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?

If you’re not a parent, or you are a parent who happens to live under a rock, you don’t know who Dr. William Sears is. But have no fear, sweet Internet, because I am about to enlighten you. He’s a crunchy-granola sort of doctor dude, the sort who has 43 kids and writes many, many different books on parenting. Not being the sort of person who tends to buy books on parenting–save for my coveted Dr. Spock book–because I figure that I do know more than I think I do, I only ran across him when I was highly pregnant with Alex and scouring the bookstore for a book on breastfeeding.

After my complete and abject failure at breastfeeding my first son, I decided that I must find the most militant book, written by the most militant author and read it cover to cover in order to be a proper breastfeeder. And Dr. Sears, with all of his 32 kids, was just the sort of militant breastfeeding advocate I needed.

It’s pretty safe to say that I was still pretty scarred from my inability to nurse Ben and had harbored a fairly large feeling of failure for the five years between the two of them. It was obviously MY fault (what shocks me as a parent is how quickly you begin to look for faults in yourself rather than accept certain truths about your child. My Ben was a lousy eater. My Alex IS a lousy sleeper. Neither of these has a damn thing to do with me) as an inept parent and everywhere I turned, this was only reinforced by everyone around me.

My brother was born in 1971 to a couple of hippies (also: my own parents) in a country hospital where breastfeeding was looked down upon as something that only savages did. The preferred choice was the far more sanitary and less savage-like baby formula, and despite my mother’s insistence that she nurse her son, she gave in to the nurses badgering after awhile.

The backlash to this formula craze was so severe, that even years later, when my first was born, I felt it. It seemed like no matter what I tried, no matter what excuse I had for why it hadn’t worked out, someone else was there to tell me that feeding formula to my son was Wrong. With a capitol ‘W.’

Even the cans of formula I carefully saved up for chastised my choice with a sweet message: “Breastfeeding is ideal.” It killed me to pay through the teeth to get the lip service from a can of formula.

(and yes, I know precisely WHY it says that on the can.)

Any parent I came across assumed that my choice to not breastfeed Ben stemmed from my age, my inexperience, and furthermore, from my abject laziness. (none of these are true, by the way. I tried desperately, but you know what? It turns out that autistic kids hate to be touched!) I’ve even heard the argument that formula ought to be available by prescription only.

Dr. Sears, whose book I did end up reading, succeeds in properly guilting anyone who dares put a pacifier near their baby’s mouth (nipple confusion!) or breaks down and feeds the child a desperate bottle so that Mommy can properly take a damn nap for more than 20 minutes. Apparently, you should only use YOUR nipples as comfort objects and consider formula that of The Devil! I mean, HIS wife breastfed their adopted children! What the HELL is wrong with you for not being able to do something SO SIMPLE?

Come on, people. Lighten up.

Sure, breastfeeding is best for the baby, I’m not claiming that it isn’t, nor would I ever. But having had one primarily formula fed (I pumped for the first month to very little output) and one primarily breastfed, I will tell you one thing: I preferred the formula experience.

I breastfed Alex initially to prove that I could, in fact do so properly (I could) and continued because I knew it was the best choice for him. Not because I loved it.

But what bugs me about the whole breast versus bottle debate is this: some of the breastfeeders tend to attack the formula feeders to the point where I’m not sure I’d tell someone if I chose to use formula.

Why should someone who chose to not breastfeed–for whatever reason–be treated like a leper? It’s not as though they’re giving their child apple juice and vodka. Breastfeeding is a deeply, intensely personal choice and–like the epidural–it’s not something that really makes or breaks you as a parent.

I’m not denying that breastmilk is best, because it is, but so is buying everything organic, free-range, and from a farmer’s market rather than shopping at Target or Aldi. Hell, why aren’t you growing your own veggies and raising your own livestock while we’re at it? And shit, you should totally make your own non-sweatshop produced clothes! Because those choices are all “better” too.

And besides, no matter how carefully you control what your baby/toddler eats, that ickle one will grow up into a child, then a teenager who will eat Cool Ranch Doritos at school for lunch, rather than the carefully hand grown carrots you sent to school. How do I know this? EXPERIENCE. My mother was that crunchy person who sent me to school with that sort of thing, and did I eat it? NEVER.

I guess all that I’m saying is why can’t we all get along? Why does one choice have to disqualify the other as a viable alternative? Because seriously, if we could stand united without having to pick apart the choices of others (*ahem* MOTRIN MOMS), can you imagine all that we could accomplish?

