Today, I’m struggling with what to write, mainly because how the HELL does someone follow up a post like the above without sounding even more trite than usual (as you all know, I’m usually very, very trite). So rather than try to come up with something that sounds so annoyingly false and awkward, I am just going to give you an update on crap I’ve talked about before, but never thought to update about like a Good Aunt Becky should.

So, take this for what it is: fluffy, insubstantial, and likely dull as hell.

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Despite an afternoon filled with me staring out the window for the 5-0, none came to arrest me and throw me in the clink. Although it would make for some interesting blog fodder, (thanks, KC) I’ve been arrested before (gasp!) and it’s not nearly as exciting as the movies. Plus, the ink is hard to get off your fingers.

Thank you for reassuring me, The Internet, because for some reason, my hyperactive guilt complex had gotten the best of me and I had assumed the worst (imagine me trying to pack as much stuff into as small a suitcase as possible and hunting furiously for my passport as I wondered who would remember to pick up the cake if I was fleeing the country. It was close to this.)

Before you think me an absolute nutter, let me tell you a story: when I was a kid, my mother and grandmother took me to a craft show (eek. SCARY!) at the old courthouse for my county. I don’t think it’s a functioning court house or anything, but the moment I walked indoors, I got completely hysterical and began to freak the fuck out. I was convinced that they were going to arrest me for what, I can’t be sure. Reckless use of banana clips?

I was 8.

——————-

After many, many months of repeated blood work (I *have* been complimented on my veins), and dosage increases, I have finally reached therapeutic dose for my thyroid issues (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!).

Thyroid problems are extra annoying because it’s hard to determine what specifically is wrong versus what’s just how you are. Let me give you a wee list so that you may see what I’m talking about:

Depression (I have/had/am currently being treated for PPD)

Weight Gain (I heart cheeseburgers)

Lethargy (I have a newborn/infant/asshole toddler)

The list goes on and on, but rest assured all of the symptoms are totally non-specific. I only was diagnosed when I couldn’t get pregnant, and I’m sure had I gone to the doctor complaining of any of these ailments, I would have been sent on my merry way with an order to “exercise” and “eat better.”

And even though I now I have a new doctor to add to my ever-growing litany of specialists whose waiting room patrons are among the creepiest on the planet, it’s worth every weirdo-sighting I get to partake in.

Besides, I am now finally losing the rest of the baby weight (sadly, a year later) but now it’s actually COMING OFF, which does wonders for my mood (color me a pathetic girl if you must).

————-

And I saved the most exciting and prize-filled part for the best (you can’t say your Aunt Becky doesn’t like to buy people stuff, because SHE DOES). I wasn’t expecting to get so many heartwarming and thoughtful people participating in my Week of Kindness, so again, I’m thanking you from the bottom of my heart (I’d give you a sloppy wet kiss on the mouth, but I’m sick and you don’t need sickness, eh?).

I present to you this edition of winners (we’re ALL winners here on Mommy Wants Vodka!) who were randomly selected to get sent cool stuff from Aunt Becky (and Mr. Aunt Becky):

Andria at Boy Mom, who made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Jenn at That Psycho Family, who not only perpetuated the Love Train, but made several donations as well.

(golf claps all around!)

Honestly, it killed me not to send each and every person who performed an act of kindness something, but I’m not nearly organized enough to send that many things in the mail (which is why donating to the Salvation Army is better for me than eBay). So, until next time, I’m not worthy of all of you.

—————–

*hugs* Internet, I love you to pieces. NOW MAKE USE OF THAT “EMAIL ME” BUTTON!

I may have mentioned that I have a slight obsession with cake in the past, which is especially strange since I don’t really want to eat it, but just LOOK at it for many years to come (I have issues. Clearly). I specifically hunted down a local bakery that deals only with making cakes so that I knew I was getting the top of the (cool) line.

And I was not disappointed. In fact, I saw the cake and immediately wondered how I could preserve it so it could live with me forever and ever and ever. (Again with the issues). But I put on my big girl boots and eventually cut into it (maybe I shed a tear or three hundred when I did so. I’ll never tell).

See?

(note the Diet Coke can. Classy AND addicted)

(That CAN’T be a hookah! How could she incorporate DRUGS into her son’s birthday party?!?)

(Fuck YEAH, that’s a hookah!)

————–

Maybe you can see why my angel babies were attracted to my house for the party. They smelled the sugar.

