If you’ve read my blog for any significant portion of time, you’ve probably heard me
complain bitterly discuss happily my My Grains.
I had to switch medications recently, after the one I was taking started to make me bald, and decided, after being warned of liver toxicity or death or something (I stopped paying attention when he said THIS WILL NOT MAKE YOU BALD, BECKY), to check RxList to see what, in fact, I was now taking.
You’d think after being a nurse, I might have some recollection of each and every individual medication in the Universe, but you’d be wrong. I have a brain the size of a pea, and there are kajillions of medications out there. In fact, those wily drug people are always coming out with NEW ONES.
Anyway, for the three of you who care, I’m now taking Carbatrol, and using it as a migraine prophylaxis is an off-label use for this seizure medication.
For those of you who stayed awake for that sentence, here’s a cookie.
HA! Just kidding I don’t have cookies.
So there I am, patiently wading through the piles of ‘THIS DRUG WILL KILL YOU’ material, singing the Sky Mall Kitties song, when I finally looked at the top of the page:
Here, let me show you what I saw:
I could absolutely watch any number of videos that involved small creatures singing, but the very VERY last thing in the world I’d ever willingly watch was a slideshow about migraines. Or, for that matter, much of anything.
In fact, there’s not a single slideshow/powerpoint that ever seems to scream, “HERE AUNT BECKY, YOU SHOULD WASTE TEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE WATCHING THIS.”
So I didn’t. And perhaps I should have. Because now I’m stuck wondering what the fuck was ON that damn slideshow.
Instead (lucky Pranksters) I made you what SHOULD have been on this slideshow.
Now THAT slideshow? I would watch.
(the title has nothing whatsoever to do with what follows)
I haven’t managed to keep friends easily.
While I’d like to say something like, “it’s totally their loss,” or “it’s their fault,” there have been a number of mitigating circumstances, some of which were entirely my own fault (if one has to blame someone). I had three kids and was unable to leave the house for years. I moved from a central location to Bumfuck, Egypt. PTSD crippled my ability to let others really in.
And certainly, my former friends have done their fair share of shitballs things to me, too. I won’t fling poo, because that’s unladylike (snorts) but it has happened.
I won’t lie and say it’s been easy or particularly enjoyable, because who likes losing their friends?
Through all of the bullshit of the past couple of years, I’ve been lucky enough to maintain a few close friends; mostly people who’d once lived inside my computer but became real friends. We’ve managed to bridge the gaps in geography and, throughout it all, grow together, rather than apart.
(I include you, Pranksters, in this category)
I met Kat shortly after Amelia was born – her daughter Avi is roughly the same age – when she IM’d me to correct my grammar on a post*. And while this is an unlikely way to become friends with someone, it’s what happened.
I won’t lie or sugarcoat things here: Kat was instrumental in saving my life after Amelia was born. I was in a bad place; such a bad place that I’m not sure anyone else – including me – realized it. I would have easily told you that I was “fine,” but I was so far from fine that I couldn’t even recall what “fine” looked like any more.
Kat saved me.
Nine months ago, her husband had a stroke, spent a good amount of time in the ICU and was eventually diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder – alpha 1-angiotripsan deficiency – for which there is no cure. Her 2-year old daughter, Mimi’s clone, was also diagnosed with this.
On Friday, at the butt-ass crack of dawn, I got up and slogged my sorry ass onto an airplane to Seattle or Portland or one of those cities that is NOT Chicago on the West Coast. It was time to hug the person who had saved me.
And I did.
I also got to meet
Mimi Avi who is, just as I’d suspected, Mimi’s doppelganger in both looks and actions. When I met her, she covered her eyes shyly, only to look at me through the cracks in her fingers. I may have passed out from the cuteness.
But Kat isn’t leading an easy life now, which breaks my small, dark heart. The daily what-if stresses are, as you can imagine, crippling. I wish like hell I could say or do something more than visit; something that would matter.
When I figure out what that is, Pranksters, I’ll do it.
Instead, I’ll be thrilled that I finally got to hug my friend in person, meet her charmingly hilarious daughter, and hear my very mild-mannered friend say the one word I flew a jillion miles to hear come from her mouth: “fuck.”
*Prolly NOT the best way to become BFF with me considering both my grammar and spelling are atrocious AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.
I remember vividly trying to find places to make out when I was a teenager. It wasn’t that I was some gigantic slut—no, really—it’s just that there are only so many places that one can successfully get their legs properly humped far away from the prying eyes of parents and/or siblings. Bedrooms were preferred, because they contained, well, BEDS, but they were often strictly guarded by parents who knew exactly what two horny kids would do when allowed to be alone for more than five seconds. And it wasn’t Parcheesi.
