God knows why, but today Becky told me that what she really wanted for her birthday was for me to write a guest post on MommyWantsVodka. I think she felt bad for me when she saw me notice her ogling a handbag with more more digits in the price than my car payment and turn ashen. And if I, pale as I am, turn more white, you know it’s serious.

Anyhow, she informed me in her Aunt Becky way (the not-so-subtle drip-drip method: “You’re going to post on my blog right? Tomorrow?… Hey Daver, how’s my blog post coming? Are you done with it yet?”) that I would be writing something for her birthday. It had to be something good, an explanation to Her Internets of how I put up with savor every moment of being married to the talented and dead sexy Aunt Becky. ( She’s not MY Aunt Becky, that’d be creepy, she’s just Becky to me. AND still Rock-n-Roll to me, too. AND only a woman. AND more than a woman. ) So here we are. It’s my turn to raise the roof off the mutha, to tell it like it really is…

…and I don’t know what to say.

I mean, there are tons of things to say; I have never known anyone who has made a more positive impact on my life. I am healthier because she made me see the doc. I am successful at work because I have her support at home, and I have wonderful children because she’s my teammate in raising them the way we think is best. She drives me crazy, and I drive her crazy, but if either of us is upset at the other we’re both misesrable about it until we work it out. Despite all the books and advice and people wondering about what makes a relationship work, we just…work. It’s refreshing not to need to think about it too much.

Way back when, I was single, with an apartment in the city, and she was commuting from the far Western ‘burbs to be at her clinicals by 6am. We went on a date, and that night I offered for her to stay at my apartment the night before clinicals so she could get an extra couple hours of sleep. I think at the time I just thought I was being nice, she was a friend of a friend and needed a hand, right? But as I look back I realize that I really just wanted an excuse to see her again, and deep down I already knew she was special to me.

It’s just…something about her. And honestly, you guys know already what it is, because you keep coming back here and reading her writings, laughing along and getting that feeling that she’s right there with ya. ‘Cause, well, she is. Her blog is a reflection of who she is, who we are; we’re not afraid to laugh at ourselves and we think our kids are the best and there’s very little in life that can’t be made better with a good laugh, some good music, and maybe a little vodka to take the edge off.

So, Happy Birthday, baby. One more year of living with your Sausages, being married to your Daver, thanks for being you and putting up with us, making us laugh, and putting us first. We may not always tell you, but you make us who we are, and that makes us pretty damn great.

I’d better close this out now. Becky’s hovering, telling me that maybe SHE should just write the damn thing for me, because I’m too slow. I told her that I was already over 600 words and she told me that was “decent”, with a smirk like it was decent for a moron with a hangover. I laughed and gave her the finger.

Welcome to our family.

Part I is here.

Also, The Daver was spurned into action by my review and put up Part I of his review of Pacify Me on his oft-neglected blog. Will Part II ever air? Likely no, but hey, what can you do?

And there’s this:

My plea to you to help me try and not be spanked so badly out there. They won’t spam you, and all you have to do is enter your email! It’s simple to vote and damn, I know you’re out there, my sweet lurkers. Why don’t you come out of the dark? I won’t bite!

So there we were, sitting there, Pashmina, Matthias, Pashmina’s roommate and I. Newly minted members of The Loyola University Polo club. After a brief moment of congratulating ourselves on an idea well played, the idea was shoved back away to make room for more pressing issues: namely, would my roommate break the Bubble Chair again?

(answer–although the suspense would be grand– Yes. Like me, Vanessa didn’t seem to learn from her mistakes)

The fall pressed on as Matthias searched high and low for stables and horses the rest of us just sort of forgot about the Polo Club. But we were still often in each others’ company.

One mid-winter Friday night, Matthias invited the lot of us to his apartment which felt so grown-up and urban after living in the shoe boxes we referred to as The Maxi Pad (why yes, we did think we were clever!) for wine and pasta. Oh! How Continental we all felt! We also felt like alcoholics, as we’d each gotten a bottle of wine to bring with, making the total bottles of wine somewhere near 7.