I’m struggling with a classic case of Writer’s Block, here at Casa de la Sausage, so I’m going to play a game with you, Sweet -n- Sassy Internet. The game is called, “What’s The Weirdest Thing A Stranger Has Said To You?” and I’ll go first.

Before I got married (which seems like ages ago, but has only really been about 3 years) and The Daver was my boyfriend, I was in college in a town about 40 minutes drive from where I grew up (and where we currently live), but happened to fall right along the Metra line, which was my reason for choosing to attend this school.

Day after day, I commuted from here to there, riding gaily along the train (Train Time was the highlight of my day. It was the ONLY time that no one was demanding stuff from me. Faithful readers will know that my now 6 year old was then a 1 and 2 year old. A difficult one, at that). Some days, I would pop into the coffee shop at the station and grab a steaming cup of coffee to enjoy while I sat on the train.

One day, as I was exiting said coffee shop with my headphones on and music blaring, a typical commuter (many people who work in the city live out here, like The Daver) came up to me.

I knew it was a commuter and not a Crazy Person for two reasons: 1) The Crazies out here are more of the pill-popping housewife variety and were probably at home sleeping off last nights binge and not the Homeless Chic that one finds in Chicago 2) He was dressed head to toe in a obviously expensive tailored suit and was carrying a briefcase, AND looked like he was pretty damn certain that the world revolved around him (anyone who has commuted on the train and has seen Commuters knows the look I’m speaking of).

I myself was wearing my pink puffy coat, red snap up the side pants (awesome for random depantsing!), my blue Diesel shoes, and toting my purple backpack. I’m sure I was quite the gorgeous sight to behold, but remember, it was butt-assed early in the morning, I was a college kid who didn’t happen to live on a college campus and therefore couldn’t stumble out of bed and walk to class, I don’t have any subdued colored coats, and shit, I was fucking comfortable. I still own all of those pieces of clothing and will probably still wear them all together unapologetically.

So, rainbow that I am, I realize that this commuter is talking to me (a rarity, unless they are screaming at me to get out of their goddamned way), and I reluctantly pull the headphones from my head and say, “Excuse me?” to him.

“Did you know that your shoes don’t match your bag?” is what he has made me remove my headphones to answer, and what made me actually stop on the train platform to look at him incredulously.

I stared at him for a couple of seconds that felt much longer than that before answering, “Yeah, I know.”

Years later, I’m still fucking perplexed by him. I’m not angry, and he wasn’t being hostile about it at all (another huge shock for a commuter), he was just asking an honest question about my shoes and backpack.

Truth be told, I’m certain that my shoes will NEVER match my purse. And that, my dear friends, is okay.

Your turn! What’s the weirdest thing a stranger has said to you (and not just a homeless Crazy person)?

My beloved friend Carlynn tagged me ages ago for a meme. She’s been noticeably MIA from her blog lately, which leads me to believe that she is fulfilling her dream of becoming the Yak Lady without me.

She’s one of my favorite bloggers, and I envision a life being The Friend Of The Yak Lady, and we will sit on a large front porch somewhere together, knitting and writing her memoirs as The Yak Lady. I heart her. AND I WOULD LIKE IT VERY, VERY MUCH IF SHE WOULD UPDATE SO THAT HER FRIEND AUNT BECKY DOESN’T WORRY.

*ahem*

The rules:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Shit, it’s a good thing I have an amazing collection of interesting quirks (shut up, they’re interesting TO ME AND IT’S MY BLOG. *sticks tongue out and blows large raspberry*)

1. In our marriage, I am absolutely the picky one. Really, about most everything and anything that I can think of (purses, keychains, fucking scarves, food, oh food), save for one teeny thing: coffee.

I love coffee so much that I would probably marry it and make bean-ish babies if I could, so great is my adoration of it. As previously stated somewhere in the archives, My Great Plan After Birth was to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and grab an extra large coffee. And another. And possibly a third. Then I would wash it all down with another.

(I wasn’t concerned about caffeine intake during gestation, but more about regurgitating the contents of my stomach in completely inappropriate places.)

As much as I love, love, love coffee, I’m pretty satisfied with any and all forms of it. I’m not even slightly picky about brands. I’d probably happily drink instant stuff without batting an eyelash or three at it.

But not The Daver, who, in the time that I have known him, has gotten a total of 3 coffee makers, each more ridiculous than the last, AND some fancy bean grinder.

