OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.

How’s that for dramatic? Because I figured I should be dramatic since really, I’ve been doing a whole lot of sitting on my ass since I’ve been here last. Well, okay, TECHNICALLY, I slept some in there, too, but really, I laid on my back and squiggled around like a bug while approximating sleep because frankly, sleeping on your back sucks a fat one. I know people are all breezily like, “sleeping on your back is good for your chi,” or some shit, but so is eating free-range organic pesticide, sweat-shop free paste. And I like Uncrustables.

Shockingly, I am still not running marathons.

Frankly, I’m still not able to take showers. Which means I’m a cockroach that twirls in the air when I’m on my back while smelling bad. Which means that you should come over immediately, if not sooner.

I’m going to the doctor today to hear how I am doing with this whole recovery thing. I’m trying to be a good patient and not be all, ‘Am I better yet?‘ every forty-five seconds to The Daver who is probably ready to set me out with tonight’s garbage. And if he sets me out on my back, see, I can’t get up (read: I am the cockroach in Kafka), so it’s likely they’ll toss me into the dumpster with the landfill-clogging shitty baby diapers.

I haven’t seen them yet, but I now have pictures of my incision. It goes from BEYOND one hip to BEYOND the other. Which? RAD. I have a feeling I will look like a jaunty smiley face when I am done healing.

ALSO? And even more wicked rad?

I HAVE A NEW BELLY BUTTON.

Oh yes, Pranksters, my old saggy belly button that had scars from my multiple piercings? GONE. In it’s place is a new, improved belly button.

I’m going to get a sign that says, “MY BELLY BUTTON BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD.” Because it totally will. Once it’s done being covered in tiny stitches, because right now, I don’t think any boys are going to be all, “damn right, it’s better than hers.” I wonder if my troll who called me navel grazing knew that I might take him so…seriously.

Except no, I don’t care about trolls so much.

But I have to tell you about the ones that were all up in my shit on the Toy With Me article last week. They hurted my feelers and made me sad in the pants. Because, Pranksters, you’ll like this: I got someone who got pretty pissed about it. Now, I was in surgery when the Shit Went Down. When I came out, the last thing I wanted to do was to be all WHAT’S THE INTERNET DOING!?! so I didn’t check until Friday.

On Friday, I saw that while I was under the knife, someone had been being all In My Face over there and THEN, had gone to the trouble of blocking me on The Twitter. Which, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

I’m in surgery, you moron. I’m not getting up to engage in a flame war.

Whatever. Now I’m just all, IS THE RHYTHM REALLY GONNA GET ME LIKE GLORIA ESTEFAN SAID? Because, freaky.

(thanks to my Twitter friend I will later link to for putting that horrid idea in my head)

OH! And I shared an incredibly personal story about antenatal depression, which TOTALLY does not match the tone of this whacked out post here on Postpartum Progress. I wrote it BEFORE I was stoned and on heavy-duty painkillers. Which, heh, yeah. You should read it. It’s important. This post, however, my old ass troll would LOVE.

OMFGBBQ, PRANKSTERS, I MISSED YOU. You don’t even KNOW how much I missed you. I missed you so much that I am actually sitting here, crouched over my computer like a Letter C, in actual pain, because I missed of you and was sad in the pants because I WAS SO VERY ALONE (and lonesome) WITHOUT YOU.

I think that means I’m alive. That, or death looks remarkably like my life.

Since I do not have long in this Letter C position before I pass out from lack of oxygen, I will give you the highlights.

I woke up from The Surgery in the post-op recovery room to someone singing the pina colada sing. If you don’t know it, be glad. (Or, at the very least, know that you’ve probably never sung listened to other people warble bad bar karaoke as much as I have.)

Anyway, I like the song because I am 12 and I have changed the words from, “If you like pina colada’s and dancing in the rain…” to “if you like PENIS COLADA’S and dancing in the rain.” Which is much awesomer, and far more hilarious, BECAUSE GET IT!?! PENIS COLADA!?!

HILARIOUS.

