It's like Dickens, but swap out the ghosts for whale vaginas.

There comes a time in every blogger's career when she begins to ask the tough questions.

Perhaps she has a great idea for a post, and 20 minutes later she finds herself kneeling in the bathtub, wearing a pimp wig and a Cruella DaVille coat, holding a banana in one hand and an icepick in the other, fake blood dripping out of one nostril, as she contorts her face and sneers into the camera she's set on autotimer and positioned carefully on the toilet, and she begins to wonder, Am I still being authentic on my blog?

Am I trying too hard? she asks herself, as she peruses her iphoto archives and tries to remember which of her unpublished posts would have required her to pull a pair of Spanx over her head and peer over the pillow holding a lady's disposable razor.

I hate when nobody tells you your tag is showing.

We've all been there.

As writers of weblogs, it's natural to wax introspective from time to time. For example, I often worry, Am I being relatable?

My little buttercup, has the sweetest smiiiillle

*shuffle step, shuffle step, windshield wiper hands*

Are the images I post reflective of the maturity and substance that I strive for in my blog?

Shut up. I found them this way. Shut up.

Maybe these photos are merely a projection of my...(sigh.) Really? This again? Yes, we SEE the razor, Spanxhead. Good job. Go to bed.

(beeeep!) Hey Becky, I came by today. Your car was there but

you didn't answer the doorbell. Are you ok? You're probably out somewhere

enjoying the beautiful Spring day. Call me! (beeeep!)

As bloggers, at one point or another we all get to that point where we ask ourselves, "How will I ever connect with my Internet brethren if I can't take off the protective "mask" of objectivity and open myself up to speak from a place of pain, struggle, and redemption, and GOOD GOD is that... some kind of... disembodied whale vagina?"

This is precisely why labia majora were invented.

How did I get to this point? I used to write homages to my dead dad, and now I'm running around with Spanx on my head, looking like some kind of flesh-toned, control-top Snork.

I have opinions, things to share, feelings even, and yet I'm trying to create a post based around a photo of what might be a whale's vagina I found on the beach, for God's sake! WHY??!

Whyyyy??? (bangs fists on desk)

WHYYYYYY?? (collapses into a heap)

Whale's Vagina: You mean, you don't know?

Me: Wha?? Whale's Vagina, it's you!

Whale's Vagina: I'm here to help, my child. You want to post about the whale's vagina you found on the beach, but its meaning eludes you, is that right?

Me: I don't know, Whale's Vagina! I mean, there you were on the sand that day, this lonely, mysterious thing, presenting yourself upon the shore with no context, no history...

Whale's Vagina: Yes, yes, go on...

Me: There you were, leaving me to wonder, "Where did this whale's vagina come from?" and "Why doesn't that whale's vagina keep it real on her blog anymore?" Wait. What? Oh!

Whale's Vagina: You see it now, don't you. You wanted to write about me because...

Me: Because you... you are me, Whale's Vagina, and I am you. The both of us pointless and bereft of context.

Whale's Vagina: Yes, but if you remember, you were not always a metaphorical whale's vagina, Becky. Come, I'll show you. Follow me back in time, for I am...

The Whale's Vagina of Blogging Past

WV: Look, Becky, here you are in your mother's arms, a newborn baby.

Me: A Christmas baby, actually. Just like Jesus was, only back when he was born it was just called "Mas."

(absolute silence, save for a lone wolf howling in the distance)

Me: Sorry.

WV: Anyhow, there is very little information to be gathered from your baby books, as it seems they were never filled out until you were old enough to do it yourself, which would have been fine except for a comprehension disorder that your teachers described as an "inability to understand basic implied directions."

Right foot, check. Left foot, check. That was easy. What's next?

A lock of hair?? Well okay, but this sure is a weird memory book.

(takes out scissors, goes looking for the cat)

WV: By this point, Becky, you were already deep into what would be a lifelong habit of taking control of things that weren't your responsibility and then expressing your resentment in dramatic and confusing ways.

Look, there you are, 8 years old. Shh, let's listen...

***

Becky: Hey mom, I finished my BABY BOOK! You're WELCOME! I'll just put it here IN THE TOILET WHERE YOU WANT IT PROBABLY!

Mom: Hon, I don't want the book in the toilet. Give me the book.

Becky: What? Oh, I'm sorry, I can see you're disappointed that I DON'T FIT IN THE TOILET TOO!

Mom: Becky, get out of the toilet. C'mon.

