…of “Ask Aunt Becky!” The search terms are a-rolling in, and I have some new advice for people who search for weird fucking things. I’m not a therapist, I don’t play one on TV, but I am a blogger who apparently searches for normal things like “Celsius Conversion.”

Dear Aunt Becky,

How do I paint flowers on bathroom wall? Any advice for me?

Love,

Artsy in Seattle

———-

Dear Miss Bad Taste,

Step away from the paint can, love, because attempting to paint flowers on ANY walls of your house, ESPECIALLY a bathroom, is a bad freaking idea. Why? Because it’s BUTT UGLY unless you are a 90 year old grandmother.
And then your friends will come over and you will force them to look at your bad taste in action, and they will have to bite their tongue to keep from laughing at the terrible job that you did. THEN, they will start avoiding hanging out with you because they will be so horrified that you willingly painted such a monstrosity on your own wall, and that kind of crazy MIGHT be catching, so to be sure, they will stop returning your calls.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. Hire a decorator to smack some sense into you if the flower thing still seems like a good idea.

————

Dear Aunt Becky,

What is the relationships purpose of the silent treatment e-mails? I just don’t understand why people aren’t writing me back. Please help.

Signed,

Lonely in LA

————–

Dear Clueless in California,

I don’t mean to rain on your parade or anything (do you get rain out there in Cali?), but I’m pretty certain that you can’t get the silent treatment from written words. Mainly because they are WRITTEN and therefore not spoken.

But if what you’re asking is why someone hasn’t written you back, I would consider several problems: first, your body odor, which you seem intent upon letting permeate all of your clothing can be addressed by a simple shower and a little thing we like to call “deodorant.” Check your local pharmacy for a whole aisle devoted to the stuff.

Secondly, if you’re “emails” consist of pointless and annoying forwards that include “quizzes” to tell your friends what their choice of cocktail means (cosmo = dy-no-MYTE in the sack), I would imagine that your “friends” are telling you that they don’t appreciate their in-box being stuffed full of stuff that needs to be deleted anyway.

Besides, Aunt Becky prefers a bit more personal means of communication: the telephone. Methinks you should invest in one post haste, along with some deodorant, and for the love of all that is holy, STOP WITH THE FORWARDS.

Or honestly, maybe it’s the flowers you painted on your bathroom walls.

Sincerely,

Aunt Becky

A couple of weeks ago, The Daver was on the phone with his mother and he made mention of the loss of my friend Steph, and he mistakenly referred to her as an “old friend.” I normally leave him the fuck alone when he talks to his mom, but this was too big an insult to our friendship to let be, and I promptly informed him that she was well more than that to me.

Maybe we weren’t super close towards the end of her life, truth be told, she’d become fairly unreachable to me. Growing up with a mother who had suffered through the same things that Steph did, my knee jerk reaction once I realized that there was, in fact, no quick fix to this problem was to steer the hell clear for awhile. Physically, at least.

Mentally, however, I thought of her quite often. I beat myself up over and over again FOR YEARS because I knew that I couldn’t handle her anymore, and in a desperate attempt to shield myself from the shit storm, I sort of cut her out of my life. Physically, at least.

Maybe it was self-preservation on my own part, maybe I was in the thick of dealing with my own shit, or maybe it was just because I couldn’t handle being part of that downward spiral yet again.

(I don’t feel entirely comfortable discussing all of the issues associated with being raised by a mentally ill alcoholic mother, because hey, this is The Internet, and anyone can find me. My name IS Becky (and not Rich) and I haven’t made any real effort to cover up who I am (sadly, I am not a transsexual midget living in Vancouver), and as such, I only write about people who I know read this blog.

So, just make the assumption that there were lots of trips to and from the mental hospital, lots of medication tweaking, some ECT, and several drunken ER trips involved. I’m making no steps towards going private, because I don’t care THAT much, so if for some reason, you want to talk with me about this, click on that fancy “Email Me” button that The Daver put up there for me. If not, just know that none of that is integral to this or any story.)

It’s hard to stand by and watch someone you care about very, very much make poor decision after poor decision, and as I make it a rule not to interfere in my friends’ business, I had nothing TO say about it. I mean, honestly, I highly doubt that it would have made a difference.

See, she and I started out in the same place, but ended up so far from each other that there wasn’t much TO say anymore. We both had children out of wedlock (OOOOH! OOOOOH!) with men who weren’t the best choice of partners, and while I realized it and got out of that relationship, she didn’t get out until after the second child was born.

I had the good fortune to meet The Daver and together we built a fairly solid life together. I mean, I COULDN’T call her, because her phone was always turned off. Mine is only off when the Internet is down (thank you Vonage). They had no car. I have two. I finished school and graduated with a degree. She dropped every class she enrolled in. The list is endless.

