When my friend Stef passed away several years ago – cause of death: cirrhosis of the liver (PSA: DON’T DRINK, KIDS) – leaving behind her two young sons and a funeral so full that it was standing room only, I remember being completely rooted the spot, my grief making the decision “do I have to pee?” as challenging as “Can you repeat the Fibonacci sequence in under 10 seconds?” I couldn’t make a decision to save myself and I could barely function for weeks (if you can call what I do “functioning.” Her death was so sudden, so unexpected, a gigantic piece missing, I could hardly handle brushing my teeth without bursting into tears.

I’d like to say that it’s different now, that I don’t still think of her and tear up, but it’d be a lie: she’s gone and she’s not coming back. So why can’t I delete a phone number she’ll never again answer? I suppose my best guess would be that it’s too final, too real, and it closes a door that can never be reopened. If I deleted the number, I could put it back, but then I’d be the creepy chick putting my dead friend’s phone number in my phone.

I’ve been thinking about her death a lot lately, since the book in which I was a contributor was published. In it, I told the story of Stef in words I could barely choke out; words that weren’t enough because there will never be enough words to capture who she was.

After she died, someone said to me (Dr. Phil? Maury? Oprah? Jerry Springer?) that we don’t lose people in one fell swoop; we lose them over a long period of time, and pop-psych as it is, it’s true.

Maybe it’s a whiff of their deodorant caught on someone walking by in the store. Maybe it’s the way their hair is adorably mussed each morning before a shower. Maybe it’s that one restaurant you went to and laughed for hours over the absurdity of life. Maybe it’s a smile seen in the crowd, so similar, or a turn of phrase you both once used, an inside joke that kept you chortling for hours.

I thought a lot about grief and grieving this weekend.

It’s taken me awhile to began owning up to the idea that I’d soon be moving from my home, and as such, I’d need to find those small inconsequential items; the things I’d never considered needing yet again.

That would be why I found myself stuck in place at Goodwill, looking at silverware organizers, while people desperate for a bargain I! might! steal! from! them! pushed their carts into the back of my ankles trying (nearly successfully!) to mow me down.

I nearly cried, not out of pain or the indignity that someone would actually consider that I’d want a Precious Moments knock-off, standing there and holding someone’s old silverware container, examining scuff marks and wondering – for a good long while – if this was something I should purchase new or not. It was then that it hit me what I’d be losing.

Sometimes, a cheap silverware container is more than that. Sometimes, it’s a reminder of the doors we close and the doors that are closed for us – some shut for good, others left ajar. (go ahead make the joke, I’ll wait here)

….

….

….

That’s when a door isn’t a door.

(when it’s ajar)

I’ll wait while you groan and roll your eyes wildly at my awesome joke.

….

….

….

Done? Good. On to more of my pithy (and low-calorie!) tripe.

I’m sure I’m not the first or last person to burst into tears in Goodwill, which helps a little with the embarrassment of crying in public (being an ugly crier means that public crying makes passers-by look at my wrists for the restraint marks – as if I’ve escaped from the local mental hospital, if there were such a facility close by. Plenty of Pantera’s but no psych facilities. We yuppies need our deliciously overpriced sandwiches on ARTISAN motherfucking BREAD more than we need proper mental health care, but alas, once again, I digress), because if I want to wail on and on like a psychopath about Justin Beaver having a girlfriend, I’d prefer to do so in the privacy of my own home.

HE’S JUST SO DREAMY.

It was there in that dusty store, being jostled from all sides by bargain hunters looking for that perfect tchotchke (or used candle, as the case may be), that I felt the pieces of my old life gradually begin slipping away. I’m not mired in grief muck the way I was after Stef passed. Her death was sudden phone call interrupting an otherwise cold, beautiful February morning in Chicago, whereas I’d watched the slow disintegration of our union once we’d decided to separate over a year and a half ago. I was reminded, standing there holding someone’s grimy old fork holder of grief, of grieving, and of loss.

However right for both parties a situation like divorce is doesn’t make it easier.

I know (some of) the challenges that starting over will bring. The losses I won’t feel until I’m out of the house; an interloper in a life formerly known as mine, someone starting over again. There will be times I’ll have to talk myself through a single moment at a time, reminding myself that it will, in fact, be okay – maybe not this moment or the next, maybe not this year or the next, but someday, I’ll wake up and realize that it is okay.

Because it is. Or, I should properly say, it will be.

