So you’re thinking, Aunt Becky, it’s time to put up some REALLY BAD pictures of you as a kid. You know, shitty perm jobs and aqua-netted bangs and french rolled jeans and maybe some Blossom-style headbands, but I don’t have any of those.

I was a CHILD of the 80’s, but I wasn’t allowed a perm. Probably because my mother was actually smart and realized that I would look like a Koosh ball if I’d gotten one. I have thick hair. Instead, I had bangs that started at approximately the nape of my neck and teeth that stuck out like the claw end of a hammer.

But I don’t have those snaps either. It’s not because I’m trying to spare myself the pain and agony of showing The Internet that I am not perfect, because shit, I think I passed trying pretend to be perfect, uh, in 2004 when I started blogging about The Wet Spot.

So let’s start with what I DO have. Aunt Becky, circa 1985. It appears that it’s my birthday and that it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Probably because no one is sitting with me.

Or maybe I am crying because my mother is forcing us to sit on lawn chairs in the house.

The obligatory “I am drunk and annoying on Halloween” shot. HELL, my undies are hanging out. This is probably why my 5 year old self is crying.

This was as close as I could get to “funny hair pictures” because, well, look at it. It’s my homecoming picture! My awesome tiara says it all. It says “I am awesome. Obviously.” But my dress is from Ann Taylor and it’s not embarrassing. Yet. But I could fucking smile, no?

Now THIS pictures says “I have a friend who is in Photography class” now doesn’t it? The black -n- white photography, the subject in the woods, it just SCREAMS ‘high school photography class’ to me.

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So I am challenging you to a duel, The Internet. OUTDO my sorry stash of embarrassing pictures. That isn’t hard. I will continue my hunt as I search for how to become certified as a disaster preparedness RN (I wanted to go to Haiti, but can’t seem to find a way to get there).

If you find something cringe-worthy, leave a link to it in the comments and we can have a fashion party of all of our awesome pictures. I’m certain that you can outdo me.

————–

At Skirt! I’m talking about how it takes a village. Even if it’s not the village I’d planned on.

Last night after Dave and I watched a very nail-biting episode of American Idol (and by “nail biting” I mean, I do not know why I don’t just punch myself in the face with lemons until they really start singing instead of watching the auditions), I sat down nearish to him.

(pat pat pat) “The back of your head is entirely flat at the top.”

The Daver (ignoring me entirely)(duh): “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. And the top kinda makes you look like Predator.”

The Daver (still absentmindedly pecking away on his Blackberry): “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I bet your mom dropped you on your head a lot.”

The Daver: “That explains a lot.”

Aunt Becky (giggles): “You know, we could get you one of those helmets they put kids in now to reshape your skull! Those kids look so CUTE!”

The Daver: “NO.”

Aunt Becky (laughing): “Can you IMAGINE walking around with one of those helmets as an adult? I’d decorate it for you! I could write your NAME in glitter! Or put some CHICAGO FIRE emblems on it!”

Aunt Becky: *bwahahahahahaha*

The Daver: “I think my skull is done being molded.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh.”

The Daver: “So don’t get any ideas.”

Aunt Becky (small voice): “Oh.”

The Daver: “Becky? You didn’t buy me a helmet, did you?”

Aunt Becky: “….Define BUY.”

The Daver: (buries LUMPY head in hands)

Aunt Becky: “It’s okay, I’ll love you and your misshapen head no matter what! Because THAT’S WHAT I LOVE YOU MEANS. TO HAVE, HOLD, AND OBEY…

(pauses)

….Your lumpy head!”

The Daver: “You made the priest take out the ‘obey’ part. Remember?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s because I never obey you.”

The Daver: “That’s for DAMN sure.”

Now that he’s remembered that I never obey him, he won’t be as mad when he finds out that I ordered him a plagiocephaly helmet for Valentine’s Day.

I think the “I love my wife” decals and hearts will make him change him mind and he’ll decide that wearing a helmet 23 hours a day is a very good idea indeed.

———————

Today over at A Mother World, I talk about The Mommy Club and how I’m desperately vying to join it.

The weather in Martina del Ray was predictably bright and sunny yesterday morning as The Daver and I blearily made our way downstairs to have breakfast before we had to leave for the airport. We mocked a couple of locals who were obviously cold and in boots and coats, because, well, we were going back to a place where it was a balmy 16 degrees.

