In order for this to make sense, you have to read this post first.

Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

…

…

…

Done?

Okay.

So, that plan didn’t quite work out. I shouldn’t have expected it to.

Let me back up a moment.

I’ve been in terrible pain for so long that I cannot remember when I wasn’t. I’ve had daily migraines since Amelia was born, something that I’d had off and on before that. I take a drug called Topamax (I lovingly call it “The Max,” when I’m feeling especially jaunty) to treat them, but it leaves me feeling a bit blurry.

The muscles spasms I have in my back, neck and shoulders are relatively new, and they trigger the migraines that The Max once blurrily held at bay. Through a mixture of muscle relaxants, pain medication, and daily chiropractic appointments, I’ve managed to keep them decently under control.

The pain has made me excruciatingly depressed. It makes me feel broken that “something is always wrong” with me. My friends tease me about it. I hate it because deep inside, I fear that they’re right. I’m irrevocably broken.

Because nothing can go according to plan, it’s no surprise that the surgeon took one look at my breasts and said that while they were, in fact, large, the insurance company would deny my reduction. It wouldn’t be enough tissue removed to meet their arbitrary criteria. I could, of course, fight it, appeal it, and in the end, perhaps get it covered. But, he also warned, I’d also probably want a lift and restructuring of the breast as well, not just a removal of tissue.

I saw dollar signs add up and I knew he was right.

I’d also gone in to talk about an abdominoplasty, which, in non-medical terms is a full tummy tuck. I’d heard you Pranksters talk about having both done at once and figured that I might as well, since I was going in for a reduction that I was certain insurance would pay for, see about having that done at the same time. Or really, just see what that was about.

We all have Those Things that we hate about ourselves. Maybe you hate your hair or your nose or your feet. I hate my gut. Always have. I was blessed with a pot belly and I’ve always planned to have it removed…eventually. No matter how skinny I become, I can’t lose it from there. Drives me bonkers.

The surgeon palpated my abdomen and discovered that the three babies that gestated in my short torso had done a number on my abdominal muscles. I’d suffered diastasis recti, or the separation of the abdominal muscles, which was weakening the core muscles of my body.

It made sense.

The surgeon wasn’t pushy about the surgery at all. He didn’t promise a miracle cure or that somehow my symptoms would miraculously improve overnight. But between what he said, my nursing/anatomical knowledge, and my symptoms, I felt that it made sense. Yes, it will be partially fulfilling my lifelong dream of having a tummy tuck, but also, and it’s a shot at me trying to get better.

I’m having surgery next week on Wednesday. I’ll be having the full abdominoplasty, not simply the outpatient cosmetic one, which means I’ll be in the hospital overnight.

Frankly, Pranksters, I didn’t want to post about this.

I’m nervous about the procedure and I know that there will be enough people reading this who don’t agree with what I’m doing. Whenever you open up about some health-related thing on The Internet, there’s some faction of people who are all, “YOU SHOULDN’T DO THAT, YOU SELFISH HEATHEN,” and really, I don’t need to hear it. This is my decision and my body.

To those of you who feel it’s important to come and attack me for my choices: I don’t have to ask permission. If you do not like what I am doing, that is absolutely fine. I don’t ask that you like it. I ask that you respect it as my choice.

But as my Pranksters, I know that you deserve the truth.

The Internet Mole People that will invariably come and shit all over me can suck it.

And to the person who said that I am proof that bad things happen to bad people? You can eat a bowl of hot dicks, baby.

Under the best of circumstances, I sleep like a hot bag of dicks. No, I don’t actually know what that’s supposed to mean because I’m tired.

It’s not like I lay awake worrying about things like normal people. No, I lay awake night after night with that Do-Do-Do-Do A Dollop of Daisy commercial going through my head. Or the Dora the motherfucking EXPLORER theme song. It’s an endless loop of irritation that seems to inflict the maximum amount of annoyance for the minimum amount of effort.

Last night, however, in a blissful turn of events, I was tired. Like bone-tired.

Happily, I curled up like a tic in my blankets and prepared for the blissful embrace of sleep to overtake me.

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK

Whaaaa?

I pried my eyelids open and sat up, dismayed. It sounded as though someone was rattling the door, trying to get in. Probably my cat, I grumbled, as I got up, preparing to boot him down the stairs.

