I’m tacky.

This statement is, of course, a “well, duh!” to anyone who happens to know me in real life. I like to blame this on genetics, considering that every time I walk into a room at my parents house, someone remarks “WOAH, NICE SHOES,” and then blathers on about how I’m “just like my grandmother” who had “the same garish taste,” but considering my parents find teak to be the most lovely decoration material ever, I take it as a compliment.

I don’t doubt that one day, along with finding the gene markers responsible for male pattern baldness, scientists will unwittingly find a “tacky gene” which I can only pray to the Good Lord of Butter that they name something like, “The Sparkle Gene” (which goes neatly along with my six-year old desire to rename our car “Sparkle, Sparkle, Sparkle Car,” to which my parents abjectly disagreed with)

(Never DID say I was any good at naming things, considering I own a cat named “Basement Kitty,” and I have no basement)

The Sparkle Gene has been neatly passed down to my daughter who, despite her ability to kick ass at a moment’s notice, loves all things sparkly, although she, like me, is not interested in Princess Gear. In fact, she’s now calling herself Bat Girl, which goes along neatly with my nickname: Good Catwoman. She’ll happily wear her superhero cape while collecting those shiny gem things you can get at craft stores for like a buck (I assume – never did buy any), which means that she too, has the Sparkle Gene.

I like to imagine that the Sparkle Gene is, in some small part, related to the reason I’ve never decorated a home before, excepting for our failed condo, which I painted all colors of the rainbow, just to turn around and sell it. When we moved into the house formerly known as mine, we decided that decorating and painting wasn’t really in our best interest.

Slowly, I did redo two of the three bathrooms and the kids bedrooms as they were popped from my girl bits. The dining room, which was formerly known as my office, I redid last winter, painting it a lovely shade of Eggplant and replacing the ancient light fixture. I loved that room until Hurricane July hit and it was made clear that I would be moving out.

When I moved into my own space, I made sure to pack the pictures I’d been collecting, the decorations I’d held onto for that one day – the day that would never come – I’d be able to decorate a space to call my own. Could’ve been my old bedroom or a real office for me, didn’t matter. I wanted to be able to look around a room and say, “O’DOYLE RULES!” or, at the very least, “BECKY’S BEEN HERE.”

For something so important to me – and it’s always been – I never did manage to get around to it.

Until now.

(cue ominous music)

I’ve been spending a lot of my time thinking about ways I can decorate my new place to make it feel like I’ve got a home of my own. Don’t get me wrong – I’d sooner get mauled to death by a rogue hedgehog before I’ll EVER be known for “my style” but I don’t care. It’s my space to decorate and mine to call home.

While non-traditional, you WILL note that there is nothing glittery on that wall, which means I’m decidedly not done.

(mental note: buy bedazzler)

This painting is probably one of my very favorites. While it looks depressing as hell, the graffiti says, “There is always hope,” which is one of those wacky new-age things I have to repeat to myself to get through the day. Well, that and “glitter makes EVERYTHING better.”

(Dear Depression: Fuck you. Love, AB)

One of the things I’ve been doing while recovering from the flu that ate my immune system is to play around on this site:

Which I’m only telling you about because they’re running some killer hot deals right now if you sign up. Makes me wish I were a new customer so I could YOINK that ten dollars.

I happen to like this site not only because it appeals to my Sparkle Gene, but because when I go scouring The Internetz for art, I hyperventilate.

Etsy makes me break out in hives because I can only peruse the site if I have something INCREDIBLY specific in mind, which, I’ll have you know Pranksters, does not often happen, and searching for “sparkle, sparkle art,” NEVER gets me ANYTHING I’d ever want.

This site happens to choose small independent companies and showcase their items at a deeply discounted price (especially if you earn credits, which you do by “peeking” at the prices of various items. It’s like a game and it’s probably the best time waster ever, besides Monster Pet Shop (Damn YOOOU CRYS!), but you know and you should totally try it. It’s a ton of fun, even if I can’t afford half the things on there, it’s a great way I get ideas for things to put on my walls, until I own a bedazzler.

Or manage to extract the Sparkle Gene from my genetic makeup. Y’know, whichever comes first.

—————

So what about YOU, Pranksters? Where do you find stuffs for your walls? I’m all about getting my house to look as though I live here.

—————–

P.S. Inappropriate frog is inappropriate.

It’s no secret that I’m the finder of odd things (baggies of diamonds, a child, a can of diet Coke), which, is going to make this story incredibly anti-climactic, so be warned.

I’ve spent the better part of two weeks on the couch, wearing an Aunt Becky shaped groove into my couch, moaning histrionically while my cat watched from a distance, all, “bitch, you be crazy – ain’t nobody here to hear your pitifulness besides me and I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Cats, man, not the most sympathetic of creatures.

I’d thought it was low-grade depression, but no, it turns out that I’ve had the flu, which is my PSA for “GET A FLU SHOT, FOR THE LOVE OF BUTTER.” Being me, I had assorted complications with aforementioned flu, none of which are in the slightest bit interesting (okay, malnutrition is kinda wacky, but that’s neither here nor there).

The one thing that kept me sane was playing online games on my iPad (Monster Pet Shop, you are a cruel, cruel mistress) because I was too full of the histrionic to even attempt sitting up long enough to do anything at my computer, which, if you ask me, is the epitome of pathetic. But that is neither here nor there.

