I’ve been asked by my pregnant friends what labor feels like, and each time, I’m stuck wondering how to respond. In the end, I always answer with something semi-true like, “strongest motherfucking period on the planet,” which is semi-true. It’s also completely wrong. Labor feels like, well, labor, and nothing else. Even after popping three kids outta my delicate lady bits, I’m not sure how else to describe it, beyond saying something completely unhelpful like, “It feels like labor,” alternately, “it feels like a thousand angry chipmunks gnawing your uterus.”

When the divorce talk came a-knockin’, my previously divorced friends offered me similar sentiments about what I could expect; excepting, of course, that none mentioned my uterus, which was thankful. That organ has seen enough. I was warned that, “it would be hard,” and that, “the first year would be the worst.” Of course, much like my labor speech, it was simultaneously unhelpful and the truth.

I sat the back of the U-Haul three weeks ago tomorrow, watching Dave and The Guy Formerly On My Couch moving, the weather unseasonably hot for a day in late September, working on my tan and watching my kids frolic in the yard I’d dearly loved. It was then that I truly realized that this marked the end of the life I’d had. I shed a few tears before lugging the rest of my belongings into the truck, wondering what the next chapter of my life would look like. I contemplated asking my aforementioned friends, but realized that they knew as much about what comes next as the squirrel who’d been intently staring at me while I tailgated on the U-Haul.

(hindsight being 20/20, I should’ve thrown a good-bye tailgating party and grilled out right there in front of The House Formerly Known As Mine – there are too few occasions that one can set up a grill in the street and roast encased meats)

We drove off, each car packed to the brims – some sent by my wonderful Pranksters, for which I am forever thankful, having those lifelines means the world to me – handily closing that chapter of my life. I didn’t cry. Not then.

At my new home, I pretended I was a pack animal, an alpaca, which probably doesn’t, in fact, lug things around on it’s back, but it helped get me into the moving mindset from, “I’m sweating (proverbial) balls and I think I just flashed my neighbors by accident,” to “I wonder if alpacas actually lug shit on their backs, because now I want one. I don’t know what they look like, but I think I need one as a pet. I bet they’re fucking adorable. I mean, even their name is awesome.” Soon, the boxes were all inside, ready for me to give their contents a home.

I spent the next two weeks unpacking, hanging pictures, decorating (badly), wishing I had more art for my walls because Pinterest had made me all, OMFG I NEED BEAUTIFUL THINGS MADE OUT OF THREE EASY KITCHEN INGREDIENTS (sidebar: Fuck you Pinterest for making me feel super NOT crafty), and slowly turning the empty apartment into a place I could call home. “Wow,” my mother said as she dropped by a few days after I’d moved. “You’re unpacking like it’s your job.”

I laughed, “I just want the kids to feel like my house is a home, too. It’s a big change for us all.”

Keeping busy was my salvation, even though there was a warning bell chim-chiming somewhere, a foreboding, “when you’re done with The Busy, it’s going to suck,” clanging.

Apparently, my brain knows me well, because once it was all over but the shouting (er, decorating), the truth sunk in: this wasn’t some white-carpeted (WHITE!) hotel suite. This wasn’t a vacation. I wasn’t going back to my old life. No, this was my new life.

And while it’s a hard thing to wrap my three remaining neurons around, it’s been… okay. Sure, there have been tears and fears (but not Tears FOR Fears because I am NOT an 80’s band) and doubts, but there’s been a lot of freedom, too.

For the first time ever, I’m living life on my terms. I’ve been given the opportunity to take the old, examine it, and toss out the bits of it that don’t work for me any longer and lovingly polish the parts that do. While it’s not an easy process, it’s an opportunity to turn something that’s shattered me into a life that is my own. The ability to take stock of what I stand for and what I don’t.

To put the pieces back together into a bigger, better whole.

While I know the process is going to be long and (at times) hard, I know that I can and will.

I’ve begun tossing the things pieces that no longer fit.

Starting with my hair:

Pranksters, I’d like you to meet Becky, As Herself.

(ring ring)

My Mother: “Hello?”

Me: “Hey Mom, it’s me. I think I caught Dad’s cold.”

My Mother: “Oh no. He’s still sick!”

Me: “Yeah, it’s like that. I’m considering going into phone sex until this stupid shit is gone. I could make a killing if I could find the dudes with a fetish for chicks who cough and sound like Thelma from The Simpsons.”

My Mother (dryly): “Sounds like a great idea.”

Me: “Hey, work with what you got, right?”

My Mother (laughs): “Did you take some Tylenol?”