Later, after spending some time in the airport where I hoped to spy even a C or D list celebrity (current tally of celebs seen in LA besides, of course, myself: 0) I squeezed myself into the window seat of the plane. I was slightly relieved to not be next to The Daver because it meant I could be quiet, and noted my seatmate was a 90 pound girl.

*phew* I sighed, as I settled in and strapped on my iPhone, as I happily envisioned a plane-ride where I didn’t have to fly with some mouth-breather all up on top of me.

My relief was short lived as my seatmate fell asleep and stretched her entire frame onto mine. Her legs snaked underneath my seat, her hands kneaded my side and she rested her head on my shoulder. Had I been a horny dude, I probably would have popped wood and smiled blissfully, but no, I was slightly annoyed.

I was kind of in shock that someone so small could manage to take up so much space.

As the plane ride drew to an end, I tried to enjoy my last hours as a free agent, albeit one with an external parasite, but inwardly I cheered as I recognized the lights of Chicago winking in the distance. My stomach flipped excited as the circling of the O’Hare airport began and I mentally checked off the places that we might have some dinner as I researched my column for the following day.

I live for take-off and landing.

As the plane began to descend, I realized this one was Just Bad. I’ve been flying regularly since I was 6 months old and I’ve been through 2-3 Bad Landings and this was setting off all kinds of warning bells. Why? I don’t know. I’m not a fearful flyer.

The plane was shaking wildly and I realized that the wings were covered were ice. They must have iced up when we switched climates and didn’t get de-iced properly. I don’t know. Either way, we were all shaking around like popcorn kernels in the cabin of the plane.

It was clear that something was Very Wrong.

The descent seemed to take forever, and finally, we approached the runway going way too fast. I waited for that comforting gnash of tires on the runway as the tires made contact and I braced myself against the seat in front of me.

It didn’t come.

Next thing I knew, we were going up, up, up again, the plane shaking and shuddering as once again we climbed back up to cruising altitude. The PA system was quiet and the passengers, most of us waiting to taking connecting flights which were now going to have been delayed until the following day, all had banded together the way people do in a crises.

Voices carried, people talked loudly, babies screamed, the skinny foreign chick slept on top of me, and the guy next to her and I looked at each other, scared.

But the PA was silent. Always a Bad Sign because it means it’s serious.

The plane circled and bounced and it was clear that the pilot wasn’t quite in control of the plane and I said a prayer, my thoughts of dinner and my column for SodaHead a distant and frivolous thought of the past. Eventually, the descent began again, and again, we shook and shuddered and afforded a lovely view of the wing, I saw yes, it was ice and the wing and yes, it was really probably serious.

I white-knuckled the hand-rests like that was somehow going to help me in the event that we crashed and tried to focus on anything but staring out the window.

Because really, if you’re gonna die, you might as well enjoy the ride down, right? On my list of Ways To Die: Plane Crash is on my list of ways that wouldn’t be so bad.

But I wanted to see my babies one last time, so I kept on praying and when we touched down, I cried a little.

We got stuck on the tarmac for quite awhile while the plane was de-iced and I swear to you, Chicago never looked so pretty or wonderful or good to me as it did last night, or this morning, or really, ever.

Today, I will count my blessings, count my angels on my shoulder, and know that it must not have been quite my time to go yet. Then I will go pour something in my coffee to quell the shaking and kiss my babies and cry a little bit.

The sun is shining very, very brightly today.

In my secret fantasies, not the ones involving being able to pull off blond hair (I have black hair)(black hair does not translate into a blond well)(and by “well” I mean that I looked like Bozo the Clown), I somehow manage to run away from my life, move to California and…do…something.

Maybe I’ll sell oranges by the freeway, a la Sublime’s My Ruca. Or I’ll actually start a hippie jam band, without the anthrax laden drums, though, because there’s nothing like fucking ANTHRAX to harsh your motherfucking BUZZ, man. I could even start to surf and live on the beach or something, even though walking is a challenge for me and surfing would certainly find me breaking something vital to my survival.

Whatever.

California has always been able to bring out the part of me that makes me simultaneously want to sell everything I own so that I can live off the land (while hoping that I had some natural talent for…something earthly, especially considering I consider “roughing it” staying at a hotel without room service) and strike it rich by being the Next Big Thing.

