Several years ago, I wrote the first in a series of posts to my television husbands, this one to Vincent D’Onofrio, where I divorced him for having the audacity to impregnate someone else. This of course, was shortly after I’d popped out crotch parasite numero dos, Alejandro, and blatantly overlooked that I had recently had a baby that hadn’t been presumably sired by him.

I also frequently called myself the “anonymous Midwestern girl with kicky hair” which should have told anyone that I didn’t take myself SERIOUSLY. The letter was, of course, a total over-the-top joke. I had to Google his fucking name to even write the damn thing.

But after I wrote it, my tens of readers laughed, because writing a fake love letter to a fake TV husband is kinda funny (shut up) and then an odd thing happened: Google Reader picked the damn thing up as in, “if you like, “xxx” you’ll LOVE “yyy””

THEN the Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio showed up on my doorstep. I’m not talking about people who have some Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck So Hard on DVR, no, I’m talking about the people who have entire BLOGS devoted to him. Who know his wife’s name (he’s married?) and paint murals of him on their walls.

They were *ahem* displeased with Your Aunt Becky.

And I was shocked that so many people could devote so many hours a day to caring about celebrities. It just hadn’t dawned on me that anyone, well, WOULD.

I still get people who swing by and yell at me about it, just like the teens who yell at me on Twitter for misspelling David Archuleta’s name. Not, oddly, that I said “I thought about buying David Archuleta’s book until I realized he’d been a Barbizon Model and then punched myself in the face.”

(I’m bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me take Glamor Shots and for some reason I have my wires crossed and Glamor Shots = Barbizon = Be a Model, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

But now, I’ve realized that my true love is not Vincent D’Onofrio, Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio, so you can all back off.

Because after years of searching, I’ve finally found The Love of My Life:

Rod Blagojevich’s Hair: (he’s the former governor of Illinois, where I live. State Motto: We Impeach our Crooked Governors! He’s also…just…wow.)

When we met, I was immediately smitten. Sure, politics aren’t my thing, but the hair, people, THE HAIR.

His magic hair and I went for long walks on the beach, looking at rocks, rotting fish and hypodermic needles.

And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, his hair took me for a long romantical visit to Detroit, where, over fried chicken and waffles and cans of Diet Coke,  his hair asked me to be it’s bride.

The day I married his hair was the happiest day of my life. My dad walked me down the aisle to strains of “Dude Looks Like a Lady” and when I met his hair at the alter, I promised to “Love, Honor and Repay” his hair for the rest of my days on Earth, til baldness (or Rogaine) do us part.

His hair just floated there, like a mystical being from another planet while I beamed serenely. My heart was finally happy.

His magic hair completed me.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

9 months later, the product of our Magical Union, the sweet Hair Baby baby popped out of my crotch.

The day I had his hairs’ baby, well, that was the second happiest day of my life. Second only to the day I became, Mrs. The Magic Hair Blago.

Of course, a mystical being like Blago’s Magical Hair can’t be contained for long, so I’ve been left to raise our Love Child alone, but that’s okay. I’m lucky to have had his Magic Hair for as long as I did.

If you love something as special as Magic Hair, you have to let it go to be free. If it comes back to you, it was always yours.

Or…uh, something.

I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest here because I am hallucinating tiny pink penguins marching over the monitor on my Big Mac and I don’t think that anything I say can be held against me in The Marriage Court and say it: Dave isn’t a great gift buyer. He’s gotten better over the years, for sure, but that’s only after I spent about four separate birthdays crying, “You mean, you bought me this pack of gum from a GAS STATION?”

I recognize that gifts and being thought of on the day of one’s birth (or on other holidays) isn’t important to everyone. For those of you who don’t care about such material things, I give you massive props. You are CLEARLY better, more evolved than I am.

I’m a slothly, mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragger of a person who likes my stuff-n-things and really, I want someone to THINK of me on my damn birthday (which, Pranksters, should be a national holiday).