Me: “No, I don’t have any. I’ve been alternating between the heat and air, trying to get comfortable. Waging war on this fucking virus.”

My Mother: “Well, I have some Tylenol.”

Me: “I can swing by a little later and pick it up.”

My Mother: “Oh, I can drop it off. You live four seconds away.”

Me: “Wow. Cool. Okay. You sure?”

My Mother: “Can you meet me in the parking lot? My knee is killing me.”

Me: “Sure, no problem.”

My Mother: “See you soon.”

Me:  “Sweet, thanks, Ma.”

—————–

(thirty minutes later)

Me (thinks): “Wow, she’s driving that fancy new car awfully slowly through the parking lot. I hope she at least put the Tylenol in a brown bag or something so it doesn’t look… suspicious. The last thing I need is my neighbors to think I’m a drug dealer. Wait, maybe I should play the part – I got some aviator sunglasses somewhere. I bet I could get one of those nose/mustache/fake glasses things so I look like I’m trying to be “in disguise.” Or I could go knocking on the doors of my neighbors, holding my baggie of Tylenol, so it makes me look all suspicious. That’d be kinda funny until the police came. I’d probably get arrested for the indecent wearing of sequins or something. I can never keep up with the laws about Being Gaudy In Public. And GOOD LORD OF BUTTER, Ma, can you LOOK any more suspicious driving through my parking lot? Probably not. At least, I don’t know how. Maybe I should get HER some of those novelty glasses or something so it REALLY looks like we’re being illicit. ARGGG! MA, DON’T RUN ME OVER.”

Me (walking up to the driver’s side window): “Thanks Ma, for bringing these by. I’m in some sorry shape.”

My Mom: “Well, I hope you feel better. (rustles around in her bag for a couple of seconds while I stand there, looking suspicious.) Here you go!”

Me: “HOLY FUCK, MA. We look like DRUG DEALERS.”

My Mom (laughs): “Go knock on some doors and see if you can sell the pills.”

Me: “MOM! I need to LIVE HERE. I can’t try to sell my neighbors TYLENOL.”

My Mom (giggles): “Yeah, I guess you should try and sell ’em the GOOD stuff.”

Me: “What, like Ibuprofen?”

My Mom: “NOW you’re talking.”

Me (laughs): “All right, Mom, thanks again. You and Dad will have to come over and see the new space soon.”

My Mom: “Sounds good!”

Me: “Bye – thanks again!”

My Mom: “Be sure to get top dollar for those pills – they’re EXTRA STRENGTH.”

Me: “MOOOOOMMMMMMMM!”

(she drives off)

Me (looking down at the bag): “Holy fucksticks. I’d better get inside before someone sees me.”

And THAT is how my mother became my Tylenol Dealer.

Most days, before I go pick up Alex at kindergarten, I swing by my former house to pick up my mail while I grab the various and sundries I’ve inadvertently left behind. I guess that’s the problem with moving while other people stay behind – you have the ability to leave your crap behind to be picked up at a later date, which makes you extraordinarily lazy, especially when one of the boxes contains nothing but bacon spam. I try to get this sort of thing done sans kids because it’s just easier that way, hence my 10:30 trips back to the House Formerly Known as Mine.

Tuesday morning found me there, bright and bleary, seeing if a) the mail had come and 2) trying to knock the two remaining neurons in my brain into functionality so that I could figure out what, precisely, I’d gone there for.

After I pulled into the driveway, leaving the car to idle, I’d noted that the mail was not yet delivered, which had been my main reason for the visit. I weighed my options: I could go skulking around the garage, where Dave had thoughtfully piled anything I’d left behind or I could try and make those misfiring neurons work their asses off to recall what, in particular, I’d wanted so badly from the house.

Standing in the driveway like some sort of mouth breather, staring into space, making my neurons work hard for their money, it dawned on me: MARK ZUCKERBERG. I needed MARK ZUCKERBERG.

While I’d bought him to be a hulking force in my backyard, poised to take over lesser companies and get sued every other day, I no longer had the yard. And, to be frank, Dave wouldn’t miss him – gaudy shit is more my speed than his.

I’d bought Mark Zuckerberg on one of my Friday night excursions to my boyfriend, Target, grocery shopping with my daughter, and upon bringing Mark Zuckerberg home, Dave had bluffed, telling me that he didn’t absolutely hate the peacock, which meant that he probably would’ve burned it, given half the chance and double the energy.

It’s a good damn thing he’s not a poker player, because damns, his bluffing skills need some work.

I’d been anxious to bring Mark Zuckerberg home with me and kept forgetting to grab him from the backyard every time I swung by because, well, with a mountain of my crap in the garage, I sorta hated the idea of neglecting that in favor of a lawn ornament. Hence the skulking.

