I am one of the most impatient people that I have ever met. I remember when I was pregnant with either (or both, really) of my children, I had the WORST time waiting to meet them (and worrying, of course, always the worry). Someone told me that you NEED 9 months to prepare yourself for the birth of a child, but I don’t buy that. I need about a week and a half. Weight should come off at a rate of AT LEAST 10 pounds per week, bank accounts should miraculously replenish themselves, and Thai food should take about 2 seconds to prepare and be delivered.

Today is the day I’ve been anxiously awaiting for over a month (which is a terribly long time when you’re feeling like dog poo); I’m finally going to the Endocrinologist. And I’m scared shitless for absolutely no real reasons whatsoever. I’m afraid that my thyroid will be completely WNL and all of the symptoms I’ve been having can neatly be explained away by having finally caught The Crazy. I’m terrified that the doctor won’t take me and my issues seriously enough. And I fear that because this is a holiday week, my lab results will take forever, thereby delaying the treatment that could help me feel more human again.

It’s dumb, because it’s not like worrying and stressing about any of these things will change the outcome in any way. I will get treatment or I will not.

On the up side of down, at the very least, I will not have to collect my poop in a jar again. There is nothing in the world as having to not only collect your own feces BUT THEN having to drop them off at a lab, knowing full well that some poor tech is going to have to go fishing in there. And that, my friends, is a story for another day.

So tell me, what do YOU do when you’re worrying yourself in circles?

I have decided what I will do when I finally lose the rest of the baby weight: I’m getting a shorter (not too short, I look like Pinhead even when thin) haircut. Because, you know, longer hair hides the 30 extra pounds.

But several days prior, I will be doing something I’ve always wanted to do: I’m going to give myself a mullet. And it will be freaking sexxy.

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Several nights ago, during a dinner that Dave didn’t happen to make it to, Ben proclaimed that he was going to draw a picture of his house with Alex and I in it. So I asked if Dave was going to be in the picture as well, to which he replied, after thinking about it for awhile,

“…Yes….BUT he will be crying.”

I nearly choked on my own saliva.

—————–

Wendy’s new slogan “That’s Right” irritates me tremendously, because every time I’ve ever been to Wendy’s (which is very, very infrequently), my order has always been completely wrong. I’m considering complaining to coorporate about it because they are LYING. It’s NEVER Right.

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I left the baby in his Exersaucer near the television yesterday while I ran down to throw a load of laundry into the dryer. When I got back, I realized that he was studiously watching a television program. I heard the phrase “incestuous relationship with his sister” and realized that I had left him to watch a biography of Caligula, The Deviant Emperor.

Somewhere, some therapist is rejoycing at the shear amount of money he/she will be recieving in the future from my children.

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Over the weekend, my father, the pharmacist informed me that all of the infant cold remedies had been pulled from the shelves as some 65 deaths had occured over the last 10 years from parental misuse.

Unfortunately for my son’s poor chest, he’s right. I checked today.

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Operation Dave’s Little Minion is commencing full force this evening. Dave and Ben will be heading out to the unveiling of the new Star Wars exhibit.

Man, it’s too bad that the baby is sick and I can’t go…really, I’m crying.

Between this and the adoration of video games, it’s no wonder that I keep telling Dave that Ben will live in our basement for most of his adulthood.

At about 7 months pregnant, I got myself a facial, for the first time in my whole life (I am SO going to love the search terms that get people here now that I placed that choice word in a post. Hot.) because pregnancy Round Two didn’t seem to agree with me. I had developed sort of an ashen, Don’t Come Too Close To Me Because I Look Ill And You Might Catch It complexion, and I assumed that it would help.

It didn’t (but delivery did!), and I walked out of the salon $100 poorer AND blotchy faced.

