Back when I was 15, like all hot blooded teenagers (this has nothing sadly to do with being hot blooded) I was learning how to drive. Between my father’s obvious terror at being in the front seat of a car driven by his daughter and my mother’s out and out refusal to drive with me, I was stuck researching other options so that I may actually get approved for a driver’s license sometime in the next 14 years.

The other options came in the form of my over 18 years old friends, whom I was allowed to drive with (they’ve since changed this law in Illinois, I believe). By nature of being invincibly 18 AND having oodles of marijuana on board (them, not me. I was too much a Nervous Nelly for that. Well. Sort of. But that’s another story), they didn’t mind driving with me.

So one day, I was out and about with my friend Audrey and she was patiently sitting shotgun as we drove out in the more rural areas surrounding my town. I figured that this was probably safest alternative, considering that there was little to no traffic for me to hit with my car.

Always known for my wanderlust, we drove aimlessly around for ages (or perhaps 15 minutes). On one of the winding roads, just as you came over a hill was a farm. And on that farm they had some chickens. And those chickens saw fit to cross this road at THE EXACT MOMENT I DROVE UP THE HILL. It was a blind hill, so I couldn’t see anything on the other side of it.

The next thing I knew, I ran over not one, not two, but an entire flock of chickens. My car was awash in chicken feathers and poo. And I began screaming along with the poor chickens.

I slammed on the brakes and turned to Audrey, tears pouring out of my eyes and she grimly informed me that I needed to go back and put any of the chickens that weren’t dead out of their misery. This was an even more horrifying prospect to me, who now just wanted to climb back in bed and wrap myself in the comfort of a large doobie.

I liked chickens, I did! I thought they were cute and sweet (I obviously didn’t KNOW any chickens) and I was happy to have them around. Opossums, however, I would have happily run down with my car, bike or even my boot clad feet. They were mean, they were nasty, and I hated them. But chickens! My heart shattered loudly.

But no. I couldn’t sit their daydreaming while there were more chickens to maim! I executed a 14 point turn and went back in my Car of Doom, crying and blubbering on and found the chickens. Well, some of them. Thankfully (I suppose) for my guilt-ridden conscience the ones that were dead were, in fact, dead, and the ones that weren’t had moved on to less dangerous car infested pastures.

As we drove away, still crying like a baby, Audrey looked at me and said, “Why did the chickens cross the road? TO GET RUN OVER BY BECKY.”

I was highly unamused.

Before I alienate all but the two of my readers I pay to read my drivel, I wanted to assure you all that from now on, I promise not to speak constantly of this pregnancy. I personally am not that interested to read pregnancy only blogs, I don’t much care for tickers or blinkies–just not my style–and I can only imagine that you feel the same way.

I’m going to treat this pregnancy, for however long it lasts, as though I am not pregnant, I’m going to reinsert my head firmly up my ass and stick my fingers in my ears (don’t ask for the logistics here) and say “lalalala” rather than take out my maternity clothes and rub my (fat) belly serenely.

We’re just all going to pretend that I didn’t tell you my news yesterday, okay? If/when something worthwhile bodes mentioning, I’ll tell you all, and if you want to talk about this stuff, click on my email me button and we can chat. I heart emails.

But before we close the door on this chapter, I must say a warm thank you to everyone who has congratulated me on this…stuff. It’s certainly a surprise, and I’m certainly thrilled, and I 100% without a doubt love you all immensely. But you knew that, didn’t you?

————-

So let’s talk about something else again, shall we? In the vein of new beginnings, I am going to personally write a meme. Yes, Aunt Becky is going to write her VERY OWN MEME. Go ahead and play along in the comments.

What is your biggest pet peeve? Shit, I have too many to count, literally, but one of the ones that usually bugs me the most is when people don’t finish things that they start.

Also white carpet in general. Who the fuck thinks that white carpet is a good thing to install? It ought to be outlawed.

Anyone going to see the Sex in the City movie? I’m going on Sunday with two of my girlfriends. Between the vat of popcorn I plan on submerging myself in and the promise of talk of weenies, I’m pumped.

What is your favorite crappy song to jam out to? For me, the genre matters, but anything by Rod Stewart, especially You’re In My Heart. Oh and Mili Vanilli’s Blame it on the Rain.

What makes you gag? Barf. Barf. Barf. I know, I’m a nurse, I should be able to handle it like a Big Girl, but you know what? It makes me run screaming for the hills.

