So I woke up today a whole year older and I feel…exactly the same. When I was a kid, I always thought that I should feel somehow different, older and wiser, or at least, have my boobs grow a size or something to ring in the New Year. Sadly–or is it thankfully, since I’ve already surpassed the Maximum Boob Size I’d Wanted years ago–I’ve never noticed an appreciable change in me.

However, in response to my pathetic pity party post (alliteration much?) I did manage to procure myself my very own Blog Troll, something I’d wanted very, very much and am counting as my Own Personal Birthday Present. Thank you, o Blog Troll, for coming by to reflect upon my general state of self-pity and inability to be pleased by what I have.

But despite being openly berated by someone with bad grammar, the rest of The Internet deserves a massive Thank You from my heart to yours. I’d send you a present if I could, sweet Internet, whom I love so very much that it hurts.Seriously, you made me blush a little bit and maybe my nipples got a little hard when I saw that everyone else refrained from telling me how obnoxious I was being (oh, don’t get me wrong, the Blog Troll was RIGHT. I was whining.) and some of you even understood what the hell I was blabbering about.

Will you marry me, Internet?

So today, I ask you, my sweet Internet, something I’ve always wondered and never thought to ask (primarily because I am dumb). Zodiac signs, hoax or dogma? I’m a Cancer, born a couple weeks early–supposed to be a Leo–and although I suppose some of the traits fit (like throwing shit onto a wall?) I don’t really see it. What do you think?

Last Wednesday, at the indelicate urging of one of my OB’s partners, I went off my Wellbutrin. She used the term “High Risk OB” as in the doctor I would see for normal visits, and like that, I was done with the medicine.

I’d gone on it in January or February after a lengthy battle with nasty PPD. Whether or not it was pure PPD or the fact that it had been The Year Of No Sleep, the Wellbutrin took the edge off life. After I’d caught myself crying over the demise of the ice maker (why, o why do you desert me, o icemaker?) I’d realized I’d fallen off the rails on a Crazy Train.

I marched my sorry self to my OB and admitted that I needed some help. And it helped a lot.

The following months have been equally hard on me, and I’ve been grateful that I did if for no other reason than it helped me to not chew holes in the walls (much). My friend Steph died in early February and dealing with it is still difficult for me. I have very few doubts I’ll ever get “over” it.

And since I’ve been off my meds, I’m doing….okay. I’m not going to jump off a cliff anytime soon–especially, of course, because Illinois is not known for it’s cliffs–nor am I going to start talking to imaginary people who live in my garbage disposal. It’s this decided LACK of insanity that led me to realize that I could do this, I could be without, for a time.

The biggest issue I’m having is coping with the spotting WITHOUT the pharmaceutical assistance. It’s just as nerve wracking as you can imagine–potentially more so–and this is what I’m struggling most with. I’ve been mum about it because who wants to hear about it?

I was told that I could go back into the world of mood enhancers about week 14 should I choose to, and I’m not making any decisions until I need to. Until then, I’ll be crossing days off the calendar and hoping that ordering a maternity dress for standing up in my best friend’s wedding wasn’t a piss poor idea.

Any suggestions for coping? What would The Internet do?

…Go see my friend C. She needs all the love The Internet can offer.

Fucking spotting again. May be losing my mind.

Sounds like my cervix was irritated by the dildo-like suppositories. Apparently this is normal.

My mind may very well be gone.

You didn’t think I was REALLY going to stay gone, did you? That would be insane. This blog is the only thing (some days) that connects me with the world outside of my pill-popping (what? Prenatal vitamins are pills!) suburban existence. No matter what the stupid platitudes say, I firmly believe that laughter–and vodka–are the very best medicine.

That said, I will probably not be around as much as I’ve been before. With all of the fantastic blogs out there, I’ve been having a terrible time mixing reading blogs and living, well, life in general. But alas, you wanted the best, you sadly were booby prized your Aunt Becky. Life goes on, eh?

Back when I was in my early teens, in retelling it later, I sound like a complete bad ass. I wasn’t, not really, but it sounds that way.

Take, for example, the time I was arrested at age 14. SOUNDS bad ass until I tell you the story. Which, like it or not, I’m about to do.

So, my friend Jenny and I were wandering about the mall (where else did teenagers hang?) in a sea of hormonal, well, hormones, and she came up with this brilliant idea. It went a little like this:

Jen: Hey, Becky, we should steal something.