New York, conversely, made me feel like I had come home for the very first time when I visited. Even the sight of garbage bags all over the place didn’t stop me from swooning. New York, ah, New York.

But really, for now, I’m a Midwesterner. Land of, uh, The Tater Tot and The Mullet (all business up front and PARTY down the motherfucking back!) and all sorts of other middling things. It’s flat and it’s either a) ass hot or b) ass cold and there’s not a whole lot to say about it besides that.

I’ve lived in Chicago my whole life, which means I’m thoroughly enchanted by anywhere else. And I do mean anywhere. Drop me in the middle of the slums and I’d be all “dude, I bet I can get a kick ass wig! Or some awesome BBQ! Oh, please, take me to get a weave!”

We’re leaving for the airport in 15 minutes, and really, while I’m happy to leave 75 degree weather to slither back to the subzero-freeze-your-nipples-off-arctic, I’m not really. I only managed to see a fraction of my LA friends and I didn’t see a single transsexual prostitute. NOT ONE. EVEN AT THE BABY SHOWER.

But, I get to go home and see my children, who are going to be, no doubt, furious that I dared leave them.

I’m off to style my hair to make sure the paparazzi get my Good Side on my return trip home, and try and snag an In-n-Out Burger because really, who doesn’t want to have to poo buckets in the tiny airport bathroom.

Until we meet again, The Internet, bon voyage.

Oh, and I leave you with one question because I am curious: if you could ditch your life and start over, what would you do?

What? What’s…this shit, Aunt Becky? I can hear you screaming from miles away. My delusions of grandeur are mighty, I know, but I’ve BROKEN THE CODE and posted a NON-Go-Ask-Aunt-Becky post today. I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m a bad person and you should probably disown me now.

Except that I’m that annoying aunt you simply can’t shake. Kinda like the clap, but more annoying and pestilent. But yeah, I’m in California for Binky Spohr’s baby shower RIGHT NOW AS I SPEAK (I informed Heather that this means that I get to shower WITH her because OBVIOUSLY she’s easy) and if I tried to answer questions they’d be all, “Purple should be a flavor, dammit!!”

So I offer you this post instead and my deepest, most patheticist apologies.

Also, I stole a Sky Mall magazine to laugh at it and felt shifty and ruthless until Dave pointed out that I was SUPPOSED to steal them. Apparently, I do not get out much.

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Every winter, ’bout this time, when the cold days have dragged on and on to the point where a 100 degree day (Celsius even!) sounds more tolerable than bundling up the kids AGAIN and having the boogies in my nose freeze for the forty-millionth time that day, and when getting the mail at the end of my driveway seems like a drastic undertaking, I start to have this fantasy in which we move to more temperate climates.

And because, in my fantasy-land, I am also slightly practical and don’t have visions of moving to a completely foreign country and having to learn a new language (you mean people don’t speak American EVERYWHERE?), I envision us moving to one of the coasts.

For a good 290 days of the year, I like where I live, honestly I do (and probably in part as a defense mechanism, as moving out of state would be brutal as far as custody arrangements go for The Big One), and besides a small jaunt away from here several years ago, I have lived in the same town most of my life. It’s a sweet river town, and it’s great BECAUSE I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING IS.

But, for as teeny as my family is, I do happen to have some that live out of state in California, where I have been any number of times. And I genuinely love it out there, it’s interesting, it’s clean, people are nice, and if it weren’t for such amazingly high property prices, we might live out there for reals.

Well, the cost of living AND the fact that I am not positive that I am good-looking enough.

California is weird like that, and I’ll never forget being there as a teenager to attend my cousin’s wedding. A busboy (a BUSBOY!) in the joint where we were dining nearly caused me to choke on my steak, so uncanny was his resemblance to Brad Pitt (the 12 Monkeys/Seven version, whom I had many a naughty fantasy about).

A couple of years later, I was back again, and I noticed that even the bums on The Haight were sexy. BUMS were SEXY! Even the one who flashed me his penis was good looking (and well hung)!

It was like entering an alternate universe.

