Is it trashy to hang your child’s art work (one construction paper size piece from each child) on the storm door?

Oh, Gentle Reader, if only you knew how many nights I stayed awake, soaking the pages of the newest Pottery Barn catalog with my drool, dreaming, just dreaming of the days when my sofa might match the drapes and I might be able to use my coffee table for more than a toddler-jumping-off platform (it is also used, I want to add, as a bed for Auggie. Which, I know. Huh?). I fantasize about the days when I will have end-table books and breakable hurricane lamps on my dining room table.

Truth be told, I fantasize about being a size 4, too, and, well, yeah.

I’m no (insert home style star here) and if I had to describe my house, it would be kid chic, complete with a side of dog and cat fur! So I may not be the best person to ask this question to, but I will try to answer you proud.

Providing that you’re not trying to score a centerfold spread in Architectural Digest or act like you live in a house that has no kids, I say why not? Providing, of course, that the drawings aren’t of anything graphic (OR DECIPHERABLE if so) and/or containing: penises, vaginas, butts, poop, or people in various stages of killing each other.

Unless, of course, you’re trying to scare off potential door-to-door salespeople or people who want to tell you about how God Can Save YOU. Then, I would be as graphic and foul as possible.

If it’s cute and it makes you happy to look at and you don’t mind telling the world that you have kids, I’d say go for it.

—————-

I have a family member who gives Mister and I, and our children, things we really don’t need. (Or want) This person is a semi-compulsive shopper in recovery, and I think a lot of her “gifting” is actually “cleaning off a shelf.” I’ve tried to hint that we really don’t need these things, without sounding like an ungrateful bitch.

What really makes me feel bad is that she takes the time to wrap them, and pays good money to ship them across four states. Is it rude to say, “Let’s just exchange one gift per person this Christmas.” Which would be code for, “Please don’t pay Fed Ex to ship me a(nother) salad spinner, a shoe shining kit, a pair of socks with cats on them, and a flashlight, wrapped in red and green paper.” (Ugly! Hateful!) Help!

Now this, my dear friend is a tricky question.

First, I would probably thank her for her generosity (on, at least, the phone, if not in person. Email can be tricky because tone cannot be interpreted) as kindly as possible, because, well, that’s polite. Then, as she’s ‘you’re welcoming you,’ I’d throw in a really, really, really sweet sounding “you really don’t have to go to all the trouble!”

I would probably leave it at that so as not to offend her.

If she persists (getting rid of some of this stuff may be sort of a gift in and of itself to her, because perhaps it makes her feel as though she’s really sending the stuff to a good home) sending gifts, I would donate them to charity.

Because I understand that you need another whimsical Santa-head oven mitt like you need a hole in your head.

Trust me.

——————-

Hey Aunt Becky,

Since you’re such a people person, what thoughts do you have on avoiding relatives who plan on sleeping (and yelling) at your house for a week during Christmas WITHOUT actually telling them to their face how much you can’t stand them?

No this is not early, they just ordered their plane tickets on the internet, and I do not have the money to send my family of five flying in the opposite direction.

Thoughts?

“In the Middle” (Thanks, I’ve always wanted to use a corny pseudonym.)

ps. Something is messed up on the sight right under “ask”.

First, corny pseudonyms are drastically underused today, Aunt Becky agrees*.

If being honest about this is out of the question and straight up mentioning (or having your spouse say) that having a houseful of guests isn’t feasible, I would go with one of the following options:

Option 1: I would do whatever (and I MEAN whatever) I could to make sure that they stayed in a hotel. Your sanity is worth a hell of a lot, and if you’re dreading Christmas already (SO been there), then maybe you can find a cheap rate for a nearby hotel. You could GRACEFULLY, tactfully insist that they stay here, as your gift to either them, or to you.

Option 2: Depending on your relationship with them, if it were good enough, I might ask at some point (in my stupidest, I don’t know anything tone) “Oh! Where are you staying!? I hear there are some AWESOME rates at (name local hotel). Want their number?” Be forceful, stupid sounding and gentle at the same time.

Option 3: Convince your family that you have some horrible communicable disease like rabies and they cannot possibly be exposed! O! The humanity!

Option 4: Call your doctor and get a prescription for Xanax and spend your holidays living on a fluffy, pink cloud where you won’t care that everyone is yelling at you.

Option 5: Call your liquor store and get a case of (insert your drink of choice) and spend your holidays living on a fluffy, pink cloud where you won’t care that everyone is yelling at you.

Option 6: Move out for that week. Fake a work trip, a separation, whatever, and get the hell out of there.

Option 7: Praise Sweet Merciful Baby Jesus that your family doesn’t live closer and try and grin and bear it. Then say a prayer thanking Sweet Baby Jesus that the holidays only come once a year.

Now, none of these options excludes the other, so if you like a little from Column A and a little of Beaker B, feel free to mix them up.

I wish you good luck, my friend. Good luck indeed.

—————

As always, should you have a burning question for Aunt Becky other than “How does The Daver stand you?” (that has already been answered in my FAQ page), please go over to my sidebar and click on the “Go Ask Aunt Becky” page. You can freely and anonymously send me questions, which I will answer every Sunday.

Also, if you would like, I have been nominated for a couple of awards, two on my sidebar at the top and one here. They do both annoyingly require registration, but if you’d be inclined, I’d be thrilled. Seriously, thank you to all who voted. I owe you.

