Once a year, every year since dinosaurs typed out blog posts with their wee flailing dinosaur hands on their gigantic Stone Age laptops, I do a Meme. Generally speaking, I do not like Memes. I do not think that my Pranksters give a fucking shit how I best like my coffee or what is in my purse right now. HOWEVER.

I am compulsive. And since I do this every year, I do this EVERY YEAR.

(As proof that I do not actually have a life, I offer this: 2010 here,  2009 here, 2008 here, 2007 here, 2006 here. I have 2005 somewhere in an email list, which is where I’d gotten this stupid meme in the first place)

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

I started a non-profit organization – Band Back Together. I also ate a cheeseburger but that sorta pales in comparison.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I wrote this last year, “I hope that 2011 will bring me less bullshit and more happiness. More orchids and less backstabbing. More writing and less email. More cowbell and less synthesizers. Clearly.

There’s always room for cowbell.”

The Universe laughs at your (read: my) plans, Meme. Haven’t we learned that by now?

So I’ll go with something that’ll never happen: “Total World Domination.”

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

If my timeline is to be believed, I’m pretty sure The Twitter was pregnant. All of it.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Yes. My great-aunt Ruth and my (insert twice-removed twice-baked qualifier) cousin John.

5. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

A bathroom break where three children plus assorted cats did not hang on my legs while I peed.

6. What countries did you visit?

Bwahahahahaha! I have three kids, Meme. I’m lucky if I can take a shit without an audience.

7. What date from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Year after year, you insist upon asking me this, Meme, like I have some kind of knowledge of these “dates” and stuffs.

Ooooh. I did EAT some bacon wrapped dates. Those were fucking tasty.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I can use the microwave. WITHOUT causing small fires.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I still cannot use the coffee maker without causing small fires.

Also, I broke two teeth. That’s a pretty fat failure RIGHT THERE.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I broke two teeth, one of which had to be yanked from it’s socket. I’m 31 – no one should be losing fucking teeth. Also: The Daver lost his appendix in a haze of glory.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

The nitrous for my tooth extraction. Don’t give a shit if my insurance won’t cover it – I can’t go all balls to the wall, y’all when I’m getting shit yanked out of mah head.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Um, that Old Spice Guy? He’s pretty fucking full of the awesome.

Also: everyone who has had the balls to submit to Band Back Together.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Siri, that miserable slut, who did NOT find my pants for me.

14. Where did most of your money go?

See also: 1) I started a non-profit.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

There was a sale on Uncrustables. Also: I got nominated for a Bloggie this year, against all odds, which is a gigantor honor. I didn’t win, but seriously, that was huge. So did Band Back Together, and they actually WON. #fuckyeah

16. What song will always remind you of 2011?

Britney Spears – Criminal.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? You know, I keep expecting you to get more original each year, but no.

ii. thinner or fatter? Thinner.

iii. richer or poorer? That’s tacky, Meme.

Okay, Meme, let me take a stab at that:

i) more or less like Justin Beaver – less, obvs. Don’t have the kicky hairs.

ii) more or less likely to decide inanimate objects looked like boobs – more. Bring on the boobs.

iii) more or less likely to watch Glee – Less. That show has gotten depressingly bad.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Pranking The Internet.

Also:

Taking over the world.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

When you go into the dentist to have a tooth yanked out and they give you nitrous and you can actually feel the stress leaving your back and neck and suddenly you’re the least stressed you’ve been since you can remember, I’d say you have a problem. With not doing enough nitrous. Also: stress.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Let me be the 9238r23746 person to say, “Thank God it’s over.”

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question because I like to hear myself talk.

What’s up with your book, AB?

Well, I parted ways with my agent (my idea not theirs) and so far, the future is hazy, try back later. I may just be a blogger 4eva. And frankly? That’s not so fucking bad. I love what I do.

22. Did you fall in love in 2011?

If  “with myself” is an answer, I’ll choose that one. If it’s not, I’ll go with yes, with my Keurig (no I did not get one for free or anything). Now I can make coffee without burning the house down.

23. How many one-night stands?

If you count making love to the Keurig, at least a dozen.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Didn’t love Dexter this season, so I’m gonna go with watching reruns of NBC’s Life. Fucking shame that show got canceled.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Nope.

26. What was the best book you read?

Pshaw. Like I have time to read books. We all know I’m illegitimate illiterate.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

That special song, “Pants on the Ground.”

28. What did you want and get?

Nitrous.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

I watched Precious. And was only mildly suicidal by the time it was over.

