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.

Tonight Ben graduated from first grade and for some unknown reason the school had a ceremony to commemorate it. Now, I’m not crusty enough to bitch about having another graduation party, honestly I didn’t care, and in fact I was pretty thrilled about it. I’d gotten him a gift (Puma socks, which inexplicably he wanted) and had it all wrapped and ready.

Problem came when he decided to be an asshole today.

He has a nasty habit of turning into a know-it-all about stupid shit. Like today, for instance, he argued with Dave about taking him out to dinner beforehand. He was, for some reason, convinced it was lunch we were taking him to, and snottily informed Dave of this.

Now, I’m fully aware that I happen to be wrong now and again (but not TOO much, of course) and I’m ready to admit it when I am. But the meal that happens roughly between the hours of 5 and 7 PM is generally known as “dinner.” He then argued with us about other stupid piddly stuff, because at 6, he knows FAR more about, well, everything.

This bothers me tremendously because it reminds me of my favorite blog punching bag: Nat. It makes me wish I v-logged so that I could say this phrase to you in the same sneering tone: “Well, ACTUALLY Becky…blah, blah, blah.”

Nat is the world’s biggest know-it-all and it drives me fucking nuts. I’ve fully accepted that he’s my cross to bear (lucky, lucky Aunt Becky) and I don’t generally pay it much mind. My bed has long been made and I tend to sleep pretty damn well in it.

I can accept that he’ll run late every time he says he’s going to be somewhere, not caring a bit about how it affects my day.

I can accept that he’ll complain about the “crappy clothes” I send Ben to his house wearing. (The funniest part of this is that I send Ben in the clothes that Nat buys for him. Why? Because I spend “money” on “clothes” for Ben to “wear” because I’m a fucking “label whore.” Oh yes, yes he did. And I never, ever get the nice clothes back.)

I can accept that he’ll probably never really show up to a school function for Ben, preferring to do whatever it is that Douche Bags do in their spare time (buy vinegar and scents?).

What I cannot accept is listening to Nat not politely disagree with me with that fucking phrase: “Now ACTUALLY Becky.” It sets my teeth on edge, because 99% of the time he uses it to point out an obvious flaw, no matter HOW much I know about a subject and how sure I am of whatever it is, he’s completely wrong with his retort.

I hear people say incorrect shit all the time like it’s a fact and you know what? I never really disagree with them, pointing out that they are wrong. To me, it’s just not worth making someone else feel badly. Nat doesn’t care at all. He probably gets joy from making me feel bad.

Hearing it come out of Ben’s mouth like that just inflames me and I have no idea how to deal with it properly. It pisses the usually mild-mannered Dave off too, so I know I’m not alone in this.

But how the hell do I deal with this without wanting to punch myself in the face? I don’t care if you have kids this age or not, how would YOU handle this?

It might surprise you to know that I hate drama. I’m probably one of the least dramatic people I know, save for begging Ashley that I can wear transvestite make-up in her wedding, and I like it that way. But over the past 2 months, and past 2 miscarriages, I can’t help but feel I’m turning into this disgusting drama queen. Thankfully she seems confined to my head.

I’m also less surprisingly not much of a dweller. Bad shit happens to me and the only thing I can control is how I handle it. If I spend my life mourning my childhood, I’ll never enjoy my adulthood. These past couple months, though, between the loss of my beloved friend Steph and all of these fucking miscarriages has really taken a toll on me. It’s funny, I didn’t realize WHAT was wrong with me for quite awhile.

Most of the day I’m fine, really I am. I function, I care for my two thriving (breathing) children, and I don’t sit around mourning my losses. Somewhere between 3 and 4 PM I lose it and I don’t feel like I can continue being someone else’s answer to everything. I fight off panic attacks and try as best as I can to get through it all and I succeed. I’m breathless in a room full of air these days, and I don’t know how to catch my breath.

By chance (seriously) I was walking through Target (where else?) and I found myself in the maternity section. I fingered some of the billowy shirts and despite my dislike of Target’s maternity wear in general, I wished desperately that I could buy one and need it for something other than my beer gut. I guess it just heightened my feelings of loss, dreadful loss.