For months both before and after, I’d lusted after a mirror, a big portable mirror so that I could pluck the ole caterpillers without using a 1.5×1.5 compact mirror. This was before I had realized how prohibitavely expensive these were (I tell you, it’s always the strange things that cost a fortune), so I waited. Eventually, I found one on clearance (from $60!!!! Who on EARTH would spend that kind of money on a mirror, I don’t know) that came with all of the bells and whistles that I hadn’t actually required. I can now see my face with 4x magnification AND backlit!

I finally had the guts to pull it out of the packaging today, and oh holy hell, how scary is my face at that degree of magnification!?! It’s like each individual pore can now be seen waving at me in the happiest possible way while the hairs on my face wave lazily in the breeze. It’s so frightening that I am actually wondering how my friends put up with seeing my face when they come by.

I may have to Brown Bag it until I can tame the beast.

Some days, especially when it’s uncommon for you, it’s good to have a good morose day. Unfortunately for me, my brother seems to have inherited all of the good poetry writing genes, so I cannot seem to conjure up a good sad poem to save my life, which is what I imagine many people do during these days. If I tried, it would be something akin to:

The color blue
washes around me
Like so many cups of Diet Coke
Before lunchtime.
Oh McDonalds, how I want you!

When you read true beauty like that, it’s a damn wonder that I haven’t gotten a book deal to write Becky’s Deep And Poetic Poemes.

Okay, now that we’ve established that I cannot write a good poem to save my own life, what else is a person who hates chick flicks to do when she’s feeling bluer than normal?

If you said “Becky, you should listen to the works Leonard Cohen!” you’d win yourself the distinct honor of being able to see clearly into my sadly predictable mind. To me, there’s nothing better to listen to when you are feeling crappy than the despondant music of Leonard Cohen, because THERE is a man who really knows sadness. How can you not adore a line like, “You held onto me like I was a crucifix,” because everyone KNOWS those (get it?!? God, I’m hilarious. Where’s my standup career?) people.

To YouTube I went, to find what the freaky people have done with some of my favorite songs. I get such a charge out of looking up songs and people on YouTube, because it reminds me of how very normal I actually am, no matter what I happen to be feeling. I mean, go to the site, search for your favorite celebrity and find a photo montage dedicated to them. It’s very frightening what people do. In that vein, please do ignore the cheesy effects and/or pictures, because I swear to you on all that is holy that I a) would never make this sort of thing because b) I am computer illiterate. Plus, I’m not an idiot.

So it is my distinct honor to introduce a special version of “Music in the Morning.” This is my ode to depressive music.

Without a doubt, this is one of my all-time favorite songs in the whole wide world, regardless of how sad I may or may not be feeling. The lines in this song are just_so_awesome.

OhmyGod, this song is so achingly beautiful and yet so very sad (which is the case with many of his songs). It actually brings tears to my eyes, which is quite a rarity unless I have somehow managed to elbow myself in the boobs again. My words here are meaningless: listen to the song and weep.

Ah, finally a bit of a love song, but wait! it’s Leonard Cohen, so it’s also highly depressing. But sweet. I’ve loved this song since I was a wee lass, because, well, it’s a great song.

Remember back to the 80’s, when Christian Slater was all the rage, and he was starring in all of those great dark teen movies? I do. I was a bit young for Heathers and Pump Up The Volume, but my brother watched them religiously (he’s 10 years older than me), and since I thought that he was the coolest thing in the world, I watched them too. A leeeeeetle inappropriate for an 8-year old, but hell, when you find out that in first grade, when I had the chicken pox, I stayed home and watched Pink Floyd: The Wall, for the eleventy-hundreth time.

What’s interesting to me about this next song, is that whenever I happen to listen to it, I find another line that just sticks with me for the rest of the day and week. Today that line is “There’s gonna be a meter on your bed that will disclose, what everybody knows.” Get it? Because you’re a WHORE! Hahaha, whores! Concrete Blonde (remember them?!? Again with the 80’s loving brother!) did a cover of this one and it was actually pretty good, although I am usually strictly a no-cover kind of chickadee.