There’s not a doubt in my pea-brain that will take a long time to process the complicated emotions (turns out I have an emotion beyond: “I’m hungry.”) associated with the dissolution of a union, I know this. There will be reminders of the good times and the bad that hurt anywhere from:

<->being punched in the armpit<->prick<->wasp sting<->arm tattoo<->natural childbirth and back again, while raging confusion will wind from:

how can orange be a color and a flavor?<->what kind of cell phone plan should I buy?<->who the hell reads tea leaves anyway?<->how can I survive the next three minutes?<->is this REALLY my life?

There will be tears and triumphs in this new life of mine, of this I can be certain. There will be the things that blindside me and leave me gasping for breaths while other things, things I’ve feared, will be as smooth as a baby’s dimply ass. Such is the nature of grief

Such is the nature of life.

———–

Howdy Pranksters! How was your long weekend? Do you do shit for Labor Day? I want to be the person who’s all, I DID AWESOME SHIT, but really, it was a nice simple weekend with friends, antics and a healthy dose of debauchery.

Do please forgive these occasional things inside the posts – I’m simply trying something out (also kinda coveting those shoes)(I DON’T NEED MORE SHOES, BAD AB, BAD!), which I’ll explain sometime when we’re all very, VERY bored.

ALSO THIS:

(Um. I have a new addiction. It’s right there)

Shit I Found Saturdays is a weekly feature here at Mommy Wants Vodka, that’s more fun than a basket of kittens,  except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays.

Whatever.

Who likes RULES anyway? 

So, let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the Internet and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts!

(that’s a lie)

Shit I Read:

Does The Internet Lack Social Etiquette Rules?

Craig’s List Conversations: The Trilogy

Bye-Bye Bacon

Shit I Wrote Other Places:

My Life On the Frugal Side blog has some neato posts (mostly from people smarter than me, but let’s face it – that’s most of the world). I started this blog as a way for me to keep track of ways to live on the cheap. Guest posts are always welcome.

(Barely) Surviving Parenthood – The comments are always a gas.

Shit That’s Hilarious:

Shit I Wish I Were Doing:

Intervention Convention: hosted by one of my very best friends on Teh Internetz, I spoke last year. This year? I gotta sit it out. So you go and tell me what it’s all about.

Shit I Watched ‘Til I Pissed Myself:

Shit People Need Help With:

Prankster Lindsey is going to lose her home. If’n you want to help, go here and help her keep her kids in her home.

Shit That Sounds Like Awesome:

I fucking love giving my opinion about things – I’m always fighting Dave to be the person to answer the phone. Internet surveys FTW!

Shit Around My Blog:

I’m on The Facebook.

And The Twitters.

————-

Now it’s YOUR turn, Pranksters?

What rad shit have you found this week?

Before I launch into my fabulous guest post from my BFF Adam, I’m here and here.

Enjoy, Pranksters!

Avitable here – you may remember me from Becky’s birthday post and the most epic motherfucking soul portrait EVER. The reason for my post today is that I just wrote a book called Interviews with Dead Celebrities which compiles a series of, well, interviews with, umm, dead celebrities, that I’ve written about on my site over the last few years. Then I added a bunch of new material to it, put it together and published it on Amazon.com.

This post is an exclusive look at one of the newly written interviews, previously unpublished online anywhere, and here to make love to your eyeballs. Please to be enjoying my interview with the deceased Diana, Princess of Wales:

Name: Diana, Princess of Wales

Born: July 1 1961

Died: August 31, 1997

Profession(s): Princess and member of the British Royal Family

Best known for: Princess Diana, known for her charitable endeavors, was also most famous for divorcing Prince Charles and later dying in a car crash in Paris with her companion Dodi Fayed, inspiring Elton John to write that song about her.

Fun fake fact: Her shit actually did not stink.

***

Avitable: Princess Diana, I apprec-
Diana: Knock it off. I know what you’re going to do, and I’m going to beat you to the punch.

Avitable: You know what I’m going to do?
Diana: Yes, and before you can start doing tasteless morbid jokes about me, I’m going to do them first.

Avitable: I don’t even know what you’re talking about!
Diana: Sure you do. Here we go.

What does world hunger and a Mercedes have in common?

Avitable: Diana can’t stop either.
Diana: There we go. What’s the difference between me and a blade of grass?

Avitable: About six feet.
Diana: Ha! What does Dodi stand for?

Avitable: Died On Direct Impact.
Diana: So hacky. What’s the difference between me and Casper the Ghost?

Avitable: Casper can go through walls.
Diana: Terrible! How am I like a cell phone?