Or hell, maybe it’s just me and my propensity toward incontinence talking here.

As I’d assumed would be the case, because everything requires that it be turned to Maximum Humiliation Factor, it turns out that after a visual and fluid check of my privates, I have merely peed myself. And then taken myself to the hospital in order to pay someone to tell me so.

I couldn’t be happier to be incontinent. There’s a phrase, along with My Bowel Prep, or visiting my father in the ICU I never thought I’d use. And yet, here I am. Happy to be pissing my pants.

I’m off to L/D to have professional people tell me that I’m peeing on myself. Can my life get any more glamorous?

First a bit of housekeeping: If you’ve left me a comment and it hasn’t gone through, please don’t worry, don’t fret! I have installed a handy new (and highly aggressive) new filter, to sift through the 600+ spam messages I get daily. I can search by name, so if it’s blocked you, send me an email and I’ll fix it.

For the first time since those nasty, worrisome first trimester appointments, where I waited to confirm whether or not I was having yet another miscarriage, I dragged The Daver to an OB appointment. Honestly, it was more for the camaraderie than the Support Of My Husband. Because these appointments? Fucking boring.

Yes, Internet, o Internet, it’s true: I’ve finally reached the point in my pregnancy wherein I have to go to the OB each and every week. And while I’m blissfully thrilled that I am a) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite and b) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite who appears to be HEALTHY, going weekly to the OB has gotten a bit dull. But that doesn’t stop me from finding and embracing the asinine.

Like this nugget ‘o’ weirdness.

I noticed today, after two entire pregnancies with this particular OB practice, that the disposable wax-covered Dixie Cup where I am to place my urine (side note: how are hugely pregnant women supposed to put their pee in said cup WITHOUT pissing on their hand? If you can do this, please don’t tell me. I might die FOR SHAME that I am THE ONLY pregnant woman on the planet who regularly pees on herself), has a label on it.

On that label is not only my full name, patient ID number, two things I’d expect to see there, but my address and phone number. I mean, in case it’s lost or something and they want to return the pee to it’s creator? Because I assure you that although I might bear a striking resemblance to Howard Hughes I do not want it back.

I related this story to The Daver, who was bored to near tears waiting for my appointment, and in that time I was able to kill about 10 minutes of waiting time, while my doctor presumably more interesting things with his other patients.

Because despite my accident-proneness these days (did I tell you that I fell the other day? Yeah, totally did. On my knee. Which I did NOT tell you, likely because I am ashamed at each and every new injury that I get. There’s only so many times you can talk about various ailments before you turn seemingly into a crotchety old woman complaining about her hemorrhoids and indigestion), I apparently qualify as a Boring Pregnant Woman. Beautiful words to hear, right?

Until you wait half an hour for a 30 second appointment wherein you ask the doctor if “it’s time to have the baby, yet?” And he laughed merrily at me, reminding me that I had several more weeks of this to go.

Which is probably a good thing, because I have fuck-nothing done for this wee one’s arrival. No clothes are washed in my fancy new washer, no car seat is installed in my car, no nothing. Eh, we can wing it, right?

Right.

And here, o Internet, is my question for you: what is your policy on blog trolls? Do you get them? Do you delete the comments rather than publish them? Does a troll have the right to have his or her voice heard if it’s nothing but inflammatory remarks that they make? Inquiring minds want to know!

Ah, it’s time once again for my yearly round-up of crap. If you’re bored, 2007 here, 2006 here. The rest I believe have been lost somewhere. Probably for the better, eh?

1. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?

Attended the funeral of one of my favorite people on the planet. Oh wait, that’s really depressing.

Um…

I got one! I bought a new washer and dryer. And, um, I ate close to my weight in tater tots and ketchup. No small feat, if you knew how much I weigh.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Last year, my resolutions included (but were not limited to):

Finish losing the baby weight.

Stop lactating.

Engage in a more heart healthy diet. Genetics, they don’t lie.

While I got CLOSE to losing the baby weight, I got pregnant again and plopped it all right back on. Perhaps it had something to do with the aforementioned tater tots.

I did manage to successfully stop lactating, which was a huge plus for both Alex and I. Because when we were done with it, we were DONE.

