When I’d first begun dating Dave, he took me to his friend’s house so that I could meet them.

Sweet, I thought to myself, I’ll choose the BEST shirt I own.

The shirt itself, which I’d once picked up at Old Navy for approximately 42 cents* was a sight to behold – it was Peter Max style –

I actually had these bedsheets growing up. AND YOU WONDER WHY I’M LIKE THIS.

and prominently displayed across the boobs, “Free To Be You and Me.”

Me, I just liked the bargain.

But I knew the shirt could be, well, BETTER (and it neither involved vodka OR cowbell, I should note): I could add my NAME to the back of it. But not my REAL name; no. My NICKNAME, which was, at the time, “StinkyButt.” Not because my ass reeked or anything, I simply liked that nickname. I mean, what girl ACTIVELY calls herself “StinkyButt?”

(answer: a very select few).

Over at his friend’s house, his friend Rob goes, “Oh my GOD, I LOVE MARLO THOMAS! I grew UP on that record.”

I stared back – completely confused – was he talking about the musical Hair, which I’d been forced to watch on more than one occasion? Or, uh, was it in reference to the StinkyButt name on the back of my shirt.

“Oh my GOD,” Rob said. “You have NO idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

I shook my head slowly and replied slowly – “noooooooooooooo…..”

He slapped his forehead. “I’m SO fucking OLD!” he cried. “Wait – are you in high school?”

I giggled a little, “Nope, I’m 22.”

Apparently that answer did NOT help and he groaned, “I’m SO old!”

We both burst into gales of laughter.

—————-

I don’t remember the last time I felt truly free to be (you +) me.

When I got married, I tried everything I could to be a good wife. Dave’s a great guy – I’m sorry if I’ve ever made it sound on my blog that Dave is anything less than a great person. He doesn’t deserve that – we are, as I’ve said to many, simply two people who went their own ways. It’s sad (hence my crying hour) that it had to happen this way – we certainly hadn’t planned to allow things to get as bad as they had.

I’ve always been the classic overachiever – I can do ANYTHING! BRING IT THE FUCK ON! – which included being a good wife and a loving mother. There’s no doubts that I love my children fiercely – they have brought me redemption and filled my world with colors I didn’t know existed. I’ll never regret marrying Dave – without him, my world would never have become as bright as it is.

That said, I didn’t make a good wife.

I won’t say that I didn’t try, because I approach most everything from a balls to the wall, y’all perspective, but the steps I took weren’t enough; no matter homemade lasagnas you make or how spotless the floor is, two people who see the world in very different ways won’t magically see eye-to-eye just because you love one another.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t blame myself for the state of our union any more than I blame Dave: we both played our part and we’re both walking away from this to find our own happy. And in my case, I’m going to find that girl who feels free to be whomever she really is, deep down in there. A girl I can be proud of. A girl who makes her own way, no matter how odd, fucked up, or twisted it may be.

It will be there that I can finally feel free to be (you +) me.

————–

Pranksters, I owe you a debt of gratitude I can only repay (at the moment) with words. Without feeling the love you’ve bestowed upon me; without feeling like I have an army supporting me during my good AND bad moments, I do not know that I would get through this transition as well.

Writing has always been my outlet, my free therapy, and the way in which I process the events in my life – both good AND bad. For nearly a year, I lost that freedom, but not because I was told I could only write about:

• John C. Mayer
• My hatred of mayonnaise
• My vagina

No, it was more complicated than that – tell any writer that they cannot write about something fairly big in their lives, and they’ll feel as though their fingers had been chopped off. Suddenly, that’s the only thing I could think to write about and I know that my writing suffered for it. I’d actually considered shutting my blog down because, well, I never had much of value to say.

But in opening up about my marriage and divorce, I suddenly felt as though feeling in my fingers had returned – I’d managed to find the part of me that had been buried for so long. That brings me more joy than I can possibly express.

Knowing that you’re here – that you’ve been here – and that you’ve got my back, there’s no value I can place on that. Every word you’ve written, every email you’ve sent has reminded me that I will, in fact, come through this and be better for it. It all matters.

All of it.

“Thank you,” hardly seems enough, but I’ll say it anyway. Thank you, my friends, my chosen family** for being there for me. It is a debt I will forever owe you.

Thank you.

Thank you for reminding me that it’s okay to be free to be (you +) me.

———

*Bargains make my vagina happy.

**No, don’t drink the KoolAid

We went down to the edge of the water,
You were afraid to go in.
You said there might be sharks out there in the ocean,
And I said I’m only going for a swim

-“No Mermaid”

Sinead Lohan

I awoke Monday morning with something gnawing in my guts. Assuming it wasn’t a tapeworm or other types of parasitic organisms, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I tried to ascertain why, exactly, I was panicking.

Oh right.

It’s Monday.

And while I don’t particularly care for Monday’s one way or another, I remembered it was D-Day. The day in which I would tour the apartment complex I had once lived, many lifetimes ago. Sweetly nestled into the banks of the Fox River, surrounded by trees and flowers, the park within walking distance, I knew that if I was going to move out – to create a sanctuary for myself – it would be to this complex. Having lived in the area since I was five, I knew which apartments were good and which were not. These, it turns out, were the best in the area. A quick 3 minute jump across the river from my house, I knew that this was to be my next step.

However, I was still scared shitless.

Never having lived alone before; knowing that I’d be able to make rent as well as keep up on things like “the phone bill,” well, no one said I was born with great common sense. See also my old phone:

(Enlarged to show the AWESOME)

Visibly shaking like an overgrown Chihuahua, I waited for my appointment at 1:30 to tour the property and see how small this unit truly was (answer: not too shabby). I chattered on like I do when I’m nervous to the lady who was showing me the property, explaining that I was going through a divorce and moving out. I fist-bumped myself when I realized I’d only cried once. It was like some kind of record for me.

