It appears as though finally the events of the past year have caught up with me as I knew they would eventually. You can run all you want, but eventually it comes time to pay the piper. Whomever the piper happens to be. What a dumb saying that is considering I have no idea who or what a piper is. (Because if *I* don’t know it, no one else would either, right?)

I’m fine, really, I am, just sitting on my couch chock full of The Anxiety For No Good Reason and wishing like hell I had another adult home with me to talk to. I’ll live, I just need some head-space, I think. Which will be in no easy task considering that Christmas (o! how I wish I could not celebrate thee this year) is around the corner and my eldest is home from school and currently trying to drive me to drink.

So, Internet, here is where YOU come in and why I’m bothering posting about this at all: I need some distractions and I need your help in getting them. What do you do when you’re anxious and you can’t self-medicate with delicious, o! delicious vodka (assuming exercise is also not going to happen, either)? If you’re not an anxious person, then tell me something funny. An anecdote or something.

I hate Kansas, have I mentioned that? The band, not the state. It’s one of those kinda irrelevant details that most people probably wouldn’t know about me. The capitol of Illinois is Springfield, the square root of 4 is 2, and Aunt Becky hates 70’s ass rock bands.

I mean, I loves me MANY ass rock bands–The Scorpions come to mind here and I have to giggle because, well, obviously–just as much as anyone else on the planet, perhaps more, but somehow most of the Bands Named After States or Cities That Came Out In The 70’s tend to grate on my nerves.

Well, that and Rush. I hate Rush even more than I hate Kansas and last I checked, they’re not named after any city or state. Unless it’s the State of Suckiness! ZING!

(Paradoxically, I love Super Tramp. Which makes no sense whatsoever, I’m aware.)

But my eternal hatred of Kansas, which started when I was in 7th or 8th grade and my boyfriend professed that he loved “Dust in the Wind,” a song whose corn-ball factor approaches the top of my Corniness factor (also on the top of that list: “More Than Words,” “Everything I Do (I Do It For You),” and my personal favorite: “Winds of Change.”), my disdain for Kansas abruptly stopped on November 1st.

November 1st is Callum’s birthday. Callum is my friend C’s son, who was born still on November 1st. To commemorate this day, C has partnered with a company called HipMelon who make and design super sassy slings (alliteration much?).

To honor sweet Callum, HipMelon and C designed a sling called “Carry On My Wayward Son.” HipMelon Baby Wear will donate the full purchase price of all Carry on My Wayward Son slings purchased to stillbirth research in the name of Callum, son to HipMelon founder, C, who was born still at 34 weeks gestation on November 1, 2007.

Carry on, sweet boy. Carry on.

So, all week long, “Carry On My Wayward Son,” has been playing on repeat in the back of my brain. Shockingly, I DID NOT TRY AND STAB MY EARDRUM WITH A PENCIL. In fact, thinking of how it might now remind me of Callum, I sort of liked it.

I figured I’d order the sling, wear Amelia while remembering Callum, and feel good about myself for donating to stillbirth research. It was a win-win situation.

Until all of C’s other friends ordered up all of the “Carry On My Wayward Son” slings.

Because HipMelon is such a cool company, they have decided to donate the full purchase price of any sling purchased by C’s friends; ANY OF THESE SWEET ASS SLINGS, for the whole month of November, to stillbirth research. If you want to be a part of this, make sure to let Cheryl know at checkout that you came via My Resurfacing (C’s blog).

It’s a great cause, and it’s a practical gift. I am planning on ordering “Flowers In The Attic” for myself, because it’s flipping cool. I will proudly wear it, and I will remember Callum, and all of the other babies born still.

So, C, it looks like you were able to change my mind on the whole “Kansas Doesn’t Always Suck Now” thing, but you can’t take away my hatred of Rush.

So don’t even try.

While there were many, many, many things that I never knew about becoming a mother (read: cleaning poo off baby testicles. O! the search terms that will come in), one thing I was pretty dead set upon was having some traditions in my new family. After Ben’s first visit to Santa–in a jaunty red Santa suit, I must add–I broke down and purchased a whole mess of Christmas cards, painstakingly wrote a personal message in each, and enclosed an adorable picture of my young son in what is certain to be blackmail fodder for years to come.

