“Okay guys, it’s time to get ready for bed! Ben, brush your teeth. Alex, go to the bathroom,” I holler from the other room, where I’ve been hiding from the Wii and it’s incessantly cheerful music. My head feels like someone stuck it in a vice and turned the crank to 11.

*Spinal Tap Interlude*

The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and…

Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?

Exactly.

Does that mean it’s louder? Is it any louder?

Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You’re on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you’re on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?

I don’t know.

Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?

Put it up to eleven.

Eleven. Exactly. One louder.

Why don’t you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?

[pause] These go to eleven.

—————

That was like a guitar solo – BUT BETTER.

Anyway. My headache. It’s one larger than ten. It goes to 11.

But I’m not gonna be all Mommy Dearest about it – the kids aren’t at fault, but I’m totally itching to lay down in the dark and watch some Pawn Stars* before sacking out myself.

I can hear Alex’s padded feet tromping toward me for a quick cuddle goodnight and I open my arms for his embrace – which generally occurs at about 827 miles an hour. You gotta brace yourself for that one.

The other one, my big son, begins to wail. Not actual tears but like the typical teenage bullshit, “Oh my GOD, how DARE you, blah blah blah.” I try to ignore his outbursts, but rather than tire himself out (like I’m hoping), he just keeps on. I’ve never MET someone so good at thoroughly beating a dead horse until it’s nothing but dry bones.

He’ll go on for hours – bemoaning his horrid fate of having to brush his teeth, which, I should tell you, Pranksters, is, according to him – “the WORST thing that could ever happen to him.” He’ll argue that point too. Just like he’ll argue that the sky is, last time he checked, green and not blue, and really Mom, how could you be SUCH an IDIOT**.

I’d probably let him continue to rail on and ignore him, but he’ll follow me around like the world’s crabbiest puppy, making damn sure I’m good and aware that he is not happy with me. Nothing is immune to his attacks – chores he’s been doing for four years are still the OTHER worst thing ever besides that one worst thing that was worser.

If I ask him to vacuum, it’s like I’ve asked him to vacuum with his nose. If I ask him to put something away, it’s like he’s stepping on broken glass to perform such a deadly chore. When I tell him to brush his teeth, it’s like I’ve told him to do so with tin foil.

I’m about ready to show him footage of kids in third world countries just to drive home the point that hey, it’s not THAT bad. But he’d probably tell me he’d rather be there, living in a hut, without a Wii, away from Yours Truly.

Ah, the teenage years. So glad you’ve visited my house.

Unrelated (totally related): Anyone want a surly 10 year old? He’s sure anywhere is better than here.

*Hey, at least it’s not the Kardashians

**the Internet wonders the same thing.

This gem was waiting for me in my inbox. It was too good to keep to myself (feel free to share your OWN fitness ideas in the comments):

Dear Aunt Becky,

Here is one of my favorite fitness tips: you MUST take it seriously or it WILL NOT WORK.

Here goes:

Take a walk…a long walk..alone and away from the kids.(In your yoga pants and Reebok’s)(of course)(NOTE: I have not been compensated in any way to endorse Reebok’s)(I wanted to sound like a real, professional blogger for a minute)

Your walk will be very enjoyable. You will notice the things you’ve never noticed before while in a car. That interesting twist of the trunk of that tree. The amaaazing cloud formations, the squirrels bustling about woods (or are they humping?)

Your feet wont even notice they are walking! You may even get lost (WARNING: this is very probable if you are anything like me!)Don’t forget to bring your Ipod with some Ingrid Michaelson and Freddy Johnson…they have never sounded so good as when you are doing this regime!

(This is the calorie burning section of this essay, so please pay special attention)

After finally arriving home, go immediately to the top of the armoire, (or wherever your favorite hiding spot is) and reach down a Kit Kat from the Kit Kat Party Bag. (Reaching is imperative,as that is the stretching section  of the work out) (I am a big fan of parenthesis)(if you cant already tell) Continue reaching /opening/eating until you are sweating. This is how you know the workout is successful! Yay! You’ve done it!