Becky: I don’t think so. I HAVE money to pay for it.

Jen: But it would be cool! Come on!

Becky: No thanks.

Jen: COME ON!

Becky: (sighs) Okay.

Did you see that? My IRON CLAD will in action? Even then I was aware of how stupid the whole situation was. Being born with a healthy fear of The Man, I was never one to try and disobey authority. Any bad-assery I engaged in happened AROUND blatantly breaking the law.

But, in an effort to give my future self stuff to blog about and make fun of, I acted precisely how those spineless chicks on the After School Special: I caved immediately.

And so we entered a store–The Limited–for the express purpose of shoplifting something. Even then I knew it was a Very Bad Idea.

I went up to the front of the store to steal some accessories (clothing seemed like a lot of work) with Jenny in tow. We were the only people in the store besides the employees. Without having an ounce of smooveness in me, I’m sure I had a blinking sign over my head that said “TEENAGER SHOPLIFTING!”

I guarantee you that I looked guilty before I put a hair pick in my pocket.

Without surprising a single person, the clerk caught me as I tried to walk out of the store. Bus-TED.

And since it was store policy to arrest shoplifters, I was also arrested. I was also a blubbery mess from the moment I was busted. It wasn’t even MY idea, and here I was taking the blame for it! I learned REALLY QUICKLY never to listen to anyone else when it came to my business.

Well, because I was 14 and unable to drive, my mother was in the mall with me, and despite being paged over and over, we hadn’t seen her. On our way to the police station, we ran into my mother who was obviously furious. She knew I had money and she couldn’t believe that I’d tried such an amateur move.

Neither could I.

I was tried and sentenced to 25 hours community service, which I served at a local Red Cross. I painted rooms and I cleaned toilets (it was then that I learned about the inability of men to actually make the pee hit the toilet) for 4 weekends in a row.

I wish I could sit here and like an episode of Full House, have a “tender moment” with which I can share my wisdom and all that I learned from this harrowing experience, but I’m not that kind of person. And this isn’t that kind of blog.

So for now, ladies and germs, I tell you only this: don’t get caught.

I’m still spotting, more than I was before.

I don’t even know where to begin to explain how I feel now. I feel fucked.

I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the OB. The same one I saw last time I was in the office for my miscarriage. The same one who broke my water with Alex.

Since the initial spotting, I’ve felt not much at all. No more spotting. My uterus feels non-specifically weird. Could be the Crohn’s. Could be the start of the miscarriage.

But I’ve given up completely. I hold out absolutely no more hope at all. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t blindly hope for the best anymore. I’m tapped out of hope, of well-wishes, of happiness. I’ve been struggling mightily before now, and now that this is following a familiar path, I’m just at a loss.

And I’m just so tired of this; so weary of it all.

If this is the beginning of the end like I’m pretty sure it is, I’m done with the idea of a third child. I simply cannot do this to myself again. I can’t go through the worrying, the anguish, the stress again.

I’ve planned what I will do when this fails: I’m leaving town for awhile. By myself. I will tell no one where I’m going, and I will be alone for a couple of days. I’ve not had a chance to properly mourn anything at all; not my beloved Steph, not my two previous miscarriages, nothing. I’ve been too busy being forced to be something for someone else.

I can’t help but feel that tonight is the last time that the Sausagebryo and I will be together. And I want to tell it how sorry I am. I’d really have liked a third child. Even if it meant a mini-van and more stretch marks. I’m so sorry ickle one. I’m just so sorry.

I’d say I was comfortably numb, but there’s nothing comfortable about it.

I’m a terrible patient. Really, I am.

I always have these grand visions of myself in a wheelchair, snuggled sadly into the couch insisting that my husband minister to my bedsores every single hour. Maybe I could even start moaning while I breathe, just for effect. If I were a good patient, I’d never for a moment allow anyone to forget that I was sick or hurt or whatever, and dominate any and all conversations with lengthy descriptions of my bowel movements and sputum.

It would be AWESOME.

But no, here I sit on the couch where I am supposed to be “resting” and bored out of my mind. I don’t sit around quietly well, never have, and I prefer to buzz around the house like a chubby bumblebee taking care of all the wonderful things my family leaves just for me! They’re thoughtful like that.

I’m.so.bored.it.hurts.

Normally my cure for boredom is a drink and some online shopping (if I’m stuck in the house) but I don’t even have anything to look for. So I’m stuck sitting here, my foot looking hugely pregnant and kind of scary and trying to forget that I am pregnant, too. Not with (I hope) a Foot Baby.