Cars were okay, but the police in my hometown (where I still live) seldom have anything better to do than bust underage smokers or underage humpers, so screwing around in a car, while optimal in some regards because it’s mobile, isn’t exactly always a great idea. The Great Outdoors comes with bugs, lurking Uncle Pervies, hikers and picnickers and my personal favorite: Poison Ivy. No one wants Poison Ivy on their privates. Not, thankfully, that I would actually know from experience. So while I do appreciate the plight of the horny teen, I do know that there are plenty of places that can be made hump-worthy. I know I’ve gotten my leg humped in many, many places over the years.
While I do still live in my hometown, thank the Sweet Baby Jesus that I no longer live with my parents because that would be awkward mostly because I would have murdered them by now. The area that I do live is across the river and we happened to move into Teenager Row. Most people hate teenagers, but I happen to find them hilarious. Plus, they mow my lawn and do assorted chores around the house for me since I have about four thousand children and a husband who is around approximately three minutes every other week. To me, it’s a total win, and for that I can even put up with their annoying whiny emo music for the privilege of being able to work them to the bone. Cheap slave labor makes me very, very happy.
One of them in particular tends to mow my lawn on a semi-regular basis when he can be bothered to remember. He’s a teenager so I don’t hold him to any sort of high standards. One afternoon, I blearily noticed that he’d left his baseball cap on top of the treehouse in my children’s play-set. It’s a pretty sweet set-up they have and I’ll be the first to admit that I am totally making up for the fact that my own parents didn’t buy me cool shit buy buying my own kids what I deem to be the coolest shit ever. Their play-set is pimp. It’s beyond pimp, actually, and I’m halfway considering moving out there myself. Well, I would, except that my own house is cooler. Air conditioning trumps no air conditioning any day.
Anyway, the hat sits there and it annoys me because I’m a little OCD and it doesn’t fucking belong there, but my neighborhood kid doesn’t seem to notice that he’s missing his hat. I am simply stunned that he doesn’t notice that he’s missing his hat! Why, when I was that age, I would have noticed that I was missing my baseball cap! Okay, that’s a lie, because I’ve owned one baseball cap ever and it says “Mrs. Timberlake” on it and I bought it when I was twenty-four because OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t you? But weeks pass and the hat sits in the treehouse and every time I see it it’s like it’s TAUNTING me by simply being there because it doesn’t motherfucking belong there! The kid comes back a couple of times and mows my lawn and still, leaves the hat, and I am beyond mystified by this.
Finally, I catch him outside one day when all of the adults are standing around splitting some beers and noshing on encased meats.
“Kid,” I say to him, my excitement reaching a fever pitch. “I have your hat!” I probably got a little in his face because that’s how I get when I’m excited by something and trust me, Internet, I was beyond excited. Before he could say “restraining order,” I ran inside and retrieved the hat. Triumphantly, I brought it back outside where I handed it to him with a huge smile on my face. I was just THAT HAPPY to give the hat back to it’s rightful owner. I was sure that the hat was equally happy to be back home once again because I might have been a wee bit drunk at the time.
“Um,” he looked at the hat and back at me. “That’s actually not my hat.”
My mouth hit the ground. What the fuck? I have a fenced in back yard, three small children and two loud dogs. Really, my yard isn’t a free-for-all of movement and no one really gets in or gets out without me noticing. Sort of like the Hotel California. What the hell did he mean, “that’s not my hat?”
My OCD kicked into hyperdrive at this revelation because if it wasn’t his hat and it wasn’t my hat and it wasn’t Dave’s, Ben’s, Alex’s or Amelia’s, then who the fuck owned the hat? Squirrels? The fucking Invisible Man? Gnomes? I couldn’t figure it out and it ate at my brain for weeks. Trust me, I don’t have enough brain for it to be taken over with such a thing for so long. I’m pretty sure nothing else got done for those weeks.
Facebook finally cracked it for me. The neighbors behind me frequently held bonfires attended by scads of teenagers. Those teenagers were using my fucking treehouse as, well a fucking treehouse. Which, I mean, if you think about it, is kinda awesome for them, kinda gross for me, because my kids go in there all the damn time. Without knowing it, I’d been hosting an orgy of teenagers in my backyard, probably humping legs with wild abandon. My very own den of intrigue! The hat must have replaced the tie as a symbol for “do NOT come in here.” If I took a black light in there, I’d be willing to bet it would look like Fight Club, only replace the blood and hair with spooge. Thankfully, I’d thrown out the black light along with the beaded curtains years before, so I won’t torture myself, but let’s just say I hit it up with some Lysol after that, and immediately threw out the hat.
More than anything, I was happy to have solved the mystery and a little jealous that I’d never been so creative when I was a teenager. Kids these days, man. They’re so fucking smart. Too bad that Imma booby trap the damn thing at night now. They may be smart, but I have a AMEX black card.
Score one for Aunt Becky.