So, yeah. Yeah. Rules. Yeah.

Now, I’m not much of a dog person. Really, I’m not. We have Cash, the dog equivalent of a house plant whom I love dearly. But we both know that he’s The Daver’s dog, and we’re okay with this.

And if I’m not a dog person, I’m REALLY not a puppy person. Sure, they’re cute and all, but so are puffer fish, and we both know what can happen when you tangle with one of those. Honestly, neither is The Daver; we both like established dogs whose personality is able to be determined upon meeting them. But Cash is a really territorial house plant, so getting another dog was out of the question.

But we found this puppy. This teeny-tiny puppy who looked like a mini-fox. And rather than walk away from him like we should have, we instead chose to hold him. It was then that this dog turned the cute to 11 and we were hooked.

We vacillated wildly as we always do in these situations, knowing that all we’re really doing is posturing for comedic effect. The dog was as good as ours when he first nuzzled into Dave’s neck. The puppy knew it, I knew it, The Daver especially knew it.

Sure, we TRIED to put him back into the cage, but it wasn’t gonna happen.

So we now own the world’s cutest puppy.

Problem is, he needs a name. And I suck at coming up with names. I just suck (one might argue I suck at many, many things) at this. Between the two kids with 15 names each, the foster animals, and my regular animals, I’m tapped out. I especially suck because I insist that the names be something either clever or ironic. Not an easy combination.

So far I’ve come up with

a) Little Guy

b) Vincent D’Onofrio

c) Gary Indiana

I’m not a cutesy name dog person, nor am I intending to become one. Mr. Jubbles, Foxy, Bear-Bear, or Sweetie are not okay for me.

Any ideas? It’s a dude and it’s a Shiba Inu mix.

Here he is!

And I hope that everyone had a great Mother’s Day. Or at the very least, that it wasn’t too brutal.

Last Friday, I was sitting here at my Mac marveling at the positive pregnancy tests that I had in my pockets as sort of a good luck charm. I’d pull them out, smile to myself the kind of “I have a delicious secret” smile and put them back in my pocket. Occasionally, I’d pat my pocket to reassure that yes, indeed the test was really real.

And here I sit, one week later, having thrown out all of my pregnancy tests and feeling…empty. Just so very empty.

Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.

The Internet has been a-flutter this week with talk of how Heather Armstrong of Dooce fame was treated on The Today Show, and I didn’t catch the segment, mainly because I don’t really give a shit about The Today Show. My mother watches it and the format is exactly the same every day, just with new people talking about the same damn subjects ad nauseum. But enough people were ranting about it that I finally broke down and watched it on YouTube last night.

And I have a bone to pick, although not with Kathy Lee Whatsherface (seriously, what is UP with her face? It looks like a melting candle). Sure, she was a bit dismissive of Heather, and that was pretty rude, but I’m sure Heather had her big girl pants on and is laughing her way to the bank. Good for Heather, I say. Good for her.

My beef is with another thing entirely. See now, I’ve been blogging since 2004 and it’s something I enjoy very much. I genuinely like to write, I love to meet new people, and I enjoy feeling like I’m not alone in this crazy mixed up world. I’m also incredibly bored as my only conversation during the day tends to go like this:

“Ball!”

“Yes, a ball!”

“BALLLLLL!”

“Yes, baby. A ball.”

“PEEENIS!”

“Yes, you have a penis”

(gurgles happily while playing with his junk).

I don’t tend to read most of the Big Time Bloggers out there for two reasons:

1) Since their readership is so incredibly large, I never, ever get a response. And let’s face it, if I wanted to write only for myself, I’d keep this private and not on the public domain. But these bloggers are so busy with whatever it is that they’re doing that you never feel like you can connect with them. So I don’t bother trying. This makes me sound much more like a petulant teenager than I really am.

