She comes into full view from my spot on the gurney and I only know that my parents are going to be so pissed at me.

Rebecca, keep your eyes OPEN. Now, open them. No, don’t cry – everything will be okay.

I try to tell her that I’m sleepy, that I should go to sleep, but what comes out is my address:

734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.

Rebecca, do you know what year it is? Do you know what happened? Who’s the current president?

I try to remember the answers that should be staring me in the face. The words are elusive. What comes out is:

734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.

She motions to someone out of view – another parametric? The driver? I can’t be certain if we are, indeed, moving.

Suddenly another face appears in my line of site. This one looks extremely concerned.

734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.

I can hear myself speak, my voice is wobbly and nearly impossible to understand.

The new person produces a pair of scissors and begins to cut off my pants while the first parametric continues with the questions and begins palpating my leg. I scream. Fuck, I realize, I broke my hip and femur again.

Rebecca, who is the current president? Do you know what happened to you?

Trying to shake my head no, I realize they have stabilized my neck. Frighteningly, I have absolutely zero memory of the incident leading up to this ambulance – I only know that my femur and hip are broken. For the second time in two months.

Once again, the correct answers get hung up somewhere between my gallbladder and my pancreas and can’t make it to my mouth:

734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.

Then it all goes black.

———-

Surgery went well, the surgeon updates my parents. We removed all but one screw of the old hardware from her last hip and femur break. The last break, when exactly was that?

End of September, early October. She had an orthopedic doctor before – why isn’t he involved in her care?

This break was far more extensive and the surgery was far more complex than the last one, so Dr. Choi called me in. I deal with traumatic orthopedic surgeries. She’d snapped the titanium rod in two pieces.

Wow.

It was by far one of the worst breaks I’ve seen in all my years doing this.

Thank you for your update. When can we see our daughter?

There was a complication with the surgery.

A complication? What happened?

Well, he faltered a bit. She still hasn’t woken up from her surgery.

WHAT? Why? What happened?

We’re not sure what happened. We’d like run some additional tests, and do an EEG to determine if she has brain activity.

Yes, absolutely. Please run all the tests you feel important.

———-

She has an infection, this may be contributing to why she hasn’t yet woken up after surgery, I could hear the doctor. The cultures from her femur are a nasty group d streptococcus. She’s going to both need a central line and indefinite antibiotics.

Indefinite?

Yes. Absolutely indefinite. We don’t know what’s causing the coma, we only know that she has brain waves indicative of excellent brain function.

It’s been 4 weeks and nothing. Not a single change in her condition.

I’m terribly sorry, the doctor continues. There’s only so much we can know about the inner-workings of the human brain brain and its response to traumatic events.

———-

She is terminal. We are very sorry. We’ve done all we can, I can hear them say. Her children should say their goodbyes.

I’m right here, I try to scream.

———-

I woke up the next day.

I’ve been doing a lot of Deep Thinking, which is not easy for someone like me. Even if gnomes hadn’t absconded with my brain and eaten it slathered with ice cream and sprinkles, I think the three children and chronic migraines would have done a number on it. (I strongly feel that gnomes have a sweet tooth. That is neither here nor there.)

I think that I have part of A Plan worked out, and I’ll tell you a bit more about it tomorrow.

I haven’t managed to accomplish much this week beyond “drink my weight in coffee,” which, if you knew what I weighed, you’d be a step ahead of me, because I don’t like to weigh myself.

I know you’re supposed to watch “trends over time,” and “not get bogged down in the details,” but that’s a steaming pile of bullshit. I’ve gained (and lost) 60-90 pounds with each of my three babies and I’m telling you, Pranksters, I get bogged down in the details every. fucking. time.

I’ll start on a diet, right? And because I’ve got a Glandular Condition (read: hypothyroidism) and, like I’ve previously stated, I’ve gained and lost a metric fuckton of weight with each of my babies, I know how to do it properly. If you want to lose weight, it’s simple: eat less crap, move your ass.

So I get all EYE OF THE TIGER for Week One. I run to the grocery store and stock up on egg whites and skim milk and edamame and yogurt I feel all smugly superior as I DELIBERATELY don’t buy any Uncrustables or Captain Crunch. I may even sneer in their general direction.

Because I WIN.