Finally, on Saturday night, after tearing myself away from Tiny Tower,

I decided that it was high time to get off my ass and take out the garbage which had been silently taunting me for days. It was all, “I need to be taken out and yooooooouuuuu can’t do it. Ha-ha!” and I was all, “We’ll see who’s the bitch now, motherfucker.”

Apparently, the flu makes you weaker than a mosquito in cold weather, because I swear to you, Pranksters, I’ve never had so much trouble taking out the trash in my life, even WITHOUT household appliances attacking me. I had to take a breather on one of the benches overlooking the river before I could even attempt to crawl back into my house and see what online games required my immediate and undivided attention.

It was then that I saw him.

Now, my neighbors are known for walking their house-pets around, especially cats, which has both befuddled and betwixt me, because, well, who wants to take a CAT for a WALK? Mine would be all, “shit bitch, shut your whore mouth,” the moment I tried to strap a dog harness around him (he’s not fat – he’s just big-boned!)(also: he likes Cheesy Poofs)(then again, who doesn’t?). He’d probably sever one of my pesky – yet important – blood vessels before he let me take him outdoors.

But anyway, the sight of my neighbor walking around with a cat isn’t nearly as shocking as it should be.

“Hi,” he said (my neighbor, not the cat). “Are you missing a cat?”

I looked around wondering if this was a code, but before I could respond, the cat began twirling itself around my ankles all, “I love you,” which is a far cry from my own cat, who’s all, “I love being fat.” I looked down at it and realized it didn’t weigh 82,747 pounds, therefore, it was not my cat. Also: it was orange, which my cat is not.

“Um,” I said, still a bit winded and more than a bit weirded out by the cat who was now making sweet love to my calf. “No.”

“This cat,” he explained, “was in my car. I noticed it when I was over at one of those big box stores. I’d bring him in but I have a small baby at home and I don’t know what the cat could do.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I WAS the small baby at my home, and instead looked down at the cat, who had firmly attached itself to my leg like a barnacle. I sighed.

“I can take him in for the weekend,” I agreed, knowing that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t and something happened to the cat. “Then I can see if I can track down his owner.”

The dude smiled, obviously relieved that he’d passed his stalker onto me. The cat, I swear, grinned like the Cheshire Cat as it sprung into my apartment, all, “lookit me, I’m so damn cute.”

I call him Dolomite, rather than “Three-Pete,” which is the name I should’ve given him, in following in my pattern of naming orange cats “Pete.”

Upon further inspection, I realized that Dolomite has been traveling quite a bit – his paws are busted from walking and he’s in dire need of some food and water.

And I’ll nurse him back to health because it’s the right thing to do.

Once, of course, I’m done restocking my Tiny Tower shoe store.

————-

Got any better names for me, Pranksters? I should warn you that my other cat? His name is “Basement Kitty,” or, as I like to call him now that I’ve moved, “Basementless Kitty,” which goes to show you how badly I name animals.

Two years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I’d just had major abdominal surgery.

But why? I hear the three porn bots who routinely scour my blog to leave hilariously spammy messages crying in their mechanical voice(s). Why would you have surgery? Was it a boob job? A lobotomy? Did you actually find someone to give you a third arm?

No, no, I say, sitting back in my chair and slurping my coffee loudly. Nothing so dramatical.

I’d gone under the knife two years ago (right before a trip to Vegas!) to have a full abdominoplasty.

Well, I hear the porn bots beeping and booping, what on EARTH did you need that for? Are you just a vain bitch?

Yes and no, I reply, still slurping my coffee.

You see, I’m built with the approximate proportions of a daddy long-legs spider — all legs with practically no torso. That means that I’m freakish looking on a good day and while pregnant with my kids, that I carry them RIGHT out there — as in, my pregnant torso entered rooms a full five minutes before the rest of me waddled in. (I also appear to carry them in my ass, but that’s neither here nor there). The spider-like pregnancies left my abdominal muscles both screaming and groaning, the muscles actually weeping whenever I dared to do such things as “sit up.” Laying down, I could nearly sink my fist through the hole left in my abs and grab out my entrails, should I have been so inclined.

(thankfully, porn bots, I never was. I may wear a #1 finger for encased meats, but the thought of all those delicious beef lips and assholes wrapped in my own innards is semi off-putting.)

Let’s not even mention that three babies at 8 pounds a piece + 60 pounds of baby weight = loose skin I could probably have worn as a nice skin scarf, should I have chosen.

And I was born, not only with the bladder of a squirrel, but with something my mother affectionately refers to as The Sherrick Pot-Belly, which meant that even if I went the anorexic route, I’d still look 3 months pregnant.

I’d originally gone into the plastic surgeons to see about a boob job — these puppies are huge and with migraines and neck issues, I figured a reduction might be the ticket to a pain-free life (hey, after it’s been suggested that you inject botulism toxin into your fucking neck, the idea of a boob reduction seems almost… fun).

He took one look at my melons and informed me that insurance would scoff at my claim. Plus, he said, I’d probably end up looking freakish, unless I got a complete boob job. Which was something like 9+ hours on the OR table.

But he looked down and noted my gut and had me lay back. He sucked his breath in as he noted the gaping space between the abdominal muscles formerly known as mine, and suggested that I may benefit further from a full abdominoplasty.

(quick dance interlude:

Partial Abdominoplasty = mostly liposuction and removal of loose skin.

