My darling second born son at the tender age of 9 months has fallen in love.

Not with one of the myriad of toys that he currently owns, and not even with one of the many animals who live with us (although the “dooo-gie” and “catty-cat” are close seconds to this), but with a book.

Now, it could be worse, he could be obsessed with one of the many boring computer books we have knocking around the house, but what cracks me up most about this is that when he first fell in love with it, I explained to him that there were 6 fingers on the hand of the book.

Rather than take the word “hand,” “book,” or even the very complicated “fingers” away from this, he now cries “thhhix” whenever he wants the book.

It’s going to be a loud 18 years.

Later that day, as he was rolling merrily along the floor, behaving like a human vacuum cleaner, I noticed that he was decidedly chewing on something. I figured it was likely a tasty bit of paper or a goldfish cracker, until I realized that he was gagging on it.

I swooped in, picked him up and peered into his mouth. He took this opportunity to regurgitate most of his lunch in a large splat onto the white (white!) carpeting, and it was then that I found the elusive culprit: a rabbit turd.

Now, back when I was eleventy-million months pregnant, Ben and I were perusing our local pet store after picking up some crickets for our gecko and while he tried to persuade me to buy him a scorpion (yeah, right. Over my dead and crusty body will I ever, EVER allow a scorpion to come into my home. You might say that I have a phobia.), I spotted her.

A large bunny was hopping merrily around a cage, desperately vying for my attention. I’ve always liked bunnies, and secretly lusted for one for, oh I don’t know, EVER, but every one I’ve ever seen is just languidly laying around a cage looking boring.

This one, however ugly she may be (and she is), was not boring. She was cute, and she liked me.

In a fit of pregnancy-induced insanity (and probably because my husband was too fearful of me to deny me), we adopted her (she had been dropped off by previous owners who didn’t want to care for her any longer).

Now, aside from knowing that they were fluffy and liked carrots, I had no idea what the hell owning a bunny was about. For instance, I had no idea that their pee smelled like death. Or that they would kick their litter and poo out of the cage when they jumped about. Had I known this, I might not have been so keen on adopting her.

But she’s cute as hell (in a really ugly way) and she loves me to pieces, so I don’t give her much grief for being a damned slob.

That said, when Alex was deciding to snack on a bit of “bunny chocolate,” I was horrified not that he had done this, or that she had kicked the poo piece out of her cage. I was mad simply because I had JUST vacuumed.

Ginger (not the name I would have chosen, but same as my darling cat Peekachoo, she came with it, and answers to it) says that she would very much like some treats, please, as you can see by her massive proportions (again, with the scale on a webpage, you may not get an accurate picture of her massiveness), WE DO NOT FEED HER ENOUGH.

Lastly, this is a photo of the aftermath of the “bunny chocolate” saga. A bath. With bubbles. And a baby that we call “Tons of Fun” and “Chubbs.”

You know, because he’s skinny.

In a drastic measure to realize a childhood dream, Daver had been petitioning for an air hockey table for about a year. I can’t complain about trying to realize childhood dreams, righting what once went wrong, or in my own case, buying my kids the crap my parents refused me. As my parents were hippies, their idea of “toys” consisted of those lovely wooden figures, you know, the ones that you buy in those specialty stores for about a million bucks?

Problem was, I’m not much of a wooden figure person. I longed not-so-secretly for Barbies (not allowed in my house under any circumstance), a Baby Pee-Pee, and most importantly a Power Wheels.

I am sad to report that although my not-so-subtle drip-drip method of acquisition (it’s likened to being pecked to death by an adorable chicken) never managed to work in this case.

So I plan to do what any mature and responsible parent would do, I’m going to buy my kids the one thing that I always wanted and never got (the Barbies and Baby Pee-Pee aren’t really appropriate for my boys, gender stratification and all): a Power Wheels. This is providing, of course, that they aren’t off the market by the time I’m IN the market for it.

Dave is aware of this impending expenditure, and would possibly complain were it not that the deck is now totally stacked in my favor. What on Earth (besides blow jobs) did I do to convince him, you ask?

I let him buy the fancy air hockey table he has been oogling.

It appears as though unfortunately even I am not immune the not-so-subtle drip-drip method.

When I was released this weekend from the purgatory that is getting my eyes examined (for some freakish reason, even though I have to do this yearly, my dread only intensifies with each year. No clue why), Dave and Ben took me over to “see something.” That “something” happened to be a half-priced air hockey table. Dave had used the fact that I love very little more than a good bargain (or a good humping) against me, damn him straight to hell!