2) I’m so sick of going to their sites only to have them try and pimp products out to me. I’m all for making a bit of cash (Like I’ve ever gotten a dime for being a blogger. I’m pretty sure I’m in the negative here, and that is a-okay with me) and I have no beef with that, but when every other post is hawking some new product or directing you to their paid gigs, I get annoyed. Maybe it’s my own immaturity talking, or maybe it’s just because I despise adults trying to pimp out products I’ll never buy.

See, I’m down with pimping out YOUR OWN products, ala Etsy, but I don’t really want to hear so-and-so’s opinion on some new-fangled product. I totally dislike that blogs are quickly becoming marketing tools for big name corporations. If I wanted to be courted and advertised to, I’d flip on the television. I read blogs to get away from that noise, and I guess it annoys me when they’re trying to do the same thing.

It sounds like I’m bitter here because no corporation asks me to review their products but I’m not. Not really. The last thing I want my readers to have to do is to actually look for the stuff I write amidst the product placements.

I love reading new blogs, and I love meeting new people, provided that what they do on their site is actually writing or photographs. This I can get behind.

I don’t even mind the ads on the sidebars (which some people freak the fuck out about), unless they cause the page to take a day and a half to load, in which case I click away never to return again. I doubt I’ll put ads on my site, primarily because I’m a vain bitch and absolutely hate clutter on my blogs sidebar. Besides, I’m fairly certain no one would take me anyway, since I talk about such disgusting stuff and refuse to stop using the word “fuck.”

Am I being too critical here? I’m all for people making cash from doing something that they love, but I don’t really appreciate people starting to blog simply to make money, which is what I’m pretty sure will happen after that Today Show segment, where they talk about ‘word of Mom’ as the hottest new advertising strategy. And this is not to say that ALL of the Big Time Bloggers do this, don’t get me wrong.

God, I sound like such a crotchety old bitch here, like I sit around on a park bench all day trying to trip people with my cane (which is precisely what I plan on doing when I’m old) and talking about how in MY day, I walked to school in the sleet up hill both ways with rags for shoes.

What do you think about blogs becoming a marketing tool? Aunt Becky is dying to know what you think.

So first and foremost, I’d like to extend a “howdy” to anyone popping by from that list that’s making it’s way around the blogs. I like meeting new people, so leave me a note so that I can come and visit you. This goes for anyone I’ve neglected to say “What’s up?” to lately; I’ve been a little pathetic and preoccupied lately, so holler and I’ll holler back this time.

Scout’s honor.

Yes, I was a Girl Scout. And yes, I sucked at it. Sucked majorly. Selling cookies door to door has turned me off cookies in general (something my ass is most pleased by) and causes me to throw money at any kid trying to go door to door and sell me stuff I don’t really want. Although the adults coming door to door do kind of freak me out.

Tomorrow morning I’m heading to Ben’s school for a Mother’s Day Tea, and to be completely honest (when am I not?) I’m ridiculously nervous about it. I don’t really know any of the other parents aside from knowing that they’re probably much older and wiser than I, and would therefore KNOW not to send chocolate to school with their children. I, on the other hand, am often tempted to upend a 5 pound bag of sugar into Ben’s lunch and empty a Mountain Dew into it. Just because I’m highly mature. And not the slightest bit vindictive.

I guess the simplest distinction between us is that they are crunchy and I still happily listen to Britney Spears. And maybe, JUST maybe I am hoping for her comeback. A lot.

*sighs*

What makes you insanely nervous for no real reason?

When I was younger, before I was your Aunt Becky and before I had a Ben, an Alex or even a Daver, and especially before gas cost the equivalent of a mortgage payment I used to unwind by taking an aimless drive. I’d fill up the tank of my del Sol, grab a pack or three of cigarettes and hit the road, listening to my CD’s and letting it all go.

There was, and still is, something magical about driving aimlessly to nowhere in particular, nothing on my mind but whatever song was playing on the stereo, and just existing. Just complete peace. It’s something I dearly miss about my old life, and something I hope to get back into when my kidlets grow up. I love them both tremendously, but having them squack at me from the backseat would lose a bit of the luster, I imagine, so I don’t take them.

