Well, my glorious Friday night full of swinging parties and red wine has come to an end. And you know what? It was FUCKING BORING AS FUCK.

Normally, if The Daver isn’t going to be home until after the kidlets go to bed, I’ll take them out and do something somewhat fun. Like go out to dinner or something. We’re VERY educational here, at Casa de la Sausage, let me tell you.

But since Alex was trying to audition to be a stove top or Ez Bake Oven, and Ben was still coughing like a 60 year old smoker, I decided that taking them out anywhere was probably a Very Bad Idea.

So we stayed in. And Ben VOLUNTARILY went to bed at 6:15, much to my “DUDE, YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE LEFT WHO CAN HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH ME THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE POINTING OUT EITHER LIGHTS OR BALLS” chagrin. And I was left trying to talk either to the cat or the dog, both of whom looked at me with what I can only describe as pure pity.

After Alex went to bed, I was stuck twiddling my thumbs looking for something, anything to do. FreeCell was boring, TV sucked, I had nothing new to read, no one in their right minds would be posting to their blogs on a Friday night (I imagined most of my fantabulous blog readers out at a hip club, drinking fantastic cocktails and dancing to dance remixes), and it dawned on me how fucking boring I really have become.

I felt sorry for myself until I watched an SVU I had actually not seen, which distracted me from how lame I am, and eventually trundled off to bed, alone, with only a heating pad for warmth (yes, I am that dumb to repeat the same mistake. And I managed to not burn the sheets this time, which is a step in the right direction).

And all I can say is, Daver, won’t you please come home now?

Now, my relationship with The Daver is not what one might even begin to call “romantic” in any terms. It never has been, and probably never will. We’re both ridiculously practical people, not prone to flights of fantasy OR ooey-gooey behavior. I’m fairly certain that if he were to bring home flowers (which I do love) I would become immediately suspicious that work had provided him with a free lobotomy.

I DID get Dave a flower for Valentines Day this year, well, it was technically AFTER Valentines Day and therefore cost $0.29 AND had the distinct advantage over all other flowers that it was both fake (it can last FOREVER, LIKE OUR LOVE!) AND played a tinny melody. Really, it was just a joke and took it as such.

Despite our lack of romantical abilities, we’re really are insanely fond of each other. I have no idea if this is a hallmark of a good marriage or not, but it is the way it is. Underneath (and often even during) the day to day crap, we really like each other.

The Daver has been working like mad on this work project-thingy that’s due to deploy this Saturday at 5am. And because it’s entirely likely that he’s lying to get away from the House Of Sickness And Doom that we currently live in, he “has” to “be in the office” on Saturday at 5am to TCB. (Say it with me now, Internet, “YEAH, RIGHT!)
This meant one of two things: either he gets up at the ass-crack of dawn and drives his sorry ass to the city OR he camps out in the city overnight. In a fever-induced haze, I suggested that having a City Sleep Over was probably the best option.

It’s just incredibly bad timing that this had to “coincide” with the worst bout of illness that I have had since I was a kid myself (seriously, I’m now positive that my intestines are really attempting to make a break for it now) that has now been passed onto my two darling children. I haven’t tried to test my theory, but I’m fairly certain that Alex could likely fry an egg on his stomach, so high is his fever. And Ben has actually missed school this week and laid about the house both quiet as a mouse and nearly catatonic (neither of which, I should have to inform you, are normal behavior for this child).

But despite our lack of co-dependence (likelihood is high that my blog would learn about Big News well before I bothered contacting my husband), it’s just an incredibly bizarre feeling to know that he will not be coming home tonight.

On the one hand, I am nearly giddy with glee that I can have the bed to myself (I can totally see why people have separate beds) ALL NIGHT LONG (all night looong!), but on the other, it’s a truly odd feeling to know that he won’t be home to hog the remote OR the couch.

I’m just jealous, I suppose that he gets to stay here WITHOUT ME. I kept telling him that they should put him up in a Super8 or Red Roof Inn, but NOOOO, it had to be here.

Jerk.

(To be fair, he did offer to have us come down and stay with him, but the last thing I want to do is to willingly travel with two large Hot Potatoes.)