Instead of lazily refreshing The Twitter and my email all day while popping Junior Mints into my mouth, I get up off my ass and I vacuum. Snappily. I pump my three pound weights and I’m all, LOOKIT ME GETTING INTO SHAPE. I’M A WINNER, BITCHES. I eat eggs and drink protein shakes and I scoff at junk food. I’m SO OVER EATING JUNK FOOD BECAUSE I WIN AT LIFE. Painstakingly I document every single calorie I put into my body.

I spend hours thinking about how many calories toothpaste has. I buy new running shoes and a new sports bra because, well, I’M A FITNESS GURU NOW, Y’ALL. In the few moments I spend online, I research the best vitamins and herbal supplements for weight loss.

I practically skip to my first weigh-in, flexing my muscles, convinced that I’ve lost twenty pounds. My clothes fit better. I look Dead Sexy. I’m going to be in a bikini in NO TIME.

I’M A WINNER.

Smugly, I look at my reflection in the mirror as I wait for the scale to calculate how awesome I am. I wonder if I can, perhaps, develop a scale to measure awesomeness. I bet my Pranksters can help with that. They’re awesome. Like me. WHO IS AWESOME.

Blink, blink, blink goes the number.

It stops blinking.

I’ve gained three pounds.

Um.

What?

Huh?

I’M A FITNESS GURU. I EVEN BOUGHT RUNNING SHOES AND EVERYTHING. HOW COULD I HAVE GAINED WEIGHT WHEN I AM A FITNESS MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE?

It’s clear that my scale is broken. That’s the only explanation.

I test that theory by recruiting one of my children, the nine-year old, who can vividly recall what the scale had said twenty minutes before, and twenty minutes before that. He’d been weighing himself all week. Ah-HA! My inner Sherlock Holmes cried. It was clear to me that he had broken it.

Blink, blink, blink, the scale flashed.

60.8 pounds.

Exactly the same, he said happily, scampering off, leaving my crushed ego in his wake.

Well, I reasoned, standing there in the bathroom, my self-esteem plummeting, I was probably getting my period. I hadn’t looked at a calendar or anything, but it was probably just period bloat. Not that I normally turned into the Stay Puft Marshmallow man when I was surfing the crimson wave, but still. THIS TIME IT HAD TO BE.

Except no. When I thought about it, I realized that it was the middle of my cycle.

Okay, so maybe I had to poo. That had to be it! But just as I was comforting myself, I remembered that I’d had Chipotle hot sauce the day before and the lining of my colon had been stripped bare.

Well, uh, HM, I stood in the bathroom thinking: I probably should try and pee. Maybe it was all that Diet Coke I’d had to drink the day before. I pushed on my bladder with both hands, willing my kidneys to work harder, faster. After a couple minutes, I felt like I’d gotten rid of every ounce of extra liquid in my body. Hell, I probably looked all shriveled up and shit, like a particularly large and pasty raisin.

I got back on the scale. That had to be at LEAST six pounds…right?

Blink, blink, blink.

[exactly the same number]

How the hell was that even possible?

Didn’t the scale KNOW that I was on a DIET?

I flounce off to the computer to order a diet book. Because NOTHING scares a scale into moving the proper direction (down) more than a diet book. Also: I’m a FITNESS GURU. I’m going to MAKE IT. I’m a WINNER. My resolve is strengthened!

Week Two:

I drink lemon water the WHOLE NIGHT BEFORE my weigh-in to make sure that I’m not retaining any water. I’m so dehydrated by the time I wake up that my tongue is actually stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’d normally guzzle some coffee to unstick it, but I’m ready to get on the scale. I’M A WINNER.

I’ve lost two pounds! YAY!

Wait. That’s still a pound heavier than when I’d started this stupid diet. Um. That’s not so Winning-y.

I start trolling for diet advice and have found a mysterious quote that pops up over and over: “Remember, muscle weighs more than fat!!!” I spend an inordinate time wondering how the hell that makes any sense. Realize they are talking about density not weight.

I wonder how much hair weighs. Because if it weighs a lot, I may go all GI Jane.

I can do this. Deep breath. I WIN AT LIFE. Sorta.

When I’m not feeling a little deflated.

Week Three:

Have lost another half a pound. Still half a pound up from starting weight. I’d left the diet book in the bathroom where the scale can see it. Figured I could try bullying the scale into submission. I was quite sad to note that the diet book was proven ineffective at scaring scale into telling me that I’ve lost sixty pounds in a week.

