It a wee bit over a month, my darling youngest son turns one. It’s been a long and wild year together, and on the one hand, I am amazed at truly how quickly they grow and on the other, I am shocked that it’s only been a year.

All boring trips down glorious memory lane aside, this means exactly one thing in the practical sense: I need to plan a birthday party for him.

Now, I cannot live down the kegger that was Ben’s first birthday, nor would I even attempt to (March doesn’t seem to be Beer Drinkin’ Weather, at least here in Chicago, so that idea is a bust), but planning a first birthday sounds downright fun to me right now. (The older the kid gets, the less fun the parties become to host. Which is why I will pay huge sums of money to allow someone else to clean up after me).

Besides, Ben’s birthday comes at the most annoying part of the year: The Time of Celebrations. See, from July 15 to September 15, we have four birthdays (Mine, Ben’s The Daver’s and my mother’s AND our wedding anniversary), which means I have approximately 1,574 things to plan, orchestrate, then execute. Am I being overly dramatic here? Well, you be the judge: I myself had two birthday parties, Ben had three, Dave had two, my mother had one, and we celebrated our anniversary exactly once.

It’s a busy time of the year.

But March, although like August, one of my least favorite months of the year, has very little save from Easter that I have to plan. So I’m pretty pumped about Alex’s party.

That said, because I am highly doubtful we’ll ever procreate again (any time I mention it hypothetically in passing to The Daver, he quickly begins to look wildly around for the nearest sharp object with which he can perform a vasectomy. If none are available, he will then start punching himself in the nuts. Our chances at having another child are slim to none), and even more doubtful that if we were to do so that we would have a girl, I have decided on a theme for Alex’s party.

Alice in Wonderland.

I want to throw a tea party for Alex.

There’s just one small, eensy, weensy problem: I have no idea how to do this. Unlike Cars, Batman, or The Backyardagains, there exist no “Alice in Wonderland” themed aisles at my party store (and if there were, it would be the Disney variety, which I’m not as interested in).

I’ll probably end up Ebaying it, and dealing with whatever I end up with, but before I do this, I am begging you, The Internet, in all of your beautiful glory to help a sister out.

How can I pull off this party?

Let me give you my (short) list of stipulations:

It will be primarily adults, and since it’s a first birthday gig, games will not be played. The older kids (whomever comes) will probably play with Ben, and therefore not need games.

I am the least creative person on the planet, but I have a Gold Amex. And am not afraid to use it. BUT, I don’t want to spend an insane amount on decorations, as I’m pretty certain The Daver would have my head (get the Alice in Wonderland reference?).

Even though I said “tea party” I have doubts that I’ll be serving tea. But I will be serving cake (I was thinking funky cupcakes, AND I WISH MY FRIEND MELISSA LIVED IN THE STATES SO SHE COULD DESIGN THEM. See, I have a cake fetish. I don’t eat the stuff, but I love, love, love, love really interestingly designed ones.) So, I will be buying a cake/cupcakes from SOMEWHERE. But they have to be cool.

I can’t cook, but I need to provide my guests with SOMETHING to eat. Preferably something that everyone will eat AND doesn’t require a ton of prep.

Internet, Darling, if you can help me, I will be forever in your debt and I might be so inclined to INVITE YOU OVER FOR CAKE. See, THAT is how much I love you.

In the Great Purge Fest of 2008 (part 1), I have been moderately successful. Save for one thing, one large stash filling up part of my stand alone freezer:

I have approximately 4,380 gallons of breast milk that I have nothing whatsoever to do with.

When I first had Alex, and realized just how freakishly much milk I was producing (ahhh, thank you Fenugreek, who has left an indelible hatred of all things maple syrup related. Seriously, my nursing bras, which I am soon to be throwing unceremoniously away–likely in a fire-y blaze–still smell of maple syrup. If you have no idea what the fuck I am talking about, I’ll break it down really simply: there’s an herb you can take–sadly, it produces no hallucinations– that increases your milk supply. One of the side effects is maple syrup smelling bodily odors: including, sweat, pee, and milk. Oh, YUM. Nothing grosser than looking for Aunt Jemima, that wiley bitch, in the toilet BECAUSE WHERE ELSE IS THAT SMELL COMING FROM?), I scoured The Internet looking for what I could do with the excess milk.

