Becky: “Do you like my manicure?” (playfully wraggles black fingernails in Daver’s face)

Dave (grabs hand for closer inspection): “Ooooh. Freaky! Won’t Ashley be mad that you had black nail polish put on for her wedding?”

Becky: “Nah. It’s perfectly vogue now. It’s no longer JUST for goth chicks.”

Dave: “Ah.”

Dave (grabs her hand again. This time her right hand, although not unkindly): “Wait a minute…is your wedding ring STUCK ON?”

Becky (sheepishly, in a small voice): “Yes.” (pauses) “I kept in on to long after I got pregnant with Amelia. And now I can’t get it off.”

Dave (eyes take on a mischievous gleam): “You know what this means, right?”

Becky: “Please don’t take me down to the fire station to get it cut off. I’m so ashamed. I HAVE FINGER FAT NOW.”

Dave: “No, no. I wouldn’t do that. And your finger looks great. But…”

(pauses dramatically for effect)

Dave: “You SEE this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

Becky: “That’s MY line, assface.”

Dave: “And look at how badly it blew up in your face.”

Becky: “Touche.”

Three years ago today, on arguably one of the most disgusting days of the summer, my lungs so full of phlegm and on a day in which I infected half of the people whose dinner I was paying for, thereby earning the nickname Typhoid Becky, I got married.

I’d never been one for romanticizing weddings, I never had an idea for a signature cocktail or monogrammed napkins, I never really even wanted to get married. I’d rather have imagined my future life as an Army NINJA Commando or as The Crazy Cat Lady than as a wife. I wasn’t anti-marriage or anything, but it was something that only happened to Other People. Like children.

Ahem.

People who tell me that they Just Knew about someone or something like the Perfect House, The Right Man, or Which Flavor Baby They Were Carrying always annoy me. Really, they do. Not because I don’t believe that they MIGHT have known something ahead of time, but because seriously, how many of them confess to Knowing something that didn’t happen. Plus, they always say it with this I’m More Of A Creature Of Mother Earth Than You and blow a raspberry in my direction when I confess to not knowing I was even pregnant when I was. Or maybe it’s all in my head.

Sure it annoys me, but you know what? I Just Knew when I met Daver, after spending the night at his apartment for the first time, that this is the man I would marry. Like it or not, he and I were going to be together for a very, VERY long time. While I’ve never asked him if he had the same sort of revelation, which even if he did, I doubt very much that he would tell me, I think he had a pretty good idea of the same thing.

The day of my wedding was not the best day of my life. Honestly, it was probably one of the worst days, although I won’t get into my reasons there, and I wanted nothing more than to leave the party and hang out with my new husband. But every day since then has been one of the best days of my life.

Even on our worst days, when we can barely tolerate the sight of each other, when his throat clearing and my incessant use of nose spray annoys us both so very much that we could each scream, I know how lucky I am. I have never, and will likely never take him for granted.

He’s the man I didn’t know I was lucky enough to marry.

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

-Pablo Neruda

Today is a landmark day for us at Casa de la Sausage. It is my husband, The Daver’s 30th birthday.

I give Dave an awfully hard time, really I do, like how I’ve called him Old Balls since we got together 5 years ago (he is, after all 2 years older than me), how I constantly feel the need to grab his ball-bag as he sits on the couch next to me, or how I scream out things like “Hey Dave, weren’t you out of DEPENDS?” or “Hey DAVE, didn’t you want that New Kids On The Block CD?” when we’re out in public.

(Hel-LO run-on sentence!)

But as anyone who truly knows me knows, the harder time I give you, the more I love you. It’d be my family mantra if having a family mantra or mission statement wasn’t the stupidest thing on the planet aside from perhaps The Wiggles. Which may be dumber.

So, Happy Birthday, The Daver.

I’d say something cornier, but I’m saving it up for our anniversary on Wednesday. Good idea, you, with putting our anniversary right near your birthday, ensuring that you will never forget the day that two became one. Yeah, that’s right. I used THE SPICE GIRLS to describe our WEDDING.

HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES, OLD MAN?

——————-

Also today, at 12:30 my son Ben will be “thinking good thoughts” for me as I go into my Big Scary Ultrasound. All by my lonesome. That’s the kicker at my OB’s office: you have to go through the first (i.e. frightening) part of it all alone (it’s policy, not because I bring an entourage with me).