Since I live in the northern part of Illinois, the easiest place for me to follow country roads is down South. It’s crazy how much difference in attitude there is down there and that always makes me desperately yearn to move down there. It doesn’t matter if I leave the state or not, the South is just so much more welcoming than the North is. I’ll never know if it’s the last remnants of the war or the vast amount of moonshine, but people down South are just different.

Now, the Midwest, where I lay my head at night is great, don’t get me wrong, but it conjures up images farmland, cows, and girls with thick ankles. And I’m flanked by the most boring states in existence: Wisconsin, Indiana, and….Ohio? Iowa? Not sure, as my geography skills are sorely lacking (along, truth be told with my spelling, punctuation, and fraction skills). Either way, none of those states make me go “YES, let’s go to…INDIANA!” not because they’re bad or anything, but just because there’s not much there to be pumped about.

Down South, there are plenty of exotic locals: Georgia, Tennessee, Louisiana, each with something new! and exciting! for a Yank like me. It’s alluring to me somehow, all of these locals, each full of nice people who may talk a bit slowly for my liking, but sweet and interesting nonetheless.

I’ll probably never understand the allure of Sweet Tea and probably always get a little sick from Barbeque (especially BBQ Spaghetti. What.the.fuck?), but since the North isn’t holding much in the way of appealing to me these days, I’m going to take a mental road-trip down South, past the Mason-Dixon Line (where that is, I’ll never know).

Who knows, maybe I’ll actually go down South one of these nights after The Daver is home to watch the sleeping kids and revisit my glory days when nothing much mattered except for the song on the radio.

Right about now, that sounds phenomenal.

Rather than sitting around in a Tylenol 3 haze (yeah. Tylenol fucking 3. They might as well have given me snake oil and Skittles. And boy, OH BOY, were they harsh about handing that out) and feeling acutely sorry for myself, which is actually what I have been doing since Saturday, I decided to turn that frown upside down, motherfucker, and take care of some motherfucking business.

Even I have my limits of feeling so sorry for myself and I hit it yesterday in the ER while I wept openly and loudly as the poor insurance dude tried to extract the handy Blue Cross from my grubby hands. I was unable to get it for myself as the nurse practitioner thought it fit to elevate my shame level to Extreme Shame by inserting a foley catheter into my delicate bladder. WITH NO PAIN MEDS. If you’ve had one before while you were able to feel it, you’ll know the excruciating pain that this causes.

This was before they realized I had a massive bladder infection.

So yes, if you were sitting in the ER in the room next to mine (you’d know mine because it had one of two bathrooms on the floor entrance in it. Which made things EVEN better. Nothing says “I LOVE life!!” like having to sit writhing in pain WHILE LISTENING TO SOME GERIATRIC BLOW ASS!) I apologize for the weeping and moaning. You see, I was ALONE and IN PAIN and full of THE SHAME.

I’m still fairly under the weather as far as pain and general malaise goes, but I refuse to sit around moping and groaning. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I hoisted my swollen guts up from the computer (I look about 5 months pregnant right now), I planted some patches on the lawn and once the sun goes down I’m going to plant me some motherfucking roses.

The people that we bought our house from appeared to be allergic to any yard work, something we didn’t realize when we moved in during February (not this year, thankyouGod), and left us with some awesome chores. Like a rose bush so overgrown that my next door neighbors put up some trellises to block the view. And massive patches in the back lawn from a trampoline and rabid (I can only imagine) dogs that I could safely have moved my queen-sized bed into. And bridal bushes so wild that they killed the grass for 7 feet in front of them.

The latter is what was taken care of today and I feel pretty pleased with myself (when don’t I?).

I’m not going to call this a comeback or anything, well, maybe I am, but it looks like the Universe is righting itself again for me. Must have been the bourbon and hot dogs I promised it.

What do you guys do to make yourself feel better when you’re down in the dumps and feeling rather pathetically pathetic?

I am shocked and honored to know each and every one of you.

