It always shocks me to learn that something I find so utterly inconsequential would be so controversial, so worthy of being yelled at and berated for. Something that when people learn of it, they sputter and shout, get their proverbial panties in a bunch, and tend to form an immediate opinion of She’s An Idiot, Let’s Smile, Nod, And Run Like Hell.

Of course, I’m talking about one of the myriad of things in the world I don’t happen to like.

I’ll admit it to you, here and now, and you can decide if you’d like to continue to read the blog of someone who doesn’t like sandwiches.

Yes, Internet, I am telling you that I do not like sandwiches.

I know, I know, how is there a God if someone admits to disliking such an old standby? How can the world spin properly on its’ axis while some Midwestern Idiot doesn’t like sandwiches? WHAT’S THERE NOT TO LIKE?

Well, I don’t know. I guess I just don’t really care for meat shoved between slices of warm bread (oooo, she’s being dirty now). Now, this isn’t to say that there aren’t exceptions to the rule: sometimes I might dig on a sandwich–especially if it’s dripping with vinegar–but overall, I’m okay without either.

Before you peg me as a card carrying member of People Who Hate Sandwiches And Make Those Who Do Feel Badly For It (sadly not a Yahoo Group at this time, HINT, HINT, HINT), let me be the first to assure you that I’ve never picketed a Subway, never thrown pad thai at people exiting Jimmy John’s, never even worn a shirt proclaiming my abhoration of such an American staple. In fact, surprisingly I don’t even own such a shirt.

I’m free to coexist peaceably among the Sandwich Lover’s Of The World, begging off when people go for a taste sensation on a bun, preferring, well, most anything else.

I’m free, of course, until I dare open my mouth and explain precisely WHY I won’t be going with for a li’l slice of Heaven. All it takes is some seemingly innocuous comment “Well, I don’t really like sandwiches” before someone jumps down my throat, feet first.

“Whaaaat?” They sputter at me, squinting at me disbelievingly, “You don’t like sandwiches? WHY, O WHY NOT? THEY’RE THE MOST WONDERFUL THING ON THE PLANET!”

When I reply, typically with a shoulder roll, a Golly Gee ‘Aw Shucks’ expression and a simple, “I don’t know,” The Sandwich Lovers invariably question me further. “Were you abused by a sandwich? Did you accidentally eat one raw? Did you RUN ONE OVER? Were you made fun of by a sandwich as a child?”

The answer to all those questions and more is a simple, “No” and the moment I utter that one syllable I’m immediately taken for as The Enemy Of The Freedom To Love Sandwiches and anything else I say is disregarded completely.

So far I’ve avoided defending myself the Creepy Sandwich People by explaining precisely what it is that I do not like: lunch meat is phony meat (don’t ask me where I got that idea. I refuse to eat meat from TV dinners, too), lunch meat is loaded with sodium and frightening preservatives (altho a hot dog is one of my favorite foods, well, ever), bread has a billion calories in it, I hate mayo, I like my veggies separate from the rest of my food.

I avoid explaining it because it’s pointless. I don’t like sandwich because I don’t like sandwiches. It’s simple and yet ridiculously (needlessly) complex.

I think from now on, I’m going to tell people that sandwiches are against my religion. Maybe it’ll help.

A couple of months ago I let on that I’d been writing a bunch of essays in my not-so-spare time, and it was something I was shy to admit to even you, Sweet Internet. For someone who has told the internet so much about the state of her vagina, I tend to be a fairly private person. Especially when I’m branching out of my comfort zone of bon-bons, martini’s, and cheese queso, which this would absolutely qualify as.

I was so quiet about the whole situation that I only shamefully told my best friends about it when I was nearing the end of it all. I suppose I was just being shy. Well, that and it seems that everyone and their brother has an aspiration to Write a Book or Be An Actor That Sleeps With Vincent D’Onofrio, and the last thing that I want to be is like someone else.

Plus my 5 Year Plan involves only one phrase: Don’t Die.

I’m not that much of a planner, I suppose, although up until very recently, my Diet Coke stash was never depleted. Now it just tastes like battery acid, you bastard, and I don’t obviously want to drink it.

But I have a new non-Diet Coke related quest, Internet, one that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about sooner. Shh, baby, it’s okay, Aunt Becky still loves you best.

