I have a guest post up for you today because I’m still reeling from how in love with all of you I am. You were all so sweet to me yesterday with my post about Amelia’s birthday. Thank you. I needed that. I really did mean it when I said if you were local, I’d be honored to have you (I’m in St. Charles, which is a suburb of Chicago).

Oh, yeah. I rewrote the ending last night if you’re not seeing where I invited you. I’m still inviting you. I’m also asking you this: how long does one have to plan a party if she still would like guests to show up? Like, when should I aim for, knowing her birthday is the 28th of January? Also: do people send paper invites any longer?

Wanted to tell you that have all of the emails you’ve ever sent me about Amelia in a folder that I’m saving to show her some day. I’ll have to print out all of the lovely comments, too, because Pranksters, she deserves to know how amazing her Internet Aunts and Uncles are.

ONWARD.

Taco Bell is totally copying me:

Whatever, Taco Bell. We got the Band Back Together .

I may or may not be in love with Claire. Okay, I so am. She’s hilarious and she’s awesome and she’s witty and if you cut her, I think she bleeds platinum. Total win.

I’m thrilled to have her guest post on my blog today because she’s freaking hilarious. Also, I’m guessing that my blog will probably turn to platinum now that I’ve published her Holiday Rules.

You can follow Claire on her Twitter here and her blog, Claire DeLuncay, here.

THE RULES (Holiday 2010 Edition)

OK, so here’s the thing:

Every year, I try to be a little less curmudgeonly. This vow is usually sworn at Christmastime, when, despite all the relentless marketing propaganda and crass consumerist bullshit, the idea of a being so desperate to save a bunch of idiots from themselves that he sent his only kid to be their punching bag somehow continues to resonate inside my tiny charcoal heart. That said, events of the past year (as well as my the fact that I was graciously invited by Aunt Becky to be a guest poster) have driven me to create one of my occasional “Rules” posts. For those of you who are unfamiliar, I have, as befits an underemployed and struggling author with little to no influence outside a smallish circle of very tolerant and compassionate weirdos, decreed at various times rules designed to minimize my irritation while, y’know, fixing the world ‘n’ stuff. This is one of those times. In keeping with the spirit of the season, I present “The Twelve Rules of Christmas.”

HENCEFORTH:

01) When on line in front of me at a fast food establishment (drive through or inside), acting as though you have never, ever, EVER been to any sort of restaurant or engaged in any type of human interaction is now illegal. Pulling up to the drive through in the howling snow and starting a conversation with “Now, let’s see, what do y’all have here?” as though you are in the exotic climes of some distant Caribbean isle, perusing a menu in the charming local dialect, instead of looking at pictures of tacos so dated that one features a young Celia Cruz, is EXTREMELY illegal.

02) The ban on all Snuggies™, Slankets™, and their sloth-breeding kin continues. Anyone attempting to gift me with such an item shall be summarily sentenced to wear ONLY a Snuggie throughout the course of an Ohio winter, said Snuggie having been hand-crafted out of skunk fur and the tub leavings of Robin Williams.

03) All wrapping paper, even the extra-fancy kind, shall now be sold in standardized rolls, and available in quantities of subtler delineation, eliminating the need for one (ok, me) to choose between “enough to wrap the entire city of Toronto” or “enough to wrap several molecules of Buckminsterfullerite.” In addition, attempts to engage other shoppers in a little wrapping paper swordplay shall be met with enthusiastic glee, rather than nervous calls to security. Bunch of damned party poopers.

04) Given the current economic climate, I have reversed my earlier decree and hereby declare fruitcake to be not only legal, but welcome. However, said fruitcake is not to be consumed (unless one has a death wish or the sort of appetite that permits the consumption of, say, an old boot), but rather stockpiled and used as building materials for low-income housing. Much like their less-durable cousins of mud and adobe, these noble fruitcake bricks will provide solid, enduring shelter from the elements while warding away pests (except for, again, the sort of person who thinks it’s okay to eat fruitcake, and they probably have pica. NOT THAT I DON’T APPRECIATE THE FRUITCAKE EVERY YEAR, AUNT CATHY!).

