I’ve been in a slump.

I’m not even certain why I was in such a slump; I mean, my Rod Stewart CD’s were all playing perfectly, there were no Uncrustables shortages at The Target, and I’d even managed to figure out how to work the washing machine! If I could somehow manage to work the coffee maker, my life would be a series of wins!

And yet, I was still feeling downright…sad. My emotional continuum is not used to dealing with complex emotions like that. At best, I’m used to handling such bumps in the road as “my People Magazine was not delivered on time” or “my cheeseburger arrived with mayonnaise.”

This, this slump was not exactly something I could easily handle. Especially since it involved more complex issues than Going on a Campaign of Doom to Get My Way.

I was Losing My Way.

I HATE Losing My Way, Pranksters. I hate it more than I hate anything, ever. Even at my worst, even when I seem the most scattered, the most illogical, the most twisted, I always have something brewing in the back of my mind. Some nefarious scheme. Something. Even if it’s “buy a pony and put it on roller skates,” or “turn treehouse into a panic room filled with ballpit,” there’s something back there.

When I can’t see what’s next, when I can’t find my way, when I have no wacky, off-the-wall-plans, I fall into A Slump.

That’s where I’ve been.

I guess I don’t know what to do next. I’d planned my life up until this point, “finish nursing school, have a couple more kids, then…” and now I’m at the “…” part of my life.

I’d expected to go back to school to become a virologist after my kids were old enough to be packed off to school themselves; that was always the plan. But when I realized that I could write – really write – it was like I’d found my missing piece. That was what I was supposed to do.

So what I do I do with that? What do I do knowing that this is what I am supposed to do?

I do not know. I’ve spun around in circles. I’m still spinning.

The publishing market is in the tank. Selling a book to publishers now isn’t exactly…easy. And yet, writing is what I do. It’s my missing piece. I cannot believe I was brought to this realization only to stop and say, “eh, MOVING ON TO THE NEXT THING.” I love to blog, I love living in Your Computer, but I want to make something more of myself.

I want A Career. Even if I make five bucks a year, I want A Career.

So now I have to figure out What Next. Even if it means “buying a pony and roller skates,” I need to figure out What Happens Next.

Any suggestions, Pranksters? I’m totally asking you because you’re smarter than me and stuff and I no longer have a Guidance Counselor and even if I did, he’d probably tell me to “apply myself more,” which is what he always said. I STILL don’t know what that means.

One of the first things I did after buying my house in Saint Charles was to marvel that two people could – simultaneously – poo at the same time. Going from the condo in Oak (no) Park (ing) which had one wee bathroom to a house with three bathrooms was like the ultimate in luxury…until I realized that the first floor bathroom looked like it had been decorated by Granny, On Meth.

This was pre-moving in. I don’t do angels. Ever.

But the three-patterned wallpaper remained until, in stunning fit of bad judgment, I decided I wanted to remodel the bathroom “for my birthday.” Which meant that I spent the next four months scraping tiny bits of the wallpaper off the drywall with a putty knife in the moments I wasn’t holding my incredibly fussy baby boy. It’s no wonder I hate my birthday.

Anyway.

Before the wallpaper was removed, I couldn’t stand to be in the bathroom for any longer than necessary, because, well, it looked like Little House On The Prairie barfed all over it. This was especially bad news for my eyebrows, who require constant upkeep lest they turn into unruly, beastly caterpillars perched nattily atop my face. Eventually, all the wholesomeness of the bathroom got to me and I broke down and bought one of those makeup mirrors that magnifies your pores like 8000000 times.

I opened the box, pulled out the mirror and about passed out. What the hell? When did my pores become the size of Texas? And when did I get to be so BLOTCHY? Look at those ROGUE hairs! It was disgusting. I was just GROSS looking. How had I not noticed how nasty I’d become?

I was about to rechristen myself “Sasquatch,” when I realized that I might be able to find photographic evidence of when I had become so haggard. I needed to know when this change had occurred, for my own peace of mind.

First I found this, from my old camera, which, I’d seen immediately, looked as though it had been dipped in Vasoline before the shot had been taken.

I was also horrified to see that the green walls – the same shade of green that I hate like mayo, in fact – followed me everywhere I went. Even to the Caribbean, where, in this picture, I am on the phone with Delta, arguing over my lost luggage, I am stuck in front of a green wall.

