I was all Happy Pants this weekend. I had this awesome post planned out for you today because it’s VD-Day and I love Valentine’s Day like I love Diet Coke and Uncrustables and anyone who can use the phrase “soft palms” as a put-down.

I love Valentine’s Day like everything I love: in an unnatural, slightly creepy way. I’m not even about romance. It’s just the red and pink and sparkles and hearts and *swoons* and normally I take the day to buy myself something extravagant and unnecessary just because I can. That way, I’m never all SAD PANTS if no one else gets me a candy heart or whatever. Nope. I just swoon over my diamonds or ridiculous purse and sigh happily because it’s just a good day.

Then, last night, just, well, okay, let me back up.

Last week was kinda a clusterfuck. You read my blog, anxiously checking for updates, refreshing your browser over and over again in the hopes that maybe, just maybe I’ve decided to pollute the world with more of my garbage, or I’m going to pretend you do, because obviously, my feelings were wounded enough last night.

So last week, I broke my tooth while sleeping. HILARIOUS.

Then, I got a double ear infection the very next day. Not quite so hilarious.

Then, because I am lucky, I got a migraine.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that I get My Grains. They started in my early twenties and by the time I popped my daughter out (I was 28), I had one every day. Every single day. I may exaggerate some things (especially my hatred of Mark Zuckerberg), but My Grains aren’t one of them.

They also aren’t particularly funny. Upon occasion, I’ll bring them up here on my blog, but generally, I try not to because, well, I don’t know, it’s not something I like to talk about very much. They’re not very interesting and what’s to be said beyond, “man, I hate them,” or “man, this is really hard some days,” or, “man, sometimes, it’s hard to feel anything but sad about them.” It’s not worth it to get into that stuff because it doesn’t make me feel any better to say it. It doesn’t make you feel better to read it. And in the end, they just are.

I’ve been fortunate to have found something that helps stave off most of the migraines. The break-through ones are normally managed by another drug. Where I run into problems is when I have something else happen.

Something else like, let’s say, a double ear infection and a broken tooth.

Here’s what happens: I get a migraine and I’m all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER and sometimes, it goes away.

Sometimes it doesn’t and I’m still all YOU CAN DO THIS, EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, and then it still doesn’t go away, and then it’s off-hours, so I wind up in Urgent Care weeping, begging them to lop off my head.

That’s what happened last night and why I’m not telling you about the worst date of my life which is what I’d wanted to tell you about because, well, obviously.

I broke down and went to Urgent Care, which is like, the last place I ever want to go because I’m not interested in dying of Typhoid Fever or whatever infectious disease the patient before me had. But I knew they’d give me a shot in the ass of something and I had an appointment with my neurologist today anyway, so it was a win.

In fact, when I went in, I said, “I have an appointment with my neurologist tomorrow at 11 AM but I am in so much pain that I cannot think,” or something like it.

I didn’t say this:

“I want hardcore narcotics now.”

or this:

*breezily, examining nails* “Um, I want Vicodin. Lots of it. I have “pain” or something.”

They gave me a shot of Imitrex (I hadn’t had it before) and it made matters worse. Suddenly, my head weighed eighty-five-niner pounds and my neck and shoulders hurt and holy shit I felt worse. I started crying. The Nurse Practitioner, who had been a total bitch to me beforehand, sent the actual MD in to see me.

He came in, poked around a little bit and then started talking a bit about “clinic policy.”

I was a little slow on the uptake because, well, I was trying to figure out how to support the weight of my head and I couldn’t exactly see straight, thanks to the blinding pain. Also: I’m pretty stupid to begin with, but that goes without saying.

So while I’m trying to figure out if I can fashion a sling for my neck out of gauze, he tells me that he can’t give me a prescription for pain killers because I’ve been to Urgent Care for migraines three times in the past year.

Oh.

I.

See.

So, they think I’m a drug seeker.

Pranksters, I nearly died. Not in a funny way, either.