That said, there are a couple of things that if The Daver thought to buy me on my birthday (or any other present buying day, really), I’d be Furious George.

Like this (brought to my attention by my new brother-in-law Patrick):

The BETTER MARRIAGE BLANKET. It officially reduces the incidences of those pesky Dutch Ovens and night farts. Which, to me, are like the best part of marriage.

I’m not a terribly gassy person, but The Daver, well, he is. So when he gets into bed and rips ass, I do the only thing a person CAN do in this situation. I grab the quilt and I quickly pull it over his head, trapping the noxious odors inside where he is forced to rebreathe his own stench for minutes at a time (this, Pranksters, is a Dutch Oven).

He’ll lay under there, howling for mercy, chocking on his own disgustingness while I lay on top of him cackling wildly.

If I had the Better Marriage Blanket, I could not do such a thing and that WOULD MAKE ME SAD. Because I consider that to be high sport and while I’m sure a good lot of you are shaking your heads wondering how I conned someone into marrying me, I can honestly tell you that I have no idea, either.

So BACK OFF, Better Marriage Blanket People, and let me have my fun.

And The Daver, if you buy me this, I will somehow manage to find a way to get Auggie to pee on your pillow. That’s a promise.

——————–

What’s the worst gift YOU have gotten, Pranksters?

Last night after Dave and I watched a very nail-biting episode of American Idol (and by “nail biting” I mean, I do not know why I don’t just punch myself in the face with lemons until they really start singing instead of watching the auditions), I sat down nearish to him.

(pat pat pat) “The back of your head is entirely flat at the top.”

The Daver (ignoring me entirely)(duh): “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. And the top kinda makes you look like Predator.”

The Daver (still absentmindedly pecking away on his Blackberry): “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I bet your mom dropped you on your head a lot.”

The Daver: “That explains a lot.”

Aunt Becky (giggles): “You know, we could get you one of those helmets they put kids in now to reshape your skull! Those kids look so CUTE!”

The Daver: “NO.”

Aunt Becky (laughing): “Can you IMAGINE walking around with one of those helmets as an adult? I’d decorate it for you! I could write your NAME in glitter! Or put some CHICAGO FIRE emblems on it!”

Aunt Becky: *bwahahahahahaha*

The Daver: “I think my skull is done being molded.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh.”

The Daver: “So don’t get any ideas.”

Aunt Becky (small voice): “Oh.”

The Daver: “Becky? You didn’t buy me a helmet, did you?”

Aunt Becky: “….Define BUY.”

The Daver: (buries LUMPY head in hands)

Aunt Becky: “It’s okay, I’ll love you and your misshapen head no matter what! Because THAT’S WHAT I LOVE YOU MEANS. TO HAVE, HOLD, AND OBEY…

(pauses)

….Your lumpy head!”

The Daver: “You made the priest take out the ‘obey’ part. Remember?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s because I never obey you.”

The Daver: “That’s for DAMN sure.”

Now that he’s remembered that I never obey him, he won’t be as mad when he finds out that I ordered him a plagiocephaly helmet for Valentine’s Day.

I think the “I love my wife” decals and hearts will make him change him mind and he’ll decide that wearing a helmet 23 hours a day is a very good idea indeed.

———————

Today over at A Mother World, I talk about The Mommy Club and how I’m desperately vying to join it.

LAST week I ran ANOTHER contest to give away my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s book, It’s Not Me, It’s You, which is freaking amazing. The book, not my contest. If you haven’t read it, or her blog, Baby on Bored, you really, really need to. And I’m not just saying that because she’s a BFF of mine or because she’s standing behind me with a gun to my head. The book rules, so does her blog. Also, don’t shoot me.

PLUS, if you buy ANY of her books (yeah, plural. FEEL FREE TO HATE HER) now at Comedy Film Nerds, you can get them signed and personalized. I’d suggest getting them made out to Yer Anus or Mike Crotch. Hehehe. I think I have some shopping to do. Hehehe.

