Now before I get to the meat -n- potatoes of this post, I need to be clear about something. Although I never got along with this person myself very well, it had much more to do with our obvious personality differences and not because she was a bitch. She was not a bitch then, she’s probably not a bitch now.

She’s a nice girl, just not my kind of girl (do I ever really like nice girls?).

———-

My brother and I are 10 years apart, him being the older of us, so when I was 8 he went off to college in the big city.

When it came for my time to choose a college to attend, because I am highly unoriginal, I chose the same school. A couple of months before school started, I got a letter in the mail that was decorated with butterfly stickers and written partially in crayon. Figuring it was from my young cousin, who shares a name with me and at the time thought that I was perhaps the coolest person on the planet (she has since wised up), I tore it open.

It was not a letter from Rebecca, no, it was a letter from my future roommate in college, whose name meant butterfly (if you really are dying know her real name, go check the last two entries and/or the comments. I don’t really want to broadcast this, as this is the first time I have broken my “let’s not talk about people who don’t read this rule”). She lived somewhat locally and suggested that we meet up for lunch at some halfway between us location.

I sent a perfunctory reply (without the stamps or crayons, of course) and we eventually settled on meeting at a Friday’s. To make it a little easier on my nerves, I dragged my friend Evan along.

At the appointed time and location, Evan and I showed up and took a seat. A couple of minutes later, it means butterfly arrived and sat down with us. I can only remember two things about this meeting:

1. She smelled like raw meat

2. She had the sort of personality that is really sweet and nice superficially, but you can see underneath that there is something…else, underneath. Like she might bite you or something if you fucked up.

This was not perhaps the most encouraging meeting I’ve ever had with someone I was about to share a shoebox with, but hey, she didn’t seem like a serial killer, which I considered a bonus.

Several months later, the time to pack up and leave for school dawned upon me and I shoved everything I was going to take with me into my friend Scott’s purple Neon and he drove me downtown and helped me move in.

The weekend that I moved in happened to be one that it means butterfly was gone, presumably back home, but she’d already moved in. This afforded me the chance to snoop through her stuff without her there.

What I found….disturbed…me.

She was an absolute girly-girl, and although I have a tendency towards being slightly girly, underneath that I’m all dude (without the dangly bits). I’ve been called affectionately “a dude with boobs” and I think that fits. Her side of the room was covered in what later I learned was colorful plastic table cloths, and over that were some poster-boards covered in magazine clippings.

Like phrases and stuff “Play With Fire, Skate on Ice.” And pictures of hot hunky guys. Cut from magazines. I knew this because I’d done the same thing to decorate my locker in Junior High, before I realized how dumb it looked.

But there were 5 different poster-boards strewn about the room, hanging from walls, hanging from the ceiling, hanging everywhere and annoying me. Then I saw that the back of the door was covered in what looked like cellophane but more iridescent and sparkly, and upon closer examination, realized that she had started to write cute little phrases on it. Quotes from Jewel–the singer not the store– mainly about love and happiness, kittens and puppies.

Her desk had a calendar on it that, I shit you not, had Precious Moments people-creepy-things on it. She was obviously a 50-year old trapped in the body of an 18-year old.

I was quite underwhelmed and a little bit nauseous.
At this point in my life, well before I had kids, well before I was a mother or a wife or a homeowner or a nurse or even your Aunt Becky, I was probably more of a rocker chick than anything else–minus the minked hair and gravelly voice. I smoked often and happily, drank whiskey, and was known to dabble in The Pot.

It became excruciatingly obvious that she was nothing like this. And yet, in the tradition of making people who have nothing in common, live together in a teeny room, she was to be my roommate.

“Shit,” I said to my metal friend Scott, “FUCK! What now?”

He looked sympathetically at me, put his arm around me paternally and said, “Vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.”

That night we drank to my new roommate and the disaster that we both knew lay before me.

Apparently, it’s me.

Rather than bore you with all of the details, and in lieu of trying to write a post which would inevitably turn into “Wah, wah, wah” I will just take a moment to tell you that although I am alive and kicking, I will be spending the rest of the day sitting on my couch feeling sorry for myself. For no real reason.

I’ll be back when I can pull myself out of this.