Opening the door and squinting into the bright lights of the hallway, I was shocked to see…nothing. No orange tabby stupidly looking up at me as if to say, “What, me annoying?” Harumphing my way back to bed, I once again curled up like a bedbug and closed my eyes. Just as I was munching my way to dreamland on a delicious marshmallow sandwich…

THWAP THWAP THWAP

What the fuck?

Again, no dazed-looking orange cat, no NOTHING in the hallway. Just a rattling door.

After the fifteenth time, I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to let any rattling door distract me from my delicious marshmallow mountain-top slumber. So I carefully turned myself into a nice fire hazard and pushed a number of things against my door.

It worked…sort of.

All night, my bedroom door rattled, the windows shook, and every time I fell asleep, THWAP THUNK THWAP

Finally, at 7 in the motherhumping morning, while the kids slept peacefully (lucky assholes), I heard the ominous sirens.

Thar be tornadoes afoot.

Grabbing the small ‘ens, my iPhone and a Diet Coke (you know, the ESSENTIALS), we headed to the basement.

This is what I pulled up from Weather.com, after typing in my zip code (I live in Chicago):

Gee fucking, THANKS. I need to think about ITALY now.

Then, I noticed this priceless bit of information. I mean, I couldn’t live without this at 7 in the morning when I was stuck in the basement waiting for a twister to suck me up and dump me off in Kansas somewhere:

We can find out about the fish. And what they’re doing today. PHEW.

WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE FISH!?!?

And then there was THIS gem:

If you’re in the fucking tornado, why are you uploading shit to YouTube?

Douchebag.

Then, I was happy in the pants to note SOMEONE had finally busted out the Scare Tactics. FINALLY. Fucking FINALLY.

It wasn’t quite “Stairway to DANGER” but it was good enough for me.

Then, the tornado looked for more mobile homes to uproot. Sensing that St. Charles did not, perhaps, have any, it moved on.

But we’ve been left with a Gusty Bags of Wind Alert.

Which pretty much means that shit can get fucked up most of the day.

Also: by the end of this, Kansas may not be in Kansas any more.

I hadn’t realized just how long I’d allowed myself to stagnate. Maybe I had and just hadn’t wanted to realize it, I can’t be sure. But the process of purging most of my closet forced me to really stop and take a look at just what it was that I was holding onto.

The answer is: nothing.

When I “became a grown-up,” I tried to live my life the way that I thought a grown-up should live. I never bothered to take into consideration that despite my age, the number of crotch parasites scampering about my feet, and my mortgage, underneath all of that, I was still Your Aunt Becky. The product of two alcoholic parents, I’d never had someone to teach me how to be a grown-up, how to live a life where I was responsible for anything beyond a fish tank, so I made a mash-up of what “grown-ups” did in my mind and I did that.

It never worked for me.

I’m not the person that can hold onto twist-ties “just in case” because I’ll end up storing them in the toilet tank. Extra crap stresses me out. Always has. And yet, because holding onto “just in case” stuff was one of those things I thought that I should do, I did it for years.

Undoing that has reminded me of all of the other things that I’ve been doing simply because I felt that I should.

Every single thing that I remove from my house reminds me that I’m moving on to start my own new life as Your Aunt Becky, not as who I think I should be. While it’s undeniably a positive step, there’s a lot of grieving I’ve been doing along the way.

I suppose this type of purge removes stuff from your mental closet, too. I’m pulling out all of my skeletons and teaching them the motherfucking tango. My skeletons, in turn, are teaching me the waltz. It’s a fair trade, I think. I have to learn from my past or I can never move on.

And I must move past this Waiting Place; this stagnant place I’ve found myself in.

So much of what I want to do with the rest of my life relies on outside forces and while I’ve set the wheels in motion, I have to simply sit back and wait. I’ve been waiting for so many things for so long. I’m ready to move on with my life.

The Waiting Place is a terrible place to be sometimes.

I’m ready to move on with my career, or at least, make one for myself. I’ve got the tools at my disposal, I’ve got the dedication and Lord knows I have the drive, but I’m stuck waiting on outside forces to allow me to move forward in such a manner that I can do something with it.

The Waiting Place is exhausting me.

