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.

Time to dust one off from the vaults. Too busy sitting on my ass and pretending to be important. What? I’M VERY IMPORTANT, YOU SEE.

Now you may have heard people whine about it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘œHollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels that go up to your chin. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating (whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).

Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘œBaby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.

This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.

I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on (in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course. I happen to look quite like a hippo these days) and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?

The waist fit.

The hips fit.

The calves fit.

Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?

Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.

What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.

So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them. Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go.

So tell me, fair reader, what’s the biggest fashionable thing that you abhor? What makes you want to gouge out your eyeballs when you see it on someone else or yourself?

Amidst a sea of hormonal nerves, I managed to get my ass into the US room without being carried (it would have been no small feat to carry me), where the US tech promptly squirted the freakishly warm goo onto my belly, when she saw…

A baby. Possibly a Bobble Head, but it had a beating heart so I don’t care how disproportionate it is. Both of my Sausages have satellites where their heads should be (think orange on a toothpick) and I’m pretty used to it by now. It appears that the Sausagebryo is no exception. Huge heads, apparently, are genetic.

It also has a heart that was beating a respectable 160 beats per minute (BPM), apparently geniusness is also genetic. See look at me, making up words. Pure unadulterated geniusness.

The Sausagebryo Link ALSO showed it’s superiority by waving it’s toes at me. It’s tiny shrimpy toes. Obviously it’s as advanced as me! *I* myself wiggled my toes today, too! The Link obviously takes after me.

I am now in possession of a due date to call my own: February 8, which seems a perfect day to be born, if you ask me. I have a July birthday, which means that as a kid, I *never* got to celebrate my birthday at school like the other kids. Apparently, lack of classroom cupcakes has scarred me for life.

All is currently quiet on the Crotchal Front, just the way it should be. I’m weaning myself off my Vitamin W and my beloved Diet Coke, so the next few weeks might be a tad more melodramatic than usual (oh! The HUMANITY OF HAVING TO WEAR SOCKS!). So please bear with your Aunt Becky as she goes not-so-quietly insane.

*I’m thinking that it was a Very Bad Idea to have taught my children to call Anthony Bourdain “dad” when he comes onto the television. The therapy bills are making a nice “ching-ching” noise as they add up in my head.

*I don’t know why I cannot believe that something would go well for me. Although I’m not cutting my arms or ringing my eyes with black eyeliner, I feel much more pessimistic than usual. Is it a defense mechanism or am I a Debbie Downer?

*I find it nearly impossible to blog about going through bad times, yet I have no problem talking about the state of my unshaved bush. You know, the REALLY important stuff.

*In a stunning change, for the first time in well, forever, my hair is at it’s natural color. I got tired of the highlights, because on we black-haired ladies, it looks kinda funny. At least on me. My skin is dark and the blondness makes me look, well, green.

And you know what? I HATE it this dark black. I feel Goth.

*I think that the world would be a better place if everyone at some variation of the cheeseburger. This makes it doubly upsetting to learn that I cannot eat one right now, as they taste bad.

*The worst part about getting an US at my doctor’s office is that they don’t allow anyone to go back with you until they’ve done all they need to do. I find this incredibly stressful. Plus the US techs there tend to be pinheads.

Your turn, sweet reader. Your turn at randomness.

I might have made previous mention that I suck at being pregnant. I probably said it in passing, or made some joke about beached whales and trying to roll out of bed, or maybe I even named a blog category after this sad fact.

I suck at being pregnant so much that I cannot believe anyone who “glows” or whatever is doing anything other than trying to feed me a line of BS. Or to make me feel bad about myself for being such a whiny baby.

Pregnancy #1: Benjamin.

Was knocked up by complete accident at age 20, the same age when no one believes that you have enough of a brain stem to care for a child. The jury is still out on that one, but Ben is still alive and kicking.

This pregnancy was particularly sucky because of all the OTHER shit going on around me.

Take 1 asshole boyfriend who runs and hides his penis in other women when the going gets rough, add 1 mentally-ill mother who is convinced that you’re going to give the baby up for adoption that she asks your brother to take him if you freak out and you have a recipe for disaster. An appetite for destruction if I may (and I always may).

Physically, I was fine when I was pregnant aside from swelling up to the size and approximate shape of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (it was August, man). The only symptom that I had was that I was chronically exhausted, so exhausted that I would sleep 16-18 hours a day.

Escapism anyone?

Pregnancy #2: Alexander

After years of assuming uber-fertility, was astonished when I didn’t get easily knocked up. Apparently you’re more fertile when you’re young and stupid.

Upon being knocked up, became violently ill 24-7. Puked my brains out all day, every day and eventually had to quit my job, as I couldn’t drive 45 minutes in the car while puking. Ended up so depressed that my ever-widening ass made many dents in my couch. May have even worn some of the fabric off.

Was also incredibly paranoid of losing the baby. Worried like it was my job, made matters much worse.

Which brings us to…

Pregnancy #3: Link (aka Sausagebryo)

Pretty much remove the emotional issues, and you have my current pregnancy. I’m unbelievably exhausted, nauseous (but without the vomiting), and just sick. I have no energy for unloading the dishwasher, let alone trying to spend Quality Time with the kids (unless you count turning the TV to Noggin as QT, which of course, I do).

Between this and the spotting, my poor husband may not get laid again for many years.

I suppose that the upside of down here is that I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed about the Link. I spot occasionally, but I’m fairly sure it’s related to the suppositories (oh, the joy of those bitches), so I’ve relaxed a bit. Between the intense sickness and the ever expanding poo-baby taking up residence in my gut (when someone tells you that they show earlier with subsequent babies, BELIEVE THEM. Especially when they haven’t shat in 3 days.), I’m more calm than I’ve been.

Until, of course, my US on Wednesday in which I will be reduced to a blubbering mess.