I talk a good game and I love a good joke about Vicodin as much as the next person, but frankly, I’m not addicted to it. If I were, I highly doubt I’d be talking about it here. Addicts are pretty secretive about their addictions and I cannot tell you the last time I used narcotics to treat my headaches (I did have some after my surgery). Why?

They can cause rebound migraines.

The very last thing I wanted to do was cause myself another fucking headache, trust me on that.

And as the adult child of two alcoholics, I will tell you that being labeled a “drug seeker” right there was probably the worst, most humiliating thing that has happened to me in a long time. That’s probably the one label; the one thing you could call me that would make me feel like I felt as I walked out of there. I still feel that way right now, actually.

I feel humiliated. I walked out of there, head as high as I could, and the moment I got into the car, I burst into the sort of tears that I cry once in blue moon. Harsh, body-wracking sobs.

Pain is an asshole. It’s supposed to be the 5th Vital Sign, yet so many doctors are afraid to treat it because they can’t see it; measure it; quantify it; run a lab test on it; put it in a neat little box. Chronic pain wears you down. I’m tired of it. It makes me sad that that I’ll probably never go back to any Urgent Care/ER again for fear of being treated that way again. I’ve gotten this treatment from my pharmacy and the asshole nurse at my GP’s office before; et tu Urgent Care?

I wish I had any fist-shaking, teeth-gnashing or manager-calling I could do, some way that I could turn this around, some lesson to be learned, but really, there’s nothing to be said or done.

They have their “policies” to hide behind to protect them. I’m a nurse. I understand.

But I’m not a drug seeker. I just wanted treatment. It’s a shame I can’t get it.

When I got this shirt, several things happened:

We had the “Storm of the Century” in Chicago.

I got nominated for a Bloggie*.

My sex appeal increased by 9 million.

Everyone I know* stopped wanting to hang out with me.

The last of which, I know, is only because they couldn’t bear to be in the company of such epic greatness without feeling sadly inferior. I mean, it’s a PURPLE UNICORN SHIRT. How can you not feel like you are somehow not good enough? Even I can’t tell where the shirt ends and the awesome begins!

So after I strapped on this beautiful purple unicorn shirt, I got an email from my friend Cecily asking if I wanted to talk to a psychic. I’m sure she sensed the shift in the Earth’s Gravitational Pull and knew I needed to hear what my destiny held. Of course I agreed. I’m a big fan of Miss Cleo and her infomercials.

I’d never talked to a psychic before so I was slightly nervous. What would this brilliant seer into my soul say?

Well, it turns out, Pranksters, this will BE MY YEAR. Without giving away too much (are psychic readings like birthday wishes?), I’m going to be a very busy girl. I’ll finally manage to sell my books. PUBLISHERS, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO CALL ME.

The psychic was eerily accurate about a bunch of details about my life and I don’t know if it’s the Epic Unicorn Shirt or what, but I’m feeling downright giddy about what the future holds and that’s not even because I drank five cups of coffee that I made with Redbull instead of water. Let’s get this book-selling-career-starting-unicorn-shirt-wearing-show-on-the-road!

Pranksters, we’ve got a world to take over and an internet to take back from Mark Zuckerberg and Jimmy Wales. I’m not going anywhere without you guys. And my purple unicorn shirt. Naturally.

P.S. Weather Channel, CALL ME. This is the worst map yet:

Ah, that’s better.

*You should, um, vote for me if you want, and, um, stuff. I’m up for Best Humor (I think they meant “funniest looking”) and Best Writing. And Band Back Together is up for Best Kept Secret.

**3 people

In an effort to distract from what it really is (torture), the school distract has obliquely named the concert in which we parents have to sit through 300 kids playing medleys of Lightly Row and Mississippi Hot Dog, “The Winter Strings.” Sounds a lot more whimsical that way.

My own son has been playing since he could toddle and listening to him is downright pleasant. I played cello for many years – toured even – and while I was never as good as he is, I was good. I could have been great. The concerts, though, let’s just say I invariably get stuck behind the kid who spends the entire concert taking a shit in his pants.