So instead of focusing on the negative, I’ll see what other tricks my skeletons have to offer me; what else I can learn from them. Something will come to fruition, it always does. And if the past is indicative of the future, it won’t be anything like I’ll expect.

I hope that The Waiting Place soon turns into forward movement.

It’s what I want. It’s what I need. It’s what, eventually, I’ll get.

Once, I’d guess, my dance repertoire is complete.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I need your help. But before I go into details I must warn you that my husband is extremely stubborn. Very stubborn. Like a mule.

When we were dating and considering marriage and parenthood, I made it clear that I wanted three children by the time I was 30. This was very important to me as I am an only child and I didn’t want my children to be lonely like I was. Early on, we had two children in less than two years. He also has a son from his first marriage, but rarely get to see him.

Because I was pretty busy with two little ones and working full time, 30 slipped past. At 32, I was diagnosed with cancer. The treatments were likely to cause menopause and the doctor suggested harvesting eggs to use at a different time. I was too shell-shocked to consider that, but my husband did. We opted not too as that would be time-consuming and my cancer was aggressive needing treatment quickly.

Fast forward a few years, I’m in remission and not in menopause. I’m past the obligatory waiting period to have children safely. I also no longer work and am a stay at home mom full-time. I have a raging case of baby fever! My husband does not. I have begged and bargained with him and he’s not budging. I told him how I was clear that I wanted three children. I would like one more and even volunteered to have a tubal done after a healthy baby is born.

Still not budging. He says that he has three kids and that’s enough. He’s counting the years til they are all 18!

I brought his interest in harvesting eggs, that I thought he wanted more children as well. He has stated that he does not want to stop my desires and would gladly let me divorce him to find a husband who would like to have children. What the heck!? I don’t want to have children with anyone but my husband. But the stubborn as a mule gig is getting old and his comments about divorce are really ticking me off. Mule is quickly turning into jack ass!

Any ideas how I can bring him around and get my way? I’m at that geriatric age when it comes to having babies, 35. So I’d like to do this sooner rather than later. Thanks!

Oh Prankster, my heart goes out to you. Genuinely it does. I wish I had a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am answer for yo, but I’m afraid that I do not.

I can easily see both sides of the equation and why you each feel the way that you do, believe me, I do, and you each have valid points. You each have blinders on to what the other wants and are refusing to compromise and it’s making you desperately unhappy.

Prankster, I think that you need to see a marriage counselor to resolve this situation. I say this not to pass the buck, but because I want you both to come to a solution that makes you both happy and fulfilled. And in this case, neither of you are happy. That is clearly not okay.

I wish you luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky:

My houseguest and I were in East Hampton, NY this weekend and as we were walking to our local fish store to buy some fish for dinner we found $121.00 on the ground in the parking lot. Inside the fish store we thought we might have seen or heard a customer realizing their loss and if so would have returned them their money. Instead all was calm and no one there seemed at a loss. There was one gentleman there with a wad of cash that appeared to be in the hundreds (he was carrying it in a plastic baggie – how weird is that?) but upon leaving the store he did not walk in the direction of where the money was lying on the ground. At this point we used the found money to purchase two lobsters as well as some sushi quality tuna and splurged on a nice bottle of wine.

Should we have done more to locate the owner? Should we donate an equal amount to charity or should we just assume that whoever lost the money probably did not even notice it and enjoy our found luck?

Ethically Challenged Prankster.
East Hampton
New York.

In the past four months, I have found two sets of diamond earrings and a bag of loose diamonds.

All were in my own closet, of course, but still. I consider that karmic payback for all of the stuff I donate to charity rather than haggling with some toothless yokel on eBay over fifty cents on my old Kate Spade wallet. In places where I should probably at least attempt to make money (read: my incredibly pointless blog)(also read: my old Kate Spade wallet), I never do, so when I find something like my own diamonds, I consider that repayment.

If I were to find $121 in East Hampton, I would absolutely consider that karmic payback for some prior good deed. Especially since it’s the Hamptons, where I think money actually might grow on trees.

So, Prankster, what I’m saying is this: I hope you enjoyed the hell out of that dinner and know that you’d somehow earned it.

Now go do something good for the Universe. It’ll pay you back somehow. I promise.