And finally, no, I didn’t engage in a more heart healthy diet. At least, I didn’t after May-ish when my cravings for junk food and vinegar overtook any last shreds of will power. The genetics comment was in reference to my father, who had just had a heart attack this time last year.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes. But don’t ask me who. Because I cannot remember. The brain, she is f-r-i-e-d. I blame Christmas. And hormones. Yes, hor-mon-eeees.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

You had to go there, didn’t you? You couldn’t just leave well enough alone and let me bow out of this one gracefully without seeming like a complete and total Debbie Downer, now could you? I SEE YOU SMIRKING OVER THERE. WIPE THAT DAMN SMILE OFF YOUR FACE, MISTER.

Fine.

In early February, one of my oldest and best friends died. She was 26. And no, I’m not over it.

5. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?

A discernible waistline.

6. What countries did you visit?

Unless you count my head, none.

7. What date from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

I can remember exactly one date right now. Only one. October 25, 2008. The day my best friend got married.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I could be all dramatical and be all “surviving” and *sigh* deeply and wait for some sympathy, but I won’t. Not this time.

My biggest achievement this year was…not strangling my husband no, that’s not right eating more popcorn than previously thought possible no, that’s stupid. Okay. How about becoming the world’s gimpiest pregnant chick?

9. What was your biggest failure?

Well, I broke the dryer. My sexy ass wood paneled dryer. And I accidentally got my wedding ring stuck on my finger. That’s not so cool (but it’s pretty funny looking now).

I dunno. I guess I don’t think I failed that much.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Bwahahahahahaha!

No. Obviously.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

My iMac. Which has sadly been taken over by the savages I call “children.”

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Good lord, this is a tricky one to answer. I mean, on the one hand, I could single someone out and be all “good job!!!!” but on the other, who? Should I say something deep, meaningful and profound?

Nah. That’s totally not my style.

So I’m gonna go with Britney. Who has successfully made a come-back AND an excellent new record.

Oh shut up. Like you don’t want to borrow it from me.

Don’t you?

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Again, how the hell do you answer this one? Uh, I guess I don’t think about how full of hatorade I am towards other people. I guess my answer is the dude who deliberately cut in front of me while I was hobbling toward the checkout with a screaming toddler last week. He sucked.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Stuff covered in vinegar. Also: chocolate.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

My prescription for Tylenol 3. Because my blog should be called “Mommy Wants Vicodin.”

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?

Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow.” What a sad, sad song that is.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? Totally happier. Last year, I hadn’t slept properly through the night in months, was on the edge of falling into some post-partum depression, and was losing my grip on my sanity.

ii. thinner or fatter? Way, way fatter.

iii. richer or poorer? Tasteless, eh? But, richer is the answer. RICHER IN LOVE! *gag* *barf*

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Gardening. It was a lovely year for my roses, who went somewhat neglected this summer. But still, they bloomed until November, so I’m doing something right.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Laying in bed. I have terrible insomnia and it’s exacerbated by my (in)delicate situation. Which sucks hard, because I can’t take much that will actually help me to sleep properly. Perhaps next year.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

There is some kind of tense problem here as Christmas was over um…last week. But, ideally, I would have spent it in bed with the covers over my head. I did nothing of the sort, of course.

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question here, then. Hmmm.

What would cheer you up today?

Hearing from all of my lurkers out there. I have a feeling you are there but you’re afraid of Aunt Becky, which will not do. Aunt Becky would like to say “hello, my sexxy bitches” to all of you. What would you like to say to Aunt Becky?

(I’m totally copying myself from last year because I am that cool)

22. Did you fall in love in 2008?

Many times a day. Except for no. I didn’t.

23. How many one-night stands?

Hahahahahahahaha! Bwahahahahahahahaha!

(wipes tears from eyes)

Tons. More than you can even count.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Burn Notice and that weird show after House, MD. Mainly because I want nothing more than to do incredibly naughty things to the male leads of both. Maybe even at the same time.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Hmmm….

No. I don’t.

26. What was the best book you read?

US Weekly.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I just got that awesome remake of the soundtrack of A Nightmare Before Christmas. Which is flipping sweet.

28. What did you want and get?

A prescription for Tylenol 3. Also, some kettle corn.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

Iron Man. Hands down full of The Awesome. And P.S. When did Robert Downey Jr get so fuckable?

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you (optional)?

I turned 28 this year and celebrated with a prescription for some progesterone suppositories. Now that is sexy.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

More cowbell. Definitely more cowbell.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?

Slovenly and unkempt.