Fuzzily.

In fact, in EVERY picture I could find, I appear to be out of focus, underwater or in a Soap Opera.

Or rocking my sweet, sweet corn rows:

(let’s make out)

Also: could that dress, which I had to buy in the gift shop because Delta lost my bags, have made my boobs look any saggier?

So my photo expedition didn’t help much. I couldn’t figure out when I’d become Sasquatch so I had to assume that I’d always BEEN Sasquatch.

I did the only thing I could think to do: I bought a DSLR and got pregnant.

Then, I forgot about my Sasquatch-ness (rib-spreading seemed much more pressing an issue) until recently when I realized that I was rocking some pretty dark circles under my eyes. It was time to address my Sasquatch-ness with a facial.

Lady Giving Me A Facial: “OH MY GOD.”

Me: “….”

Lady Giving Me A Facial: *offendedly speaking in Russian*

Me: “…”

Lady Giving Me A Facial (picking at my face)(rolling eyes): *sighs deeply*

So, apparently, I am in such dire shape that even the Facial Lady was both offended and saddened by the state of my face. NOT ENCOURAGING, PRANKSTERS.

Immediately, I went home, my face all swollen, blotchy and sore, and asked The Twitter about eye cream.

The Twitter + The Pranksters = Smarter Than Anything Else. How did people make decisions before The Internet?

Then, I ordered a whole bunch of stuff. I need to combat the Sasquatchness in a MAJOR way.

Problem is, it’s fucking annoying. Who the hell enjoys putting 87 different kinds of cream on their face three times a day?

Hm. I wonder if I can just install mood lighting wherever I go.

————

Here’s where I turn the tables, Pranksters. What do you use to combat Sasquatchness? Do you enjoy slathering your face with creams? Is this something I’ll get used to? Can I install mood lighting at your house and come over?

I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that while I was sleeping, gnomes snuck into my room and scooped out my brain with an ice cream ladle. At least, that’s the story I’m telling myself these days to explain away the decided lack of motivation and utter inability to form even the most simple of thoughts. I’m just not quite feeling…myself.

I’d considered consulting Dr. Google, but then I realized I’d probably be diagnosed as dying from some rare and mysterious illness like “Ebola” or “Dysentery,” or whatever it was that killed me when I played Oregon Trail (by the by, the new Oregon Trail for iPhone app is not NEARLY as awesomely gruesome as I remember it being when we were kids).

So I’m sticking to the Gnomes Stole My Brain theory because it’s more glamorous-sounding. When in doubt, blame gnomes. It beats the hell out of dealing with actual problems, right? I mean, who wants to admit, “hey, I have no idea what I’m supposed to DO with the rest of my life; send a guidance counselor, STAT?” (answer: not me)

Anyway, I’m not overly interested in talking about it because it’s SO emo sounding and really, sometimes I need to take life a little less seriously.

So I went to the Chicago Auto Show last week with my family which is a Sherrick Family Tradition. I think if they ever closed the Auto Show down for some reason, my family would still go down to McCormick Place the second week of February and walk around whatever convention was going on (even if it was like Unicorn Lovers Fair or Charlton Heston Look-Alikes or something) because NO ONE in my family can handle change.

*whistles*

*flips hair*

*looks around*

Shut your whore mouth.

I’d been invited for the social media event the week before (which happened to fall on the coldest day in like five hundred years or something), but between my busted tooth and my double ear infection, I’d decided to skip it and go with my family instead. Plus, I didn’t know anyone that was going and I didn’t really think that going up to rando news outlets and being all, “LET’S MAKE OUT” would be good for anyone.

So, this is what I learned:

0) McCormick place no longer has storage lockers for rent which left me in quite a pickle. I had nowhere to store the severed head I’d brought precisely for those storage lockers. #awkward

1) The Chicago Auto Show had a hashtag and was projecting the tweets sent out onto a big-ass screen overlooking the show. I was glad because then maybe the people who ran the show could possibly look into alternate means of disposal of said severed head for me. Since the storage lockers were a no-go.

Social media = win.

(also: I did not realize that tweets were being broadcast until AFTER I’d been running my mouth. WHOOPS)

1) The American Car companies have done the best job BY FAR of working with bloggers, twitter and other social media outlets. I give them serious respect for that.