05) And speaking of aunts, it is hereby declared that all children shall be made to understand that the same “weird” aunt who gives you crazy things like “The Lord of the Rings” or “The Iliad” or My First Particle Accelerator™ as gifts when you are a child, rather than Captain Crappy’s Junketron Blaster of Commercial Flackery™ or Barbie’s Magical Dream House of Rigidly Unforgiving Gender Stereotypes™, will become YOUR FAVORITE AUNT when you are older, because as it turns out, genetic drift means you’re probably more like her than your parents, and therefore will be able to find solace and camaraderie in your shared cranky intellectualism. I think we’ve all seen “Daria,” people.

06) In this season of peace and love, freaking out over, or trying to make political hay out of, the following words is now extremely illegal: “Merry Christmas;” “Happy Holidays;” “Christmakwaanzukkah;” “Io Saturnalia.” (That last one may be solely for our time-traveling friends of the Seventeenth Legion of the Roman Imperium. Sorry about the wormhole, boys, I’m trying to fix it as fast as I can! In the meantime, please feel free to invade Gaul. They’re used to it.)

07) All persons applying to shovel walks and driveways shall henceforth be cherry-cheeked, wool-ensconced cherubs with earflap hats and a gleam in their eye, rather than grown dudes with a three-day stubble and the personal hygiene of a particularly indiscriminate hyena. Persons matching the latter description shall be summarily bathed, shaved, and set to work building fruitcake houses for the poor. Persons matching the former description shall be rewarded with hot cocoa and a shiny silver dollar (“silver dollar,” in this context, should be read as “Twenty bucks? To shovel my walkway? You extortionist bastard!”).

08) All drivers will practice their winter driving all year long by coating their tires in butter every three weeks and turning up the A/C full blast. This will prevent both the seasonal amnesia of winter (“What? It’s cold and snowy in November? AGAIN?”) and the driving behavior it engenders (“Bob, look out! There’s mysterious frozen water falling from the Heavens! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”). This rule also applies to shopping patterns, so that otherwise normal people will not, upon hearing that snow flurries are in the forecast, rush to their local market and buy up all the milk, soup and shovels as though they only just now remembered they’d been asked to go on a ski trip with the Donners.

09) Those fake fireplaces that do so well on the iPad and the YouTube and whatnot will now produce actual, extremely merry, crackling heat. I don’t want to hear excuses, Science – you can grow an ear on the back of a fucking mouse, you can make BlazingLogs.com fill my living room with cheery warmth.

10) Persons participating in “Secret Santa” who fill out their info card with terms like “cool stuff,” “whatever,” or “Anything Disney! (followed by seventeen exclamation points and a crudely-rendered Mickey Mouse head)” will receive coal. And by “coal,” I of course mean “NOTHING.” Any person drawing such a card from the communal pool with be given the option of either drawing another name or slashing the owner’s tires.

11) All children’s Christmas programs will now have A) a maximum length of one hour; B) attractive cigarette/snack girls dressed as “Sexy Mrs. Claus;” and C) an open bar. I’m looking at you, Saint Michael’s Academy for Wayward Youth.

12) For a variety of reasons, this time of year is decidedly unmerry for a lot of people; the mentally ill, the homeless, the forgotten, the embittered (which, now that I think about it, describes a fair number of family Christmases. But I digress.). Therefore, all persons on this dinky blue rock are hereby required to pause at some point, seek out someone less fortunate (trust me, even if your name is Bob and you’re working as a buoy, there’s someone out there less fortunate than you, bub) and just take that moment to acknowledge their existence and value as a human being. I don’t care if it’s a hot bowl of soup, a hug and a smile, or some sort of weird, borderline-illegal act in the back of Fast Louie’s Massage Parlor. The point is that you do it. Because Christmas comes only once a year (insert your own “Fast Louie’s Massage Parlor” joke here), but being a decent human being is a full time gig.

OK, that’s it for now, I suppose. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Festive Kwaanza, Joyous Solstice, Gleeful Non-Denominational Mandatory Holiday Gathering, et hoc genus omne. Now let’s get out there and build some motherfucking fruitcake houses. FOR THE CHILDREN.