I did call a milk bank or three hundred who didn’t want to accept my goods because “they were full,” AND when I realized that I had both had a cold in that time AND taken a decongestant, I learned that the milk would be unsuitable for a preemie. And Sweet Baby Jesus, the last thing I’d want to do is make life for a preemie worse, what with my reckless use of over the counter decongestants. For serious.

I came across another website, the likes of which I haven’t been able to find again, in which people discussed how they could sell their milk on The Internet to creepy pervo’s who for some reason (probably because their mother’s didn’t love them) got off on drinking breastmilk.

Can we say a collective, “EWWW?”

Buuuuuttttt, this site also informed me that these creepy dude’s would pay up to $3.00 an ounce for the stuff, which would mean that the stash currently occupying the bottom half of the freezer I bought for this exact purpose, would translate into at least $500-600. This could easily buy me a designer purse or two, and that makes me happy.

Shit, pumping is one of the most irritating jobs on the planet, and anything that would compensate me for the time that I spent hooked up to that blasted machine, watching my nipples yanked into positions and shapes I had no idea they were capable of, WHILE being unable to do much else besides think about how bloody bored I was, was a good damn thing.

The downside is that I am far, far too lazy to sell a simple pair of shoes on Ebay, let alone spend the time putting up an ad, figuring out how to send the stuff so it didn’t rot in the mail, or coming up with cute phrases to make creepy Uncle Pervy’s want to buy my goods “Hot Momma Milk” and the like.

So, scratch that idea.

I came across another website, in which the enterprising author had attempted to make cheese out of her stash of breastmilk, and that pretty much wigged me out. I don’t care for cheese anyway, AND color me weird, but I don’t think I could ever, ever ingest any of that milk. PLUS, I hate cooking in the first place, and have never so much as attempted making cheese of any sort, so I promise I wouldn’t start with my own milk.

(shudder, shudder)

I suppose I could thaw some out for the holidays and throw it in my guest’s coffee as a passive-aggressive measure, but I’m not coy enough to do so without being noticed. And I’m too stupid to remember NOT TO DRINK THE COFFEE, so I’d be slurping it down thinking about how great it tastes (breastmilk is very, very sweet. Shut up. You’d try it, too.) before I recalled WHY it tasted so good, and then I’d have to drink Ipecac and spend the rest of the day barfing. I hate very little more than I hate throwing up (aside from Kim Kardashian. I hate her more).

So, what can I do with this stash of milk, which I am going to have to toss in a couple of months? Alex won’t touch it unless it’s on tap, Ben, well, I don’t need to scar him anymore than I already have, and Dave and I would sooner drink our own pee than drink the stuff.

Any suggestions?

A special corner of my ever growing Shit List is devoted to bullies of any age, size, sex, and variety. I hate ’em with a passion I usually reserve for people who park in handicapped spots, or who make their own parking spaces IN FRONT OF THE STORE.

My brother stutters terribly (sometimes incomprehensibly) and recently bonded with my husband over their shared hatred of Valentine’s Day. Specifically because they would go to school, pass out Valentine’s, and receive only a handful back. From teachers.

To someone like me, who has always been (surprisingly!) well received by my peers this seems like the most tragic thing ever.

I hate bullies by proxy. Anyone who fucks with my people (when I’m feeling kicky, “peeps”) is my enemy. Period. End of story.

(I do not, however, hate having blog trolls. In fact, I think I would marvel in rapture if I were to have one. This is the only time I like bullies: when they’re opening themselves up to ridicule AT THEIR OWN EXPENSE!)

Poor Ben, easily one of the sweetest people I have met in my entire life (where he gets this trait, I am not certain) has been dealing with a school bully since the beginning of the year. The school he goes to is small (it’s a Montessori school, for those of you playing along at home) and they’re dealing with it as best as they can, but I get the distinct impression that bullies are not something they are accustomed to dealing with.

The child who is picking on Ben, who I will henceforth refer to as “Ass Face” has been severely reprimanded (although, sadly not with corporeal punishment as I’ve been praying for) to the point of being suspended for several days and having had multiple parent-teacher meetings.

Dave recently met his father at the Father’s Brunch on Valentine’s Day (I asked Ben if I could pretend to be his father so that I could go and he looked at me completely deadpan and said “You’re not a boy.”), and rather than spitting on him like I would have done (because I am a mature, model citizen) had a conversation with the dude. Who swore up and down that “Ass Face” had never acted up this way before and he has no idea where he learned this OR why he’s doing it.

