Several years ago, shortly after we moved into our house, in our effort to live the American Dream (whatever THAT is), we made the executive decision to procure ourselves a pooch to call our own.

Despite not being much of a Dog Person myself, I have always HAD a dog, so this made perfect sense to me.

We trundled off to the many animal shelters in the area to scour the potential adoptees (I’m very not okay with designer dogs FOR MYSELF. Not only are they pricey, but since they’re often overbred, they have numerous health problems. Case in point: my parents German Shepard who has hip problems, a short urethra–i.e. prone to many bladder infections, and a neurosis to rival my own. Plus, the shelters are BRIMMING with unwanted dogs who need homes.), where we saw some of the most depressing animals on the planet. Sometimes, I even cried when I saw them.

But one day while checking out the mutants erm DOGS, we saw one that looked like he would fit in well with our family: he was ASLEEP while the other dogs were jumping around their cages like banshees. We took him to a room to meet him and found that he fit right in: he was lazy, friendly, and slightly pudgy. He was also the world’s ugliest dog (No California for HIM, either, obviously), which endeared him to me immediately.

What sealed the deal is his sob story (I’m a complete sucker for Sad Animal stories. Someday I’ll tell you about the CATS we adopted): he lived in an apartment with an old woman, who died. And when she did, her family lovingly took this dog, this well trained dog to the vet to be put down because they didn’t want to deal with it. The vet met him and just couldn’t euthanize him, he was too much of a good dog. So he called the shelter, and off he went until we came to pick him up.

He’s been a member of my family ever since. I even named him myself, Cash (to prevent me from petitioning to name my then-unconceived child that name, which FOR SOME REASON Dave didn’t care for), is his name (which replaced his shelter name of Pebbles) and he’s a Corgi mix. He’s easily found in my home, asleep on the couch, being fed scraps by the baby from his highchair, and occasionally peeing on the carpet. He’s like my doggie clone.

What unfortunately happened yesterday I should have seen coming. I know better.

Ever since Alex has been crawling, Cash has been immediately wary of him (although he adores kids who WALK), because I’m fairly certain he feels as though Alex is invading his space (No, I’m not a pet psychologist, but I DO play one on a cable access channel!).

My cheerio-sized bladder was aching and I left Alex alone in the living room to TCB (take care of business, for those sadly not in the know) for just a moment, and in that moment, he crawled up to the couch that Cash was sleeping on and pulled himself up on it. I can’t be too sure of what happened next, although I could hear Cash’s warning bark coupled with Alex’s immediate hysterical scream. Whether he was screaming because he was scared or because the dog nipped him (which I doubt, as I couldn’t find any evidence of this), I can’t be sure of.

But what a piece of shit mother *I* am for leaving the dog alone with the baby (I’ve done it before with no problems whatsoever) even for a minute and a half (told you it was a weensy bladder).

For now, because I don’t know what else to do (he’s not a kennel dog), I have been locking him either in the living room or the basement while Alex is awake (although, miraculously Alex is not afraid of Cash now), but I’m unsure how to proceed: I don’t feel right giving Cash up–I DID sign stuff saying that I’d take care of him for the rest of the days, and I take that VERY seriously– but I have to protect Alex.

My fingies are crossed nearly to the breaking point that once Alex walks, Cash will no longer feel as threatened by him, and I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars that nothing worse happened when I stepped away.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck.

This morning, left to his own choices, Ben decided to put red and green highlights into his hair, a process that was only slightly less painful than getting a colonoscopy (why YES, I have had the pleasure, thankyouverymuch!). To his credit, however, he is a mere 6 years old with the correlating attention span of a housefly, and the whole process did take about 2 hours. I myself got antsy and bored after about 20 minutes, so I can’t say that I blame him in any way.

I’ll post pictures just as soon as I have a tutorial from The Daver (who is sadly back at work after a couple of blissful days off), but I am now perplexed. Am I officially the worst mother on the planet, destined to take my 10 year old to get his tongue pierced and sign for a tattoo (not of a pot leaf, however. Or flames. Even I have my boundries) at age 16?

