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.)

——————

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.

Hi, Aunt Becky!

I saw your article on Toy With Me, and thought you might be able to help me with my problem.

*whispers* I’ve never had an orgasm…while having intercourse. I have a GREAT time with my husband, but alas, I don’t know what to tell him to do to get me there!

Also, *ahem* using my fingers isn’t really my thing. But I’m up to trying other stuff!

Thanks!
Trying for the Big O

Well, my friend, you are not alone, and for that I am sorry. I appear, actually, to be in the statistical MINORITY here, because I can get my rocks off by sex alone. Thankfully, though, for you (and I suppose for my Google Search Engine, which is already blessed by things like “Ron Jeremy” and “Debbie Does Dallas” as well as “what does rabbit poo look like?”)(don’t ask)(also, am I the only person who thinks of my Google Search Engine as a person?), my sex-a-licious friend over at Toy With Me, Dear RedHead tackled this on Friday.

Here is what she found.

Good luck, and Godspeed.

Aunt Becky,
I recently married a really great guy, but he is a bit of a “Momma’s boy”. Now, this wouldn’t be so bad, but this woman feels the need to get involved in or comment on every aspect of my life. She wasn’t like this before we got married, but now, she won’t leave me alone! How do I fix this situation before I accidentally kill her or something?

Well fuck me seven ways from Sunday, that sucks.

My very conservative mother-in-law may or may not loathe the ground that my heathen walk on which may or may not have something to do with the Thanksgiving that I accidentally showed up wearing a “Too Busy To FCUK” shirt (say it with me now “WHOOPS“*!), but actually we get along okay.

So here’s the kicker of this: you’re going to have to deal with this with your husband. This is one of those “united we stand, divided we fall” type of situations, because if you do not, it’s going to go around and around and you’re going to look like the bad guy.

It’s going to be all, “SHEILA (that’s your pretend name) said that you can’t come over and talk to her that way, MOM” and then it looks like you went whining to Bill (your husband’s pretend name) about Mary (your mother-in-law’s fake name). You look like an asshole. Not just like any asshole, but a WHINY asshole. Which totally isn’t fair.

No, you and Bill need to set some boundaries TOGETHER when it comes to your mother-in-law because if you don’t, she’s going to show up when you’re doing the nasty one day and tell you that you’re not boning him properly. And that is BULLSHIT.

This is going to be one of those ugly talks, or maybe it won’t be, I don’t know. Dave’s not one to stand up for me, in fact, if you, Sheila, or ANY of you were to be all, “Hey Dave, your wife is a bitch,**” he’d be all, “DUH” and I’d be all, “HEY!” So, if I had an issue with my mother-in-law, like a real one (she’s a state away, heh) or anyone else, it would be me against them. Or Ben and I against them. He always takes my side.

I wish you the best of luck.

Aunt Becky,

Why does my husband watch football all weekend? And by watch football, I mean yell at the television all weekend long and generally pollute the atmosphere of our home with his ranting at the little uniforms moving around on the TV screen. I don’t mean this in a wifey, woman-y way, but I really hate football season, because my husband acts like Sybil- ecstatic when his teams when, menopausal when they don’t.

Am I a hag if I tell him to get a new hobby? Or ask him to go have his heart attack at a sports bar?

Well, I don’t think you can tell him that he can get a new hobby because, well, I think he might beat you with his commemorative Bears 85 (THANK YOU!) Superbowl Shuffle Gold Record, but yeah.

Dave’s a soccer guy and while he’s not thrilled when The Fire lose, he’s not exactly moping into his bag of chips. I don’t see why sending him off to the sports bars is a bad thing, or having him build himself a Man Cave somewhere where you don’t have to listen to the bellowing.

But I am turning this question over to you, my people, who can probably answer this better than I. Sports fanaticals are just something I’m not familiar with (she says as she strokes her orchids).

——————–

So have at it, my friends, fill in any gaps I have left for my desperately seeking advice-rs above. And, as always, feel free to submit your questions through the sidebar.