As of January 1st of this new year of our Lord, the great state of Illinois (great because, well, I live here) has passed a ban on smoking in public places and a strict policy of smokers having to inhale 15 feet away from doors.

Neither of these things do I feel one way or another about, truth be told. I was a smoker for many years, so I feel sorry for all of the people who are hip enough to head out to bars (unlike myself, who is now so tragically unhip that I spend my Friday nights in track pants wondering why all of the good programming is hiding far, far away from my TV set) and now have to go and hide to smoke.

What DOES bug me about this is that each door leading in to a public place now has a number that you can call someone from the state presumably and complain if they see someone not abiding by the 15 feet rule.

As a former smoker, I got really sick and tired of people who would make outrageously obscene commentary if I snuck outside for a quickie. The point of smoking outside is precisely to avoid sticking someone else in an enclosed room, so I had been trying to do everyone a FAVOR by not subjecting them to it.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, secondhand smoke smells bad. It does, I’m not denying that.

But to be fair, so does liberally dousing yourself in Adidas cologne or deciding that showers are overrated and deodorant is for pussies. Sure, maybe these personal hygiene choices don’t cause cancer, but I’m pretty sure that the 0.4 seconds you were near my lit cigarette would not make much of a difference either way.

Besides, you can’t tell me having to sit inside a bathroom stall in which someone has just blown liberal ass all over the place, isn’t at least mildly carcinogenic (and infinitely more disgusting).

(Obviously, if someone is an ashmatic or allergic, well, that makes sense.)

But even now, two kids later, I would never be rude enough to flail my arms wildly and make a huge production about how “smoking sucks” in front of someone who was sneaking a puff. Really, come on, we all know it’s not the most healthful thing to be doing, but neither is behaving like a rudely retarded child in public, because sooner or later, you’re going to get your ass kicked.

I can only see Bad Things happening with the new complaint line, and I’m sorry as hell for anyone staffing that call center. Truth be told, I feel sorry for anyone staffing ANY call center ANYWHERE. “Complaint Lines” I can only imagine bring out the few and the proud (freaks), who can call and complain about anything (only in fine print does it tell you what you’re complaining about when you call that number, to be fair to the freaks who program such numbers into their phones) such as their muscle aches, the price and quality of generic brand toilet paper, and their neighbors cat WHO MAY BE SPYING ON THEIR HOUSE AS WE SPEAK.

Besides, even if you do call and complain that someone is smoking too close to the doors, what the hell are these people in this remote call center going to freaking do about it? By the time any ball could get rolling, the Bad Person Smoker would be long gone, just as I would be.

Even I’m not dumb enough to stick around to see what the punishment/fine is for this. I mean, shit, I have even been known to drive off while a Chicago cop was in the process of writing me a ticket, because, what the hell was he going to do? My car goes faster than his legs. Oh, SNAP!

(Dave, upon learning that I had done this, was suitably impressed and horrified by my behavior. Apparently, even after all these years, I can still shock, disgust, and amaze him).

So tell your Aunt Becky, providing that you are not burning effigies of her in your yard for defending Bad People Smokers, what is the strangest complaint that you have ever heard (even if it’s not happened to you) about anything at all?

I’ll go first. Your goal is to outdo me. It should be simple.

I worked for several summers at at outdoor bar/grill that happened to be situated right along a river. It was beautiful vista, complete with ducks a-swimming, bikers a-biking (it was right along the bike trail, too), and (gross) carp a-carping, but it was also situated squarely in an Old Money WASP’s nest, so our customers were often both snobby and cross. As only a mess of servers can, we bonded together in an us-vs-them way.

One day, as I was just coming onto my afternoon/evening shift, and in the process of putting out the Citronella candles, I was motioned over by a group of women. I sat the candle down between them, and one of them looked at me squarely in the face and demanded “Can’t you do something about these BUGS.”

It wasn’t a question.

And what she apparently had not noticed is that we were outside.

Being a smartass, and knowing that this was not my tip on the line, I met her gaze and fired back, “Yeah, you know what you can do? GO INSIDE.” Then I walked away.

Your turn.

