Back when I was 15, like all hot blooded teenagers (this has nothing sadly to do with being hot blooded) I was learning how to drive. Between my father’s obvious terror at being in the front seat of a car driven by his daughter and my mother’s out and out refusal to drive with me, I was stuck researching other options so that I may actually get approved for a driver’s license sometime in the next 14 years.

The other options came in the form of my over 18 years old friends, whom I was allowed to drive with (they’ve since changed this law in Illinois, I believe). By nature of being invincibly 18 AND having oodles of marijuana on board (them, not me. I was too much a Nervous Nelly for that. Well. Sort of. But that’s another story), they didn’t mind driving with me.

So one day, I was out and about with my friend Audrey and she was patiently sitting shotgun as we drove out in the more rural areas surrounding my town. I figured that this was probably safest alternative, considering that there was little to no traffic for me to hit with my car.

Always known for my wanderlust, we drove aimlessly around for ages (or perhaps 15 minutes). On one of the winding roads, just as you came over a hill was a farm. And on that farm they had some chickens. And those chickens saw fit to cross this road at THE EXACT MOMENT I DROVE UP THE HILL. It was a blind hill, so I couldn’t see anything on the other side of it.

The next thing I knew, I ran over not one, not two, but an entire flock of chickens. My car was awash in chicken feathers and poo. And I began screaming along with the poor chickens.

I slammed on the brakes and turned to Audrey, tears pouring out of my eyes and she grimly informed me that I needed to go back and put any of the chickens that weren’t dead out of their misery. This was an even more horrifying prospect to me, who now just wanted to climb back in bed and wrap myself in the comfort of a large doobie.

I liked chickens, I did! I thought they were cute and sweet (I obviously didn’t KNOW any chickens) and I was happy to have them around. Opossums, however, I would have happily run down with my car, bike or even my boot clad feet. They were mean, they were nasty, and I hated them. But chickens! My heart shattered loudly.

But no. I couldn’t sit their daydreaming while there were more chickens to maim! I executed a 14 point turn and went back in my Car of Doom, crying and blubbering on and found the chickens. Well, some of them. Thankfully (I suppose) for my guilt-ridden conscience the ones that were dead were, in fact, dead, and the ones that weren’t had moved on to less dangerous car infested pastures.

As we drove away, still crying like a baby, Audrey looked at me and said, “Why did the chickens cross the road? TO GET RUN OVER BY BECKY.”

I was highly unamused.

We’ve spent the weekend thus far trying to forget–with much success: Dave offered me a beer with dinner last night and couldn’t figure out why I denied him–that I may be pregnant.

This (spits twice and knocks wood) is the longest I’ve incubated a wee critter since I had my Ben and Alex. What does this mean? Fuck-nothing, not really. Anything can go wrong at any time, life sadly offers no such guarantees.

I’m hesitant to call either of my doctors (my endo and my OB) because I don’t really want to make a big deal out of this should things go sadly awry again, but I know that I need to put on my Big Girl Pants and make the calls.

Today, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I am going out with the girls to lunch and to a movie. This makes me nearly giddy with the freedom of it all! Lunch without my kidlets! Movie without being whined at by my big son! I’m going to dive into a vat of fake-buttery popcorn and Ashley is going to have to pull me out by my feet!

I haven’t been so happy since I went on a shoe-buying binge a couple of weeks ago (okay, bad example).

So, sweet Internet whom I love possibly more than my new puppy, what would make you feel blissfully happy? Shallow or deep?

Before I alienate all but the two of my readers I pay to read my drivel, I wanted to assure you all that from now on, I promise not to speak constantly of this pregnancy. I personally am not that interested to read pregnancy only blogs, I don’t much care for tickers or blinkies–just not my style–and I can only imagine that you feel the same way.

I’m going to treat this pregnancy, for however long it lasts, as though I am not pregnant, I’m going to reinsert my head firmly up my ass and stick my fingers in my ears (don’t ask for the logistics here) and say “lalalala” rather than take out my maternity clothes and rub my (fat) belly serenely.

