If you’re not a parent, or you are a parent who happens to live under a rock, you don’t know who Dr. William Sears is. But have no fear, sweet Internet, because I am about to enlighten you. He’s a crunchy-granola sort of doctor dude, the sort who has 43 kids and writes many, many different books on parenting. Not being the sort of person who tends to buy books on parenting–save for my coveted Dr. Spock book–because I figure that I do know more than I think I do, I only ran across him when I was highly pregnant with Alex and scouring the bookstore for a book on breastfeeding.

After my complete and abject failure at breastfeeding my first son, I decided that I must find the most militant book, written by the most militant author and read it cover to cover in order to be a proper breastfeeder. And Dr. Sears, with all of his 32 kids, was just the sort of militant breastfeeding advocate I needed.

It’s pretty safe to say that I was still pretty scarred from my inability to nurse Ben and had harbored a fairly large feeling of failure for the five years between the two of them. It was obviously MY fault (what shocks me as a parent is how quickly you begin to look for faults in yourself rather than accept certain truths about your child. My Ben was a lousy eater. My Alex IS a lousy sleeper. Neither of these has a damn thing to do with me) as an inept parent and everywhere I turned, this was only reinforced by everyone around me.

My brother was born in 1971 to a couple of hippies (also: my own parents) in a country hospital where breastfeeding was looked down upon as something that only savages did. The preferred choice was the far more sanitary and less savage-like baby formula, and despite my mother’s insistence that she nurse her son, she gave in to the nurses badgering after awhile.

The backlash to this formula craze was so severe, that even years later, when my first was born, I felt it. It seemed like no matter what I tried, no matter what excuse I had for why it hadn’t worked out, someone else was there to tell me that feeding formula to my son was Wrong. With a capitol ‘W.’

Even the cans of formula I carefully saved up for chastised my choice with a sweet message: “Breastfeeding is ideal.” It killed me to pay through the teeth to get the lip service from a can of formula.

(and yes, I know precisely WHY it says that on the can.)

Any parent I came across assumed that my choice to not breastfeed Ben stemmed from my age, my inexperience, and furthermore, from my abject laziness. (none of these are true, by the way. I tried desperately, but you know what? It turns out that autistic kids hate to be touched!) I’ve even heard the argument that formula ought to be available by prescription only.

Dr. Sears, whose book I did end up reading, succeeds in properly guilting anyone who dares put a pacifier near their baby’s mouth (nipple confusion!) or breaks down and feeds the child a desperate bottle so that Mommy can properly take a damn nap for more than 20 minutes. Apparently, you should only use YOUR nipples as comfort objects and consider formula that of The Devil! I mean, HIS wife breastfed their adopted children! What the HELL is wrong with you for not being able to do something SO SIMPLE?

Come on, people. Lighten up.

Sure, breastfeeding is best for the baby, I’m not claiming that it isn’t, nor would I ever. But having had one primarily formula fed (I pumped for the first month to very little output) and one primarily breastfed, I will tell you one thing: I preferred the formula experience.

I breastfed Alex initially to prove that I could, in fact do so properly (I could) and continued because I knew it was the best choice for him. Not because I loved it.

But what bugs me about the whole breast versus bottle debate is this: some of the breastfeeders tend to attack the formula feeders to the point where I’m not sure I’d tell someone if I chose to use formula.

Why should someone who chose to not breastfeed–for whatever reason–be treated like a leper? It’s not as though they’re giving their child apple juice and vodka. Breastfeeding is a deeply, intensely personal choice and–like the epidural–it’s not something that really makes or breaks you as a parent.

I’m not denying that breastmilk is best, because it is, but so is buying everything organic, free-range, and from a farmer’s market rather than shopping at Target or Aldi. Hell, why aren’t you growing your own veggies and raising your own livestock while we’re at it? And shit, you should totally make your own non-sweatshop produced clothes! Because those choices are all “better” too.

And besides, no matter how carefully you control what your baby/toddler eats, that ickle one will grow up into a child, then a teenager who will eat Cool Ranch Doritos at school for lunch, rather than the carefully hand grown carrots you sent to school. How do I know this? EXPERIENCE. My mother was that crunchy person who sent me to school with that sort of thing, and did I eat it? NEVER.

I guess all that I’m saying is why can’t we all get along? Why does one choice have to disqualify the other as a viable alternative? Because seriously, if we could stand united without having to pick apart the choices of others (*ahem* MOTRIN MOMS), can you imagine all that we could accomplish?

