My family is big on traditions. Probably not the same ones that your family practices because, well, unless they make Shwetty Balls* for Christmas, it’s likely that ours may be unique to our twisted family. One of the more innocuous ones happens to be the Chicago Auto Show, which comes to town every February like clockwork, and like a well oiled machine, some members of my family always go.

It’s mandatory for some, optional for others.

Members of my family have braved blizzards, ice storms and power outages to make it out for the auto show. It’s just that important. I’m surprised that Mr. (Dr.?) Darwin doesn’t have something to say about that, but let’s just leave it at stupidity clearly being genetic a genetic trait and move on.

As for me, like my parents anniversary, which has always ended in disaster one way or another, I tend to keep it OFF my calendar because Something always comes up. That Something changes year to year, but it’s safe to say that I’ll probably never get to go again. And not, like you may imagine, because I want to avoid it.

I do happen to have a vagina and I do happen to like both power tools and cars, and the auto show is always a blast. But many years ago now when I was 16 or 17–before I was cursed–I went with my father and my uncle out to McCormick place and oogled cars at the Auto Show.

Nothing like looking at cars can make a person work up an appetite, so afterwards, we traditionally go to China Town for lunch/dinner (linner?). It’s been awhile since I’ve gone but I’d bet you that there’s a traditional restaurant they eat at every year as well.

The year I’m talking about, though, it was just my uncle, my father and I that went. My brother was off being Continental and/or Worldly and I was just pumped to be able to take a day off from high school where I didn’t have to have one of my friends call me in. And going to China Town had a specific mission for me: I wanted a Kimono top.

(don’t judge)

(stop judging)

(seriously, knock that judgey shit OFF, I was COOL)

(shut UP)

My uncle had begged off, perhaps to go meet up with one of his motor head buddies–he’s an AVID Corvette Guy, which should mean something if you know any other Corvette People–so it was just my dad and I together in the store.

My father, I must explain, is one of the most modest people about the human body that I’ve ever met. I was an OOPS baby, I have an MUCH older brother, and I’d be willing to bet that my father had never imagined having a daughter, much less have to deal with her when she grew boobs.

As a teenager, whenever I’d pop back downstairs on the way back to bed in an oversized shirt (nothing, I should add was hanging out), he’d scream, “ACK, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, REBECCA!” Then he would cover his eyes dramatically and refuse to open them again until I went upstairs.

And they say drama doesn’t run in families. (don’t they?)

He’d carry on whenever I was nursing one of the babies like I was flagrantly prancing about the room in pasties and a g-string trying to give my relatives a lap dance, and it’s grown to be sort of a joke.

But the fact that I had boobies now made him uncomfortable, and while I certainly didn’t really worry about my dad seeing me in my bra since he had, at one point–although, I should mention, not for many years–changed my poopy drawers, I respected that.

So he stood very uncomfortably at the front of the woman’s clothing boutique in China Town while the owner, a very nice lady, was trying to fit my decidedly Western shaped frame (which, doesn’t Western-shaped give you the mental picture of a cowboy boot or the state of Texas? Because it does me) into a Kimono top. I probably tried on 10 or 15 until I found one that didn’t make me look stupid.

(shut UP)

I told her I’d take it, the beautiful dark blue silk shirt with those crazy-cool clasps at the neck, and she took it up front to the register to ring it up. I finished piling my layers of winter clothes back on and carefully made my way back to the front of the store. I had to contort myself into all kinds of odd angles to get past the wall-to-wall racks of clothes, but finally there I was, at the front of the store.

My dad looked relieved and somewhat red-eyed from the incense that was filling the room with sweet smelling acrid smoke and he whipped out his wallet and handed me some bills.

I went up to the register, where the lady had packed my new shirt into a plastic bag adorned with the store’s logo on it and looked at my total. As I was combining bills to pay her, she leaned forward, conspiratorially about to tell me something. Wondering if she was going to mention that she had an excellent supply of either opium or switchblades, I leaned it too.

“So,” she began, quietly but excited. “Is that your boyfriend?” Hand to God, she gave me a wink as she said boyfriend. She said it with unabashed glee, like a gossipy girlfriend who is about to tell you HOW FUCKING LUCKY YOU ARE to be dating the quarterback, because, like, he’s SO hot.