Yeah. Right.

I learned yesterday from Ben (who is also the most honest person on the planet, aside from possibly The Daver, who is PAINFULLY honest) that “Ass Face” teamed up with another child to pick on Ben.

Specifically about the size of his muscles. Which, to me, sounds laughable, but at that age, I remember someone telling me that “I didn’t need a training bra” (I didn’t) and this making me weep. Kids are insane.

So, once again, I dutifully placed a call to the school this morning to ask that the teacher call me back so that we can discuss this yet again.

I know that being picked on is just the standard rite of passage for kids, and that everyone has it happen to them, but I guess I just wish that it wasn’t happening quite so soon. It’s hard to watch this happen to your kid without being able to make it better (i.e. punching the kid in the face. Again, because I am a mature person), and I just hope that I’m doing all of the right things.

*sighs*

What would you do if you were in my (decidedly kicky!) shoes?

Several years ago, after holiday festivities had stretched into week after exhausting week once we’d celebrated with both sides of our families, The Daver and I looked at each other all blearily and spent and made an executive decision: we were going to start combining our familial celebrations.

The way we saw it, ANYTHING was better than having to celebrate 14 Christmas’s (each sect expecting us to be pissing cheerful rainbows and sunshine) stretched out over the course of several months weeks.

As it turns out, we were horribly mistaken. The only thing worse than celebrating Thanksgiving 57 times, choking down approximately 408 pounds of dry turkey and greasy stuffing, was doing it just once. All together.

Now, my in-laws have never been overly fond of me, be it because I am loud and obnoxious, rude and horny, or just because I don’t care one way or another about my socks matching; I don’t pretend to understand the whys about the whole shebang (mayhap showing up to their home the first time I met them wearing a patent leather corset was a bad fashion choice. Who knew?).

And my own parents have (I believe) rewritten history so that they actually birthed The Daver and not me, so great is their love for the guy (hey, at least we agree on one thing, right?). My dad often references the shrine they’ve built to The Daver in their home, where they pay tribute and light candles under a framed picture of Dave for marrying their daughter and taking her out of their care, and just because I’ve never actually seen this shrine with my own two eyes does not mean that it’s not there. I’m pretty sure it is.

So it appears that the only common ground that we all have is our love for The Daver.

Unfortunately, this does not translate well into comfortable family gatherings. Both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year were so excruciatingly painful and uncomfortable that all I wanted to do was to go and hide in my closet with a bottle or three until it was all over.

Thank the stars in Heaven that the major holidays are over for a year, but the minor ones are starting.

Like Easter.

Which both sets want to celebrate on the same day (but not Easter proper).

And we’re at an impasse: do we try (in vain, it seems) to get our families together yet again, thereby ensuring another day filled with discomfort and awkwardness, or do we split it up somehow?

(My love for the holidays, including Easter, nearly rivals my love for Diet Coke, and the fact that they have been reduced to misery really upsets me. I can get over the fact that my in-laws would prefer I was someone else, but I can’t get over that ruining my holiday. My priorities are skewed, I know, but I have no sure fire way of making them like me.)

Shit, I guess we could just change the focus of the holidays entirely to Let’s Pamper Daver And Profess Our Undying Love For Him Days, and maybe we could unite under that guise. I’m sure Dave would like that.

So here’s where I turn to you, Dear Internet, who never leads me astray…whose beauty is unrivaled, and wit unmatched. Those pants look great on you, by the way, have you lost weight? You look amazing today. Seriously hot.

If you were Aunt Becky and The Daver, how would you handle this? Or, if you have nothing substantial to add, tell me an in-law story or three.

It’s a good damn thing that my Vitamin Z is making me feel loads better, otherwise I would feel completely overwhelmed by my youngest son’s newest trick.

He has gone from being pretty immobile to crawling literally overnight.

Now, by this age (10 months young) Ben was walking shufflingy along (I love how toddlers walk like little drunk people. It makes their tantrums completely endearing), so I’ve been pretty spoiled by Alex’s lack of movement.

I mean, it’s not like I’d planned on breaking his ickle legs to get him to stay where I put him, but I knew full well once this began, my hair was going to turn even more grey (as my kids are apt to do for me, God bless their hearts), and doing even a simple load of laundry was going to require a cocktail chaser.