I believe in you, Aunt Becky. I know you can do it, girl.

Call me if you need encouragement.

Love you lots,

Barbara

PS: you can further the benefits of this workout by following the Kit Kat section and going into the kitchen and cooking the family a fantastic dinner with the specific nutrients found in butter, cheese, deep fried foods and chocolate!

In a drunken fit of drunkenness, I agreed to wear a pedometer and set some fitness goals. Omron kindly asked me to join their Fitness Blogger Challenge Campaign, which, DUH, screams AUNT BECKY, right? They sent me some sweet ass swag (and some for YOU, too) and I was all, I am so going to beat the shit out of this challenge.

I just knew it.

I mean, as long as I could call it an “odometer,” I was pretty happy to try wearing the thing for a month. I mean, I walk all the time…right? Surely as a “writer”* on the Internet who spends her time watching zany cats do stuff while pecking out email after email on her Big Mac is probably an athletic superstar.

Really, how could I *not* be eligible for an award like, “most athletic blogger,” or “walks most steps in a day?” I scoffed at the suggestion of 10,000 steps a day – certainly I did at least a million steps each day. Probably TWO million!

In fact, I bet that I’d break the odometer with my awesome steps.

I couldn’t wait to go to the Omron factory, right in my backyard, to be all, “I broke this with my awesomeness.”

Happily I strapped it on the first day – I didn’t even drop it in the toilet. I hummed a little as I imagined the odometer getting all confused after I passed the 1 million steps mark.

At the end of the night, I glanced down at the thing and was all, OH EM GEE, this ridiculously expensive odometer is broken. Obviously.

Because there is NO WAY I only walked 2,398 steps. It probably had to roll over from 99,999 or something. Right?

The next morning, I got up and happily strapped the thing on again. This time I included some yoga pants (who cares if I never actually DO yoga in my yoga pants?) and a headband to catch all the sweat that I’d be dripping. I’d have used those weird 80’s wrist cuffs if I had any, but sadly, no.

I put up a picture of Bob Greene as a motivator-thingy and pictured him cheering me on each time I wrote an email.

“YOU GO AUNT BECKY. YOU BURN THOSE CALORIES AND YOU TAKE THOSE STEPS.”

His voice sounded like Billy Mays, so I got a little nostalgic. And when I get nostalgic, I have to take a nap. Kind of like when I have a cheeseburger. Or really, any time. I love naps. I bet Bob Greene does too. I get to talk to him next week and I plan to ask him about it.

The end of that night, after I was all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about shit? My odometer read 1,082.

Apparently, WEARING yoga pants isn’t the same as working out. Who the fuck knew?

Anyway.

It was a bad month to work on getting fit – pneumonia, now I’m dying of something that’s growing in my sinuses, then an ear infection, now Ebola – so I’m going to have to cram all of my Getting Fit With Omron into a week and a half. What can I say? I’m a procrastinator (although this time, not by choice).

So I’m setting a ridiculously low goal and trying to stick to it. I know that simple shit like parking far away from the entrance to Target (my boyfriend) is an easy way to get a little bit of exercise. If all else fails, I can throw the odometer on one of the kids and be all BOOO-YEAH.

Because Your Aunt Becky has GOT to get fit. Or die trying.

Oh yeah, and I’m being compensated to write this post by Bookieboo LLC in a blogger campaign with Omron Fitness.

*use of quotation marks is intentional.

Okay, Pranksters – I need some ridiculously awesome (or hilarious) fitness tips. Because obviously. Or if you’ve got none, tell me what your favorite flavor of cupcake is, because delicious. Obviously.

It might shock you, Pranksters, that Your Aunt Becky is a weeeee bit compulsive.

Okay, stop nodding so hard – it’s giving me a headache.

So I’m compulsive. One look at my orchid farm will tell you that much.