Back in the manager’s office, I began the arduous task of filling out a mountain of paperwork. It was then that I realized how lazy I’d gotten – I was so accustomed to TYPING that trying to write by hand with my awesome fireworks blister on my index finger on my right hand made my penmanship look as though I’d filled out the application with my toes.

I was all, “Damn, I’m good at filling out shit. Lookit ME knowing the answers and stuff! I should win an award of AWESOMENESS for my right answers! I bet they’ll give me the apartment just for my awesome answers!”

Until I got to That Page.

The one that asks you about your employment history.

I slumped in my chair.

While I do have my own company and a sparkly shiny name for it, I’ve always operated at a total loss – it’s hard to show paystubs when you’re a freelancer who occasionally gets paid by PayPal.

Before that, I was a stay-at-home parent.

I asked the kind lady with sweet eyes what I should do.

“Hmmmm,” she said, thinking. “Can you get a letter from someone saying they’ll vouch for you and pay your rent if you’re short?”

“Yep,” I said, figuring that I’d be able to ask one or two people to help me out by signing a silly piece of paper. If I came up short on rent, I’d rather take out a Craig’s List “fifty dollars a hand-i-job” listing to make up for any amounts I’d be missing* than ask these people for the money. I’m stubborn and my pride often gets me in trouble – which is why I so rarely ask for help. While I *know* what can happen; the scary shit out there, I am no mermaid. I’ve lived a fearful life a long-ass time, and figured that taking this plunge; this path, would help with other stuff along the way. You know, “if” “then” equations?

I digress.

The two people who I asked to sign a stupid piece of paper – not a cosigner, I should add – didn’t quite feel comfortable doing it. They each had their reasons, most of which boiled down to, “we don’t trust that you’ll make your rent.”

Ouch.

Ouch.

OUCH.

Now, I understand the reasoning and that I can be classified as a risk, but I took their (in)actions to heart – maybe I really wasn’t ready for this. Maybe this was a BAD idea. Maybe I’d not be able to make it on my own. Fear took over and I began the process of doubting everything from my ability to wipe my ass to whether or not I’d forget to pay the electric bill.

Monday was an ugly day.

Tuesday morning, I awoke, dropped off some more stuff at the apartment rental office and headed out to therapy. I’d given it my level best, and if this wasn’t the path I was to take, well, I’d find another way somehow. It was entirely up to me, a both terrifying and awesome feeling.

I explained how I was feeling to my therapist, who promptly asked, “why are you basing your self-worth on those people?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t,” I replied.

But it reminded me of the girl I used to be – the girl who took risks, said, “fuck it, why not?” and didn’t give a shit about whether or not someone approved of her actions. That’s the girl I was. That’s the girl I will be. That’s the girl I am. I may be scared shitless, but I am still that girl.

I know this because this morning, at ass-early o’clock, I got a phone call from the apartment complex.

I have an apartment.

I can do this. I know I can.

If, for no other reason than I love being able to prove motherfuckers WRONG.

I may be living on the river, but I am no mermaid.

Not when I have my army of Pranksters behind me.

*Lies**

**PROBABLY

Last night, long after my eldest and youngest were snuggled up in their wee beds, I laid on the couch, snuggled so firmly in my blankets that I looked (and felt) like a marshmallow peep – and not even one of those kicky-shaped ones – trying to figure out if watching a documentary about female serial killers was the best viewing option while dealing with the dreaded “D Word.”

Before I could get too far into my decision-making, I heard the gentle pitter-patter of what I presumed were tiny boy feet shuffling down the stairs.

“Alex?” I called into the hallway, entirely unsure if the noise I was hearing was the cats barreling through the hallway like they’d just taken a particularity awesome dump.

patter, patter, patter

“Hi Mama,” he said sheepishly, his big eyes, so similar to my own keenly watching me, knowing he was out of bed too late and that I may (but probably not) reprimand him.

“Hi Baby,” I replied, opening my arms wide so he could jump into them and snuggle with me a moment. “Whatchu need, Little One?” I asked gently, moving the hair out of his eyes and scratching his head lightly with my fingers, which he loves.

“Mama,” he looked at me, his eyes so soulful, as if he could see what was behind my own eyes and liked what he saw. “Mama, I’m hungry. I didn’t want to tell you before because (mumbles) but I’m hungry.”

I laughed a little, which came out as a chocked representation of a laugh – the kid is always coming up with weird requests, trying to stall bedtime as long as he could. Sleep, even as a fetus, has always been elusive for Alex, and as a fellow insomniac, I understand all-too-well.

“Whatchu hungry for, Baby?” I asked.

“Mama,” he said, scurrying around the kitchen looking for it, “I smell pizza.”

“I don’t know about that, Baby – we don’t have any pizza,” I explained, “but maybe we could make some tomorrow.”

“How about I give you some crackers to go back to bed with – I know how it is to be hungry,” I suggested.

He thought about it a moment, his small face squinching into a mask of uncertainty – the same look I get when I’m asked what I want from Starbucks – eventually replying, “Yeah, like in a baggie?” His face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Sure, Baby, I can do that,” I said, pulling out the box of Saltines and handing him exactly five while he scampered off to find me a baggie to put them in. For some reason, Ziploc baggies are like kid-crack in my house.

“Why’d you give me five?” he asked, always looking the gift horse in the mouth.

“Because YOU’RE five,” I told him.

“So when I’m six, I’ll get six?” He asked.

“Yeppers!” I replied.

“How many do YOU get, Mama?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t usually eat Saltines, Baby, but if I did, I’d get 32,” I replied.

“You’d waste them ALL,” he said, eyes widening. “Because you don’t like them. How about you give ME 32, instead, so we don’t waste them?” My con-man, at his finest.

“Next time I get 32 Saltines, Baby, I’ll give them all to you,” I assured him. Because I would. Those things taste like sawdust and pregnancy.

I followed my middle child and his baggie of crackers up the stairs, where I tucked him in. “You gonna come check on me, Mama?” he asks, as he does every night.

“Yep, of course, Baby,” I assured him. “I always do.”

