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.

We’ve spent the weekend thus far trying to forget–with much success: Dave offered me a beer with dinner last night and couldn’t figure out why I denied him–that I may be pregnant.

This (spits twice and knocks wood) is the longest I’ve incubated a wee critter since I had my Ben and Alex. What does this mean? Fuck-nothing, not really. Anything can go wrong at any time, life sadly offers no such guarantees.

I’m hesitant to call either of my doctors (my endo and my OB) because I don’t really want to make a big deal out of this should things go sadly awry again, but I know that I need to put on my Big Girl Pants and make the calls.

Today, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I am going out with the girls to lunch and to a movie. This makes me nearly giddy with the freedom of it all! Lunch without my kidlets! Movie without being whined at by my big son! I’m going to dive into a vat of fake-buttery popcorn and Ashley is going to have to pull me out by my feet!

I haven’t been so happy since I went on a shoe-buying binge a couple of weeks ago (okay, bad example).

So, sweet Internet whom I love possibly more than my new puppy, what would make you feel blissfully happy? Shallow or deep?

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.

You can find me here monthly.

Catch you on the flip side, bitches!

So, a couple of you suggested astutely that I vanity publish my essays. Besides the fact that I am a total cheap-ass, I just.can’t.do.it.

I can’t tell you the story, though, because I can’t do it justice. So I conned someone that could tell the story for you into guest posting for me. In turn, I owe her my firstborn son and the story of Vanessa, my she-beast roommate.

Without further adieu, I present to you Pashmina, my former blogmate, the Stimpy to my Ren, and a good damn friend of mine.

So, I am now munching on my foot (tastes great with ketchup!) as I realize just how bad PMS must be for some people, and I am staunchly apologizing for not being more sympathetic (don’t expect monthly roses, though).

Normally when I get my period I barely notice it until it’s soiled some pants, but shit, now that I had a chemical pregnancy that has left me more clinically insane than Courtney Love on a drug binge, I have a ton more respect for hormones.

(as an aside, every time I hear the word “hormones” I think of that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding where what’s-her-faces aunt is talking to her future in-laws and says “bibosy”–biopsy–and “hor-mone- eees” for hormones. Cracks me up)

I’m up and down and sad and anxious and generally probably pretty annoying to put up with (I can hear Dave counting down the minutes until he has to go back to work as I type this), so I’ll be back when I feel more righted and less manic-depressive.

*Shit*

*In something completely unrelated, I’m going to update all of my sweet readers who were so kind and supportive during my whiny post about pregnancy tests. I went to the doctor yesterday and got some labs drawn, and it was confirmed: I had an early miscarriage. I’m really okay with it, just, as I was before, a touch blue. Thank you for everyone who commented and expressed your sympathy, although it was completely unnecessary, it was nice to hear. I love you guys (man, I’m gushy today. EW.)*

For the first time in almost two years, I am finally at peace with my decision to stay home and not go out and work. When I first stayed home, it was not so much by choice as by necessity. I was so sick with Alex, barfing my brains out all night long that I couldn’t drive to work without the very real possibility that I would hork in the car (out the window works best, I’ll tell you now) at 45 mph.

After a ridiculously long LOA punctuated by calls from my nasty HR department, I threw in the towel and quit. While it SOUNDS happy on paper here, I’ll tell you that it was very, very stressful for me. We hadn’t budgeted for me leaving work until closer to Alex’s birth, so money was quite an issue.

But now, now things are looking up. I no longer regard the term “housewife” as a dirty word, I’m generally happy and fulfilled most of the time with what I do, and I’ve come to grips with the fact that although *I* may never have a career in my degreed field, that is A-Okay, and doesn’t brand me a Loser (more than I am by nature, of course).

I have a couple of projects in the works for around the house and a super-secret one up my sleeve for myself (and no, it does not involve the phrase Baby #3), and I feel good.

Good enough to start looking for something else to do. Some volunteer work, I’m thinking. We fostered homeless cats for a local organization until Alex was a couple months old, and I suppose that we could go back to doing that, but I’m thinking of something more outside the house as well.

I’ve been searching through volunteer websites for the area, and nothing is really jumping out at me yet, which is where YOU come in, My Sweet Internet. What’s a good very part-time volunteer job that I can do (here’s the annoying stipulation) WITH Alex in tow. I’d like to leave him at home, but you know, he’s still not able to get himself something to eat, and that’s probably considered “child abuse” if I do it.

Any ideas?

(and no, I’m not inspired JUST BECAUSE I WEPT THROUGH ALL OF “IDOL GIVES BACK.” SHUT UP. I AM NOT THAT PATHETIC.)