Avitable: You both die in tunnels.
Diana: Okay, that one was slightly amusing. Why did I cross the road?

Avitable: Because you weren’t wearing a seatbelt.
Diana: Groan. When is a princess not a princess?

Avitable: When she turns into a pole.
Diana: Meh. What’s the one word I could have said that would have saved my life?

Avitable: “Taxi!”
Diana: Haha! Okay, that one was good. I think I got that out of my system.

Avitable: I’m glad – that was fun, but I was going to use this time to talk about your charity work and all of the good things you did during your life?
Diana: Oh, well we can do that, then!

Avitable: Too late! Now I just want to tell Princess Diana jokes! What’s the difference between jelly and jam?
Diana: I don’t know.

Avitable: You can’t jelly a Mercedes into a pillar at 65 miles an hour.
Diana: Did you just write that yourself?

Avitable: Yup.
Diana: It’s probably the second worst thing ever written in my honor.

Avitable: What’s the first?
Diana: That dreadful song written by the queen.

Avitable: The Queen of England wrote a song?
Diana: No. I’m talking about Elton John.

Avitable: Ba-dum-chihhh
Diana (bows): Thank you and good night.

If you enjoyed that interview, you can pick up Interviews with Dead Celebrities, currently available for the Kindle (or you can read it with the free Kindle app for your phone, iPad, or computer), and soon to be available in print.

If you didn’t enjoy it, you should buy a copy so you can make fun of it and deride it mercilessly. Either or . . .

It seems that every September, as the schools prepare to open, new reports about the state of America’s education are released and each seems more depressing than the next. Foundations, think tanks, politicians and professional organizations publish their papers and reports in which they basically tell us what we already know.

The numbers of American students who are equipped to compete with their peers from other areas of the world in many disciplines, including in technology, math and science, drops every year. Fewer students read and of those that do read, most are not familiar with the great classics and other high quality works of literature. Fewer students have the life skills that they will need to enter the work force after high school and a large percentage of high school students are lacking in basic general knowledge. The drop-out rate is high and fewer students are going on to college.

Figuring out the reasons for the decline in America’s educational system is the first challenge. Depending on whom you speak with you may hear that the education system is in trouble because there’s too much emphasis on testing or there’s too little emphasis on testing, because the teachers are incompetent or because the system won’t allow talented teachers to flourish, because the multi-cultural nature of the society prevents the system from functioning properly or because the system doesn’t properly harness the diversity of students, languages, cultures and ethnicities.

It’s easy to get caught up in the blame game but finding workable solutions is complex. New technologies and methodologies are being put to use in school districts throughout the country, oftentimes with good results. Teacher-training programs are relying on teacher-mentors to give teachers-in-training and new teachers the benefit of veteran teachers’ experience and knowledge.

One worrying statistic, however, comes from a recent study that was put out by the Rand Corporation, an education think tank. The study examines the outlook for American education in the 21st century and gives voice to the concern that the most talented and effective teachers — those with a high measured teaching ability — are more likely to leave their teaching positions for better-paying, less-stressful and more prestigious jobs. The study summarizes the situation, noting that while school districts differ in the extent in which their high-performing teachers are leaving the profession, all school districts are struggling with this problem. When less-experienced teachers remain in the classroom, it’s clear that the students’ don’t have the opportunity to advance at an optimal pace.

Figuring out how to encourage veteran, effective teachers to remain in the classroom is getting harder and harder. Class sizes are at an all-time high and teacher responsibilities are increasing at the same time that their salaries and benefits are decreasing. Some teacher-educators are involved in creating better teacher-training programs while other civic and governmental groups are working to raise teachers’ pay, bring community members into the schools as volunteers, improve teacher-administrator relations and provide more advancement opportunities for classroom teachers.

Public institutions are turning to private initiatives to help find a solution to this problem. One such initiative involves formally recognizing highly-effective teachers as a way to motivate these teachers as well as their colleagues to remain in the teaching profession. The Milken Family Foundation (MFF) has created a special award to address the issue of how the nation’s educational leadership can keep America’s best teachers in the classroom.

The Milken Educators Award is based on the idea that an effective teacher plays the most important role in a child’s education. Lowell Milken who created the Award, theorizes that when an exceptional teacher is recognized for his or her achievements, s/he is more likely to remain in the classroom.

MFF presents the Milken Educator Award annually to deserving teachers — our nation’s “unsung heroes” — who harness their vision and creativity to help shape their students’ successful integration into their post-school lives. Receipt of the Milken Educator Award has proven to encourage these outstanding teachers while generating enthusiasm among other educators as well.