My mother has been making fun of me (along with The Daver) for being so worried about this US (and the one’s I had with the other kids) and I think my friend Andria said it best when she told me yesterday something like with her third, she couldn’t believe that after two perfect little boys, that she’d be fortunate enough to have another healthy one.

I’m paraphrasing, perhaps badly, but the point is clear: like her, I don’t believe I’m lucky enough to have something good happen to me again.

Why? I have no idea. It’s sick and it’s stupid, and as yet another friend of mine, Carlynn, imparted yet another piece of wisdom onto me this weekend (they make me feel SMRT). She said, “”Why not be happy now? You can be sad later. If it’s necessary.”

They’re both right. And while I’m going to try my best to smile and appear like I’m not ready to chew off one or both of my arms, it’s gonna be hard.

Fake it ’til you make it, right?

Will you hold my hand, Internet?

Happy Father’s Day to the man (Mr. Aunt Becky) I didn’t know I could hope to marry. Sure, you dragged me, kicking and screaming to the alter by my hair, but you know now how lovingly I look at you as I grab your hand, shove your wedding ring in your face and say, “You see THIS RING? It means I OWN YOU.” See, it’s because I love you so very much that I perform such acts of idiocy.

You’re a good guy, The Daver, you always are. No matter how many orphans (or cute cuddly kittens) I rescue from burning buildings (current tally: 0. But I have faith that I’ll do some rescuing soon), you will always be my better half. I can’t top you on that one, even if I can possibly beat your ass. You wouldn’t hurt a PREGNANT LADY would you, Daver? I didn’t think so.

You told me this morning that Ben was going to be a great dad, as he played with his doll Seth the same way you were playing with Alex. And you’re right, Ben will be a great dad. He learned it all from you. Those boys are fortunate to have you, and maybe they won’t always recognize it or think you’re especially “cool” but in their hearts they always will. They’ll always know that the lasting damage was caused by seeing their mother breastfeed, not by you spraying them with the hose.

I love you, and I’m happy to have you in my life. Even if you never change the toilet paper roll. Or manage to place your laundry IN the basket (It PUTS THE LAUNDRY IN THE BASKET). Or notice when I get my hairs did. Because maybe *I* won’t notice when I dump 5 gallons of bleach onto YOUR CLOTHES.

I’m just sayin’.

So, Happy Father’s day to all of you dudes. Your wives (and Aunt Becky, in a purely platonic way) love you.

Aunt Becky: “I *so* don’t get this song.”

The Daver: “Wait, isn’t this ‘America’?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, I think so. Or maybe it’s ‘Chicago.’ The 70’s had a lot of bands named after cities. Either way, what the fuck do they mean-’25-06-24?’That makes no sense.”

The Daver: “What are you *talking* about? It’s ’25 or 6 to 4′!”

Aunt Becky: “….”

The Daver: “You know, like 3:35 or 3:26 AM?”

Aunt Becky: “…..”

Aunt Becky: “It is not! There is no way!”

The Daver: “What the hell did you think it meant?”

Aunt Becky: “I don’t know!..maybe a combination to a lock or something? No, I refuse to believe this song is about a time of day.”

The Daver: “And a locker combination makes more sense to you?”

Aunt Becky: “No! That’s why I *said* that I don’t get this song, dumbass!”

The Daver: “It’s about smoking dope, Becky.”

Aunt Becky: “I refuse to believe that in all my years being a pothead that I never could figure out that this is a drug song. I have a sixth *sense* about this crap! I mean “Lake Shore Drive? LSD? GET IT?”

The Daver: “Are you still bitter that you couldn’t do the “Dark Side of the Moon” “Wizard of Oz” thing?

Aunt Becky: I cannot discuss this with you. You wouldn’t understand. Goody-goody.

The Daver: “FINE.”

…..

…..

(three days later)

…….

Aunt Becky: Is it really 25 or 6 to 4?

Me: You know, someday when I die, if I get reincarnated or whatever…

Daver: Yeah?

Me: I want to come back as The Village Idiot.

Daver: It’s good to have such high goals, Becky.

Having been on a diet more or less since Ben was about two (and I had to lose those pesky baby pounds, erm, TWO YEARS after he was born) has it’s perks. You get very accustomed to having to deny yourself those tasty and delicious morsels of goodness known as non-diet food. And if you’re me, you eventually just don’t care anymore about eating junk food and it becomes your way of life to eat more chicken and tofu than God.

The Daver, however, has never had to indulge in any sort of diet. He’s pin-thin and can tuck away a couple of Quarter Pounders (with Cheese!) with nary an ill effect (whereas I get fatter just typing these words).