I’ve written a book, and I need help. My literary agents have thoughtfully suggested that I come to you for some suggestions on some of my more sluggish essays, and I think that’s a brilliant idea. Would you be willing to help me, Sweet Internet, in my quest?

Yes, you read that right: I have literary agents. And a book. It’s a good book, I think, and I think you’ll like it.

For some reason, I suppose as my special comeuppance for becoming an older and somehow unwiser–now 28 year old!– birthday girl, Alex has turned this week into The Week Where I See What Teenage Years Have In Store For Me. In short, he’s turned into quite a whiny, demanding and possibly possessed baby.

A possibly possessed baby who tantrums when the world does not do precisely what he expects it to. He’s turned from a laid-back (okay, that’s a lie. Complete lie) dude into a high maintenance diva, kinda like Paris Hilton. Actually, she’s probably kinder.

What makes it all the more interesting and hair-greying is that he does it all without actually using real English words. Maybe he’s tapping into his past life and speaking The Old Language (perhaps Swahili?) or maybe he’s just channeling The Devil himself, but I can’t understand a fucking thing he’s saying.

Yet without the benefit of a Devil->English dictionary I’m expected to not only understand what he’s demanding, but get my ass in gear and GET IT FOR HIM, Mom, you ignorant slut! And it better be damn right the first time!

It pretty much means that my days are now spent listening to a wee tot scream at me for hours on end. My nerves, if they weren’t frayed enough to begin with, are beginning to look like they’re leaking out of my ears. Charming. Quite a charming look.

Think I’m exaggerating? It’s now 11:13 here, he’s been up since 9:45 and this is what I’ve been tantrumed about so far:

*Not turning to the right page in a book (incidentally, not the NEXT page in the book)

*Not going outside right now, where the wasps roam freely, looking perhaps, to eat me alive (no, I’m allergic. So much so that I need to call 911 if I get stung. Which is really not what I want to do, because how embarrassing is that?)

*Not giving him the proper piece of my waffle, even though I was kindly sharing AFTER he’d had his own breakfast.

*A beach ball not doing what he wanted it to do (which is? I don’t know)

*My audacity to use the bathroom at such an inappropriate time as ever.

*My refusal to open a bottle of pricey vanilla extract for him to play with.
It’s a good damned thing that he’s singularly one of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met, or I might start threatening to sell him to the gypsies. Or get him an exorcism. Whatever works, right?

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

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

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

Will you marry me, Internet?

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

Have you ever had one of those conversations where both parties walk away thinking that they’ve established something completely different? Apparently, I had one of those a couple of weeks ago. Cue Wayne’s World like hand motions and wavy camera work as I take you back.

Today is Bastille Day, which means that tomorrow SHOULD be a national holiday–it’s my birthday–but the government has, so far, ignored it. After last year’s decidedly terrible birthday (of which in this post there is no mention of several other key factors against it. Like the fact that I hadn’t slept more than an hour in months and that Dave spent most of my waking hours hiding from the kids and I in the basement) and once I’d reached the conclusion that since NOT celebrating it wasn’t an option (Internet, meet my son Ben, who loves a party more than a drunken co-ed) I decided that I wanted to do something low-key.

I blithely asked The Daver to take *gasp* a day *gasp* off work *o the humanity!* so that I wouldn’t be stuck doing what I deemed to be “depressing” and “sad.” Basically, much as I love my children, I didn’t want to spend my day alone with them wiping poo-covered butts just like every other day on the planet.

The Daver, who would be a work-a-holic in any job, works the type of job that I can compare only to resident doctors (he is not a doctor) in that his hours are ridiculous and frustrating. For instance, most weeks he works 80+ hour weeks and is seldom home to see the kids when they wake up OR before they go to bed at night. I had to threaten him not to bring his Blackberry into the delivery room when Alex was born.

While it’s not a job I’m always peeing sunshine and roses over him having–I’m downright tired of being having a silent partner–it allows me to stay home with the kids, which beats the shit out of any nursing job I could score. Plus, he really does like what he does, which even I know is a rarity for most people.

I often compare his job to another, more neurotic (shut up) wife.

