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.

Welcome to Shit I Found Saturdays, Pranksters! Every week, I try to find some awesome shit around the ‘net to show you because, well, I feel sorta guilty for the whole “whinging about my divorce” crap. And everyone needs a good laugh now and again.

Play along below!

Shit That’s AWESOME:

While I have a long winded post in the works about it, we pulled it together. We got the Band Back Together for mental illness AND made a snazzy calendar! I can’t wait to put mine up… which means I should PROBABLY ORDER ONE. Click the button to keep the lights on over at The Band! (or just because you’re an office supply nerd like me.)

Proceeds from the 2013 Band Back Together Calendar will be used for outreach efforts in 2013.

Band Back Together runs as a nonprofit, meaning we do not profit from any incoming funds. All proceeds go directly into Band efforts like server costs or community outreach.

Shit That’s Hilarious:

Barack Obama is tired of your shit.

Power-Up Arcade Light – I totes want this for my new place.

Shit I Did:

I was totally in a book (motherfucker) and it’s awesome. Really proud of it.

Shit I Wrote:

Stuffs about budgeting

That thing below? TOTALLY HELPING ME WITH BUDGETING. For SERIOUS.

Kindergarten Drop-off, Yo

Shit I Saw:

And this may make you die of laughing:

Shit That Made Me Pee Myself:

I’m a SUCKER for a good montage:

Shit I Listened To:

——————–

So what’s new with YOU, Pranksters? Those damn link things never work for me, so tell me, how’s things?

Look how far we’ve come, Baby Girl. Look how far we’ve come.

————

I also wrote this. Someday, I’ll stop calling AAA the AARP. Someday, but not today.

I read somewhere, probably on the Internet, or maybe I saw it on one of those wacky sitcoms that divorcing people are supposed to throw things around, hurl objects in the general direction of the other person, and generally yell, scream, and glower at the other while such things as “who gets the ginormous television?” and “why do you want a ginormous television that will take up your shoebox apartment, Becky?” Life might be more interesting that way, but the last time I tried to throw something at someone, I screamed, “Fuck you, motherfucker!” and lobbed a full large Diet Coke at his head. While he was sitting less than one foot away from me, I hit the car window, and the soda didn’t even rain down upon us like a delicious heavenly rain.

I was seventeen.

Since then, my objects of choice when I’m ready to break things are box fans, which make a nice satisfying THWAP when I kick them, only to realize that I’ve broken three toes and the fan is still sitting intact, mocking me with it’s Made in China sticker. Hurling things is clearly out of the question, as I’ve demonstrated that I’ve managed to hurt myself fairly badly on bubble wrap. BUBBLE WRAP, PRANKSTERS. That shit is SOFT.

(tell that to my finger)

(that’s what SHE said)

(buuuurrrrnnnnnn)

Anyway.

Since the time for hurling and lobbing of objects is long gone, and Dave’s birthday was this weekend, I suggested that we go out to a nice dinner, full of NON-scathing looks and celebrate. Everyone should have a party on their birthday, right? Right. (you may surmise that I both love and hate birthdays and you’d be correct – even my shrink informed me that he, too, likes to pretend that his birthday doesn’t exist, which made me feel a little better about changing the date on mine so often that I have to pull out my driver’s license and see, YUP, was actually born July 15).

“Hey,” I asked Dave on my way out the door on Friday night. “Can you make us some resos for Saturday night?”

Because, when I was very young, my parents removed my bladder and replaced it with a squirrel’s bladder, it took me a good 12 minutes to pee three times before I actually manged leaving, which made me shake my fists at the sky at the squirrel who’s living out there, having to pee once every seven years, before I heard Dave howling from the next room.

“Capones is closed,” he said, when I came in to see what the ruckus was about.

“Whaaaaa?” I couldn’t believe it – it was a staple out here. An old restaurant fashioned out of one of Al Capone’s Speakeasy’s from the roaring twenties, before he died of VD.

“Like for good,” he replied. “I think the owners retired.”

I made a glum face as he suggested one of his favorite sushi restaurants. “Works for me,” I replied, finally out the door.

The day of his birth dawned without me recalling it was such, which made me feel like a shitheap – who forgets birthdays? Apparently, that answer is Yours Truly. “7:00,” he said as I poured my morning coffee, heading to the fridge to dilute it with milk – Dave makes coffee that’s so strong it curls your hair and makes you shudder.

