(note: all artwork is original and should be revered as such. Perhaps you can say a prayer or do a dance or something when you see how epic it is)
I came down, yesterday, from putting my daughter down from her nap. I took a cursory glance at my sons, and was all, “Hey Guys,” and started to walk away in search of more dancing cat videos to soothe me. Also: a mop to try and remove the goo that my sick daughter had left all over me.
I noticed something.
While this is what I expected to see:
That Devilish Imp!
Without, of course, the washout from the front door or the grainy pixelated quality of iPhone pictures. My son is not pixelated. NONE of my crotch parasites are pixelated.
This is what I saw.
My brain exploded everywhere.
I stood there, jaw flapped open before I began to holler furiously.
Because then I saw this:
After I stuffed my brains back into their cavity, I realized that there was only one guy to call.
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.
Billy Motherfucking Mays.
Now, if you know anything about me (note: you shouldn’t), you should know that I fucking love Billy Motherfucking Mays.
When I use Oxyclean, the voice in my head SOUNDS LIKE BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS. That’s comforting because I miss BILLY MAYS. A lot.
See, Pranksters, BILLY MAYS and I were BFF (best fucking friends) until he had to up and die on me. I’m still not over his death, but when I use his product, HIS VOICE SCREAMS IN MY HEAD, and it’s a little better.
The couches, I saw, they were a job for BILLY MAYS and OXYCLEAN. A job powered by ANGER and CAFFEINE.
I turned on my iPod and started in on them.
“All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom of the Opera came on.
Me: *grumble, grumble* “GOD, this is a crappy wedding song. Why do people choose the worst songs to dance to as their First Dance?”
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.
BILLY MAYS: “THAT’S A BULLSHIT SONG, ALL RIGHT. MY WIFE AND I DANCED TO THE THEME SONG FROM THE SMURFS. NOW HOW’S THAT OXYCLEAN TREATING YOU? REMOVING YOUR STAINS? MAKING YOUR WHITES BRIGHTER? MAKING YOUR LIFE BETTER?”
Aunt Becky: “That’s kind of weird, BILLY MAYS. Even for you.”
*time passes*
Aunt Becky: “HOLY SHIT. I CAN’T FEEL MY FINGERS.”
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.
BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS! FORGET ABOUT YOUR FUCKING FINGERS, YOU SNIVELING WHORE. HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?
Aunt Becky: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH ABOUT THE FUCKING STAINS, BILLY MAYS. I HAVE NO FUCKING FINGERPRINTS!”
BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS!! HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?”
Aunt Becky: “The worst part is that you’re in my head. And the BILLY MAYS in my head doesn’t care about my fingerprints being seared off by an Oxyclean bath.”
BILLY MAYS: “YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND SCRUB, WOMAN. THOSE STAINS AREN’T GOING TO UNDO THEMSELVES. BRIGHTER WHITES!”
*time passes*
BILLY MAYS: “JUST WORK ON YOUR COUCH, YOU FUCKING NIMROD!”
2 hours of work, 2 rolls of paper towels and 2 bowls of Oxyclean later, this is what I got:
Don’t recognize it?
(BILLY FUCKING MAYS DIDN’T EITHER)
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl
That’s my daughter’s handiwork. It’s done in Pink Sharpie. On my couch.
BILLY FUCKING MAYS couldn’t touch that shit, ALTHOUGH HE GOT THE OTHER MARKER STAINS OUT.
Some day, I hope to auction this particular self-portrait off for many millions of dollars. Momma needs a yacht. And some new fingerprints.
Although having none could really launch my Life of Crime. Then I could by my OWN yacht. Wait a second…this idea is BRILLIANT.
After reading your blog for a while, I know you’re familiar with The Crazy. Since I don’t know a lot of people personally who really get it, I’d love your advice on recovery. Long story short, I have a great life – wonderful husband, three amazing daughters, the opportunity to stay home full time, etc.
BUT.
The past two years have been bullshit. I developed anxiety/panic disorder while pg with baby #3, which I’m still dealing with. I’m better than I was a few months back, thanks to therapy and meds, but life events have not helped at all (the biggest one being the death of my 6 yr old niece, who was born with a terminal illness.) I have to fight with phobias and hypochondria on a daily basis. Of course, I feel guilty to complain since I know there are others who have been dealt worse cards – but this is MY Hell, so it sucks shit through a straw to ME. I still don’t feel like “the real me”, and I’m not sure I ever will.
