When my crotch parasites came home to discover that my house, had, indeed been turned upside down and two formerly ugly rooms now had lickable colored walls (hey, purple’s a fucking flavor, dammit), they were impressed. I could tell that they had no idea what “painting the walls” meant, because they assumed that somehow The Guy on My Couch and I had painted pictures to put on the walls as well. And if they had any idea what sort of artistic aptitude I have, they’d have known better.

I have to admit, however, that I did appreciate being taken as someone artistic for a moment – even if it was by a four-year old.

Well, the rooms were a gigantic success. Not only am I no longer Furious George when I stare at my walls, slack-jawed and thinking, but they’re actually pleasant to be in.

Of course, there was an unexpected side effect. The moment my children realized that The Guy On My Couch and I hadn’t actually painted pictures, but changed the color of the walls entirely, they began to clamor for us to change their bedrooms, too.

Their bedrooms – two of the rooms that had BEEN previously painted by Your Aunt Becky. Of course. Two of the four rooms I’ve painted, and they wanted to repaint them.

I managed to stall the boys who are in a fierce deadlock between Purple and Green, but my daughter, o! my daughter, she chimed in, asking me to paint her room her favorite color. My heart, of course, grew three sizes and melted into an ooey gooey pile of mush on the floor right at my feet.

Why?

That tiny voice said, “Mama, I want a PINK room.”

Oh, my heart. My heart forever walking around outside my body.

Pink has been my favorite color well into my late twenties (I’ve now decided on a more grown-up “blue” as a favorite color, but only barely). As a tot, I loved pink – which horrified my hippie mother, who would’ve preferred that I like a nice brown burlap. I’d have shot someone dead for a pink bedroom (presuming, of course, I had access to a gun, which, hippies don’t like).

Under normal circumstances, I’d have fallen over myself to make this happen. But the room she lives in now? It WAS painted pink. A pink I couldn’t stomach. That room remained shut until I got pregnant with Alex, at which time Daver painted it a nice soft yellow.

My daughter is a rational creature, though, so I knew I could appeal to her logical brain.

“Okay, Mimi,” I said, hoping she’d forget it all. “Would you like me to paint your room instead of buying you a birthday present?”

“YES!” she screamed happily. “I want a PINK ROOM.”

For days, she told everyone we saw – including strangers wandering the aisles at Target looking for baking powder as well as the cashiers at Target – that she was getting a pink room.

So there you have it. For her third birthday, my daughter is getting a pink bedroom. Bubble gum pink if she has her way, which she will. You’re only three once, after all.

I will SO miss that yellow.

Hey Becky,

Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing…you sound down.  

Trust me I know how you feel.  Seasonal depression much less clinical depression sucks!  Add to that the fact I was off my Lexapro for 5 days and I was a step below Charles Manson..LOL!  If you need to vent, I’m here! 🙂

Hang in there & take care!

Oh Prankster, my Prankster, you’re making me cry here. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? I get all, “whatever,” whenever someone says something shitballs to me, but the moment someone is kind, I do the Ugly Cry.

The answer is somewhere in the middle – I’m up and down.

It’s January – my daughter’s birthday, which is always a massively triggering event for me. I feel so stupid to admit that, like I don’t have the right to be upset. She’s the girl that lived! I know in my head that she’s fine, but I see her disfigured head and the scar that grows each time she does, and my stomach drops – I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m left panting and panicking, my throat tight. The nightmares I can’t quite shake.

On the other hand, I’m beyond happy that I’ve made a teeny step – she’s getting the birthday celebration I’ve always wanted to give her. I’m having more fun putting together a Sweet Shop themed party than any adult should….but that PTSD monster is always lurking close at hand.

I’ve wanted so badly to come here to my own space and tell you all about it (you are, after all, my family, Pranksters) – but it all comes out a random jumble of letters and words that lead to nowhere, and I’m more frustrated that I can’t seem to do what I love most – write. The words don’t come. The sentences make no sense. The paragraphs don’t flow. It’s just gone.

I know the words, the words will be back – but there will still be this gigantic pile of things I can no longer speak of. I hate feeling like this whole host of things I need to share most must go unspoken. Someday it won’t matter. I know this, too. And yet, it’s been all I can do to breathe. And keep breathing.

This too will end. I know.

But tonight, tonight I am decidedly not okay. Thankfully, tomorrow is another day. It will, perhaps, be better.

I have hope. Indeed, it is all I have.

Or a mushroom print.

I know I’m MIA today, but I wrote this. It needs your sweet, sweet Prankster love.

Hopefully I’ll be able to crawl back from my January cave soon. This month is bullshit, Pranksters.

Dear Sarah McLachlan,

Let me start by saying you, Ms. McLachlan, have an impossible name to spell. I spent upwards of thirty whole seconds trying to ascertain whether or not that word grouping was properly spelled or a jumble of letters. That, however, is merely my issues with words, Sarah McLachlan. See, Sarah, I’m sorta illiterate.

