I watched SherryBaby last night with The Daver and I hated it. Even the often-seen shots of Maggie What’s-Her-Last-Name-Was-In-Donny-Darko boobies (which were, I need to tell you, fantastic hooters) couldn’t save it for me. It was one of those dreadful character sketch type movies that always make me want to claw my eyes out. Like Napoleon Dynamite, which was only good because he did a wicked dance at the end.

I’m not a movie person, I’m not a theatre person, and I’m certainly not an shoot-yourself-in-the-face-boring art-house movie I’m sorry film aficionado. Given the choice between punching myself in the head and watching a movie, I’ll often choose punching myself.

Put down your pitchforks and your Blu-Ray copies of City of the Lost Children in it’s original French and hear me out.

I didn’t hate SherryBaby because nothing fucking happened besides seeing her boobs a lot, admiring the 80’s French Impressionistic crappy art they dug up for the set, and watching her have sex with everything that walked near her. No, I hated it because her attitude; her story; her ‘I’m obviously uncomfortable in her own skin’ behavior, they all hit too close to home for me.

They reminded me of the last couple of times I saw my friend Steph.

Steph died a year ago this past February. The official cause of death was “natural causes” and at age 27 they only put that stuff on there when you’ve abused your body so badly that it can no longer function. It gave out one night as she slept, a week or so out of rehab for the second or third time. She left behind two young sons.

The person that she died as was not the person that she was. Steph, MY friend Steph was one of the few people who stood up for me when I needed someone to. She was self-assured enough to chew a couple of people who had hurt me a brand new butt hole, something that not many people can do. Steph and I would play “Summer Car” and crank up the heat in my old del Sol in the dead of winter, strip down to our tank tops and pretend it was summer. She co-threw me my first baby shower.

She was one of those people who seemed to have a permanent light shining on them, maybe from within, and she was my hero for many years.When I think of Steph, I smile, because that’s what she would have wanted me to. Not a single day passes where I don’t think of her, my heart clenching up when I remember that she’s gone.

And she is gone. She’s dead.

I went to her funeral with all of my her our friends in tow, all of us red-eyed and sniffling and nervous, wishing we were anywhere else. I cried so loudly during her funeral that I was afraid people were going to stare. When her eldest son said “Look at my mom, she’s all dead and hard,” I nearly lost my cookies on the lilly-scented carpet. The only thing that saved me is that I was in front of her mother, talking to her mother. When her youngest cried after being taken away from viewing his mother’s body, screaming (just as mine does for me) “Go see MOMMY!” I felt like I’d been slapped.

But I didn’t connect it in my head. It was like my brain couldn’t accept the two events as related.

1) I had a friend Steph.

and

2) I went to a funeral.

Two mutually exclusive events.

The cold waxy person that was laid out in that coffin wasn’t the same person who taught me how to take a Camel Wide Light, empty the tobacco and pack it carefully with The Ganj. She wasn’t the person who smelled like a garden with me. She didn’t prefer “Waiting for my Ruca” over “Scarlet Begonias.”

But it was.

She was two different people, and in the end, it’s what killed her.

It’s taken nearly a year and a half, but I have accepted it. My friend, one of my oldest and best friends, she’s dead. She’s gone forever. There will always be a hole where she was, like a lost tooth. I don’t have to like it, but I do accept it.

Gone but never forgotten.

————-

Angels beating all their wings in time
With smiles on their faces
And a gleam right in their eyes
Thought I heard one sigh for you
Come on up, come on up, now

–Shine A Light, Rolling Stones

I wasn’t going to write this post. Really, I wasn’t. The Internet has been flooded from Twitter to Facebook to all the 300 blogs I read with posts about The Death Of Michael Jackson And What It Meant To Them, and I don’t really have much to contribute.

I was born in 1980 into a family of stinky hippies and I cut my teeth on Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Pop music was seen as some sort of abomination and I could still probably sing you a medley of anti-war songs that I grew up listening to. My brother, ten years my senior, was far more interested in making Freddy Kruegar gloves with real working razor blades than with jamming out to the top 40 station.

I did have a Michael Jackson album that I occasionally rocked out to on my tiny Fisher Price tape deck, but where it came from and where it disappeared to is anyone’s guess. I didn’t miss it.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’ll never ever deny that he was an amazing musician who changed music in ways we’ll never begin to understand; he was. No argument here. He just wasn’t someone I rocked out (with my cock out) to very often.

From a young child, his every move scrutinized by the media. We at home sat back and watched eagerly like a bunch of fucking vultures when the first hints of his unravelling occurred.

Ohmygod, We clamored, is he REALLY turning white? What is UP with his nose now, We scoffed? He’s turning into a wax man, We giggled!