The rules were simple, join my group Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters over at Savvy Source (which you still can join me, even if you haven’t entered the contest, because it’s fun! The widget is on the sidebar) and leave a comment here. Random Number Generator was going to do the work for me because math is hard and I’m not a smart person. OBVIOUSLY. I’m a blogger. I don’t like to do REAL WORK.

And so, the winner-winner-chicken-dinner is…KARYN.

(also, because I am Captain Dumbass I have something I bought for The Daver that he already OWNS for the next contest. Now I’ll just have to write another interview because that was fun)

———————–

For something completely different, a reworked, awesome post from moi:

(ring, ring)

Aunt Becky (clearly jumping out of her skin with excitement): “Hey Fuckwad, I had a great idea!”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

(typing sounds resume in background)

Aunt Becky: “I want to buy a new house now.”

The Daver (warily) “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I found a new one.”

The Daver: “What?!?”

Aunt Becky (talking faster now): “I mean, I know the market sucks but I just realized my dream house!”

The Daver (tiredly): “Where is this place?

Aunt Becky: “Well, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?'”

The Daver (warily) (wearily): “….yes…”

Aunt Becky (triumphantly): “I’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!”

The Daver: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) “Becky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county”

Aunt Becky: “I KNEW you were going to say that! THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing! Give them an offer they can’t refuse!”

The Daver (rests head on desk) “Ohno.”

Aunt Becky (dreamily):“Think about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of the house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco when we got married!”

The Daver: “You know she’s dead, right?”

Aunt Becky: “So she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco. See, I think of EVERYTHING.”

The Daver: “You got me out of a meeting for THIS?”

Aunt Becky: “DUH. This is IMPORTANT.”

The Daver: “Dude. You’d better get this freelancing shit going soon.”

Aunt Becky: “When I am Lady of the House, I won’t have time to write any more. I’ll be too busy trying on my vast tiara collection and ordering the staff to taste my food to make sure it’s not been poisoned.”

The Daver: “I’m going to call some people to see if they’ll hire you.”

Aunt Becky: “Good luck with that.”

The Daver: “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait a minute…”

*click*

Today over at Toy With Me, I’m telling the story of my first (and only) visit to the strip club. I can only hope that you have similar stories of abject molestation to share with me. Or, at least perhaps you can get a laugh at my expense.

Just don’t ever say I never give you anything.

Click the smiling beaver below to be taken away:

Or stick around for a Blast From The Past, for those of you not wanting to imagine me with a pair of testicles on my face (I do not know why not):

———————

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 too 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.”

(The Daver was cunning in his ruthless choice of wedding dates. While my birthday falls smack dab in the middle of nothing (but IS, my French Friends, the day AFTER Bastille Day), Dave’s birthday is the kickoff of Dave’s Days. With the notable exception of the 9th, it’s a three-day Lovestock with my husband as the central star. Can you blame him?)

When I was a kid, I never imagined myself as a bride. Always one for sparkles, diamonds, flowing rivers of pink taffeta, as an adult, this shocks me that I didn’t have–or petition for–a mini-bridal dress. Although, now that I’m thinking about it, my mother may have banned that as she banned Barbies and guns*.

My parents are still happily married (or gently resigned to each other) so I wasn’t jaded by the stress of divorce, marriage and Being A Bride wasn’t on my radar. Being a ninja was, but not a bride.

After Ben was born, although I’d been briefly engaged to his father, I still never thought that I would get married. I figured that I was slotted walk the world as a single mother, and while I frequently wondered where I was going to get the male perspective to teach my son how to Be A Dude, finding a husband wasn’t something I thought I would do.

Until I met The Daver.

You know that annoying thing that married people say to single people where they’re all, “I knew it when I found him?” It’s bloody irritating to hear when you’re single because not only is it entirely cliched, it’s self-serving and obnoxious (hey, kind of like me!).

