Because I am a special person who is known in many circles as a giver, I am giving you all HELPFUL post for Thanksgiving! See! Because I am nice! And just maybe because I am also not really celebrating Thanksgiving today either (we’re doing it tomorrow).

I noticed that a disproportionate amount of people had taken some time out of their day searching my blog for “sweater kittens” and “white trash thanksgiving dinner,” but really what you wanted was this post. Which I am going to turn into a page. Probably this weekend because I have time AND a husband. YAY!

That picture, I’m sorry, but how could it not make you laugh? Unless you were DEAD INSIDE. She says, Happy Thanksgiving, my gnomies!

So add your comments below and I’ll add them to the Master List.

• Most blogs have about a one year shelf life.

• There is such a thing as over-posting, but I’m unclear as to what that is.

• Blogging takes a ton of work. Really, it does.

• Proof-read your posts religiously and make liberal use of spell check.

• Omit unnecessary words.

• No one likes a Grammar Nazi in the comments, so back off.

• The trolls will come and they do not read most of what you say before they chew you out in the comments.

• It’s really up to you whether or not you allow the trolls to have their say on your blog.

• No one will read you for a couple months. It’s okay. Soldier on.

• If you want people to read you, read other people.

• While you’re reading other people, why not make some friends while you’re at it?

• Use a full RSS feed in the reader because a partial feed makes a lot of people unsubscribe.

• You may be 1000% certain that you are The New Dooce, but you’re not. Now, you might be as talented as fucking Hemingway, but you’re not going to get the same press that she did. No press = no instant popularity.

• Find your own writing style and realize that no matter what you’re blogging about, someone else has probably already done it.

• Try to keep your audience in mind when you’re writing because it will help you to focus your post into a more coherent whole.

• There’s more politics than you can imagine in blogging.

• If you want more comments then comment until your fingers bleed.

• Get a reader and subscribe to the blogs you like. Comment the shit out of those blogs. People will (eventually) come.

• There will be bloggers who will NEVER visit your blog no matter how many amazing and witty comments you leave. Period. Move on if it hurts your feelings.

• Begging for comments is distasteful. If you want comments, ask for advice or opinions.

• Nothing – not even the “official” de-lurking day – will coax 97.2% of your readers to comment.

• Support each other as best as you can, in good times and in bad. Every comment helps.

• Every couple of weeks, some new trend will piss off a number of (especially) mom bloggers and they will become annoyingly polarized.

• Resist the urge to chime in about Your Take On This Trend. Seriously.

• Every time the Today show features Dooce, there’s a bazillion start up blogs that believe (hehe) that you can $40,000 a month blogging. Maybe if you’re Dooce that’s true, but for the rest of us? Bwahahahahaha! I don’t mean to sound mean, and if you do manage this, pat yourself on your back for me but don’t get your hopes up.

• Whenever one of those stupid blog contests gets started, everyone freaks out. It will blow over.

• If you’re totally blocked for ideas about a post, describing the boring minutiae of your day is probably not titillating to others. Write it if you must, then delete it. Hopefully that will get your juices flowing and you can write about something more interesting. A turd of a post will always look like a turd no matter how you dress it up.

• Talking shit about anyone–especially behind their backs on your blog that they presumably don’t read–is a bad fucking idea. Password protect those, or better yet, don’t write them at all. Although they may be satisfying, remember, those are the posts that the very same people you talk about may find. It’s a smaller Internet than you think it is and you’re not as anonymous as you think you are.

• If you don’t want people to respond in a negative manner, then don’t let it all hang out there. Not everyone will agree with you and there are people who will happily tell all of the ways you are wrong. You don’t have to like it, but if you put it out there, you do have to deal with it.

• There is something about being able to hide behind “anonymous” that makes people say really dick-ish things that they probably wouldn’t say to your face. It can hurt, I know this, and people will get you all wrong and it will suck, but if you don’t want to deal with it, go private or password protected.

• Your feelings will get hurt. I promise you this.

• Although most of your followers will wish you well, there will always, ALWAYS be a contingent that hopes that you will fail. And fail badly.

• Sarcasm doesn’t always translate well through the written word, so be careful when you use it.

• Music on blogs is universally hated. If you want to put it on there, it’s wise to leave the playlist on mute and allow other people to turn it on should they want.

• The Blogger word verification system will cause you to lose comments because it’s often very hard and very confusing to use.

• Don’t clog up your sidebar with crap. Especially blinky crap. Because it makes the page take like 40 hours to load and then people will click away because who really wants to sit there, waiting for the page to load?

• Put your blog awards on a separate page and link to it from your sidebar.

• A nice clean uncluttered background is preferable to something that makes it hard to focus on the content.

• If you write long posts, use larger, not smaller, fonts.

• Don’t steal other people’s stuff. Stealing gives you herpes.

• Don’t put shit on the Internet you wouldn’t wear on a tee-shirt.

• Beware of the donate button. It causes many people to be very, very mad.

• Begging for money pisses people off.

• Constant self-promotion can be a real turn-off.

• Meme’s, although a nice tool to get the writing juices flowing, are usually boring to read. If you like doing ’em, then fuck it and do ’em anyway.

• Edit your posts. Edit them religiously.

• Paragraph breaks are a necessity. It’s really hard on the eyes to read anything not broken up by small paragraphs.