Complete Abdominoplasty = removes excess skin and reshapes the abdominal muscles in those who have had pregnancies like mine, wherein the muscles of the abdomen are separated.

/end scene)

He then suggested that fixing the core muscles of my abdomen may help with my neck and migraine issues. I could’ve kissed him. I’d always planned to have a partial abdominoplasty someday in the very distant future, but the suggestion of a life without pain made baby angels weep with the awesome.

The surgery was fine, as far as surgeries go — I didn’t die on the table or anything — and I even got some pretty nifty drains sticking out of either side of me, which made me kinda feel bionic and wish that I’d asked him to put in some steel plates or machines in my gut, further allowing me to become partially robotic.

The recovery, though, can best be described as excruciating. Turns out, that even my wonky abdominal muscles had been doing their thang, which meant that I spent many hours laying on the couch, trying to ascertain whether or not peeing myself was a better option than trying to get to the bathroom. It took weeks to be able to stand long enough to shower. It took nearly a year for me to regain full control of my muscles again.

But, I know you porn bots are trying to figure out, was the surgery worth it? Have your migraines stopped?

The answer is somewhere in the middle. The migraines are still there, but they’re slightly more manageable, which is FULL of the awesome. And the results, well, I’ll leave you to see them (I’m sorry I have no before snaps for you):

And no, this was not shot in softcore mode – I simply don’t own a full-length mirror.

Also: I am not colored like an oompa-loompa. Apparently, the lighting in my bedroom is mood-lighting. Which may explain why my cat opts to lick his bung on my bed rather than the floor.

My kids are all about superheros these days.

Specifically, Batman. Now, when I was a kid (cracks knuckles, grabs cane and tries to figure out how to use cell phone), I had almost zero interest in superheros. I had no imagination, and save for the Wonderwoman training bra I wore religiously — without, I should add, the need for it — I couldn’t care LESS about superheros.

It’s probably because I had no imagination and preferred digging in the dirt, which is shockingly similar to what I’m like these days. Gimmie worms and other creepy crawlers and an old copy of Grey’s Anatomy and I’m golden.

But my kids. No. They’re insistent upon this superhero thing, which is handy because some toy company was all, WE SHOULD BRING BACK BATMAN AND ALLLLL THE SUPERHEROS, which means that the kids are in toy heaven.

It also made Halloween shopping much easier:

Me: “Whatchu wanna be for Halloween, Alex? THE LAND SHARK?”

Alex: “Batman.”

Me (sighs): “Okay, Mimi, what about you? What do YOU want to be for Halloween?”

Mimi: “Batman.”

Alex: “Mama, what’s your costume going to be?”

Me: “Ummm….”your mom!”” I snickered as I said that, because while it’s true – YOUR MOM.

Alex: “No, that’s what you are EVERY day.”

Me: “Um…Twitter Fail Whale?”

Alex (flatly): “No.”

Me: “Fine, okay, what should I be?”

Alex and Mimi (in unison): “CATWOMAN.”

Okay, I thought, I could work with this shit. Until yesterday morning, when I awoke and realized that I owned almost nothing black (my brother went through a long-lasting black phase and I’ve been scarred ever since).

Hrms, I thought. Had it not been -2726 degrees last night, I’d have worn one of my thousands (okay three – but they were bridesmaids dresses) black dresses and gone all Glamor Shots Catwoman. Instead, after pouring through my closet, I decided that I could go as Cat-Burglar Catwoman. Just needed some black shit and some fucking eye makeup and fuck yeah! Catwoman/Cat-Burglar!

I grabbed a black v-neck shirt, some ugly black yoga pants, and decided that I’d bling the shit out of it after I picked up J from kindergarten. I could hardly wait to see his reaction (and by “hardly wait,” I mean, “I knew he was going to bitch”).

“Check it out, Al,” I showed him as we buckled up on our way from kindergarten to preschool. “I’m Catwoman!”

He looked at me doubtfully.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You don’t have a tail, ears or ANYTHING. You need a costume.”

When I dropped him off at preschool and showed his sister, she was equally disdainful of my outfit. “Mama,” she said, hands on her hips, “you need to go to The Target Store and get a REAL costume.”

I sighed as I bid them farewell. I’d been hoping to avoid spending money on a costume — but Halloween is once a year and I knew it’d make them SO happy if were able to pull something together. Off to one of those stupid-looking costume boutiques I went, hoping for a fucking miracle. Who the balls goes shopping on HALLOWEEN?

(answer: me)

I went inside, and noted that all of the women’s costumes could easily double as hooker apparel – it was like walking into Sluts-r-Us, and if I’d had a kickin’ Halloween party to go to, well, that’d be another story entirely. Instead, I was going out WITH MY CHILDREN.

I found the Catwoman costume right away — it looked like one of those body suits interpretive dancers wear (Now, students, ACT LIKE THE SALAD! BE the salad!).

No.

Fucking.

Way.

Next to it, I noted that they had a Robin costume. Okay, I thought. Robin waits in the car anyway, and shit, this is better than looking like I might begin interpretive dancing as a microwave while we tricked and treated.

I scoured the store to see if I could find something more reasonable and/or less slutty, but no. This is the costume I found:

Which is bad enough, but I figured I could de-slut it a bit, considering I was taking my KIDS trick-or-treating and not going to a hooker convention. I decided to show it to a few friends so they could share in the horror, and was aghast to discover this:

Blech.

