

So I did. I tried to do so gently, and with an open mind. I asked him why he never mentioned his daughter. His excuse? He had meant to, but had apparently procrastinated too long. And within a week of that conversation he was planning a whole Easter weekend with me meeting not only his daughter (who he was seeing for the first time since Christmas), but his whole extended family over the course of 2 days. I expressed my discomfort with the speed of meeting everyone – particularly his daughter — but he ignored it.

And now I am disenchanted with the whole relationship. To top it off, his custody situation is changing and he will have his daughter every second weekend, so I feel I should decide whether or not I want to continue dating him asap before I establish a significant relationship with his daughter.

Please stop me if I’ve just hopped on the crazy train, but really, shouldn’t the child have come up sooner? I am having a hard time letting go of this.  He never explicitly denied having a child, but I still feel lied to.

And seriously, how do you just forget that you ought to mention you have a child? Seriously? (My head is spinning here, a la the exorcist.) And now that the dynamic of our relationship and how  and when we spend time together is going to change pretty drastically as his daughter becomes a bigger presence in his life. I’m not sure if I should continue to be a part of his life.  What makes me really sad is that I’m actually ok with dating someone who has a child in principle. But I’m not sure I want to date someone who feels the need to ‘hide’ them from prospective partners.

Advice please!

Many, many years ago I met someone who had The Sex with a random girl in a tent at a party. Later, when asked if he was going to call the girl he said, “Absolutely not.” She had a kid, you see, and she didn’t mention it to him, and in his words, “anyone who doesn’t bring up their kid before having sex isn’t someone you call later on.”

That girl wasn’t me, because the kid was like 8 or something and she was some ho-bag  (per this guy), but to me, I can’t imagine why the hell someone wouldn’t choose to bring up their child. I got your email and rolled it around in my pea brain and simply couldn’t think of a single good reason why this could happen with someone I’d want to continue dating.

My kid wasn’t something I was ashamed of, even when I was 21 and freshly single. Like, my kid is cool, you know? Sure, it maybe didn’t make me the world’s most eligible co-ed, but you know what? THEIR LOSS. My kid and I, WE were going to be fine with or without you.

(and we were)

And really, that should kinda be his attitude.

If I were you, I’d probably sit him the fuck down and tell him that this is really bothering you. Make it clear that it’s not that he has a kid, but that he didn’t mention that he had one. That should have been a Date 1 or Date 2 conversation. I’m sure the relationship with Baby Momma is rough because hi, they always are, but you know what? If he loves you and you love him, you’ll work it out.

So my advice is to have an honest heart-to-heart with him before his daughter moves in because you owe it to that child to have the slate wiped clean before you meet her. Her dad was the one being a dip-shit, not her.

I still don’t understand his logic and it makes me uncomfortable, but I’m also willing to discuss my bowel movements with The Internet, so maybe I’m Captain Overshare over here.

Pranksters? Your thoughts?

Dear Aunt Becky,

What do you do when you are too tired to live properly, let alone find joy?  I mean, do you ever have those days when you sit on the toilet longer than necessary because you are too tired to even wipe your own ass?

I have a great life, and I’m already on Zoloft…so more pharmaceuticals are out.

What do YOU do?

Sincerely,
Sleepy Sarah

Fuck, girl, you’re talking to the person who is considering a recreational speed habit just to make it through the day. Between the Topamax (street name in MY house “The Max”) and the screaming children, I’m counting down the moments until I can go on my cruise.

(aside, it’s mostly the Topamax that causes, per my neurologist “cognitive impairment.” Street name: “makes you dumber-er”)

Your Zoloft might actually be making you sleepy. You might want to consider a change to a different drug because so many of the SSRI’s are similar enough to provide you with relief from your depression (I’m assuming it’s depression) while reducing the unwanted side effects. It’s something worth mentioning to your doctor because I know that feeling well. I considered napping at Target today!