So the one major drawback to this new diet I’m working on (aside from the suffocating farts, which is either a drawback or a blissful consequence, based on who you’re asking), is that the lack of sugar is making me exceptionally testy. I have never been the sort of person who guzzles sugar, and I’m usually happier eating some Kashi cereal for breakfast over some cinnamon rolls (no, honestly), I don’t care much for chocolate, and don’t liberally dump sugar into my morning (and afternoon) (okay, and evening…God, I have no secrets anymore.) coffee, so it’s been a shock that I am experiencing what I believe are withdrawal symptoms.

My friends who have done Atkins and South Beach have both mentioned this being a side effect during the first couple of weeks on the diet, but since what I’m doing is far less restrictive AND I have never been super into carbs, I had mistakenly thought that I was going to have no problems.

Ha, ha, ha.

I’m not in all out bitchtastic mode (yet), and I haven’t broken a box fan, deliberately stepped on an animal, or kicked a wall, but I’ve noticed that I have a marked propensity toward being snippy and cranky.

I’m sorry, preemptively, for anything I say that offends you. Unless I’m trying to offend you. Then I am not sorry.

With this out of the way, I need help, Internet. I need to know if my reaction to this is normal and how I should proceed.

A month ago, today, I ordered some prints from Etsy.com, which is what you recommended for some artwork, Internet (see, I listen to you!). And you were right. It’s a neat place and I love what I picked out.

According to the seller, she had some sort of glitch in her system, so I waited and waited and got nothing. Then I got something, but it was only part of my order. When I emailed her about it, she claimed that she’d accidentally sent me someone else’s order, but that she’d gotten it straightened out and I could keep my order, plus this other one (it’s a duplicate of what I’d ordered. Not terribly exciting.)

The last email I’d gotten from her was 6 days ago, when she claimed that she was sending my prints. From California. Not Tibet. And yet, in my mail today, aside from some ads, nada. Zip. Zilch.

But because I am testy, I have no idea how to proceed as I normally would. On the one hand, I’m annoyed because seriously, it’s been a month since my order. On the other, it’s not like these pictures are going to be the difference in whether I will live or die.

I know that Etsy (which makes me think of testy, which makes me think of balls, which makes me laugh) is pretty much a word of mouth place, and I don’t want to go and trash her there, but at the same time. Dude, it’s been a month. And I live in Chicago. Not somewhere exactly far from California (unless you are walking. Which pictures don’t do. I don’t think.) .

I’m being needy here, Internet, and I need YOU to help me muddle through what I am supposed to do next. So, if you were in my (bitchy) shoes, what would you do next (if anything)?

I’m sitting, ass glued firmly to the couch cushions, television on for background noise purposes, baby happily babbling in his Exersaucer, and all of a sudden a female voice breaks into my thoughts:

“I have genital herpes” she confesses to me.

The camera pans to her partner, “and I don’t” he confidently informs us.

The commercial goes on to discuss more about these two shmoes goods than I ever cared to know while I sit there completely horrified, jaw gently grazing the cat-hair covered carpet. Why, oh why do I need to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to erase the image of herpatic-vessicle-covered vag-jay-jay’s from my already addled mind?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that we need to pretend like STD’s don’t happen by shushing it up (Lord knows Aunt Becky has seen more STD’s than you have. Because I’m a NURSE, you pervert! Get your mind outta the gutter.) and shaming those who have them into institutions or anything, not at all. Hell, plenty of people have them, live with them, while others have managed to barely dodge that bullet, and I don’t honestly think that it’s something to be all that ashamed about.

I just don’t need my Oprah interrupted by having to hear about and subsequently imagine sores on your flipping meat curtains.

Before you flog me for being insensitive to those who have herpes, let me assure you I also don’t really care to have my day interrupted by ads promising to rid me of that pesky yeasty discharge, freshen up the old curtains with a vinegar douche, or make sure I don’t piss my pants in public anymore. For awhile, I wondered if advertisers had somehow read my mind BECAUSE THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I HAD BEEN SUFFERING FROM! ALL OF IT. AT ONCE!

*ahem*

I kid, I kid.