• The background of your post needs to be something that is appealing to the eyes. Some colors (especially pink, which is a favorite color of mine) although lovely, leave the reader squinty and headachey. Check out what your finished post looks like YOURSELF and see if you can read it without adjusting your monitor.

• A black background is very, very hard to read.

• If all your tweets on Twitter are links to stuff that people can buy from you or ways to get a zillion followers overnight, you’ve probably pissed off a good portion of your readers.

• There is such a thing as over-sharing.

• Stuff on the Internet–even the stuff you erase–is never, ever, EVER gone. EVER. So make DAMN sure you want to live with whatever you say.

• Remember that your kids may one day read whatever you’ve written, so choose what you share (especially about them) well.

• Writer’s Block does end.

• Don’t lie. And for God’s sake, don’t fake a dead baby. I don’t even have words to describe people who do that sort of thing.

• Don’t idolize the success of another blogger. Also, don’t hate them for it. In blogging, you often get what you put into it. And the higher you climb, the more pressure there is.

• Be kind to other people. You gain nothing by being cruel.

• The success of your blog should be determined by how you feel about your blog, not the number of comments or followers, because ultimately you are blogging for you.

• Blog for yourself, not for other people.

• Remember, it’s all supposed to be fun. Enjoy what you write, take pride in it, and if someone else comes along and tells you that you suck, tell them that Aunt Becky told them to shove it up their puckered pooper.

You should totally read my interview with my homie Sci-Fi dad: “Thinking is Hard” here. And my Slate.com interview ran simultaneously here, on The Happiness Project, which is a really neat blog run by my friend Gretchen. She’s a thousand times cooler than me, so you should read her.

And then I need more people to interview me because I am officially done with interviews, except those that I conduct in my head. SO SOMEONE INTERVIEW ME. PLEASE.

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Every year when my son Ben has to write a “This Year I’m Thankful For” letter, it reads sort of like this:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am thankful that you buy me sheets. And blankets.

This would lead you to believe that I have him chained in the basement somewhere, perhaps duct-taped to a wall, shivering, only to be tossed a blanket when I’m feeling particularly benevolent. And well that is obviously true, it’s not.

That, of course, written by the same child who recently sent home the answer to the question, “Where would you take Mom for her birthday?”

McDonald’s because it’s my favorite and we eat it every day.

I may have junk in my trunk, Internet, but I do NOT eat McDonald’s EVERY day.

So it’s clear that my son, while he’s fanciful, is also pretty full of The Awesome, because that note is SO on my fridge because I laugh every time that I see it. Not only did he not answer the question because he didn’t pick out my favorite place, he also told his teacher that we eat fast food every day.

I’m thinking we’ll watch Super Size Me for Thanksgiving. Should be very uplifting, I’m thinking. Then it will make me very hungry.

Today is the day before American Thanksgiving, though, and because no one is actually going to be reading blogs tomorrow, save for my spam bots, which are either sending me really punny jokes, insulting me, or selling me knock-off prescription drugs, I figured that today is probably the day to Be Thankful.

And since the only person in the house to regularly write stuff ABOUT being thankful is 8, I don’t exactly have a killer model to choose from unless you want to hear how much I heart q-tips (orgasm in my ear!) or bath towels (orgasm on my ass!).

So I’m going to buck Ben’s model and go out on my own here and surprise the shit out of all of you.

Your Aunt Becky is thankful for this year.

Probably one of the worst, hardest years of my life so far, (made even worse by the Eggo waffle shortage!) and if given the option to have it any other way, I’d say no.

Because even in the darkest times, when I thought that I was suffocating under the weight of what I was carrying, when my fears crushed my chest and it was all that I could do to breathe in and breathe out and the rushing in and out of air seemed to fill the whole world and I didn’t know how I was going to go on, I found myself.

I did go on.

Seconds turned to minutes turned to hours and I lived and grew in those spaces between where I thought that I was going to burst apart at the seems, the fear, the weight, the terror pressing down. The days when I hurt so badly that nothing anyone could do ever helped, and my throat felt tight and the tears were always so close, those days eventually wore away. Slowly, they drifted away.

In their wake, I stand now, a different person.

I’ve lost friends, lost respect for people, I’ve seen who will stand beside me, and who is content to stand back. I am not who I was and I am thankful.

Today, I am thankful for my daughter Amelia, who, in her 9 months on the planet, has shown me more about who I am than I have learned in the 29 years before her. My sweet cinnamon girl, my Emma Gracie, the one who lived, my only daughter, the girl with curls like a halo, for who you are and what you have taught me and the light you have shown me, I am thankful.

Today and always.

Okay, I have officially died and gone to Blog Heaven. Why? I am on SLATE.COM today. No, I am. REALLY. It’s ME.

Since is it Thanksgiving week and you should really be cooking me stuff, I am dusting off the ONLY food post I’ve done, if you don’t want to visit my other, racier *ahem* faking orgasms *ahem* over at Toy With Me.

But, The Internet, I’m thinking next week may bring you Aunt Becky As The Pioneer Woman, Part B. Because this was probably my favorite post to write.

*claps hands*

This is a dish best served for your relatives that you totally hate and want to never come back. Because, obviously.

———————

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go here for a visit, then come back. It’ll make more sense that way.

Hm…It’s lunch time. What shall I cook?

Wow, those cookbooks are shiny and new looking! That must be painfully obvious that I do not cook. Unless one calls “shamelessly ordering take-out” cooking. Which, probably not.

WHY WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHIIILLLDREN?!?