I can’t help but really miss those two sad souls, those two sacs of disjointed and deformed chromosomes, the two doomed embryos that my body expelled. I try as best as I can to remind myself of the logic, of the reality, but I can’t help but be saddened. It’s a sadness no sweet and adorable puppy will touch, not even remotely.

I’m not pregnant and I wish like hell that I were. But I don’t want a new baby, I want my old embryos back. I want them back in my body, and I want this whole thing to be a terrible dream. But my dreams tend to involve having The Sex with characters from television, and I know that for now, for right now, this is my new reality.

I’ve alluded to the fact before that I don’t particularly care to listen to NPR, but that’s actually not quite true: I do actually like NPR, especially This American Life (when I remember to listen to it).

What I hate about it mostly is that it reminds me of Nat.

Now, I’ve listened to NPR before I met Nat, my parents alternate between this station and the classical music station, and anyone who has been to my parents house knows that the radio is always on. Truth be told, I never minded it. I like the commentaries, I like the programs, I like to make fun of the way that the people speak (a la SNL’s Shweaty Balls sketch), and it’s usually pretty interesting.

I’m no longer in the car for 4 hours a day, so when I am, I prefer to rock out to some real music rather than listen to talk radio. Besides, music drowns out my kids, talking will not.

But back in the day when I dated Nat, he listened to NPR like it was his job. And for awhile, it pretty much WAS his job. He’d gotten laid off and refused to find another interim job while he searched for another Help (less) Desk job. My sympathy was non-existent considering I was in nursing school full time and worked as a waitress to buy insurance, formula and diapers for Ben.

Anyhow, back to the story.

One of his favorite insults to throw in my face was that I lacked a “social conscience,” which never made much sense to me, considering even though I sucked at it, I was going to nursing school to care for the sick. Whereas he worked as a Help(less) desk pion at a company that manufactured garage door openers.

You be the judge of who lacked a social conscience.

Since I didn’t listen to NPR religiously, preferring to listen to stuff in the car that, oh, I don’t know, KEPT ME AWAKE SO I DIDN’T FALL ASLEEP AND KILL PEOPLE WHILE I DROVE, I obviously didn’t give a shit about the world.

He’d like to impart on me all of the terrible awful things that were wrong with the world, and then become inflamed when I told them that I didn’t need to hear them. Sure, he liked to TALK about these horrible things, but that’s all he really did: talk.

And as for me, I’d prefer not to rally against things and despise the world for being such a shitty place unless I was planning to do something to make it better. Of course I could sit around talking about how fucking sad it is that a famine is killing people in (insert country here) but unless I’m going to start organizing food and sending it over to (insert country here) I don’t need to be depressed about it. The world is a very depressing place if you look at things in one light, and if you look at it in another you’ll see that it’s also a very wonderful place.

Nat didn’t get that. He assumed that I would bury my head in the sand because I obviously didn’t care at all, and took any opportunity to tell me what a terrible person I was for this.

Now remember this: Nat didn’t really have a leg to stand on when it came to intellectual discussions. Although he’s a smart enough guy (his parents are both physicists) he barely graduated high school. His main aspiration in life is to talk loudly about stuff and do nothing good about it at all. He’s a veritable bag of hot air.

His ideas aren’t bad ones, recently he told me how he and his friend were talking about building some solar panels for a house (Nat lives in an apartment with his brother), but I guarantee you, I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS CHANEL, it will never go past the talking stage. Ever.

Nat is a judgmental bag of wind.

Take for example a simple conversation that I am reenacting from memory for your pleasure:

Becky: “I love those Nissan Pathfinders.”

Nat: “How dare you?!?”

Becky: “Especially in yellow. I usually hate yellow cars.”

Nat: “You’re such a fucking bitch!”

Becky: “What the FUCK are you talking about?”

Nat: “DO YOU KNOW WHAT SUV’S ARE DOING FOR THE ENVIRONMENT?”

Becky: “Dude, you drive a V-8 Crown Victoria. Is that somehow different?”

Nat: “YOU HAVE NO SOCIAL CONSCIENCE!”

Becky: “You do remember this car that you’re driving isn’t exactly fuel efficient, right? It gets what, 16, 18 MPG? HIGHWAY?”

Becky: “Besides, I said I LIKED them, not that I was going to BUY one.”