We’re just all going to pretend that I didn’t tell you my news yesterday, okay? If/when something worthwhile bodes mentioning, I’ll tell you all, and if you want to talk about this stuff, click on my email me button and we can chat. I heart emails.

But before we close the door on this chapter, I must say a warm thank you to everyone who has congratulated me on this…stuff. It’s certainly a surprise, and I’m certainly thrilled, and I 100% without a doubt love you all immensely. But you knew that, didn’t you?

————-

So let’s talk about something else again, shall we? In the vein of new beginnings, I am going to personally write a meme. Yes, Aunt Becky is going to write her VERY OWN MEME. Go ahead and play along in the comments.

What is your biggest pet peeve? Shit, I have too many to count, literally, but one of the ones that usually bugs me the most is when people don’t finish things that they start.

Also white carpet in general. Who the fuck thinks that white carpet is a good thing to install? It ought to be outlawed.

Anyone going to see the Sex in the City movie? I’m going on Sunday with two of my girlfriends. Between the vat of popcorn I plan on submerging myself in and the promise of talk of weenies, I’m pumped.

What is your favorite crappy song to jam out to? For me, the genre matters, but anything by Rod Stewart, especially You’re In My Heart. Oh and Mili Vanilli’s Blame it on the Rain.

What makes you gag? Barf. Barf. Barf. I know, I’m a nurse, I should be able to handle it like a Big Girl, but you know what? It makes me run screaming for the hills.

What’s your least favorite thing to do? Hands down, cooking. I hate to cook, I’m not an inspired cook, and pretty much if I could order take out for the rest of my life, I’d be happy. Paradoxically, I am an excellent baker.

What’s your favorite part of blogging? Sappily enough, it’s meeting new people. I’m stuck home alone with the kids, and they’re not exactly always good company. But The Internet reminds me that even if I feel alone, I’ve got a fucking army marching behind me.

AND, I’ve done a pretty awesome chocolate exchange with a friend (okay, I need to get my lazy ass to MAIL her the chocolate) and it was super cool.

Anyone down with some sort of exchange? It’ll be fuuuun!

All right, Party People, here comes the audience participation part of this whole thing. Either play along and answer my uninspired questions in the comments or ask ME a burning question that you’ve always wanted to know (I know, I know, I blank whenever someone tells me to do this. I always end up asking something totally stupid because, seriously, I can never think of a thing).

For the third month in a row, I am pregnant.

I considered waiting and telling everyone in real life who read this and will be annoyed that I hadn’t bothered to tell them in person, but maybe, just maybe this time, I want to receive congratulations before I ask for sympathy and support.

So for now, for RIGHT now, I am pregnant.

Will it stick this time? I don’t know. I have no assurances, I’m not blindly naive, and I’m aware that although the third time is considered a charm, I don’t buy it. Maybe this third time is another doomed little sac, maybe it’s not, but either way, I’m celebrating this pregnancy just as I would any other. No amount of magical thinking is going to make this better or worse or change any outcomes at all.

But for now, in a smoove effort to alienate all of my readers, I need to be true to my feelings and tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’m doubly sorry if I hurt someone here, you know I’m not trying to. Shit, I’ll probably be back soon to tell you that the third time is probably not the charm and possibly gnaw off my arm when this goes down the crapper again.

Today, however, I am pregnant.

And I am happy.

(Can I ask those of you still reading this for a favor, a really simple favor for your Aunt Becky? Can you please send good vibrations this way today? Please?)

Back in my senior year in college, I was broke as a joke, but since I had a three year old, it meant a lot more than I couldn’t buy Ramen or another 30-case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, it meant that I could barely afford Christmas gifts for him.

I should have known better than to accept a second hand hamster, but there I was, nodding my head stupidly “YES” to my classmate when she offered me her rejected hamster, citing that she didn’t have time to play with him anymore.