Her choices were poor, she threw away a lot of good opportunities and as a result, I knew that we didn’t have much TOO talk about. At least, this is how I logicated not reaching out to her.

And whether it’s because I know that I no longer CAN or just because I never thought that it would come to her dying at age 26 from NATURAL FUCKING CAUSES, I feel guilt and remorse and shame. It’s not my fault, not really, and I was behind her supporting her to do all of the positive steps in the right direction that she refused to take. You can lead a horse to water, afterall…

Does feeling guilty help? I don’t know. Maybe it’s part of fucking Kubler-Ross’s ‘Stages of Grief,’ or maybe it’s just “complicated” grief. I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know.

All that I do know is that physically removing someone from your life doesn’t mean that they’re gone. Not by a long shot. I miss her just as much as I did before she died. Maybe even more.

I’m not feeling a post today, dog, primarily because I’m going over to Steph’s parents house today to see them, and I’m not really looking forward to it. Mainly because I’m going to pull up and weep like a baby that she’s not here anymore and it will be cemented in my brain that maybe, just maybe SHE’S REALLY NOT COMING BACK.

Methinks that I’m still in denial.

Grief fucking sucks.

And as it’s been well documented (by myself and I would NEVER lie about myself), I have OCD and cannot go a day without throwing some sort of drivel out there.

So I present to you, Sweet Internet (have I told you that your butt looks hot in those pants? Because it totally does), another edition of Aunt Becky Asks The Internet:

1) Let’s say you have been invited to one of those in-home parties, A Pampered Chef, Candle Party or some such other thing, and you dislike them on principle, figuring that if the host needs money so badly, you’d rather cut THEM a check rather than buying useless crap that you don’t want in the first place. Expensive crap. PLUS, the whole thing chafes your balls a bit.

Do you:

a) RSVP and tell them you’re unable to make it.

b) Go begrudgingly because you think it’s the Right Thing to do and buy some crap you don’t want.

c) Blow off the whole thing because you find it rude.

d) Other

2) Let’s again say that you have an old engagement ring from a previous relationship that you’ve held onto for years, not because it has sentimental value, but because you don’t know what else to do with it. It’s a teeny thing (maybe 1/4 carat) white gold and diamond (solitare) and you don’t really want it, but don’t know where to sell it because you have no idea what size diamond it is (you have no paperwork for it) and it cost maybe $400 brand new.

Do you:

a) Sell it on eBay and give the proceeds to someone/thing that needs the money more than you.

b)Make jewelry out of it, even though it’s teeny tiny and not something you particularly want to cherish and love.

c)Toss it on the street and hope that someone picks it up and uses it for, well, SOMETHING.

2b) IF you’re planning on selling aforementioned ring, how does one do so?

a) eBay

b) Pawn Shop

c) Random Stranger

d) Other

3) If you read blogs often do you:

a) Comment religiously

b) Comment ONLY when you have something to say

c) Lurk in the shadows because you’re afraid of the big, bad, blog writer.

d) Other

4) What is UP with blogs that have product review posts? Anyone get it? I sure don’t. I mean that, I really don’t understand how that works, I’m not just being a bitch here (and no, I’m not contemplating doing so).

5) BlogAds (not because I’m looking or anything, just curious):

a) Do they actually pay anything?

b) Do they annoy you because it takes ages to load the page?

c) Do you not give a flying fuck about them?

—————–

Shit.

Wish me luck today. I am so freaked out right now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Now, before Aunt Becky was Aunt Becky or Nurse Becky or Mommy or even a Kept Woman, she was a waitress for nearly 10 years.

Like all somewhat bad things in my life, I had blocked out much of those years (and phobias) until I was talking to my friend Stef yesterday (go see her, she’s my hero, and possibly my new wife if I can con her into leaving her husband), and we went back and forth talking about all of the “good” times.

What’s most interesting about serving is that most of the complaints are universal. I’m quite certain that she and I did NOT in fact serve in the same establishment, but by our intelligent conversation bitching, it just didn’t matter much.

Before I launch into a Server’s Shit List, I will tell you that it was one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had, mainly because unlike other fields I’ve pursued/been degreed in/fingerprinted for/licensed by the state of Illinois to do, it’s a complete “us vs. them” mentality (a far cry from hospital nursing which is more like “every person for his or her self”). The hours were awesome for a swinging bachelor, the parties were plentiful and the booze was free-flowing. Ah, the glory days.

*ahem*

Without further interruption or introspection I present to you A Server’s Shit List:

*Groups of women. Now, as I’ve gotten older, I have found many women that I do, in fact, really like to hang with (real-life or virtual), but as a rule, tables full of women will treat a female server (no matter how good she is) like complete shit (likely because they’re jealous or something) AND THEN sit in your best table for your whole shift, making damn certain that you don’t get anything more than the 13% tip (if you’re lucky) that they are going to give you (and never allowing you to turn your table and make some real money. Because they hate you and wish you were dead.