I have now thrown diet book away for being bullshit.

Also: have looked into removing the heaviest of my unuseful organs. Have decided that the heaviest of my unuseful organs is probably my brain. That kid from Jerry Maguire said it weighed like 8 pounds or something.

That’s a LOT of pounds.

Week Four:

Have gained four pounds. Status: actively homicidal.

Also: looking into profit margins of a tapeworm farm. Healthier (and probably includes less jail time) than a killing spree. Possible Killing Spree Targets include everyone with discernible waistlines and perky people on The Twitter who only tweet about “loving (insert trendy form of exercise) OMG!” and “how much weight they lost this week LOL OMG BBQ STFU ASSHOLES FU SHOOT ME.” Also: the producers of The Biggest Loser for making anyone on a diet feel like shit for not losing weight more quickly (AND MORE SAFELY, YOU FUCKING FOOLS).

Weeks Five Through Elevnty-Niner-Infinity Times Three:

Diets are bullshit. My scale is an asshole. Jillian Michaels can kiss my dimply white ass.

I go back to refreshing The Twitter and my email thirty-five-niner times a day but continue eating less crap and moving my ass more. I’m just not so fucking cheerful about it. I’m nobody’s ray of fucking diet sunshine. Instead, I concern myself with trying to decide which version of Hair of the Dog is better: Nazareth or Guns and Roses.

Then, because the scale has Borderline Personality Disorder, it’s all, Aunt Becky! COME BACK, I LOVE YOU, GO AWAY, and the numbers finally go down without the aid of a tapeworm.

Which is fortunate. Parasites are so 1880’s.

Also: This picture had nothing to do with anything except that I found it when I was “organizing my desktop” (read: deleting old cactus videos).

According to the website, if I ordered this “acupressure mat,” I’d be able to feel restored blood circulation and endorphins which are like the sex hormones, and WOAH, who doesn’t want more sex hormones? Also: increased blood circulation is probably good, although I admit that my back hasn’t felt particularly necrotic.

So I ordered one. I figured, “like sex but without condoms and conversation” + “increased blood circulation” would equal a whole lotta RADNESS.

When it arrived in the mail, I clapped with glee. My back blood was practically NOT circulating (lies) and I hadn’t had sex in forever. I just KNEW this mat would change my life. It’s like one of those As Seen On Television Products, where you’re all, I KNOW THIS IS GOING TO BE A LIFE CHANGING BOOGER CLEANER, and really, it’s just a bulb syringe they give new babies at the hospital, when they should be giving their MOTHER’S more pain meds.

Alas, I digress.

Carefully, deciding to take a break from The Job Hunt, I laid the mat on my bed, ready to get my endorphin on. Being the sort of idiot who hears “don’t do this,” which somehow translates into my three remaining brain cells as “you should totally do this. All the COOL kids are,” I touched one of the spiky things figuring, “hey, if Imma lay on this, I should know what I’m up against.”

The motherfucker totally scratched my hand.

Oh well, I said to my cat who was sitting on the other half of the bed, staring at me as though I’d suddenly turned into one of the Olsen twins, let’s get my endorphin on.

I stretched and squinched, trying to figure out the best way to mount such an obstacle without scraping the skin off my back entirely, eventually deciding that log rolling onto it was probably the best course of action. I was wrong. The acupressure mat, now covered in bits of my skin that were, moments before, minding their own business, won. But because I am not only annoying, but stupid too, I decided to lay there, shirt off, on the thing for the ten minutes the instruction book suggested that newbies try.

The pain wasn’t as immense or intolerable as I’d expected, considering how damn sharp the things were, and I was pleased that I hadn’t tried acupuncture – not because I’m afraid of needles (see also: large tattoos) – but because I was afraid that the ancient acupuncturist* would be all, “OH MY STARS – YOU HAVE NO QI! GET OUT DEVIL WOMAN!” I figured that since acupuncture and acupressure SOUND the same, it was probably similar results… minus the ancient man yelling about my Qi.

I laid there on a mat of plastic nails for awhile, waiting to feel the rush of endorphins. Instead of feeling all “I just had an orgasm,” my back began to feel as though it had turned to liquid. I half-expected the blood to begin seeping onto the sheets, especially once Basementless Kitty decided that now was a mighty fine time to splay his 35 pound body atop mine, pushing me further into the plastic nails.