So for me to ask him to take the day off for my birthday is much more of a big deal than it sounds. For both of us. He might have to spend some time NOT WORKING and I might spend some time with another pair of hands around the house.

Well, in typical fashion for his job, we’d agreed that he’d take a couple of days around my hallowed day of birth off so that he could squeeze a mini-vacation into that time as well, but I found out last week that this wasn’t going to happen. But, I thought we’d discussed, he’d take my birthday proper off, save for a couple of hours in the mid-morning.

And you can guess what happened yesterday: he informed me that no, in fact, he wouldn’t be able to take my birthday off at all. But he might leave early. Maybe. (can I just say, yeah RIGHT?)

So I’m back to spending my birthday at home, alone with the kids, just like today and just like the day after today.

He doesn’t understand why I’m upset with him over this. In his mind, he’s absolved since he promised to either take another day off this week (yeah.right) and even take a week off at the end of the month (yeah.fucking.right), and while I am positive that neither of those would actually happen, it’s not the same. Tuesday, July 15 is my birthday, it is my only birthday and I will be 28 this year ON Tuesday.

It’s stooped so low for me that I had to beg my parents–whom I see every day anyway–to hang out with me on my birthday so that I don’t have to be alone. If that’s not the dorkiest, most pathetic thing I’ve ever had to do, I’m not sure what is. Maybe we can play Yahtzee or Monopoly while drinking some sparkling water! It’s going to be a fucking blast! I’ll be 28 going on 6! Hooray for hanging with my parents!

People always assume that I hate my birthday because I hate getting older, and that’s simply not true. I hate my birthday because no matter how much I beg, it’s just like every other day on the planet for me.

Even I realize that my blog has gotten somewhat Gloom and Doom in the past couple of months, and that’s something that bothers me quite a bit. Although I may appear to wear thick liquid eyeliner and listen to The Cure while weeping about my past loves (or something), it’s really not who I am. Shock to the ole system, I know, I know.

But I was thinking that if Oprah can have a “Favorites” show, I can occasionally showcase my own favorite things. Because my blog isn’t self-indulgent enough, right?

1) Burberry. Now, I love the Burberry plaid so much that I might want to wrap myself in it and get married to the pattern. I was fortunate enough to have this Christmas be the Christmas of Plaid, so I’m frequently able to display JUST how I feel about Burberry. In the wintertime. In the summer? Probably not so much.

2) Vinegar. So, I don’t JUST drive The Daver insane while I’m incubating baby sausages, I tend to spread out the love over the course of, well, our lifetime, and as such, I frequently have cravings. Often they involve copious amounts of plain, cheap-ass, vinegar (did you know that they make DESIGNER vinegar? I HAD NO IDEA), which I sometimes maybe a little I’m not saying for sure…Okay, I drink it plain sometimes. There. HAPPY NOW?

3) Pedicures. I’m not much of a fan of such things as going to the spa or even getting my hairs did, but I do enjoy a good old fashioned pedicure given to me by someone who is simultaneously rude without speaking a lick of English. Did I say I loved that part? Because that’s a lie.

But I *do* like paying someone else to take care of the monstrosity that is my feet in the summertime. I’ve been trying to make it a monthly habit to go and get one, just me and my trash-tastic magazines, but I’ve been somewhat lax since my foot was hurt. It’s my birthday weekend–why yes, I spread my birthday into weeks ahead of time. Dave adores it–and maybe that’s what I’ll do.

Anyone wanna come with?

4) Purified Water. St. Charles water is notoriously disgusting, but I’ve put up with it and made do for years, adding lemon juice or lots of ice to make it more palatable, but these days, I cannot stomach the flavor. Yeah, go ahead, laugh at me: I don’t like the flavor of my tap water.

(assholes)

So I found a great alternative: Jugs ‘o’ Water! Who knew it could be so tasty and delicious?

5) My Birthday Weekend. I was so worried that I’d spend my birthday weekend sitting around and feeling sorry for myself (okay, okay, attached to the cross) because no one remembered it. And by “no one” I mean “The Daver” who is terrible, TERRIBLE about these sorts of things.

But with the help of my enterprising sister-in-law, a pilgrimage has been planned. A pilgrimage that involves both “tapas” and “omlettes.” As you might imagine, this makes me very, very pleased.