Deadline for entry into my contest to give away all my BlogHer swag is September 8th. I’m afraid (read: thrilled to be done with owning business cards) I have no more cards to give anymore.

AND, if you have anything RESPECTFUL that you want to add here in the comments, go ahead! Just be nice to these people.

*get it!?! HA.

I’m not sure if you heard, Internet, but there was this lady who got drunk, drove a mess-load of kids around, and then crashed her car and killed everyone. It was pretty gruesome. If you hadn’t heard, you’ve obviously been living under a rock, and if you’re living under a rock, perhaps the next logical question is this: how do you get Internet access there?

Anyway.

The media, of course, latched onto this case and immediately began nailing mothers who drink to the wall for people to shred. Some of us got spared, and well, the others, did not.

Honestly? The whole comparison to someone who names their blog “Mommy Wants Vodka” (or something similar) to someone who drives their kids around after drinking a 5th of Absolut is pretty much bullshit. Okay, so we have “vodka” in common. But, like one of my readers pointed out, it’s not like I named my blog “Mommy Wants To Get Loaded And Drive!” or “Mommy Says Drunk Driving RULES!”

Wanting “vodka” and wanting “to drive wasted” are two, well, separate things. Call me tasteless for not calling my blog “Mommy Wants Chicken Fingers LOL!!!” but don’t call me late to dinner a drunk.

It wasn’t that the comments by the readers about the articles were all together surprising. Combine the anonymity of The Internet with the asshats of the universe and you have the making for one ritual slaying. It wasn’t even the overly verbose, self-indulgent, pseudo-intellectuals who liked to wax boring poetic about how we were ruining society with our jokes about things that aren’t funny!!!! Some people have no legs!!!!

More than anything, this shit-storm of negative publicity got me thinking about how bloggers, especially ones who aren’t getting free cars and washers and iPods out of the whole deal, should handle criticism.

The general consensus about this situation is this: if you don’t want the nasty-grams, be more careful about what you put out there. And it’s true: I WOULDN’T post something about BPA in bottles causes cancer or abortion or gun control or even my relationship with Nat, because I don’t tend to court or appreciate controversy.

Plenty of people milk the controversy angle better than I do, because I’d never have made it onto the Debate Team because once I started to try and defend myself, I’d start throwing the podium around because I had no words.

But the things that I have put out there that you’d THINK I’d be thrown under the train for are never the ones that people tend to mock me for. If it were an if/then statement (50 million programmers can’t be wrong)(somewhere Dave started crying tears of joy at my proper usage of that term), it would be a clear cut situation.

“I will not talk about X and people will not assume Y.”

Anyone who has traveled around the blog-o-sphere knows that is a line of bullshit.

(coming soon to a blog near you! Aunt Becky carefully, thoughtfully lays out TYPES of trolls for your viewing pleasure).

The thing I am commonly trolled on involve one of my dogs, who, contrary to popular belief, I did NOT taxidermy when he misbehaved, and mostly reference things that are not quite true. Or they are, if you make up things that I write. Then, I suppose, they are.

The first time I got trolled by someone other than Pashmina (who was doing it as a joke) or a spambot (who cannot help itself), I was PUMPED. I did the White Girl Booty Shuffle and called The Daver out of a meeting to tell him. I was more excited than when I found out that they made sugar free Red Bull. Because I knew right then that I had officially Made It.

Mostly, the Trolls don’t bother me, except for when they kind of do.

I mean, I make my living (if you can call blogging tripe onto a free webpage “making a living”) off of writing about myself and my life. I don’t get paid for it. I owe precisely nobody a damn thing.

But how does someone, even someone with skin as thick as an elephant’s ass, handle the negativity? It’s not as though I’m performing a particularly poor rendition of Rosencrantz (or Guildenstern, even) and you’re telling the world that I couldn’t “inhabit the role.” No, you’re judging me on my life. These are MY stories, MY family, MY stupid human tricks.

The only answer is, of course, to stop blogging entirely.

It’s not an answer, of course, for someone as self-absorbed and narcissistic as I am, and I wouldn’t do it anyway. I’m not going to be chased off by some thesaurus-wielding moron, or someone who thinks that I am a worthless piece of shit, or someone who tells me in my comments that they WON’T be back. I’ve been called (and will be called) worse things by better people and I have had WAY worse things happen to me than this..

And besides, what sort of message would I be sending if I did that? Oops, kids, I can’t win and make everyone LOOOOVVVE me, so I threw in the towel! Not to be all “think of the children” or anything, but seriously, think of the children, people!

But I’d rather put myself out there than have ‘She Wasn’t Brave‘ carved on my tombstone. That would detract somewhat from the weeping out of work actors I’m going to hire to lay prostrate with grief on my grave, moaning and wailing, shrieking “WHY GOD?” at the sky.

Inheritance? What inheritance, kids?

So grab a drink, kiddos, if you’re into that, or don’t if you’re not, put on your Easter Bunny costume and let’s get this party started.

Your Aunt Becky? Not going anywhere. (Except maybe to hell.) *hums “Highway To Hell.”

—————

How would YOU handle criticism as a blogger?

