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.

So you’re thinking, Aunt Becky, it’s time to put up some REALLY BAD pictures of you as a kid. You know, shitty perm jobs and aqua-netted bangs and french rolled jeans and maybe some Blossom-style headbands, but I don’t have any of those.

I was a CHILD of the 80’s, but I wasn’t allowed a perm. Probably because my mother was actually smart and realized that I would look like a Koosh ball if I’d gotten one. I have thick hair. Instead, I had bangs that started at approximately the nape of my neck and teeth that stuck out like the claw end of a hammer.

But I don’t have those snaps either. It’s not because I’m trying to spare myself the pain and agony of showing The Internet that I am not perfect, because shit, I think I passed trying pretend to be perfect, uh, in 2004 when I started blogging about The Wet Spot.

So let’s start with what I DO have. Aunt Becky, circa 1985. It appears that it’s my birthday and that it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Probably because no one is sitting with me.

Or maybe I am crying because my mother is forcing us to sit on lawn chairs in the house.

The obligatory “I am drunk and annoying on Halloween” shot. HELL, my undies are hanging out. This is probably why my 5 year old self is crying.

This was as close as I could get to “funny hair pictures” because, well, look at it. It’s my homecoming picture! My awesome tiara says it all. It says “I am awesome. Obviously.” But my dress is from Ann Taylor and it’s not embarrassing. Yet. But I could fucking smile, no?

Now THIS pictures says “I have a friend who is in Photography class” now doesn’t it? The black -n- white photography, the subject in the woods, it just SCREAMS ‘high school photography class’ to me.

————-

So I am challenging you to a duel, The Internet. OUTDO my sorry stash of embarrassing pictures. That isn’t hard. I will continue my hunt as I search for how to become certified as a disaster preparedness RN (I wanted to go to Haiti, but can’t seem to find a way to get there).

If you find something cringe-worthy, leave a link to it in the comments and we can have a fashion party of all of our awesome pictures. I’m certain that you can outdo me.

————–

At Skirt! I’m talking about how it takes a village. Even if it’s not the village I’d planned on.

Last night after Dave and I watched a very nail-biting episode of American Idol (and by “nail biting” I mean, I do not know why I don’t just punch myself in the face with lemons until they really start singing instead of watching the auditions), I sat down nearish to him.

(pat pat pat) “The back of your head is entirely flat at the top.”

The Daver (ignoring me entirely)(duh): “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. And the top kinda makes you look like Predator.”

The Daver (still absentmindedly pecking away on his Blackberry): “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I bet your mom dropped you on your head a lot.”

The Daver: “That explains a lot.”

Aunt Becky (giggles): “You know, we could get you one of those helmets they put kids in now to reshape your skull! Those kids look so CUTE!”

The Daver: “NO.”

Aunt Becky (laughing): “Can you IMAGINE walking around with one of those helmets as an adult? I’d decorate it for you! I could write your NAME in glitter! Or put some CHICAGO FIRE emblems on it!”

Aunt Becky: *bwahahahahahaha*

The Daver: “I think my skull is done being molded.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh.”

The Daver: “So don’t get any ideas.”

Aunt Becky (small voice): “Oh.”

The Daver: “Becky? You didn’t buy me a helmet, did you?”

Aunt Becky: “….Define BUY.”

The Daver: (buries LUMPY head in hands)

Aunt Becky: “It’s okay, I’ll love you and your misshapen head no matter what! Because THAT’S WHAT I LOVE YOU MEANS. TO HAVE, HOLD, AND OBEY…

(pauses)

….Your lumpy head!”

The Daver: “You made the priest take out the ‘obey’ part. Remember?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s because I never obey you.”

The Daver: “That’s for DAMN sure.”

Now that he’s remembered that I never obey him, he won’t be as mad when he finds out that I ordered him a plagiocephaly helmet for Valentine’s Day.

I think the “I love my wife” decals and hearts will make him change him mind and he’ll decide that wearing a helmet 23 hours a day is a very good idea indeed.

———————

Today over at A Mother World, I talk about The Mommy Club and how I’m desperately vying to join it.

The weather in Martina del Ray was predictably bright and sunny yesterday morning as The Daver and I blearily made our way downstairs to have breakfast before we had to leave for the airport. We mocked a couple of locals who were obviously cold and in boots and coats, because, well, we were going back to a place where it was a balmy 16 degrees.

Later, after spending some time in the airport where I hoped to spy even a C or D list celebrity (current tally of celebs seen in LA besides, of course, myself: 0) I squeezed myself into the window seat of the plane. I was slightly relieved to not be next to The Daver because it meant I could be quiet, and noted my seatmate was a 90 pound girl.

*phew* I sighed, as I settled in and strapped on my iPhone, as I happily envisioned a plane-ride where I didn’t have to fly with some mouth-breather all up on top of me.

My relief was short lived as my seatmate fell asleep and stretched her entire frame onto mine. Her legs snaked underneath my seat, her hands kneaded my side and she rested her head on my shoulder. Had I been a horny dude, I probably would have popped wood and smiled blissfully, but no, I was slightly annoyed.