I mean, I’m so compulsive that days like yesterday, even though I had a perfectly valid reason (I was sick and had to go to the doctor ALSO Alex was sick – ear infection this time – and had to go to the doctor) not to post here, because it would’ve turned out like, “GAHHHH! WHY DO I FEEEEEL SO SICK! IT’S MARK ANTHONY’S FAULT!” I still felt off. All day.

Had I had three remaining brain cells, I’d have grimly come up with SOMETHING. Because OMGWTFBBQ it’s my BLAWG and peoples READ MAH BLAWG.

Last year, right around this time, I was all OMGWTFBBQ GLEE IS AWESOME. I DON’T CARE IF THE GIRL EVERYONE SAYS IS LIKE ME, HAS A MOUTH THAT THREATENS ME WHILE I WATCH. IT’S SO FUNNY AND AWESOME AND OMGWTFBBQ.

But Glee, sadly, was on hiatus for some American Idol crap or something. And I was recovering from surgery which meant I wasn’t supposed to be sitting up. I had a LOT of hours to fill. Vertically.

So I’m all, YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOTTA BE AS AWESOME AS GLEE? THE OTHER SHOW THE GLEE CREATOR MADE: NIP/TUCK.

Netflix and I had a love affair, see, and I TRUSTED Netflix not to do me wrong.

Happily, I noted that I had six (SIX!) entire seasons of the show to watch. I’d have done a happy dance if I’d be able, but I settled on a lone *fistbump* and queued up the first episode.

Okay, I said, so there’s this really nice doctor guy and he’s got this perfect wife and two kids – the boy looked like Michael Jackson – and then there’s this cocky playboy doctor and puts his peen in lots of things. Instantly, I was horrified. Crazy-balls Anne Hesche was in it. Until I learned that it wasn’t actually Crazy-Balls Anne Hesche and felt bad for hating the pretty blonde NON-ANNE-HESCHE lady.

But whatever. The kid looked like Michael Jackson and the two doctors were semi-likeable.

By episode two, I found myself bored.

By episode three, I’d begun to hate each and every character – including the hamster.

Any normal person would have then stopped the show, shrugged, and written it off as a crap-ass show. But not Your Aunt Becky.

No, I grimly sat through each show, all of the ridiculous scenarios, and hoped for a better episode. The next one HAD to be better, right?

Turns out, not so much.

My favorite moment of the entire show was when someone got hit by a bus. It was great.

The rest of it? I hated each and every character. Equally. At no point did I say, “wow, that was great. I really connected with that character.”

(to be fair, I’ve never said something so hokey in my life, unless I was stoned and/or drunk)

So this week, when The Guy On The Couch, The Daver and I ran out of Pawn Stars episodes on Netflix, we searched desperately to find something to fill the void. Anything.

“I’ve heard good things about Parking Wars,” Daver suggested.

“Me too,” The Guy on the Couch chimed in.

“Uh, I’ve never heard of it, but okay,” I agreed.

We settled down to watch the first episode.

Instantly, I hated everyone on the screen – these are the fuckheads who give me tickets and they’re talking about how they think they’re doing some great job for the world? HOW IS CHARGING ME TWENTY BUCKS ALTRUISTIC?

By the time some lady began weeping over her car, calling it “her BABY,” I had to turn it off. I mean, who can feel a connection with the douchebags that give me parking tickets for being ONE MINUTE PAST MY METER TIME? Like, aw, thanks Buddy, for making MY world a WORSE place to be. Way to RID the world of those of us who FORGET TO PAY OUR METERS. YOU’RE TOTALLY SUPER-FUCKING-MAN, BUDDY!

It’s like trying to be sympathetic to the chick who has brought in 8 different guys for five different Maury shows. WHO HAS SEX WITH THAT MANY PEOPLE IN A MONTH?

Only thing worse than Parking Wars would be watching people at the DMV…

Wait, so long as the DMV people were antagonists, I might be okay.

Anyway.

I am pleased to report to you, Pranksters, that I DID, in fact, learn my lesson. Rather than muddle through the entire catalog of Parking Wars, I deleted it from my “you might like this” queue.

BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT, NETFLIX, I DON’T LIKE IT.

Hoarders, however, well, let’s just say I miss seeing people poo into bags AND SAVE IT.

(okay, that’s a lie)

P.P.S. I’m probably delirious.

I met her there, on the transplant floor (liver and kidney) where she sat, her eyes full of a sadness I couldn’t quite place, next to her son. The second of her three children to lay in a bed just like that one, all suffering the same rare genetic liver disease. The guilt was written all over her face – she hadn’t known that she and her husband were carriers for this disease – it hadn’t occurred to her to be tested. Not until later – much later, after her first son required a liver transplant.

I had her during my clinicals that week, so I spent a good deal of time with her. They lived in some BumFuck Southern town, temporarily moving to Chicago where the premiere doctor who treated this particular liver disease practiced. She and her husband and their other kids, moved, where so many do, into the Ronald McDonald house attached to the hospital I’d been volunteered to rotate through.

A student nurse then, the horror of a hospital – a big, beautiful, wonderful, cheerful hospital – that treated only children, her eyes haunted me long after I’d stopped being their nurse.

Their son, he was three at the time, I think, and while he was bloated, sorta like Violet Beauregard from Willy Wonka, he bore enough of a resemblance to my own tiny son that I couldn’t help but see him every time I administered medication or checked his vitals.

We walked past the house a couple of times. Visiting the dialysis center. Other offsite clinical stuffs. It was there. The logo was similar to that of my most favorite fast-food joint – McDonald’s – and I thought, each time, of the families who had to live there, while they waited to see if their children could be cured.

It was an honor to have been placed there – Children’s Memorial Hospital – and I was one of six lucky recipients.

In a twist of fate no one could’ve foreseen, my daughter, not even a glimmer in my eye at that time, had her neurosurgery at a branch of the very same hospital. She wore the same gown that all of my patients back then did, making me feel as though I’d somehow walked into an alternate universe.

I’m close enough now to Children’s Memorial that I didn’t have to stay at the Ronald McDonald house when she was born so sick. Or when she had to be readmitted for her surgery.

But I never forgot.

I never forgot what an amazing place the Ronald McDonald House was. When I think of it even today, I am reminded of the woman with the sick boys, who harkened from BumFuck, USA, living in the Great Big City of Chicago while she awaited her son’s fate.

My friend Paula, another transplant mom, who I happened to meet through this very blog (who also works with me now, on Band Back Together), began something a couple of months ago. She inspired me.

She’s been collecting pop-tops to donate to the Ronald McDonald house (not the same one that I’ve been to). She inspired me to do the same.

And now I ask you, My Pranksters, to consider helping me with this.

McDonald’s Corporate HQ is about thirty minutes from my house and I plan to collect as many pop-tabs as I can to donate to their charity.

If you’d like to join me, (PLEASE?!), you can collect these pop-tabs and drop them off at your OWN Ronald McDonald House, or you can send them directly to me.

Email me: becky.harks@gmail.com for my address.

Time to use The Internet for some good.

P.S. If I get enough pop-tabs, I will totally do something random for you on a dare. Like go out in public in jeggings or something. YOU PICK THE DARE.

Also: if you’re participating, go ahead and link up, yo!

On Band Back Together, as we reach out to try and work toward our non-profit status, we’re working our asses off on putting together a rad auction. I think I’m donating like 20 things to it.

Here are the details if you want to join us. In exchange, you’ll get some awesome promotion and feel like you did something rad for the community.

Button code is here:

<a href=”http://auction.bandbacktogether.com”><img src=”http://i771.photobucket.com/albums/xx353/designsbyprincessjenn/BB2GAuction.jpg” width=”200″ height=”200″ border=”0″>

And shit, I’ll arm wrestle you for some of the already-donated stuffs.

P.S. If you just want to join in on the auction once it goes live, I’ll be adding details as they come.

P.P.S. If you’d like to simply write a post for us, that’d be great too! We always want moar stories. ALWAYS.