That sucked. I’m going to make up a new question:

Where are your pants?

Like I fucking know. Ask Siri. They’re probably on their way to Vegas with my sanity.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 31. And I have no earthly idea what I did this year. We’ll go with “pants off dance off”

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

More cowbell?

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

“Holy shit, I have abs again.”

34. What kept you sane?

Um, I write a blog on The Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I haven’t been “sane” in years.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

The ShamWow guy.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

The great “Get up” or “get down” debate.

37. Who did you miss?

My sanity? Oh, you said “who.” Hrms. My pants? Wait. No. Um.

OH LOOK A BLUE CAR!

38. Who was the best new person you met?

You. You, mah Pranksters. Always you guys.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011:

Never underestimate the importance of a good set of sheets.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

(God, that seems so MySpace).

I just, I can’t. I’m sorry, Meme.

—————-

The rest of the meme says I should tag some people but, eh, I don’t tagging people. It makes me twitchy. Mostly because I’ll forget someone and then, then I’ll feel sad in the pants.

INSTEAD.

I’m tagging each of you. If I can do one Meme a year, SO CAN YOU, Pranksters. DO IT. It’s full of the awesome. JUST like 2012 is going to be. Even if I have to beat it into submission and make it my fucking bitch.

Happy Happy New Year, Pranksters.

I added a linky for you guys to add your posts, if you do this one! Why? Because obviously.

I’ve wanted one of those disco shower heads ever since SkyMall happily informed me that they exist.

Think about it. No longer would you have to take ORDINARY showers! You’d be able to rock out with your cock out (alternately: jam out with your clam out) as you got clean. If I owned one of those puppies, I’d make EVERYONE who came over take a shower. TOGETHER!

Okay, so maybe not together. Also: I should totally write ads.

Anyway, I was perusing the Think Geek website, looking for the perfect gift for someone now missing a vestigial organ. (one could argue that I could have been talking about my tooth, but as my tooth was not a proper organ, that is neither here nor there).

There it was. In all it’s shimmering glory. Red and blue LED Showerhead. On fucking sale.

BOOM, Motherfuckers!

Of course I bought it.

It arrived yesterday. I spent the afternoon fantasizing about the disco shower I was gonna take. I got my new iPod dock loaded with Britney Spears and prepared to get up with the get down (or is it get down, get down?).

That was, of course, until The Daver evilly thwarted my plans.

As we ate our dinner, he dropped the bomb on me:

Aunt Becky: “OMG. I’m SO gonna take a disco shower. I should invite The Twitter over for a disco shower with me!”

The Daver: (looks at the packaging)

Aunt Becky: “Did I tell you I’m planning Amelia’s birthday party? Maybe we can have it in the shower!”

The Daver: (keeps looking at the packaging)

Aunt Becky: “This is seriously the best day ever. I’m gonna invite my parents over to look at my shower!”

The Daver: “This showerhead doesn’t have a massage setting.”

Aunt Becky: “So? Neither does our current one.”

The Daver: “Yes, it does.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ve lived here for five years and you never bothered to mention that?”

The Daver: “I thought you knew.”

Aunt Becky: “…”

The Daver: “Apparently, you didn’t know.”

The Guy On My Couch Ben: “I knew that.”

The Daver: “See?”

Aunt Becky: “I take it I’m not getting my disco showerhead.”

The Daver: “….”

The Guy On My Couch Ben: “….”

Aunt Becky: “You guys all suck.”

My parents were hippies. You know this. I know this. The guy down the block prolly knows it to, but I’m not asking him because HELLO AWKWARD.

That explanation alone probably explains why they would give me a concoction called, “Coffee, milk, sugar,” starting at age two. I delighted in this drink. I remember sitting at the table, feeling ever-so-grown-up drinking coffee out of a coffee mug JUST LIKE THE OLD PEOPLE DID.

I don’t recall spazzing out and running around like an asshole afterward, but it’s possible.

For Ben’s first Christmas in this house, which had to be (scratches head)(counts on fingers)(stares at wall)(guesses), pushing five, six years ago, I lovingly selected a very tiny coffee mug for him. It was a cheap old thing, but it was so wee and so darling and so motherfucking adorable that I nearly ovulated all over the chick next to me at Crate and Barrel.

I’m not sure what exactly I was thinking he’d do with it. My son, while he is many things, is not an adventurous sort. Milk makes him weep, he doesn’t understand the concept of hot chocolate (until his siblings pointed out how rad it is, I might add). He’s a water-on-the-rocks kinda kid. I respect that.

