LAST week I ran ANOTHER contest to give away my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s book, It’s Not Me, It’s You, which is freaking amazing. The book, not my contest. If you haven’t read it, or her blog, Baby on Bored, you really, really need to. And I’m not just saying that because she’s a BFF of mine or because she’s standing behind me with a gun to my head. The book rules, so does her blog. Also, don’t shoot me.

PLUS, if you buy ANY of her books (yeah, plural. FEEL FREE TO HATE HER) now at Comedy Film Nerds, you can get them signed and personalized. I’d suggest getting them made out to Yer Anus or Mike Crotch. Hehehe. I think I have some shopping to do. Hehehe.

The rules were simple, join my group Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters over at Savvy Source (which you still can join me, even if you haven’t entered the contest, because it’s fun! The widget is on the sidebar) and leave a comment here. Random Number Generator was going to do the work for me because math is hard and I’m not a smart person. OBVIOUSLY. I’m a blogger. I don’t like to do REAL WORK.

And so, the winner-winner-chicken-dinner is…KARYN.

(also, because I am Captain Dumbass I have something I bought for The Daver that he already OWNS for the next contest. Now I’ll just have to write another interview because that was fun)

———————–

For something completely different, a reworked, awesome post from moi:

(ring, ring)

Aunt Becky (clearly jumping out of her skin with excitement): “Hey Fuckwad, I had a great idea!”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

(typing sounds resume in background)

Aunt Becky: “I want to buy a new house now.”

The Daver (warily) “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I found a new one.”

The Daver: “What?!?”

Aunt Becky (talking faster now): “I mean, I know the market sucks but I just realized my dream house!”

The Daver (tiredly): “Where is this place?

Aunt Becky: “Well, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?'”

The Daver (warily) (wearily): “….yes…”

Aunt Becky (triumphantly): “I’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!”

The Daver: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) “Becky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county”

Aunt Becky: “I KNEW you were going to say that! THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing! Give them an offer they can’t refuse!”

The Daver (rests head on desk) “Ohno.”

Aunt Becky (dreamily):“Think about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of the house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco when we got married!”

The Daver: “You know she’s dead, right?”

Aunt Becky: “So she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco. See, I think of EVERYTHING.”

The Daver: “You got me out of a meeting for THIS?”

Aunt Becky: “DUH. This is IMPORTANT.”

The Daver: “Dude. You’d better get this freelancing shit going soon.”

Aunt Becky: “When I am Lady of the House, I won’t have time to write any more. I’ll be too busy trying on my vast tiara collection and ordering the staff to taste my food to make sure it’s not been poisoned.”

The Daver: “I’m going to call some people to see if they’ll hire you.”

Aunt Becky: “Good luck with that.”

The Daver: “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait a minute…”

*click*

Today over at Toy With Me, I’m telling the story of my first (and only) visit to the strip club. I can only hope that you have similar stories of abject molestation to share with me. Or, at least perhaps you can get a laugh at my expense.

Just don’t ever say I never give you anything.

Click the smiling beaver below to be taken away:

Or stick around for a Blast From The Past, for those of you not wanting to imagine me with a pair of testicles on my face (I do not know why not):

———————

Becky: “Do you like my manicure?” (playfully wraggles black fingernails in Daver’s face)

Dave (grabs hand for closer inspection): “Ooooh. Freaky! Won’t Ashley be mad that you had black nail polish put on for her wedding?”

Becky: “Nah. It’s perfectly vogue now. It’s no longer JUST for goth chicks.”

Dave: “Ah.”

Dave (grabs her hand again. This time her right hand, although not unkindly): “Wait a minute…is your wedding ring STUCK ON?”

Becky (sheepishly, in a small voice): “Yes.” (pauses) “I kept in on too long after I got pregnant with Amelia. And now I can’t get it off.”

Dave (eyes take on a mischievous gleam): “You know what this means, right?”

Becky: “Please don’t take me down to the fire station to get it cut off. I’m so ashamed. I HAVE FINGER FAT NOW.”

Dave: “No, no. I wouldn’t do that. And your finger looks great. But…”

(pauses dramatically for effect)

Dave: “You SEE this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

Becky: “That’s MY line, assface.”

Dave: “And look at how badly it blew up in your face.”

Becky: “Touche.”