Or hell, maybe it’s just me and my propensity toward incontinence talking here.

As I’d assumed would be the case, because everything requires that it be turned to Maximum Humiliation Factor, it turns out that after a visual and fluid check of my privates, I have merely peed myself. And then taken myself to the hospital in order to pay someone to tell me so.

I couldn’t be happier to be incontinent. There’s a phrase, along with My Bowel Prep, or visiting my father in the ICU I never thought I’d use. And yet, here I am. Happy to be pissing my pants.

I’m off to L/D to have professional people tell me that I’m peeing on myself. Can my life get any more glamorous?

First a bit of housekeeping: If you’ve left me a comment and it hasn’t gone through, please don’t worry, don’t fret! I have installed a handy new (and highly aggressive) new filter, to sift through the 600+ spam messages I get daily. I can search by name, so if it’s blocked you, send me an email and I’ll fix it.

For the first time since those nasty, worrisome first trimester appointments, where I waited to confirm whether or not I was having yet another miscarriage, I dragged The Daver to an OB appointment. Honestly, it was more for the camaraderie than the Support Of My Husband. Because these appointments? Fucking boring.

Yes, Internet, o Internet, it’s true: I’ve finally reached the point in my pregnancy wherein I have to go to the OB each and every week. And while I’m blissfully thrilled that I am a) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite and b) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite who appears to be HEALTHY, going weekly to the OB has gotten a bit dull. But that doesn’t stop me from finding and embracing the asinine.

Like this nugget ‘o’ weirdness.

I noticed today, after two entire pregnancies with this particular OB practice, that the disposable wax-covered Dixie Cup where I am to place my urine (side note: how are hugely pregnant women supposed to put their pee in said cup WITHOUT pissing on their hand? If you can do this, please don’t tell me. I might die FOR SHAME that I am THE ONLY pregnant woman on the planet who regularly pees on herself), has a label on it.

On that label is not only my full name, patient ID number, two things I’d expect to see there, but my address and phone number. I mean, in case it’s lost or something and they want to return the pee to it’s creator? Because I assure you that although I might bear a striking resemblance to Howard Hughes I do not want it back.

I related this story to The Daver, who was bored to near tears waiting for my appointment, and in that time I was able to kill about 10 minutes of waiting time, while my doctor presumably more interesting things with his other patients.

Because despite my accident-proneness these days (did I tell you that I fell the other day? Yeah, totally did. On my knee. Which I did NOT tell you, likely because I am ashamed at each and every new injury that I get. There’s only so many times you can talk about various ailments before you turn seemingly into a crotchety old woman complaining about her hemorrhoids and indigestion), I apparently qualify as a Boring Pregnant Woman. Beautiful words to hear, right?

Until you wait half an hour for a 30 second appointment wherein you ask the doctor if “it’s time to have the baby, yet?” And he laughed merrily at me, reminding me that I had several more weeks of this to go.

Which is probably a good thing, because I have fuck-nothing done for this wee one’s arrival. No clothes are washed in my fancy new washer, no car seat is installed in my car, no nothing. Eh, we can wing it, right?

Right.

And here, o Internet, is my question for you: what is your policy on blog trolls? Do you get them? Do you delete the comments rather than publish them? Does a troll have the right to have his or her voice heard if it’s nothing but inflammatory remarks that they make? Inquiring minds want to know!

Ah, it’s time once again for my yearly round-up of crap. If you’re bored, 2007 here, 2006 here. The rest I believe have been lost somewhere. Probably for the better, eh?

1. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?

Attended the funeral of one of my favorite people on the planet. Oh wait, that’s really depressing.

Um…

I got one! I bought a new washer and dryer. And, um, I ate close to my weight in tater tots and ketchup. No small feat, if you knew how much I weigh.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Last year, my resolutions included (but were not limited to):

Finish losing the baby weight.

Stop lactating.

Engage in a more heart healthy diet. Genetics, they don’t lie.

While I got CLOSE to losing the baby weight, I got pregnant again and plopped it all right back on. Perhaps it had something to do with the aforementioned tater tots.

I did manage to successfully stop lactating, which was a huge plus for both Alex and I. Because when we were done with it, we were DONE.