There were three models sitting menacingly there, all at half off their sticker price, and Dave knew to start me on the cheapest, which was a full $60 cheaper than the next one up and looked it. It was ugly as fuck. No way is that going into our basement, I said, which happened to be his cue to point out the nicer model. I saw it and immediately agreed: the price was reasonable, the set up wasn’t too hideous, and it wasn’t nearly as HUGE as the highest price one.

I could hear a silent “fuck” pass over Daver’s eyes, as he then hastily backpedaled to point out all of the glaring problems with it. It didn’t have a score keeper computer (so.fucking.what?), it was smaller (good, GREAT!), and the legs looked weaker (there were no legs to be seen on the display).

Turns out, he’d been trying to sell me on option Number 3 and because my eyes were still fucked up from the exam, I hadn’t realized his angle until I had agreed to Option 2.

Option 3 was only about $20 higher than Option 2, which is not a sum that makes me go “Woah, Nellie!” but what I didn’t like about it was that it was so fucking huge. When I said as much, Daver and Ben immediately insisted that it only looked that way because my eyes were still adjusting back to normal from the exam, and because I was hot, hungry, and tired, I finally agreed to Option 3.

Who am I to deny someone their childhood dream?

Turns out that I happen to have “Sucker” written on my forehead, with what a piss poor decision I agreed to.

When Daver dropped us off at home and went back for the table, he realized that there was no way in hell that he was going to fit it inside our truck (which is only midsized), and had to borrow our generous neighbors Suburban.

Once he got it home, he had to enlist the help of ANOTHER neighbor to get the damn thing inside (we live in the world’s best neighborhood. Seriously), and once he set it gleefully up and called me down to see it, I nearly swallowed my own fucking tongue.

We have a finished basement, and the fucking albatross takes up half of one of the rooms. HALF OF ONE OF THE ROOMS.

(I would put a picture here but you wouldn’t be able to see it’s massiveness to scale. One could easily surmise that our basement was teeny-tiny and that the air hockey table was just a normal size, but looked much bigger. This, my friends, couldn’t be farther from the truth).

Now, we hadn’t exactly decided WHAT to do with that half of the room, and although I’d repeatedly petitioned for a Cotton Candy machine to put there, sadly no one had agreed to it, which is why I stubbornly refused Dave’s suggestion of a bar to go there. Besides, when the basement is The Teenagers Lair, I’m assuming that a bar would be the last thing we’d need there.

And to be completely honest, it’s not that it’s so massive (it’s seriously as big or a little bigger than our dining room table, with it’s leaves in) or that it hulks at me menacingly when I go downstairs to do laundry, it’s that someday, when the novelty has worn completely off, it’s going to become a flat storage space. Or a train table. Or a place to sort your dime bag.

Then, eventually, I will have to devise some way of storing it that doesn’t involve putting it on the side of the road for someone else to take, lest I get killed by certain members of my family who, despite the overwhelming layers of dust, will INSIST that they DO play it! Regularly!

Maybe this is the time to tell Dave about the fully functional Hot Dog Cart I bought for our bedroom. I can tell him he’ll hardly notice it’s there, sleeping tenderly on his side of the bed.

The Daver is addicted to workahol. Massively, unabashedly addicted to the stuff. Most of the time, it’s a-okay with me. I’ve never been the type of partner that is needful all of the time, and hell, I should tattoo my forehead with a fat “Does Not Work Well In Groups.”

Besides, he loves what he does, and even if falsely I tried to claim that I had had a change of heart and now “loved nursing” (the career, not the lactation), my whole family would fall all over themselves trying to forbid me to go back to it. Apparently, working a profession I hate is bad for everyone in my family (mainly because I turn into a massive bitch when I’m unhappy).

I’m not sure if it’s the deadly microbes (dramatic much?) merrily playing in my body, or massive hormonal imbalances caused my impending menstrual cycle, but lately I just can’t hack it doing everything by myself.

Too many people (and animals) require me for their daily (hourly) happiness and depend upon me to make certain all of the “i’s” are dotted and “t’s” are crossed, and I am finding it all so very overwhelming.

I suppose, if I am trying to take a shot at rationality, that my illness has brought to the forefront of my brain the reminder that no matter what, my needs aren’t as pressing as anyone else’s.

There’s still Snack Day at school that I have to remember and prepare, violin that must be practiced (and if I am to be painfully honest, taught by yours truly), dirty diapers to be changed, baths to be orchestrated, dinner to be thought of, noses to be wiped, cat boxes to be scooped, laundry to be dried and sorted, cats to be fed, dog to be fed, egos to be stroked, and mail to be sorted.

And this is just a minor fraction of it all.