Until now.

My poor sweet, junk food loving husband has got to go on a diet. A new, special low-cholesterol diet.

I’d been waiting for this day, you see, because as I dieted those pounds off, marveling at every (pathetic) loss like it was a shiny new $100 bill, he merrily ate his way through a bag of chips or thirteen. My chicken suddenly looked less appealing than his fatty cheeseburger and fries, and I’ll admit freely that I was a mite bit jealous. Who wouldn’t be?

I plotted and waited until the metabolism that he was given ran out and suddenly HE would pack on the pounds and look for new (and tasteless!) tofu recipes right along side his doting wife. I planned on rubbing it in at every possible turn (silently or likely not), relishing each and every low fat meal he ate as payback for his formerly glorious metabolism.

Until earlier this week, when he got that dreaded phone call from his doctors office, wherein he was instructed that his LDL (lousy density lipoprotiens) levels were insanely high. Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing anymore, and I was struck with an emotion that I almost never feel: pity.

I feel genuinely badly that he has to now embark on a sad new diet, and extremely sorry for myself that I will inevitably have to follow it as well (collective EW! from the Internets, please).

Anyone have any good advice for us? The Internet is smarter than I’ll ever be (sexier too!) and I could use a hand here.

Now, my relationship with The Daver is not what one might even begin to call “romantic” in any terms. It never has been, and probably never will. We’re both ridiculously practical people, not prone to flights of fantasy OR ooey-gooey behavior. I’m fairly certain that if he were to bring home flowers (which I do love) I would become immediately suspicious that work had provided him with a free lobotomy.

I DID get Dave a flower for Valentines Day this year, well, it was technically AFTER Valentines Day and therefore cost $0.29 AND had the distinct advantage over all other flowers that it was both fake (it can last FOREVER, LIKE OUR LOVE!) AND played a tinny melody. Really, it was just a joke and took it as such.

Despite our lack of romantical abilities, we’re really are insanely fond of each other. I have no idea if this is a hallmark of a good marriage or not, but it is the way it is. Underneath (and often even during) the day to day crap, we really like each other.

The Daver has been working like mad on this work project-thingy that’s due to deploy this Saturday at 5am. And because it’s entirely likely that he’s lying to get away from the House Of Sickness And Doom that we currently live in, he “has” to “be in the office” on Saturday at 5am to TCB. (Say it with me now, Internet, “YEAH, RIGHT!)
This meant one of two things: either he gets up at the ass-crack of dawn and drives his sorry ass to the city OR he camps out in the city overnight. In a fever-induced haze, I suggested that having a City Sleep Over was probably the best option.

It’s just incredibly bad timing that this had to “coincide” with the worst bout of illness that I have had since I was a kid myself (seriously, I’m now positive that my intestines are really attempting to make a break for it now) that has now been passed onto my two darling children. I haven’t tried to test my theory, but I’m fairly certain that Alex could likely fry an egg on his stomach, so high is his fever. And Ben has actually missed school this week and laid about the house both quiet as a mouse and nearly catatonic (neither of which, I should have to inform you, are normal behavior for this child).

But despite our lack of co-dependence (likelihood is high that my blog would learn about Big News well before I bothered contacting my husband), it’s just an incredibly bizarre feeling to know that he will not be coming home tonight.

On the one hand, I am nearly giddy with glee that I can have the bed to myself (I can totally see why people have separate beds) ALL NIGHT LONG (all night looong!), but on the other, it’s a truly odd feeling to know that he won’t be home to hog the remote OR the couch.

I’m just jealous, I suppose that he gets to stay here WITHOUT ME. I kept telling him that they should put him up in a Super8 or Red Roof Inn, but NOOOO, it had to be here.

Jerk.

(To be fair, he did offer to have us come down and stay with him, but the last thing I want to do is to willingly travel with two large Hot Potatoes.)

So what should I do with my night sans husband? Want to come over and hang? I’ll make cookies (no, no I won’t. That’s a lie. But it sounded good, right?)!

Even during my Single Years ™, I always have had a deep affection for Valentine’s Day, probably, at least in part, because it showcases my favorite colors: Red, Pink, and Sparkly. I’m not going to say that before I got a built-in Valentine (well, three of them, if you’re counting), I didn’t occasionally long to do something romantical with my other half, but I never knew what that was, exactly, which made it exceptionally hard to wish for.

