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.

————————

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

———————-

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.

Last night, as I was blearily trying to tuck in some dinner, talking to The Daver and waiting for the Vicodin to kick in to stop my eyeballs from trying to pop out of my head with a loud SLOP! sound and slither down my face onto my chicken sandwich, our eldest son came in to read aloud.

He’d been reading, I knew, from a book that The Daver and I had bought him when we’d found out that we were pregnant with his brother (Benny was 5), called It’s Not The Stork. Why he had the renewed interest in baby-making, I didn’t know, but he loved the book, and that was good enough for me, so for reading time, which he has every night, he was opting for that.

Last night, though, he came in with that book and a horrified look on his face.

“LISTEN TO THIS,” he said to us.

I couldn’t see what page he was turned to, but already I knew I wasn’t prepared. We’d been over most of the book together, and the only stuff we’d sort of skipped was how the sperm made it INTO the vagina in the first place.

(Oh yeah, in my house? We have sperm and vaginas and penises and ovaries and fallopian tubes and uterus’s (it’s not uter-YOU! Becky, it’s uter-US!) because those are the names of the organs. And I don’t believe I could call his penis a “tinky-wink” without then thinking that the next time I got into the sack with The Daver. *shudders*)

Autistic kids have memories like traps, so anything we’d talked about before was stuck firmly in there, so I knew whatever was coming had to be about those pages we’d sort of ignored.

And I was right.

“LISTEN TO THIS,” our son crowed. “THE MAN PUTS HIS PENIS IN THE WOMAN’S VAGINA IN A SPECIAL SORT OF SLEEPING CALLED MAKING LOVE, OR HAVING SEX.”

He said it so loudly that I’m pretty sure the entire neighborhood heard.

The tone though, that sent me over the edge and I snickered into my hand. I didn’t WANT to. I mean, I’d been preparing for this chat for YEARS. And yet, here I was, laughing. It was just the way he said it.

And the look on his face afterward. Sort of a mixture of awe and disgust. Kind of the way I felt when I first found out about The Sex.

All I remember is thinking to myself when I got The Sex talk, “when I grow up, I never want to stop having it.” He certainly looked more horrified than that, which means he’s probably going to be a more upstanding citizen than I.

So, dutifully, Daver and I dragged our sorry assess out to the living room, after I scooped up the last of our “results of making special sleeping” named Amelia and asked if he had any questions.

We informed him that this wouldn’t happen until he was much older AND PREFERABLY MARRIED (o! the questions this will no doubt create) and we talked a little about puberty as we both quietly died a little bit inside as we both remembered that this gangly 8 year old was not the tiny 2 year old any more.

He seemed to accept it all remarkably well, considering, and seemed most concerned about his voice changing more than anything else. Promising to order him the book about puberty and continue the conversation tonight as he read more, he went off to bed, as at least 204 more grey hairs sprouted forth atop my head.

And now, I’m just waiting for the frantically irate phone calls from the parents of kids that Ben teaches ALL about this. Luckily, I guess, he’ll have the anatomy down PAT.

——————-

What was your sex talk like? Did you get one? Did I just ruin my son for life?

2,869: Twitter Followers that follow me.

2,800: Twitter Followers that make wonder why SHIT they want to follow me. As proof, I give you an actual tweet that I tweeted last night: “I’m writing about all of the things I would do if I had a penis.” I am not classy.

5: Days I have currently been too sick to even moan about the house moping to angle for awesome presents and/or compliments.

100: Degrees of fever, which is apparently not high enough to warrant Tamiflu.

INFINITY: the amount of pain and suffering that my fever feels knowing that it is NOT FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH.

34: times my fever has wondered if it can go to the People’s Court to sue for pain and suffering for knowing it’s NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

0.4: seconds it takes for my daughter to move from my arms to stuffing her chipmunk cheeks like a squirrel with dog food across the house.

INFINITY TIMES TWO: how gleeful she is about playing in the dog water before I swoop her up because she knows she’s not supposed to be splashing in there.

12,000: decibels that Dave manages to chew potato chips, burrowing into my aching head like a sea of mini jackhammers with each.and.every.single.crunch.

87: times I wondered if I could sue pigs or whatever for the swine flu.

87: times I wondered if that could be a People’s Court episode.

42: times I thought that the pig appearing as the defendant had to be wearing loads of gold medallions

14: times I’ve thought about writing and rapping a hardcore gangsta rap album this week under the name The Notorious B.E.X.

Want to be my back up singers?

Hey, The Internet, did you hear? There’s this flu out there called the Swine Flu. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it. Also, there’s this website where you can upload pictures of cats and write hilarious (and not AT ALL ANNOYING) captions like “I CAN HAZ CHEEZBURGER.”

AWESOME.

and

ANYWAY.

I figured you could thank me later for letting you know about these two things that managed to fly under the radar.

Because LORD KNOWS, every time you turn on the television, they’re not doing another FEAR MONGER SECTION about the Swine Flu and how it killed yet another innocent family of 41 who was just casually minding their own business, not showing any symptoms (certainly their T-cell count was off the charts normal and not, you know, 1).

Or maybe how of the 6 billion people in the world, The Swine Flu has somehow infected 6 billion and ONE people because it is just THAT wily and awful.

Trust me, it’s not that I don’t take it seriously, because I do. I’m just tired of the media whipping the public up into a fucking frenzy about it. The flu happens every year and every year some people die from it and it sucks every year, but do you have to scare people into going to the ER in droves for a cold? I feel sorry for anyone in heath care right now.

