Okay, so the title is a bit of a lie: I totally can sleep. Not, of course, as well as I could if I were to say, pop a couple of Ambien, but I consider any sleeping at night in my 33rd week to be a huge coup. (As a not so aside, aside, let me give a brief but forceful shout out to Benedryl. Thanks for being there for me, man.).

But it does appear, sleeping or not, that all of my thwarted and aborted previous attempts at nesting have come back and bitten me in the butt. So now, rather than just hurry up and order the damn swing that for some reason I haven’t ordered (and is subsequently driving me wild), I’m doing a complete and utter purge of my house.

This is also brought on by the upcoming Christmas holiday in which my children, the youngest on all sides of the family next to The Daver and I, our children tend to be indulged to the nth degree each and every holiday. Any attempts at dissuading people to spend their money elsewhere tend to go unheard, so many of these toys go directly to people in need, without being opened by my children’s grubby paws.

Now, since I’m no packrat and I tend to purge my house every couple of months or so, this is less an easy task than you’d think. But surprisingly, I’ve found a huge amount of things that the Salvation Army will be inheriting just as soon as I shove it all into my car and drive it over to the center.

Before you go (rightly) all environmental on me, trust me when I tell you that I’ve significantly reduced the amount of impulse crap that I buy. Another sign that I know I’m getting all geriatric on you is that I can actually say (and mean) that Less IS More. Unless it comes to either diamonds or sparkly stuff. Then More is Golden.

I’m not really sure how the impending arrival of Baby Sausage translates in my hormonally addled brain to the necessity of removing all old socks and underwear from my house (I mean, is she going to come home and immediately turn up her nose at my slovenly house-keeping abilities? Because if she is, SHE CAN TOTALLY CLEAN IT UP HERSELF), but I guess I’m not one to question nature. I’ve not nested like this before, but I can totally assure you that is more rewarding than a deep dish pizza OR a killer orgasm (or both, in whatever order you like).

And I’m pretty convinced that I am powerless to stop. Completely powerless over my urge to purge. How am I so sure? If I could, I would happily come over to YOUR house and do the same thing for you. FOR FREE. Insane? Yes. Hormonal? Totally. Completely happy stewing in my hormone stew? 100%.

————–

Are you a purger or a hoarder? I’m dying to know what The Internet thinks.

I mentioned in passing the other day that this year we were doing 3! Thanksgiving celebrations, and while I may have made it sound like I was irritated by it, I’m not. Not really. I’m happy that we split up the holidays once again, as it has made for a much less stressful holiday. It took a bit of Trial By Fire for Dave and I to realize that our families will probably never get along.

And, of course, the “not getting along” is far more insidious than screaming matches and pimp slapping, which made it that much harder for Dave and I to realize what the hell was going on. It was a showdown of passive-aggressive behavior and it made it incredibly stressful for both Dave and I to please our families WHILE successfully avoiding suicide by means of chocolate chip cookie. Not exactly the fun holiday we’d have liked.

So yesterday, we hosted my parents for Thanksgiving, and because they are hosting us today with the traditional turkey + stuffing gluttony Dave and I decided to mix things up. While I do, in fact, like turkey and stuffing, if I tried to cook it myself, I’d never be able to eat it again. I’m neurotic and have A Thing about raw meat.

Last year, while hosting both of our families, we decided to be all high-falutin’ and make us a damn side of beef and all sorts of pretentious side dishes. Horseradish twice baked potatoes, bourbon pecan pie, all the good shit. And when I served it all up, all fancy-style on my Haviland china, my eldest son began to weep.

He has massive food issues, as you probably know, and obnoxious to cook for is a given and a way of life for me.

Well, it was exactly the wrong thing for him to do at that moment. We’d prepared, and cleaned, and prepared, and spent a veritable fortune on the beef, and to have him openly weep over this enraged me. I’m surprised that my skull cap didn’t pop off from the fire raging within and spew grey matter all over the side of my freshly dusted china cabinet.

Sure, I’m accustomed to this behavior, but I’d deliberately chosen dishes that he would and did like, given the opportunity to try it. But, of course, the minute I began to harp on Ben in my most controlled yet fury-filled voice, both families finally united. To yell at me for yelling at my son on Thanksgiving.