*wrings hands dramatically for several minutes*

Man, being sanctimonious makes me hungry.

Wait, now THAT looks like a book I would like! Retro lady, the word “secret” in the title, and I’m pretty sure no foodies would masturbate onto it.

Phew! I can make lunch after all.

Let’s see…

Hm…

Well.

Now.

Not really quite what I had in mind. I left my bitter pants upstairs, and while I like cookies, I’m pretty sure this won’t be too tasty.

Well, hel-lo lover…

Hooray! Even *I* can use the microwave! And look at the whimsical packaging! I can’t go wrong here.

Okay, dude, Pad Thai box, I sort of hate taking direction. Remember the whole “nursing school” fiasco?

Yeah, me too.

But lookit all the cute individually wrapped packages! How wee!

I can artfully arrange them JUST LIKE BEN! He’d be so proud of my technique! I should show him. Oh…right.

*sighs*

Man, Day 1 of school and I already miss him.

Posing the water next to my orchid is very artsy. Maybe I could be…a photo blogger.

(shut UP)

And that’s ABOUT a cup. Close enough for me.

5! More! Flavors!

I might actually eat lunch properly again! O! Thank you, box of prepackaged Thai food!

Add the bag of noodles.

Wait. Um. That sauce looks semi-unappetizing.

But wait! Look! Whimsical packaging!!!

What was I saying again? I totally forgot.

Look at me all using the microwave like a big kid. Daver is going to be SO PROUD of me.

*hums Jeopardy song loudly*

Aww, yeah! END. I know what THAT means!

Uh. Well.

YUM?

Maybe this is what will make my lunch more delicious: one more microwaved minute.

Aww YEAH.

And just like that, I have noodles glued together with an unidentifiable sauce! I should TOTALLY WRITE A COOKBOOK. That’s EXACTLY what I should do! WRITE COOKBOOKS!

Uh, MOM? Hi. Are you a total idiot?

Probably the second most frequently asked question I get, behind only “how did you get so devastatingly gorgeous, Aunt Becky?” (answer: genetics, baby) and “will you look at the rash on my genitals?” (answer: probably not) is this: “when are going back to work?”

The question is more loaded than it sounds, and it makes me more empathetic to my infertile friends than they probably think I could be, because the answer has always been a gut rolling “I don’t know.”

Truthfully, the answer is another question, “go back to work doing what?” but it seems that telling your whole sordid tale to a stranger in line at the grocery store is probably better left unsaid. Instead, I sort of laugh as gaily as I can, masking how uncomfortable I am, and say, “Oh probably when the kids are in school.”

After my son Ben was born, I was sort of adrift, a half a bachelors degree in biology which was doing fuck-nothing for me whatsoever besides making me feel like sort of a chump. I ended up carefully deciding to go to nursing school, the lesser of two evils, knowing I was going to be a single mother, and knowing that I would need to support Ben and I.

I slogged through it miserably. I don’t know if words can express how truly miserable it made me.

Maybe they can. You know that job that you had some time in your life? Maybe it was flipping burgers or being stuck under a Fearless Leader of a boss who micromanaged the shit out of your every move, I don’t know. That’s your story. But you would wake up every day dreading work, and go home from work, sick because you knew you had to wake up and go back?

That was nursing school. My satisfaction was beating the shit out my GPA and acing tests. Wiping butts, dealing with the overcrowding/under-staffing, I couldn’t do it. Nursing is a calling, and those who do it are friggin’ saints. I mean that.

I’d walk past the science buildings and feel just sad, because that was where I belonged. Making coffee from Bunsen burners in the lab, TA-ing in BioChemistry and tutoring for Pathophysiology, that was where I was meant to be.

And I wasn’t there.

I understood unrequited love, all right.

I graduated some variation of cum laude, got my nursing license and then made a grave tactical error: I got a job doing precisely what I swore I wouldn’t do because I thought I could fake it ’til I made it. I couldn’t.

I did case management, primarily for hospice, until I got pregnant with Alex, and I’ve been home ever since. This isn’t where I intend to stay, and Dave asked me shortly after I had Mimi if I wanted to go back to work.

Dun-dun-dun.

“Sure,” I said to him, as we looked at mini-vans. “What would I do?”

We both looked at each other blankly for awhile until we cracked up. While I am very good at a lot of things like ordering my kids around, trying to do as little work as possible while spouting off random opinions about things (purple IS a flavor, dammit!), I couldn’t tell you a damn thing I’d do for a job.

Holding crack babies? I could hold babies. I’m squishy and soft and babies like me.

I could be a foreman at a construction site and wear a hardhat, because I look good in hats and I like to yell. Plus, a megaphone would be great fun.

Maybe I could even run a blog and spout of my random opinions about things! (purple IS a flavor, dammit!)

But no.

And that bothers me. I love my children, they love me, and I do a decent job making sure that all of our trains run on time.

I need more.

So I’m doing more. Finally.

I know I mentioned it couple of weeks ago, but I’ve looked into it more closely (read: more than just a flitting thought wafting through my mind) and I think that I’m really going to give it a shot.

Writing, I mean. Not just my book stuff, which is slowly going, but freelancing articles. I’m dipping my toes into the freelance world and seeing if I can find my way.

I know it’s not exactly something that I can just be all HELLO WORLD, I AM TOTALLY HERE, NOTICE ME, but I’m as annoying and tenacious as a yappy small lap dog. I don’t expect anything to be dropped onto my plate**, and maybe nothing will ever come of it, but it’s kind of nice to feel like I might have a direction besides cloudy with a chance of shit-storm.