I knew it when I found him. Dave was The One. Like it or not, we were going to be together for a long, long, unbearably long time. Some day, I will write up Our Story, and The Internet can barf at it, because I totally would.

6 years we’ve been together, 4 of them married. It feels like 60.

I look back at pictures of when we were first married, before Alex was born and nearly destroyed me. Before Amelia was here. And we look so young. Happy and young.

It’s been a hell of a couple of years and I’m not sure I’m saying that with a smile or just as fact: it’s been a hell of a couple years. But somehow in the chaos and the uncertainty, in all of that, we’re still here and we’re still happy. Not as young as we were, but happy.

For our forth anniversary of wedded bliss, I got a power washer. And an orchid. I know this because I bought them myself. Because after 4 years, I’ve learned my lesson. I’d buy myself a card if that wasn’t just kind of weird and pointless. I mean, would I sign it myself, too?

(answer: probably)

I used to think that the measure of a good relationship would be wanting to be a better person because of that person. I don’t believe that anymore. Now, I know that the measure of a good relationship is being a better person because of it. And I am.

The Daver, he makes me a better person.

We’re like Bert and Ernie. Cheese and Macaroni. Peanut Butter and Jelly. Mr. Wilson and Dennis the Menace (I will let you GUESS who I am).

Happy 4th, The Daver.

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

–ee cummings, “somewhere i have never traveled”

(anyone else humming “Jungle Fever” now?)

*I am not kidding.

——————

Be sure to cast your vote for your favorite entry in “Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff.”

Dear The Daver,

Sometime this spring, in March or April, I don’t remember and I’m WAY too lazy to go back into my archives and check (I know you’d appreciate this because your roving sock colony has made it everywhere in the house EXCEPT down the laundry chute. In Casa de la Sausage, Laziness Abounds)(Also Abounding: Bad Attitudes and Penises)(Penii?), when either I was waiting on the pathology report from my cervix or the pathology report from my mother’s biopsy, I turned to you and said wearily,

“Is this what life is? Is it one non-stop shit-storm after another?” I may or may not have cried then, depending upon how wrung out I was feeling.

I was genuinely asking you, not whining (as I usually am) and hoping that my irritating voice would lead you to break down and buy me a new Coach purse. Thankfully, you saw that I was serious, looked me in the eye and said simply, “I don’t know.”

Then we laughed, one of those mirthless laughs that don’t come with any real humor because there comes a point when all you really can do is laugh. Or have a nervous breakdown. But laughter is a hell of a lot more efficient than having to go through the whole locked ward, Nurse Ratched thing.

Not to be all maudlin today–although “maudlin,” like “cacophony,” is a word I must use more–because I don’t mean it that way, but more like, well, holy shit, we fucking made it. I think this, if nothing else, warrants a Wayne’s World-esque headbanging session to “Don’t Stop Believing” or “Sky Rockets At Night (Afternoon Delight).” And then maybe a celebratory drink or 31.

Because we did, it, Baby, another whole year around the sun, you and me and the kids and the dogs and the cats and the bunny and it’s done. And while there were times when I thought that I couldn’t breathe with the blackness and pressure and fear of it all, the one thing in this whole crazy mixed up year, the one thing that I can say is this: in all the darkness, I could always see you.

The world could fall around us and you and I would stand there, amidst the rubble, gripping hands like life-vests, grimly picking up the pieces and occasionally laughing at something. In our darkest hours, we have each other.

I remember sitting in the cafeteria of the hospital the day after Amelia’s brain surgery, just the two of us, as she slept in her PICU bed. Exhausted but happy, we sat quietly and ate our breakfast.

At some point, I noticed that they were playing “Smoove Jazz” on the radio, you know, the crazy cornball crap, and I turned to you, started dancing like the guys from SNL, and said, “You know, this is the sort of song that gets a girl in the moooooood.” What sort of mood, I did not specify, but I don’t think it matters.