“How about in 30?” he asked, specifying no frame of time in particular – could be days, hours, minutes or seconds.

“Okay, Lovie, in 30,” I said, a smile – the first of the day – playing on the corners of my lips.

I went back downstairs, my children tucked neatly in their beds again and resumed my internal debate – to watch women serial killer documentaries or pick something blander – I couldn’t decide, which turned out to be a good thing, because the next thing I heard was:

patter, patter, patter

Alex, again.

“Whatchu doing, Baby?” I asked.

He sat down next to me in my blanket cocoon, where I once again wrapped my arms around him. “Mama?” he said. “I’m sorry you’re so sad.”

Tears welled up in my already-raw eye sockets (pro tip: do not use paper towels as Kleenex while hysterical. Leaves you looking like you have had a particularly bad chemical peel), as I tried to figure out what to say.

“I’m not sad with you, Baby,” I assured him. “Sometimes grown-ups get sad because stuff happens that they don’t expect.”

His eyes, wise beyond his years, nodded.

“But you make me so very happy, J,” I finished. “You’ve made my life so much better.”

He smiled at that thought.

“The second you were born,” I told him, “You made my life better. I was so happy – I’d wanted another little baby so badly and there you were.”

“I peed on the doctor, right?” he asked, giggling.

“You sure did,” I said proudly.

“I was in a bad place when I got pregnant with you,” I went on.

“Like a deep pit?” he asked, always one to make a superhero connection.

“Yeah, Baby, like a deep pit. But it wasn’t a real pit; it was in my head,” I said, hoping to dissuade the notion that I’d been trapped in a well or down at Old Man Crusty-Balls farm – whatever the Scooby Doo shit was.

“Wait – how was it in your head?” he said as I realized I’d just gone above-level on the poor guy.

“I had a lot of really hard things happen for a long time and I was very, very sad,” I said, trying to explain as best I could.

Once more, I wrapped my arms around my squirmy son, and kissed his head, trying not to let the tears show.

“I’m sorry you were sad, Mama,” he said, clucking sympathetically.

“It’s okay, Baby, I wanted YOU to know how happy YOU make me,” I told him.

“I love you, Mama,” Alex said, holding me close. “You make ME happy.”

And with those three words, I knew that while everyone many people in my life may think I’m a fuck-up or a failure, in his eyes, I will always be Mama – and HIS Mama, she is no failure.

Until about age 16, but we’re not going there yet.

Friday’s have historically been the day of the week I looked forward to the very most.

First, it was because we could get drunk off our ass and crawl out of bed to get some McDonald’s (hangover food) at whatever o’clock, our hair all mussed from the party the night before. Then it was because it was the day that signaled Dave would be home for two! whopping! days! and I’d be able to pee alone again. Later still, it signified a date with my daughter to dinner and then Target.

Now, Friday simply signifies the end of the week.

And with my weeks ranging from fucking awful to moderately awful, I’m usually ready for bed by 8PM (which, coincidentally is the same time of day I like to call “The Ugly Cry Time.”) Nights are harder for me than days, and while I’m told this “crying” is supposed to be “helpful,” which is a statement, I think, made by people who write Soap Operas. Because crying usually nets me this: a migraine and puffy eyes. Not exactly the glamorous, slow-tears-falling-from-the-eyes couple with dramatic sighs I’ve seen in movies. This makes me wonder if movies ALWAYS tell the truth, like I’d thought they did.

(next you’ll tell me that everything you read on the Internet is not, in fact, the truth, which I know it is. I mean LOOK AT THOSE WACKY CATS! They’re TOTALLY not photoshopped).

Alas, I digress.

Dawn had insisted that I go with her to check out the Lucky Boys Confusion – an old school Chicago-based band – to “get me out of the house.” Which, in theory, awesome. In reality, I was all, “oh fuck me, college bars and that shit. I fucking hate that bullshit.” But I put on my brave pants and decided that I could do it – I mean, I used to LOVE bars and I love music, so really, it’s a total win….right?

Except, that by the time this particular Friday rolled around, I was ready to do one thing: go sleep off the week.

A little after 8PM, Dawn picked me up and we headed out to Elmhurst, the suburb of Chicago in which I completed my Bachelor’s Degree in nursing. As I was a commuter student – had a squalling baby Ben at home – I didn’t ever get into the nightlife around Elmhurst. “In fact,” I said to Dawn on the way in, “I bet there IS no nightlife – this is fucking ELMHURST.”

She laughed.

We drove past such places as “the train station where I’d spent hours waiting on Metra to pick my sorry ass up,” and “the place with Shitty Chinese we sometimes went to between classes.” I was about to point out “the garbage can in which – this one time – I’d thrown away a granola bar wrapper,” when she suddenly turned and pulled into a parking structure I’d never before seen, a wise move on her part because really, I’d imagine that more stories about, “that’s the spot I once parked my car,” may have made her homicidal. She’d already stopped talking to me once I suggested we start an internet petition to change the name of my alma mater from “Elmhurst College” to “Prestigious Elmhurst University,” because “it sounded fancier.”

(I stared at that sign every day for three years! THREE YEARS!)

We roamed through the parking lot, looking for spaces as douchebags in cars with those fart-tip mufflers whipped around us. Carefully, we noted that the parking lot instructed that it was only to be used for “parking,” which ruined my plans of humping other cars.

Finally, we settled on a spot. As we emerged from the car, we saw this, which delighted me. I’m always a fan of people who also love i(can’t)Phones.

Just. *sniffs* beautiful.

Made even better by noting there was, in fact, a child seat in the car as well. Way to keep things classy, people.

We ambled around to the bar, both of us bemoaning that stupid parking lot sign – I mean, what if we wanted to do something like “have a dance party” in the parking lot? DON’T YOU BE TAKING AWAY MY DANCIN’ SHOES, MR. PARKING LOT PERSON.