Dear The Makers of a Prescription Sleep Aid That Rhymes with “Plunesta,”

First, your ad campaign with the stupid glowing butterfly has always pissed me off. Now, I’m no butterfly hater, in fact, I kind of find them whimsical and adorable, but night after ever-loving night, as I sat up, unable to sleep, that stupid commercial would taunt me. Must be NICE, I’d say, as I rubbed my aching eyeballs, MUST BE NICE TO SLEEP.

I’ve been a member of The Unable To Sleep For Shit Club for, oh, what, I don’t know, 4 years now? Before this, I would simply LAUGH at those people who claimed that “they couldn’t sleep.” As someone who considered sleeping as a full-contact sport, I couldn’t imagine just not being able to sleep. It was obviously my moral superiority as a perfect human being that allowed me to sleep while others tossed and turned.

(interestingly, this is the very thing that turns me off of other parents when discussing anything related to 1) kids eating or B) kids sleeping) (because, obviously)

Then I found out that I had hypothyroidism, and learned that maybe requiring 14 hours of sleep a night was kind of not a good thing. It was then when Your Aunt Becky met Synthroid for the first time. It was also when Aunt Becky got knocked up, a time when most expectant mothers sleep as much as humanly possible. Why, when I’d gotten pregnant with Ben, I’d wake up with rug burns on my face where I’d simply passed out while trying–in vain–to tie my shoes.

But pregnant with Alex, I first met The Beast, Insomnia. Nothing I could do made a damn bit of difference: I drank (and promptly vomited up) warm milk, I avoided chamomile tea because it was all herbly and I wasn’t sure it was pregnancy safe and besides that, it tasted like stewed grass clippings to me. I cut out caffeine. I developed a bedtime ritual and followed by it religiously.

And still. And yet. And how. I could fall asleep and never really get into that deep sleep. It. Was. Torture. I went into having a *ahem* difficult newborn already functioning on 9 months of sleep deprivation. At 6 months postpartum, when I was Really Starting To Lose My Shit and think about suicide as a viable alternative to dealing with Alex, I called my OB and sobbed, begging for something, anything to help me sleep.

Because, you see, drug people, Alex got up so often over night, I was too anxious to fall asleep in between or even on those rare nights that he did sleep for more than an hour at a stretch. And I was cracking the fuck up.

My OB threw his hands in the air and told me that he just didn’t care. (also, makers of the drug that rhymes with Plunesta, I am a poet and I don’t know it!) There was nothing he could, or would, do while I was nursing.

Finally, I was introduced to my first boyfriend: Mr. Unisom. Our love affair was long and torrid and held me gently through many a sleepless night. I was finally–FINALLY–able to reach that unattainable deep sleep. Pure. Bliss.

But after my daughter was born, I had even more sleep problems, makers of the drug that rhymes with “plunesta,” and the only cure? MORE COWBELL. Prescription Sleep Aids!

And my tentative love affair with that bitch Ambien was cut drastically short when I realized that it did not actually help me sleep (nor did it give me any of the cool urges like gambling in my sleep or throwing in loads of laundry, which might have actually helped me battle Mount Laundry). So I requested your new wonder-drug, “Plunesta.”

Now shhh…drug people, don’t tell my father, who is a pharmacist, but I mixed “Plunesta” with my old standby: Mr. Unisom and all was right with the world again. Until, of course, my headaches began again in earnest.

The one upside to pregnancy for me is while the rest of me feels like I’m dying inside, my headaches, something I have struggled with for years, go away. It’s divine, especially if you’re carefully able to extract the inability to breathe, the swelling, and the sharing-your-body-cavity-with-another-person part.

But our love was not to be, “Plunesta!” While I was able to overlook the mouth-tasting-like-ass side effect as well as the I-crave-sugar-while-sleeping phenomenon, and my memory loss, my doctor, the swine! had the audacity to chide me not-so-gently about mixing meds! And suggested that perhaps THAT may have been the cause for my ever-worsening headaches!

(also on the chopping block are my OCP’s. See you later, sex life! Hel-lo vasectomy!)

Like the desperate sheep that I am, I abandoned you, “Plunesta;” discarded like yesterday’s dirty diapers. Tossed into oncoming traffic, I sent you and your (apparently) scary side effects packing.

But you, YOU “Plunesta” were not about to take rejection lightly! O! No! I bit, and you bit back HARDER and with sharper, more withdrawaly teeth.

Because last night, after my interlude with Mr. Unisom, I lay in bed, alone, sweating and unable to sleep, my muscles aching and my body throbbing like a rotted tooth.

And today, I feel as though I’ve been encased in one of those dratted jello molds that I loathe, suspended in red goo like some particularly fleshy marshmallow. My body aches, my joints complain when I move, and while I can’t be certain, I think that somebody may have scooped out the grey matter in my brain and replaced it with chocolate pudding.

(shut UP)

Oh yes. After years of not being dependent on anything other than Guns and f’ing Roses and Diet Coke, Your Aunt Becky is going through withdrawal. It is, in a word, unpleasant.

Being the upstanding soul that I am, I then googled “Lunesta withdrawal” and was shocked to learn that besides looking like a decrepit old lady (as the picture clearly showed), I could expect any number of these symptoms to pop up (this was, of course, from some website whom I probably wouldn’t trust. But wait, it’s on The Internet, so it’s true!):

abdominal pains, aching, agoraphobia, anxiety, blurred vision, body vibrations, changes in perception, diarrhea, distended abdomen, feeling of unreality, flu-like symptoms, flatulence, food cravings, hair loss, heart palpitations, heavy limbs, increased allergies, increased sense of smell, insomnia, lethargy, loss of balance, metallic taste, muscle spasms, nightmares, panic attacks, paranoia, persistent & unpleasant memories, severe headaches, shaking, short term memory loss, sore mouth and tongue, sound & light sensitivity, speech difficulties, sweating, suicidal thoughts, tinnitus, unusually sensitive, fear.