My mouth flopped open like a carp and I gaped openly at her. My BOYFRIEND?

“No,” I caught my tongue. “He’s NOT my boyfriend. He’s my father.”

She stared at me, I stared back and quickly paid. I guess there’s nothing like finding out that someone thinks that you’re

a) 20 years older than you are

b) that your father is 20 years younger than he was

3) People my age could actually manage to date guys my dad’s age.

I’m pretty sure when I loudly told him this as we left the store, that the remaining half of his hair just went made a FUUUMP sound and all popped out of their follicles in one big bang. Had I been in the process of balding myself, I have a feeling my follicles would have let ’em go too.

What I didn’t tell the shopkeeper was if I’d genuinely had a sugar daddy, I’d have insisted he take me to the Prada store, not some cheap shop in China Town. But that seemed kind of awkward and rude.

Unlike, of course, telling her that he was my father.

Now YOUR turn, Internet, come sit next to Aunt Becky here on the couch *pats seat.* I am on the edge of my proverbial seat here, itching to know what you are going to come up with.

Well, I’m not technically ITCHING but, you know.

*beats “no cowbell” for best SNL skit by a mile

While many of you asked the cake redeemed itself in it’s deliciousosity, I regret to inform you that the burning hair smell put me off of it. Then, when I realized the fondant smelled exactly like I’d imagine the color Blue to smell, it further solidified my desire to never let it touch my delicate, refined, distinguished palate.

(the very same delicate palate that loves on Crunch Berry Cereal. Hard.)

So this, my friends, this is a requiem for a Cake Wreck:

Alas, I cannot submit my creation to the SITE Cake Wrecks, because they only accept professional cakes, and as we’ve all gladly seen, I am no professional.

Somewhere, a lone bugle is playing Taps for my sad, sad cake.

—————-

Yesterday as I was flitting about the house uselessly writing a couple of things that I had promised I would do, I noticed that my right ear was making an odd tapping noise. I have a cold, because it’s a day of the week that ends in “y” and I always have a cold, thanks to my three crotch parasites, and I chalked it up to odd inner ear congestion.

As the day wore endlessly on, the knocking in my ear continued, and as I was finishing up the last of my articles late last night, I had a horrible, awful thought that combined the most awful of my fears.

What if something had laid their hideous eggs in my ear canal and now it was hatching to eat my remaining three brain cells? Like an alien? Or a bug? Or an ALIEN BUG?

(what, ME neurotic?)

(shut up)

When I informed Dave of my fears, he rolled his eyes and laughed.

The Daver: “You do remember it’s January in the Midwest, right?”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

The Daver: “And that nothing is actually alive.”

Aunt Becky: “Yes.”

The Daver: “And that you’re being neurotic.”

Aunt Becky: “You’d be neurotic too if you were growing an alien bug baby in your ear canal.”

The Daver: (rolls eyes) “Clearly.”

Then I went and flushed my ear canal with water and hydrogen peroxide for a couple of minutes, figuring that it would kill whatever was eating my brain. While it fizzed merrily, I hate to report that my ear is still sort of thumpy today.

The alien baby CLEARLY is immune to hydrogen peroxide.

—————–

Today I am over at Toy With Me, where I am telling the not-at-all (SARCASM ALERT) embarrassing story of my bachelorette party. It involves a clogged toilet, a stripper, and balls on my face.

And, as always, if you’d care to vote for me in The Bloggies under best humor blog (voting ends in a couple of days), here is the link. I will love you all over in ways you never knew possible.

Dear The Internet,

My name is Aunt Becky and this is my blog. I’m writing to you today to ask you for some prayers for a new friend of mine whose baby has been diagnosed -in utero- with the same type of posterior encephalocele that Amelia had.

In my travels around The Internet, I haven’t found many of us. In fact, she’s the only other person I know whose child has had this type of neural tube defect, and she’s understandably shocked and terrified. She has a much longer road to travel than I did because she’s only about 20 weeks pregnant, and I know how much your thoughts and prayers lifted me up.

