Aunt Becky got a BRAND new toy.

Apparently, she was a very, very good girl.

Well, that or The Daver wanted a new toy to play with. TOO BAD HE’S GOING TO HAVE TO PRY MY COLD DEAD HAND OFF OF IT FIRST! Muahahahahaha!

Wanna see? Sorry, y’all. You’re going to see anyway.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to dry hump an MY iMac. Oh, how I missed my Mac…

On Friday, I said good-bye to my friend, and I wish like hell that I could say it was wonderful and uplifting, but it was neither of those things.

It was unspeakably awful.

Someone (likely her parents) had put together some poster board montages of pictures of Steph in better days and they carefully portrayed someone so full of life, so vivacious that it made it even harder to remember that the person in that open casket all stretched out and weird looking was the same person.

Hearing her five year old son say, “Hey, want to look at my mom? She’s all dead and hard.” and then her two year old say, “No, wanna see MOMMY!” when he was taken away from the coffin made my heart sink and die a little bit right then and there.

Whomever the person that officiated was (it was in a funeral home, so I don’t think it was a pastor or anything) sucked. She made me angry, with her stupid metaphors about Steph’s struggle with alcoholism and mental illness, and above all else, she sucked and Steph would have hated her speech.

She made it sound as though Steph was routinely sitting around in heavy eyeliner listening to The Cure’s Disinegration on repeat carving “Kurt Cobain” in her arm. It couldn’t have been farther from who she was.

She also claimed that all that we’d loved about Steph, her effervescence and wit, her humor and braveness had all been part of her illness. Yeah, fuck and you come to mind as I recall that. Don’t you DARE take away who she really was to any of us. You did not even know her.

(In the words of one of my Metal Heads, “Anytime you evoke Lazarus at a funeral, you’re an idiot.” See, these are Catholic School educated Metal Heads.)

We held our own sort of remembrance afterwards at a bar down the street from the funeral home, and the mood, although seemingly buoyant to bystanders, was downright morbid. We each took turns talking about what we wanted the other to make absolute sure that our funeral would hold (not something one would normally think about and discuss, but then again, none of us expected to be there).

Scott wanted to be stuffed and set up in a chair a la Weekend At Bernie’s, and we assured him that when the firewood inevitably got low, we’d throw him on as kindling.

I explained that under absolutely no circumstances would my casket be open to freak everyone out (no one looks like they did in life, no matter how good the makeup artist is), but since some morbid A-Hole would probably want to see me, I insisted that I be in full KISS makeup.

I mean, if I’m not going to look like myself anyway, I may as well REALLY not look like myself.

I also appointed Kristin as my flower monitor, and as such she would be responsible for insuring that only good flowers make it to my graveside. No filler flowers, absolutely no carnations or daisies and under NO circumstances would lilies (aside from Cala lilies, which I adore) be allowed. Pretty much anything ordered from the Funeral section of a florists selection would be a no go.

And anyone who dared bring either wreaths that said “Beloved Mother” or “Devoted Wife” OR plastic flowers would be sent away at the door. Return to sender.

I also explained that rather than give my children an inheritance, I was going to hire out- of-work actors to weep hysterically at my grave several times a week. For as many years as the money would last.

I wish like anything I’ve ever wished that the funeral had provided closure (what the hell is closure, anyway? Seriously, I don’t get that concept.) or that I can say that I honestly feel better, but it would be a lie. (I’m not sitting around in heavy eyeliner listening to The Cure’s Disinegration on repeat carving “Kurt Cobain” on my arm, either though).

Steph’s death did, however, make damn sure that any other petty annoyances seem even more trivial than they previously had. And I make certain that I count each and every one of my blessings.

And that is a good thing.

Last night, after many months of hemming and hawing (what the hell does that mean, anyway?), for the first time in the history of his existence, Alex slept through the night.

Attachment parents everywhere are now gathering slings and breast pump parts to lob at me viciously, but I do not care. Last I checked, none of them had offered to come over and love him back to sleep for me, which leaves my sympathy at approximately zero.

It took about 15 minutes of my Benevolent Dictator screaming in his crib for him to realize that neither of his slaves were rushing to his aid, and he promptly stopped screaming and eventually went to sleep (at least, I am assuming that he went to sleep. He could have been translating the collective works of Aristotle for all that I know. Or care.).

(Did you see The Exorcist? Do you remember the part when the possessed little girl is alone in her bedroom and her eyes pop open and she starts being really demonic? I always used to imagine that this is precisely what Alex looked like when he woke up overnight to beckon me to his side. And I am telling you that the minute you start comparing your child to the kid in The Exorcist is when you know once and for all that you are very.not.happy.)

I know better than to pat myself on the back too much, as I know full well that this is just one night in a string of behavior changing nights, but you see, I don’t care. I’m fucking happy as fuck and I am proud of us for doing what we’d needed to do for so long.

Makes me a little ashamed that we haven’t tried it sooner, as it really went much more smoothly than I’d imagined (although, I’m pleased enough that my skin is not shredded into baby nail sized ribbons and hanging off my frame disgustingly, which is really part of how I envisioned my first night of Crying it Out. Alex is cute because he can be so brutal. The cuteness is a defense mechanism on his part so that I don’t “accidentally” “forget him” “at” “the store”).

*ahem*

I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my back (a 20 pound weight, if I must specify, and genuinely not the weight of the world. Even I am not that melodramatic. Shut up. I am not.) and I can not recall a time in recent history when I have felt so incredibly positive. I’m still tired (extra sleep that I’m not accustomed to gives me a odd sleep hangover. Does that happen to anyone else?) but I’m happy.

My darling second born son at the tender age of 9 months has fallen in love.