I mean, since I’ve gotten my own hairs did, I’ve been barraged by strangers asking if Ben was my own child, which leads me to believe that a) I look far younger than my 27 years or b) I don’t appear fit enough (mentally) to have a child of my own. Sweet, I suppose, but also somewhat baffling.

Either way, babysitter or mother, what’s done is done (although it can be easily rectified by a pair of clippers) for now and he seems to dig it. But I’m not sure I could handle doing it again with him without trying to commit suicide by highlighting comb or some such implement OR some medicinal drugging (me, not him).

As I was shlepping around my upstairs bathroom this afternoon contorting my body into what can only be described as Indecent Poses, my hatred of the former occupants of my home crystallized into a white hot ball of hatred. Mainly because I am at the same time shocked AND disgusted that anyone would voluntarily put a wallpaper border on a wall, JUST FOR ME TO REMOVE (they only lived here for several years).

Now, the first time we bought a place, I had so much fun at the closing that it was almost like being in a bar, aside from the distinct lack of alcohol (remember Whitney?). When we bought our new house, mere months later, our closing could not have been any less similar if I tried. The couple that we were buying our current home from were some of the coldest people I’ve met, and the closing itself left me anxious and sweaty.

(as a complete aside, I will tell you about the strangest thing that has happened to me in this neighborhood. A bit before Christmas, while my father was still in the ICU, I popped out to my garage to sneak a smoke when I heard a car pull up into my driveway. I immediately put out said cigarette and went indoors to catch whomever was walking up to my house before they could ring the doorbell and wake Alex up. Literally, the LAST person on the planet I’d have expected to see on my doorstep stood there (I’d have been no more surprised had it been Britney Spears) and when I opened the main door, WALKED INTO MY HOUSE WITHOUT BEING INVITED IN.

Sure enough, the lady with bad taste who had owned my house before me, waltzed into MY house like she still owned it.

Then she opened her mouth and demanded that I give her the “money” that “a friend had sent to her old address”–MY address of the past 2 years, mind you– like I was holding onto it or something. I rarely, if ever, get anything for this family, and surely anything looking unlike junk mail has been marked “return to sender” for “no longer lives here.” I know that these people DO live in town, but have left no forwarding address, and besides, they were so cold that I’m not about to waste my time trying to send them mail that should have gone to their new address in the first place.

She seemed quite suspicious of both The Daver and I, like we were holding out on her or something when we both told her in no uncertain terms that we did NOT have any of her mail (if I had, it would have been long since recycled). I can’t be certain, but I don’t think that she believed either of us.

For serious.

I suggested that she check with the post office, something which had not occurred to her and she went on her merry nasty way.

I guess I’m shocked that a) someone wouldn’t believe me regarding something I was completely truthful about b) her friend was stupid enough to send money via USPS and c) someone who DOES NOT LIVE HERE walked into my home like she still owned it.

This last encounter with them solidified that although I heart my house, I dislike them entirely)

*ahem*

Moving on.

To celebrate that my birthday bathroom circa July 15, 2007 is nearing completion (only the medicine cabinet to go!), I have decided to undertake the renovation of Bathroom #2, The Old 70’s One.

Now, since we don’t really want to shell out cash to have someone else do the work (which includes a new bathtub/shower AND new tile flooring), we’re doing it on a slightly smaller scale, but enough to make my eyes not bleed when I wake up to the olive green walls WITH flowery border (sexxy, I know. Don’t you wish your bathroom was HOT like mine?).

If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to punch myself in the face over and over again for coming up with another REALLY BRIGHT idea RIGHT BEFORE I’M HAVING A PARTY.

What the hell was I thinking?

My nuclear family and I, unorthodox as we are, are really unorthodox when it comes to religion. We are not a religious family.

I was raised by hippie scientists, and The Daver, well, was not. His family was Very Religious, something that has always echoed in the chasm between our childhoods’ and relationships with the in-laws (his or mine, really).

Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means Anti-Religion in any way shape or form, well, unless it takes on the form of discrimination against my way of life. Then, you can kiss my pasty white ass. Don’t hate on me, and I won’t hate on you.