Thank the sweet Lord and Butter that I finally found someone to fill in for me so that I can listen to John C. Mayer all day long return to my magic closet of diamonds and free whore pants. Or really just catch up on everything that I’ve allowed to slip since I’ve been living at the doctor’s office all week.

Also: Band Back Together is making me pee myself with it’s awesomeness.

If I owe you something, I’m sorry. I’ll get to it as soon as I can.

If you behave like I owe you something: I’m not your bitch.

So thanks, Stark. Raving. Mad. Mommy. Now I can spend my day doodling Aunt Becky hearts John C. Mayer in big puffy pink hearts. Er…blinging out my toilet.

—————–

It should be clear, up front, that I don’t speak for the autism community as a whole.  I only know our experience, and I only speak for myself.  My son is verbal, so he speaks for himself.  However, most of what he has to say revolves around Lego Star Wars, so if you want to know more about that, we’re all set.

I recently had a conversation with my four children about what they want to be when they grow up.  The Peanut Butter Kid, who is six, announced that when she grows up, she wants to be a female boxer, or a doctor, or possibly both.  That’s an excellent career choice because if you keep beating people up, you never run out of patients to treat.  It’s genius, really.  Cookie, one of my nine-year-old twins, wants to be a mom, and a teacher, and volunteer at an animal shelter if she has time.  Little Dude wants to be a firefighter.  I love that he is just like every other four-year-old boy sometimes.  But then he started explaining, in great detail, what he loves about fire trucks, and how the ladders work, and then I remembered all the ways he is not like other four-year-old boys.

When the Pork Lo Maniac (my other nine-year-old) grows up, she plans to be a famous scientist who wears a squeaky motorcycle jacket and owns many pets.  She doesn’t want to ride a motorcycle, she just likes the jackets.  And she thinks that jackets that make squeaky sounds are the coolest fashion items ever.  She thinks she may invent a motorcycle with some safety improvements, like seatbelts and walls.  I asked if that was actually a car, but she said it will be much cooler than a car. Obviously. I think what she really wants is to be driven around in a Popemobile with throngs of adoring fans thanking her for her scientific achievements with offerings of pork lo mein.

I’ve been hanging out a lot with the Peanut Butter Kid, who’s on homebound schooling with some tummy troubles.  The other day, she commented that if the Pork Lo Maniac grows up to be a scientist, she can invent a cure for Asperger Syndrome.  It was a beautiful thought.  She cares about her brother, and sees that he struggles with many things.  Also, she whole-heartedly believes that her older sister can do anything.

I find it a little disturbing that there’s all this pressure to welcome autism with open arms.  Of course you love your child.  Of course you wouldn’t trade him in for anything.  But I think it needs to be okay to admit that you wish your child didn’t have to struggle.  I think it needs to be okay for people with autism spectrum disorders to say, “I’m totally cool with who I am, but sometimes it sucks monkey balls to have to work this hard all. the. time. to deal with neurotypical world.”

Example: Little Dude has a motor planning deficit.  He needs to be taught things explicitly that seem to be intuitive to other kids.  When his preschool teacher says to line up to go to the library, he lines up.  And then stands there because he doesn’t know that the next thing to do is walk forward.  When the kid behind him yells “Go!” and gives him a shove, it hurts him deeply.  And it stabs me in the heart.  And makes me want to punch the other kid in the throat, which is totally inappropriate, I know.

If I were June Cleaver, I would be more chipper about our whole situation, I’m sure.  I’d be all, “Gee, Ward, don’t you think you were a little hard on the Beav tonight?  You know, he’s been in ABA Therapy all day.  And we’re still working on getting his medication right.”

And then I would smile and fetch Ward a martini.  And then I would go in the kitchen and knock back a Valium with a gin chaser.  Or maybe that’s Mad Men I’m thinking of.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether I would cure it if I could.  I can’t.

For now, I know that Little Dude is at his happiest when I am at my most accepting.  I do accept him, with open arms and all my heart.  There are things about his Asperger that are both awesome and hilarious.  Like when he observes that an old guy at Target looks just like Emperor Palpatine.

But I wish some things weren’t so hard.

Things that keep me up all night long (allllllllllll niggghhttt looonnnggg!)

1) Salt and Vinegar Flavored Chips. It’s like a party in my mouth. Yet. Gross. Yet. Delicious. Yet. Gross.