We both cracked up. We laughed and laughed and laughed. We laughed until we cried, both of us spurting tears out and they rolled down our face onto our shirts. We laughed until people around us openly started, wondering if we’d somehow escaped The Locked Ward, and we didn’t care.

Finally, we caught our breath and you looked at me and said, “God, it felt good to laugh. To REALLY laugh again.” And we did and it did and we do and we will.

Happy Birthday, love of my life. I’d hope for a less wild year, but I think if it were, we’d be living someone else’s life.

Sitting there in your pajamas & all the time in the world & if I could keep any moment it would be this: watching you & holding my breath with the wonder of it all. (The Story People)

Happy Birthday, Dave. Without you, none of us would be here.

—————–

Deadline for entry into my contest to give away all my BlogHer swag is September 8th, tonight, by midnight, CST. If it’s in my inbox by that time, we’re all good. I’ll get all of the entries up at some point today and voting will begin tomorrow!

My second column is up here today, so if you’re so inclined, check it out.

Also, if you would like, I have been nominated for a couple of awards, two on my sidebar at the top and one here. They do both annoyingly require registration, but if you’d be inclined to cut a bitch vote for me, I’d be tickled pink.

The Daver, sits alone on the couch fiddling around with his work Blackberry ring tones, stops on Für Elise.

The Daver, “This is your ring tone, baby. When you call, this is what plays.”

Aunt Becky, mulling it over while listening to the pretty tune, several seconds pass.

“Really? Seriously?”

The Daver, “Yeah.”

Aunt Becky, “Hm. I would have thought the Darth Vader Death March song thingie would have been more appropriate.”

The Daver, “Heh. That one doesn’t come standard.”

We were released from the ER after my diagnosis of pneumonia on the day after I was forever to become Mrs. David Harks*, and by the time we trundled off to the pharmacy and carried our wedding gifts up the 47 flights of stairs to our condo, it was well past dinner time. The limo was coming at the ass crack of 3:30 AM to take us to the airport so that we could properly celebrate our nuptials by drinking gallons of rum and laying around in our undies.

Which, come to think of it, was pretty much every Friday night for us.

Neither of us had slept well in days thanks to hangovers (The Daver), coughing so violently that I may have thrown up (me), and dealing with a sick child (both of us), so we threw some stuff into our bag…

(Pointless Rambling! Which was still reeking of cat pee, but it was Sunday night and neither of us was smart enough to go to Target and replace the damn suitcase, but this is neither here nor there)

…and went to bed. 3:30 is just a ridiculously ridiculous time to be awake.

Sure enough the alarm went off what felt like just after we’d fallen peacefully asleep and we blearily got our stuff together and hauled our jangly bodies down the stairs to wait for our limo. One limo ride later, we were at O’Hare, tickets and passports in hand and mustered up some glee as we headed towards the Delta counter. We were flying internationally to St. Lucia on a 6AM flight, and made sure to follow The Rules like good sheepies and get to the airport at 4AM.

Information that might have been useful beforehand:

Knowing that Airport Staffers? DO NOT WORK AT 4 AM. They’re sensibly ensconced in their happy Airport Staffers Bed, visions of murdering ignorant passengers dancing in their heads.

(notice I am not mocking them for this)

We did notice a gaggle of TSA staff sitting behind the desks, all drinking coffee and gossiping, I’m certain, about the terrorists they apprehended mere minutes before plunking their asses down together. I suppose that’s the time of day with which The Reign of Terror could feasibly sneak through security undetected.

Thankfully for The Friendly Skies that day, The Daver and I are not terrorists.

And after awhile, other people began to trickle in line behind us, all of us grumbling at what a stupid fucking idea it is to tell people to get to the airport hours before a flight only to stand in line, waiting for the staff to wake up. Apparently, none of them got that memo either, which made me feel a little less like the moron I am.

