I know, I know. 2 whole posts in one day! And none with pictures! Cats and dogs, living together, absolute chaos.

But yeah. Anyway.

As soon as The Daver gets home, I’m off to L and D to get checked out. Apparently, swelling up like a balloon even without other symptoms can be cause for alarm. And my legs and feet? Well, I’ll SPARE you the picture. I’ll take my thanks in the form of gifts and money and possibly a housecleaning. Or a foot rub.

Let me leave it at this: I have extreme doubts that I’ll be able to put shoes on. At all. And I wore them yesterday. I’ll be the freak in flip flops, if you see me out and about.

Man, I wish I could make ’em induce me now. Sadly, tho, I’ll be back later to tell you all about how it was somehow related to me peeing my pants or something equally trite and humilating.

*sighs*

Come on baby girl! Come on out!

First, let me say this: I’ve swollen up to sexy Michelin Man proportions (only sans “Man” bits) and am having a terrible time making my fingers properly work. My doctor seems to think this is No Big Deal, as my pressures have been decent, and I did end up swelling badly with Ben (read: I looked like a sausage bursting from it’s casing) but that was August. And this…is January. So, in the mean time, I’m watching my pressures and having a terrible time using my computer. But I heart My Internet so I will soldier on.

(cue Celin Dione music, Maestro) Somehow, my fingers will go on…

And Coco, you sexy bitch, you won my impromptu contest about passive aggression. No one can top faking a death. NO ONE. So let me use my 3 remaining brain cells to come up with something fitting to send you.

Moving on.

So, after Daver and I were dating for awhile, his lease was up on his place in the city and he moved to Oak Park, where I lived with him a couple days each week. When I was in nursing school, I had to do clinical time in the hospitals learning the ropes on Actual! Live! People. I’ll give you a moment to digest how scary that sounds for all those patients I cared for.

Better? Good.

But having chosen a school that operated about 45 minutes from my house meant that the hospitals that agreed to have us lowly students work on their patients (for free) were similarly far from my house. And not being exactly an Angel of the Morning, Dave graciously offered to let me stay with him on the nights before the clinicals so that I wouldn’t have to interrupt my beauty sleep in order to get to the hospital at ungodly hours (read: 6 AM).

Plus, we could bone. Which is always good.

One night that winter, we walked down to the downtown part of Oak Park to catch some dinner at the Indian place there and afterwards (since Ben was not with us) we popped over to the huge Borders there to browse. It was a favorite thing to do, going in there, grabbing a cup of coffee and listening to some of the CD’s they had out on display, and it’s something that a child and a half later, I miss doing.

But I digress.

So there I was, several aisles away from where Daver stood listening to his whiny Emo crap while I rocked out to the subtle sounds of the new Christina Aguilera album when I realized that I was not alone in my aisle. Being Oak Park, with it’s bazillion (read: 52,524) people meant sharing a ton of space with said people, so this didn’t even register on my radar besides noting the gigantic dent in this dude’s forehead.

After finishing that CD, I made my way to another aisle to listen to something different and after a few moments I noticed again that Mr. Dent In His Forehead was in my new aisle. Odd, but not entirely unlikely. I didn’t own the patent on the space between aisles, so whatever. About a half an hour after this, I saw that he was still in my aisle as I made my way to yet another aisle. This time, the one with my future The Daver in it.

I went up to him and teased him briefly about whatever he was listening to, he teased me back and we began to discuss what our next plans involved. Mainly, bed. Now, I noticed that Dent Face was not only in THIS aisle with us, but watching me intently. I tested my This Guy Is Following Me theory out by walking to different aisles, and I was now right: he was following me from aisle to aisle, not being even remotely discreet about it.

Now, as full of myself as I tend to be, I’d normally write this off to my glaring hotness, but there was something in the way that he looked at me that made me acutely uncomfortable. Kind of like he was imagining what my brain might look like smeared on the walls of his apartment.

I feel that I must add that I’m not an alarmist by even the remotest standards. I don’t have pepper spray, I rarely lock the doors to my cars and I don’t see Aspiring Murder/Rapist on every passing person. My parents were/are hippies and always taught us not to be afraid of people. Which I’m not.

Except for This Dude. Who had not only begun to make me sweat in my jacket, but fear for my life. Daver, God love him, isn’t a huge and imposing guy and this dude looked like he would have happily snapped his neck to get at me. I’ll never know why I reacted this way to seeing this guy, but I did. And I panicked.