Then I was all, “So, what did the surgeon say?” because frankly, who doesn’t want to know how their motherfucking surgery went? And the nurse was all, “you’ve asked me that four times” like I was an asshole idiot for not remembering that. I mean, hi, POST-OP RECOVERY ROOM. She should have been glad I wasn’t flinging my shit around. Ass.

Still, no one told me about my surgery. For all I knew, I could have gotten a nose job instead. Which I hadn’t wanted.

So, finally, they moved me to my floor, where Dave told me that the surgery went well. I don’t know what that means, suffice to say that they took off 6 pounds of crap, moved a bunch of muscles around and gave me morphine through a button that I could press whenever I wanted. That was more than “well,” but you know.

THEN, I got my roommate. Pranksters, she needed a taco kick because apparently, she’d never heard of the concept of an “inside voice” or “personal space.” The moment I arrived, she began to shriek. Not like, in anguish, just like her normal speaking tone. Bitch couldn’t fucking shut her whore mouth. For four hours. At one point, she was arguing with her mother, talking on the phone AND watching television while inviting her husband to bring her food. At 8 PM. I’d been trying to nap off the surgery for that entire time to no avail. She had no medical reason to be there other than she seemed to enjoy the attention.

It was then when I informed the staff that one of us would be moving.

I must have looked serious because they moved her right away.

Anyway.

I’m home now and while I’d like to say that laying around and recovering is full of the awesome, I’m kind of bored. Also: in some pretty bad pain. I’d describe what I’ve been doing, but primarily it involves “sitting on the couch,” “peeing” and “laying down.” If I had wet paint, I’d be watching it dry. If there was grass growing, I’d be watching that, too.

I’m wearing a binder, which means I can’t eat, which also explains why those ladies in the 1900’s were skinny. Binders = corsets = HOLY SHIT, NO ROOM IN THE INN.

Also, I feel like a cockroach. You never realize how much you use your abs for until they’re all “peace out, asswipe.” If I’m stuck in bed, I’m still stuck there until I’m later retrieved. It’s pretty good punishment, I guess.

Now I’m left to moulder on the couch and debate the true question of the ages: who sang the better version of “Hair of the Dog?”

I didn’t spend as much time on Twitter today. I was all busy with the work and stuff and then the Internet was down. From our office. And an entire office of technology people stopped and wandered around aimlessly for they knew not what to do. I looked at an actual paper catalog, people. It was bizarre. When I got back on Twitter – from home, you understand, I saw that there was a Twitter topic that was all about Tweeting to your 16 year old self. It inspired this letter. Now, I never write this kind of stuff on my own site. I never get too far from the ridiculous on mine. And Becky wanted me to just do funny, but this was stuck in my head and it had to come out and I sort of hoped that maybe it would be okay too. Because the beauty of Becky’s site is that sometimes, you don’t have to be funny. I hope that this is okay with y’all. I’ve got one more that I can come back and do that is full of the funny, but I had to get this out first. Hugs ~Guilty Squid

Dear 16 year old me,

I’m pretty sure you’re going to have a hard time believing it’s me. For one thing? It’s going to seem really stupid that if I had the ability to send a letter back in time, I wouldn’t actually go back in time my whole self, but science is very confusing for us and we don’t actually understand all of the technology involved, just that it worked. If you’re still in doubt then I’ll tell you that I know on the weekend of your 16th birthday, you cried bitterly and you said something selfish and stupid to Daddy that we can’t forget and even though you didn’t mean it? You wish you could take it back. Also? I know exactly where you got that Def Leppard T-Shirt, and it wasn’t from a concert. Yeah, that’s right. You believe me now, don’t you?

Listen, if I had my way, we’d never need to have this letter. You’ve spent a lot of time wondering how your life would be different “if” and you’ll spend a lot more time wondering. Hell, we probably won’t ever stop wondering. But the truth is you’re going to be okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it, and there’s going to be lots of days where it doesn’t seem like it, but you will be okay. One day? Someone will understand and you’ll spend many happy moments on the road to “okay”. Hang in there.

