Security Goon 1 –

While you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, I know you.

Okay, that’s a lie, I don’t actually know who you are or how you got such a lilting and magnificent name, but I’d like to.

I remember the day we met, if only vaguely — I was suffering from the flu AND malnutrition (turns out my pesky fridge was right — you should eat more than twice in four months), and the only thing that kept me company during those shaky, feverish moments in which I sat on my couch, trying not to die, was CSI: Miami. I’d never watched the show because I kept mixing up David Caruso and David Carradine, which naturally led me to think about autoerotic asphyxiation* and then I had to scrub out my brain with bleach.

But the flu meant that I was holed up on the couch, moaning near the cats and trying to focus on not dying while I watched the 837147 episodes of CSI: Miami that Netflix has thoughtfully provided me.

(Dear Netflix, I miss Hoarders)

See, Security Goon 1, I don’t exactly know who you are or what you looked like, I only know your name. A name that leads to more questions than answers: Did your mother name you Security Goon 1? I mean, I used to work L/D, which meant that I once met a baby someone had named (I shit you not, Security Goon 1) “Chandelier,” because, the mother claimed “it sounded fancy.” Now, I speak fancy-talk, Security Goon 1, but can’t say that “Security Goon 1” or “Chandelier” is fancy-talk lexicon.

Who looks at a baby and says, “We shall call him, Security Goon 1.” It’s like naming a baby Marge – who can look at an adorable baby and see a 40-year old cartoon character? Answer: not me. Then again, Security Goon 1, I wanted to name my son “Cash” so I suppose I should shut my whore mouth.

While I will never know your face, nor will you know mine, Security Goon 1, I wanted to thank you. I’ve been wallowing in some pretty ugly muck lately and try as I might to shake it off and keep on keepin’ on, it’s not always so simple, now is it, Security Goon 1. In fact, it’s been a pretty low point in my life. But seeing your name there on my television screen gave me the first real laugh I’ve had in ages.

You reminded me, Security Goon 1, that life isn’t always such serious business; that there are absurdities in everyday life, if we look hard enough. That we should hold onto the things that bring us joy and let those lift us up when we’re at our lowest. That absurd reminder, Security Goon 1, is something I owe you a debt of gratitude for. In all the events of the past few months, I’d lost that sparkle, that joy, and the simple reminder that life isn’t so damn serious, well, I needed that.

So thank you, Security Goon 1 (the “1” I added to make you sound kickier, by the by), for reminding me to look for the absurdities in life.

Love Always,

Aunt Becky

*really should have something more to do with cars #justsayin

P.S. Mark Zuckerberg has a crush on you, Security Goon 1:

P.P.S. New post up here.

No matter how I begged, cajoled, pleaded, or attempted blackmail, I couldn’t get my parents to budge on their toy purchases for us when we were kids. While my friends were rocking out their Super Nintendo, I was stuck playing “Kris-Kross Make My Video” (which is something I will never, ever, ever play again) and/or gnawing on those now-popular wooden toys (although not generally at the same time, because obviously).

I can’t imagine where on earth my parents found such toys – they weren’t tragically hip or organic back then – which means that my mom probably found them in one of her weird sage-scented health food stores. In fact, they were probably covered in lead paint, which may explain a thing or two about me. As I lack(ed) an imagination, it was damn near impossible for me to get too excitable about stacking wooden blocks again. I’d rather have watched grass grow or play out in the mud with the worms.

I’d have cut a bitch for something garish and made of plastic. I wasn’t allowed Barbies which meant that I’d have happily eaten aforementioned wooden toys if it meant I could have a Barbie Dream House complete with working bathtub so that she and Ken could get down and dirty, obviously. Why else put a bathtub in a house? BATHING? I think not.

When I had my own kids, I was pretty pleased with the notion that I could, in fact, now purchase them the toys I’d so longed for. While my mother scoffed at the EZ Bake Oven, always promising, yet never allowing me to use the real oven instead (probably a good idea on her end considering my track record with appliances), I couldn’t WAIT to buy one for my kid. Until, of course, I did and the “delicious cake” tasted more like urinal cake than chocolate.

(don’t ask how I know what a urinal cake tastes like)

I’d realized this year, after perusing the Black Friday sales, that it was finally time for my kids to actually select their own Christmas presents because they’re so damn finicky that it’s damn near impossible for me to buy them an item of clothing without allowing them to select it first. They are, as Mimi gleefully sings, “Stubborn Assholes.*”

Friday night, after a botched Thanksgiving, I had Mimi over to my apartment for our weekly Girl’s Night. I have lofty hopes that one day we can paint our nails, play Truth or Dare, and talk about boys, but for now, Girls Night means that we watch whatever Mimi would like to watch and play the games she likes best. The youngest of three and all, she loves being in charge.