I admit, I felt pretty self-important being the first in line, like that was some kind of honor or something, which makes no sense considering it only illustrated what a dumb-ass I am. But we checked our bag eventually, as I glared, red-eyed and sick at the clerk who was still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. It was unfair of me, I know, but I never claimed to be fair, smart or awesome.

Okay, I DID claim to be awesome once or twice. But that was a lie.

Not clever enough to pack a spoon, I began to chug the bottle of codeine-in-aded cough syrup as soon as our delicate butts grazed the seats of the airplane for the first leg of our bipedal flight (please tell me you get that.).

(bipedal = two legs = we had two flights? That was AWESOME! *high fives the air*)

I rested my head on The Daver’s bony shoulder and began to nod off, the codeine kicking blissfully in. I floated somewhere between awake and asleep for quite awhile until I realized that….we weren’t moving. The passengers had boarded, the gates locked, and we.were.sitting. The climate in the cabin abruptly changed as people began to chatter and twitter and grumble.

Something.was.wrong.

After about 45 minutes, the captain came on the speaker to tell us that the plane had engine problem.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

That meant our connecting flight?

Not gonna happen.

There was one flight that would get us to a DIFFERENT connecting flight, the flight attendant told us, but it had maybe 4 open seats.

Hell hath no fury like a woman in the mood to fucking drink rum in her fucking underwear, so I pushed and pulled and fought my way through the rest of the passengers, grabbed Daver’s hand and we HAULED ASS through the terminal and back to, you guessed it, The Everloving DELTA counter again.

I was prepared to bribe, borrow, guilt, and even turn on the waterworks to get us on that flight. I’d suffered for many miserable months planning a wedding that I didn’t want, comforting myself the entire time that I would at least get a fucking vacation out of it, and I was going to fucking get that vacation, dammit.

By the grace of God, we got tickets onto that flight. *PHEW* Back through security we went, this time subjected to the rigorous pat down/partial strip search. Poor The Daver had been used to flying under the radar until he began traveling with his new wife: A TSA Magnet since 1980.

Deemed safe for travel, we pulled up our pants, tried to put our dignity back on our shoulders and continued down the terminal. Several hours until our next flight took off, we decided to start getting up with the get down and we found a bar. At 9 AM on a Monday in the airport.

We went to the bar.

And we got WASTED with a capitol WASTED. Screwdrivers, something I normally cannot stand, upon screwdrivers were tossed back as we laughed, HAHAHA, so funny! We’d been at the airport for 6 hours now and gotten nowhere! HAHAHA. At least, I laughed, the fucking wedding was over!

Finally it was time to get on the plane and we sloppily made our way to the gate, slurring our speech and staggering into each other. There comes a point during any clusterfuck that you have to look at the person next to you and quote The Dead, “Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile.”

And it’s true. What else could we do?

Anyway, our happy wasted asses boarded the plane, trying to pretend that we were dead sober and no, ma’am, not the SLIGHTEST bit tipsy! Sober as a Judge! Sober as THE POPE! Sober as KEITH RICHARDS, more like it.

Plane #2 didn’t serve food, and landed in Puerto Rico many hours later, where we only had a short layover until Plane #3 took us to The Island. Heaven. Paradise. I could just picture myself swimming in the ocean! I could feel the hot sand beneath my feet and hear the lapping of the waves. The rum was calling me, I could hear it, and I was more than willing to answer it with a warbled “I loove you.”

By the time we sat down on Plane #3, a veritable tin can of a plane–incidentally, the ones I always see on the news in conjunction with the phrase “crashed into the ocean”–we were both sober and beginning to feel the effects of the vodka. Nothing worse than STILL BEING AWAKE when your hangover kicks in, eh?

