Back when I bought this house, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Jesus played beer pong with me in college (He’s fucking better than I am), I thought that the living room was the least offensive of all the rooms in my house.

The tiny downstairs bathroom had three (THREE!!!) types of wallpaper. The upstairs bedroom was painted Pepto-Bismol pink. The dining room was Cat Pee on Plasterboard colored. The kitchen was (is) some variation of taupe that (still) makes me want to heave whenever I look at it. The family room is painted 3 different motherfucking colors.

So the living room? Not on my radar. Like pants!

That was, until, of course, I had two babies and major abdominal surgery and had to stare at the walls in the living room (also known as the “front room” to those of you who come from places that start with N and end in Dakota). The white looked dingier by the moment. There was a single roller swatch of pure white behind the french doors. The ceiling was a fucking mess.

Take this shot, from the day I closed the deal on the house.

The furniture is not fucking mine.

Looks fine. Besides, of course, the awful furniture, which IS NOT FUCKING MINE.

See? It LOOKS not…so bad! Probably because you’re distracted by the fug furniture.

That wall needs something…else. But I don’t know what.

Sorry, no shot of my ass this time.

I’m still not entirely certain what the room needs, but it needs…moar. Cowbell? Vodka? Perhaps. Or perhaps I should go score that sweet couch on the side of the road, for old times sake.

Thoughts, Pranksters?

I’m afraid that if you don’t help me, I’m going to end up with a Fat Head of me on one of the walls.

Nothing like a party with actual guests* to make me realize that it was fucking time to take care of some bizness. Namely, the house.

Now I am not an interior decorator. I don’t even play one on television (I do, however, play a doctor and/or the village idiot, so that’s something). I’ve never sat through a home improvement show – not even the show Home Improvement, but that’s because Tim Allen makes me want to stab out my eyes – nor would I care to. In fact, I’d rather gnaw off several toes than have to sit through one.

I’ve tried, mostly because I figured I could learn about this mysterious “eye for style” which, it turns out, is not something that can be acquired during ten or so minutes of one of those shows. My idea of a pretty room is one that has unicorns, glitter, and/or an Uncrustables machine, which means that my new house, the one I’ve lived in nearly five years, has been decorated in what can only be considered “found by the side of the road” style.

But if I have people over, it’s time to pretend that I may actually be a grown-up…or at least play one for a party. Which meant it was time for some motherfucking home improvements.

Because I am a bad blogger who takes lousy photos (when did being an incredible photog become part of being a blogger?), I did not take any “before” pictures. The room I am currently working in, my dining room, was painted what I liked to call, “Cat Barf Green,” although some of you may find it to be more “Cat Pee on Plasterboard.” Frankly, I’ll be interested to see what you decide upon.

This is the room BEFORE we moved in. Which means this was NOT my furniture.

Fake flowers make me dry heave.

Not sure what you’d call it, besides butt-fugly, but that’s what it was.

For years, I’ve worked in here, gritting my teeth as I looked at the hideous paint (recall also, those of you who love the shade, that I am color-blind)(and those of you who LOVE the fake flowers, it’s like I don’t know you.) and that awful chandelier, but there has always been something – anything – else that prevented us from fixing the room.

It’s the “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie” problem. If I painted, I’d want to replace the fug light fixture. If I replaced THAT light fixture, I would also need some new art for the walls.

And so on.

So the room has remained, silently taunting me until last week, when I realized people would be coming by. AND JUDGING MY HORRIFYING TASTE. It’s not like I could put a disclaimer on the walls, like, “Objects In Here Are Not Aunt Becky’s Choice.” Well, I guess I COULD, but that’s weird.

Instead, I decided to strap on a set of balls and get ‘er done. Daver took the kids to his parents this weekend and Ben and I spent about 40 straight hours working on the two rooms (I’ll show you the other room tomorrow. Couldn’t get any decent snaps. Suffice to say, it was painted 2 different shades of white.).

And…

Where the magic happens.

Here’s where I ask for your help, Pranksters: I need some nice, beautiful, colorful pictures to hang on my wall around my desk. I’d go to Etsy, but I get overwhelmed every time I try.

Also: I need an old light box – you know, the thing where they used to hang X-Rays? That.

Any suggestions? Also: how was your weekend? Also also: can you give me a massage? I’m fucking sore. Also also also: apparently ninety-years old.

*Email me if you want an invite – I’m serious. I will insist that you admire my walls, but this is gonna be fucking fun.