“Dammit,” I said, upon seeing the fridge. “We’re out of milk.”

Sheepishly he looked at me, “Sorry,” he said. “I drank the last of it in my coffee.”

“S’okay, I’ll improvise,” I replied as I grabbed an ancient bottle of SlimFast. I poured it in, noting the chunks that plopped into my coffee and stared sadly at my now-chunky coffee.

The rest of the day, I spent in my garden, painting my roses a decided shade of pink, while some dude rubbed Dave with oil and massaged the kinks from his neck.

6:30 rolled around and I noted that Dave was, in fact, sitting on the couch and looking at me expectantly. “Shit,” I hollered as I flew up the stairs. “Getting dressed now!” I threw on whatever didn’t smell like it had been IN the garden and made my way back downstairs and out the door.

We rolled into the sushi place about 10 minutes prior to our reservation and sat in the bar, where I stared at the photo I’d taken when I walked in, hardly believing vending machines, one of my favorite things on the planets, had failed me so miserably:

Sign of the apocalypse.

Dear Snooki: please don’t spray-tan your baby until he’s at least 6 months old.

Finally our table was ready, which was good, because I was about to cry about the stupid Vending Machine with JERSEY FUCKING SHORE in it. We ordered our dinners and sat back and talked about this, that and the other, the idle chit-chat you do when you’re talking to someone you know well. It’s a good thing, I guess, we haven’t been fighting, because I had at my disposal, about three hundred different things that could’ve been fashioned easily into weapons all American Gladiators-style.

Instead, I took a picture of my soup for one reason (and not because it was tasty OR delicious):

Mmmm. Soupy.

That’s a nice reminder that taking pictures of your food and making them look NOT like piles of baby barf requires a professional photog. NOT EVERYONE CAN BE A FOOD BLOGGER.

(I may or may not have feeling bitter pants about the whole “Jersey Shore” vending machine)

Then, because it’s the right thing TO do, I made sure everyone knew it was Dave’s birthday, which meant a half-dozen Japanese people would sing him happy birthday in butchered-English. He loves to be embarrassed by me. He just never SAYS it, which is how I know.

I also made sure to take as many embarrassing photos as I could, which, unfortunately with my broke ass iPhone, didn’t work too well. But here’s the only one I got:

The thumbs-up were my idea – gives the impression you’re REALLY happy! You can tell he’s happy – not at all annoyed by me – by the look on his face!

I can hardly wait for the next year. I’m thinking singing, stripping, male telegrams.

I’m not very good with things ending. Or change. Or wrapping anything in bubble wrap, because, while many have suggested I attempt to live in a bubble, you can clearly see why this is not feasible for someone as “graceful” as I:

That was last night’s performance of “Why Becky Should Never Touch Anything, Ever.”

When I was pregnant with Alex, a new Mexican restaurant opened up nearby, much to my delight. Somehow, barfing up Mexican food was easier than, say, Italian, which meant that once I’d been there, I was hooked.

The next time we tried to go, the place was closed. Out of business? Afraid of scary pregnant ladies who want extra! salsa! and meat? I don’t know. But I do know that I spent the next few days SAD about it – it was good, nice family owned place (which I love) and the food was amazing. Chicago and the food we have, man, it’s incredible.

There’s just something about saying goodbye, or being unable to say goodbye to something I once really liked that makes me sad in the pants.

Watching the ash (ass) tree in front of my house be slowly killed by the Emerald Ash Borer (Ass Boner) was horrifying to someone like me. “Why can’t they put it out of it’s misery?” I’d sit out my window and wonder. If only I’d managed to start spraying for a bug I had no idea would be causing a plague on our (houses) trees back before they’d known the Ass Boner would be destroying the trees lining my street, maybe I could’ve saved it. Or, at the very least, I could’ve tried, and known that I’d done my level best to deal with the dying.

I didn’t because we can’t prepare for these sorts of things.

I grow roses, because I’m a nerd and, well, it runs in my blood. The roses, not the nerddom, although one could make a case for either, I suppose. I spend an inordinate amount of time preparing my roses for the plagues on THEIR houses, and still, I’ll go out and shake my fist at blackspot, before I wander back indoors – annoyed – to get my gardening tools and other sundries.

The tree is gone.