*True story.

**You don’t really need to test this theory because he doesn’t read my blog and besides, what if you hurt my extra sensitive feelings. SHUT UP! I have sensitive feelings. STOP LAUGHING.

My daughter needs teeth, Internet. MAYBE EVEN DENTURES.

Now I know, I probably told you when I was very heavily ninety-billion months pregnant confidently that I just KNEW that my fetus was teething. I’m sure I was cocky and confident and annoying about it because I’ve HAD babies before and therefore I am an EXPERT on my babies and I just KNEW my fetus was teething my her kicking patterns in the womb.

Then, at 4 months of age, which is when the baby books say that some babies begin popping some out, I was just certain she was teething. The rivers of drool coursed down her adorable pink onesies, drenching us and her, and causing some really disgusting looking rashes if left unchanged. Also, she was kind of a jerk sometimes.

It HAD to be teething. I KNEW it.

After all, BEN popped out a set of chompers at that age. And yet, nope. Not a tooth in sight.

You’d think that I would have learned from Alex’s example. Alex, he of the Asshole Baby phenomenon. Now, before you tie me up at the stake and burn me to a crisp, let me assure you that Alex and I are thick as THIEVES. Honestly, the child is my clone* and there’s not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for him. As a baby, though, I’m pretty sure that he was part Asshole, but he’s grown out of it.

I blamed his *ahem* temperament, though, on teething. For 9 long months, I claimed he was teething (the first 3 were a write off) and still, nothing emerged from his mouth besides the occasional regurgitation of breast milk and the near constant scream. Unless, of course, I was holding him. I alone could soothe the salvage beast within**.

Flattering, until it’s suffocating.

Shortly after his first birthday, he popped a whole mouth of teeth out, going from looking like an old man to JAWS from James Bond overnight. It was weird as hell.

I’m imagining that’s the way Mimi is going too, although with all of her weird bone issues, maybe I will have to invest in some baby dentures, which, you have to admit would be kind of freaking adorable. I can just see them floating in her nightstand in a wee glass. Perfect ickle baby teeth, suspended in water. Maybe I’ll buy her gold and diamond teeth as a consolation. You know, like a baby grill.

She can release a hardcore rap album about life in the suburbs. And drive around in her pimped out Escalade Power Wheels with tinted windows.

Until then, we’ll subsist on weird creepy Gerber purees and I’ll pretend that one of these days I’m going to start making baby foods because I’m going to pretend that I’m one of Those Parents (I can barely be bothered to order take-out or eat anything myself these days). And I’ll just TELL her about the cool stuff she can eat when she gets teeth.

Like…uh all the stuff her brothers (or her mother) won’t eat. Damn toddler food battles.

———————-

How are YOU today, Internet? Come gather ’round Aunt Becky’s dining room table and please, just wipe away the dust. She’s found that there’s no diet like the Topamax/flu diet and man, oh, man if she had a scale, she might notice that she’s lost upwards of 0.5 pounds! (or not)

*I was an Asshole Baby and many people would swear that I’m STILL an Asshole, so, you know, like mother, like son. Except Alex is NOT an asshole now. He’s a love.

**He’s still a Momma’s boy, and I swear that I turn into a gooey pile of mush when he demands that I “cuddle him” and then says, “I WUV my Mommy.” Somehow, it’s all worth it.

“People have stars, but they aren’t the same. For travelers, the stars are guides. For other people, they’re nothing but tiny lights. And for still others, for scholars, they’re problems. For my businessman, they were gold. But all those stars are silent stars. You, though, you’ll have stars like nobody else.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you look up at the sky at night, since I’ll be living on one of them, since I’ll be laughing on one of them, for you, it’ll be as if all the stars are laughing. You’ll have stars that can laugh!”

And he laughed again.

“And when you’re consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you’ll be glad you’ve known me. You’ll always be my friend. You’ll feel like laughing with me. And you’ll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it… And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you’re looking up at the sky. Then you’ll tell them, ‘Yes, it’s the stars. They always make me laugh!”