Maybe we’d never recognize each other on the street (well, you’ve all seen what I look like), and maybe I’ll never meet any of you face to face (also doubtful because I have high plans to meet most of you. Sorry, preemptively for my crashing on your couch. Oh, and I like orange juice for breakfast–freshly squeezed), but I consider you all to be my friends.

You’ve proved it to me before, and you’ve solidified it with this most recent miscarriage. I’d love to thank you all and give you big sloppy kisses and hugs, but it wouldn’t be enough.

It just wouldn’t.

Nothing will ever say thank you quite the way I want it to, so I’ll try and tell you how much each and every comment that you made, every email and IM that I got lifted my burden. Things are lighter now.

It reminded me of how fortunate I really am to have people prop me up, dust me off, and remind me that I’m going to be just fine. That past sentence is precisely what I’ve used in the past to describe what I feel is true friendship, and I think it fits here, as well.

Cornball as it may sound, you are my friends, and if you know me at all, you’d know how strongly a bond I consider that to be. Thank you for reminding me of all the good that has sprung up around me (even during a time of garbage and crap) and how blessed I am to have each and every one of you in my life.

I’m not implying in any way that I’m completely recovered from this miscarriage, nor will I always be peeing roses and sunshine, but you’ve shown me that it doesn’t matter one bit if I’m being funny and self-deprecating or honest and true. That somehow you like me anyway WITHOUT BRIBERY.

I don’t think that there is anything I can ever do to truly show my appreciation to all of you for listening to me whine about this latest miscarriage, and believe me, I will be wracking my brain to try and do something nice for you all. If any of you were local (I’m looking at YOU, LAS) I’d invite you over for cookies that I MIGHT EVEN COOK MYSELF and Diet Coke. The offer stands for anyone willing to swing by. I WILL COOK FOR YOU (maybe not very well, but I will do it anyway).

As for the Uterus Monologues, I ended up with my ass in the ER today and was diagnosed with…wait for it, wait for it, A BLADDER INFECTION TOO! Wonders never cease to amaze me. I’m following up with my OB on Wednesday and hopefully he’ll have some insight into what the hell is wrong with me. Or not.

And as for my mental health, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. I’m just going to channel all of my energy into my due date buddies: Doc Grumbles and Niobe. If my critters won’t grow properly, well, then Universe, you’d better make DAMN sure that theirs do or You are going to have an appointment with my fists of fury.

Thank you all for everything. Thank you so very much.

In a stunning fit of personal irony, The Daver and I were called upon to serve on a jury of our peers on the same day.

That day is tomorrow.

One of us is going to perform his civic duty, while I have to call in sick so that I can go back to the doctor. Again. And trust me when I tell you that I wish like hell that I was going with him.

Going to the doctor for this latest miscarriage is only going to dig the old nail in a little deeper and remind me that hells yes, my body is expelling yet another ickle and well-wanted critter. And then I have to suffer the indignity of another ass shot performed with the sterile equivalent of a ball-point pen. It’s going to be AWESOME.

It’s weird, I never really knew how I would react to having a miscarriage. On the logical side of my brain, I am pleased that it didn’t happen any later than it did: having it happen at all is sad, but having it happen at 4 months, 7 weeks, or 9 months is far worse. The emotional side of my body is telling me that this is yet another loss of something I really had wanted. I would have loved the wee critter as much as I love my not-so-wee critters and I wish this had a different outcome.

The hormones aren’t helping matters one tiny bit, but I think ultimately I will decide that this is neither here nor there. In the end, I suppose it all comes down to the idea of luck. I hate the concept of luck. If I am lucky because I have a truly wonderful husband and 2 hilarious kidlets, that makes someone who doesn’t have these things unlucky.

But what did I do to deserve these wonderful things that I do have? And what did someone who doesn’t have these things do to not deserve them? Should I feel lucky to not be those people, or should I have survivor’s guilt and feel terribly for them? (I’ll let you guess which one I feel, and it’s not the first option). I’d love for The Universe to shower good fortune and luck onto everyone in the world, but it’s just not the way it works, and I don’t know why.

