I can't fully recall what I was aching from at the time because it was a stupid thing to ache about. I know now what the source of it was; the source always shape shifting into some meaningless patsy of a happening. It could have been that I was upset about the sky being blue. It didn't matter. Everything made me hate myself. Everything about me was more than wrong, it was infected, disgusting and so intolerable I wished my skeleton could unzip my skin and be free of it for good.

The patsy was the pseudo-tragedy of losing my first boyfriend. One of the rich girls in town had stolen him away, it being summer, and she being an inhabitor of a house with a pool.

After a week or two of not eating and not moving, my father decided to intervene. I was numbing myself to another episode of Inspector Gadget when he sat down next to me, snatched the remote from its perch on my hip above the two afghans great aunt (color blind) Caroline had knitted, and turned off the TV.

BunnyDaddy: "Murph."
Me: "Yeah?"
BunnyDaddy: "Listen to me. Some people have a lot of things, and some people don't. That doesn't matter in life."
Me: "Then what does?"

And then my very favorite BunnyDaddyism was born: "It's not about what you've got. It's about who you are."

----

Last Tuesday Night, 4am:
I am doing laundry at a friend's house. I am not very happy with myself because my parents are arriving in three hours and I am supposed to go pick them up at the airport with my sister. Once again, I am unprepared. Once again, I am rushing at the last minute to get everything done. My last load (whites) is taking forever to dry. I decide to fold them while they are still wet, because surely I won't forget to hang them up when I get back to the apartment. I remind myself "don't forget the whites, don't forget the whites" over and over on the drive home, during which I yawn a lot and nearly hit the median on Ashland. I have worked myself into a Migrane.

I get back to my apartment and crash on my couch. My whites mildew in the back seat of my car. What is past, is prologue.

Wednesday, 11am:
My phone is ringing atop Murphy's crate. She is afraid of the ringtone and vibration, so she pisses herself. I reach for the cell and am whipped in the face with piss that has been absorbed into her tail and flicked about.

I answer the phone. It is my sister, who has dutifully risen and collected my parents from Midway airport. I envision that her hair and makeup are perfect, and that she has chosen an appropriate "airport pickup" ensemble, something with carefully distressed pants, colorful heels and a hint of sequins somewhere. They are enjoying beers at a pub in Wrigleyville. My mother grabs the phone from my sister and slurs, "Where's my baby?! We bought tickets from a scalper for the Cubs game! You come to Slugger's right now! I need to see my baby!"

I bathe Murphy for the eighth time in three days and clean her crate. We go for a little trot about the neighborhood and then eat breakfast, coffee and mango for me, all natural lamb and rice nuggets for the girls. Murphy inhales her bowl. Maxie takes a few nibbles and moves on to a rawhide lying on the floor, because, later, she'll enjoy munching on her lamb and rice while Murphy salivates from her crate, and wishes she hadn't eaten her own food so quickly. Maxie likes to play head games.

I lay my mildewed whites around the house before considering that Murphy is still romping around and has dirty paws. The whites are now ruined. This might be the tenth time Murphy has ruined the laundry, but I still have not learned to restrict her access to it. I give her a kiss on her snout and put her in her lemony crate, lemony because it's been doused in lemon fresh PineSol. Maxie gets a kiss too, and I'm off to the game. All of this occurs in about thirty minutes time. It's a record, and I am proud of myself.

Wednesday, 11:35am:
However, I absentmindedly get into my car and attempt to drive to Wrigley field. I also think that I am going to find parking. Absentmindedly.

Wednesday, 12:35am:
I cannot find parking. I have driven so far to the outskirts of the Wrigley Field parking perimeter that I am now back in my neighborhood. I park my car in the same spot I found it in. I get on the El.

Wednesday, 1pm:
BunnySis meets me at the Addison (Wrigley Field) stop. She is wearing perfect hair and makeup, carefully distressed jeans, colorful heels and a sequined purse. She smells of headache perfume and sunscreen, and has shielded her shadowed eyes from the sun with her new Gucci shades (fake ones), which make her look like a darker, taller Nicole Richie. She says "We've gotta hurry! Ducks on the pond (bases are loaded), I gotta see what happens," and there ends the Nicole Richie analogy.