“Your previous posts were real rubbish, but this is good. This one is brilliant. Your blog is getting really better.”

Gee, THANKS!

I promise I will be back in a couple of hours with a better post (see, lookit the time stamp, IT’S TOO EARLY FOR ME TO POST.), or at least less garbage-like.

Spammers are freaking hilarious.

…of “Ask Aunt Becky!” The search terms are a-rolling in, and I have some new advice for people who search for weird fucking things. I’m not a therapist, I don’t play one on TV, but I am a blogger who apparently searches for normal things like “Celsius Conversion.”

Dear Aunt Becky,

How do I paint flowers on bathroom wall? Any advice for me?

Love,

Artsy in Seattle

———-

Dear Miss Bad Taste,

Step away from the paint can, love, because attempting to paint flowers on ANY walls of your house, ESPECIALLY a bathroom, is a bad freaking idea. Why? Because it’s BUTT UGLY unless you are a 90 year old grandmother.
And then your friends will come over and you will force them to look at your bad taste in action, and they will have to bite their tongue to keep from laughing at the terrible job that you did. THEN, they will start avoiding hanging out with you because they will be so horrified that you willingly painted such a monstrosity on your own wall, and that kind of crazy MIGHT be catching, so to be sure, they will stop returning your calls.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. Hire a decorator to smack some sense into you if the flower thing still seems like a good idea.

————

Dear Aunt Becky,

What is the relationships purpose of the silent treatment e-mails? I just don’t understand why people aren’t writing me back. Please help.

Signed,

Lonely in LA

————–

Dear Clueless in California,

I don’t mean to rain on your parade or anything (do you get rain out there in Cali?), but I’m pretty certain that you can’t get the silent treatment from written words. Mainly because they are WRITTEN and therefore not spoken.

But if what you’re asking is why someone hasn’t written you back, I would consider several problems: first, your body odor, which you seem intent upon letting permeate all of your clothing can be addressed by a simple shower and a little thing we like to call “deodorant.” Check your local pharmacy for a whole aisle devoted to the stuff.

Secondly, if you’re “emails” consist of pointless and annoying forwards that include “quizzes” to tell your friends what their choice of cocktail means (cosmo = dy-no-MYTE in the sack), I would imagine that your “friends” are telling you that they don’t appreciate their in-box being stuffed full of stuff that needs to be deleted anyway.

Besides, Aunt Becky prefers a bit more personal means of communication: the telephone. Methinks you should invest in one post haste, along with some deodorant, and for the love of all that is holy, STOP WITH THE FORWARDS.

Or honestly, maybe it’s the flowers you painted on your bathroom walls.

Sincerely,

Aunt Becky

Now, before Aunt Becky was Aunt Becky or Nurse Becky or Mommy or even a Kept Woman, she was a waitress for nearly 10 years.

Like all somewhat bad things in my life, I had blocked out much of those years (and phobias) until I was talking to my friend Stef yesterday (go see her, she’s my hero, and possibly my new wife if I can con her into leaving her husband), and we went back and forth talking about all of the “good” times.

What’s most interesting about serving is that most of the complaints are universal. I’m quite certain that she and I did NOT in fact serve in the same establishment, but by our intelligent conversation bitching, it just didn’t matter much.

Before I launch into a Server’s Shit List, I will tell you that it was one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had, mainly because unlike other fields I’ve pursued/been degreed in/fingerprinted for/licensed by the state of Illinois to do, it’s a complete “us vs. them” mentality (a far cry from hospital nursing which is more like “every person for his or her self”). The hours were awesome for a swinging bachelor, the parties were plentiful and the booze was free-flowing. Ah, the glory days.

*ahem*

Without further interruption or introspection I present to you A Server’s Shit List:

*Groups of women. Now, as I’ve gotten older, I have found many women that I do, in fact, really like to hang with (real-life or virtual), but as a rule, tables full of women will treat a female server (no matter how good she is) like complete shit (likely because they’re jealous or something) AND THEN sit in your best table for your whole shift, making damn certain that you don’t get anything more than the 13% tip (if you’re lucky) that they are going to give you (and never allowing you to turn your table and make some real money. Because they hate you and wish you were dead.

*Business-Type Lunchers. I hereby exclude anyone who comes in and has COCKTAILS with lunch, because they are awesome, tip well, and are generally not in a hurry. But the OTHER iced tea drinking sect (ALWAYS with the iced tea) sucks ass to wait on.