My daughter, on the other hand, is extremely adventurous.

She also has an obsession with coffee. Normally, she’ll pop up next to me as I’m slurping down the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, and very coyly ask to dip her binkie in the coffee. If Daver’s not around to bitch at me, I let her. Why the fuck not?* You’re only two once. And coffee? Well, coffee is FOREVER.

A couple of days ago, I realized the downfall to letting her dip-dip her binkie in my coffee is this: she’s infecting me with plague. (I wouldn’t put it past her to dip her binkie in my coffee for that very purpose.)

So I dragged out that wee, adorable cuppy that I’d bought for Ben so many years ago. I ovulated all over the kitchen as I put a splash of coffee, a heaping amount of sugar, and a liberal amount of milk into it.

“There,” I said. “Mimi’s coffee.”

I’ve never seen her grin so largely.

And proving once again that she is, in fact, my daughter, she downed that motherfucker.

Then asked for seconds.

Atta girl, Mimi.

*not actually asking WHY NOT? I’m sure it’s not fabulous for her and frankly? I’m not too worried about a teaspoon of coffee.

Last night found me sitting in the middle of a bustling Chinese restaurant, several of the employees dressed as elves. I looked around (it had been several years since I, myself, had been there) and realized that while it had once been decorated in standard American Chinese restaurant – think beige tones, ancient maps of China on the wall, fake flowers adorning every table – it had now been turned into Hawaii. Chinese-style.

That’s right, I sat, in the middle of a Hawaiian Chinese restaurant, served by a Chinese elf, while The Grinch played on the lone television, subtitled. A gaggle of college kids on my left tried to order a Hot Toddy while the table behind me gripped about the buffet being refilled too infrequently.

I was (initially) sober – I checked. And it was real.

I did the only logical thing one should do in such a situation – I began to order girly drinks with bizarre names like “Pina Colada” and “Scorpion” – which, the menu said, to “be wary of sting.” (I’m generally a bourbon girl, if anything, so girly drinks all sound oddly-named to me)

It had been a tough Christmas for me.

The addition of another (adult) person to care for right around the time I normally am all, “holy FUCK I forgot to do xxx” made for long days. Things around my house have been strained, as most of you have guessed. I’m never prepared enough to have my presents bought OR wrapped more than three days pre-Christmas, no matter how much I vow to be That Person. It’s always a mad dash in the days leading up to Christmas, and between the mouth surgery (me) and the vestigial organ removal (The Daver).

And I love the holidays. So having them be anything other than full of the awesome makes me sad in the pants.

Somehow, though, that awesomely tacky Chinese restaurant redeemed the holiday for me. Sure, I got drunk on girl drinks and am pretty sure my head is going to a) explode all over the fucking place or 2) explode, but not all over the place. Yeah, my food sorta tasted like an approximation of Mongolian Beef rather than the actual item I’d ordered. And okay, if I’m being honest, my Mai Tai tasted almost identical to lighter fluid.

But it didn’t matter.

Sitting there, in what I’m pretty sure was a David Lynch movie set, I was reminded of the absurdity of life. How there is joy in the smallest, most ridiculously decorated spaces. How even when things are so, so hard, we have hope.

And I do.

I hope.

I don’t send Christmas Cards.

It’s a big source of guilt for me – I mean, I HAVE the cards (I’ve thoughtfully purchased them at 75% off throughout the years) in a big stash in the basement. I have stamps, which means I’m not just being post-office-phobic. I wonder if there’s a term for that. I mean, I’m TERRIFIED of the post office. I’ll explain sometime.

Anyway.

Since I don’t give Christmas Cards and, frankly, you Pranksters are the only people I’d send cards to, anyway, I’ll just give them to you now.

Enjoy!

This is actually what I’d send on my Christmas cards.

So pretend that’s what I sent you and you opened it today. Fair? Okay.

Merry Christmas, Pranksters. You’re mah family and I love you all.

————–

Also: could you visit this and comment if you haz time?

In an effort to outdo my tooth surgery, The Daver’s appendix decided that it was tired of living inside his body, on a constant stream of Doritos and Funyuns.

It rebelled.

So I’m sitting in the hospital, mullet-watching and hoping to score some morphine.

I brought my nursing badges and am planning to go scrub in and assist in some surgical cases.

You guys’ll bail me out, right?