And finally, no, I didn’t engage in a more heart healthy diet. At least, I didn’t after May-ish when my cravings for junk food and vinegar overtook any last shreds of will power. The genetics comment was in reference to my father, who had just had a heart attack this time last year.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes. But don’t ask me who. Because I cannot remember. The brain, she is f-r-i-e-d. I blame Christmas. And hormones. Yes, hor-mon-eeees.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

You had to go there, didn’t you? You couldn’t just leave well enough alone and let me bow out of this one gracefully without seeming like a complete and total Debbie Downer, now could you? I SEE YOU SMIRKING OVER THERE. WIPE THAT DAMN SMILE OFF YOUR FACE, MISTER.

Fine.

In early February, one of my oldest and best friends died. She was 26. And no, I’m not over it. It’s possible that I miss her now more than ever.

5. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?

A discernible waistline.

6. What countries did you visit?

Unless you count my head, none.

7. What date from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

I can remember exactly one date right now. Only one. October 25, 2008. The day my best friend got married.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I could be all dramatical and be all “surviving” and *sigh* deeply and wait for some sympathy, but I won’t. Not this time.

My biggest achievement this year was…not strangling my husband no, that’s not right eating more popcorn than previously thought possible no, that’s stupid. Okay. How about becoming the world’s gimpiest pregnant chick?

9. What was your biggest failure?

Well, I broke the dryer. My sexy ass wood panelled dryer. And I accidentally got my wedding ring stuck on my finger. That’s not so cool (but it’s pretty funny looking now).

I dunno. I guess I don’t think I failed that much.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Bwahahahahahaha!

No. Obviously.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

My iMac. Which has sadly been taken over by the savages I call “children.”

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Good lord, this is a tricky one to answer. I mean, on the one hand, I could single someone out and be all “good job!!!!” but on the other, who? Should I say something deep, meaningful and profound?

Nah. That’s totally not my style.

So I’m gonna go with Britney. Who has successfully made a come-back AND an excellent new record.

Oh shut up. Like you don’t want to borrow it from me.

Don’t you?

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Again, how the hell do you answer this one? Uh, I guess I don’t think about how full of hatorade I am towards other people. I guess my answer is the dude who deliberately cut in front of me while I was hobbling toward the checkout with a screaming toddler last week. He sucked.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Stuff covered in vinegar. Also: chocolate.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

My prescription for Tylenol 3. Because my blog should be called “Mommy Wants Vicodin.”

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?

Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow.” What a sad, sad song that is.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? Totally happier. Last year, I hadn’t slept properly through the night in months, was on the edge of falling into some post-partum depression, and was losing my grip on my sanity.

ii. thinner or fatter? Way, way fatter.

iii. richer or poorer? Tasteless, eh? But, richer is the answer. RICHER IN LOVE! *gag* *barf*

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Gardening. It was a lovely year for my roses, who went somewhat neglected this summer. But still, they bloomed until November, so I’m doing something right.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Laying in bed. I have terrible insomnia and it’s exacerbated by my (in)delicate situation. Which sucks hard, because I can’t take much that will actually help me to sleep properly. Perhaps next year.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

There is some kind of tense problem here as Christmas was over um…last week. But, ideally, I would have spent it in bed with the covers over my head. I did nothing of the sort, of course.

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question here, then. Hmmm….

What would cheer you up today?

Hearing from all of my lurkers out there. I have a feeling you are there but you’re afraid of Aunt Becky, which will not do. Aunt Becky would like to say “hello, my sexxy bitches” to all of you. What would you like to say to Aunt Becky?

(I’m totally copying myself from last year because I am that cool)

22. Did you fall in love in 2008?

Many times a day. Except for no. I didn’t.

23. How many one-night stands?

Hahahahahahahaha! Bwahahahahahahahaha!

(wipes tears from eyes)

Tons. More than you can even count.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Burn Notice and that weird show after House, MD. Mainly because I want nothing more than to do incredibly naughty things to the male leads of both. Maybe even at the same time.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Hmmm….

No. I don’t.

26. What was the best book you read?

US Weekly.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I just got that awesome remake of the soundtrack of A Nightmare Before Christmas. Which is flipping sweet.

28. What did you want and get?

A prescription for Tylenol 3. Also, some kettle corn.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

Iron Man. Hands down full of The Awesome. And P.S. When did Robert Downey Jr get so fuckable?

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you (optional)?

I turned 28 this year and celebrated with a prescription for some progesterone suppositories. Now that is sexy.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

More cowbell. Definately more cowbell.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?

Slovenly and unkept.