Anyway.

I’m here today, Sarah McLachlan, to talk, not about your complicated name, but about you. Namely, how you ruined my day.

I’ll admit, Ms. Sarah McLachlan, that I, like most people with vaginas in 1993, that your album, Fumbling Toward Ecstasy was a favorite of mine (it seemed that there were two types of girls in the world at the time. Those who listened to Tori Amos and those who listened to you, Sarah McLachlan. And I, if I may, never was a cornflake girl.).

Mostly, because your lilting voice sang about all of the angsty shit that those of us who were both angsty and in possession of a vagina felt. Sadness. Emotions. Lame-ish songs (sorry, not your fault) that we could be all, OMG SARAH MCLACHLAN KNOWS WHAT I FEEEEEEELLLSSS.

I can’t say I much followed your career after I sacked up, but I was proud that you created that Lilith Fair, because I like a powerful woman, Sarah McLachlan, I like them very much. I heard a few of your songs on the radio, and while I never turned them UP, I rarely turned them off – see, Sarah McLachlan, I’m a sucker for a pretty voice. And that, my friend (can I call you my friend? Great – thanks), you do have.

You and me, Sarah McLachlan, we were friends. Or at least I thought so, until you released this particular bit of horror that’s since haunted me. Picture this, Sarah McLachlan: I was at home with my wee new babe, and I had one of two options – I could watch television or I could stare at the wall while I nursed him. He was a boob man, my guy.

Postpartum and hormonal, not to mention sleep-deprived, imagine my horror when this came onto my television:

I’ve never, ever gotten over it, Sarah McLachlan – the sad puppies, the hurt kitties, it was too much for me. I began to weep, which annoyed the hell out of my baby. That commercial, starring you, Sarah McLachlan, and a bunch of pathetic animals, seemed to play whenever I was at my lowest.

And the tears, my good friend, Sarah McLachlan, they flowed.

It’s January, and aforementioned baby is nearly five, but I wanted to tell you that I caught the tail-end of your ASPCA commercial, Sarah McLachlan, and I wept. You have no way of knowing, Sarah McLachlan, that January is the worst month of the year for me – that I’d like to curl up in a ball and wake up sometime in February. But your commerical, Sarah McLachlan, it nearly broke me this time.

And at the very least, you ruined my day.

So, Sarah McLachlan, thanks for that.

Love Always,

Aunt Becky

Every year, right before Christmas, I go to The Target to buy myself an ornament for the tree. One of those absurdly expensive ones (for The Target, I should clarify) made out of the tiny hands of Ethiopian kids or by collecting the tears of the Unicorn that lives atop Mount Olympus. I’m not really sure. I’m not an ornament-maker.

It’s one of the more sentimental things I do. I mean, I’m the person that’s like, what the SHIT am I gonna do with all of these kids drawings? Sure, I love looking at them, but do I need to save every fucking one of the pages of scribbles just so someday, my kid can look back on it and be all, “Fuck, I was a terrible artist?” I think no.

We all know I’m not overly sentimental…until it comes to these ornaments. I try to select, from the supply that’s long-since been depleted because I am both lazy and cheap (sales make me happy in the pants), something that represents either the year before or the year ahead.

For both Alex and Amelia’s first Christmas, I bought them two crystal-studded “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments – one in blue and the other in pink, clearly for the year that passed.

Of course, these remain locked into the box of nice ornaments for another year while I display the very cheapest of ugly plastic ornaments – I’m afraid I’d burst into the Ugly Cry if one of those got misplaced.

This year, the selection being “pink for breast cancer,” a smattering of initials, and a couple of “for teacher” ones, I found the one I wanted to represent the coming year.

2011 was the year of losses – both great and small. I won’t wax poetic about the lessons I’ve learned because I didn’t really learn anything beyond “I’m an asshole,” and “other people are assholes.” Frankly, I knew that going IN to 2011, so it’s not like I need to sit back and be all nostalgic about all that I’ve lost. Who does that?

Anyway.

I don’t want to sit around with my thumb up my ass being all *sad trombone* here. I’ve had enough of that lately (it’s January, after all) and frankly, The Ugly Cry is starting to break capillaries in my face.

For 2012, I bought a simple ornament. It has one word on it.

Hope.

This year, I hope.

And I do.

I wrote this on Band Back Together. You should read it.

And contribute, if you haven’t already, for our Spotlight on Birth Defects.

Back when I bought this house, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Jesus played beer pong with me in college (He’s fucking better than I am), I thought that the living room was the least offensive of all the rooms in my house.

The tiny downstairs bathroom had three (THREE!!!) types of wallpaper. The upstairs bedroom was painted Pepto-Bismol pink. The dining room was Cat Pee on Plasterboard colored. The kitchen was (is) some variation of taupe that (still) makes me want to heave whenever I look at it. The family room is painted 3 different motherfucking colors.