What the hell is someone who is in a retail place only being stared at by some creepy guy supposed to do? Call the police? Tell a Border’s employee? What the hell are they gonna do about it? He was LOOKING at me, not shining a knife and pointing it at me.

And yet, and yet all of my hackles were raised and my flight or fight response began to kick into high gear and I was utterly stuck there. We had a car, mine, parked in the garage behind Borders, but walking there in the dark of night while some creepy dude made “I’m Going To Enjoy Killing You, Bitch” eyes at me? Didn’t sound appealing or bright.

But what choice did we have? None, really.

The entire walk/run back to the garage was torture: I honestly feared for my life, something I’d rarely done before, if ever. We hightailed it out of there, and uncharacteristically I made The Daver drive us home while I shook like a frail leaf in the passenger seat. I cannot honestly believe that I didn’t piss my pants.

It took the rest of the night and a large amount of Jack Daniels for me to calm down and not stare out the windows for Mr. Denty-Pants (although I do admit to doing that a fair bit), whom I thankfully never saw again.

I’ll never know if I was right in being fucking freaked the hell out by this dude, or if I was mainly being a damn pansy about the whole situation, but hell, even 5 years later, the whole situation makes me a little squiggly inside.

I’ve heard that we humans have a sense for this sort of thing, a vestigial DANGER, DANGER sense that will go off when something out of the ordinary is going on and you are in danger of something, but I never knew if it was true until then. I’m still not sure, I guess.

What do you think?

Firstly, I must thank all of you for your comments on my last post because, well, it’s not something I often talk about. My relationship with Nat is not an easy one and I’m apt to write off bad behavior because things have improved so drastically from where they had been. I’m lucky that he’s not always in such an cock-blast mood, just every now and again he decides to be a complete weenis.

And to clarify, he now does pay child support. This actually happened months ago before we’d ironed out an arrangement (before he used to pay for Ben’s Nut! Ban! school. Or someone did. All that I know is that I didn’t.) and he’s been decent since then. Not to excuse past bad behavior because that is SO not me, but it’s a situation that I never know how to handle.

My initial reaction, you see Internet is to scream and holler at him, but then it’ll escalate the situation and I’ve never wanted Ben to watch us scream at each other. I always thought that seeing that would be more damaging. But what do you think? I’m curious.

But my real reason for this post is this: I’m looking for some big brother/little sister shirts/onsies that are kind of rockin’. I’m not much into the schmaltzy cartoonish ones, because it’s really not my style, I prefer the funkier side of life, you know?

Oh, BONUS! I took some pictures to show you because apparently people like pictures in blogs. I always thought people would find them annoying, but shit, anything to keep my Internet satisfied. Now, before you point out that I only have one child pictured, Ben happens to not be here right now so I couldn’t take his picture. But rest assured, I will do so.

Here is my darling son doing the best kind of advertising I could find: free. BONUS! Also true. And yes, he does have a heart shaped tongue.

In the name of embarrassing myself in front of the entire Internet more than I already do, I conned Daver into taking a belly shot. It is here and it is frightening. Perhaps I should also include this picture in my dissertation upon why teen pregnancy is bad to scare them. As a bonus on this shot, you can clearly see how swollen I’ve gotten in my hands. It’s hot.

And lastly, Alex looking disbelievingly at the size of his mother. Because I am a whale.

(doorbell rings, a pair of dogs begins to bark. A woman hoists her pregnant butt off the couch while telling her young son to get his shoes on)

Woman With Pregnant Ass opens door and invites the person standing there inside.

WWPA (obviously trying to be nice and make conversation): “Hey, how’s it going?”

Man Standing With Sour Expression in Hallway: “Fine.”

WWPA: “Ben should be down in a second, he’s getting his shoes on.”

7 year old clomps down stairs with shoes on and says, “Hi Dad.”

MSWSEH: “Where’s your sweater?”

WWPA (genuinely confused): “What sweater?”

MSWSEH: “Why can’t you dress him for the weather? It’s WINTER.”

WWPA (looking incredulously at Man, then child, who is wearing jeans and a t-shirt): “Well, Nat, he DOES dress himself now. And he never gets cold. So why complain at him?”

MSWSEH now known as Nat: “It’s just that you never dress him for the cold, Becky.”

WWPA now known as Becky: “He dresses himself, dude. And if he’s not cold, why should I fight with him on it?”