Last week, or perhaps it was the week before, the tree people came and took the branches, half-dead, down, chainsaws whirring, while I sat back in my chair, working on this or that, and felt a peace wash over me.

I’d said my goodbyes to the tree and I knew that it was time.

Time to move on.

The sadness I’d felt over the loss of my beloved tree, over the things that are over, they have been replaced by a new feeling, a reminder of sorts: while some things are put to bed, forever lost, others will go on. New places. New people. New experiences. New life.

I may never be the sort of person who celebrates the death of something I love. I may always find change to be overwhelming and scary. I may never be able to easily say goodbye without weeping. But that’s okay.

The things that are over are gone forever.

But others, so many others, they go on.

Even walls fall down.

Her: “Morning slore.”

Me: “Hey Girl.”

Her: “Hahahaha!. You just went all Ryan Gosling on me.”

Me: “Hey giirrrll – I’ll be the cheese to YOUR macaroni.”

(Pauses several seconds)

Me: “Ugh. Just grossed myself out. What are you up to?”

Her: “Oh Em Gee. I have the WORST headache.”

Me: “Dude. Headaches blow.”

Her: “YEAH they do.”

Me: “Sucks, man.”

Her: “Yup.”

Me: “Bet Ryan Gosling could help you with that shit.”

Her: “Doubt it.”

Me: “Shit. I just spilled scalding coffee on my nipple.”

Her: “Did you like it?”

Me: “Kinda.”

Her: “You’re a freak.”

Me: “Eh, Ryan Gosling wouldn’t think so. He’d make that shit into a lampshade.”

(uncomfortable silence)

Her: “Why are we friends?”

(pauses several seconds)

Me: “I have NO idea.”

————

I wrote this. Apparently? I need help. No, not that kind of help. I HAVE a therapist.

Welcome to Shit I Found Saturdays, Pranksters! Every week, I try to find some awesome shit around the ‘net to show you because, well, I feel sorta guilty for the whole “whinging about my divorce” crap. And everyone needs a good laugh now and again.

Play along below!

(If the linky thing isn’t being buggy, I mean.)

Shit I Read:

Don’t Dissect Your Friends – it’s a DAMN good reminder.

A Letter I Can’t Send: From The Ex Wife To The New Wife: Heartbreaking and true.

Shit I Wrote:

Puppy Love

Goodwill Shopping

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

Shit That’s Weird:

I’m in a BOOK, yo.

Shit That’s Hilarious (Because it’s TRUE):

Shit That’s Fucking Scary:

I’d kind of like it more if it made reference to MySpace, but you can’t have it all.

It may be hard some days, but everyday, I’m able wake up thrilled that I do not, in fact, own this.

Do these cause cramps or alleviate them? I JUST DON’T KNOW.

Shit I Watched That’s Pretty Fucking Depressing (Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You):

I WARNED YOU! SAD!

(depression is a lying liar who lies)

—————

So what rad shit did YOU do/see/find this week? I’m hoping this link-thing works. They’re so damn buggy.

“Losses can be real or perceived,” my perky psych nursing teacher told the class. While the rest of the class dutifully scribbled that statement down in their notebooks, I simply looked up from the back row, where I was playing my game of Bejeweled, shocked.

I’d never thought about losses like that before.

To me, losses implied the death of a person or animal or something was once living and now 6 feet under.

I’d never bothered to consider losses in any other manner.

That statement has been playing on my lips a lot lately, along with my I Hate Artichokes mantra, as I think about the new chapters I’m to write after this particularly dreary chapter of my life ends.

If I don’t like this ending, the story is far from over (and I decidedly do NOT like this ending). I must continue moving forward so that I can write the next chapter of my life.

I knew that with every major life change – birth, death, weddings – came a series of losses and gains. While I’d known that this was likely going to happen with the dissolution of my union, I was unprepared for the types of things that happen when one gets an “internet” divorce.

The rampant gossip and speculation about why my marriage was ending. The certainty that when a marriage ends, someone must be to blame. The friends, who once stood at my back, promising they’d catch me if I fell, turning their backs. The guilt of losing my home. The shame in asking for help. The loss of a dream. The shame that I somehow failed.

With the losses, though, I’ve found so much more than I’d have expected. I have several boxes that you, my Pranksters, have lovingly sent me, of items I can use in my new home, for my new life, because you know that starting over, that dissolving a nearly 9-year union, that comes with a lot of pain. And every little thing, every email, every comment, they all matter so much.