2) This is the shoe I need:

I can buy it in a midget size six or a boat-like size twelve. My feet are a healthy size nine. Why must I know that this shoe exists only to be UNABLE to own it?

3) The Turn The motherfucking Tub Around Commercial.

…….enough fucking said.

4) What were these designers thinking?

No, seriously. Who was all, “WOW, let’s put a SHELL on the vagina of this dress! It’ll look whimsical and fresh and not at all like a fucking VAGINA! Right on top of the vagina! Sweet!”

Because they should be fired.

5) Why isn’t RuPaul my best friend?

6) How am I STILL number one on Google when you search for John C. Mayer? Is John C. Mayer responsible for my neck issues? Does John C. Mayer REALLY hate me?

7) What does “He shall be “Le-VON” mean?” Does it mean, “be Le-VON” or “believe on?”

8 ) Why did Elton John sing about it anyway? Because either way, that sentence makes no damn sense. I’m going to sue Elton John for lack of sleep and emotional distress. You all are witnesses. Sorry.

9) Are perms going to come back into vogue, too? The bang thing is bad enough. Because if perms are coming back too, I’m moving to…uh….Mars. Or wherever bangs perms aren’t.

10) These don’t seem much like deals to me:

Except that like everyone I know on The Twitter lives in Kansas City, so I could probably go there and not have to stay in a hotel. I could be all, IT’S BECKY, BITCH, and The Twitter would be all, COME OVER, and if they weren’t, I’d be all, I’M HERE, and come over anyway and then get drunk and vomit all over everything which is totally making me sound like the kind of guest you DO NOT want. WHOOPS.

Mostly, I want to be all, “IS KANSAS CITY, KANSAS,” and then, “IS KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI,” and take gratuitous pictures of myself posing in the different states.

Because I thought Kansas City was a state for like a week.

(shut UP)

These pictures will join my coffee table book, “Aunt Becky Visits Various Traffic Islands.” It’s my new goal to make a book of pictures of myself in all KINDS of Traffic Islands all over the country.

This means I need to start traveling. Immediately. Pranksters, this has to happen. I need to physically visit Traffic Islands. Starting…now.

So pretty much, I need to go to Kansas City. But the rest of the “deals” are hilarious.

PS. THIS:

(how do you clean it?)

—————-

What keeps you up at night, Pranksters? Also: AUNT BECKY MEETS TRAFFIC ISLANDS.

If I were a smart person, I would not have used my real name on the internet.

If I were a smart person, I would not solve problems by shrugging my shoulders and saying, “eh, I’ll figure something out,” then eating an Uncrustables.

If I were a smart person, I would have a greater five year plan than, “don’t die.”

If I were a smart person, I would actually sell the things I find in my closet, rather than donating them to charity.

Smart has the plans. Stupid has the stories.

Since I’ve been undergoing the great Purge Fest of 2010, I’ve been shocked by the amount of shit that I’ve managed to collect. I don’t like excess crap because it makes me unhappy, sort of how I feel when I’m chased by a flock of geese or if I have someone gleefully point out that I have misused a word somewhere in my blog (a-ha! She has made an ERROR! Let us POINT IT OUT TO HER!).

I’m in the process of moving my computer area upstairs so that I may watch my singing warthog videos in peace and possibly find a way to start a “career” or something (ed note: WHATEVER). Moreover, I want a space that is my own since my crotch parasites have taken over everything else.

Even though I cleaned out my closet a couple of months ago, I decided that it was high time to do it again. Especially since I finally went and bought new beside tables, lamps AND A DESK. I’ve never actually owned a desk before. Now I can properly watch my dancing dog videos on this:

You’re overwhelmed by awesomeness, I know.

Anyway, my tastes are delightful, I can tell that’s what you’re thinking. You’re not thinking, “who gave that girl a credit card because she has tastes like an overgrown monkey?” because THAT would be a cold prickly, NOT a warm fuzzy, Pranksters.

My closet, well, it needed some removal of crap. Mostly clothes that no longer fit. I’m now within 4 pounds of what I was when I got pregnant with Amelia, which means that I’m within 15 of what I was when I got pregnant with Alex, and that? FULL OF THE WIN.