The tabloids reported facts and falsehoods, indistinguishable to Us, We scandal-hungry jackals, licking Our gleaming white teeth, ready to rip him apart. Truth didn’t matter, no, so long as We had quotes from well known sources and had every fucking doctor who had never treated this patient speculate on what was really wrong with him. The juicer the better, We screamed, giddy with joy begging for more dirt on his penis, his monkey butler, his life. And the papers, always happy to sell more copy, happily obliged.

Once in awhile, We’d stop for a second and say, you know what? This is kind of fucked up, that We’re sitting here like a bunch of scavengers, hoping for scraps–tasty, delicious scraps–about this man’s life.

Oh well, We quickly reasoned, justifying Our voyeuristic look into the life of someone We’d never meet, he ASKED for it when he became a star. He should have said no, at the age of whatever-young-age he was when he was thrust into the limelight with his family, We reasoned, Our conscience making a dramatic flip-flop. Morally superior to someone We didn’t know once again.

It’s not OUR fault he’s such a freak.

And maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s not Us that made Britney go berserk last year, reliving those private teenage years that We all went through, maybe a little later than Us, but the same awkward mistakes We all made. Only We didn’t have to grow up to see Our face splashed about the papers when We broke curfew or had sex in a car in a parking lot.

No one reported that We were yet again at McDonald’s, stuffing Our pimply faces with Big Macs and chocolate shakes. No reporter caught Us talking with a stupid accent or wearing those itty-bitty short-shorts that made Our ass look dimpled and gross. What We ordered at Starbucks wasn’t national news. When We screwed up–God knows We all did–it was between Us, Our family, and God.

Sure maybe We made Shit List at Our school of 2,000 people for blowing some chick’s boyfriend in the bathroom, or maybe We shit our pants in gym class and the whole school was gleeful and mocking for a couple of weeks. Maybe it lasted a year. Maybe that year was miserable and hard because people hated Us.

But eventually, people forgot.

We’d grow up, move out, and the hazy memories would turn sepia and move to the back of Our brains. Remember when (dot, dot, dot) would turn soft-filtered and someday We might not be able to recall the smaller details that were so important to Us at age 16. Or 17. Or 25.

There’s no magazine archive from ten years ago that chronicles all the fuck-ups, all the cooter shots, all the bad fashion choices I made. It’s not national news that I drink diet coke by the bucket-full or that I really do need to lose some major pounds. When I have a fight with Nat, there’s no one to capture the look on my face, the snarl on my lips when I tell him to fuck off, no one will interview my friends and family to find out if I’d had a drink before the fight.

My life, comparatively, is unexamined. Just like, I imagine, yours.

Sure, maybe some of us have blogs, some of us have well-read blogs with a wider audience, and those of us who have gotten a bigger crowd reading understand the scrutiny involved even here, on The Internet.

I, for as small of a blog as I have, know full well that whatever I put here is something that I need to own up to. I can’t bring you all of the drama that I’d like, the hidden feelings in my heart of hearts, not without remembering that every time I do, I stand to have someone come here and rip me down. And worse, get me wrong. Completely wrong.

And I own that. I’m okay with that. You want to rip me up one side of my ass and down the other? Go right ahead. I invited you in and I’m very happy that you’re here.

I choose to be here. I choose to put myself out here. Just like you do.

And, like you, I can stop at any time. I’m not supporting my family on my income here (go ahead, have a giggle). I don’t owe anyone here anything, and although my archives will remain somewhere here in the place where bad blogs go when they die even if I pull my blog down, that’s okay. I’m not ashamed.

But I can choose to stop whenever I want, just as you can. I can flit back to my life outside the computer and no one will be the worse for it. My kids might come to me and make fun of the crap I’ve spewed here if and when they find it and I will laugh with them. My disappearance here will make no ripples. Just another dead link.

Could Britney leave? Could Mr. Jackson? Could they really?

Of course not. Michael turned into a recluse in his later years, a creepy recluse who underwent mockery whenever he stepped out of his house to try and lead a normal life; take his kids to the zoo or the bookstore. We’d lap it up, laughing at what he’d become.

We laughed at Britney too. How could she possibly have held one of her kids hostage in her home when her ex-husband tried to pick him up? Ha-ha-ha-ha, that crazy bitch, we giggled sanctimoniously, knowing full well that we would never behave that way.

They were trapped. Super-stars trapped and cornered like caged wild animals.

Sure, maybe Britney would have become a bat-shit crazy hairdresser in Louisiana if she hadn’t become Britney Spears ™. Maybe Michael Jackson ™ would have worked at Sears and had a penchant for kiddie porn. No one would have known or cared what these two nobodies did, what they ate for breakfast, what brand of toilet paper they used to wipe their no-name assholes with.

Britney can never be anything other than Britney Spears ™ and Michael Jackson could never be anything but Michael Jackson ™ if you like or Wacko Jacko ™ if you don’t.