The annual Milken Educator Awards honors highly effective K-12 teachers who teach in the public school system. Award recipients receive $25,000 that they can use for whatever they wish.

As of 2013 the Milken Family Foundation has invested over 135 million dollars in the Milken Education Award project.

This one time (…in band camp) I swore my bed was possessed. I had nightmares every night I slept in it, although, to be fair, none of them involved me spewing oatmeal or cottage cheese out of my mouth while levitating or turning my head around at a 360 degree turn, and my mom, having trouble sleeping one night, slept in it while I was off sleeping somewhere else (I can only surmise I was thoroughly up to no good). That night, she too, had a nightmare.

Clearly, the bed was possessed.

My mother and I decided that the best course of action was, naturally, to perform an exorcism. I mean, what else can you do when you have a (possibly) possessed bed? We burned some sage or incense or something and put up a crucifix that my brother had (allegedly) stolen from somewhere or another chanting, “The power of Christ compels you.”

It worked. The nightmares stopped.

I hadn’t thought about possession or The Exorcist until it dawned on me that they’d made an Exorcist Part II and then I was just plain annoyed – I mean, where can you go from there? (Answer: Egypt)

Last Wednesday, I was taking a gander at the snaps I’d taken of Alex’s first day of school on my mostly-broken iPhone and realized I should probably actually export the things to my computer. There were some pretty cute snaps in there and well, how else can I put together a long montage video to play at his high school prom? I mean, I do have a therapy fund set up for the kid – I may as well do as many horrifying things as I can while I can.

I sat all happy-crappy at my computer after plugging the glorified email machine into the back, waiting to see my gloriously bad photos get imported into iPhoto. This, of course, somehow made my computer extremely unhappy, so I had to sit there for upwards of 45 seconds while it flashed the circle button, which usually means I’ve got too many tabs open at once or have been looking at Internet porn so often that I’d managed to snag me a virus.

(better than an STD, I guess, but I’m unclear as to whether or not computers can catch those things)

Instead of my craptastic pictures taken through a broken lens, I got, well, these, which I promptly framed. Possessed iPhones don’t happen every day, y’know.

Amelia decided that the small kindergarten seats were bullshit and immediately found the teacher’s seat. At the time, she was NOT, in fact, possessed, although the doll behind her makes that statement questionable.

*shudders*

And my rose, which I’d been lovingly trimming blackspot from, well, it appears to have been overtaken by The Devil. Partially.

Howdy there, Half of Alex! Happy first day of school! Don’t kill anyone, okay?

Who knew the kid was divided so neatly down the line?

This is only marginally better than the time Dave’s old camera decided that all pictures forevermore would look as though they’d come from a lens dripping with Vasoline. It was quite good for the complexion, but made everything appear to have been shot in soft-core porn lighting.

I guess it’s time for another exorcism, Pranksters.

————-

Oh! And if you love music…

————

So dish! What kinds of weird crap have your electronics done over the years?

When I was in college, back when the Internet was an primarily an IRC and not the place to find free porn by googling, “That ball with spikes on it,” intending to find a description for a Mace, not some guy wearing spikes on his ballbag, I had a group of people I chummed around with. These people, of course, didn’t include my roommate It Means Butterfly, because she spent her days hollering at me for not putting things away properly and sitting by the computer waiting for her boyfriend Dave (not The Daver) to pop up on chat.

One of my friends was a guy that I sorta kinda maybe had a crush on, James, who happened to allow me refuge in his room when It Means Butterfly and Dave made sweet, sweet, monkey love in the bunk above me. At the time, James was still pretty squarely in the closet, which means that my gaydar wasn’t nearly as well-honed as it is now.

My crush subsided, of course, as crushes are wont to do, and we became strictly friends. At least in my book.

One afternoon, It Means Butterfly happened to be out at class or something, so I had a rare moment to myself in my dorm room, which I probably spent pining for my ex-boyfriend because that’s what you do at 18. You pine for old boyfriends rather than actually enjoy your single-dom.

When the phone rang, I’d been hoping it was Pashmina down the hall who’d been trying to score some more rum so we could get properly wasted, but it wasn’t. It was my buddy, Derek.

“Hey Becky,” Derek said when I answered. “Where’s your roommate?”

“Eh,” I replied. “Not sure.”

It was quiet for several seconds, which made me want to blather on – it was an awkward kind of silence, not the sort that happens among two friends who know each other well, but something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like a dog.