*Business-Type Lunchers. I hereby exclude anyone who comes in and has COCKTAILS with lunch, because they are awesome, tip well, and are generally not in a hurry. But the OTHER iced tea drinking sect (ALWAYS with the iced tea) sucks ass to wait on.

Firstly, they’re in a hurry and expect that you can somehow make THEIR order faster than all of the OTHER people who are also in a hurry (you can always tell who is used to getting their way at work, because they treat YOU like a minion). If you cannot, because the kitchen doesn’t operate like that, they will harass you approximately every 2-3 minutes by calling “MISS” at increasingly more grating intervals whenever you so much as think about walking near the table.

They are also known to snap their fingers at you to get your attention (not sure if there’s anything ruder than that for a waitress, or really, anyone. Last I checked, I am not a dog), which I always would snidely inform them that my name was, in fact, “Becky” and that I would respond in a much more timely manner if they would use that. And no, sir, your food isn’t up yet, I just checked. No sir, there is no problem with your order.

So yeah, my advice to people on a timetable for lunch (I dig it, I’ve been there) GET FAST FOOD (see that FAST in there? Work it) or pack a lunch. Don’t go to a sit down place and expect that anyone there will give a fuck if you’re in a hurry.

*Sunday Morning Church Crowd. Before you nail ME to any cross, let me assure you that I don’t mean that people who believe in God are assholes by nature. But typically, those who are coming out to eat in their Sunday Best after church treat the staff like shit (that’s EXACTLY what Jesus would do, right? I don’t think so.).

Nothing is ever right for them, ever, no matter what you do (you can’t pull each onion out of the French Onion Soup? WHY NOT, WAITRESS? Um, do you really want me to stick my hands in your soup anyway?). I’m not certain why going to church makes people so damn unpleasant (I’ve always thought of church as uplifting), but the shoe fits here. It just does.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that people that go out to eat at ANY TIME on a Sunday are pretty much the bottom of the barrel. They tip crappily, they run you ragged with their stupid requests, they leave you a religious pamphlet instead of a real tip (this inflames me because it’s essentially telling me that whatever I am doing is Wrong and that they are Right. Now, I’m a nurse, right? And I served when I was in school, but you NEVER saw ME telling a fat person NOT to order Country Fried Steak or a Bacon Cheeseburger, because they really shouldn’t be doing that. It’s a Bad Idea.).

*The My Soup Isn’t Hot Enough, Waitress People. Sometimes I like soup, and maybe I’m a weirdo because I don’t give a shit if it’s not piping hot (hate that phrase), but these people seemed to think that I was both aware that their soup was Not Hot and served it anyway! The nerve of that WAITRESS!

Firstly, I didn’t stick my fingers in your damn soup. Would you really want my grubby hands near something you were about to put into your mouth? I didn’t think so.

Secondly, the soup is not your meal. It comes WITH your meal, and although I appreciate that you like it anyway (whether you paid exclusively for it or not), get the fuck over it (and yourself).

Ask me to heat it up POLITELY and I will. Demand that I heat up something that came frozen from a BAG (not homemade, sorry), and I will trundle back to the kitchen with it, microwave it for AT LEAST 5 minutes and return it to you with a biting smile on my face, while I say a prayer that it burns your mouth.

Dick.

* The You Made An Error Waitress And Ruined My Life Forever People. I’m sure that you don’t often think of the wait-staff as people with a life outside of meeting and exceeding all of your stupid demands, but I assure you with the utmost certainty that we do. We’re just usually good at covering it up when we’re having a bad day, after all, you’re not paying me to tell you about MY day, are you (I hate it when servers want to talk about their days. It annoys me, so I never did it)?

Servers (no matter how bad they are) are people too, remember, and as such, sometimes they MAKE MISTAKES. Trust me, once they realize it, their heart drops into their stomach as they scramble to make it right, because no matter who is at fault, it’s your server that has to ultimately come back to you and tell you that something is wrong. And then be screamed at about it like THEY DID IT ON PURPOSE (trust me, this is how I make money. My paycheck nets me about $0.46 every two weeks. Therefore I would never jeopardize my only livelihood on purpose).

Specifically, I can remember when I worked in a pizza place, and I’m not sure which side had messed up (I always wrote down my orders, not because I needed to, but because I always wanted to be able to reference them should I need to later on. Comes in very handy, I swear.), but what I had written was apparently not what the table of old farts had ordered. When I dropped off the pizza (not realizing my error) and came back to check on them, they treated me as though I had personally killed their dog and then laughed about it to their face while they informed me that no matter WHAT my notepad said, they DID NOT order this.

The following day, I ran into this spawn of Satan couple at the pharmacy where they recognized me as the person who had ruined EVERYTHING IN THEIR WHOLE LIFE and GLARED AT ME SILENTLY until I made a rude gesture to their face and walked away. I’ll take shit at work, but I refuse to take shit from people outside of work.