Before Christmas, however, came Halloween (I know. I am so SMRT). And with Halloween comes pumpkin patches.

We all loaded up young screamy Ben into the car and trundled off to get the first of many pictures of My Kid In The Pumpkins: Isn’t It Adorable (no question mark).

While I’ll tell The Internet that I live in Chicago, I don’t really. I live in a SUBURB of Chicago which has the same name as a more well known suburb of Missouri (St. Charles, ILLINOIS), and as we’re far enough away from the city proper, plentiful farmlands abound.

And several of these smaller farms run pumpkin patches in the fall to bring in some extra cash. We were delighted to go to a real! small! farm! that year and pick us out some pumpkins to carve for Ben (since at age 3 months, he shamefully had NOT mastered his Knife Skills. Obviously an unfit mother am I). Pictures were snapped and plans were made for a Brand New Tradition.

The next year, we bundled ourselves up, grabbed a toddler Ben and trundled off to the pumpkin patch again. This time, I noticed that the farm had set up a tiny little area housing some dried corn (yay?), some of those pictures that you put your head through and suddenly you’re a sexy chick in a bikini (or maybe you were before), and some dilapidated animals. Ben, sweet non-verbal Ben, indicated that he would like to look at one of the animals.

I then noticed that there was a sign indicating that entrance to this sad little area was $10 a head. And upon realizing that my one year old would not be in anyway entertained by the other “features” (I use that loosely here) for the $20 it cost to bring us both inside, I asked if I could just show him one of the animals (remember, the attention span of a toddler is comparable to that of a flea. Who presumably has a short attention span. Or at least a short LIFE span).

The frightening beast at the ticket window inhaled off a long cigarette, blew the smoke in my face and informed me that there was no way in hell I was going to get in without my hard earned cash no matter HOW old my son was.

Leaving in a slight huff, the following year we returned. And in the barn that had previously housed the scale and cash drawer for weighing and paying for the pumpkins, was now a mini-Halloween themed store. Why, for a mere $11.95 I could buy a sugar cookie mix! Quite a steal since the package boasted that they would be SPOOKY cookies! How could I say no?

Now, next to the barn stood a concession stand, where for the sweet price of $6.00 I could purchase a dixie cup of cider served up by a surly teen. I’d use it, of course, to wash down the $14.00 bag of salted popcorn that I could also buy there.

The following year we dutifully returned, a 4 year old child now in tow. A 4 year old child who was THRILLED to note that the pumpkin farm now boasted a moon bounce! And a gigantic inflatable slide! Which, for the cost of $10.00 a person, we could go on for about 30 seconds. And wait! Hay Rides! For another $20.00 a head, we could sit in some sneeze-inducing hay and be driven around the parking lot for 2! whole! laps!

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice when we quickly ushered him out of there with our pumpkins.

At age 5, we noticed that the formerly dirt road leading to the pumpkins had been surfaced, and was now swarming with all sorts of other yuppie-mobiles. The dirt and gravel parking lot now had been expanded so that a sea of SUV’s were occupying all of the spots, and in order to find a spot to park in at all, we would have to perform a maneuver I like to call “stalking” people.

You know, where you spy someone leaving and then follow them to their cars slowly and creepily inching along behind them? Yeah. And that was when we turned around–not before seeing the pony rides and small carnival rides that were now offered–and left.

While I understood that the farm had to make a bit of extra money–and I know how expensive farming can be–the small, sweet pumpkin stand had turned into a major tourist attraction. I know that to some families, this is a fun day trip, just like the county fair, but it’s just not my bag. I don’t really want to pay $3.00 a head to go through a corn maze that at least two members of my ($3.00 a head) family will hate (Alex + whomever is watching him. Because toddlers aren’t really into mazes, sad to say).

Thankfully, we stumbled upon a small family farm where you could pick your own pumpkins from the vine. THIS was more my speed. There were some family animals–2 inexplicable donkeys–but I didn’t have to pay to show either of the boys how much we really, really need to have a donkey. It was a riot, searching through the garden to look for the perfect pumpkin and we all had a blast.

The following year we returned, only to be informed that this was probably the last year we’d be able to pick our own pumpkins at that location. The family was having too hard of a time competing with the local Jewel to stay in business. I don’t need to tell you how sad we were to hear this.