What’s your least favorite thing to do? Hands down, cooking. I hate to cook, I’m not an inspired cook, and pretty much if I could order take out for the rest of my life, I’d be happy. Paradoxically, I am an excellent baker.

What’s your favorite part of blogging? Sappily enough, it’s meeting new people. I’m stuck home alone with the kids, and they’re not exactly always good company. But The Internet reminds me that even if I feel alone, I’ve got a fucking army marching behind me.

AND, I’ve done a pretty awesome chocolate exchange with a friend (okay, I need to get my lazy ass to MAIL her the chocolate) and it was super cool.

Anyone down with some sort of exchange? It’ll be fuuuun!

All right, Party People, here comes the audience participation part of this whole thing. Either play along and answer my uninspired questions in the comments or ask ME a burning question that you’ve always wanted to know (I know, I know, I blank whenever someone tells me to do this. I always end up asking something totally stupid because, seriously, I can never think of a thing).

Hey, wanna get an Italian Ic….what the…?

So tell me, how intentional was the making of that sign? Didn’t they realize that it looked like a giant penis?

(I took the picture)

(because penises are funny stuff)

I’m not a very creative person. Really, I’m not.

Yes, I post to my blog pretty religiously, but it’s really like I’m talking to you all, telling you a story. Honestly, I write just how I speak. And I tell the truth for the most part, so it doesn’t involve much creativity on my end.

Usually I just tell you something, reread it quickly for obvious typos (and have my sweet Manny to remind me when I misspell something) and throw it up. Voila! Instant feedback. And since my blog readers are some of the nicest on the planet (seriously, what did I do to deserve all of you?), what you tell me is always pretty nice.

A couple of weeks ago, I made the decision to start writing some essays. Again, because I have no real creativity they’re true stories about me and my life, so it’s not like I’m stretching too far with them. It’s a subject matter I’m comfortable with, I enjoy nothing more than telling a good story and they’re pretty good.

The essays are still pretty embryonic and rough and still need a lot more work (have I mentioned my comma addiction?) because they’re slightly more formal than my blog posts. I like ’em, I really do, and I’m proud of them.

But sometimes, like yesterday, I get pretty insecure about them. I like stuff that has real answers, a real right and wrong way to do things, and obviously creative stuff doesn’t have much of that. It’s whatever you think it should be.

That terrifies me.

It terrifies me, it makes me nervous and shy, and it makes me insecure. That is what you saw yesterday, and I wanted to thank each of you who reminded me that I’m not a failure at this stuff.

If I were someone totally crappy to read here on Mommy Wants Vodka, you wouldn’t come over, and I wouldn’t blame you. Since most of you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, I can’t even say that you’re just reading me because you feel sorry for me or because I pay you to. So, believe me when I tell you all how much it means to me to hear from you. Weird or not, you guys are my friends too, and you prop me up, dust me off, and get me back on my feet again. That’s what friends do for each other, right?

I don’t know what I’m going to do with these essays yet, I’m just not sure. Maybe they’ll just be saved merrily into my fancy hard drive on my new computer, where they will sit and rot. Who knows? Really, who cares?

Since I’m determined AND OCD they will be completed to the best of my ability, they will be edited by my good friend Pashmina–or whatever her blog name is– (she’s an actual real editor, can you believe I know such cool people? AND she introduced me to The Daver AND saved me from my hideous roommate in college. She’s a peach.) and The Daver, and then, who knows?

Giving up is not an option for me, because even if I try to not post to my blog or write part of an essay each day, I get really crabby and irritable–I think I’m addicted to writing– until I am able to. It’s really damn weird. I’m hoping that venturing outside the box will be a good thing for me, even if it’s for a small while.

Shit.

Is it always gonna be so scary? What should I do with them?

You’d never know from the ridiculous amount that I blog that I never in my whole life kept even as much as a journal.

Wait, that’s not true. My hip and cool cousin gave me a blank diary when I was about 10 or 11 and I tried my best to keep a diary. It lasted about a day and a half before even at that tender age, I looked at it and realized it was complete crap and ripped out the pages I had written in. Since I don’t have it any longer, I’ll try to give you an example:

“Dearest Diary,

I went to school today and I swear that Mike looked at me. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? Maybe he’s IN LOVE with me! OOOOOH!