While I wouldn’t necessarily mind the feelings of unreality, which sounds an awful lot like getting stoned (praying without the sudden urges for Taco Bell) nor would I mind that “changes in perception.” In fact, I might then decide to get the band back together and get a bus and travel across the States with Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters.

That sounds kind of like a break from the norm.

But no.

So, makers of the drug that rhymes with “plunesta” I would like to thank you for your time as my semi-boyfriend, and alternately list you on Don’t Date Him Girl. Or, I will, I suppose, if I don’t wind up a puddle of goo on the floor, shaking, contemplating suicide, and farting.

Right, I know, like that would be different than any OTHER day. Touche, drug company people, touche, indeed.

Now, former lover of mine, I’m off to lay on the couch and rub my aching joints and try not to look directly into the sunlight, lest I burst into flames like a large piece of parchment. Also, can I please have my grey matter back? I do kind of need it.

(shut UP)

It’s not me, it’s you. And me. Okay, it’s both of us.

Always,

Aunt Becky.

For simplicity’s sake, I tell people that Becky is my college roommate. This is not entirely true, as she lived two doors down from me, but she might as well have lived in my room, seeing as how SHE SPENT PRACTICALLY EVERY WAKING MOMENT STEALING OUR BEER (ed note: I do not like beer. Rum, yes, I stole your rum, Pashmina. And your vodka. And your whiskey. And it was TASTEE). YES YOU, BECKY.

We have been friends for 10 years. It would have been, in fact, 10 years ago this fall that I was all, “Can I smoke in here?” and Becky was all “sure!” and her roommate was all, “SMOKING IS FOR PEOPLE WHO WANT TO DIIIIIIIIIIE.” So, it’s true that I’ve known Becky a long time.

It is also true (she denies this) that when we get together, your Aunt Becky and I suffer from revertigo. This is to say that when we get together, we behave like the 19 year olds we once were, which is to say that our collective average age when we get together is about 12. Dick and fart jokes are the norm, and whenever Bones and I leave an afternoon with Becky, he lovingly tells me, “You guys are fucking ridiculous.” It’s true. I am.

It would not surprise you, then, to learn that for our wedding, Becky made a check out to us and wrote in the memo “Butt Sex.” It certainly didn’t surprise ME, and Bones and I got a good chuckle out of it when, a couple days after the wedding, we went through our gifts so that we could deposit any money before going on our honeymoon.

I slipped the check into the pile, deposited it, and Bones and I spent a week in the Caribbean. (ed note: Bitch)

When we came back, I had a letter from the bank. I opened it, and it contained three things:
1. A notice of error that said (and I quote) “Check Enclosed, Not Listed. Account Debited.”
2. A copy of the deposit slip
3. A copy of a check from your very own Aunt Becky, for Butt Sex.

Being that the whole thing was cryptic and confusing, I called the bank for an explanation. They told me I would have to go into the particular branch where we had made the deposit, since they didn’t quite understand either.

Not thinking anything of it at the time, I put “Bank” on my list of errands and headed over. Whatevs. I walked up to the teller, explained my confusion politely, and asked if he could provide me an explanation. He guessed at something. I asked a follow-up question. He called over his manager.

His manager came over to the teller window, looked at the documents and said–louder than she needed to–“OMG, who wrote you a check for butt sex?!”

The bank stopped for a split second and then erupted in peals of laughter around me. Me, I was caught between wanting to fall over laughing and being totally irritated that THE CHECK THEY PULLED OUT HAPPENED TO HAVE THE WORDS ‘BUTT SEX’ on it. There were several other checks for identical amounts, but no, the bank and to pull THAT ONE for me. Thanks, Bank. Thanks for making me explain that my college roommate decided that this would be a hilarious thing to do. I mean, it’s one thing when she writes me thank you notes that read “Dear Aunt P, Thank you so much for the Beer and Crack Whore money you gave Alex for his 2nd Birthday.” It’s totally another to have to take a check for Butt Sex to a business.

I explained that my college roommate had a sense of humor, in a way that implied that I didn’t while the bank continued to laugh around me.

Said the Teller, “Do you think maybe they didn’t deposit it because it said– because of the memo line?” (by now, the stern-faced, Chicago-bred security guard was smiling)

Manager, “Um, let me call corporate and ask.”

aw, fuck.

So, I took a seat and waited while the manager called the corporate headquarters and explained the situation and my confusion. Then I heard her say clearly, “Oh! Yes, it is Paisana!” She pulled the phone away from her mouth and said to me, “He remembers you!”

Oooof course he does.

A few more minutes with corporate–and several tellers who had to explain to the PEOPLE DRIVING THROUGH THE DRIVE UP WHY THEY WERE LAUGHING–later, the manager called me back over to her desk to explain to me what corporate had told her, assuring me the whole time that no, corporate had not rejected the check for Butt Sex. She was very happy to use the words “butt sex” freely, too, and every time she said it, the security guard got a chuckle and EVERYONE IN LINE looked my direction with a “WTF?” expression.