I’m not sure my neighbors know that I’m gone, although I imagine they suspect it, what with the U-Haul and removal of loads of boxes and furniture. I didn’t have the heart to tell them before I left because I knew I’d fall into a sloppy sobbing mess – I loved living in Pleasantville – and that would be awkward for all involved parties. So I put on my best poker face when I moved, bluffing my way to my new place, hoping the neighbors would simply think I’d gone on a long trip or something.

Which is why, on Tuesday, I felt like a fugitive, standing in my driveway, ready to sneak into my own backyard to take Mark Zuckerberg. I simply couldn’t imagine what they’d think was going on, and while my neighbors weren’t particularly nosy, sneaking into someone’s backyard for a statue could’ve caused some particularly ugly conversations.

I considered making a dash for Mark Zuckerberg, only to remind myself that I am still on the mortgage, which means the house is technically still half mine, which made me stupidly sad all over again. Instead of skulking around in broad daylight (I prefer to skulk at night, thankyouverymuch), I walked into the backyard, opened the gate – the one that never actually latches – and meandered over to the pine tree to take my peacock and bring him home with me.

Carefully, I avoided looking at my roses, which I’d spent so long maintaining (if I couldn’t see them, they didn’t exist, right?), and marched back to the front, Mark Zuckerberg in my arms, half-expecting one of my neighbors to be standing in front of the car, all, “Hand over the tacky peacock and no one gets hurt,” but save for some chalk drawings on the driveway, no one was there.

I put Mark Zuckerberg into the front seat with the wind-chimes I’d bought myself for Mother’s Day and slammed the door. I got back into the car, sobbed for a couple of seconds like an asshole, then dried my eyes before backing the car out of the Driveway Formerly Known As My Own, and heading toward the school to pick up my son.

He bounded toward me, arms wide open, and I smiled my first genuine smile of the day as I swooped him into my arms, kissing his face as he told me about his morning at school, as I thought about the games that people play.

….when it’s a back massager.

I’ve been writing (often badly) about love and sex for years, which, Imma be straight with you, Pranksters, Carrie Bradshaw makes seem much more glamorous than it truly is. I mean, I’ve never actually made enough to outfit my closet in anything besides Target Sale Stuffs, not Manolo Blahnik’s, and I’m okay with that. Shoes for $400 bucks would make me nervous and twitchy the same way owning a Ferrari in New York would: while sometimes pretty, it’s not worth the anxiety it would cause. I mean, if I ruin a $20 pair of shoes, I’m annoyed with myself. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I broke $400 worth of footwear.

Alas, I digress.

Because I happen to own a blog that ends with “blog,” I’m often hit up by PR companies to send me such items as “a coupon for a frozen dinner” that the PR company is just CERTAIN I’ll want to wax poetic about to my awesome Pranksters, not understanding that I rarely eat, and when I do, it’s not the cause for a blog post. I’m no cooking blogger, y’all, and I normally want to hork anytime anyone posts pictures of food. It just doesn’t translate well without a $5,000 camera and professional lighting set-up, which, Pranksters, I neither have nor want. Who wants to look at their pores under those lights? (answer: not me)

Once in awhile, though, I’ll receive an offer for a sex toy, which, duh, of course I take it. Doesn’t mean I need to write a soft-core porn post, although that might be humorously disgusting, but still – who doesn’t like sex toys? (answer: people who hate fluffy kittens)(no, not SWEATER kittens).

Well before I moved, Lelo (link PROLLY not appropriate for work), who happens to be one of the best sex toy makers out there, somehow stumbled here and read about the pain in my neck and how I “give good spasm,” (neck spasms, Pranksters) and offered to send me one of their neck massagers. Which, after I’ve already done PT, weird drugs, seen a chiropractor, and bought a tens machine, all to no avail, I was more than willing to give a proverbial shot.

When it arrived, I’d already forgotten that Lelo had sent me something, so I was shocked to open the package and find this:

I goggled at it for awhile, certain that this couldn’t possibly be a sex toy. I mean, it LOOKS like a sex toy, but frankly, I couldn’t POSSIBLY begin to  imagine using that on anything other than my neck. The two men in my house disagreed.

Dave: “WOAH, why is there a huge penis charging on the kitchen counter?”

Me: “It’s not a penis, it’s a neck massager.”

Dave: “Bwahahahaha. No it’s not.”

Me: “I did pop three babies out of my vagina, but damns, that thing isn’t gonna fit there.”

Dave: “Bwahahahaha.”

—————–

(two hours later)

The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch: “Wow, Becks, nice dildo.”