How could I pass this up?

I’d owned various hamsters and assorted small rodents when I was a child, only to watch them meet their untimely demise at the jaws of my cats.It’s a fucking wonder I’m not more twisted than I am.

Where’s Sid? AAAAH! There he is! DEAD! NO! And NOT NANCY TOOOO! NOOOO!!

Sometimes, the hamsters would even eat their babies before I could stop them, only adding to the macabre situation of Rodent Gloom and Doom in my house.

Anyway, I’d remembered loving them before, well, they died and figured that Ben would too. He’d play with them, help clean their cages, and feed them little bits of his dinner just like I used to do!

Problem was, though, that Ben couldn’t have given less of a shit about the hamster, who he’d named Joey. This wasn’t one of my brighter ideas, considering Ben preferred planets to people, but we managed.

Joey lived a peaceful hamster life until one day he chewed free from the plastic house he lived in. I assumed that he would get lost in my parents house, possibly finding all of the skeletons of his contemporaries and didn’t give it much thought beyond feeling sort of sad for a moment.

I’d been down this road before, I knew that looking for him was useless, I mean it wasn’t like I could call him by name and he’d come running for me. And since he was approximately the size of a cotton ball, he could literally be anywhere.

One day a couple of weeks later, I was hastily plugging out a blog post on my father’s laptop when I heard some squeaking. Assuming the radio was tuned to some weird NPR program about ancient Siberian squeaking, I continued blogging. Eventually my bladder tapped me on the shoulder and I got up and headed for the bathroom.

It was there where I saw my two kittens, Finnegan and Atticus playing with something in the corner. Upon further inspection, I realized that it was a puff-ball that looked remarkably like…Joey.

Shit! I thought as I grabbed his little body up. Fuck! They got the hamster!

Now, just because I didn’t go on a Hamster Finding Mission didn’t mean I wanted him to die like that, so I carefully put him back in his cage on a heating pad offering a prayer up to the heavens that I hadn’t just killed another hamster.

I hadn’t.

What I had done is turned this sweet puff-ball of a hamster into a raging asshole. Walk by his cage and he would throw himself at the bars, punching at you. If you stood near his cage for too long, he’d start to fling his poo at you.

Oh yes, the new Joey flung poo.

He’d also bite the shit out of your fingers if you were stupid enough to try and touch him, leaving large puncture wounds where your skin had been mere seconds before. He liked the taste of blood.

Joey the Adorable Puff Ball had turned into Joey the Mean Hamster.

His brain had been re-hardwired to hate.

I dutifully changed his litter, gave him food and water, and frantically googled “dwarf hamster life span.” The relief I felt was palpable when I learned that he was nearing death.But no. Not Joey.

Joey not only got outlived the top end of his expected lifespan, but he doubled it. He graduated college with me, got married with me, followed me through 3 different moves, and he even managed to somehow place a voodoo hex on the two cats that mauled him. Because those kittens? Died before he did.

Joey The Mean Hamster lasted until right after Alex was born, torturing guests at my baby shower by pelting food and poo at anyone who stopped to say “What a cute hamster!” His fur became sort of grayish white, his nails approached Howard Hughes lengh, and he got pretty dilapidated looking.

But he was alive and you weren’t going to forget it for a second.

He died one night shortly after, and you know what? For all of the pounds of my flesh he ate and liked, I was kinda sad. It was like losing your own personal Archenemy. Maybe I wasn’t his friend, but it was really hilarious to have someone hate me so much.

Something that hated me that I had to take care of.

*sighs*

Rest In Peace, Joey The Mean Hamster. Gone, but never forgotten.

No matter how hard I try.

So, I told you yesterday about the missing porno flick: Anal Clinic, which has probably offended the delicate sensibilities of half my readers. Many of you wondered where the hell the porno went, but in order for me to tell you, I need to give you some background so it makes sense.