It has, no doubt, but it is also completely endearing, watching him explore the house and finding joy in such things as splashing in the dog’s water bowl. The toilet holds a special fascination for him (probably because he has spent many months sitting on the floor as I crapped my brains out did my business) as does the diaper pail (mayhap he’s a bit bowel-obsessed, a habit which I can blame only on myself).

The animals are suitably underwhelmed by his sudden ability to follow them around screaming alternately “KATTY-CAT” or “DOOOOGIE” in their faces while he grabs handfuls of their hair. Maybe I should feel sorrier for them, but since this is something he has done to me for as long as I can remember, I can only find it humorous.

(Put down the phone, Dear Internet, and don’t bother calling DCFS on me; I don’t allow him to abuse them too much, and over archingly, they seem to like him. He’s a likable dude)

He is just doing his best to live up to his nickname of “The Monkey” with his ability to get into absolutely everything possible, and leave a trail of wreckage in his merry-making. It’s what he does best, afterall.

And I can always hire him out as a floor duster. He’ll be like a Swiffer, only more interactive. Shit, spray him down with Pledge and he’ll polish your furniture! Man, I am FULL of good ideas.

Any takers? Any suggestions?

I’m sure the image of me sitting around with harsh black eyeliner lining my eyes inexpertly while listening to (insert something more emo than The Cure here. Help a stupid sister out.) and cutting my arm while hoping like hell it gives me attention (this is actually the mental picture I have associated with the diagnosis of “depression,” which is why I use the PPD initials instead when referring to my current issues. Makes me feel less like a dramatic teenager), it was just not the case today.

Rather than sit around wallowing in my grief, I was overtaken by the intense urge to purge.

To be fair, this is something I typically do every couple of months, but to completely illustrate how un-me I’ve been, I’m going to confess to you, Darling Internet, that it’s been over a year since my last purge (of my own stuff). I hope you understand, baby, I’ve just been unwell. No baby, it’s not you, it’s me. Really, it is.

Since I live with two people who are unable to part with so much as a four-year old Target receipt for a plastic garbage can that we no longer own, I am completely responsible for making certain we don’t save such stuff. Last year found me tossing rudely away The Daver’s collection of cassette tapes because we no longer own a tape player, and empty CD cases (why we lugged them from apartment to condo to house, I cannot be sure).

(I move it to the garage where it sits until I insist that we drop it off at the Salvation Army down the street. It does, I admit, sit there for many days erm, months. Ashley keeps threatening to leave a pee-stained mattress propped up against my garage to really give my home that Salvation Army Drop Center look. She’s a funny one, that Ashley.)

So today, I tasked myself unceremoniously with purging my closet. This is a more depressing task than one might think, as I am currently too large for my pre-pregnancy stuff and too small for my maternity tents clothes (thank you, Baby Jesus, thank you).

And without really delving into my cadre of un-fat clothes, I was able to get rid of three bags of clothes and another bag full of miscellaneous stuff that I have never found a use for but saved in case I suddenly needed about 500 mini packages of off brand tissues (um, I have no idea why people insist upon giving these to me. Do I constantly walk around with bats in the ole batcave? I am sure there are less oblique ways to inform me of this.) or the tags for clothes I’ve been wearing for months (which is pure laziness rather than deliberate ‘I might need this-ness’).

For some reason, getting rid of stuff gives me a high like no other (aside from Vicodin. Mmmmm Vicodin, how I love thee…let me count the ways….one, two, three…). I don’t pretend to understand why I feel so gooshy and elated when I’m getting rid of something and becoming more organized, but it never fails to bring me to near-orgasm.

I have a deep seated fear of becoming that person who lives so incredibly surrounded by crap that my kids are horrified and disgusted to come to my home, for fear of being attacked by a toppling box-o-junk and buried there for the next several years.

I think I might be severely twisted.

(The Internet is letting out a collective “You think?”)

On Friday, I said good-bye to my friend, and I wish like hell that I could say it was wonderful and uplifting, but it was neither of those things.

It was unspeakably awful.

Someone (likely her parents) had put together some poster board montages of pictures of Steph in better days and they carefully portrayed someone so full of life, so vivacious that it made it even harder to remember that the person in that open casket all stretched out and weird looking was the same person.

Hearing her five year old son say, “Hey, want to look at my mom? She’s all dead and hard.” and then her two year old say, “No, wanna see MOMMY!” when he was taken away from the coffin made my heart sink and die a little bit right then and there.