“So….” I continued, trying to figure why he’d called me to say nothing. “What’s up?”

“Uhhhhh,” he groaned. “Not much.”

The seconds ticked by.

“How’s, um, class?” I asked, trying to begin a conversation.

“It’s (pant, pant), okay,” he said, clearly not interested in this conversation, which, to be frank, neither was I. I liked discussing class as much as I liked discussing those crappy and eerily crude forward emails my dad sent me.

Again with the silence.

“Um, so what are you doing today?” I asked him, not wanting to believe that Derek was an Uncle Pervy. I mean, this is the guy who helped me dress to go to the bar so I appeared to be older than 14. In turn, I looked like a very delightful hooker, but I thought it was hysterical.

Silence. Silence. Silence.

Grunnnnnnnt….

This was getting weird.

I began babbling because that’s what I do best when I’m awkwardly uncomfortable, “So did you hear that my dad sent me this horrible forward about some old lady and her vagina? It was totally WEIRD – I mean, he’s my dad, and Oh Em Gee, did you SEE the way Matthias’s crappy roommate has been stalking me around campus because that’s just creepers, and really I’m so hungry, wanna get some Chinese food from that shitty place that delivers and tastes like it’s probably rat meat and shit, do you think it’s actually rat meat because their beef tastes a little off and shit I wonder if that’s why it tastes like that do you think it’s actually rat meat or cat meat because either way, I feel sick to my guts now and I may need to go hork in the bathroom and did you know that someone left a bloody tampon in there because that’s so fucking gross who would do that?”

Silence.

I stopped blabbering on to see what he’d do next.

All I could hear was “pant, pant, pant, pant YESSSS.”

Fucking shit. Mouth breather. Shit.

I levitated toward the phone jack, giving some laughable excuse about waxing a cat somewhere, and hung up with him.

I stared at the phone for a second before wandering down the hall to Pashmina’s room. Without knocking, I walked in:

“Dude. You’ll NEVER guess what just happened.”

————–

New post here about what NOT to do at warehouse clubs.

Shit I Found Saturdays is a weekly feature here at Mommy Wants Vodka, that’s more fun than a basket of kittens,  except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays.

Whatever.

Who likes RULES anyway? 

So, let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the Internet and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts!

(that’s a lie)

Shit I Read This Week:

(Cake) Balls In Your Mouth: Drunk baking? Brunk Daking? Who knows. It’s just fucking hilarious.

Reused Books and a Love Note: Bring tissues. It’s a wonderful story from a great friend.

Cratering: I haven’t stopped laughing.

Shit I Wrote:

Songs To Break Up To – Why? Because every breakup needs a soundtrack.

Bedtime Battles Rage On: My kids hate sleep. Clearly, we’re not related.

Shit I That Made Me Shit Myself:

Stand back, ladies. He’s my new boyfriend. I’m not fucking around.

Shit That Made Me Realize I Need Photoshop:

And who could forget my favorite diabetic?

Which reminds me of….

(which my kids jam out to – substituting “Penis” for “diabeetus.” Because we’re related)

Shit That Just…Listen:

And if you’re feeling particularly suicidal, DO NOT listen to this one:

Shit That Scares Me:

Shit Around My Blog:

Blogroll, yo. You want on it (if’n I’m on yours).

I do ads.

I’m on The Facebook.

And The Twitters.

Also THIS.

————-

Now it’s YOUR turn, Pranksters?

What rad shit have you found this week?

I married Isis on the fifth day of May,
But I could not hold on to her very long

So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.

We drove through the night, relator chirping about in the frontseat while I sat in the back, staring out the window, watching the scenery, crystallized in the cold January ice, seeing things I’d seen before, only different. Dave sat in front, chattering about with the realtor as I blew into my hands, trying to blow the cold clear on out.

Carefully, we approached the last house on our list for the night, a hulking monstrosity built in the 1970’s, similar – but not identical to – the house I grew up in. Cold crunched the tires, making a somber squeak, as we pulled into the driveway, the lights blazing inside bode a warm welcome from the howling night. Dave and the relator zipped on ahead to greet the owner as I stood there a moment alone, under the tree, which, in the frigid January wind, tinkled mournfully like the world’s saddest windchimes. I looked up and noticed the streetlights as they caught the ice encasing the branches, and the whole world seemed to shimmer for a moment.

I stood there mesmerized, not feeling the cold seeping into my bones.

“Becky,” Dave called. “You ready to go in?”