My other horror story is about the table of 10 that came in, immediately demanded soda and bread and cheese sticks (Hi, nice to meet you, too!). I got all of their appetizers ready, and made an error in balancing the tray when setting it down and it promptly fell over. Not a huge deal, right? I didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t drop anything anywhere but the floor, and promptly fixed it.

The head guy from the table tried to insist that I wipe marinara sauce from his shoe (you don’t know who you’re dealing with, fucker, but I don’t do that for ANYONE, let alone a 5% tip, which I am sure you’re going to give me IF I’M LUCKY), and even though I apologized and got them fresh bread (which was free) and cheesesticks, they left me a dollar. On an $80 tab.

* The Hot Tea People. To be fair, I like a cuppa hot tea now and again, so much so that I have a huge drawer full of it here at home, and once in awhile I will order it when I go out (when I was pregnant). But every time I ordered it, I always followed that up with an “I’m sorry” and a “I won’t complain about what you give me.”

In theory, hot tea shouldn’t be such a big deal to prepare. It’s hot water, a tea bag, lemon, cream and (if you have it) honey. The first problem is (much like real estate) location, location, location. Nothing you need for this is ANYWHERE close to each other. Fine, so you go and make a pot of hot water, grab a tea bag, run to the back for lemon and cream, search high and low for honey, only to realize that you’re out of it, go back, water’s still brewing (yes, you have to MAKE hot water and it always takes FOREVER) so you go grab the other drinks for the table. Then, when the water is done, you pour it into a METAL CONTAINER (metal, I should not have to tell you CONDUCTS HEAT) burn your hand in 10 places, decide you don’t have time for a band-aid as your table is looking around the place wondering where the hell their drinks and server are, and when you drop it off (after carefully putting the hot water down so it only burns YOU again) you realize you needed a spoon.

When you return with the spoon, this is what you hear:

“I wanted decaf hot tea. Is this decaf?”

“Where’s the honey?”

“Don’t you have any other flavors of hot tea?”

“You should have more flavors of decaf hot tea.”

“Is this decaf?”

“I want more lemon.”

“I need more cream. You didn’t give me enough.”

“Waitress, THIS WATER IS COLD. HOW COULD YOU SERVE ME COLD WATER FOR TEA. I SAID I WANTED DECAF HOT TEA. DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME PROPERLY? IF I’D WANTED ICED TEA I WOULD HAVE ORDERED IT.”

“This cream is warm. I want cold cream.”

“Where’s the honey?”

“IS THIS DECAF, WAITRESS?”

“I SAID I WANTED DECAF HOT TEA.”

As you can see, the second problem with hot tea is that the people who order it are complete dickheads.

If you don’t believe me and think I’m overreacting here, just say to any server that you know the phrase, “Hot Tea,” and if they don’t shudder and look around for something to kill, I will personally apologize for making this generalization.

*The My Kid’s Shit Smells Like Roses People. As we all know, I do happen to have 2 children of my own, and have been known to take them out to eat occasionally many times each week, and I would like to take this opportunity to warmly thank each and every shitty parent whose brats sat in my section and reminded me how NOT to raise my kids.

Let me make a general disclaimer that my big son has been known to be somewhat special needs at times, so parents whose children suffer from real disorders and not just “My Kid Is A Complete Fucking Asshole, Because I Am A Really, REALLY Shitty Parent Complex” get a pass here.

But, for each and every fucking piece of shit kid that sat in my section, said “Bring me a Coke” rather than “Can I please have a Coke,” dumped red pepper and cheese all over the table, tripped me while I was carrying a large tray, SHOOK their drink cup at me to indicate that I should refill their soda rather than use their voice, screamed uncontrollably, ran around like a damn banshee on crack, and generally behaved like a Fuck Head, you all should really be ashamed of yourselves.

Don’t you DARE look at me with that Aw-Shucks look when your kids act like fucks, because I will never say “Oh, they’re just being kids,” because due to a little thing I like to call Laying The Smack Down, my kids don’t act like that. Or if they do, we leave. Immediately. No matter how hungry we are.

Crawl back into your cave, people, and stay there until your kids are adults who corn hole picnic tables. Then you’ll know that you done raised ’em right.
————-

Shit, that was better than sex, it was so relieving to complain about. I figure that most of my readers who haven’t served before will think I’m being harsh, but I assure you, this is what happens (not that YOU’D behave this way UNLESS YOU NEEDED TO, which I understand too).

So dish to Aunt Becky about YOUR work horror stories. I’m down for a good laugh right about now.

Today, I’m struggling with what to write, mainly because how the HELL does someone follow up a post like the above without sounding even more trite than usual (as you all know, I’m usually very, very trite). So rather than try to come up with something that sounds so annoyingly false and awkward, I am just going to give you an update on crap I’ve talked about before, but never thought to update about like a Good Aunt Becky should.