If it’s not that, or if you don’t want to tweak it, which I TOTALLY get, try giving yourself a wee time-out in your bedroom. Just 5 minutes. Alone. Lay down, turn off the lights and listen to some music and just relax. It’s quite rejuvenating.

Barring that, have some more of The Sex because OBVIOUSLY. Wait, no, just have more of The Sex, anyway even if it’s with yourself.

Also, make sure to cut some time out of every day for yourself. I don’t mean like plan an extravagant spa day or something because really, who has the fucking time? (answer: no one I know) but, you know, something you can look forward to.Something that makes you feel good about yourself.

Buy some makeup that makes you feel pretty and wear it, or paint your toenails, or go and walk around Target alone for half an hour. I have this thing that I do, where I try and buy myself something that makes me feel good about myself every week. Baby steps, girl. Baby steps.

It’s hard, and I’m sorry. Anyone who ever says that life is always easy is full of bullshit or so heavily medicated that I want the name of their doctor RIGHT NOW.

If none of those work, I’ll go halvesies on some speed with you.

——————-

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

On August 20, 2001 my first son Benjamin rocketed into the world. As he drew his first breath at 2:50 PM and wailed at the indignity of being expelled from my uterus, I wonder if, hundreds of miles away, a college student named Dave felt something stirring within him. I can’t be sure. School was just starting for him. Parenthood was probably the last thing on his mind.

But on that day, Dave became a parent. He just didn’t know it yet.

Two years later, in January of 2003, his first child, Benjamin, a nearly-mute 2-year old reached up his arms and allowed Dave to pick him up. It was a rarity for Ben to allow someone he’d just met minutes beforehand to hold him. Even more rare was that he bonded with him instantly. Two hours later, safely in my car, he spoke his fourth sentence. “Aw…bye, Dave.” Over and over, he repeated that, sighing sadly after every repetition.

Like this:

“Aw, BYE DAVE….*sighs*”

(pause)

“Awwwww….BYE DAVE…..*sighs*”

(pause)

On September 10, 2005, my son Benjamin walked me down the aisle. At the alter, Dave spoke his vows first to our son, then to me. The child who is not related–by blood, at least–to my husband, he is the one who is most like The Daver. Always has been.

March 30, 2007, Benjamin Maxwell became a big brother to Alexander Joseph. Dave slumbered on through my labor thanks to a migraine, but was there by my side to watch as his second son came into the world. Angrier than a wet cat, Alex met his father by peeing on him. I found it apt, considering I would have dragged my numb ass over to kick DAVE’S sleeping ass, had I been able to.

Alex was, as he always is, on my side.

On January 28, 2009, our last child came into the world surrounded by chaos. The girl with curls like a halo (who kicks ass), Amelia Grace, she cast her big brown eyes upon us and nothing has been the same.

Today, April 15, 2010, at 1:45 PM we said goodbye to that part of our lives. No more will we welcome more children into the world, but we will help our children grow and learn about this crazy, mixed-up, wonderful world that we live in.

I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little heartbroken to see Dave’s vas deferens sitting in those jars, sadly separated from his body. Not because I want any more children, or because I’m unhappy with the decision that we made. It was time to put that part of our lives to bed.

So I’m going to take a quote from my then-two-year old because I don’t know how else to end this bittersweet day.

Aw, bye, vas deferens.

Spring in the Midwest is the time of year when we all come tumbling out of our houses and into the parkways like puppies, larva-like and milky-white from months of not seeing the sun. We’re always overly chatty in a serial killer way with our neighbors because it’s literally been months of not seeing them, and there’s always a sort of camaraderie of “yeah, we survived another one.”

We all seem to underestimate how hard the deep freeze of the winters are on our psyche, if not our pasty white skin. Because no sooner does the thermometer needle hover near 40 degrees than we’re all pulling out the barbecue grills and inviting everyone over for a Sausage (bacon?) Party.