When I finally peeled my warm back off the mat, I was particularly shocked to discover no blood.

Cools, I thought. I gotta use this motherfucker AGAIN. My back is NICE and toasty and even though I don’t feel as though I’ve had an orgasm, I bet it’s helping with my non-existent Qi.

And so I have. During the day, I’ll take a 15 minute rest on it while I meditate about cheeseburgers and before bed, I lay on it, waiting for my sleeping pills to kick in. I’ve yet to feel endorphins, but I’m hopeful.

A couple of days ago, after a particularly long and brutal day, I set up my mat, as always, and laid down upon it, day-dreaming about a particularly delicious cheeseburger. And like BAM, I was out. Down for the count. Fast asleep. Probably the deepest sleep I’ve had in years, which = rad.

….except for the part in which I’d forgotten to remove the mat from underneath my body.

Because four hours later, I woke up, my squirrel bladder tap-tap-tapping me to empty it, and realized I was still on the thing. When I sat up in bed, the mat sat up with me, clearly affixed to my back, which was now thudding a dangerous-sounding thud. I’d clearly over-circularized my blood, which is probably not even a real word. With great pain, I peeled the mat off my back, inch my inch, like the world’s most painful band-aid, and put my shirt back on.

It was all I could do not to shriek like someone had suggested that my boobs would make an excellent table-lamp. I limped to the bathroom, the blood clearly dripping from my back, and examined my back. I had a perfect representation of the mat done in black and blue and red. I’d have been more impressed if I’d seen the Virgin Mary, but still, it was pretty awesome. If I’d had my wits about me, I’d have taken a snap of it just because.

One should always attempt to capture their stupidity on camera. Or so America’s Funniest Home Videos tells me.

By now, most of the bruises have subsided, and the cuts have formed delightful looking scabs, so I look sorta like a recovering plague victim, which is why, from now on, I plan to keep my camera on and charged at all points in time. You can’t let an opportunity like that pass you by.

And I’ll continue hoping, in vain, that I’ll feel those “endorphin” thingies, because obviously.

*All acupuncturists are ancient and shriveled in my mind.

—————

…Love,

Aunt Becky

(I’ll be adding some more through the day. Why? Because obviously)

I got an IM from my friend Kat yesterday. That, in and of itself isn’t particularly noteworthy – I get IM’s from such good, clean chaps and lasses as “bigdick764” and “babiecherie73” who are kind enough to direct me to their websites where I can “see more pictures.”

Kat, however, isn’t a spammer. Or, at least I don’t think she is. I mean, I went to Seattle or one of those other states that aren’t Chicago to visit her and her daughter and she didn’t LOOK like a spammer. But I guess she could’ve Sharpied my back while with a website name or something – I didn’t look.

Anyway.

Yesterday, her IM said something to the effect of, “OMG I MISSES OF YOU.” Which sounds like improper English, but compared to the shit I normally IM, it’s practically the Queen’s English. I responded in turn, I too, missed of her.

“Can you believe it?” She screeched through my computer.

“What?” I asked, clearly distracted by dancing kitty videos and the proper spelling of “Sharpie.”

“I’m thirty and I’m working as a photographer!” She announced.

Holy.

Shit.

“Can you believe it? We MADE it!” She continued.

I sat there, stunned.

I hadn’t thought about how far we’d come – I was too busy keeping up with the day-to-day life and dramaz of Your Aunt Becky.

I met Kat when our babies – who look shockingly like sisters – were very small. Out of the blue, she IM’d me to tell me that she’d caught a grammatical error on my recentest blog post. While I’m normally annoyed by that – I mean, you’ve only caught ONE error? – Kat was fairly charming.

We became fast friends during a time in my life that I’d never quite felt so alone; so worthless, so miserable. I’d created this life for myself – 3 kids, 2 dogs, a house, a husband, and I’d never been more alone. I’d always known I would “do something” after I popped out the kids, but the unexpected crush of PTSD following Mimi’s birth made seeing the world as it was almost impossible.

Birthing a sick baby is one of the most isolating experiences I’ve been through – and Kat understood it. Her Avi is mere days apart from my Mimi, and while Avi was not born ill, Kat understood why it was hard for me to even walk outside some days. Days like that, she prayed for me. I’ve never understood people who were offended by that sort of thing – when someone prays for me, I find it an unexpected kindness.