It began with a tiny pink lollipop, really no bigger than the tip of my finger.

I saw it sitting quietly on the counter as I stood there in the kitchen, seething; a drinking glass clutched in my hand, poised to throw at the wall, the blood pounding in my ears, drowning out all other noise.

The rage had come from nowhere it seemed, and in an instant, as I looked at that tiny pink lollipop, part of the My Little Pony advent calendar I’d bought my daughter (apparently boys are the only ones who should be taught to rob banks at Christmas), it evaporated. What came next was a sorrow so deep that it shook me to my bones, and I nearly fell to my knees as the sobs wracked my body. I wept, consumed with the kind of feral cry that reminds us that we’re not really that far removed from our animal ancestors.

In that instant, I was transported back to that room. The room where no pink balloons floated. No baskets of flowers were delivered. No visitors came to offer their congratulations. There were no happy phone calls made or cheerful cards read. The room was a barren hospital room overlooking an ice-covered roof and had two – not three – occupants. Both sat on the bed, weeping. Later, it was only one.

I think about that room a lot. I spend a lot of time with my ghosts, roaming those halls and reliving those uncertain days after my daughter was born.

But it is that room that haunts me most.

I want so badly to go back to that room and take that weeping, fractured, shattered woman into my arms and say to her, “Your daughter will live. She will live. She will go on to do amazing things with her life and so will you. Amelia will do much good for so many people. You will take all of these broken pieces and you will rebuild into someone else. Someone better. You will take all of this pain and you will use it to fortify you; to guide you; to help you find yourself. Please know that you are so loved.”

Because I will never forget how alone I felt. Maybe that is where that chasm of rage came from. That secret place, that land of tears and sorrow, that is ours to face alone. It was in that room, where no balloons bobbed and swayed, where no one celebrated Amelia’s life, that I sat alone in my own land of sorrow.

Seeing that lollipop on the kitchen counter brought it all back. It took me back to that room, the most uncertain, horrifying time in my life, and it reminded me of the days when no one celebrated her birth. The memories left me gasping.

I’d wanted so badly to celebrate her first birthday. To throw an ebullient celebration of Amelia’s life, a Fuck You to the Universe. I even had a CandyLand theme picked out. But I was so stuck in that land of tears that I simply couldn’t. It broke my heart.

Amelia will be two on January 28 and I have not planned a party for her. I want to. But it’s hard. This particular party is hard for me. It dredges up memories of some of the worst days of my life.

But I think that is what I need to do; throw her a birthday party, a REAL birthday party, the kind of party she deserved when she entered the world and defied all odds. I’m struggling, battling my demons, my dragons all rearing their heads as I work to slay them.

I will do it. I must do it.

I may never be able to go back in time to reach those two people in the room where no one celebrated her birth, but I can show Amelia how many people celebrate her life.

I will fill the rooms with balloons and shout to the world from the rooftops that this, this was the day that my daughter, Amelia Grace, the Warrior Princess of the Bells, she arrived.

And nothing, not one damn thing, has been the same.

Then I will sit back and watch my daughter giggle and snort and dash about, her curls bouncing merrily as she chases her balloons; her life finally, at long last, celebrated.

I didn’t want to tell you, Pranksters, until it was official, but I joined Momversation as a part-time panelist, which means that every now and again, I have to put my ugly mug on camera and talk about stuff.

Today, I answered the question, “would you let your boy wear girls clothes?”

You can see my answer. What’s yours? (oh, and you do NOT have to agree with me. I won’t be offended)

– Show quoted text –

There comes a time in every blobber’s life when you wipe the Pringles crumbs from your shirt, slurp the rest of your soda down and say, “Blobber-self, it’s time that I look deep within myself and find my soul.” Maybe you will have some mystical music playing or something because I feel soul-finding should have some Enigma or something playing (I don’t own any, but I may have to buy some).