Nat: “What, do you need me to buy him clothes now?”

Becky: “You’ve never bought him clothes in your life, Nat. We send him in nice clothes, he comes back in grubby clothes that are too small for him. If you want him to wear something particular, then buy him some clothes.”

Nat (becoming more and more hostile, to the point of sneering): “Is that why you send him in that stuff?”

Becky: “It’s the stuff that he has always come back from your house in. Maybe your parents buy it. Whatever. Hey Ben? Can you go see Dave now?”

Nat (bellowing): “DO YOU NOT HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO BUY HIM CLOTHES?”

Becky (now furious as well, as he has never given her a dime in child support, nor has he bought anything Ben has ever needed): “You have a lot of nerve coming in here and demanding that I send him in ‘nicer’ clothes. This is my house, I take care of all that Ben needs INCLUDING clothes, while you pick him up to drop him at your parents house.”

Nat (now yelling): “Do you need me to buy him clothes? Because if it’s about clothes, then I can buy him some.”

Becky: “If you want him to wear something nicer than what your parents provide him with, then yes. Until you do that, you have no right to come in here and demand that I put him in the nice clothes I buy for him. I cannot possibly send him to school in the clothes you have provided.”

(A toddler has toddled up behind the pregnant woman and is indicating that he’d like to be picked up. She bends over, wincing and plucks him into her arms)

Nat: “It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

Becky (confused by his sudden change of tactic): “Whaaat?”

Nat: “You’re such a bitch. A money-grubbing, label whoring bitch.”

Becky: “You may leave now. You may not speak to me this way in my home or ever. Good-bye.”

(Nat slams door behind him, and stomps away. Becky shakes her head and sighs deeply)

Becky (softly to herself, staring at the just-slammed door): I guess this is what they warn you about when they tell you not to have sex with someone before marriage.

(End scene)

Your turn, kidlets. What asshole things have happened to YOU lately?

I’ve always wanted to be able to say the phrase: “Honey, I think it’s time” and then rush around off to the hospital in a blind panic lest my baby be born in my car or something. Sadly (or happily, however you look at it), I’ve never been able to go into labor on my own and have missed that step entirely. Since I was induced with both of my kids, the most I got to say was “hey, can you pack the camera charger?”

That phrase lacks….something.

But I digress.

Yesterday, at about 12:45 I began having some pretty bad contractions that didn’t abate when I rested, changed positions, or any of the other things you might want to do to see if This Was It. Turns out, at about 6 PM, I learned that this was NOT, in fact, it. Depressing, but true, Amelia stays put for now.

During those 5 hours of labor (it was just like labor, y’all) Daver was rubbing my back for me in the kitchen while our youngest ran up to him holding a coveted ball.

And just like our own personal America’s Funniest Home Videos, Alex winds up the small basketball and whips it as hard as he can at his poor father’s ball sac. BLAMO, he shoots, he scores.

Dave doubled over in pain, and being the good wife that I am, I immediately launched into a fit of giggles that doubled me over as best as it could, given the back labor I was in.

“Well, that takes care of the vasectomy, Daver. Looks like he just told you what he thought of having siblings.” I sputtered out like the juvenile wife that I happen to be. “Lookit it this way: he saved you the process of going to a urologist.”

And the Daver just glared and glared. Can’t say I blame him.

But here, I put some pictures up! I need to take some more and I will and then I’ll post them and cop out of a real post by putting pictures up and that will be awesome because I’m not so smart anymore which is weird because maybe I never was.

Kthxbai.

Hells to the NO, I don’t want a sibling, Mommy, you ignorant slut.

In light of a real post today, as my poor joints are getting so swollen that I’m having a terrible time typing (also: what the hell is happening to my body? Inquiring minds want to know), rather than complaining bitterly about annoying crap because as the name implies, is annoying, I’ve decided to make a list of things that are full of The Awesome.

*The kindness of (relative) strangers. In the past month or two, I have gotten some amazing baby stuff from my online home-girls , Miss Emily from Wheels on the Bus, DD, Guilty Noodles (no, it’s sadly not her real name), Rebel, and Shinny. And I’m telling you, I’m one lucky bitch.

*Emails like this:

Hi,
I love your blog and I think you would appreciate my sense of humor. If I link to your blog on my blog is there any way you could return the favor? I am trying to get more exposure.

(actual email).