So, take this for what it is: fluffy, insubstantial, and likely dull as hell.

————–

Despite an afternoon filled with me staring out the window for the 5-0, none came to arrest me and throw me in the clink. Although it would make for some interesting blog fodder, (thanks, KC) I’ve been arrested before (gasp!) and it’s not nearly as exciting as the movies. Plus, the ink is hard to get off your fingers.

Thank you for reassuring me, The Internet, because for some reason, my hyperactive guilt complex had gotten the best of me and I had assumed the worst (imagine me trying to pack as much stuff into as small a suitcase as possible and hunting furiously for my passport as I wondered who would remember to pick up the cake if I was fleeing the country. It was close to this.)

Before you think me an absolute nutter, let me tell you a story: when I was a kid, my mother and grandmother took me to a craft show (eek. SCARY!) at the old courthouse for my county. I don’t think it’s a functioning court house or anything, but the moment I walked indoors, I got completely hysterical and began to freak the fuck out. I was convinced that they were going to arrest me for what, I can’t be sure. Reckless use of banana clips?

I was 8.

——————-

After many, many months of repeated blood work (I *have* been complimented on my veins), and dosage increases, I have finally reached therapeutic dose for my thyroid issues (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!).

Thyroid problems are extra annoying because it’s hard to determine what specifically is wrong versus what’s just how you are. Let me give you a wee list so that you may see what I’m talking about:

Depression (I have/had/am currently being treated for PPD)

Weight Gain (I heart cheeseburgers)

Lethargy (I have a newborn/infant/asshole toddler)

The list goes on and on, but rest assured all of the symptoms are totally non-specific. I only was diagnosed when I couldn’t get pregnant, and I’m sure had I gone to the doctor complaining of any of these ailments, I would have been sent on my merry way with an order to “exercise” and “eat better.”

And even though I now I have a new doctor to add to my ever-growing litany of specialists whose waiting room patrons are among the creepiest on the planet, it’s worth every weirdo-sighting I get to partake in.

Besides, I am now finally losing the rest of the baby weight (sadly, a year later) but now it’s actually COMING OFF, which does wonders for my mood (color me a pathetic girl if you must).

————-

And I saved the most exciting and prize-filled part for the best (you can’t say your Aunt Becky doesn’t like to buy people stuff, because SHE DOES). I wasn’t expecting to get so many heartwarming and thoughtful people participating in my Week of Kindness, so again, I’m thanking you from the bottom of my heart (I’d give you a sloppy wet kiss on the mouth, but I’m sick and you don’t need sickness, eh?).

I present to you this edition of winners (we’re ALL winners here on Mommy Wants Vodka!) who were randomly selected to get sent cool stuff from Aunt Becky (and Mr. Aunt Becky):

Andria at Boy Mom, who made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Jenn at That Psycho Family, who not only perpetuated the Love Train, but made several donations as well.

(golf claps all around!)

Honestly, it killed me not to send each and every person who performed an act of kindness something, but I’m not nearly organized enough to send that many things in the mail (which is why donating to the Salvation Army is better for me than eBay). So, until next time, I’m not worthy of all of you.

—————–

*hugs* Internet, I love you to pieces. NOW MAKE USE OF THAT “EMAIL ME” BUTTON!

I may have mentioned that I have a slight obsession with cake in the past, which is especially strange since I don’t really want to eat it, but just LOOK at it for many years to come (I have issues. Clearly). I specifically hunted down a local bakery that deals only with making cakes so that I knew I was getting the top of the (cool) line.

And I was not disappointed. In fact, I saw the cake and immediately wondered how I could preserve it so it could live with me forever and ever and ever. (Again with the issues). But I put on my big girl boots and eventually cut into it (maybe I shed a tear or three hundred when I did so. I’ll never tell).

See?

(note the Diet Coke can. Classy AND addicted)

(That CAN’T be a hookah! How could she incorporate DRUGS into her son’s birthday party?!?)

(Fuck YEAH, that’s a hookah!)

————–

Maybe you can see why my angel babies were attracted to my house for the party. They smelled the sugar.

Dear Alexander Joseph,

Exactly one year ago today at 5:18 PM (quite a civilized hour, which I thank you for), you rocketed out of my body and into the world, screaming and peeing, all 7 pounds 10 ounces of you. Like a small dog, you never realized HOW small you were. I’m sure in your mind, you thought that you were much, much bigger and more mighty than you were (that temper is directly related to my genetics. I’m sorry to see that you inherited that trait).

The first time I looked at you (after a record 2 pushes–let’s not say what THAT says about the size of my girl parts), I thought that you resembled either Alien or Predator (I’ll watch those movies with you when you’re a bit older). My own mother looked at me when I was born and said OUT LOUD “That’s a face only a mother could love,” so I guess corny sentiments don’t really run in the family. And as for your brother’s birth, well, I was just pleased that I hadn’t birthed a litter of puppies (he was my first baby, and I had had MANY weird dreams), and then shocked by his toupee.