And for all the fancy cars, the notoriety, the fame, the fortune and the glamor, there’s a pretty big part of me that wonders if they could choose to do it all over again, would they?

As I sit here today, submerged in a never-ending sea of snippets about Michael Jackson, I can’t help but feel a little ashamed. We made him. We made him and we laughed when he fell apart. Dress it up, take it out to dinner, hell, take it home to meet Dear Old Dad, we can’t escape that cold hard fact.

We made them all.

This morning, against my better judgement, I got up at the ungodly hour of 8:45. I know, how did I manage to hoist my delicate ass out of my lovely bed to the harsh reality of life with 3 (minus one today) children before plopping my butt down in front of my laptop? The things I endure, I tell you.

Well, despite my mango-vodka-flavored drinky-poo last night, I woke up refreshed, bright eyed and bushy-tailed and veritably bounded into the office of my new shrink. Being a (retired) medical professional myself, I knew that my first visit would involve a whole lotta observations of my behavior.

Did The Patient scratch herself too much? Did The Patient blink her left eye more quickly than her right? Does The Patient look like she engages in self-care activity (not, for those of you playing along at home, involving dildos)? Is The Patient trying to mount my desk AGAIN?

LOCK THAT CRAZY BITCH UP!

I don’t mean to make light of the situation,* but when you have streak of mental illness and alcoholism sixteen miles wide running through your family, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to try and chuckle. Or at least, in my case, be very careful to remember that while giving your (sorted) medical history, it’s probably not wise to grab the red Sharpee on the desk and run around the room screaming about the eyes in the ceilings that watch us aaaalllllll!!

You should be pleased to note that I kept both butt cheeks firmly planted on the chair.

As part of the general information that he was gathering for me, I took this…test thing. I got pretty excited because I enjoy taking tests, until I looked at it more closely. It was a whole lot of questions to be answered in a true/false manner. I fucking hate true/false tests.

I was suitably confused.

I feel like I am a special person who deserves special things.

Well, DUH. I thought Mr. Rogers spent most of my early childhood telling me that we were all special rainbow snowflake droplets. Obviously TRUE.

I have travelled to Africa seventy times this past week.

OF COURSE I HAVE. TRUE, TRUE, TRUE.

I have been on 37 magazine covers.

Who hasn’t?

I have homicidal thoughts.

How often is often enough to mark True?

I’m much better at essay questions, as you can no doubt guess, considering how frequently I pollute The Internet with my pointless drivel. I always want to qualify my answers in these questions. Am I always in the middle of things at parties? Well, what kind of parties are we discussing? Because if it’s a Sausage Fest, you better believe I am. But in the middle of a comic book convention? You’ll find me crawling the walls, looking for an escape route.

The rest of the questions were pretty mundane. It appears that I do have a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress disorder and that I am ridiculously confident. Neither of these statements shocks me much.

What shocked me more than anything else is that this is all that appears to be wrong with me.

For 28 (29 next month. HOORAY for ALMOST 30!) years, I have been waiting patiently for the day that I wake up and do not go back to sleep for 4 days. For the day that I decided that 5 years old is old enough for my kid to fend for him/herself and lock myself in my room with a bottle of booze and a script of valium. For the day when I am so full of energy that I repaint the entire outside of my house with a toothbrush and my tongue between the hours of 1 and 3 AM one idle Thursday.

It’s never come, but I’ve waited.

Apparently, Amelia isn’t the only person in this house who has been diagnosed Completely Normal**.

Now, thankfully, I can focus my attentions on more fascinating pursuits. Like wondering if I should really make a shirt that says “I’m Friends With Heather Spohr” and if it’s more PC to call BlogHer “Beaver Fest 2009” or “Vagina Stock 2009”?

The jury remains out on all counts.

*I totally mean to make light of any situation, because hey, if you can laugh your way through having to collect your poo in a bucket, you can laugh at anything.

**When you’re used to dealing with people who routinely bathe the floor with their tongue and are convinced that they are pregnant with Jesus’s baby, “normal” is relative.

Last summer on the way home from taking my youngest son to the doctor, I found a child. No, Sleepy Jean, don’t bother to try and rub your eyes so that sentence so that it makes more sense to you. I did say that I found a kid (not, I should also clear up, my own).

There I was, minding my own beeswax when I decided to stop on the way home for a cup of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts so that I might not sleep the afternoon away. Only because of this sudden, burning desire did I drive the route that I did, and seriously Internet? That was Providence if I’ve ever seen it.

Driving along, there I was, listening to Alex babble in the backseat when at the corner of a really busy intersection, a child of probably between 2 and 3 was darting around. At first, it didn’t register with me as Something Odd until I thought about it. What kind of parent would let a kid be ALONE at that corner? Not, I realized, one that was probably watching their kid.