As I got older and every time I went back to Cali, I noticed more and more unlikely and attractive people. Airport baggage claim guys were hot! The chick at the rental car place looked as though she’d stepped off the runway to make my car rental experience a complete nightmare. I kept expecting the dude who took my toll money to start selling me shampoo, so magnificent was his shiny mane of hair, so full of body and style.

Just based on experience (and without real knowledge), I would even venture to guess that the people who worked at the DMV were extras on a movie set in their spare time (away from being nasty to people who were stupid enough to get into the wrong line– EVEN THOUGH IT WASN’T LABELED).

I don’t know about your state, but typically the DMV workers are thought to be the bitchy Missing Link anthropologists are always harping on about (I wonder if their studies would take them to the DMV, because it should), but I would venture a guess that in California, they, too, are beautiful, attractive, and of the highest genetic pedigree.

Even if I were rich enough to buy a shack in California, I’m fairly certain we’d be turned away at the border for being undesirably unattractive.

For now, I will take comfort living here in the Midwest, just outside of Chicago, knowing that while we may be ugly and dumpy, at least we’re landlocked, so no hurricane will make it to our doorstep.

DENIED ENTRY INTO CALIFORNIA DUE TO EXCESSIVE UNFLATTERING GENES.

Snuck across the border, yo. AND NOW YOU CAN’T GET RID OF ME. TAKE THAT CALIFORNIA.

You’ll never guess what I woke up to, The Internet! Well, okay, if you guessed that I woke up to a knocked over mail box, you’d be right, because that’s what happens during the winters here. It’s kind of not awesome because it’s NO ONE’S FAULT you see, least of all the plow’s, and I have to somehow cobble together a working mailbox in sub-zero weather.

Ah, Chicago. Two seasons: Ass Hot and Ass Cold.

Either way, this is on the list of things I’ll deal with when I get back because I don’t really give a flying poo right now.

Because what’s REALLY cool about this morning besides renewing my sorted love affair with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is this:

I recognize that this looks like I typed it up myself and I assure you that I have more official looking documents, but this was the biggest looking thing with my businesses name on it.

Oh yes, I incorporated this morning. Which makes me feel like I should have like morphed into something else, perhaps with metal and sharks with freakin’ laser beams on their heads or something. But no, I walked out of my attorney’s office the exact same person, just laden with a bunch of papers.

So, what does this really MEAN in the grand scheme of it all? Nothing much.

My community site and Mommy Wants Vodka will run under the umbrella corp of Copy on the Rocks, Inc (certainly, har-dee-har-har at a loss)(which, trust me, is fine).

But it’s official and it means that I am PROPERLY a Business Person and I can apply for Business Things and probably buy one of those “perpetual motion” things with the gears and perhaps maybe a squeezy thing for stress relief. I should also probably get some business suits with shoulder pads to wear about the house and an ear penis (phone headset) justincase someone actually calls me to “talk shop.”

No one actually calls me except people trying to sell me carpet cleaning services.

But I am a Business Person and will be reminding The Daver of that when he asks me to take out the garbage from now on. A sample conversation:

The Daver: “Can you take out the garbage, please?”

Aunt Becky: “I am very busy.”

The Daver: “Doing what? It looks like you’re scratching your crotch with a pen.”

Aunt Becky: “I am a BUSINESS PERSON WHO IS DOING BUSINESS THINGS NOW AND I CAN FILE A BUSINESS PERSON LAWSUIT.”

The Daver: “Shut up and take out the garbage.”

Aunt Becky: “Blow me.”

Marriage is grand, people.

In order to celebrate my incorporation, I’m going to do some Giving Back because really, without you guys, I wouldn’t have done this. It never would have occurred to me that I had a knack to write if you hadn’t encouraged me, and I wouldn’t have continued to pollute the Internet if you hadn’t acted like you liked to read it (also: smooth move).

In other words: you made your monster.

Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to have a contest, and the first thing I’m going to use my Copy on the Rocks bank account for is to happily buy a gift card to Amazon.com for $50. You can win it. You can enter up to three times, three different ways to win it. Contest will end next Friday at midnight CST.

1) Go to Savvy Source and join my group, Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters. Then, start a discussion about what you love about the blogging community. You can even use your Facebook ID to join. Couldn’t be easier. Then leave me a comment here saying that you did #1 (if you’re already in my group, go forth and participate.)

2) Leave a comment here where you talk about your favorite blogs. Hell, pimp YOURSELF out. I want to know why you love what you love. What makes a blog good?