Such is life when you have kids, oh this I am aware, and most of the time it doesn’t get me down. You roll with whatever life throws at you, try to dodge most of the shit storms, and go to bed knowing that even if you are exhausted, you are happy.

Except when you’re not.

Except when the very thought of what the new day holds makes you want to pull the blankets over your head and try your best to hide from the day, hoping that no one finds you for a long time. Maybe they’ll forget about you!

Alas, like it or not, no one can forget you, because they rely on you, and you alone to do what needs to get done. Some days, this makes you feel powerful: just LOOK at how many plates I can juggle at once! And some days, you just wish that you had backup. From anyone.

Today I feel alone and impossibly sad, and my only saving grace is that I am hoping to wake up tomorrow ready to take on the day and wipe this shit right off my shoes.

Apparently, it’s me.

Rather than bore you with all of the details, and in lieu of trying to write a post which would inevitably turn into “Wah, wah, wah” I will just take a moment to tell you that although I am alive and kicking, I will be spending the rest of the day sitting on my couch feeling sorry for myself. For no real reason.

I’ll be back when I can pull myself out of this.

It takes an act of God to get me to go to the doctor. An act of God, or a throat so incredibly sore that it felt like a million tiny knives were sticking my naso-oral cavity each and every time I drew a breath.

Well, that and I wanted to prove to Daver that I was sicker, damnit.

The worst part of being sick for me is the fact that my emotions go completely haywire. On any normal day, I’m fairly cheerful (shut up), and that’s tempered with only a few select other emotions. Namely, in no particular order, Hunger, Anger, and/or Sleepiness.

I’m pretty simple, really.

But the moment that rogue bacteria enters my system, it’s like an emotional switch flips to 11, and every other emotion on the spectrum of emotions begins to flood my body.

I cry at dog food commercials (and not even the sad ones), get angry at the weather for daring to dump snow onto my car, suppress every urge to kick the cats out from under my feet (my damn cats are the sweetest BUT neediest animals on the face of the planet), while trying not to weep when the baby went down for an extra long nap (what.the.fuck.was.that.about?).

It’s awful.

When I finally put pants on and got ready to leave to go to the doctor, I realized that the snow that covered my car NEEDED TO BE REMOVED AND WAAAHHHH! I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT! DIDN’T THE WEATHER GODS KNOW I WAS SICK, DAMNIT?

Once I’d finally gotten the car cleared off, I took off, but now the stupid windshield wipers kept going off. None too gently I flicked it back to the off position. Between my own brute strength and the arctic temperature which must have made the plastic more brittle, I snapped it off. I SNAPPED THE FUCKING WINDSHIELD WIPER GEAR THINGY OFF.

The jagged plastic tore the hell out of my wrist and forearm, giving my arm the look that I’d hysterically attempted to slit my wrists, but lacked the follow through to finish the job. I LOOKED LIKE I WAS TOO STUPID TO PROPERLY KILL MYSELF.

Apparently, I’d sunk to a whole new low.

I’m certain my doctor knew that I wasn’t quite right yesterday when he walked in the room and saw my puffy tear-streaked face. Normally, I’m shamelessly rooting through the drawers looking for medical supplies to, ahem, liberate, when he walks in. Typically, then he informs me that he doesn’t keep the samples for the good drugs OR extra prescription pads in examination rooms, and laughs heartily at my crestfallen face.

Not so much yesterday (although I would have appreciated some good drugs), though, which I am sure gave him a bit of a start. He took one look at my throat, informed me that it looked “like the stuff growing in the back of your fridge,” which is a disgustingly awesome mental picture. I got a script for some –icillin’s, and went on my merry (weeping) way.

I was up and down overnight more than the baby (which is saying a whole lot) in some terrible pain, but I’m tentatively feeling slightly better today. I watched Oprah without crying, have seen several commercials for both cell phones and dog food that haven’t fazed me in the slightest, and now that the baby is down for his morning siesta, I feel nothing but relief.

I can only hope that I will continue upon my road to recovery, lest I alienate both my husband and my eldest son (the baby doesn’t care at all either way so long as I am present and within eyeballing range) with my insufferable mood swings.

Am I the only person who reacts to sickness by becoming an emotional wreck? Am I a freak? IS THIS HOW NON-EMOTIONALLY STUNTED PEOPLE LIVE THEIR LIVES?

In a stunning fit of personal irony, I have completely lost my voice. Now, normally, when I’m sick, I get a head cold, pop some sudafed and move the hell on with my life. The last time I lost my voice, well, I can’t remember the last time I actually lost it completely.I think it may have been when I had my tonsils out at age 14. Talk about a fun time!