Which was now exactly the wrong thing for THEM to do at this moment. The food issues + Ben go back for ages, and if they all had their way about it, Ben would still be eating his White Stuff Only diet. The Daver and I have spent many hours with a weeping Ben to make him try such disgusting kid food as “hot dogs” and “pizza.” We’re not exactly insisting on foie gras and prosciutto here.

But whatever, they all jump down my throat, and the fire of a thousand suns burns within my belly for the next year. What, me have issues?

So this year, in approximately July when the winter holiday schwag begins to hit the store shelves, I informed Dave that I will not be doing any heavy duty hosting this year and he immediately agreed. But on Thanksgiving, living in a suburb, there’s very little open for us to shamelessly order takeout from, so I decided that I’d cook. And I’ll cook things that are both easy and that my children will eat.

Hence, White Trash Thanksgiving was born.

The menu?

BBQ meatballs
Hawaiian meatballs
Mac -n- Cheese

Cupcakes with canned frosting for dessert.

(the mac and cheese, I must divulge, was fancy ass, and I did make it from scratch. It was so incredibly rich that it made an audible THWUMP! when it hit our stomachs. We all ate approximately 2 tablespoons before we could eat no more. But hey, it was a TASTY two tablespoons)

I bought generic ingredients whenever possible, and was sad that I hadn’t thought to make a jello mold salad (complete with the most generic fruit cocktail suspended creepily inside) OR a ranch, iceberg and baco-bits salad, as that would have added a new and extra-special dimension of trashiness. Perhaps next year I will also serve generic Kool-Aid in wax-covered cups. The red flavor. And we will eat of Chinette.

My parents, my snobby, NPR-listening to parents, loved it. As did my children and my husband.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a new tradition. Any thoroughly white trash suggestions for next year?

Things haven’t been exactly easy for me in the past year or so, and while I’m remiss to talk about them here, because honestly, every time I put up some whiny “woe is Aunt Becky” post, I’m immediately annoyed by it. Then, because I happen to have some of the best readers in the world, you guys come over and try and make me feel better, which leads to a Wayne’s World-esque “I’m not worthy!” in my head.

Ranting and complaining just isn’t something I do well, so I don’t really bother. If I’m not posting one of two things is happening:

1) I’m having hot, hot sex (shut up. It COULD happen)

or

2) I’m not feeling it, dawg (is it just me pining for American Idol to come back? Probably).

I’m slowly picking myself up off the ground, dusting myself off and trying once again to pee rainbows and sunshine rather than hatorade and spite, and it’s working. Mostly.

But nowhere is my Mind Slippage more evident than apparently in the realm of cakes. Yes, that’s right, I said cakes. My eldest turned 7 last month, and due to a number of incredibly boring reasons, we waited until this weekend to have his Kids Party. Mainly because the last thing I want to do is host a party for a bazillion 7 year olds. Or something.

Normally, most of the thrill of having a big party for me lies in the almighty Cake Selection. You see, despite not really caring for the taste of cake, I happen to have a bit of a love affair with fancy cakes. Like, I kind of want to marry fancy cakes and make cute ickle cake babies. Or something. It’s always been with great gusto that I selected a cake for Ben’s birthday (also: the first time I alone hosted a large party. With or without beer), and great pride that I unveiled it to my guests who probably didn’t give a crap.

Case and point, the first cake that’s made it’s way into my iPhoto gallery.

Okay, so the second cake isn’t as cool, but so what?

And Alex’s first birthday this year…

Is that a….

It totally is! That dirty bitch!

I realize that this is a somewhat poor representation of all the Cakes I’ve Loved And Served, but I’m unable, without major work like lifting my fat ass off this chair and into another one, to show you the catalogue of other awesome cakes I’ve bought. So just PRETEND that you’re seeing a whole ton of pictures mmkay?

Well, this year, I was going to get another bomb-diggity cake for Ben’s birthday party, only to be seen by 7 year old eyes for the sugar content and not the amazing artistry that had gone into it’s creation, but, well, I just didn’t. I took the easy way out and went to Target, pretty much blindly selected a cake (cakes get far less cool for older kids, let me tell you) and picked it up today.

And…it’s hideous. Simply hideous. Awful, even. Don’t believe me?