34. What kept you sane?

My friends in the computer. Whom I love thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssssssss much.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I dunno. I normally answer with Britney Spears, and I guess that’s probably my answer again.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

I suppose this isn’t a political issue or anything, but my hatred of Angelina Jolie crystallized. She’s so damn sanctimonious that it makes me want to puke.

37. Whom did you miss?

*sighs* You just HAD to go there again, Meme That I’ve Personified, didn’t you? Ass.

I miss my friend Stef deeply each and every single day. I’ll always regret not saying how much I loved her while she was still here.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

My cadre of Virtual Internet Pimps.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008:

Things can always get worse. And, when in doubt, see a specialist.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“I’m Mrs-Oh-My-God-That-Becky’s-Shameless”

OR

“Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down.”

There was an additional question here about who I’d tag to do this meme, but since I rarely tag people (because I’m a rebel, obvs) I’m imploring each and every person that has read this to come over and answer one of these incredibly brilliant and insightful questions.

Or make fun of me.

Whatever.

Also: Good-bye 2008, and HELLO 2009! Let’s make it a fucking awesome year for us all.

Even though it means I’m days closer to having The Daver go back to work–he takes the week between Christmas and New Years off–and thereby leaving me alone with my daemon (toddler) spawn, I’m so fucking happy that Christmas is over for the year.

I’m still pretty shocked by my reaction to the holidays in general this year: I’m normally THAT PERSON that you hate for being thrilled and awed when the Christmas stuff gets put out in the stores in August, and the person who reverently listens to Christmas album after Christmas album in my car in July. I get thrilled by spending ridiculous amounts of cash to give Martha Stewart a wrapping for her money, I carefully unpack and put out all of the 4,000 bins of Christmas decorations I’ve accumulated over the past years. I get misty-eyed when the Christmas programs start running on television, and I typically bake more cookies than anyone can possibly eat.

This year, however, was a bare-bones operation. And even still, as I sit among the piles of stuff that I need to sort and put away in their proper homes, I’m slightly blue that I wasn’t Feeling It this year. Don’t get me wrong: my sadness isn’t because I DIDN’T do the stuff, it’s because I DIDN’T WANT TO. And that is a-typical for me.

It’d be like waking up after having Cheerios as your favorite breakfast food for 25 years only to discover that now it tastes like battery acid to you.

But whatever. The whole fucking she-bang is done, and although we might all be suffering from massive Christmas Hangovers and a little crank-a-licious, we’re all pretty pleased that everything went off as well as it did. And moreover, it’s done! Praise Baby Jesus, it’s DONE!

Now is the time to hurry-up-n-wait for Amelia’s arrival, which will, of course, seem an eternity. Something about that last month(ish) of pregnancy seems to defy all Matters Of Time and yawn wildly into years.

Anyway. Moving on.

So, what would my obligatory Christmas post be without a good chuckle? Nothing much, I’m afraid.

I have this aunt and uncle, both of whom I adore completely and see (sadly) infrequently, but every year since I can remember, they travel to Costco, buy the sort of stuff you’d normally pass by and snicker at, and then wrap it up and send it to us. I’d like to imagine it’s a very cerebral joke as they’re both academics, but I somehow doubt it. I seem to bear the brunt of the weirdest of it.

This years take-home? A collectors box set of West Side Story for The Daver and I.

What’s wrong with that Aunt Becky? You may ask yourself. I mean, it’s a musical and it’s fun and who doesn’t love fun + musicals?

That would be The Daver and I. Especially moi, who tends to equate musicals with the type of torture that involves pulling out toenails and watching The Facts Of Life marathon on late night TV. I’m not only not a Movie Person, I’m REALLY not a Musical Movie Person. And I’ve never been, which left Daver and I mystified as to why on Earth we’d gotten this as a gift.

Certainly it would be an excellent gift for…someone. Just not us.

Thankfully, however, we were neatly able to pawn this puppy off on my father-in-law the following day and have been spared the inevitable back and forth we normally do with gifts like this. Now he, HE loved it. And I loved that I didn’t have to find someone else to give it to. Because it WAS a nice gift.

For someone else.

What was the weirdest thing you got this year as a gift?

(ed note: as my husband, The Daver, who is addicted to Work-a-hol is blissfully off for the next couple of days, I will be few and far between. I’ll be too busy watching him tackle 547 house projects that have gone unnoticed for the rest of the year.)