Becky: Okay, I'll c'mon, right after I BURN THIS BABY BOOK UP. I just hope to God I don't burn my hand while I'm burning the precious memories. (holds baby book over the stovetop, realizes it's an electric burner, waits awkwardly for it to heat up, gets impatient, sticks it in the toaster, stares at mom while poignantly turning dial to "dark.")

Mom: Are you enjoying yourself? I hope you are.

Becky: Yep just tidying up, a place for everything and everything in its place, right?! (throws book in the trash, takes it out, tries to cram it down the disposal, it won't fit, sticks it in the microwave, sets the timer for 20 years, gets impatient, throws the book out the window. Waits for the reassuring sitcom hug that would never come. Calms down. Writes 20 page apology letter to mom, culminating with the full song lyrics to "Against All Odds" by Phil Collins.)

***

Me: Ha! Look at that. What a firecracker!

WV: Firecracker indeed! Smart too. They skipped you out of Kindergarten because you were mature for your age, gifted even, but then you proceeded to piss your pants in class almost every grade until middle school.

Me: Heh. That's right. I sure showed them. You can keep your "labels," Sister Mary Edna! You'll never "define" me!!

WV: Like most families in the 80's, you played lots of homemade games growing up. Games like "Throwing Dirt at Nana."

Me: Well, come on. A dollar bill in a birthday card? Kinda bullshit, right?

WV: There was also the game called "Dr. Becky and Her Enchanted Anal Thermometer of Wishes."

Me: He HAD a wish and he was RUNNING a fever. Two birds, one stone, really. Not a big deal.

WV: And of course, "Steamer Basket Robot Feet." Do you remember the jingle?

Steamer basket robot feet,

steamer basket robot feet,

steamer basket robot feet,

my feet are made of steamer baskets!!

Me: The day my feet got too big for those steamer baskets, man, that was a sad day.

WV: On Saturday nights, you and your parents and your brother would play a board game, like Clue or Sorry or Balderdash. You were raised with a strong love of language, weren't you. Shhh, let's watch...

***

Mom: Okay. The thing is, and the point of the game Balderdash, is to come up with a definition that seems so plausible, that your opponents will be tricked into thinking it's the real definition. Do you kids get it?

Becky/Jack: Yeah.

Mom: I don't think that you get it.

Becky/Jack: We get it!

Mom: Do you? (holds out card)

Becky: Sounds good to me!

Jack: Yeah. I think my friend Josh has one of those birds.

Mom: I'm so tired, kids. So very tired.

Becky/Jack: We'll do better. No more penises. Promise. Read the next one!

Mom: (Sigh.) Fine. The word is...

***

Me: *snort* Queachy. *snort*

WV: Moving on, you were quickly on the path to becoming the mature woman you are today...

Me: Queachy. *closes eyes, holds bridge of nose trying not to laugh* Give me a sec.

WV: ...and you eventually discovered boys. Your first boyfriend was a sweet blonde boy who loved to open mouth French. Sometimes he would French on your mouth, sometimes on your neck, sometimes on your forehead...

Me: ...sometimes with my ponytail or my backpack strap. Sometimes with the air next to my face. Sometimes with the window of the back seat of his mom's car as they drove away. Sometimes with his best friend Bruce. God, he was passionate.

WV: By contrast, your next boyfriend would come over on weekends and hold your hands and feet together, then put a pillow on your head and sit on it while you screamed.

Me: I was a cheap date!

WV: You're deflecting again. Is this getting too difficult? Difficult memories?

Me: Pshh. No. Your mom is a difficult memory.

WV: ...?...

Me: (armpit fart)

WV: Alright. As we see here, you had your heart broken over and over again, but you kept your chin up and handled it with grace and maturity each and every time.

Me: *deep royal curtsy*

Dear sir,

Might I respond to your proposed annulment.

I find it regretful that you do no longer wish to participate in

a relationship, although I respect your request and...

...always have the memories. Henceforth...

...dignitas et integritas. Hitherto...

(pushes up bifocals, stokes logs in fireplace, sips Brandy, licks finger, turns page)

In summation...

Warmest Regards,

Becky

Me: *looks up, mid-curtsy* Oh, you were being sarcastic. I didn't know you had my diaries. This is getting kind of uncomfortable now. I feel vulnerable. Are we almost done yet?

WV: You were a pretty well-behaved teenager, mainly due to your self-appointed position of Caretaker of Business and Upholder of All Things Right and Just.