The moment we walked in, I got carded, which made me feel marginally better since the place was teaming with people who appeared to be twelve. I instantly regretted that I hadn’t pushed Dawn to go play bingo with me at some church somewhere. I mean, I know you can play bingo online at places such as Galabingo.com (it’s fancy because it has pound signs rather than dollar signs) or whatever, but I wanted to sit with old people and scream “YOU’RE A FUCKING LYING HO, SLUT! FUCK YOU!” whenever anyone else feebly yelled “BINGO.”

We made a beeline for the loo, because we’re old and old people have to pee. It was there that I became confused:

So…lemmie get this straight:

Bathrooms to the left.

Jokers to the right.

BUT WHERE WAS I?

(answer: stuck in the middle with you)

In the bathroom, I used the singularly best app I own to ensure that the toddlers in there, who were all “OMG DID YOU SEE HOW MY NAILS ARE CHIPPED?” and “OMG THIS WATER IS SOOOOOOO HOT,” would have something to talk about.

The iFart app. Which rips the very best ass ever. Like I could BE so lucky to make that noise emanate from my own buttocks. Dawn, who was next to me, began to giggle, which really IS the only response to fart-bombing a bathroom. I made sure to make some groaning noises as I fired off “The Fartinator,” and “Rambowels,” one after the other, just for added effect.

The toddlers who were whining about their nails, mercifully stopped talking and left us old people to discuss adult diapers (I REALLY want to be sponsored by an adult diaper company, Pranksters). I happened to notice that the flock of toddlers hadn’t gone too far – they were standing at the empty downstairs bar obviously waiting to see who (or what) emerged from the bathroom. Dawn pointed at me, and I just shrugged at them, yelling, “welcome to your future, ladies,” as I climbed the stairs in search of a drinky-poo.

Finally, we wrangled our way to the bar where we gave the stink eye t0 a couple of people who were all “Imma sit here,” while I was all, “THAT SEAT HAS MY NAME ON IT, FUCKER!”

We sat down and began to people-watch. We noted a few key people who were part of the Chicago music scene, which made me happy in the pants, because we Chicagoans take ALL things related to Chicago VERY seriously. After I’d slurped down half my beer, I realized that behind me, there was what appeared to be a drag queen trying to knock me off my seat. Her? back was turned and she was all, wearing a leather jacket and all the fuck over this dude. I was baffled – he was just a dude. I also couldn’t see him very well because of the ginormous woman? who was practically rubbing her? vagina on his leg.

Then she moved slightly. And I saw it was the singer from AM Taxi – another Chicago band.

So I says on The Twitter:

Because I was very, very afraid that VD would spread my way.

My girl Alexis saved the day, though:

She then sent me several packets of ciprofloxacin so that I, too, would be safe from the wily groupie VD. I’m going to track down the dude from AM Taxi to give him a few tabs, just because I like to look out for my people. And not with my vagina.

Dawn and I sat there for quite awhile, people-watching and bemoaning our oldness, while trying to figure out why people were running all willy-nilly around the Olympics with fire and shit. DON’T THEY KNOW THAT FIRE IS BAD? I do. You should see my finger.

About midnight, after the two of us had been yawning into our drinks for long enough, we left. The bar had become claustrophobically full of douchebags who I, naturally, photobombed.

Gee, I wonder if he’s single.

I’m starting Shit I Found Saturdays here on my blog, which will exist only Saturdays, (betcha couldn’t have gleaned that from the name) which is cool except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays. So let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the ‘net (I sorta want to punch myself in the throat for saying “the ‘net”) and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts (lies)!

Shit I Read:

Top Ten Reasons I’m Single – She’s stalking him. Not, though, on MySpace, which would be WAY funnier.

Writing Motivation – I’m serious – I know most of you are BIG writers and using this will, I’m sure, get you onto the NYT Bestsellers List.

Living in Backward Land – she writes about living life with a son who has leukemia.

Starbuckets of Love – Who hasn’t slung coffee (or waited tables) and dealt with this person?

Shit I’d Buy if I Wasn’t Broke:

This coffee mug (I made it) – totally rad. I also need it – I don’t know WHY I haven’t gotten myself one.

Submitted by – swalumni

Shit To Make You Feel Like A Lazy-ASs Person:

How To Create Your Own Chalkboard Paint – Super cute. Also? Designed to make you feel like shit about making everything all handmade and shit.

Shit I Couldn’t Fucking Believe:

Drop A Love Bomb: Go read it. Wow.

Shit I Watched:

Shit I Listened To:

You can download Brittany McDonald’s album here.

Shit I Looked At (shut up, Pervo):

(I think we need a Twibbon and a full Internet campaign against BACON ABUSE!)

-Submitted by Maria.

Shit Around My Blog:

Takin’ Ads and Kicking,er NAMES? Anyway, I take ads. Email this address: ads.mommywantsvodka@gmail.com

If’n You Want On Mah Blogroll (and have me on yours) I’m still working on updating it! Go here to add yourself and scroll down the page to hit the “SUBMIT” button.

I added a paypal and a gofundme button to this post, (which made me feel ooky so pretend I did not say that) which I’m slowly dismantling for all the advice you’ve given – it’s fucking incredible. We should all be so lucky to have such wonderful people on our side. I’ll be replying to all the comments, but becasuse I’m anal, I’m taking notes. SHUT UP I AM NOT TYPE A.

——————–

Now it’s your turn. What cool shit have you found? Write it on your own blog and link up or throw it in the comments! Imma try and add them to the big list here (with credit given, natch).

Also? Send me your links throughout the week: becky.harks@gmail.com can be old shit, new shit you wrote, shit that you found, shit that’s awesome, really anyfuckingthing. Because why not?

If you’re interested in helping or have no idea what the nuts I’m talking about, here you go.

While I’ve allowed myself the opportunity to sit around during what I like to call the “crying hour,” moping, feeling sorry for myself, listening to Cat Stevens song, “Wild World,” while sobbing into my Diet Coke, and bemoaning the current series of unfortunate events, I’ve also realized that what I’m about to be doing comes with some upsides.