Also: they did not pay me a cent for that opinion.

Also, Also: I want a muscle car now.

2) For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to get a DMV picture that looks like this:

The finger-guns? HILARIOUS. The DMV does not think so and I have thus far been rejected. Or, at least, my pictures always make me look like a knuckle-dragging mouth-breather (shut UP).

This is the best approximation I’ve found.

I’m sad that I do not have Rod’s angelic hair, but alas, one cannot have it all.

2) The first thing my family said upon seeing me was not, “Oh hi, Becky,” but “HOLY SHIT YOU HAVE TO GO SEE THE GUY IN THE THREE WOLVES SHIRT.” So, you should know, Pranksters, that the Epicness of the Wolf Shirt has followed me everywhere. I tried to get a surreptitious shot of me with the guy in the shirt, but was unable to capture it’s splendor.

The Wolf Shirt, it appears, is both elusive and mysterious.

3) It is probably a very bad idea to wear brand new boots to any place that requires walking great distances even if they are particularly kicky boots.

5) Churros are never, ever wrong.

8) The desire for swag appears to be universal. I find it slightly baffling.

Next year, you’re all invited, Pranksters. Let’s get a party bus. I’m so serious that it hurts.

Last summer sometime, I was doing my best Tom Cruise “Risky Business” impression in front of the mirror. I was probably singing some Neil Diamond (badly), warbling like someone was kicking a bag of kittens, as I prepared to go about my day. I’d just showered, you see, and nothing gets me in the mood to live life like singing some “Cracklin’ Rose.”

I’d gotten about halfway through the second verse when I finally looked back at my mirrored reflection, holding a hairbrush like it was a microphone, hair wet, butt-ass naked. My second story window was open, normally no big deal, since it overlooks my roof and not much else, (I’ve probably traumatized my share of squirrels)(so what?) but on this particular morning, I saw something horrible. Something I’d not seen before my shower. Something, had I not been screaming Neil Diamond songs, I would have noticed:

My neighbors were getting a roof installed.

I had an audience. An audience of men watched me perform Neil Diamond’s greatest hits, butt-ass naked.

Good times never seemed so good.

I did the only thing I could think to do: I waved. Then I slapped some clothes on and went downstairs. Whoops! My bad!

Later on, hoping they’d gone on break, I sneaked out of my front door on my way to do whatever it was that I was doing that day. Nope. Of course not. I smiled, red-faced as they chatted about me; at least they’d called me the “hot chick” with the “nice rack.” Clearly, they didn’t know that I spoke Spanish. I resisted telling them they had “small balls,” just because it seemed mean. Especially since they thought I had nice boobs.

I hadn’t given the incident much thought beyond, “close the fucking blinds when you’re naked, moron,” because really, what’s there to say?

Last week, in the middle of The Migraine, I’d had a contractor come out to the house to talk color choices for the new siding we’re getting installed. I’ll pause here so you can laugh at the notion of a colorblind chick with a migraine picking out colors for a house.

….

….

….

Done?

Okay.

Ass.

So, you’re probably wondering what the hell I was doing picking out anything that’s colored and going to be seen by the world and that’s totally fair because I’d wondered that myself. Or I did for about five minutes.

See, now, let’s suppose I invite you over for a delicious BBQ. I give you my address. You plug it into your GPS. But, if you’re like most of the world, you probably want a description of some landmark or something that’ll tell you that you’re at The House Formerly Known As The Sausage Factory, and my house is one of three different models in the neighborhood. Got to love the 70’s for it’s unoriginality. And shrubbery. What the hell was up with all of those BUSHES they planted?

Anyway.

What I would have said is this, “It’s the ugly yellow Colonial-ish one.”

And it is.

You couldn’t miss it if you tried, and believe me, I’ve tried. It is the only house in the neighborhood that has this particularly hideous color and if a shade of yellow can be offensive, this color is. Brown would be better than this color, and I hate brown like I hate digital alarm clocks.

I can honestly say that there was nothing in the contractor’s color book that was as bad as the color my house currently is. (although, there was a green shingle option, which I have spent a great amount of time thinking about)(a green roof?)(seriously?)(this is what keeps me up at night, Pranksters)

So I picked out an inoffensive greyish color and a black roof and white gutters because while I love garish colors, I’m not sure that my house should qualify as a “painted lady.”