I’d been carefully perusing the Black Friday Deals at my boyfriend, Target.com when I came across something I knew my wee masked avengers would either love or hate, so I called my daughter – by far the pickiest of the three – and together we examined toys.

Because my kids range in age from 3 to 11 and my apartment is *ahem* cozy (read: small), I have to make certain that the toys I buy are toys that they can all play with – together or separately. Not always the easiest of tasks, but since Ben is happy to play with his siblings on their level and Mimi and Alex are precocious, it works out well… if’n I can find the right shit.

I did.

For the first year EVER, I managed to get ALL the Christmas shopping done for the kids (likely the only presents I’ll be buying this year) by Friday night with the help of one tiny moppet named Amelia who discovered that Fisher Price makes a series of toys called “Imaginext,” which is a dumb ass name for some neato toys. I vote we petition for a better name, like Sparkle Sparkle…. er, SOMETHING.

Anyway. Amelia quickly noted that they made a BATMAN series and fell in pink-puffy heart love. Thanks to crowd-sourcing via The Twitter, I able to find these toys on sale, which always makes me happy in the pants.

While I’m thrilled that I am, for once, on top of my game with the whole I’M NEARLY DONE WITH THE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING shit, I’m more than a little sad that my daughter, my VERY OWN daughter has, once again, foiled my attempts at the whole, “my daughter needs a Barbie” thing. I’ve offered, begged, pleaded, and blackmailed, and still, she thinks Barbies are dumb.

When I stop hyperventilating, Pranksters, I’ll let you know.

P.S. I really want to do a Christmas card exchange but that seems like a crazy-bad idea. Is it? Should we do one?

*No, I did not happen to teach her that phrase, but it cracks me up whenever she sings the song.

I’m tacky.

This statement is, of course, a “well, duh!” to anyone who happens to know me in real life. I like to blame this on genetics, considering that every time I walk into a room at my parents house, someone remarks “WOAH, NICE SHOES,” and then blathers on about how I’m “just like my grandmother” who had “the same garish taste,” but considering my parents find teak to be the most lovely decoration material ever, I take it as a compliment.

I don’t doubt that one day, along with finding the gene markers responsible for male pattern baldness, scientists will unwittingly find a “tacky gene” which I can only pray to the Good Lord of Butter that they name something like, “The Sparkle Gene” (which goes neatly along with my six-year old desire to rename our car “Sparkle, Sparkle, Sparkle Car,” to which my parents abjectly disagreed with)

(Never DID say I was any good at naming things, considering I own a cat named “Basement Kitty,” and I have no basement)

The Sparkle Gene has been neatly passed down to my daughter who, despite her ability to kick ass at a moment’s notice, loves all things sparkly, although she, like me, is not interested in Princess Gear. In fact, she’s now calling herself Bat Girl, which goes along neatly with my nickname: Good Catwoman. She’ll happily wear her superhero cape while collecting those shiny gem things you can get at craft stores for like a buck (I assume – never did buy any), which means that she too, has the Sparkle Gene.

I like to imagine that the Sparkle Gene is, in some small part, related to the reason I’ve never decorated a home before, excepting for our failed condo, which I painted all colors of the rainbow, just to turn around and sell it. When we moved into the house formerly known as mine, we decided that decorating and painting wasn’t really in our best interest.

Slowly, I did redo two of the three bathrooms and the kids bedrooms as they were popped from my girl bits. The dining room, which was formerly known as my office, I redid last winter, painting it a lovely shade of Eggplant and replacing the ancient light fixture. I loved that room until Hurricane July hit and it was made clear that I would be moving out.

When I moved into my own space, I made sure to pack the pictures I’d been collecting, the decorations I’d held onto for that one day – the day that would never come – I’d be able to decorate a space to call my own. Could’ve been my old bedroom or a real office for me, didn’t matter. I wanted to be able to look around a room and say, “O’DOYLE RULES!” or, at the very least, “BECKY’S BEEN HERE.”

For something so important to me – and it’s always been – I never did manage to get around to it.

Until now.

(cue ominous music)

I’ve been spending a lot of my time thinking about ways I can decorate my new place to make it feel like I’ve got a home of my own. Don’t get me wrong – I’d sooner get mauled to death by a rogue hedgehog before I’ll EVER be known for “my style” but I don’t care. It’s my space to decorate and mine to call home.

While non-traditional, you WILL note that there is nothing glittery on that wall, which means I’m decidedly not done.

(mental note: buy bedazzler)

This painting is probably one of my very favorites. While it looks depressing as hell, the graffiti says, “There is always hope,” which is one of those wacky new-age things I have to repeat to myself to get through the day. Well, that and “glitter makes EVERYTHING better.”