I’m not going to pretend I haven’t dealt with some delicate conditions of my privates over the years, hell, I’ve even gleefully documented When Monistat Attacks (my husband is a very, very lucky man), went to the hospital after I peed my pants, but none of these things have put me on your television set. Sure, I talk about these delicate conditions on my blog, but you have voluntarily chosen to read (or click away quickly. Whateves. Can’t say that I blame you) and I swear to you on all that is holy, I’ve not been endorsed by a soul, and make not even one cent for writing this. In fact, I’m almost certain there are people who would pay me to NOT blog any longer.

Alas, I digress.

But seriously, could we PLEASE put a ban on having to watch people talk about the state of their junk? Even as someone who frequently asks “When was your last bowel movement?” I don’t want to have to consider the rashes of random stranger’s privates (and believe me when I tell you that I have actually had strangers want to “show me their rash” when I tell them that I am a nurse. It happened once on the subway and I will never, ever forget it, no matter how many cocktails I’ve downed.).

So what bugs YOU when you see it advertised? Is it the Viagra commercials? Or perhaps you hate the commercials about people getting shmaltzy about their cats and it makes you want to break your TV set, because those are annoying, too (and I loves me my animals).

Or maybe your Aunt Becky is just in uber-prude mode (which might be the first time ever I would be accused of being a prude. Ooooh Yeahhhhh.), and shouldn’t be bothered by something as simple as an STD medication and should probably get the hell over herself already (this is likely. Very, very likely). In this case, just tell me something, anything that bugs you today.

*Updated to reflect the word I was actually going for here, which was “Medal” NOT “Metal”. Thanks, Manny!*

All of the signs were there, I guess, but as I am a complete idiot I failed to notice. Well, until 2 golfballs took up residance under my chin and I woke several nights in a row with my sheets soaked with sweat. The Daver then began complaining of similar symptoms when I realized, that along with a fancy watch, more bath product than I can even store (do I smell bad? Do I look like I need a shower? Wait, don’t answer that.), and a large assortment of toys, someone was kind enough to gift us Haemophilus influenzae. More commonly known as the flu.

I squinched my watery eyes up and began to examine the usual suspects (because I am so very mature, I always look to find someone else to blame. Makes me feel better), and could recall absolutely no one coughing and hacking into their ham. So I turned to the one person I ALWAYS like to blame: Nat. Nat brought us a little Christmas Flu this year.

Asshole.

I’m usually pretty on top of getting my flu vaccine, what with being a nurse and all, and I even go so far as to make my own appointments! I know, I deserve a medal or something for my incredible level of responsibility. Problem is, this year, between the complete lack of sleep and well, the subsequent sleep deprivation, it fell off my list of things to do, just like getting a haircut and shaving the cats.

Now the battle in The Sausage Factory is waging on, in full force. The Battle Of Who Is Sicker.

Dave hates colds, and if I should ever forget this for even a moment, he is quick to remind me of this, oh about every 2 and a half minutes. I’ll take a cold over the stomach flu any day, but this is the real flu, so all bets are off.

I’m imagining that the rest of the week will see battle lines drawn and sides taken, lightbulbs used to warm thermometers (See, MY fever is HIGHER! Dave, you’re not 109 degrees, or you’d be dead.), symptoms grossly exaggerated to illict sympathy from their troops (I’m so sick, I’M SHAKING, so I can’t be trusted to make dinner! I might UNDERCOOK THE CHICKEN and then we’d all get salmonella and DIE!), many hours of throwing ourselves dramatically onto neighboring couches, and likely culminating in one of us grabbing a kitchen knife and making superficial cuts on our body parts (SEE, I’M SO SICK THAT I’M BLEEDING! THE FLU IS MAKING ME BLEED!) nevermind the fact that this isn’t even a symptom of the flu, just histrionic personality disorder.

Once I made the connection between my symptoms and diagnosis (Dur!), I decided that a trip to Target was necessary to stock up on supplies. This found me all alone in the pharmacy department pouring and repouring over the shelves to look for anything marked “Will Kick The Flu’s Ass.” No such product was available to me, so I grabbed everything I could think of PLUS some gimmicky crap that I would never normally think of spending money on (snakeoil is, afterall, snakeoil). When I’m sick, I have no decision-making capabilities whatsoever. It’s a good damn thing no one tried to sell me crappy Tupperware or Pampered Chef products, because my bank account would be all hurty, BECAUSE I CANNOT SAY NO TO ANYTHING WHEN I’M SICK. Another odd side affect of being very sick is that I am unfailingly nice and sweet. When my immune system is being attacked, my personality becomes remarkably like a doormat, a snivelling and sappy doormat who cries at commercials and the Fear Segment of the news. It’s pathetic, even by my own standards.