Who knows where I’ll end up, because nothing ever seems to progress in a linear direction, now does it?

For now, though, for right now, I finally feel as though I found my missing piece.

——————

How did you find your way? Or did you find it at all?

——————

**If you’d like to drop a zillion dollars onto my plate, my email address is becky@dwink.net. You should know that I very recently found out that I am related to SEVERAL Nigerian princes! I got emails from them and everything! I am going to be a millionaire as soon as this money they’re wiring me hits my bank account.

Now, my faithful Go Ask Aunt Becky-ers, I have a special treat for you. I sort of feel like I’m introducing the Pope here, but since he (He?) wouldn’t post for me on account of it being Sunday and Sunday being a Holy Day and a Day of Rest, I’m introducing you to a blogger who needs no introduction.

She’s my favorite blogger and I’m not just saying that because she’s posting for me on, like, my second ever guest post. I actually feel like squeeing and jumping around the room right now and were it not 11PM and had I not just wrangled an exhausted Alex back into bed, I’d be dancing around.

Yup. That’s how I felt when she agreed. Although with less cheese sauce. Because, obviously.

This is Julie, from A Little Pregnant, and you should immediately subscribe to her and worship her like I do. Seriously, I am not worthy of her and if I sound like a teenager at a New Moon premiere, well, so be it.

Julie is posting for Go Ask Aunt Becky some questions that were asked about infertility because she’s far smarter than I am, I blackmailed her to guest post for me. Guess she shouldn’t have taken those donkey pictures in college, huh?

Auntie Becky Julie (can I call you Auntie?),
First of all I want to thank you for your post The Others, and for including struggling to conceive, some people don’t understand that that is a loss, too. So thank you Auntie!

My husband and I have been trying for a year and half to get pregnant. I have just found out that 2 of my sister-in-laws are now pregnant, for one this will be their 2nd child and for the other their 696th, or something. While I am very happy for them, I also feel like I have been bitch slapped by God or whoever.

How do I deal with the Pregnancy stories (these 2 were preggers together last time and I wanted to claw my ear drums out THEN!) and unsolicited advice (one of them is always doling it out in abundance because she has 4 kids, like I haven’t tried EVERYTHING!!)? Please tell me how to deal with this without coming off like a complete bitch….

Signed,
Not Expecting

Families dealing with addiction are often instructed, for the sake of their own emotional health, to distance themselves from the destructive behavior of their loved one, to detach, as they say, with love. The fact that this is the phrase I sternly utter when informing Paul that I am sending his favorite ratty-ass flappy-elastic underpants to the glue factory makes the saying no less incisive.

By that I mean I don’t think you have any duty to stay in their presence when those kind of conversations occur. Of course you don’t want to come off as a complete bitch, but can you give yourself permission to come off as…a partial bitch? A demi-bitch? A bitchkin? A bitchula? A bicicletta? (What? No, I’m not mocking you. I think those banana seat is very slimming. And a playful flick of the handlebar tassel to you, my friend.)

I guess what I’m saying is that making yourself slightly vulnerable to criticism may well be the best strategy for preserving your overall well being. Because I honestly don’t see anything wrong at all with letting a pained look steal over your features — ha, not so tough, given the circumstances — and then modulating your voice to a husky whisper before saying, “I’m sorry. This discussion is really painful to me,” and then excusing yourself from the conversation. If they know your situation and still think you’re a bitch, well, that tells us a lot about them, doesn’t it?

As for the unsolicited advice, the souped-up Schwinn in me wishes you could meet their suggestions with wide eyes and a grateful gasp. “Ohhhh! That’s a fascinating thought! Wait, let me get a pen. I want to pass your idea along to my reproductive endocrinologist, the noted Dr. Shirley M. Pregnate, and offer it as a potential avenue of research, because in all my years of trying no one has ever suggested that we stop using condoms,” or whatever helpful pointer you’ve just been given. I know: It’s wrong to shame the ignorant. I know. Because then you’d be a complete bitch. And we’re trying to avoid that.

So instead I’d suggest saying the following next time unsolicited advice is proffered: “Thanks, but I don’t really feel comfortable discussing this. How we often we hit it siiiideways is a private matter between my husband and me.” You could edit out the sideways part, I suppose, and customize it for your needs — perhaps you’re more of a scorpion-style girl. Mongolian basket trick? The dirty Chautauqua? Anyway, the details are unimportant. What matters is that you communicate the unequivocal message that you’re not looking for input. Then if input keeps coming, you’re not the complete bitch; they are.

And none of this, alas, shuts anybody up, but then very little ever does. But if you give yourself the leeway to remove yourself from the conversation without being too, too concerned about how you’re perceived — a factor that’s mostly out of your control, anyway — you might find it all easier to deal with from a distance. I truly hope so.

My best friend has been struggling to fall pregnant for 2 years and had a miscarriage last year. I have stood by her and supported her through all her fertility treatments, which have all failed.

I am now 5.5 weeks pregnant and she was the first person I told because I didn’t want her to find out from someone else. She sent me a very bitchy e-mail and now won’t talk to me.

What do I do now? I understand where she is coming from, but I feel so guilty that I am not enjoying this very much wanted pregnancy.