She then explained to me that my error had been in addition (I had added the check twice) and we went through the deposit slip line by line until I was satisfied that my bad math–and not bank error–was at play. I thanked her for the explanation and she said to me, “Tell your friend she’s funny!”

She’ll appreciate that.

I’ve been friends with Pashmina for, shit, what 10, maybe 12 years now, she was my coblogger for the pre-Aunt Becky days and she’s the only reason that I met The Daver. We’ve managed to stay friends for all of this time, and she wanted to show her appreciation for all that I’ve done for her (read: flaming case of The Clap) by asking me, nay, INVITING me gently to read at her wedding.

Thrilled that I didn’t have to stuff myself into a bridesmaid dress like a shimmery encased sausage, I readily agreed. I didn’t so much care WHAT I read, just that it didn’t involve dyable shoes.

Weeks before the wedding, she–like the Type-A freak-a-leak she is–called to regretfully inform me that I wouldn’t be getting a copy of my reading stuff until the night before. Because the priest was writing them.

Not being Catholic myself, this didn’t send off any warning bells like it would have with other, more normal people.

After huffing it to the rehearsal on Friday, I was shocked to learn that I would be reading the “Lord Hear Our Prayer” part of the service. When I told this to Daver, who knows the church much better than I, his jaw dropped open like a sea bass and he started laughing. When he finally stopped, after seeing the quizzical look on my face, he sputtered,

“You’re…” *snort, snort* “You’re leading THE PRAYERS!” Then he erupted into another gale of laughter as the realization seeped into my brain.

Now, I’m a fan of organized religion, despite not knowing much about it, and I love the rituals and the kneeling and the singing, but this, this was Pashmina’s way of getting back at me for making her wear a strapless dress to my wedding.

I’m probably the least qualified person on the planet to lead prayers in a Catholic wedding. No, seriously.

The wedding, though, was lovely, and I found myself misting up when she walked down the aisle. Here was my FRIEND, the one that was busted by the Jesuits with me, and she, well, she was in the puffy white dress and aww….

And the leading of the prayers even went fine. I did not erupt into a fireball of flame and ash at the altar. I did not wear my own wedding dress, as previously threatened. I simply read the lines, prayed, and then sat back down before bounding off to drink with some old friends.

Because I dropped out of Girl Scouts after realizing that even at age 8, I had no aptitude or interest whatsoever for crafts or cooking, I am never prepared. So during the three hour break between wedding and reception, I sent The Daver off to find appropriate cards. He did, although I don’t remember what they said, only that I wrote “Happy Birthday, Steve!” on the outside after I was chastised for not properly addressing it.

(my point was: who the hell ELSE would I be getting a card for or giving a card to AT THAT MOMENT IN TIME?)

(answer: apparently, Steve)

The reception was a total blast. We got to hang with old friends and drink, eat delicious meat twinkies (tiny, mini meat sandwiches) and watch other people get drunk. With the exception of the woman who came up to me mid-bite, while she waited in line at the buffet, and demanded to know what I was eating in a fairly unkind way, it was fucking awesome.

And that lady? Just weird.

I hadn’t spoken to Pashmina until today because I was giving her time to both consummate the marriage and enjoy her honeymoon (bitch), and I figured she was kind of people-d out.

She called me today to discuss, sandwiched in between her bragging about her tan (bitch), the card that I’d gotten her.

Specifically, the check I had written her.

My initial thought was, “SHIT, did it bounce? I had money in the account!” immediately followed by “shit! Did I make it out to the right person?”

But no. My check didn’t bounce, and I absolutely did spell her name properly (after 10 years, even my dumb ass has learned to spell some things). Let’s just say that I pulled off the ULTIMATE Feat Of Awesomeness.

See, now, when I’d written out the check, I engaged in a revolting and juvenile past time of mine. Whenever I write out a personal check to a friend, I make sure to include something special in the MEMO box.

My favorite, and easily most common is “Funky Butt-Lovin'” but that night, I’d had a migraine (same as I do now, WHEE!) and couldn’t quite remember.

So instead, I wrote in the MEMO box: “Butt Sex” figuring she’d get a chuckle out of that among the “CONGRADULATIONS (sic)” and “Wedding” (which I saw on many of my checks from my own wedding). I hadn’t thought about it since.

But no, Pashmina hadn’t forgotten it. Not at all.

Turns out that as they’d deposited their checks, Pashmina had made some sort of addition error (I will blame her English degree (s) on this one)(somewhere, she is flicking off the computer as she reads this) and the bank had An Issue.

An Issue, of course, that had to be corrected IN PERSON at the bank. So, like the adult she is, Pashmina marched into the bank to figure out what the hell was going on.

The clerk couldn’t figure it out, save that one check had not been accounted for, so he signaled his manager over. His manager, who took one look at the Problem Check and said to Pashmina, “You got a check for BUTT SEX?”

The bank stopped. The bank stopped and the bank listened and then the bank burst out laughing. Tellers doubled over in their lanes laughing, tears rolling down their faces as they had to explain and apologize to customers for their inappropriate behavior.

Like a rock in a stream, Pashmina stood there, probably cursing my mother for birthing me, and certainly cursing herself for inviting me into her dorm room to hang out. She alternated between laughing herself and trying to appear unfazed and unflappable, and the matter was, at long last, after several calls to corporate, settled.