I sat there in the lobby of the surgical waiting room, reading the kind words my Pranksters sent me that morning – feeling almost as though they were right there, beside me, as I waited. Would she live? Would she die?

No one knew. And those closest to me knew better than to say, “it’ll be okay.” Because a) it’s a bullshit statement and 2) they didn’t know any more than I did whether or not that would be the case.

A little stoned, perhaps, on Ativan, I began to rummage through the bag I’d packed. I didn’t know what one was supposed to pack in times like these – a word search, my phone charger, my breast pump, my own tissues (my face was already torn up from the hospital-grade tissues).

That’s what I brought.

It was there, as I pecked out a quick tweet on my i(can’tfucking)Phone, “She’s back in surgery now.” As I went to put my phone away, she showed up.

It was the surgical assistant, completely suited up in surgical gear. If I’d had more than half a second to panic, I’d have begun – I’d just given up my precious daughter, signing documents allowing the neurosurgeon to cut open her brain, take out some spare bits, then put her back together with a skull implant. The surgery was supposed to be 6-9 hours long – seeing her like that so soon after we’d kissed our girl goodbye, that should have been scary.

She carried a bag with her – a bio-hazard, which she held in front of her, obviously trying to give it to me.

The confusion set in as the tears (again) poured from my eyes: was this a bit of my daughter?

She spoke, “We gave her a haircut. I wanted you to have this for her baby book.”

I took it, turning it over in my hand, as I wondered if it was the last bit of my daughter I’d hold, as she strode back into the OR where my daughter was unconsciously waiting.

Not knowing what else to do, I shoved it into my hospital bag.

I’ve never taken it out. In fact, I’ve never touched that bag. It sits in my closet, still full of whatever I’d packed, while horrified, panicked that I’d been offering my daughter up for slaughter.

A lifetime later, my daughter wiggles and bounces her way into the room, chock full of giggles and smiles, playing a game with her Lego guys, then “cooking” me a breakfast out of her play food.

Why yes I want green beans with my eggs, Mimi, how kind of you to offer.

I see it.

Her hair.

The wispy locks of baby hair are finally growing out, her big girl hair filling in underneath. The new curls are thick underneath it all, giving her a properly impish look.

But the baby hair, it looks…well…weird. It’s clearly time to cut it off.

So I grab a pair of scissors, beg The Guy On My Couch, Who Happens To Be Sitting ON The Couch, to help me out with her – just keep her occupied, I ask. This isn’t the sort of haircut I give the boys – I’m just lopping off the long bits as she chats with The Guy On My Couch.

He too, I learn as I listen to them talk, would love some fake green beans with his pretend eggs.

Soon, I have a pile of longer blondish hairs. Not willing to part with those memories just yet, I find a baggie and carefully place those long strands inside, where they will, one day, be put into her baby book along with her first haircut.

And as she bops and whirls away, haircut over, she looks over her shoulder and positively beams at me, her old eyes somehow comprehending that this five minute stretch on the couch was, for some reason unbeknownst to her, very big deal.

Her curls shimmering, catching the light just-so, giving her the appearance of having an actual halo, I am reminded; humbled, by how far we have come.

Both of us.

He’d been moping about the house all morning. A fever so high I worried you could fry eggs on his scalp, I tried to remind myself that kids DO run fevers, and we’d been to Mouse Hell the weekend before, so if he hadn’t just come down with what had made me so bloody sick for the past two weeks (and counting!), it was probably an Oregon Trail Disease picked up from random peeing kids in the ball pits.

(aside: why do kids piss in ball pits? It’s never dawned upon me that I should, perhaps, use a pile of balls to squat over and whiz on)

I assumed it would pass.

I’m a nurse and I’m no alarmist when it comes to my kids. Kids get sick. They bounce back. Especially my middle son, Alex.

By 12:00, as he dazedly tried to play some sort of Lego game with his sister, as he shivered in the 75 degree house, I realized he needed to go to the doctor.