————-

As we rode through the canyons, through the devilish cold,
I was thinkin’ about Isis, how she thought I was so reckless.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said that spring as we drove through our neighborhood, the trees lush and green, their branches happily intertwined from either side of the street as though they were trying their hardest form a canopy above. I could spy bits of blue sky between the leaves, but driving ahead, it appeared as though we were driving through a secret cove to our home.

“It really is,” Dave agreed, “It really is.”

————-

Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her.

She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise,

Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed.

“What’s this?” I asked, blinded by exhaustion and in dire need of a bed to rest my body as the early morning dawn rose, the sun wrangling it’s way upward, as if to remind us that if we had forgotten, once again, we’d been up most of the night at the hospital with our young son and infant daughter. The words ran together in an alarming manner as I tried to piece together the letter that had been unceremoniously shoved into the mailbox under the tree I had, what felt like a lifetime before, stood and listened to the music it had created.

I gasped as though I’d been sucker-punched.

“The tree,” I said. “It’s dying.”

“Which one?” Dave asked me, blearily trying to understand the words I was stringing together. I nodded at the Ash tree, which had once sung me a mournful song, as if to warn me that things would not always remain the same. Tears inexplicably filled my eyes, which I quickly swiped away, blaming them on exhaustion.

“That one,” I said simply. “That one.”

————-

I came to a high place of darkness and light,
The dividing line ran through the center of town.

“They’re clearing the Ash trees from our side of town,” my mom told me one afternoon, the following summer. “They neighborhood looks so different.”

I fixed my gaze on the tree outside my window which had once sung a lone haunting melody, and, lost in thought, murmured my displeasure as my daughter crawled up my leg, trying to figure out what Mama was staring at.

“They haven’t started here, yet,” I said hopefully, still looking at my tree. “Maybe my tree will be okay.”

She simply stared at me, words unspoken.

——————

The wind it was howlin’ and the snow was outrageous,
We chopped through the night and we chopped through the dawn.

The earth woke up this spring, telling me tales of a mild winter, the ground cold, but not frozen as I planted flowers of purple and pink, the tree slowly waving its barren branches above me as if to warn me. You don’t mean it, I said to the tree as I worked in the yard, growing something beautiful where none had grown before. You can’t mean it.

The tulips I’d planted years before bowed and bobbed in the warm spring breeze, as if to say, “almost time, almost time.”

Silly flowers, I thought. What do you know about death and dying? All you know is rebirth, starting over.

The tree dropped a branch, long since dead, next to me as I worked the earth, as if to say, “believe me now?”

I didn’t.

—————-

When he died, I was hopin’ that it wasn’t contagious,
But I made up my mind that I had to go on.

“Mama,” my daughter asked a couple of weeks ago. “Why’s there a purple and pink dot on the tree?”

My heart sunk.

“Because it’s dying,” I said simply. “It’s time.”

—————

I broke into the tomb, but the casket was empty
There was no jewels, no nothin’ – I felt I’d been had.

“Did you see that there are no-parking signs outside?” Dave asked on Monday.

I nodded.

“The city must be taking down our tree,” he continued.

I nodded.

“Finally,” he said as if he’d been waiting his whole life for that sign.

I nodded again, turning my back so he couldn’t see the tears.

—————–

How she told me that one day we would meet up again,
And things would be different the next time we wed.
If I only could hang on and just be her friend

I still can’t remember all the best things she said.

Branches half dead now, entire sections of the tree destroyed, the tree still stands in front of my house, as if to thumb its finger at passers-by: yeah, I’m still here.

Not for long. Not for long.

Trying in one last attempt to save itself, the tree has grown saplings that jaunt merrily from the bottom, a sign of renewal in a time of death. I want to run out, screaming, give up and give in – let go, it’s over.

It’s time, I tell the tree each morning. It’s time. It’s over. Give up. I’m sorry I didn’t listen – you were right.

The branches sway lovingly at me, creaking a new tune – it’s final tune: we must move on, we must move on.

This time, I listen.

I still can remember the way that you smiled,
On the fifth day of May in the drizzlin’ rain

Last night, as I lovingly tongued my bottle of NyQuil goodnight, I set my internal alarm clock, as I always do when something is going on the following morning. Lately, though, with my anxiety levels being through the roof, I haven’t really needed it – turns out the cure for “not being a morning person” is not “no cowbell,” nor is it, “suck it up, Buttercup.”

Nope – it’s anxiety. Who knew?

7AM, I awoke, flutter-byes playing basketball in my stomach, rolled over onto my stomach and groaned – what was so important that I’d been woken up WELL before any sane person would opt for wakefulness? It hit me like a smack in the face: first day of school.