Usually when people say this they mean it in a dismissive, scathing way. When I say it here, I swear I mean it in a liberating, peace-be-with-you new-age naked-dancing stinky-hippie kind of way: It’s not all about you.

Your friend is hurting, and I think it speaks well of you that you’ve been concerned about her feelings about your pregnancy. It’s a courtesy I wish everyone extended to their friends. It’s a sad comment on how seldom it actually works out that way that I read your question and wanted to give you a big damn medal for what should be, oh, I don’t know, common human decency.

That said. Thaaaaat said, I wish your friend hadn’t countered your compassion that way. I can’t fault anyone in her position for feeling the way she must, but I’m sorry she reacted the way she did, for both of you: on your account, because it hurt you, and on hers, because if she’s not feeling bad now about sending that bitchy e-mail, she may well later with a little time and distance. Everybody eventually loses, even if she found it cathartic in the short term.

But like I said above, it’s not all about you. At bedrock, this is about her feelings about her own situation. Her feelings about what she doesn’t have are thrown into very harsh relief when confronted by what you have. This isn’t her fault or yours, and I don’t see any right or wrong in the situation. It could be that if you think this through in those terms, you’ll feel less inclined to take her reaction personally. If you truly believe you’ve treated her with kindness, and indeed it sounds like you have, drop the guilt and be ready, if you can, to welcome her back as a friend if her hurt eventually abates. She’ll come to you if and when she’s ready.

Hi Aunt Becky Julie-

I am currently 15 weeks pregnant with my second child. My best friend (also my cousin) was pregnant and due a week after me. She just lost the baby this week. This is her second miscarriage this year, and I am just devastated for her.

My question is this-how do I help her? I don’t want her to feel like I’m rubbing my pregnancy in her face, and I know she won’t think that, but it breaks my heart that I am, no matter how hard I try not to, inevitably going to cause her pain over the next 6 months.

I just don’t know what to do. I want her involved in this child’s life (I was actually planning on her and her husband as godparents) but I don’t want to push or say too much. She is a wonderful person and I know she is going to want to hear all about this baby, but I’m so scared of hurting her.

First, on behalf of every reproductive loser out there, let me thank you for even acknowledging that your pregnancy might cause someone else pain. You and the person above can timeshare the Congratulations on Not Being an Asshole medal. It seems so obvious to those of us in the know, but sad experience tells us that it’s anything but obvious to the world at large. So thanks for that.

Now as to your question. Some people maintain that honesty is always the best policy. Me, I happen to think that honesty is seldom the best policy; too many people see it as a license to reveal unpleasant things that are better left undiscussed. (What. I was raised Episcopalian, okay? We own that tightly-buttoned shit.) But this is a rare instance where I do think honesty would serve everyone well.

Why not tell your friend how sorry you are for her hurt, how eager you are not to cause her any more pain, and then ask her what she needs? Why not tell her you’re ready to let her guide things, to follow her lead, and ask her to tell you when she needs some space? It seems like the situation calls for feeling your way as friends rather gingerly; it also seems like yours is a relationship with a long history of trust built in. So if the two of you can work through it together, gradually, with her leading the way, it seems probable to me that the two of you can make it through this really difficult time with your bond intact, and maybe even enhanced.

…Whoa, hey, now that’s some new-age naked-dancing stinky-hippie shit, huh?

But in all sincerity, I’m sorry for your friend’s loss, and sorry for the turmoil you find yourself in. Good luck to you both.

—————-

Wow. So, Aunt Julie rules and Aunt Becky is going to be dethroned and I totally see why. Thank you, Julie. Also, sorry bitches, Aunt Becky is back in action tomorrow.

As always, your pressing, burning Ask Aunt Becky questions may be directed to that tiny link in my sidebar and please, tell Julie that she rules and add any other witticisms that you might have in the comments.

And no, I will not look at that rash on your penis. MUCH.

A post in vignettes:

I’m pretty sure Alex has started smoking.

Which means that not only is he in direct defiance of my rule, which is “no smoking until you’re 12,” but now he’s got this horrible “I smoke a pack-a-day cough” and I’m sort of ashamed to send him to daycare. They’re OBVIOUSLY going to know he’s smoking.

In MY day, kids RESPECTED their elders and DIDN’T SMOKE until they were at LEAST 12.

*grumbles*

Damn kids on my lawn.

Speaking of damn kids, here is a absolutely great shot of my own damn kid:

Now, he looks as though he’s positively giddy by what is on the plate (similarly to the look I get every time I get a comment or email from you guys!) because it’s a horrifying amalgamation* of junk food picked by his father! Why, there are hot dogs, and french fries and a whimsical Santa plate!

But no.

What Alex is crowing so happily about is not the food.

It’s the condiments.

Specifically *shudders* the mixture of the cheese sauce and ketchup mixed together. Which he ate with great gusto while I heaved in the next room.

*shudders*

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I got interviewed by a real journalist and stuff! See! Anyone looking to make the leap from blogger to More Than Blogger should check out her site, as she’s trying to merge the gap between the old media and the new media. It’s a great idea and I know her site is going to take off.

——————–

May I present to you my eldest, in Hog Washers**:

Also in this photo, a random pillow, proof that I need to sort my laundry, the tip of Dave’s shoe, and “I don’t think Pioneer Boys wear Airwalks.”

————————

I guest posted over here! YAY!

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For Neil’s Great Blog Interview Project, I Interviewed Gunfighter who is pretty full of the Awesome, so you should check him out. And I’m not just saying that so he doesn’t kill me. He rules.