Love ALWAYS,

Becky

P.S. What is the deal with clear mascara?”

It was, even at that age, in a word: lame.

I guess I fell into blogging pretty much the same way I’ve fallen into anything else in my life.

I never really had thought about kids and then BAM! I was a mother. I’d never expected or really wanted to get married and then POW! I met The Daver. I’d really never had any desire to be a nurse and then WHAM! I just renewed my license.

It’s just strange how these things fall into my lap.

All of the things I had real dreams of doing are things that I’m not doing. I’d wanted to go to medical school and carry on the family tradition of being a doctor, and that promptly fell by the wayside when Ben was born. Sure, I could go back, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.

I’d wanted to take my nursing degree and go work for Doctors Without Borders when I graduated, but when I looked into it I realized that I couldn’t make their 6 month commitment without missing out on a lot of Ben’s life.

I have no idea if this is the way that most people eke out their paths in life, because The Daver seems to be doing precisely what he always thought he would do, albeit with the wife and kids he wasn’t sure he would have (which is especially hilarious if you know him. When I met him he had Marriage Material and Great Father written on his forehead). Maybe other people make plans and are actually able to follow through with them, I’m just not sure.

I’m not actually sad that I haven’t gone where I always thought I’d be, I’m quite pleased with my new life (at least, most days). I guess I learned awhile ago that “to make God laugh, tell him your plans,” so I don’t really bother making unrealistic goals right now. I’m fairly certain that I’ll go back to school once we’re done with babies and ickle kids (I’ve done the full time school with a wee one and I won’t do it again), and I have a decent idea of what I’ll be studying when I do go back, but shit, I can’t be certain that any of it will gel into a reality.

Honestly, I’m fine with that. I’ve learned to finally stop fighting whatever forces that be and embracing whatever may come.

I’m just anxious to see where I end up.

What about you? Are you somewhere within what you thought you’d be doing or did your path veer sharply? Does it upset you either way?

A couple of weeks ago, The Daver was on the phone with his mother and he made mention of the loss of my friend Steph, and he mistakenly referred to her as an “old friend.” I normally leave him the fuck alone when he talks to his mom, but this was too big an insult to our friendship to let be, and I promptly informed him that she was well more than that to me.

Maybe we weren’t super close towards the end of her life, truth be told, she’d become fairly unreachable to me. Growing up with a mother who had suffered through the same things that Steph did, my knee jerk reaction once I realized that there was, in fact, no quick fix to this problem was to steer the hell clear for awhile. Physically, at least.

Mentally, however, I thought of her quite often. I beat myself up over and over again FOR YEARS because I knew that I couldn’t handle her anymore, and in a desperate attempt to shield myself from the shit storm, I sort of cut her out of my life. Physically, at least.

Maybe it was self-preservation on my own part, maybe I was in the thick of dealing with my own shit, or maybe it was just because I couldn’t handle being part of that downward spiral yet again.

(I don’t feel entirely comfortable discussing all of the issues associated with being raised by a mentally ill alcoholic mother, because hey, this is The Internet, and anyone can find me. My name IS Becky (and not Rich) and I haven’t made any real effort to cover up who I am (sadly, I am not a transsexual midget living in Vancouver), and as such, I only write about people who I know read this blog.

So, just make the assumption that there were lots of trips to and from the mental hospital, lots of medication tweaking, some ECT, and several drunken ER trips involved. I’m making no steps towards going private, because I don’t care THAT much, so if for some reason, you want to talk with me about this, click on that fancy “Email Me” button that The Daver put up there for me. If not, just know that none of that is integral to this or any story.)

It’s hard to stand by and watch someone you care about very, very much make poor decision after poor decision, and as I make it a rule not to interfere in my friends’ business, I had nothing TO say about it. I mean, honestly, I highly doubt that it would have made a difference.

See, she and I started out in the same place, but ended up so far from each other that there wasn’t much TO say anymore. We both had children out of wedlock (OOOOH! OOOOOH!) with men who weren’t the best choice of partners, and while I realized it and got out of that relationship, she didn’t get out until after the second child was born.

I had the good fortune to meet The Daver and together we built a fairly solid life together. I mean, I COULDN’T call her, because her phone was always turned off. Mine is only off when the Internet is down (thank you Vonage). They had no car. I have two. I finished school and graduated with a degree. She dropped every class she enrolled in. The list is endless.