School sucks for us and it doesn’t ever really get better. Teachers are going to say a lot of crappy things to you because they don’t understand you. Please stop listening to those awful things they say. They are wrong. They are so, so wrong. Forget about trying to make them happy and do more things that you enjoy.

Not that every teacher is going to suck. Take time to thank Mrs. Simmonds. She’s going to love the things you write and she’s going to spend so much time helping you build your confidence. And your vocabulary. What she will give you will shape who you become later in life, and trust me – she didn’t have to spend all that extra time encouraging you. She’s the first person who looks past the fear you have and sees the amazing person inside. She’s helping the awesome that is inside you. She’s making sure you’ll be ready to shine. Thank her.

Stop trying to fit in. In a few years, everyone will be fighting to stand out from the crowd. You’re already ahead of the game. Fitting in usually ends badly, anyway. All the times that you say no to things even though saying yes would make you fit in, will be something that you’ll be proud of your entire life. Remember, you’re going to be okay.

Hug Daddy more often. Hug him harder and listen to him more. Enjoy being with him. He’s the first man who loved you unconditionally. Do better showing him how much you love him too. The next time you hug him, do me a favor, would you? Take a minute to just breathe in the smell of Dad’s cologne and relax in the safety of his hugs. Then remind us to never, ever forget that moment.

Skip the typing class with the big clunky typewriters and the business class with the actual ledgers. Just trust me. It’s a total waste. I know you’ll want to take the class that most kids take, but go on and take that computer programming class instead. Just trust me on this one.

I know you told that guy Johnny “no” right before school started. And you did the right thing. He wasn’t the one, and it wasn’t right. (Uh, seriously, he ended up on something called Baywatch and no one ever heard his name again. Plus? That acne is not going to clear up on him for years. Which also means you probably just realized we’re still somewhat superficial.) My point is, you were right to say no to Johnny and you really should say no to Brad. You’re going to fall for him. And for a couple of years you’ll make him your world. But it will end, you’ll get your heart broken, and you’ll end up doing a lot of stupid things for a lot of stupid years because you won’t understand that it’s okay to just walk away when you have that first nagging feeling of it not being right. Which reminds me: Start listening to that feeling. Trust yourself. Stop pushing that feeling and that reaction down and moving forward in spite of it. Move in a different direction because of it.

This high school thing is not the best time of your life. It’s not even close. You’ve got a great deal ahead of you and you won’t even believe how you turn out. You have friends. You have great kids. You write all the time. It’s fantastic over here and you’ll be glad you made it to this place. You laugh. You go months without nightmares. You never really get over the whole birthday thing, but those friends I mentioned? They understand it. And they love you anyway.

You’re going to be okay.

We’re going to be okay.

I am okay.

Hang in there.

Love~

Me

P.S. Let’s just try to love ourselves a little more, okay?

P.P.S. Oh, and that dress that your Aunt talks you into getting? That blue number with the lace collar? Just, no. No, no, no.

P.P.P.S. Hammer-Time is *not* going to last forever, so don’t get any of those pants, George Michaels is gay, and save your money and buy all the stock you can in something called Google as soon as you can.

P.P.P.P.S. I KNOW! The George Michaels thing seems so obvious after you look back at the old Wham! videos, right?

What do you call a PS that comes before the whole post? A Pre-PS? Pre-PS – The following probably won’t make much sense, so you can totally just skip ahead to the pictures. If you’ve never read me, then it definitely won’t make sense, but if you’re familiar with me, then you know it’s just been another Wednesday.

I don’t know if y’all know me, but I’m Guilty Squid. I’m a self proclaimed Internet Superstar, Unofficial Spokesperson for Urban Spoon and the 2010 Internet Coroner. That last one was by popular vote. So people like me, dammit!

Best of all? I have real friends. On the Internet. And one of those is your Aunt Becky.

Aunt Becky was brave enough to let me at this place while she’s out of commission, because she worries about you people worrying. So I was all, “Dude, updates? I can post updates!” I mean, I’m totally baffled why y’all would even want updates on my day, but you know what? I was all, “Shut UP me. If Becky needs updates, then dammit, that’s totally what I’m going to give her people!”