Dinner was eaten off paper plates and the wine was happily dug into by all of us, including Matthias’s roommate, Matt. Whomever had paired them together was obviously a joker.

Wine has, and probably always will, in addition to making me swell up like the Michelin Man, gotten me hammered as fuck.

So, we were ALL suitably toasty when we started to play a game, sitting there on the floor passing the wine bottles around. The game was, of course, a favorite of mine: Truth of Mother-fucking Dare. There’s very little I won’t do or won’t answer truthfully (a blessing AND a curse), so I was stoked.

The game, as we were all 19 or so, immediately took a sexual tone. Someone answered describing losing their virginity, someone else discussed fantasies, and I’m pretty sure that someone streaked, but my memory is suitably foggy. Eventually, it was my turn.

The question must have been something or another about The Sex, for the life of me, I don’t remember the specifics, but my answer was, in drunken drawl, “I *snort* I dunno. I *hic* just like *hic* sex.”

It was a most unfortunate choice of words that I would pay for for months after.

Because Matthias’s roommate lit up like a Christmas tree. We’d been talking earlier because I am chatty and I could tell he thought I was cute (obvs: wine goggles), but there was no interest on my part. He just wasn’t my type.

But between the stupid comment about sex (to be fair, the rest of the comments were much, much more raunchy, and had I been any less drunk, I’d have been more descriptive) and the fact that I responded to him in a conversation, he was smitten by the time the night was over.

In yet another gigantic error in judgement, we’d made plans to hang out the following weekend when we were both home as we’d discovered we lived in the same hometown. By the time that weekend rolled around, and I was home, I had no real desire to hang with him and told him as much when he called my parents’ house. I wasn’t being unkind, just wanted to see my other hometown friends. I forgot to call him back and promptly forgot that I’d forgotten.

This, apparently, was the Wrong Thing to do. Because when I returned to school the following Sunday, my roommate informed me that someone “named Matt had called about 10 times.” She looked a little freaked out. I felt a little freaked out.

Over the next week or two, he called non-stop and had taken to hanging outside around our dorm, his eyes glinting creepily as he scanned the crowds for me. Maybe he just wanted to sell me some Amway, maybe he wanted to tell me that he’d discovered the key to world peace, maybe he wanted to give me a check for a million dollars. I won’t ever be sure.

Because the constant calling and skulking about the Ashtray (the gigantic fountain in the middle of the quad, outside of our dorm. Seen from above, it looked like, you guessed it, a large, concrete ashtray) had made me skittery and nervous with a touch of anger thrown in for good measure. Because now I couldn’t even call Matthias without fear that Matt would pick up and tell me that he’d been sacrificing kittens in my name.

He was just that kind of guy.

Part III will air tomorrow. Sorry, y’all.

After writing this post (last year), I’m pretty sure I’m going to get turned away from the airport and sent squarely back to the Midwest. But I’m gonna try, dammit, to make it past the airport this time. June 19-22, my hammy arms are goin’ back to Cali so that I may wrap them around my friend Heather.

Every winter, ’bout this time, when the cold days have dragged on and on to the point where a 100 degree day (Celsius even!) sounds more tolerable than bundling up the kids AGAIN and having the boogies in my nose freeze for the forty-millionth time that day, and when getting the mail at the end of my driveway seems like a drastic undertaking, I start to have this fantasy in which we move to more temperate climates.

And because, in my fantasy-land, I am also slightly practical and don’t have visions of moving to a completely foreign country and having to learn a new language (you mean people don’t speak American EVERYWHERE?), I envision us moving to one of the coasts.

For a good 290 days of the year, I like where I live, honestly I do (and probably in part as a defense mechanism, as moving out of state would be brutal as far as custody arrangements go for The Big One), and besides a small jaunt away from here several years ago, I have lived in the same town most of my life. It’s a sweet river town, full of character and pep (and a number of the exact same strip malls), and it’s great BECAUSE I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING IS.