Batman “Secret Wishes” Robin Costume? Double gag. Especially since, given my way, I’d have gone as the Land Shark, considering NOT ONE OF MY CHILDREN IS INTO THAT COSTUME IDEA (mostly because they’re boring).

I’d warned Dave that my costume looked like it’d come from Tramps R Us, and showing him the link on Amazon, he just laughed at me. Through clenched fingers, I typed, “I’m ONLY doing this because it’ll make the kids happy.” He laughed harder.

I dressed myself, throwing a pair of pants on under the slut suit, and headed over to Dave’s house, doing the whole walk of shame up to the driveway, hoping my neighbors wouldn’t mistake me for a prostitute.

The kids, upon seeing me, screamed happily, “OH MOM, YOU LOOK AWESOME! LOOK YOU’RE ROBIN AND WE’RE BATMANS! THIS IS SO COOL!”

“Better than the Catwoman outfit, huh?” I asked them, as they tore into the candy Dave’d bought for the trick-or-treaters, knowing that plying them with chocolate is practically a Halloween law, and shit, I didn’t want to get all sued by the Halloween police.

“YES!” They chirped happily. I smiled, still feeling absurd.

I mean, how can you NOT if this is your outfit?

The glee is CLEARLY evident on my face. The very least the manufactures could’ve done is NOT give me the world’s most absurd cape. The thing was like two inches long and seriously, I know Robin waits in the car and shit, but really? Alfred should’ve made the dude a REAL cape.

Luckily, I managed to mostly cover myself up so I didn’t appear as though I, too, was on the prowl for some candy and/or offering a BJ:

Thank the Good Lord Of Butter that Robin waits on the sidewalk.

Shortly after the whole nervous breakdown/divorce/get the nuts out of my house debacle, a friend of mine took my tearful ass out to catch a cup of coffee. Over coffee, he asked me simply: “What do YOU want?”

I sat there stunned, holding two packets of Equal, googling at him as though he’d suddenly grown a head from his shoulders.

“What I want?” I sputtered when I finally could make my vocal cords work again.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Becks, what do YOU want?”

Slowly, I shook my head side-to-side. No one had ever asked me what I wanted, unless they were looking for an answer like, “An Uncrustable,” or “John C. Mayer’s head on a platter so it cannot sing “Your Body Is A Wonderland EVER AGAIN.”

I didn’t answer him; I couldn’t.

Not because I didn’t want to respond to the question, but because I hadn’t thought about what I wanted in many years – that’s part of being a parent, a writer, a wife, the caretaker to many – you don’t have the option of putting yourself first. It’s not a dig at any of those roles, it simply is. How can you possibly nurse a migraine in a dark room with an icepack on your head if it’s going to lead to resentments from your partner or simply impossible – thanks to a gaggle of kids who’d prefer to poke you in the eyes and ask the same question 10382 times? The answer is that you can’t. Not often, anyway, and certainly not without a glistening pile of guilt.

I’ve been living on my own for a full month now. I have enough to pay rent (although that bitch Sandy is going to sorely affect my ability to freelance, considering NYC apparently looks like a zombie apocalypse has swept through it), which makes me beyond proud. I did it. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to do it alone, but I was wrong – the fear is a lying liar who lies.

In one month, I’ve spent more time thinking about the future I want to have, The Happyness I need to find, and what happens next than I have in 9 years. I’d put all plans for having my own life on a shelf, just out of reach, once I got married to a workaholic, popped out two more kids, and began blogging as a way to find the community, the friends I so desperately craved.

It was a full life, but it was a lonely one.

That’s not to say I have regrets – I don’t. But I’m left grasping at straws and rediscovering who Becky Sherrick Harks really is, beyond a mother, freelance writer, leader of a non-profit and blogger. Certainly these jobs I cherish, but we all know, Pranksters, that there’s more to be done. I don’t want to be an old woman, sitting on the porch, wishing she’d taken that risk, chased that dream, followed her heart.

So I won’t.

Divorce doesn’t mean that my life is over; that I’ll never find love again, I’ll be stuck in front of the TV night after night watching Dexter reruns, pretending to be married to men from television. Divorce doesn’t mean that I’m suddenly going to become a crazy cat lady or hoarder or a recluse who collects her pee in jars. The things that have changed are those that needed to be changed in order for the next part of my life to begin. It’s time for me to find those dreams left trapped in a jar (clarification: not pee-filled jars) on a shelf somewhere, dust off the cobwebs and figure out what, exactly, I want to do with the next chapter of my life.

This is my life to live. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow or next week. I don’t have any way of knowing if the dreams I once had will have stood the test of time. If they have, I will chase my heart. If they have not, I will find a new dream. Life has a weird way of working out like that.

I can hardly wait to see where it takes me.

P.S. Giving away a copy of my book here.

It’s been no secret that I’ve been depressed.

I’ve stared at the blinking curser on a blank blog page, all Imma talk about it I don’t know how many times (at least twice), but realize that whatever I say will be all wah, wah, wah, bleeeerrrggg, because I’m not depressed about things that are entirely fixable with anything but time. I’ve done my best to keep my head up through the storms and keep one foot in front of the other – that is, when I’m not too busy falling over kitchen appliances and giving myself minor concussions – and keep on truckin’.

It’s the only thing I can do.