For every friend I’ve lost, I’ve gained two new friends who know me and love me anyway. For everything I must leave behind, I have something else to take – words, love, encouragement – to remind me I’m not alone. In the darkest of dark moments, when I honestly don’t know how I’ll survive – if I should bother trying – the next three seconds, there have been whole minutes in which I can see clearly that I’ll be able to thrive. Maybe not today or tomorrow, or even next week, but someday.

And that is enough to carry me through.

So thank you, my friends, who have steadfastly answered the phone when I call sobbing. Who don’t pass judgement because I do sometimes need help, and know I loathe asking for it. Who text me to make sure I’m okay, and stay up until all hours, driving around with me in silence, just to feel like I’m not alone in the world. Who have been so kind, so thoughtful as to send me things. Who have loved me in spite of me.

You’ve carried me through.

And I don’t know how to repay that kindness.

—————

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

The carpool lane in my high school consisted primarily of hand-me-down’s from parents, which makes sense – you want to give your old car to your kid so:

a) you can get a new one.

2) teenagers are terrible on cars.

The difference between my high school and others is that meant my best of friends drove things like the last model Lexus sports cars and the BMW 8 series that had phones built into it. Yep. Car phones. Back before we had cell phones glued to our ears, we had car phones and landlines, remember those, kids? Phones are the things you use to call people and have a conversation that doesn’t have to occur in abbreviated form.

It didn’t bother me – STC is a fairly affluent area and I’ve grown up here, so it’s not like it was a particular culture shock. Because my parents didn’t (rightly) trust me to own a car without somehow banging it up like I did the day after I got my license, I didn’t own a car of my own. Instead, because I lived in the center of town, it was fairly easy to glom rides off my friends so that we could drive co-centric circles around the school, smoking cigarettes and wondering if we should bother going to class or head downtown and make mischief.

When I graduated high school, the elaborate parties my friends had were intense. You know that horrifying Sweet Sixteen (and Pregnant? I can’t keep that stuff straight) show on MTV where kids are all, I WANT JUSTIN BEAVER AT MY PARTY DADDY AND A PONY AND A DIAMOND TIARA. It was like that, except there were ice sculptures and a hell of a lot less snot-nosed asshole kids – STC may be more affluent, but the people here are genuinely kind.

Rather than a pony on roller-skates or John C. Mayer crooning about my body being a wonderland to my throngs of teen friends, I had a backyard BBQ with some friends that lasted well into the wee hours of the night. Lots of debauchery and drinking occurred, but I wore jeans and a t-shirt and my Daddy didn’t drive into the backyard with a new Mercedes.

Which is good because I may have murdered him.

For my graduation gift, rather than a yacht named “Becky Rules,” which I spent an inordinate time scribbling on things that were not my own, I got a car. A used car. It was a car that had been used by my brother’s wife’s mother for many years. It may have been born before I was.

And while my high school boyfriend drove a Beemer – the kind you have to special order – that often contained gold bricks and wads of twenties stashed in the doors, I was pretty happy with my old Dodge Shadow. It may have been the color of baby poop (a guess – I’m colorblind), the doors may not have closed all the way, and shit, the oil was always leaking all over the damn place, but it was mine. All mine.

My boyfriend’s car was snazzier than mine and probably had more money in it than I’ll ever have, hands motherfucking DOWN, but my car was my own, which is why I loved it. Probably the ugliest car you ever saw, but I could, at the very least, jam my Tool tapes (yes tapes, not 8-tracks) into the boombox and sing along to Opiate – one of my favorite albums EVER, and go to all the places whenever I wanted to.

Driving has always been my best therapy. Full tank of gas and a half a pack of smokes? It’s time to get the Band Back Together, motherfuckers. I spent hours stupidly driving the thing (I say stupid because it tried to kill me) around town and back, exploring roads that I’d never been down before, and when I’d return home, it was like all my problems had vanished.

While my compatriots in the carpool had leather seats and built-in CD players, mine had chalk drawings on the ceiling and incense burning from the cup holder (the thing was unable to properly store tasty beverages).

On the driver’s side door, just above the window, I’d written this in neon green chalk:

“This is not an exit.”

And it never was.

——————-

What was your first car, Pranksters?

Really wish THIS had been my first car.

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