So what should I do with my night sans husband? Want to come over and hang? I’ll make cookies (no, no I won’t. That’s a lie. But it sounded good, right?)!

Last night it was deemed to be Let’s Let Ben Make A Scummy Ring Around The Tub Night, and so The Daver threw the Big One into the bathtub (the Little One had just been bathed, Bon Jovi mullet and all). I sat downstairs on my (shrinking!) ass playing Free Cell obsessively while Alex thought of new and ingenious ways to make my life difficult. Well, that, or just obsessively go from room to room pointing out Balls! and Wind Chimes! and Kitty-Cats!

Eventually Alex made his way to the bottom of the stairs where he could see his father and brother shamelessly hanging out WITHOUT HIM, and his patented Rage ™ began. HE wanted to be with THEM upstairs! HOW DARE THEY HANG OUT WITHOUT HIM?

Sensing his mewling plight, I plucked him up from the bottom of the stairs and carried him up to see what was going on with the Elder Sausages.

I plopped him onto the 70’s tile floor and he looked as happy as a pig in shit. Ben was close, Dad was close and Mom was RIGHTTHERE next to him. Life was good.

Ben suggested that I give Alex some of his old bath toys to play with (although Ben is NOT too cool to play with Alex’s new walker-thingy he IS too cool for bath toys. Whatever.), so I craned my body over (our upstairs bathroom is not quite a model of elegance or size) to select one that was not too dingy looking for Alex to bang incessantly on the ground.

In this process, I edged myself over to the door, where Alex noticed his new favorite toy, a DOOR! and promptly began to shut it on me.

At 11 months old, Alex has now begun requesting politely insisting upon Dude Time. No Vagina’s Allowed.

Shit, I need a daughter.

Dear Ben,

I’m not sure when your wee body with gigantic melon (it’s like an orange on a toothpick) was taken over by aliens, but I am freely admitting that you’re scaring me these days. Deep down in there, you’re the same wonderful child I’ve always adored, but lately, I’m sad to admit that I’ve revisited my visions of selling you to the gypsies (EVEN AT A LOSS).

I suppose that I’m sick of being told to bow to the Alter of My Wrongness for most anything that comes out of my mouth, and I think this might just be a prequel for your teenage days when you realize just what an idiot I am, and feel the need to tell me all about it frequently. As in every 2-3 minutes. Approximately.

But by the time you’re a teenager, I assume you’ll huffily declare how WRONG I am AND THEN GO TO YOUR ROOM AND SHUT THE DOOR, and I’m somewhat looking forward to this. Because now, you just follow me around telling me just how much more you know than I do WITHOUT INTERRUPTION OR LEAVING THE ROOM.

You’re a neat kid, really, you are, and you constantly shock and amaze me. Were it not for the 4th degree tears your bowling ball shaped head caused me (you’re too young for me to ever tell you WHAT exactly that means) and the fact that when you met me for the first time you screamed bloody murder, I would continually question your maternity and wonder if maybe MY sweet and docile mild-mannered child had been left in the care of someone who’d birthed the daemon spawn that was you as a baby (and young child, if I must elaborate).

But oddly shaped heads seem to run in my family (although my own head is quite lovely shaped THANKYOUVERYMUCH), and every now and again (especially as you pull all of the green peppers out of a taco JUST LIKE I DO), it dawns on me that you really are my child.

But for all of the annoying shit you do (the list is far too long for me to assemble without having a nervous breakdown), occasionally the sun will peak through the storm clouds and who you are underneath your layers of know-it-all-ness shines through.

Your relationship with your brother is a prime example. I am the youngest in my family, and despite my repeated pleas for a BETTER brother or sister for me to boss around, my mother dryly informed me that when I was born “smoking a cigar and barking out orders” (her exact words), she went ahead and got spayed. I’m frankly amazed she didn’t remove her entire uterus JUST IN CASE.

