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I’ve wanted one of those disco shower heads ever since SkyMall happily informed me that they exist.

Think about it. No longer would you have to take ORDINARY showers! You’d be able to rock out with your cock out (alternately: jam out with your clam out) as you got clean. If I owned one of those puppies, I’d make EVERYONE who came over take a shower. TOGETHER!

Okay, so maybe not together. Also: I should totally write ads.

Anyway, I was perusing the Think Geek website, looking for the perfect gift for someone now missing a vestigial organ. (one could argue that I could have been talking about my tooth, but as my tooth was not a proper organ, that is neither here nor there).

There it was. In all it’s shimmering glory. Red and blue LED Showerhead. On fucking sale.

BOOM, Motherfuckers!

Of course I bought it.

It arrived yesterday. I spent the afternoon fantasizing about the disco shower I was gonna take. I got my new iPod dock loaded with Britney Spears and prepared to get up with the get down (or is it get down, get down?).

That was, of course, until The Daver evilly thwarted my plans.

As we ate our dinner, he dropped the bomb on me:

Aunt Becky: “OMG. I’m SO gonna take a disco shower. I should invite The Twitter over for a disco shower with me!”

The Daver: (looks at the packaging)

Aunt Becky: “Did I tell you I’m planning Amelia’s birthday party? Maybe we can have it in the shower!”

The Daver: (keeps looking at the packaging)

Aunt Becky: “This is seriously the best day ever. I’m gonna invite my parents over to look at my shower!”

The Daver: “This showerhead doesn’t have a massage setting.”

Aunt Becky: “So? Neither does our current one.”

The Daver: “Yes, it does.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ve lived here for five years and you never bothered to mention that?”

The Daver: “I thought you knew.”

Aunt Becky: “…”

The Daver: “Apparently, you didn’t know.”

The Guy On My Couch Ben: “I knew that.”

The Daver: “See?”

Aunt Becky: “I take it I’m not getting my disco showerhead.”

The Daver: “….”

The Guy On My Couch Ben: “….”

Aunt Becky: “You guys all suck.”

My parents were hippies. You know this. I know this. The guy down the block prolly knows it to, but I’m not asking him because HELLO AWKWARD.

That explanation alone probably explains why they would give me a concoction called, “Coffee, milk, sugar,” starting at age two. I delighted in this drink. I remember sitting at the table, feeling ever-so-grown-up drinking coffee out of a coffee mug JUST LIKE THE OLD PEOPLE DID.

I don’t recall spazzing out and running around like an asshole afterward, but it’s possible.

For Ben’s first Christmas in this house, which had to be (scratches head)(counts on fingers)(stares at wall)(guesses), pushing five, six years ago, I lovingly selected a very tiny coffee mug for him. It was a cheap old thing, but it was so wee and so darling and so motherfucking adorable that I nearly ovulated all over the chick next to me at Crate and Barrel.

I’m not sure what exactly I was thinking he’d do with it. My son, while he is many things, is not an adventurous sort. Milk makes him weep, he doesn’t understand the concept of hot chocolate (until his siblings pointed out how rad it is, I might add). He’s a water-on-the-rocks kinda kid. I respect that.

My daughter, on the other hand, is extremely adventurous.

She also has an obsession with coffee. Normally, she’ll pop up next to me as I’m slurping down the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, and very coyly ask to dip her binkie in the coffee. If Daver’s not around to bitch at me, I let her. Why the fuck not?* You’re only two once. And coffee? Well, coffee is FOREVER.

A couple of days ago, I realized the downfall to letting her dip-dip her binkie in my coffee is this: she’s infecting me with plague. (I wouldn’t put it past her to dip her binkie in my coffee for that very purpose.)

So I dragged out that wee, adorable cuppy that I’d bought for Ben so many years ago. I ovulated all over the kitchen as I put a splash of coffee, a heaping amount of sugar, and a liberal amount of milk into it.

“There,” I said. “Mimi’s coffee.”

I’ve never seen her grin so largely.

And proving once again that she is, in fact, my daughter, she downed that motherfucker.

Then asked for seconds.

Atta girl, Mimi.

*not actually asking WHY NOT? I’m sure it’s not fabulous for her and frankly? I’m not too worried about a teaspoon of coffee.

Last night found me sitting in the middle of a bustling Chinese restaurant, several of the employees dressed as elves. I looked around (it had been several years since I, myself, had been there) and realized that while it had once been decorated in standard American Chinese restaurant – think beige tones, ancient maps of China on the wall, fake flowers adorning every table – it had now been turned into Hawaii. Chinese-style.

That’s right, I sat, in the middle of a Hawaiian Chinese restaurant, served by a Chinese elf, while The Grinch played on the lone television, subtitled. A gaggle of college kids on my left tried to order a Hot Toddy while the table behind me gripped about the buffet being refilled too infrequently.

I was (initially) sober – I checked. And it was real.

I did the only logical thing one should do in such a situation – I began to order girly drinks with bizarre names like “Pina Colada” and “Scorpion” – which, the menu said, to “be wary of sting.” (I’m generally a bourbon girl, if anything, so girly drinks all sound oddly-named to me)

It had been a tough Christmas for me.

The addition of another (adult) person to care for right around the time I normally am all, “holy FUCK I forgot to do xxx” made for long days. Things around my house have been strained, as most of you have guessed. I’m never prepared enough to have my presents bought OR wrapped more than three days pre-Christmas, no matter how much I vow to be That Person. It’s always a mad dash in the days leading up to Christmas, and between the mouth surgery (me) and the vestigial organ removal (The Daver).

And I love the holidays. So having them be anything other than full of the awesome makes me sad in the pants.

Somehow, though, that awesomely tacky Chinese restaurant redeemed the holiday for me. Sure, I got drunk on girl drinks and am pretty sure my head is going to a) explode all over the fucking place or 2) explode, but not all over the place. Yeah, my food sorta tasted like an approximation of Mongolian Beef rather than the actual item I’d ordered. And okay, if I’m being honest, my Mai Tai tasted almost identical to lighter fluid.

But it didn’t matter.

Sitting there, in what I’m pretty sure was a David Lynch movie set, I was reminded of the absurdity of life. How there is joy in the smallest, most ridiculously decorated spaces. How even when things are so, so hard, we have hope.

And I do.

I hope.

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Marchin’ for Mimi!

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