Frantically, I pulled my car over and jumped out, Alex squawking indignantly “MOMMY” as I leapt out to the child. Thankfully, another lady had ALSO stopped and together we were able to get the child’s attention. She was a well-dressed, well-groomed obviously loved little one, her hair plaited neatly (especially for 10:30 in the AM, I thought blearily), but all alone.

The lady who I was corralling this (honestly) well-mannered child had better Spanish skills than I do, considering I didn’t really want to ask the kid if she wanted more bread, cheese or water. Nor did I think telling her that she had poquito huevos (small testicles) was either appropriate or a good idea. And short of counting to six (also pointless), I speak ridiculously crappy Spanish.

But the lady convinced the girl to come sit on the sidewalk and play with my son, who I’d retrieved from the car immediately once I realized that this really was a lost kid. In that area of town, it’s nearly all cheap, crappy apartments shared by many (assumably) illegal immigrants, so it’s not like going door to door would have gotten us far. Besides, how the hell would we KNOW if the person who claimed her was her actual guardian? She was too young to be anything other than trusting of complete strangers.

We instead decided to call the police–my initial urge was to take her to my house BEFORE we called the police, but that seemed unwise–and in a couple of minutes, a squad car rolled by, swooped up the girl, and after getting a brief statement from each of us (including, oddly, Alex’s full name and birthday), pulled away.

I felt really bad about this for awhile because I assumed that her parents were maybe illegal and as such, wouldn’t go to the police and risk deportation. They were probably pacing frantically worrying and wringing their hands, having (literally) lost their daughter. I couldn’t imagine their pain. It was obvious that the kid had just wandered off, not like she’d been abandoned.

My heart was heavy for a long while afterward.

——————-

Many months later, I was heavily pregnant (I could be pregnant for 4 minutes and I would be heavily pregnant, I feel I should add) with Amelia and playing a game with Alex. The point of the game, according to Alex to charge at my belly and then I would swoop him upside down into the air. Then, I would give him a fake back-breaker and tickle him until he screamed with glee.

The phone rang. Expecting a call from The Daver, I picked it up and checked the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t someone calling to petition my vote for something or another. Or maybe the people who always call for my opinion on stuff (no. SERIOUSLY. ME! Dub-ya, Tee, Eff?). But no, the caller ID said clearly “Dept of Children and Family Services.”

My heart took a nosedive and ended up somewhere in my colon. Had someone reported me to DCFS?

I mean, certainly I’m not always the model parent: sometimes my patience runs out and I speak more sharply than I want to. Sometimes dealing with the issues that Ben fixates on gets really tiresome. There are days where I wish I could have someone else watch my children for me so that I could dick around the house. Some days, I’d like to crawl back into bed and sleep the day away. Certainly, like any parent, I’ve made mistakes.

But I’m a good mother. I am. I know that I am. While I might doubt other things about myself (like my ability to get back into size 2 pants. Shut up! Also, no leakage OR seepage yet! Hooray!), I can’t possible cop to being a bad parent.

Seeing that number, though, I almost threw up. What could they possibly want with me?

I answered, my voice full of trepidation, fear radiating off me in waves, and began to speak with someone who was calling me (apparently) from a wind tunnel. I could barely hear this person–I think it was a woman but I honestly couldn’t tell you–but it was quickly determined that the call was not about me. Rather, it was about the child I’d found.

Of course, this person wasn’t able to tell me anything about the case, instead asking me question after ridiculous question about the timeline of the day that I found the child. Months before.

Now, because I don’t work out of the house, I rarely look at a calendar, and recalling precisely what the time on my dashboard clock read when I found a child because I was, oh, I don’t know, too busy trying to get the child away from the sea of cars whizzing past. She/He seemed shocked that I couldn’t remember all the details, like the name of the lady who’d stopped and assisted me with the child, but this was so far after the fact that my sieve-ish memory had just dropped that information.

I hung up the phone with her (let’s hope that it wasn’t ON her) and breathed an unsettled sigh or relief, my heart still thumping heavily in my chest. Shocked beyond anything by the whole situation.

I’ll probably never know what happened to that poor child (my guess is that she’s now in foster care). But stuff like this makes me hug my children a bit tighter every time I can wrap my meaty arms around them.

—————-

What is the weirdest thing YOU’VE found by the side of the road?

—————

NOM, NOM, NOM.

(this post is sponsored by NO ONE. The opinions here do not reflect anything but that: my opinions. Which, as the saying goes, are like assholes. Because everybody’s got one.)

(also: thank you guys for your support about my book. I’m really pleased with what I’ve done and honestly, if nothing more comes of it, it’ll make some really well-edited blog posts)

So, yeah, the Weight Watchers thing doesn’t work if you have enough small children that your daily life involves playing Whack-a-Mole. Just when one goes down, the other pops up. I tried, but it just wasn’t working. I couldn’t count every fucking thing I put into my mouth and stay sane.