Then, if you’re me, you spend a good bit of time wondering what your soul looks like. Mashed potatoes? Peas? Barry Manilow? A mashed potato sculpture of Barry Manilow? The possibilities are both endless and frightening.

This, however, this is epic.

Meet Adam. He’s also Avitable. And my BFF. Here we are in Vegas.

Adam and I decided that it was Time To Search Our Souls and find our Spirit Animals. I was scared. He held my hand.

We found the perfect person to guide us! Erial “meditates and tunes into you” to “get your unique essence”, and once he “gets an aspect of your celestial self”, he will transform a normal photo into a Celestial Soul Portrait!

This, Pranksters was a win! I needed something unique for a VD-Day Card (I’m too lazy to send out Christmas Cards) and this? This was just TOPS. So we anxiously sent off our questionnaires and waited.

Finally, the day come and I tore open my email and this is what slipped open.

The most beautiful souls on the planet:

Epic Fucking Soul Portraits

Apparently, THAT is what our souls look like. And THAT is our Spirit Animal.

Pranksters, which one of you is going to buy me an Epic Wolf Shirt to go along with it?

Photo courtesy: AngiePangie

It came to my attention through this very awesome email:

I have been reading for some time and now I am peeking from behind the corner to say, you know, “yo,” and also, possibly bring you a high five. Anyway, we have not seen many “after” pics since your procedure and I was wondering, how are you and your abs doing? How are your feelings and things?

that I haven’t exactly been talking about mah surgery very much.

So, Em, HIGH FIVE and this one’s for you.

Brief back story, I had a full abdominoplasty (which is a hardcore tummy tuck) at the beginning of November, 2010. My surgeon lopped off six pounds of stuff and then fixed the underlying muscles that were all bent out of shape in a condition called Diastasis recti. I’m shaped like a daddy long legs spider, relatively long legs and no torso, and after three eight pound babies, my abdominal muscles were all *coughwheeze* “I GIVE UP.”

I did it without a whole lot of warning because I knew that if I thought about it too much, I’d be all, HOLY SHITBALLS, THAT’S A HELL OF A SURGERY, AUNT BECKY, so it was really just a “let’s get ‘er done” kinda thing.

So it was done and I was all OUCH, because do you know how often you use your abdominals? A fucking lot. That’s how much. I couldn’t pee without crying.

It was like that for weeks.

Since I don’t lay around very well, I spent a lot of that time feeling kinda sad. It’s like all of those emotions you push down because you’re too busy to ever think about them, well, they come burbling out when you’re stuck on the couch and time goes by so slowly that you wonder if it’s a trick of the clock or something. But I think that was a good thing for me to finally have to sit down and focus on them.

I can say that because I’m feeling loads better. I still have pain – a lot of pain – where the nerves in my abdomen are trying to grow back. But that, too, will (probably) pass. I’ve weaned my Topamax dosage down to half of what it was and been able to keep it there without getting a fuckton of headaches. I’ve had less back spasms.

In short, my life = more awesome now.

I don’t have any Before Full Abdominoplasty Surgery Posts to show you because, well, I don’t think I want to see it.

Here’s my three week post op post.

And this is how I look today:

8 Weeks Post Full Abdominoplasty

With the exception of the quality of the photos, I’m really happy with the surgery. I’m back to the normal substandard quality of life of a blobber that I was used to before surgery (read: none. I live my life online).

Would I have a tummy tuck again if I knew then what I know now? Without a doubt. Which is more than I can say about that weekend in Rio.

And short of a Baywatch audition, that’s about the best result I can hope for.

Dear Aunt Becky:

I asked a simple yet detailed question on an interweb “Moms-Helping-Moms” website and got a shitload of rude, demeaning answers.  I never meant to make myself come across as a terrible horrible person.  I even re-read my question but I guess I really am a huge bitch.  Whatever shall I do?

Sincerely,

Wicked Witch of Wisconsin

Well, Prankster, you’re clearly a miserable excuse for a human being who should not be allowed to live, breathe or walk among normal humans.

OR, wait, that had too many words spelled (mostly) properly. Let me retry that.

“U SUK WHOR.”