–The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

For Maddie, whose second birthday is filled with laughter and tears, who now lives in the stars and the moon, who leaves behind a wall of tears and joy, today we celebrate your birth.

Tonight, we will eat cake and play with balloons and celebrate.

Your Auntie Becky misses you dearly, sweet girl.

——————-

For you, I am going to go through all of my old baby clothes and find all of the small clothes to donate to the NICU in your (and Mimi’s) honor. Because I remember how important it was to see my daughter in normal clothes and not naked. How much that comforted me when my life had gone to shit.

I know your parents have started this non-profit to help parents in the NICU and to honor you because they are full of The Awesome:

Happy Birthday, sweet one. We all miss you.

And now, my friends, the post that you’ve all (not) been waiting for is up over at Toy With Me. The post about what I would do if I had a penis. It was written while I was both high on life AND cough syrup AND The Swine Flu, and was a total blast to write, so please go over and hump the shit out of it.

Also, do I need to remind you that it is TOTALLY not safe for work?

Click here, bitches. Or read on below.

(why have OR when you can have AND?)

—————–

Every now and again, Daver and I will set up shop outside (typically nursing a couple of cold frosty ones. Like Miller High Life: The Champagne of motherfucking Beers) and discuss our children.

His work tends to be the sort that my brain is not large enough to process and my “work” is so mind-numbingly dull (“…and THEN, and THEN I emptied the DUST BUSTER! Bwahahahaha!“) that neither of us care to discuss it.

So we instead discuss the future lives of our children. Hypothetically speaking.

And since I was a bit of a rebel in my own way, and marrying me is COMPLETELY a sign of rebellion (have you MET ME?) we often wonder what my children will do to horrify us later in life. It’s inevitable, so we try to brace ourselves for whatever would bug us the most.

Maybe it’s because I’m so graceful that I nearly broke my foot walking down the stairs, or because last summer I literally fell through the front door while stone-cold sober, or because I broke a toe making a motherfucking sandwich. I don’t know. I’m willing to bet that for our eldest, it will be interpretive dancing.

It will also make my soul wither up and die.

I have no real problems with dancers in general; if I were going to do something cultured, I’d likely chose the symphony or the opera – didn’t know your Aunt Becky liked opera, didya? – and not the ballet, but the ballet is different. I can understand ballet.

Interpretive dancing, however, baffles me. I simply don’t, and probably never will, follow or appreciate what some people think of as Dancing With The Music (Creepily). I just don’t get it. And I’m kinda freaked out by it.

I made the mistake of telling my older brother and his wife about this in a completely stupid turn of events, so now every time they see Ben, they encourage him to “do a dance that reminds him of a salad” or “doesn’t the thought of a cat make you want to dance like one?”

I sit quietly there, while poor Ben tries to act this out, clenching my teeth and hissing that they had better get damn good and comfortable going to every.single.fucking.show.he.does.

They always laugh, seemingly unaware that I am deadly serious. I will drag them from their comfortable yuppie North Shore home and drive them to the abandoned warehouse my son – my interpretive dancer son – and his troupe of equally misguided youths will perform for us all.

In 100+ degree heat.

While we sit on the cement floor next to scuttling cockroaches and cokeheads.

I’ll clap when they’re done pouring paint on one and other while they act out what blue is supposed to look like, or maybe I won’t clap, I don’t know, but really, I’ll be clapping because I can get the fuck OUT of there and back into the cool comfort of my car.

Then I’ll drive through McDonald’s, relishing that no one tried to act out what my diet Coke was supposed to taste like, and I’ll shake my fists at my brother and sister-in-law, who will be stuck in the backseat of my car, and remind them that tomorrow’s performance will be featuring the color red.

The color of anger.

——————–

What would be the worst profession you could imagine your future child doing? Let’s assume that they are happy with it, so you can’t use any bullshit “whatever he’s HAPPY with” line. Let’s also leave “soldier” out of this one, because here on my blog you mean “politician.”