I was kind of in shock that someone so small could manage to take up so much space.

As the plane ride drew to an end, I tried to enjoy my last hours as a free agent, albeit one with an external parasite, but inwardly I cheered as I recognized the lights of Chicago winking in the distance. My stomach flipped excited as the circling of the O’Hare airport began and I mentally checked off the places that we might have some dinner as I researched my column for the following day.

I live for take-off and landing.

As the plane began to descend, I realized this one was Just Bad. I’ve been flying regularly since I was 6 months old and I’ve been through 2-3 Bad Landings and this was setting off all kinds of warning bells. Why? I don’t know. I’m not a fearful flyer.

The plane was shaking wildly and I realized that the wings were covered were ice. They must have iced up when we switched climates and didn’t get de-iced properly. I don’t know. Either way, we were all shaking around like popcorn kernels in the cabin of the plane.

It was clear that something was Very Wrong.

The descent seemed to take forever, and finally, we approached the runway going way too fast. I waited for that comforting gnash of tires on the runway as the tires made contact and I braced myself against the seat in front of me.

It didn’t come.

Next thing I knew, we were going up, up, up again, the plane shaking and shuddering as once again we climbed back up to cruising altitude. The PA system was quiet and the passengers, most of us waiting to taking connecting flights which were now going to have been delayed until the following day, all had banded together the way people do in a crises.

Voices carried, people talked loudly, babies screamed, the skinny foreign chick slept on top of me, and the guy next to her and I looked at each other, scared.

But the PA was silent. Always a Bad Sign because it means it’s serious.

The plane circled and bounced and it was clear that the pilot wasn’t quite in control of the plane and I said a prayer, my thoughts of dinner and my column for SodaHead a distant and frivolous thought of the past. Eventually, the descent began again, and again, we shook and shuddered and afforded a lovely view of the wing, I saw yes, it was ice and the wing and yes, it was really probably serious.

I white-knuckled the hand-rests like that was somehow going to help me in the event that we crashed and tried to focus on anything but staring out the window.

Because really, if you’re gonna die, you might as well enjoy the ride down, right? On my list of Ways To Die: Plane Crash is on my list of ways that wouldn’t be so bad.

But I wanted to see my babies one last time, so I kept on praying and when we touched down, I cried a little.

We got stuck on the tarmac for quite awhile while the plane was de-iced and I swear to you, Chicago never looked so pretty or wonderful or good to me as it did last night, or this morning, or really, ever.

Today, I will count my blessings, count my angels on my shoulder, and know that it must not have been quite my time to go yet. Then I will go pour something in my coffee to quell the shaking and kiss my babies and cry a little bit.

The sun is shining very, very brightly today.

In my secret fantasies, not the ones involving being able to pull off blond hair (I have black hair)(black hair does not translate into a blond well)(and by “well” I mean that I looked like Bozo the Clown), I somehow manage to run away from my life, move to California and…do…something.

Maybe I’ll sell oranges by the freeway, a la Sublime’s My Ruca. Or I’ll actually start a hippie jam band, without the anthrax laden drums, though, because there’s nothing like fucking ANTHRAX to harsh your motherfucking BUZZ, man. I could even start to surf and live on the beach or something, even though walking is a challenge for me and surfing would certainly find me breaking something vital to my survival.

Whatever.

California has always been able to bring out the part of me that makes me simultaneously want to sell everything I own so that I can live off the land (while hoping that I had some natural talent for…something earthly, especially considering I consider “roughing it” staying at a hotel without room service) and strike it rich by being the Next Big Thing.

New York, conversely, made me feel like I had come home for the very first time when I visited. Even the sight of garbage bags all over the place didn’t stop me from swooning. New York, ah, New York.

But really, for now, I’m a Midwesterner. Land of, uh, The Tater Tot and The Mullet (all business up front and PARTY down the motherfucking back!) and all sorts of other middling things. It’s flat and it’s either a) ass hot or b) ass cold and there’s not a whole lot to say about it besides that.

I’ve lived in Chicago my whole life, which means I’m thoroughly enchanted by anywhere else. And I do mean anywhere. Drop me in the middle of the slums and I’d be all “dude, I bet I can get a kick ass wig! Or some awesome BBQ! Oh, please, take me to get a weave!”

We’re leaving for the airport in 15 minutes, and really, while I’m happy to leave 75 degree weather to slither back to the subzero-freeze-your-nipples-off-arctic, I’m not really. I only managed to see a fraction of my LA friends and I didn’t see a single transsexual prostitute. NOT ONE. EVEN AT THE BABY SHOWER.

But, I get to go home and see my children, who are going to be, no doubt, furious that I dared leave them.

I’m off to style my hair to make sure the paparazzi get my Good Side on my return trip home, and try and snag an In-n-Out Burger because really, who doesn’t want to have to poo buckets in the tiny airport bathroom.

Until we meet again, The Internet, bon voyage.

Oh, and I leave you with one question because I am curious: if you could ditch your life and start over, what would you do?