But, for as teeny as my family is, I do happen to have some that live out of state in California, where I have been any number of times. And I genuinely love it out there, it’s interesting, it’s clean, people are nice, and if it weren’t for such amazingly high property prices, we might live out there for reals.

Well, the cost of living AND the fact that I am not positive that I am good-looking enough.

California is weird like that, and I’ll never forget being there as a teenager to attend my cousin’s wedding. A busboy (a BUSBOY!) in the joint where we were dining nearly caused me to choke on my steak, so uncanny was his resemblance to Brad Pitt (the 12 Monkeys/Seven version, whom I had many a naughty fantasy about).

A couple of years later, I was back again, and I noticed that even the bums on The Haight were sexy. BUMS were SEXY! Even the one who flashed me his penis was good looking (and well hung)!

It was like entering an alternate universe.

As I got older and every time I went back to Cali, I noticed more and more unlikely and attractive people. Airport baggage claim guys were hot! The chick at the rental car place looked as though she’d stepped off the runway to make my car rental experience a complete nightmare. I kept expecting the dude who took my toll money to start selling me shampoo, so magnificent was his shiny mane of hair, so full of body and style.

Just based on experience (and without real knowledge), I would even venture to guess that the people who worked at the DMV were extras on a movie set in their spare time (away from being nasty to people who were stupid enough to get into the wrong line– EVEN THOUGH IT WASN’T LABELED).

I don’t know about your state, but typically the DMV workers are thought to be the bitchy Missing Link anthropologists are always harping on about (I wonder if their studies would take them to the DMV, because it should), but I would venture a guess that in California, they, too, are beautiful, attractive, and of the highest genetic pedigree.

Even if I were rich enough to buy a shack in California, I’m fairly certain we’d be turned away at the border for being undesirably unattractive.

For now, I will take comfort living here in the Midwest, just outside of Chicago, knowing that while we may be ugly and dumpy, at least we’re landlocked, so no hurricane will make it to our doorstep.

DENIED ENTRY INTO CALIFORNIA DUE TO EXCESSIVE UNFLATTERING GENES.

1,495,485: Number of times I have openly guffawed when I saw a bumper sticker on my neighbor’s car that reads “I (heart) My Wife.”

1,495,485: Number of times I have wondered if hearty laughter was an appropriate response to this.

16.7: Number of boxes of cupcakes eaten between Amelia’s birth and surgery

0: Boxes I’ve eaten since I’ve been on a diet

856: Times I wondered if anyone would notice if I ate a whole stick of butter

0: Times I couldn’t believe it’s not butter.

0: Pounds I’ve lost since giving up cupcakes and butter as a food group

25: Times I’ve wondered if a tapeworm was actually a decent idea

5: Days Daver will be gone to London at the end of the month.

4,364: Times this has made me stabby with jealousy.

2: Red cats named Pete I’ve foisted upon my brother and sister-in-law

6.3: Hours spent online looking for a replacement blankie for Alex

1: Pair of crocs I bought to haul my fat butt out to the garden in

48: Times I wondered if it was suicide time for me. Again.

2: Meme’s I’ve tried to do before I realized that meme’s are Of The Devil.

98: Times I’ve compared eating Splenda to licking The Devil’s butthole.

739: Times Daver has mocked me for loving such songs as “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” and “Something About The Way You Look Tonight.”

762: Times I’ve mocked Daver for listening to I Am So Deep And Meaningful Emo Music citing that it makes my balls itch.

9,576: Times I’ve fantasized about getting a vanity plate for my mini-van that says “Goes To 11.”

34: Times I’ve said, ‘Holy shit, that baby DOES look like an ostrich.”

87,463: Times I’ve gained–then lost–the nerve to post an older, very graphic yet high-fucking-larious post about yeast infections.

647: Times Dave and I have acted out a Valtrex commercial.

“I have genital herpes” (me)
“And I don’t.” (Daver)
(in unison) “And we’re going to keep it that way.”

647: Times this has made me bray with laughter.

0: Times I’ve eaten bacon since eating half a package while pregnant.

