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Or a mushroom print.

I know I’m MIA today, but I wrote this. It needs your sweet, sweet Prankster love.

Hopefully I’ll be able to crawl back from my January cave soon. This month is bullshit, Pranksters.

Dear Sarah McLachlan,

Let me start by saying you, Ms. McLachlan, have an impossible name to spell. I spent upwards of thirty whole seconds trying to ascertain whether or not that word grouping was properly spelled or a jumble of letters. That, however, is merely my issues with words, Sarah McLachlan. See, Sarah, I’m sorta illiterate.


I’m here today, Sarah McLachlan, to talk, not about your complicated name, but about you. Namely, how you ruined my day.

I’ll admit, Ms. Sarah McLachlan, that I, like most people with vaginas in 1993, that your album, Fumbling Toward Ecstasy was a favorite of mine (it seemed that there were two types of girls in the world at the time. Those who listened to Tori Amos and those who listened to you, Sarah McLachlan. And I, if I may, never was a cornflake girl.).

Mostly, because your lilting voice sang about all of the angsty shit that those of us who were both angsty and in possession of a vagina felt. Sadness. Emotions. Lame-ish songs (sorry, not your fault) that we could be all, OMG SARAH MCLACHLAN KNOWS WHAT I FEEEEEEELLLSSS.

I can’t say I much followed your career after I sacked up, but I was proud that you created that Lilith Fair, because I like a powerful woman, Sarah McLachlan, I like them very much. I heard a few of your songs on the radio, and while I never turned them UP, I rarely turned them off – see, Sarah McLachlan, I’m a sucker for a pretty voice. And that, my friend (can I call you my friend? Great – thanks), you do have.

You and me, Sarah McLachlan, we were friends. Or at least I thought so, until you released this particular bit of horror that’s since haunted me. Picture this, Sarah McLachlan: I was at home with my wee new babe, and I had one of two options – I could watch television or I could stare at the wall while I nursed him. He was a boob man, my guy.

Postpartum and hormonal, not to mention sleep-deprived, imagine my horror when this came onto my television:

I’ve never, ever gotten over it, Sarah McLachlan – the sad puppies, the hurt kitties, it was too much for me. I began to weep, which annoyed the hell out of my baby. That commercial, starring you,¬†Sarah McLachlan, and a bunch of pathetic animals, seemed to play whenever I was at my lowest.

And the tears, my good friend, Sarah McLachlan, they flowed.

It’s January, and aforementioned baby is nearly five, but I wanted to tell you that I caught the tail-end of your ASPCA commercial, Sarah McLachlan, and I wept. You have no way of knowing, Sarah McLachlan, that January is the worst month of the year for me – that I’d like to curl up in a ball and wake up sometime in February. But your commerical, Sarah McLachlan, it nearly broke me this time.

And at the very least, you ruined my day.

So, Sarah McLachlan, thanks for that.

Love Always,

Aunt Becky

Every year, right before Christmas, I go to The Target to buy myself an ornament for the tree. One of those absurdly expensive ones (for The Target, I should clarify) made out of the tiny hands of Ethiopian kids or by collecting the tears of the Unicorn that lives atop Mount Olympus. I’m not really sure. I’m not an ornament-maker.

It’s one of the more sentimental things I do. I mean, I’m the person that’s like, what the SHIT am I gonna do with all of these kids drawings? Sure, I love looking at them, but do I need to save every fucking one of the pages of scribbles just so someday, my kid can look back on it and be all, “Fuck, I was a terrible artist?” I think no.

We all know I’m not overly sentimental…until it comes to these ornaments. I try to select, from the supply that’s long-since been depleted because I am both lazy and cheap (sales make me happy in the pants), something that represents either the year before or the year ahead.

For both Alex and Amelia’s first Christmas, I bought them two crystal-studded “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments – one in blue and the other in pink, clearly for the year that passed.

Of course, these remain locked into the box of nice ornaments for another year while I display the very cheapest of ugly plastic ornaments – I’m afraid I’d burst into the Ugly Cry if one of those got misplaced.

This year, the selection being “pink for breast cancer,” a smattering of initials, and a couple of “for teacher” ones, I found the one I wanted to represent the coming year.

2011 was the year of losses – both great and small. I won’t wax poetic about the lessons I’ve learned because I didn’t really learn anything beyond “I’m an asshole,” and “other people are assholes.” Frankly, I knew that going IN to 2011, so it’s not like I need to sit back and be all nostalgic about all that I’ve lost. Who does that?


I don’t want to sit around with my thumb up my ass being all *sad trombone* here. I’ve had enough of that lately (it’s January, after all) and frankly, The Ugly Cry is starting to break capillaries in my face.

For 2012, I bought a simple ornament. It has one word on it.


This year, I hope.

And I do.

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