(Dear Depression: Fuck you. Love, AB)

One of the things I’ve been doing while recovering from the flu that ate my immune system is to play around on this site:

Which I’m only telling you about because they’re running some killer hot deals right now if you sign up. Makes me wish I were a new customer so I could YOINK that ten dollars.

I happen to like this site not only because it appeals to my Sparkle Gene, but because when I go scouring The Internetz for art, I hyperventilate.

Etsy makes me break out in hives because I can only peruse the site if I have something INCREDIBLY specific in mind, which, I’ll have you know Pranksters, does not often happen, and searching for “sparkle, sparkle art,” NEVER gets me ANYTHING I’d ever want.

This site happens to choose small independent companies and showcase their items at a deeply discounted price (especially if you earn credits, which you do by “peeking” at the prices of various items. It’s like a game and it’s probably the best time waster ever, besides Monster Pet Shop (Damn YOOOU CRYS!), but you know and you should totally try it. It’s a ton of fun, even if I can’t afford half the things on there, it’s a great way I get ideas for things to put on my walls, until I own a bedazzler.

Or manage to extract the Sparkle Gene from my genetic makeup. Y’know, whichever comes first.

—————

So what about YOU, Pranksters? Where do you find stuffs for your walls? I’m all about getting my house to look as though I live here.

—————–

P.S. Inappropriate frog is inappropriate.

It’s no secret that I’m the finder of odd things (baggies of diamonds, a child, a can of diet Coke), which, is going to make this story incredibly anti-climactic, so be warned.

I’ve spent the better part of two weeks on the couch, wearing an Aunt Becky shaped groove into my couch, moaning histrionically while my cat watched from a distance, all, “bitch, you be crazy – ain’t nobody here to hear your pitifulness besides me and I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Cats, man, not the most sympathetic of creatures.

I’d thought it was low-grade depression, but no, it turns out that I’ve had the flu, which is my PSA for “GET A FLU SHOT, FOR THE LOVE OF BUTTER.” Being me, I had assorted complications with aforementioned flu, none of which are in the slightest bit interesting (okay, malnutrition is kinda wacky, but that’s neither here nor there).

The one thing that kept me sane was playing online games on my iPad (Monster Pet Shop, you are a cruel, cruel mistress) because I was too full of the histrionic to even attempt sitting up long enough to do anything at my computer, which, if you ask me, is the epitome of pathetic. But that is neither here nor there.

Finally, on Saturday night, after tearing myself away from Tiny Tower,

I decided that it was high time to get off my ass and take out the garbage which had been silently taunting me for days. It was all, “I need to be taken out and yooooooouuuuu can’t do it. Ha-ha!” and I was all, “We’ll see who’s the bitch now, motherfucker.”

Apparently, the flu makes you weaker than a mosquito in cold weather, because I swear to you, Pranksters, I’ve never had so much trouble taking out the trash in my life, even WITHOUT household appliances attacking me. I had to take a breather on one of the benches overlooking the river before I could even attempt to crawl back into my house and see what online games required my immediate and undivided attention.

It was then that I saw him.

Now, my neighbors are known for walking their house-pets around, especially cats, which has both befuddled and betwixt me, because, well, who wants to take a CAT for a WALK? Mine would be all, “shit bitch, shut your whore mouth,” the moment I tried to strap a dog harness around him (he’s not fat – he’s just big-boned!)(also: he likes Cheesy Poofs)(then again, who doesn’t?). He’d probably sever one of my pesky – yet important – blood vessels before he let me take him outdoors.

But anyway, the sight of my neighbor walking around with a cat isn’t nearly as shocking as it should be.

“Hi,” he said (my neighbor, not the cat). “Are you missing a cat?”

I looked around wondering if this was a code, but before I could respond, the cat began twirling itself around my ankles all, “I love you,” which is a far cry from my own cat, who’s all, “I love being fat.” I looked down at it and realized it didn’t weigh 82,747 pounds, therefore, it was not my cat. Also: it was orange, which my cat is not.

“Um,” I said, still a bit winded and more than a bit weirded out by the cat who was now making sweet love to my calf. “No.”

“This cat,” he explained, “was in my car. I noticed it when I was over at one of those big box stores. I’d bring him in but I have a small baby at home and I don’t know what the cat could do.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I WAS the small baby at my home, and instead looked down at the cat, who had firmly attached itself to my leg like a barnacle. I sighed.

“I can take him in for the weekend,” I agreed, knowing that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t and something happened to the cat. “Then I can see if I can track down his owner.”