If you could, please spare a thought and a prayer for my friend and her baby.

xoxo,

Your Aunt Becky

P.S. Have you lost weight? Because I’m not just saying that to butter you up or anything. You really do look amazing. Want to make out?

——————

Last night I was telling DH that when I get my check from the remainder of my student loan, I’m going to buy my breast pump. He immediately said “No! I forgot to tell you, [his sister] is buying it for me because she knows a good one”.

First of all, I’ve done a ton of research on pumping…reviews, word of mouth, recommendations from moms on message boards, and even my own doctor’s office. I’m very set on the pump I want.

Second of all, even if she did happen to get me the one I want, it’s $300. She borrows gas money and money for her own kids’ clothes and daycare from DH’s parents all the time. Why the heck would she spend that much money on a gift for me?

Third of all, we are not close at all. In fact, she’s never liked me and that’s obvious, yet she picks the most personal item to want to buy me for the baby.

So, DH mentioned to his mom that the pump is already taken care of, and she freaked out, basically saying that not letting my SIL get me the pump she wants to get me will ruin the semi-good relationship we all have going on right now.

WTF do I do? It’s supposed to be a surprise, so I can’t say to her “I know you want to get me the pump, but don’t”, and I see her once every month or so and she barely says hi to me. How do I make this go my way without causing WWIII? Drinking heavily isn’t an option, due to the mini human being I have wiggling around in my uterus, so what the hell do I do, Aunt Becky?

Well, now THAT’S awkward, isn’t it. And no, that wasn’t a question. I mean, anything related to breast pumps and in-laws who don’t like you is kinda awkward. Hell, BREAST pumps are kind of awkward. I mean, have you TRIED attaching them? (I kid, I kid) Alas, I digress…

So, you’re really stuck between a rock and a bigger rock, and when it comes to this, it seems you’ve got one big choice to make: do you want to potentially cause a fight? Because if you really want what you want (because, hello, they’re you’re boobies) you need to get the message to your sister-in-law that you want the breast pump you picked out.

PERIOD.

If you’re not interested in rocking the familial boat, I’d sit back, see what she brings and if you don’t like it, return it and buy what you wanted in the first place. Either way, it’s a win-win. And it’s never a bad idea to have a back-up pump.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Are we supposed to wear pantyhose anymore? Pictures in In Style magazine, and the people on What Not to Wear never seem to have hose on. What’s up with that?

Am I supposed to expose my blinding white calves to the world?

Thanks!

Apparently, it’s not in vogue to wear pantyhose anymore and it’s better to blind your date with your pasty whiteness than to wear the hose. Who knew? No seriously, WHO KNEW? You flash your crotch around like the celebs to to distract from your white skin.

Tights are apparently okay, pantyhose are not.

Aunt Becky,
My very best friend rocks. She is a great person and has the greatest family who always make me feel like part of their family too. She and her husband have no children, but being the only married sibling, she has been feeling pressure to have children for her 60ish year old parents (and obviously herself and her husband too.).

Friday she found out that her dad’s lymphoma is back and in a secondary location. On Monday he went to another doctor and found out that his cancer is inoperable and the only treatment is painful and usually unsuccessful. They told him he has 6-9 months which obviously doesn’t give them time to have a baby. My question to you Aunt Becky is how can I help my amazing friend and her family in their time of need?

‘Need help being a great friend

Oh Gentle Reader, it’s obvious that you already are a great friend because you care so much about her and her family. She’s so lucky to have you. I’ll give you some advice here and then I’m sure my readers chime in. Here’s a website I found.

Be sure to give her time to talk about what she’s feeling and going through without trying to make it all better. Just shut your mouth and listen if she wants to talk.

Bring over meals, clean the house, take care of chores that you can without waiting to be asked. It’s really hard to ask for help, so it’s good to just DO rather than sit around waiting to be asked.

Try and follow through with anything you’ve promised you’re going to do.

Allow her to be upset or sad without interrupting her grieving.

Give her a break when you can by taking her out to do fun stuff that you both enjoy doing when you both are able.

Help coordinate any care-related stuff for her dad and see if you can be of any help (picking up medication, etc)

And really, just avoid saying stuff like, “I know how you’re feeling,” “don’t worry,” “I don’t know how you’re handling it all so well” because it’s really offensive. I have a feeling you know better than that, but I figured I’d mention it.