Katie Couric better watch out because I had WAY too much fun with this interview.

1) Sprinkles on ice cream or not? Or do you call them jimmies? Some people call them jimmies and I don’t understand it, but I think it’s a colloquialism like “soda” and “pop.”

Ha! I was just talking about this a week or so ago. For me, you only have sprinkles on soft-serve ice cream… and then only when you get it from the “Mr. Softee” ice cream truck that would come through our neighborhood in the summer. As for what you call them, I always called them jimmies. I understand that it is a fairly common thing in the northeast (I was raised in northern New Jersey. Go Yankees!).

2) Are you going to kill me if I mess up this interview? I’m screwed, aren’t I? (don’t shoot me, please, I have delicate skin)

Shoot you? Naaaah, I probably wouldn’t shoot you… you seem like a nice enough person… and you make me laugh, which goes a long way. Not that you need to worry, or anything… because you are doing fine… so far.

3) If you could choose one single song for them to do on Glee to die a happy person, what would it be?

You know, my wife and I were listening to the Glee soundtrack when I got your email with these questions… we agreed that it would really be beyond cool (and I mean cool in the sense of Miles Davis, and Lou Rawls) if the cast of Glee performed Mel Torme’s iconic hit “Coming Home Baby”. If they were to do that, I would be a really happy man… that song or the them from “Underdog”

4) What annoys you most about blogging? Everyone has some pet peeve. As for me, I can’t stand it when people abbreviate people into initials because my brain is too small to handle and retain such information for long enough to make it through a post.

You mean bloggers can be annoying? Never! Well, ok, since we are new pals and all… I’ll just say this about that: Sometimes bloggers are just a little too sanctimonious… and that probably means me, too.

5) You’re sent to live on a desert island with an iPod filled with the collective works of only 5 musical artists (let’s assume somehow you have unlimited power for said iPod). Who are they?

Mel Torme (don’t laugh. Mel Torme was as cool as they get)

Michael Jackson (Dude was weird, but name a really talented person who isn’t/wasn’t)

David Phelps (Look him up, he’s awesome)

Frank Sinatra (Frank doesn’t need any commentary)

Tuck Andress & Patti Cathcart (An incredible Jazz duo)

6) What’s the song that plays in your head every time you walk into a room? Like when you make an entrance, I mean. Not just like when you walk unnoticed into a room.

Oh, you mean personal theme songs? I have several, and they vary depending on what I am walking in the room to do. When I am walking into a classroom to teach, the song is “The Imperial March” from Star Wars (also known as “Darth Vader’s Theme”), The other, when I am on an operational assignment is the Main Title theme from “Superman“. Often, in my everyday life, my theme song is that favorite hymn of mine: “A Mighty Fortress is Our God”… there isn’t a much better song for a warrior.

7) If I came over to your house to eat dinner, what would you make me? Because you seem to be a good cook and I sometimes can’t be bothered to order takeout because I am JUST that kind of lazy and maybe I am kind of hungry right now.

I would probably roast a chicken with vegetables. Oh, and I do a chicken right, my friend. Mind you, it’s a rich dish, and ought to be shared with good friends and an ample supply of wine. To die for, trust me.

8) Now that I have read your archives, I have realized that my brother would salivate at the bit to be your best friend, (which I will lord over him as punishment for years of torture when we were kids) which means I need to be your best friend. Can I be your best friend?

Interesting… why would he want to be my best friend? Is it because of my tattoos, or because I have a rockin’ family?, or is it because I spend my day playing with guns? Maybe it’s because chicks dig me. Well, whatever it is, I am all about revenge on older brothers for childhood torture, so ok, we can be best friends. Do you hear that, Becky’s brother?She and I areBFF’s now, so don’t **** with her ever again!

So you should check him out because seriously, he’s awesome.

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And in the interest of full disclosure, I am going to tell you that my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, would want to be BFF with Gunfighter because he would love Gunfighter’s job. Also, now I am going to visit Gunfighter so he can teach me how to shoot a gun. (but he doesn’t know that yet. He better get that chicken cooking. HA.).

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How would YOU answer those questions, yo?

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*50 cent word!

**We had to order them off the Internet. They don’t readily stock overalls in size 8 up here. Probably because there are no hogs to wash. Although I guess he could wash my car. GOOD IDEA.

The highlight of the third grade was our musical production of Music Throughout The Years, a fanciful medley of songs from the 1920’s to the present day 1980’s. We began with a rousing rendition of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and rounded out the evening with a heartful version From a Distance. Whomever put the music together was obviously a genius.

I was pretty stoked, though, because I got to play two whole parts in the play. First, I was a trippy 60’s party goer in our totally rockin’ version of Splish Splash, who came in and danced. Later, I was to come in and shoot someone with a fake bow (but no arrow).

Just like I knew that I was supposed to be an actress. I could tell.

Unfortunately no one had showed me how exactly to work the bow. Living in the suburbs, the hunting experience I’d had was limited to stalking my prey–the canned frosting tubs–at the grocery store. Perhaps if I’d lived somewhere in Montana, say, I’d have known how to properly hold a fake bow.

But I stood backstage, certain that my future as an actress shone brightly in the stars. Why, I had dark hair and teeth like chicklets and liked hats. I could certainly be like one of those sitcom stars. I could smell my destiny like some exotic perfume. I was going to be an ACTRESS.