The dude smiled, obviously relieved that he’d passed his stalker onto me. The cat, I swear, grinned like the Cheshire Cat as it sprung into my apartment, all, “lookit me, I’m so damn cute.”

I call him Dolomite, rather than “Three-Pete,” which is the name I should’ve given him, in following in my pattern of naming orange cats “Pete.”

Upon further inspection, I realized that Dolomite has been traveling quite a bit – his paws are busted from walking and he’s in dire need of some food and water.

And I’ll nurse him back to health because it’s the right thing to do.

Once, of course, I’m done restocking my Tiny Tower shoe store.

————-

Got any better names for me, Pranksters? I should warn you that my other cat? His name is “Basement Kitty,” or, as I like to call him now that I’ve moved, “Basementless Kitty,” which goes to show you how badly I name animals.

Two years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I’d just had major abdominal surgery.

But why? I hear the three porn bots who routinely scour my blog to leave hilariously spammy messages crying in their mechanical voice(s). Why would you have surgery? Was it a boob job? A lobotomy? Did you actually find someone to give you a third arm?

No, no, I say, sitting back in my chair and slurping my coffee loudly. Nothing so dramatical.

I’d gone under the knife two years ago (right before a trip to Vegas!) to have a full abdominoplasty.

Well, I hear the porn bots beeping and booping, what on EARTH did you need that for? Are you just a vain bitch?

Yes and no, I reply, still slurping my coffee.

You see, I’m built with the approximate proportions of a daddy long-legs spider — all legs with practically no torso. That means that I’m freakish looking on a good day and while pregnant with my kids, that I carry them RIGHT out there — as in, my pregnant torso entered rooms a full five minutes before the rest of me waddled in. (I also appear to carry them in my ass, but that’s neither here nor there). The spider-like pregnancies left my abdominal muscles both screaming and groaning, the muscles actually weeping whenever I dared to do such things as “sit up.” Laying down, I could nearly sink my fist through the hole left in my abs and grab out my entrails, should I have been so inclined.

(thankfully, porn bots, I never was. I may wear a #1 finger for encased meats, but the thought of all those delicious beef lips and assholes wrapped in my own innards is semi off-putting.)

Let’s not even mention that three babies at 8 pounds a piece + 60 pounds of baby weight = loose skin I could probably have worn as a nice skin scarf, should I have chosen.

And I was born, not only with the bladder of a squirrel, but with something my mother affectionately refers to as The Sherrick Pot-Belly, which meant that even if I went the anorexic route, I’d still look 3 months pregnant.

I’d originally gone into the plastic surgeons to see about a boob job — these puppies are huge and with migraines and neck issues, I figured a reduction might be the ticket to a pain-free life (hey, after it’s been suggested that you inject botulism toxin into your fucking neck, the idea of a boob reduction seems almost… fun).

He took one look at my melons and informed me that insurance would scoff at my claim. Plus, he said, I’d probably end up looking freakish, unless I got a complete boob job. Which was something like 9+ hours on the OR table.

But he looked down and noted my gut and had me lay back. He sucked his breath in as he noted the gaping space between the abdominal muscles formerly known as mine, and suggested that I may benefit further from a full abdominoplasty.

(quick dance interlude:

Partial Abdominoplasty = mostly liposuction and removal of loose skin.

Complete Abdominoplasty = removes excess skin and reshapes the abdominal muscles in those who have had pregnancies like mine, wherein the muscles of the abdomen are separated.

/end scene)

He then suggested that fixing the core muscles of my abdomen may help with my neck and migraine issues. I could’ve kissed him. I’d always planned to have a partial abdominoplasty someday in the very distant future, but the suggestion of a life without pain made baby angels weep with the awesome.

The surgery was fine, as far as surgeries go — I didn’t die on the table or anything — and I even got some pretty nifty drains sticking out of either side of me, which made me kinda feel bionic and wish that I’d asked him to put in some steel plates or machines in my gut, further allowing me to become partially robotic.

The recovery, though, can best be described as excruciating. Turns out, that even my wonky abdominal muscles had been doing their thang, which meant that I spent many hours laying on the couch, trying to ascertain whether or not peeing myself was a better option than trying to get to the bathroom. It took weeks to be able to stand long enough to shower. It took nearly a year for me to regain full control of my muscles again.

But, I know you porn bots are trying to figure out, was the surgery worth it? Have your migraines stopped?

The answer is somewhere in the middle. The migraines are still there, but they’re slightly more manageable, which is FULL of the awesome. And the results, well, I’ll leave you to see them (I’m sorry I have no before snaps for you):

And no, this was not shot in softcore mode – I simply don’t own a full-length mirror.