I’m sick of it. I want my life back. So I ask you, as someone who has been through a similar process: What advice would you give someone who is hoping to get themselves back is the New Year?
Thanks for listening,
Mermama3
Oh Prankster, I so get it and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wish like hell shit wasn’t so fucking hard sometimes. I’ll spare you the platitudes because they’re bullshit and if you wanted one, you could get it crocheted on a pillow or something. Sometimes, life is just fucking tough. And then, when you think it can’t get worse? It totally does.
It’s an asshole like that.
Luckily, eventually it stops and you learn to roll with the ups and downs because, well, we’re adaptable.
But you, you sound like you’re on your way to where you need to be. You’ve realized that there’s a problem which, as we all know, is the first step. It SOUNDS trite, but it’s not. Pinning down what it is that’s wrong is hard – harder than people give proper credit. So props to you for that.
Acknowledging that I was sick to fucking death of pretending I was someone that I wasn’t was huge for me. Mentally ditching all of the excess baggage, all of the old ties I didn’t need to people who didn’t deserve my love or loyalty, examining my relationships to see them as they really are, those were all things I had to do to figure out who the fuck Aunt Becky really is and what she stood for.
It sucked.
A lot.
But it was also kinda empowering. Because knowing I was able to fix this, that I could actually control my own happiness and fix my own emotions; that’s a big revelation. I was in charge of my happiness. I was. Me. Your Aunt Becky. In charge of her happiness.
I started with small things.
An orchid plant or three. Some time in my garden alone with my headphones. My phoenix tattoo (that was like 64 kajillion sessions). Creating Mushroom Printing. Then Band Back Together. Getting my hair cut. Walking around Target alone for half an hour. Taking a long drive.
Small things. Small things that made me happy.
I’ve done a lot of crying, too. I can’t believe my eyeballs haven’t exploded, actually. Somehow, I’m still here. More or less intact. You’ll make it, too. I promise. I’m so sure that I made you something. Something to help you along the way. No one should have to walk through The Shit alone when there’s so much good in the world. I know that because I see it all the time here with my Pranksters and over at Band Back Together.
Go on, go see it. All of you. It’s for everyone – bloggers or not – to join.
You will find yourself again. It may take a lot longer than you’d like and it may suck a lot harder than you think is fair, but you’re in there. I know it.
So, Pranksters, do you have any advice to offer? I know that she and I are not the only two people in the universe who have been in this situation before. How have you found yourself after you’ve been lost for some time?
This is what brought people to my blog today, in the wee hours of this morning.
Jimmy Motherfucking Wales!
Jimmy Wales, founder of Wikipedia (that’s probably how he probably signs his checks)(I sign mine, Becky Sherrick Harks, Mummy Hunter Extraordinaire, ESQ)(don’t judge, Pranksters), it appears that I am not the only one who has a problem with your “I’m Judging You As You Search Wikipedia For ‘Vagina Itch'” eyes.
(here’s my aside: why don’t you get a puppy to stare cutely at me instead? I’d be more inclined to give money to a puppy than to you.)
Once a year, every year since dinosaurs typed out blog posts with their wee dinosaur hands on their gigantic Stone Age laptops, I do a Meme. Generally speaking, I do not like Memes. I do not think that my Pranksters give a fucking shit how I best like my coffee or what is in my purse right now. HOWEVER. I am compulsive. And since I do this every year, I do this EVERY YEAR.
1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
Lost my marbles and managed to find them all again. I also got a phoenix tattoo on my back that I’m incredibly proud of (although it’s not yet finished).
They call me Miss Site Master Ma’am, I call them schnookems.
I also went to Las Vegas for the first time. You can see how excited I was by this particular picture. You might want to get up and dance around the room because you will be unable to contain your own excitement upon seeing this photo.
Ready?
…
…
…
…
…
…
Aunt Becky can Party
2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I wrote this last year: “2010 is going to be the year Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back. And hopefully, her fucking figure too.”
Done and done.
And as far as the New Year, we have a project in the works on Band Back Together that we’re putting together.
In the end, I hope that 2011 will bring me less bullshit and more happiness. More orchids and less backstabbing. More writing and less email. More cowbell and less synthesizers. Clearly.