Sometimes it does bother me that I have to strike the ‘None’ box whenever I am questioned about my religious upbringing. As a (almost) fully functional adult (stop laughing. Fuckers), I feel like maybe I should have a clue what I am to do as far as saving my soul is concerned. Luckily, I am typically able to squash that confusion down and focus on life, liberty and the pursuit of cheese-flavored crackers.

Having kids has only amplified the feeling in me that I should do something or another, or do nothing and be at peace with it. And the fact that last weekend, my in-laws gifted my children with a Read And Learn Bible has sent me into a moral tizzy.

I mean, what do I do with it? I can’t suitably answer all of the questions that would likely spring up, and even if he has no questions whatsoever about it, Ben’s propensity toward Know-It-All-Ism would likely make most of the things that I do “wrong” according to his Bible thrown into my face at every.bloody.opportunity.

I think that I have reached a solution today, after mulling it over with my own family, who had many great suggestions (Ben emulated a preacher reading us his Bible this morning over brunch).

I am going to go shopping (thank you Internet, for Amazon.com) for a Kids Torah, a Koran for Children, and the Tibetan Book of the Dead (children’s version, preferably English. The only language that I know well is Latin, which will likely not help me much.). Then, at least, if the only child in my home who can read wants to read the Bible (which I have no problems with), he can read what other religions think about the world, too.

So I sit here and ask myself, What Would The Internet Do (I should get a W.W.I.D? bracelet to consult every time I’m faced with a burning question, right?) if they were in my shoes? Even if you don’t have kids (yet) or want kids (ever), how would you handle this? Or, if you have kids, how DO you handle it?

Inquiring minds want to know!

Having been on a diet more or less since Ben was about two (and I had to lose those pesky baby pounds, erm, TWO YEARS after he was born) has it’s perks. You get very accustomed to having to deny yourself those tasty and delicious morsels of goodness known as non-diet food. And if you’re me, you eventually just don’t care anymore about eating junk food and it becomes your way of life to eat more chicken and tofu than God.

The Daver, however, has never had to indulge in any sort of diet. He’s pin-thin and can tuck away a couple of Quarter Pounders (with Cheese!) with nary an ill effect (whereas I get fatter just typing these words).

Until now.

My poor sweet, junk food loving husband has got to go on a diet. A new, special low-cholesterol diet.

I’d been waiting for this day, you see, because as I dieted those pounds off, marveling at every (pathetic) loss like it was a shiny new $100 bill, he merrily ate his way through a bag of chips or thirteen. My chicken suddenly looked less appealing than his fatty cheeseburger and fries, and I’ll admit freely that I was a mite bit jealous. Who wouldn’t be?

I plotted and waited until the metabolism that he was given ran out and suddenly HE would pack on the pounds and look for new (and tasteless!) tofu recipes right along side his doting wife. I planned on rubbing it in at every possible turn (silently or likely not), relishing each and every low fat meal he ate as payback for his formerly glorious metabolism.

Until earlier this week, when he got that dreaded phone call from his doctors office, wherein he was instructed that his LDL (lousy density lipoprotiens) levels were insanely high. Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing anymore, and I was struck with an emotion that I almost never feel: pity.

I feel genuinely badly that he has to now embark on a sad new diet, and extremely sorry for myself that I will inevitably have to follow it as well (collective EW! from the Internets, please).

Anyone have any good advice for us? The Internet is smarter than I’ll ever be (sexier too!) and I could use a hand here.

Somewhere along the lines, someone far smarter than I once told me that children will make liars out of you. No sooner have you said breezily “Oh, Alex now says ‘Light'” when he will suddenly decide that being mute is far better than actually expending energy TALKING.

One of the biggest battles I’ve had in my parenting experiences thus far (to be replaced, I’m certain, with arguments over who did not fill up the gas tank AGAIN–likely answer: me. I hate getting gas) has been that of Food. Fought, primarily, with my eldest.

Ben was born with a number of intense sensory issues, most of which I will not bother regaling you with, lest your head explode, but food was numero uno on his own personal Shit List. As such, as a toddler he ate such a lack of variety that I frequently wondered if I’d birthed an android or robot.