Also, I’m ADHD and I write like I think so it’s not so much with the carefully thought out stuff, it’s all fast forward and sporadic and covered in crazy. In other words? Awesome.

Yesterday at lunch I gave my boss a disembodied head to drink his coffee from and I have to be honest, I’m totally getting a promotion probably just from that one gesture. Honestly, I’m not sure why I don’t have more friends with my smooth moods. The update here is that while in a meeting this morning, the boss texted me:

If giving your boss a disembodied head is wrong, then who wants to be right?

And then sometime hours after I wrote all that, I finally got away from work and stuff and things and was all, Dammit. This is why I don’t have friends. Because the updates? They didn’t come.

There were a lot of things that happened though. First, two of the geeks in the office wanted me to go to lunch with them, but I was totally planning to do some shopping at lunch so I sent the guys off to have lunch with each other. And then they were all, “You should have come to lunch with us.” which was nice and all, but then it was, “No, you really should have come with us.” and then I was all, “Wait. WHAT?” And then it was, “You help break the ice.” and that’s when it totally hit me. I’m the most social of this particular group. That’s never happened. Which just was probably not as full of the win as I feel like it is, but I’m totally pretending that it is.

But, the overall greatness is that I can totally give you the notes of the updates in a rundown form for Becky and even though this probably seems like it’s getting posted really late, I’m pretty sure it’s just the time difference. If you’re in Japan, then I’m posting this yesterday which would mean that Becky hadn’t even HAD her surgery yet so I’m the best friend ever. How lucky is she anyway? Pretty damn lucky, it would seem.

Anyway, the next thing I knew it was all late and I still hadn’t hit post, so y’all are just getting my notes.

So, yeah. I guess this was a fail. But good news, everyone! I get to come back and post AGAIN this week.

I’ll try to do better then, but to be honest? I’m sort of easily distracted, so that could end up as anything.

And Becky? I got you a little something.

Note to Dave: This is how you get out of trouble. Some bling with her name on it. You can have that advice for free. You're welcome.

Just a quick note to let you know that Aunt Becky is recovering well with her Painkiller Button Of Goodness.

To all who have pestered me for status updates, tweeted your well wishes, IM’ed, texted, or just thought of Becky while she went under the knife: THANK YOU. You guys go to eleven.

I know that Guilty Squid is preparing a guest post for the Internets but there seems to have been some sort of delay…so until then, or until they take away the Happy Button and send Becky back home to her crazy chilluns, I’m off to…uh…do whatever it is I do when, uh…Becky’s not around.

This is so weird.

Tomorrow, I will surgery.

That sounded so epic in my head. Like something you’d hear from a particularly dramatic scene in one of those annoying dramatic movies I don’t watch because they’re filled with trite dialog like, “Tomorrow, I will surgery…” stares off into the distance poignantly, perhaps clutching a heart locket or maybe a tattered book.

Either way, I’m scheduled to go under the knife tomorrow sometime. Because it’s the hospital, they don’t exactly GIVE you a time and then stand by it or anything. Dave can’t comprehend that, which means it’s a good thing he doesn’t work in medicine, or his head might explode into pulpy bits because he simply cannot comprehend how something cannot be at! a! given! time!

I mean, I get it. When I worked as a floor nurse, people would be all, “when is radiology coming to get me for my imaging study?” and I’d be all, “sometime today,” knowing ‘today’ is a nebulous concept in a hospital, where variables upon variables stack upon one another. Someone urgent needs the CT scan or the OR and you get booted from your time slot. Tough shit, home slice. Except you can’t SAY that to a patient even if you want to because, well, OBVIOUSLY.

So I’m assuming that I’ll have surgery. Except that maybe I won’t. Because shit happens, man.

But in the event that I do indeed have The Surgery, I’m really excited. I’m nervous, too, but really, I’m excited. It’s nice to finally be able to have a dream that I can accomplish. Okay, that was too Lifetime Movie of the Week for me.

In the event that I have The Surgery tomorrow, I’m thrilled because I’ll FINALLY have an excuse to lay around pop pain pills while I make others do my bidding. THAT is pretty much my life’s dream.

