What follows is not a particularly joyful post. If you want something pithy, click here.

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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 has to 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.

Just saying.

Because I take myself very seriously, this is what I came up with (my clickable about.me profile)

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.

Merry, Merry Christmas, Pranksters.

So my pharmacist kinda hates me.

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.

I’m not a particularly good gift giver.

A couple of years ago, I noticed that my family was merely FEIGNING delight at the gifts I was thoughtfully bestowing upon them at Christmas. Now, maybe it’s because I shopped on Christmas Eve at 11PM at Walgreens and bought my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, who is ten years my senior and a raging yuppie this gem:

(he’s not a mother)

and my father a pair of these:

(he doesn’t have pierced ears)

And everyone else cans of mixed nuts (2 for $6!) or discounted boxes of birthday cards OR sympathy cards that had been beaten up so badly that I had to tape the sides shut so their contents didn’t spill out onto the floor. I mean, EVERYONE likes cards and nuts…right?

Apparently notsomuch.

So. I started ASKING people what they wanted for Christmas rather than trying to guess the night before at a crappy pharmacy chain while strung out on too many cups of coffee. It’s a lot MORE boring and LESS (motherfucking) jolly that way.

If you’ve read my blog or my The Twitter stream you know that I’m a little, uh, well obsessive about my habits.

I’m compulsive, okay? It’s charming, really, if you like people who will stay up all night for weeks on end learning about something new because they have no other choice. It’s like an itch in my brain that I have to scratch because I simply can’t ignore it. It’s always there, tapping at the side of my skull until I give in and just DO IT.

I’d make an excellent alcoholic, if only I actually liked to drink. Alas, I do not.

Instead, my habits range from the boring to the exceptionally boring. I write. I blog. I am the site master of a couple of sites. I plan to start another one.

I also grow orchids. In Chicago. In the dead of winter.

My Orchids Bring All The Boys To The Yard

That’s my kitchen table, by the by. Most of those orchids were bought as tiny wee babies and lovingly grown by Your Aunt Becky to the monsters that they are. They’re also blooming out of season right now which makes me BEYOND happy in the pants but that is neither here nor there.

On my mother’s birthday in September, I happened to be in Lowe’s Hardware store buying something or another to combat the black spot on my roses when I happened to walk by their orchid table. Normally, Lowe’s orchids suck. Their grower is terrible. I know this because I am obsessive and have nursed orchids I’ve bought from there back to health.

But this was a NEW grower. And it was my mother’s birthday. And she is singularly the WORST person to buy for. She has everything and wants nothing. She hates crap.

So I was all, I SHOULD BUY HER AN ORCHID, BWAHAHAHAHA, SHE’LL NEVER WANT THAT BUT IT’S BETTER THAN THE FUCK-NOTHING I HAVE FOR HER.

And I did.

And she loves it.

So for Christmas, I was all, “Okay Mom, what the fuck do you want, because you suck to buy for and I don’t even want to GUESS what you want.”

And she was all, “I want another motherfucking orchid, yo.”

Except maybe we didn’t use those words. Except maybe we did. You never know in my family.

On Sunday, I was all, “Hey Dana, Imma get my Mom an orchid at Lowe’s. It’s gonna be wicked. Wanna go?”

She was all, “SURE.”

So we went. Because when you need an orchid, you need an orchid.

First things first, we saw this gem and I HAD to buy it.

Epic Motherfucking Wreath

The ugliest wreath on the planet.

Then we headed to the orchids. I didn’t immediately see anything besides poinsettias (UGH) in the plant area, which made me a little nervous. My heart rate quickened as I frantically combed the shelves. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Until I saw the, “these are the plants we don’t care about and are selling for a dollar” area. THAT’S where they were hiding the orchids.

Dana took a look at them and said, “Uh, Becky, those look dead.”

For Whom Does The Orchid Bloom? It Blooms For Thee.

I responded, “Um, they’re not dead. Just not blooming.” Which does not a Christmas gift make. Luckily, they’re just fine with me. I bought four. For a dollar. That’s BEYOND a deal. I went home and Mr. Burns-like cackled over my deal.

