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.
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.”
“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.
I have two things on it.
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:
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.
I’m writing to you for advice because you seem like a good advice-giver in general, and because you are awesome and it’d make my day to hear from you.
See, I want to do a Masters degree in Social Psychology, but at the same time I keep thinking I’m not good enough, or the course is a bad (read: fluffy) choice. And I know those self-doubting thoughts are wrong, and that I acquired them from a person who was in retrospect never a friend to me, and yet they bother me.
I worry that the subject is a bad one in the first place, that I’m settling for a masters degree rather than a phd because I’m not good enough to get a phd (never mind that I think a masters degree would be adequate for my purposes), that I’m not hardworking enough or creative enough to do a postgrad degree, that I’ll be wasting my dad’s money (he really wants me to further my studies and is willing and able to pay for it all, so on top of everything I feel like I should be grateful and shut up and stop worrying already), that I don’t have a suitable background to continue in academia because I didn’t do research assistantship or tutoring in college and am (horror of horrors) doing a job that has nothing at all to do with my psych degree whatsoever.
I know I’m being silly and insecure, but I don’t know how to snap out of it.
Do you have any advice that could help me?
your niece in a small tropical country
Dear Niece of Mine,
First and most importantly, can I come visit? Because this weather? BLOWS ASS.
Secondly, here’s my thoughts on your dilemma – if you want to get your degree in BASKETWEAVING because it makes you happy – fucking go for it.
Most people (read: Your Aunt Becky) have a degree in a subject they do not use very much. See, I’m a nurse. Last time I practiced nursing? 2007. Part of that is because I hated it and part of it is because I hated it. So really, when I tried to be practical and shit (I should get a degree in something that pays RIGHT OUT OF COLLEGE), I ended up miserable.
I would ask yourself why you want this degree, what you plan on doing with it, and if your answers make sense? Fucking GO for it.
(if your answers are like, “so I can sign my name with cool initials afterward, I’d reconsider. The work involved is a bit much for a few initials).
You can do whatever you want to do. Kick those self-defeating thoughts in the taco and get thee to school.
Your Aunt Becky, RN-BSN
I’ve pretty much been an avid reader since the beginning of time..and I am just *now* realizing that we have (at least) 2 things in common. Migraines and thyroid BS. This isn’t a very exciting or cool Ask Aunt Becky question..but I’d like some advice from someone who has been there.
I’ve suffered from migraines since 2004. I had one a day for 3 months then, and they’ve been off & on since then. Now, since having my daughter (in Jan.) I started have 2-3 a week, then 4-5 a week and now I’m up to having one every day. My PCP started me on Topamax, but it doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. As bad as it might sound, the only thing that keeps them at bay is Percocet and I know there aren’t unlimited refills on that bad boy. But seriously, if I miss a dose, if I go more then 4 hours, it hits like a ton of bricks.
I’ve taken Maxalt in the past, but it just took the edge off and made me sleepy. And I know about rebound headaches,and I’ve actually stopped taking the Percocet to see if that was the problem. It wasn’t.
So, any helpful hints or suggestions? I’ve got to get them under control and I feel like I’m losing my mind when I have them.
Also, thyroid BS. Apparently I have a multi-nodular goiter? During my pregnancy everything was fantastic, but now, everything is whack-a-doo. I’m not cycling, and I just feel run down. I’m scared to go see the specialist because I don’t want a biopsy or any of that. Can you advise me as to what is going to happen at my first visit and what kind of treatment there is?
I’m sorry this is so long. I looked for an “actual” email address, and did not find one. I’ve been wanting to ask these questions for a few weeks, but felt like you were so out of my league that I couldn’t, lol.
Thanks in advance for listening.
Oh, Prankster, it’s like we’re twinsies! And not in a matching-shirt-kinda-way.
First and foremost, get thee to a neurologist. If The Max isn’t helping, fuck The Max. There are a zillion other drugs out there that can help control migraines. I now take Carbitrol, and frankly, it’s not working well. My migraines have become a daily thing. CLEARLY, I need to call my neuro for another drug. You may have to play around with various drugs to find out which works for you, but there will be SOMETHING. I promise.