So this is where you’ll find me today, sitting on the couch, weeping intermittantly about everything and nothing at all, and blowing my nose into these nifty antiviral tissues I found (see, I TOLD you I can’t resist a gimmick when I’m sick), while trying to suck down some Theraflu that Ashley recommended (it tastes just like ass. Rotten ass.). Any other good suggestions for me (keep in mind I cannot lounge about in bed as much as I’d like to. This is the hardest part about having kids for me: being unable to be remotely selfish even when very ill)?

OOOOHHH! I know what you can do to make me feel better WITHOUT exposing yourself to the Death Flu! You can tell me about new blogs to read! See, if I read you, you’re probably on my Virtual Pimps linkage. If I don’t, you’re probably not there. But, you see, I want you to be there! And I want to read you!

So dish, who is good to read?

It starts preconception, I’m pretty sure. I mean, all you have to do is to have a hard time concieving Baby and all of a sudden you’re inundated by people telling you that they got pregnant while humping around in a hot tub, because “my/his boys can SWIM!” I like to imagine this sort of comment is well-meaning, because I hate to think of someone voluntarily trying to make someone else feel small, but I don’t honestly believe that.

In my heart of hearts I feel as though this is just another way someone else’s kids/sperm/egg/wives are better than yours. Why, didn’t you hear that Susie only gained 12.4 pounds with Junior who weighed in at birth at exactly 12.4 pounds AND DOING GEOMETRY? My own son was only born with the ability to pee on the doctor AND NOT EVEN IN HER MOUTH.

Once while I was working in the Special Care nursery, I inadvertantly got called into a conversation with a father who was examining the size of his son’s penis. He was convinced that it was larger then all of the other baby boys, and because his child was in Special Care, I didn’t bother to correct him. I agreed with his assessment and moved on while thinking to myself that baby penises look remarkably like canned Japanese mushrooms. Then I said a prayer to the Gods to let the guy let go of the size of his son’s wang. I mean, hey, I have two boys and the size of their respective genitalia is not something I care to think about, because that would involve me imagining them having The Sex and ew! those are my KIDS you’re talking about here.

While I waited for the doctor at Alex’s newborn checkup, it seemed that everyone wanted to comment on his size. I was genuinely shocked to be bombarded with comments about this as he was a completely average sized newborn, just as his brother was. But it seems as though the bigger the baby, the better, which confuddles me: I mean, if you’re already pushing out (or having pulled out of you) something roughly the size, shape and texture of a uncooked turkey, why would you want it to be grossly larger? Hell, I’m sure the Depends manufacturer would rejoice at the forthcoming lack of bladder control, but as for me, I prefer not to flappity-flap-flap in the breeze. But, like most things in this world, maybe it’s just me.

I mean, I’m GLAD that your child was born large and healthy and that he or she is consistantly in the 90% percentile for height and weight, but it honestly doesn’t concern me too much. I don’t tend to rely on charts or graphs to plot my child’s progress because I have better things to do with my time (also, neither of my kids were preemies, which DOES involve measuring these things pedantically), like organize my massive collection of toenail clippings or clean the bathtub drains with my tongue.

Ben is slightly undersized, but if you remove the extra baby-fat from me, I’m not exactly an Amazon myself, nor is his father. I figure that it helps him stay in his clothes for far longer, and move the hell on with my day. Alex, on the other side of the spectrum, against all odds (The Daver is about the size of a garden gnome, and as previously stated, I am not what ANYONE would call “tall”) has gone from being a teeny peanut to earning the nickname of “Slim.” Let’s just say that his rolls have rolls and I may have to begin powdering them to stave off the yeasties.

