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.

In a fit of what I can only call “mid-twenties rebellion” my husband married me. It’s not like I’m a bad person, on the whole, if you were to meet me, you’d probably think I was “nice” or at the very least “interesting.” I don’t have oozing sores, I am freakishly fanatical (read: annoying) about saying my Pleases and Thank Yous, and if nothing else, I can probably talk to you about nothing at all. For a long time. Even if you want me to shut the fuck up already, Aunt Becky.

But our respective childhood’s could not have been any more dissimilar if you had tried. In fact, dissimilar is not the right word. Not even close. Opposite is probably a better term, and even that doesn’t truly encompass our differences.

My parents were hippies, and his were religious. Very religious.

Now, these aren’t mutually exclusive situations, not by a long shot, and I would probably never think of myself as “anti-religion” in an way shape or form, despite my non-affiliation with any major faiths. To place my faith most simply, God and I get along just fine.

And the only problem that I have with certain sects of religious people is their propensity towards being assholes.

And I don’t mean that ANYONE who goes to church qualifies as an asshole (so please don’t mistake me here. I have know a number of people who were both religious and nice at the same time), but there are certain people who manage to both be church-goers and fuck-heads (there are plenty of non-religious fuck-heads too, but at least they’re not trying to evoke the name of Jesus in their assholedom. I have read the Bible, and am pretty sure Jesus doesn’t approve of treating other people like dog shit ESPECIALLY IN HIS NAME.). Like being a member of XYZ Church qualifies them as better than you could ever be, and they have no problems telling you so.

That doesn’t seem too God-fearing to me, it seems more to be a study in duplicity.

Ask a waitress, ANY waitress and she’ll back me up here. This type of religious people are the hardest to wait on. No, I don’t mean those that just go to church, believe in God, whatever goes along with that, no not at all. I’m referring to the people who have a problem with ME (who is presumed not to be a member of their church) the moment they sit down. They scream their orders while their kids throw sugar packets at my head and syrup into my apron pockets, bark at me when their food is not quite whatever enough, run me around like I had no other tables and then, in lieu of a tip, I’d get a pamphlet on their church, which neatly detailed how I could change my obviously crappy life for a better one if I joined it.

Wow, their behavior ABSOLUTELY makes me want to join them in worship (if the sarcasm isn’t dripping off your screen, it should be).

Now, before you think that I am merely bitching about not getting paid, that could not be farther from the truth.

(Editorial Side Note: Let me break this down simply for you who have not had the pleasure of serving: A server in Illinois makes $3.09 an hour, whether they are running their asses off or picking lint from between their toes. All of the taxes from tips–even if you do not get any–are estimated at about an 8% tip per bill, and removed from this amount. Most of the paychecks I got as a waitress were for some ridiculous amount: $0.21, $0.10, or my favorite “why’d you bother printing this out” $0.00. So if you do not get tipped, you don’t get anything to compensate, and if a table were to walk out on you, the amount of their checks would be taken from your tips.)

I’ve been broke before. I’ve forgotten to grab extra cash and stiffed a server one night (after telling them, of course) and had to go back in the following day with their tip. It happens. Some of my favorite tables were not my high-rollers, they were the people who had carefully scrimped and saved all month to go out for dinner, requested me as their server (wouldn’t you? Don’t answer that.) and then realized they didn’t have enough to leave me a tip. I didn’t care.

Their kindness made up for it. Period.

But it is unacceptable (religious or not) to treat me as though I am somehow beneath you and then try to shove your religion (you cannot tell me that any religion condones this sort of behavior) down my throat.

So it was with great trepidation that I met and married my husband, knowing full well that his parents were as wary of me as I was of them. Thankfully enough, we don’t discuss matters of religion or politics around my house (nor am I honestly trying to do that here), and we keep our opinions on hot button issues quiet. I’m certain that I’ll never be 100% approved of, considering I spent a good couple of months trying to work the whole Schweaty Ball thing into Christmas this year, and have already enlisted the help of my brother to work “boner” into next year’s celebration, but we have reached an uneasy peace.