Was that better? That was my attempt at emulating an Internet Mole Person, or what I like to call “trolls.”

Internet Trolls, for those not versed in Internet Jargon, are people (I think they’re people, but a DNA test may be required) who post rude, mean, or otherwise inflammatory responses to a post on a site with the express purpose of evoking an emotional response.

There are a couple of different kinds of Internet Trolls (Pranksters, I’m sure I’m missing a few, so fill in, please):

Off-Topic Trolls (Internet Mole People) These people always make me wonder if they’re actually PEOPLE and not robots.

Your simple post on cats evokes this response, “WELL, I THINK iPOD’S ARE THE SPAWN OF SATAN’S PUCKERED POO HOLE YOU FILTHY, SOULLESS ASSWAD.”

Religious Trolls (Internet Mole People) These trolls use Bible Verses and religious scripture to justify being mean to others for no real reason.

Your same post on cats evokes: “Well, in (Bible Verse) something was said and THERE SHOULD BE NO CATS! YOU WILL BURN IN HELL!!! I will pray for your immortal soul, but it’s dammed already, so just get ready for hell.”

Let-Me-Hijack-Your-Post-To-Tell-My-Horrible-Story Internet Troll. These Internet Mole People almost always leave you wondering why they left you the comment at all, except that you’re now probably feeling guilty.

Cat post evokes this: “When I was a kid, we had a cat and that cat was named Sam and Sam was a mean cat and he gave my brother named Sam rabies and then we had to take them both out back and shoot them and then at the funeral, Sam The Cat’s Ghost came to haunt us and we were scared because it was a funeral and the whole town was there and there was a GHOST of a DEAD CAT who had KILLED MY BROTHER and oh my God the whole town came out and then my mom started breastfeeding a llama and I don’t know where the llama came from and then we went to the carnival and I thought I was getting rabies but really it was gangrene so I had to chop off my leg with a rusty ax and that is why you should shoot your cat.

The Pointless, yet Mean Internet Troll. These Internet Mole People usually speak in text-speak and only insult you. They’re usually found in forums and news sites with a misspelled very cutesy name.

Your cat story, responses vary, “U R a whore,” “U Suk,” “U R Dumb,” and occasionally the “Die Bitch.”

The “This Is My CAUSE” Internet Troll (Internet Mole Person): Person who defines themselves solely by their “cause,” and spends countless hours blathering on and on about it to anyone on The Twitter, The Facebook and blogs. They have a Google search set and hours each day to devote to blogs and they do that to leave comments about their “cause.” Which no one cares that much about. Or is a one-sided thing and almost always involves emotional manipulation and impassioned catch-phrases to get the very annoying point across.

Like this: Your cat post, “This Is My Cause!!!!” Internet Troll: “Well, you should know that new babies should never, ever be around cats because the cats smother them while they sleep. The cats try and SUCK THE MILK from the babies because cats like to SMOTHER BABIES and if you DON’T GET RID OF YOUR CAT, you’re basically saying that your BABY IS WORTHLESS and you should be sent to BABY JAIL if you do that you soulless ASSHOLE.

(never mind that you are a single 56 year old man without kids, because “This Is My CAUSE!!!!” Trolls don’t know anything about you or your life. Just their very, very irritating causes.)

The “WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN” Pseudo-Concern Trolls. These people are precisely as you’d imagine. They take any instance in which there might be an issue of perceived impropriety and exploit it.

Your cat post: “WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?”

The Emotionally-Charged Troll. These Internet Mole People pop up, usually in the form of some other type of troll, to make you feel bad by playing on your emotions.

Same cat post, “well, I HOPE you got that cat from a shelter because these (grim shelter statistics) cats die every year while breeders force cats to pop out kittens by the barrel and if you didn’t, you’re supporting that and really, you should make sure to always get an older cat because they are hardest to adopt.”

The Not A Troll, Trolls: Not everyone expressing a dissenting opinion on your website is an Internet Mole Person.

———–

That’s Your Aunt Becky’s guide to Internet Mole People, (I prefer that term because they’re people that pop up randomly to say stuff that makes you feel badly before retreating back to the holes to which they crawled out from), and I’m sure I’m missing some. So, Pranksters, FILL IT IN.