She and I were both miserably trying to eke out a life for ourselves – she as a photog and me as a writer. I was consumed with writing a book – it was the only way I could see lending some legitimacy to my life; something I desperately craved – while she worked tirelessly overnights and on weekends to beef up her portfolio.

The months blew by us, both working desperately to “make it” and prove our worth to the outside world. Life happened around us. The publishing market crashed. Kat got laid off from her day job. We both scuttled around to reform our plans.

While my daughter grew and thrived, kicking her diagnosis in the ass, as she met and surpassed her every milestone, Kat’s husband, the father of her child, who was 27 years old, had a stroke while they slept. As doctors searched high and low to try and understand what had happened and why, Kat spent her days and nights alongside her husband, guiding him through rehab and therapy. She slept at the hospital on one of those uncomfortable chairs with their daughter, Amelia’s clone, Avi.

The diagnosis was a long time coming – Alpha-One Antitrypsin Deficiency – and when it did, it wasn’t good. It’s a rare genetic condition that has no cure – only management of the symptoms.

As she reeled with this news, her husband had an incurable genetic condition, the bad news kept coming – her daughter, my Mimi’s clone, she had Alpha-One Antitrypsin Deficiency as well.

It was my turn to pray. And I haven’t stopped. Kat saw me through some of the worst times of my life, and now, I’ve done the same for her.

And somehow, through all the bullshit, all of the drama, all of the other shit, Kat and I have emerged on the other side. We’re not the same people we once were, but who is?

Kat’s a full-time photog now. And I’m, well, I’m a writer. It seemed only appropriate that I learned yesterday that the book I contributed an essay to is now available on pre-order. It’s not my book, but it’s a book. And my words are in it. More importantly than any vain book ideas, I founded an (almost) non-profit organization for other people to tell their stories. I’ve used my nursing degree to create resources to help people learn about the things they’ve been through.

We’ve both come so far.

I can barely wait to see where we’ll go next.

In college, I had to take what I called, “Bible Class” and it was the first time I actually cracked open the Bible. Well, other than the times I read aloud random passages from the hotel rooms I was staying in (much, I should add, to the chagrin to whomever I happened to be staying with). Thank you I say now, o! wily Gideon’s, for supplying me with Bibles to read from to annoy my fellow travelers with.

I read the book cover to cover and learned a lot about what the rest of the religious world was talking about. Things that most of you probably just inherently knew, but for someone like me who grew up saying “Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat” as a bastardized version of Grace, I simply was flabbergasted. There really is, I should add now, no fucking separation of church and state.

Anyway. I married someone who grew up in a family who is so religious that they’re probably still reeling from the PTSD from meeting me and finding out that yes, their son loves a heathen.

For Ash Wednesday one year, I was working on the floor and the pastor happened to be walking around giving out the cross on the forehead, and in the name of Trying Something New, I had decided to give up using “fuck” for Lent. It should go without saying that I am not Catholic, but I was reading the Bible and figured that it was a good idea to TRY it out.

Aunt Becky Gives Up The Eff Word:

The Daver: “What’s on your forehead?”

Aunt Becky: “Ashes.”

The Daver: “From?”

Aunt Becky: “I gave up using “fuck” for Lent.”

The Daver: “You know that means you can’t say it, right?”

Aunt Becky: “FUCK.”

Lent FAIL.

Aunt Becky Goes Crucifix Shopping:

The Daver: “Shit, I need to pick up something for the Christening on Sunday. Can you pick up something for my new Goddaughter?”

Aunt Becky: “Something…?”

The Daver: “Just go to the religious store in town and get her something.”

Aunt Becky: “Bwahahahahahahahahaha!”

The Daver: “You know, like a pearl something.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to go and get her a gigantic crucifix.”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Like a gigantic BLEEDING crucifix for them to hang in her room.”

The Daver: “NO!”

Aunt Becky: “I want it to have like realistic blood and everything. I’m thinking something in the market of…8 feet tall and 6 feet wide. That should take up at least part of the wall of the nursery.”

The Daver: “Becky, that’s not funny.”

Aunt Becky: “Maybe they can hang it over her bassinet! To keep out The Devil. I think it would be lovely to watch over her.”

The Daver: “Becky, that’s really not funny at all.”

Aunt Becky: “Neither is sending me into a religious store. I don’t know FUCK about this shit, Dave. Besides, YOU are the Godfather, not me. Also, YOU are the heavenly one.”