Even after however many years The Daver and I have been together (let’s not count, mmkay?), we have yet to form any interesting traditions relating to Valentine’s Day (aside from me buying every Pink -n- Spangly thing I can get my mitts on), and I am pretty okay with that.

I guess I just don’t see the point in Valentine’s Day.

I mean, any holiday that nets me some presents (oh, I am so easily bought) is A-Okay in my book, and I do love buying gifts for the Sausage Factory nearly as much as I love getting them, but shit, why is there only one day of the year that I have to express my love?

And how, exactly, is love bought with a box of crappy chocolates (which I have actually never gotten) or wilting flowers? I have a feeling that if I were to be on the receiving end of either of those gifts, I would end up more upset than if I’d gotten nothing at all. Why? Because I dislike crappy versions of ANYTHING, and stuffed animals for people over the age of 8 drive me up a wall.

But I am probably in the minority here, as I noticed wall-to-wall such items yesterday at Mecca (read: Target), which means that there is a market for these gifts.

I don’t know.

Aside from the gifting and the color scheme, Valentine’s Day isn’t all that appealing to me (to be fair, if Bastille Day–which happens to be the day before my birthday, so mayhap this is a bad example– were the day in which I got presents, I would like it just as well). I don’t love my husband any more or any less today than I will tomorrow (unless he magically makes the ice melt from the driveway; then I will love him more), and I’ve always thought real romance was found in the day-to-day stuff.

Passion is great, I’m told, but it fizzles and you’re left sitting across the table with someone whose deplorable manners you’d never noticed when he was giving you multiple orgasms.

Maybe it’s not as thrilling to have someone who will (without prompting) clean out the coffee maker for you so that your morning coffee doesn’t taste vaguely minerally, but I don’t care. Passion doesn’t set up e-payments for the bills or pick you up McDonalds when you’re needing a fix. Passion doesn’t watch you push an 8 pound baby out of your crotchal area WITHOUT VOMITING, nor does it stay up late to help your big son fill out last minute Valentines, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even clean up dog barf from the white (WHITE!) carpeting.

I’d rather have someone who, without making a gross poo face, will plunge the toilet you’ve just clogged (while complimenting your toilet clogging prowess), or drop everything he’s doing to visit your dad in the ICU.

Maybe it’s not the sentiment expressed in a Hallmark card, but it’s real and that’s what I care about.

The Daver, who smiles as he takes my shit and sometimes even laughs when he’s wearing his phone headset and I follow him around trying to order a cheeseburger and large Diet Coke, is the man I never expected I’d be lucky enough to marry.

And no matter how pissed off I can become with him, I never forget that.

Ever.

—————-

So tell me what YOU think about Valentine’s Day. Love it? Hate it? Marginally indifferent?

—————

And happy Valentine’s Day to all of you! Aunt Becky loves you, you know.

Today is the Superbowl (if you’ve been living under a rock or something), and although I don’t give a flying fuck about the game itself, but it’s annual celebration marks a sort-of anniversary of sorts.

After you’ve been together long enough, there are all sorts of stupid dates to remember (birthdays, wedding dates, children’s birthdays, and the infamous Day We Decided To Buy A New Fridge), and I don’t usually recall most of them until they’ve passed.

But because Superbowl reminders have been vomited every which way, I can’t help but think back to the day that The Daver sweetly invited me to a party thrown by his buddies, auspiciously for the Superbowl, but really more about the foodstuff.

It was when we’d first started dating, and everything was all new and weird and exciting and we didn’t know each other’s bathroom habits or middle names or weird hangups. I was strangely flattered by the request, as we’d just spent our first weekend together (and I had been stuck in Boyville without a hairbrush to tame my mangled mess of hair) and I had figured that my unbrushed teeth would have frightened him away, but no, not The Daver.

The first part of his invitation was sweet,

“Would you like to come to my friend’s Superbowl party? Here, I’ll print you some directions.”

And had he left well enough alone, I might have considered attending.

But as men are wont to do, he continued with,

“Man, if you come, my friend Rob is going to laugh. Every time he sees me I am with a new woman.”

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Gee, sweetheart, thanks.

Thanks, but no thanks.

It was the first in a long relationship riddled with Foot In Mouth-Itits (a tragic disease so far without a cure), and miraculously, I still married him.

(And possibly even stranger, after learning of my obsession with all things pink and heart-shaped (BUT NOT DIAMONDS. NEVER DIAMONDS) and the fact that I use an insane amount of toilet paper, he still married me.)

So dish, what’s your favorite open-mouth-insert-foot story?