Going to NashTucky was when I first realized what a big fucking world we live in. Due to a number of circumstances (PTSD, needy children, and throwing myself into Band Back Together like I was actually getting paid for it – which – HAHAHAHAHAHA! YEAH RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKERS)(HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?) *sways arms around all Southside* I’d forgotten what a big, crazy, mixed-up and wild world we live in. The beautiful imperfections of others. The sunsets that seem almost magical.

I’d spent so long, sequestered away in my home, living a very quiet life, away from the wild world. When things got rough, I gritted my teeth and bore it. When I was struggling, I tried not to let on. I mean – there are people WITHOUT motherfucking LEGS! How dare I be upset by being “lonely” or “sad” or even “broken-hearted?” Talk about First World Problems, yo.

And they are that. First World Problems – I’m entirely aware. However, they are MY First World Problems and for all the pushing them aside I’ve done, all the throwing myself into anything; everything to keep my mind off of my “stupid” problems, it led to one thing – a nervous breakdown.

I can’t do that again. No, that’s not it – I won’t do that again.

Instead, I will count my problems as blessings in disguise and remind myself that while I may (for the moment – July isn’t over yet) have two functioning legs, I am allowed my feelings – whatever they may be; that even at my darkest, I will always be able to find the light – even if it’s a light off in the distance. And if I cannot find the light myself, that’s what I have Pranksters for – there is always a solution to be found.

I’ll fill my nights doing things I’ve never before done – going to Ravinia to hear live music, visiting the local Farmer’s Market, learning that in this crazy wild world, there is so much more to be seen; done. And now I can do it all – nothing is stopping me.

I know that my new life will be rife with struggles. Struggles to find work. Struggles to pay the bills. Struggles with using the microwave. But the path I’ve chosen, I now see that I do not walk alone. I know that I will find a way – my way – and do it with grace and dignity. And when I lose my way, I know that I have the support to find my way back. For that, Pranksters, for showing me I am no longer alone, that means everything to me.

I look forward to, once I have settled, repaying the kindness that you, my Pranksters, have bestowed upon me. Someway, somehow, I will.

Because you have reminded me time and again, that I will manage, and I will, in a new life, be able to, once again, start over. I consider that, while so very hard, an incredible blessing. Not many people get an opportunity to start over.

So I will count my blessings, one by one, and remind myself that there’s an entire world out there, just waiting to be explored.

Dear Pranksters,

Before I get into my post “When Fireworks Attack,” I simply wanted you to know how grateful I am for you.

The love, kindness and advice you’ve given me has been what’s keeping me going. I know that being surrounded by items that were given out of love will help remind me that I am not alone, even when I am at my worst.

If you’re interested in helping or offering me advice, I’d more than welcome your help and advice.

I’ve been asked to create an Amazon Wish List for things I’m going to need in the future as the Internet is throwing me a house-warming party (which blows my mind). The only problem is that I have NO IDEA what to ask for.

I’ve also been offered any awesome stuff you have hanging around which I plan to write your name on as a reminder of the people who DO love me. Hokey? YES. But I don’t care.

Anyway, that being here nor there, I wanted you to know that I’ve been patiently going through your comments and have created a massive Google spreadsheet with all of your advice – I will be returning all comments and emails because, well, I love you dearly, and your support has overwhelmed in in the very best of ways.

Anyone going through a similar situation should be reading the comments on this post – the advice is incredible.

Love,

Your Aunt Becky

P.S. Remind me to screenshot my rad google document – it’s amazingly gorgeous.

PPS. SHUT UP, I am NOT Type A.*

—————–

I recall how deeply offended I was when Illinois banned sparklers, thereby banning fun, which I wrote about angrily a couple of summers ago. Because banning sparklers is bullshit.

Or so I maintained…

On our way down to NashTucky, we’d been powering on through as we drove, determined to get to the Gaylord Hotel – where we were staying – in time so that we could get a balcony that opened into the atrium of the hotel. It just seemed like a good damn idea and really, I wanted a damn cheeseburger WITHOUT a side of E. Coli, which is what I’d assumed I’d get if we stopped off to eat. Now that I think of it, spending my birthday weekend partying with E.Coli could’ve been pretty full of the awesome. Although, to be fair, not as awesome a time as the dude we met walking into the hotel who was carrying two boxes of shitty cheap beer to take to his room.

HE knows how to party.

Alas, I digress.

Our eyeballs floating in urine, we finally agreed that a piss break was necessary – I didn’t particularly want to check into the hotel reeking of urine and, well, I’m pretty sure Dawn would’ve dismembered my body and left it in her front seat as a reminder to anyone who dared think of peeing in her car again.

We pulled off the highway and noted that the area we’d walked into was fairly…shady (and I am being generous). Let’s leave it at: I was simply glad it was daytime.

When we saw the fireworks store attached to the gas station, Dawn and I both reached higher and higher heights of orgasmic potential because we’re both accustomed to Illinois banning fun (and impeaching our corrupt governors). It was so cornball, so cheesy, so hilarious that we laughed our way into the gas station, which, based on the dour expression of the dude behind the counter, was not appropriate behavior for those who enter HIS store. We made a beeline for the bathroom, and I graciously allowed Dawn to go first.

“Just don’t stink it up with shit,” I warned, “Or I may have to poop in your pillow tonight.”

She laughed, grabbing her bladder and yelling, “DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH, SLORE!”

I took the opportunity to mosey around the fireworks section of the store, seeing if I could find the one thing I remembered loving during my childhood: sparklers. Money was tight, which meant I wasn’t about to be buying my children (who want for NOTHING) lavish gifts. Sparklers it was. I gleefully handed them to Dawn, after she took what appeared to be six hours peeing in the dingy bathroom, pointing her at the large selection of pork skin related products on display.

“What. The. Fuck. Is. Up. With. Fried. Pork. Skins?” I asked, under my breath.