Her choices were poor, she threw away a lot of good opportunities and as a result, I knew that we didn’t have much TOO talk about. At least, this is how I logicated not reaching out to her.

And whether it’s because I know that I no longer CAN or just because I never thought that it would come to her dying at age 26 from NATURAL FUCKING CAUSES, I feel guilt and remorse and shame. It’s not my fault, not really, and I was behind her supporting her to do all of the positive steps in the right direction that she refused to take. You can lead a horse to water, afterall…

Does feeling guilty help? I don’t know. Maybe it’s part of fucking Kubler-Ross’s ‘Stages of Grief,’ or maybe it’s just “complicated” grief. I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know.

All that I do know is that physically removing someone from your life doesn’t mean that they’re gone. Not by a long shot. I miss her just as much as I did before she died. Maybe even more.

I’m not feeling a post today, dog, primarily because I’m going over to Steph’s parents house today to see them, and I’m not really looking forward to it. Mainly because I’m going to pull up and weep like a baby that she’s not here anymore and it will be cemented in my brain that maybe, just maybe SHE’S REALLY NOT COMING BACK.

Methinks that I’m still in denial.

Grief fucking sucks.

And as it’s been well documented (by myself and I would NEVER lie about myself), I have OCD and cannot go a day without throwing some sort of drivel out there.

So I present to you, Sweet Internet (have I told you that your butt looks hot in those pants? Because it totally does), another edition of Aunt Becky Asks The Internet:

1) Let’s say you have been invited to one of those in-home parties, A Pampered Chef, Candle Party or some such other thing, and you dislike them on principle, figuring that if the host needs money so badly, you’d rather cut THEM a check rather than buying useless crap that you don’t want in the first place. Expensive crap. PLUS, the whole thing chafes your balls a bit.

Do you:

a) RSVP and tell them you’re unable to make it.

b) Go begrudgingly because you think it’s the Right Thing to do and buy some crap you don’t want.

c) Blow off the whole thing because you find it rude.

d) Other

2) Let’s again say that you have an old engagement ring from a previous relationship that you’ve held onto for years, not because it has sentimental value, but because you don’t know what else to do with it. It’s a teeny thing (maybe 1/4 carat) white gold and diamond (solitare) and you don’t really want it, but don’t know where to sell it because you have no idea what size diamond it is (you have no paperwork for it) and it cost maybe $400 brand new.

Do you:

a) Sell it on eBay and give the proceeds to someone/thing that needs the money more than you.

b)Make jewelry out of it, even though it’s teeny tiny and not something you particularly want to cherish and love.

c)Toss it on the street and hope that someone picks it up and uses it for, well, SOMETHING.

2b) IF you’re planning on selling aforementioned ring, how does one do so?

a) eBay

b) Pawn Shop

c) Random Stranger

d) Other

3) If you read blogs often do you:

a) Comment religiously

b) Comment ONLY when you have something to say

c) Lurk in the shadows because you’re afraid of the big, bad, blog writer.

d) Other

4) What is UP with blogs that have product review posts? Anyone get it? I sure don’t. I mean that, I really don’t understand how that works, I’m not just being a bitch here (and no, I’m not contemplating doing so).

5) BlogAds (not because I’m looking or anything, just curious):

a) Do they actually pay anything?

b) Do they annoy you because it takes ages to load the page?

c) Do you not give a flying fuck about them?

—————–

Shit.

Wish me luck today. I am so freaked out right now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Have you ever noticed that the things that you DON’T say are the things that are usually the most important? The hardest stuff to swallow?

For someone like me, who, according to my own father “talks paint off walls” NOT saying something means a lot. A whole lot.

On Friday I spoke with Steph’s mom, who had recently gotten the results of the autopsy, and I could barely bring myself to tell The Daver, let alone admit it to myself or The Internet.

Natural Causes.

She died of natural causes.

At age 26.

She died of NATURAL CAUSES.

Relating, of course, to chronic alcoholism.

————-

Grief isn’t a linear process, nor would I expect it to be. No, all of a sudden, it’s like a rain cloud comes quickly across the previously merrily shining sun, and then you’re sobbing as you pick your son up from school and have to explain that you’re crying because you miss your friend.

It sneaks up on you like a well-oiled fart and leaves you suffocating and panting for breath and wondering why the hell you’re not over this already.