The God Britney postured that there were two types of people in the world:

1) the ones that entertained

and

2) the ones that observed

but I’m adding another one.

What about those who are not clever enough to come up with their own costume for Halloween so that they’re merely forced to turn into someone else? Because I am not.

I’ll never be smart enough to put a bunch of pictures of Dick Cheney in a box so that I can be “Dicks in a Box.”

You won’t catch me dressing as a giant tampon or a smurf or an olive or any of the awesome things that you guys had dressed up as for Halloween in years past.

Instead, you’ll catch me painting on bruises and black-eyes, drinking can after can of PBR teasing my hair into a huge cloud and beating a doll (a stand-in for a child), ass cheeks hanging out of short-shorts, going as white trash.

(I am very classy)

The year I was pregnant with Alex, I wanted to get a pink wig and go as Britney and Kevin, but Dave wouldn’t play along. Party pooper.

But this year, I decided to do something different, and as reward for voting for me for this:

Dear Aunt Becky,

I am absolutely, positively sure my (future) brother-in-law is abusing my (future) nieces. If not physically, then mentally and emotionally.

However, I have pretty bad Pile of Crazy, including a long history of catastrophzing and some pretty severe PTSD from my physically, mentally, emotionally abusive (ex)father.

My (future) brother-in-law has done some things in front of me that his parents and/or wife have called him out for. My nieces get extremely upset at the idea of us leaving, but not so at the prospect of being left with us.

[identifying details removed to protect privacy]

Thanksgiving is coming up in a few weeks, and I’m dreading it. Either they won’t show up and I’ll spend the whole time obsessing over why, or they will show up and I’ll spend the whole time waiting for the bomb to go off.

How can I know for sure my nieces are safe?

Oh Gentle Reader, I am so sorry for all that you have been through. I hope that you are healing. Now, if you or anyone else out there suspects that someone is abusing a child, please don’t wait until you have proof. Report it.

Your state or county may have a number you can call to make an anonymous report. If not, below is the National Child Abuse Hotline.

The Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline 1-800-4-A-CHILD is dedicated to the prevention of child abuse. Serving the United States, its territories, and Canada, the Hotline is staffed 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with professional crisis counselors who, through interpreters, can provide assistance in 170 languages. The Hotline offers crisis intervention, information, literature, and referrals to thousands of emergency, social service, and support resources.

All calls are anonymous and confidential.

I wish you the best of luck, Gentle Reader. I am sending my love and prayers to you and your nieces. Always.

And to you out there, living in my computer, please, if you or anyone you know is being abused, or you suspect abuse, do not wait for proof. Report it.

National Child Abuse Hotline: 1-800-4A-CHILD

National Coalition Against Domestic Violence: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

National Center on Elder Abuse: 1-800-677-1116

If someone is in immediate danger, of course, call 911.

Dear Aunt Becky,

How is it possible that every time a virus runs through our house my marriage also takes a hit? Is this some new bioterroist weapon?

My hubby is the best. Seriously, great guy, and I love him. But when I am dealing with our small children being sick, he becomes the most useless guy in the world.

For example, if I am tending to one sick child and he feeds the others (we are talking take out here), I will come downstairs to find all the uneaten food out, dishes everywhere, a heap of mail strewn throughout, and the overflowing garbage pails winking at me. If he bathes a child for me so I can tend to a sick sibling, I will find he has forgotten to drain the tub, and dirty clothes, wet towels and tub toys litter the bathroom.

Now, bringing home dinner and bathing children – to name just a few examples – make him feel like he is being the best, most helpful husband in the world. He is actually shocked to learn that I do not feel he has hung the moon.

How do I convey that when I really need help and he cannot complete a task, but only leaves chaos and crap in his wake that it only makes me resentful?

How can a virus infect both my children and my marriage??????