So instead of telling you my laundry list of things that have been depressing and/or heartbreaking, it’s time to take a gander at depression through the ages. That way, when I’m sad, I can stop being sad and start being awesome again.

Depression, Age 10: “Wahhhhhhh, I broke a lace on my new skates and now I have to wear these rental skates and NO ONE will want to slow-skate with me because I’m going to be all stinky-foot on their asses. These skates smell like at least three people vomited inside of them. How does that even happen? I need my mom to buy me a new pair of these kicky shoes – Chuck Taylor’s. That’ll help with this OMFG humiliation of skating in barf skates.”

Depression, Age 15: “Wah-Wah-Wah, I’ve just dumped this guy that I OMG loved so much with all my heart and I just knew we’d be together forever even though we only were “together” for a night or whatever, but he’s SUCH a good kisser and I’m SURE he’s my soulmate. I know we’ll work out*. In the meantime, I need some kicky motherfucking shoes. AND, I need my friend to pee in his mailbox. Clearly. Oh, if only I had a social network thing to quote very, VERY meaningful song lyrics and/or quotes that remind me of my lost looooovvvveee.”

Depression, Age 20: “Holy fuckstick, I got a baby in my belly and he’s all dancing on my bladder and shit and I have to pee two ounces every three seconds, and if he’d just lay off my liver, things would be okay again. Well, that and a simple, “Congrats!” from anyone – kinda sick of these angry looks. I’m twenty years old, not thirteen. I bet a new purse would do wonders to cover up my gigantic ass. Who the shit gets pregnant IN THEIR ASS?”

Depression, Age 25: “Ha! TAKE THAT! I proved those motherfuckers wrong – I raised that baby up, I got married and I graduated at the top of my nursing class. With the whirlwind I’ve been living in, I don’t see AT ALL how I didn’t notice that working as a floor nurse might just make me homicidal. Oh, and autism kinda sucks ass – I thought it would be better once I had real time to devote to the kid. Oh! I know what’ll help – ANOTHER BABY. So why can’t I get fucking pregnant?”

Depression, Age 30: “I got this. I may be miserable, but who the fuck wants to think about that shit? I can totally just push it on back there and be all, “MY LIFE RULEZ. It’s important that it has the “Z” in RULEZ, because obviously. No one needs to know how shitty things are, even IF I do have a social media network to whine on – who wants to read that? I bet a joke about squirrels in diapers would TOTALLY cheer me up. I should tweet that shit.”

Depression, Age 32: “Starting over again, huh? Not the way I thought it would be. I could put up some inspirational shit on my social media networks, but that might make me stab myself in the toe with a blunt fork. Who cares if “tomorrow is a new day” if today, like all the days before it, has sucked ballz. YES, ballz needs a “Z.” Why? Obviously. Being this whiny means I should probably shut my whore mouth until I’m able to say something awesome again. So that’s that – when I get sad now, I’m going to stop being sad and start being awesome.”

*he had a tiny wang – think pretzel rod, Pranksters – and we never did get back together. Thank the Good Lord of Butter. Bullet motherfucking DODGED.

(when you can’t find me here, you can find me here, which has some rad guest posts on it. Why? Because when I get sad, I stop being sad and start being awesome. Duh.)

We’d been tasked, The Guy (at the time) On My Couch and I with wrangling the children outdoors because the window guy was indoors, ripping out our old drafty windows and installing brand-spankin’ new ones. The house was an investment, and we couldn’t WAIT to have windows that properly opened and shut so that we could do things like, “feel the warm breeze” without the cats jumping out the windows in a desperate effort to save themselves from our formerly white (WHITE!) carpet.

(Pointless aside: who the fuck installs white carpeting? Answer: not I)

We’d spent the day gardening with el kids (a couple of neighborhood kids thrown in for good measure), laying down grass seed and puttering around doing old people shit. Dave, on the other hand, was indoors working on something very important – perhaps a game of Civ 5, I can’t be sure – I’m no gamer, so they all look the same to me (read: equally baffling).

Finally, we sat in the garage, sweating our nards off and talking to the window guy who was done with the install for the day. He explained that he was waiting for his partner to come and pick him up, but that he’d be back tomorrow to install some whoo-dillys and whacha-ma-callits. I just nodded, happy to be out of the blistering sun and away from the bugs, if only for a moment.

Soon enough, a child-napping van pulled up into our driveway – perfect for both kidnappers and tradespeople alike – and his “partner” popped out. When I’d envisioned “partner,” I assumed he meant an older, more grizzled version of himself, someone who likely wheezed upon any exertion – like getting out of the child-napping van. But no, his partner was a woman.

She practically ran into the garage, begging to use my bathroom.

“Sure,” I said, sympathetically. My parents had performed a procedure when I was quite small in which they replaced my own bladder with a squirrels, which means I have to pee approximately every four seconds, while somewhere, skulking around Illinois, is a squirrel who hasn’t peed in over seven years.

“It’s right behind this wall,” I gestured. She dashed inside as we continued talking shop – a euphemism for listening to someone who knows a lot about whoo-dillys talking wildly about Mr. Gadget shit while I sat there, nodding and trying not to drip sweat into my eyes – with the Window Guy.