In the last years of my High School Experience (I make it sound like I was there for longer than four years. I DID NOT FAIL HIGH SCHOOL, PEOPLE.) I began dating a guy who I’ve mentioned before: Tim. Tim is the guy who messed around with Molly, which I walked in to see.

But before this happened, he was my boyfriend for a couple of years. Tim was a year younger than me, and his family had money, and I mean some serious money. They ran a tobacco and candy distribution company that was hitting the big time for our area, so they made major bank. I mentioned finding a gold brick while looking for Anal Clinic, and it was the truth: there was always crazy crap like that floating around, hundred dollar bills shoved in random places as if by accident. While I was tempted to steal the gold brick, what the fcuk would I have done with it? I’m pretty sure Starbucks wouldn’t take it.

Anyway.

So this family had a butt load of money, and they built a house in an exclusive neighborhood in my hometown, but they made the ridiculous decision to design it themselves, so it ended up being pretty stupid looking. Just like it would be if MY non-architect self tried to design a house and no one told me it was a bad idea.

(My advice to you: if you’re ever in the position to design a house without a degree in architecture, please don’t do it. It will be completely obvious)

But this was a house that was huge, sprawling and well-used. The kids in that family tended to attract some of the more creative friends who would pretty much move in and make mischief with anyone who would come over. I’d call it a Party House, but it wasn’t, not really. It was more like a mini-mental institution for rich kids.

By the time Tim and I started dating, his house had been well-established as the place to do the wackiest shit imaginable. Just as an example: when Tim and I literally first started dating, we went into the guest bedroom on the main floor to make out, right? In the middle of our make out session, three kids in full army gear snuck in, shimmied across the floor on their stomachs and began to pelt us with frozen grapes.

Why? I don’t know. What I did know was that this was absolute mayhem and I loved every second of it.

We’d frequently order pizzas only to scare the delivery driver. There was an alcove on top of the front door in the foyer that someone would stand perched upon when the driver would pull up. He’d walk to the house with the pizza, ring the doorbell, and someone downstairs would open it, showcasing an empty foyer. THEN, whomever was perched on the alcove would jump down in front of the started kid and pay for the pizza.

Freaked ’em right out.

Another favorite trick was to make slip and slides with garbage bags in the backyard which was on something of a hill. We’d fill up the yard pretty much full of water, turning the grass to mud, and hurl ourselves down it. When we’d get tired of that, we’d make mud people, dress them in Tim’s mom’s dress clothes, naked mud wrestle, then jump into the hot tub and wash off. IN THE HOT TUB.

Nothing was off limits, nothing was sacred, and nothing stopped us. It was freedom and chaos all rolled into one gigantic mud ball.

Another time we found a huge dead fish–from where? Who knows–and on one of the hottest days of the summer, put the rotting body on hood of one of the other kids cars. It actually stripped off some of the paint.

But this is the house I brought Anal Clinic back to watch it. And like several of my driver’s licenses it went missing, probably, I would suspect, by someone intent upon making me do exactly what I had to do: go to a video store and pay for a porno called Anal Clinic. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed by that?

I like to think of those years as the reason I was blessed with two rambunctious boys: I’m obviously well equipped to handle it.

Aunt Becky wants to hear YOUR stories of mischief making. I cannot possibly be the only person who got up to this sort of crazy shit…Am I?

On a boring night during my eighteenth year of life, a couple of my friends and I were driving around looking for something, anything to do. We had the staples: smokes, gas, dinner and coffee and were aimlessly driving around. As we passed a video store that I had recently procured a membership thanks to another friend of mine, I had a brilliant idea. ‘œHey guys,’ I suggested, ‘œHow about we pop in the video store to pick up a gross porno to watch?’

The idea was considered golden, and we headed inside.

Back in the restricted adult section, we went to town. Scrupulously we scoured the shelves for something ala Fatties Hump Old Men or Midgets Do Manhattan. Porno after porno was rejected as none was quite up to snuff in comedic value. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, we found our diamond. The movie was called ‘œAnal Clinic’ and it was to be our entertainment for the evening.