Pashmina, payback’s a BITCH, eh?

In addition to having Ask Aunt Becky Sundays (which, HOORAY! I’m getting a ton of questions I can actually answer!), I have a column every Tuesday here, at Toy With Me. My first column is up and I could use, well, some love.

HOWEVER.

It’s absolutely the raunchier side of me, so if you have any problems with hearing about my crotch or The Sex, it’s probably not for you. This includes anyone that may be related to me. I’m not like, BANNING you, but you know. Crotch talk isn’t for everyone.

And check it out! I got nominated and stuff for this award! If you’d like to vote for me, I’d be thrilled. If you don’t, well, I’m still thrilled. Thank you all for voting for me on the other awards, you know, the ones on my sidebar and stuff. I’m kind of ashamed to be asking for votes. Seriously.

Um. Anyway.

Moving on…

Also? You wanted fake flower shots?(why does that sound so dirty?) YOU GOT ‘EM.

How are YOU today?

I have a fuck-ton of swag from BlogHer that I just don’t need. Sure, I could give it to charity and be a Good Person, but I’m ALWAYS giving stuff to charity. So, I figured I’d run a contest.

I sent out my business cards to my friends who asked to play along–because of their infinite awesomeness–and they are planning to take pictures of my cards doing various things. No, not like THAT, you Uncle Pervy.

The links you see here are what, where, and who Aunt Becky has been doing (ooo! Scandalous).

The deadline for entries is September 8th at 11:59 PM and voting will open at 12:00 AM on September 9th. Voting will last for one week, and on September 15, at 11:59 PM, will dramatically cease. If all goes well (read: I can figure out the results without a Gideon’s Bible, a stack of tequila and a bottle of uppers), and it should, the winner, along with several runners-up shall be announced on September 16.

It’s like Where’s Waldo, but WAY cooler. Because it involves drugs, booze and The Internet.

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First, I tackled Florida, because I was in dire need of some R and R. Too many Sausages, not enough sleep.

Then, because I am a highly skilled nurse, I examined and cared for a wee puppy. I might have gotten a little misty at the cute overload.

Then I went to Canada, where a small girl named Munchkin played a game with me. And Aunt Becky smiled when she realized the small girl could not read. Aunt Becky is not, of course, intended for small children.

As further evidence of my R-rating, I offer you proof of my debauchery with my girl Beautiful Mess.

Aunt Becky returned to her PG roots with a couple of dinosaurs and some Storm Troopers. And of course, some cuddly kittahs.

After that, Aunt Becky traveled to a land of bobble-headed kids–not unlike her own–and rednecks.

Having been a Damn Yankee (a word, I should tell you, that online Scrabble does NOT recognize because it is an assbag), for most of her life, Aunt Becky had never been to The Dirty South to meet Cardboard Brad. Until, of course, NOW.

And then, Aunt Becky needed to work through the injuries sustained on Amy’s watch, so she went up North and went Skidoo-ing. Which, of course, we all know is good for healing.

Then off to Canada for some soccer balls, condoms and tampons, Aunt Becky traveled.

Knowing that Her Aunt Becky adores Dolly Parton, Aunt Becky was taken to Dollywood. Squee!!

Then, it was time for some vodka. And it was goood.

In a stunning fit of Awesomeness, I took my favorite food group, besides butter, and turned myself into it: Stuff on Sticks.

And nothing screams “Aunt Becky” like tripping it to Iowa. I turned into The Other White Meat.

Tasty.

After all that fried food, I figured a good fight might help me digest the food. My ass, it was kicked.

In a stunning fit of the utmost drunkenness, I was seduced and had a foursome with an old friend. And maybe some ice cream and romance novels. And fish food.

Also: why do waste management centers always smell like poo and farts?

Then she learned to play the ukulele (also: need to learn to spell that properly), cuddled a fussy baby, and then was placed in mortal peril. OH NOES!

Aunt Becky was cornholed before hitching a ride on a monkey’s ass, and eventually hoofed it back to safety on a moose’s toe. It. Was. Rad.

Aunt Becky decided that the best course of action was to go back and get re-socialized at preschool.

It worked, for awhile. Then, she was part of an encased meats sculpture. And. it. was. divine. We all know how much Aunt Becky loves her encased meats.

Other things that Aunt Becky both loves and requires include toilets and boobie beer steins. Welcome to Germany! Aww, YEAH!

Then, in a supreme effort of defiance, screamed “NOBODY PUTS AUNT BECKY IN A CORNER!” But after that, she held a friend’s hand as she went into her PET scan. HELLS FUCKING YEAH TO REMISSION BABY!

After that, I went to hang with my East Coast bitches, where I flung poo at small children (wouldn’t you?) and drank copious amounts of tequila. I’m starting to think I’m going to have a hell of a time detoxing after this is all over.

Where else would a wanna-be microbiologist go but to a lab to grow some bacteria. Oh, and play with some wicked cool weapons. Rock. Music. Fucking scientists are awesome.

Down to the land of Florida, my business card traveled to go to work with my friend RJ Flamingo. Watch as I get rowdy, Xerox my own ass, drink some mighty fine coffee and wish like hell I lived down there.

Swallowing my hatred for DMB groupies, I went with Mrs. and Mr. Soup to a Dave Matthews Band concert. While I groaned and complained about it, we had a freaking BLAST. Cool Ranch Doritos and hot groupies are Where It’s At.