THEN, I get this email from my friend Chris, and words, they cannot describe this:

Although I do staunchly support The Britney, this song is all kinds of brilliant, and I’ll admit, she kinda deserved this.

Thanks, Chris, for snapping me (mostly) out of my funk. I’m so boring when I’m depressed.

This morning, after having practiced on such objects as his chubby starfish hands, his feet, my shoulder, Alex finally did it. The first of many (if he takes after his father) words has finally come out of his mouth.

Alex: “dadadadadadada.”

Me: “Yeah, yeah, yeah, kiddo. I’ll let you try to get your ‘dadadada’ out of bed every 3 hours every night. Why don’t you see how effective THAT is!”

I weighed myself this week.

This is kind of a masochistic big deal, considering that I had no earthly idea what kind of poundage I put on with this crotch parasite. After I continued gaining weight WHILE BARFING MY BRAINS OUT, I decided that maybe I just didn’t need to know just how efficient my metabolism could be.

Turns out, you don’t have to look when you get weighed in.

I mean, I gained a bunch with my first and all, but I ate garbage nonstop, so yeah, of course I got fat. Well, this time, I did not. And yet I STILL got fat. I feel loftily sure that I would kick some major ass in a famine, but now, my dimpled white ass needs some major work.

Let’s just say that I have my work cut out for me.

Operation Remove My Fat Ass has begun.

So after I got my good cry out, I decided to get productive and go on a walk as I have not been cleared to lift anything heavier than the baby, a walk would be nice and low impact.

I bundled Cletus the Former Fetus (ed note: Alex) up into my fancy stroller, threw my iPod over my ears to drown out his indignant “I can’t believe you’re not holding me to your breast Slave Woman! Where is my nipple? It’s not in my mouth where it belongs, you bitch!” screams, and began to enjoy the motherfucking scenery.

(as an aside, I can only imagine the horrible mother that my neighbors thought that I must be, letting my child cry like that while I grimly, determinedly walk on. I CLEARLY do not deserve to be a parent.)

As I rounded a corner, I saw the strangest thing. For the *second* time in my life.

There was a dog on a roof.

There was a (motherfucking) dog on the roof of a (motherfucking) house.

He just stood there, staring back at me as thought it was the most normal thing in the world for dogs everywhere to lounge about on tops of houses reaching two stories high.

Having had to run on no appreciable sleep for the past six weeks, I many had problems deciding how to react to the situation.

Do I call the dog? Do I keep walking? Do I want a tuna sandwich? Do I EVEN LIKE TUNA? Slowly but surely, my memory banks began to cross reference the situation: where had I seen this before? A whimsical romantically comedy? Possibly a dream I had when I was a kid? Do I even like tuna sandwiches?

And it dawned on me: several years ago, my neighbor called me outside to bear witness a dog sitting on the roof of a house across the street. A couple of us gathered out there, discussing the dog, who looked as befuddled as we were, unsure as to how it got up and as to how it was going to get back down again.

Somebody needed to do…something. If this was a made-for-TV-movie, a hot-as-hell fireman with twinkly green eyes would rescue the dog and maybe he and I would fall in love. And live happily ever after.

I offered to call the fire department, since my neighbors all seemed more interested in gawking and gaping than the poor pooch who was stuck up on the roof.

Figuring this was my shot at my one true love, I did. They directed me to animal control. Who directed me to the police. Who directed me to public works. Who told me to call the fire department.

I’m pretty sure they all looped to the same person, because I had the same fucking conversation. Either that or it was my own version of Groundhog Day:

Me: “Hi, my name is Becky Sherrick and I live here. My neighbor has a dog on his roof.”

Pick One (fire dept, animal control, police): “What?!?”

Aunt Becky: “I *said* that there is a dog on my neighbors roof. A big one.”

Public Service Official (incredulous): “You’re kidding me.”

PSO (to coworkers): “This lady is calling in a dog on a roof! Bwahahaha!”

Aunt Becky: “Why would I joke? I’m seriously afraid it’s going to jump.”