Wednesday, 1:20pm:
BunnySis and I meet up with BunnyMommy and BunnyDaddy, who are lit and enthralled with Wrigley field, the history it oozes, the lack of billboards, and more importantly, the easy access to beer vendors. My mother squeals, "Everybody move over! I'm sittin' nest to my baby!"

Wednesday, 2pm:
My mother and I have discussed every piece in the several truckloads worth of clothing she has shipped me in the last month. Yes, they all fit, and yes, she is so sweet for sending me such things, such feminine things, swingy dresses, sequined tops and loads of hot pink. I tell her for the hundredth time in as many days that I am not a lesbian. I'm not sure if she believes me. I will probably have to provide a marriage certificate (not from Massachusetts) for her to finally believe me.

My mother is a very literal thinker. She doesn't understand metaphor, only simile, because she can't bridge the gap that metaphor leaves between real and alluded without the "like." This is not to say she is dim. Her ducks are in a row, color coordinated, shellacked, labeled, bagged and arranged perpendicularly according to size. You can imagine we don't understand each other. But on a day like this Wednesday, after months of withdrawl, we don't much care about "communicating." It's warm, we're drunk and we're together, so that's all that matters. She lobs out the "balanced checkbook" softball, and I let it slip by my glove and into obscurity, never to be attended to. I lob out the "inner peace" metaphor and watch it become inert and disappear into the pile of ignored sentiments.

So we have lots of beer, watch the Cubs lose by a run in the ninth inning and listen to BunnySis' incessant whining about ice cream. On the walk home we buy her some. She gobbles it up, and between spoonfuls, tells us all that she is not addicted to sugar. We have a good laugh at her expense.

Wednesday, 5pm:
I introduce Murphy to her grandma and grandpa. Her little body tenses up with nervous energy, and, tail wagging wildly, she spazzes and squats. Pee streams onto the sidewalk, dropping into the cracks between the slabs. My mother sees it and is horrified that something so cute could emit something so foul. Maxie takes advantage of this reaction and snuggles up to grandma, nuzzling her hand with her snout and giving it little kisses. Maxie is a master of PR. She knows where the treats come from.

Wednesday, 6pm:
Murph and Maxie beg for scraps on the other side of the patio we eat dinner upon. Murph stealthly destroys a flower arrangement out of boredom, then chews into a pile of ants. She likes the flowers, but hates the ants. After spitting out the ants, she chews into another pile of ants. And so on, and so forth...

Wednesday, 8pm:
My parents and sister bid us adieu, and return to her apartment. They have been up since Tuesday, 4am, the time I was folding my half dry whites. They are tired, so they go to bed. I stay up till 3am trying to write. I can't. I fall asleep to Murphy chirping. She is dreaming about being chased; her little legs vibrating like a ringing cell perched atop a crate.

Thursday, 10am:
I waken to Murphy's whimpers. She is hungry and likely eager for her morning freakout, and subsequent piss.

Thursday, 10:05am:
Murphy pisses. I google "doggy diapers" and do some research. My sanity is at stake.

Thursday, 11:00am:
Our morning routine is finished. Murphy is content with a rawhide between her paws while Maxie concocts elaborate ways to A) steal the rawhide, or B) fuck with Murph. There is a sad imbalance of canine intelligence in our home.

I call BunnyDaddy who is drinking coffee on a patio somewhere on Clark St. He tells me that Thursday's agenda involves a lot of "shopping" at "boutiques" for "clothes" and "chotchkies." We both decide this is an unacceptable way to spend a perfectly good Thursday. He hops the El to my apartment.

Thursday, 11:25:
BunnyDaddy sits in a folding chair while I get ready for our walk to the Montrose Ave dog beach. Or rather, he sits in a folding chair at a card table in an unfurnished apartment, and I express my embarrassment. I am 28 and don't even have a real couch.

Me: "I'm sorry, Dad."
BunnyDaddy: "Murph...it's not about what you've got. It's about who you are."