“Take him to the Minute Clinic*,” I asked Dave, without really giving the option of a “no.” “I’ll be done with my board meeting by 2PM, and you should be back by then – I can keep an eye on him afterward.”

At 1:45, Dave and the kid both gone, the phone rang. I assumed it was my eldest, telling me that he was on his way home.

“We’re on our way to the ER,” The Daver announced grimly. “Alex has a 104 degree fever.”

Well, fuckity, fuckity, fuck me.

I had to find someone to watch the smallest child, Amelia, who was bouncing about the house, playing with her Legos and occasionally throwing herself on the ground – just to make herself laugh.

After a lot of back and forth, my mother, bless her heart, came to pick up the smallest of the littles and The Guy On My Couch, Ben, who was just as frantic about the ER trip as I, and I hauled balls to the hospital.

On the way, I bemoaned my decided lack of Punch Card for ER Frequent Flyers. I’d just BEEN there, I whined. We’d just been there. I now knew all of the short cuts to the cafeteria where they stocked all of that luscious sweet nectar of the Gods, Diet Coke.

By the time we got there, Alex was already in the room. Ben and I stormed the room in time to see the doctor pinning my son down to do a strep culture on his throat. Poor guy, I thought – those things are like giving a blow job to a q-tip.

As she left, she said, “if this is negative, we’ll do a chest x-ray.” She left, my jaw flopping on the germ-laden floor.

Chest x-ray? Why on EARTH would they need to be ruling out pneumonia (or TB)(okay, I knew it wasn’t TB)(probably)?

I schlepped myself onto the hospital bed, where I cuddled up my kid as I handed Alex my coveted i(can’t fucking)Phone, so he could play Angry Birds, handily beating each of my scores. He was burning up, despite the Motrin that triage gave him. Ugh.

Ten minutes later, a pert and perky lady came in and asked if he could walk. “Well yes, I said, but not without socks in the middle of the ER – I’ll carry him, thankyouverymuch.”

I lugged my now-fifty pound boy after her, not quite sure where we were going. Along the way, I told him about how he’d nearly been born at this very same hospital – the hospital where I’d given birth to his brother. He asked me a couple questions about how babies come from your tummy, and I skimmed over the bit about how they got out (although I did inform him it was through “the vagina” and not “my belly button,” as he’d suspected).

Soon we were in a darkened room – radiology.

I stood next to him, dressed in a heavy lead cloak, as he got pictures of his chest taken.

And then we were done. Back to the room we went, as he peppered me with questions about where HE’D been born, occasionally laughing when he mentioned that he knew he’d, “pooped on me as a baby.”

Back into the bed we went, where we waited. And waited. And waited.

The Guy on My Couch, Ben, and The Daver both sat on their respective iPhones, the room darkened, as Alex and I lay in bed together. Sometimes, we played on my phone, other times, we just lay there.

After an hour or so, he began to whine, begging to go home, and I realized it was time to get creative. I went through the drawers of the room, stealing an Ace Bandage (never know when you’ll need one) and an ice pack (you always know you’ll need one), as I handed Alex a stack of tongue depressors to play with. Eagerly, he yanked them open and began to beat them on the gigantic barf basin I’d given him.

We soon grew tired of that, too, having now been at the ER for three and a half hours.

The guys in the room very deeply involved in their games, I suggested we People Watch. I pulled back the blinds in the glass enclosed room and we began to watch, talking about what we saw.

Placed close enough to all three of the trauma rooms, we were afforded a perfect view of someone’s very worst day. The room swarmed with nurses, doctors, EMT’s, surgeons, all angrily buzzing in and out, clearly doing Important Things.

While I don’t practice, I’m a nurse. And I knew someone was fighting for their life in that room. I said a prayer. Then another. Then another.