We headed back to my ex-boyfriends house to watch our little gem along with a bottle of (stolen) red wine, giggling like schoolchildren on the way home, someone saying ‘œAnal Clinic’ at odd intervals which would be met with peals of laughter throughout the car.

We popped downstairs, after rounding up some of the usual suspects and settled in to watch Anal Clinic. The movie was nothing like we’d thought it would be. It was a European porn, full of men with men having anal sex with various people.

AND IT WAS SUBTITLED. WHO WATCHES SUBTITLED PORN? What are you going to miss, exciting plot twists? It’s a PORN, ergo it HAS NO PLOT.

After about 15 minutes, we decided that the porno was too lame to even be watched, so we formulated a new plan. We decided to go naked hot tubbing, throwing ourselves down in the snow and running back to plop into the hot tub to warm up.

We were brilliant, brilliant people.

As I was getting ready to leave for the evening, I popped back downstairs to the basement to collect my disappointing porno so that I could drop it off on my way home. I checked the VCR, but it was totally empty. Figuring that someone else had decided to watch something less boring, I checked the area immediately around the entertainment center. No go. Thinking that it may have been shoved into the couch, I checked between the cushions. Nothing, save for a gold brick (seriously. My ex-boyfriend was very, VERY rich. But this is a story for another day) and a couple of dollars in change. Pocketing the change, but leaving the brick, I summoned the rest of the kids to help me look for the porno. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

I waited furiously for the next couple of days to see if anything would turn up. Nothing did.

Figuring that the movie was already late, I wanted to circumvent any phone calls to my house, as I could just IMAGINE my parents reaction, ‘œRebecca? The video store called and they need you to return Anal Clinic, ‘ I popped by the video store so that I could pay for my lost stolen porno.

Walking the ultimate walk of shame, I headed into the store. I approached the pimply-faced 16 year old kid working behind the counter and said in the most clear and least shamed voice I could muster given the circumstances, ‘œI need to buy Anal Clinic.’ Turning such a deep red that he looked iridescent purple, the pimples a stark white contrast to his face, he sputtered that I would have to come back when his manager was there. Trying not look ashamed, I walked out, head as high as I could make it go.

Several days later, I headed back to see the manager. By this time I was an old pro at this. I marched right up to him and said the exact same thing, ‘œI need to buy Anal Clinic.’ I didn’t bother to explain WHY I needed the movie, or what had happened, as I was certain that he’d heard it all before. I paid the $36ish dollars, and upon waiting for my receipt, the manager mysteriously disappeared to the back room.

He returned several minutes later with a movie box in hand, the title obscured by his ginormous man-hands. He handed me the box along with my receipt, and I was on my way. After hopping back into my car, I allowed myself to look down at the box in my hands.

The manager had given me the original box for Anal Clinic, complete with cover art and bold blaring title.

Just what I’d always wanted: a $36 box of the most shameful porno in history.

————

All right, lovers, dish to Aunt Becky. What was one of the most shameful things you’ve ever had to do?

(Please pardon my crappy blog skills these days. I’m working on something that seems to be eating up not only my time, but the few remaining brain cells I have left (shut.up.). It’s boring so I’ll spare you the details, but in lieu of any real new content, this is an ancient post from about three years ago.)

Some people keep pets to protect themselves and their families from the gamut of intruders, burglars, murderers, and rapists that regularly prey on innocent people.

Dogs are a common favorite for this. My brother, for example, because he hates me bitterly trained his German Shepard to attack me whenever I walked into the house. My parents have 2 large dogs that alert them when:

a) Someone is approaching the house (i.e. the mailman or yours truly)

b) Another animal is approaching the house (i.e. a stray cat) or

c) a squirrel farts down the block.

It’s actually quite tedious to live with as you can well imagine.