Signed,
Resentful after Rotavirus

Well, apparently I am sending myself emails to Go Ask Aunt Becky while I sleep because that’s the only alternative. I cannot believe that there’s another The Daver out there who simply cannot manage to keep house without destroying it. This is precisely why I do not let him

Either that, or The Terrorists are winning and have somehow implanted some RNA into the Rotavirus that infects the host with The Apathy, rendering them entirely unable to wash a dish, put away a towel or drain a tub. By weakening the sanctity of our marriage, it will weaken us as a country and divided we will motherfucking FALL.

Fucking terrorists.

Hi! My blog is on Blogger, but I am thinking of changing over to Word Press. In your opinion, what are the pros and cons. I’m just starting out, but I already have some followers. How hard would it be to keep my followers while changing sites?

plus, how do i score an awesome layout like yours?

Oh, Delicate Grasshopper, I am probably the LAST person on the planet you want to answer this question but I enlisted my good friend Dr. Google and also The Daver to fill in any gaps. I cannot promise all of my knowledge is 100% correct, because I am about as good with computers as I am with bocce ball (read: not good at sports involving balls), but I will make an effort for YOU.

First. I have both. Because a lot of you have Blogger blogs that do not allow anonymous comments, I signed up. Here is my Blogger blog. You like my design over there? It was made by my friend Badass Geek. He designs those.

Let him do one for you.

And if you’re looking for a sexy WordPress Layout like my old layout (sniff, sniff), talk to Admin or Mrs. Soup.

Anyway. Here is what I learned on my travels:

Blogspot blogs are free. Which is ALWAYS better than paying. Because OBVIOUSLY.

WordPress.com is also free and while I have a blog that uses the same software, I’m not entirely familiar with wordpress.com. I know the software, though.

Blogger blogs are easier to set up and use, which is good for a moron like me. Seriously, I set my own up in about 10 minutes which should tell you a WHOLE LOT.

WordPress blogs are much more customizable, but require a more extensive knowledge from someone who has a better knowledge of computer stuff than I do. Now, I could figure it out–so could you–if you wanted to and there are plenty of How-To Guides out there.

Custom templates are pretty cheap for Blogger blogs and there are tons of free sites out there that have really fun ones.

WordPress does have a standard subset of templates as well, but a lot of the third party templates don’t work with all of the web browsers (Internet Explorer, Safari, etc) and may just not work at all.

There are a ton of WordPress widgets and plug-ins that can be installed that do everything from greeting you with lines from “Sympathy for the Devil” or those that allow you to respond to comments via email. This is called Threaded Comments and it’s kind of my boyfriend.

Blogger doesn’t have many of these options.

Blogger, is owned by Google, and can be shut down at any time IF you violate their policies. I doubt that any of you do or will, but you ultimately don’t have full control, even if you’re still on your own domain but through their database.

With WordPress, you have full have control of your content.

Blogger loses major points with me when it comes to commenting. I’m sorry, my Blogger people, but your system sucks. I get probably 400-800 spam messages every day and they’re caught by my nifty plug-in and they do not require my people to sign in or try to translate ancient Cyrillic just to say, “I fucking love hate your blog, man.”

WordPress wins ease of commenting hands down. No one should have to have a Blogger account simply to comment and Blogger should offer some sort of spam filter better than the CAPCHA. I promise that loses you comments.

Really, the choice is yours. Both have their high points. I mean, who DOESN’T want to be greeted with “Hi Aunt Becky, please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste?*”

There’s a way to redirect people from one address to another, or you can simply have people update their links by leaving a “SORRY, I DON’T LIVE HERE.” I know when I switched, Dave just had it redirect people from there to here and it worked well.

That, love, is beyond me.

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Please, my friends in the computer, add in anything that I missed on any of these questions. Please.

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If you read all of that, please, pour yourself a bourbon, dip a cookie in it (it’s 5:00 somewhere, right?), and then clap your hands together with glee. Because tomorrow, my loves, I have something for you. Something SPECIAL I promised you. And something I am delivering.

Something that I fully expect you to tease me relentlessly for.

So get your Depends on drink the fuck up.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

*That was rhetorical.