I’m still sadly out a Christmas gift for my mother. Maybe I can just frame one of my epic soul portraits for her in a couple of weeks.

BETTER YET, I could get one made for her. I bet she’d LOVE it. Or disown me.

Whatever.

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Let’s do another blog carnival, yo because that was fun as hell (I’m going to neglect my baking to read it all later). I put another link widget below. Or you can answer in the comments if you want. Or not at all.

Are you a good gift-giver – holidays or not? OR MAYBE: what’s the worst gift you’ve ever gotten?

Life lessons are all around us.

Why, just look at this advent calendar that I bought for my 3-year old son, Alex. When I saw it, I got in front of the mirror (doesn’t everyone talk to themselves in front of the mirror?) and said, “Aunt Becky, you must teach this boy how to properly become a thug. Since the whole “Becky From The Block” thing didn’t work, maybe it’s time to let someone else take over. LIKE THIS ADVENT CALENDAR.”

Mostly, I want him to make millions of dollars so that I can have a Scrooge McDuck-like vault so that I can swim around in coins and colorful gemstones. It’s a goal of mine to have this vault in my house and clearly this whole “writing” thing isn’t going to work out for me so I have to exploit what I have.

MY KIDS.

Ben is too straight and narrow, so Alex it is.

I’m starting slowly. He’s only three, but still, it’s never too early to start him on a life of crime.

Why, just look at those fancy coins featured front and center on the advent calendar box! Who WOULDN’T want to own fancy, shiny, beautiful coins? And screw working for it! Let’s ROB BANKS! It’s an invaluable lesson.

But wait. Um.

Dude is on a BIKE. Who robs banks on a BIKE? That seems a little…dumb. Come ON, Robber. Get it TOGETHER.

Also, you’ve taught my son another valuable lesson: ALWAYS wear a disguise while robbing a bank. Those Wanted Posters are EVERYWHERE. If you look like your Wanted Poster and rob banks on bikes, you’ll get caught.

My son and I went over this in excruciating detail. Why? We can learn from the mistakes of others.

The Robber in action. Also: the Playmobil figure.

You’ve taught him well, Playmobil. Thank you. When he is a world famous bank robber, I hope that he can look back on this Advent Calendar as the pivotal moment in his life.

I will just look back at it as an excellent investment as I do the backstroke in my vault of coins.

Never shy, I swam up to the semi-circle of pregnant ladies in my prenatal water aerobics class noting that while they were all a good deal older than me, they all looked reasonably friendly, and introduced myself. “Hi,” I said cheerfully. “My name is Becky, and I’m 6 months pregnant with my first son, Ben!” I don’t know if they spied my lack of wedding ring or were put off by my age, but not a single one responded to me. I might as well have spoken in tongues or have burped the alphabet.

While my situation wasn’t perhaps ideal, I wasn’t sorry and I wasn’t about to apologize to anyone for it. But just as soon as I joined the semicircle, I quickly found myself wedged out of it, treading water just outside of the group. It was the playground all over again. Looking back on it, I told myself that I must have imagined it.

Three years later, my new husband and I walked into a roomful of parents at back-to-school night for Ben’s new preschool and took our seats, smiling happily. We’d not had a lot of other chances to interact with large groups of other parents before this, and while we were nervous, we were both very excited. Oddly, as we sat there among them, we noticed that we were receiving a number of unfriendly stares.

Trying to shrug it off, we listened to the director of the Montessori school lecture us, before we broke off into our volunteer groups to discuss what we were going to do for class projects. My husband and I split up and I headed over to my group.
Happily, I introduced myself and tried to make small talk with the other members of the group. Slowly, I realized that as I stood there nodding and smiling with a big stupid grin on my face, no one was actually talking to me, and I was being edged out of the group.

The circle closed with me clearly on the outside and I stood there for a second, still nodding like a fool. I tried to edge my way back into the group to no avail, but eventually, I gave up. Thankfully, I wasn’t in a swimming suit this time but I wondered why no one wanted to be my friend.