My own brother hated me passionately until my husband was fooled into marrying me, and as this is the only basis for comparison of older-younger sibling relations go, I was suitably underwhelmed when I imagined your reaction to your live, in the flesh brother. Your Daver and I did everything we could think of to prepare you for your brother’s arrival: we dutifully took you to a sibling class at the hospital, we bought you your very own doll to practice on, we bought you a book about where babies actually come from, we baked you a “Ben’s Having A Brother Cake” when we found out Alex too had a penis.

Your grandfather swears, however, that the reason that you like your brother so incredibly much is because “Alex” “bought” you a lightsaber and “brought” it to the hospital to give you when you met him for the first time.

I’m so incredibly fortunate that you and he have been inseparable ever since. You wear your multitude of Big Brother T-Shirts with much pride, and you’re always tickled whenever Alex comes to visit you at school.

It’s honestly the relationship I’ve always wished I had with my own brother, and I am proud that you have chosen to love your brother rather than resent him (I cannot possible take an ounce of credit for this. It was and always will be your own choice). I have never heard you say a mean, sullen, or resentful thing about him in his whole life, which is pretty miraculous considering what an asshole he used to be.

Each and every part of how my adulthood has shaped up has been due primarily to you. While this sounds like I’m placing the burden squarely upon your wee shoulders, I assure you that it couldn’t be farther from the truth. When you were born, I could only focus upon what was in front of me in the moment, and I promise you that although you had to go about the business of learning about the world, I was doing it right along side you (to be fair, I did know how to both feed myself AND walk, which were things that you had to master, so mayhap I was ahead of the game, if only slightly).

Wherever we’ve gone, and whatever we’ve learned, we’ve done it together, kid. Well before there was The Daver or Alex along side us, there was you and me against the world. And despite all of your bullshit these days (you are by far, the most intense person I’ve had the pleasure to meet) that flows so freely from your somewhat toothless mouth, I’ll never forget it. And maybe someday, when you’re older, I’ll explain it all to you, because you don’t know a damn thing about the life we had (which may be a better thing than not).

I can only hope and pray WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING that the rest of Six is marked by more sun shining through the storm clouds, because it’s honestly driving me a bit batty (okay, BATTIER than normal. Fine).

Let’s just try to get through this with all of our limbs intact, mmkay?

Love,

Mommy

The Universe has a nasty sense of humor, doesn’t it?

I woke up to Aunt Becky’s version of the stomach flu (I’ll spare you the details), and have been writhing in agony every since. Because not only is my body evacuated of most of it’s contents, but my fucking skin hurts. My aches have aches.

I’d feel sorry for myself, but I’m too sick. When you’re too sick to feel sorry for yourself, you know you’re deep in the shit (literally, now).

———–

You guys are too sweet to The Daver and I. Pretty soon, he’s going to read the comments and get a big (er) head about himself.

I’m going to wrap you each up in a virtual hug (virus free, I hope) and tell you how much I heart each and every one of you (another good sign that I am really sick is how emotional I am right now. See, I can be nice sometimes!) and how much you made my day with your kind words.
(just try not to breathe in when I hug you. I smell like sick).

I hope to be Backstreet’s Back, All Right soon.

*smootches*

Every winter, ’bout this time, when the cold days have dragged on and on to the point where a 100 degree day (Celsius even!) sounds more tolerable than bundling up the kids AGAIN and having the boogies in my nose freeze for the forty-millionth time that day, and when getting the mail (at the end of my driveway) seems like a drastic undertaking, I start to have this fantasy in which we move to more temperate climates.

And because, in my fantasy-land, I am also slightly practical and don’t have visions of moving to a completely foreign country and having to learn a new language (you mean people don’t speak American EVERYWHERE?), I envision us moving to one of the coasts.

For a good 290 days of the year, I like where I live, honestly I do (and probably in part as a defense mechanism, as moving out of state would be brutal as far as custody arrangements go for The Big One), and besides a small jaunt away from here several years ago, I have lived in the same town most of my life. It’s a sweet river town, full of character and pep (and a number of the exact same strip malls), and it’s great BECAUSE I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING IS (I never claimed to be adventuresome, now did I?).