“Dude, it’s a Southern thing,” she whispered back, like that was supposed explain anything.

I took a befuddled pee while wondering what “It’s a Southern thing” meant, exactly, before returning to retrieve my beloved sparklers and pay for them and get the fuck out of what was now a decidedly creepy-ass place. The more we stayed, the higher my hackles rose.

I walked up to the front counter with my requisite diet Coke and the package of sparklers, marveling at how, in a mere seven hours, I’d managed to get ALL my kids something I just KNEW they’d love. Sure, they might like the explodey-rockets better, but I was no dummy – I get broken toes from making sandwiches, what could those scary fireworks do to me?

I didn’t intend to find out.

The man behind the counter simply glowered at me as he rung up my items, not, for one moment, taking his eyes off of me, even as I noted things like the large collection of “tobacco” pipes prominently displayed at the front register. I figured that as my kids aren’t allowed to consider smoking until they’re AT LEAST 12, I’d made a stellar decision with the sparklers. I mean, sparklers, WHAT’S NOT TO LOVE?

His eyes never left me, even after he was done ringing me up. I could GUESS what I owed, but wasn’t sure, so I looked around to see if there was some sort of price total thing I wasn’t noticing, and therefore, should be pulling out my wallet and handing over ten bucks.

“Uh,” I started, “What do I owe?”

He rattled off some number and I handed him a ten-spot.

Soon, Dawn and I were back in the car.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” she all but screamed.

“Wait, dude, I need to snap a picture before the fucking zombies come and eat us,” I pleaded.

So I did.

Ha! GOTCHA – that’s NOT the picture of the store (but that’d be rad)

That totally is. And with a storefront like that, how can you go wrong?

(answer: zombies)

“Do I bring this shit inside?” gesturing to my fireworks, I asked Dawn as we parked the car at the hotel.

“Do fireworks explode in the heat?” she countered.

“I don’t fucking know,” I replied.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” she said smugly.

“I hope your mouth hurt a little from saying that,” I said, as I grabbed my bag which weighed approximately 73,625 pounds.

I considered putting them in the room safe just because, but decided I’d probably forget them and then I’d get the hotel all bomb squad on my ass.

I got home late on July 15, my birthday, to find that my (now crabby) kids were waiting up for me. It was a shining moment in a fairly depressing day. My three kids swarmed me, begging for hugs, love, and other types of birthday wishes, as they sang an off-key version of “Happy Birthday.” I melted inside.

That sweetness was, of course, followed up by “What’d you bring us?” which I’d expected. Frankly, I’m shocked they hadn’t started with that. Kids, man, I tell you.

I grabbed the box of sparklers from my bag and said, “SPARKLERS!”

Dave smiled, “COOL!”

My kids were decidedly nonplussed until I said, “they’re fireworks, kiddos.” That seemed to assuage the hurt of not being brought a) Batman or 2) Large amounts of candy. “Can we do dem now?” Mimi was the first to ask, already getting her shoes on heading for the back door.

“No, babies. Mama’s tired. Maybe we can do them another day – like Saturday!”

They grumbled and moaned about it, stomping up to bed, clearly having forgotten it was my birthday and, therefore, a day to be “nice to Mama.” I just laughed. Kids, man. They know how to knock your ass the fuck down.

By the following weekend, I decided that it was high time we get our sparkler on (kinda like getting your sexy on, but better). I grabbed the two Littles (the big one was at his grandmother’s house in Wisconsin) and headed out back with Dave, ready to dazzle and delight them. I don’t know who was more excited – the kids or the adults.

I’d grabbed a lighter and the box of fireworks – three! whopping! colors! and sat down on the back patio under the spiffy umbrella I’d saved up to buy for five years. The kids danced around me, and I decided that rather than wait for Dave, I’d get a sparkler started on my own. I mean, I was being fucking BRAVE and shit, now, right? And for fuck’s sake, they were sparklers not some of those weird rocket things.

I snapped the lighter so the flame grew as I hovered the sparkler over it.

Hrms.

That seems to be taking a HELL of a long time to light. Perhaps I simply didn’t remember that sparklers took 800 years to light. Seemed about my speed, considering I can never find my pants.

I kept holding the lighter over the sparkler, which looked a lot more chode-like than I’d recalled, but childhood memories being what they are, what can you expect.

After a couple more seconds, and the addition of Dave onto the patio, BAM, it lit.

Boy, did it light. It lit so fucking well that this happened:

So that, my Pranksters, is why Illinois banned sparklers. Not because they wanted to “ban fun,” but because they wanted to ban 3rd degree chemical burns.

Let my busted finger be a lesson to you, Pranksters: fireworks = bad. Especially if Aunt Becky is involved.

*lie

In what feels like another lifetime ago, I was walking with an old friend back to the train. It was ass-hot outside, not normal for that time of year on the coast, and my legs were sticking together uncomfortably with each step I took; the blister on my foot threatening to pop if a squirrel so much farted near it.

“I don’t buy it,” he said, blithely as he kicked at a rock in our path.

“No?” I returned, twisting a leaf between my fingers. “I do.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he rebutted. “I’m fairly jaded.”

“I could have been,” I said, absently brushing a falling leaf off my shoulder, relieved it wasn’t a creepy bug trying to lay it’s creepy bug eggs in my ear. “But I’m not.”

We walked on in silence for a few moments – the comfortable sort of silence two people have when they know each other intimately enough to finish the other’s sentence; never rushing to fill a chasm of uncomfortable silence, because between the two of us, there never were such things. As I turned this piece of information – an answer I wouldn’t have expected from him – over in my mind, like I was examining a three-dimensional cube or a particularly exciting riddle, I realized I needed to understand his logic – we’d had similar childhoods, our lives veered off in our twenties, and were now in similar positions in our lives.

“So you’re saying that you don’t believe in the goodness of others?” I pried harder, determined to understand this betwixting bit of information.

“Not exactly,” he responded. “I believe that most people are in it for themselves.”