The work should begin when it’s no longer Ass Cold, which means anywhere from tomorrow to July. Chicago weather is a fickle bitch.

It hadn’t dawned on me until today that it was possible to get the same contractors who had seen me traipsing around the bathroom like a fool last summer.

Guess I’m going to spend the rest of the day wig shopping.

Today, Pranksters, is the last day to vote for the 2011 Bloggies.

Mommy Wants Vodka and Band Back Together are both nominated, and I hate to ask you, but, uh, could, you please, uh, vote?

Dearest Aunt Becky,

Do I tell my boss that I am moving to Far Away City, USA on a Friday or a Monday? (I am moving for my husband’s job)

I have asked The People I Know and no one gives me a solid answer.  If no one can do it, then Aunt Becky surely can.

I’ve given this much thought, Prankster, and the proper answer is Friday. Because on a Friday, you can find people to go out and celebrate your new-found freedom with. On a Monday, people will simply say (dejectedly), “Oh…congrats,” and you’ll be lucky if you can find someone to come over for pizza because they have to work the next day. There will be no tomfoolery or mischief or shenanigans.

And Lord knows, that’s what you need when you’re about to move across country.

Hi Aunt Becky.

I was directed to your blog today by a friend of mine, and I saw your follow me buttons on the right side of the page, and well, I just have to say that I love them.  I was curious where and how you got them.

I hope you can share this with me, but if not, I totally understand.

Thanks

Dom

Dear Dom,

So, I have two sets of buttons on my sidebar, because one is, apparently, never enough, and WordPress doesn’t have a plugin that does everything I want, not exactly.

The one above is called Subscription Options and it’s simple to use and install. I did have to sign up for Feedburner in order to get the “email posts” option to work, but that seems to be the ONLY workable “email posts” plugin out there for WordPress that actually works.

I’d had another plugin installed here and Band Back Together that malfunctioned a couple of weeks ago. Instead of emailing everyone who’d actually signed up to have posts emailed to them, it emailed everyone who had signed up for the site. Classy!

This is the other WordPress subscribe option plugin I have installed right now. It’s called “fixed social buttons.” It’s good because it’s got all those annoying places you have an account all in a neat row. And, it no longer scrolls, which was annoying.

If you haven’t died of boredom (entirely possible), I hope that’s helped.

Dear Aunt Becky,

What’s that comment thing you have that emails me when you reply to my comments?

Dear Prankster,

This is another WordPress plugin called “WordPress Thread Comments” and while I directed you to the website with a link, it’s kind of in another language.

It’s a nifty plugin. WordPress does have a “nested comment” option already, but it doesn’t (I do not believe) email you the replies, which makes it less awesome than that plugin. The problem with that plugin is, as with all WordPress plugins, it doesn’t always work with every theme. I cannot make it work, for example, with the Mushroom Printing theme. That theme is glitchy as hell, though.

That’s WordPress for you.

I hope that helps. I’m not much of a “computer person.” I also don’t know why I used quotes on that, but now that I did, I don’t feel like going back to fix it because my mouse isn’t working and I don’t know why. Perhaps I should write to myself and ask.

The first time I got a blog troll, I ate a celebratory cupcake and washed it down with a tall Diet Coke on the rocks. It was probably, in hindsight, a spammer (just like my first comments , which I think I framed somewhere, were) but I didn’t care. I’d made it! Someone, somewhere hated me!

Then, I got someone who copied bits out of my blog posts. Actual bits of my posts removed and pasted onto hers, like it was no big deal. Someone else, a watchdog, alerted me. My daughter had just been born ill and I wasn’t about to deal with it right then. Talk about bigger fish to fry. I like to think I would have fist-pumped, though, and perhaps celebrated with a tasty bowl of edamame or a wee Uncrustables.

Later yet came the loon who created several blogs composed of entirely stolen posts filched neatly from other bloggers, myself included, who I did fight. Google claims they shut her down, but I don’t care to check because I don’t want to drive her traffic up. I still have, somewhere on my desktop, screenshots of all of your comments on her blog, just because they were so full of the awesome, by the way.

You don’t fuck with the Pranksters.

Since that first Internet Mole Person (troll), I’ve gotten a handful of others.