And uh, DRUGS ARE BAD, KIDS, Look at Your Aunt Becky. You don’t want to turn out like Your Aunt Becky. Remember that the next time you’re offered drugs by a gang of peer-pressuring street thugs. Or Lil Wayne. He’s a walking anti-drug campaign.

Scared straight yet, bitches?

Tomorrow it is.

Hopefully, I won’t die. Because that would suck.

I’ll update as I can from the hospital (yay! WI-FI) as I am staying overnight and likely housed with a roommate who will probably be a total psychopath, which means I will get zero sleep, so YOU will get drug-addled posts about the BUBBLE PEOPLE ATTACKING ME ZOMG THE BUBBLE PEOPLE, but I may or may not be up to returning emails.

Especially if they begin:

“Dear Blogger, we think your readers will love…”

Also: Wrote about body image at Toy With Me.

I pretty much live in the awesomest neighborhood ever. There’s a house that passes out beer and “severed fingers” (hot dogs) to the parents. Someone up the block makes Irish coffee. A couple other people make mini-haunted houses for the older kids. Really, you can’t go wrong.

And I love Halloween. I haven’t been feeling well lately, so I didn’t get as into it this year as I normally do, but you know, can’t win at life ALL THE TIME.

I didn’t know what to expect this year. Ben shrieked for his first three Halloweens, Alex was flabbergasted for his first two, and Amelia was merely indifferent last year.

This year, Alex and Ben were full of the excited for Halloween.

I’m motherfucking fluttering, okay?

When Amelia saw Ben dressed like this, she ran around the house going, “ARRRR!” Because she knows a pirate says, “ARRRR.”

She rules.

Now the only child without a costume was Amelia. It’s not that we didn’t WANT to get her a costume or that we were all, “YOU CAN’T HAVE A COSTUME, AMELIA,” it’s just that every time any one of us tried to explain the concept of Halloween, we realized how absurd it sounded:

“So, we dress up as other people and then go ask our neighbors for candy.”

“We put on costumes and trick-or-treat.”

“We go door-to-door dressed up and say, ‘trick or treat.'”

Yeah. It sounds like that.

So of course, Amelia was baffled and I wasn’t about to drop a significant amount of cash on something that baffled her, so instead, I picked her out a reasonable costume at Old Navy, and figured at worst, she could wear some jammies. She’s a little girl. Who cares? If someone had an issue with a non-dressed up ickle girl, they could talk to my Fists of Fury.

When I got the costume in the mail, though, I made a big deal of presenting it to her, like it was this big prize. “OH AMELIA, LOOK AT THIS PRETTY PRETTY THING!”

She took a look at it, grabbed it from my hands and threw it on the ground and began to stop on it. I grabbed it away before she could take a shit on it. Her fury was hilarious if not slightly baffling. It was a fairy princess costume, not something that should really have evoked ire in a toddler. I mean, this is the child who loves pink, sparkles and Mary Janes. She’s my daughter, after all.

But…okay. To the closet it went.

Until yesterday.

She saw her brothers dressed up, and as she was getting on her ballerina jammies, on a whim, I grabbed out the Fairy Princess costume to show her.

She grabbed it from my hands, and instead of attempting to take of her diaper to take a whizz on it, she lovingly caressed it, then hooted her desire to put it on. When it was safely on, she ran over to the mirror to take a look at herself in the pretty dress. She smiled.

Then she went up to her eldest brother, stole his sword and the costume was complete:

It’s Amelia The Pirate Fairy, BITCH.

Where Alex, my ickle Jay was afraid to go from house to house the first year he could toddle around, Amelia marched up to each door, hooted when she got her candy, and ran as fast as her thunder thighs would allow her to the next house, keeping handily up with her brothers.

I swear, Pranksters, I was misty with pride. My girl, she’s fierce.

AMELIA, FUCK YEAH.

P.S. You should visit my home slice Peggy and her Etsy shop. Why? Because she’s crafty and I’m not.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I hesitated to ask this question, because deep down, I think I know the answer, I just don’t want to believe it.