Also: I am not colored like an oompa-loompa. Apparently, the lighting in my bedroom is mood-lighting. Which may explain why my cat opts to lick his bung on my bed rather than the floor.

My kids are all about superheros these days.

Specifically, Batman. Now, when I was a kid (cracks knuckles, grabs cane and tries to figure out how to use cell phone), I had almost zero interest in superheros. I had no imagination, and save for the Wonderwoman training bra I wore religiously — without, I should add, the need for it — I couldn’t care LESS about superheros.

It’s probably because I had no imagination and preferred digging in the dirt, which is shockingly similar to what I’m like these days. Gimmie worms and other creepy crawlers and an old copy of Grey’s Anatomy and I’m golden.

But my kids. No. They’re insistent upon this superhero thing, which is handy because some toy company was all, WE SHOULD BRING BACK BATMAN AND ALLLLL THE SUPERHEROS, which means that the kids are in toy heaven.

It also made Halloween shopping much easier:

Me: “Whatchu wanna be for Halloween, Alex? THE LAND SHARK?”

Alex: “Batman.”

Me (sighs): “Okay, Mimi, what about you? What do YOU want to be for Halloween?”

Mimi: “Batman.”

Alex: “Mama, what’s your costume going to be?”

Me: “Ummm….”your mom!”” I snickered as I said that, because while it’s true – YOUR MOM.

Alex: “No, that’s what you are EVERY day.”

Me: “Um…Twitter Fail Whale?”

Alex (flatly): “No.”

Me: “Fine, okay, what should I be?”

Alex and Mimi (in unison): “CATWOMAN.”

Okay, I thought, I could work with this shit. Until yesterday morning, when I awoke and realized that I owned almost nothing black (my brother went through a long-lasting black phase and I’ve been scarred ever since).

Hrms, I thought. Had it not been -2726 degrees last night, I’d have worn one of my thousands (okay three – but they were bridesmaids dresses) black dresses and gone all Glamor Shots Catwoman. Instead, after pouring through my closet, I decided that I could go as Cat-Burglar Catwoman. Just needed some black shit and some fucking eye makeup and fuck yeah! Catwoman/Cat-Burglar!

I grabbed a black v-neck shirt, some ugly black yoga pants, and decided that I’d bling the shit out of it after I picked up J from kindergarten. I could hardly wait to see his reaction (and by “hardly wait,” I mean, “I knew he was going to bitch”).

“Check it out, Al,” I showed him as we buckled up on our way from kindergarten to preschool. “I’m Catwoman!”

He looked at me doubtfully.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You don’t have a tail, ears or ANYTHING. You need a costume.”

When I dropped him off at preschool and showed his sister, she was equally disdainful of my outfit. “Mama,” she said, hands on her hips, “you need to go to The Target Store and get a REAL costume.”

I sighed as I bid them farewell. I’d been hoping to avoid spending money on a costume — but Halloween is once a year and I knew it’d make them SO happy if were able to pull something together. Off to one of those stupid-looking costume boutiques I went, hoping for a fucking miracle. Who the balls goes shopping on HALLOWEEN?

(answer: me)

I went inside, and noted that all of the women’s costumes could easily double as hooker apparel – it was like walking into Sluts-r-Us, and if I’d had a kickin’ Halloween party to go to, well, that’d be another story entirely. Instead, I was going out WITH MY CHILDREN.

I found the Catwoman costume right away — it looked like one of those body suits interpretive dancers wear (Now, students, ACT LIKE THE SALAD! BE the salad!).

No.

Fucking.

Way.

Next to it, I noted that they had a Robin costume. Okay, I thought. Robin waits in the car anyway, and shit, this is better than looking like I might begin interpretive dancing as a microwave while we tricked and treated.

I scoured the store to see if I could find something more reasonable and/or less slutty, but no. This is the costume I found:

Which is bad enough, but I figured I could de-slut it a bit, considering I was taking my KIDS trick-or-treating and not going to a hooker convention. I decided to show it to a few friends so they could share in the horror, and was aghast to discover this:

Blech.

Batman “Secret Wishes” Robin Costume? Double gag. Especially since, given my way, I’d have gone as the Land Shark, considering NOT ONE OF MY CHILDREN IS INTO THAT COSTUME IDEA (mostly because they’re boring).

I’d warned Dave that my costume looked like it’d come from Tramps R Us, and showing him the link on Amazon, he just laughed at me. Through clenched fingers, I typed, “I’m ONLY doing this because it’ll make the kids happy.” He laughed harder.

I dressed myself, throwing a pair of pants on under the slut suit, and headed over to Dave’s house, doing the whole walk of shame up to the driveway, hoping my neighbors wouldn’t mistake me for a prostitute.