Whomever the person that officiated was (it was in a funeral home, so I don’t think it was a pastor or anything) sucked. She made me angry, with her stupid metaphors about Steph’s struggle with alcoholism and mental illness, and above all else, she sucked and Steph would have hated her speech.

She made it sound as though Steph was routinely sitting around in heavy eyeliner listening to The Cure’s Disinegration on repeat carving “Kurt Cobain” in her arm. It couldn’t have been farther from who she was.

She also claimed that all that we’d loved about Steph, her effervescence and wit, her humor and braveness had all been part of her illness. Yeah, fuck and you come to mind as I recall that. Don’t you DARE take away who she really was to any of us. You did not even know her.

(In the words of one of my Metal Heads, “Anytime you evoke Lazarus at a funeral, you’re an idiot.” See, these are Catholic School educated Metal Heads.)

We held our own sort of remembrance afterwards at a bar down the street from the funeral home, and the mood, although seemingly buoyant to bystanders, was downright morbid. We each took turns talking about what we wanted the other to make absolute sure that our funeral would hold (not something one would normally think about and discuss, but then again, none of us expected to be there).

Scott wanted to be stuffed and set up in a chair a la Weekend At Bernie’s, and we assured him that when the firewood inevitably got low, we’d throw him on as kindling.

I explained that under absolutely no circumstances would my casket be open to freak everyone out (no one looks like they did in life, no matter how good the makeup artist is), but since some morbid A-Hole would probably want to see me, I insisted that I be in full KISS makeup.

I mean, if I’m not going to look like myself anyway, I may as well REALLY not look like myself.

I also appointed Kristin as my flower monitor, and as such she would be responsible for insuring that only good flowers make it to my graveside. No filler flowers, absolutely no carnations or daisies and under NO circumstances would lilies (aside from Cala lilies, which I adore) be allowed. Pretty much anything ordered from the Funeral section of a florists selection would be a no go.

And anyone who dared bring either wreaths that said “Beloved Mother” or “Devoted Wife” OR plastic flowers would be sent away at the door. Return to sender.

I also explained that rather than give my children an inheritance, I was going to hire out- of-work actors to weep hysterically at my grave several times a week. For as many years as the money would last.

I wish like anything I’ve ever wished that the funeral had provided closure (what the hell is closure, anyway? Seriously, I don’t get that concept.) or that I can say that I honestly feel better, but it would be a lie. (I’m not sitting around in heavy eyeliner listening to The Cure’s Disinegration on repeat carving “Kurt Cobain” on my arm, either though).

Steph’s death did, however, make damn sure that any other petty annoyances seem even more trivial than they previously had. And I make certain that I count each and every one of my blessings.

And that is a good thing.

One of the last truly happy memories I have of my friend Steph was when we went together to see the Rolling Stones. I loved The Stones, but Steph was obsessed. Her bedroom walls were literally papered floor to ceiling with pictures of Mick and The Boys carefully cut from magazines, and she had a typical girlish crush (read: obsession) with Mick Jagger.

Saw you stretched out in room ten-o-nine
With a smile on your face
And a tear right in your eye

I can still see her in my mind’s eye, if I try hard enough, huge smile on her face as she belted out the lyrics to all of the songs (of which, I personally knew only a fraction) while taking drags off her Camel Wide Light.

Couldn’t seem to get a line on you
My sweet honey love

That was my friend.

The same friend who smelled like a garden with me, the same friend who threw my baby shower when I was pregnant with Ben. She (and Ashley) are the reason that for every party I throw, I must have a cutout Hula Girl thrown up somewhere (we found it along with every color of the rainbow baby dolls in our quest for the Tackiest Shower Decorations Ever). She was my introduction to flavored coffees and Opium perfume. I think I still have her copy of “Goat’s Head Soup” somewhere.

Well, you’re drunk in the alley, baby
With your clothes all torn
And your late night friends
Leave you in the cold gray dawn
Just seemed too many flies on you
I just can’t brush them off

Somewhere, probably up in Heaven, she is laughing at me right now. I can almost hear it’s distinctive peal tinkling over me as I write this. She’s sitting up in Heaven surrounded by stacks of every Rolling Stones record (even the unreleased B-Sides) ever recorded, drinking her ubiquitous cup of coffee, with a carton of Camel Wide Lights by her side, and she is laughing.

