(Please pardon my crappy blog skills these days. I’m working on something that seems to be eating up not only my time, but the few remaining brain cells I have left (shut.up.). It’s boring so I’ll spare you the details, but in lieu of any real new content, this is an ancient post from about three years ago.)

Some people keep pets to protect themselves and their families from the gamut of intruders, burglars, murderers, and rapists that regularly prey on innocent people.

Dogs are a common favorite for this. My brother, for example, because he hates me bitterly trained his German Shepard to attack me whenever I walked into the house. My parents have 2 large dogs that alert them when:

a) Someone is approaching the house (i.e. the mailman or yours truly)

b) Another animal is approaching the house (i.e. a stray cat) or

c) a squirrel farts down the block.

It’s actually quite tedious to live with as you can well imagine.

I’ve HEARD of people having cats do similar things, you know, meowing and hissing whenever someone new comes over. My own cats (3 count ’em 3! In training for crazy cat lady lifestyle) would NEVER do anything of the sort. Although The Deer Hunter may attack someone carrying in a cheeseburger or spinach salad, but only so he could eat some of it. Who am I kidding, he’d eat ALL OF IT.

(ed.note: The Deer Hunter, aka Finnegan the Cat died at the age of two from some terrible inborn genetic error. No, three years later I am still not over it. Shut.up.)

Apparently, over at the ole Casa de la Sausage, we have inadvertently developed a new hybrid of attack-critters. A nest of wasps decided that our back porch was the perfect spot for a summer home. We cohabited quite well until this morning, when I was ruthlessly attacked by the mess of wasps.

I guess that wasps are too stupid to train to attack ‘œundesirables,’ despite my sorted efforts, which mainly consisted of putting pictures of Pashmina–who is deathly afraid of bees– out by the hive and chanting ‘œattack the beast’ over and over.

So, in a haze of insecticide, my porch now rests. Peacefully, even.

It’s Memorial Day weekend, and I’m thrilled that The Daver will grace the home with his lovable presence. We’ll probably BBQ some hot dogs (low fat–sadly), sit outside and enjoy the weekend. For once this terrible spring, it seems to be warming up slightly. I take this as a positive omen.

We’re not really a celebratory family for this sort of holiday. July 4 goes pretty much unnoticed, we BBQ, we watch the fireworks, and if they were “legal” in this state, we’d light sparklers. We don’t have knock down parties, inviting our friends, we have no real traditions unless you count not having traditions a tradition (I do).

Memorial and Labor Day are the same for us: we enjoy the time off, we try to remember why we have these days off, we might BBQ, we might not. They’re just not holidays I care about that much.

Pretty much any holiday that falls from January to October I don’t care for, and that sadly includes my birthday. Remember when you couldn’t wait for your birthday? You’d shiver with excitement over the mere thought of it being Your Birthday for weeks before it happened, reminding everyone in a 10 mile radius that it was going to be YOUR BIRTHDAY soon. I kind of miss those days.

My birthday is in July, the day after Bastille Day and I’m totally dreading it. Last year was the absolute pits, I had been in a wedding the day before, I had a cold, Alex was up every hour on the hour, and then at 1 AM I ended up with in the ER with a corneal abrasion. I spent my birthday proper hiding like a vampire from the light, which caused me excruciating pain. I also couldn’t see out of one of my eyes, so it was disorienting to try and do, well, anything at all.

Sadly, the Vicodin they gave me in the ER was the highlight of the day.

It was a highly depressing day. When you get older, no one remembers your birthday, and no one makes a big deal out of it. It’s not a landmark unless you turn an age that ends with a ‘0’ and since those come along only about every ten years or so, it’s not something you can really look forward to.

As much as I’ve told The Daver that I don’t want to acknowledge my birthday in any way this year and pretend like it’s just another day to avoid the inevitable disappointment of it all, I know that I’d be sad if he did this. I want the day to be special, but I don’t know how to make it special (unless recreational Vicodin use is involved). I’m truly conflicted by my birthday this year, and I’ve got to think of how to resolve this before my husband sells me to the gypsies or worse, the Republicans (I TOTALLY AM ON THE REPUBLICAN MAILING LIST AND I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I GOT THERE).