(some would correctly argue that I’ve never been sane. A charge I would not deny)

I don’t eat from stress, I don’t eat for joy, I eat when I’m hungry. Years of dieting baby weight off has taught me well. Problem with this is that I’m a terrible cook. A terrible cook for 4 picky eaters, so much of the time I rely on shitty-for-you-convenience foods, which, as any sane person knows, are bad for you.

Further evidence of my shitty cookery:

I pulled this package out of the fridge last week and NEARLY made it. ‘Til I realized that it expired in June of 2008.

I did manage to cut out Butter, Chocolate and Cupcakes as food groups and hoped that this would make a difference. It didn’t. My scale went up and down and up and down and up and down. Until I realized it was broken. And I only realized that once Ben made mention of having lost 15 pounds in 20 minutes without losing a limb.

But getting on the scale week after week to see the number go up and down and up and down got really depressing, so I stopped weighing myself. I will tell you that there is very little as frustrating as working your ass off only to see the scale stay the ever-loving same. I admit, I get a little jealous when I see other people drop the LBS like they’re hot.

Anyway, so a couple weeks ago, I went out and bought Alli, which is the half strength version of Orlistat, a prescription weight loss fat blocking drug. I’d heard about it last year, as I was fantasizing weaning Alex and I asked my father, who is a pharmacist, about the drug.

Always the straight man he responded almost entirely flatly with, “It can cause extreme flatulence with particulate matter.”

Well. Now. Doesn’t that sound appealing?

But, remembering that people often use tapeworms, surgery and drugs that can damage their heart to lose weight, a couple of wet farts sounded almost do-able. So there the box sat, unopened, while I waited for Amelia to wean Amelia off her last nursing session, figuring my trip to Cali would be the end. It was, although I was not actually out of the state (thank you Midwestern weather!)

Tuesday afternoon I nervously decided to give the whole thing a whirl. No one was home save for Alex, Amelia and I, and since two out of the three of us already shit their pants with stunning regularity, I figured I was in good company.

First I pulled this out:

I don’t mean to be crass* but this case looks like a dookie. Was that on purpose? Was I supposed to think “Wow, it’s a blue turd!” when I opened the package?

Then there was this:

Okay, so another poo shaped item in my Starter Kit. Because the best thing about poo-shaped items is having MORE of them!

This one is a cheat sheet for people who have, apparently, no idea what dieting involves. Helpful advice, I guess, if you’re like The Daver, who can single-handedly always pick out the worst possible meal as his favorite, but for me? I rarely eat egg yolks, I like lemon on my salad, and I haven’t slathered myself in butter in months.

With great trepidation, I opened up the bottle and pulled out my first pill (which was shockingly UN-poo shaped):

Little. Blue. Leakage.

I swallowed it with my lunch and began to wait for the cramping (ed. note: I have horrible cramping in my guts every day, so this wasn’t something I was afraid of. Earwigs, I’m terrified of, but crampy guts? No big deal.) and seepage.

Nothing. Zip. Zilch.

I took another pill with dinner. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.

Okay, I told myself as I went to bed that night, let’s hope you don’t shit the bed with butt butter. I awoke the following morning to…nothing. As I prepared my coffee (to which I liberally add Benefiber) and egg whites, I reminded myself that most symptoms are evident within 48 hours. Which meant I had more than 24 hours to go before I could say much about it.

Ah well, I said, Becky, you ALWAYS have churny guts in the morning. No big whoop.

And you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. I have had no cramping. No pain. No seepage. No butt-butter. My guts feel better than they have in years (ed note: for anyone who hasn’t been following along and taking notes, I have gut issues. Originally diagnosed as Crohn’s Disease, the GI’s aren’t sure anymore. They’re also major fucking assholes, but that’s neither here nor there).

Hour 48 will officially hit sometime around noon today and I feel…fine.

Since I do not have a scale, I will not be able to tell if the drugs are doing what they’re designed to do, but I’ll report back.

Until then, here’s a cute baby picture!

Amelia says: “My Mom is #1 in the #2 business!”

*that is a total lie. I always mean to be crass.

As some of you may recall, last summer I made mention of the words “book proposal” and “agents,” in regards to a Super Drooper Trouper (Grouper?) Tippy Top Secret project I’d been working on. Because somehow, a pair of agents (having agents PLURAL makes me sound impossibly cool, I know) had taken an interest to a collection of essays–much like blog posts but longer and better edited–I’d written and I put together a book proposal.

(I know, you can’t believe that I would be able to have the brain power to put together a proposal. Neither can I.)

Just as they were shlepping it out to publishers, the great crash of aught-eight occurred, and the publishing industry tightened up. Considerably. Which makes sense. If people are laid-off and facing foreclosure, I found it highly unlikely that they would consider shelling out $15 bucks for my pithy book.