Generally, they make me laugh.

There are weeks when they do not.

Like anyone, I’m a person, and I have bad days, and bad weeks, and sometimes I say and do the wrong things. In fact, if I had to describe my blog, I’d say something like, “THIS is where I bow to the alter of my wrongness.” I don’t have a publicist or an adviser to tell me not to do something because, uh, why?

This week, I’ve gotten a couple of nasty-grams that hurt my feelers. I know we’re “supposed” to pretend like it doesn’t matter; like we don’t care, like it doesn’t hurt our feelers when people call us names or insult us, but it does. Of course it does.

Like it or not, this is my life.

Certainly, it’s my steaming pile of guts spilled here, my wrongness on display, and my inconsistencies on the table to be judged and if I don’t like it, I can absolutely pack up shop and go somewhere else. That’s the answer, right? To delete my blog in a stompy flourish? Go back to being Becky, In Real Life? That’s how to handle hurt feelers?

Not so much. At least, not for me.

Blogging is an act of bravery. When you put yourself out there, especially waaay out there, you stand a very real chance to be very hurt or very disgusted by human nature. The farther you stick your neck out, the worse the inevitable hurt will be.

What I think is worse than anything are the people who get you entirely wrong. Because you’re left standing there stuttering, “but, but, BUT, that’s not what I meant AT ALL.”

These are the sort that make me sort of question myself in a way that I seldom do (perhaps I should): Did I say it wrong? WAS I wrong?

And most importantly: why the hell do I do this at all? I see that typed out here, on my screen and it looks like I’m being all 15-years old and dramatical feet-stamp *woe is me, OH NOES* and I’m (for once) not.

I mean that genuinely: why do I do this? Why do ANY of us bother?

It’s certainly not for the billions of dollars in my bank account that still haven’t been deposited, nor is it for the notoriety and free swag, or to be able to tell someone that “I blog, and it’s really, really cool.” Because I swear, if I told someone that, they’d be all, “um, huh? Did you just insult me?”

No. It’s not for that. It’s because it all matters. Every word I write matters. To me. These words are what define me, what make up my life, and what bring me joy. Whether or not someone else finds them and finds joy in them too is inconsequential because it brings me joy. I write because I love to. I write because that is what I do. I write because it matters.

Everything we do. It all matters.

My Dad: “We found a new place to park that’s much closer to the front of McCormick Place.”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “It’s all street parking. No meters!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “Paying for parking is bullshit!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “It’s also much, much closer to the entrance! NO WALKING!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “The best part?”

Me: “…”

My Dad: “It’s in front of Cabrini Green.”

Me: “…”

Me: “The housing project? From Candyman? I almost got killed there once.”

My Dad: “I hope you’re ready to do some jogging!”

Me: “Uh.”

My Dad: “You know how I hate paying for parking, Rebecca!”

Me: “I didn’t bring a semi-automatic weapon, Dad.”

My Dad: “Well, you probably won’t get mugged. It’s day time!”

Me: “…”

Me: “I’ll buy parking today, huh? MY TREAT.”

My Dad: “It’s the PRINCIPLE, Rebecca.”

Me: “Well, how about this? I’ll drop you off in front of Cabrini Green and you can walk! That way, you feel like you got free parking!”

My Dad: “Well, if you’re paying…”

I’ve been joking that “purple should be a flavor, dammit,” for as long as I can remember. I probably got the idea from somewhere else, I can’t be certain.

I used to have a blog theme with a changeable tagline, probably intended for people to say things like, “Mommy Wants Vodka: The Best Gosh-Darn Blog Ever,” but I’d change mine to say things like “Mommy Wants Vodka: Now THAT’S Fucked Up,” and then, “Mommy Wants Vodka: Encased Meats Are The Two Finest Words In The English Language Besides ‘Hooray Beer’,” because I am classy and that is what classy people do.

Someone recently said that “her name tastes like purple” because she’s got Synethsesia, a neurological condition wherein the activation of one sensory stimulation automatically evokes stimulation from a second sensory pathway. Basically, using one sense (touch, taste, hearing, smell, sight) stimulates another sense. My Metal Head friend Scottie once, while very, very intoxicated, informed me that he could see the music coming from the speakers.

So, there you have it.

Synethesia.