Dear The Daver,

Sometime this spring, in March or April, I don’t remember and I’m WAY too lazy to go back into my archives and check (I know you’d appreciate this because your roving sock colony has made it everywhere in the house EXCEPT down the laundry chute. In Casa de la Sausage, Laziness Abounds)(Also Abounding: Bad Attitudes and Penises)(Penii?), when either I was waiting on the pathology report from my cervix or the pathology report from my mother’s biopsy, I turned to you and said wearily,

“Is this what life is? Is it one non-stop shit-storm after another?” I may or may not have cried then, depending upon how wrung out I was feeling.

I was genuinely asking you, not whining (as I usually am) and hoping that my irritating voice would lead you to break down and buy me a new Coach purse. Thankfully, you saw that I was serious, looked me in the eye and said simply, “I don’t know.”

Then we laughed, one of those mirthless laughs that don’t come with any real humor because there comes a point when all you really can do is laugh. Or have a nervous breakdown. But laughter is a hell of a lot more efficient than having to go through the whole locked ward, Nurse Ratched thing.

Not to be all maudlin today–although “maudlin,” like “cacophony,” is a word I must use more–because I don’t mean it that way, but more like, well, holy shit, we fucking made it. I think this, if nothing else, warrants a Wayne’s World-esque headbanging session to “Don’t Stop Believing” or “Sky Rockets At Night (Afternoon Delight).” And then maybe a celebratory drink or 31.

Because we did, it, Baby, another whole year around the sun, you and me and the kids and the dogs and the cats and the bunny and it’s done. And while there were times when I thought that I couldn’t breathe with the blackness and pressure and fear of it all, the one thing in this whole crazy mixed up year, the one thing that I can say is this: in all the darkness, I could always see you.

The world could fall around us and you and I would stand there, amidst the rubble, gripping hands like life-vests, grimly picking up the pieces and occasionally laughing at something. In our darkest hours, we have each other.

I remember sitting in the cafeteria of the hospital the day after Amelia’s brain surgery, just the two of us, as she slept in her PICU bed. Exhausted but happy, we sat quietly and ate our breakfast.

At some point, I noticed that they were playing “Smoove Jazz” on the radio, you know, the crazy cornball crap, and I turned to you, started dancing like the guys from SNL, and said, “You know, this is the sort of song that gets a girl in the moooooood.” What sort of mood, I did not specify, but I don’t think it matters.

We both cracked up. We laughed and laughed and laughed. We laughed until we cried, both of us spurting tears out and they rolled down our face onto our shirts. We laughed until people around us openly started, wondering if we’d somehow escaped The Locked Ward, and we didn’t care.

Finally, we caught our breath and you looked at me and said, “God, it felt good to laugh. To REALLY laugh again.” And we did and it did and we do and we will.

Happy Birthday, love of my life. I’d hope for a less wild year, but I think if it were, we’d be living someone else’s life.

Sitting there in your pajamas & all the time in the world & if I could keep any moment it would be this: watching you & holding my breath with the wonder of it all. (The Story People)

Happy Birthday, Dave. Without you, none of us would be here.

—————–

Deadline for entry into my contest to give away all my BlogHer swag is September 8th, tonight, by midnight, CST. If it’s in my inbox by that time, we’re all good. I’ll get all of the entries up at some point today and voting will begin tomorrow!

My second column is up here today, so if you’re so inclined, check it out.

Also, if you would like, I have been nominated for a couple of awards, two on my sidebar at the top and one here. They do both annoyingly require registration, but if you’d be inclined to cut a bitch vote for me, I’d be tickled pink.

Aunt Becky: ‘I *so* don’t get this song.’

The Daver: ‘Wait, isn’t this America?’

Aunt Becky: ‘Yeah…or maybe it’s ‘Chicago.’ The 70’s had a lot of bands named after cities. Either way, what the fuck do they mean- ’25-06-24′? That makes no sense.’

The Daver: ‘What are you *talking* about? It’s ’25 or 6 to 4′!’

Aunt Becky: ‘…’

The Daver: ‘You know, like 3:35 or 3:26 am.’

Aunt Becky: ‘…’

Aunt Becky: ‘It is not!! There is no way!’

The Daver: ‘What the hell did you think it meant?’

Aunt Becky: ‘I don’t know…maybe a combination to a lock or something? No, I refuse to believe this song is about a time of day.’

The Daver: ‘And a locker combination makes more sense to you?’

Aunt Becky: ‘No! That’s why I *said* that I don’t get this song, dumbass!’

The Daver: ‘It’s about smoking dope, Becky.’