That means, though, that I had a lot of clothes that needed removal. I’d thought about keeping them for when I have my Love Child, but I realize that by that time, I’ll want new clothes anyway.

I was hoping that I’d find my missing whore pants, now MIA since July, when I went through my closet, but no such luck. Those whore pants are gone baby, gone.

Whenever I do a gigantic purge, there’s a tiny part of me that wishes that I wasn’t afraid of eBay. I might make a couple of bucks selling my old crap if I wasn’t such a pussbag. Charity, I remind myself, is good.

My closet seems to reward this.

The last time that I did a purge I found, I shit you not, a small bag of diamonds. They were, of course, my own diamonds, but still, diamonds. I also found a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that I’d forgotten that I’d bought.

INSTANT WIN.

(I don’t know what one does with a bag of diamonds besides say, “I have a bag of diamonds,” but you know)

This time, however, as I approached my closet ready to do battle, I was expecting a bag of poo. Certainly, lightening doesn’t strike twice and frankly, with the week I’ve been having, poo would probably be more than I deserved.

Instead, I found more diamonds. A pair of earrings. Certainly more useful than a bag of loose diamonds.

Then, I found this:

A coupon for a free pair of new Whore Pants.

Huh.

Guess I have a Closet Fairy.

Wonder if I can ask it for a smaller ass.

When the Urgent Care doctor offered me a shot of Dilaudid, I practically jumped on top of him and humped his leg. Had my neck not been spasming so badly, I probably would have.

For someone who claims to “want vodka,” I’m not much of a drinker, so the occasional narcotics use is about the closest I can get to altering my reality, and I was in such excruciating pain that had he told me that “licking the toilet might help a little” you would have found me bathing it with my tongue, no questions asked.

It was my second trip to Urgent Care in as many days and while normal people would have taken care of the migraine that I’d had since the previous weekend, not one of you can call me “normal,” so I’d waited until the pain was bad enough to make me weep. Then I’d gone in to Urgent Care. Twice.

After I’d sat in the grimy waiting room, being exposed to various forms of small pox and the bubonic plague, I was about ready to lop off my head and be done with the whole affair when I was called back and eventually offered the Dilaudid. That’s when the angels began to sing on high and the heavens opened up upon me. The idea of relief was almost more than I could stand.

I’d never had Dilaudid before, but I knew it was The Good Shit, and like I said, the pain was so intense I was about ready to find a voodoo doctor to remove the hex on my neck.

The nurse came in to administer the shot. She warned me that “it might sting a little,” but after three babies and two miscarriages, I’ve had RhoGAM a jillion times. RhoGAM is an immunoglobulin given to Rh-negative pregnant women. Immunoglobulins are thick, viscous serums that are administered via a McDonald’s straw right into the butt muscle. They hurt like hell.

So I was all, ‘WHAT THE FUCK EVER, LADY, YOU KNOW WHAT KINDA PAIN I’M IN?’ but I didn’t say that because if I was rude, she might have withheld the delicious drugs.

But holy fuckballs, that shit HURT. I walked around the Urgent Care clinic, trying to pick up Ebola and Dysentery (Oregon Trail makes it look so glamorous!) to try and get the medication to disperse, but damn, it hurt.

After about ten minutes, it stopped hurting, and then I felt pretty high. Like I might want to start making snowflakes with the picture of the sinuses on the walls so that I could glue them to my body.

I tried to look at something on my iPhone but the words melted together into a deliciously funny singing purple cat. I laughed at the purple cat. Silly kitty, didn’t he know that cats weren’t allowed at the doctors?

Just as I was batting at the bubbles that filled the room, a weird thing happened: my face began to itch. Then my chest. Then my arms. I scratched and scratched and scratched. It didn’t help. It did, however make me look like I’d been stuck in the roto-rooter.

Somehow, the nurse who came to cluck over my insanely low blood pressure didn’t notice my scratches.

But I was forced to sit there, scratching myself like a monkey as the doctors made sure that I streak naked around the clinic screaming about aliens and dingoes. I couldn’t, you see, I was too itchy. Also, where the bubbles that had appeared were once my friends, now they were horrible vile creatures that made me want to puke.

I laid on the cot peeling off layers of my epidermis trying not to vomit as the bubble-people attacked me.