Nat: “YOU BETTER NEVER BUY AN SUV, BECKY. Did you hear about the earthquake?”

(end scene)

Trust me, if you want more mini-plays, HOLLER. You’ll especially like the one about…OH I CAN’T RESIST. ONE MORE, ONE MORE FOR MY INTERNET LOVERS!

(scene, Becky and Nat take baby Ben to the doctor for his 6 month check-up. The doctor has just berated Becky for starting Ben on solids before 6 months, something Nat has yelled at her about before. This is the car ride back to drop Ben and I off at my parents house)

Nat: “I can’t believe you started him on solids so young. I TOLD you it was a bad idea.”

Becky: “I thought he was such an asshole because he was hungry.”

Nat: “I TOLD YOU IT WAS A BAD IDEA, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID?”

Becky: “Eh. Whatever. Not a big deal.”

Nat: “IT’S A VERY BIG DEAL, WHAT IF HE GETS ALLERGIES AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!”

Becky: “Bwahahahahahahah” (wipes tears) “bwahahahahahhaha”

Nat starts driving erratically because he’s now furious that I’m laughing at him. Keep in mind the baby is in the backseat here, and driving erratically is far more dangerous than solid foods.

Nat (through clenched teeth): “Oh GREAT, Becky. You’re possibly killing the baby with cereal and you think it’s funny? DO YOU?”

Becky: “Bwahahahahaha!”

Nat then squeals his tires into my driveway, I hop out, pull Ben out, and Nat storms off furiously, leaving a trail of burned rubber on the street directly in front of my house. It joins the rest of the patches of burned rubber.

Now, this makes Nat sound more dangerous than he really is. He’s a douche-bag for sure, and he’s pretty abusive towards me, but the situations are always funnier than they appear.

And you know what the moral of the story is?

BEN IS THE MOST HEALTHY KID I KNOW. And Nat is still the same douche-bag.

This is not to imply that I’m not seriously considering many of the sexy ideas you’ve all given me to cure this Godforsaken Writer’s Block, because I have many a Nat story brewing in my loins, but now I have a serious question for you brilliant folks.

So, for Christmas this year we planned on buying a swing-set for our backyard, because as I understand it, this is what all the cool kids do, and I’m desperately trying to be cool. But when we researched it further, it became apparent that most of the play-sets we were looking at were going to take up enough of my yard that I balked at it. They also were approximately the cost of a used subcompact car, which was prohibitive enough to make me weep a little.

We came up with a Plan B: buy a playhouse for the kids for the backyard. A sweet wooden playhouse, not a plastic one, because I hate plastic stuff. Unless it’s in my boobs. Then I like it a lot.

Here it is.

But now I’m wondering if this is what 2 little boys need in their backyard. It’s kind of…girly.

What do you think?

So, I’ve been absent from here not because I don’t heart my blog with the fire of a billion setting sun’s, but because I’ve got nothing right now to talk about. Sure, I suppose I could start filling pages with pictures of my kids, and maybe I will, but to me that’s not what this blog is about. I suck at photography (apparently the fancy camera I bought doesn’t a master photographer make) and my pictures are boring, so I’m not planning on doing this.

If I did this again, I’d feel like I was somehow cheating which would exacerbate my Writer’s Block and make me a very confused person. I get UPSET when I don’t post, and I’m hoping that if I throw this lame post up, it’s going to get my creative juices a-flowin’ (better then OTHER juices, right?).

AND, I can beg you for ideas, oh sexiest of Internets.

What on EARTH should Your Aunt Becky post about?

Rather than convince The Internet that I’ve been ignoring them BECAUSE I HATE THE INTERNET, I will assure you that I am both fine and well. As are The Sausages. Well, aside from the Baby Sausage who is cutting two teeth as we speak.

This is driving his poor mother insane (poor, POOR Auntie Becky!), but I’m surviving. Somehow, I’ll manage (sniff, sniff).

So I would like to present with you two nuggets of Alex variety:

1) He has now mastered the word “Shit.” This brings his vocabulary to these words: Shit, Poo-Poo, Penis, Ball, Kitty and Doggie.

He is so in need of therapy already.

2) Confirming his mother’s oddities as genetic, he has discovered that water is best from the unlikeliest places.

I prefer mine from the bathroom tap, thankyouverymuch.