Me (through clenched teeth): “It’s NOT a dildo.”

The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch: “Oh yes it is.”

—————–

So that was that. Two out of two men assumed that the neck massager I’d been using to work that knot from my neck, the one that had been there for three years was actually intended for the vagina. I had no way to make them understand that this neck massager was, in fact, a massager and not an extremely large dlido.

Finally, I approached the two of them, who were sitting on the couch together eating dinner and watching incredibly crappy television, neck massager in my hand.

“If this were a dildo,” I began. “Why on EARTH would a well-known sex toy company send me it under the guise of it being a “neck massager?”

They both stared at me, slack-jawed before nodding a bit.

“Gotta admit,” Dave began. “You have a point there,” finished The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch.

“Good,” I replied. “Glad we had this little talk.”

As I turned to walk out of the room, Dave leaned over and semi-whispered to The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch. “It’s totally a dildo.”

“Yep,” The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch replied. “It sure is.”

(my living room, four days before moving)

Me: “Hey J, come check out this costume! It’s a SHARK! You could be the Land Shark for Halloween!”

(sidebar: I’ve been trying unsuccessfully for 11 years to get one of my children to be the Land Shark for Halloween. 11. Years)

Alex (uninterested): “Nah.”

Me: “HEY MIMI, YOU could be the Land Shark this year for Halloween!”

Mimi (similarly uninterested): “Nah.”

Me (gearing up to spend some quality time perusing the wares at one of my fav Halloween stores): “Well, what do you want to be for Halloween this year?”

Alex: “Batman.”

Mimi: “Batman.”

Me: (goggles)

Me: “Are you SURE?”

Alex + Mimi: “YES.”

Me (tries not to look TOO unhappy about the prospect of not perusing costumes for the kids): “Ooookay.”

(time passes as I sulk. Mimi tries unsuccessfully to wrastle the iPad away from me.)

Alex: “Hey, Mama? What are YOU going to be for Halloween?”

Me: “Hrms. The Twitter Fail Whale?”

Alex (genuinely puzzled): “What?”

Me: “Nothing. I don’t know – maybe “Your Mom” or something?”

Mimi: “You should be Catwoman.”

Me: (thinks to self – no longer in my early twenties = not dressing slutty for Halloween) “Um…”

Alex: “Or Poison Ivy. You love plants.”

Me: “Ummmm….”

Alex: “Dad can be the Penguin.”

Dave, from the other room: “HEY!”

Alex (confidently and not deterred by Dave’s dismay) “And Big Ben can be The Riddler.”

Me (three remaining brain cells spell out one phrase “buy cat ears and DO NOT LOOK SLUTTY”): “Okay, kiddo. You got it.”

(Alex and Mimi scamper off.)

————-

I took to The Twitter to ask for advice on buying capes for the tiniest of crusaders, figuring having new capes at my house could help with the transition a bit, and this is where it’s awesome to have Pranksters. My girl Jessica came through for me. Again.

(note: the boxes are, thankfully, now gone)

(the awesome hat, however, remains)

(just looking at the boxes gives me hives)

And now? They’re ready to fight crime. Just like the recycling lady.

And no, for the record, I never did go to the office and pick up the sheet about recycling. Seemed… like a waste of space.

—————

I wrote this, too. I learned stuffs.

When I was in the hospital, having just popped a small creature who looked shockingly like a garden gnome out of my delicate girl bits, I held him for a spell in the quiet, darkened room as the doctor finished delivering the placenta and doing whatever it is that doctor’s do to your crotchal region after a baby is born. I held my second son to my breast and looked up at his father, stars in my eyes (okay, it was painkillers, but who’s counting?) and said, “I won’t ever have to give this one back.” He nodded, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth, his labor-long headache long since dissipated.

“No,” he replied, “we won’t.”

We were referring to, of course, the weekenders our eldest son had occasionally with the other OTHER side of his family. While we both knew that these were not only necessary, but important for our firstborn, it was heartbreaking to watch him leave each Friday and return overstimulated and exhausted on Sunday. Those days in which he was gone, it felt as though part of our hearts had gone with him – probably because they had.

When the divorce card got played, the first thing my mind jumped to was not “I’m going to have to find a real job,” nor was it, “will anyone ever love me again?” No. It was “what about the kids? I can’t leave my kids again – some days, they’re all that keeps me going forward.”

I knew that moving out; being unable to pay the mortgage, these had implications that were far-reaching – I’d have to, as previously stated, get a real job and learn to be alone after spending my entire life with another person around. I’d have to scrimp and save and cut coupons and figure out one makes “Ramen Bake,” I’d have to spend nights in an apartment so quiet that the on-switch on the heater would make me jump half-out of my skin. But most importantly – I’d have to leave my kids some of the time.