During that point in our lives, we lived with my parents, who assumed much of the childcare responsibilities while I completed my nursing degree. My mother’s solution to Ben’s refusal to eat was to pump him full of Juice.

So, we had a vicious cycle: he wouldn’t eat because he disliked food, but he was so full of carby goodness that he wasn’t hungry so he wouldn’t eat.

It displeased me.

And displeased my mother even more intensely when I informed her that Ben did not require 14 gallons of Juice each day to live.

To her, this was akin to child abuse! How could I deny my son Juice? Juice is healthy AND delicious (I personally, hate juice) and it was calories! And he liked it! I was a Bad Mother for trying to deny him the sweet nectar of the Gods!

I nixed Juice for the next couple of years completely, and have only recently begun to allow the succulent flavor to cross his delicate palate again because he will eat! real! food! now!

Likewise, pop (or soda, whatever you prefer to call it) is staunchly guarded in our home, only to make an appearance on special occasions or when we go out to eat. Unless my kids are sick, in which I assume that any fluids (save from blood or pee) are better than none, and I allow them to drink the carbonated goodness whenever they want.

During this last bout of misery (of which Alex is still suffering), I introduced my youngest to a little drink we call Sprite here in Chicago, and I’ve never seen someone more willing to drink massive amounts of liquid in my life. And who can blame him? I’ve frequently hoped and prayed that someone come along and serve ME a bottle filled with The Uncola, but alas, my dreams have not come to fruitation just yet.

Except that this Plague has gone on for longer than even I expected (having been sick myself for nearly a week) and Alex has become hopelessly infatuated with his new favorite drink. So great is his love for it, that if I dare try to substitute it for mere water, he throws a massive fit (to his credit, he is still both sick AND insufferable), I mean it LOOKS like Sprite, but it doesn’t TASTE like Sprite! THE INJUSTICE!

So here I sit, knowing in my heart of hearts that it is only I who created this particular monster, eating my own words.

And they don’t even taste good.

My beloved friend Carlynn tagged me ages ago for a meme. She’s been noticeably MIA from her blog lately, which leads me to believe that she is fulfilling her dream of becoming the Yak Lady without me.

She’s one of my favorite bloggers, and I envision a life being The Friend Of The Yak Lady, and we will sit on a large front porch somewhere together, knitting and writing her memoirs as The Yak Lady. I heart her. AND I WOULD LIKE IT VERY, VERY MUCH IF SHE WOULD UPDATE SO THAT HER FRIEND AUNT BECKY DOESN’T WORRY.

*ahem*

The rules:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Shit, it’s a good thing I have an amazing collection of interesting quirks (shut up, they’re interesting TO ME AND IT’S MY BLOG. *sticks tongue out and blows large raspberry*)

1. In our marriage, I am absolutely the picky one. Really, about most everything and anything that I can think of (purses, keychains, fucking scarves, food, oh food), save for one teeny thing: coffee.

I love coffee so much that I would probably marry it and make bean-ish babies if I could, so great is my adoration of it. As previously stated somewhere in the archives, My Great Plan After Birth was to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and grab an extra large coffee. And another. And possibly a third. Then I would wash it all down with another.

(I wasn’t concerned about caffeine intake during gestation, but more about regurgitating the contents of my stomach in completely inappropriate places.)

As much as I love, love, love coffee, I’m pretty satisfied with any and all forms of it. I’m not even slightly picky about brands. I’d probably happily drink instant stuff without batting an eyelash or three at it.

But not The Daver, who, in the time that I have known him, has gotten a total of 3 coffee makers, each more ridiculous than the last, AND some fancy bean grinder.

Problem with all of this stuff is, I cannot figure out HOW to use ANY of it. Which leaves me brewing it with toilet paper and a tea kettle on the days when he doesn’t make it.

2. I’m freakishly OCD about my blog. I must update every day (although rarely about what I ate for lunch unless it’s Cap’n Crunch, in which case I will talk about it because I am Captain AWESOME) or I feel like I’ve been walking around without pants on (which I do frequently indulge in).