The concert itself was unremarkable, save for my son, who spent most of it scowling in my general direction (no small feat on a big stage). What had I done to evoke such ire? How had I offended thee? Had I punched a puppy? Kicked a kitten? Told him that I hated Facebook?

No.

Aunt Becky: “What are you wearing to the concert tonight?”

Ben: “These [pleated][greenish][ugly] pants and this [yellow] shirt and this [green] sweater-vest.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, so let’s go with these black cargo pants instead. The green pants don’t really go and they’re a liiiitle too small.”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Um.”

Ben: “THESE PANTS ARE BETTER.”

Aunt Becky: “You look like a mini-Alex P. Keaton.”

Ben: “Who?”

Aunt Becky: “Never mind.”

Ben: “I want to wear these pants.”

Aunt Becky: “Dude, the cargo pants are cooler. And black goes with yellow and green better than these do. Trust me, you look handsome!”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, in that outfit, you need a briefcase and a Wall Street Journal subscription.”

Ben (thinks): “That would be good.”

Aunt Becky: “NO CHILD OF MINE WILL GO OUT DRESSED LIKE THAT.”

Ben (flounces off): “Fine.”

So now my son is mad at me because I wouldn’t let him go out dressed like a tiny member of the Republican National Committee. I’m pretty sure his rebellion will be to wear Dockers and button-down shirts.

Kids these days. Back in MY day, we pierced our eyebrows and shaved our heads and we LIKED it.

Maybe the kid will forgive me when he sees that I’ve gotten him a new sweater-vest/ascot combo. Or maybe he’ll just use this as fodder to put me in a bad nursing home. That seems more likely.

Normally The Daver says stuff like, “Why is the cat in the microwave?” and “You can’t make dinner by staring at the cans of food, you know that, right?” so when, in a rousing discussion about turning Band Back Together into a non-profit, he said, “I can’t believe that all of the stuff that’s happened in the past couple years has been a coincidence. You’ve really channeled all of that into something good.” I was stunned.

It was singularly the kindest thing he’s said to me. It was the kindest thing that anyone has ever said to me.

I’ve done a lot of thinking, which, for someone like me who normally thinks things like, “I wonder if I can print out a life size cutout of Billy Mays for my wall on my home printer.” (it is the size of a shoebox, I should add) I’ve been thinking about the past. It’s not surprising, considering that Amelia’s birthday is coming up in a few days, that I would be more contemplative than normal.

That stupid baby shampoo commercial says that “having a baby changes everything,” and I always answer the television (because it can totally hear me) “yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” because it does. Of course it does. Of course, the baby shampoo commercial is also trying to make you feel like having a baby makes the world a more brightly-colored, soft-focused place where mothers stand at the sink, lovingly smiling at their cooing – but never colicky! – baby, bathing in that lovely lavender shampoo.

Go ahead, I’ll wait while you snicker.

Okay, maybe that’s just me snickering snidely.

The person I was before I popped Amelia out was not the person I am today. I am not the person I was before I delivered Ben or Alex either, of course, but the person I was before I delivered Amelia was the one most radically altered. Even more so, I think now, than the single twenty-year old who popped that bobble-headed black-haired baby out.

Part of who we are is who we think we are. Part of who we are is reflected in the way other people see us. Part of us is who we actually are. And part of who we are is who we want to be.

It has taken me thirty years on this planet to finally be able to say that I am. I am. I finally am. I am – more or less – exactly as I should be.

I had to lose it all to finally become who I am. I had to lose my marbles to find myself.

I am now found in no small part thanks to you, Pranksters. For that, I owe you a debt of gratitude I’ll never be able to repay.

I guess that baby shampoo was right. Having a baby changes everything. But it’s probably not the way they meant it.

(the blobber, Aunt Becky, as she was, February 3, 2009)

(the blobber, Aunt Becky, as herself, today, January 19, 2011)

The January Theme for Band Back Together’s Bringing Happy Back Project/Make 2011 My Bitch is “Looking For Small Things To Make Ourselves Happy.”

I’d petitioned for “Kicking Things In The Crotch,” but was vetoed. AGAIN. SIGHS.