She had a beautiful laugh. It was the sort that made you smile no matter what mood you were in, the kind that made other people around you stop and look around for the source (but not because it was annoying or grating, but because it was so full of happiness). I always wished I’d had a laugh like that, and now I just wish I could hear her laugh again.

Tonight I bury my friend.

And the angels beating all their wings in time
With smiles on their faces
And a gleam right in their eyes
Thought I heard one sigh for you
Come on up, come on up, now
Come on up, now

(I am linking here so that you may go over and see what she looked like. I don’t have a scanner, so I cannot scan a picture in of her right this moment like I’d like to).

This week, I’ve been posting under titles ripped from Rolling Stones lyrics as a (pathetic) tribute to Steph, as I know she would have liked it. I don’t have any better way to commemorate her yet, so I will likely continue doing so from time to time. Maybe it’s not as permanent as a tattoo, but it’s something.

One of my own favorite Stones songs has always been “Shine a Light,” but it always confused me until Steph died. The ebullient chorus coupled with the really depressing stanzas always seemed such a disconnect until I looked at them in this light. When I reread the lyrics, it made perfect sense.

Now, if this were anyone else, I’d have scoured The Internet looking for a poem or quote to dedicate, but Steph probably wouldn’t have appreciated that nearly as much. It just wasn’t the way she rolled.

And normally, I refrain from posting lyrics to songs because it makes no fucking sense and offers very little emotion without the music behind it, but today isn’t a normal day.

May the Good Lord shine a light on you
Make every song you sing your favorite tune
May the Good Lord shine a light on you
Warm like the evening sun.

The world is a colder place having lost Steph, although I am certain she is far happier where she is now. But I’m a selfish prick, and I want her back. I don’t want to be attending her funeral tonight. I don’t want to bury my friend.

I want her to come back and tell me that this was the ultimate prank. I want her to jump out from behind a door and yell “Psych!” and laugh uproariously at my stunned reaction. I want her to be who she was before the disease took her Shine away from her, and I want her to get her life back on track. I want to have coffee and play dates with her, I want our children to grow up together as good friends, I want to sit around and reminisce about the dumb shit we did when we were kids. I want to get old with her and start switching to decaf and vitamins, rather than coffee and cigarettes, I want to laugh with her again.

I don’t want to bury her tonight.

She was my friend and I loved her very much and I don’t want her to be dead.

Even during my Single Years ™, I always have had a deep affection for Valentine’s Day, probably, at least in part, because it showcases my favorite colors: Red, Pink, and Sparkly. I’m not going to say that before I got a built-in Valentine (well, three of them, if you’re counting), I didn’t occasionally long to do something romantical with my other half, but I never knew what that was, exactly, which made it exceptionally hard to wish for.

Even after however many years The Daver and I have been together (let’s not count, mmkay?), we have yet to form any interesting traditions relating to Valentine’s Day (aside from me buying every Pink -n- Spangly thing I can get my mitts on), and I am pretty okay with that.

I guess I just don’t see the point in Valentine’s Day.

I mean, any holiday that nets me some presents (oh, I am so easily bought) is A-Okay in my book, and I do love buying gifts for the Sausage Factory nearly as much as I love getting them, but shit, why is there only one day of the year that I have to express my love?

And how, exactly, is love bought with a box of crappy chocolates (which I have actually never gotten) or wilting flowers? I have a feeling that if I were to be on the receiving end of either of those gifts, I would end up more upset than if I’d gotten nothing at all. Why? Because I dislike crappy versions of ANYTHING, and stuffed animals for people over the age of 8 drive me up a wall.

But I am probably in the minority here, as I noticed wall-to-wall such items yesterday at Mecca (read: Target), which means that there is a market for these gifts.

I don’t know.

Aside from the gifting and the color scheme, Valentine’s Day isn’t all that appealing to me (to be fair, if Bastille Day–which happens to be the day before my birthday, so mayhap this is a bad example– were the day in which I got presents, I would like it just as well). I don’t love my husband any more or any less today than I will tomorrow (unless he magically makes the ice melt from the driveway; then I will love him more), and I’ve always thought real romance was found in the day-to-day stuff.

Passion is great, I’m told, but it fizzles and you’re left sitting across the table with someone whose deplorable manners you’d never noticed when he was giving you multiple orgasms.