I had a blog before, and when I didn’t update it, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. Now, however, it drives me a wee bit bonkers if I don’t at least say SOMETHING.

I’m similarly OCD about checking on the blogs I read religiously. I must check them all once a day and leave some sort of comment, even if it’s something cheesy and stupid. It’s my way of saying “Aunt Becky’s Been Here.”

Any and all blog recommendations are appreciated.

3. In a stunning array of bad luck for The Daver, I have recently realized that I am allergic to all low quality metals, and can only tolerate platinum/high grade gold on my skin. Thankfully, all of the jewelry that he has bought me (because he is a much better person than I) has been of either of those.

I grew out of wearing costume jewelry ages ago, so this wasn’t such a big blow to me, save for the fact that I cannot purchase or wear any funky jewelry.

So, sadly, no plastic hoops for me, no matter HOW funktified I might look in them.

4. In a stunning fit of excellent judgment on my part, I wrangled The Daver to take me to buy myself a new video game on Saturday, once I realized that he was not going to be available to me like I’d hoped (wink, wink).

Now, I’m not at ALL someone who plays video games (although I don’t mind watching someone else play them) save for Lego Starwars (lest you imagine me to be someone who wears heavy makeup and goes to GenCon and dresses up like Princess Leia on a regular basis–I am going to have to start putting pictures up for you all. Specifically YOU, Mrs. Prufrock, who thought of me as someone in heavy eyeliner and likely listened to EMO music. For shame on my part!), but I was just_so_bored.

And no one was updating their blogs.

So, I gave The Daver a raging boner when I asked him to take me to The Video Game Store that I normally avoid like a hippie avoids a shower, and promptly began to discuss the merits of possible games with the guy that worked behind the counter.

(as a complete aside, for anyone looking for a good old ego boost who doesn’t want to pay the $100–and a kidney– to go to Great America, walk into a Video Game Store and talk to the dude behind the counter. He will be so enthralled that a Real! Live! Girl! is talking to him that he will make you feel as gorgeous as Britney Spears before her meltdown. Those dudes are like putty in your hands.)

I picked out the one game that he specifically told me sucked, figured that was as glowing a recommendation as I could want, and bought it. I imagine AARP will be sending ME a mailing next, Magpie, as I’m sure my purchase triggered some sort of mailing.

It was Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” for my Wii.

Soon, I’ll be telling those damn kids to get off my fucking lawn, until I realize that those are MY kids.

5. I have a massive obsession with spicy food.

Indian, Thai, Chinese, Mexican. Bring on the damn spice.

(I was getting rather long winded. Sorry).

6. I adore bourbon yet hate scotch. And I am the only one of my friends who can still drink tequila (but NEVER Tequila Rose. Ew.).

—————–

You deserve a cookie if you made it through that. Seriously, I applaud you.

Who to tag, who to tag? I’ve made my poor readers tell me a fact about them in times past, but I think people like to be tagged. So here I go. Tagging away.

I tag YOU:

KC @ Sarcasmatic

Heather @ Bubbles ‘n’ Ducks

Niobe @ dead baby jokes

B and K @ Baby Mommas Drama (dude, I had to. I have a category of the same name. Because we are BOTH Captain Awesome)

The Milk Maid @ Milk Induced Coma

Ames @ In Her Shoes, whose video made me cry AND give money. This may be a first.

Mrs. Prufrock @ Barren Albion

Cali @ Creating Motherhood

Shit, I’m cutting MYSELF off now. And if you don’t want to do this because you’ve done it already, trust me, you can do it again. I think I’ve done this like 4 times.

——————-

My dear friend Magpie (whose name gives me a thrill for some inexplicable reason) gave me an award that I get such a charge out of. I haven’t posted about it, because I cannot figure out how to make the graphic work. I’m not that SMRT, apparently, or my blog needs some configuration or something.

The award is called I-Less-Than-Three Your Blog. Get it? I <3? It’s a HEART, people! High-freaking-larious.

So, thank you Miss Magpie, for thinking of me.