There are many small things that make me happy. Rocks, for example are small and make me happy. So do snails. Because they’re fucking cute.

But what made me extra-Happy-Dance-Booty-Shuffle-Around-The-House-After-I-Stopped-Laughing kind of happy was this:

See, after I’d gleefully showed you that my soul does, in fact, look like an Epic Fucking Wolf (also: Adam has a pretty lady hand), I’d gotten a comment from Dustbag saying that if I read all of the reviews on Amazon for something called a “Three Wolf Shirt,” he would buy me this Epic Fucking 3 Wolf Shirt.

Now.

How could I resist a shirt that would cure cancer? And baldness? And WORLD FUCKING HUNGER?

This shirt simply had to be mine, Pranksters. It had to be!

My migraines could vanish! My laziness would be a thing of the past! Why if I could simply own this shirt, I would be a SUPERMODEL with MY OWN REALITY SHOW! (side note: I do not want a reality show) No longer would I have to suffer in mediocrity any longer!

I WOULD BE A FAMOUS BLOBBER AT LONG LAST!*

MOVE OVER, DOOCE! AUNT MOTHERFUCKING BECKY AND HER EPIC 3 WOLF SHIRT WERE GOING TO TAKE OVER THE BLOB WORLD!

So I read the reviews, and Dustbag, Dustbag knew what the fuck he was talking about. HILARIOUS. I told him so, as I scrounged up loose change from under the dryer and behind the couch so that I too could become one of the pack. I didn’t actually assume Dustbag would follow through on his Offer Of Awesome.

But he did. On Saturday, bright and blurry, this wee nugget of awesome fell into my inbox.

And now, now I know my destiny involves this Epic 3 Wolf Shirt.

I wonder not if, but WHERE I should get the matching tattoo. And who can possibly put together a new Wolf-Themed Blog Design. And if it’s too late to rename my kids “Canis” and “Lupis.” I wonder if I should change my name to Mommy Wants Epic Wolves. Or what I will do once I conquer the Internet with my Wolf Pack.

What I do know, is that in addition to my “Thinking Hat,”

I’ll be wearing this when I blog (You may want to put on sunglasses, lest you be BLINDED by the AWESOME):

My only complaint is that it’s not bedazzled.

When I was nearly burned by the awesomeness of the “Order Now” button, I saw this. And I think I may have to buy it. For special occasions, like when my Epic Wolf shirt is being washed (twice a year):

*the next time I get a blobber asking me how to be a Famous Blobber, I am simply pointing them to the Epic 3 Wolf Shirt.

It came to my attention through this very awesome email:

I have been reading for some time and now I am peeking from behind the corner to say, you know, “yo,” and also, possibly bring you a high five. Anyway, we have not seen many “after” pics since your procedure and I was wondering, how are you and your abs doing? How are your feelings and things?

that I haven’t exactly been talking about mah surgery very much.

So, Em, HIGH FIVE and this one’s for you.

Brief back story, I had a full abdominoplasty (which is a hardcore tummy tuck) at the beginning of November, 2010. My surgeon lopped off six pounds of stuff and then fixed the underlying muscles that were all bent out of shape in a condition called Diastasis recti. I’m shaped like a daddy long legs spider, relatively long legs and no torso, and after three eight pound babies, my abdominal muscles were all *coughwheeze* “I GIVE UP.”

I did it without a whole lot of warning because I knew that if I thought about it too much, I’d be all, HOLY SHITBALLS, THAT’S A HELL OF A SURGERY, AUNT BECKY, so it was really just a “let’s get ‘er done” kinda thing.

So it was done and I was all OUCH, because do you know how often you use your abdominals? A fucking lot. That’s how much. I couldn’t pee without crying.

It was like that for weeks.

Since I don’t lay around very well, I spent a lot of that time feeling kinda sad. It’s like all of those emotions you push down because you’re too busy to ever think about them, well, they come burbling out when you’re stuck on the couch and time goes by so slowly that you wonder if it’s a trick of the clock or something. But I think that was a good thing for me to finally have to sit down and focus on them.