Today we visited another pumpkin patch, one that I’d remembered being sort of small and homey feeling. And before I could say “KEEP DRIVING” Dave pulled into a Phamily Phun Pharm again, complete with several different inflatable creations, a crappy corn maze, and $10.00 jugs of cider.

I really wanted to have a good time going to this farm, really, I did. But my crusty old balls self couldn’t shake how annoyed I was to be spending $40.00 on some pumpkins, because I couldn’t disappoint my 7 year old son (even I have feelings. Sort of) who was in! love! with His Pumpkin. And I needed pie pumpkins for the holidays. Like next Tuesday, when I bake pumpkin bread from scratch (I cannot cook, but I can bake with the best of ’em). That’s a holiday, right?

So, I don’t really know if it’s me or if it’s them. Because, if all the Yuppie Mobiles in the parking lot are to be believed, other people DO enjoy these sorts of things. And maybe if it was what I’d been expecting, rather than some Real Norman Rockwell farm family, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. Maybe I just need to loosen the hell up, get my credit card out, and have some damn fun.

And maybe I just will. As soon as those gol-darn kids get off my lawn!

(oh wait. Those are MY kids). Shit.

The Horrifying Gods of Teething are making damn sure I regret never, ever being bitten on the nipple while nursing, making sure I regret being slightly pleased by Alex’s non-Jack-o-Lantern-type smile for the first 12 months of his life. I’m getting paid back for every time I ever sneered at a bottle of Ambesol, and friends, let me tell you this: payback is a BITCH.

Earlier this week, I was feeling pretty rung out, dragged through the muck, and buried by my cat in a pile of soiled kitty-litter. I tried to pinpoint why, and finally decided that my thyroid must be out of whack (neglecting to remember that well, actually Becky, my thyroid is GREAT during gestation. It begins to suck when I come down with a nifty little ditty I like to call “Post Partum Thyroiditis.” And yes, my people, it is as sexy as it sounds. I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE).

I trundled off to my endocrinologist (can I just tell you how decrepit I feel admitting that I have an endocrinologist? I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!), certain that my TSH would be off the charts, insane, and I would require a heaping double helping of my already ridiculously high dose. My trusty nurse friend called me to report that actually, Becky, my thyroid was behaving magnificently.

It was then that I turned my previously blind eye to the toddler standing before me, ripping apart the cords from my laptop, pulling each and everything I’d ever put in my kitchen out of the cabinets, while simultaneously laying on the ground, screaming for “kitty” (his term for wanting to watch YouTube videos about, you guessed it, cats) while banging his ample noggin against the Pergo.

I think I might be suffering from a mutant form of Asshole Toddler-itis.

While he’s never really been a model sleeper (I will not go into it here, for fear that other pregnant women may read this and hyperventilate), only ceasing to get up every 1-3 hours at the ripe old age of 10+ months, and his napping schedule would have you convinced that I was addicted to crack during my pregnancy, he used to go down for his pathetic naps pretty easily.

Blankie, bottle, bed, DONE.

Now, I know better than to think that The Way Things Are Today is the same as The Way Things Will Be Tomorrow; I’ve had kids and am not terrifically naive, but I was not really expecting that he would suddenly have to scream himself to sleep as though he was being poked by the fire of a thousand burning suns. And yet, my eardrums tell another tale.

It appears that he’s taken his Willful Level from the top of the charts to 11, leaving his 20 week pregnant mother and his harried father scratching our heads. What do we do now? Can I drop him off at the Toddler Shop and take a quieter loaner model home for several weeks, while Alex’s attitude is readjusted? Can I build him a wee house outside to live in where he cannot destroy anything else I own (I’d bring him out meals and change his diaper–don’t worry)?

And more importantly, will this ever end?

Earlier today, at pretty much any hour that ended with o’clock, Alex treated me to a symphony of screams and tears from the floor, where he lay, prostrate with grief over some unseen slight. He rolled angrily, this way and that, his back arched and head occasionally making contact with a toy carelessly tossed about.

I’d try and pick him up every couple of minutes as he thrashed about in the throes of a massive tantrum, but he’d arch his back away from me, and I’d nearly drop him from the sudden shift in weight.