The Daver: “Please?”

Aunt Becky: “Do you think this sort of crucifix is a custom job?”

Christening FAIL.

(ed note: Dave didn’t speak to me for an entire week. Also, I bought the kid a nice bracelet with a tasteful non-gory cross on it.)

What religion will Aunt Becky mess up next?

It’s like Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? except with RELIGION.

I’m not a creative person.

I’m not saying that to elicit sympathy or fish for the occasional, “there, there, Aunt Becky, you’re SO creative,” because I know it’s a hot pile of bullshit. I’m not creative.

Take, for example, the time in high school that I took a drawing class as an elective. I sat there, my beret perched neatly atop my head, all, “Imma be an ARTIST,” until I had to actually draw my first picture. A still life of a bowl of grapes looked more like a pile of testicles hovering over a tire than actual fruit. It took a few weeks, but after I realized I had no artistic aptitude, I simply copied the work of someone much more talented sitting next to me – the first and only time I ever cheated in a class.

My desire to be a creative genius, a veritable child prodigy, went back a lot further than that, though.

We always had Lego sets lying around when I was a kid. My brother, the actual creative one in the family and a full ten years my senior, was able to build these amazing creations from a bin of random Lego bits. I figured I could do the same. It couldn’t be THAT hard, right?

Heh.

One Saturday, as I watched the morning cartoons, I decided to prove to the world – and my family – that my mug belonged squarely on the cover of Time Magazine as the “World’s Most Awesomest Kid” (alternately, “The World’s Best Genius.”) – I wasn’t sure which would be more effective.

I schlepped down to the basement in my footie pajamas, careful to avoid slipping down the stairs, on my quest for the basket of Legos. Tucked away in the corner, right behind the antique butter churn and some ancient copies of the New Yorker, I found it.

I brushed off the dust (my brother had long-since traded Legos for sports cars) and lugged the basket up the stairs. I plopped it in front of the television, marveling at all the ways I could make super awesome stuffs. Like a pirate ship. Or a pony on roller skates.

After, of course, I cleaned the cat pee off the Legos.

I sat there, in front of Jem and the Holographs and started trying to put something together out of the random bits of Lego. Hrms. I couldn’t create a pony – no horse head. Roller skates required wheels, which I didn’t have either. And a pirate ship? Well, not so much.

But I tried.

And after about an hour of blood, sweat, tears and Legos, I looked down at my masterpiece. It was a square box. With one window – no door. Even the house I tried to make looked all janked up. Who the fuck can’t make a house?

Me. I couldn’t.

I sighed deeply. Clearly my “muse” was a lying fucking bitch. Ever since, I’ve eschewed anything Lego-related.

That is, of course, I had children.

My eldest, who has autism, loves Legos. There’s something innately soothing to him about lining up all the wee parts, following directions, and creating something grand. That is, of course, until a piece goes missing. With two smaller siblings and a mess of cats, that’s pretty much all the time. Shit, I STILL can’t find my whore pants, which are, needless to say, much larger than a piece of Lego.

Once a piece is lost, the set is “ruined” and he refuses to play with it.

I’d mostly banished Legos from my house until The Guy On My Couch moved in – there’s too much pressure to make sure the sets are in pristine condition for me to actively buy Legos for my kid.

The Guy On My Couch, he loves Legos. I know, you’re probably all, “so, he’s an overgrown teenager, right?” to which I would reply, “yes, but he also cooks.”

I find his obsession with Legos more endearing than not – one look at my orchid collection and you’d know that he’s not the only one in the house with collecting issues.

He’s been carefully assembling Hogwarts Lego sets and putting the completed pieces in my china cabinet (I will soon have to find a new place to store my china and Cock Soup packets), which has sparked the Lego bug deep within my children. Apparently a love of Legos is created by osmosis. And I get it – the finished kits are pretty fucking cute.

I wouldn’t mind living in Lego Land so much if I hadn’t stepped on approximately 800 Lego pieces in the last week.

Those motherfuckers hurt.

When I was a kid, I had a fainting couch in my bedroom.

Not because I was prone to fainting or requiring long periods to regroup on a fashionable yet comfortable accessory, but because my parents had antiques – lots of ’em.