So the living room? Not on my radar. Like pants!

That was, until, of course, I had two babies and major abdominal surgery and had to stare at the walls in the living room (also known as the “front room” to those of you who come from places that start with N and end in Dakota). The white looked dingier by the moment. There was a single roller swatch of pure white behind the french doors. The ceiling was a fucking mess.

Take this shot, from the day I closed the deal on the house.

The furniture is not fucking mine.

Looks fine. Besides, of course, the awful furniture, which IS NOT FUCKING MINE.

See? It LOOKS not…so bad! Probably because you’re distracted by the fug furniture.

That wall needs something…else. But I don’t know what.

Sorry, no shot of my ass this time.

I’m still not entirely certain what the room needs, but it needs…moar. Cowbell? Vodka? Perhaps. Or perhaps I should go score that sweet couch on the side of the road, for old times sake.

Thoughts, Pranksters?

I’m afraid that if you don’t help me, I’m going to end up with a Fat Head of me on one of the walls.

Nothing like a party with actual guests* to make me realize that it was fucking time to take care of some bizness. Namely, the house.

Now I am not an interior decorator. I don’t even play one on television (I do, however, play a doctor and/or the village idiot, so that’s something). I’ve never sat through a home improvement show – not even the show Home Improvement, but that’s because Tim Allen makes me want to stab out my eyes – nor would I care to. In fact, I’d rather gnaw off several toes than have to sit through one.

I’ve tried, mostly because I figured I could learn about this mysterious “eye for style” which, it turns out, is not something that can be acquired during ten or so minutes of one of those shows. My idea of a pretty room is one that has unicorns, glitter, and/or an Uncrustables machine, which means that my new house, the one I’ve lived in nearly five years, has been decorated in what can only be considered “found by the side of the road” style.

But if I have people over, it’s time to pretend that I may actually be a grown-up…or at least play one for a party. Which meant it was time for some motherfucking home improvements.

Because I am a bad blogger who takes lousy photos (when did being an incredible photog become part of being a blogger?), I did not take any “before” pictures. The room I am currently working in, my dining room, was painted what I liked to call, “Cat Barf Green,” although some of you may find it to be more “Cat Pee on Plasterboard.” Frankly, I’ll be interested to see what you decide upon.

This is the room BEFORE we moved in. Which means this was NOT my furniture.

Fake flowers make me dry heave.

Not sure what you’d call it, besides butt-fugly, but that’s what it was.

For years, I’ve worked in here, gritting my teeth as I looked at the hideous paint (recall also, those of you who love the shade, that I am color-blind)(and those of you who LOVE the fake flowers, it’s like I don’t know you.) and that awful chandelier, but there has always been something – anything – else that prevented us from fixing the room.

It’s the “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie” problem. If I painted, I’d want to replace the fug light fixture. If I replaced THAT light fixture, I would also need some new art for the walls.

And so on.

So the room has remained, silently taunting me until last week, when I realized people would be coming by. AND JUDGING MY HORRIFYING TASTE. It’s not like I could put a disclaimer on the walls, like, “Objects In Here Are Not Aunt Becky’s Choice.” Well, I guess I COULD, but that’s weird.

Instead, I decided to strap on a set of balls and get ‘er done. Daver took the kids to his parents this weekend and Ben and I spent about 40 straight hours working on the two rooms (I’ll show you the other room tomorrow. Couldn’t get any decent snaps. Suffice to say, it was painted 2 different shades of white.).

And…

Where the magic happens.

Here’s where I ask for your help, Pranksters: I need some nice, beautiful, colorful pictures to hang on my wall around my desk. I’d go to Etsy, but I get overwhelmed every time I try.

Also: I need an old light box – you know, the thing where they used to hang X-Rays? That.

Any suggestions? Also: how was your weekend? Also also: can you give me a massage? I’m fucking sore. Also also also: apparently ninety-years old.

*Email me if you want an invite – I’m serious. I will insist that you admire my walls, but this is gonna be fucking fun.

I don’t do politics. Which is why this is kinda a weird change of pace for me. But go read it (and comment if’n you have time) because it’s also funny. Or, um, it was in my head.

The more I thought about the depression critters, the more I realized that they were another example of false advertising. Which is bullshit.

Here are what OTHER campaigns tell me.

This depression ad is supposed to say:

But what it REALLY says is:

But…is it just for us wickedly depressed folks? Nope. Not so much.

Take this Geiko Ad, which is supposed to say:

But what it REALLY says is:

And one of my all-time favorite campaigns:

Actually says:

And a personal favorite. Who can resist those Charmin Bears?

Yet, what this REALLY says to me is this:

What about this Chick-Fil-A billboard?

It’s supposed to say:

What it REALLY says is this:

And who out there could forget this favorite?

Which, much as I hate to say it, says THIS:

So, Pranksters, what other commercials out there lie?