And as for YOU and your EVIL POST, you wicked bitch, the moderators at that site should have been watching to see that you didn’t get creamed. I don’t understand the logic behind allowing someone to submit or answer a question (or post), only to allow them to get their ass handed to them by Internet Mole People. As site admins, they should get YOUR back or, if they hate your question, NOT ACCEPT IT (my queue is backed up, which is why I haven’t gotten to YOUR question, Pranksters).

I know that’s what happens at a lot of those sites and it makes me sad. I cannot imagine submitting a serious question only to have 98 moms jump down my throat, telling me “U R doing it wrong ASSHOLE.” Because most days, I’m all too sure I’m doing it wrong. I don’t need Internet Mole People telling me so. There is a difference between answering a question and being deliberately cruel.

You’re not a terrible, horrible person. Not by a long shot.

Especially since I know that the next time you see another person getting their ass handed to them by a Mole Person, you’ll jump in to show them some kindness.

Internet Mole People can SUCK IT.

————–

Pranksters? What am I missing here?

How did you guys not tell me this existed until YESTERDAY?

Furthermore, HOW DID NONE OF YOU BUY ME THIS?

You Shut Your Whore Mouth When Dr. House Is Talking

On second thought, don’t buy me this. I’d NEVER sleep again. Ever. In fact, I may never sleep again knowing that it exists: I have more questions than can possibly be answered.

THIS is why mommy wants needs vodka.

One might think that after telling The Internet that my son Alex had fallen in love with a cupcake shirt and wore a butterfly costume for Halloween this year, that he might be a little, well, girly.

Not so, Pranksters.

Alex’s second word was “penis.” Alex is also a frat boy.

I’ve mentioned that my son is being potty-trained, which means he’s been sitting around in his Cars-Themed Tighty Whities most of the day, here in the Sausage Factory, while I frantically insist he go to the bathroom every 4.8 seconds so as to not further ruin the horrifying once-white (WHITE!!) carpeting in my house. Potty-training! Ain’t it grand!

While I was upstairs, putting my daughter to bed last week, Ben (who is, for those not keeping score at home, nine) and Alex, aged three, decided that it would be best if they BOTH stripped down to their underwear to hang out.

My sons popped out from behind the couch to show me that they were both in their undies and because I am so used to seeing the house torn from it’s hinges after my brief “I’m putting the baby to bed” absence, I was a bit relieved. No one had knocked the ceiling fan off…yet.

“Okay,” I said to them, laughing. “But DON’T PEE ON ANYTHING.”

Still chuckling, I returned to my computer to scour the internet for some singing cat songs or dancing cacti videos. Those wily cactus videos get me going EVERY time!

Not two minutes later, my eldest tore through the living room, chasing my youngest son, both laughing so hard they was crying. I tore myself away from the cactus and looked up.

I saw a pair of naked butt cheeks as they disappeared around the bend.

What the hell?

And then again, the laughter and my youngest son, holding something up over his head as my eldest chased him, both giggling so hard they could barely stand it.

This time, as they came into my line of sight, I looked more closely. What the hell was going on?

I saw it: Alex was holding a pair of underwear over his head as Ben chased him.

They were…they were BEN’S underwear.

Oh sweet Lord.

The next time they rounded the bend, still chortling, I stopped Ben and asked him what was going on.

“Alex took my underwear off and now he,” *giggle, giggle* “now he” *giggle giggle* “now he won’t give it back!”

Alex was rolling on the floor, clutching his gut, laughing so hard that he was crying.

And then I said the words I’d never expected to say: “Alex, give your brother back his underwear. And you two, KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR ON. PENISES BELONG IN THE BEDROOM OR THE BATHROOM. THEY ARE PRIVATE.”

And then, I died.

At one PM today, my daughter, Amelia, was feeling sad.

(note: Parts of My Daughter, Amelia, will be played by Your Aunt Becky)

Not Actually My Daughter

Why could that be?