(for the record, I can think of at least two of these that fit me. Prolly more. So don’t be TOO offended, Pranksters)

Your last name is Winlkevoss.

You write a blog called “Mommy Wants Vodka.”

You actually LIKE the taste of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

You believe that your i(can’t fucking)Phone screen says something about you:

You still own a beeper.

“Hey, watch this” makes up 75% of your vocabulary.

You actually think energy drinks are good for “energy.”

You UN-ironically call yourself a “hipster.”

You wear your collar popped up.

You back in to parking spaces.

You require at least two spaces to park your car.

You bought Snooki’s book.

You use more product than your wife.

If you claim you can tell the difference between Hardee’s burgers and Carl Jr’s.

You say, “Happy Friday.”

You wear Ed Hardy – non-ironically.

You still use the phrase “Girrrrrlllllllllll” or “Wasssssupppp!”

You leave an open book of poetry on the coffee table all the time, just in case someone drops by, even though you haven’t looked in it since 2004.

You have a liberal arts degree, work in a coffee shop and hate all of your customers for constantly ordering in Starbucks terminology.

You like the band Nickelback.

You drive any car that you’ve put more money into upgrading than you did into buying it.

You have any apparel on that gives out the name of a restaurant, band, comedy troupe, radio station or manufacturer (besides FCUK, because that stuff is awesome).

You every dated someone from Craigslist.

You are a guy and you like to drink Appletini’s. (sorry, iHubby)

You’ve ever used the phrase “kernel panic” in conversation.

You’ve ever been to a Miley Cyrus ANYTHING.

You own anything that says Kardashian on it.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and NOT gotten on camera.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and GOTTEN on camera.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for The X Factor, at all.

You subscribe to “Walking” magazine.

Your Facebook wall is littered with semi-meaningless quotes, random snippets of unattributed conversation and song lyrics that make you seem “deep”. Don’t worry, Friday’s post about “CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU GUYS DOWN AT THE CLUB TONIGHT!!!1! WOO!!” removed THAT illusion for us.

You’re unemployed, but refer to yourself as “looking for the next step.”

You try to take photos or movies with an iPad or Galaxy tab.

You still use the terms “Winning” or “Tiger Blood.”

Then again….maybe not.

—————–

Tell me, Pranksters, what other douchebaggy traits can you think of? I’ll add ’em to the Master List.

Now you’re probably not going to believe me, Pranksters, when I tell you that I occasionally bake. You’ve seen what happens when I try to cook (see also here and here) and we all know that while I’d like to PRETEND that what happened in those blog posts were just for show, they weren’t. Sadly.

But once or twice a year, I forget that I can ruin Jello and decide to bake something. This year, it was my mom’s famous Christmas bread.

Round about September, I got all, “IMMA MAKE HOMEMADE BREAD, BITCHES.”

Stop laughing.

I mean it.

Ass.

I carefully mixed up all of the ingredients. I even followed the recipe rather than throwing a bunch of shit into a pan like they do in those cooking shows.

(I learned the hard way that this is not, in fact, how one cooks)

I threw it into a bowl, after I beat the fuck out of it, and waited. I’d started in the mid-afternoon, my cobwebby-memory banks telling me that it took a couple of hours to actually rise. I waited. And waited. I watched some annoying cat videos. I waited some more. I shook my fist in fury at the three toys that randomly come to life and play music whenever the fuck they want, scaring the bejesus outta me.

Still, I waited.

By 6PM, a full five hours after I’d lovingly placed the dough in the bowl? Fuck nothing. It hadn’t moved a millimeter.

By 8PM, I got frustrated enough that I slapped it into a pan and was all, IMMA EAT THIS, YOU’RE GONNA EAT THIS, WE’RE ALL GONNA EAT THIS.

By 8:30, I admitted defeat. I pulled the bread from the oven, dumped it onto a baking rack and realized it could easily double as a brick (to throw through a window) or a paperweight (if people actually used such things). I tried to eat the thing, because I’m stubborn, but it was…it was not good.

A few weeks later, determined that it was, in fact, the YEAST that had fucked mah bread up, once again, I gathered up my ingredients, threw them together and practically sat there, trying to watch the bread rise.

It was like one of those optical illusions – if I looked at it with THAT eye, I could ALMOST see that the bread had moved. ALMOST.

After 8 hours (bonus points for being both stupid AND patient), I sadly accepted my fate: I would not be able to make this bread rise. Angrily I dumped the rock-solid hunks of dough, where, adding insult to injury, they succeeded in knocking over the garbage can.