I can accept having one early miscarriage, hell I can accept having two, although it seems a bit careless. In the grand scheme of things, I’m still pretty blessed and I don’t forget it for a moment. Honestly, I never do. But to have two of these miscarriages/chemical pregnancies within 30 days just seems cruel and unusual to me. I comforted myself by telling myself that I cannot be so unlucky so as to have two in a row, but it seems that my luck has changed. And I am beyond devastated.

Despite my devastation, I refuse to subscribe to fear, though, and let that overrun my life. I’ll have another baby, or I won’t. I’ll go back to school or I won’t. I’ll paint the kitchen or I won’t. But I won’t not do something (hello double negative!) because I am afraid of a bad outcome. That’s a stupid way to live my life, and I refuse to do it.

Maybe I’ll never get to the truly peaceful place again, and maybe I’ll always be a little afraid of things outside of my control, but that’s okay. It’s what makes life interesting and us humans.

It happened, I’m suitably wrecked, and I’ll survive. It’s what we all do.

I’m not a huge believer in signs, nor am I a fan of using magical thinking (although there was a time when I used it frequently and with gusto. Before you judge, I was a teenager, and I think this is a pretty common teenage thing). I don’t tend to look below the surface for much at all, instead I try and understand what is in front of me.

But I can’t help but feel like maybe this is just sign that I don’t need to have more children. The quest for Baby #3 isn’t something either of us are pursuing with as much vigor as we had with the creation of Baby #2. I like having 2 kids, and I think I’d like to have 3, but maybe 2 is enough. Maybe I should just focus on the 2 that I have, assume that they are more than enough and move the hell on with my life.

A life that doesn’t include midnight feedings, more stretch marks, chapped nipples and the avoidance of lunch meats. The 2 I have came fairly painlessly, I had no known miscarriages before I had either of them and I love them fiercely. Maybe that should be enough for me.

Maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead and save myself any future hopes and subsequent heartaches. Having another child would just be the icing on an already iced cake, and although it might taste good, it’s not completely necessary for my continued happiness.

When I look around at my blog friends, I’m constantly reminded that the Universe is simply not a fair place, and that maybe I should just be grateful for what I do have and stop trying to pursue a dream that may not end in a happy way for me. Why push the envelope for something I don’t know that I really want?

The one stipulation that I had for my “last” pregnancy was that I try to relax, let go and let God and enjoy my last chance at gestation. I spent so many days and nights worrying with the other two (especially Alex) that I made myself ill and I didn’t want to do that to myself or my family again. But now I don’t see anyway that I won’t worry should I get knocked up again.

And I have to ask myself, is it all worth it? Sure it’s just a blip on the radar as far as Very Bad Things go, but it’s my second blip in 2 months, and the hormones are certainly going to kill me again.

Is any of this worth going through again?

I guess I just don’t know anymore.

So, I was trying to think of the best way to tell The Internet that I seemed to have succeeded in getting pregnant again. I took about 4,000 tests this week and all of them were slightly positive (this was after making sure that the last miscarriage/chemical pregnancy had successfully cleared the pipes), and I wanted to wait to make sure that I was able to tell my real life readers before I informed The Internet.

I know a lot of people stay mum about pregnancy in it’s earliest form, so as not to have to retract the statement later on, should something go wrong. I don’t generally subscribe to this philosophy as the people that I would typically inform would be the very same people I would lean on should something go wrong.

And by the fact that this is the first that many of my real friends are reading this should tell you that I no longer have good news to tell you any longer.

It looks like the critter formerly occupying my uterus is flying the coop. The spotting began shortly after returning home with the elder sausages from a matinee (it was Iron Man, and it was phenomenal) and although it was the very palest of pink, it was there when I wiped.

I suppose that the dream was fun while it lasted.

You’ll have to excuse my absence from your blogs; I don’t seem to have a whole lot good to say right now.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

-Leonard Cohen, “Hallelujah”