Aunt Becky: ‘I refuse to believe that in all my years being a pothead that I never could figure out that this is a drug song. I have a sixth *sense* about this crap! I mean ‘Lake Shore Drive….get it ‘L.S.D’?’

The Daver: ‘Are you still bitter that you couldn’t do the ‘Dark Side of the Moon’/ ‘Wizard of Oz’ thing?

Aunt Becky: ‘I cannot discuss this with you. You wouldn’t understand. You were off being ‘good’ while I tried to determine the best liquid to put in my bong. Creme de Menthe was a hands down favorite.’

The Daver: ‘Fine.’

“…”

“…”

(three days later)

“…”

Me: ‘Is it really 25 or 6 to 4?’

————

What song lyrics have you completely screwed up, Internet? I know that I cannot be the only one who thought that Radar Love = Red-Eye Love.

Several months after The Daver and I started dating, he flew home from somewhere (boy were his arms tired!) and somehow, rather than allowing him to take the pee-stained EL home, Ben and I went to pick him up at the airport. It was the first time he’d met Ben in the flesh (as my boyfriend) and although he told me later that he was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs (he totes didn’t use that phrase, but I wish he had because how awesome is that?), it didn’t show.

Ben was a strange kid who didn’t exactly attach himself easily to people so I was quaking in my Uggs. All for nothing. The two of them hit it off all he’s the cheese and I’m the macaroni style. I can honestly tell you that I’d never seen anything like it. They danced and grooved to Erasure (don’t judge my music, people), Ben allowed Dave to carry him across a busy road, and Dave began the first of many Making Sure Ben Drank His Milk With Dinner campaigns.

That was the night that Daver became a father. I’d say it was a choice, but it wasn’t really. Not anymore than one can choose whom they fall in love with. Had it not been over for Dave by then, it was then. He was done, cooked, a father and a partner.

The whole ride back home that night I heard nothing but this from my normally silent child: “Oh…BYE, Dave” in the most mournful tone you can imagine. He never said “Mommy” but “Dave” was the 5th or 6th word in his vocabulary.

It’s still probably his most used word to date.

Every single day when I hear my eldest beg to stay up to see Dave when he comes home, my middle son to say mournfully (again with the damn mournful!) “Dada…work.” If his words could have a frowny face, they would. Then my daughter, the light of my life, wiggles her whole body with utter happiness when she sees her beloved Daddy come into her line of sight.

I know how lucky we all are.

So Happy Father’s Day to you, The Daver, o! the Prime Minister of Poopy Diapers and the King of all Tickle Fests. We raise our glasses (and bottles of milk to you today).

It’s not a glamorous swinging life, this poo-stained, vomit-encrusted, stinky existence. Sure you traded living downtown for a house in the ‘burbs and the Integra for a mini-van. But it’s a nice house; it’s OUR house, and shit, the van really is fucking useful.

And you, like the rest of us, wouldn’t change it for anything. (Except maybe Prada. But it would have to be a REALLY nice Prada bag or something. But I digress.)

Okay, for that, I am totally putting up THIS picture rather than the super corny shit that I could have. Happy Father’s Day, love.

You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.

If there are any other dudes out there who read my estrogen-laden blog, I wish you a happy, Happy Father’s Day as well. May your grills be grill-y and all of your sausages cooked. Except, you know, THOSE sausages.

Wow. THAT was awkward.

Operating on about 3 hours of sleep combined, my husband of 40 hours sat across from me shoe-less, his shirt up around his pasty nipples while another man rubbed him up and down. While an awkward woman rubbed my butt and patted down my vagina, our eyes met. Without attracting any more attention, I mouthed “I’m sorry.” His eyes smiled right before the man grazed his balls with his elbow. Then he wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was all my fault. Honestly.

Later, he expressed, several screwdrivers to the wind, that this was his first experience with being singled out and searched by airport security.

Mouth full of egg and cheese biscuit and several screwdrivers drunk myself, I slurred, “Well, dude, at least they didn’t take you to that back room.” I took a long drag off my drink, “Because that shit is WHACK.” I paused. “And hey, the let me keep one of my lighters.”

The Daver looked less than pleased.

“I’m sorry,” I said, chastised. “It’s all my fault.”

But was it? Was the issue with having a face (presumably) like a terrorist my fault? Certainly I’d been stopped by customs and security more times than I could possibly count, singled out from a crowd each and every time I flew since I was a small child. My father and brother, who turn equally brown skinned in the sun, get it also, but not as bad as I do.