Me: Yeah I was good, relatively speaking. I never smoked cigarettes, only had sex with boys if they gave me some kind of token of commitment like a lanyard or a frozen yogurt, and even then I'd make them stop halfway through for a dramatic thinking-about-things-and-poignant-gazing-out-the-window-while-listening-to-Alphaville's-Forever-Young moment of quiet introspection.

WV: You only got drunk a few times, and only very briefly experimented with pot.

Me: Oh, um. I don't want to talk about the pot. Seriously. Shhh. Please? Let's not...

WV: You'd get high and then spend hours creating these continuous single-line drawings...

Yeah. That just happened.

*drops mic, walks offstage*

Me: (Sigh.) That's not... exactly... the way I remember it looking. Are you sure this is mine? There were a lot of fake repros floating around the dorm, you know.

WV: And then of course, when you had finished drawing, you'd spend a few more hours finding all the hidden ducks.

Dude. When I'm creating, I'm not even thinking about ducks.

But the ducks are everywhere, man,

if you just open your eyes.

Me: Alright, I'm done, Whale's Vagina. I think I've had about enough. This is too painful. Take me back. Oh God please, take me back home. I don't want to see any more.

WV: You can't run from your past, Becky, if you want to keep it real on your blog.

Me: I don't care about keepin it real. Take me back. Take me back, now.

WV: As you wish. But very soon, you will be visited by another vision.

Me: Another one? Who? The Whale's Vagina of Blogging Present? WHO?

WV: I can't tell you. But you know them. You know them well. And they've been waiting, waiting a very long time for their chance to help you become a better blogger. Practicing, hoping, dreaming. It's their time, Becky.

Me: Heh. Well it's funny, but from the way you're talking, it sounds kind of like you're referring to...

Me: Oh. It's Keith and Chantal. Awesome.

***********************************************

NOTE: Hey friendishes! In continuing the theme of "keepin it real," Lazarus at The LG Report has interviewed me over HERE. Do click, if you're so inclined. I kept it clean. Pretty proud.

A meme is a wish your heart makes

Sister: Listen, it's okay. You have so many talents. You should focus on the things you can do, not the things you can't.

Me: I'm bad at everything. (kicks dirt)

Sister: No, not true, you're just feeling defeated right now. You're good at lots of things.

Me: Like cartwheels?

Sister: Right, cartwheels. But what I was thinking was something like, for example, your discerning attention to detail. You're an excellent judge of character, too, and a keen observer of the world around you. You're sensitive, punctual, and...

Me: Hey, remember that morning I made you all pancakes in the shape of two people having anal sex?

Sister: Right. I remember. You fed them to the kids. I had to teach them all what leapfrog was afterwards, to try to explain away what they'd just seen. But when I said you're good at things, I was thinking not so much of sodomy pancakes, but more along the lines of your intellectual assets, like...

Me: ...like my wordless impression of Scott Scanlon, the 90's Beverly Hills 90210 character who accidentally killed himself in Season 2 while playing with his father's gun? Because, not to brag or anything, but seriously. Spot on, right? (twirls imaginary handgun, insecure eyes, twitchy smile)

Sister: ...or your ability to remain calm in times of medical emergency. You can be a source of comfort during difficult moments.

Me: Yes, pillar of strength, plus yesterday I had a nostril-whistle with such incredible range that I performed almost five verses of Mariah Carey's "Vision of Love." I was all (finger on earpiece, eyes closed in concentration, up-down Diva hands) and my nose was all hewwwwwwwww! hewwwwwwww! and then I exhaled too hard and it was all hewwwwwWOOOSH!! God. I wish you'd been there.

Sister: Oh, me too. Definitely sad about that. My point is, don't feel badly about not being able to come up with a viral meme or a fun Tumblr idea. It's not for everyone, you know?

Me: I was making such progress though. I even learned how to pronounce meme! It's "meem" not "mey-mey" just so you know. And then I almost learned what a meme is. And then I found Tumblr on the Internet, which is not easy on account of it's missing the "e". Did you know that?

Sister: Yeah, the "e" is a huge hassle for young people. It's the most cumbersome of the vowels.

Me: And then I started doing some research; I read all of Courage Wolf...

then Pick-up Panda

And then I found Garfield Minus Garfield, which consists of Garfield comics with Garfield edited out, leaving Jon muttering to himself, alone and mentally deranged. It may be my favorite thing ever.

...and I figured, how hard could it be to create my own meme? Well. Very difficult, apparently.