And no, no I won’t return the favor. Especially since you don’t even use my name or my blog address. Because my blog is not your platform. But seriously, I have had more fun with this sort of email. Hilarious. Especially since the blog in question was not remotely funny.

Isn’t this sort of grabby behavior a blogging faux paus?

*Actual non-grabby emails from my readers always make my day, even though I often suck at replying to them. I’m crappy that way, and it’s not intentional and I’m trying like crazy to get better about it, because it’s rude to NOT reply.

And no, you’re not stalking me if you write me an email. Sadly, you’re not stalking me. I could use more stalkers, you know.

*Tyler Candles, which I discovered years ago while poking around some chic shops (obviously before Baby #2 was born and I was somehow outlawed from said shops, even if only by my own choice.Because babies do not enjoy chic shops, no matter how expensive or trendy.

But anyway.

So these candles beat the snot out of Yankee Candles, they’re affordable and they all smell fucking amazing. Seriously, if you like heavily scented candles, try some of these.

(This was a free! endorsement because I like them so much. The only real endorsements I get emailed are for things like sex toys. Which I will TOTALLY be reviewing once I’m not eleventy-hundred months pregnant. Because nothing screams “I don’t want to think about you in that way” like being gummy-bear shaped).

*The return of American Idol, partially because Simon makes me a little weak-kneed, and partially because when first pregnant, I remember thinking “When American Idol comes on, I’ll be almost ready to give birth.” Which made my then nauseous ass happy.

*Ickle tiny pink baby clothes in my own house. Because, obviously.

*Diet coke, o! sweet nectar of the gods, because coffee cannot be tolerated any longer by my pathetically delicate digestive system.

*The fact that it has snowed more to date than we here in Illinois normally see all year. Oh wait, this was supposed to be things that I was HAPPY about. Never mind. Scratch this one out.

*Reading the hilarious comments of my readers always brightens up my day. I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to comment as much on YOUR blogs, but my fingers and joints are unhappy as hell with me. And writing on the computer only exacerbates this. Damn you, late pregnancy weirdness (seriously did this happen to anyone else?)!

Your turn, fair reader! What is bringing you joy today (no matter how small)?

I’m afraid we’re all stuck in a holding pattern, we of Casa de la Sausage, and I’m similarly afraid that it may lead us to kill one another. It’s like the whole house–including animals–senses that Something Really Big (and likely annoying) is about to happen and everyone has decided to exhibit their absolute worst behavior.

Ben, at age 7, is so full of The Dramatic that I may one day soon strangle him with his sassy lip. You think your toddler asking you “Why?” is annoying? Wait until it becomes a challenging “WHY” whenever you ask the fruit of your loins to do something like “turn off the television.” The “WHY” I now get isn’t a question, it’s a challenge, a la “WHY should I?” Charming.

Also charming is a note I received this morning from him. It states “I’m leving [sic]. I’m not kidding. Seriously.” This was upon realizing that we had locked the computer–after daring to limit his video game/boob tube time–this morning. Assholes.

And Alex, my Momma’s Boy Extraordinaire is almost two. How do I know this without knowing his birthday happens to be popping up at the end of March? Testing. Every single thing he does is to test how far he CAN do it. Like throwing all of his toys down the laundry chute after being told to cease and desist. While Ben went through this at about 3, Alex seems to be entering the Two’s Of Doom.

The cats, who despite being mostly adopted as adults, have gone from being Super Crazy Friendly to 11. Meaning, if you’re even thinking about sitting, standing still or are otherwise in the vicinity of perhaps being able to provide love, you’re pretty much wearing said cat(s). Since they don’t all get along, you can imagine how fun a cat fight is when you’re wearing them all. I love my cats and I’m thrilled that they’re all so earnest to be loved, but damn, sometimes a 20 pound cat smooshing against your body gets a little…cramped.

The dogs–no, we didn’t get rid of Auggie even though I’ve threatened it more times than I can count–are similarly aware that Something Is About To Happen. Which, in dog speak means that they insist upon following me around pretty much 24 by 7. Like last night, for example, when I tried to submerge my hippo-like body into the bath tub (a word to the wise: bathing gets complicated at 36+ weeks), they both sat at the bathroom door, which happened to be open a crack, in order to neurotically watch me.

The cats had split up at this point and one was in the bathroom with me, watching me try and shave my girly bits (didn’t work so well) and assumably laughing at my pathetic plight, while the other two sat behind the dogs, occasionally growling and hissing at each other or the dogs.