As far as the thyroid goes, my endocrinologist is the best doctor I have. My thyroid goes balls out after I have babies, and doesn’t go back to normal. It’s like hey, motherfucker, you’re an asshole for having a baby!
So seeing an endo has been one of the smartest moves I’ve made. Been seeing her since after Alex was born, and I’d send her a Christmas card if I wasn’t too lazy to send such things.
Let me know how it goes. And good luck, Prankster.
Sometimes, I get around. I wrote about 5 Things Not To Do With Your Kids This Winter.
Your turn, Pranksters! What advice would you give these brillz Pranksters? Fill in where I left off in the comments.
I should’ve known. I really should’ve known.
Sitting in the waiting room at the RotoRooter guy’s office, what happens to come onto the speakers but the Eagles. The fucking EAGLES, man. Not as bad as Rush, but still, up there on my Run Like Hell list.
Finally, after what appeared to be twenty-six hours (not the two minutes it took), I was called back into see my (new) dentist. First question, “Do you use nitrous?” I figured, if I’ve gotta be in agony, I may as well be wasted, too.
“No,” the nurse replied, “just local.”
So she strapped another one of those, “IMMA CHOKE YOU TO DEATH, ASSHOLE” X-ray things in my mouth, as I vowed to brush my teeth regularly. 8 times a day, even! 12! Anything so I didn’t have to have bite-wings in my mouth again.
The dentist with kind eyes came in and took a look almost instantaneously. I hadn’t even strapped on my iPod yet, and there he was, all bright-eyed and smiles.
(boring aside: I always, ALWAYS, listen to you, Pranksters. Y’all told me to listen to some tunes and I fucking DID. Er, was going to. I also held a tube of chapstick like it was my talisman)(if I knew what a talisman was)
He poked around in my mouth a bit, jostling my shredded tongue, before he sucked in his breath.
Not a good sign.
Then, he went over and took a look at my x-ray. He sighed more deeply.
Fuck. How can I make two jovial dentists sigh in one fucking week? I should win an award for Worst Tooth Ever.
He then swiveled his chair over to me and said, the regret seeping out of his pores. “Well, we can do two things. I can TRY to give you a root canal, probably a couple procedures, then your dentist can work to lengthen the root and in a couple of years you may be back here.” That was clearly not the preferred method.
“OR, we can just extract the tooth. There seems to be some decay at the roots and I’m concerned by it.”
Well hell. I ruined his day AND made him concerned. Is there anything worse than hearing, “I’m concerned about you?” I think not.
It took me less than a second to come to my conclusion: “Let’s get that fucker outta there.”
“Okay,” he said mournfully. “We don’t do that here.”
Tears pouring, I began the process of calling every tooth-yanker in the area, begging them to get me in. Found one who’d do it, but only if I got there NAO. Which was no problem since I was approximately five feet away from their office.
They, at the very least, had The Nitrous. And no Eagles playing in the waiting room.
I went back, begging the nurse to hold my hand, after she told me my headphones were too large to use during the procedure. She cranked up the Christmas music instead, and I began Aunt Becky’s Nitrous Trip. I realized that while under the influence, it was the most relaxed I’d been in years. Stress? What ME Stressed? HOW DARE YOU SIR.
The ceiling began to swim and I swore that the Christmas music began to skip, like the worst industrial remix of Deck the Halls, ever. But I didn’t care. I was RELAXED, motherfucker.
The tooth extraction went well, overall, except that I’m now missing one of my back molars. Perhaps Santa will bring me a new one, rather than the stocking full of, um, nothing I’ll probably get this year. (Long, LONG story).
I went home, where The Guy On My Couch, Ben, promptly made me some chocolate frosting that I couldn’t eat, while my kids clucked and fussed over me. (Daver was off at a play in the city all night).
Today, I look like an overgrown Cabbage Patch Kid, half of my face swollen and bruised. The pain is better, for sure, but I was just informed that I am still unable to chew things for the next few days. Which is probably good for my waistline.
And I’m overwhelmed by the amount of slack-jawed yokel jokes I’ll be able to make at my own expense for the next 50 or so years.
Or I will be, once I stop bleeding.