Sister: I first realized you were kind of off-track when you told me about your idea for Impatient German Alpaca. What was his catchphrase again?

Me: You know, I honestly can't for the life of me seem to recall at this particular moment. Let's move on.

Sister: I remember now! It was...

Sister: ...and that was all he ever said!

Me: What else does an impatient German alpaca say besides schnell? I didn't have much to work with there, did I.

Sister: And Eminemone, the rapping water polyp?

Me: That was the most brilliant idea I've ever had, for about 30 seconds.

Sister: And Ostrichard Dreyfus? And, what was it, Holocaust Reductionist Barnacle? Haha!!

Me: Sensual Donkey, he was a good one.

Sister: I was partial to Unsolicited Parenting Advice Trout.

Me: I felt pretty good about Tough Love Personal Trainer Emu, myself.

Sister: Had you pursued it, you might have had something special with Sensitive Gorilla, too.

Sister: Although, I didn't really get your whole "Literal Animal Captions" idea. I don't know. Maybe it's just me.

Me: It's just you. Trust me. Those were comedy gold.

Sister: They're just saying hi. Is that it?

Me: Shh, wait. There's more.

Me: They're funny because it's TOTALLY WHAT THEY'RE SAYING!

Sister: What happened here? Looks like you got a little lazy with these last ones.

Me: Really? Why would you say that?



Sister: Just a feeling. I dunno.

Me: So, remember how I received all that positive feedback a couple weeks ago after I posted that photo of me holding a fake gun to my dog's head?

Sister: Um. No.

Me: Everyone thought it was so tasteful. People were emailing, begging for more implied animal violence. They just couldn't get enough!

Sister: Really? Cause I remember it differently.

Me: No they were like, "Bravo! This is just the kind of image that makes us all feel comfortable reading this blog today! Spare the gun, spoil the dog! Hooray!" I'm practically the next Cesar Milan, only I'm the Dog Shooterer. So I thought, you know what? I should just point my gun at stuff all day long, photograph it, and maybe start a Tumblr called "Pointing my gun at stuff, just 'cause." What do you think?

Sister: (incredulous eyebrows)

Vitamin C, huh? Vitamin C U in HELL is more like it.

You better wipe that smirk right off your face, coffee maker,

or I'll do it for you.

I'm gonna show you how we do things downtown, blades of grass.

I eat trees like you for breakfast.

Aw yeah. Shit just got real up in this bitch.

Sister: Alright. You done with the gun schtick? Time to put it away.

Me: Yes.

Sister: Good, becau--

Me: I meant yes, no I'm not done. My personal take on the Garfield Minus Garfield idea required that I use a gun. But I assure you, it wasn't gratuitous at all.

Sister: (wide eyes)

Me: What?!

Sister: (wide eyes)

Me: People get murdered in comic strips all the time. It's a very violent medium.

Sister: (wide eyes)

Me: Are you looking at me like that because I shot Cathy in the head? Or because I gleeked on your face a second ago? Which one? Hello?

Don't stop bereavin': A handy guide for coping with loss

At my dad's funeral, I valiantly offered to serve as "urn bearer," the carrier of the ashes from the chapel to the gravesite, but halfway there, under the weight of the emotional burden, I collapsed with dramatic gusto on a little grassy knoll in the parking lot.

My brother, his face dusty and tear-stained, leaned over me and took me in his arms. "I can't carry it for you," he said. "But I CAN carry YOU!" And he did, up the side of the volcano in Mordor, where we finally scattered my father's ashes into a sea of molten lava, restoring harmony and order to all of Middle-earth.

The memory of his funeral is hazy and I'm not entirely sure of the exact facts of the day, but I do remember that was the same week I got my first DVD player, and someone had given me a copy of Lord of the Rings, and the picture quality was so crisp and realistic that even now, eight years later, pieces of Tolkien are still woven into that memory.

That stress-induced memory blur is just one of the ways my mind helped me cope. And I know what you're thinking, but just because after he died I lost thirty pounds and developed a panic disorder, that doesn't mean I didn't cope.

I'm telling you, I cope like a motherfucker.

For example, Old Man Farley died last month, in my arms, on my birthday.

He hadn't been doing well for a couple of days, so late that night I laid down with him on his dog bed and put my arms around him, and whispered in his ear that he was my best friend and that I was lucky to have known him, that he was the most loyal dog there ever was.