I mean, after half-watching about 1,000 soccer games I’m appreciative that they got the ethnicities right:

But hey, at least he likes it. Loves it, is more like it. Even though the characters are GROWN MEN and not kids like I thought they’d be (no one to blame but myself here). I mean, hello, creepy Uncle Pervy men here. I’m shocked you can’t quite make out The Bulge in their shorts.

And I can be sure to be the parent that everyone hates when their precious kids come home covered in green goo.

I’m spotting.

I’m extending my middle finger to The Universe right now.

I will be going to the doctor tomorrow morning to follow up on all of this. While the spotting has stopped for now, I have little faith that things will be well. It’s either self-preservation or just “knowing something isn’t right,” but either way, I’m resigned to losing this pregnancy.

And I literally do not know what I’m going to do.

In an epic battle of Alex vs. The Lazy, Alex is the true victor at long last!

He took his first steps today, and I’m insanely excited. He’s going to be a walking machine in no time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who looked disgustingly like a bride.

Back in my senior year in college, I was broke as a joke, but since I had a three year old, it meant a lot more than I couldn’t buy Ramen or another 30-case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, it meant that I could barely afford Christmas gifts for him.

I should have known better than to accept a second hand hamster, but there I was, nodding my head stupidly “YES” to my classmate when she offered me her rejected hamster, citing that she didn’t have time to play with him anymore.

How could I pass this up?

I’d owned various hamsters and assorted small rodents when I was a child, only to watch them meet their untimely demise at the jaws of my cats.It’s a fucking wonder I’m not more twisted than I am.

Where’s Sid? AAAAH! There he is! DEAD! NO! And NOT NANCY TOOOO! NOOOO!!

Sometimes, the hamsters would even eat their babies before I could stop them, only adding to the macabre situation of Rodent Gloom and Doom in my house.

Anyway, I’d remembered loving them before, well, they died and figured that Ben would too. He’d play with them, help clean their cages, and feed them little bits of his dinner just like I used to do!

Problem was, though, that Ben couldn’t have given less of a shit about the hamster, who he’d named Joey. This wasn’t one of my brighter ideas, considering Ben preferred planets to people, but we managed.

Joey lived a peaceful hamster life until one day he chewed free from the plastic house he lived in. I assumed that he would get lost in my parents house, possibly finding all of the skeletons of his contemporaries and didn’t give it much thought beyond feeling sort of sad for a moment.

I’d been down this road before, I knew that looking for him was useless, I mean it wasn’t like I could call him by name and he’d come running for me. And since he was approximately the size of a cotton ball, he could literally be anywhere.

One day a couple of weeks later, I was hastily plugging out a blog post on my father’s laptop when I heard some squeaking. Assuming the radio was tuned to some weird NPR program about ancient Siberian squeaking, I continued blogging. Eventually my bladder tapped me on the shoulder and I got up and headed for the bathroom.

It was there where I saw my two kittens, Finnegan and Atticus playing with something in the corner. Upon further inspection, I realized that it was a puff-ball that looked remarkably like…Joey.

Shit! I thought as I grabbed his little body up. Fuck! They got the hamster!

Now, just because I didn’t go on a Hamster Finding Mission didn’t mean I wanted him to die like that, so I carefully put him back in his cage on a heating pad offering a prayer up to the heavens that I hadn’t just killed another hamster.

I hadn’t.

What I had done is turned this sweet puff-ball of a hamster into a raging asshole. Walk by his cage and he would throw himself at the bars, punching at you. If you stood near his cage for too long, he’d start to fling his poo at you.

Oh yes, the new Joey flung poo.

He’d also bite the shit out of your fingers if you were stupid enough to try and touch him, leaving large puncture wounds where your skin had been mere seconds before. He liked the taste of blood.

Joey the Adorable Puff Ball had turned into Joey the Mean Hamster.

His brain had been re-hardwired to hate.

I dutifully changed his litter, gave him food and water, and frantically googled “dwarf hamster life span.” The relief I felt was palpable when I learned that he was nearing death.But no. Not Joey.

Joey not only got outlived the top end of his expected lifespan, but he doubled it. He graduated college with me, got married with me, followed me through 3 different moves, and he even managed to somehow place a voodoo hex on the two cats that mauled him. Because those kittens? Died before he did.