What was a blip on an otherwise okay day for me (who wants to spend their day at the hospital?) was the end of someone else’s life. I wonder, as I often do in emergency situations, if there was any indication that the person behind the curtain knew that this day would be The Day. The universe should tell the person whose world is about to be turned upside down – or worse – off entirely, that hey, this is the last time you’ll breathe the outside air. This is the last sunset you’ll see. Hey, take note, this is the last time you’ll eat a donut or hug your kid or say, “I love you.”

But we don’t get that kind of warning.

And so we die.

Sometimes while we sleep. Sometimes while we drive. Sometimes out of the clear blue sky in Trauma Two on a beautiful almost-spring day.

And sometimes, while someone, a stranger, holding her heart – the one who walks around outside her chest – praying for someone she didn’t know, as she tells her middle son about the time when he “got born,” we die.

Dona nobis pacem.

Give us peace.

*what my mother likes to call a “doc in the box,” the small clinics we have at some local pharmacies

P.S. Diagnosis: “atypical” pneumonia. Leave it to my kid to be all A-typical.

Dear Pranksters,

We’re having a hearts! and love carnival on Band Back Together tomorrow, showcasing broken hearts, heart issues, and, my personal favorite, love. I’ll have a post going up tomorrow over there – I’ll link you.

If you’d like to read, write, contribute, or do a Snoopy dance, go ahead on over. We’re totally getting the Band Back Together.

xoxo,

AB

P.S. Last day to vote for Bloggies. Somehow, I’m up for a couple. So is Band Back Together.

Dear Aunt Becky,

our son is nearly 6-1/2. he was dx’d with autism back when he turned 2. he has a large, flat head, is close to non-verbal, is sensory and cognitively affected, has apraxia, and lots of gut issues… we finally did the mri, looking for craniosynotosis and/or chiari. we got back a 3/8″ encephalocele on the base of his skull. we sent mri disc to ch-boston, they said it was insignificant. we want a second opinion.

who do we go to?

Well, FUCK, Prankster. I’m so sorry. Every time I hear about someone new with an enecphalocele, like my girl, Amelia, my heart drops.

I know we’ve spoken privately, but I’m throwing it out here on my blog so that any of my Pranksters can chime in.

So, Pranksters, do you know anyone in his area that can help his son with his encephalocele?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I feel like a jerk, but there’s this girl that does everything I do online. She signs up for the same sites I sign up for. She becomes active in my communities. She’s nice, but it’s irritating. I feel like a jerk for being irritated. However, she even sometimes takes credit for my work, and even recently landed a pretty big opportunity, mainly just copying everything I do. Again, she’s always sweet. I know I should be flattered and all, but is there anything I can do besides vent? Am I a total jerk?

–Copied from North Dakota 

Sighs.

Prankster, I wish I had any good advice for you. I’d like to offer you some bullshit platitude, but it’s never helped me to hear, “imitation is the highest form of flattery.” In fact, I’d like to counter it by saying that anyone who as offered that as a consolation has never truly been copied when it matters.

Because sometimes it DOES matter.

I don’t give a shit if people take terms I use as their own. I don’t care if people riff off my blog posts. It’s only when it’s something I’ve poured my heart and soul into that I get upset.

And that’s about all I do. Sure, I could run around, doing some sort of weird smear campaign, but in the end, it would only make me look like an asshole. And while I can be a huge asshole, I’d prefer it to be for something else, like kicking kittens or mooning a full moon.

So I’m going to offer you my apologies. And my empathy. Because it really, really does suck.

Any advice for her, Pranksters?

Hi Aunt Becky!

I’ve been a follower for a while now and I have to preface this with the “omgwtfbbq,yer so awesomez!” I know that you are the ringleader here and at Band Back Together, so I have no doubt you’ll be able to answer my question. I have a cousin-in-law who recently tried to commit suicide.

This evening I stumbled upon my uncle-in-law’s wife talking to the cousin and being very awkward because he was talking about actually finishing himself off. I jumped in and tried to help and while I have extracted a promise from him to try the therapist in the morning and call me and let me know what happens,

I am not too sure that is enough.