There’s always room for cowbell.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My food baby just kicked!
More interesting, I birthed MY FIRST VIDEO!
4. Did anyone close to you die?
I’m trying to think of the happy, Meme.
5. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
A disco band and a rock star husband.
6. What countries did you visit?
Las Vegas is considered a country, right?
7. What date from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:
Meme, I’m on The Max (Topamax). Dates were the first thing to go.
I guess I’ll choose July 28. My new birthday.
Okay, let me explain. I had to change my date of birth. Turns out that my first DOB, July 15, it’s kinda cursed. After I ended up in Urgent Care for like the 34th birthday in a row, I decided that I was done with that birthday. So I chose a new one!
HAPPY NEW BIRTHDAY, AUNT BECKY!
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Creating Band Back Together is probably what I am most proud of. Having a safe place for people to share their stories about really, anything, even the good things in life, ALONG WITH the resource pages (some of which, of course, still need to be created), so that the reader may find the help that they need, I think that was something that was needed.
Also: we pulled a John C. Mayer on the Internet. That was fucking rad.
OOOH! And how could I forget this! MY DIRECTORIAL DEBUT!
9. What was your biggest failure?
I did NOT get molested by the TSA, even though I tried really, really hard.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I always hate to answer this one positively because I feel like I’m tempting fate to drop a piano on my head or something. I had abdominal surgery in November. Does that count?
11. What was the best thing you bought?
That seems braggy and slightly obnoxious. I bought new abdominal muscles. They’re nice, if you’re into that kind of thing.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Everyone who has been brave enough to contribute to Band Back Together.
Also: every person who nominated me for a Bloggie last year. I don’t need to tell you that being a finalist for Best Humor Blog was the biggest honor of my (blogging)(possibly adult)(okay, not possibly, FOR SURE) life. Thank you.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
OH LOOKIT, A BLUE CAR.
I’m kidding. I don’t actually remember having a real beef with anyone this year. I did, however, realize that I was holding onto some old friendships that I probably should have let die awhile ago. I let those go.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Um, Meme, we clearly need to have a talk. Isn’t money a particularly tacky topic of conversation, especially on blogs?
Unless, of course, you want to give me some, in which case, OBVIOUSLY NOT.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
I’m not a record producer. I don’t “discover” anything. However, I do love music. The new Santana album is pretty full of the win.
28. What did you want and get?
A discernible waistline. Unrelated, many cups of coffee.
30. What was your favorite film of this year?
*scratches head*
Um.
Shit.
I don’t remember.
I’m going to make up a new question:
Where are your pants?
I have no idea. Pants are bullshit.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I went to Urgent Care. No. Fucking seriously, that’s what I did after I went off on a rant on The Twitter about how much clothing sucks these days. Because SRSLY, metal embellishments can kiss my fucking ass.
Then, I decided to change my birthday to another day of the month. My mother, the one person who might have a say in it (she did, after all, pop me out of her vagina on that date) completely agreed with me that the day is cursed.
I celebrated my birthday instead in Las Vegas in December. I was 30. I am beyond happy to be 30.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
This:
Swarovski Toilet
33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
First half of 2010: “Holy shit, why did the 80’s come back? Holy shit, does complaining about fashion make me old balls? Holy shit, don’t answer that.”
Post-abdominal surgery 2010: “My abdominal binder brings all the boys to the yard.”
34. What kept you sane?
Um, I write a blog on The Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I haven’t been “sane” in years.
35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.
36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Butter-side-up or butter-side-down?
37. Who did you miss?
I’ll always miss my friend Stef. She passed away in 2007 at the age of 26 due to complications of chronic alcoholism, leaving behind her two sons.
38. Who was the best new person you met?
My Band of Merry Pranksters.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010:
It’s time to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, AUNT BECKY.
40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
(God, that seems so MySpace/Emo).
First, I’d like to quote this very, powerful and meaningful song. I think you’ll agree with me that this may be the most important song of our lifetime:
“C is for cookie.
That’s good enough for me.
C is for cookie.
That’s good enough for me.
C is for cookie.
That’s good enough for me.
(cue guitar solo)
Oooooh! Cookie cookie cookie starts with C.”