After a quick bath in bleach to rid myself of the Pachulli from those damn hippies, I drown my sorrows in tequila. LOTS of tequila. Which we all know gets us all fucked up. I’d tell you more, but then I’d have to kill you.

Then, I pimped a friend’s Escalade by being in the car with her after we baked *wink, wink* cupcakes. It was hot. She tried to make me go to rehab and I said, no, no, no.

I’m not entirely certain, since during the closing I said maybe one word to these people (that word, was “hello.” But I sadly did not follow it up with a “is it meeee you’re looking foooor?”) but I think that the people we bought our house from sort-of half-flipped houses. At the very least, they finished the basement and put in a whirlpool.

*cue porno music*

They weren’t here long, 2-4 years, depending upon if you ask The Daver or Yours Truly, but the people who lived here before them were. And they loved this house, much like we do.

Carefully, they landscaped the front of the house, filling it with lilacs, 2 rhododendrons, 4 evergreens, an amur maple, some bridal bushes and a handful of unidentified bushes. I’m sure that their visions were absolutely lovely and well thought out.

Unfortunately, the people who bought the house from them (the people who we bought the house from) were much like The Daver: the sort of people who should not own houses. Rather, they should own something where someone else is responsible for landscaping. Like a townhouse or an apartment or something.

Because we inherited a nightmare of epic proportions: in lieu of real flowers, we had plastic flowers both planted and strung through the trellis of our privacy screen.

In February.

In the Midwest.

With 2 feet of snow on the ground, we still had unidentifiable gaily colored stalks peeking up, oblivious to their inappropriateness.

Spring came and I noticed that I had a rose bush that was so overgrown that it literally towered over us. And no, for those rose aficionados out there, it was neither climbing or rambling (also, if you heart roses, will you be my BFF?). The bridal bushes hadn’t touched in years and easily reached into my neighbors lawn where they could have easily poked someone’s eyeball out.

The snowball bushes, carefully planted around the air conditioner unit to reduce the unsightliness of it had overgrown it so thoroughly that I couldn’t imagine the efficiency of the unit without shuddering.

And the front of my house, once rife with small, neatly trimmed bushes, now makes my house appear as though a recluse lives here. A CREEPY recluse. (I am not a recluse. I just opt to not go out with all of my children if I have a choice)(wouldn’t you?)

In a stunning fit of brilliance, unmatched since the day I decided to get my name on a belt (wait, no, that was AWESOME) I decided this year to prune the ever-loving shit out of my lilacs and my rhododendron. Smart move.

Because my bushes (heh) are now growing like hell and not helping the There Must Be A Murder Living There overall vibe of my house. This is apparently what happens when one takes a blade to plants: it makes them want to grow MORE.

Also not helping is my Ash tree, which, my pleas to the city to cut it back some have been sorely unanswered. Stupid Emerald Ash Boner Borer Boner

So, I’ve got a Master Plan.

It (freakishly) involves a chainsaw and the removal of at least 6, more like 8, bushes. OH, and a fucking mess of ground cover. Basically, it’ll be one of those things where Dave will sit in the house at the window, phone in hand, dial 9 and 1 and wait for the screams before he dials the next 1. There’s no doubt that this will end up with some missing digits but hopefully not limbs.

There is no doubt in my mind that this is a Bad, Bad Idea, but thankfully, it will have to wait until spring.

Because even though I know that I need to remove this stuff, I have absolutely no idea what to replace it all with. Thankfully, I have many months to painstakingly research whatever it is that I decide upon. It’s mostly shade (thank YOU Ash tree for casting such a shadow on my house) and I don’t know a lot about shade-a-philic plants.

The likely instrument of my demise. An unused saw blade, waiting, just waiting for me to get stupid enough to think that this a bright idea RIGHT NOW.

…..so who wants to come watch*? I should sell tickets to this event: Watch Aunt Becky Mangle Herself, extra if you want to film videos of it to put on YouTube later.

*By watch, of course, I mean that you’ll have to do most of the work while I sit in a lounge chair directing you while I sip a nice cold mojito. What’s not to love?

(also, I would like to beg you to go over to that box thingy on my sidebar and vote for me if you would, please o! please? I’m pretty sure I’m being spanked by a coupon blog now and that makes me feel sad inside. SAD, Internet.)

If you’re reading this in a reader, because you are a brilliant soul (Google Reader is not only my BFF but my lover and also, I would tongue kiss it if I could)(maybe some days I do)(shut UP), I’d ask you kindly to click through and see my fancy new design! It was done by the fabulous admin at Mommy Brained.

See, now, I know her REAL name, but unlike my stupid ass, she goes by “admin.” Intentional or not, I’m not positive. But she rules, and you really should check her out if you want a site design. And a laugh.

Along with my new design, I have decided that I am going to start my own (crappy) advice column, because the world needs to know more of my worthless opinions, right? (don’t answer that) On my sidebar, you will see a new page added “Go Ask Aunt Becky” and if you click on it, a page will open! Like delicious magic!

Your questions can be submitted directly through the site allowing for some degree of anonymity, because sometimes, shit the things I want to know aren’t really something I want attached to my good name.

The answers will air on Sundays (also known in my house as Post Secret Days) and any other time I feel the need to answer something rather than try and come up with a real, actual post.

(also, I’ve been trying to answer comments IN the comments. Because I win at LIFE.)