(Yes, sweetheart, those ARE your fists of fury)

Despite your ugliness (which I seem to be the only one who remembers–your father thought you were gorgeous. He’s a good man, your father, and you’re lucky to have him), I loved you immediately. I didn’t much care if you were “perfect” in the 10 fingers/10 toes manner (I didn’t honestly care if you had only 3 fingers. Who needs 10, anyway? It’s overkill), because seriously, all that mattered to me is that you were alive and breathing. You did end up a bit jaundiced, and I likened you to a Nuprin–Little, Yellow, Different.

(Oh, the screams! Your poor, poor brother.)

When we brought you home, your father (who had couvade syndrome, better known as a sympathetic pregnancy) nested like mad, so proud was he that his second son was finally outside of his (cranky) wife’s body. And your brother was so pleased to have a brother of his own (he had no idea what “having a brother” meant) that he STILL happily wears his multitude of Big Brother shirts with such intense pride.

(Ben has an amazing sense of humor)

I call the first couple of months of your life, dear sweet Baby J, your Asshole Months. You nursed and screamed and nursed and screamed so very much that we all had permanent ringing in our ears (tinnitus). In those rare moments that you were out of our sight, we all interacted with each other like patients at a nursing home. “Huh? WHAT’D YOU SAY?!?” was a staple of our conversations.

Whether your love was for the boobies or for my sparkling wit and fantastic personality, I don’t know. All that I do know is that you could not bear for us to be apart for even a moment. An hour was inconceivable, and you were so damn loud that I learned to pee with you sitting on my lap. Often nursing, which goes against my whole “don’t shit while you eat” motto, but hey, it beats the alternative, which was the loss of several more decibels of my hearing.

(You fucking wit me, you’re fucking wit a P-I-M-P)

Something snapped into place around month 6 or so, and you then became the most cheerful and sweet baby I’ve met. You’d smile at anything and everything, laugh loudly and often, and in those small actions (should *I* act like you did, people would think I was quite Simple.) you made the sleepless nights worth every second. Now, you play ball with such incredible dedication that it touches everyone who you throw your ball to (you’re obsessed, my sweet) and your new game of Peekaboo gives you such a charge whenever you play it. It appears that every time you indelicately whip the blanket off your head, your not quite developed vocabulary wants to remind the world that you are here, damnit, so listen up.

(Glorious, glorious smiles for glorious, glorious food)

On a more corny level (don’t fear, I won’t say this to your face because I’m uncomfortable with emotions), I think of you as my Redemption Child, and as the saying goes, if the shoe fits, over-analyze wear it. My relationship with your brother is more complicated, of course, as your brother tends to be a more complicated person than you are. Dr. Spock told me (well, not me PERSONALLY, of course. He was dead by this time.) that you love your children differently, and I think he’s right. I won’t bother with the gory details as to what makes you different than your brother, but as parents are wont to do, I spent a good deal of my life thinking that your brother’s eccentricities were my fault.

You proved to me that without a doubt, although you both are going to need scads of therapy to undo the damage I will no doubt inflict upon you, that I am a good mother. You love me purely and simply and without complication. You love me for being me, and I can’t help but think that you were the child I’d never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to have (this is not to diminish the love I have for your brother, which is mighty and fierce, but this is YOUR birthday, not his). I feel the same way about your father (although, of course, you will never picture us as anything other than Your Parents, until you are much, much older and you realize where babies REALLY come from. Answer: Hot Beef Injection), but again, it’s YOUR day, my JJ.

But it’s also a day that we’re honoring other children too. Children who are not going to be coming over and sharing cake with you in the most literal sense, because they do not live on Earth with us any longer, but I am quite certain that they will be here with us in our hearts. If I try even slightly, I can hear them at the party: laughing, smiling and eating loads of cake. I wish, just like you do (and of course, their wonderful families do), that they were here today and every day, but the world can be a damn unfair place sometimes, which you will learn all too soon. This is why we must be the voice for those who have none, we must do this.

So today, one year ago since you entered the world madder than a wet cat Alexander J, we raise our glasses to you, our sweet angel babies, who should be here today celebrating. Since you are not, we celebrate YOUR lives as well. Smootches and cake and love to Heaven, for you today. We know all too well that the world is missing something incredible.

We’re thinking of you today Caleb, Baby JP, Kalila, William, Isabel Grace, Miss Maddy, William Henry, Aodin, Callum, Connor and Sarah, as we’re thinking of all the other angel babies I haven’t listed. We love you very, very much.