And one more…for the road:
“Ring your bells that can still ring,
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”
—————-
The rest of the meme says I should tag some people but, eh, I don’t like lists. They make me twitchy. Mostly because I’ll forget someone and then, then I’ll feel sad in the pants.
INSTEAD.
I’m tagging each of you. If I can do one Meme a year, SO CAN YOU, Pranksters. DO IT. It’s full of the awesome. JUST like 2011 is going to be. Even if I have to beat it into submission and make it my fucking bitch.
Happy New Year, Pranksters. If I you need me, I’ll be hiding under my bed until it’s officially the New Year. There are still a couple of hours yet for an anvil to drop on my head.
You shift uncomfortably in the ottoman as you check the time on your iPhone and note that the doctor is now forty minutes late. You try not to think about all of the barf germs that you’re now merrily collecting on your favorite ugly pajama pants as your daughter, the one with curls like a halo begins to pull on her shirt, the one she insisted upon wearing, indicating that she, too, is highly annoyed and would like to take off this shirt and GO HOME, thankyouverymuch.
Your toddler son is engrossed in a game of Angry Birds on another iPhone but stops his game for a couple seconds to cough that worrisome I-smoke-three-packs-a-day cough that’s sent you all on a field trip to the doctor in the first place. You frown but quickly turn it into a smile. Even with this annoying bout of what you think is bronchitis, everything is just as it should be.
You are happy. Finally.
You think about the first time you were ever in this pediatrics office; nearly two years ago now. Your new infant daughter tightly clutched in your arms, the frightening MRI images of her precious head on the computer, the referrals to the new neurologist – one who will take your insurance – and you remember how you wept. In public. Again.
You remember those horrible, heartbreaking days well, although the colors are fading into the background, the sights and sounds and triggers all fading into a dusky shade of their former vividness.
You won’t forget. Ever. You know that on your deathbed, you will remember, as those are days you can’t forget, but now, they’re losing their power.
Life is moving forward.
You think of the year that seemed like it was never going to end. The year ends tomorrow.
Certainly, there will be new dragons to battle, but for now, you stand with your daughter, the one with curls like a halo, proud and triumphant over the bodies of the fallen dragons.
A smile plays on your lips as you think of what’s to come. Of the people you’ll meet and the people you’ll learn to love. Of all of the things that you’ll do with the next 365 days. This year, you know there is hope because there is always hope.
The doctor finally comes in and greets you by saying, “I can hardly believe you’re the same people!”
And you smile and laugh, because you know just what she means.
I wanted to thank you for your incredible display of warmth and kindness on my post about autism. When I say things like, “I’m honored to know you,” I’m not being a hokey ball of cheese, I mean it. I’m incredibly lucky to have such an amazing group of Pranksters in my life. Thank you. To everyone who commented, tweeted, emailed, or read the post, I thank you.
Historically, it’s been hard for me to talk about autism and how it affects us because I simply don’t know what to say about it. As so many of you said (and like so many other disorders, diagnoses and conditions) it’s not the same sort of disorder for everyone, but because it’s so prevalent in the media, everyone is an expert. That makes it difficult when “experts” like Jenny McCarthy and the guy down the street want to lecture you on the danger of dioxin because they “know” better than you do.
Simply put: they don’t.
But when it’s something that’s so close to your heart, no, when it’s PART of your heart, it’s not something you just want to lay out there for Rando Joe Schmo to trample on.
I was wrong.
Because it dawned on me as I read all of your incredible stories what power we have. Each of us. What a unique platform we have at our disposal.
Before, if we wanted to be heard, we had to write a book, hope it was interesting enough to get picked up by a publisher (whose bottom line was, of course, big fat dollar signs) hope that the book was read by enough people to be considered a success and then maybe, just maybe, we’d be heard by the Right People. Newspaper and magazine articles went through a similar process, only to be read by a smaller audience. The common denominator was that people had to pay money to access the words you wrote, IF you were enough of a success to be published at all.
But in the era of self-publishing, it simply doesn’t matter what your pedigree is. People who’ve never written a single word can start a blog with a few keystrokes (see example: Mommy Wants Vodka) for free. It costs nothing to read the words I write. Not a cent. Sure, you may pay for your internet connection, but that’s different.