Last week (or was it the week before), I picked up some frozen loaves of bread. I’m not certain if I was thinking, “Oooo! Bread!” or “Ooooo! Frozen weapon!” but I guess it doesn’t much matter. Same thing, if you ask the Atkins movement.

Yesterday, I dumbly was all, “IMMA MAKE SOME BREAD” because I’m still not on solid food. Fucking tooth socket.

So I pulled the frozen hunk of bread from the freezer and debated using it to kill someone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, tho, I merely threw it into a pan to “let it rise.” Which, after all that time making UN-risen bread, sounded like a conspiracy.

And um.

Woah.

I’m now strutting around, feeling all accomplished, until I remember that I didn’t actually participate in the actual assembly of the bread.

Which, as I’ve learned the hard way, is how it should be.

—————–

So, Pranksters, tell me something. Anything. I’m in the mood for some stories.

I’m a big fan of Christmas. If I could find one of those Number One fingers and write “FOR CHRISTMAS,” on it, I would. THAT is how much I love Christmas.

Sure, it’s going to be weird this year. Got some familial drama that I cannot (apparently) speak of here, that’s got me a wee bit nervous, but I push on through.

I still get all misty-eyed when I see decorations up, and there’s frankly nothing like a good version of “Blue Christmas” to get me solidly in the mood for some festive motherfucking cheer.

You think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.

I’m old now. I may get tearful whenever my Christmas tree is turned on (bear in mind it’s been up since LAST Christmas, which reminds me of that awful Wham! song, which is NOT something that makes Baby Jesus OR Your Aunt Becky smile), and I may wrap each present happily, open each Christmas card guiltily, but you know what?

I can never think of anything I want for Christmas.

Now I know what you’re saying, “Aunt Becky, Christmas – and Trix – are for kids. You don’t need any presents.”

And, o! Pranksters, my Pranksters, you would, indeed be correct. It’s a lean Christmas here at Casa de la Vodka, but the kids, well, they still have a butt-ton of small gifts to open. According to The Twitter, whom I trust implicitly, kids under ten prefer a fuck-ton of small things rather than one big present. So I have a ridiculous amount of tiny PlayDoh things to wrap.

Anyway.

When I’m asked, “Hey, what do you want for Christmas?” my mind goes blank. Don’t mistake me, I’m not one of those people who are all *waves hands dismissively* “Oh, give my gift to charity,” because, well, I like presents. A lot.

Problem is, I never know what the fuckballs I want. When asked, that is. It’s like my mind, normally filled with pictures of ponies and/or unicorns on roller skates, immediately empties and I’m stuck muttering the first few things that come out:

“Barbie Dream House.”

“Ball pit.”

“Shark pit.”

“Shark on Roller Skates.”

And the asker is left quizzically scratching his or her befuddled head, wondering if I have, at last, gone off my rocker.

Since I already HAVE a pony on Roller Skates:

I no longer need one.

Nor do I need anything else that I can think of on command. I tried, the other day, to create an Amazon wish-list. All the cool bloggers are doing it, so I figured THAT would be a great place to point family members to buy gifts for me.

Ha.

I have two things on it.

Two.

Things.

Apparently, I suck at life AND picking out gifts for myself.

But this morning, the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. A good friend, who shall remain nameless because, well, I do not have a proper email address or name to thank this wonderful friend, sent me something. Something so incredible that I may never stop weeping with joy.

Something I want, nay NEED, for Christmas.

Behold, my Pranksters, and share in my joy.

If you think the 3-Wolf Moon PJ’s aren’t awesome enough, just read the description:

Pranksters! I can take a SHIT while wearing these glorious rags! These PJ’s come with a SHIT DOOR!

Frankly, I do not think that, once I own these, I will ever, EVER need to own another item of clothing in my life.

So WHAT if I find adult footie pajamas to be creepy? So what if I cannot imagine sleeping with cuffs around my feet again? I CAN TAKE A SHIT WHILE WEARING THEM.

THOSE ARE EPIC FUCKING PAJAMAS.

And *shakes fist at sky dramatically* they WILL BE MINE.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’m writing to you for advice because you seem like a good advice-giver in general, and because you are awesome and it’d make my day to hear from you.

See, I want to do a Masters degree in Social Psychology, but at the same time I keep thinking I’m not good enough, or the course is a bad (read: fluffy) choice. And I know those self-doubting thoughts are wrong, and that I acquired them from a person who was in retrospect never a friend to me, and yet they bother me.