I can’t put a toe into an airport without securing a nice frisking and potential strip-search.

While I can easily claim that I *am* an asshole, the moment I hit the airport, I turn into the mentally challenged sister from Hee-Haw. I’m all “Golly Gee,” this and “Jeepers, Mister,” that with a side of “Gee wilikers” thrown in for good measure. You’ll never see a more ridiculously PC, G-rated version of me.

And still. And yet. And how.

I’ve learned to show up to the airport extra EXTRA early. I’ve learned that flip-flops–even in the dead of winter in Chicago–are the footwear of champions, and I know to wear loose baggy pants for easy up and down access.

But this begs the question. Why me? Was I marked as a potential terrorist when I was a baby? Is this on my ever-fucking Permanent Record?

I’m going to California on Friday at the ass-crack of dawn and I’m certain that on each leg of the trip, I will be searched up and down, and God forbid I pack the wrong toothpaste or something, because I am hoping to catch each connecting flight.

(What the hell can’t I pack anymore anyway?)

(also, LA, here I come!)

And if I do end up in the clink, let it be the California clink, where not only can I make Heather bail me out, I’m sure my cell-mates will look like models. Maybe they’ll make out with me.

A couple of months ago, Dave informed me somewhat delicately that he would likely be sent to London to do something-or-other-complicated-stuff-that-I’m-too-stupid-to-get, and after my initial temper tantrum, he asked me for some advice on what to do while there.

You see, Internet, you didn’t know your Aunt Becky was a Continental World Traveller, did you (unless you read my 100 things about me page, which might have boasted my worldliness)? That’s right, *I* have been to Europe. Twice!

I was only 13 or 14 when I went, so the advice I could give Dave was probably not as current as anything I might want to do, oh I don’t know, say NOW. I wasn’t old enough to do anything hipster or funky-fresh. I ate where my orchestra told me to eat. I got stuck wearing neon-yellow sweatshirts with my name on the arm.

See, Aunt Becky circa 1995, age 14. Wanna make out?

(I should note that this picture was in an album, and the picture DIRECTLY above it is a picture of the large asses of two of the chaperones. It’s labeled: “Bitches and their fat asses.” Some things, I see, just don’t change)

I wracked my swiss cheesy memory to tell Dave something, anything about London. I remember all the other parts of England we visited with much more clarity. Like Bath. And the Lake District. All that I could remember about London proper was getting stalked by a group of men as we walked through a park. This was not the first time in Europe that I was followed around by creepy molesty-type Uncle Pervy’s.

Perhaps they liked my rockin’ sweatshirt.

All I could say to Dave who was going on and on and on about the Sushi restaurant in his hotel was that I wouldn’t eat sushi there. When hard pressed to explain myself, I couldn’t really save for that I remember the food over there being…different. Dave, the ever-quantifier, wanted to know what “different” meant as apparently I was not the only person who warned him about the food.

It took me until last night, as I was spraying my roses with pesticide (the rose-pesticide part is completely unrelated) to pin it down. Dave sat there outside with me, Amelia on his lap and it dawned on me how to put it in his terms.

“Okay, I got it,” I boasted. “The English? EAT MARMITE. Voluntarily.”

We shuddered in unison.

(Ben is half-Australian and was born loving the horror that is Vegemite. All I can say is that HE’S WELCOME TO ALL OF OUR PORTIONS because obviously. I don’t trust the judgement of anyone who eschews ice cream but loves something that tastes like vitamins. Also: BLECH)

Dave left this morning, promising to bring me back something “cool” from London. The last thing, I told him, that I’d bought from London was Use Your Illusion II (dude. Rad), so I was sure he could come up with something as cool. Like the entire Burberry store.

I have a feeling that I’ll end up with a tin of Altoids, purchased at O’Hare under the guise of being for me, but already half-eaten. Because, he’ll explain, he knows I don’t like them anyway. But I won’t care. I’ll be too happy that he’s home again.

Look! Kids!

Further proof that my eldest is the.best.kid.ever. He BEGS to change diapers. No, seriously you canNOT borrow him.

Amelia is now big enough to go into the Exersaucer. Say it with me now: What.The.Fuck?

Alex being, well, Alex. Aside from a nasty case of antibiotic-induced diarrhea, he’s feeling tip-top.

I’m lonely already, Internet. Will you be my husband?