Eventually, the Urgent Care doc deemed me fit to leave and was in the process of being wheeled out when I mumbled, “sorry I look so bad. I’m all itchy.”

With that, I was promptly wheeled right back in and was given a big ass dose of epinephrine and prednisone.

Stimulants.

(CNS) Depressants plus stimulants = a fucking nightmare. My heart raced, I openly wept and I tried not to vomit on myself.

Eventually, I was discharged and crawled into my bed.

The following morning, I made an appointment with a chiropractor.

If this doesn’t work, anyone know a good voodoo doctor?

(also: looking into a breast reduction. No, seriously, the doc thinks it could be my rack.)

————-

If you’ve entered the Pulling a The David Cook for Charity (and a year’s worth of Cold Stone), please go here and double check that your entry is up on the list. If it’s not, due to some error on my end, let me know so that I can add it before I do the drawing.

—————-

Over at Toy With Me, I wrote a letter to the bullied gay teens.

I don’t like stuff.

Okay, wait, no, I like diamonds and other precious stones, and things that sparkle, but besides that, I’m not someone who holds on to mementos and feels good about it. I don’t look into my cabinets and feel fulfilled that I’ve held onto that “just in case” crap. It makes me feel tied down and unhappy.

Since I’ve moved into my house, I’ve always just sort of made do with what I’ve had rather than try to make any part of it my own. There have always been excuses as to why I’ve never bothered to save up for that new chandelier or the curtains or the Elvis-on-velvet-painting that would make me smile when I saw them. I am the sort of person who is affected by my environment, and somehow I didn’t think that having not one single room that reflected my personality would affect me.

It has.

It’s time to stop.

I’ve started the Great Purge. It’s time to get rid of all of the stuff that I have lying around that I simply do not need or want. There is a ton of it and I hold onto it because I simply have felt that I should. I know that I shouldn’t. The Salvation Army will be immensely happy to see me coming. If I were wise, I’d eBay it, but I’m not, so I won’t.

If I find anything good, I’ll offer it to you guys. (Like the laptop I’ve used twice. Talk about a stupid purchase. I need to sell that. *sighs*)

I’ve been looking into hiring painters and finding someone to rip out the carpeting. I’m allergic to the dogs and I need to get it out of here. Even if it’s expensive. I’ve picked out some paintings and some end tables and will continue to try and find some things that match my gloriously tacky tastes. Think bedazzled toilet seats as wall art. If you guys have any decorating tips or places you like to buy stuff, please, I’m all ears.

I’m just tired of looking at stuff I don’t like and thinking, “someday, SOMEDAY.” Life is way too short for that shit.

I’m famous for all-or-nothing thinking and it’s only recently that I’ve realized that making the house my own doesn’t have to be something I do all in one fell swoop. I need to start somewhere.

Because I’m worth it, too. My happiness does matter. Somewhere along the lines, I’ve forgotten that.

Simply put: I’m starting over. One bejeweled bust of Elvis at a time.

It feels fucking great.

———————–

Tonight at midnight CST, I’m ending the Pulling the David Cook for Charities Prank. If you want to win free ice cream for a year from Cold Stone, you have until then to get your posts in.

I want you all to know that I have grown my hair out and shaved my chest hair just like this guy. So if I accidentally turn my head and hair-whip you with my locks of love, just know that it’s because I put the eeeee in Sweetest Day. Anyhow, Becky asked me to fill in for her today, so here I am.

Dear Aunt Becky, The Daver,

So, my NOT husband has no friends. And is absolutely okay with this. He works in construction and all the other guys he works with are either fresh out of jail or drug addicts, so it makes sense to not to be friends with those types. But should I feel better or worse that I never have to complain that he’s out at the bar all night with his buddies? Should I do like the movies and set him up on “man dates”?

He really thinks that it’s okay to not have friends, he says that he has enough with me and our son. Which is flattering but at the same time, what the hell is the matter with him?? I know he’s a little antisocial but you would think that he would want some sort of guy talk once in a while right? Am I over thinking this? Should I just be happy that he’s not out at the bars or strip clubs every weekend leaving me alone with the kid?

