I’ve alluded to the fact before that I don’t particularly care to listen to NPR, but that’s actually not quite true: I do actually like NPR, especially This American Life (when I remember to listen to it).

What I hate about it mostly is that it reminds me of Nat.

Now, I’ve listened to NPR before I met Nat, my parents alternate between this station and the classical music station, and anyone who has been to my parents house knows that the radio is always on. Truth be told, I never minded it. I like the commentaries, I like the programs, I like to make fun of the way that the people speak (a la SNL’s Shweaty Balls sketch), and it’s usually pretty interesting.

I’m no longer in the car for 4 hours a day, so when I am, I prefer to rock out to some real music rather than listen to talk radio. Besides, music drowns out my kids, talking will not.

But back in the day when I dated Nat, he listened to NPR like it was his job. And for awhile, it pretty much WAS his job. He’d gotten laid off and refused to find another interim job while he searched for another Help (less) Desk job. My sympathy was non-existent considering I was in nursing school full time and worked as a waitress to buy insurance, formula and diapers for Ben.

Anyhow, back to the story.

One of his favorite insults to throw in my face was that I lacked a “social conscience,” which never made much sense to me, considering even though I sucked at it, I was going to nursing school to care for the sick. Whereas he worked as a Help(less) desk pion at a company that manufactured garage door openers.

You be the judge of who lacked a social conscience.

Since I didn’t listen to NPR religiously, preferring to listen to stuff in the car that, oh, I don’t know, KEPT ME AWAKE SO I DIDN’T FALL ASLEEP AND KILL PEOPLE WHILE I DROVE, I obviously didn’t give a shit about the world.

He’d like to impart on me all of the terrible awful things that were wrong with the world, and then become inflamed when I told them that I didn’t need to hear them. Sure, he liked to TALK about these horrible things, but that’s all he really did: talk.

And as for me, I’d prefer not to rally against things and despise the world for being such a shitty place unless I was planning to do something to make it better. Of course I could sit around talking about how fucking sad it is that a famine is killing people in (insert country here) but unless I’m going to start organizing food and sending it over to (insert country here) I don’t need to be depressed about it. The world is a very depressing place if you look at things in one light, and if you look at it in another you’ll see that it’s also a very wonderful place.

Nat didn’t get that. He assumed that I would bury my head in the sand because I obviously didn’t care at all, and took any opportunity to tell me what a terrible person I was for this.

Now remember this: Nat didn’t really have a leg to stand on when it came to intellectual discussions. Although he’s a smart enough guy (his parents are both physicists) he barely graduated high school. His main aspiration in life is to talk loudly about stuff and do nothing good about it at all. He’s a veritable bag of hot air.

His ideas aren’t bad ones, recently he told me how he and his friend were talking about building some solar panels for a house (Nat lives in an apartment with his brother), but I guarantee you, I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS CHANEL, it will never go past the talking stage. Ever.

Nat is a judgmental bag of wind.

Take for example a simple conversation that I am reenacting from memory for your pleasure:

Becky: “I love those Nissan Pathfinders.”

Nat: “How dare you?!?”

Becky: “Especially in yellow. I usually hate yellow cars.”

Nat: “You’re such a fucking bitch!”

Becky: “What the FUCK are you talking about?”

Nat: “DO YOU KNOW WHAT SUV’S ARE DOING FOR THE ENVIRONMENT?”

Becky: “Dude, you drive a V-8 Crown Victoria. Is that somehow different?”

Nat: “YOU HAVE NO SOCIAL CONSCIENCE!”

Becky: “You do remember this car that you’re driving isn’t exactly fuel efficient, right? It gets what, 16, 18 MPG? HIGHWAY?”

Becky: “Besides, I said I LIKED them, not that I was going to BUY one.”

Nat: “YOU BETTER NEVER BUY AN SUV, BECKY. Did you hear about the earthquake?”

(end scene)

Trust me, if you want more mini-plays, HOLLER. You’ll especially like the one about…OH I CAN’T RESIST. ONE MORE, ONE MORE FOR MY INTERNET LOVERS!

(scene, Becky and Nat take baby Ben to the doctor for his 6 month check-up. The doctor has just berated Becky for starting Ben on solids before 6 months, something Nat has yelled at her about before. This is the car ride back to drop Ben and I off at my parents house)

Nat: “I can’t believe you started him on solids so young. I TOLD you it was a bad idea.”

Becky: “I thought he was such an asshole because he was hungry.”

Nat: “I TOLD YOU IT WAS A BAD IDEA, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID?”

Becky: “Eh. Whatever. Not a big deal.”

Nat: “IT’S A VERY BIG DEAL, WHAT IF HE GETS ALLERGIES AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!”

Becky: “Bwahahahahahahah” (wipes tears) “bwahahahahahhaha”

Nat starts driving erratically because he’s now furious that I’m laughing at him. Keep in mind the baby is in the backseat here, and driving erratically is far more dangerous than solid foods.

Nat (through clenched teeth): “Oh GREAT, Becky. You’re possibly killing the baby with cereal and you think it’s funny? DO YOU?”

Becky: “Bwahahahahaha!”

