I’m pretty sure I did something bad to somebody along the way, and this is me apologizing to you, The Universe for all of my past transgressions. And you, The Internet for my Fun-Filled Odyssey that has been the past oh I don’t know COUPLE OF MONTHS.

It must grow tiresome, or at least annoying to constantly hear about What Is Currently Wrong With Aunt Becky, because shit, it seems like it’s ALWAYS something. Because it kinda is. Which I assure you is not because I’ve developed a penchant for the dramatic.

In fact, I hate drama, and the only time in which I was a Dramatic (annoying) Person was in high school when “Oh my GOD. Did you HEAR what SHELLEY did? I am never speaking to her AGAIN. AS LONG AS I SHALL LIVE!” *puts hand to face dramatically* was the way we lived our lives.

Don’t pretend to be above it, y’all. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you were NEVER dramatic EVER because I won’t believe you at all.

Anyway, my foot is now turning a lovely shade of baby poo yellow tinged with a cobalt blue, and I’m going to be honest: it’s pretty cool looking. It’s weirdness is probably the one thing that has made this whole situation in which I lounge around on the couch noticing how filthy my house has become asking people to fetch me my Diet Coke STAT. I’m not, much as I’d always thought I’d been, the type of person who enjoys lazing about the house making my Sausages do my bidding. I do my own bidding thankyouverymuch.

I’d post a picture of my foot, but you’d only be shocked by my tattoo which covers it up pretty well.

And as for my cervix (is that the weirdest segue you’ve ever heard? I’m thinking yes), my cells are abnormal enough to warrant a full scale biopsy and a coloscopy (the name I’m making up, although that might be it. I keep thinking “colonscopy” which is when someone shoves a camera up your pooper. In case you’re wondering, it’s as much fun as it sounds!).

The Sausagebryo that’s currently occupying my uterus compounds things, so I must wait until August to have this lovely procedure. So that should be fun: knowing that something might be wrong but not knowing for sure for another 7 weeks.

I think I’ve made as much peace with it as I can for now, and I probably won’t be moaning around the house, moping and prostrate with grief. Shit, I can’t hang out in Crisis Mode for weeks on end here, without making my head explode, right? Time, I suppose, to hurry up and chill the fuck out.

*sighs*

Moving on away from boring news onto My Kid May Be A Complete Weirdo News, may I present to you a Ben story:

Me: Did you have fun at the pool?

Ben: Yes. I went down the big slide.

Me: Sweet!

Ben: And I didn’t even care that the lifeguard came! I didn’t feel ANYTHING.

Me: Huh? The lifeguard?

Ben: Yeah, he pulled me out of the water.

Me: ………..

Ben: I didn’t feel ANYTHING when I went under.

Me: …………

Ben: Can I go back to the pool with Matthew again?

Me (strangled out): SWIMMING LESSONS. you need SWIMMING LESSONS.

Is it any wonder my hair has been going gray since I was 20?

Just got a call from my OB/GYN.

Turns out my last Pap Smear (as I like to call “Uncle Pappy”) showed some abnormal cells.

If you need me, I’ll be hiding under my bed, sadly without a bottle of whiskey.

Okay, okay, so I’m not really an emotional person. My tears are proportionally related to the amount of direct physical pain I’m in, and crying because I’m “sad” or “happy” is just not something I do. Unless I’m in pain WHILE being sad or happy or whatever.

I’m not certain if it’s because My Left Foot (oh yes, yes I did) that currently looks so swollen it’s like only a fraction of my body has pre-eclampsia and I have become an annoying invalid who has to plot out courses to such destinations as “the bathroom” and “the fridge,” or because I’m a touch *ahem* HORMONAL, but I’m a blubbery mess.

My eyes are permanently fused together and my face covered in a sheen of snot and tears. I’m possibly gorgeous.

Nothing is too insignificant to cry over now. My cats need to be fed? *sob, sob* My peony bush is blooming? *oh, the HUMANITY!* I want a burrito for breakfast? *CHIPOTLE ISN’T OPEN, sniff, sniff, sniff*

In short, I’ve become possibly the most annoying person on the planet (some may argue that I’ve always held that particular title). I kind of want to impale myself on my Diet Coke can and rid the world of another overly hormonal woman.