It’s kind of a neat way of looking at things, although, of course, I don’t have it. I just like to put together words in unusual ways. When I’m not here, I write groups of essays that I will one day put into a larger collection. A “book,” if I may. And watch dancing cactus videos.

Fucking love dancing cacti.

Today, Pranksters, I’m off to the Chicago Auto Show, probably annoying The Twitter with tweets like, “Wonder if I can steal a fucking car and run these assholes OVER,” because, well, obviously.

And I’m offering you a chance at immortality.

My friend Jimmy, who makes tea, (it’s his hilarious ad on the sidebar) and sent me a story to cheer me up yesterday about how he was once beaten up by a gang of Jewish guys dressed up as the Pope, wants to do something for you. I laughed, of course, because I knew it was probably true.

So anyway, now that I’ve explained what an asshole *I* am because I laughed at my friend who had been hurt by a group of Jewish thugs dressed as the Pope, here’s your shot at immortality, Pranksters.

He wants you to describe your perfect tea blend. Maybe it’s a green tea with rose. Or maybe they want unicorn blood and the tears of angels. Either way, for the randomly selected winner, I’ll do my best to create the blend and then I’ll even put a photo of themselves on the tea created.

Your own tea blend WITH A PICTURE OF YOU. You could probably make him put a picture of whatever. I mean, the ad picture is Mr. Sprinkles, my fake dead cat.

(oh, and he gave you all a free shipping code: ShutYourWhoreMouth )

Mine might look like this, for example:

Although, I’d want him to use this picture:

Because I’m still laughing at it.

(modeling agencies, CALL ME)

So, HAVE AT IT, PRANKSTERS. You can be IMMORTAL.

P.S. Make him work.

P.P.S. Modeling agencies, CALL ME.

P.P.P.S. I cannot wait to see what you come up with.

Yesterday, I woke up and Billy Motherfucking Mays was all:

IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY, YOU DIRTY SLUT, SO GET YOUR LAZY BITCH-ASS UP AND GET READY TO FUCKING SPARKLE ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.

When Billy Motherfucking Mays is the first voice in your head in the morning, you shut your whore mouth and you listen.

Gingerly, opened my eyes and thought about my plans for the day. I had an appointment with my neurologist who looks, incidentally, like he stepped off the set of a spaghetti Western somewhere (I’ve diagnosed him with GERD)(gastroesophogeal reflux disease)(he should really get that taken care of). Over by the neuro was the mall. At the mall were STORES. At the stores were PRESENTS. Presents for ME.

Today, I thought, was going to be a very good day indeed.

I sat up. Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger!

Then, in an alarming fit of poor judgment, I stood up. Whoops! My bad. My legs felt like wobbly stumps, thanks to the migraine and Imitrex. Well, shit. Hard to take on the world without properly functioning legs.

I hummed “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far,” as I made my way to the bathroom. All right, I cheered. I got my fucking sea-legs.

When I looked in the mirror, this is what looked back;

Woah. That’s hot. I should probably become a model or something.

(BARBIZON, BE A MODEL, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

I tried to scrub the ugly off my face but it just wasn’t happening. The Ugly Cry has it’s aftermath.

I wobbled down and drank some coffee, giggling at all of the anti-VD Tweets (I have other holidays I feel similarly about) and tried to peck out a post. I’ve been writing in the mornings for so long that if I don’t, I feel like I’m missing an arm.

But I couldn’t.

I was wobbly in the head, too.

Billy Motherfucking Mays piped in:

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND WRITE A GODDAMNED POST, YOU LAZY DRUG-SEEKING BAG OF WIND.”

But luckily, Bob Motherfucking Ross was right behind him:

“Happy Clouds, Aunt Becky. Focus on the Happy Clouds.”

I tried to see those happy fucking clouds and write my goddamed post at the same time and I just couldn’t do it.

Then it came to me. I needed to go where I’d never (willingly) gone before to do something I’d never (willingly) done before: look at laptops.

We all know that my technical knowledge begins and ends with I push a button and the Magical Elves in the Email Machine come alive! So the very notion going to a computer store for the express purpose of looking at computers for myself is as laughable as me painting my kitchen with my tongue.

Normally, I only go to Best Buy if ambushed:

Daver, My Dad, or My Brother: “Oh HEY there, Becky/Rebecca/Stumpy, let’s go to MCDONALDS!!”