Maybe it’s not as thrilling to have someone who will (without prompting) clean out the coffee maker for you so that your morning coffee doesn’t taste vaguely minerally, but I don’t care. Passion doesn’t set up e-payments for the bills or pick you up McDonalds when you’re needing a fix. Passion doesn’t watch you push an 8 pound baby out of your crotchal area WITHOUT VOMITING, nor does it stay up late to help your big son fill out last minute Valentines, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even clean up dog barf from the white (WHITE!) carpeting.

I’d rather have someone who, without making a gross poo face, will plunge the toilet you’ve just clogged (while complimenting your toilet clogging prowess), or drop everything he’s doing to visit your dad in the ICU.

Maybe it’s not the sentiment expressed in a Hallmark card, but it’s real and that’s what I care about.

The Daver, who smiles as he takes my shit and sometimes even laughs when he’s wearing his phone headset and I follow him around trying to order a cheeseburger and large Diet Coke, is the man I never expected I’d be lucky enough to marry.

And no matter how pissed off I can become with him, I never forget that.

Ever.

—————-

So tell me what YOU think about Valentine’s Day. Love it? Hate it? Marginally indifferent?

—————

And happy Valentine’s Day to all of you! Aunt Becky loves you, you know.

While I am completely aware that grief affects each and everyone differently, I’m pretty much wishing I were a little more over it by now. I mean, I felt pretty hideous for the first couple of days and now I’m not hugely better BUT I WANT TO BE.

I want the nightmares to stop (I’m fairly prone to nightmares during times of intense stress), I wish I could feel like I had a handle on my life and responsibilities and start fucking functioning again. I HAD MY HUSBAND TAKE THE REST OF THE WEEK OFF WORK (like he’s actually not working or something. Ha-ha-ha) TO HELP ME OUT, HOW PATHETIC IS THAT?

And I really want to be certain that I’m not one of those hysterical people who troll the planet looking for things to be sad about and making it.all.about.them! I’ve never been that person before, and as self-centered as I can be (dude, I have a blog that I write about such meaningful topics as “toilet paper and how it changed my life” and “my kid is weird looking but that’s okay”. How more self-centered can one POSSIBLY be?), I’m not even close to pretending that I am grieving any more or any less than anyone else shocked by this loss.

I guess that I’m just hoping that the funeral will bring some closure and maybe, just maybe, stop the damn nightmares. I hate nightmares (I’ll spare you a boring recount of them, which would be interesting to absolutely no one.).

————

I pretty much suck at emotions in general, and feel only a couple specific ones: Give Me A Fucking Cheeseburger, Angry, and I Need a Goddamned Nap, and emotional situations always make me afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing and make everyone feel worse. This is why I am funny. It’s hard to make someone cry when you’re trying to make them laugh (although you can be certain that I have probably done this), and laughter is something I can handle. Crying, not so much.

*ahem*

Anyway.

I wanted to thank everyone who has supported me since this whole damned ordeal started. Your comments honestly meant the world to me, and it’s great to know that her memory will be perpetuated (however small it may be) by people who she didn’t even know. Thank you also to my lurkers, who pulled the cloak from their face and showed me that even if they think I’m an idiot (they have every right to think this), they care too.

Steph was a neat person, and I just know that you all would have liked her tremendously. She was just that kind of person, you know, the kind you like immediately and unapologetically.

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In an effort to distract his mother from her grieving process, Alex has mastered something I hadn’t even thought possible.

Now, after having an overarchingly non-verbal child as my first, this whole babbling and talking this has thrown me through a loop. Ben grunted, Alex succinctly demands.

After blowing his brother’s verbal prowess out of the water, he has picked up a brand new habit, one which terrifies me and sends shivers down my spine:

He mimics our voices and statements.

No sooner have I let the dog out to make some yellow snow, when Alex begins to bellow “Caaasssshhhh”over and over again until the dog has come back in. (Yes, my dog’s name is Cash. No, I don’t mean as in Cash Money. Yes, he was named this to prevent me from loudly petitioning to name our youngest “Cash.” Can we all agree that I have terrible taste? Okay, good.)

Later, I will go to the top of the basement stairs and sweetly call “Dave” should I need my husband for something. As soon as I do this, my parrot for a son begins yelling (not so sweetly) “Daaavvvveee” Daaaavvvvveee” over and over until his father comes into his line of sight.

While this is completely adorable, it means precisely one thing, one harsh thing: I am going to have to stop referring to my husband as “Motherfucker” in Alex’s presence.