Babies, like people, tend to develop as they were programmed to do at their own pace, which you’d never believe in listening to people tell you about how your child is not on the mark for crawling, walking, sitting up and playing Parcheesi, but their child is WAAAAYYY ahead on ALL of their milestones. Be that as it may be, I hate to inform them that parental involvement isn’t really a huge factor in this, nature is as nature does (does that even MAKE SENSE?).

Honestly, what irritates me the greatest about this particular brand of competitive parenting is not that Little Bobby crawled at 5 weeks whereas Alex hasn’t crawled yet (oh, THE HUMANITY!), and Ben didn’t crawl until after he learned to walk, but it’s the gleeful and self-satisfied manner in which they inform you of this. It inspires me to Pimp Slap them, but usually I refrain and ask a pointed question about who their mother loved more. Then I walk away.

Mayhap THIS is why I have so few Mommy friends.

Unless you live under a rock, you know that Britney’s 16-year old sister is pregnant. People are outraged, inflamed, irate and disgusted by this. What kind of mother would allow this to happen, they scream, look at what a mess Britney is and now her sweet younger sister is going down the same path! Heathens!

I can’t say I agree with them.

It’s unfortunate, yes, that a 16-year old girl is pregnant because no one (at any age, really) who has a child understands precisely what that means until they are born. Babysit for a couple of hours and you may THINK you know what it’s like, but it’s a mere glimmer of what having a child involves. I’m no martyr and I don’t mean to imply that it cannot be handled, I just mean that in the same way that you can not know how it feels to go hungry, REALLY starve unless it has happened to you before.

What makes me feel sorriest for the poor girl is not her name (although, COME ON, it’s TERRIBLE), but that she’s in the process of being ripped to shreds by everyone on the planet, and will continue to be. I have a personal axe to grind with those who are complaining bitterly about her pregnancy as these are the same people who would have been more aghast at the thought of her aborting it.

As we all know, most people do not wait until marriage to have sexual relations. I’m sure that there are people out there who do, but I do not happen to personally know any. Maybe she shouldn’t have been having premarital sex, but in that case, no one should. Abstinence is obviously the way to circumvent any of these scandalous situations, but we’re all aware that that policy doesn’t work. You tell a teenager who is chock full of hormones NOT to have sex over and over and the minute they have the opportunity, they’ll be all over that like white on rice. Weren’t you?

(as an aside, have no fear: I have The Sex Talk planned out. I have my materials ready and will arm my son’s with the most information possible so that they are able to make the best desicions that they can when the time comes. Forewarned IS, afterall, forearmed. I have a number of pictures of STD’s, anatomical pictures of the sex organs, and am planning to scar them for the rest of their lives with liberal usage of the words “clittoris,” “orgasm,” and “horny.” Be very, very, VERY glad that I am not your mother)

As I wasn’t in the room when the deed was done (thankyouGod), I have no idea whether or not they were using protection. And hell, even if they were, accidents happen, one turbo sperm gets lucky and babies are concieved. In my opinion, it’s lucky that there aren’t MORE accidents. Because in all seriousness (especially at that age of peak fertillity), it could have happened to any of us who were having sex at or around that age.

I was a couple of years older than she when I had my first son, but I still got a lot of flack for it. People were THRILLED to learn that I hadn’t aborted him, but scandalized that I was pregnant outside of marriage. Maybe it hit too close to home for comfort for them, but they were naive to believe that I was the only one who was having The Sex. I was just the only one that they knew who got a bun in the oven (and yes, I was on OCP) while doing so, which was something that could easily have happened to any of them and/or their children.

While I feel somewhat sorry for Jamie-Lynn, I am also proud of her for taking responsibility for her actions in the way she felt most appropriate (this is NOT to imply that I am being all pro-life. Far from it. But we wouldn’t have heard had she aborted the fetus, so I wouldn’t be able to say that I am proud of her for taking responsibilty for THAT.). At first glance, I was a bit disgusted with her cover story as it seems a bit cash-whoring, but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. She was going to have to address her burgeoning belly at some point in time, so why not do so on her own terms?

My only hope for this situation is that she is able to raise her child outside of the public eye, so that he or she has the chance to grow up as normally as possible. Despite the flack that her mother is getting for this, I am sure that she will do all that she can to help her daughter and grandchild make it through. Lord knows, they have the money to hire a bunch of nannies and nurses to help with all of it.