The short answer is, of course, that you’ll never be “over” this. Not ever.

You’ll walk away from it a different person than you were before the phone rang on that Sunday morning, never to be the same.

Lunches will still have to be made, asses wiped, dog fed, Easter Eggs dyed festive colors, but nothing is the same anymore. It’s all a bit different, kind of like a carnival, where every now and again something (typically a mullet, sorry Meg) pops up and scares the hell out of you.

Eventually, you tell yourself, the hurt will fade with time and effort, but it will never go away, content to throb in the back of your psyche like a sinister toothache or minor burn.

But for now, it hurts like a bitch. It hurts like a fucking bitch.

————

I’m not egocentric to believe in my heart of hearts (burned and blackened as it may be) that I could have done anything in my power to save Steph.

But I keep going over and over the last time I saw her and wonder if I noticed anything to tell me that this would be THE last time I ever saw her.

I was out and about in my neighborhood, about 20 weeks pregnant with Alex, trying to focus on the song on my iPod and NOT kill my neighbors grass with vomit again, while telling my pelvis that it didn’t need to expand quite yet, when she pulled up in a car with her mom and her two kids.

At the moment, I was so focused on not puking on THIS block (it was my own mantra “if you can make it to the next block and not puke again, you can rest for a minute” and I liked it), I barely noticed the van pull up and someone pop out. When I realized that that Someone was talking to me, I immediately assumed that one of my neighbors had tracked down That Puking Girl to yell at for killing her flowers, but no, it was Steph.

We chatted for a moment, making plans to catch coffee, I complimented her children on being particularly gorgeous, and we parted ways.

I never saw her again.

Maybe I’m not egocentric enough to ever believe I myself could have changed the outcome for her, but I wish I’d said something better. More meaningful. I wish I’d told her that I loved her tremendously, that she was more than “just some friend from back in the day,” and that I thought of her quite often, really, I did. I attribute a lot of who I am from how she shaped me as a person.

Yes, she was well more than a friend.

And now I sit here, 10:30 on a Sunday night wracking my brains for any clue as to what I might have said, but, based on the fact that I don’t talk about my feelings unless I’m suffering a head wound or madly hopped up on pain killers, I’m sure it wasn’t much in the way of anything.

But oh, how I wish I’d said more. Anything. Just more than I’m certain I did.

I suppose that I’ll get my chance when I join her in the afterlife, and maybe then I can apologize to her for not telling her how much I missed and loved her like I should have. Because both are the truth.

I miss her more and more every day.

I’m sure I always will.

While I am completely aware that grief affects each and everyone differently, I’m pretty much wishing I were a little more over it by now. I mean, I felt pretty hideous for the first couple of days and now I’m not hugely better BUT I WANT TO BE.

I want the nightmares to stop (I’m fairly prone to nightmares during times of intense stress), I wish I could feel like I had a handle on my life and responsibilities and start fucking functioning again. I HAD MY HUSBAND TAKE THE REST OF THE WEEK OFF WORK (like he’s actually not working or something. Ha-ha-ha) TO HELP ME OUT, HOW PATHETIC IS THAT?

And I really want to be certain that I’m not one of those hysterical people who troll the planet looking for things to be sad about and making it.all.about.them! I’ve never been that person before, and as self-centered as I can be (dude, I have a blog that I write about such meaningful topics as “toilet paper and how it changed my life” and “my kid is weird looking but that’s okay”. How more self-centered can one POSSIBLY be?), I’m not even close to pretending that I am grieving any more or any less than anyone else shocked by this loss.

I guess that I’m just hoping that the funeral will bring some closure and maybe, just maybe, stop the damn nightmares. I hate nightmares (I’ll spare you a boring recount of them, which would be interesting to absolutely no one.).

————

I pretty much suck at emotions in general, and feel only a couple specific ones: Give Me A Fucking Cheeseburger, Angry, and I Need a Goddamned Nap, and emotional situations always make me afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing and make everyone feel worse. This is why I am funny. It’s hard to make someone cry when you’re trying to make them laugh (although you can be certain that I have probably done this), and laughter is something I can handle. Crying, not so much.

*ahem*

Anyway.

I wanted to thank everyone who has supported me since this whole damned ordeal started. Your comments honestly meant the world to me, and it’s great to know that her memory will be perpetuated (however small it may be) by people who she didn’t even know. Thank you also to my lurkers, who pulled the cloak from their face and showed me that even if they think I’m an idiot (they have every right to think this), they care too.