When it came my part to shoot someone, I aimed the motherfucker right at my own face. In front of Baby Jesus, my whole school, our parents, and worst of all, my whole class.

I was mortified.

Thankfully, it was later when I realized my colossal fuck-uppery but I still remember that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Which, at age 8, you can’t just separate it and be all “Dude, I didn’t fucking know, okay?” It’s like the end of the world.

Luckily, I was only ostracized for a day or so until some girl peed her pants and somehow I wasn’t the biggest asshole in our class. But for that day I got the meanest note I’ve ever gotten. Fuck Monotizing the Hate, this is the real hate mail! I can actually still remember it:

Dear Becky,

I like you a little bit. But it grows smaller every day.

Love,

Becky.*

Her name was Becky too! How’s that for the kicker in the ass! Also, she signed it “Love Becky” which means that she was writing the note for show anyway.

After my stint as the class punching bag for accidentally holding the bow the wrong way, Becky and I made up and were pretending to be The Babysitters Club again by the week’s end. Those books were wicked fun.

This week, Ben had his third grade musical, and he was all nervous that he was going to screw it up, and so I started telling him this story, right? So he could see that I fucked up and that I had somehow made it to adulthood as a semi-functioning adult (shut UP!).

That somehow my bowing mishap hadn’t made it onto my permanent record and I hadn’t had to spend the rest of my life living down “The Girl Who Shot Herself In The Face With A Fake Bow.” And then I realized that being teased by my friends EVEN FOR A DAY probably wasn’t his idea of no consequences, so I uncharacteristically shut my mouth mid-story.

Ben: “Mom, I’m just nervous about this.”

Aunt Becky: “Don’t be nervous, dude. See, when I was in third grade, I was supposed to shoot this bow, and I turned it around and shot it the wrong way and…”

Ben: “And?”

Aunt Becky: “And, uh, WOW! Look at that cat! Isn’t he, uh, FAT?”

Ben (looks around and sees our cat, Peekachoo): “That looks like the same cat, Mom. He looks the same as he always does.”

Aunt Becky: “But isn’t he fat?”

Ben: “What happened after you shot the bow wrong?”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, well, nothing?”

Ben: “I don’t believe you.”

Aunt Becky: “Some, uh, girl peed her pants.”

Ben: “GROSS!”

Aunt Becky: “So if you trip and fall while you’re dancing, how’s this, I’ll bum rush the stage and TAKE OVER FOR YOU. Everyone will be so busy focusing on what I’M doing that they’ll ignore you and focus on me. They’ll forget all about your fall.”

Aunt Becky: “Or you can imagine everyone in their underwear.”

Ben: (laughs)

Aunt Becky: “And I’ll take you out for ice cream afterward. So, if you’re scared, just think about ice cream. That ALWAYS works for me.”

And, you know what? The kid did his Momma proud. I was all set and ready to bum rush the stage and it turns out that being stupid isn’t genetic. He didn’t trip, fall, or embarrass himself in anyway.

I can’t say the same for myself, but you knew that.

*actual note!

I didn’t feel like writing today, in light of what happened with my fellow blogger Anissa, who suffered a stroke yesterday. For updates and how you can help, you can go here.

But I figured we could all use a distraction today, so this is one of my favorite old posts and you can have a good hearty laugh at my expense. Please. Laugh at me.

(JERKS.)

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I’ve mentioned before that after Ben was born, I was struggling mightily with what to Do (with a capitol D) for the rest of my life. Whomever thought that the 18-20 year old bracket was the appropriate age for people to decide what to Do should be strung out and shot somewhere, because, hi, at 20? I was still a blithering idiot.

Difference was, now I was pregnant. And looking to make paychecks larger than so-and-so-measly dollars every week so that Ben and I could (gasp!) move out of my parents’ house. My standards weren’t particularly high, but my options were limited.

Before I decided on nursing, my mom shelled out 20 clams for me to take some sort of career figurer-outer class at the community college. Perfect, I thought as I left my screaming child behind. I just KNOW that the people running this class will see my inherent star quality! Perhaps they will just HAND me a diploma and maybe even put me on Star Search! I just KNOW I’m miles ahead of the rest of the knuckle-draggers in this class!

I showed up to a motley band of scraggly people all sitting rather reluctantly in a small classroom. I was instantly confused. I mean, why would someone PAY to voluntarily subject themselves to this and be unhappy about it later?

I took a seat at a table by a large no-nonsense looking woman with extremely long fuchsia fingernails. Each had a nice sunset scene carefully painted upon it and I was semi-jealous. I’d never considered my fingernails as a medium for such wonderousness. I thought about telling her how much I dug her nails, but one look at the beady mean eyes peering out of her doughy face told me that I should keep my goddamned mouth shut.

Undeterred, but still sort of unsure if I was in the right place, I carefully pulled out some scratch paper from my backpack and waited patiently for the instructor to come in and recognize my obvious superiority.

I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, about 20 minutes after the class was set to begin, our instructor breezed in. Rather than scan the room to find the superstar among the drones (that would be me. The superstar, not the drones), he simply began passing out a big fat folder crammed with papers.

Once the folders were all passed out, he simply told us to begin filling out the test within the folder. Use the pencil, he warned us, or the Scantron machine wouldn’t be able to score it.

Well, okay, I said to myself. I like tests. I’m really GOOD at tests. I bet this TEST will tell me that I rule and that I should just bypass school entirely and become an heiress. Fucking SWEET.