Problem with all of this stuff is, I cannot figure out HOW to use ANY of it. Which leaves me brewing it with toilet paper and a tea kettle on the days when he doesn’t make it.

2. I’m freakishly OCD about my blog. I must update every day (although rarely about what I ate for lunch unless it’s Cap’n Crunch, in which case I will talk about it because I am Captain AWESOME) or I feel like I’ve been walking around without pants on (which I do frequently indulge in).

I had a blog before, and when I didn’t update it, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. Now, however, it drives me a wee bit bonkers if I don’t at least say SOMETHING.

I’m similarly OCD about checking on the blogs I read religiously. I must check them all once a day and leave some sort of comment, even if it’s something cheesy and stupid. It’s my way of saying “Aunt Becky’s Been Here.”

Any and all blog recommendations are appreciated.

3. In a stunning array of bad luck for The Daver, I have recently realized that I am allergic to all low quality metals, and can only tolerate platinum/high grade gold on my skin. Thankfully, all of the jewelry that he has bought me (because he is a much better person than I) has been of either of those.

I grew out of wearing costume jewelry ages ago, so this wasn’t such a big blow to me, save for the fact that I cannot purchase or wear any funky jewelry.

So, sadly, no plastic hoops for me, no matter HOW funktified I might look in them.

4. In a stunning fit of excellent judgment on my part, I wrangled The Daver to take me to buy myself a new video game on Saturday, once I realized that he was not going to be available to me like I’d hoped (wink, wink).

Now, I’m not at ALL someone who plays video games (although I don’t mind watching someone else play them) save for Lego Starwars (lest you imagine me to be someone who wears heavy makeup and goes to GenCon and dresses up like Princess Leia on a regular basis–I am going to have to start putting pictures up for you all. Specifically YOU, Mrs. Prufrock, who thought of me as someone in heavy eyeliner and likely listened to EMO music. For shame on my part!), but I was just_so_bored.

And no one was updating their blogs.

So, I gave The Daver a raging boner when I asked him to take me to The Video Game Store that I normally avoid like a hippie avoids a shower, and promptly began to discuss the merits of possible games with the guy that worked behind the counter.

(as a complete aside, for anyone looking for a good old ego boost who doesn’t want to pay the $100–and a kidney– to go to Great America, walk into a Video Game Store and talk to the dude behind the counter. He will be so enthralled that a Real! Live! Girl! is talking to him that he will make you feel as gorgeous as Britney Spears before her meltdown. Those dudes are like putty in your hands.)

I picked out the one game that he specifically told me sucked, figured that was as glowing a recommendation as I could want, and bought it. I imagine AARP will be sending ME a mailing next, Magpie, as I’m sure my purchase triggered some sort of mailing.

It was Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” for my Wii.

Soon, I’ll be telling those damn kids to get off my fucking lawn, until I realize that those are MY kids.

5. I have a massive obsession with spicy food.

Indian, Thai, Chinese, Mexican. Bring on the damn spice.

(I was getting rather long winded. Sorry).

6. I adore bourbon yet hate scotch. And I am the only one of my friends who can still drink tequila (but NEVER Tequila Rose. Ew.).

—————–

You deserve a cookie if you made it through that. Seriously, I applaud you.

Who to tag, who to tag? I’ve made my poor readers tell me a fact about them in times past, but I think people like to be tagged. So here I go. Tagging away.

I tag YOU:

KC @ Sarcasmatic

Heather @ Bubbles ‘n’ Ducks

Niobe @ dead baby jokes

B and K @ Baby Mommas Drama (dude, I had to. I have a category of the same name. Because we are BOTH Captain Awesome)

The Milk Maid @ Milk Induced Coma

Ames @ In Her Shoes, whose video made me cry AND give money. This may be a first.

Mrs. Prufrock @ Barren Albion

Cali @ Creating Motherhood

Shit, I’m cutting MYSELF off now. And if you don’t want to do this because you’ve done it already, trust me, you can do it again. I think I’ve done this like 4 times.

——————-

My dear friend Magpie (whose name gives me a thrill for some inexplicable reason) gave me an award that I get such a charge out of. I haven’t posted about it, because I cannot figure out how to make the graphic work. I’m not that SMRT, apparently, or my blog needs some configuration or something.

The award is called I-Less-Than-Three Your Blog. Get it? I <3? It’s a HEART, people! High-freaking-larious.

So, thank you Miss Magpie, for thinking of me.