The kids, upon seeing me, screamed happily, “OH MOM, YOU LOOK AWESOME! LOOK YOU’RE ROBIN AND WE’RE BATMANS! THIS IS SO COOL!”

“Better than the Catwoman outfit, huh?” I asked them, as they tore into the candy Dave’d bought for the trick-or-treaters, knowing that plying them with chocolate is practically a Halloween law, and shit, I didn’t want to get all sued by the Halloween police.

“YES!” They chirped happily. I smiled, still feeling absurd.

I mean, how can you NOT if this is your outfit?

The glee is CLEARLY evident on my face. The very least the manufactures could’ve done is NOT give me the world’s most absurd cape. The thing was like two inches long and seriously, I know Robin waits in the car and shit, but really? Alfred should’ve made the dude a REAL cape.

Luckily, I managed to mostly cover myself up so I didn’t appear as though I, too, was on the prowl for some candy and/or offering a BJ:

Thank the Good Lord Of Butter that Robin waits on the sidewalk.

You’ll be glad (or dismayed) to know that I am not dead.

While the freezer door did make an attempt upon my life, I am still upright and breathing. But after the gas leak from a dead pilot light the week before, I’m now warily watching the washer/dryer unit to see when, in fact, it will make its play to kill me. I can only surmise that it is plotting against me, but without real proof, I cannot be sure. So rather than being productive, I instead watch it with the phone book open to the number of the local hospital, as a warning of sorts, that if it does, in fact, try to kill me, I have backup motherfucker. And not Life Alert, although that may be a wise investment.

In that time, though, I’ve been thinking a lot about the lies we tell ourselves:

I wonder, sometimes, if we tell ourselves these lies simply to avoid the truth: that the moment we’re in is hard; that the end is nowhere in sight; that we do really jam out to John C. Mayer when no one is looking; that becoming a morning person means that we are now able to be smugly superior to the rest of those crazy “late sleepers.”

I don’t know the answer.

And I don’t know if the lies we tell ourselves in order to believe that somehow Our Happy is just around that corner, ready to spring out and beat The Happy into our brains is a healthy way to cope. I don’t know if dwelling on the past, mulling over the mistakes we’ve made and the things we’ve done that have hurt others is a better solution.

I’d surmise that the answer lies somewhere in the middle – we tell ourselves the things that allow us to feel briefly better, like it was all meant something, that someday, the meaning of the tunnel of shit we’re wading through had a far greater purpose: without X, Y wouldn’t have happened. I like to believe that sentiment  – normally I find that the tunnel of shit does bring about, in time, diamonds, and not rocks.

Take for example, my daughter, who was born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect called an “encephalocele,” which is a fancy way of saying that her skull got lazy, didn’t close, and brain matter developed outside of her head. While normally diagnosed prenatally during a routine ultrasound, someone somehow somewhere fucked up and managed to NOT see the hole in her skull. In normal conversation, I tell people that “it’s better that I didn’t know she had an encephalocele ahead of time,” because it would’ve “made the pregnancy that much more stressful.”

I don’t know if that’s true – if it’s another lie I tell myself to make myself feel better – there’s nothing like dangling in the labor room, listening to the NICU whirr and click and clack and whisper about your baby while you’re stuck there, delivering the placenta and getting your girl bits stitched up while your daughter, mere minutes old, is in the midst of getting an examination that will seal her fate as one of two things:

1) Innocuous, unsightly cyst

B) Something really, REALLY bad.

Any of you who’ve read my blog know what happened: she now has a handy skull graft and that pesky brain tissue exploding out of the back of her head, well, it’s been long-since removed. The scar is still there, growing along with her, as she whirls and twirls and plays and giggles. I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome for a situation so very dire.

While the situation was, to put it in the most mild way possible, terrible, some good has sprung of it.

When I first confessed my shame at having post-traumatic stress disorder (this post) it spurned an idea that had been rattling around my own brain for a long time – putting together a group blog for people to share their stories of darkness and light, and pair these stories with resources about a particular subject. I recall scouring the Internet for information about encephaloceles after Amelia was born only to find that the information was scattered; not put together in any real order. I wanted to change that.

I did.

I formed Band Back Together in 2010 to do just that: allow people a safe moderated environment to pull their skeletons from the closet and make them dance the tango, in the hopes that by telling our truth, we’d be able to grow, learn, and begin to heal. One of the most powerful things in the world is to realize that we are not alone in this world; that others have felt the way that we have.

That’s the reason the wonderful volunteers at Band Back Together (if you’re into volunteering with us, email volunteer@bandbacktogether.com) continues to post stories – your stories – and create readable and informative resources. It’s also why I continue to write out my life for anyone to read, despite thoughts of, after eleventy-nine years, simply calling it done and walking away from my blog. I haven’t. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because if one person out there can read the words I’ve written – some good, some great, most bad – then I have done something with my life.