I happily opened the test up and prepared to meet my destiny (or density. Whatever).

I noticed unhappily that the test was one of those gradient ones where I had to say from 1-4 how interested (one being least and 4 being most) I was in the statement. Like this:

1 2 3 4 I am interested in becoming a ditch digger.

Okay, I thought, brow furrowed in concentration. Is this a trick question? It sounds like a trick question. I mean, who would want to become a ditch digger? And wait, aren’t they called something more PC now, like a Hole Management Expert?

I looked around the room, expecting to see a sea of confused faces and to my dismay, everyone else was studiously filling out the form.

I furiously scratched a line into 1, praying this wasn’t a trick question, and went on to the next question.

1 2 3 4 I am interested in tracking statistical marketing data.

Uh…uh…uh, I thought frantically. Are they talking about the people who stalk you at the mall, begging you to do taste tests and surveys? EW. No thanks. That’s one of those jobs you just sort of fall into, not something that you aspired to.

1 2 3 4 I am interested in hosting parties.

Finally, I cried to myself, FINALLY! Something I could totally do! I LOVE hosting parties! Hooray!

I furiously scribbled a 4 and went on to the next.

1 2 3 4 People would call me a methodical person.

Hmmm….I thought. Is this a trick question? I don’t know that anyone that would think of me in those terms. I scribbled a 3, just guessing what people might say about me and moved on.

I spent the rest of the test, all 232 questions, in much the same vein. Finally, it was over and we were instructed to go on break. I took that opportunity to visit the computer lab and check my email. I laughed my way through a couple of those forward How Well Do You Know Me emails (which turned, I must add, into meme’s years later) and when it was time, slunk back in to the room.

My star quality was no longer sparkling.

The instructor passed out sheets of paper with our results on it, a certain combination of letters. Those letters, he explained, would correspond to a set of jobs that I was uniquely qualified for.

I frantically searched through page after page of letter combinations until I got to mine. My eyes rested on the job I would be happiest with:

Veterinarian (poultry).

Yes. A chicken doctor. Wow. The possibilities. Wow.

That must be a glitch, I said to myself. On down the line I went.

Brick Layer.

My third?

Mosaic Tile Layer.

Uh. Jesus. Uh. Yeah.

*blink, blink, blink*

I was uniquely qualified to become Becky Sherrick, Doctor Of Chickens or Becky Sherrick, Layer of Bricks. Fucking awesome.

I was not even REMOTELY of Star Quality ™. No one was going to beat down my door to be on Wheel Of Fortune or American Idol. No one was going to have me bikini model cars or become a sexy astrophysicist. No one was going to beat down my door: period.

Unless they happened to wear feathers and cluck. A lot.

How Debbie Does Dallas ruined porn for me is up over at Toy With Me. It’s probably toeing the line between safe and unsafe for work, but it’s fun. Check it out, yo.

It’s entirely likely that I’m the most annoying person on the planet to live with, not only because I belt out Rod Stewart songs while The Daver is in a bad mood for the sole purpose of annoying him, or because I kept forgetting that the toothbrush in the downstairs medicine cabinet was NOT, in fact, MINE, but actually NOT mine, and I used it over and over anyway, but because I borrow guilt.

(also, I use run-on sentences because I think they are whimsical and fun and WHEE!)

I’ve mentioned it here before, and it’s true, I’m the person cowering in the tampon aisle as the Very Important Security Guard hunts down an underage smoker wondering if I’ve accidentally started smoking again and also become 12. Or maybe I’ve stolen a Baby Jesus from a manger display or the diamond from the old lady in Titanic or I don’t know what.

Guilt issues, I’m guilty until proven innocent.

I work really hard on not self-flagellating too much when I can help it, but I’m a master of biting off more than I can chew and not only doing it all, but being all Super Becky Overachiever about it.

But lately, I’ve just sort of given up on being able to do it all and I’ve let a lot more slip than I noticed and it wasn’t until this weekend that I finally took a look around and saw all that I had turned a deaf eye to.

What I saw made me really, really sad.

Sad for myself because I’ve created these impossible standards and while I like to be all “shit, bitch I’ve got this motherfucker covered,” I don’t and I can’t and I’ve tapped out all the possible help that I can.

And really I’m sad because I don’t really like to imagine that anything that I have under my care is getting less than what it deserves.

I know that a good deal of my problems are that the medicine I’ve been taking for my headaches make me feel like a glistening plate of buttholes and the narcotics knock me out and leave me swimming through my day.

I seem to be emerging from the other side of the fog, which gives me hope that I’ll be able to be all “shit, bitch I’ve got this motherfucker covered,” and mean it.

This weekend, I rolled up my sleeves and got all down in it and got a lot of what needed to get taken care of done and I know that I’ll get a handle on the rest and will be back to scrubbing the toilet the cat’s butt my own pearly chompers with Dave’s toothbrush by accident again.

I’m trying desperately not to punch myself in the face for allowing things to get so bad because I really have been feeling like a steaming load of ass and really, a face beating doesn’t really accomplish much besides give me some rockin’ black eyes, and just learn from my mistakes: I cannot possibly be everything to everyone.

I must find some balance.

I must also find some new storage bins and perhaps some clothes that fit.

But don’t worry. My run-on sentences and over-active guilt complex are going nowhere.

How do you find balance? Do you find balance? Is that impossible? Can I BUY balance? Not like, balance bars, because those are really kind of not my thing.