Christmas comes early to our house, as it does every other year that Nat takes Ben for the one holiday we share (the rest we divvy up based on when it’s celebrated, which is not always the day that it’s TECHNICALLY celebrated upon), and we spent the morning gorging on chocolate-y sweets and cinnamon rolls. Well, I had a diet Coke. Because The Nausea, she is something fierce these days.

(It’s completely unfair that NOW the nausea would return just in time to NOT EAT my favorite holiday treats. Like chocolate chip cookies. Because nothing says “Christmas” like chocolate chip cookies, right?)

It’s been a wonderful day, so far, despite the fact that Ben is now gone and my heart is heavier than it was before. Watching the boys laugh and play with all of the goodies (while Alex body-slammed his brother) that Santa brought warmed the cockles of even my cold heart, and reminded me that this, THIS was what Christmas was about. Not enforced cookie-making, not faux ebullient merriment, not about in-laws or out-laws. It’s about family and it’s about magic.

I hope that each and every one of you is spending some time with people you love with all your heart (and probably some that you pretend you’re not related to), and I hope that some of the magic that has been lost over this year is regained. Somehow.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and all that goes in between from Casa de la Sausage to each and every one of you.

And remember: Aunt Becky loves you even if the rest of the planet thinks you’re an asshole.

By nature, I’m not A Worrier. It’s just not in my blood to aimlessly sit around and think deeply about any and all of the consequences of my actions. If that implies that I sit around on a fluffy cloud of pink cotton candy, nary a care in the world, never dealing with the consequences of my choices, it’s sadly incorrect. Mayhap someday I’ll be fortunate enough (read: medicated enough) to live like that, but not today.

I just don’t waste a whole lot of time worrying about what might happen if Jupiter aligns with Mars at a 33 degree angle which is a remarkably good way to live especially if your spouse has been conditioned at birth to be A Worrier.

No, the only problems that come from this is that often, when things are about to go all apeshit on your ass, you don’t spend enough time talking through the what-ifs of the situation.

Let me back up a minute.

I currently have two children: Alexander and Benjamin, both of whom are flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, and easily two of my favorite people on the planet (see! I can be sentimental sometimes!). Now.

Problem is Baby A and Baby B were both Baby Dickheads. I’m sure this will offend someone out there, me calling my child(ren) a dick or an asshole, but they were simply horrible babies. What made matters even worse is that they were both badly behaved in such DIFFERENT horrible ways, so I was left shrugging my shoulders and fantasizing about suicide.

Ben, as we now know, is on the autistic spectrum and as a baby, had massive sensory issues that were then undiagnosed. Which meant that I knew this about my child:

1) He hated being touched
2) He hated life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness
3) Absolutely everything evoked the exact same response: SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HIS WEE LUNGS.

It’s fairly safe to say that he had both colic and a bad attitude and there was NOTHING I could do about either of these issues besides wait it out. Or kill myself, which just seemed like a bad idea.

Alex was born and literally could not get enough of me, which was, I suppose, my fault. When I was pregnant with him, I furiously wished that I would now have a child who liked me best. If it sounds sad to you, it’s because it is. I had been so incredibly hurt by Ben’s ultimate rejection of me that all I wanted out of my child was to have one who liked me.

It’s safe to say that I got that in spades. Remember the Monkey Paw story?

Alexander couldn’t handle the mere thought of being apart from me. He’d scream mercilessly if he was taken away from me so that I could do such things as take a pee alone, or perhaps shower. Rather than sleep like a normal baby, he decided that sleep was for pussies and refused that too. Only thing he ever wanted was a boob in his face. Constantly.

Seriously, the kid nursed every hour for nearly a year. I shit you not.

Even now, sleep issues mainly resolved (save for the naps he often doesn’t take AT ALL), I am the preferred parent, and if I am around, the world is right. It’s fucking cute as hell and it warms my heart and it terrifies the hell out of me that when Amelia comes and he realizes that he has competition (Ben is old enough that he doesn’t seem to be fazed by his relationship with Yours Truly).

I mean, I’m pretty scared of some fierce sibling rivalry and there’s very little at his age that I can do to prepare him for a baby. Hell, there’s so little you can do in general to explain to a child (or anyone else, really) how a baby can turn your life on its’ axis just by being here. I have no idea how to divide myself up like I’m going to have to especially when there’s no other acceptable adult substitution available to either of us.