I can say that because I’m feeling loads better. I still have pain – a lot of pain – where the nerves in my abdomen are trying to grow back. But that, too, will (probably) pass. I’ve weaned my Topamax dosage down to half of what it was and been able to keep it there without getting a fuckton of headaches. I’ve had less back spasms.

In short, my life = more awesome now.

I don’t have any Before Full Abdominoplasty Surgery Posts to show you because, well, I don’t think I want to see it.

Here’s my three week post op post.

And this is how I look today:

8 Weeks Post Full Abdominoplasty

With the exception of the quality of the photos, I’m really happy with the surgery. I’m back to the normal substandard quality of life of a blobber that I was used to before surgery (read: none. I live my life online).

Would I have a tummy tuck again if I knew then what I know now? Without a doubt. Which is more than I can say about that weekend in Rio.

And short of a Baywatch audition, that’s about the best result I can hope for.

I’m not a particularly good gift giver.

A couple of years ago, I noticed that my family was merely FEIGNING delight at the gifts I was thoughtfully bestowing upon them at Christmas. Now, maybe it’s because I shopped on Christmas Eve at 11PM at Walgreens and bought my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, who is ten years my senior and a raging yuppie this gem:

(he’s not a mother)

and my father a pair of these:

(he doesn’t have pierced ears)

And everyone else cans of mixed nuts (2 for $6!) or discounted boxes of birthday cards OR sympathy cards that had been beaten up so badly that I had to tape the sides shut so their contents didn’t spill out onto the floor. I mean, EVERYONE likes cards and nuts…right?

Apparently notsomuch.

So. I started ASKING people what they wanted for Christmas rather than trying to guess the night before at a crappy pharmacy chain while strung out on too many cups of coffee. It’s a lot MORE boring and LESS (motherfucking) jolly that way.

If you’ve read my blog or my The Twitter stream you know that I’m a little, uh, well obsessive about my habits.

I’m compulsive, okay? It’s charming, really, if you like people who will stay up all night for weeks on end learning about something new because they have no other choice. It’s like an itch in my brain that I have to scratch because I simply can’t ignore it. It’s always there, tapping at the side of my skull until I give in and just DO IT.

I’d make an excellent alcoholic, if only I actually liked to drink. Alas, I do not.

Instead, my habits range from the boring to the exceptionally boring. I write. I blog. I am the site master of a couple of sites. I plan to start another one.

I also grow orchids. In Chicago. In the dead of winter.

My Orchids Bring All The Boys To The Yard

That’s my kitchen table, by the by. Most of those orchids were bought as tiny wee babies and lovingly grown by Your Aunt Becky to the monsters that they are. They’re also blooming out of season right now which makes me BEYOND happy in the pants but that is neither here nor there.

On my mother’s birthday in September, I happened to be in Lowe’s Hardware store buying something or another to combat the black spot on my roses when I happened to walk by their orchid table. Normally, Lowe’s orchids suck. Their grower is terrible. I know this because I am obsessive and have nursed orchids I’ve bought from there back to health.

But this was a NEW grower. And it was my mother’s birthday. And she is singularly the WORST person to buy for. She has everything and wants nothing. She hates crap.

So I was all, I SHOULD BUY HER AN ORCHID, BWAHAHAHAHA, SHE’LL NEVER WANT THAT BUT IT’S BETTER THAN THE FUCK-NOTHING I HAVE FOR HER.

And I did.

And she loves it.

So for Christmas, I was all, “Okay Mom, what the fuck do you want, because you suck to buy for and I don’t even want to GUESS what you want.”

And she was all, “I want another motherfucking orchid, yo.”

Except maybe we didn’t use those words. Except maybe we did. You never know in my family.

On Sunday, I was all, “Hey Dana, Imma get my Mom an orchid at Lowe’s. It’s gonna be wicked. Wanna go?”

She was all, “SURE.”

So we went. Because when you need an orchid, you need an orchid.

First things first, we saw this gem and I HAD to buy it.