The plane ride was as uneventful as being hurled through space in a Pepsi Can is able to be. The day that had now yawned into 18 hours. We finally landed in our destination at roughly 8 or 9 PM, the humidity curling my hair slightly and making us both sweat under our it’s-September-in-Chicago outfits of jeans, sneakers and hoodies. But we were there and we would soon be able to change into proper clothes, and we high-fived each other. We’d MADE it.

Sure, our 5 day vacation was now only 4 days, but, well, 50 million wild condors don’t give a shit, right?

The island has two airports and we’d flown into the smaller of the two, barely a shack, no food, no food courts, no nothing. ESPECIALLY no luggage belonging to the happy couple. Turns out that our luggage (to no one’s surprise) was lost in a nebulous sea of nothingness. It hadn’t followed us onto our second plane. Where it was, nobody could say. Gone baby, gone.

Also absent? Transportation that the hotel was supposed to provide. Stranded on the Island, no luggage, blood sugar plummeting rapidly, I promptly lost it.

Just like at the old Delta counter, there was no one currently working to lose my crap on, so I just sort of raged indignantly at a palm tree. Unsurprising to no one, it didn’t give a shit either.

Finally, after about a half an hour or so, the resort van picked us up and we wound through the hilly island in the back of what I lovingly call “Child-Napping Vans” due to their lack of windows and huge back cabin. At this point, I’m not sure how much I would have cared about being kidnapped anyway, but it turned out that fortune smiled upon us: the driver merely wanted to escort us back to the hotel.

Winding through the island, bumping this way and that, while it would never normally bother me, netted my new husband the lucky honor of watching his brand-new bride dry heave into her backpack. Considering he’d already escorted me to get a colonoscopy the year before, this was probably marginally better.

Although not by much.

The hotel concierge was unbelievably kind and offered us some sorts of promotional alcohol shirts to wear–we could buy some new duds at the gift shop in the morning–as we checked in while I was openly weeping. Because, you know, crying totally helps, right?

The following morning, after we laid about in hotel bathrobes in our mini-hut, we purchased some ill-fitting clothing from the gift shop. Not only was the selection awful, but nothing fit well.

It didn’t matter. It’s all what you make of it. And we? Had a blast. Pneumonia, luggage lost for 2 days, airplane trouble. Didn’t matter. At least the fucking wedding was over, right?

*kind of want to punch myself for calling myself this.

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Photographic evidence of my ill-fitting (likely) zillion dollar sundress:

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All right, Internet, pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of coffee, make fun of the longest blog post ever (there was NO good place to break it up that would make sense whatsoever) and tell me about YOUR vacation nightmares. Or other superficial disasters.

It’s taken me nearly four years now to finally get over the fact that while I wanted to elope to Vegas, The JOP, Detroit, wherever, I got a wedding instead. Sure, sure, blah, blah, blah, I am happy to be married to The Daver, whom I obviously don’t deserve, because if I did, I would have HAPPILY planned The Wedding of Doom for him without later whining to The Internet that what I’d really wanted was to be married by Elvis.

I wasn’t quite an anti-bride, but I was as close as it comes without that label displayed prominently across my fluffy white dress and perfectly coiffed up-do. I just had a hard time mustering up the energy it took to get worked up about place cards and first dances. Daver, on the other hand, wanted a proper wedding.

I’m not certain if it’s because his parents might have spontaneously combusted if he’d informed them that we weren’t getting married by God, instead by The Little White Chapel Drive Thru wedding guy, or if it’s because he’d been dreaming of His Wedding since he was a wee girl boy, but there I was in a white dress, pledging to love, honor and repay my now-husband. In front of Sweet Baby Jesus and all of our relatives and friends.

I couldn’t wait to leave.

No really, I couldn’t. Come over sometime and I’ll show you my perfectly arranged wedding album. You’ll see a lot of pictures of me, head buried into the side of The Daver’s face while he lovingly looks at me. And maybe, just maybe you’ll gaze upon us in our finery and say, “Now I bet THEY’RE whispering sweet nothings to each other.”