My only hope is that I prove to you time and again that I am up to the task of raising you to the best of my abilities. I may not be the wisest (I do many, many dumb things which you will notice and point out to me sooner than I’d like) person on the planet, but I have learned certain things that I wish nothing more than to pass down to you.

First, be genuinely kind to everyone you meet. Someone said that God is found in our interactions with other people, and despite not being Christian per se, I agree with that. I’m not saying that you need to be a doormat to be a good person, no, not at all. Stand up for yourself and for people who may need you to do it for them (not everyone is as forceful as you happen to be–I like to think of this as my contribution to your genetic soup), because sometimes taking a stand against a Wrong is the first step to making it Right.

I guess what I’m saying is don’t be an asshole unless you need to be (and I assure you without the slightest doubt in my mind that you will need to at some point), and treat other people well. You may never know where someone else is coming from, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try to understand. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. Alas, since you don’t walk yet, we might have to save that lesson for another year.

Secondly, and equally as important, be true to who you really are. It sounds so simple when I write it, but it’s far more complicated, because first you have to figure out who the hell you are. That takes much longer than you can imagine. I know some people are still not sure who they are (even at my advanced 27 years), but I have little doubt that you’ll be a follower. Listen to your heart (or your head, if you’re like me) and follow what IT tells you, and not what someone else tells you to follow (nobody likes a follower) no matter who it is, unless it happens to be your mother (me), and then you listen like it’s the Gospel Truth.

(don’t listen to me, ickle dude. Just don’t.)

And possibly the most important lesson of all is this: do not, under any circumstances, allow your mother to pick your Halloween costume. It’s a bad, bad idea. See?

(Payback’s a bitch, eh? MAYHAP YOU SHOULD’VE STARTED SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT SOONER.)

I won’t bore you with any other pointless crap that you will, no doubt, just like I did, have to learn on your own, so let me end this letter with this:

I am insanely proud that you were chosen to be my son. You light up my days (and thankfully, no longer my nights) with your sweet face and intense dedication, and I thank you for everything you’ve given me. Redemption is a little heavy to put on your wee shoulders right now, so let’s make no more mention of it, lest you get a big head or something.

I’m looking forward to watch you grow and change throughout to coming year, and can’t wait to see who you’ll become.

Love you madly,

Mommy

P.S. Make sure the next time you have to drop major pipe in your pants that you do it when Daddy is home to change you. I’ll give you a cookie if you make sure that your dump squishes up your back. He likes changing those diapers, let me tell you.

See how happy it makes Daddy when he has to change your diaper?

(Daddy says, “I love poopy diapers, dude!”)

P.P.S. I’ll give you TWO cookies if you do that. Maybe even THREE.

So, I have this intense guilt complex, right? Always have and probably always will (for someone who has not been raised Catholic, I certainly seemed to have mastered the guilt). All it takes is a cop to walk into a store that I’m shopping in for me to worry that he’s (or she) is going to arrest me. For what? I don’t know. Reckless use of the color pink?

Today, I took the kidlets to Portillo’s for lunch, and on the way out, I either bumped the curb or tapped the car next to me, and it’s killing me because I don’t know if I did damage. I didn’t realize that I may have given the car next to me a Love Tap until I got home and realized that I have a scuff on the bumper of my car THAT COULD HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE.

I don’t give much of a shit about my car and I have always assumed that one of the parts of having a car means that you get the inevitable scratch in a parking lot, ding on the door, or Love Bump scuff. Not a big deal.

But now I’m freaking out. Freaking the fuck out. Because what if I left the scene of an accident and someone took my plates down and then the cops will show up and arrest me in front of my weeping children and then I will go to federal pound you in the ass prison.

Help! This is Aunt Becky tapping out an SOS.

What do I do?

Before I get into the meat of this post, I need to stop and thank everyone who has started doing kind things for one and other. The Daver has been strong-armed into doing it himself and leaving a comment (but I think he’s disqualified from winning anything but a swift kick in the ass from yours truly) OR posting on his own blog about it. You can do the same thing, comment OR write a blog post (and please link to this in your comment).

It’s easy, see!

So I’m encouraging each and every one of you to DO SOMETHING KIND in honor of all my nieces and nephews waiting to kick me in the shins in Heaven. Shit, if you ALL do something nice maybe I will send EACH of you a little something (somewhere, Dave is now wrestling my Amex from my wallet, but he doesn’t know that I HID IT! HAHAHA!). You have until March 31st to do it, and I *know* that some of you reading right now are coming to Alex’s party where I will annoy you to death about it.

———–

By nature, I am a lazy person. Not quite as lazy as some (i.e. Cash, who is fine and dandy, so don’t worry) but absolutely lazier than others. Nowhere else does this ring more true than in the kitchen.

I hate cooking almost as much as I hate colonoscopies (which you can imagine, is very, very much), and I avoid it at all costs. Every couple of months, The Daver and I discuss how we really need to start cooking more at home, and then we order a pizza. So it goes.