3) It’s Interview With Aunt Becky time! Answer my questions on your own blog, grab my button, and come back, leave a comment and let me know that you did the Interview. IF you do not have a blog, feel free the interview in the comments.

1) Dave and I have a long-standing feud over cheese in a can. He thinks it’s food of The Gods while I think it’s probably Of The Devil. Your take?

2) Is there any way you can think of to make the elder Gosselins go away? I AM ALL EARS.

3) Who is your ridiculous “I can’t admit this to anyone in polite company lest I be banned from life” crush?

4) If you could fuck it all and pursue your dream (assuming, of course, you were going to be GOOD at it), what would that dream be?

5) They say “living well is the best revenge.” I think they are wrong. Do you?

6) What is the most humiliation you’ve experienced in public that you’d be willing to admit to The Internet?

7) Are you honest with The Internet? Like, if I came over to your house tonight (heh)(I’m coming over, yo)(heh) would I be surprised at who I found?

8 ) If you could have one talent that you don’t currently possess, what would it be?

9) There’s not always room for Jello. Is there?

10) What’s your guiltiest of the guilty pleasures?

<a href="https://mommywantsvodka.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/hellsyesbutton.jpg"><img src="https://mommywantsvodka.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/hellsyesbutton.jpg"></a>

P.S. Thank you to everyone who nominated me for a Bloggie. Seriously, that’s the best thing ever and I might have cried. SHUT UP.

I never thought I’d get married. I really never thought I’d get married, squeeze out a couple of crotch parasites and move to the suburbs and become a housewife. I really, really, really never thought I’d get married, squeeze out the kids, rock the ‘burbs as a housewife and write.

Talk about a mindfuck.

Add a white picket fence and I’m June Cleaver with a dirty mouth.

Truthfully, I’d not given the idea of marriage much mind. I’d not planned out a puffy white dress or a first dance number and hadn’t planned out bridesmaids and while I thought that the idea of having “a man” around to help raise the other man in my life (who happened to be 2 feet tall) was a good idea, I didn’t think it would happen.

I’m just not the marrying kind.

I’m the go-go boot wearing, cell-phone bejeweling, disco-dancing kind. So I was genuinely surprised to find myself at the alter, pledging to love, honor and repay The Daver for taking me to be his lawfully wedded wife. He pretty much had to drag me up the aisle by my hair kicking and screaming.

I was pretty afraid that I’d lose myself in being someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone else’s everything.

And I was right. For the first years, I did.

A sea of extenuating circumstances: thyroid storm, my mother’s alcoholism and subsequent rehabilitation (which, sobriety, YAY!), the incredible isolation of our first condo, the loneliness of being a parent when you have no other parent friends, post-partum depression, pre-partum depression, living as a single parent while my husband focused on his career; all of those to the me out of me.

It was so gradual that I didn’t even realize it.

Only recently did I realize that I had to unearth myself and figure out what’s what. Truthfully, I’ve been really afraid of what I’d find. Would I even recognize who I was anymore? Happily, I’ve come to realize I’m exactly the same as I was, with, perhaps, a white stripe in my hair now (yes, seriously) and the self-confidence that comes with being truly happy.

Maybe I’m still xx pounds fatter than I’d like (I have no scale) and maybe I’m still not writing for Playboy (a girl can dream) and maybe I still only see The Daver 3-4 hours during the week, but I’m finally moving. Not stagnating in a pile of my own filth feeling trapped and miserable.

Now I’m just stagnating in a pile of filth. Beaming merrily. As it should be.

——————–

Team Mimi is up and in Full Effect and walking for March of Dimes on April 25 in St. Charles (the details are behind the linkage or on my sidebar). Anyone is welcome to join. We’d LOVE to have you. If you’d like, you can form your own team as well. They’re forming all around the country.

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I AM going to launch the community site, just as soon as I can get the kinks worked out with The Daver, and my site designer and figure out exactly how to set it up.

So far, this is what I’ve got on the docket for ideas:

*It’s got to have a variety of topics that we can all weigh in on and post about.

*Easily navigatible and not full of The Ugly.

*It’s just going to be a link from the top of my blog to a separate site, where hopefully I can do some promotional giveaways and stuff because according to you guys, people like free shit. So, if I can find people to give us stuff, we’re IN.