Normally when ill, I sound like a cross between Janis Joplin and one of the twins from the Simpsons (Thelma?), but now I sound like a balloon that has been stepped on. Repeatedly.

Dave is also sick but he has a fever, which essentially means that he’ll lounge around on the couch looking almost normal until I ask him to help me with something. When that happens, he’ll stop burbbling and drooling on the couch and start using a high-pitched voice while he weakly says things like, “The LIGHT, I can SEE THE LIGHT! DON’T GO TOWARD THE LIGHT! Mother, is THAT YOU?”

He’s trying with all of his might to out-sick me.

Fucker.

—————-

Today is National Blog For Choice Day, in celebration of the anniversary of Roe v Wade.

What most people don’t suspect, in not knowing me, is that since I chose to have my son Benjamin, rather than have an elective abortion, is that I must be anti-choice (as this is my blog, I refuse to buy into the whole pro-life terminology. I don’t actually believe that pro-life is anything but a nasty-sounding term, as most people, without referring to abortions would not voluntarily call themselves “anti-life.” Unless you’re suicidal it makes very little sense.).

Despite the evidence, I am overwhelmingly pro-choice.

I won’t try and bore you with the whys, the hows and all of the other details, as I don’t write well if I’m trying to be political and/or deep and meaningful. Besides 99% of what I might say have been better said by other, smarter, and more eloquent people.

But today I wholeheartedly celebrate Roe v Wade, who has allowed many women to choose how they want their own bodies managed.

[Imagine a nifty little graphic here. I can’t figure out how the hell to put it here. Becky = idiot.]

——————–

If Dave and I make it through today without killing each other, I will consider it a major personal victory. Instead of being disgustingly sweet which is my standard MO when ill, I am full of The Angry.

So full of The Angry that I am trolling around looking for someone who can help me break in my new (pink) boxing gloves, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, heh, heh, heh. I need to ensure that I don’t have any contact with strangers today, lest they meet the completely irrational Becky that I have become.

So whose ass should I kick today? Anyone in particular?

…I may be dead.

Second Death Flu in two weeks is in full swing and I fear that my immune system is shutting down and will soon wink out completely. Then I will actually die from something in the cat boxes (toxoplasmosis), and it will be a horrible, shameful, and undignified death.

I’d sleep if I could, but since the baby was up oh, about every twenty minutes last night (sometimes I exaggerate for comedic purposes. This is not one of those blessed times), I fear that it is not worth the trouble of lugging my sick self up the stairs.

If you can read this, send Theraflu. Or a gun. You know, so I can put myself out of my misery like a broken racehorse.

As of January 1st of this new year of our Lord, the great state of Illinois (great because, well, I live here) has passed a ban on smoking in public places and a strict policy of smokers having to inhale 15 feet away from doors.

Neither of these things do I feel one way or another about, truth be told. I was a smoker for many years, so I feel sorry for all of the people who are hip enough to head out to bars (unlike myself, who is now so tragically unhip that I spend my Friday nights in track pants wondering why all of the good programming is hiding far, far away from my TV set) and now have to go and hide to smoke.

What DOES bug me about this is that each door leading in to a public place now has a number that you can call someone from the state presumably and complain if they see someone not abiding by the 15 feet rule.

As a former smoker, I got really sick and tired of people who would make outrageously obscene commentary if I snuck outside for a quickie. The point of smoking outside is precisely to avoid sticking someone else in an enclosed room, so I had been trying to do everyone a FAVOR by not subjecting them to it.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, secondhand smoke smells bad. It does, I’m not denying that.

But to be fair, so does liberally dousing yourself in Adidas cologne or deciding that showers are overrated and deodorant is for pussies. Sure, maybe these personal hygiene choices don’t cause cancer, but I’m pretty sure that the 0.4 seconds you were near my lit cigarette would not make much of a difference either way.

Besides, you can’t tell me having to sit inside a bathroom stall in which someone has just blown liberal ass all over the place, isn’t at least mildly carcinogenic (and infinitely more disgusting).

(Obviously, if someone is an ashmatic or allergic, well, that makes sense.)

But even now, two kids later, I would never be rude enough to flail my arms wildly and make a huge production about how “smoking sucks” in front of someone who was sneaking a puff. Really, come on, we all know it’s not the most healthful thing to be doing, but neither is behaving like a rudely retarded child in public, because sooner or later, you’re going to get your ass kicked.