PSO (to coworkers): Now the dog is suicidal! Bwahahaha!

PSO: “Well, there’s nothing *we* can do about it. Try calling (choose one: fire dept, police, animal control, etc).”

(click)

Me:”That’s what (fire dept, police, animal..) said. oh NEVERMIND!”

Finally remembering that the public works in town have absolutely no idea what to do with a (motherfucking) dog on a (motherfucking) roof, I decided that the best course of action was one of complete inaction.

I just kept on walking, the dog and I eyeballing each other warily as Alex wailed for his breast, bitch.

And then, just like that, like a bolt of lighting out of the clear blue sky I remembered that I loathe tuna sandwiches.

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What’s the weirdest thing you’ve come across lately?

I am not, never have been, and likely never will be an Underwear person. I dislike wearing, owning, washing, and buying them. I hate how much they cost, I abhor their function, and I think the stupid little patterns on them are, well, stupid. Given my own choice I would–and frequently do–practice the gentle art of Free-balling.

Bra and panty sets are equally offensive to me. Maybe I’m insane here, but if any man is less likely to hump me because my bra and panties don’t match, they don’t deserve to see my sweet, sweet box. To me (who is actually colorblind, remember) it’s just another thing to coordinate.

My best friend Ashley worked in lingerie for many years, and spent the majority of those years attempting to convert me to the matching underwear/bra side of life. Much as I can kinda see the point, I usually went along for the ride and to make her feel accomplished (plus, I felt guilty that my son had peed on her). I’d pop by to see her, pick out some perfectly functional drawers (not panties. NEVER panties. What a sick word!) and leave feeling relieved that I didn’t have to buy more undies for a couple of months.

When she quit working there, I was left in a bind. Gone was my bra/undies hookup. Gone were the kick ass boxer-like drawers, having gone back to the great Maker from which they came.

Left to my own devices, I discovered that Victoria’s Secret runs a kick ass sale a couple times a year. The Underwear Gods were smiling down upon me once again! Many more years passed in this manner, stocking up quarterly on undies, never thrilled, always satisfied.

In January, my time for fresh and stain free drawers lured me back to Victoria’s Secret. Hopelessly, I trudged forth into the store and in the same manner in which I always have, grabbed about 50 pairs and ran back out having dropped a small fortune.

In March, once the boxes were unpacked, I rediscovered my newest cache of drawers. Thrilled by the fact the I had thought ahead, I greedily pulled a fresh pair on. And on. And on again, By the time the pair was completely unrolled, my boobs were resting just slightly above the edge of the underwear.

Confused, I double-checked the tag for both the size (Same) and the Maternity Moniker (none). I checked myself out in my full-length mirror. Yep. I looked like a bandanna printed Erkl.

Hot.

I tore through the remainder of the bag. Yes, indeedy. I had certainly bought 500 pairs of grandma panties, in all whimsical colors and patterns. AND THEN REMOVED TAGS AND WASHED THEM. No, siree, Vicky’s won’t take THOSE back.

Thankfully by a stroke of luck for my sex-life, Dave happened to be out for the day and I was alone, otherwise I’d have pranced around the house with Hawaiian print undies up to my nipples for him to see (ala buying the poofy shit for under my wedding dress. You bet your ass Dave had to watch me prance around David’s Bridal looking like an extra for Little WhoreHouse on the Prairie. Then he gave me my Thorazine and wept quietly into his hands).

As luck would have it, I was stuck at home alone, breasts being cut into by underwear band laughing softly and wondering how the shit I didn’t realize that each pair that I bought had about 187 extra yards of fabric. Victoria’s Secret apparently makes a version of The Granny Panty. Who the fuck knew?

Also, I really need to get the fuck over the cost and buy some damn underwear that’s not on sale.

As a post script, I would like to add that my shear stubbornness has not allowed me to get rid of these, so I am wearing them as I write this. Nipples chafing and all.