*I’m going to use the same software that Dooce’s community site uses because it’s a great example of a community site.

What else would make a community site Full Of The Awesome?

(I bought the domain www.bandbacktogether.com for the community site)(we still need to name the community site)

(ring, ring)

The Daver: “Hello?”

Aunt Becky: “I’m leaving you.”

The Daver: “Oh yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yup! I’m forming an all-girls disco band and we’re touring the country.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait, you’re not upset?”

The Daver: “You’ve got to follow your dreams, man. Who is going to be in the band?”

Aunt Becky (gestures to empty room): “Oh, you know…TWITTER.”

The Daver: “That’s a big band. What are you going to do?”

Aunt Becky: “Wear roller skates and play the triangle. It’s DISCO. And it’s making a comeback. I CAN FEEL IT.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh, and I need one of those voice thingies. So I can actually sing. What are they called?”

The Daver: “A vocoder?”

Aunt Becky (happily): “YES! I need one. Can you get me one of those?”

The Daver: “Okay. I’ll pick up Chinese food for dinner?”

Aunt Becky: “Sure. See you soon! Before I’m gone with my all girls Twitter disco band. I’ve got to go order some more go-go boots!”

The Daver (laughs) “Bye!”

(both parties hang up)

——————

Because I am in the process of forming My Empire, which means I’m trying to think of more projects, I’ve come up with the idea of a couple of community-based forums for us. The ROYAL “us.” Problem is, I’m not sure exactly what we should be about.

I’ve had a bunch of people suggest that I cobble (and by “I” I mean “The Daver”) together a site where we could go to put together weight loss articles and articles about self-improvement and Getting The Band Back Together (it wouldn’t be like a boring site or anything) where we could cheer each other on.

I think this could work. I also think there are other things we could do and I’m eagerly thinking of them, but my brain is small and yours, well, is not, so this is the part of the post where I ask for your input. What do you think? Honestly. I’m open to any ideas, providing they’re feasible and full of The Awesome. I love the idea of a community-based site.

Operating on about 3 hours of sleep combined, my husband of 40 hours sat across from me shoe-less, his shirt up around his pasty nipples while another man rubbed him up and down. While an awkward woman rubbed my butt and patted down my vagina, our eyes met. Without attracting any more attention, I mouthed “I’m sorry.” His eyes smiled right before the man grazed his balls with his elbow. Then he wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was all my fault. Honestly.

Later, he expressed, several screwdrivers to the wind, that this was his first experience with being singled out and searched by airport security.

Mouth full of egg and cheese biscuit and several screwdrivers drunk myself, I slurred, “Well, dude, at least they didn’t take you to that back room.” I took a long drag off my drink, “Because that shit is WHACK.” I paused. “And hey, the let me keep one of my lighters.”

The Daver looked less than pleased.

“I’m sorry,” I said, chastised. “It’s all my fault.”

But was it? Was the issue with having a face (presumably) like a terrorist my fault? Certainly I’d been stopped by customs and security more times than I could possibly count, singled out from a crowd each and every time I flew since I was a small child. My father and brother, who turn equally brown skinned in the sun get it also, but not as bad as I do.

I can’t put a toe into an airport without securing a nice frisking and potential strip-search.

While I can easily claim that I *am* an asshole, the moment I hit the airport, I turn into the mentally challenged sister from Hee-Haw. I’m all “Golly Gee,” this and “Jeepers, Mister,” that with a side of “Gee wilikers” thrown in for good measure. You’ll never see a more ridiculously PC, G-rated version of me.

And still. And yet. And how.

I’ve learned to show up to the airport extra EXTRA early. I’ve learned that flip-flops – even in the dead of winter in Chicago – are the footwear of champions, and I know to wear loose baggy pants for easy up and down access.

But this begs the question. Why me? Was I marked as a potential terrorist when I was a baby? Is this on my ever-fucking Permanent Record?

We’re going to California this weekend (*squee!*) and while I’m certain I should probably just go in a thong and pasties, we’ll see how security handles me this time around. I am a married lady now with a new name and MAYBE I have made it off the DO NOT FLY list.

Then again, maybe not.

So, what gives, yo? Are you subjected to such inhumanities when you travel?