Nat then squeals his tires into my driveway, I hop out, pull Ben out, and Nat storms off furiously, leaving a trail of burned rubber on the street directly in front of my house. It joins the rest of the patches of burned rubber.

Now, this makes Nat sound more dangerous than he really is. He’s a douche-bag for sure, and he’s pretty abusive towards me, but the situations are always funnier than they appear.

And you know what the moral of the story is?

BEN IS THE MOST HEALTHY KID I KNOW. And Nat is still the same douche-bag.

This is not to imply that I’m not seriously considering many of the sexy ideas you’ve all given me to cure this Godforsaken Writer’s Block, because I have many a Nat story brewing in my loins, but now I have a serious question for you brilliant folks.

So, for Christmas this year we planned on buying a swing-set for our backyard, because as I understand it, this is what all the cool kids do, and I’m desperately trying to be cool. But when we researched it further, it became apparent that most of the play-sets we were looking at were going to take up enough of my yard that I balked at it. They also were approximately the cost of a used subcompact car, which was prohibitive enough to make me weep a little.

We came up with a Plan B: buy a playhouse for the kids for the backyard. A sweet wooden playhouse, not a plastic one, because I hate plastic stuff. Unless it’s in my boobs. Then I like it a lot.

Here it is.

But now I’m wondering if this is what 2 little boys need in their backyard. It’s kind of…girly.

What do you think?

So, I’ve been absent from here not because I don’t heart my blog with the fire of a billion setting sun’s, but because I’ve got nothing right now to talk about. Sure, I suppose I could start filling pages with pictures of my kids, and maybe I will, but to me that’s not what this blog is about. I suck at photography (apparently the fancy camera I bought doesn’t a master photographer make) and my pictures are boring, so I’m not planning on doing this.

If I did this again, I’d feel like I was somehow cheating which would exacerbate my Writer’s Block and make me a very confused person. I get UPSET when I don’t post, and I’m hoping that if I throw this lame post up, it’s going to get my creative juices a-flowin’ (better then OTHER juices, right?).

AND, I can beg you for ideas, oh sexiest of Internets.

What on EARTH should Your Aunt Becky post about?

Rather than convince The Internet that I’ve been ignoring them BECAUSE I HATE THE INTERNET, I will assure you that I am both fine and well. As are The Sausages. Well, aside from the Baby Sausage who is cutting two teeth as we speak.

This is driving his poor mother insane (poor, POOR Auntie Becky!), but I’m surviving. Somehow, I’ll manage (sniff, sniff).

So I would like to present with you two nuggets of Alex variety:

1) He has now mastered the word “Shit.” This brings his vocabulary to these words: Shit, Poo-Poo, Penis, Ball, Kitty and Doggie.

He is so in need of therapy already.

2) Confirming his mother’s oddities as genetic, he has discovered that water is best from the unlikeliest places.

I prefer mine from the bathroom tap, thankyouverymuch.

So my new friend Edward Alexander tagged me for a meme. And since I heart new people, I will happily oblige.

4 things I did 10 years ago: (1998)
1. Graduated High School (shit, has it really been that long?)
2. Smoked oodles of marijuana.
3. It’s a blur. See #2
4. No clue. See #2

4 things I did 5 years ago: (2003)
1. I met The Daver (again, REALLY?)
2. Got engaged
3. Had my very first colonoscopy!
4. Was diagnosed with small bowel Crohn’s disease

4 things I did yesterday:
1. Got my white patent leather go-go boots in the mail. I may very well look like a transvestite in them, but I don’t care.
2. Cleaned up massive craptastrophes. Interestingly, none of my own.
3. Paid someone to mow my lawn WITHOUT feeling guilty about it. Okay, I felt a LITTLE guilty. The lawn was so long that the puppy could get lost in it.
4. Ate glorious McDonald’s for dinner WITHOUT going off my diet!

4 shows I love to watch:
1. House, M.D.
2. American Idol
3. The Girls Next Door
4. Rock of Love

So I’m supposed to tag some people to do this incredibly thought-provoking meme, but really what I’m interested in is what YOUR answers are to this. Yes, YOU, my sweet and wonderous readers. So leave me a comment answering a couple of these if you want.

Aunt Becky would love you forever and ever.

Fuckity, fuck fuck fuck.

I am now interrupting my regularly scheduled self-absorbed blog post to ask you to go see my friend KC. She has just lost her beloved (and young) dog Sadie, and is understandably heartbroken.

I will be back tomorrow with more useless prattle.

Love you all for everything.

I approached having a puppy with the same trepidation that most people approach having a root canal. I wasn’t being coy when I said I’d never wanted a puppy. People who have raised puppies are always in an uproar about “never wanting to do it again” and “it was the hardest thing. Ever.”

Stupidly I listened to them.

Auggie came home with us, and a rock formed where my stomach had been merrily sitting hours before, and I panicked (inwardly). What the FUCK was I thinking? I thought to myself, here I am, finally having weened the kid and insisted he sleep through the night, like it or not, so I celebrate by BUYING A PUPPY?

Epic bad judgement, I told myself.