You know, Pranksters, I’m not a fan of self-centered blog “ZOMG BLOGGING IS THE BESTEST!!!!!!!!!!” circle jerks, but I’m constantly amazed by how unique our platform is.
We can give a voice to those who have none. We can give a face and a name to things you’ve never heard of. We have power to do so much good.
People read us to connect with other people, not the cold, clipped, polished words in a magazine. Our blogs have the human element that would be neatly left on the editing room floor of any newspaper. We’re too raw, too unfiltered, and too real. But it’s our flaws that make us interesting and our pain that binds us together.
If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know what a neural tube defect is. You also know my daughter, Amelia, was born with a very rare one called an encephalocele. It’s likely you hadn’t heard of it before you met Your Aunt Becky and her daughter Amelia. I’d learned of neural tube defects in school and I knew of encephaloceles…but typically in conjunction with Chiari Malformation.
Now you’ve all heard of it. You know that THIS girl had one:
Amelia Grace
Over the past two years, I’ve given encephaloceles a voice. And a face. This is what an encephalocele looks like.
Amelia's Scar
The Shirt Says It All
Sparkle Princess of the Bells
Through my blog, I’ve met people who have been prenatally diagnosed with encephaloceles. I’ve met adults with encephaloceles and other neural tube defects. I’ve become a March of Dimes Mom. I’m planning a resource website for those with encephaloceles because none exist. I’ve become an advocate and a voice for encephaloceles.
I became a voice because it was the right thing to do.
You just reminded me that it’s still the right thing to do. Now it’s my turn.
So this is me, Your Aunt Becky, encouraging you to speak your truth. Stand up tall and proud for what you believe in. Give a voice to those who have none and a hand to those who may not think to ask.
Pull those skeletons out of your closets and make them dance the motherfucking tango.
What follows is not a particularly joyful post. If you want something pithy, click here.
———-
Ben ran away last week.
I didn’t tell you about it because it’s hard to talk about autism on my blog because there’s always someone whose best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s girlfriend knows this guy who knows this girl who knows this kid who has this brother who has autism, too. And SHE heard that removing gluten AND standing on his head for sixteen hours a day made him normal again.
That’s awesome for that family, truly, I’m happy. But like any other condition, there’s a million different variations and this is MY kid we’re talking about here and this is our story. And, I should add, I DO want to hear about your children and your stories, Pranksters. I do. I promise.
Why, Aunt Becky, did your son run away? I can hear you practically screaming at the computer monitor, cup of coffee clenched in your hand as you shiver with antici…..
….pation.
The answer is: I don’t know. HE doesn’t know. All I know is that he decided, upon returning from my mother’s house where he had been spending the morning while I worked, that my (technically also his) house was bullshit and he’d rather not come home and so he took off.
His brother informed me, “Ben ran away,” and assuming Ben had just stomped off to his room, I wasn’t terribly worried.
Until I couldn’t find him in his room, slouched petulantly in either car, holed up in the basement reading a book or lurking around the exterior of my house.
It was then that the blind panic set in. I drove down the street, the bitter taste of adrenaline coating the back of my tongue, as I looked left and right, hoping to spot my son somewhere; anywhere.
I found him, his mop of dark hair a stark contrast to the white snow, a body all elbows and knees, trying to cross a busy road at the edge of my subdivision.
I pulled over and hollered at him to get into the car, and he did. He peered sheepishly at me through eyelashes as long as his sisters as he buckled his seat belt.
For once, I was at a loss for words. I just gaped at him.
I drove us home and still, I said nothing. I didn’t even know what to say any more. I knew where he was going and why. I know my son well.
Rejection started when he was born. I waddled into the birthing room as one and a mere twenty-four hours later, we were two. The nurse helped me get him to my breast, and I swear I’ve never seen a more pissed off baby. He launched his gigantic head atop that tiny neck backwards, nearly toppling off me, clearly disgusted that someone might even SUGGEST such an uncivilized thing as BREASTFEEDING.
Breastfeeding didn’t work. Bottle-feeding only worked if I didn’t hold him. I’d put him in his bouncy seat and sit next to him, holding his bottle as he watched anything but me. The guilt was tremendous. Maybe Ben sensed my inherent evil or something.
My mother didn’t help. “I’d NEVER let a baby sit on the floor while taking a bottle,” she’d say to me as I fed my child. But I’d already tried to cuddle him closely, only to have him scream like I’d poured molten steel on him. Maybe she’d never let her baby lay on the floor to feed him, but Ben was not her baby.