I mulled it over.

“How do you explain something like Band Back Together?” I asked. “There’s a perfect example – we have a pool of volunteers who work UNPAID to make the site a safe haven for anyone who needs it. And the readers? I’ve never, with the exception of my own personal blog, seen such a tight-knit and supportive community online.”

He thought about it.

“That makes sense,” he said, somewhat begrudgingly, as I sneezed three times from some nearby plant that was probably trying to take root in my nasal passages. “Bless you,” he continued.

“Thanks,” I replied stuffily. “Damn allergies.”

We walked on in silence, only interrupted by the rhythmic clacking of our footfalls against the sidewalk.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m going to try to live my life your way,” he informed me. “The way I’ve been living hasn’t gotten me very far – I need a new outlook.”

I stopped, forcing him, who was, despite the length difference in our legs, keeping stride with me, to stop too. I beamed at him before jumping up on top of him to give him a gigantic bear hug.

“You’ll see,” I said, beaming. “You’ll see.”

—————–

I was reminded of this conversation yesterday, after I wrote about my current changing circumstances. I don’t ask for help well, and I don’t do it often, because it makes me feel weak and needy. But I know that sometimes, the most important thing we can do is to be brave enough to admit when things just aren’t working; that I am struggling and not sure where to go next.

And while I was terrified to hit publish, because I know that asking for help on the Internet is rife with peril – not only am I showing you my vulnerability, I know that I’ve now opened myself up for greater and greater criticism. Much as I can pretend the nay-sayers don’t hurt in such a situation, they do. When I added the paypal donate button (under duress), I was equally terrified. The last thing I want to do is to be seen as someone who wants hand-outs.

But I’ve been overwhelmed; this time it’s in a positive manner. Your kindness is overwhelming.

Pranksters, you are my family. Like it or not, you’re a part of my family. And what you have done for me is nothing short of a miracle. I’m currently crying – not out of sadness, but out of happiness, because while even after I’ve hit rock bottom, the kindness of others is astounding. I’m taking ALL your advice, will be responding to your wonderful comments, and forming a gignormous Google document so that I can carefully plan out the rest of my life (or the immediate future – I don’t think “Marry Anthony Bourdain” will actually happen, so why set myself up for failure?).

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart – thank you.

And once again, I’m reminded that the same light that shines upon me, shines also upon you. That we are all connected, we are none of us alone.

None of us.

Which is why I’m leaving you with this awesome photo (note liberal usage of soft-core porn lens):

Pranksters – I’d planned on telling you a hilarious story about my roadtrip, but some nasty divorce shit came to light yesterday and instead, I must write this post.

Hi, my name is (Your Aunt) Becky, I’m 32 years old, and I have never lived alone.

(hi Becky!)

/hangs head in shame

I guess that’s what happens when you get knocked up at age twenty and move back home, proverbial (sadly not real) tail between legs, only to pop out an infant. Then, I was lucky enough to live with my parents until I met and got married, shortly after I’d graduated nursing school and passed the state board exam.

I was 24.

And while, for the past ten years, I’ve learned some stuffs about running a household, Dave and I had handily split responsibilities, which, while easier at the time, meant that I’ve not learned how to do it all. Not that I can’t, but that I simply do not know how to off the top of my head.

In totally related news, I am moving out to my very own apartment. It shatters me to tell you that, but for now, it is the right thing to do. Unfortunately, due to some circumstances – namely that is nearly impossible for both Dave and I to live together and be healthy – I will have to move soon – much sooner than I’d thought. But it is now impossible for me to recover and get healthy in my current living situation.

This is not because Dave is abusive or mean or that he’s giving me the old boot, just a matter of practicality, and I am planning on staying through August in order to get my finances in proper order and build a bit of a nest-egg. I have also found the name and number of an attorney in town.

• Do you have any necessary items for survival sitting around collecting dust?

• Is it worth it to take some of my purses to one of those eBay places to sell? I mean I have a shitton of great stuff that’s not going to be necessary any more and I’d like to sell it off where I can.

• Do you have any assvice for living on a budget – and how to create one?

• How to live alone when you haven’t, well, ever?

I hope that this is a chance for renewal, growth, and at the end of all this bullshit? I’ll be better for it all; for doing it myself and for saving myself. There’s no white knight out there to save me; I will save myself. But for now; for RIGHT now, I’m feeling pretty damn defeated. In three short weeks, my entire life changed.

In the end, I know that this change will lead to bigger and brighter things in my future, being self-sufficient and making it alone will make me a stronger person, and I will never again put myself in a position wherein I rely on anyone but myself.

Because I know I can do it – now it’s a matter of making it all happen.

Hope. I have hope. A week ago, I didn’t think I’d be able to ever see a light again.

July 14, 2012

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

After we’d exited the Studio B tour – WITHOUT my honky-tonk piano (I should add) – Dawn and I did a quick run-through of the Country Music Hall of Fame, which has to be one of the most gorgeous pieces of architecture out there before rushing off to get my peacock tattoo arm sleeve, of which I was now wildly vacillating about putting on my body.

I learned two things there:

a) Taylor Swift has a kick-ass guitar

2) The curator of the Country Music Hall of Fame frowns upon one LICKING aforementioned guitar, even after you explain that it “seemed like a good idea at the time.”

We sorta sped through the museum so that we could make the drive back to the tiny house on the semi-frightening road. We got back to the car, stowed carefully in the Hilton’s parking garage and made our way back to the tattoo shop, the gorge rising as I couldn’t quite recall WHAT, exactly, the tattoo would look like:

What was I DOING? Was I making another tremendous mistake? What if I’d actually wanted something else so people didn’t call me “Bird Girl” for the rest of my days? What kind of nickname is “Bird Girl,” anyway?