I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am concerned about my needs far more than his.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when Dave walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidently microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that Dave does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until Dave stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

Dave and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘œthe cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

*hahahaha

Aunt Becky: “Dude, I’m STARVING. I can’t wait to finish buying this car* so we can eeeaaaattt.” (rubs stomach dramatically for effect)

Daver: “Me too.”

Aunt Becky (jokingly): “Are you saying I’m fat?”

Daver (rolls eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm) “Yes. You’re a damn beached whale.”

Aunt Becky (laughs): “Ass.”

Car salesman eyeball go back and forth and eventually become as wide as dinner plates.

Car Salesman: “So, heh-heh, how long have you been married?”

Aunt Becky begins to count on fingers as The Daver looks on, amused.

Aunt Becky: “Uhhhh….”

The Daver: “I can’t believe you don’t remember our anniversary.” (sniffs loudly for effect) “Three and a half years. We’ve been married three and a half years.”

Aunt Becky: “No shit?”

Daver: “No shit.”

Aunt Becky: “It seems like a freaking eternity.”

Daver: “You’d better mean that in a good way…”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, heh-heh, of course, dear.”

Car Salesman looks acutely uncomfortable and makes up an excuse to get up and walk away.

Daver: “We scare people.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehe.”

*Didya like how I tried to NOT tell you that I bought a mini-van after we’d spent the weekend packing the kids into the car like sardines? As my best friend said, the old Becky would be mocking how suburban I’ve become. Just need that pesky pill addiction, right?

Several years ago, when Dave and I still lived in a Oak (No) Park (ing), I was making a trek back from St. Charles, when Dave called my cell phone. When I answered, he asked if I needed anything from the local CVS–mecca well before there was my delightful Target within spitting distance–as he was there picking up Twizzlers.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I need some Slim-Fast. The strawberry shit, not the chocolate stuff. It’s delicious AND refreshing.”

“If you say so,” my husband said. “I think it tastes like donkey ass. But whatever, where is it?”

“It’s over by the dietary stuff, against the south wall,” I informed him. “I thought YOU were all directionally superior to me!”

“Dude, not here. The layout to this place makes zero sense,” he snipped, annoyed that I was mocking his directional sense for the eighty five hundredth time that month, after he’d gotten lost in Wisconsin, WHERE HE CAME FROM.

“Okay, so do you want the 200 calorie or the 300 calorie stuff?” He asked me, standing in front of the dietary aids.

“Wha…?” I asked him while lighting a cigarette. “SlimFast comes in one variety and it’s all about 200 calories.”

“Well, all they have here is generic in your high falutin’ STRAWBERRY flavor,” he replied. “Do you still want it?”

Knowing that drinking the generic stuff was far better than being tempted by the bacon and eggs he and Ben would be having for breakfast the following morning, I reluctantly agreed to have him grab the 200 calorie stuff.

About a half an hour later, I pulled into our shared garage, about 4,000 years away from our actual building and about 20 minutes after that, I was finally up the twenty billion stairs, and standing in our teeny-tiny kitchen.

Where I noticed, sitting jauntily on the counter, was a case of Ensure. Generic, Strawberry flavored, ENSURE. Which, were I a geriatric with digestive issues trying to pack on the pounds, would probably be a delicious and high calorie snacky-poo. But, since I was a 23 year old with digestive issues trying to REMOVE the pounds, I wasn’t so thrilled.

“Dave…” I trilled into the house, “Honey?”

He walked into the kitchen to give me a hug hello.

“Baby…” I asked him hesitantly, wondering if he were punishing me for singing Rod Stewart at the top of my lungs when he was in a bad mood the previous night. “Baby, are you mad at me?”

“No,” he replied, genuinely confused, “why?”

“Because you bought ENSURE. Not SlimFast. Are you trying to fatten me up? Or are you just trying to give my guts a low-residue treat?”

“WHAT?” He asked, now looking more closely at the box of cans. “I totally thought this was SlimFast!”

“No baby, that isn’t even close to SlimFast. This shit is for people who have no colon left. And maybe in 30 years, I’ll need it myself, but for now? Not so much.”

———–

That same box of ENSURE sat on my kitchen counter, then moved into my fridge, until months later, we sold our condo. We’d forgotten to return it, because it was far more a pain in the ass than it was worth, and neither of us knew a soul that might have a use for it.

Today, however, the box long gone, and my Maybe Crohn’s flaring up mightily, I’m thinking that perhaps suddenly I really COULD use it. Which is perhaps the LAST situation I ever thought that I might be in. Especially a mere 5 years later.

Goes to show you never can fucking tell.