34. What kept you sane?

My friends in the computer. Whom I love thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssssssss much.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I dunno. I normally answer with Britney Spears, and I guess that’s probably my answer again.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

I suppose this isn’t a political issue or anything, but my hatred of Angelina Jolie crystallized. She’s so damn sanctimonious that it makes me want to puke.

37. Whom did you miss?

*sighs* You just HAD to go there again, Meme That I’ve Personified, didn’t you? Ass.

I miss my friend Stef deeply each and every single day. I’ll always regret not saying how much I loved her while she was still here.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

My cadre of Virtual Internet Pimps.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008:

Things can always get worse. And, when in doubt, see a specialist.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“I’m Mrs-Oh-My-God-That-Becky’s-Shameless”

OR

“Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down.”

There was an additional question here about who I’d tag to do this meme, but since I rarely tag people (because I’m a rebel, obvs) I’m imploring each and every person that has read this to come over and answer one of these incredibly brilliant and insightful questions.

Or make fun of me.

Whatever.

Also: Good-bye 2008, and HELLO 2009! Let’s make it a fucking awesome year for us all.

Even though it means I’m days closer to having The Daver go back to work–he takes the week between Christmas and New Years off–and thereby leaving me alone with my daemon (toddler) spawn, I’m so fucking happy that Christmas is over for the year.

I’m still pretty shocked by my reaction to the holidays in general this year: I’m normally THAT PERSON that you hate for being thrilled and awed when the Christmas stuff gets put out in the stores in August, and the person who reverently listens to Christmas album after Christmas album in my car in July. I get thrilled by spending ridiculous amounts of cash to give Martha Stewart a wrapping for her money, I carefully unpack and put out all of the 4,000 bins of Christmas decorations I’ve accumulated over the past years. I get misty-eyed when the Christmas programs start running on television, and I typically bake more cookies than anyone can possibly eat.

This year, however, was a bare-bones operation. And even still, as I sit among the piles of stuff that I need to sort and put away in their proper homes, I’m slightly blue that I wasn’t Feeling It this year. Don’t get me wrong: my sadness isn’t because I DIDN’T do the stuff, it’s because I DIDN’T WANT TO. And that is a-typical for me.

It’d be like waking up after having Cheerios as your favorite breakfast food for 25 years only to discover that now it tastes like battery acid to you.

But whatever. The whole fucking she-bang is done, and although we might all be suffering from massive Christmas Hangovers and a little crank-a-licious, we’re all pretty pleased that everything went off as well as it did. And moreover, it’s done! Praise Baby Jesus, it’s DONE!

Now is the time to hurry-up-n-wait for Amelia’s arrival, which will, of course, seem an eternity. Something about that last month(ish) of pregnancy seems to defy all Matters Of Time and yawn wildly into years.

Anyway. Moving on.

So, what would my obligatory Christmas post be without a good chuckle? Nothing much, I’m afraid.

I have this aunt and uncle, both of whom I adore completely and see (sadly) infrequently, but every year since I can remember, they travel to Costco, buy the sort of stuff you’d normally pass by and snicker at, and then wrap it up and send it to us. I’d like to imagine it’s a very cerebral joke as they’re both academics, but I somehow doubt it. I seem to bear the brunt of the weirdest of it.

This years take-home? A collectors box set of West Side Story for The Daver and I.

What’s wrong with that Aunt Becky? You may ask yourself. I mean, it’s a musical and it’s fun and who doesn’t love fun + musicals?

That would be The Daver and I. Especially moi, who tends to equate musicals with the type of torture that involves pulling out toenails and watching The Facts Of Life marathon on late night TV. I’m not only not a Movie Person, I’m REALLY not a Musical Movie Person. And I’ve never been, which left Daver and I mystified as to why on Earth we’d gotten this as a gift.

Certainly it would be an excellent gift for…someone. Just not us.

Thankfully, however, we were neatly able to pawn this puppy off on my father-in-law the following day and have been spared the inevitable back and forth we normally do with gifts like this. Now he, HE loved it. And I loved that I didn’t have to find someone else to give it to. Because it WAS a nice gift.

For someone else.

What was the weirdest thing you got this year as a gift?

(ed note: as my husband, The Daver, who is addicted to Work-a-hol is blissfully off for the next couple of days, I will be few and far between. I’ll be too busy watching him tackle 547 house projects that have gone unnoticed for the rest of the year.)