But the bright spot in this sea of rejections was this: I had a couple of publishing houses suggest that I write up another different book, similar style, this one dealing with autism. Not one of those cure-all-vitamin-diet-no-vaccine-way; those have been done ad nauseum and I’m no damn authority on that anyway. Nor do I want to be.

No, what I ended up writing was a companion book. Not like a TRAVEL companion book or another-word-for-lover kind of book, no, not that book. A book that entertains you. Makes you feel less alone. Because with all of the therapy and cure-all’s and special schools and special needs that our kids get? We parents are left out in the dark. Hurting and scared, but afraid to talk about it because how dare you complain about your child? How dare you when there are so many that have it so much worse than you?

Having a child with special needs–especially as a young, single mother–was hard. It was isolating. It was lonely.

So this was the book I wrote: not what I thought I’d be writing about, but mine nonetheless. And this week the proposal will go out to publishers.

I’d gauge the likelihood of this book getting eagerly snapped up at about a 0.05 percent. Not because I’m trying to be self-deprecating or depressing and not because it’s not good: it is good, I know it is, but because I’m being realistic. It’s going to be damn near impossible to break into publishing right now.

And that’s okay. I wrote it. I’m proud that I wrote it. If this isn’t what I was supposed to do right now, well, at least I tried. Rejection (in this case) isn’t personal, and it doesn’t bother me. It is what it is.

I’m making this sound so much drearier than I feel about it. I’m thrilled, excited and completely reserved all at the same time.

So, let me end it on this note: this truck, if only for a moment, made me wish I had a septic tank:

I’m often tragically glib about my own issues with guilt: I know this. I’ll joke about how when I see a cop sitting on the side of the road my mind immediately believes that he will pull me over for any number of infractions: flagrant use of the color pink, inappropriate listening of Britney Spears, maybe I’m being recklessly garish with my choice of handbag. I can’t be sure.

I’ve been this way since I can remember, likely since Jesus was my classmate. I was born a guilty soul, I guess. Having a mentally ill parent only intensified this and I’m sure it only added to my Naturally Guilty ™ personality.

Now, I must first give you the disclaimer that the things that I do feel guilty about are mostly irrational. I don’t have a guilty conscience because I cheated on my husband, or because I secretly beat my kids or have a cat fetish. The guilt I have is much more ingrained than that. The guilt is irrational, completely so, and it’s become as much a part of me as my colorblindness or green thumb.

Thanks to my Online Degree from Google University, I’ve read up on excessive feelings of guilt, and while I can see where a lot of the symptoms fit other people, the only one that really is applicable to my situation is this: feelings of over-responsibility. I’ve been this way my whole life: I got a degree in a field I hate and graduated at the top of my class because I felt like I should, not because the coursework was fascinating to me.

The days when I can’t keep up and comment on the 300+ blogs in my reader? I feel terrible. It’s so stupid, I mean, 80 % of them don’t comment here and yet I bust my nuts to make sure to be Super-Aunt Becky, Overachiever, Esq? DOES NOT COMPUTE.

(to be clear so this doesn’t sound all whiny, wah wah wah, I don’t mind commenting and I enjoy the f-c-u-k out of connecting with other bloggers)

I know, I know, I need to cut myself a break now and again–I know I do–and I’m trying. I spent the whole weekend chanting (to myself. I’m still not THAT crazy) “I am not the potter, but the potter’s clay” and it sort of helped.

I mean, I still felt awful about not being able to see my friend Heather, I felt terrible that we needed a new dishwasher even though the thing has been limping along, spurting out half-clean dishes for years. I felt awful that we hadn’t found the dying fledgling robin sooner and had gotten him to the wildlife rehabilitation center before he was really, REALLY sick. The list is long and increasingly stupid.

I am not responsible for anything but the way I react to things.

It’s time to stop this. I know that I need to stop this. I’ve known it for ages, but I’ve been waiting for…something to push me in the right direction.

After months of ignoring it, I am going to meet with someone to help talk me through this. I need to come up with a way around the guilt and I’m confident that I’ll be able to find one after awhile.

I’ve waffled on posting about this, not because I don’t think you’ll be unfailingly kind (wait, did that double negative make sense?), but because it doesn’t really…go anywhere. It’s not something I want to stand up tall and proud in the soldiers uniform I picture myself in when I’m standing proud and tall and speaking my truth and admit to you: hey, Internet, I have issues! Pretend to act surprised!

I’m showing my vulnerability to you because I am hoping that maybe somewhere, sometime, someone will be able to look at this and say “Dude, if that crazy bitch can do it, so can I.”

I’m not the Potter, but the Potter’s clay.

Okay, first, go read this, o! yee who don’t sit at their computer all weekend waiting patiently, crying, and prostrate with grief until I posted something obviously deep and meaningful here. Because who has better stuff to do on the weekend?