576: Times I’ve wished desperately for an Enzyte pen to go with my Valtrex, Wellbutrin and Viagra ones (my father is a pharmacist).

45: Emails from Nigerian princes who are going to give me money!!! I didn’t know Nigeria had so many princes who were related to me!!!

45,821: Times I’ve wondered what would happen if I really did try and order Vicodin through the Internet. Would a smiling pharmacist REALLY be filling my order?

I spent the morning paying someone to take chunks out of my cervix, which, trust me, is even less fun that it sounds. I didn’t mention it here, not because I didn’t want to whine and pout and stomp my feet, but because, dammit, I heard the weather this year and it didn’t call for a shit storm.

Plus, with all the medical shit that’s been going on I feel like I might have Munchausen’s, or, at the very least, an ugly flair for the dramatical. And nothing annoys me personally more than someone who is constantly convinced that they are dying of a rare form of syphilis and expects that everyone else wring their hands along side them.

(and no, I’m not talking about you.)

But I went for my Uncle Pappy at the same time as my 6 (8) week post-partum check up and low and behold, I had another bout of abnormal cells on the old cervix. I had my first experience with the abnormalities of my cervix while about 6 weeks pregnant (and bleeding!) with Amelia and (thank you God) decided not to pursue the biopsy at that time. Because yeah, even if they found that I needed to have my cervix shaved, would I really do it while pregnant?

(it’s supposed to be rhetorical but in case you wanted an answer, here it is: No fucking way)

So after waiting on bated breath last week to find out that, no, my mother does NOT have breast cancer, I waited rather impatiently to find out my own cancer status.

While I wasn’t really thrilled by the whole notion of having my cervix manipulated and doused with vinegar, I tried to think of the bright things:

1) I don’t have a real use for it anymore

2) Perhaps I will be told that my cervix is the most beautiful the doctor has ever seen and I can gloat about it (like I did after my colonscopy. Side note: Daver wouldn’t allow me to put pictures of my colon in our Christmas cards that year. Ass)

3) I happen to have a wicked love affair with vinegar

4) I can spend the rest of the day moaning and lying about the house while I make The Daver do things for me (say it with me now: Yeah, RIGHT)

5) It will make the Vicodin I want desperately to pop actually serve a purpose other than getting Really Fucking Stoned.

Still, though, I was nervous. What was it going to feel like? Like birth without an epidural (a special shout-out to the lack of epidural-y goodness I had with Amelia! Hooray!)? Like a bikini wax? Like having to go to the DMV? I just didn’t know. And not knowing shit makes Aunt Becky pissed off. Almost as pissed off as people who talk about themselves in the third person.

So I dragged The Daver with me after guilting him about having to go alone, something that proves to be a Very Fucking Good Idea, indeed.

And what can I really say about the procedure itself? It started off totally bearable, the vinegar stung like a mother-fucker, and the biopsy itself was not so terrible. Honestly.

But (we’ve established that there’s always a Butt, right? Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this story)…

I noticed that I could feel myself, well, gushing blood. The nurse and the doctor scurried around, changing the pads underneath me, putting plastic bags on the floor, and going through packages of 4×4’s like it was going out of style.

Apparently, I have a bleeding problem. So much so that after the pathology gets back, my OB wants me to see an Internal Medicine doctor. She has (and I quote) “Never seen someone bleed so much” and should I require follow-up (F/U) care in the form of removal of bits of my cervix, I will have to go to a surgery center.

I’m less upset about this and more amused, because at this point, sometimes you realize that being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Whomever “they” are.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make some tinfoil hats…

Today was one of the rare days where I had someone to watch the kidlets so that I could go to the store without someone trying to scratch my eyes out (Alex), scream their head off (Amelia) or pout when I won’t throw some cash down for Spiderman Froot Snaks (Me).

First stop was the pharmacy to both make sure that I won’t have any more babies and undo some of the damage my previous two pregnancies have done to my husband’s cholesterol. And while I was at it, I figured I’d pick up a heating pad for my sad, sad back. I’m gonna horde the SHIT out of that Vicodin.