I told him that if he had to die it was okay to let go, that I'd be alright, and not two minutes later he stopped breathing, and everyone was like "Oh how beautiful, he must have heard you give him permission to die, and he just let go! What a gift!" and I was all "WALKIES, FARLEY! WALKIES!"

And people were like, "He's dead, Becky. He just died in your arms. And look, there he is right there, still dead." And I was like "WALKIES! *crazy eyes* WAKE UP LAZYBONES, TIME FOR WALKIES! *jangles the leash*"

And then they were like "Can someone take her up to bed or something?"

Trying to walk your dead dog is an example of being in "Denial" which is the first stage of grief. Let's explore some of the other stages together, shall we?

Yes, let's. Come on you guys, it's grievin' time!

ANGER

During this phase, you may lash out and lay blame for the death on someone else. For instance, in my case, I became furious with the doctor who provided his radiation treatments, which eventually caused the radiation toxicity that took his life.

Radiation toxicity is something that just happens sometimes. Not usually as quickly as it happened with Farley, but it happens. That's life.

I could have just paid someone a ton of money to bash Farley's skull in with a bat and it would have been less painful for everyone, haha, but it is what it is. Right? Haha. HAHA!

I'm alright though.

That vet did his best, I'm sure.

In my younger years, I may have resorted to petty revenge tactics, but that's just not me anymore.

I've worked through it, and I realize now that the vet was not to blame.

There's no use feeling angry about it. Anger is not a productive emotion. It's best to make peace with the whole situation. That's the mature thing to do.

Think to yourself: What is the healthiest way to deal with your anger? For me, yoga and meditation have calmed me, helped me to see things rationally and clearly.

To accept it and move on gracefully and maturely.

I like to light a lavender-scented candle at night and take some time for me. Me time. It's been so healing, really. I have to tell you, I feel like this whole experience has really changed me, has forced me to grow up and accept the inevitabilities of life.

*unfolds self from yoga pose* Namaste. Let's move on to the next stage, shall we?

BARGAINING

You may try to bargain with fate or the powers that be, asking "Why did this have to happen?" or "Why did it have to be my dad, my grandma, etc.?"

In the case of a pet's death, when an animal that you're very attached to dies, it's difficult not to look at your other dogs, perhaps one of your less-than-well-behaved dogs, perhaps the dog that revenge shits on your floor when you go out to a movie, and wonder, "Why couldn't it have been you instead?"

This is not the time to try to bargain with death; you can't offer up one dog in an attempt to get the other one back. That's insane.

Now is the time to be extra attentive to your animals. Spend some quality time with them, some quiet time giving them affection.

Oh, Zooey. I'm sorry. You lost a friend too.

Try not to let your pain translate into anger toward your other animals.

Pretty girl. Pretty pup. Good pup.

They need your love now more than ever.

Good girl. Shhh. Just relax. Mama's gonna bring Farley back.

LONELINESS

Farley had been my constant companion for 13 years, so when he died, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. It's perfectly normal to look for something to fill the empty void left when a loved one passes.

Many people find it helpful to volunteer for a local charity or nonprofit when they're coping with loss, it really puts things in perspective.

For example, I found it therapeutic to visit the local pound, to spend some time with the homeless animals, going from cage to cage and insulting each dog individually, as a declaration of my undying loyalty to my dead dog.

Seriously? You look like Einstein's asshole. Everyone hates you. Go die.

Your hot carrion breath has just given me AIDS of the soul.

Oh, grow the fuck up. I don't even have time for your bullshit.

People always ask me, "How do you go to the pound and not come home with a dog?"

And the answer is that I have a heart of steel. I'm not about to be reeled in by some doe-eyed mongrel.

Some mutt with...

...with deep, soulful eyes.

Some dog...

Some dog wif...

(yawn)...

Suh dug wid eyss...

Glurgh.

You are getting very sleepy now, human.

Listen closely now. You will bring me home and feed me treats.

I will destroy your home and bark at your friends.

I will eat my own poop and kiss you on the mouth.

You will love me.

Now give the lady sixty dollars and put me into your car.

Yes, that's excellent. Now open your---

*wakes up in drivers seat*

Oh man, that was close. I almost didn't get out of there without adopting a--GAH!!

What the...? How the...??

Crap.

MOVING FORWARD: HOPE AND ACCEPTANCE

She's sweet and friendly, she plays and cuddles and she's fast as lightning. She eats mud and chases bugs and growls at the icemaker.

Farley would have loved this dog.

Sweet Foxy Shazam!