You’re a wonderful soul and I wish you and your friend and her family all the best.

————-

As always, dear Internetters, please fill in the gaps where I’ve left off and feel free to share your wisdom in the comments. If you are so inclined, you can vote for me in the Bloggies under Best Humor Blog.

Then I might be inclined to show you my hooters.

I read an article recently about how passing the blame was contagious. The article sited a couple of boring studies where people were told some stuff which I’d recount for you but it was BORING so I stopped paying any attention because HELLO, I’m not being TESTED on this stuff any more because I am an adult and not in school.

I can only imagine that it’s no one’s fault that my mailbox now looks like this:

Perhaps it was an act of GOD that sheared the mailbox from it’s wee little mailbox perch atop that piece of wood where it has happily lived for well over 5 years. Because clearly, no one else is to blame. Certainly not a snow plow.

This, my friends, is a Mail Box FAIL.

I still snicker every time I see it because it’s really funny. Trashy, but funny. Nothing to be done about it until the ground dries out, though. I’m sure my neighbors are thrilled. It sure adds something to the neighborhood.

ANYWAY.

I don’t know quite how to thank you for this, but last night I was roused from my near-catatonic state on the couch to be informed by my friend on Facebook (who shall remain nameless because I don’t that she wants me to shout her name out here) I have actually made it to Bloggie nominations and am on the ballot for Best Humor Blog.

Seriously, you guys, THANK YOU.

I know that you did it, because I voted for myself exactly once because I was all *scoff* “YEAH RIGHT, LIKE I COULD GET A BLOGGIE NOMINATION.” So I pretty much shit myself when I saw that I was on the ballot.

I’ll never make it, which isn’t something I’m saying to be coy or shy, but because my competition is miles beyond me.

Let me put it this way: if each of you told every single person YOU knew to vote for me, I’d still not win because I am up against the greats. And that? I am completely okay with. Because when I lose I will be all “awesome, I lost to xxxx, and I respect them.” It doesn’t mean I won’t beg you to vote for me because that’s the kind of bitch I am, but you know, I won’t expect to win. There’s simply NO WAY.

But my name is on the ballot and I am shocked and honored and this is me loving on you up and down and left and right. Thank you.

Marry me?

I had been bemoaning that after crapping out the lining of the colon for most of the day–thank you food poisoning for curing my desire to live–I then had to go and sit through my son’s orchestra concert. Truthfully, while I may have sounded unhappy by it, I wasn’t actually all that upset.

While sitting through 200 3rd graders bowing out Flight of the Mother Fucking Bumblebee may not sound like a rip-roaring good time to most, you have to remember that I live with two of the loudest people on the planet. I’m pretty sure I could sell Alex and Amelia to a museum or university to be studied because their voices are so fucking loud that they sheer glass.

I sometimes wonder why I don’t take my kids out until I actually put the two small ones in the car and then I don’t wonder any more. My ear drums are immediately pierced by their indignant wails and as I’m crying in agony and trying to forcefully eject myself from the car, I vow to stay home. FOREVER.

So sitting through an amateur orchestra concert was a cake walk in my book.

What was especially full of The Awesome was seeing my own son with his floppy mop of hair on the very same stage where I used to play.

I know I dropped a bomb on you the other day when I informed you that I played concert cello for many years because picturing me as a cellist is probably about as easy as picturing me with a penis (come to think of it, picturing me with a wang is probably easier). In fact, I bet you were up nights, crying into your pillow, wondering why OH WHY I hadn’t sent out a press release about it so you weren’t taken aback.

So, I’m sorry. FORGIVENESS. Because I know how much THE DEBIL is in the DETAILS.

Anyway.

Yeah. So whenever I tell people I used to play, they’re always like, “Oh, I’m SO SORRY,” like my arm had turned gangrenous and fell off and that’s why I was forced to give it up. It’s really sweet and I never know how to tell them that I’m really glad to be done. I played for 12 years and I toured Europe and I wasn’t great but I think I was good and when I was done, I stopped.