But I was always mystified by this contraption. When I was sick, there were two things I wanted: The Price is Right and a pillow. Later, it became a bottle of green death flavored Nyquil – for all those times you want to be comatose without a traumatic brain injury (TM).

(I should really run their advertising campaigns)

Now, of course, I have kids, which means that I can’t spend the day in a Green Death Coma. Kids have these NEEDS, you know? Like FOOD. And DIAPERS. And the Wii. No more Green Death Coma for me!

Which is usually fine. Nyquil makes me gag and generally when I’m sick one of two things happen:

1) I can sleep it off

B) I can work through it.

But I’m in the middle of a nasty withdrawal from my maintenance migraine meds (alliterations for the win!)(Carbitrol, for those who care), which means that sleep is out of the question. So is doing everything from writing a coherent blog post to taking a pee without whining.

I took yesterday off, a rare occurrence, figuring that spending a day huddled on the couch with my blanket and a Hoarders marathon, taking the time to properly moan, weep, and feel sorry for myself, in the hopes that I’d feel better today. I mean, I got shits to do. Like write crappy blog posts. And use The Twitter. And walk upright! And learn particle physics! AND LOUNGE AGAINST THE MOTHERFUCKING MACHINE!

It didn’t help.

So I will be taking today off as well, obnoxiously resenting kid germs, plotting the untimely death of Mark Zuckerberg and trying to lounge against the machine…from the couch.

If only I had more Hoarders and my fainting couch back. I bet that’d get me right again.

First, I wrote this about the New Year. You should read it.

———–

So. That Meme. It kinda sucked. I know that. You know that. The guy down the block who doesn’t even know what Meme means knows that.

I’m sorta embarrassed I didn’t do this in the first place.

And to all of you who are type A enough to want to do one again? I’m sorry. Genuinely.

But here’s the Meme I wish I’d answered.

1) What does Meme mean?

I think it’s an ancient Latin term for “most annoying, self-centered survey on the planet.” Which is shockingly similar to the term “Aunt Becky.”

2) 2011 – Was it all you’d hoped it would be?

It was the year that WAS. I’m anxious (also frightened) to ring in 2012.

3) Did you watch the Royal Wedding?

Nope. I’m not into weddings. Although the hats, man, the hats were killer.

4) Where are your pants?

Pants are fucking bullshit.

5) Is Justin Bieber human or some sort of robot?

I’m altogether certain that Justin Bieber is a robot created from a hostile world to teach our tweens how to drive their parents absolutely bonkers.

6) If you had only one thing to wish for this coming year, what would it be?

I’ve thought a lot about resolutions (I’m thirty-fucking-one this year. I should fucking resolve something?) and I’ve come to this conclusion: I will resolve to not become Lil Wayne this year.

7) Would you call yourself a “social media maven?”

Those three words together are sorta like saying, “she has a good personality.” They’re a cleverly disguised insult.

8 ) If you had to take three things to a desert island (let’s assume you have ample food and water), what would they be?

Uncrustables.

Uncrustables.

John C. Mayer

Uncrustables.

9) If you had the ability to banish certain offenses to an island where they would be rehabilitated into being okay again, what would those offenses be?

“ALot” versus “A Lot.”

“Loose” instead of “Lose.”

Being John. C Mayer.

Using any corporate buzz words in a non-ironic way. See also: “action plan,” “deliverables,” “proactive,” “engaged.”

10) How do YOU think the air conditioner works?

Gnomes fanning large blocks of ice with over-sized ornamental fans.

11) Do you ACTUALLY think you can make money blogging?

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*wipes eyes*

I PAY to blog.

12) There’s a lot of talk in the blog world about microblogging (The Tumblr, The Twitter, The Facebook) taking over traditional blogs. Do you think that’s the case?

Nah, I think that those who were on the fence about traditional blogging or preferred some other medium (i.e. pictures) have gone to the microblogging platforms. I think those of us stubborn enough to stick around will be here until they pry our keyboards from our cold, dead hands.

13) If you could give one piece of advice to your younger self, what would it be?

There’s always a way. Find it. Keep finding it. Nothing turns out how you thought it would – so just roll with it, Baby.

P.S. You’re not a redhead. Quit trying to be one.

14) If you could’ve told yourself this time last year one thing, what would it be?

Billy Mays death will leave a gaping hole. Don’t try to fill it with the imprisoned ShamWow guy.

15) If you could have one Super Power, what would it be?