Yesterday night, it dawned on me as I waited for things to get REALLY HARD: yes, having a puppy is hard work, but absolutely easier than either of my children as babies. It’s the same nimrods who chuckle and tell you to kiss your sleep goodbye when you tell them that you’re pregnant that tell you how hard puppies are.

When you’re used to breast-feeding, being THE ONLY ONE who can comfort the baby, and NOT LETTING THEM CRY IT OUT BECAUSE THEY MIGHT HYPERVENTILATE THEN DIE, a puppy is a snap. Sure, he pees on the carpet now and again, sure I have to take him out every hour or so, and sure he doesn’t ALWAYS like it when I put him in his cage, BUT IT’S NOT THAT BAD! Especially when you compare the level of need to the level of need of a baby.

And to make matters better, the most unexpected side effects have also occurred:

1) Ben considers the puppy his puppy and is helping me out a shit ton. Despite having a menagerie for a house, Ben has never cared a bit about any of the animals. Sure, he’s fine with them, but it’s indifference at best. Now, he is thrilled to help with his pup.

2) Cash, the world’s most aggressive houseplant has taken a shine to the baby puppy. This is the dog who I cannot take out on walks alone with Alex because I cannot wrestle Cash while ensuring Alex’s safety should another dog come along. I have literally been in the middle of a dog fight with Cash, and had to yank all 40 pounds of him away and carry him home all while screaming for help (the other dogs owner was INSIDE and had LEFT HER DOG OUTSIDE). THAT was a fun time, LET ME TELL YOU.

So, after three days, the rock in my belly has lessened, and I’m feeling pretty okay with the whole situation. Our house is full of life again.

BONUS! PICTURES!

I’m trying to catch the proportions of the puppy, but I haven’t yet been able to illustrate just how teeny-tiny he is.

The houseplant in (in)action:

Now, part of the reason I feel so strangely about buying animals is because we tend to come across animals that need a home. This is how I happened to adopt Joey The Mean Hamster (a bad, bad idea) and the gecko that I named Robes Pierre.

I’d been oogling lizards for what was probably 10 years before we came across this gecko, who was owned by a kid who worked at the local pet store who had taken him when one of his friends had died (got that? He was third-hand goods). The Daver and I had been pricing out just what a gecko costs to set up when this kid offered us this gecko. Being the kind of people who take people up on these weird offers, Dave went to pick him up that night.

And Robes Pierre came our into lives already a geriatric. A scaly geriatric. And full of The Awesome.

He was never an awesome pet because he snuggled you or sought your attention, or even because he really gave a flying shit about you at all. He was awesome because he was neat to watch. I already have the world’s neediest animals, so I really didn’t need anything else clamoring for my attention.

Robes Pierre died over the weekend and although I knew that it was coming, I am still much more saddened by his ascent to, well, wherever it is that lizards go when they die.

Rest in Peace, Robes Pierre. You’re more missed than even you’d think.

So, yeah. Yeah. Rules. Yeah.

Now, I’m not much of a dog person. Really, I’m not. We have Cash, the dog equivalent of a house plant whom I love dearly. But we both know that he’s The Daver’s dog, and we’re okay with this.

And if I’m not a dog person, I’m REALLY not a puppy person. Sure, they’re cute and all, but so are puffer fish, and we both know what can happen when you tangle with one of those. Honestly, neither is The Daver; we both like established dogs whose personality is able to be determined upon meeting them. But Cash is a really territorial house plant, so getting another dog was out of the question.

But we found this puppy. This teeny-tiny puppy who looked like a mini-fox. And rather than walk away from him like we should have, we instead chose to hold him. It was then that this dog turned the cute to 11 and we were hooked.

We vacillated wildly as we always do in these situations, knowing that all we’re really doing is posturing for comedic effect. The dog was as good as ours when he first nuzzled into Dave’s neck. The puppy knew it, I knew it, The Daver especially knew it.

Sure, we TRIED to put him back into the cage, but it wasn’t gonna happen.

So we now own the world’s cutest puppy.

Problem is, he needs a name. And I suck at coming up with names. I just suck (one might argue I suck at many, many things) at this. Between the two kids with 15 names each, the foster animals, and my regular animals, I’m tapped out. I especially suck because I insist that the names be something either clever or ironic. Not an easy combination.

So far I’ve come up with

a) Little Guy

b) Vincent D’Onofrio

c) Gary Indiana

I’m not a cutesy name dog person, nor am I intending to become one. Mr. Jubbles, Foxy, Bear-Bear, or Sweetie are not okay for me.

Any ideas? It’s a dude and it’s a Shiba Inu mix.

Here he is!

And I hope that everyone had a great Mother’s Day. Or at the very least, that it wasn’t too brutal.

Last Friday, I was sitting here at my Mac marveling at the positive pregnancy tests that I had in my pockets as sort of a good luck charm. I’d pull them out, smile to myself the kind of “I have a delicious secret” smile and put them back in my pocket. Occasionally, I’d pat my pocket to reassure that yes, indeed the test was really real.

And here I sit, one week later, having thrown out all of my pregnancy tests and feeling…empty. Just so very empty.

Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.