The older he got, the worse I felt. The pain was exquisite. It was compounded when I enrolled in school full-time to earn my nursing degree while working part-time as a waitress/bartender over the weekends as I didn’t see my son much.
He didn’t care.
I, however, cared very, very much.
My heart shattered each time I’d stop and think about The Situation With My Son Ben. I was rearranging my life for this tiny boy with a shock of black hair so thick it looked like a wig and he hated me.
These were the days, you must remember, that autism was not commonly discussed. No one walked, ran, drove, pledged, or otherwise attempted a “cure.” ASD, PDD, SPD weren’t on the lips of every mini-van driving soccer mom. In 2003, when Ben was diagnosed at age two, I was on my own.
I was also relieved by that diagnosis. Autism.
The concept of autism didn’t send me reeling, I guess, because I’d already been reeling for so long. Knowing all that rejection wasn’t because I was an evil soul-sucking wench of a mother was such a relief that I cried. Then I stopped making it about me and got my kid into therapy. Loads of it.
Autism is, after all, just a diagnosis. And a diagnosis is just a word. I wasn’t going to let that word rule my life.
And I haven’t.
The pain of rejection, though, that never seems to go away. I love my son just as he is with every inch of my heart. I always will.
I sat there, my heart hurting and my hands numb from the cold as I drove the two of us home last week. I sat at my computer trying to eek out a half-hearted Christmas post, forcing jollity out of my fingertips. I sat there trying to pretend I was okay, that the pangs of rejection didn’t burn brightly in my chest, and I remembered that sometimes, as my throat burned with threatened tears, it’s okay not to know how I feel.
It’s okay to wish that it was all different somehow.
Then, my first son, Ben, without whom I would be nothing, approaches me with open arms and says, “I love you, Mom,” and I know that even if I never understand any of it, it’s all just as it should be. And that hasto be enough.
In one of my favorite pictures of Young Aunt Becky, I’m wearing a flower in my hair. It’s not surprising that I’d have a flower in my hair, as my parents are fucking hippies and all that, but it was only recently that I identified that flower: it’s an orchid.
For those of you not playing along at home, I’m a little obsessive about my orchids. It’s not that I’ve named them and have wee little orchid dresses and suits painstakingly knitted for them that I change them in and out of, but that’s only because I can’t knit and the last thing I tried to name was a cat I was fostering that I named Little Cat. You can guess why.
But my favorite memories as a child involve being in a greenhouse somewhere or another (there are a shocking amount of greenhouses in the Chicagoland area); the smell of green, alive things filling my nostrils while the warm humidity curled my hair. I didn’t have a particularly happy childhood, so those really were the best of times, and the holidays always bring back the worst of it, that feeling of being on the outside, looking in. I wrote about it on Band Back Together, because, well, obviously.
Since I still live in Chicago where the temperatures range from Ass Cold to Ass Hot, and we’re clearly in the middle of an Ass Cold spell, I haven’t had much need to visit the greenhouse in a couple of months. And because Ass Cold lasts somewhere until mid-July here in Chicago, I didn’t expect to be visiting one until then.
Your Aunt Becky was sad in the pants.
Then, I found this video of Amelia eating a lollipop, for the first time, right? She was probably about 8 months old and it was about the most hilarious thing ever and I’ll have to upload it somehow for you because DUDE, HILARIOUS BABY.
BUT.
In the background of the video, I can hear my three-year old son, Alex going on and on about going to the orchid greenhouse. He’s begging to go there.
He, too, loves greenhouses (I wrote about it here). He loves the garden and flowers and plants and digging in the earth and I’m looking forward to taking him to the Chicago Botanic Gardens some day soon. Clearly, I’ll wait until the ground isn’t covered in a thick blanket of snow and ice. Because I might as well save myself a trip to the North Shore and take him out to my backyard.
That video had given me an idear. We all know Aunt Becky doesn’t often have idears, so when I do, it’s important that I actually inform someone that my brain made a thought. So I did.
And that is how I ended up taking my three-year old son to the orchid greenhouse yesterday.