My son, who is autistic, loves music. When people couldn’t soothe him, music was right there. The very second that we could, he was signed up for music lessons and it comes as no surprise to me that he adores playing in the orchestra.

He’s naturally very good. He’ll be better than I ever was without much effort on his end. Music, like the planets, is clearly Ben’s thing.

So as I sat there in the darkened auditorium last night, finally on the other side of the stage, my heart grew as I watched my tiny son fidget and bob his head to the music knowing that he has found his home.

We all worry about our children finding their way, but those of us with special needs children worry doubly, I think, because we wonder if anyone else will see the good in our kids. If others can look past what is on the outside to get to what is on the inside. It’s not always easy.

Last night, though, I forgot about how upset I am that a number of his autistic tendencies are flaring up again. I forgot about my frazzled patience. I forgot about deadlines and dogs who have seizures and migraines and neurologists. I let it all slip away and for a moment, I focused on my bobble-headed kid and how cool it is to see him up on that stage, deeply concentrated on his music.

For once, his inner voices quelled. And mine too.

I couldn’t be more proud. Of him. Of us. Of where we’ve come from. Of where we’re going.

It’s a good life.

Yesterday, our Early Intervention therapist came over to evaluate Amelia and for the first time I was pretty sure what she would find.

I was right:

My daughter is clearly an Evil Genius.

I have no doubt that in several years, when this is really all in our rear-view mirror, and she’s taking over the world from her bedroom, plotting and scheming, I’ll laugh when I remind myself that I ever thought that she might not kick the world’s ass.

I don’t pretend to understand how or why and honestly, at this moment, I’m still in shock. I cannot believe the statistical bullet that she dodged. I can only imagine that she was put on this earth to do Big Things.

As for now, my daughter is no longer in Early Intervention. She’s still eligible, thanks to her diagnosis, but she no longer needs the evaluations, so I had her therapist close her case. She never actually needed any therapies.

So look out, world, Amelia’s here and she’s ready to kick your ass if you stand in her way. Sweet as pie until you fuck with her, that’s my daughter, and don’t you forget it.

Ha! No, not me. Over at Toy With Me, I’m sharing the story of the break-up of Amy and her boyfriend (who many of you may know by her REAL name) which coincided with the break-DOWN of Amy. Were she not a complete lunatic, I’d probably have left sleeping dogs where they lay.

But, they’re also running a sweet ass in the mornin’ contest over there if you’re in the mood to share break-up horror stories. Because I’m sure you have some awesome ones (who doesn’t?).

Also, if you entered my Amazon.com giveaway multiple times, please make sure that every entry had a comment so that my tiny brain can randomly pick a winner (with some help from Random Number Generator).

I leave you with this:

My brand new super-villain hair cut.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to trample the dreams of some children or kick some adorable puppies.

Thanks to my parents everlasting legacy, my genetic soup is kinda twisted. Not in the sort of way (thank God) that makes me REALLY sick, but in the sort of way that makes my morning pill ritual look like that of someone double my age. Almost all of my various maladies are handled by specialists, because my GP is overwhelmingly useless or doesn’t have the time to carefully watch my blood TSH levels go up and down like a yo-yo.

They’re not SERIOUS issues that I’m going to die from any time soon, just the sort that requires that I see a fucking ton of -ologists. I’m half-way afraid that the Munchausen* Police are going to burst down my door one day and be all, “Miss, you need to come with us. Bring your pills and your lab work.”

Earlier this year, I started getting My Grains, and when I did, initially I powered through them because I was all “totes stress-related.” Turns out, not so much. I blogged about it a little bit, but usually I leave my headaches out of it because talking about headaches is about as thrilling as talking about beige paint.

With the help of my GP, I went on Topamax, which is a daily maintenance medication for them with Vicodin for any break-through headaches.

All was happy in My Grain Land until my GP went on vacation and left Evil Bitch, RN in charge (under the supervision of another doctor). This happened to coincide with me a) getting a nasty My Grain and b) running out of Vicodin.

I went 35 rounds with the pharmacy and doctor’s office (unaware he was out of the office) until I had this conversation:

Evil Bitch, RN: “I cannot prescribe your Vicodin.”