Now it’s not like I planned to be all thwap-thwap-thwap INCOMING helicopter parent once my second son popped out. I’d briefly considered attending college with him, but that’s mostly because I figured he’d never properly become potty trained, and frankly, someone had to teach the kid how to do keg stands, and his father, well, he was a Normal Rockwell painting, while I sat in the very back of the classroom, playing games on my phone, figuring out how many days, exactly, I could ditch before my grades dropped.

But I never really thought about the possibility of being separated from my children before it was the right time. I mean, I wouldn’t go to prom with the kid (PROBABLY), but I did expect that I’d see them most (read: all) days until they hit THAT point.

I was, of course, as I am so often, wrong.

I can accept that my nine year union dissolved – we both deserve our happy, neither of us is “at fault” because, well, as my therapist says, “divorce requires two people, just like marriage,” and Dave and I are more than amicable – we’re friends. We owe that to our children.

This weekend marked the end of the dreaded first week, the week that found me sobbing like a whiny baby on the couch as I watched and re-watched episodes of trashy television, which, Pranksters, I’m going to tell you, should be a prescription for all that ails you. And shit, it’s better trashy television than my wedding video, of which, I have to say, I don’t own, because I refused to spring for a video no one would ever choose to watch willingly. I didn’t want to be that newlywed that showed every single person who came to my home the wedding video, pointing out “the good” parts. Because hello, boring.

Amelia, thrilled out of her wee mind, came by on Friday, forgoing her normal McDonald’s dinner with her brothers, and spent the night. Alex came over on Saturday, proclaiming that this would be “the best day ever,” because he got to *gasp* sleep at Mama’s house. And as the children predicted, those were the two very best days I’ve had in a long time.

Yesterday, they returned to Dad’s house, and I was left, sitting alone with my trashy television, the silence of my empty apartment thumping in my ears.

I looked around, tears in my eyes, at all of the things in my big girl apartment. The bed and the couches. The end table and lamps. The zombie gnomes in the bathroom, sandwiched between a mushroom nightlight.

And I realized, for the millionth time that week, that my house, my house without children, it is not a home – it’s just the place where I live.

And that sort of sadness, it’s nearly impossible to shake.

I don’t know if I told you, Pranksters, but the apartment complex that I moved into was the only other apartment complex I’ve lived in. I moved here with my then-boyfriend-turned-Ben’s-father back in 2000, where we lived until July of 2001, at which time I waddled back home just in time to pop out my bouncing baby boy.

(completely pointless sidebar, why do they bother calling babies “bouncing?” My kid screamed a lot, rarely bouncing, and, in fact, didn’t begin bouncing until he was well over two)

This time, clearly, I’m not living with anyone and I’m pretty sure that while I’m at the age where women ovulate all-the-fuck over babies, my uterus has decided to move somewhere up into my lungs that the idea of popping out another. Can’t say I blame it.

As most of you know, I began moving last Wednesday, piling up boxes as I desperately tried to unpack my house. Keeping busy, I’ve learned, staves off The Sads for awhile until you’re no longer busy and then you suddenly feel run over by a truck, but alas, I digress. Sometime over the weekend, The Guy Formerly On My Couch began to bring the piles of boxes out to the recycling area of the complex while I carefully placed each pair of shoes into one of those clear plastic shoe boxes, because, well, I no longer have the option to leave my crap strewn about without looking like Slob Bob.

Later that evening, as we sat on opposite ends of the couch, panting and smelling like we’d just managed to move everything I owned – and unpack the majority of it – in the span of three days, Ben spoke up:

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “Totally met your neighbor when I was carrying out boxes.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh yeah? Is it the dude named “Buts?” Because that would be awesome. I wanna have a friend with that last name.”

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “No, it was an older lady – a redhead.”

Aunt Becky: “She nice?”

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “She was out there breaking down every box I’d put into the recycling bin.”

Aunt Becky: (gapes)

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “Yep. She then told me all about WHY she was doing this – apparently the boxes have to be a certain size and you share the complex with a bunch of other buildings, blah blah blah.”

Aunt Becky: (gapes)

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “Then she told me AGAIN.”

Aunt Becky: “Woah. She watched you carry out boxes? I WISH I had that kind of time on my hands.”

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “No, you don’t.”

Aunt Becky (attempts to make neurons fire at the same time): “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

The Guy Formerly On My Couch: “I’m always right.”

Aunt Becky: “I SAID PROBABLY.”