The minutes crept past us as we jabbered on, The Guy On The Couch and The Window Guy, while I began counting the mosquito bites that had formed a particularly awesome pattern on my legs. Soon, my mind drifted and I began to look for patterns in the bites. Just as I thought I saw Jesus composed entirely of mosquito bites, imagining the lines of people who may line up to see my legs and pray over them for upwards of two days – or until the bites subsided – she flew back out of the house. She’d been gone so long I’d assumed she’d found Dave and had begun to talk to him about video games or sealing wax, or other fancy stuffs.

“Thanks again,” she said to me, as I nodded sympathetically. “I’ve been holding that a REALLY long time.”

“No problem,” I said to her, “happens to me all the time.”

“Yep,” The Guy (then) On My Couch affirmed. “Her bladder is the size of a Fruit Loop.”

The Window Guy and his partner made their way back to their child-napping van, where I hoped they would go home WITHOUT kidnapping innocent children, and I turned to The Guy (then) On My Couch, “Holy fucks, I gotta pee, motherfucker.”

He looked at me, deadpan, “This is my surprised face.”

I flicked him off on the way into the cool house, the sweat on my face practically freezing as I walked indoors and into the bathroom, ready to evacuate 2.5 ounces from my bladder.

It hit me like a freight train as I flicked on the bathroom light: the incredible, unmistakable stench of shit. I googled a bit, eyes watering, before closing the door and turning the fan on. Didn’t need that getting out into the general circulation.

After I made my way to the upstairs bathroom and back to the garage to watch The Littles, I pulled The Guy (then) On My Couch aside, “Holy balls, Ben,” I said, “She dropped a HUGE deuce in there.”

He laughed, “Really?”

“Yup,” I replied, my eyes wide as dinner plates. “I’m kinda shocked.”

“Me too!” He agreed with me. “Who goes and takes a monster dump at a complete stranger’s house? Isn’t that what gas station bathrooms are for?”

“Yes,” I said, eyes still open so wide they nearly fell out of my head. “That and weird creepy gas station bathroom sex.”

I thought for a minute.

“It’s always my fucking luck,” I confessed. “Or maybe it’s everyone’s thing – I can’t seem to find a bathroom to use that someone before me hasn’t taken a warm, steaming dump. I’m always fucking afraid that stench is going to get in my hair. I can’t TELL you all the times I’ve walked into to a bathroom to take a pee and I’m stuck gagging at the remnants someone’s dinner from the night before.”

“You do pee a LOT,” he replied flippantly.

Not really acknowledging what is, apparently, common knowledge, I continued. “But do you know what’s the worst?” I didn’t wait for a reply, “It’s when they’ve used that canned air freshener shit and I’m sitting in peach-scented poo. That shit never works like it’s supposed to – rather than mask the odor, it just ADDS to it. Fucking gross.” I shuddered as I dry-heaved a little. “Blech.”

He just nodded, laughing too hard to reply.

A lifetime later, a company sent me yet another bizarre item, which I promptly put into my box of items that were to be moved to my new home. As I was taking very little from our house, save for one set of the couches and a few odds and ends, I’d happily accepted anything anyone wanted to send me. You never DO know what you’re going to need.

The PR rep would occasionally email me to ask me about the item, which was called “ReJuvenescence,” and I promptly ignored her emails – my life was in boxes, and no, I hadn’t had a chance to try their new product, which sounded, each time I got the email, like something you’d use on your vagina.

It’s not.

Finally, once I was settled in my new place, I unpacked the box and stared into it – a little shocked. The wee box was filled with toilet paper plastic thingies (sadly no toilet paper). The instructions informed me that I was to peel some stickers off, pop a roll of TP on them, then relax and enjoy. Or something like that, I don’t really read instructions.

I wrangled the thing onto my toilet paper holder, curious as to what the nuts it would do. I hoped that it would:

A) Sing to me

2) Clap and/or cheer

73.7) Return my bladder to normal, human size.

It did none of those.

What it did do, however, was make my bathroom (and subsequently) my toilet paper smell kinda… nice. Not like that bullshit pine tree air freshener “nice” (which only serves to remind me of my days as a teenage delinquent), but sorta… good.

But let’s be honest with each other, Pranksters, I’d be more impressed if it sang Christmas Carols or various versions of the Pina Colada song.

“Hey,” Dave asked me on Thursday of last week, “I want to take the kids to the pumpkin patch on Sunday.” Our annual pilgrimage to the pumpkin patch was always something I’d looked forward to, but I’d assumed that he meant he wanted to take the kids with someone else. Fair play, I shrugged, and agreed. Can’t have it all ways, right?

When Saturday turned out to be a bust – the kids were happily ensconced on my couch playing with their new capes and jumping around like a couple of monkeys, Dave suggested Sunday as the day we’d go to the pumpkin patch. Still certain he didn’t mean, “how ’bout we BOTH take them to the pumpkin patch,” I agreed. The kids were going back to his house; what he chose to do with them and with whom wasn’t something I really had any say in – and frankly, it wasn’t exactly something I was upset about. Next year, I comforted myself, I’d be able to take them to the pumpkin patch.

“Well,” I said, “why don’t you come over and have breakfast with us before you go? The kids made cinnamon rolls and will be happy to see you.”

“Oh,” he said, confused. “I thought we were going to the pumpkin patch…”

“Wait,” I said. “You want ME to go, too? Okay!” I happily agreed. I love the pumpkin patch NEARLY as much as I love the color blue and finding eclectic artwork.