I’m so annoying that I feel badly for The Sausages who are stuck looking around for their much saner Fearless Female Leader and checking the calendar religiously to see if it’s February yet. NOW I’M CRYING BECAUSE I KNOW I’M ANNOYING! AAAAHHH!

So enlighten your Aunt Becky, who may blubber and snot all over you if you ignore her. Are you emotional? Or does emotion only show when a car has run over your foot?

And how the HELL do you snap out of it?

*sob, sob*

Okay, so I’ve done this before, but I was tagged again, and I’m all why the hells not?

The goal? Six words, your life story.

Very famously started by Ernest Hemingway while telling the saddest story ever written, ‘œFor Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.’

Your turn.

I’m a terrible patient. Really, I am.

I always have these grand visions of myself in a wheelchair, snuggled sadly into the couch insisting that my husband minister to my bedsores every single hour. Maybe I could even start moaning while I breathe, just for effect. If I were a good patient, I’d never for a moment allow anyone to forget that I was sick or hurt or whatever, and dominate any and all conversations with lengthy descriptions of my bowel movements and sputum.

It would be AWESOME.

But no, here I sit on the couch where I am supposed to be “resting” and bored out of my mind. I don’t sit around quietly well, never have, and I prefer to buzz around the house like a chubby bumblebee taking care of all the wonderful things my family leaves just for me! They’re thoughtful like that.

I’m.so.bored.it.hurts.

Normally my cure for boredom is a drink and some online shopping (if I’m stuck in the house) but I don’t even have anything to look for. So I’m stuck sitting here, my foot looking hugely pregnant and kind of scary and trying to forget that I am pregnant, too. Not with (I hope) a Foot Baby.

I’ve managed pretty well to ignore being pregnant because if I think about it I worry, and the last thing I need is to worry myself in circles. Worrying is useless. Kind of like sitting around like a slug. Useless.

So Internet, oh sweet Internet, what the hell should I do while I heal?

*In a brave display of ridiculous injuries, I fell this morning on the bottom stair, well, technically, I fell on the baby gate on the ground. I heard a sickening crack and immediately I saw stars–no, not Christy Brinkley–and the pain was, well, hideous. I then had to army crawl on my belly to the kitchen.

Not perhaps one of my finer moments.

But to the ER I eventually went, dragging my friend P-Funk along for the ride. My foot is so swollen that it looks about to give birth, but they say somehow I didn’t break it. I’m holed up on the couch under strict orders not to move.

It’s fucking boring as hell*

Anyway.

So I left you hanging with Part I of My Own Personal Stalker, Milan, who had recently begun smelling competition and trying to mark his territory like a dog. Without the golden showers. Even I have boundaries.

He began impatiently phoning me, hour after hour wondering where I was. Which, I have to tell you, is probably the worst way to get me to call you back. I don’t respond well to frequent calls. The phone calls reeked of desperation, and in between leaving me messages alternating between threatening to ‘never call me again’ (um…okay) and begging me to call him back, he’d send similarly impassioned texts.

Occasionally he would even badly quote me some song that I liked, like Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing” (don’t judge, haters). Often subtle nuisances would elude him and be lost in translation.
This was always especially funny to me for some reason.

When I’d ignore both his pleading phone calls (Rebecca CALL ME BACK. Please? Pleeease?) and his text messages (The greatest love of you), he resorted to emails. Like his phone calls and texts, they’d start of innocuously enough and end rather mad. Since we both liked a lot of the same music, much of the email would be badly translated parts of songs.

Without a proper email to refer to, I will make one up:

“Dearest Rebecca,

In your house, I longed to be with you. I didn’t want to ever close your eyes or fall asleep, the greatest love of all time. I call you many times and you don’t answer. Your mom says you’re not home. But you’re home! I know it.

I sit here and you don’t call me back. Or write me back. Or text me at all. Or send me braille messages from Fed Ex. Or paint my name in the sky in an airplane. You are a jerk. I don’t need you! You don’t call me back and I will let you go! Fly into the breeze birdie, blackbird. We could have had something special but no! You ruined it all.