And despite my shortcomings and failures; the lies I tell myself to get one foot in front of the other, that means something.

“Hey,” I said over Instant Messenger. “Guess what?”

“What?” he replied, (justifiable) trepidation evident.

“I need your help this week,” I replied.

“With… what?” he asked, looking for clarity. When I need “help” with something, it can be anything from getting my whites whiter or building a shrine to BILLY FUCKING MAYS in my (former) backyard, and he knows it.

“Um, stuff,” I replied, aiming to be as vague as possible so that I could get a “sure, no problem,” without having to answer second-level questions.

“Like…?” He replied, apparently knowing me too well.

“Building stuffs,” I dangled in front of him like a carrot. I know him well enough to know that building shit = happy pants, while I’d just as soon cut off my toes and make a necklace of toe bones to wear than put stuff together.

“Ooooh! I like building stuffs!” He said, happily.

“I know! That’s why you’re perfect for this,” I said.

A couple of hours later, he showed up at my house, knocking before entering. I answered the door, kids piling over each other like a barrel of puppies, each trying to get him to greet them first. He swept them up into his arms and kissed them hello. “Hi Babies,” he said, brushing hair from Mimi’s face so she could see. She still stubbornly refuses to wear clips in her curls, which can make things like “walking” and “seeing stuff,” a little challenging for her.

I stood there, biding my time, waiting for him to be done with the children. Or, I should say, the children to be done with HIM.

“HEY,” I said, as he disentangled children from his frame, which they’d climbed like a couple of monkeys (without, thankfully, throwing poo)(THAT TIME). “Got something to show you. Meet me out front.”

With that, I walked into the garage and flipped the switch, opening the garage door which protested wheezily, but obliged. I walked out into the sea of boxes and held my hands out all jazz-hands meets spirit-fingers style.

“TA-DA!” I nearly shouted, trilling the last bit, relishing one of the last times I could be loud without the worry of irritating one of my neighbors in my new apartment.

“Woah,” he said.

I beamed.

“Where’s the stuff to build?” he asked.

“Um, somewhere in there,” I gestured to the pile of boxes I’d packed, wondering how I’d manage to pack a life into so few boxes.

A smile played mildly on the corner of his lips.

“You just conned me,” he pointed out.

“Yup,” I said, proudly. “Now let’s get moving.”

He stood there, shaking his head, amused, before grabbing a box and playing crap Tetris in the back of my van.

“Thanks,” I said honestly as we drove to my new place. “Thank you.”

And thus began the next chapter.

————-

Oh, and I wrote cool shit here.

Back before my life became a Telenovela – which may or may not be an insult to Telenovelas everywhere – I’d signed up to do the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Walk in Chicago.

In case you’re unawares, I’ve been working with mental illness-y stuff for over two years at Band Back Together, trying to reduce the stigma of mental health and other traumas through the power of written word and appropriate resources so that we may all grow, learn and heal.

So this NAMI walk, winding through some of the most beautiful parts of downtown Chicago (not a dead rat to be seen anywhere!), I’d completely forgotten about, what with the impending move (which may or may not occur two weeks early), the dissolution of my union, packing, and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity (shut UP, I am sorta sane). Thankfully, our ever-present hero Dawn was around to remind me.

Repeatedly.

—————-

Dawnie, July 27: “Do you want to just go from my house? You can drive here and we’ll go.”

Me: “Huh? Your house? Sure! Can we order pizza?”

Dawnie: “You don’t remember?”

Me: “I remember pizza!”

Dawnie: “THE NAMI WALK!”

Me: “Isn’t that next year?”

————–

Dawnie, August 8: “So you’re meeting me at my house and we’ll go park downtown and walk to the area of the walk.”

Me: “WALKING? Should I wear my fuck-me pumps?”

Dawn: “I.Am.Going.To.Kill.You.”

Me: “What? They’re a PRETTY shade of blue.”

—————-

Dawnie, September 1: “So Erin and Maggie are meeting at my house on the 15th. We’ll carpool.”

Me: “K.”

Dawnie: “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Me: “Nope. Will there be cake?”

Dawnie: “You’re fired.”

Me: “Second time I heard that today.”

—————-

My pea-brain can only handle so much information at once, so it’s safe to say I didn’t TRULY remember the NAMI walk until Thursday, when I was all, SHITFUCK how did I forget that? and both Dawn and The Guy Formerly On My Couch reminded me that my memory is like a block of Swiss cheese.