*sighs*

I’m SUCH a little bitch! How do I resolve this, y’all?

Have a truly wonderous weekend, all of you, even my super-stealthy lurkers out there. Aunt Becky and her Sausages love you madly, sweet Internet Friends. We’ll catch you on the flip side, where I can only hope heavy drug use is involved.

It might surprise you to know that I hate drama. I’m probably one of the least dramatic people I know, save for begging Ashley that I can wear transvestite make-up in her wedding, and I like it that way. But over the past 2 months, and past 2 miscarriages, I can’t help but feel I’m turning into this disgusting drama queen. Thankfully she seems confined to my head.

I’m also less surprisingly not much of a dweller. Bad shit happens to me and the only thing I can control is how I handle it. If I spend my life mourning my childhood, I’ll never enjoy my adulthood. These past couple months, though, between the loss of my beloved friend Steph and all of these fucking miscarriages has really taken a toll on me. It’s funny, I didn’t realize WHAT was wrong with me for quite awhile.

Most of the day I’m fine, really I am. I function, I care for my two thriving (breathing) children, and I don’t sit around mourning my losses. Somewhere between 3 and 4 PM I lose it and I don’t feel like I can continue being someone else’s answer to everything. I fight off panic attacks and try as best as I can to get through it all and I succeed. I’m breathless in a room full of air these days, and I don’t know how to catch my breath.

By chance (seriously) I was walking through Target (where else?) and I found myself in the maternity section. I fingered some of the billowy shirts and despite my dislike of Target’s maternity wear in general, I wished desperately that I could buy one and need it for something other than my beer gut. I guess it just heightened my feelings of loss, dreadful loss.

I can’t help but really miss those two sad souls, those two sacs of disjointed and deformed chromosomes, the two doomed embryos that my body expelled. I try as best as I can to remind myself of the logic, of the reality, but I can’t help but be saddened. It’s a sadness no sweet and adorable puppy will touch, not even remotely.

I’m not pregnant and I wish like hell that I were. But I don’t want a new baby, I want my old embryos back. I want them back in my body, and I want this whole thing to be a terrible dream. But my dreams tend to involve having The Sex with characters from television, and I know that for now, for right now, this is my new reality.

This is not to imply that I’m not seriously considering many of the sexy ideas you’ve all given me to cure this Godforsaken Writer’s Block, because I have many a Nat story brewing in my loins, but now I have a serious question for you brilliant folks.

So, for Christmas this year we planned on buying a swing-set for our backyard, because as I understand it, this is what all the cool kids do, and I’m desperately trying to be cool. But when we researched it further, it became apparent that most of the play-sets we were looking at were going to take up enough of my yard that I balked at it. They also were approximately the cost of a used subcompact car, which was prohibitive enough to make me weep a little.

We came up with a Plan B: buy a playhouse for the kids for the backyard. A sweet wooden playhouse, not a plastic one, because I hate plastic stuff. Unless it’s in my boobs. Then I like it a lot.

Here it is.

But now I’m wondering if this is what 2 little boys need in their backyard. It’s kind of…girly.

What do you think?

So, I’ve been absent from here not because I don’t heart my blog with the fire of a billion setting sun’s, but because I’ve got nothing right now to talk about. Sure, I suppose I could start filling pages with pictures of my kids, and maybe I will, but to me that’s not what this blog is about. I suck at photography (apparently the fancy camera I bought doesn’t a master photographer make) and my pictures are boring, so I’m not planning on doing this.

If I did this again, I’d feel like I was somehow cheating which would exacerbate my Writer’s Block and make me a very confused person. I get UPSET when I don’t post, and I’m hoping that if I throw this lame post up, it’s going to get my creative juices a-flowin’ (better then OTHER juices, right?).

AND, I can beg you for ideas, oh sexiest of Internets.

What on EARTH should Your Aunt Becky post about?

So my new friend Edward Alexander tagged me for a meme. And since I heart new people, I will happily oblige.