(don’t answer that)

Rick, one of the delivery drivers, acted first. He swooped down, all 6 feet of him, and grabbed the pizza suit from Cesar and held it up to his burly chest before running into the bathroom with it. He emerged, several minutes later, as a slice of pizza. A HUMAN slice of pizza with his face sticking merrily out of the middle of the slice.

It was just too much. I nearly soiled myself.

Who the hell thinks that a human dressing up as food is anything other than a) humiliating or b) hilarious? Phil had, obviously, seen this as an amazing way to attract attention and perhaps increase profits tenfold, but his thinking was predictably flawed.

While a dancing slice of pizza was sure to attract attention–the same way an afro on a white man attracts attention: it was, of course, the wrong KIND of attention. And it was such a uniquely Phil way of doing things, just like standing in front of the single pop machine during the dinner rush to inform some server or another that they were using too many napkins. Valid point, stupid timing. Could be the slogan for restaurant GM’s.

But for us, all of whom had been interrogated at one point or another about the Curious Incident Of The Cheese And The Nighttime, it was just that much more hysterical. I mean, really, a dancing PIZZA?

For the next several weeks, during the start of the dinner rush, well before the drivers were needed to shlep pizzas back and forth, the delivery drivers would take turns putting on the pizza suit and running through the dining room. I’m fairly certain that in this manner, many children were suitably traumatized. But it never failed to make us laugh: this a stupid, corny costume.

Once in awhile, Phil would convince one of the poor line cooks (poor as in the take-pity-on-him not in the broke-as-a-joke way.) during a slow lunch shift to go to the nearby road to wave at passing cars. As far as I know, it never attracted a soul into the restaurant to drop some bucks, but 50 million marketing geniuses (genuii?) can’t be wrong. Can they?

One Friday night after work, Rick and I were sitting and counting our tips and having our shift drink together, and I was grumbling and grousing about how he always made more bank than I did. Little did we know that the opportunity of a life-time was about to be hatched.

I don’t know who suggested it thanks, in no small part, to my tall Jack-n-diet-coke, I can’t full take credit for it so instead I will simply say that we mutually came up with a brilliant plan. The following Thursday night, when I was off work but while Rick was working, we would meet up at the restaurant so that I could help him deliver his pizzas.

Rick would, we decided, dress up in the pizza costume and deliver the pizza to our unsuspecting victims as a slice of pizza. Because short of throwing Rick into a thong, his bulge hanging out for all the world to see, I couldn’t think of anything weirder than getting a pizza delivered by a slice of pizza.

So that’s just what we did. With my friend from school, Arlene, manning the video camera, we–acting as normally as possible of course–drove Rick’s route that night. He’d ring the doorbell and hand the pizza to the victim while I would help make change. Just like this was the most normal situation. Just a random Thursday night delivering pizzas dressed as a slice of pizza lah-dee-dah.

Acting like this was nothing out of the ordinary was harder than it no doubt sounds.

Arlene took some footage that I am certain would rival The Blair Witch Project for most nauseating camera work on an independent film. I would pay a lot of money to see that footage now, but I haven’t seen Arlene since I graduated college and have no idea where to find her.

Shockingly, not a single person commented on this. Not one soul acted as though anything was out of the ordinary. It was as though we were being Punk’d while we were trying to Punk others.

In our efforts to behave as normally as possible, it seems that the houses we hit were full of people for whom this is an everyday occurrence. Maybe they are always served hot dogs by people dressed as gigantic wieners, Chicago-style. Maybe every ice cream cone is hand scooped by a walking, talking milkshake. In a world where a sandwich is always made by a sandwich, we were mere players; costumed pawns in this parade of nameless, faceless food mascots.

I would totally live in that world, you know. So long as I could make the rest of my family wear sausage costumes. Just so I never have to wear the Santa costume again.

All right, loves, dish: I want to hear about pranks. All kinds of pranks. I’m hoping that the laughter I get from your comments will help with this God-awful headache I’ve had for a couple of months.

And if you’re inclined, you can vote for my happy-crappy (emphasis on the crappy) ass here:

Several months after The Daver and I started dating, he flew home from somewhere (boy were his arms tired!) and somehow, rather than allowing him to take the pee-stained EL home, Ben and I went to pick him up at the airport. It was the first time he’d met Ben in the flesh (as my boyfriend) and although he told me later that he was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs (he totes didn’t use that phrase, but I wish he had because how awesome is that?), it didn’t show.

Ben was a strange kid who didn’t exactly attach himself easily to people so I was quaking in my Uggs. All for nothing. The two of them hit it off all he’s the cheese and I’m the macaroni style. I can honestly tell you that I’d never seen anything like it. They danced and grooved to Erasure (don’t judge my music, people), Ben allowed Dave to carry him across a busy road, and Dave began the first of many Making Sure Ben Drank His Milk With Dinner campaigns.