Which is why, on Saturday, not one, not two, not three, but at least 15 people reminded me to wear “sensible” (read: boring) shoes for walking a 5K. The Guy Formerly On My Couch went as far as to come over ahead of time and made sure I was not wearing gaudy flippity-flops or those awesome Strawberry 4 inch heels. He just subtly put my running (HA! LIKE I RUN!) shoes in front of me and stared pointedly at me until I put them on.

We arrived at Dawn’s with enough time to notice this:

If THAT’S not therapy-provoking, I don’t know what is. It’s also a handy way to ensure NO ONE EVER will steal your car. Because OMFG no. Clowns make me scared in my no-no square.

It was a good thing we were walking for mental health.

On the way to the city, I performed my dramatic re-readings of various emails, much to the delight (read: horror) of my car mates, which made me wish I had some old crappy love letters to do this with – it’s one of my favorite things to do at a party, besides yell randomly, “NO I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR RASH.”

When we got downtown, we made a beeline for the NAMI 5K, held somewhere in Grant Park.

While I’ve never been one to walk (or run) for a cause, I have to say that it was pretty empowering, even if there were no snacks to be had. (WANTED SNACKIES!)

Mental illness is one of the only illnesses in which you’re actively judged for having. It’s our job – high heels or not – to reduce that.

I think we’re off to a good start.

————-

Wrote this about dreaming big and the importance of NEVER giving up your dreams.

Dear Artichokes:

You think you’re so damn clever, don’t you, all using the word “heart” and “choke” in one fell swoop? Must be nice to have that sort of je ne se qua about you, while we mere mortals stand on the ground with boring names like, Becky, or Aunt Becky, or “fuck face.” Congrats, Artichokes, for outdoing those of us NOT named Max Power.

I have a problem with you, Artichokes, and I’m not willing to stand for it for very much longer – it’s time to wrangle the huddled masses and revolt against you, Artichokes, for being one sneaky-ass motherfucker. Sure, you Artichokes, you THISTLES, think it’s okay to be all look at me, I’m so damn pretty, I feel pretty, while the rest of us stand there, twiddling our thumbs, trying to hide our ridiculous hair, BUT I  – we – WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS ANY LONGER.

Oh, no.

By the power invested by the internet in me, I DENOUNCE YOU. I THUMB MY NOSE AT YOU ARTICHOKES. I don’t care HOW pretty you are, you can’t outrun Teh Internets! Especially MOMMY BLOGGERS with SO MUCH TIME ON OUR HANDS.

Sure, you may have fucking FRACTALS on your side (well played, you), but I have, well, *shuffles feet* I HAVE, uh *stares out the window* I HAVE ARMS. YOU DON’T HAVE ARMS ARTICHOKES. SO FUCKING THERE.

You think you’re so damn coy, don’t you, Artichokes, fucking making your way into my spinach dip, being all, HAI LOOKIT ME, I TASTE LIKE SATAN’S BUNG, while I’m all, YOU CAN’T BEAT ME, until you wind up in my mouth and I’m stuck wondering if I can create enough of a distraction to spit you out without spraying the rest of the table with my spittle. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t!

*raises fists*

I HAVE ARMS, ARTICHOKES.

AND YOU DON’T.

Lookit me all RAISING my ARMS and shit! Doesn’t THAT make you feel bad, Artichokes? Because it SHOULD. It really SHOULD.

So what if you have a “heart?” That’s just a worthless organ anyway – I mean, the Grinch lived without one and he was JUST fine, pumping his blood HIMSELF rather than relying on a useless ass heart. So what if your heart is pretty and shit? I HAVE ARMS. SO THERE.

*mutters*

useless fucking vegetable.

You don’t impress me, Artichokes. I don’t look at you and get all inspired like, I WANNA BE A FRACTAL or something, at least, most of the time, although I have to admit, being a fractal is the epitome of awesome.

WAIT A MINUTE.

I see you just SNUCK in there, Artichokes, like you do to all the damn things I love in this world. How did you manage that? Huh? How did you manage to worm your way into my life like this? What did I do to deserve ARTICHOKES in ANYTHING I’d put into my mouth EVER?

You’re officially ON NOTICE, Artichokes. This? This means WAR.

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

*deep breath*

I need a nap. And a picket sign. And a couple of diet Cokes. Possibly a robot of some sort – I won’t be picky.

And then? You’re going DOWN Artichokes!

Once I finish playing this. DON’T YOU JUDGE ME ARTICHOKES, THIS IS DAMN FUN:

Love and Smootchies!

AB!

P.S. You can’t win, Artichokes. You’re a fucking THISTLE. SO THERE.

P.P.S. Wrote about my Goodwill Shopping Experience.

P.P.P.S. #BOYCOTTARTICHOKES