We decided, after noshing on cinnamon rolls, that we’d simply pick up some pumpkins at the store and go over to The House Formerly Known As Mine to decorate them. Thoughtfully, Dave asked if that was okay with me. Considering I’d had my garage door opener – my one way into the house to collect my things – taken away, I was thrilled to go over there, decorate pumpkins and collect the things that were mine. I hadn’t taken much of the stuff from the house when I moved – the plan had been to keep The House Formerly Known As Mine “Switzerland,” so I figured leaving some furniture behind was okay.

We pulled up to The House Formerly Known as Mine and I noted the peonies, which I’d carefully planted many years ago, were preparing for winter, shedding leaves and turning an unsightly shade of green. I blinked the tears from my eyes before anyone could notice, wondering if anyone would be taking care of them as I once had – with unabashed joy.

As the kids got settled inside with their pumpkins, I began the arduous process of dissecting the pile of things that had been left in the garage – presumably my own stuffs – and moving the items I needed into the back of the van so that I could transport them to my own home. It only took a few minutes, but I wasn’t quite ready to enter the home that had once been mine – my forever home. It’s been extraordinarily difficult to see the places I once haunted; to realize that it is, in fact, all over now.

Without making eye contact, I grabbed a cup of coffee and went back into the garage, only this time, it was to sit and let the tears flow without fear of repercussion. I sat myself on the cooler we’d once bought together for this or that and stared around the garage, the sun shining merrily, my neighbors all working in their yards or on their cars in the same way they’d always done. While I’m not narcissistic to assume that life will not go on without me, it did dawn on me that it had and that inexplicably hurt.

I looked around the garage, which seemed a glaring reminder of what had come before.

There’s that rake up there, the one that’s made to look like a bumblebee that we bought for the kids to “help” in the yard after the trees had dumped their leaves. It had to be five or six years old, but there it was – still intact and still working.

And over there, the matching pink and red Red Ryder Big Wheels I’d bought on two separate Black Friday’s off Amazon: one for Alex and one for Mimi. I smiled, recalling how happy I’d been to find such a good deal on them; how much I’d loved riding my own and how I just knew that someday, these would be treasured toys.

Right there, in front of me was the adorable Power Wheels I’d bought Alex that March, well before I knew that I’d soon be moving.

To my left were a couple of buckets leftover from Easter. I’d moved them outside so that the kids could “garden” (read: dig holes in the dirt) with me, a favorite activity for the four of us. I wondered briefly if we’d be able to do that again someday; how joyful it would make me if we could.

On that shelf, the one we’d bought when we first moved in, I saw all of the sprays I’d bought to save my roses from the dreaded black spot, carefully applying it every other week so that their blooms would smell of heaven and their leaves wouldn’t turn an unsightly shade of yellow. I remembered how many hours I’d spent in that rose garden, lovingly tending to the plants, releasing my stress and watching something beautiful come from a small, innocuous plant.

And there, hanging up, the Baby swing that had fit both Alex and Amelia at one time or another, allowing them to swing alongside their older siblings until they both grew out of it. I remember carefully choosing a playset for the kids so that they’d have a backyard playground, Dave and I in agreement that it made our house feel like a home.

Tears rolled down my cheek as I wondered how it had all come to this.

I couldn’t answer that, so I swiped at my eyes and took a deep breath.

It was time to watch my babies decorate their pumpkins before I returned to my empty apartment, armed with stuff I’d left behind, leaving those things that were never mine to take.

You’ll be glad (or dismayed) to know that I am not dead.

While the freezer door did make an attempt upon my life, I am still upright and breathing. But after the gas leak from a dead pilot light the week before, I’m now warily watching the washer/dryer unit to see when, in fact, it will make its play to kill me. I can only surmise that it is plotting against me, but without real proof, I cannot be sure. So rather than being productive, I instead watch it with the phone book open to the number of the local hospital, as a warning of sorts, that if it does, in fact, try to kill me, I have backup motherfucker. And not Life Alert, although that may be a wise investment.

In that time, though, I’ve been thinking a lot about the lies we tell ourselves:

I wonder, sometimes, if we tell ourselves these lies simply to avoid the truth: that the moment we’re in is hard; that the end is nowhere in sight; that we do really jam out to John C. Mayer when no one is looking; that becoming a morning person means that we are now able to be smugly superior to the rest of those crazy “late sleepers.”

I don’t know the answer.

And I don’t know if the lies we tell ourselves in order to believe that somehow Our Happy is just around that corner, ready to spring out and beat The Happy into our brains is a healthy way to cope. I don’t know if dwelling on the past, mulling over the mistakes we’ve made and the things we’ve done that have hurt others is a better solution.

I’d surmise that the answer lies somewhere in the middle – we tell ourselves the things that allow us to feel briefly better, like it was all meant something, that someday, the meaning of the tunnel of shit we’re wading through had a far greater purpose: without X, Y wouldn’t have happened. I like to believe that sentiment  – normally I find that the tunnel of shit does bring about, in time, diamonds, and not rocks.

Take for example, my daughter, who was born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect called an “encephalocele,” which is a fancy way of saying that her skull got lazy, didn’t close, and brain matter developed outside of her head. While normally diagnosed prenatally during a routine ultrasound, someone somehow somewhere fucked up and managed to NOT see the hole in her skull. In normal conversation, I tell people that “it’s better that I didn’t know she had an encephalocele ahead of time,” because it would’ve “made the pregnancy that much more stressful.”