Dawn’s GPS decided to play hardball and direct us through routes that were all closed for construction. I was about ready to sink my teeth into the damn thing and make it my bitch, but Dawn handily wrestled it back from me before I could do any real damage. Fear makes you do weird things and I’d begun to question everything from whether or not I should get a tattoo or if I should date the guy sitting on the side of the road drinking what appeared to be malt liquor from a brown paper bag.

The tattoo shop – Archangel Tattoo – and neighborhood had finally, after a long, surreptitious and annoying drive, appeared before us, and, quite frankly, appeared a lot less scary in the light of day (but, really, so do I). Ready for my 4PM appointment, I steeled my nerves and walked into the shop, Dawn following behind, prepared to push me in front of the adorable dude with the twang so I could – at the very least – see if I really did, in fact, want a new tattoo, or if I was simply a walking divorce cliche.

The tattoo guy, Terry, appeared before me to show me what he’d drawn up.

“It’s really fucking big,” he twanged to me, like it was some sort of challenge.

“Fucking perfect,” I beamed. He’d taken what I’d wanted, researched it and drew up a peacock arm sleeve that would match my phoenix flawlessly. I felt, for the first time in weeks, as though I was exactly where I was supposed to be. A thousand pound weight dropped from my shoulders as I smiled a genuine smile for the very first time that day.

“I just need to redraw it for the right arm,” he said. “You guys wanna take a walk and go grab a drink or something? There’s a store about three feet away in that direction,” he drawled as he pointed vaguely east.

“Sure,” Dawn and I agreed.

We trudged out into the late afternoon heat, trying to avoid the raindrops that were falling lazily down upon us.

“I feel like this is something we needed to do – like we were supposed to do it,” Dawn announced as we dodged rain drops. “I feel really good about this.”

I smiled – knowing exactly what she meant.

Armed with a bottle of Diet Pepsi (apparently the South has 47 flavors of sweet tea with absolutely no diet Coke in sight)(also: I’ve never seen so many flavors of pig skin on display like people EAT that shit or something), we marched back through the lazy raindrops and waited.

“Come on back,” my tattoo artist called, leading me back to a room decorated from top to bottom with different types of local art, Lynyrd Skynyrd lazily singing about Tuesday “being gone with the wind,” the comforting buzz of the tattoo gun being used on another customer soothing my nerves. I noted on the wall that I’d happened to be lucky enough to be tattooed by Terry, who’d been winning tattoo awards left and right, or at least, that’s what the plaques on the wall stated. I suppose he could’ve made them himself, but he didn’t seem the type.

Carefully, he lined my arm with the peacock he’d drawn, the purple outline clearly stating that I would be getting not a half-arm sleeve tattoo, but 3/4 of a sleeve.

I smiled.

And thus I began a new chapter in my life – one that would involve taking big risks, learning to lose the fear I’d acquired through my marriage, while reminding myself that while I may feel as though I’m a motherfucking coward, it is not true. I will be brave enough to rebuild my life and do it with grace, dignity while allowing my freak flag to flap in the breeze – there’s no shame in being me.

Gratuitous – yet pointless – shoe shot!

After what seemed to be about five minutes – five minutes of mild-to-extreme pain, let me be clear here – my tattoo guy drawled, “I’m done with the outline – let’s go take a break.”

Out to the quaint front porch we went, where we sat in rocking chairs, rocking slowly back and forth, enjoying the sunset. I asked him the question I ask everyone who has been doing a particular job for a long while:

“What’s the worst thing that anyone’s asked you to tattoo on them?”

He chuckled for a good long while before answering, “I don’t know – most people want bullshit tattoos. I can only do so much with those.”

I nodded, having seen a fair number of particularly awful tattoo ideas. Of special note is the one tattoo I saw that had been clearly done out of some guy’s basement, in which Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbs) was peeing on the word, “X Wife.” Way to keep it classy, people.

Soon enough, darkness began to replace the waning sunlight and it was time, once again, to go back to The Chair. The tattoo pain was somewhere between my back – which barely hurt – to my feet – which hurt like a motherfucker, so while I wasn’t jumping to get back in the chair, I knew that he knew his shit and that my tattoo looked FULL of the Awesome.

I steeled myself for the pain as he began to shade the outline in.

By this time, I was clutching Dawn’s hand like it was a life-raft and trying to remember to breathe. I hadn’t eaten properly in two weeks and while I’m not prone to fainting, the pain had gone from “ouch” to “fucking ouch.” But hey, this was the only birthday present I’d be getting – aside from my “John C. Mayer’s Greatest Hits,” so I gritted my teeth and tried to go to “my place.”

I’d lost track of how many versions of “Free Bird” we’d heard throughout the hours (by this time, I knew it was “hours” and not “minutes,” because my arm now hurt like a motherfucker) when, once again, he announced that it was time for a break. Back to the rocking chairs we went, where customers ingoing and outgoing stopped to chat with me about my tattoo. Apparently, NashVegas doesn’t get a lot of girls requesting sleeve tattoos, which, SURPRISING AS FUCK.

By this point, I’d started dreading Das Chair – while my migraines have given me an incredible pain tolerance (THANKS, MIGRAINES!), I could now feel each individual needle as it went into my skin. I’d have made an appointment to finish that fucker the following day (my birthday), but the shop was closed. So it was now or motherfucking never.

It was about halfway through the coloring of my now beautiful tattoo that it hit me:

This was my only birthday present.

This was one of the last things I’d be able to buy for myself as I was going to have to start finding ways to make money so I could become self-sufficient and move out.

I was getting a divorce.

It was over – my future was a black question mark of uncertainty.

And through the physical pain, my emotional pain began to burble out. While I consider 9-10PM now my “crying hour,” I hadn’t expected that getting a tattoo in a shop full of big dudes would evoke tears. But come they did. It was like a torrential downpour as I performed my favorite party trick, “The Ugly Cry,” to an entire room. Oddly, I wasn’t even mortified – it just felt right to be able to mourn the “never will’s” of my life.

Soon, it was all over but the crying.

And that is how I will approach my new life, in the hopes that one day, someone may put on my tombstone: she was brave.