Not with one of the myriad of toys that he currently owns, and not even with one of the many animals who live with us (although the “dooo-gie” and “catty-cat” are close seconds to this), but with a book.

Now, it could be worse, he could be obsessed with one of the many boring computer books we have knocking around the house, but what cracks me up most about this is that when he first fell in love with it, I explained to him that there were 6 fingers on the hand of the book.

Rather than take the word “hand,” “book,” or even the very complicated “fingers” away from this, he now cries “thhhix” whenever he wants the book.

It’s going to be a loud 18 years.

Later that day, as he was rolling merrily along the floor, behaving like a human vacuum cleaner, I noticed that he was decidedly chewing on something. I figured it was likely a tasty bit of paper or a goldfish cracker, until I realized that he was gagging on it.

I swooped in, picked him up and peered into his mouth. He took this opportunity to regurgitate most of his lunch in a large splat onto the white (white!) carpeting, and it was then that I found the elusive culprit: a rabbit turd.

Now, back when I was eleventy-million months pregnant, Ben and I were perusing our local pet store after picking up some crickets for our gecko and while he tried to persuade me to buy him a scorpion (yeah, right. Over my dead and crusty body will I ever, EVER allow a scorpion to come into my home. You might say that I have a phobia.), I spotted her.

A large bunny was hopping merrily around a cage, desperately vying for my attention. I’ve always liked bunnies, and secretly lusted for one for, oh I don’t know, EVER, but every one I’ve ever seen is just languidly laying around a cage looking boring.

This one, however ugly she may be (and she is), was not boring. She was cute, and she liked me.

In a fit of pregnancy-induced insanity (and probably because my husband was too fearful of me to deny me), we adopted her (she had been dropped off by previous owners who didn’t want to care for her any longer).

Now, aside from knowing that they were fluffy and liked carrots, I had no idea what the hell owning a bunny was about. For instance, I had no idea that their pee smelled like death. Or that they would kick their litter and poo out of the cage when they jumped about. Had I known this, I might not have been so keen on adopting her.

But she’s cute as hell (in a really ugly way) and she loves me to pieces, so I don’t give her much grief for being a damned slob.

That said, when Alex was deciding to snack on a bit of “bunny chocolate,” I was horrified not that he had done this, or that she had kicked the poo piece out of her cage. I was mad simply because I had JUST vacuumed.

Ginger (not the name I would have chosen, but same as my darling cat Peekachoo, she came with it, and answers to it) says that she would very much like some treats, please, as you can see by her massive proportions (again, with the scale on a webpage, you may not get an accurate picture of her massiveness), WE DO NOT FEED HER ENOUGH.

Lastly, this is a photo of the aftermath of the “bunny chocolate” saga. A bath. With bubbles. And a baby that we call “Tons of Fun” and “Chubbs.”

You know, because he’s skinny.

“What do you do?” is a question that I get asked most frequently, and now that I am staying home, I don’t have a succinct answer. Somedays, it makes me feel somewhat useless, like being unpaid somehow makes me a lazy, incompetent person, but other days, I am just thankful that I don’t have to mention where I USED to work.

I won’t get into the reasons that I hated being a floor nurse, not right here, not right now (luckily for everyone, November is a long 30 days, so I just may do so at a later date). Suffice to say, that when I found an office job (sort of) using my degree, I was thrilled.

(cue ominous music now.)

It was working for an insurance company. A big one. You probably hate this one.

This made polite conversation with strangers nearly impossible, as every time I’d make mention of where I worked, the horror stories came a-rollin’ in. Strangers would practically spit at me, so enraged they would become when thinking of how horrid the company had been to them. I heard more horror stories than I ever would’ve expected walking into the gig. And I didn’t doubt that a single one was completely true.

Before you start sticking pins in a voodoo doll made in my likeness or burning me at the stake, like everyone else did, I was a good guy.

My job was to extend benefits for terminal patients who had decided against any further treatments and were only seeking to make their end of life experience as dignified and pain-free as possible. It’s called Hospice, and it’s a wonderful institution, one that I get behind 100%. They come into your home as often as needed, give pain medications, care for the patient and support the family during this hard time.

Some of the employer groups would give only a minimal amount of days for a patient to be covered by hospice (and since most people only would accept the hospice philosophy when the threat of death is looming, therefore only needing a day or two of hospice care, this is less heinous than you’d imagine), part of my job was to extend these benefits so that these people did not have to worry about cost of care during this time.

I also spent my time doing something similar for non-terminal but complex patients who needed a nurse to come into the home for many hours each day. I got report on these patients periodically, verified that these were skilled needs (vent care, etc.), identified then filled gaps in care, and would write proposals to keep these people in their homes (not admitted to the hospital where they could pick up something far worse) and well cared for.

I can all but swear that I never denied a single thing to these people, despite what the haters that I met thought of me. It had a way of getting me down, after awhile, I’ll be honest with you. Imagine that every time that you mentioned your employer, someone would complain at you for being part of the problem, regardless of which department that you worked in. It was discouraging.

When the dreaded hyperemesis began and I had to go on LOA, there was a shark circling my job. It was being moved to Texas, and I was to be transferred into a department that I had no desire to go to.

But sometimes I miss what I used to do. People were GRATEFUL for what I did and it made me feel like a better person (many days, at least), and I was doing something that I believed in. As much as I love staying home with the Sausage Factory, it’s not always as rewarding as a paid gig can be. I don’t get a bonus/raise/mad props for removing stains in record time, nor does anyone thank me for the great job that I did vacuuming today, and usually no one notices if I’ve put the clothes away perfectly or not. In fact, no one notices what I do AT ALL unless I haven’t done it.

I do admit, though, I don’t miss people making the sign of the devil at me.