We’re all also in the process of cleaning out our houses. St. Charles (ILLINOIS, people) runs a yearly junk day where the city comes around and picks up all your junk for free. The week before, though, everyone sets out their stuff and it’s sort of a recycling frenzy. Pretty much nothing makes it to the actual dump, which, HELLO, I’M BEING GREEN HERE.

In the process of getting the stuff ready for junk day, I finally tackled the project I’ve been putting off: Baby Stuff.

Since Amelia was born, I’ve just sort of stuffed all of her outgrown clothes into bins and thrown them in her closet (with all of Alex’s outgrown clothes) and called it a day. I’ve not been ready psychologically to deal with it, so, I shoved it back into the closet.

She’s our last baby, as made by the snipping of The Daver’s vas deferens this Thursday (Happy Tax Day, Daver!) and honestly, I’m good with that. My body can physically not handle another baby. I don’t want another baby. Shit, I have an 8-year old, a 3-year old and a 1-year old. Three is a motherfucking LOT of kids, Pranksters.

But it’s all those teeny-tiny clothes that break me up. I remember my babies in them when they were all tiny and new and squirmy and sweet (and not-so-sweet) smelling. They’re just so small and darling and my children are now getting so big and that’s wonderful but wow, those clothes, they flay me. They gut me.

It was time.

And really, it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought. I’ve still got my tenterhooks in the girl clothes and I gave the boy clothes to my nephew Cameron. How cool is it that I can SEE my clothes worn by my only nephew? (answer: full of fucking awesome!)

That goes to show that even Aunt Becky accepts that it’s time for a new era in Casa de la Sausage.

The era of watching OTHER people get fat, saggy asses and leaky breasticles while they cook their crotch parasites. The era of listening to OTHER people bemoan lack of sleep and all-nighters with chubby people who poo their pants. The era of listening to OTHER people discover why Dr. Sears is the fucking DEVIL.

Because as sad as I was to see those baby clothes go, I know I don’t want to push something from my delicate girl bits to put in those clothes. I’m done with that. My crotch is my own now. AUNT BECKY IS TAKING BACK THE CROTCH (and the rest of her body).

And the best part about it is, The Daver can no longer use the “it’s uter-US, Becky, not Uter-YOU” line on me anymore.

———————-

I am at Toy With Me, where I wrote a letter to my younger self. READ IT.

———————

If you want to meet Mimi (and The Daver and Your Aunt Becky) come walk with us for the March for Babies! You know you want to.

Now, I always feel like a crotch rocket whenever I blog about blogging (Blogging for Dummies Part I) because it presumes that I know more than you do and that I am speaking TO you, my Pranksters, from some position of authority. That makes me feel douchey. I don’t run a clinic on blogging here because that seems weird and honestly, I have taught before, but they’ve been subjects like BIOCHEMISTRY not Blogging 101.

Most of the shit that’s been written out there about blogging (if’n you Google “how to blog”) is fucking useless. There are some diamonds written by REAL bloggers, but most of it is garbage. Why? They’re articles written for SEO hits. And articles written for SEO hits (search engine optimization, i.e. the stuff that will get you Google Hits.) are fucking BULLSHIT.

If you want to learn to blog, you need to learn from a blogger. That’s not a question.

So, let’s take it back to basics, and back to the beginning.

Also, feel free to ignore me entirely. Like I said, this isn’t what I do.

When I started blogging it was 2004, and I wrote a blog called Mushroom Printing. It was a co-blog that I wrote with Pashmina (then Stimpy) and our blog was started as a Shock Blog. Like, “I can’t believe GIRLS talk like that.” If you think what I write now is bad, it was MUCH worse then.

So by the time I got to writing Mommy Wants Vodka in late 2007, I’d sort of figured out what works. I’d also committed the cardinal sin of blogging and switched URL’s. I lost most of my readers.

But, I’d learned a couple of things.

First, I’d learned that what makes a good blog is to tell a story. It doesn’t so much matter what the story is, but it needs to have something there more than, “and then I made soup for lunch!!” Because genuinely, what you had for lunch IS fucking boring.