Aunt Becky: “My GP (your boss) is fine with it. He knows I take it for my My Grains and that I am not an addict. Look at my chart and my medical history and you will see that I have asked him to write a note to authorize Vicodin refills if I need it.”

Evil Bitch, RN: “You are on too many medications.”

Aunt Becky: “Excuse me?”

Evil Bitch, RN: “If you have a headache, you can take Tylenol.”

Aunt Becky: “EXCUSE ME?”

Evil Bitch, RN (happily): “Yes, I am denying your Vicodin.”

Aunt Becky: “What??”

Evil Bitch, RN (obviously enjoying herself): “You don’t need it.”

(click)

Now, before any of you bother telling me that Vicodin is a narcotic and that she was well within her right to treat me that way, I’m aware of it’s addictive nature.

I’m also aware that I am not an addict and that I do not need to be treated like a felon when I am looking for something that I need to function. I wasn’t trying to get wasted, I was trying not to be in pain. I’m sure had I pressed the issue, I could have “gone to the ER.” She was being a condescending asshole to me because she could.

So I did what any self-respecting patient would do. I reported her ass to her boss and then I got myself a new doctor (a neurologist!!) with an office staff that’s used to dealing with patients who are in pain. Even if it means going to another specialist. Which, trust me, is something that’s about as appealing to me as pouring lime jello into my ear canal.

Maybe when I go to my appointment on Wednesday, I can get my specialist punch card punched and get some sort of prize at the gift shop.

And at the very least, this appointment doesn’t require that I carry my poo around in a bucket.

*Munchausen’s disease, I must clarify, is not Munchausen’s BY PROXY which is what those fucking awful parents do to their children. Munchausen’s disease is where people make themselves ill to illicit sympathy from others. And no, I do not have Munchausen’s. If I did, you’re hear about my -ologist’s a hell of a lot more.

————

Over at Skirt! I’ve put up a slightly-less-than-humorous essay about internet communities and cruelty and trolls.

Dear Aunt Becky,
We all know that men have different sex drives than women. Fine. Ok.
Is there such thing as a female sex drive peak? I heard that dudes get to a peak in their early-to-mid twenties, whereas women rock it in their later twenties and into the thirties. Is any of this true?

I hope so, because my vajayjay has been a bit sad since the post-partum belly smiled down upon it.

-Sandy VaGina

I remember, Gentle Reader, hearing the same thing years ago and being fairly certain that I would probably have to either invest in a cadre of electric boyfriends or take a much younger lover.

Turns out, the whole sexual peak is referring to sex hormones. During the late teen years, testosterone is at it’s highest in men and with females, estrogen is at it’s highest around age thirty.

But, as with anything else, individual results may vary.

I’ve been trying to remind myself, just because something is “supposed to be” doesn’t mean it is. I was “supposed to” breastfeed away the 60 pounds I put on with my kids, and somehow, that just didn’t happen.

My own libido is tied directly into my self-esteem so if I’m feeling like Shamu’s land-dwelling cousin, Aunt Becky, you’re fucking skippy I’m not exactly jumping into the sack like a blubbery tiger. I know if I have a baby hanging from my boobie 23 hours of the day, I’m not feeling like a roving sex goddess either.

I’m betting that’s all you need: a little tweaking of the mind or the situation and you’ll be all about The Sex.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Sincerely,
I’d rather have to explain anal sex than have to pull a tooth, srsly.

Anal sex is pretty easy to explain, you know, because there’s ASTROGLIDE, which is full of the AWESOME, and I’m guessing your kid probably won’t want to talk much beyond that.

BUT ANYWAY.

Teeth? I got no issues with. Vomit? FUCK YOU GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T LOOK AT ME DON’T YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. But teeth, whatever.

I think that if teeth is your kryptonite (had to look up how to spell that btw), than this is what you need to do: make a pact with your spouse. He/she takes care of Teeth Duty while you take over for something that they cannot handle because that’s the way it works when kids get older and grosser.

The Daver manages most vomit-related things while I, well, cower in the corner in a HazMat suit spraying the air with Lysol and bleach.

You may find that it’s not quite as gross when it’s YOUR kid’s bloody tooth socket. If it is, you can always tell the kid that the Tooth Fairy pays extra if Mommy doesn’t have to deal with any blood, teeth extraction or admiration of the empty space. Kids are suckers for a good deal.