And I’m thinking of YOU:

Carylnn @ Still Passing Open Windows

Charmed Girl @ Living A Charmed Life?

kalakly @ This Is Not What I Had Planned

The Divine Miss M @ Wheels On The Bus

Ames @ In Her Shoes

Angela @ Reality Testing

Mrs. Prufrock @ Barren Albion

I have to stop myself before I list my entire blogroll. See, Aunt Becky hearts you, bitches.

The Universe has a nasty sense of humor, doesn’t it?

I woke up to Aunt Becky’s version of the stomach flu (I’ll spare you the details), and have been writhing in agony every since. Because not only is my body evacuated of most of it’s contents, but my fucking skin hurts. My aches have aches.

I’d feel sorry for myself, but I’m too sick. When you’re too sick to feel sorry for yourself, you know you’re deep in the shit (literally, now).

———–

You guys are too sweet to The Daver and I. Pretty soon, he’s going to read the comments and get a big (er) head about himself.

I’m going to wrap you each up in a virtual hug (virus free, I hope) and tell you how much I heart each and every one of you (another good sign that I am really sick is how emotional I am right now. See, I can be nice sometimes!) and how much you made my day with your kind words.
(just try not to breathe in when I hug you. I smell like sick).

I hope to be Backstreet’s Back, All Right soon.

*smootches*

Still haven’t shaken The Laze ™, but I’m OCD enough that I feel as though I must post something anyway. Since I’m too bored to formulate a REAL post, I will present to you a post in bullet form:

*I just ate expired Ramen for lunch, because I couldn’t think of anything else to eat. When I’m expelling the lining of my intestines later, I’ll only have myself to blame.

*I still have yet to find the dime in Alex’s diaper. I’m pretty sure that it passed, but I after I rooted around once in his diaper and nearly lost my lunch (sadly, not the expired Ramen), I decided that kids have swallowed worse.

*I went to Toys R Us yesterday to look for a Radio Flyer ride along thingy (I needed to see it in person to ascertain if it was too plastic-y for me to spend my dough on), and although I didn’t locate it, I did get suckered into buying him a bunch of presents for a birthday he will not remember.

*I bought a box of Cap’n Crunch (with Crunchberries) and have devoured it. I figure I’m reliving the glory days of college WHILE turning my excrement a delightful color! It’s a win-win situation here.

*Dave came home from work the other night and exclaimed that Alex had bruised both of his tootsies. I bought it and felt suitably guilty until I shamefully realized that his feet were not, in fact, bruised at all, but were covered in the Winter Grime that collects on my floor. Methinks I need a cleaning lady STAT.

*I’m trying as hard as I can to figure out how to de-allergenize my house (is that a word? Probably not) for some guests who are allergic to my menagerie. I’m at a loss, here, save for a bottle of Febreeze and a vacuum.

*sighs*

I need a nap.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always gotten headaches. They’re not the sort that leave me stranded in a dark room with an ice pack across my eyes OR seeing these delicious sounding auras, but they’re more an irritation, somewhat like a burn. You know, the sort that just always reminds you that “Hey, you have a headache, idiot, isn’t it fun?”

Unless you have a migraine, headaches aren’t something that tends to elicit much sympathy. I should know, as The Daver gets ’em as well. And despite his pleas for sympathy and possible BJ’s to “make them go away,” I never feel particularly sympathetic towards him. They tend to be more an irritation of the highest degree, a thorn in my side, and occasionally a fight-provoking ailment.

Mainly because he tends to get them (in my mind) in order to get out of completing annoying tasks. Am I being a bitch? You be the judge.

He has gotten headaches right before the following tasks (and subsequently having to lay down):

*Packing our loads of crap into boxes before the movers came

*Painting the walls before we put the condo on the market

*Packing our stuff AGAIN before the movers came

*Scooping for Cat Box Crunchies

*Familial birthday parties

*Cleaning before we had guests over

and my personal “you will never live this down so long as you live and I may put it on your grave stone, motherfucker:”

*While I was in labor with Alex.

It’s not that I don’t care that he has a headache, on the contrary, if he got them while we were just farting around the house trying to complete absolutely nothing whatsoever of any importance, I probably wouldn’t say a word. BUT, one’s sympathy dwindles after being in labor for a full 12 hours with the lights down low and the television set to an inaudible frequency WHILE having to worry that no one will hold your leg when you have to push.