Now if only I could have birthday creme bruilee rather than birthday cake, I’d be one happy fat bitch.

6. Hilarious Television Reenactments. Especially those on Crime Shows or Ghost shows. Because they often put “reenactment” on the bottom, JUST IN CASE YOU WEREN’T AWARE THAT THERE WAS NOT A CAMERA CREW THERE WHILE SOMEONE WAS MURDERED.

All right, my party people, tell your Aunt Becky what some of your favorite things are.

Hurling things, I’ve been told, is of a far greater magnitude than merely throwing things. With that in mind, like it or not I would probably say that Alex is a hurler.

Sweet Ben, my poor sweet firstborn can barely throw a ball–just like his mother!–and will probably never opt to “throw the ole pigskin around” for fun. Because shit, that doesn’t sound like a whole ton of fun to me. The only ball sports I participate in are the sorts that happen in the horizontal position, if you know what I mean.

But Alex, in his demonic toddler glory has decided that EVERYTHING is for whipping around. I have narrowly dodged such implements of doom as a remote control, a large truck, several hardback books, and possibly even a cat or two. He’s bound and determined that pretty much anything and everything is hurl-worthy.

This has effectively turned him into a Toddler Weapon of Mass Destruction, especially when you factor in the teeth. Oh, the teeth. Why yes, I have seemed to somehow raise a biter AS WELL as a hurler. It’s obvious that I’m doing a fantastic job as a parent.

See, I never understood the Biting Kids. I always assumed that they had some terrible home life or something in which they learned from their parents that Biting Was The Way To Solve Problems? Maybe Mom and Dad settled disputes by the gnashing of teeth at each other’s throats or something. Regardless, I never figured that any child of mine would be a Biter (commence Universe laughing at me hysterically).

I have 2 bruises that now say otherwise.

(Segue Time! So, apparently I’d forgotten how as a child *I* handled frustration until I was writing this post. Then it struck me across the face that the reason I’d lost my front baby teeth was because I had become so enraged by some pillows I was trying to make a fort with that I bit them angrily. Guess my kid is really my clone).

And assuming that this new baby does indeed come this winter, I may have to invest in Baby’s First Crash Suit, just so it makes it through the first year.

Oh yes, yes I am indeed fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any suggestions for coping? What would The Internet do?

Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,

I fell for you when I was a crazy pregnant loon, and I learned that plugging myself into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with anyone over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my inability to move without waddling.

I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly round actor almost as old as my father. They showed me pictures of you as Sgt. Pyle (which was a terrible name. Did you know that the Brits call hemorrhoids “piles”? You should have negotiated for a better name when you took that role. I’m just saying.) and as the bug from Men In Black, and I let it roll off my back like so many drops of water into the ocean of our love.

As an avid People reader, I was shocked to learn that not only are you married, but your wife is having a baby. YOU ARE HAVING A BABY WITHOUT ME, and I don’t appreciate that one teeny bit, Vincent. Sure, we’ve never actually ‘met,’ but that shouldn’t have stopped you from pining for some anonymous, but fabulous, Midwestern girl (with bonus kicky hair!), AND NOT KNOCKING SOME OTHER LADY UP!

How COULD YOU?

I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, in between arranging my socks and shaving my cats, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend: Anthony Bourdain.

Okay, okay, so I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook,” I can hear you laugh, my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t be in the same room with.

You might even say to me, “Now Aunt Becky, you don’t even CARE about food,” and you would be correct, I don’t. But I do care very much that he can work the phrase “Oh look, there’s a pube in my drink,” ONTO MY TELEVISION. I care about that very much.

As you should know, Vincent, “pube” and “moist” are two of my favorite unintentionally hilarious words, and to hear him use one of those appropriately made me swoon with love. For him. Not you.

Because the best that you can give me is acting like more of a lunatic and forgetting to shave your face, WITHOUT using either of those words, the words that are the key to my heart (like hot dogs!)(and bacon!).

I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.

With Former Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),

Aunt Becky

PS. I hope that your baby cries. A lot.

PPS. A quick internet search has led me to realize that many other people shared my love for you, and they make me feel quite gooshy (in a bad way) inside. They’re creepier than me, right?

PPPS. Hope that you’re not getting any sleep with that new baby.

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