That was the night that Daver became a father. I’d say it was a choice, but it wasn’t really. Not anymore than one can choose whom they fall in love with. Had it not been over for Dave by then, it was then. He was done, cooked, a father and a partner.

The whole ride back home that night I heard nothing but this from my normally silent child: “Oh…BYE, Dave” in the most mournful tone you can imagine. He never said “Mommy” but “Dave” was the 5th or 6th word in his vocabulary.

It’s still probably his most used word to date.

Every single day when I hear my eldest beg to stay up to see Dave when he comes home, my middle son to say mournfully (again with the damn mournful!) “Dada…work.” If his words could have a frowny face, they would. Then my daughter, the light of my life, wiggles her whole body with utter happiness when she sees her beloved Daddy come into her line of sight.

I know how lucky we all are.

So Happy Father’s Day to you, The Daver, o! the Prime Minister of Poopy Diapers and the King of all Tickle Fests. We raise our glasses (and bottles of milk to you today).

It’s not a glamorous swinging life, this poo-stained, vomit-encrusted, stinky existence. Sure you traded living downtown for a house in the ‘burbs and the Integra for a mini-van. But it’s a nice house; it’s OUR house, and shit, the van really is fucking useful.

And you, like the rest of us, wouldn’t change it for anything. (Except maybe Prada. But it would have to be a REALLY nice Prada bag or something. But I digress.)

Okay, for that, I am totally putting up THIS picture rather than the super corny shit that I could have. Happy Father’s Day, love.

You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.

If there are any other dudes out there who read my estrogen-laden blog, I wish you a happy, Happy Father’s Day as well. May your grills be grill-y and all of your sausages cooked. Except, you know, THOSE sausages.

Wow. THAT was awkward.

When Ben was a couple of months old, I went back to work as a waitress. I’d waited tables for years before, so I was eagerly hired at the new pizza place that opened up in town. In a sea of newbies, I was a Master of my Trade. Queen of the Kingdom.

The general manager of the restaurant was a guy I’ll call Phil (although, I am stating for the record, this was not his name) and he was a decent guy. For an over-worked underpaid restaurant GM, that’s a huge thing.

He’d show up on the weekends and despite occasionally trying to get us to unsuccessfully have team building meetings at 5PM when the dinner rush was beginning to discuss things like “selling more pizza,” and often telling a server who was so slammed that she was eyeball deep in the weeds to “smile more,” I always liked him. Probably because he called me “efficient” which is a label–unlike ‘stupid bitch’ which I am called quite often–that I had never before heard.

Hokey and corny, yes, but Phil was a good guy. Which meant we’d often mock him behind his back–although, I must add, not unkindly–and try to do our best Phil impression. This often involved frowning a lot and bursting out conspiratorially with the often-heard “I think someone is stealing cheese,” and by far and away the best impersonator was one of the managers, a mexican dude named Cesar.

One Saturday night after close, Cesar, who was the night manager, pulled from the manager’s office this large cloth contraption. Mystified, we all grabbed our smokes and gathered ’round, our piles of tips left on the tables near the halfway rolled up basket of silverware. Cesar was laughing so hard that he was crying. Although this wasn’t uncommon as he was known for his excellent sense of humor, we all clamored to know what the hell was so fucking funny.

Once he’d caught his breath and wiped the tears, he turned around the cloth contraption he was holding. On the back it had been brown but on the front, it was red. With large circles of purple and dots of grey felt and slices of green felt. It took us a moment to realize what we were looking at, but we all saw it at the same time.

“Holy SHIT,” Amy–another server–yelled. “That’s a gigantic fucking pizza suit.”

And it was.

Phil had bought us, for no reason we could ascertain, a gigantic triangle-shaped pizza suit. I can swear to you, The Internet as my witness, that I have never, ever laughed so hard in my entire life. It was a typical Phil thing (it is killing me, I should add, to not tell you his real name not because it’s an exciting name, but because I can’t think outside the effing box) to do: pointless yet hilarious, hokey yet comedic, and one of those things that no one else would think was a good idea.

I mean, sure, I do sometimes see those poor fuckers, dressed up as a taco or a sandwich on the side of the road. We live far enough from stuff that driving from place to place is a necessity, so these people merely stand listlessly on the side of the road, wilting in the heat and freezing in the cold and choking on the exhaust of Escalades and Bentley’s. And I will tell you that I have never, ever, EVER stopped to eat somewhere because they had a person dressed as a chicken sadly standing at the side of the road.

If anything, I keep driving and pretend for both of our sakes that it never happened. I had not seen an actual humiliated person standing there, dressed as a large Chicago hot dog or a milk shake. Seemed healthier that way for all parties.

Anyway, there we were, a cluster of servers, bartenders and delivery drivers, staring slack jaw awash in awe of the possibilities that only a gigantic felt pizza suit would provide.

Which.were.endless.

Part Number B will air on Monday.