I’d be Aunt Becky, Maker of Coffee. I’d be able to make coffee without causing small fires.

16) If you could do one thing you can’t currently do, and do it well, what would it be?

I’d be an opera singer. No, seriously. I’ve been known to sheer paint off walls with my awesomely awful voice.

17) What surprises you about yourself?

I remain shocked that I have ditched my nursing degree, popped out two more crotch parasites and started to live my life on the Internet. Also: the whole non-profit thing seems weird to me.

18) What was your favorite blog post/tweet of the past year?

“Look out below, motherfuckers!” – The Twitter.

19) Do you REALLY think “Purple Should Be A Flavor?”

I hear there is purple vodka. I think this is probably the single best thing ever (altho I’ve not tried it, which seems like a motherfucking sin.)

20) If you could make one outlandish wish for 2012, what would it be?

I’d go to Vegas, be married by a creepy drive-thru Elvis, and spend the next several months in the desert, recreating Fear and Loathing.

Alternately, I’d go on a fucking epic road trip with a friend or five.

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Once you Type A people out there complete this, go ahead and linkage on up! I even put up a widget. WINNING!

I’m a big fan of Christmas. If I could find one of those Number One fingers and write “FOR CHRISTMAS,” on it, I would. THAT is how much I love Christmas.

Sure, it’s going to be weird this year. Got some familial drama that I cannot (apparently) speak of here, that’s got me a wee bit nervous, but I push on through.

I still get all misty-eyed when I see decorations up, and there’s frankly nothing like a good version of “Blue Christmas” to get me solidly in the mood for some festive motherfucking cheer.

You think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.

I’m old now. I may get tearful whenever my Christmas tree is turned on (bear in mind it’s been up since LAST Christmas, which reminds me of that awful Wham! song, which is NOT something that makes Baby Jesus OR Your Aunt Becky smile), and I may wrap each present happily, open each Christmas card guiltily, but you know what?

I can never think of anything I want for Christmas.

Now I know what you’re saying, “Aunt Becky, Christmas – and Trix – are for kids. You don’t need any presents.”

And, o! Pranksters, my Pranksters, you would, indeed be correct. It’s a lean Christmas here at Casa de la Vodka, but the kids, well, they still have a butt-ton of small gifts to open. According to The Twitter, whom I trust implicitly, kids under ten prefer a fuck-ton of small things rather than one big present. So I have a ridiculous amount of tiny PlayDoh things to wrap.

Anyway.

When I’m asked, “Hey, what do you want for Christmas?” my mind goes blank. Don’t mistake me, I’m not one of those people who are all *waves hands dismissively* “Oh, give my gift to charity,” because, well, I like presents. A lot.

Problem is, I never know what the fuckballs I want. When asked, that is. It’s like my mind, normally filled with pictures of ponies and/or unicorns on roller skates, immediately empties and I’m stuck muttering the first few things that come out:

“Barbie Dream House.”

“Ball pit.”

“Shark pit.”

“Shark on Roller Skates.”

And the asker is left quizzically scratching his or her befuddled head, wondering if I have, at last, gone off my rocker.

Since I already HAVE a pony on Roller Skates:

I no longer need one.

Nor do I need anything else that I can think of on command. I tried, the other day, to create an Amazon wish-list. All the cool bloggers are doing it, so I figured THAT would be a great place to point family members to buy gifts for me.

Ha.

I have two things on it.

Two.

Things.

Apparently, I suck at life AND picking out gifts for myself.

But this morning, the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. A good friend, who shall remain nameless because, well, I do not have a proper email address or name to thank this wonderful friend, sent me something. Something so incredible that I may never stop weeping with joy.

Something I want, nay NEED, for Christmas.

Behold, my Pranksters, and share in my joy.

If you think the 3-Wolf Moon PJ’s aren’t awesome enough, just read the description:

Pranksters! I can take a SHIT while wearing these glorious rags! These PJ’s come with a SHIT DOOR!

Frankly, I do not think that, once I own these, I will ever, EVER need to own another item of clothing in my life.

So WHAT if I find adult footie pajamas to be creepy? So what if I cannot imagine sleeping with cuffs around my feet again? I CAN TAKE A SHIT WHILE WEARING THEM.

THOSE ARE EPIC FUCKING PAJAMAS.

And *shakes fist at sky dramatically* they WILL BE MINE.