Firstly, they’re in a hurry and expect that you can somehow make THEIR order faster than all of the OTHER people who are also in a hurry (you can always tell who is used to getting their way at work, because they treat YOU like a minion). If you cannot, because the kitchen doesn’t operate like that, they will harass you approximately every 2-3 minutes by calling “MISS” at increasingly more grating intervals whenever you so much as think about walking near the table.

They are also known to snap their fingers at you to get your attention (not sure if there’s anything ruder than that for a waitress, or really, anyone. Last I checked, I am not a dog), which I always would snidely inform them that my name was, in fact, “Becky” and that I would respond in a much more timely manner if they would use that. And no, sir, your food isn’t up yet, I just checked. No sir, there is no problem with your order.

So yeah, my advice to people on a timetable for lunch (I dig it, I’ve been there) GET FAST FOOD (see that FAST in there? Work it) or pack a lunch. Don’t go to a sit down place and expect that anyone there will give a fuck if you’re in a hurry.

*Sunday Morning Church Crowd. Before you nail ME to any cross, let me assure you that I don’t mean that people who believe in God are assholes by nature. But typically, those who are coming out to eat in their Sunday Best after church treat the staff like shit (that’s EXACTLY what Jesus would do, right? I don’t think so.).

Nothing is ever right for them, ever, no matter what you do (you can’t pull each onion out of the French Onion Soup? WHY NOT, WAITRESS? Um, do you really want me to stick my hands in your soup anyway?). I’m not certain why going to church makes people so damn unpleasant (I’ve always thought of church as uplifting), but the shoe fits here. It just does.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that people that go out to eat at ANY TIME on a Sunday are pretty much the bottom of the barrel. They tip crappily, they run you ragged with their stupid requests, they leave you a religious pamphlet instead of a real tip (this inflames me because it’s essentially telling me that whatever I am doing is Wrong and that they are Right. Now, I’m a nurse, right? And I served when I was in school, but you NEVER saw ME telling a fat person NOT to order Country Fried Steak or a Bacon Cheeseburger, because they really shouldn’t be doing that. It’s a Bad Idea.).

*The My Soup Isn’t Hot Enough, Waitress People. Sometimes I like soup, and maybe I’m a weirdo because I don’t give a shit if it’s not piping hot (hate that phrase), but these people seemed to think that I was both aware that their soup was Not Hot and served it anyway! The nerve of that WAITRESS!

Firstly, I didn’t stick my fingers in your damn soup. Would you really want my grubby hands near something you were about to put into your mouth? I didn’t think so.

Secondly, the soup is not your meal. It comes WITH your meal, and although I appreciate that you like it anyway (whether you paid exclusively for it or not), get the fuck over it (and yourself).

Ask me to heat it up POLITELY and I will. Demand that I heat up something that came frozen from a BAG (not homemade, sorry), and I will trundle back to the kitchen with it, microwave it for AT LEAST 5 minutes and return it to you with a biting smile on my face, while I say a prayer that it burns your mouth.

Dick.

* The You Made An Error Waitress And Ruined My Life Forever People. I’m sure that you don’t often think of the wait-staff as people with a life outside of meeting and exceeding all of your stupid demands, but I assure you with the utmost certainty that we do. We’re just usually good at covering it up when we’re having a bad day, after all, you’re not paying me to tell you about MY day, are you (I hate it when servers want to talk about their days. It annoys me, so I never did it)?

Servers (no matter how bad they are) are people too, remember, and as such, sometimes they MAKE MISTAKES. Trust me, once they realize it, their heart drops into their stomach as they scramble to make it right, because no matter who is at fault, it’s your server that has to ultimately come back to you and tell you that something is wrong. And then be screamed at about it like THEY DID IT ON PURPOSE (trust me, this is how I make money. My paycheck nets me about $0.46 every two weeks. Therefore I would never jeopardize my only livelihood on purpose).

Specifically, I can remember when I worked in a pizza place, and I’m not sure which side had messed up (I always wrote down my orders, not because I needed to, but because I always wanted to be able to reference them should I need to later on. Comes in very handy, I swear.), but what I had written was apparently not what the table of old farts had ordered. When I dropped off the pizza (not realizing my error) and came back to check on them, they treated me as though I had personally killed their dog and then laughed about it to their face while they informed me that no matter WHAT my notepad said, they DID NOT order this.

The following day, I ran into this spawn of Satan couple at the pharmacy where they recognized me as the person who had ruined EVERYTHING IN THEIR WHOLE LIFE and GLARED AT ME SILENTLY until I made a rude gesture to their face and walked away. I’ll take shit at work, but I refuse to take shit from people outside of work.