And forget having the slightest modicum of privacy while Taking Care of Business In The Bathroom. I have an entourage, including, but not limited to my children, my husband and all of the animals that do not live in cages. It’s no wonder my modesty evaporated years ago. Nothing says “I Love You” like dropping some dookes while talking about dinner-time plans.

Dave is fairing no better himself. Because he’s going to be taking time off when Amelia comes (please baby girl, come soon. I’ll buy you WHATEVER you want if you do), he cannot start any real projects at work, and since we’re all Just Waiting here, he’s having a terrible time really getting motivated to do much besides eat Kettle Corn and rub his belly. JUST LIKE ME!

Couvade, you’re a wily bastard.

And I’m, well, a mess, of course. I’m not sure who isn’t by this point in a pregnancy. I’m shaped remarkably like a daddy long legs right now, so my crotch is giving me the distinct impression that it’s actually trying to split itself in two pieces while my ribs are moaning and groaning by the fact that there’s a creature inside there trying to separate the two halves of their cage.

The act of putting on shoes or pants requires a forklift and an intricate set of blueprints, while I am suddenly beginning to swell up just like a puffer fish, and I’m pretty sure that if this goes on much longer, I might actually be mistaken for the Michelin Man. Or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

And worst of all is that I’m bored and anxious and pretty damn feeble so I’m kind of stuck moaning and groaning and lying around hoping that each contraction will signal the start of labor. Which isn’t going to happen, of course, as my kids need to be dragged out kicking and screaming.

*sighs*

Help, Internet! This is Aunt Becky typing out a frantic SOS. Oh, and I’m learning from other blogs that it’s National De-lurking Day (or something) so go forth and de-lurk! How am I supposed to fill the days between now and the end of January?

Now it’s been quite a long while since I’ve dated, I feel I must admit this up front, rather than try to be all lookit me, I’m An Authority On Dating, see my credentials? Sure, I’ve dated men from television, hell, I’ve even married them, but I can tell you for certain that neither Mr. Bourdain or Mr. D’Onofrio has the slightest idea that an anonymous Midwestern girl is married to them. Probably for the better.

But I was talking with a good friend of mine last night about dates and dating and all of the assorted bullshit that goes along with it. Because at least 99.9% of it IS bullshit, only you don’t realize it at the time. This friend of mine has been a friend for the last 14 or so years, so it’s safe to say that we’ve been through a lot of that maturing process together.

We’ve also spent a inordinate amount of time talking about the motivations behind why Mr. Dickfore didn’t call. Maybe he got lost in Siberia and his cell phone had no reception at his grandmother’s funeral where his dad ran over his cat. But I’m sure he’s still into you. He’ll call, I swear.

When we were younger this was sport for us. We’d grab a pack of smokes, hit up the local diner and spend literally hours deciphering Why He Acted This Way. There was a modicum of fun involved, of course, but the desperation was mighty. And we weren’t exactly Losers with a capitol ‘L.’

Yet we couldn’t believe that anything about dating was as straightforward as it actually is. If a dude likes you, he’ll find the time to call no matter WHO died. If he wants to see you, HE WILL. If dating is enough work that you find yourself rehashing ad nauseum with your friends and logicating (why YES, I made up that word, thank you for noticing!) why he didn’t call/see you/showed up with another girl, it’s probably not worth it.

What bugs me the most is not the realization a la Sex In The City that he’s just really not that into you, but that I wasted so many fucking hours of my life obsessing over men who didn’t give a flying poo about me. I can only imagine how much more I could have done if I hadn’t wasted so much time wondering if he’d like my hair straight or curled, my pink or my red shirt, or why he said that he liked that Averil Lavine song (shudder, shudder).

I wish that damn book had come out when I was younger and before I realized that relationships weren’t that hard to figure out. At least the good ones aren’t.

What do you wish you could tell your younger self?

More passive-aggressive behavior!

Between a certain *ahem* subset of my family not taking NO for an answer around the holidays and showing up uninvited to crying into my toast this morning because my mother–who is mad at me–let my milk rot (long, long story).

I’m in dire need of some hilarious (and not so hilarious) passive-aggressive stories. Seriously, y’all. Maybe I’ll even send something to the most hilarious and passive-aggressive story of them all. Will a contest entice you to entertain me?

*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?