—————-

The following morning, I woke up in my new house, and was greeted with utter silence, which is, of course, a new thing for me. I’m accustomed to the noise that goes along with three kids and the silence was somewhat deafening, if not mildly pleasant. It was quiet, of course, until I rolled over in bed, at which point in time, my back cracked like a bag of microwave popcorn, my legs actually groaning in protest.

A cacophony of various creeks, cracks, and pops followed me out to the kitchen, where I began a pot of coffee, wincing when I had to reach for the filters, which helped combat the silence. I curled up on the couch with a heating pad and watched a few episodes of White Collar before the dawning realization that my laziness had taken a whole new meaning and I’d better get some more of those damn boxes to the recycling before my ass became permanently affixed to my couch and they’d have to cut out a wall to get me out if I died or something.

I grabbed a box full of other, broken-down boxes, groaning a little as I bent over, and lugged them out front.

There she was, standing at the recycling area, just as The Guy Formerly On My Couch described, standing over some boxes she’d pulled from the recycling bin, which, I should add, is as deep as I am tall (5 foot, 5 inches); a tiny thing, ripping apart cardboard boxes like it was her job or something. I stood watching her a spell before I snapped out of my daze and into the lion’s den, waiting for my own lecture. I considered inviting her into my apartment to break down boxes, since she seemed to be enjoying it so very much, but decided that it would be best if I left well enough alone.

Aunt Becky: “Hi! I’m Becky and I just moved in.”

Cardboard Lady (not unkindly): “Hi, was just explaining to your husband that cardboard has to be broken down into small pieces or they won’t take it when they pick up the recycling. Didn’t you get the sheet about that when you moved in? Because the office told me all about it when I called about something else. You should get one of those sheets, because you want to make sure you know what you can and can’t throw into these bins.”

Aunt Becky (chokes back laughter the word “husband” referring to The Guy Formerly On My Couch): “I’ll have to pick up one of those sheets tomorrow. Thanks for the info!”

Cardboard Lady: “Yeah, for some reason they just won’t accept the cardboard if it’s bigger than two feet, and well, you want to be sure you break down all of the boxes so they take them and if you can’t or they’re too big, throw them into the dumpster because you want this stuff gone. They only pick up trash twice a week and you should really get that sheet.”

Aunt Becky (cowers): “Okay, I will. Thanks again. Nice to meet you!”

Cardboard Lady: “Nice to meet you too! Don’t forget that sheet!”

And just like that, I met my first nosy neighbor.

Thank you to LeapFrog for sponsoring this review. For more information about the LeapFrog Animal Adventure Learning Table, please visit their website. #LFAnimalAdv #spon

One of the things that drives me craziest about kids toys is not the whole gendered toy thing – I mean, my daughter LOVES pink and her name is Amelia which means that a pink airplane? Pretty freakin’ rad. So while I could go on about that – my mother would approve heartily of me bashing gendered stereotypes – it’s not something I think about terribly often.

No. That’s not what bugs me.

What bugs me about kid’s toys is that they’re aged all wrong.

Sure, they may be labeled as “appropriate for ages 6 months to three years,” (in compliance with the whole, “let’s not let your kids choke on stuff-n-things”) but really, my five year old is going to have a TON more fun with a toy designed for a toddler than a toddler will. He’s the one who can read and write and sing along to whatever annoying song the toy sings, which by the by, is another thing that annoys me – those freakin’ things go off in the middle of the damn night, nearly causing me to pee the bed as a discombobulated voice asks me if I’m “ready to count now?”

Freaky crap, Pranksters.

Anyway.

LeapFrog, who happens to be one of my most favorite toy manufacturers (besides Legos, because, well, the kids are OBSESSED with Legos) ever, sent me an Animal Adventure Learning Table, which was rad, because then my kids had something new to play with at Mom’s house. New (or used), in kid eyes, always equals better. This was no different.

(totally note the boxes behind her – I wasn’t quite done unpacking. That’s a job for THIS weekend)

Like other LeapFrog toys (of which I’ve owned plenty)(no, not for myself)(weird, I know), it’s a nice sturdy toy, that, to be honest, I’m thankful because my children are now old enough to enjoy it. While it would make a fabulous thing for me to stub my toes on while a toddler used it to practice standing, puking and walking, it’s much better suited for older kids. Kinda like that kid’s Blackberry I bought Alex back when I was a Blackberry Widow, which bored him to tears then, but now, finds it wildly entertaining.