I totally know how this goes: Maybe he does want some sort of guy talk, but if he’s like me, there’s a limit to how much time he wants to spend seeking out friends vs. doing things he already knows are satisfying. I know I find the thought of actually *trying* to make friends pretty tiring, so I generally wait until I run into someone who I do enjoy and then find some times to hang out with them. Even so, I certainly don’t make it out to the bars or strip clubs (which are not really my thing either, so I go pretty rarely anyhow) outside of the occasional lunchtime pub stop or quick-beer-after-work, so maybe I have the same problem!

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s totally cool to not be super-social, and it’s fine to choose family over other people, as long as he knows he’s free to establish friendships when and how he sees fit, and that you support him either way.

–d

Dear Aunt Becky, The Daver,

My boyfriend is the sweetest, most wonderful guy on the planet and I feel incredibly lucky to have found such a gem after my last few horrible relationships.  Everything in our relationship is working wonderfully but there is one problem.  His mother.

Aunt Becky, I have NO IDEA what I may have done to this woman but she doesn’t like me at all.  At first my boyfriend tried talking to her about it but she would just change topics and try to ignore that he brought it up.  He never got any straight answers.  We’ve now been together for about a year and I thought things would be getting better, but they aren’t.

My boyfriend keeps telling me to just hang in there and that he will keep trying to talk to her about it and find out what the problem is.

I’m trying not to let her feelings bother me too much, but I can see it becoming a major problem soon since our relationship (the one with the boyfriend, not the mother) is getting more serious.  I feel like I have exhausted every effort to get to know her better and to let her get to know me so we can move past this issue, but I feel like nothing is working.  I’m not perfect, but I’m not a horrible person for someone to be dating either.  I am polite, dress appropriately, and always ensure that I’m putting my best foot forward when I’m around his family (not that I don’t normally do all of those things anyway).

What should I do here?  I’m so frustrated with trying but know I cannot just give up since it will probably affect my relationship with the boyfriend.  HELP!

Sincerely,

Out of Ideas

Dear Out of Ideas,

You can pick your nose, and you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your friends’ nose. Or family.

I say, you’re dating HIM, not his mother. Sucks to be so harsh, but if he is just as mystified about it as you are, and it hasn’t affected your relationship over the year you’ve been together — then all you can do is simply let it go.  Not give up, mind you — when you are presented with an opportunity to understand and figure out whatever the issue is, then go for it — but let go; it’s clear that the issue is hers, not yours, and there’s nothing you can do except be yourself and enjoy your relationship with this super-sweet guy. Don’t let your concern that it might affect things later turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy!

-d

Dear My Most Super Rad Aunt, The Daver,

I have been having an internal dilemma lately. I have this fantabulous boyfriend who is crazy cute and super trustworthy. WE live together and he is pretty much the shiznit. However waaaay back in the day I accidentally read a very old email from his ex gf (said ex tried to get him back in the first month of our relationship, he chose me duh). In this email she expressed her uhm….excitement at the prospect of him once again sticking his magic meat stick in her pooper.

Now he has asked to do this with me before and I’m not really down with it. I’ve tried it before and just wasn’t a fan (although it wasn’t with him). It’s just something I’m not too jazzed about doing again. Well anyway down to the question. I’m way paranoid that he liked it a ton with her and is like, missing something with me. Oooor that he may think about it or think she is cooler or more rad because she was down with the dirty ya know?

So should I just suck it up (not literally) and let him try it out? He insists that he doesn’t care and/or think about her or what he used to stick where. But I still can’t decide. Bestow your wisdom on me…or just give me a really good cut/blow someone up joke to make me feel better. Thanks!

Amanda

Dear Amanda,

Sex should be fun.

Sex is most fun when both people are enjoying it.

So no — if it really is a turnoff for you, then don’t point him at your pooper, especially not over fear of some ex who he already decided wasn’t good enough. Guide him to something else, something that really gets you going, a position or touch or whatever, and make that the experience he craves in bed. Trust me, it’ll be hotter for him if it’s really hot for you, too — and trying to do something you just aren’t into? Not hot.

And finally, a good relationship isn’t just about what you do in bed. From what I can see, you are both cooler AND more rad for being willing to put his needs ahead of your own in an effort to make him happy. So he’d better appreciate it, or I’ll send Aunt Becky over to cut him AND blow him up. (I know, weak, but I’m just not as funny as Aunt Becky, if you can believe that.)

–d