This isn’t your mom’s orchid greenhouse – presuming, of course, your mom HAD an orchid greenhouse. This is four acres of swinging death orchids in various stages of growth, all of which you can peruse and enjoy at your leisure. If you’re into that thing, which I TOTALLY am.
Alex ran inside, begging for an orchid of his own, a smile stretched ear to ear, the only three-year old on the planet who could properly identify varying orchid species.
They Call Him The King of the Orchids
It’s likely he’ll never know why I was a little misty-eyed by his delight at the orchid greenhouse. It’s likely he’ll never understand why having a connection to his great-grandfather is so important; that knowing where you came from is half of where you’re going. I can tell him, but he won’t understand that the same blood courses through both of our veins, just as it always has, uniting the three of us.
All he will understand is that while he ran through, yelling “HI ORCHIDS,” the orchids seemed to bob and wave, in an almost-human way they’d never done for me, as if to say, “Why hello there, Alex. We’ve been waiting to meet you.”
And it was then that my heart finally took flight.
In an effort to distract myself from the horrible sadness that always falls upon me right about…NOW every Christmas, I decided to check the sites that refer other people to my blog. It’s not something I really pay attention to very much because, well, obviously, and it’s kind of boring. But occasionally, it’ll lead me to some rad blogs I didn’t know existed.
Today, though, it lead me somewhere else.
Back to my very own about.me page.
You don’t know what an about.me page is? Me either. Not really. But I saw someone on The Twitter talking about it a couple of months ago and I was all IMMA GET ME AN ABOUT.ME PAGE, YO to my mirrored reflection. I didn’t know what it was then (it was in beta, which I think means “super awesome”) and I had to wait until this week to be told, “your about.me page is ready, yo.”
Then, I was all, I GOT AN ABOUT.ME PAGE, YO, and everyone was all, what the hell is an about.me page, Aunt Becky? And I was all, *shrugs* I don’t read fine print. I thought I’d figure it out when I got there. Which is my motto for life.
About.me was all, look at these other deep/meaningful profiles to help you make yours, Aunt Becky, except they weren’t like actually talking to me because that would be awkward. So I did, because obviously, and I was all, UGH, really? Because I am anything BUT deep/meaningful. And frankly, if you want someone to click on your profile, you should probably put something fucking INTERESTING on it. Calling yourself a “social media anything” is decidedly not interesting.
I think you can click to enlarge. If you can’t, CLICK THE LINK and it’ll take you to my actual about.me page.
Anyway, it’s clearly not something you should ever take seriously.
So I signed up and mostly forgot about it. I’ve been excruciatingly busy this week and really, I couldn’t figure out what to do with it beyond open it and laugh.
Upon checking my referrals, though, I noticed something FRIGHTENING. About.me had more referrals to my blog than “John C. Mayer,” “sweater kittens,” “boring things,” and “sweater boobs,” COMBINED. I swear to you, Pranksters, I haven’t laughed that hard in weeks. Somehow, people are landing on my about.me and finding their way here.
Sometimes, I really, really love the Internet.
Merry Christmas, Pranksters. From my about.me page.
And this guy:
And who could forget this lovable chap?
Why, it’s Mr. Sprinkles, my fake dead cat! That charming scamp! That lovable lout!
And speaking of charming:
Alex and his Cupcake shirt, FOR THE WIN!
Benner and his picture smile.
And my daughter, Amelia, who has reminded me that even in the darkest darkness, there is always light.
I really don’t know what I did, what with my exceptionally sparkling personality and rapier wit but I just can’t seem to get the woman to like me. Which is unfortunate since I have fifty-gajillion prescriptions to pick up each week.
But because I have an issue with people not liking me for no reason whatsoever, it actually bothers me. Let’s rehash, for those of you just tuning in.
Take One.
Back story: my daughter had just been born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect called an encephalocele, which mean that part of her brain hanging out of her head. There were three weeks in between the diagnosis and the neurosurgery that would fix this. Those three weeks were hell. I was on some anti-anxiety medication for the first and only time in my life (I’m not actually very anxious). This was me trying to call in a refill.
Me (voice shaking): “Hi, uh, this is Becky Sherrick Harks, and I need a refill on my Ativan. Er, the genetic stuff. Whatever it’s called.”
Her: “No.”
Me: “Whhhat?”
Her: “You can’t have it.”
Me: (bursts into tears) “I need it.”