That said, I obviously can’t expect to get much sympathy for the headaches I’ve been having with alarming regularity now that I am taking Vitamin Z. They’re not really bad enough to make me want to go to the doctor and demand a different SSRI, because really, the benefit outweighs the cost in terms of my mental health here.

But shit, I just wish I could make them go away for a day or two. The NSAID’s I have don’t touch them, and I don’t have the sort of life that would allow me to just rest and relax them away (I’m not certain it would help anyway).

What do YOU do when you have a headache? Any and all assvice would be highly appreciated.

In a winter that has lasted approximately 567 years (plus or minus) and chock full of disgusting ickle viruses, I am once again sick. For the eleventy-hundredth time.

Rather than solidify my state as a Geriatric Whiner and bore you in my quest to become the Most Boring Blogger Ever, and prattle on about the headaches that I medicate with Excedrin Migraine, which makes my guts decidedly unhappy, so I have to chug Pepto-Bismol in order to stave off the barfing, I will leave you with a question:

The eternal question.

If, for some odd reason, I feel compelled to purchase a pair of gogo boots, and am neither a hooker nor a dominatrix, which would you choose?

The white, black or pink (pink being my favorite color) ones?

And, if I am a self-respecting 27-year old who isn’t planning to use these for Halloween, do I have any business wearing them?

Wow! I never expected my search terms to turn up so many new people! Hi Lurkers! Thanks for showing your face! Stick around, I’m just getting started here.

(Having Lurkers de-Lurk is thus far the highlight of my day. Stupid snow making life annoyingly annoying.)

I did notice, however, that none of my fabulously sexy Lurkers confessed to finding me through searching for cheeseburger crotch, which makes me believe that there must be more of you out there.

My dear friend Stef tagged me for a meme, the only one I usually do, but anyone who has read me for any length of time knows that I’ve done this one before. Thankfully, being freak of the week, I have a seemingly endless supply of Odd Crap About Me.

Without further adieu, I present to you the Six Odd-er-er things about me (what I should call this is Why Becky Is A Freak):

1. When I was 14, my dreams of becoming an opera singer were promptly dashed by the removal of my tonsils (to be clear, I couldn’t sing before I had them out either. Well, I could sing, but it was and still is a frightening experience) and adenoids. While not having my tonsils has proven to be a Very Good Thing for the state of my health (they were necrotic), it has left me with a most irritating side effect.

I cannot drink from a water fountain without the water coming straight out of my nose. This means that when I blow chunks, it always comes out my nose as well. AND lastly (and sadly for my poor The Daver), it makes the gentle art of a blow job nearly impossible. I promise that having The Spooge come out of your nose is at least as unpleasant as it sounds.

Maybe more so.

2. After years of handling scalding hot plates as a waitress, I have very little sensation for warmth on my hands. Overall, this isn’t that bad until it comes time to give one of the kids a bath, and I have to use different parts of my body (like my elbee-bone) to test the temperature. Because to me, it can be nearly boiling and I would not be able to tell. And I don’t wish to cook my kids in their bathwater (they wouldn’t be very tasty).

3. I have only been tasked with mowed a lawn once in my life, and even then, I bribed my Metal Heads to do it for me. It’s not like I’m phobic about it or anything, and it isn’t even that we don’t have a lawn to mow (we do, oh laws yes, we do), it’s just never been my job. Hell, it’s not really The Daver’s job either (don’t let him fool you) as I pay the neighbor kid to do it.

$20 is so worth it (although I might get a service this year IF IT EVER FREAKING STOPS SNOWING LONG ENOUGH).

4. Despite calling myself “Aunt Becky” on the Internet, I absolutely hate people who assume familiarity (although, possibly even weirder, this doesn’t apply to my blog. Shit, tell me about your fetish for breast milk, it’s cool. And heeeyyy, want to buy some?) in real life. Friendliness is one thing (and I like it), but I if I don’t know you, don’t act like I want to stand in the aisle at Target and listen to your boring life story because I assure you that I want nothing more than to bean you in the head with cleaning products and run away shrieking.

5. Although I do have an abiding love for tomato-based products (mmmm…ketchup…mmm), the very act of looking at a raw tomato makes my stomach heave and threaten to blow. And getting me to touch one would have to be under strict bribery with a brand new purse or something. Damn, even writing about this made me a little queasy.

(shudder, shudder)

Sounds like *I* need some Occupational Therapy, eh?