This is what I came across:

It has both the words “deluxe” and “auto-shut off” on the front. Since I have a habit of starting random fires by complete accident and because my brain has turned into swiss cheese, I require appliances that will shut the fuck OFF when I leave them on.

And who doesn’t like DELUXE stuff. If it SAYS it, it must be. Packaging NEVER lies.

How could I go wrong? But wait a galdarn second here…What the…

DUDE. DUDE. DUDE.

Bwahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Bwahahahaha!

Look at the look on that guys face!

Doesn’t he look like he’s enjoying that heating pad A LITTLE TOO MUCH? He looks like he’s about to make sweet, sweet love to it.

Which?

Bwahahahaha!

Then I ran back and forth along the aisles looking like a complete nutter as I’d forget, then remember, then forget again things that I needed. What? I never claimed to be smart.

So then, after making a brief detour to get some sympathy cards (you know you’ve bought too many sympathy cards when you can actually tell when new stock has come in), I continued to my final stop: The book section.

See, my friend Marinka is doing some kind of reading of Ulysses or something. She’s trying to better myself and well, I’m just here. I tried to read Ulysses for about 5 minutes while I was going through an I’m Deep phase and it made almost no sense to me. And since these days, People Magazine is starting to make no sense to me, I’m thinking that Ulysses might be a stretch.

But no worries, I will flex my literary muscle in OTHER ways. I’ll show HER.

Like with this!

There are a bunch of words in the title, right? And they don’t make much sense either, right? (also, the blurriness was because an employee was watching me crack up at the romance novels and I was trying to be all stealthy)

AWESOME.

But then…I was overtaken by THIS:

I simply couldn’t go wrong. This book is sure to be full of “throbbing manhoods” and “oiled pistons.”

I can hardly wait.

I’ll show Marinka whose all literary and shit! Aunt Becky. That’s who.

*While my daughter is proving herself to be an excellent sleeper–by which I mean she’s only up 2-3 times a night versus her brother at that age who was up 5-274 times–my darling middle son is making up for all that sleep I’d be getting by refusing to sleep in.

*The plus side to sleep deprivation is that it makes me almost calm. No longer am I annoyed by the constant watching of Wow, Wow Wubzy DVD’s or my 7 year olds smart mouth (please tell me this is an age/stage thing? PLEASE?). No. Now I am downright placid. Serene, even.

*Just spent my kid’s college fund on buying a swing set for the backyard. One of those that will probably take up most of my backyard. My neighbors will thank me, I’m sure. It’ll make the party on APRIL 19th even cooler, right? (the keg will help, I’m sure)

*For the past week and a half, Alex has woken up from his nap hysterical (Back story: kid takes one 45 minute nap a day. Period) where even the promise of his beloved chocolate doesn’t help him get through it (because bribery = awesome parenting!). He screams and he cries and nothing helps and I feel just horrible for the hour or so that it goes on. I don’t know what to do.

*Rather than find someone to come to my house and watch Alex in the mornings for me so that I can listen to him whine for me from the other room, we started him in some in-home daycare for three hours a day. While he wasn’t thrilled initially, he now loves it.

*Thanks in no small part to the in-home daycare, we are all now sick with the first of many, many colds.

*Although I see a multitude of doctors (no, I do not have Munchausen’s. Just crap-matic genes**) my favorite waiting room is at my endocrinologist. There is no better place to people watch than this waiting room, I’m convinced. It’s like watching animals in the zoo. I’m also pretty sure that this means that people are probably looking at me while I sit there and thinking the same thing. Sweet ass.

*I’ve stopped swearing as much as I did before. This is kind of making me feel not only old, but lame. On the upside, though, Ben has stopped yelling “DAMNIT!” when he drops things.

*I spent some time yesterday in my garden for the first time since I was very slightly pregnant with Amelia and I have a special piece of advice for you: after tying up your climbing roses to a trellis and receiving more than a few pokes in the process, it is not wise to then go inside and douse your hands with alcohol-based hand sanitizer.