We shall see, we shall see.

Obviously, this is my opinion. What is yours?

It wasn’t until recently (color me stupid, here, or at the very least, not very introspective) that I realized that the innocuously innocent things that people ask you that inadvertently offend you are the ones that most often offer the greatest insight into your own insecurities. Ask an unhappily unmarried person when they’re getting married, you’ll get the same internal reaction as if you ask a unhappily childless couple when they’re having kids.

The moment I popped Alexander out (but interestingly enough, NEVER before), the barrage of the very same question began to appear: would I have another? And before I could say yay or nay, they would express that I should have another, but this time A GIRL. I assured these Eager Beavers that yes, maybe someday we would have another child, but the sex of said child was completely out of my hands. We’d all have a laugh together and we would each separately move on our way.

(as a complete aside here, should we ever decide that having another child is, in fact, a good idea, it had BETTER be a girl, not because I don’t adore having all boys: I do, but because I have no good boys names left. Between my two sons and their 17 names apiece, as a couple we have no names left that we can agree upon. So, our hypothetical (very strong hypothetical these days) third son would be named “Jack Bauer” (my last name), “Vincent D’Onofrio (my last name) or better yet “Hugh Laurie” (my last name). Yes, my kid would be ranked out and beaten by his peers, and it would be COMPLETELY MY FAULT because I had used up all of the decent names already.)

Now, to painfully highlight MY own inner demons, just ask me “What do you do?” and I assure you that my answer will be stammered out, while looking at my feet and getting progressively misty-eyed and upset.

As much as I adore staying home with my children (and I do, I swear), this was probably the last place in the world I’d have expected to be. I’d always equated staying home with my children with dying a slow painful death (and somedays, I am spot on here), and always assumed that I would be much more a Career Person (you know, the kind with 4 inch heels and power suits COMPLETELY DEVOID of spit up. Possibly with a shirt that was ALWAYS BUTTONED UP.). I’d probably even have a House Husband (or two) and I would TOTALLY have a cabana boy.

Well, heh-heh, WELL, things didn’t exactly go as planned(what does, really?). Despite having the best intentions with getting my degree and license, it’s one of those things that I’ve learned that I simply cannot do. The integral flaw in my reasons behind getting this degree was that I didn’t realize that with nursing, you cannot half-ass it. If you want to do, really do this job, you must be willing to put in 150% at all points in time, a devotion that I was unable to muster. I saw it merely as a means to another end: I would do this until such point as I was able to go back to school, once my small children were older, and pursue my true passion.

But (there’s always a but with me, isn’t there. And not even the GOOD kind of butt), now I must just hurry up and wait. Maybe I’m not always the most amazing mother (CHOCOLATE CHIPS IN HIS LUNCH, SWEET JESUS, KILL ME NOW), but I am not willing to half-ass rearing my children either, at least, not at this moment. Eventually, there will too-soon come a time that I will not be quite as needed as I am now by The Sausage Factory.

I cannot half ass an advanced degree, either (at least for very long. I’d soon get kicked out of the field, and rightly so). When I am ready, I will go balls to the wall with it, kick ass, take names, and occasionally smack a bitch up (well, here and there), and some days this thought is all that keeps me going (especially those days that the baby manages to shit all the way up to his hair. It sounds completely impossible, but I assure you it is not).

Strangers do not want to listen to this. Why? Because it’s fucking boring.

What they’re looking for is a succinct “I am a nurse,” or “I am a doctor,” and possibly even a “I am a telemarketer” (although the last statement might be met with a similar response as I received when I would say “I work for an insurance company. As a nurse.” The responses varied from spitting in my general direction to lobbing nearby objects at me. Not sure that I blame them, especially since they would march away in disgust before I could justify that I never! denied! anyone! EVER! I! EXTENDED! BENEFITS!). Not one soul cares about the justification I have for staying home (my husband works 80+ hours a week! Daycare is damn expensive! I’m breast feeding! I am a leper!), nor do they care IF I stay home at all.