Epic Motherfucking Wreath

The ugliest wreath on the planet.

Then we headed to the orchids. I didn’t immediately see anything besides poinsettias (UGH) in the plant area, which made me a little nervous. My heart rate quickened as I frantically combed the shelves. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Until I saw the, “these are the plants we don’t care about and are selling for a dollar” area. THAT’S where they were hiding the orchids.

Dana took a look at them and said, “Uh, Becky, those look dead.”

For Whom Does The Orchid Bloom? It Blooms For Thee.

I responded, “Um, they’re not dead. Just not blooming.” Which does not a Christmas gift make. Luckily, they’re just fine with me. I bought four. For a dollar. That’s BEYOND a deal. I went home and Mr. Burns-like cackled over my deal.

I’m still sadly out a Christmas gift for my mother. Maybe I can just frame one of my epic soul portraits for her in a couple of weeks.

BETTER YET, I could get one made for her. I bet she’d LOVE it. Or disown me.

Whatever.

—————-

Let’s do another blog carnival, yo because that was fun as hell (I’m going to neglect my baking to read it all later). I put another link widget below. Or you can answer in the comments if you want. Or not at all.

Are you a good gift-giver – holidays or not? OR MAYBE: what’s the worst gift you’ve ever gotten?

Probably the best part of not hosting Thanksgiving besides the obvious “not cooking” and “not having to behave like Martha fucking Stewart” is I don’t actually give a shit if my children eat Thanksgiving food. I mean, I didn’t spend 70 hours slaving over anything, so if you want to eat corn only, be my guest, I’m not crawling up on the cross today.

Traveling to my rival state (Wisconsin) is always a downside because we have to drive behind slow (SLOW!) drivers and listen to the ear-splitting shrieks of my daughter, who was all Furious George. Small children do not travel well. Hm. Let me rephrase that: MY small children do not travel well.

Happy Holidays! We’re all deaf!

After we got home from our uneaten Thanksgiving dinner in Wisconsin, my friend came over. My INTERNET friend.

Pranksters, I have friends. ME. I know!

My feelers have been a little lonesome lately and I was all SAD IN THE PANTS that I was supposed to be alone on Thanksgiving (Wisconsin was a last-minute thing), and my friend Dana was all, “I’LL COME OVER, YO.” And I was all, “AWWW YEAH. MY HOUSE IS BRIGHT YELLOW AND I’M NOT A SERIAL KILLER I SWEAR DON’T MIND THE GIGANTIC FREEZER IN THE GARAGE IT’S NOT FOR YOUR CORPSE.”

She came over anyway.

And she brought a bacon turkey.

I pretty much have the best friends ever.

She’s totally not stuffed into my big freezer, either because even though I am married to a television serial killer, I am not personally a serial killer.

I’m going to have to use her as a reference on my Internet Resume.

Also: The Blogroll is back, yo.

While my initial plans for Thanksgiving included sitting on my ass at home alone, I’ve been kidnapped by my savage crotch parasites (who were aghast that I was planning to avoid the festivities) and am in a car on my way to Wisconsin. I’m hoping they’ll drop me at the Mars Cheese Castle, but I doubt it’s open.

Simply put, the Mars Cheese Castle is the 9th Wonder of the World (my ass is #8) and while Wisconsin and Illinois have a longstanding war, I like to think the Cheese Castle is really in Illinois.

I’d been planning to write something different here today about what I’m thankful for, but really, I think I said it best over on Band Back Together. And since the Internet is closed on holidays, I expect a whole lot of Viag!a robots to “read” this.

But I did mean it and it showed that somewhere in there, I do have feelers beyond “pass the donuts.”

Happy Thanksgiving, Pranksters.

Should you, Pranksters, decide to start dicking around with your blog, please take it from me and do it on a TEST site. Then you will not have to throw up garbage posts like this that serve no particular purpose, save from allowing me to test one thing.

I will leave you with this:

This is a picture of The Daver. I took it at my surgeon’s office. He’s smiling because I just gave him a pamphlet on Male Breast Reduction.