Me: “OOOOOOOOH CHEESEBURGERS.”

(I get into the car like a rube)

Me: “HEY WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S NO CHEESEBUR…GAH, OH MY GOD THE BLUE AND THE YELLOW AND FUCKING SHITBALLS IT’S SO BRIGHT IN HERE. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. HALP ME HALP ME HALP. MAKE IT GO AWAY.”

Daver, My Dad or My Brother: “You think you’d learn, but you never do.”

Then I hover, invading their personal space, until they get fed up and leave. Alternately, I insist that they buy me something exorbitantly expensive. Like a pony.

To actually want to go to Worst Best Buy is the equivalent to hell freezing over. But I need a lappy and I don’t have a lappy and every time I try and look for one online, this is what it looks like,

And then I get really annoyed because there are so many fucking NUMBERS and I don’t actually CARE about most of them so then I go and watch Dexter mutilate people and feel better until I realize that I still should figure out which laptop I am going to buy because, hi, this staying home all day bullshit is making me twitchy.

Also: I need to take the Internet away from Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg because it’s time for a GIRL to be in charge. I need to RUB MY VAGINA on the internet, Pranksters, but I have to be able to be MOBILE to dominate the world and shit.

I proceeded into Best Buy after perfecting my GET AWAY FROM ME GEEK SQUAD look in the mirror.

See, if you don’t watch out for them, they sneak up on you and the next thing you know, you have to hear a sermon on why you should buy their stupid anti-virus protection or whatever, but you’re just standing there, mentally rearranging their features kinda like Mr. Potato Head but geekier. So you have to be wary of them. Very wary.

I snuck to the back of the store where the keep the lappy’s hostage, ogling the desktops as I went past.

And there they were: row after row of laptops. Finally, I could stop obsessing about my inability to decide and just fucking decide already. This was too tedious, even for me, to obsess about.

I rolled my eyes at the tiny netbooks. I didn’t need no stinkin’ netbook. Child’s play.

And there it was. A light, a beacon of light, shone down and I saw exactly what I needed. A laptop that said, “hey world, I’m a fucking blogger. You’d better take me and my 17 inches of swinging death seriously or I am going to go all CPU (whatever that means) on your ass. I’ll punch you in the throat if you don’t take me and my oversized screen and too many memory chips and stuff fucking seriously because I am a blogger and this is an absurdly awesome computer.”

A laptop that was absurdly absurd. Too much computer. WAY too much computer.

Just like I like it, baby.

Just as soon as I sell a kidney, Imma get me a fucking big ass 17-inch MacBook Pro. So I can go all (insert a bunch of nerdly phrases that I don’t understand here) on the Internet’s Ass. I’LL SHOW ZUCKERBERG WHO’S BOSS.

Just as soon as, uh, I get it. And stuff.

SO TAKE THAT, ZUCKERBERG. In um, a, um, couple of months…and stuff, I’m going to take over the INTERNET.

#BOOYEAH

I was all Happy Pants this weekend. I had this awesome post planned out for you today because it’s VD-Day and I love Valentine’s Day like I love Diet Coke and Uncrustables and anyone who can use the phrase “soft palms” as a put-down.

I love Valentine’s Day like everything I love: in an unnatural, slightly creepy way. I’m not even about romance. It’s just the red and pink and sparkles and hearts and *swoons* and normally I take the day to buy myself something extravagant and unnecessary just because I can. That way, I’m never all SAD PANTS if no one else gets me a candy heart or whatever. Nope. I just swoon over my diamonds or ridiculous purse and sigh happily because it’s just a good day.

Then, last night, just, well, okay, let me back up.

Last week was kinda a clusterfuck. You read my blog, anxiously checking for updates, refreshing your browser over and over again in the hopes that maybe, just maybe I’ve decided to pollute the world with more of my garbage, or I’m going to pretend you do, because obviously, my feelings were wounded enough last night.

So last week, I broke my tooth while sleeping. HILARIOUS.

Then, I got a double ear infection the very next day. Not quite so hilarious.

Then, because I am lucky, I got a migraine.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that I get My Grains. They started in my early twenties and by the time I popped my daughter out (I was 28), I had one every day. Every single day. I may exaggerate some things (especially my hatred of Mark Zuckerberg), but My Grains aren’t one of them.