Maybe the media should go back to stringing up people Mothers who Drink (FOR SHAME)(THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!) and burning them at the stake.

We had an outbreak here. A substantial one, truthfully. The high school was shut down for a week when 1,000 kids called in sick, and, well, now Casa de la Sausage has it too. Mostly, Your Aunt Becky has it. My kids seem to have developed minor symptoms while I am, apparently, dying.

So I tested the theory that the Swine Flu was universally scary by telling my children that I probably had it. This is what happened.

“Hey, Amelia, I have the Swine Flu. OOOOOOOH!” (pantomimes scary faces until overtaken by coughing fit)

Amelia’s response: “Amamamamamamama” (laughter) (gnaws on my leg)

Then I interviewed Alex:

“Hey Alex, I have the Swine Flu.”

Alex’s response: “OH NO MOMMY. THE STARS, MOON AND EARTH IS STUCK!” (falls on ground dramatically) “HELP ME FIX IT!”

Hoping that someone might care about my very important sickness, I interviewed Ben next.

“Hey Ben, I have the Swine Flu.”

Ben’s Response, “You should have washed your hands.”

Touche.

Lastly I informed The Daver.

“Hey, The Daver, I think I have The Swine Flu.”

The Daver’s response, “Well, SHIT, that means I can’t go into work and I have to work from home FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK.” (paces around the room nervously)

Aunt Becky, picturing the prospect of being home with The Daver, pacing the halls and chewing loudly ALL WEEK LONG: “I’m OKAY I’M OKAY.” (tries to get up and faints)

It seems as though no one in my family is altogether impressed by the flu. I’m certainly not, although the amount that I’m sleeping could put my high school self to shame.

And what’s keeping me giggling is the mental picture of some guy walking up and down my street ringing a bell and yelling “BRING OUT YOUR SWINE.”

The fever, she rages mightily.

—————–

Strap on a mask, kiddos, grab a bottle of vodka and come and tell Aunt Becky a story as she battles the mighty flu virus.

What is going on with YOU? Oh yeah, I’m talking to YOU!

It’s Tuesday, Internet, which means that my column over at Toy With Me is up. Today, I’m talking about the possibility of friendship between men and women. It’s weirdly safe for work, yo.

Click the smiling beaver to be whisked away, or stick around for a rewritten blast from the mother-humping past:

—————————-

The summer after Alex was born, I decided to sort through the Tupperware coffin of loose pictures in my parents basement and take the ones that I wanted. I was tired of not having any pictures of me as a baby around and imagined huge battles between my brother and I over who got to keep the picture of our stupid dog Silas.

So, I dug in one day, and gathered a bag up.

I had lofty goals, Internet, you see. I was going to:

a) sort the pictures chronologically

b) throw out repeats/crappy pictures and

niner) place them all neatly in a book or thirty.

I got to about age 6 in my life before I threw in the towel and shoved the whole lot into a far smaller Rubbermaid bin and shoved it into a corner. My father and grandfather took pictures the way I collect orchids: obsessively. I was, apparently, a favorite target.

Years later, it’s still sitting there, collecting dust and mocking me quietly.

I shudder when I think about having to sort through the amount of things that my in-laws have saved. To call my mother-in-law a pack rat would be a grave disservice to pack rats everywhere. She is a pack rat times approximately 6,879. I don’t pretend to understand, so I just smile and nod, which seems easier to all parties involved and wins me more Daughter-In-Law Of The Year* trophies.

So I go through our house about every 3-4 months and purge the fuck out of everything, while, of course, Dave and Ben are away so that they cannot protest when I get rid of their collection of ancient reciepts and old moldering socks. It’s great for my soul.

When Alex was born, I badgered my mother-in-law in the patented Becky-Drip-Drip Method, which I liken to being pecked to death by an overly large chicken, for baby pictures of The Daver. I love baby pictures of people that I know, and I was dying to see them.

Each and every time I was met with an excuse. Turns out that in the vast multitude of boxes, she has lost them somewhere. But during a visit, she’d brought up a handful that she’d had lying around and whipped them out to show me. Turns out that Alex looked very little like The Daver. Who knew?

Having recently given up on the task of placing my pictures in an album I pulled out a stack from my own babyhood to show her.

So we flipped on and on through the pictures of Baby Becky, while I commented on my fathers’ Iranian Taxi Driver glasses and his David Crosby mustache. She’d laugh uncomfortably, obviously trying to get away from me, but having nowhere to really go, she was stuck.

Eventually, it dawned on me that I was showing my EXTREMELY CONSERVATIVE mother-in-law naked pictures of daughter-in-law. As a dimpled baby. Occasionally being nursed. But nearly always naked.

Including the bear skin rug set.

“Heh, heh, heh,” I sputtered, trying to recover from the situation and perhaps mend the ever-widening chasm between us.

“What’s up with kids in the eighties? Heh-heh-heh.”

I couldn’t stop myself.

“It’s like they were never wearing clothes. Heh-heh-heh.” Trying to salvage the situation.

“WELL,” she replied, her irritation seeping though her tightly clipped words, “Maybe not in YOUR house.”

Great, I thought to myself, just fucking GREAT, barely suppressing the laughter. Now she thinks you come from a NAKED Family. I snickered into my cupped hand.

Oh well, I thought to myself as she got up in a huff and walked away, leaving me stranded on a couch, in a pool of naked baby pictures. That’s better than thinking you came from The Jello Mold Family.

*I am the only daughter-in-law. Therefore, I have to be the best.