But, for as teeny as my family is, I do happen to have some that live out of state in California, where I have been any number of times. And I genuinely love it out there, it’s interesting, it’s clean, people are nice, and if it weren’t for such amazingly high property prices, we might live out there for reals.

Well, the cost of living AND the fact that I am not positive that I am good-looking enough.

California is weird like that, and I’ll never forget being there as a teenager to attend my cousin’s wedding. A busboy (a BUSBOY!) in the joint where we were dining nearly caused me to choke on my steak, so uncanny was his resemblance to Brad Pitt (the 12 Monkeys/Seven version, whom I had many a naughty fantasy about).

A couple of years later, I was back again, and I noticed that even the bums on The Haight were sexy. BUMS were SEXY! Even the one who flashed me his penis was good looking (and well hung)!

It was like entering an alternate universe.

As I got older and every time I went back to Cali, I noticed more and more unlikely and attractive people. Airport baggage claim guys were hot! The chick at the rental car place looked as though she’d stepped off the runway to make my car rental experience a complete nightmare. I kept expecting the dude who took my toll money to start selling me shampoo, so magnificent was his shiny mane of hair, so full of body and style.

Just based on experience (and without real knowledge), I would even venture to guess that the people who worked at the DMV were extras on a movie set in their spare time (away from being nasty to people who were stupid enough to get into the wrong line– EVEN THOUGH IT WASN’T LABELED).

I don’t know about your state, but typically the DMV workers are thought to be the bitchy Missing Link anthropologists are always harping on about (I wonder if their studies would take them to the DMV, because it should), but I would venture a guess that in California, they, too, are beautiful, attractive, and of the highest genetic pedigree.

Even if I were rich enough to buy a shack in California, I’m fairly certain we’d be turned away at the border for being undesirably unattractive.

For now, I will take comfort living here in the Midwest, just outside of Chicago, knowing that while we may be ugly and dumpy, at least we’re landlocked, so no hurricane will make it to our doorstep.

DENIED ENTRY INTO CALIFORNIA DUE TO EXCESSIVE UNFLATTERING GENES.

(Niobe may be the only one who gets the title. Google it if you must. Or don’t. It’s cool.)

So Hey, Universe, what’s up?

I just had this simple request, okay? It’s not too hard, I promise.

But could you make sure it’s at least a month between funerals? I’m not so big on attending them and stuff, so, maybe you could just cool it on the deaths for a bit.

Respectfully (and please don’t strike me down. I’m a nice person, I swear.),

Your Aunt Becky

Still haven’t shaken The Laze ™, but I’m OCD enough that I feel as though I must post something anyway. Since I’m too bored to formulate a REAL post, I will present to you a post in bullet form:

*I just ate expired Ramen for lunch, because I couldn’t think of anything else to eat. When I’m expelling the lining of my intestines later, I’ll only have myself to blame.

*I still have yet to find the dime in Alex’s diaper. I’m pretty sure that it passed, but I after I rooted around once in his diaper and nearly lost my lunch (sadly, not the expired Ramen), I decided that kids have swallowed worse.

*I went to Toys R Us yesterday to look for a Radio Flyer ride along thingy (I needed to see it in person to ascertain if it was too plastic-y for me to spend my dough on), and although I didn’t locate it, I did get suckered into buying him a bunch of presents for a birthday he will not remember.

*I bought a box of Cap’n Crunch (with Crunchberries) and have devoured it. I figure I’m reliving the glory days of college WHILE turning my excrement a delightful color! It’s a win-win situation here.

*Dave came home from work the other night and exclaimed that Alex had bruised both of his tootsies. I bought it and felt suitably guilty until I shamefully realized that his feet were not, in fact, bruised at all, but were covered in the Winter Grime that collects on my floor. Methinks I need a cleaning lady STAT.

*I’m trying as hard as I can to figure out how to de-allergenize my house (is that a word? Probably not) for some guests who are allergic to my menagerie. I’m at a loss, here, save for a bottle of Febreeze and a vacuum.

*sighs*

I need a nap.

I’ve been so full of The Laze ™ these past two days that it would be laughable, except that it’s not. I can’t seem to find the motivation to do a whole lot, save from playing Lego Star Wars (no, sadly for The Daver, I am not a Video Game Person, I just happen to like playing that one) and taking care of the absolutely pertinent day-to-day stuff.