My husband of 6+ years has developed a noticeably heavier drinking habit lately than he has had in the 9+ years that I have known him. We have a 4.5 year old son together. I love my husband, but the Dr.Jekyll/Mr. Hyde syndrome is wearing down my nerves, my energy, and my self-esteem.

He has begun to curse at me in front of our son, tell me that I am not allowed to eat dinner and then throw it away. He has threatened to forcibly have sex with me. He’s told me that he will have me committed. I suffer from anxiety and depression for the last 3.5 years but am stable and compliant on my meds, seeing my counselor regularly. He tells me that I am fat, stupid, lazy, a lousy housekeeper, a bad mother…

I work 6 nights a week every week, do almost all of the housekeeping, the laundry and ironing, most of the child care when our son is not in daycare, and pay all the bills.

I am also trying to go to college. I love my husband, and here and there I dream of happily-ever-after – which he says is fairy-tale bullshit. “This is what marriage is” he says. I don’t want my little boy to grow up without his dad, but I don’t want him to grow up LIKE him even more. I am thinking that I should leave. Take my son and move out.

Part of me wants to have more class about it than his last wife did (surprised?), part of me wants to take everything but the house and let him have back a piece at a time until he gives me what I want: full custody. I think he loves our son, but he has a cruel streak and refers to him as a “son of a bitch” or a “motherfucker” within his hearing. I do not think that he is good for our son in the state he’s in now with the drinking and the verbal abuse and bullying. I am scared: scared of him, scared that I can’t do it, scared I’ll cave if he gets sober and then he’ll go right back to it.

I did leave him once before, but didn’t make it a week, and things weren’t nearly this bad then. My parents and sister will support me emotionally if I leave, and have offered to help financially where they can, but I do not feel right asking them for money. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how this happened to me.

Please help me, Aunt Becky.

———————

Abuse refers to harmful or injurious behavior to another human being

Verbal Abuse: constant name-calling, labeling, ridicule, making fun of, mocking, spoken threats, and regular bullying. Verbal abuse can occur at schools, in homes or at the workplace. It can be very hard to prove verbal abuse as it’s often hard to obtain evidence, even though it’s incredibly damaging. The victim can be told that it’s “all in their head” or that it’s “a joke” and made to feel that the constant attacks are really their own fault or their own problem. This can lead to long-term psychiatric damage to their self-esteem and self-image.

(information taken from Abuse Resource Page of Band Back Together)

Domestic Violence Resource Page on Band Back Together

Prankster, I’m so sorry that you’re in this position. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY deserves to be abused, and your husband is abusing you. You do not deserve this. If any ONE of my Pranksters reading this is in the same position as the writer, know that I am addressing you, as well:

YOU DO NOT DESERVE THIS.

The subject line was “is this what marriage is supposed to be?” and my answer is, of course, FUCK NO. Marriage is about love and more importantly, about partnership. Marriage isn’t always good or always easy, but it is never, ever supposed to be like this. Ever.

Prankster, please get out of there. Please go. You mentioned that you have family that will support you and that’s full of the awesome. Here is a list of state-by-state resources available to victims of domestic abuse. At the bottom of this post, I’ve listed other abuse hotlines.

I was in an abusive relationship, too. There are a lot of us out there who have been there before and have gotten out. We’re on the other side and we want you to join us. We’re here for you here, and more importantly, I think that Band Back Together has an awesome network of support, too. You’re not alone. We’ve all got your back and you can do this.

Pranksters, help me out here. Help me help this Prankster.

Much love to you, Prankster. Please be safe.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline:

1.800.799.SAFE (7233)

National Child Abuse Hotline

1-800-4-A-CHILD

National Sexual Assault Hotline

1.800.656.HOPE

Elder Abuse (state hotlines vary):

Visit National Center on Elder Abuse for a directory of state hotlines

Because now that I am officially a fugitive-at-large scheduled for surgery that I wasn’t quite expecting to happen so, well, SUDDENLY, I am now carefully spraying down every surface of my house with bleach. And Lysol. And then more bleach. Why? Because GERMS EXIST WHERE CROTCH PARASITES LIVE.