I don’t do politics. Which is why this is kinda a weird change of pace for me. But go read it (and comment if’n you have time) because it’s also funny. Or, um, it was in my head.

The more I thought about the depression critters, the more I realized that they were another example of false advertising. Which is bullshit.

Here are what OTHER campaigns tell me.

This depression ad is supposed to say:

But what it REALLY says is:

But…is it just for us wickedly depressed folks? Nope. Not so much.

Take this Geiko Ad, which is supposed to say:

But what it REALLY says is:

And one of my all-time favorite campaigns:

Actually says:

And a personal favorite. Who can resist those Charmin Bears?

Yet, what this REALLY says to me is this:

What about this Chick-Fil-A billboard?

It’s supposed to say:

What it REALLY says is this:

And who out there could forget this favorite?

Which, much as I hate to say it, says THIS:

So, Pranksters, what other commercials out there lie?

I feel somehow cheated by my depression. No, not out of “living a full life” or “having fun” or even “being happy,” none of that stupid feely bullshit.

I feel cheated because, like every January that I sink into this pit, I don’t get any of the cool depression critters following me around.

Sure, I have the omnipresent sadness, but do I have a cartoon raincloud following me as I listlessly select some apples at the grocery store? NO. No, Pranksters, I do not.

As much as I’ve tried, I don’t have that wind-up blonde lady toy either. You’d think, with as bone-crushing and soul sucking as it is, I’d probably be at LEAST entitled to that. A wind-up toy in exchange your soul? Seems fair.

I don’t, as much as it pains me to admit this, even have that chokey fuzzy bathrobe, either. I’m not partial to bathrobes, myself, so it’s not a huge loss, but that’s what the commercials say happens when I barely have the energy to slog outta bed and brush my teefers. SO WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT BATHROBE TO CHOKE ME?

But what really fucking pisses me off is that I do not have the Abilify black hole to follow me. I could use a constant companion, like a black blob, to hang out with me while I’m at the doctors, or laying in bed after a nightmare. I had real plans for having him be my BFF. We’d go everywhere together. He’d fetch me soda while I laid on the couch, hating life. He’d rub my feet and offer me pedicures while I sobbed about nothing at all. And what do I have?

FUCK NOTHING.

I haven’t seen hide nor fucking hair of that black blob since the depression hit.

I’m starting to think that we’re NOT BFF after all. That depression doesn’t come with a cool bathrobe that chokes you to death or a wind-up toy, or even a black blob.

I demand a recount, depression. That’s fucking bullshit.

It’s clear that I’m not very smart.

Shit, I got myself drunk on almond extract for weeks before I realized that I was, in fact, doing so. I regularly walk into walls. I’m hopelessly convinced that I’m going to live my life married to men from television. I write a blog on the Internet.

But I do understand some things – not many, but still.

What follows is a list of things that continue to baffle me – keep me up all night, tossing and turning as I try to comprehend them.

0) Why Jimmy Wales didn’t realize that putting a picture of his minions directly under the title of the page was a bad fucking idea.

See also:

1) Why anyone still uses Internet Explorer.

1) Why Donald Trump’s hair doesn’t have it’s own reality show. I’d watch that shit.

2) Why The Fresh Beat Band ditched the cute redhead and replaced her with another not-as-cute redhead like kids are too stupid to notice that they are not the same person.

3) MySpace. It’s as bad as saying you still use your Friendster account. PS. this is mine: Myspace.com/hotterthanyourwife

5) Why are sausage links so much tastier than sausage patties?

8 ) Why is the word “patty” so vomit-inducing?

13) Why was the Homeland season finale so lackluster?

21) How did Glee go from being a fresh, snarky show to a very short LifeTime Movie of the Week?

34) Why do people walk around with their blue douche headsets in all of the time?

55) How orange can be both a color and a flavor while purple cannot. Purple should be a flavor, dammit!

89) Whatever happened to that gigantic Kool-Aid pitcher who was all, “OOOOOH YEAH?” Sidebar: I think I’m gonna be him for Halloween next year.

144) Why disco went out of style. Disco is for LIFE.

Okay, so Pranksters, your turn: what don’t YOU understand?

This part of year is always hardest for me.

I’d like to say I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, mostly because of the wicked acronym, but I don’t. My garden variety, un-cool acronymed depression mixes with the PTSD (pesticides and toxic substances division?) in a nice soupy paste of unhappiness.