Steph was a neat person, and I just know that you all would have liked her tremendously. She was just that kind of person, you know, the kind you like immediately and unapologetically.

—————

In an effort to distract his mother from her grieving process, Alex has mastered something I hadn’t even thought possible.

Now, after having an overarchingly non-verbal child as my first, this whole babbling and talking this has thrown me through a loop. Ben grunted, Alex succinctly demands.

After blowing his brother’s verbal prowess out of the water, he has picked up a brand new habit, one which terrifies me and sends shivers down my spine:

He mimics our voices and statements.

No sooner have I let the dog out to make some yellow snow, when Alex begins to bellow “Caaasssshhhh”over and over again until the dog has come back in. (Yes, my dog’s name is Cash. No, I don’t mean as in Cash Money. Yes, he was named this to prevent me from loudly petitioning to name our youngest “Cash.” Can we all agree that I have terrible taste? Okay, good.)

Later, I will go to the top of the basement stairs and sweetly call “Dave” should I need my husband for something. As soon as I do this, my parrot for a son begins yelling (not so sweetly) “Daaavvvveee” Daaaavvvvveee” over and over until his father comes into his line of sight.

While this is completely adorable, it means precisely one thing, one harsh thing: I am going to have to stop referring to my husband as “Motherfucker” in Alex’s presence.

When Steph’s mom called me on Sunday morning (right after I’d posted that chippy post about sleeping through the night that I’d really wanted to take down, because it then seemed so wildly inappropriate) to tell me that her daughter was dead, she asked me to call all of the old crew and let them know what happened.

One of the guys I called (and one of my best friends) said something that I haven’t been able to shake no matter how hard I try. He said that he only wished that he were surprised.

Because I was surprised. I was shocked.

Last I’d heard from Steph, she’d been going into rehab and had been attempting to turn her life around.

I knew that she hadn’t been doing exactly well in the last couple of years, and that was the reason that all of us had distanced ourselves from her. Alcohol seemed innocuous until she drank it, and when she did, she became a different person. The type who makes you somewhat nervous because you never knew what she’d do next. That sort of volatility is more fun and freeing when you are much younger, and when you deal with it first hand as more of an adult, it makes you somewhat embarrassed.

But, like Kristin, I wanted to believe that she would come around. I wanted to believe that she would eventually see that she was worth something, even without the alcohol, and that she would take steps in that direction.

I knew that there was nothing I could really do for her until she decided to do something for herself. That’s the kicker about addicts: you can watch them spiral downward and you can try to throw them a lifeboat, but it’s completely up to them whether or not they choose to climb aboard. It’s heartbreaking.
But I believed in my heart of hearts that she would come around.

She never did.

She died in her sleep after popping her prescriptions and washing them down with alcohol. I’m choosing to believe that it was accidental (there was nothing to say otherwise), and I’m choosing to believe that she died just as she was gearing up to fight her demons. Her mom told me that she’d been planning to call me this week or next so that we could spend some much-needed catch up over a cup of coffee or thirteen.

God, how I wished she’d called me.

Maybe, just maybe then we wouldn’t be hatching plans to carpool to her funeral together on Friday.

Just maybe I wouldn’t have to spend hours and hours pouring over floral arrangements to send to her parents, because what precisely says “I’m sorry that your daughter is dead. I loved her very much.” Is it the roses? Or the tulips? Or the multitude of hideously arranged flowers with such stupid names as “Forever Yours” or “A Loving Wish?”

I know that if Steph were here with me, she’d totally make fun of the traditional funeral arrangements, calling them tacky and ugly. We’d probably make fun of the names that the flower people came up with because seriously, what a crappy job that must be. I’d have named them something goofy like “To My Concubine” or “It Sucks That You’re Dead,” and not something so drab and ineffectual. I mean, death is sad enough without having to thumb through stupidly named floral arrangements (I am putting it in my will that only beautiful flowers be allowed at my funeral. And absolutely no plastic ones.).

I can’t seem to make a decision about the flowers, though, no matter that I’ve memorized the layout of the page with my scrutiny. I’ve been looking since Sunday, and have gotten no closer to ordering a thing.

What the hell sort of flowers are you supposed to order for someone who isn’t supposed to be dead yet?