My other horror story is about the table of 10 that came in, immediately demanded soda and bread and cheese sticks (Hi, nice to meet you, too!). I got all of their appetizers ready, and made an error in balancing the tray when setting it down and it promptly fell over. Not a huge deal, right? I didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t drop anything anywhere but the floor, and promptly fixed it.

The head guy from the table tried to insist that I wipe marinara sauce from his shoe (you don’t know who you’re dealing with, fucker, but I don’t do that for ANYONE, let alone a 5% tip, which I am sure you’re going to give me IF I’M LUCKY), and even though I apologized and got them fresh bread (which was free) and cheesesticks, they left me a dollar. On an $80 tab.

* The Hot Tea People. To be fair, I like a cuppa hot tea now and again, so much so that I have a huge drawer full of it here at home, and once in awhile I will order it when I go out (when I was pregnant). But every time I ordered it, I always followed that up with an “I’m sorry” and a “I won’t complain about what you give me.”

In theory, hot tea shouldn’t be such a big deal to prepare. It’s hot water, a tea bag, lemon, cream and (if you have it) honey. The first problem is (much like real estate) location, location, location. Nothing you need for this is ANYWHERE close to each other. Fine, so you go and make a pot of hot water, grab a tea bag, run to the back for lemon and cream, search high and low for honey, only to realize that you’re out of it, go back, water’s still brewing (yes, you have to MAKE hot water and it always takes FOREVER) so you go grab the other drinks for the table. Then, when the water is done, you pour it into a METAL CONTAINER (metal, I should not have to tell you CONDUCTS HEAT) burn your hand in 10 places, decide you don’t have time for a band-aid as your table is looking around the place wondering where the hell their drinks and server are, and when you drop it off (after carefully putting the hot water down so it only burns YOU again) you realize you needed a spoon.

When you return with the spoon, this is what you hear:

“I wanted decaf hot tea. Is this decaf?”

“Where’s the honey?”

“Don’t you have any other flavors of hot tea?”

“You should have more flavors of decaf hot tea.”

“Is this decaf?”

“I want more lemon.”

“I need more cream. You didn’t give me enough.”

“Waitress, THIS WATER IS COLD. HOW COULD YOU SERVE ME COLD WATER FOR TEA. I SAID I WANTED DECAF HOT TEA. DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME PROPERLY? IF I’D WANTED ICED TEA I WOULD HAVE ORDERED IT.”

“This cream is warm. I want cold cream.”

“Where’s the honey?”

“IS THIS DECAF, WAITRESS?”

“I SAID I WANTED DECAF HOT TEA.”

As you can see, the second problem with hot tea is that the people who order it are complete dickheads.

If you don’t believe me and think I’m overreacting here, just say to any server that you know the phrase, “Hot Tea,” and if they don’t shudder and look around for something to kill, I will personally apologize for making this generalization.

*The My Kid’s Shit Smells Like Roses People. As we all know, I do happen to have 2 children of my own, and have been known to take them out to eat occasionally many times each week, and I would like to take this opportunity to warmly thank each and every shitty parent whose brats sat in my section and reminded me how NOT to raise my kids.

Let me make a general disclaimer that my big son has been known to be somewhat special needs at times, so parents whose children suffer from real disorders and not just “My Kid Is A Complete Fucking Asshole, Because I Am A Really, REALLY Shitty Parent Complex” get a pass here.

But, for each and every fucking piece of shit kid that sat in my section, said “Bring me a Coke” rather than “Can I please have a Coke,” dumped red pepper and cheese all over the table, tripped me while I was carrying a large tray, SHOOK their drink cup at me to indicate that I should refill their soda rather than use their voice, screamed uncontrollably, ran around like a damn banshee on crack, and generally behaved like a Fuck Head, you all should really be ashamed of yourselves.

Don’t you DARE look at me with that Aw-Shucks look when your kids act like fucks, because I will never say “Oh, they’re just being kids,” because due to a little thing I like to call Laying The Smack Down, my kids don’t act like that. Or if they do, we leave. Immediately. No matter how hungry we are.

Crawl back into your cave, people, and stay there until your kids are adults who corn hole picnic tables. Then you’ll know that you done raised ’em right.
————-

Shit, that was better than sex, it was so relieving to complain about. I figure that most of my readers who haven’t served before will think I’m being harsh, but I assure you, this is what happens (not that YOU’D behave this way UNLESS YOU NEEDED TO, which I understand too).

So dish to Aunt Becky about YOUR work horror stories. I’m down for a good laugh right about now.