I don’t know if that’s true – if it’s another lie I tell myself to make myself feel better – there’s nothing like dangling in the labor room, listening to the NICU whirr and click and clack and whisper about your baby while you’re stuck there, delivering the placenta and getting your girl bits stitched up while your daughter, mere minutes old, is in the midst of getting an examination that will seal her fate as one of two things:

1) Innocuous, unsightly cyst

B) Something really, REALLY bad.

Any of you who’ve read my blog know what happened: she now has a handy skull graft and that pesky brain tissue exploding out of the back of her head, well, it’s been long-since removed. The scar is still there, growing along with her, as she whirls and twirls and plays and giggles. I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome for a situation so very dire.

While the situation was, to put it in the most mild way possible, terrible, some good has sprung of it.

When I first confessed my shame at having post-traumatic stress disorder (this post) it spurned an idea that had been rattling around my own brain for a long time – putting together a group blog for people to share their stories of darkness and light, and pair these stories with resources about a particular subject. I recall scouring the Internet for information about encephaloceles after Amelia was born only to find that the information was scattered; not put together in any real order. I wanted to change that.

I did.

I formed Band Back Together in 2010 to do just that: allow people a safe moderated environment to pull their skeletons from the closet and make them dance the tango, in the hopes that by telling our truth, we’d be able to grow, learn, and begin to heal. One of the most powerful things in the world is to realize that we are not alone in this world; that others have felt the way that we have.

That’s the reason the wonderful volunteers at Band Back Together (if you’re into volunteering with us, email volunteer@bandbacktogether.com) continues to post stories – your stories – and create readable and informative resources. It’s also why I continue to write out my life for anyone to read, despite thoughts of, after eleventy-nine years, simply calling it done and walking away from my blog. I haven’t. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because if one person out there can read the words I’ve written – some good, some great, most bad – then I have done something with my life.

And despite my shortcomings and failures; the lies I tell myself to get one foot in front of the other, that means something.

Scene 1 – My new kitchen, middle of the work day on Thursday:

Me (humming the Flight of the Bumblebees and wondering how THAT became my theme song): “Man, I am THIRSTY. I should grab a nice, tasty beverage from my fridge.”

My Fridge: “You need to eat something.”

Me: “Says you – I’m not hungry.”

My Fridge: “All you use me for is to stow diet Coke and the occasional food for The Littles.”

Me: “One word: Divorce Diet.”

My Fridge: “That was two words.”

Me: “Yeah, well *sputters* SO?”

My Fridge: “If you’d EATEN something you’d have known that statement was, in fact, two words.”

Me: “Yeah, well, have YOU been through a divorce?”

My Fridge: “Nope. Still with the oven – we’ve been together since 1956.”

Me: “Well balls to you then, Mister.”

My Fridge: “No need to get hostile. If you ate something, you’d be less hostile.”

Me: “No, I’d be less hostile if you were the actual size and shape of a REAL fridge. You’re like the Napoleon of fridges – short man syndrome and all that.”

My Fridge: “It’s called “compact,” which you’d know if you’d EATEN anything in the last week or two.”

Me: “Shut your whore mouth. I just want a diet Coke. Can you let up for one fucking second about the “you need to eat” shit? It’s getting old.”

My Fridge: “You know you’re probably embalmed already by the amount of diet Coke you drink.”

Me: “So? Makes the mortician’s job easier.”

My Fridge: “That’s a dreary thought.”

Me: “YOU brought it up.”

My Fridge: “Touche.”

Me: “So are we done with this lecture yet? It’s been enlightening and all, but I gotta get back to work.”

My Fridge: “As you wish.”

I reach down to grab a diet Coke from the bottom shelf and, upon standing back up, thwump the back of my head on the door to the freezer, which was made well before anyone thought about safety or end user error. Rather than standing up and shaking it off, instead, I fall backward, prized diet Coke in hand, and adding insult to injury, bash my head against the chipped Formica floor and am knocked unconscious.

Minutes pass.

——————

Scene 2: I wake up in a pool of my own blood and a throbbing headache.

Me: “That wasn’t very nice.”

My Fridge: “Neither was implying I had “short man syndrome.” That was UN-nice, which you’d know if…”

Me: “…I’d eaten? Sorry Fridge, but eating doesn’t exactly cure all that ails you.”

My Fridge: “Still, it was a mean comment.”

Me (growls): “You wanna see mean? WHY DON’T YOU LOOK AT YOUR FUG COLOR IN THE MIRROR? I LIKE TO CALL YOUR COLOR “DOG PEE ON PLASTERBOARD.”

My Fridge: “I don’t have legs.”

Me: “SO not my problem.”

My Fridge: “Go clean yourself off – you’re dripping blood everywhere. It’s unsightly.”

Me: “So’s your FACE.”

My Fridge: “Now that was just stupid.”

Me (wobbling off to the shower): “Yeah, well.”

My Fridge (calling after me): “Don’t you think you should call someone about your head?”

Me: “I have a therapist.”

My Fridge (trails off as I get into the shower): “That’s not what I meant – you’re woozy and look like you have a concussion.”

Me: “Oh NOW you feel concern – this IS your fault, y’know.”

Refrigerator goes silent, for once, as I sit in the shower, washing off the blood.

Me (mutters): “Fucking appliances… always out to get me.

The Shower Faucet: “Have you eaten yet?”

Me: “Shut your whore mouth, assface.”