*If possible, tie up your climbing roses the winter BEFORE. I was too big to do so last year and I’m seriously paying for it now. Also: my roses can kick your roses ass. They’re unreal.

*Why yes, I do garden.

*Why no, I am not an old woman. I will be 29 in July. SHUT UP, THAT IS NOT OLD.

*Chalked up to the I’m So Suburban It Hurts category, The Daver and I are seriously considering buying a mini-van. Because yeah. Trying to cram 3 kids in my CR-V is laughable at best and futile at worst. Anything I should know (besides the fact that I am suddenly even lamer than lame when I buy one.)?

*How flipping cool would it be to put flames on my mini-van? Don’t answer that one.

*Another word to the wise: STEP AWAY FROM THE SCALE. IT WILL ONLY DEPRESS YOU. Also: I SO need to go on a diet.

*My daughter, oh she of the cradle cap and acne, will only fall asleep while someone holds her. Normal people might be annoyed by this as it takes a good long while and often makes your arms fall asleep. But after dealing with Alex’s sleep issues, this seems like a cinch. Perspective, it is invaluable.

——————-

So, Internet, what’s on YOUR mind today? Spill your beans.

**I initially spelled this jeans.

The first year that The Daver and I celebrated VDay (also hilarious known in my brain as VD-Day–because what ISN’T funny about VD? Answer: nothing, unless it’s your privates. Then it’s really unfunny) was on a Saturday, which means that since it wasn’t TODAY that we first celebrated it, this is our 6th VD-Day. Sounds impressive, no?

3 kids, 2 houses, 2 apartments and a whole mess of pets later, I cannot believe that number is so low.

But we’re not romantical people, Internet. I know, I know, pick your jaw up off the ground, you simply cannot believe that someone who married moi wouldn’t be all about hearts and flowers but it’s the truth. I happen to love this holiday–albeit for very different reasons of which I’ll give you three: pink, red, and sparkly–but Dave could probably do without it. It’s unfair, but I imagine him listening to whiny emo music on VD-Day’s prior to our union, and perhaps crying into something made out of silk.

(It’s a good thing that he won’t read this for weeks or I might be facing the wrath of a dutch oven tonight)

It’s not a likely scenario since I’m fairly certain that he’s never owned anything silk, but it’s my mental picture and I’m sticking to it as dogma. It is my blog, after all, and if my mental picture of my husband includes a bunny suit and a 5-pound jug of sour cream, well, it’s my prerogative.

The only thing that Dave and I have consistently done on VD-Day besides annoy the living shit out of each other by screetching the “It could only be JAAARREEDD” song and ever-increasing decibels is to buy one another roses.

And not just ANY kind of roses: TACKY roses.

No, they’re not real or have ever been grown on anything remotely resembling a plant. I’m talking about the world’s tickiest-tackiest sort of flower. They can’t even just be fake; they have to be fake PLUS.

For example, last year I found a true gem: it cost 39 cents (hello, After VD-Day specials!!), it was covered in fake velvet AND it sang a tinny melody! Even better, the wires that connected the button that needed to be depressed to make the music were fucked up, so the melody–Fur Elise, I think it was–would veer horribly off key at irregular intervals. All it was missing was the heavy, cheap perfume of fake roses past.

With all of the hullabaloo that the last month or so has involved, I was never able to enact my master plan: a rose made of a lacy cheap thong. I’ve seen them before and stupidly never thought to buy them for such an occasion, and now I’m kicking myself for it. Because what else would my husband want for VD-Day but a pair of women’s thong underwear that no woman in her right mind would wear? The level of gross would be too high to put them on my delicate girly bits, even for a laugh. Shit, the material might eat my crotch.

*sighs*

Always next year, right?

Happy VD-Day, Internet! I hope today finds you happy and well and perhaps in possession of a 5 gallon jug of sour cream. Because what isn’t awesome about sour cream? Answer: nothing.

And if you have any ideas for hideous roses for years to come, holler.

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.

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.

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 paneled 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. Definitely more cowbell.

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

Slovenly and unkempt.

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.