I’ve HEARD of people having cats do similar things, you know, meowing and hissing whenever someone new comes over. My own cats (3 count ’em 3! In training for crazy cat lady lifestyle) would NEVER do anything of the sort. Although The Deer Hunter may attack someone carrying in a cheeseburger or spinach salad, but only so he could eat some of it. Who am I kidding, he’d eat ALL OF IT.

(ed.note: The Deer Hunter, aka Finnegan the Cat died at the age of two from some terrible inborn genetic error. No, three years later I am still not over it. Shut.up.)

Apparently, over at the ole Casa de la Sausage, we have inadvertently developed a new hybrid of attack-critters. A nest of wasps decided that our back porch was the perfect spot for a summer home. We cohabited quite well until this morning, when I was ruthlessly attacked by the mess of wasps.

I guess that wasps are too stupid to train to attack ‘œundesirables,’ despite my sorted efforts, which mainly consisted of putting pictures of Pashmina–who is deathly afraid of bees– out by the hive and chanting ‘œattack the beast’ over and over.

So, in a haze of insecticide, my porch now rests. Peacefully, even.

Hey, wanna get an Italian Ic….what the…?

So tell me, how intentional was the making of that sign? Didn’t they realize that it looked like a giant penis?

(I took the picture)

(because penises are funny stuff)

It’s Memorial Day weekend, and I’m thrilled that The Daver will grace the home with his lovable presence. We’ll probably BBQ some hot dogs (low fat–sadly), sit outside and enjoy the weekend. For once this terrible spring, it seems to be warming up slightly. I take this as a positive omen.

We’re not really a celebratory family for this sort of holiday. July 4 goes pretty much unnoticed, we BBQ, we watch the fireworks, and if they were “legal” in this state, we’d light sparklers. We don’t have knock down parties, inviting our friends, we have no real traditions unless you count not having traditions a tradition (I do).

Memorial and Labor Day are the same for us: we enjoy the time off, we try to remember why we have these days off, we might BBQ, we might not. They’re just not holidays I care about that much.

Pretty much any holiday that falls from January to October I don’t care for, and that sadly includes my birthday. Remember when you couldn’t wait for your birthday? You’d shiver with excitement over the mere thought of it being Your Birthday for weeks before it happened, reminding everyone in a 10 mile radius that it was going to be YOUR BIRTHDAY soon. I kind of miss those days.

My birthday is in July, the day after Bastille Day and I’m totally dreading it. Last year was the absolute pits, I had been in a wedding the day before, I had a cold, Alex was up every hour on the hour, and then at 1 AM I ended up with in the ER with a corneal abrasion. I spent my birthday proper hiding like a vampire from the light, which caused me excruciating pain. I also couldn’t see out of one of my eyes, so it was disorienting to try and do, well, anything at all.

Sadly, the Vicodin they gave me in the ER was the highlight of the day.

It was a highly depressing day. When you get older, no one remembers your birthday, and no one makes a big deal out of it. It’s not a landmark unless you turn an age that ends with a ‘0’ and since those come along only about every ten years or so, it’s not something you can really look forward to.

As much as I’ve told The Daver that I don’t want to acknowledge my birthday in any way this year and pretend like it’s just another day to avoid the inevitable disappointment of it all, I know that I’d be sad if he did this. I want the day to be special, but I don’t know how to make it special (unless recreational Vicodin use is involved). I’m truly conflicted by my birthday this year, and I’ve got to think of how to resolve this before my husband sells me to the gypsies or worse, the Republicans (I TOTALLY AM ON THE REPUBLICAN MAILING LIST AND I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I GOT THERE).

*sighs*

I’m SUCH a little bitch! How do I resolve this, y’all?

Have a truly wonderous weekend, all of you, even my super-stealthy lurkers out there. Aunt Becky and her Sausages love you madly, sweet Internet Friends. We’ll catch you on the flip side, where I can only hope heavy drug use is involved.