Confounding matters was my son, who was autistic, which made playdates with the few friends that we had tricky. The snide comments about the things he’d eat, or the meltdowns he’d have or the way he’d behave broke my heart. Yes, he was in therapy and no, he wasn’t like their children, and while I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, it was hard and it was lonely for a long time.

So really, it’s no surprise that when I drop my son off at school, I’m always waiting for the crowd of pitchfork-wielding parents to emerge from the playground to yell “get back in the car, Infidel! You don’t belong here.” Much as I’ve shed the insecurities of feeling like I’m a stranger in a strange land, I have a terrible time feeling like I’m an impostor of a parent when I’m around other parents.

Three children later, I realize that it’s clearly time to get my act together. I cannot allow the past events dictate the way that I live my life as a mother because I’m not an insecure person and I’m not an insecure mother.

I’m putting on my battle armor and getting myself out there so that I can meet other parents in the flesh. Time for me to join The Mommy Club. I’ve done an amazing job doing it through my blog, so I know that I’m not that defective, but I’m just not quite sure where to meet other parents without looking like a freak. I can’t exactly size up a potential New Best Friend by staring at her for the whole hour at story hour without scaring her off and perhaps landing me a fancy restraining order.

Couldn’t really blame her there.

I wonder if it’s this hard for other parents to make friends. I don’t have leprosy or gaping pustules dripping from my face, and while I certainly do have faults, they’re not the sort that one would notice off the bat. But it’s time for me to face my fears and deal with them.

I’m sure I’ll be excluded from plenty more parental circles and that’s okay because I’ve learned to make sure that anyone who ever wants to join my group of friends is included. No matter what.

But, I guess I’ll make anyone with leprosy wear a mask.

I was watching some Law and Order: These Kids Have It Worse Than You, So Man The Fuck Up, Aunt Becky when the holiday commercial with the Hershey’s Kisses came on. I’m sure you know it. It’s been on since I was a kid and I haven’t been a kid in a long time.

You have to know the one I’m talking about: the red and green and silver kisses play, We Wish You A Merry Christmas. It’s really sweet and festive and it always makes me happy in the pants and not because I’m all that fond of chocolate. Because while I do have a vagina, I’m not someone who orgasms at the thought of chocolate. Dexter, however…but alas, I digress.

But I sat and watched the commercial and realized how UN-happy the holidays were making me this year. I’m the last person under twelve who loves the holidays and I was sitting there on the couch moping about Christmas. The happiest time of the motherfucking year.

I couldn’t even tell you why I was moping. Certainly I had no REAL reasons to be feeling acutely sorry for myself. Of course there are things that have gone wrong for me in the past couple of weeks, but there are more things that have gone right.

So I did what I always do: I promptly bitch-slapped myself. It was time to trim my fucking tree, deck the halls and be merry and bright. If I had to use toothpicks and elaborate putty makeup to do it, I was going to slap a smile on my face and fake it ’til I made it.

I love the holidays. It’s time to start acting like it.

So here’s what I’m going to do.

FIRST, I’m going to give you a video of my daughter. Laughing. I captured the Elusive Frat Boy Amelia cracking her own ass up. It’ll make you laugh. In under two minutes, she’ll make you laugh. (ignore the crap on her face. We weren’t planning to shoot a video)

She’s my clone. I swear, I was doing the same thing a couple of weeks ago.

NOW, I’m going to add a Mr. Linky at the bottom where YOU can add a link to your own post about something that made you laugh or smile. You don’t have a post like that? WRITE IT. In fact? Why not write a new one? Write about something that makes you happy. If you don’t have a blog? Leave a comment. Write it on Band Back Together or Mushroom Printing. They’re both user-submitted blogs.

Whatever.

Let’s FLING GLITTER and be MERRY! Tomorrow, we’ll continue our blog carnival. Why? WHY NOT.

Don’t make me send Amelia over to fart on you. She totally will, you know.

P.S. All of my shirts (including the Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts and everything else on the site) are 20% off with the code holiday2010.