Also, one of the major risks for a surgery like mine is infection, so there you have it. I am trying to minimize my risks WHILE staying sane. Also Also: if anyone knows anyone local who can paint some walls, like, in the next three days, CALL ME.

Because obviously.

(and yes, I was serious about the come sit on my couch, yo, offer)

I invited my home slice Mompetition to guest post for me. So I could go buy more bleach. And maybe stare adoringly at my John C. Mayer pictures. A lot.

But I’m over at Mushroom Printing and I’ll prolly be over at Band Back Together because I am obsessive. They’re group blogs, yo, so you can post there too. FANCY.

——————–

Aunt Becky asked me to do a guest post. Besides a moment filled with excitement and glee, I felt an overwhelming sense of, well shit, what do I write about?  Typically, I like to write about amusing topics.  Perhaps one of my tales from days cooped up in a laboratory, pounding out the cure for cancer.  Or I could tell you the tale of worms who frolicked in my toilet.  That’s right, worms.  Someone (not a member of my family), had gone poopoo in a guest toilet we never used, and failed to flush.  A week went by and I noticed a horrid smell.  I opened the lid and to my horror I found black water and worms swan diving into the sewage.  Yes.  It happened.

But instead, words that Aunt Becky told me (ok, not me specifically, so I guess I should use the word “US”) resound in my ears.  It is important to be honest with your audience.  People yearn for truth and hence, will be drawn into the prose.  Let’s talk about feminism aka, wearing your vagina on the outside, as well as the inside.

Growing up I was constantly told I could be anything:  a veterinarian, an artist, a brain surgeon, anything my little pig-tailed heart desired.  I did my time in high school and then went to college.  I majored in genetics.  It seemed that was not enough, I felt the canines of Virginia Woolf, piercing through my brain.

Next, I continued on to graduate school and completed my studies in cancer biology earning a PhD.  During this time I struggled with infertility and triumphantly gave birth to boy/girl twins after my graduation.  At the same hospital, I had found a fantastic job that I loved.  I utilized my writing talents, people incorporating skills and even had a boss that understood my quirky sense of humor.  Then, I gave birth to my babies and 12 weeks after their birth returned to work.  I smiled each day and enjoyed the coffee break complete with alone time at my desk.  But inside, I was dying.

No one told me it was OK to “just be a mother”.  Staying at home with your children was something our grandmothers and great-grandmothers did.  Stanton and Anthony didn’t work their bustles off so that I would merely sit at home and be a wife and mother.  Oh no no.  I owed it to our sub species to work work work and be proud of my success.  I would stare at my business card mounted on my desk and daydream about what my babies were doing at daycare.  Were they sticking to their routine?  Did the ladies there remember to not do tummy time with my daughter?  Is my son smiling at that other woman who is holding him close.

I worked and worked, some days I would only see them for 30 minutes total.  I was not happy.  Then, it happened.  I got the best news I ever. We had to move.  My husband’s job relocated us halfway across the country to the sweltering craplands of Miami.  I was in heaven.  Now, I had an excuse to quit my job and not return to work.  “OH! getting a job in Miami?  We may only be there for a few years, it’s not worth it for me to try and find a job.”

We moved.  I stayed home.  I was happy.  Sure there were a few days (weeks!) that sucked here and there.  Nap refusals, food thrown in my face, children rolling around on the floor trying to bite one another, all that good infant-toddler transition stuff, but it was the happiest I had ever been.

Then, we had to move back.  We all came back to Texas and suddenly it wasn’t an anomaly that I was unemployed.  Back in our home state, back with connections, back where people spoke English, I had no excuse not to go find a job.  I chose not to and decided to be, a STAY AT HOME MOM (dun dun duuunnn).

I hate it when strangers ask what I do.  I still feel the need to justify or say things like “well just until they start school”.  Don’t worry, I will work again, please don’t think less of me.  I also hate forms.  “Employer?”  “Work Phone?”  My answers are always bitchy or full of sub-text.  I wonder if anyone catches it.