I can only see Bad Things happening with the new complaint line, and I’m sorry as hell for anyone staffing that call center. Truth be told, I feel sorry for anyone staffing ANY call center ANYWHERE. “Complaint Lines” I can only imagine bring out the few and the proud (freaks), who can call and complain about anything (only in fine print does it tell you what you’re complaining about when you call that number, to be fair to the freaks who program such numbers into their phones) such as their muscle aches, the price and quality of generic brand toilet paper, and their neighbors cat WHO MAY BE SPYING ON THEIR HOUSE AS WE SPEAK.

Besides, even if you do call and complain that someone is smoking too close to the doors, what the hell are these people in this remote call center going to freaking do about it? By the time any ball could get rolling, the Bad Person Smoker would be long gone, just as I would be.

Even I’m not dumb enough to stick around to see what the punishment/fine is for this. I mean, shit, I have even been known to drive off while a Chicago cop was in the process of writing me a ticket, because, what the hell was he going to do? My car goes faster than his legs. Oh, SNAP!

(Dave, upon learning that I had done this, was suitably impressed and horrified by my behavior. Apparently, even after all these years, I can still shock, disgust, and amaze him).

So tell your Aunt Becky, providing that you are not burning effigies of her in your yard for defending Bad People Smokers, what is the strangest complaint that you have ever heard (even if it’s not happened to you) about anything at all?

I’ll go first. Your goal is to outdo me. It should be simple.

I worked for several summers at at outdoor bar/grill that happened to be situated right along a river. It was beautiful vista, complete with ducks a-swimming, bikers a-biking (it was right along the bike trail, too), and (gross) carp a-carping, but it was also situated squarely in an Old Money WASP’s nest, so our customers were often both snobby and cross. As only a mess of servers can, we bonded together in an us-vs-them way.

One day, as I was just coming onto my afternoon/evening shift, and in the process of putting out the Citronella candles, I was motioned over by a group of women. I sat the candle down between them, and one of them looked at me squarely in the face and demanded “Can’t you do something about these BUGS.”

It wasn’t a question.

And what she apparently had not noticed is that we were outside.

Being a smartass, and knowing that this was not my tip on the line, I met her gaze and fired back, “Yeah, you know what you can do? GO INSIDE.” Then I walked away.

Your turn.

Sometime around Christmas (hell, maybe it WAS Christmas, my swiss cheese like brain cannot remember such details), I casually let it slip that I write almost every day to my father. It had come up in some sort of conversation, and as the words flew from my mouth, I immediately began to hope that no one was listening to me (for once. Normally I expect people to hang off of my every word).

Of course, he heard me and asked if he could read some of what I write.

I use the phrase “write” in a completely different manner than he would have expected from me. To me, a writer would sit at an antique typewriter next to a ream of paper and a pack of cigarettes, and sip cold coffee while he/she penned their memoirs. Although I have noticed that some bloggers receive book deals based on their blogs, I am certain that this would never be me. It’s just not where I see myself (plus, I’m pretty sure that this means that you have to sell yourself to someone who might publish you. Interviews make me feel squishy inside, and I’m all too certain that my lackluster ability to spell properly coupled with the fact that my grammar is often wrong would prevent any sort of deal).

And, more importantly, I hate the word “memoir.”

But my conversation with my father would have been the ideal segue to tell my family about my blog. And I choked.

I’ve read other blogs that are read by the blogger’s family, and I’ve always found it strange.

It’s not my *ahem* colorful language that made me shy to tell him, hell, I learned the best of these phrases from my father himself, and it’s not even the subject matter. Although I occasionally refer to my slightly turbulent childhood and my mother’s illness, I don’t say anything THAT BAD about it. Certainly nothing I am ashamed of seeing later.

And honestly, since most of my real life friends read this blog (okay, okay, it’s because I pay them), I know better than to say something on here that I wouldn’t say to someone’s face. The Internet is a small, small, place sometimes, so I try to keep ANYTHING remotely inflammatory off these pages. It seems safer that way. Plus, I hate the idea of inadvertently hurting someone’s feelings. Anyone’s. Unless that was my goal.

That said, being “out” to my father, who I know would faithfully read this (but probably never comment) leaves me with an odd kind of gooshy feeling. Dave suggested that I print out some of my choicer posts and give them to him in hard copy form, but I doubt that they would read like anything OTHER than a blog post, and as an avid blog reader himself, he would know. Or could easily google it.

Am I over-analyzing something simpler than that? Should I just let him know ALL ABOUT his daughter, Aunt Becky and be done with it? I have a feeling that someday he’ll discover me here, whether or not I tell him about it, because The Internet is just that small sometimes.

…am I fucking up more?

The one who loves to write insanely complex lists?

Or the one, despite a recent cutting, who cannot help but rock a Bon Jovi hair cut?

You be the judge.