6. When I was about three, I decided that I no longer wanted to be “Becky” but was going to change my name to “Smurfette.” And even when I tried, no one would call me by that name which inflamed me to no end. I guess my schitzophrenic tendencies showed up early, huh?

Little did I know that when I got older, I *would* be a lone female among a sea of males, just like my idol.

As per usual, I am refusing to tag people for this meme because if I’ve done this one three times, the rest of the Internet has done it approximately 5,478 times, and I believe that not every one is as full of weird traits as I am.

So, I tag YOU, Lovely Internet, Oh Light of my Life, to leave me a comment with an odd fact about you. What’s that you say? You’re trying to tell me that you’ve already DONE THAT BEFORE THE LAST TIME I DID THIS MEME?

Well, Sweetheart, me too.

*air smootches*

In the Great Purge Fest of 2008 (part 1), I have been moderately successful. Save for one thing, one large stash filling up part of my stand alone freezer:

I have approximately 4,380 gallons of breast milk that I have nothing whatsoever to do with.

When I first had Alex, and realized just how freakishly much milk I was producing (ahhh, thank you Fenugreek, who has left an indelible hatred of all things maple syrup related. Seriously, my nursing bras, which I am soon to be throwing unceremoniously away–likely in a fire-y blaze–still smell of maple syrup. If you have no idea what the fuck I am talking about, I’ll break it down really simply: there’s an herb you can take–sadly, it produces no hallucinations– that increases your milk supply. One of the side effects is maple syrup smelling bodily odors: including, sweat, pee, and milk. Oh, YUM. Nothing grosser than looking for Aunt Jemima, that wiley bitch, in the toilet BECAUSE WHERE ELSE IS THAT SMELL COMING FROM?), I scoured The Internet looking for what I could do with the excess milk.

I did call a milk bank or three hundred who didn’t want to accept my goods because “they were full,” AND when I realized that I had both had a cold in that time AND taken a decongestant, I learned that the milk would be unsuitable for a preemie. And Sweet Baby Jesus, the last thing I’d want to do is make life for a preemie worse, what with my reckless use of over the counter decongestants. For serious.

I came across another website, the likes of which I haven’t been able to find again, in which people discussed how they could sell their milk on The Internet to creepy pervo’s who for some reason (probably because their mother’s didn’t love them) got off on drinking breastmilk.

Can we say a collective, “EWWW?”

Buuuuuttttt, this site also informed me that these creepy dude’s would pay up to $3.00 an ounce for the stuff, which would mean that the stash currently occupying the bottom half of the freezer I bought for this exact purpose, would translate into at least $500-600. This could easily buy me a designer purse or two, and that makes me happy.

Shit, pumping is one of the most irritating jobs on the planet, and anything that would compensate me for the time that I spent hooked up to that blasted machine, watching my nipples yanked into positions and shapes I had no idea they were capable of, WHILE being unable to do much else besides think about how bloody bored I was, was a good damn thing.

The downside is that I am far, far too lazy to sell a simple pair of shoes on Ebay, let alone spend the time putting up an ad, figuring out how to send the stuff so it didn’t rot in the mail, or coming up with cute phrases to make creepy Uncle Pervy’s want to buy my goods “Hot Momma Milk” and the like.

So, scratch that idea.

I came across another website, in which the enterprising author had attempted to make cheese out of her stash of breastmilk, and that pretty much wigged me out. I don’t care for cheese anyway, AND color me weird, but I don’t think I could ever, ever ingest any of that milk. PLUS, I hate cooking in the first place, and have never so much as attempted making cheese of any sort, so I promise I wouldn’t start with my own milk.

(shudder, shudder)

I suppose I could thaw some out for the holidays and throw it in my guest’s coffee as a passive-aggressive measure, but I’m not coy enough to do so without being noticed. And I’m too stupid to remember NOT TO DRINK THE COFFEE, so I’d be slurping it down thinking about how great it tastes (breastmilk is very, very sweet. Shut up. You’d try it, too.) before I recalled WHY it tasted so good, and then I’d have to drink Ipecac and spend the rest of the day barfing. I hate very little more than I hate throwing up (aside from Kim Kardashian. I hate her more).

So, what can I do with this stash of milk, which I am going to have to toss in a couple of months? Alex won’t touch it unless it’s on tap, Ben, well, I don’t need to scar him anymore than I already have, and Dave and I would sooner drink our own pee than drink the stuff.

Any suggestions?