And I’m thinking of YOU:

Carylnn @ Still Passing Open Windows

Charmed Girl @ Living A Charmed Life?

kalakly @ This Is Not What I Had Planned

The Divine Miss M @ Wheels On The Bus

Ames @ In Her Shoes

Angela @ Reality Testing

Mrs. Prufrock @ Barren Albion

I have to stop myself before I list my entire blogroll. See, Aunt Becky hearts you, bitches.

Yesterday, when I went in to the Beauty School to get my hairs did, I learned something that made my incredibly grubby heart smile: I could get Ben a haircut for $6. $6! A bargain!

Now, having birthed Ben, who was born wearing what I can only describe as a bad toupee, I am no stranger to having to get his hair cut. His first haircut SHOULD have occurred when about half of his newborn hair fell out (on the sides) while the stuff on top was left to be darker and longer than the rest of his head. He looked like a member of Flock of Seagulls.

But, because I was being incredibly sentimental, I refused to cut it (IT’S HIS BABY HAIR, AND I CAN’T CUT IT! IT’S SOOOO CUTE!), and now look back at the pictures and hang my head in shame. What was I thinking?

He began going to the salon with me to get his own hair cut a little after his first birthday because it was just that long and unruly. Had I left it to grow on it’s own, I would surely have picked him up from a weekend at his father’s house sporting a buzz cut, which would have only accentuated the largeness of his head. And TRUST ME when I tell you that he needs NOTHING to accentuate THAT feature.

After awhile, I noticed that he’d return from the salon looking just like I had cut it, only I was $20 poorer, so I took matters into my own (cheap) hands and cut it myself for a couple of years.

Since I have approximately NO eye for style and absolutely no experience in cutting hair, I eventually gave up and started paying someone again. But it STILL looks like I inexpertly cut it, and I hate paying through the teeth for something I can do myself, so I am determined to try out my far cheaper alternative.

————–

I have taken a lot of shit over the years from the male portion of my family (the adults, not the kids) over my practice of painting Ben’s toenails. As a toddler, he’d trundle over to me while I was doing my own nails and indicate that he wanted his done, too. Since he was non-verbal AND I don’t wish to inflict such rigid gender stereotypes on a baby (only GIRLS have their nails painted), I always gave in and painted his nails, too.

No harm, no foul, in my mind.

Well, the males in my family had PLENTY to say to me about that. And often did. Eventually, I made the switch from brightly colored polish to clear, but hey, if the kid wants his damn toenails done (and I’ll never have the daughter to do it with), so fucking be it.

And I can only imagine what they’re going to do when I show them what I have allowed my big son to do now.

I have generously offered to allow Ben to put a chunk of blue (or whatever color he’d like) dye into his hair, JUST LIKE MINE (well, mine is electric red, I’m not so much a blue person) when he gets his haircut. It’s his choice, and I don’t really care one way or another, but since he’d asked to do it when I’d first dyed my hair, I am going to allow it.

And I will most certainly take a hugemongeous amount of shit for it. There will be NO END of what I hear about it.

But hey, I told him that he couldn’t put PINK into it.

So, opinion time, Internet: did I do the right thing? Would you have done this, or am I the worst, most hideous mother on the planet setting my son up for ridicule and tomfoolery?

After spending 90% of last week sicker than I’ve been since I was pregnant with Alex, arguing with Ben over who deserved the coveted couch space more and who hogged the blanket with alarming frequency (answer: Ben), poor Alex has finally come down with his first real illness.

With a 1st grader in the house, this is no small feat that he’s remained healthy for so long. I, myself, have had a low-grade cold since this winter began approximately 4 years ago (give or take), and somehow have managed to avoid passing it onto him. Until now.

Thankfully for my guilt complex, however, Alex has finally reached an age where I don’t worry/feel as badly as I would if he were a wee bit younger. That doesn’t mean that I don’t feel sorry for him when he looks at me with those sad, red-rimmed and glassy eyes, but he’s been such an asshole that I’m less sympathetic.