Her: “Your insurance won’t authorize it.”
Me (crying): “What?”
Her: “It’s the way the doctor wrote the prescription. You can’t have it.”
Me (misunderstanding and crying): “I can pay out of pocket. Whatever I need to do. I can’t do this.”
Her: “No. See your doctor wrote the prescription to say “three times a day.” And at that rate, you can’t have a refill until Wednesday. Three days from now. (satisfied)You. Can’t. Have. It.”
Me: “Oooh.”
Her (smugly): “See? You can’t have it.”
Me (openly weeping): “I really need it.”
Her: “Call your doctor then.”
(hangs up)
Now, the first time I wrote about this, I think I called it “The Reason Women Drive Their Babies Off Bridges,” because there was a saga with my asshole OB, too. The whole situation was a mess. I was deeply in the throes of PPD and could have used an advocate. The pharmacist was doing her job, I get it (my dad is a pharmacist, too), but being a huge bitch wasn’t part of it.
I’ll never forgive that coldness.
Take Two
The next time I dealt with it was a couple of months later, when I started to get chronic daily, soul-sucking migraines. It’s a long sorted story, but essentially, I started off taking Vicodin and tapering up my Topamax dosage until I didn’t need the Vicodin any longer, because, well, of course. But for awhile, I had to take Vicodin every day to function. I don’t anymore. Thank Baby Jesus.
Me: “Last name is Harks.”
Her: (glares)
Me: (stares)
Her: (glares)
Me: (stares)
Her: (glares)
Me: (stares)
Her: (glares)
…
…
…
…
Her: “Fine.”
(um, was I going to be all, “since you glared at me and clearly disapprove, I’m just going to go ahead and say, “fuck it,” and go away?” I think not)
She finally hands me the Vicodin and Topamax prescriptions while giving me the hairy eyeball. I stare back, meeting her glare, pay and leave.
Rinse, repeat, ad motherfucking NAUSEUM.
It got to the point where The Daver wouldn’t pick up any prescription that involved narcotics because he got tired of her glaring at him.
I’ve never been happier to not need narcotics before.
(oh, and right before my surgery – thanks to my neck and shoulder issues that required some pain pills the month before – she convinced my surgeon that I was a drug seeker, so he told me to take Tylenol. Yeah. Thanks. Bitch. Because really, that’s not your fucking business.)
Take Three.
Over the weekend, The Daver coughed so hard that he dislocated his shoulder. While I found this to be a little hilarious because I’m the person who broke a door carrying a Diet Coke, I also found this worrisome. He’d been coughing for a couple weeks and clearly this was a problem.
At midnight, after he started wheezing and having a hard time breathing, he went to Urgent Care. Bronchitis. Got steroids, antibiotics and a breathing treatment.
Sadly, The Daver hasn’t gotten better, so off he trundled to the doctor yesterday, who gave him another course of antibiotics and more steroids. I was underwhelmed because Daver on steroids = HULK SMASH DAVER. But whatever.
Us, picking up his prescriptions:
Him: “I have two prescriptions for Harks.”
Her: “I canceled them. They were duplicates.”
Him: “What?!?”
Her: “Yeah, they were exactly the same as the last thing you got.”
Him: “No, they weren’t. They’re from a DIFFERENT doctor on a DIFFERENT date.”
Her: “I canceled them.”
Him: “I need those prescriptions.”
Her (smugly): “Well, I called your doctor and he agreed to cancel them. They were duplicates*.”
(sidebar, that’s what she did when my surgeon called in some pain pills for me. She called him and had him cancel them because I already had pain pills for my shoulders, rather than hold the prescription for me to be filled at a later date.)
Him: “But…um…huh? I needed those prescriptions.”
Her (smugly): “Well, you can’t have them. Call your doctor if you have any problems.”
*that’s a lie.
Of course, I called the doctor and got the prescriptions reinstated at another pharmacy because, obviously, but holy ballsack.
I get that she wants to be all assertive and make sure that The System isn’t being abused, but I don’t think that The Daver’s about to sell his antibiotics on the black market. I mean, I guess he could be running an undercover-drug ring, but I somehow doubt it. He lacks the Drug Dealer Gene.
There’s always hope for Amelia, though. Hopefully, Playmobil makes a Drug Dealer Advent Calendar next year for her.