———————

Join me over at Toy With Me for Beaver Talk With Aunt Becky where I give Cosmo a piece of my mind. Or, what’s left of it. It’s sure to…well, I’m interested to see what you think.

Over at SodaHead, I wrote about the dating site that just let 5,000 of their chubby members. Yeah. Seriously. Ouch.

Apparently I am the last person on the planet to realize that 2010 = the next DECADE. Okay, so I never claimed to be a particularly bright person, but this takes the cake for even me. Especially since I turn 30 in July and I was born in 1980 and…yeah, I should have seen the BIGGER PICTURE, but apparently I was too deeply ensconced in my nervous breakdown to see out of my butthole.

I’m not much of a New Year’s person, so I suppose it’s not entirely shocking that I wasn’t all HOLY FUCK, PEOPLE!

Anyway.

New Decade, New Aunt Becky abounds which makes me think that I should get some Moon Boots and a flying car. Because obviously.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to dragging myself back out from under the piles tiny fucking Playmobil pieces and I’ve been making steps in that direction. When I do something, I tend to go balls to the wall, which is why an itemized list of resolutions isn’t really necessary. Plus, even as neurotic as I am, I hate making lists almost as much as I hate cream based condiments *shudders* but I’m making myself accountable.

To you. The Internet.

Ima check in now and again just to let you know how I’m doing in my progress to reclaim myself. You can let ME know what YOU’RE doing or how you think I can do better, or shit, you can just fucking tell me how awesome you are in the comments.

(Because you guys are full of the awesome. You were so nice to my formula-feeding friend–the Go Ask Aunt Becky questions all come in anonymously–yesterday and I was so grateful because she doesn’t need anyone to attack her when she’s feeling low. Also, have you lost weight? Your ass looks HOT in those pants. Let’s make out.)

1) First, I bought an elliptical. I know, I KNOW, it sounds like a BAD IDEA because it’s one of those things that you can easily ignore and use as a clothes hanger and what better to remind you of your failures? But this one was effing cheap and time is kinda precious right now. So ANYTHING is better than nothing.

Ima get my ass on it as soon as I can wear a bra lest I knock myself out with a rogue boobie.

2) I bought more clothes. I’d all but stopped buying clothes when I realized how depressing it was to do it because, well, I’m still rocking the baby weight. The elliptical will help that. But new clothes help me feel better about myself, which will make me feel EVEN BETTER about myself and so on and so on.

3) I started listening to music again. Because I’m home with the kids so much, I’d stopped jamming out with my clam out to things that made me happy because if any of them get a whiff of music coming from my computer, they’re all over me to watch stuff on my computer. Which, hi, TOTALLY NOT MY THING.

I do important stuffs here like surf porn and write on my blog, not watch CARTOONS (for the record, I hate cartoons).

But I love music. It’s one of the things I love dearly and since I stopped commuting every-fucking-where it’s something I stopped doing: humping on my music. Music makes me Aunt Becky again and it makes me feel alive.

4) I’m going out to California next weekend with The Daver even though we couldn’t find anyone in my family to watch my kids. There’s a certain baby shower that I’m pretty stoked to go to and to miss that would be like gnawing off an arm, but getting anyone to watch my kids is always like pinning Jello to a wall.

I know they have sitter sites out there, but I’m not entirely comfortable leaving my kids overnight with someone I don’t know. By the grace of God, my friend from high school is going to do it for me and I owe her SO MUCH.

5) I’m back to looking for places to submit my work (let’s agree that “work” here is a very loose term) and expand My Empire.

Most importantly, I’m allowing myself the opportunity to make progress without expecting perfection. I tend to expect things from myself that no one really should expect of themselves and I’m going to stop.

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I may never own Moon Boots, because maybe I DID own them when I was a kid and maybe they weren’t NEARLY as cool as I thought they’d be. But slowly, I’m digging myself out of the hole I’ve sunk into and rediscovering who I am. Turns out, I’m the same person I always was.

Progress, not perfection. Unless I’m listening to Britney. Which is total perfection.

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And if you’re looking for me elsewhere, I’m talking about the time I got courted by (no shit)(seriously, why would I lie?) Wife Swap.

Over at Skirt! this is the link to the post I threw up yesterday (Sunday = The Internet is closed) about Finding Myself Among The Dirty Diapers.