4 things I did 10 years ago: (1998)
1. Graduated High School (shit, has it really been that long?)
2. Smoked oodles of marijuana.
3. It’s a blur. See #2
4. No clue. See #2

4 things I did 5 years ago: (2003)
1. I met The Daver (again, REALLY?)
2. Got engaged
3. Had my very first colonoscopy!
4. Was diagnosed with small bowel Crohn’s disease

4 things I did yesterday:
1. Got my white patent leather go-go boots in the mail. I may very well look like a transvestite in them, but I don’t care.
2. Cleaned up massive craptastrophes. Interestingly, none of my own.
3. Paid someone to mow my lawn WITHOUT feeling guilty about it. Okay, I felt a LITTLE guilty. The lawn was so long that the puppy could get lost in it.
4. Ate glorious McDonald’s for dinner WITHOUT going off my diet!

4 shows I love to watch:
1. House, M.D.
2. American Idol
3. The Girls Next Door
4. Rock of Love

So I’m supposed to tag some people to do this incredibly thought-provoking meme, but really what I’m interested in is what YOUR answers are to this. Yes, YOU, my sweet and wonderous readers. So leave me a comment answering a couple of these if you want.

Aunt Becky would love you forever and ever.

I approached having a puppy with the same trepidation that most people approach having a root canal. I wasn’t being coy when I said I’d never wanted a puppy. People who have raised puppies are always in an uproar about “never wanting to do it again” and “it was the hardest thing. Ever.”

Stupidly I listened to them.

Auggie came home with us, and a rock formed where my stomach had been merrily sitting hours before, and I panicked (inwardly). What the FUCK was I thinking? I thought to myself, here I am, finally having weened the kid and insisted he sleep through the night, like it or not, so I celebrate by BUYING A PUPPY?

Epic bad judgement, I told myself.

Yesterday night, it dawned on me as I waited for things to get REALLY HARD: yes, having a puppy is hard work, but absolutely easier than either of my children as babies. It’s the same nimrods who chuckle and tell you to kiss your sleep goodbye when you tell them that you’re pregnant that tell you how hard puppies are.

When you’re used to breast-feeding, being THE ONLY ONE who can comfort the baby, and NOT LETTING THEM CRY IT OUT BECAUSE THEY MIGHT HYPERVENTILATE THEN DIE, a puppy is a snap. Sure, he pees on the carpet now and again, sure I have to take him out every hour or so, and sure he doesn’t ALWAYS like it when I put him in his cage, BUT IT’S NOT THAT BAD! Especially when you compare the level of need to the level of need of a baby.

And to make matters better, the most unexpected side effects have also occurred:

1) Ben considers the puppy his puppy and is helping me out a shit ton. Despite having a menagerie for a house, Ben has never cared a bit about any of the animals. Sure, he’s fine with them, but it’s indifference at best. Now, he is thrilled to help with his pup.

2) Cash, the world’s most aggressive houseplant has taken a shine to the baby puppy. This is the dog who I cannot take out on walks alone with Alex because I cannot wrestle Cash while ensuring Alex’s safety should another dog come along. I have literally been in the middle of a dog fight with Cash, and had to yank all 40 pounds of him away and carry him home all while screaming for help (the other dogs owner was INSIDE and had LEFT HER DOG OUTSIDE). THAT was a fun time, LET ME TELL YOU.

So, after three days, the rock in my belly has lessened, and I’m feeling pretty okay with the whole situation. Our house is full of life again.

BONUS! PICTURES!

I’m trying to catch the proportions of the puppy, but I haven’t yet been able to illustrate just how teeny-tiny he is.

The houseplant in (in)action:

So first and foremost, I’d like to extend a “howdy” to anyone popping by from that list that’s making it’s way around the blogs. I like meeting new people, so leave me a note so that I can come and visit you. This goes for anyone I’ve neglected to say “What’s up?” to lately; I’ve been a little pathetic and preoccupied lately, so holler and I’ll holler back this time.

Scout’s honor.