In his defense, which I must remind myself of every 20 or so minutes, he’s getting approximately 4,000 teeth (give or take a few), which is standard M.O. for my poor kids who go from being toofless yokels to Jaws from Moonraker seemingly overnight.

Pleasant, it’s not. But it’s remarkably similar to how I’ve been feeling these days. The stuff I histrionically mentioned last week and then refused to elaborate on has gotten better, but not enough to ease things enough. Since it’s not something serious enough for me to blog about; it’s not cancer or a death in the family, no one is even physically sick right now, it’s hard to admit how much I’m struggling.

Maybe it’s just me, but I tend to try and rationalize away most of my upsetedness (totally not a word. Or if it is, it’s misspelled) by reminding myself that things could always be worse. And it’s the truth. No matter how hard things may be for me, someone somewhere may be dying a slow painful death by chocolate or pinto beans.

But rather than remind myself of this fact over and over and over until I feel like a shameless pile of goo for being upset about something so minor in the first place, I’m just going to go ahead and be upset. I’m not moping about the house, flopping aimlessly onto couches and sighing deeply anytime anyone talks to me or anything. I’m not crying in the shower–or anywhere else–or contemplating wording for my suicide note (although that would be a fantastic writing exercise).

No. None of those things.

Instead, of throwing things at walls or destroying box fans without mercy I am cleaning. I’m cleaning it all. Laundry that hasn’t been touched in weeks? Done. Car that hasn’t been cleaned in so long I’m too embarrassed to even write it down? Check.

It’s all clean.

When I was a kid, I could always tell when my mom wasn’t doing particularly well by the state of the carpets. The house would fall into disrepair, disgusting filth would pile up, and as a 8 year old, I would be stuck cleaning it with a bucket of hot soapy water so that my friends could come over without being disgusted.

As an adult, I associate dirtiness in my home as a sign that I am Not Doing Well. So, as a combatant to that, I clean the living fuck out of everything I can think of, when the going gets rough. I might feel sorry for myself a tad while I do it, but that’s how I handle things. Cleaning.

I wonder if my children notice. I wonder if when they grow up, they’ll become militant slobs when the going gets hard just to counteract the engrained idea that Clean House = Things Aren’t Well.

Or maybe they’ll just take after their father and be slobs no matter WHAT the state of the union is.

My carpet hasn’t looked this good since Alex was a (terrible) baby.

So I need some help, o! fellow Internet Guru’s, and the only solution is more cowbell.

Wait, that isn’t right. What I NEED is not cowbell, although Lord knows it wouldn’t hurt. What I need to know is how many readers I have.

My question for you is this: is there anyway to know how many readers I really have out there? It seems a simple request, but in the age of feed reader programs (like my beloved Google Reader, whom I might actually want to make babies with), it’s nearly impossible to quantify (kind of like my Level of Awesome. It’s Super Great, right now).

If you’re reading this in a reader, could you click over so my stat counter can see you? I won’t beg you to comment or anything, but I’m just trying to see if my stats are right.

I have a stat program, of course I do, who doesn’t? Otherwise I’d never hear of such search terms as “cameltoe competition” (Hi, I’m reigning champion to all of you who found me that way) or “my mom just wants to hold the baby but not do any cleaning or anything” (mine too! Mainly because she’s not my maid). I mean, how is that not FUNNY AS HELL and worth the time I take to check this out?

But I have a free stat counter, and I’m told by The Daver that there are such programs that you pay for out there. Since I am the Resident Cheap Ass, I don’t like to pay for things that I don’t have to. Anyone out there who does pay for one and can recommend it?

If you don’t have an answer to either of my pathetic and mewling questions, tell me this: do you have any big Labor Day plans with which you can make me feel like a lame-wad for sitting at home on my butt?

And hey, will you send some good vibes to my Southerly friends who I have just learned are now evacuating for Gustav? Of course, it’s the 3rd anniversary of That Bitch Katrina.

Now, I’m constantly doing boneheaded stuff. If you need further proof, go back into the archives and just read. I’m a complete idiot.

But, I could always count on being a complete idiot that REMEMBERED things. Lately, it appears, even that ability is being slowly taken away from me.

You see, sweet Internet, tomorrow my eldest son, my darling firstborn turns 7.

7 years old. For those of you who have known him since he was a bun in my chubby oven, I’ll give you a moment to digest that ickle bit of information.