Dear Pranksters,

I find it odd to admit to you that I have friends, especially friendships that have lasted for more than a couple of months, but alas, it is true. Two years ago, I met Mrs. Soup. I only know it’s been two years because we have daughters the same age. Avi Soup is Amelia’s age. They’re also twins.

I can only tell them apart because her kid has more teeth than mine.

Kathy is also my age (30)(okay, she’s like 28 or some shit, I don’t know, WHATEVER, but she’s not like 90).

This is Kathy:

Now you know she’s not like 90 or something because LOOKIT HER and the FAT BABY who is not mine but looks a hell of a lot like it.

Also in that picture is her husband, Ryan.

Ryan is 27.

Ryan had a stroke on November 30. I know. I KNOW.

In the middle of the night, she woke up and he was in the throes of a stroke. No prior warning, no other health issues, no nothing. Just…BAM.

Everyone’s worst fucking nightmare.

I saw it happen on Twitter and promptly freaked the shit out because HI, THAT’S MY FRIEND AND THAT’S HER HUSBAND AND I KNOW WHAT GOES ON WITH THEM BECAUSE I TALK ON IM TO HER CONSTANTLY. But, of course, it wasn’t about me.

Ryan, her husband, is okay. He’s out of the ICU (last I heard, which was a couple of days ago) and moved to a rehab facility to help with his recovery. Kathy is back at work part-time and has moved back in with her parents to make ends meet.

Her blog has more information on it.

Occasionally, instead of talking about my ass, I can use my blog to do things like ask for prayers. Because Kathy? Kathy is the kind of person who has prayed for me. Without asking, she’ll pray for me and it always makes me feel fucking better. Because that’s the kind of fucking friend Kathy is. Also: she doesn’t say the f-word much, which makes me laugh, because occasionally I can coax it out of her, which makes it better. And I love her for it.

It’s my turn.

Pranksters, can you pray for my friend Kathy and her husband and her Mimi-lookalike-daughter-Avi? I know that she’d love it if you did. Just send her some love and some prayers and some light. Please?

I’ll bribe you with a Mimi video or something if you do.

Okay, so this is Kathy and her blog and you should visit her and least send her some love. RT her blog, FB it, Stumble it, whatever it is you kids do these days. I don’t know of anyone who could use some prayers and love more than her. She’s a beautiful person and her soul is golden and if you tell her I said that I’ll punch you in the taco.

(one of my friends has an etsy shop and all of her proceeds are going to benefit Kathy and Ryan Campbell. That’s fucking* awesome)

Love you madly,

Aunt Motherfucking Becky

*I threw in all the f-bombs for you, Kathy. xo

Every year, right around March, I’m all, “IMMA MAKE AWESOME CHRISTMAS CARDS NEXT YEAR!” I get these really grand ideas like, exploding firecracker Christmas Cards and Christmas Cards that sing “Rock Me Amadeus” and maybe just cards that feature my family dressed up in totally weird outfits. Either way, my ideas are FULL of the awesome.

Then I forget about it.

Or, I don’t really forget about it, I just don’t remember that it takes some level of PLANNING to execute holiday cards and I’m not known for my fine attention to details. Like, for instance, I never own stamps. Because, OBVIOUSLY, stamps are bullshit.

So I haven’t sent Christmas cards in like 7 years. But every year I’m all THIS IS GONNA BE MY YEAR. JUST LIKE THE KIDS ON AMERICAN IDOL.

(it never is)

This year, I was considering sending Valentine’s Day cards. It’s kind of awesomely different and really, wouldn’t you like to see MY smiling mug on YOUR Day To Shell Out Lots Of Money To Take Your Loved One Out For A Cheesy Overpriced Dinner?

(don’t answer that) (really, I don’t think my ego can take it)

Then, I found the most perfectest solution. Better than a Valentine’s Day Card, I’m going to commission one of these. With a friend that you all know, too. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one.

From the amazing, awe-inspiring Celestial Soul Portraits.

I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am. I’m going to frame it and put it in EVERY ROOM OF MY HOUSE. And over my bed. And in my car. And on the side of my car. I might even buy a van and have it spray-painted on there.

I’m weeping with possibilities.