And you’d be horribly, awfully wrong.

In each one of those shots, you see, The Daver is talking me into staying. I wanted nothing more than to leave from the moment the photographer started taking shots of me any my girls in our undies in the church basement. Although I’m quite social, really, I couldn’t stand being the center of attention for an occasion that I was supposed to behave a certain way.

I knew I was supposed to be Bridely, but short of fluttering around and demanding that my bridesmaids do stupid stuff like fluff my dress and polish my nails, while complaining if someone dare express an emotion other than Pure Happiness for My Big Day, I was kind of baffled. I figured that bride’s didn’t swear, or have their underwear shoved unceremoniously up their ass crack or have their knees sweat. I figured they’d probably revel in their newly married status, and while that was all fine and good, I was hot, uncomfortable, nervous, and overall unhappy as hell.

Also? I was sick.

Really, really sick.

I’ve been blessed with a mere handful of chest colds in my life and the one I came down with the week prior to our wedding was the worst I’ve ever had. I could barely breathe without choking on phlegm, I coughed so hard that I could no longer sleep without sitting up at a 90 degree angle, and I was running ridiculous fevers.

So I did what any sensible bride-to-be would do: abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

I never claimed to be brilliant, did I? Because that would be telling a lie that lying liars tell. And lies? Make The Baby Jesus cry.

I then did something to top that feat of brilliance: I wore a corseted dress for over 12 hours.

(corseted dress = decreased lung capacity = lungs fill with more mucous than you thought possible = pneumonia)

I woke up the first morning as Mrs. David Harks (do not get me started on how much I hate this title. I hate it so much that my friends all make sure to address ALL the things they send to us as Dave and Mrs. David Harks. Because my friends are HILARIOUS) and felt like death. Blaming it on exhaustion and stress, Dave helped me drag my sad sack ass out to breakfast with some of my family, who was in town visiting.

Intelligently, while I had packed a wedding dress, makeup, white shoes (okay, they were cream. It was after Labor Day, and we ALL know how well I follow rules), a Guns-n-Roses garter, a diaper bag for Ben, bobby pins and a bra, I hadn’t packed anything to wear the First Day of The Rest Of My Life. Our miserable cat had taken a lovely piss all over the dress I’d worn to the rehearsal dinner, something, of course, I hadn’t realized until I was literally standing at the alter, wondering if Dave had peed himself.

Turns out he hadn’t. But I still had to go through the rest of the warm muggly summer evening smelling like a fucking cat box. What I’m saying is that this was the Best Day Ever.

So I had no dress to wear. Instead, I had an electric pink bra, an oversized Grateful Dead shirt (hey, don’t judge) and some hot pink mini-shorts that had the name of my alma mater on the ass cheeks. Also? Some rhinestone kitten-heeled sandals.

I know, I know, I was too sexy. Stop flattering me, I’m all embarrassed now.

After brunch, we went to my parents house to pick up some of the gifts we’d received and while we were there, I really started to have a hard time breathing. Every time I took a breath in, I coughed so badly that I would have peed my pants had my bladder been full.

Our honeymoon was the following morning, and I had pneumonia.

On our way back home, I really REALLY had a hard time breathing, so I had The Daver take me to the ER. It was a Sunday and we’d moved into an area where I knew of absolutely no urgent care facilities, so off to the ER I went, looking like a cracked out whore and sounding like I’d been smoking cigars by the bushel* since I was 12 minutes old.

The lovely–for once no trace of sarcasm here–ER doctor gave me a script for some big guns antibiotics and some codeine and I was sent on my merry way. The first thing I was able to sign my freshly married name to? A nice fat ER bill.

But I swear, next time I am SO eloping. Or demanding a script for Vicodin as a wedding present. Because THAT would have eased my pain like no amount of vodka could have.

How are YOU today?

*How many is a bushel?