But, with the knowledge that Something has to be done to lower Dave’s insanely high cholesterol levels, I have begun (begrudgingly) to cook at home. In my very own kitchen.

As a child, my favorite thing that my mother would cook was ordering Chinese food, and it still rings true today. I’d much rather pay someone else to cook for me than cook for myself (even if it could save a few bucks here and there), partially because I gain no enjoyment whatsoever about cooking and partially because I can’t seem to bring myself to actually EAT anything I cook. Especially if it involves meat. Sicks me right the fuck out.

This may be a Very Good Thing, since my thyroid is still not 100% wonderful (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!) and I’m still struggling to lose 17 pounds of Alex weight. It won’t hurt me to skip a meal or 300.

Honestly, my biggest hurdle when it comes to cooking, is the members of my family. The Daver, who claims that he is “not picky” is awfully picky, but not nearly as picky as my Ben (who still suffers from many Spectrum-y phobias about food), and this is just plain old discouraging when I have one of them on my right gagging down his dinner, and one on my left sadly pushing green beans around his plate (EVEN THOUGH I PUT A BIT OF BUTTER ON THEM. BUTTER!). I’ll let you decide who does what.

Alex is the least picky and most apt to enjoy meals, but despite claiming that he was teething for the past, oh I don’t know, 9! months!, has yet to cut a single tooth. I suppose what I thought was “teething” was just him being an asshole. So it goes.

I’ll probably never derive my ego from cooking, and I’ll probably always do it begrudgingly, but the point is, that I will do it.

So what do YOU consider staples in your kitchen? What are some easy meals that I can cook? Oh, let me give you a list of things that cannot be used (maybe then you will have some sympathy. Or not):

*Pork

*Beans

*Red Meat (not often, at least)

*Anything “spicy” (this is a Ben thing, not my own. I fucking love spicy shit)

*Anything too mushy (eggs, etc)

*Anything too crunchy (Alex has no teeth)

*Anything that vegetables cannot be removed easily from (like, no onions in tacos, etc)

I could go on and on here, but it’s too depressing even for me.

Any suggestions?

I’m struggling with a classic case of Writer’s Block, here at Casa de la Sausage, so I’m going to play a game with you, Sweet -n- Sassy Internet. The game is called, “What’s The Weirdest Thing A Stranger Has Said To You?” and I’ll go first.

Before I got married (which seems like ages ago, but has only really been about 3 years) and The Daver was my boyfriend, I was in college in a town about 40 minutes drive from where I grew up (and where we currently live), but happened to fall right along the Metra line, which was my reason for choosing to attend this school.

Day after day, I commuted from here to there, riding gaily along the train (Train Time was the highlight of my day. It was the ONLY time that no one was demanding stuff from me. Faithful readers will know that my now 6 year old was then a 1 and 2 year old. A difficult one, at that). Some days, I would pop into the coffee shop at the station and grab a steaming cup of coffee to enjoy while I sat on the train.

One day, as I was exiting said coffee shop with my headphones on and music blaring, a typical commuter (many people who work in the city live out here, like The Daver) came up to me.

I knew it was a commuter and not a Crazy Person for two reasons: 1) The Crazies out here are more of the pill-popping housewife variety and were probably at home sleeping off last nights binge and not the Homeless Chic that one finds in Chicago 2) He was dressed head to toe in a obviously expensive tailored suit and was carrying a briefcase, AND looked like he was pretty damn certain that the world revolved around him (anyone who has commuted on the train and has seen Commuters knows the look I’m speaking of).

I myself was wearing my pink puffy coat, red snap up the side pants (awesome for random depantsing!), my blue Diesel shoes, and toting my purple backpack. I’m sure I was quite the gorgeous sight to behold, but remember, it was butt-assed early in the morning, I was a college kid who didn’t happen to live on a college campus and therefore couldn’t stumble out of bed and walk to class, I don’t have any subdued colored coats, and shit, I was fucking comfortable. I still own all of those pieces of clothing and will probably still wear them all together unapologetically.

So, rainbow that I am, I realize that this commuter is talking to me (a rarity, unless they are screaming at me to get out of their goddamned way), and I reluctantly pull the headphones from my head and say, “Excuse me?” to him.

“Did you know that your shoes don’t match your bag?” is what he has made me remove my headphones to answer, and what made me actually stop on the train platform to look at him incredulously.

I stared at him for a couple of seconds that felt much longer than that before answering, “Yeah, I know.”

Years later, I’m still fucking perplexed by him. I’m not angry, and he wasn’t being hostile about it at all (another huge shock for a commuter), he was just asking an honest question about my shoes and backpack.

Truth be told, I’m certain that my shoes will NEVER match my purse. And that, my dear friends, is okay.

Your turn! What’s the weirdest thing a stranger has said to you (and not just a homeless Crazy person)?