Wearily, I slogged out of bed and splashed some water on my face, trying to look presentable “enough” to the other bleary-faced parents who’d be dropping their kids off, determined that this time, at the very least, I wouldn’t be the youngest parent there, which increased the likelihood that I’d be able to, for the first time ever, get into the Holy Cult of the Mothers (they’re like the Caturday people, but harder to infiltrate). Maybe I need to apply or something.

Anyway.

Bumbling down the stairs, I poured at least half a cup of scalding coffee on my hand before I realized what I was doing. I stared down at my hand, my daughter standing nearby, trying to understand what I’d done.

“Aren’t you gonna say, “FUCK,” Mama?” she asked, completely seriously.

“I’m too tired, Girl Pants,” I replied hazily as I attempted to add some of the Blue Stuff to my coffee, managing to get one out of three packets into the coffee cup.

Morning: 3

Aunt Becky: 0

Alex was bounding up and down and racing through the house, chasing the cats and beams of light and random dust particulates floating through the early morning sunlight, beyond thrilled that today was the day! I quickly decided that it wasn’t going to be possible for me to siphon off some of his energy and use it for my own personal gains, so instead, I curled up on the couch and tried to restock my Tiny Tower I’d so thoughtlessly allowed to go dark while I slumbered. My 8-bit people needed Blood of the Bean! And Porn!

Amelia and Alex bargained with Dave over who got to have a donut first, why, and which donut looked, upon taking a bite, more like the letter “c” than the other. Apparently, sibling rivalry knows no bounds.

Finally, my middle son twirled and whirled his way over to me, where he landed gracefully (too graceful to be MY child) in my arms. He stared up at me, blinking.

And in those blinks I saw the baby who cried every moment I left his line of sight, the toddler who spent the entire day after he learned to walk trying to kick a ball, falling down, getting back up again, and trying once again until he mastered it.

I saw the child who loved animals so much I called him Saint Francis of Assisi, the child who protected his little sister, teaching her of the cosmos and the heavenly bodies. I saw the child who’d curl up in my arms, reminding me that, while everything feels like a whirlwind, it would, indeed, be okay.

My heart filled with pride as I kissed the top of his head, my eyes full, for once, of happy tears.

He blinked again up at me, studying the lines of my face as he asked, “Mom, can I take the Powerwheel to school today?”

And just like that, the infant turned toddler turned child started his first day of school.

All in the wink of the blink.

Important to note: THIS STORY IS NOT ABOUT THE DAVER. I JUST HAPPENED TO KNOW TOO MANY DAVE’S.

Back before the Internet, before I had crotch parasites, during the age Jesus copied my Bio/Chem 216 notes off me, I went off to college in the city. I wasn’t particularly excited to be going off to college, unlike my roommate, who told me, at one point that her name meant, “It Means Butterfly,” which is why, she explained, our room was covered in motherfucking butterflies and filled with her crap.

I’d always lived alone – my brother a full 10 years my senior – which meant that I wasn’t used to sharing my space with anyone, let alone a cell with electric pink carpeting I called the Maxi-Pad.

It Means Butterfly wasn’t, either.

I can’t recall if she had siblings or not, but I do remember that on certain days, she’d lovingly invite me to use anything from her razor to her underwear (which I did not), and others, she’d toss my bed, swearing I’d stolen the TV remote, even though I never touched the TV, which got a half a station if you considered watching television to be an act of trying to understand what one pixelated person? was saying to another? It could’ve been Animal Planet that I was mistaking for a sitcom for all I could tell as we did live on the 17th floor of a 17th floor building, that building was composed entirely of cinder-blocks.

Unstable? I’d say so.

(It Means Butterfly, not the building)

One day, as I tried to slip in and out of our doom room unnoticed by her (she was busily chomping down a salad dripping with ranch dressing – which I noted because she chewed with her mouth almost entirely open – and squawking at the hilarious things her boyfriend, Dave, said to her via instant messenger) she caught me.

“Becky,” she said. “Dave is coming to stay with us for a week. They close campus at SIU on Halloween because there were riots and he’s coming up to stay.”

I looked around our room, no bigger than a jail cell, that was overflowing with Precious Moments figurines, and shrugged. “Uh, okay?” I replied, trying to get out of the room before she could corner me – It Means Butterfly wasn’t overweight, but she was one of those girls built to plow the fields of corn or soybeans or whatever, whereas I was nearly a foot shorter and built like a bird, bones ready to snap if the crosswinds happened to be blowing the wrong way.