I’m saying goodbye forever,

Milan.”

It would go on longer and be followed up by another equally painful to read email, but you get the idea. He tries to be nice, gets mad at me, berates me, tells me that I suck and that he’ll never talk to me again. Rinse, repeat.

Was that the end? Oh, of course not. Rebuffed, he redoubled his efforts to woo me.

First, one day after I dragged my sorry butt home from clincals, exhausted and ready to hit my sheets, my mother said, “Umm, Rebecca? Milan has been calling. Can you ask him to stop? It’s unnerving.”

This pissed me off: I couldn’t have made my stance more clear. If I don’t respond to you in any way, normal people would tend to take that as a sign that mayhap they should back the hell off. But no, it appeared that I was going to have to make my feelings known. Angrily.

I marched to the phone, dialed his number and said, “Milan, you have GOT to stop this crap” when he answered. “I am in your neighborhood, I want to see you. I have been driving around for ages,” is how he responded to this. Figuring that this was going to be the only way to keep him the hell outta my parents house (and away from my son) I agreed to drive and meet him a block or so away.

I pull up to his car, get out, slam my way into his car and say, “This is creepy. You have to knock this off.” He smiled at me and looked bashful, but before I left he insisted that I tell him that we were still friends. Gone were the insults, the harsh words and in it’s place sat my old friend Milan. Who had driven an hour to my parents neighborhood to drive around and wait for me.

I’d have been flattered had I not been skeeved out.

Figuring he wasn’t likely planning to make my skull into an ashtray or a bong anytime soon, I left things at that. Stupidly.

The next email he sent told me all about how he could tell that I had feelings for him, that he could see it in my eyes when we spoke. I recalled that “feeling” being “anger” and left the email dangling. What could I say to someone who was as harmless as an ant (annoying, creepy, yes. Harmful? No) to convince them that I was not in love with him? Not much. So I ignored him, hoping he’d take the hint.

Then the flowers started coming. Roses, all roses, all the time. I could have opened a flower shop. Now, I do love flowers, but only from people I really, well, like. These roses made me feel gushy and gross inside. Like they were tainted with Creepy Eastern European Goo or something.

The following week, I walked back to the train with one of my cronies. Rather than sit in traffic, I rode the train to and from school, and it was easily the best part of my day. This day, I rode with my friend Laurie, and we were deeply engrossed in our recent Lab Practical results and were discussing it with gusto (told you I earned the nickname Super-Becky Overachiever).

We arrived at the train station and sat on the bench, still deep in nerdly conversation when I looked up. The train tracks in Elmhurst were huge, and had an underground passage that led from one side to another.

There on the other side, stood Milan, waiting for me and smiling goofily. THAT FUCKER WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE SUBZERO WEATHER AT THE TRAIN STATION. Which was like an hour from his house. Plus, I’d been TA-ing so this wasn’t my typical train. He must have been waiting for awhile.

Like this sort of grand gesture would mean anything other than a restraining order. My heart dropped and I got pissed off. He popped through to my side of the tracks and said shyly, “Hello, Rebecca.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I spat back. I was enraged.

“I wanted to talk to you and you’re ignoring me.”

“Well, maybe there’s a reason. I’m not interested in dating you, I already have a boyfriend, I love my boyfriend, and you’re being creepy! How long have you been waiting? It’s like 2 degrees out.”

He didn’t have much to say to that, just stood there smiling shyly at me. Luckily I was saved by my train, which I boarded after telling him to leave me the hell alone. I got a text later on saying that I must really love Dave, but to call him if I ever thought I could be with him.

Yeah. Right.

I haven’t heard from him in ages, I’m married now, and while I live in the same town, my name is different. I guess he finally gave up.

Hehehehe.

Poor man. I’ve never so thoroughly crushed someone’s will to live.

I’m afraid I cannot deliver the second installment of this story as I have stupidly fallen down the stairs and twisted my ankle. It now looks like a potato and I’m debating going to the ER or not. The pain is mighty, and I will likely not get Vicodin (the only thing to make this whole debacle worth it).