At the Dog Beach we stand in ankle deep water discussing religion, politics, world events and mysticism while Maxie and Murphy cut back and forth across the beach at warp speed, two long swashes of black on whitish sand, one with socks, cutting, spinning, and herding all the dogs into order. Within an hour they are matted with filth. On the walk back to my apartment, BunnyDaddy becoms intent on reporting the knife-licker from my blog to the proper authorities. He is also startled by how many crackheads live in my neighborhood. I've never noticed.

Thursday, 2pm:
We are sipping coffee and sharing some vegan bean dish at a hippie eatery. BunnyDaddy, being very important to people world wide, has now sent about twenty Emails from his Blackberry, while my own phone lays lifeless on the table. The dogs have passed out like toddlers after a day at Six Flags. They're curled next to each other on the pavement, snouts cradled in the crooks their bent paws make. I brush the dried sand from their coats while BunnyDaddy talks to someone in Switzerland about 'Electroplasmosomethinorother Plating.' He hangs up and says "Murph (referring to me, not my dog). It's time to get drunk!" I couldn't agree more.

Thursday, 5:30pm:
We are sitting at the patio of the Pontiac on Damen. We now sip fancy Belgian ales and wait on Bsis and Bmommy to finish up their pedicuring and cab over. Drock and WillyDuer are joining us as well. We have recently discovered that WillyDuer's mother and BunnyDaddy grew up together, and that WillyDuer, in turn, knows my surly cousin Kevin, the one I shared a child-restraint harness with. We decide this calls for the drinking of a lot of beer; it's a small world, so it should be a drunken world as well. Is it logic? Maybe not.

Thursday, 6:30pm:
Our party has fully arrived. It is still sunny, but a breeze is blowing through the tables, toppling table tents and drying the backs of necks. Napkins blow around. Drock makes more witty generalizations such as, "Capri pants are the reason Italian men beat their wives," "NFL Quarterbacks are gay," and "Rap is for white guys with absentee fathers." He was going on about gay men being "homogenous" while sitting next to my mother. She doesn't understand his sarcasm.

Bmommy: "Well I don't think you can just go ahead and say that they're all like that, can you? I love my gay friends, and none of them are exactly the same, ya know?"

Drock backtracks with intensity, which is hysterical. My mother has just called out Drock.

Thursday, 9pm:
We are starting to become very drunk. BunnyMommy and BunnySis decide that this is a good time to stop drinking and go home, Bmommy, because its naughty to get so drunk, and Bsis because alcohol has too many calories. The rest of us ignore this idea in favor of 5 dollar pitchers and Karaoke at Louie's. We drag my mother and sister into a cab and force them to come along.

Thursday, 9:30pm:
We arrive at Louie's and sequester the back room. Several friends are already there. I order too many pitchers and sign up for numerous Karaoke songs.

Friday, 12am:
I have now spilled beer over everyone. My mother dumps the beer out of her purse while I replenish one pitcher with two. Is it logic? Nope. I set the beers down and assure her that I am not a lesbian.

Friday, 1am:
I am singing backup to a random dude's rendition of "Cherry Cherry" by Neil Diamond.

Friday, 1:02am:
I am singing lead to a random dude's rendition of "Cherry Cherry," because "You have a bad voice, dude. Lemme do this."

Friday, 1:10am:
I am singing backup to a random girl's rendition of "The Lady is a Tramp," by Frank Sinatra.

Friday, 1:11am:
I am singing lead to a random girl's rendition of "The Lady is a Tramp," by Frank Sinatra, complete with triple time steps. I am considering shuffling off to Buffalo to end my set. I rationalize stealing the mic from random girl by telling her "Honey, I'm a waaaaay bigger tramp than you are."

Friday, 1:30am:
My friend Kiki tells me she will "backhand me" if I attempt to sing lead on her rendition of "Here comes the rain" by the Eurhythmics. Instead, I do interpretive dance behind her, brilliantly mimicking the way rain falls on your head like a new emotion. I am a genius.