*I* alone am the only one who cares about that sort of thing. And I’m pretty damn certain that I’ve probably freaked out a few strangers with my dissertation. I have since learned to censor myself, give a vague “I’m home with the kids,” and move the hell on with my day.

It has, however, made me FAR more sensitive to what I ask and say to complete strangers. Anyone who knows me well can see right through my idiotic comments to people who I don’t know (somewhere along the lines of “you wear shoes! ME TOO! They’re so good at covering your feet, aren’t they?”), but that, too, is okay with me.

Now that Aunt Becky has aired some of her considerably large pile of dirty laundry, why don’t you tell her what bugs the pants off of you when asked about it? Maybe it’s not just things that highlight insecurities, maybe it’s just how damn PRYING complete strangers can be. Whatever it is, though, I am totally dying to hear it.

“….oh, Hello Doctor, how are you? No, I haven’t been waiting all day next to the phone willing it to ring, because you know what they say about watched phones, right?

…uh, you never heard that one, did you, Doctor? Well, they never ring. Must’ve missed it during all of those years in medical school. Oh well. But now, either way here you are! Oh HOORAY! HOORAY for YOOOOOOUUUUUU, Dear Doctor!

…what kind of problem are you talking about, Doctor? The only problems I like are the ones that I don’t have to fix, you know.

…oh THAT kind of problem, huh Doctor, one of those pesky buggers that I DO have to fix. I hate those.

…well it can’t be nobody’s fault, you see Doctor, because I promise you although my blood is indeed amazing, it’s never been known to walk away from the lab before, and I PROMISE that I’ve had plenty of blood removed from my body before and none of it went missing. So somewhere this “missing” vial of blood has taken up residence. Probably messing with someone else’s not so fabulous blood. My blood can kick their blood’s ass, you see Doctor.

….I sure do hope that you don’t tell some lifelong Type 1 diabetic who was in for routine labs doesn’t get too comfortable with finding out that OOPS, you’re NOT a diabetic AFTERALL, but hey, your TSH sucks! Heh-heh. That’s SO not funny. But when I’m nervous, Doctor, I laugh. And now, I am full of The Nervous.

…but Doctor, you are aware that it’s taken you a week to “find out that my blood is missing,” and therefore not being properly tested. A week that I’ve been (not so) patiently waiting on bated breath. But I’m sure that doesn’t concern you in the least now, does it, Doctor?

…no, I know that you were on vacation. You see, though, that I was not. And last that I checked, The Doctor doesn’t run the tests on the blood. Some lab assistant in some distant lab does, right?

…I AM calm, Doctor, I AM.

…Why no! It would be NO PROBLEM AT ALL TO BRING MY 8 MONTH OLD TO THE PHLEBOTOMIST YET AGAIN. He LOVES it there, let me tell you. It’s on his list of favorite things to do, along with suppostories up the butt and getting circumsized!

….I’m not taking ANY tone with you, Doctor, I’m not. Well, maybe I am. But I’ve been full of The Nervous all day, crapping my sad little brains out and now you’re telling me that I need to wait even longer. Until Monday. In case you didn’t know this about me, I HATE WAITING.

….No, Doctor, I absolutely did not just mumble the phrase “Self-Medicate With A Martini.” I KNOW that the last thing that I should do when I’m upset is to have a drinky-poo.

…What’s that you hear, you’re asking me? That clinking noise in the background is NOT the sound of me calming my frazzled nerves with vodka. Or whiskey. It’s champagne. And we all know champagne doesn’t make a clinky noise. It makes a fizzy one.

….I did NOT just say “I’ll drink to you tonight, Dear Doctor.” I said “Alex smells like poo tonight, Herr Proctor.” No I am NOT slurring my words. I call the ……cat yeah, the CAT, “Herr Proctor” sometimes. He likes it.

….Yes, Doctor, I am aware that this is a terrible nickname for a cat. But are you REALLY in a position to be all judge-y towards me right now?

…okay, Doctor, I’m off to the lab again. AGAIN. We’ll be in touch. Have no fear, WE WILL BE IN TOUCH, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT. I CAN FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE.”

(click)

*headdesk*

(I suppose that I should just be relieved that it wasn’t the Bucket ‘O’ Poo that got lost, huh? I only wish that cheered me up right now.)