Dave arrived the next night while I was carousing about the town with my friends, eating delicious Thai food that cost (mostly) pennies, while plotting adventures and scheming our way into Gold Coast parties. I didn’t see him until I woke the following morning, my head thudding from too many Long Island Ice Tea’s the night before. Groggily, I noted from the bottom bunk, that there was a dude scratching his bung mere inches from my face. If I looked the right way, I could see into his boxer shorts.

(SPOILER ALERT! I didn’t look.)

I shuddered, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, while It Means Butterfly’s stupid seagull alarm clock went off, as I reminded myself that I did not, in fact, want to commit murder before I hit my 19th birthday.

Slowly, It Means Butterfly got dressed and made her way to her 8AM class, while I rolled over, trying to tune out the kissy-face noises she and Dave were making at each other. Finally, she left, and I got up ready to kick the ass of anyone who tried to elbow me in the elevator on the way down to campus.

It wasn’t until I came back in from changing in the bathroom and washing my face that I realized that yes, in fact, there was a dude in my room.

“HI,” he said, as I walked back into my room. “I’m Dave!” He reached out his hand for a shake and I took it, shaking it, shocked by It Means Butterfly’s boyfriend. He was kinda cute. And a metal head. This did simply not compute with everything I knew about It Means Butterfly and her Precious Moments Collection.

“Hi Dave,” I said warily, wondering if this was a trick. “I’m Becky. Nice to meet you.”

I went off to class, only to stop by Pashmina’s room to quickly tell her, “PSST – Check out It Means Butterfly’s boyfriend, dude. He’s not…he’s not gross!”

Pashmina, no friend of It Means Butterfly, as she’d not once, but twice, broken Pashmina’s precious bubble chair, which inducted her squarely into Pashmina’s Archenemy Hall ‘o’ Fame, was still half-asleep but managed to squeak a note of surprise behind me as I left for class.

As all good things do, eventually come to an end, I had to return my dorm room, where It Means Butterfly was sitting squarely on Dave’s lap, all but dry-humping.

Now, I’d just broken up with my long-term boyfriend, and if there’s one thing that people who have freshly broken up with their long-term boyfriends DO NOT need to see, it’s other happy couples cooing and humping each other. Especially if it’s on your desk chair.

I snuggled up in my cloud sheets for the night, wrapped up tight as a tick and listening to something vaguely depressing on my discman, because, well, I WAS MOURNING A BREAKUP and when you’re 18 A BREAKUP IS FOREVER WAH, WAH, WAH, even if your former boyfriend had a small penis, you get to be all emo about it. It’s written somewhere in the 18-year old guidebook.

Breakups = forever lost love (with a small wang) = emo time.

Just as I was falling asleep, I felt the bed begin to…shake a little. The bunk-beds we used were so unsturdy that if you breathed near them, it would set off an hour’s worth of rocking back and forth. This rocking, though, it was…rhythmic and OH MY FUCKING GOOD LORD OF BUTTER THEY WERE HAVING SEX. GROSS GROSS GROSS.

I practically levitated out of bed down the hall into Pashmina’s room where I began spitting out the story, It Means Butterfly trailing behind me, trying to explain herself. I’d been clear: no sex while I was in the room; the room was so small that there was a great likelihood that simply by being near two people humping, I’d get a penis put somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

By chance, a friend, Derek, an RA from floor 4, happened to be in the room hanging with Pashmina and her roommate at the time. “Oh poor Becky!” he said, accent dripping of California. “Come on down and stay on my floor,” he said. “I promise my guys will treat you well.”

I dragged my cloud blanket and tired ass down the stairs and onto the elevator. Finally, ensconced in Derek’s room, after he received several high-fives from his “guys” for having a girl in his room, I snuggled up to eat a peanut butter sandwich with James before we slumbered off into the Land of Nod.

“Night Derek,” I said, after we turned off the lights. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

I laid down on the concrete floor, covered thinly by a thready blue-carpet and tried to go to sleep. Was nearly there when I heard that old familiar squeak-squeak-squeak of the bed. Holy motherfucker, I thought as I sat upright. He’s fucking beating his meat.

I made up some excuse about having to “get back upstairs for something or another,” and made my exit as quickly as I could, leaving a baffled Derek in my wake.

I climbed, once more, back into my bed, before yelling, “You guys start fucking again, Imma make a porno of it.”

They were mysteriously quiet for the rest of the night.