Joey The Mean Hamster lasted until right after Alex was born, torturing guests at my baby shower by pelting food and poo at anyone who stopped to say “What a cute hamster!” His fur became sort of grayish white, his nails approached Howard Hughes lengh, and he got pretty dilapidated looking.

But he was alive and you weren’t going to forget it for a second.

He died one night shortly after, and you know what? For all of the pounds of my flesh he ate and liked, I was kinda sad. It was like losing your own personal Archenemy. Maybe I wasn’t his friend, but it was really hilarious to have someone hate me so much.

Something that hated me that I had to take care of.

*sighs*

Rest In Peace, Joey The Mean Hamster. Gone, but never forgotten.

No matter how hard I try.

Every Spring, Saint Charles does a junk-day in which they pick up (for no charge!!!) all household materials/crap hidden in the unused part of your basement that you’ve been saving for God knows what. I don’t know if this is more of a universal thing, it probably is, but since I am quite boring and have never REALLY lived anywhere else, I don’t know.

The week before the stuff is collected, people tend to start putting their stuff out on the curb. When I was younger, this made for some most excellent garbage picking. The neighborhood gang and I would traipse around the blocks looking for, well, stuff and things. I’m not sure that my parents were overly thrilled the years I brought home an earwig infested dog-house or the gallons of paint I found, but to their credit they never said a whole lot about it.

Once I hit the teenage years, the prospect of garbage picking was deemed “lame” mainly because I’d discovered this really neat thing called “money” which you could use to exchange for goods and services. My allowance was hefty so I had no need to rummage through other people’s stuff anymore.

This is not to say that I don’t like scouring thrift stores: I totally do, but there’s something different between standing in full view of whomever threw the stuff you’re looking at out and being able to examine it on your own. As with most of the stuff people tend to leave on the curb, there’s always the wonder of WHY they threw it out in the first place that makes me not really want it.

Guess I’m becoming an adult.

So, last Sunday Alex, The Daver and Benny were playing outside with the throng of neighbors that I am fortunate enough to have and love and I decided to get a start on moving our crap to the curb. I really only put out the bigger stuff because the bags ‘o’ crap get shuffled over to the Salvation Army (pretty much weekly). I do most of the manual work around the house, which includes checking for critters that may have made their way into our garage. I don’t actually have a penis, but this sometimes surprises even me.

Our junk day is tomorrow (Saturday) and this must be marked in the datebooks of each and every junk collector within a forty-mile radius, because by that time (last Sunday afternoon) the scads of pickup trucks with makeshift sides on their truck bed were out in full force.

This pleases me me greatly, of course, because I am somewhat of a recycling nerd. I’m thrilled by the green aspect of all of this (and I was long before it was hip to be green) and I love knowing that whatever I put out will (mostly) go to good use.

No idea what the use is, but I’m sure it’s better than sitting in my garage night after night. Pretty much anything is better than that.

While I am in the process of hauling stuff out of the garage and onto the curb, some dude missing most of his teeth and genes (mayhap the missing link?) comes screeching to a halt at my curb and starts vigorously going through our stuff. I have no problem with this, save for it being mildly uncomfortable because here I am, teeth and genes intact, dropping my crap on the curb for someone else to take.

What annoys me the most is that while he is shuffling through some of the boxes I put out (electronic stuff that even I don’t understand) the papers and plastic that are in these boxes drift lazily down to my grass where they remain until he leaves and I pick them back up. I’m cool with you taking my stuff, Mr. Missing Link, I’m not cool with you spewing the trash about RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE.

*ahem*

I’ll never really know where these people come from although I’d guess either Middle Earth or Aurora (made famous by Wayne’s World), and while I’m glad that they are saving stuff from rotting (or not) in a landfill, there’s something about them that makes me sure to lock my car at night.

The most HILARIOUS email exchange I have ever had the pleasure of joining in:

Becky

Seeing that our significant others will be accompanying each other on a
pedal-filled rendezvous this evening, I hear (through an astonishingly
tall, brown-haired, Italian grapevine) that you had an idea to counter this.

So you say that you and I should hang out tonight to balance the
universal scales? So be it.

Give me the info: will you be in the city tonight, and if so what time?