The whole Baptism thing has come up now and again, and I have promised that either of the children can be baptized so long as I don’t have to plan it. I would have no way of knowing what to do, and between all of the birthday parties, I’m pretty sick of planning crap.

I don’t know. I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be all offensive and say “religious people are assholes” as some kind of rule, because I don’t believe that. I just find it interesting that those people who are VERY obviously churchy, can also be the biggest fucks that I’ve ever met.

So what pissed YOU off the last time you worked in customer service (if you’ve ever had the pleasure)? And what made you scared and/or biased toward certain people? Aunt Becky needs your stories today, as she’s feeling all out of sorts.

A number of the blogs that I visit, would, at first glance seem to be an odd fit. As I am married and have two children, one might assume that I’d hang with the mommy bloggers. And while some of them are awesome (see links on side bar), I don’t feel like I fit in over there with all of them. While I love my life fiercely, gushing about my children (no matter how fantastic I believe them to be) is not the way I roll.

Mostly, it’s because I am a realist.

I’m no longer naive enough to believe that a positive pregnancy test equates a bouncing bundle of baby, so I spent up until about 37 weeks into my pregnancy looking for signs of a miscarriage when I had Alex (Ben, too, truth be told). I went into my ultrasound quaking in the knees not because I was nervous that I’d be stuck with another boy, but because I was worried that the baby whose kicks I had grown so fond of, would not have a brain. Or an equally fatal flaw. When my labor was induced, I needed the Zofran prior to the first contraction not because I was nauseous about my choices in nursery decor, but because I was afraid he would die in labor.

You see, despite my circumstances in life, I know what can go wrong. All too well.

I’ve helped mothers birth their still babies, worked with them in dressing them in teeny clothes, and memorize their every curve before they had to say goodbye. For good. I’ve carried this incredible love, and this unimaginable tragedy with me everywhere I go, just as they carry it with them.

I’ve held the hands of mothers and fathers who have come to have “the remaining products of conception” removed from their bodies (what a shitty fucking clinical term that is. I hate it. Passionately), and wept with them, too.

A long time ago, I accepted that the Universe was not always a fair place to be, and that things such as “just,” “deserve,” and “fair” don’t apply to everyone. Most of the time, I can deal with it. I try not to think too much about it, lest I get swallowed up into a pit of despair, never to emerge again. Other days, I rage against it, shaking my fists at the sky while I weep for someone else (or myself).

Today is one of those days.

Please, go visit Alexa, who is in dire need of some love. I don’t know her in real life (just as I don’t know many of you), but she is mourning the loss of one of her children, and she needs all of the love that The Internet can muster. Sometimes the kindness and love from relative strangers can relieve a small fraction of pain during this horrible situation.

During the 70’s, in a fit of what I can only call bad judgment, my parents inexplicably bought a set of encyclopedias. I’m sure that when they bought them, they were imagining their children serenely sitting around together in a sunlit room, reading silently, occasionally sharing little tidbits of interesting facts. It was the 70’s, and there were (obviously) a lot of drugs.

They weren’t bad to have around, as these were the days before Google could bring me such searches as “mommy wants to run away*,” “what to make me loss total bladder control*” or ” best nursing nipples.*” They were helpful when doing research papers as I got older, and as I got even older, I was able to titillate my friends by looking up such terms as “boob” and “weenier” (some things never do change, do they?). They made excellent catapults and projectiles, and I can tell you from personal experience, those motherfuckers HURT when you got whacked with one, but they left a satisfying enough bruise, that the pain was a moot point.

*Yes, these are actual search terms that, along with a plethora of vodka related terms, have brought people here.

But when I was younger, I fell in love with the only section of the encyclopedia that was any color other than poo brown or grey: the anatomy section. In it, you’d be able to overlay the different organ systems onto a skeleton, and I loved it. You might imagine that I’d have had a stunning career in medicine by the way that I coveted this particular section at such a young age (you’d be wrong), but I have my suspicions that my adoration was a direct correlation to it’s shininess.