Unless it’s made out of platinum and you are giving it to me.

You need to post consistently, but not over-post. There’s some weird balance to walk there, and I’m not trying to be all ‘YOU HAVE TO POST 12 TIMES A DAY’ because that will get you unfollowed by most people. Why? No one has an interesting enough life to have much to say THAT many times a day. And if you have nothing to say? Skip a day.

Plan out what you have to say ahead of time (See what I said about platinum lunches).

If you want to build a community, develop friendships, not business contacts. Now, I’m not blind. I can see that The Word Of Mom advertising–even if you’re not a mom–is infecting the blog world. Advertisers remain convinced that bloggers are going to see their souls for a packet of rice or a sample of shampoo.

If that’s the kind of blog that you want to run, there’s no problem with that, but remember that this will not endear you to readers. Why? It’s not authentic. My advice is to separate the two. Do a review blog and a personal blog. People aren’t going to be jumping at the chance to read your reviews of products just because they love you.

But (and here is my teeny soap-box, don’t sell yourself short. Your time is worth a lot. I say this because I love you) make sure you’re compensated handsomely BY the advertising companies. They pay gazillions of dollars for the FREE advertising they’re getting from YOU. Just don’t let them compromise YOUR reputation.**

Blog authentically. I cannot stress that enough. You want to know why people read my blog? This is who I am.

My driver’s license doesn’t say “Aunt Becky Sherrick Harks” but it does say “Becky Sherrick Harks” and this, Pranksters, is who you get. If you were to come over to my house for a Sausage Party this summer, you’d meet me, who is just as I am here. Except for more devastatingly beautiful.

People want to feel a connection with someone else. They get that when they feel like they really know the writer.

So blog authentically and do it for yourself. The comments, the praise, the awards, the love, those all come later. Or not at all.

If you want to throw your neck out there (and you should), you have to accept that no one may ever read your blog. It’s not your fault, it’s not because you’re a bad writer, sometimes the worst blogs get the most comments*** because that’s just the way it is. It’s not 2001 any longer, the Internet isn’t a new place and blogs aren’t the new pink.

So get over it.

Do I sound harsh? I’m practicing tough love. I love you, you know that, but you need to accept that no one may ever love you like I do, and move on, okay? Because are you doing this for fame? Fortune? Because I am actually a Nigerian Prince. Please be sending me your bank account information to aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com

It was 4 months before I got a comment here and 6 before I got on a blogroll. That was 4 solid months of commenting until my fingers bled broke into tiny nubs. Feel better now?

So blog for yourself, not for the huddled masses.

You’re never going to please everyone, so you might as well give up now. Some people will say that you’re too swear-ful, some people will say your posts are too long, others will say your posts are too short. Some will find you too crass or too mind-bendingly dull. It’s just a matter of personal tastes. Opinions are like assholes (presumably because everybody’s got one), and you may as well give up trying to please everyone because it’s simply not possible.

Haters be hatin’ and they can eat a hot bowl of dicks****.

Comments are the best way to make friends. Yes, I said friends. Because I have a theory that half of all subscribers are robots or aliens (since I never see them) and the rest are my friends. May as well make some yourself. One can never have too many friends.

There is a lot of wonderful kindness in the blog world, and you should revel in it when some is thrown your way, but you should never, ever expect it. No blogger is obligated to help another. If you remember that, it will help clear up many hurt feelings.

Do it because you love it. It’s supposed to be fun, not work.

Write hard, Pranksters. Write hard.

And here, My Band of Merry Pranksters, is where I turn my comments to you. Please, tell us what you have found out about blogging.

*two

**deep thoughts, by Aunt Becky

***see: https://mommywantsvodka.com

****deep thoughts, by Aunt Becky.

At 32 years old isn’t it a little to old to have a school girl crush?