To answer the most burning and frequent questions that I will no doubt get, let me strike preemptively:

1) I’d guess that my sexy ass is a gift from God and genetics.

2) That rash on your crotch is scabies and no, I will not look at it.

You’re welcome.

The absolute last person I expected to see on my front door stoop was the lady that we bought our house from in 2006. She hadn’t exactly been overly kind or pleasant during our interactions at closing, but after having a party during our condo closing, I think I kind of hit the Apex of Awesome right there. So I tried not to judge.

I also tried not to judge as I sat with a putty knife and an econo-sized vat of Goo-Gone trying to chip off the pieces of 3, 3! different kinds of flowered wallpaper in our teeny first floor bathroom. I’ll admit that maybe I cursed her a whole lot after I realized that they’d applied wallpaper DIRECTLY to the drywall.

This was the bathroom I painstakingly remodeled for my 27th birthday. It looks NOTHING like this anymore.

*pats self on back vigorously*

Maybe I wasn’t overly pleased by her choices of I-Want-To-Kill-Someone Green as colors in at least 3 rooms of the house.

But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I am certifiably colorblind* and perhaps I am the one who is wrong. Maybe the color is positively lovely, radiating goodness and light instead of making me want to ram my head through the wall. Or just any head, really. I’m not picky.

My dad was in the ICU post heart attack, I remember that day right before Christmas, and Alex was having his typical trouble sleeping. I’d finally gotten him down for his 2.5 minute afternoon nap and the sound of the doorbell made me nearly shatter my teeth as I ground them down.

I’d needed that 2.5 minutes, thankyouverymuch, and no door-to-door salesperson selling coupon books was going to make me happy about giving it up. The days leading up to this were hell and I had had absolutely zero opportunity to even begin to absorb the fact that one of the clots they’d found after the heart attack would have killed him instantly had it dislodged.

So, opening to door to find that the lady whose house I had bought years before–the house that I now owned–standing there was not exactly what I expected. A fleet of cross-dressing purple goats would have been less shocking. She was just one of those eminently forgettable people and, well, after I’d finished cursing her taste in wallpaper, I’d forgotten her entirely.

She walked in, the second I opened the door, no pomp, no hello’s, no circum-fucking-stance, she just pushed past me and walked in. I was too shocked and too Midwestern to respond with an, “I’m sorry, but pop off, lady.”

While I did recognize that she once owned this house, as I had seen the paperwork as I signed my life away, she hadn’t owned it in over 2 years by that point. Mouth agape, hanging in the breeze like a particularly human shaped trout, I just gawked at her. Daver was off somewhere else in the house (my guess would be either looking at horse porn or working, but it’s simply a guess) leaving me to deal with her.

“Did you get any mail delivered here for me?” She asked.

Still shocked, I replied, “I send all of your mail back, return to sender. It’s been 2 years. I don’t get much for you any more.”

Then she took a step backwards in my hallway and looked me up and down suspiciously. I’m sure that she saw the large bags under my eyes, the don’t-fuck-with-me turn of the mouth, and my shaking hands. It didn’t seem to dawn on her that maybe this wasn’t the best time to come over. Or if it did, she didn’t care.

“Are you suuuure you didn’t get anything delivered her? A friend was supposed to send me some money.” She continued sizing me up.

“I’ll check with Dave, but I’m the one who gets and sorts the mail. Anything that was yours would have been sent back.”

Dave had returned from Equus Lovers -r- Us after hearing the commotion, and I asked him if he’d seen any mail for her.

He hadn’t.

Again, she tested me like I was going to change my answer or something, and again, I told her no, absolutely not. It was obvious that she was beginning to suspect that I’d stolen whatever money had been in said envelope.

While I have been accused of being rude or tasteless, I am not a thief** and I never have been. Not, I should add, that someone who SHOULD have had her mail forwarded 2 years prior can really complain if she doesn’t get her mail…but still.

She stood there in my kitchen, uninvited and quite frankly unwelcome casting her suspicious eyes slowly back and forth between The Daver and I.

“Are you SUUUUUREEE you didn’t take the money?” She was starting to sound like a cross between my mother and an overzealous police detective.

Finally, I snapped, “NO!” I nearly shouted this, frustrated beyond belief and pushed to the end of my rope. The moment that Alex woke up, we had to go visit my father in the ICU and bring him the mini-Christmas tree I’d made for his room. No matter what the issue, using the phrase “visit my father in the ICU” never got easier to swallow.

And this bitch had the audacity to COME INTO MY HOUSE and accuse us of stealing money from an envelope mistakenly sent “from a friend” to my address of 2 years.

I don’t know if she was finally satisfied by my answer or realized that she’d really pissed me off, but she turned around and was off as abruptly as she came.

I’d have thrown the last scraps of her ugly wallpaper after her, but just then Alex started to scream. Looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any break after all. I gritted my teeth and marched up the stairs to collect my son.

Off to the ICU we went. Detailed sketches of elaborate poo flinging mechanisms I could use on her new house danced in my head as we listened to “The Little Drummer Boy” for the forty-fifth time that week.

*not being cute. Truthful. You may start feeling bad for my children….NOW.

**Okay, so I stole YOUR heart. And some hair picks once. When I was like 14.

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Gentle Reader, please, have you had anything you’ve been falsely accused of? Or anything as freaking weird as this bitch?