I find it interesting that as little girls, we are given baby dolls to play with.  Yet, when I was growing up I was never told it was “OK” to be a mommy.  Playing mommy was for fun, but you better finish college.  Where was all my inner struggle coming from?  GUILT.  Guilt that I was letting all the women who had come before me down.  I had the brains and drive to be a successful working woman, I owed it to them to climb that ladder.  And then, one day, it hit me.  Feminism is not about being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company or being the chief of medicine, it was about having a CHOICE.  I can be a woman in a suit or a woman in a rocking chair.   It’s OK to be a stay at home mom to support my husband in his career and be with my children 24 hours a day.  If that is what I chose to do, so be it.

Many don’t get it.  A woman I once worked has called it a “shame”, and “such a waste of talent”.  Others comment on why I bothered to get my doctorate if I’m JUST going to be a mom.  My friends without children constantly ask me when I’m “going back to work”.  Every time someone says that it makes me want to hurt them, possibly slowly and painfully with voodoo needles.  But instead, I normally follow it up with the passive-aggressive “what do you mean?”  Whether they meant it or not, I thank my fore-mothers for standing up for my rights to be employed by my husband and children.

My only hope, for anyone out there who struggles with the insecurities of this job, is that you are comforted in knowing you are ALLOWED to be whatever you want to be, even if it is a bugger rag for your babies.

A couple of weeks ago, because I’d been too busy watching dancing cat videos, I forgot that I had Jury Duty. I’d actually been pretty excited to serve, because I watch Law and Order: Their Life Sucks More Than Yours So Shut Your Whore Mouth like it is my job and I was all, “IMMA JURY OF MAH PEERS, YO” so when I opened my date book and saw I was four hours to late to show up, I panicked.

Immediately, I tried to figure out what to do when the cops showed up to bust me for contempt of court. I put on a full face of makeup and hid in the bathtub for awhile while I contemplated blacking out a couple of my teeth, just in case COPS, the TV show, showed up, too. I mean, this was my television debut, and I should act the part, right?

Eventually, I got cold and bored and the lure of Uncrustables pulled me from the tub. I put on one of those fake mustache and glasses, which meant that when the cops DID show up, I’d fool them. Clearly, I wouldn’t look like Your Aunt Becky any more. I’d look like an entirely different person now!

The following day, I realized that I liked to wait as much as I liked to cook (read: not at all), so I called the number on the back of the Jury Duty summons.

Me: “I’m a total idiot and forgot to show up yesterday for Jury Duty. I considered fleeing the country, but figured I’d call you first. I’m really sorry.”

Her: “Bwahahahaha! Happens all the time. We weren’t going to arrest you.”

Me: “OHMYGOD I hid in the bathtub for an hour. But it was really like twenty minutes. But still, I’M SO SORRY.”

Her: “BWAHAHAHAHA! The cops do have better things to do than stalk people who forget Jury Duty.”

Me: “OHMYGOD that’s so relieving. I didn’t want to have to adopt a new identity!”

Her: “No! You don’t have to do that! We’ll just put you back in the Jury Pool. When is good for you?”

Me: “Doesn’t really matter. I don’t have a job or anything.”

Her: “How’s November 8th?”

Me: “Sign me up!”

Her: “You got it.”

So there I had it. My new date in court! I was all a-flutter! I was going to help DECIDE THE FATE OF SOMETHING OTHER THAN A DELICIOUS UNCRUSTABLE. I couldn’t have been more excited.

Until, looking at my slightly unexpected surgery date, November 3rd, I realized that November 8th was…uh…kinda close. Like, really close.

I debated what I should do. Should I call and try to reschedule AGAIN? Get a doctor’s note? Limp my sorry ass in there with a cane and sexy drains hanging out, all doped up on pain meds?

SHOULD I FLEE THE COUNTRY AND ADOPT A NEW IDENTITY?

To think straight, I put on the fake mustache and glasses. Then I called the Jury Duty lady and left it up to her.

January 3.

Watch out, petty criminals: AUNT BECKY is coming to give you JUSTICE.

Probably while wearing my fake mustache. Just so I can think straight. AND so they can’t find me and firebomb my car or something. Because, obviously.

No one will recognize me!