She played with the thing for at least twenty minutes, which is practically an eternity for a three year old, and honestly? The noises it makes are kinda soothing and not nearly as grating as some of the toys the kids’ve been given over the years. (note to self: buy new parent friends THE MOST ANNOYING SOUNDING TOYS EVER) Alex was similarly impressed, although he was busily playing Batman, which is his new favorite game. Just WAIT until you hear what his decisions about what we all have to be for Halloween – it’s both hilarious and full of the awesome.

Love that kid.

And while the nights (when the kids are at Dad’s house) are lonesome, the apartment filled with no pattering of wee footsteps, I know one thing and I know it well.

The kids? They’re gonna be alright.

I carry that thought with me all day long.

I was selected for this opportunity as a compensated member of Clever Girls Collective and received free product from LeapFrog to review.

The content and opinions expressed here are all my own. #LFAnimalAdventures #spon

One of the weirdest things I was stressed out about was not my decided lack of coffee mugs or my inability to properly assemble furniture, but the idea that I’d have to somehow get Teh Internetz into my new place. It’s not that I can’t make phone calls or decisions – if I ruled the world, I’d make texting illegal, and not just while driving, though it baffles me that people actually DO that, but because text conversations remind me of the notes I passed in high school, sitting in the back row with the Metal Heads. I’d prefer a phone call most days.

Anyway.

I was terrified of dealing with Comcast in the same way I loathe dealing with Jiffy Lube. Because I’m not smart enough properly know whether or not my air filter needs changing, for example, I’ll listen to them, have it done, and then realize that I’ve just dropped 40 bucks on some bullshit thing I don’t actually need, only to Rage Against (not, I should clarify, LOUNGE Against) The Machine, because being duped by the Jiffy Lube guys makes me want to taco punch both Captain and Tennile (which, frankly, is the way I feel most of the time) AT THE SAME TIME.

I figured that dealing with Comcast would be similar, our phone call something like:

Becky: “Hi, I need to set up new internet in my apartment.”

Comcast: “For that you’re going to need the Linux box modem coupled with Windows 92, plus a router box made by a Scandinavian company that starts with the letter C.”

Becky: “I just want the email box to make emails for me.”

Comcast (smelling a sucker): “Well, if I upgrade you, at a cost of 92,748,272 dollars a month, your “email box” will work.”

Becky: “Um.”

Comcast: “I’ll set you up with an appointment for next Tuesday between 1AM and 8PM.”

Becky: “Um, oooookay.”

I fretted awhile before I called them, first because I’d just gotten another NEW apartment number and wanted my keys to ensure I’d actually be living in aforementioned apartment rather than kindly hooking up the cable for another tenant, but by Tuesday of last week, I realized it was time – I’d be moving and I need an email box to do “work,” and Comcast, well, after my inability to make OR receive phone calls using AT&T’s network, was the best option, which made me die a little inside.

Besides, Comcast SAYS they care about me. ME!

I was delighted to see that I’d be able to do the whole thing online. Because while texting is bullshit, being able to take care of shit without the pressure salesperson is like a lil slice of heaven. I even managed to get all the way to the point where I was to chat with an online representative without needing a nap to continue.

Comcast Robot: “So you want to have XYZ set up in your new apartment at (address).”

Becky: “Yeppers.”

Comcast Robot: “You can’t.”

Becky: “…”

Comcast Robot: “The former tenant put his account on hold so he could keep his email address. We can’t hook up two lines to the same apartment.”

Becky: “Wait – he wants a COMCAST email? What about GMAIL? It’s FREE! Shit, I’ll give him one of my zillion addresses.”

Comcast Robot: “You’re going to have to go to the business office and show them a copy of the lease proving you live there now.”

Becky: “Um. Why can’t I scan it and email it to you?”

Comcast Robot: “Good Day.”

I closed the chat window, fuming. I still had a boatload of packing, not to mention a couple of saved videos of cats playing the piano to watch. I decidedly did NOT need to be driving an hour to show Comcast that I, in fact, was the new tenant. Instead of throwing things around or kicking the box fan, I put on my “fuck shit up” pants and drove over to the apartment complex.

When I informed the lady at the desk that I was, in fact, going to need thirty-seven types of proof that I’d be living here, she goggled at me, which was approximately the same response I got whenever from the rest of the world. “Woah,” she said. “That’s nuts. I’ve worked here 7 years and NEVER seen anything like it.”

I nodded, unhappily, clutching a ream of papers on official letterheads that all claimed that I was, in fact, going to be moving into the apartment on October 1.

Driving out to Comcast’s business center was fine, excepting the whole, “this road is closed” thing going on in front of their business office. I ignored all signs, crossed my fingers and drove on it anyway – I needed my email box to work. The woman behind the counter was nice enough, I guess, although she said maybe ten words to me the entire time, including the fateful, “do you want me to set this up for you?”