They also aren’t particularly funny. Upon occasion, I’ll bring them up here on my blog, but generally, I try not to because, well, I don’t know, it’s not something I like to talk about very much. They’re not very interesting and what’s to be said beyond, “man, I hate them,” or “man, this is really hard some days,” or, “man, sometimes, it’s hard to feel anything but sad about them.” It’s not worth it to get into that stuff because it doesn’t make me feel any better to say it. It doesn’t make you feel better to read it. And in the end, they just are.

I’ve been fortunate to have found something that helps stave off most of the migraines. The break-through ones are normally managed by another drug. Where I run into problems is when I have something else happen.

Something else like, let’s say, a double ear infection and a broken tooth.

Here’s what happens: I get a migraine and I’m all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER and sometimes, it goes away.

Sometimes it doesn’t and I’m still all YOU CAN DO THIS, EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, and then it still doesn’t go away, and then it’s off-hours, so I wind up in Urgent Care weeping, begging them to lop off my head.

That’s what happened last night and why I’m not telling you about the worst date of my life which is what I’d wanted to tell you about because, well, obviously.

I broke down and went to Urgent Care, which is like, the last place I ever want to go because I’m not interested in dying of Typhoid Fever or whatever infectious disease the patient before me had. But I knew they’d give me a shot in the ass of something and I had an appointment with my neurologist today anyway, so it was a win.

In fact, when I went in, I said, “I have an appointment with my neurologist tomorrow at 11 AM but I am in so much pain that I cannot think,” or something like it.

I didn’t say this:

“I want hardcore narcotics now.”

or this:

*breezily, examining nails* “Um, I want Vicodin. Lots of it. I have “pain” or something.”

They gave me a shot of Imitrex (I hadn’t had it before) and it made matters worse. Suddenly, my head weighed eighty-five-niner pounds and my neck and shoulders hurt and holy shit I felt worse. I started crying. The Nurse Practitioner, who had been a total bitch to me beforehand, sent the actual MD in to see me.

He came in, poked around a little bit and then started talking a bit about “clinic policy.”

I was a little slow on the uptake because, well, I was trying to figure out how to support the weight of my head and I couldn’t exactly see straight, thanks to the blinding pain. Also: I’m pretty stupid to begin with, but that goes without saying.

So while I’m trying to figure out if I can fashion a sling for my neck out of gauze, he tells me that he can’t give me a prescription for pain killers because I’ve been to Urgent Care for migraines three times in the past year.

Oh.

I.

See.

So, they think I’m a drug seeker.

Pranksters, I nearly died. Not in a funny way, either.

I talk a good game and I love a good joke about Vicodin as much as the next person, but frankly, I’m not addicted to it. If I were, I highly doubt I’d be talking about it here. Addicts are pretty secretive about their addictions and I cannot tell you the last time I used narcotics to treat my headaches (I did have some after my surgery). Why?

They can cause rebound migraines.

The very last thing I wanted to do was cause myself another fucking headache, trust me on that.

And as the adult child of two alcoholics, I will tell you that being labeled a “drug seeker” right there was probably the worst, most humiliating thing that has happened to me in a long time. That’s probably the one label; the one thing you could call me that would make me feel like I felt as I walked out of there. I still feel that way right now, actually.

I feel humiliated. I walked out of there, head as high as I could, and the moment I got into the car, I burst into the sort of tears that I cry once in blue moon. Harsh, body-wracking sobs.

Pain is an asshole. It’s supposed to be the 5th Vital Sign, yet so many doctors are afraid to treat it because they can’t see it; measure it; quantify it; run a lab test on it; put it in a neat little box. Chronic pain wears you down. I’m tired of it. It makes me sad that that I’ll probably never go back to any Urgent Care/ER again for fear of being treated that way again. I’ve gotten this treatment from my pharmacy and the asshole nurse at my GP’s office before; et tu Urgent Care?

I wish I had any fist-shaking, teeth-gnashing or manager-calling I could do, some way that I could turn this around, some lesson to be learned, but really, there’s nothing to be said or done.

They have their “policies” to hide behind to protect them. I’m a nurse. I understand.

But I’m not a drug seeker. I just wanted treatment. It’s a shame I can’t get it.