And I’m terrified of having another awful baby. I’m so, so afraid of what this will do me. I’m no pus-bag and I’d even venture to occasionally call myself Hard Core, but after nearly a year of not sleeping (thank you, Baby A) my grasp on reality was getting so shaky that I was actually considering suicide. Or at least a hospitalization. It was just that bad. I talked about it here and there on my blog, but not wanting to turn my blog into a list of complaints about the life I’d WANTED made me restrain myself mightily.

I’m afraid and yet I know that I’ll get through it all unscathed. We all will. It’s just what we do.

So, Internet, what’s on your mind today? Complain away. Let your fears out here. Write another blog post in my comments. Relieve yourself before you have to go and eat Aunt Shirley’s gross fruitcake and laugh at the jokes of relatives that just aren’t funny. Or have to listen to how Grandpa Bill hasn’t taken a proper dump in two days!

Let it out, man. Let it out.

It appears as though finally the events of the past year have caught up with me as I knew they would eventually. You can run all you want, but eventually it comes time to pay the piper. Whomever the piper happens to be. What a dumb saying that is considering I have no idea who or what a piper is. (Because if *I* don’t know it, no one else would either, right?)

I’m fine, really, I am, just sitting on my couch chock full of The Anxiety For No Good Reason and wishing like hell I had another adult home with me to talk to. I’ll live, I just need some head-space, I think. Which will be in no easy task considering that Christmas (o! how I wish I could not celebrate thee this year) is around the corner and my eldest is home from school and currently trying to drive me to drink.

So, Internet, here is where YOU come in and why I’m bothering posting about this at all: I need some distractions and I need your help in getting them. What do you do when you’re anxious and you can’t self-medicate with delicious, o! delicious vodka (assuming exercise is also not going to happen, either)? If you’re not an anxious person, then tell me something funny. An anecdote or something.

My current house was built sometime in the late 1970’s. I know this in part because I remember looking at the date of construction when we were filling out the approximately 64,836 mortgage documents and remarking to myself that “Hey, Self, this is a good thing! My house was built AFTER lead-based paint was made illegal.”

Might not be something that occurred to normal people when they were buying a house, but our condo was built at the turn of the century and as such, when the lead levels were checked before we bought it, they were off the charts. Stupidly, we still bought it.

(let us not make fun of the damage that the lead paint MAY HAVE DONE to Aunt Becky’s brain. It’s likely she was dumb well before this happened)

It’s a good age, I think, my new house is. It’s old enough that while the stuff inside isn’t brand new, there aren’t any surprises left over from faulty construction. At least, nothing that we know of YET. It’s not an interesting looking house, aside from it’s Electric Yellow siding. It’s a standard Colonial, one of three or four models in my neighborhood, but it’s home and I couldn’t be happier (unless, of course, the siding fairy came over night one night soon *hint, hint* and replaced my siding with something less, um, EYE catching).

We’ve been fortunate, however, in that the appliances that were likely here when the house was built–or shortly after–have remained functional despite their decidedly non-fashionable exterior. You’re going to be jealous when I tell you that not only do my washer and dryer have faux wood panelling, but so does our refrigerator.

Doncha wish your appliances were as hot as mine? ADMIT IT, INTERNET, YOU WANT MY SEXY APPLIANCES.

Except that with the possible exception of my refrigerator, which I hate primarily because of it’s utterly ineffectual side-by-side design (which allows for practically nothing to be stored there), I have known that they were on their proverbial last legs since we moved in nearly 4 years ago. The dryer, which takes approximately 4.5 hours to dry a simple load of laundry, has been nearing death for a couple of months, back when I resurrected it.

(My fancy-ass trick? I HIT THE TOP OF IT WITH A BOTTLE OF DETERGENT. It’s a freaking wonder MENSA hasn’t come knockin’ for me. Oh wait, no it’s not)

This morning, however, my dryer rests gently wherever it is that the souls of old appliances go when they die. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Rest in peace, sweet wood-panelled dryer. *sniff, sniff*

With the death of my dryer comes, of course, the rebirth of a whole new set of appliances (sadly none of them the sexy cherry-red that I petitioned loudly for), which will successfully remove all traces of faux wood panelled artifacts in our house. The 70’s will no longer reside in our home, instead, they will be transported back to their rightful place in hell along with all Lief Garrett LP’s and polyester pant-suits.

*sighs*

On second thought, leave the pant-suits. Maybe there’s some seeds hidden in them.