Oh but I do, it is a big crush this guy makes my heart go pitter-patter. I’ve known him for a while but I have had so much chaos in my life with my ex sperm donor I never really thought of it, yeah I noticed he was attractive but you know I did not really know him that well. I only still know him a little but he and I have had some conversations and well I’ve realized that I want to see him more.

But see the problem is me, I know I have pretty low self esteem and although he is nice and he seems to like me, I am confused to weather he LIKE likes me like I LIKE like him. I am just to chicken. Maybe if I lost like 50lbs I would feel more comfortable in my skin. In my brain I know that should not matter if people LIKE each other that just do… Plus that I have two kids..he has none and for me I just don’t know what he thinks about the kid thing… maybe he don’t date people with kids? I don’t know really.

But what if I tell him I like and and then it makes things weird?

so background I am a single mom of 2 a almost 16 yr old and a 3 yr old..there sperm donor is a jerk and has put us through a lot and i am just scared about a new relationship… also I am now a full time student trying to better my little family;s life and also trying to be healthier because my mom was recently very ill with renal failure and now its important to me to lost weight and get healthier.
help me

signed I got a crush at 32

First off, Prankster, I have to say that I find you adorable. Like I want to pick you up and put you in my pocket and carry you around with me everywhere because I think you’re fucking cute. You’re what I call a Pocket Pal. That’s like my highest compliment.

And here’s my advice to you: you never, ever know until you give it a try. I mean, after being in a shitty relationship for so long is bound to wear down your self image, so of course you’re shy about getting back into the dating pool. Who wouldn’t be?

But if he makes your heart all gooey inside, that’s a sign that maybe there’s something there worth seeing about. If nothing happens, well, you tried. At least you can’t say that you didn’t try.

I’d say, just ask him if he wants to catch coffee or a drink sometime and try to see him on a friendly level. From there, maybe you can see how things go. You don’t need to go balls out and pour your heart out to him immediately, you know?

Good luck, my friend.

I started bloggin, recently as a way to de-stress. Instead of writing in a diary. I am a artist so I paint also. But that just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. Anyways, I started bloggin, still don’t know much. have a few ppl who read me.  My question is I’m sure very simple for you. How do I set it up so that I know when ppl comment on my blog, without having to login to my blog to see? Reading you info on bloggin for dummies was very enlightening. thank you.

Aw, thank YOU. I’m so glad you liked the Blogging For Dummies post. A lot of you seemed to really find that useful. Maybe I’ll do another one of those soon.

(pithy aside, I felt SO STUPID writing about that because really WHAT THE SHIT DO I KNOW ABOUT BLOGGING. Plus, blogging ABOUT blogging seems so…stupid coming from me. There are so many people who do that much better than I do.)

Anyway.

So, you want to know how to see your comments in email form. Got it.

I operate a self-hosted WordPress blog (options should be the same for any WordPress blog, though), and I don’t actually get my comments emailed to me. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA.

Here’s what you do:

Go to settings—>Discussion—>Email Me Whenever (third option down)—>check the box that says “anyone posts a comment.”

As for Blogger/Blogspot blogs, I really don’t know. I tried to Google it for you, but my brain started to burn. Pranksters?

Aunt Becky,

Our sitter is a wonderful lady! After all, she watches our daughter for 10 hours a day 5 hours a week. I don’t know how the lady does it frankly. And we are high maintenance moms, you know, because we are lesbos and everything. She loves the cloth diapers and even feeds our daughter our homemade baby food.

But there’s one thing: she insists on giving us hand me downs for our daughter that her family members have given her. Only, the hand me downs usually are splattered with little phrases like “little hot mama” and “sexy baby phat ass”. Of course, outfits like this only come in stripper colors.

Now, we aren’t all high class – but our daughter wears a full on collection of Carter’s clothes for young baby girls – complete with innocent girly prints like flowers and butterflies and dots and hearts. Hell, I didn’t think I would have to debate why she couldn’t wear the sweats with SEXY blasted across the ass for at least another 10 years.