Dearest Aunt Becky—–

Last year I fell into a deep, scary depression in October/November. It was so bad that I dropped out of college. Heeding the advice of my counselor, I didn’t go back for Spring Semester–I continued treatment and eventually got back to a steady plateau. I didn’t start this Fall Semester because my loans caught up with me and I’m trying to dial them down before I go back full-time. Plus, I’m worried that I’ll become depressed again this winter. I’m happy where I’m at right now, though; living on my own and I have a kick-ass job.

My family, however, thinks that I’m never going back to school and that I am now, “Such a waste of potential!” and “Would have been such a great nurse.” I am still going back to school! I am just not willing to get so sick like I was last year, I don’t know how to respond when they talk down to me and say what a waste I am. What I want to say is, “It would have been a waste of potential if I’d killed myself last year!” But I don’t think I should do that? Any suggestions?

Future RN (Just not Today)

Well shit, girl, you’re not a waste of potential and anyone who thinks that is fucking stupid and should get the shit kicked out of them for saying that sort of thing. That’s cruel. Period. And I’m sorry anyone would say that to you. You shouldn’t have to hear that.

Being healthy is a zillion times more important than anything else and you’re smart to wait until you’re ready. Nursing school is fucking brutal and anyone who hasn’t been through it wouldn’t know how bad it really is.

And here’s where I’ll relate to you: my parents (the ones who made fun of me for going to nursing school) still think I’m going to go back to being a nurse. They’re holding out some sort of bizarre hope that I’ll suddenly realize that ‘WHOOPS!! Actually, I LOVED being a nurse!!!!’

Apparently my dad’s Facebook page says that I’m going to “go back to being a nurse soon” or something. It’s weird. Whatever.

Anyway. Obviously, they’re kinda delusional because I’d rather pour molten magma up my asshole than go back to being a hospital nurse. Not. Gonna. Happen.

But how can you deal with this?

Well, if I were you, the next time someone talks to you about being a “wasted potential” I’d probably retort snappily with exactly what you said, “better this than dead!” Or “well, you know what? I’m happy now.” And if that doesn’t shut them down, you really need to sit them down and level with them.

“Look, you can’t talk to me like this anymore. You’re upsetting me and it’s not fair. I am going back to school, but right now this is what I’m doing and I’m happy with it. If you cannot respect this and respect me, then maybe we don’t need to see each other right now.”

I wish you the best of luck and you need to remember that you–YOU–come first.

Nursing school can wait.

When I was a miserable nursing student, one of the things that I did to get myself through the long weeks was to try and find ways that I’d be able to use my degree once I finished. Ways that didn’t involve wiping butts and passing out medication. Because while that is an absolutely necessary job, it’s one I’m terrible at.

But nursing school, well, I’ve made it clear that it wasn’t My Thing, but the skills I have are valuable and I’d like to put them to use so that I don’t put a big mental red X over those two years of my life. If for no other reason than to prove to myself that all of those A++’s were fucking WORTH IT.

One of those things that I always wanted to do was to do a stint with Doctor’s Without Borders because while rubbing feet didn’t appeal to me, working in the field always has. Field medicine feels like real medicine to me.

I was going to do it right after I graduated, but they require a 6 month commitment and at the time, I’d barely seen my own son and I figured that I wanted to see him some before I went off to save the world, one Q-Tip at a time.

After the disaster in Haiti, I was reminded of my plans to become a volunteer disaster preparedness nurse when Dave bounded down the stairs, fooled by the American Airlines hoax. I was all for going until I realized it wasn’t really feasible.

At least, not yet.

I’m still looking to see if I can find another way down there to offer my services and if I don’t make it down there right now or in the coming months, because, let’s face it, Haiti isn’t going to rebuild itself in a week or two, I’m going to make sure I can join every civilian volunteer service corp that I can.

If not for Haiti, then for the next time disaster strikes, I’ll be ready to go.

Because it’s what I’m supposed to do with my skills, I can feel it in my bones. Me and my box of Q-tips and my bottle of medicinal vodka, we’re going to go and try to save the world.