Christmas, no matter how I try to play it off, is hard. Sure, I find joy in watching my children scamper about, ripping open presents and squealing in surprise at what lies beneath – that part is tops. New Years Eve almost always finds me near-tears for no fucking reason the whole day, until I wake on January 1, and feel, well, lighter. The elephant sitting squarely upon my chest is gone, as are the fifty pound weights attached to my neck.

I don’t know why this happens to me. But it does – every year.

After the holidays pass, and I am finally able to breathe again, it is time for my daughter’s birthday. My daughter. My daughter who will be three this year, and has not once had the birthday party I’ve wanted to give her. It is my fault – January 1, the anxiety takes over and I’m barely able to leave the house. I become a slave to it – the thoughts it gives me, “you’ve lost all your friends,” “no one will come to her party,” “you’re weak – you should be able to do it.”

Those thoughts beat at me until I relent, deciding upon a “quiet family party,” playing it off like that’s all I’ve actually wanted to do, anyway. I mean, she won’t remember it anyway, so why bother? She’s only (insert young age here).

What they – you – don’t know is that it’s not by choice. It’s never been a choice. If I could choose, it would be her birthday tomorrow, I could skip the month of January, only to wake up on January 28 to a perfectly executed party attended by those whom I love and who love me too (short list as it may be).

I decided, as I always do, that it’s time to get ready for that party – to finally do it. This was during the end of December, that awful week between Christmas and New Years. For a whole week, my resolve, it was strong.

Just yesterday, I realized that I didn’t have the addresses of many of those who I wanted to invite. And shit, it’s already January 3, and her party is in like 4 weeks. That’s not enough time. Maybe I shouldn’t do it. I should just throw her a nice quiet family party or take her for Mouse Pizza in the seventh circle of parental hell. I shouldn’t throw her a party. No one will come, anyway.

And shit – she won’t remember it anyway.

(Amelia’s drawing of a good guy being attacked by bad guys)

I felt that hopelessness, that despair, sink in – I’ve been here before and I’ve always chosen to listen to that asshole voice in my ear – no one WILL come. It’s pointless to throw a toddler a party. I’m weak.

Then I stopped.

Before I could spiral any more, I stopped myself, and went over to evite – y’know, those crappy email invites? Yeah, I never use those. I love stationary, and paper invitations and nice thick envelopes, and handmade cards (it’s the same reason I never send Christmas cards – I get overwhelmed by the beautiful ones I could be making and end up sending none at all) and fuck email invitations.

Within ten minutes, I had an invitation ready to send. Ten minutes after that, I’d sent it to ten people.

I cannot tell you, Pranksters, how proud of myself I am. I looked my demons in their eyes and told them to fuck the fuck off. I will throw my daughter a party and people will come. There will be a house full of people who love her, even if half my friends live scattered around the country.

For that day, I will insist that my demons wear party hats and serve punch. If they don’t like it? They can go back into my closet. Because that day, that day is for my daughter.

She will finally get the celebration I’ve wanted to give her for three long years.

The pink balloons – like my heart – will, at long last, fly.

*If you guys are local, (I’m in a suburb of Chicago), we’d love to have you – and not because she needs presents, but because she needs to meet so many of the people who love her. I mean it. Just send me your email address and I’ll send you the evite…if you promise not to judge me for it.

First, I wrote this about the New Year. You should read it.

———–

So. That Meme. It kinda sucked. I know that. You know that. The guy down the block who doesn’t even know what Meme means knows that.

I’m sorta embarrassed I didn’t do this in the first place.

And to all of you who are type A enough to want to do one again? I’m sorry. Genuinely.

But here’s the Meme I wish I’d answered.

1) What does Meme mean?

I think it’s an ancient Latin term for “most annoying, self-centered survey on the planet.” Which is shockingly similar to the term “Aunt Becky.”

2) 2011 – Was it all you’d hoped it would be?

It was the year that WAS. I’m anxious (also frightened) to ring in 2012.

3) Did you watch the Royal Wedding?

Nope. I’m not into weddings. Although the hats, man, the hats were killer.

4) Where are your pants?

Pants are fucking bullshit.

5) Is Justin Bieber human or some sort of robot?

I’m altogether certain that Justin Bieber is a robot created from a hostile world to teach our tweens how to drive their parents absolutely bonkers.

6) If you had only one thing to wish for this coming year, what would it be?

I’ve thought a lot about resolutions (I’m thirty-fucking-one this year. I should fucking resolve something?) and I’ve come to this conclusion: I will resolve to not become Lil Wayne this year.