So I have 2 questions: 1. How do I get these lovely donations to stop without being offensive (I mean, after all, she does watch our girly all day which is no easy task – I barely make it through Saturdays alive)? and 2. What shall I do with our daughter’s new found stripper collection. Passing it down to our little niece just seems wrong (or does it?)?

Bwahahahahahahaha!

Can I tell you how hard I laughed when I got this? I’ve been there, with the hand-me-downs that are so butt-ass-ugly that I’m all, do you actually dress your OWN child in this?

This is what you do. You cannot very well say respectfully, “thank you, but no thank you” because any way you slice it, it comes across as rude. What I’ve always done is said VERY SWEETLY, “OH! Thank you SO MUCH!” Then, if they no longer want it, I donate it very quickly to the Salvation Army.

If they do want it back, I leave it in a closet somewhere until they ask for it back.

Works like a charm EVERY TIME.

——————–

Pranksters, as always, fill in where I left off. And feel free to submit any of your burning questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky (the linky-poo on the sidebar).

After devoting the past decade to raising my adorable crotch parasites, I thought that it was high time to unearth who I was again. As excited as I was by this prospect, I’m going to be honest, Pranksters, I was terrified. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to think about myself in terms more than “do I have to pee?” and if so, “how long can I hold it before my bladder explodes, bathing my guts with a fine mist of pee?”

It’s the part of parenting that’s hard: the loss of self.

I love my children, but I lost myself along the way. It’s not hard to do. Kids are loud and annoying and shit, it’s easier to think about their needs because they’re so damn demanding about what they want because that’s what they’re designed to do. It’s survival of the most annoying and kids win that hands down. I know this because I was a bloody irritating kid, too.

This past month has probably been the hardest yet for me. A number of unrelated issues have blindsided me; my PTSD from Amelia’s traumatic birth has resurfaced as the scar on her head is stretching and bleeding. The precancerous cells on my cervix are back. Ben’s autism has become so difficult to manage that we need more outside counsel.

The issues aren’t insurmountable, but some days, it feels like it. But, not one to dwell on the negativity, there are good things afoot as well.

I went back on Weight Watchers and am now living my life in 2-point increments. It’s not a glamorous diet, and while I’ll never lose the baby weight like those people on The Biggest Loser or my cohorts doing the South Beach Diet, it works. Since I get overwhelmingly chubby when I gestate, I’ve used it before.

Turns out, we need depressingly little to eat to survive.

(I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE.)

Bwahahahahahaha!

Anyway.

In addition to counting every motherfucking calorie I put IN-to my mouth, I’m also exercising like a fiend…when I’m not wearing next to nothing thanks to my new tattoo, that is. Turns out, I have to restrain my sweater kittens, lest I knock myself out cold when I’m jogging. And yes, I am using my TONY LITTLE GAZELLE. Imma have to get myself one of those hats with the fake blond ponytail hanging out the back of it just because.

In less boring news, I bought some new make-up. Now, I like make-up, so I know that when I say things like “DAVE BETTER GET ME A CHAINSAW FOR MOTHER’S DAY” you probably think that I’m a gigantic Beefy Mc-Manstick, but no, I like Chanel and Prada and MAC and diamonds and all kinds of sparkly stuff. But it’s been ages since I’ve gone out and spent a bunch of money on girly stuff just because I wanted to. So I did. And it felt great.

Probably the best thing that I did for myself was to book a vacation with my home girl Angie. I was just going to go visit for a weekend, but she was all, “come on a cruise, whore!” and I was all, “fuck yes!” So I’m going. By myself. On a real vacation. In May. Not a long one, but still, I am going on vacation by myself. Me! The person who can’t manage to drop a deuce alone is going to be alone for days. I might hurt myself relaxing.

I can’t wait to have more exciting news like, “I became President of Target” or “I’m having an Uncrustables baby” but maybe next month, Pranksters. Maybe next month.

How are you doing, my Band of Merry Pranksters?