I worry that the subject is a bad one in the first place, that I’m settling for a masters degree rather than a phd because I’m not good enough to get a phd (never mind that I think a masters degree would be adequate for my purposes), that I’m not hardworking enough or creative enough to do a postgrad degree, that I’ll be wasting my dad’s money (he really wants me to further my studies and is willing and able to pay for it all, so on top of everything I feel like I should be grateful and shut up and stop worrying already), that I don’t have a suitable background to continue in academia because I didn’t do research assistantship or tutoring in college and am (horror of horrors) doing a job that has nothing at all to do with my psych degree whatsoever.

I know I’m being silly and insecure, but I don’t know how to snap out of it.

Do you have any advice that could help me?

Love,
your niece in a small tropical country

Dear Niece of Mine,

First and most importantly, can I come visit? Because this weather? BLOWS ASS.

Secondly, here’s my thoughts on your dilemma – if you want to get your degree in BASKETWEAVING because it makes you happy – fucking go for it.

Most people (read: Your Aunt Becky) have a degree in a subject they do not use very much. See, I’m a nurse. Last time I practiced nursing? 2007. Part of that is because I hated it and part of it is because I hated it. So really, when I tried to be practical and shit (I should get a degree in something that pays RIGHT OUT OF COLLEGE), I ended up miserable.

I would ask yourself why you want this degree, what you plan on doing with it, and if your answers make sense? Fucking GO for it.

(if your answers are like, “so I can sign my name with cool initials afterward, I’d reconsider. The work involved is a bit much for a few initials).

You can do whatever you want to do. Kick those self-defeating thoughts in the taco and get thee to school.

Love,

Your Aunt Becky, RN-BSN

———————

Aunt Becky-

I’ve pretty much been an avid reader since the beginning of time..and I am just *now* realizing that we have (at least) 2 things in common. Migraines and thyroid BS. This isn’t a very exciting or cool Ask Aunt Becky question..but I’d like some advice from someone who has been there.

I’ve suffered from migraines since 2004. I had one a day for 3 months then, and they’ve been off & on since then. Now, since having my daughter (in Jan.) I started have 2-3 a week, then 4-5 a week and now I’m up to having one every day. My PCP started me on Topamax, but it doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. As bad as it might sound, the only thing that keeps them at bay is Percocet and I know there aren’t unlimited refills on that bad boy. But seriously, if I miss a dose, if I go more then 4 hours, it hits like a ton of bricks.

I’ve taken Maxalt in the past, but it just took the edge off and made me sleepy. And I know about rebound headaches,and I’ve actually stopped taking the Percocet to see if  that was the problem. It wasn’t.

So, any helpful hints or suggestions? I’ve got to get them under control and I feel like I’m losing my mind when I have them.

Also, thyroid BS. Apparently I have a multi-nodular goiter? During my pregnancy everything was fantastic, but now, everything is whack-a-doo. I’m not cycling, and I just feel run down. I’m scared to go see the specialist because I don’t want a biopsy or any of that. Can you advise me as to what is going to happen at my first visit and what kind of treatment there is?

I’m sorry this is so long. I looked for an “actual” email address, and did not find one. I’ve been wanting to ask these questions for a few weeks, but felt like you were so out of my league that I couldn’t, lol.

Thanks in advance for listening.

Oh, Prankster, it’s like we’re twinsies! And not in a matching-shirt-kinda-way.

First and foremost, get thee to a neurologist. If The Max isn’t helping, fuck The Max. There are a zillion other drugs out there that can help control migraines. I now take Carbitrol, and frankly, it’s not working well. My migraines have become a daily thing. CLEARLY, I need to call my neuro for another drug. You may have to play around with various drugs to find out which works for you, but there will be SOMETHING. I promise.

As far as the thyroid goes, my endocrinologist is the best doctor I have. My thyroid goes balls out after I have babies, and doesn’t go back to normal. It’s like hey, motherfucker, you’re an asshole for having a baby!

So seeing an endo has been one of the smartest moves I’ve made. Been seeing her since after Alex was born, and I’d send her a Christmas card if I wasn’t too lazy to send such things.

Let me know how it goes. And good luck, Prankster.

Love,

AB

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Sometimes, I get around. I wrote about 5 Things Not To Do With Your Kids This Winter.

Your turn, Pranksters! What advice would you give these brillz Pranksters? Fill in where I left off in the comments.