Yes, I was a Girl Scout. And yes, I sucked at it. Sucked majorly. Selling cookies door to door has turned me off cookies in general (something my ass is most pleased by) and causes me to throw money at any kid trying to go door to door and sell me stuff I don’t really want. Although the adults coming door to door do kind of freak me out.

Tomorrow morning I’m heading to Ben’s school for a Mother’s Day Tea, and to be completely honest (when am I not?) I’m ridiculously nervous about it. I don’t really know any of the other parents aside from knowing that they’re probably much older and wiser than I, and would therefore KNOW not to send chocolate to school with their children. I, on the other hand, am often tempted to upend a 5 pound bag of sugar into Ben’s lunch and empty a Mountain Dew into it. Just because I’m highly mature. And not the slightest bit vindictive.

I guess the simplest distinction between us is that they are crunchy and I still happily listen to Britney Spears. And maybe, JUST maybe I am hoping for her comeback. A lot.

*sighs*

What makes you insanely nervous for no real reason?

When I was younger, before I was your Aunt Becky and before I had a Ben, an Alex or even a Daver, and especially before gas cost the equivalent of a mortgage payment I used to unwind by taking an aimless drive. I’d fill up the tank of my del Sol, grab a pack or three of cigarettes and hit the road, listening to my CD’s and letting it all go.

There was, and still is, something magical about driving aimlessly to nowhere in particular, nothing on my mind but whatever song was playing on the stereo, and just existing. Just complete peace. It’s something I dearly miss about my old life, and something I hope to get back into when my kidlets grow up. I love them both tremendously, but having them squack at me from the backseat would lose a bit of the luster, I imagine, so I don’t take them.

Since I live in the northern part of Illinois, the easiest place for me to follow country roads is down South. It’s crazy how much difference in attitude there is down there and that always makes me desperately yearn to move down there. It doesn’t matter if I leave the state or not, the South is just so much more welcoming than the North is. I’ll never know if it’s the last remnants of the war or the vast amount of moonshine, but people down South are just different.

Now, the Midwest, where I lay my head at night is great, don’t get me wrong, but it conjures up images farmland, cows, and girls with thick ankles. And I’m flanked by the most boring states in existence: Wisconsin, Indiana, and….Ohio? Iowa? Not sure, as my geography skills are sorely lacking (along, truth be told with my spelling, punctuation, and fraction skills). Either way, none of those states make me go “YES, let’s go to…INDIANA!” not because they’re bad or anything, but just because there’s not much there to be pumped about.

Down South, there are plenty of exotic locals: Georgia, Tennessee, Louisiana, each with something new! and exciting! for a Yank like me. It’s alluring to me somehow, all of these locals, each full of nice people who may talk a bit slowly for my liking, but sweet and interesting nonetheless.

I’ll probably never understand the allure of Sweet Tea and probably always get a little sick from Barbeque (especially BBQ Spaghetti. What.the.fuck?), but since the North isn’t holding much in the way of appealing to me these days, I’m going to take a mental road-trip down South, past the Mason-Dixon Line (where that is, I’ll never know).

Who knows, maybe I’ll actually go down South one of these nights after The Daver is home to watch the sleeping kids and revisit my glory days when nothing much mattered except for the song on the radio.

Right about now, that sounds phenomenal.

In my quest to turn my iPod into a portable dance party, I hit up the ole iTunes store to find some music to get my ass moving in the gym.

(as an aside, typically when I am able, I take out all of my frustrations on myself in a way that you wouldn’t expect. It’s either unbelievably healthy or unbelievably horrifying: I beat my own ass at the gym. I am telling you that I can get the hurt on myself. And that I love it)

So, today I downloaded some Prince (because I have single handedly destroyed my CD collection because I totally suck) and some Notorious B.I.G. and holy shit had I forgotten how good and dirrrrty Prince is.

That’s probably the most annoying part of becoming a grown up, you can’t sing snatches (get it?) of Pussy Control in public without offending someone. Nor can you pull up to pick the Notorious B.E.N from school while blasting “Gett Off.”

*sighs*

I think I need to revisit my teenage years again.

What music should I download to get my ass wriggling at the gym?