Friday, 1:45am:
I am singing backup on "Holly, Holy Love."

Friday, 1:46am:
I am singing lead on "Holly, Holy Love." "Dude, you suck. You need to stop with the Neil, okay? Leave it to the pros, leave it to the pros."

Friday, 1:50am:
I am at the Karaoke window. I do not understand why they have not called my song; do they not know how brilliant I am? I want to sing "My Girl." I want to dedicate it to my mommy. I am drunk, but sober enough to understand that the American Idol reject behind the window is just jealous of my pipes. I leave her to wallow in obscurity because my pint of "Old Style" must be attended to. Surely what I need at this shameful moment, is more beer.

Friday, 2:30am:
BunnyDaddy and I are singing 'American Pie' in a circle of frat boys, Two cops walk in as we finish. I go to their table and tell them that I drive my out of state car without a valid drivers' license; that I am naughty and should be spanked. They laugh, and give me timid spanks.

Friday, 3am:
American Idol reject finishes up the night with a tepid "Proud Mary Keep on Rollin." After she is done, I grab the mic and start to sing "My Girl" to my mommy A Capella. The mic goes dead. Bitch.

Friday, 3:02am:
We file out into the street. My friends catch cabs to their respective houses, while my family and Drock go the late night Diner on the corner. Drock's head begins to bob and weave in the booth across from me, as his liver begins to shut down. BunnySis and I order for him, cheesesticks are his OCD food choice of the month.

Friday, 3:15am:
While waiting for our food to arrive, a couple walks by. The man is nearly 70, and his "girlfriend" is 20 and showing her chocha. I utter, "HOLY FIVE HUNDRED A NIGHT." They have heard me, as has everyone in the restaurant. They sneer in my direction. I get many jabs to the ribs and kicks to the shins, but I am undaunted. I tell everyone that I am "the heart, soul and crotch of this family!"

Friday, 3:17am:
The food arrives. Delectable treats for everyone, and a salad for my Hypothyroidic ass, which gets fat processing an apple. Drock eats half a cow's worth of fried cheese. He will not shit for a week.

----

Friday, 3:50am:
I stumble down the stairs with my mutts. Murphy hears the thud and pisses. On my arm. I ask my dogs, because when I am hammered I speak English to them as if they can speak it back, "Is everyone's family thish cool?" No answer.

----

Friday, 11am:
I hear my cell ring. I am naked, face down on my "couch." My arm smells suspiciously like dog pee. I answer the phone, and on the other end of the line is my sister professing her desire to go get "Chocolate Tower French Toast" at The Bongo Room. But she's not a sugar addict or anything.

I walk the dogs, which is painful and dizzying. I'm barefoot in grass my dogs have pissed upon a million times prior. Fuck if I care, I have the coolest family ever. Murphy bites into an ant hill, recoils and falls into her own poop.

Friday, 1pm:
I am passing tablets of aspirin to my sister over her frosted breakfast plate. We are leaving the Bongo Room, vowing to ourselves that we won't get so drunk the next time my parents visit Chicago. We all decide that this is a necessary change in our behavior, all but me, because I have accepted that what is past is prologue.

Bdaddy: " I wish I could turn back time and make better decisions. Damn alcohol, my drug of choice."

Friday, 2pm:
BunnySis drives us down Ashland. She begins to squirm in her seat.

Bsis: "Oh. Oh. Oh."
Me: "What's wrong?"
Bsis: "I have diarrhea."

I find this to be hilarious. She shifts from tiny cheek to tiny cheek, squirming in her Juicies, squealing as we go over bumps. I crack many jokes.

Bsis: "Don't make me laugh! I can't shit these Juicies!"

As we pull up to my apartment, she leaves the car running and races all bowlegged into my building bent at a 45 degree angle, one hand clenching her buttcheeks together, obscuring the lettering on her ass. I go in after her, but cannot keep up, for I am laughing too hard. I hear her a floor above me, "Oh. Oh. Oh." I am choked with laughter, so much so that I have to stop and lean against the stairwell.

And that's when I hear a great thud, and then "NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

What is past, is prologue.