Could it be because she saw this scary poster hanging in a local eatery?

That Kid Can Believe it's Not Fucking Butter.

No!

Could it be because she couldn’t find Mommy’s Boba Fett helmet?

Reality Doesn't Care If You Believe It. Neither Does Mom.

NO!!!

Could it be because no one bought her “Couch Jesus?” on eBay?

Couch Jesus

No way man!

Could it be because Mommy hadn’t installed the Ultimate Disco Ball in her bedroom yet?

We're Getting The DISCO Band Back Together

NO!

Amelia,

Not Actually Amelia

Why so sad, peanut?

Here’s a song for you.

It’s what Mommy sings when she’s in the shower. Let’s sing i..ouch, Amelia, that hurts. Don’t pry Mommy’s lips off.

Oh. You’re sad because you just started school today. I see.

I’m sorry you were sad…What’s that? You’ll only be less sad if I buy you these in your size?

Pretty sure your father would have my head.

I’ll go get my credit card.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d say to her, given the chance. It’s a pointless endeavor, for sure, considering she’s been dead for almost three years. Or is it more than three years? She died when Alex was a baby, a couple months before I got pregnant with my daughter.

One last conversation. What would I say to her?

I could tell her that I admired her from the moment I met her, when we were eleven and thirteen, respectively; just kids, really. There was an instant chemical reaction between us, the kind that occurs once or twice in a lifetime, if you’re really lucky. It’s like our cells pulled us toward other. We would be friends. Our cells were determined. So were The Fates.

We’d always be thrown in front of each other, at this party or that. She dated one of my best friends for a very long time. She was friends with the little sister of one of my older friends. We were both talented cellists – although her talent was far beyond mine – which meant we were in orchestra together for a couple of years.

In Beethoven’s String Quartet Number, he scribbled Grave, (Muss es sein?/Must it be?), Allegro (Es muss sein!/It must be!), and that’s how I thought of our friendship, of any good friendship:

Must it be? It must be.

I’ve stopped believing in the randomness of the universe and when I think back to all of the times we happened upon each other, once again, I realize: It Must Be.

Would I tell her how I admired her when she walked tall and proud so sure of herself, while the rest of us shuffled along; all elbows and knees, not sure what we stood for? Because I admired the hell out of her. Bracelets jangling, jeans hugging her hips, a vintage Stones t-shirt effortless put together, she was larger than life at age sixteen.

I’d never known anyone like that before.

I’d never known anyone who would take my side, either. Every other friend I’d had shoved me under the bus at wink of an eye or waggle of the hips; the betrayals vaguely reminiscent of my childhood, where no one had ever been on my side. When she showed up to tell my cheating boyfriend to fuck off or my former friend that she was being a total asshole, I was stunned. It had always just been me. Defending, well, me. Maybe I’d tell her that it was sad that I was twenty before I knew that kind of friendship.

Maybe I’d tell her that I’d lived my life the daughter of a bipolar alcoholic and I was sorry that she’d found herself there, too. Because I was. So sorry. We’d tried to reach her, my God we tried, but she was lost in the bottle and not a single one of us who had loved her back when she sparkled and shone, not one of us could get through. But we tried because we still loved her and we still believed that she was in there.

I could tell her that her funeral was so full of people who loved her that it was standing room only.

That when the string trio started playing “As Tears Go By,” the entire room wept. We all wept at the tragedy of losing someone who had so much of that sparkle, so much of that shine.

How the image of her two sons screaming and wailing to, “See MOMMY!” as they shut the casket will be forever seared into the brains of so many as the most heartbreaking thing we’ve ever seen.

She is so, so loved.

I could tell her that two years later, I still cannot talk about her without crying. How I cannot hear “Tears Go By” without weeping. How I still have her phone number in my address book. How I dedicated Band Back Together to her because I think the stigma of mental illness and alcoholism and all those demons we hide, I think that’s bullshit. How I think she’d like the site.

I guess I could tell her any of those things if I saw Stef again. But I think she’d already know.

Maybe I’d just hug her one last time, have one last laugh and say the right words: Must it be? It must be.