I could lie and tell you that I’ve got a To-Do list a mile long that’s preventing me from being productive, but you know I would never lie to you, baby. Ssshhh, baby it’s okay, don’t worry, Aunt Becky wouldn’t lie to you. I love you too much for that.

Once Alex is carried back to reality from his morning nap (oh.my.God.my.kid.finally.naps.like.a.normal.kid!), I’m going to hoist myself off my less-wide (thank you Synthroid, oh THANK YOU for finally making my metabolism go the right way and allowing me to lose 6 pounds. I am going to throw a parade in your honor!) ass and run some errands.

Normally, when I’m feeling full of The Laze ™ it’s because I’m depressed and lonely and sad and pathetic and dramatic (oh! the! drama!), but this time it’s not the case. I think I’m just sick to death of winter and am feeling rather stir-crazy and bored. Staying home with the kidlets is great in some regards, but can make a person feel like they’re slowly being pecked to death by a flock of adorable chickens.

Sighs.

At least the snow is melting today (this means it’s likely to dump 12 feet of snow on us tonight. Stupid Chicago weather).

—————-

I got tagged by my darling fellow Chicagoian LAS (who you should really check out. She could use a bit of Internet Loving right now, and I know you guys are up to the task) AND my sexy friend Complicated Mama to do this book meme.

Directions: Pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the fifth sentence on that page, and then post the next three sentences.

Without further adieu, I present my book:

“Baby Make Me Breakfast,” by Lisa Brown. Since there is no page 123, I will be giving you the book in it’s entirety:

“I would like…

half a grapefruit,

a soft boiled egg,

a piece of toast,

a cup of coffee,

and a couple of aspirin.

Thank you Baby!

(now scoot, Mama’s hung over).”

(oh yes I just did).

Hmmm, I’ll tag… Pauline, Ames, and KC.

—————–

Okay, Sexy Internet, quick question for you. Put yourself in Aunt Becky’s kicky pink gogo boots and riddle me this: if you were throwing a birthday party at the end of the month for your second child, but you didn’t have many friends with kids, AND you stupidly put “RSVP regrets only” on your invites, would you:

1) Make gift bags for everyone who may be attending (which will likely be mostly adults).

2) Guess how many kids will be coming and make gift bags accordingly just for the kids.

3) Fuck gift bags. You’re already giving them food.

*smootches, Internet, I heart you*

Alex ate at least three-quarters of a box of Macaroni and Cheese for lunch today, immediately after ingesting a container of yogurt, a granola bar, and a serving of pureed fruit. He ate so much that I needed a cigarette after watching him tear through it all.

When he was first born and nursed approximately 14 hours a day (I only wish I were exaggerating), I was convinced that the reason he had to eat so damn much was because my body wasn’t producing enough milk to sustain his frame. Little did I know that he was merely born with a metabolism I would kill for (much like his good old Dad).

It’s funny, because I used to hate people like myself, whose kids ate normal food without acting like it was laced with rat poison, because my darling firstborn ate so little that I often wondered how he gained weight at all.

And that’s one of those things that you place blame squarely on yourself, partially because you feel the all-too-familiar tug of Parental Guilt tapping you on the shoulder (none too gently), and partially because other people blame you for it. It’s amazing how quick to judge other people become when you have a Non-Eater for a child, like you alone are responsible for their shitty diet (and I swear on all that is holy that I eat more than saltines and oatmeal).

Save from paternity, all the variables are very similar between my kids, and who knows, maybe Ben didn’t want to eat because he felt nauseous knowing who his father was. Shit, I know that fact made ME skip a few meals.

It’s one of those funny things that has redeemed me time and again with Alex. Just knowing that I am not at fault (and never have been) for all of Ben’s “issues” has made the sleepless nights and hair pulling worth it’s weight in gold.

Now if you’ll excuse me, dear Internet, whom I love more than life itself, I must go save the cat from being eaten by the baby. Lunch was an hour and a half ago, and he’s HUNGRY again.