While it’s sweet that he follows me around like a monkey, clinging to my legs and whining for me to do, well, SOMETHING, but he, like me, has no idea WHAT I should be doing to help him, so we both wind up whining loudly at each other for extended periods of time.

It’s no wonder that Ben was begging to go to school and The Daver is happily ensconced in a “project” at “work” which is likely code for “going to the bar to avoid us.”

I can’t really blame either of them. Collectively we’re annoying and we know it. AND YET WE’RE POWERLESS TO STOP OURSELVES.

So, I suppose I can only hope and pray that this virus runs it’s course, leaving my less demanding toddler in it’s wake. Because if he remains glued to my legs and shrieking wildly, I may have to start self-medicating or check myself into rehab just to get away from him.

Have you ever noticed that the things that you DON’T say are the things that are usually the most important? The hardest stuff to swallow?

For someone like me, who, according to my own father “talks paint off walls” NOT saying something means a lot. A whole lot.

On Friday I spoke with Steph’s mom, who had recently gotten the results of the autopsy, and I could barely bring myself to tell The Daver, let alone admit it to myself or The Internet.

Natural Causes.

She died of natural causes.

At age 26.

She died of NATURAL CAUSES.

Relating, of course, to chronic alcoholism.

————-

Grief isn’t a linear process, nor would I expect it to be. No, all of a sudden, it’s like a rain cloud comes quickly across the previously merrily shining sun, and then you’re sobbing as you pick your son up from school and have to explain that you’re crying because you miss your friend.

It sneaks up on you like a well-oiled fart and leaves you suffocating and panting for breath and wondering why the hell you’re not over this already.

The short answer is, of course, that you’ll never be “over” this. Not ever.

You’ll walk away from it a different person than you were before the phone rang on that Sunday morning, never to be the same.

Lunches will still have to be made, asses wiped, dog fed, Easter Eggs dyed festive colors, but nothing is the same anymore. It’s all a bit different, kind of like a carnival, where every now and again something (typically a mullet, sorry Meg) pops up and scares the hell out of you.

Eventually, you tell yourself, the hurt will fade with time and effort, but it will never go away, content to throb in the back of your psyche like a sinister toothache or minor burn.

But for now, it hurts like a bitch. It hurts like a fucking bitch.

————

I’m not egocentric to believe in my heart of hearts (burned and blackened as it may be) that I could have done anything in my power to save Steph.

But I keep going over and over the last time I saw her and wonder if I noticed anything to tell me that this would be THE last time I ever saw her.

I was out and about in my neighborhood, about 20 weeks pregnant with Alex, trying to focus on the song on my iPod and NOT kill my neighbors grass with vomit again, while telling my pelvis that it didn’t need to expand quite yet, when she pulled up in a car with her mom and her two kids.

At the moment, I was so focused on not puking on THIS block (it was my own mantra “if you can make it to the next block and not puke again, you can rest for a minute” and I liked it), I barely noticed the van pull up and someone pop out. When I realized that that Someone was talking to me, I immediately assumed that one of my neighbors had tracked down That Puking Girl to yell at for killing her flowers, but no, it was Steph.

We chatted for a moment, making plans to catch coffee, I complimented her children on being particularly gorgeous, and we parted ways.

I never saw her again.

Maybe I’m not egocentric enough to ever believe I myself could have changed the outcome for her, but I wish I’d said something better. More meaningful. I wish I’d told her that I loved her tremendously, that she was more than “just some friend from back in the day,” and that I thought of her quite often, really, I did. I attribute a lot of who I am from how she shaped me as a person.

Yes, she was well more than a friend.

And now I sit here, 10:30 on a Sunday night wracking my brains for any clue as to what I might have said, but, based on the fact that I don’t talk about my feelings unless I’m suffering a head wound or madly hopped up on pain killers, I’m sure it wasn’t much in the way of anything.

But oh, how I wish I’d said more. Anything. Just more than I’m certain I did.

I suppose that I’ll get my chance when I join her in the afterlife, and maybe then I can apologize to her for not telling her how much I missed and loved her like I should have. Because both are the truth.

I miss her more and more every day.

I’m sure I always will.