…

…

…

Done?

Yeah, so 7. Anyway, the date didn’t elude me in the slightest. It’s marked on my calendar in large ink, complete with exclamation mark and “Dave off work” underneath it. August 20th is a date that my brain and my poor beaten up lady bits will never forget.

Except for when it comes to ACTION.

We’d planned to take him out to lunch at a restaurant of his choosing (always a hugemongeous bonus for a kid saddled with a mother who on her non-pregnant days, still has cravings) and do something else with him. Kids Museum, bowling, something. Doesn’t matter.

Yet this morning, when I waddled to the bathroom for the eleventhy-fifth time, it dawned on me that I had no cake mix with which to make him a cake. And in Ben’s eyes, it’s no party until there’s a cake involved.

I promptly forgot about this when I woke up for real and made plans to go to the pet store located conveniently next to Target (read: Heaven on Earth) and was left with only a nagging “I am forgetting something I needed to go to Target for” feeling in my guts.

Butter, I decided. I needed butter.

(as an aside, I’ve gone through more butter during the past 15 weeks than I have in potentially the last 10 years).

I pulled into the parking lot and looked at the huge toy store also conveniently located right there and something kept tapping me on the shoulder. Did I need to buy a gift for a birthday party? Was Alex in dire need of….more balls? Did I finally have to break down and buy something for the new baby?

SHIT! I thought to myself. No, what I needed more than anything else was a gift for my eldest son. For him to open on his birthday. Which is tomorrow. And I also need a card and cake. For tomorrow. On his birthday.

(Before you think too ill of me here, let me tell you something. When it’s all said and done here, we will have celebrated the birth of my son something like 6 times. You think I’m kidding? Here:

1) Last Week When Out Of Town Family Happened To Be IN Town
2) Tomorrow, August 20, His Real Birthday
3) Sometime After My (asshole) Brother Who Didn’t Take Me To Hawaii Where He Is Right Now, The Jerk, Gets Home
4) His Friends Party Sometime In September

and probably

5) With His Father
6) With My In-Laws

So, while this is an obvious OOPS! on my own part, it’s certainly not the end of the world.)

I trundled off to the toy shop where I agonized about what to purchase him. I shit you not when I tell you that his closet is stocked full of toys and games that he never plays with. (I need to donate these toys to charity)

I finally settled on something that requires being built and then uses a remote control to do…something. This is typically Daver’s realm, so I hope I chose well.

*sighs*

Where the hell have both the time and my brain cells gone?

————

In order to make my ego feel slightly less stupid, oblige me please, Internet. What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done lately?

*It’s sad to me that the only painkiller I can currently use is Tylenol. Which may help, I suppose, someone who has never tasted sweet, sweet Vicodin or even Ibuprofen, but for me? My blistering headache is laughing, LAUGHING at my pathetic use of Tylenol.

*Despite being a full-grown woman, I’m terrified of the stomach flu. It’s honestly closer to a complete phobia, and when Ben barfed all over, well, the world on Friday night, I might have maybe flipped out. Like a lot.

*And maybe it’s closer to a fear of puke. Like a fear of other people’s puke. Okay, and a fear of puking myself, too. I have no adenoids, which means that anything that is shot through my mouth invariably goes out through my nose. Like barf. Or semen.

*I have taught Alex what I consider the pinnacle of things to teach someone who still wears a diaper: I have taught him to yell “GOAL BALL” whenever he gets near, kicks, or thinks about soccer balls. What IS IT with kids and balls?

*Dave and I had made a bet back when I was pregnant with Alex about the flavor of the baby. I said boy, he said girl. If I won, he was supposed to wear a baby doll Britney Spears shirt out in public for a day and if I won, I was supposed to wear a Chicks Dig Linux shirt. I won, obviously, and he never was forces to ante up. Has the statute of limitations passed? Oh, and No. I don’t know what flavor of baby this is, yet.

*I may or may not be having a love affair with my spot lifter. Holy crap does that little thing suck up stains. Like a Hoover, only wetter.

*I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to look at bacon again for a good long while. Like perhaps years. Or at least months. I can’t believe I cured myself of a Bacon Obsession.

What’s on YOUR (addled) mind today, Internet?

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.

*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.