But don’t worry, lovers, I have not forgotten you. I will be back.

After I begged you lot to help me, oh LORD help me to figure out what to write about I was asked a couple of times as to why the hell I blog. And the answer is deceptively simple.

I started blogging with my friend Chris back in 2004 after we’d come into contact with a number of, for lack of a better word, Lame Blogs. I won’t bother trying to track them down or anything just to illustrate my point, but let’s just say they committed various blogging sins:

1) They were too deep and/or meaningful

2) They took themselves too seriously (Aunt Becky’s Cardinal Sin)

3) Instead of real content, they substituted recipes, naked self portraits (yes, really), or links. Once in awhile, fine. As a substitute for content? No way.

4) Plus blogging itself seemed to me so incredibly self-indulgent, I mean, pages upon pages about YOURSELF? C’MON NOW. Who CARES what I ate for lunch (pot-stickers. Verdict? Just what the Doctor ordered).

But back in 2004, I had a stalker. Yes I did. And some of the things that he would do made Dave tell me that I needed to get a blog to chronicle the hilarity. I never did say much about it. UNTIL NOW.

I will take you back to January 2004 and fill you in on what was going on, it wasn’t anywhere near as boring as my life now. I was midway through my nursing education, shlepping my ass back and forth from school to the hospital and eventually home (my parents house) to occasionally see the Fruit of my Loins. Ben must have been…2 and I didn’t get to see much of him. My schedule was grueling.

At night and on weekends, I waitressed at a pizza joint to pay for such things as insurance for my son (Nat had been laid off and was too lazy to find real work) and diapers! Oh the diapers!

Anyway.

So, I met The Daver in 2003 via a friend (also: Chris) but we didn’t meet face to face until 2004. Pretty much instantly we started dating (a story for another day), which meant that every Tom, Dick and Harry who’d been nursing a secret candle for me began to flip out. In my relationship experiences, I’d always have a number of guys to choose from AFTER a dry spell.

I guess that when it rains, it pours, right?

So back to the Original Uncle Pervy. He was a manager at the pizza place that I worked at and he and I always got along famously. We joked around all of the time, we enjoyed our shifts together and I considered him a friend. I’ll call him Milan (a gross misspelling of his actual name).

Well, the moment he saw that I had another guy who might possibly be interested in stuffing his sausage in nasty places, he got super-territorial. Like, if I didn’t answer a text message, he’d call me 100 times leaving me increasingly desperate voicemails:

“Hello, Rebecca, this is Milan, YOUR FRIEND. Call me back!”

“Hi Rebecca, Milan again, you haven’t returned my phone call YET. Where are you?”

“Okay, I see how it is! You don’t have time for your old friend Milan. This is my last attempt at calling you.”

“Rebecca, CALL ME BACK.”

It would have been scary if he wasn’t the least threatening guy on the planet. He seriously was like an Eastern European fag hag. I would never have worried about being alone with him or anything, he was harmless and let’s be honest: I could totally take him in a fight.

He was turning out to be quite the hilariously possessive freak, tho.

Part II will air tomorrow.

So it’s been a pretty rough week. Alex has donned his devil horns and has been literally plotting my eventual demise, not that I really blame him. But I just had the most hilarious exchange with someone who knows approximately 5 words:

(On the changing table)

Me: You have a full diaper. Let’s change it.

Alex (reaching downward): Penis.

Me: Yes, you have a penis.

Alex (poking penis painfully with index finger): Penis!

Me: Yup. That’s a penis all right.

Alex (gripping penis between thumb and index finger) Penis! Hahahahaha!

Me (sighs): That’s how I felt the first time I saw one.

This is part of the list–by no means exhaustive–of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):

Wear half of a fat suit
Have the nuptials performed by Elvis
Sport black eyes
Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’
Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’

From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought (or cared much, really) that I’d be married. Like ever.

I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).

Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, who happens to have hottest beef curtains in the planets to make fun of the dresses. (let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married).

We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second (and only other choice) was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.

I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed (I’m not kidding) at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels), which she shoved under the door. Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.

Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.

Who looked disgustingly like a bride.