“Nope,” I replied breezily. “I’ll do it online.”

And like that, I sealed my fate.

Back home an hour later, I tried, once again, to order Comcast online. The conversation was identical to the first, and ended with, “let me look into this and call you back,” which, of course, never happened. Robots, man, they’re unreliable.

The following day, between packing and trying to find my keys, I decided it was time to put an end to the bullshit and call Comcast for the 8,373 time, hoping this time I’d actually manage to find the one person who had more than two brain cells knocking around their skull.

A funny thing happened.

I did.

After dealing with Comcast for three days, I finally found someone with properly firing synapses. Quickly she disconnected the previous account and set me up with my own account, even managing to get me an install on Saturday, the day I’d rented the U-Haul and planned to finish moving. She was so kind that I actually began crying on the phone with her, which got HER crying, and we both ended up a soupy mess, which these days, not as uncommon as I’d like.

And now, I have a working email box.

Those damn cat videos have been waiting.

—————

I haz a guest poster here talking about making your own cleaning products. Which, of course, scares the shitnuts out of me.

One of the biggest concerns I’ve had about moving out and away from my kids (since, of course, I cannot pay my home mortgage) has been how they would cope with the change. I mean, I get upset if I find out my favorite brand of socks has been discontinued, so I could only imagine how my kids would feel about their Mama moving out of the house. I talk a good game, but I love my children so fiercely that it’s been barely possible for me to talk about the divorce and the kids without bursting into tears.

Damns. I just burst into tears again. Looks like I’m going to need a new keyboard and now.

I was very careful, when packing my stuffs up and loading my life into a truck, to make sure that the kids would have a place they could feel at home. My new apartment is small, but cozy. It’s been partially decorated, so I can even call it slightly homey (not, as you may expect, “homie.”). Deliberately, I chose a place so near to one of the parks that the path is literally behind my buildings. I may not have the bedroom for the kids (yet), but I do have a space for them to call home.

In that vein, I’ve been careful to snatch up any toys that have been long-forgotten and shoved into bins in the basement formerly known as my own. And I’ve happily accepted any fun stuff the kids might like, while I quickly replaced my kids lovies with as an identical match as I could find. Hey, I’m not above bribing them with toys that are strictly for Mama’s house.

The timing was fortuitous for me as I’d been asked to do a giveaway (after trying the product) for kids from The OrganWise Guys, who promote understanding of how the body works and how to be healthier by following a set of educational games followed by some plush toys. It’s not quite the same as Oregon Trail, but I’m pretty sure my digital kids would be all, “what is UP with that green screen, Mama?” and the anatomy nerd in me, I won’t lie, squeed at the chance to teach my children about anatomy while they learn eating habits so they can grow to become doctors and buy me a house and diamonds and stuff. It’s a little more on-level than the Grey’s Anatomy book I’ve been reading to them since they were babies. And the diamonds? I figure it’s the least they can do to pay me back for those sleepless nights.

Amelia, my wee book nerd, was especially impressed. That girl will read ANYTHING she can get her wee paws on.

Alex is, well, he’s a dude. Watch. Trust me, it’s… he’s a dude.

And lastly, we unveiled the kidneys, which were much cuter than when I’d dissected them on the A&P slab. THEY’RE EVEN HOLDING HANDS, PRANKSTERS. When I stop dying of the awesome, I’ll let you know.

(note the matching Capitol Kitty’s in the background – Amelia was especially impressed that she’d managed to put both of her cats together.)

While I’d wanted to play a game with the kidneys, possibly, “hide the kidneys” or, “let’s cuddle with kidneys,” I didn’t. Mostly because the kids both fell asleep inside my sparkly pink ottoman after this shot was taken. Don’t ASK me how. I can barely sleep in a bed, but they’re happy sleeping inside furniture. Kids are weird.

ANYWAY.

So The OrganWise Guys are giving away the very same game to one of my Pranksters. Why? Because they’re awesome.

To enter, leave me a comment telling me what YOU’D do with a pair of plush kidneys.

For additional entries, you may do the following (please leave a comment for each – I’m not too bright):

*Follow me on Pinterest

*Subscribe to my Frugal Living Blog (how to save money at Target is my post today)

*Like my Facebook Page (which I have NO idea what to do with)

*Like Band Back Together’s Facebook Page

I’ll pick a winner (heh) in one week – October 10, which I feel something important is going on, which makes me uneasy, because if there is something, I’ve forgotten it. I’ll also give you one last day at this giveaway before I pick a winner!

Moving totally screwed with my mojo but I’m SO almost done!