Don’t feel that we have to get together tonight. We can pull this card out any time:
‘œBut you went out biking with Barb/Dave! That totally gave us license to have a torrid, passion-filled love affair at a hastily reserved motel that rents out by the hour!’

They will have no choice but to agree. And so our master plan gathers momentum.

MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

RS

And my reply:

RS'”

My love, my life, my only true one’¦ Of course there will be a
passion-filled evening (well, okay, 30 minutes'”but it’ll be a HOTT 30
minutes) at a roadside motel so long as I may indulge my craving for Spicy
Red-Hott Cheetos at the same time’¦so burn-ey, so good-ey.

I will be in Oak No-Park this fine evening and am looking for a swarthy,
hair-covered manly man to fufill my deepest desire'”to rub petrolium jelly
all over my naked body and slip-and-slide across the hardwood floors of
Dave’s apartment. Butt naked.

I will be available sometime after 8:00 this beautiful nippley spring day,
so that we may consumate the hardwood floor with our glistening bodies.

God, I need to write romance novels.

I will call you this evening in preparation'” we’re gonna need.

*10-12 lbs cotton balls (the blue-colored ones ONLY)
*4-5 rooms Vitamin D milk
*Osco (possibly Savon) brand petroleum jelly- 50-60 kgs
*A socket set (silver)
*5 gallon jug of Crisco (NO SUBSTITUTIONS)

And so the master plan is set in motion’¦

Becky

And his:

My love, my joy, my sweet ecstacy’¦

Firstly, I was thinking along the lines of twenty-five minutes of HOTT
LOVIN, but for you I try and hold on for those last five minutes.

Your list of supplies, while a good start, is missing a few standbys:

-An unopened package of Depends undergarments (we will place this on a stool
in the corner and continually laugh at it, for they are diapers’¦for
grown-ups)
-A 40 pound bucket of orange juice concentrate (because, as we all know,
orange juice is very, very healthy)
-Two sharpened broadswords (the huns are coming and they’ll be taken off
guard when we unleash the might of our weapons)
-A Prince CD (preferably Purple Rain, but the Batman sountrack will do’¦I
guess)
-Anal Cum Leakage (My favorite porn about men who can’t stop cumming’¦and
the women who wouldn’t have it any other way!)
-A soccer ball full of banana cream (Because, obviously)
-the spare tire from a 1981 Dodge Pinto (Guess where this is going to go. No
really, guess.)

I also think that we should send out an e-mail to invite a chosen few to
watch. We should entitle it: ‘œYou’re invited to cum to our orgy!’ Look but
don’t touch.

Hehehe.

RS

Another from the vaults, this one is from January 2006. I figured that rather than fluff up the archive on this blog with my old stuff, I’ll just repost the good ones here.

I’ll be back later with something more substantial.

————-

*ring, ring*

B: (excitedly) ‘œHey Daver, I had a great idea!’

D: (distractedly) ‘œYeah?’ (typing sounds resume earnestly in background)

B: ‘œWell, you know how we’re buying a new house?’

D: (warily) ‘œYeah’¦.?’

B: ‘œI think we should rescind our offer on the house on Adams. I found a better one!’

D: ‘œWhat?’

B: (talking faster now) ‘œI mean, I know we’re going to lose some of our earnest money, and that totally sucks but I just realized my dream house!’

D: ‘œWhere is this place?’

B: ‘œWell, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?’ and ‘Cantigny is so pretty!”

D: (warily and wearily) ‘œYes’¦’

B: ‘œI’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!’

D: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) ‘œBecky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county.’

B: (triumphantly) ‘œWell, THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing; give them an offer they can’t refuse!’

D: (head resting on desk) ‘œOhno.’

B: (dreamily) ‘œThink about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of THAT house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco in my mind! It has a nicer ring to it.’

D: (banging head on desk) ‘œYou know she’s dead, right?’

B: ‘œSo she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, ‘I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco.”

D: (now irritated) ‘œYou got me out of a meeting for THIS?’

B: (sheepishly) ‘œWell, yeah.’

D: (tiredly) ‘œWHEN do you go back to work?’

B: ‘œJanuary 30th’

D: (under his breath) ‘œNot soon enough.’

B: ‘œOh well, I’ll call our real estate lady and tell her the news.’

D: ‘œYou do that.’

*both parties hang up*