7) Would you call yourself a “social media maven?”

Those three words together are sorta like saying, “she has a good personality.” They’re a cleverly disguised insult.

8 ) If you had to take three things to a desert island (let’s assume you have ample food and water), what would they be?

Uncrustables.

Uncrustables.

John C. Mayer

Uncrustables.

9) If you had the ability to banish certain offenses to an island where they would be rehabilitated into being okay again, what would those offenses be?

“ALot” versus “A Lot.”

“Loose” instead of “Lose.”

Being John. C Mayer.

Using any corporate buzz words in a non-ironic way. See also: “action plan,” “deliverables,” “proactive,” “engaged.”

10) How do YOU think the air conditioner works?

Gnomes fanning large blocks of ice with over-sized ornamental fans.

11) Do you ACTUALLY think you can make money blogging?

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*wipes eyes*

I PAY to blog.

12) There’s a lot of talk in the blog world about microblogging (The Tumblr, The Twitter, The Facebook) taking over traditional blogs. Do you think that’s the case?

Nah, I think that those who were on the fence about traditional blogging or preferred some other medium (i.e. pictures) have gone to the microblogging platforms. I think those of us stubborn enough to stick around will be here until they pry our keyboards from our cold, dead hands.

13) If you could give one piece of advice to your younger self, what would it be?

There’s always a way. Find it. Keep finding it. Nothing turns out how you thought it would – so just roll with it, Baby.

P.S. You’re not a redhead. Quit trying to be one.

14) If you could’ve told yourself this time last year one thing, what would it be?

Billy Mays death will leave a gaping hole. Don’t try to fill it with the imprisoned ShamWow guy.

15) If you could have one Super Power, what would it be?

I’d be Aunt Becky, Maker of Coffee. I’d be able to make coffee without causing small fires.

16) If you could do one thing you can’t currently do, and do it well, what would it be?

I’d be an opera singer. No, seriously. I’ve been known to sheer paint off walls with my awesomely awful voice.

17) What surprises you about yourself?

I remain shocked that I have ditched my nursing degree, popped out two more crotch parasites and started to live my life on the Internet. Also: the whole non-profit thing seems weird to me.

18) What was your favorite blog post/tweet of the past year?

“Look out below, motherfuckers!” – The Twitter.

19) Do you REALLY think “Purple Should Be A Flavor?”

I hear there is purple vodka. I think this is probably the single best thing ever (altho I’ve not tried it, which seems like a motherfucking sin.)

20) If you could make one outlandish wish for 2012, what would it be?

I’d go to Vegas, be married by a creepy drive-thru Elvis, and spend the next several months in the desert, recreating Fear and Loathing.

Alternately, I’d go on a fucking epic road trip with a friend or five.

—————–

Once you Type A people out there complete this, go ahead and linkage on up! I even put up a widget. WINNING!

Image via my rad friend Joslyn

Since I’ve been too busy drinking port and eating Captain Crunch, I will, instead point you to this, which is funny in a very sad way, and this, which needs comments. (I hate asking for comments. I feel like a cheap (er) whore)(I’ve got something awesomer for you guys tomorrow to make up for actually having the audacity to ask for comments).

*slinks off into corner*

How was YOUR New Year, Pranksters?

It’s unsurprising that my middle son and I are exceptionally close. For a whole year, that child (then baby) refused to allow anyone but me to touch his Royal Majesty, and while most parents would’ve been screaming and pulling out their hair, I loved it. Certainly not every day, but most days, it was so unbelievable that a child could love me.

I had a first son, of course, but, thanks to autism, his love has always been something expressed more delicately than Alex, who simply loved me. It was pure, untainted, and one of the most religious experiences of my life. I finally understood what it felt like to be a parent. I’d clung to the notion that I was a parent, yet never felt like it, for so many years.

He’s closing on five now, one of the most intense people I’ve ever known, and still my best small friend. When he’s sick, he crawls into my lap, nestling in like a baby bird, and allows me to bask in memories of those baby days. When he’s well, he scampers around with his brother and sister, stopping briefly to hug me before spinning off to do something else.

For Christmas this year, he got a new butterfly costume. I’ve been anxiously awaiting the day he somehow broke the wings or tore the tutu, so for Christmas he got a second set. He fluttered around the house, stopping only to put on the boots he’d lovingly selected:

May your heart always be joyful, Alex, may your song always be sung.

Always.