I’ve managed pretty well to ignore being pregnant because if I think about it I worry, and the last thing I need is to worry myself in circles. Worrying is useless. Kind of like sitting around like a slug. Useless.

So Internet, oh sweet Internet, what the hell should I do while I heal?

I’m afraid I cannot deliver the second installment of this story as I have stupidly fallen down the stairs and twisted my ankle. It now looks like a potato and I’m debating going to the ER or not. The pain is mighty, and I will likely not get Vicodin (the only thing to make this whole debacle worth it).

But don’t worry, lovers, I have not forgotten you. I will be back.

On a boring night during my eighteenth year of life, a couple of my friends and I were driving around looking for something, anything to do. We had the staples: smokes, gas, dinner and coffee and were aimlessly driving around. As we passed a video store that I had recently procured a membership thanks to another friend of mine, I had a brilliant idea. ‘œHey guys,’ I suggested, ‘œHow about we pop in the video store to pick up a gross porno to watch?’

The idea was considered golden, and we headed inside.

Back in the restricted adult section, we went to town. Scrupulously we scoured the shelves for something ala Fatties Hump Old Men or Midgets Do Manhattan. Porno after porno was rejected as none was quite up to snuff in comedic value. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, we found our diamond. The movie was called ‘œAnal Clinic’ and it was to be our entertainment for the evening.

We headed back to my ex-boyfriends house to watch our little gem along with a bottle of (stolen) red wine, giggling like schoolchildren on the way home, someone saying ‘œAnal Clinic’ at odd intervals which would be met with peals of laughter throughout the car.

We popped downstairs, after rounding up some of the usual suspects and settled in to watch Anal Clinic. The movie was nothing like we’d thought it would be. It was a European porn, full of men with men having anal sex with various people.

AND IT WAS SUBTITLED. WHO WATCHES SUBTITLED PORN? What are you going to miss, exciting plot twists? It’s a PORN, ergo it HAS NO PLOT.

After about 15 minutes, we decided that the porno was too lame to even be watched, so we formulated a new plan. We decided to go naked hot tubbing, throwing ourselves down in the snow and running back to plop into the hot tub to warm up.

We were brilliant, brilliant people.

As I was getting ready to leave for the evening, I popped back downstairs to the basement to collect my disappointing porno so that I could drop it off on my way home. I checked the VCR, but it was totally empty. Figuring that someone else had decided to watch something less boring, I checked the area immediately around the entertainment center. No go. Thinking that it may have been shoved into the couch, I checked between the cushions. Nothing, save for a gold brick (seriously. My ex-boyfriend was very, VERY rich. But this is a story for another day) and a couple of dollars in change. Pocketing the change, but leaving the brick, I summoned the rest of the kids to help me look for the porno. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

I waited furiously for the next couple of days to see if anything would turn up. Nothing did.

Figuring that the movie was already late, I wanted to circumvent any phone calls to my house, as I could just IMAGINE my parents reaction, ‘œRebecca? The video store called and they need you to return Anal Clinic, ‘ I popped by the video store so that I could pay for my lost stolen porno.

Walking the ultimate walk of shame, I headed into the store. I approached the pimply-faced 16 year old kid working behind the counter and said in the most clear and least shamed voice I could muster given the circumstances, ‘œI need to buy Anal Clinic.’ Turning such a deep red that he looked iridescent purple, the pimples a stark white contrast to his face, he sputtered that I would have to come back when his manager was there. Trying not look ashamed, I walked out, head as high as I could make it go.

Several days later, I headed back to see the manager. By this time I was an old pro at this. I marched right up to him and said the exact same thing, ‘œI need to buy Anal Clinic.’ I didn’t bother to explain WHY I needed the movie, or what had happened, as I was certain that he’d heard it all before. I paid the $36ish dollars, and upon waiting for my receipt, the manager mysteriously disappeared to the back room.

He returned several minutes later with a movie box in hand, the title obscured by his ginormous man-hands. He handed me the box along with my receipt, and I was on my way. After hopping back into my car, I allowed myself to look down at the box in my hands.

The manager had given me the original box for Anal Clinic, complete with cover art and bold blaring title.

Just what I’d always wanted: a $36 box of the most shameful porno in history.

————

All right, lovers, dish to Aunt Becky. What was one of the most shameful things you’ve ever had to do?