I, of course, directed him to the suicide prevention hotline and its crazy website, but what else can I do? I told him if he felt that bad he could call 911 and they would bring him into the hospital and said that he should be able to commit himself.

I wonder if you know what the general laws are regarding being committed versus committing yourself.

I don’t have his address so I’m not too sure I can call the police and have them do anything. I’ve let other members of his family know what happened so they can help too and texted back and forth with him so he knows that I really am willing to talk. So, to recap, what’s the deal with commitment? Is there anything else I can do and if he does do something and tells me, is it possible to call the cops and have them intervene?

Thanks Aunt Becky!

Oh Prankster, you have a heart of gold – you know that, right? Because you do.

Anyway – you’ve done all the right things.

I’m sending you these links, not to pimp my (almost) non-profit, but because there’s more information that may be more valuable than the piddly words I can offer you here.

Suicide Resource Page

Common Motivations behind Suicide

Suicide Survivor

How To Cope With A Suicide

(see, I don’t watch cat videos all day long!)

First things first:

If you are feeling desperate, alone or helpless, or know someone who is, please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255) to talk to a counselor at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

Listen, really listen to them rather than offer solutions and help. People who are suicidal do not want help, they want a safe place to talk about their feelings. Really shutting your mouth and listening is very hard, but it is important.

Let them know they can trust you.

Let them know that you do care about them very much.

When someone is feeling suicidal, they must talk about their feelings immediately. Sometimes, just letting those feelings out can help.

If someone is actively talking about suicide, offering plans up about suicide, call 911.  STAY with the suicidal person while you wait for help to arrive. This is an emergency. Period.

THIS is what I know about involuntary commitment:

Involuntary Commitment is the act of admitting someone who is a danger to him or herself (or others) to a psychiatric hospital for 3-5 days. Laws for involuntary commitment vary from country to country to state to state.

If, after 3-5 days, the person is still determined to be a threat to him or herself, a court order may be obtained to detain the person.

Let me know if this helps, Prankster. I love you and your big gorgeous heart.

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Pranksters, please fill in where I left off in the comments. And, as always (now that I’m off my ridiculously large ass and back to posting), send me your most important questions. I will answer them as uselessly as possible.

I think I’m turning into that crusty old guy down the block. The one who uses his cane to hit the ankles of nearby small children and threatens to take a shotgun to anyone who dares step on my pathetic patch of brown grass. Except without the shotguns, because obviously. I can’t properly use a pickaxe, who in their right mind would give me a gun?

Answer: Las Vegas.

No seriously, on an entirely unrelated tangent, I’m on a kick to go to Vegas, eat waffles, and shoot guns. Do not ask me how I have decided that this is the pinnacle of awesome – it just is.

See, my crustiness starts here: I’ve started to hate the doorbell ringing. It’s like junk mail, in human form. Either I get some assjacket who wants to sell me some crap I’ll never need, some kid wants to play with MY kid (negating the fact that it’s 10AM and KIDS SHOULD BE IN SCHOOL, DAMMIT!) and argues with me about my kid being home while I chew my tongue, trying not to yell, WHY AREN’T YOU IN SCHOOL? Or it’s another small person who wants to sell me outrageously overpriced cookies that I don’t even want to eat.

Yep.

At 31, I’ve become that crusty wench.

I just hate those awkward social interactions, where two people stand there, staring at each other, not sure exactly how to proceed. Which is what happens every time someone rings my bell.

Perhaps I should get a doormat that says “Go The Fuck Away” or an electrified moat and change my name to Mr. Wilson.

Shrugs.

Either way, I got a cane, and I’m not afraid to wallop you youngins with it.

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I wrote this. It’s about recycling. Also? It needs some comments, if’n you have the time.

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And I wrote this. I suggest you stay AWAY from the comments, unless you feel like having your head chewed off.

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ONE LAST THING I SWEAR OMGBBQWTF. We’re doing a Hearts! Carnival on BB2G on Sunday – stories about love, hearts, problems with hearts, and all that good stuffs. I’m going to share a couple stories about my dad.