When I was in kindergarten, as a class project, we had to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. Amidst a sea of astronauts and firefighters, I alone drew a picture of an obstetrician. Although it seems mighty advanced, once you learned that I come from a family of physicians, it made far more sense. I was less a child protege and more just apt to spit out whatever I had heard someone talk about at home.

During my next years of school, I noticed that adults, with an alarming frequency questioned children relentlessly about their future choice in occupation, and I began to think that it was stupid. I mean, I was more interested to see if my turtle would turn into an attack turtle if I played it The Sex Pistols on repeat than I was spending my days painstakingly charting out my wonderful life as a grown-up.

Seriously, as far as I was concerned, being a grown-up was much less awesome than being a kid. As a kid, I could fart loudly at the table and get away with it, whereas if my father did the same thing, he had to put a quarter in the “flatulence jar.” Maybe it was because my quarters were painstakingly saved to buy play dough and plastic earrings, and therefore off limits but it didn’t seem to be something to aspire to.

In 5th grade, on our end of year picnic, my teacher once again posed the question to the lot of us. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” she asked us each to answer, and when the question came to me, I had no idea how to answer it. Every time I mentioned whatever it was that I was “going” to be, most of the adults smiled condescendingly and told me that I needed to do a lot of school to go into that field.

Sure, if I’m saying “doctor” that’s the case, but seriously, did I look stupid enough to not be able to be the next person who pumps your gas? And last time I checked “school” wasn’t a prerequisite for being a trophy wife.

So by the wizened age of 11, I had already learned that truth was relative to who you were talking to. I promptly panicked. My greatest aspiration at that point in time was to see how long it takes for a Twizzler to completely dissolve in a can of Cherry Coke, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what she was asking for.

“Um...” I stammered, “I think I’m going to be an actress...” (this was truly a lie, but my brother’s girlfriend was one, but no one had to know that I was copying her) “…or a secretary….” (I had no idea what a secretary did, but I knew two things about that occupation a) they got manicures which was as close to godliness as I could imagine and b) it would drive my parents bonkers) “or a marine biologist!” I promptly finished with (which was as close to the truth as I was going to get in front of 25 of my classmates and my teacher).

“Oh,” she perkily replied, “you’re going to need A LOT of school for that!”

Wow, I thought to myself as I gritted my teeth, even when you’re lying through your ass, the adults STILL distrust your plans for the future.

Kids, or at least myself as a child, simply couldn’t win. I think what bothered me most about this realization was not that the adults couldn’t be supportive of whatever I spit out, but that they cared so much about something I wasted almost no time concerning myself with.

Poor Ben seems overtaken with worry about what he’s going to be when he grows up, I suppose the German in him cannot imagine a life not expressly dictated out ahead of time. He thought for a moment about being a nurse (something, I’m not proud to say I quashed), until he mused that he’s not a girl, so he can’t be one. Rather than point out that men can be nurses, I changed the subject. He’s currently considering a career on American Idol, which is probably not much better, but hey, I’m not going to say a word about it.

And as for me, I occasionally field a question about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life when my kids get older, and sometimes I’m so caught off guard that I let the real answer slip off my tongue, rather than claim that I’m going to be a naked homemaker or an atomic bomb diffuser (hey, I’m sure that SOMEONE has that job) or a prostitute wet nurse.

When I tell them the truth, I’m always met with blank stares and the eventual reply, which never, ever varies.

“Wow! Well you’re going to need A LOT of school for that!”

I suppose that in this case, it’s just me.

When I’d been dating The Daver for about 5 minutes, I made mention of the fact that I needed to head to an office supply store and pick up a planner/calendar for school, something costing in the neighborhood of maybe 5 bucks. 10 if I went fancier. He took this opportunity to offer to buy me my very own PDA. The green aspect of it appealed to me, here was this thing that cut down on the use of paper and could be used year after year (my parents are hippies. Shut up.).

I insisted that he buy me a Coach PDA holder to go along with it, and when he agreed, it sealed the deal. I was to become a PDA user! Finally, I was moving into the 21st century along with the rest of the planet!

I spent a couple of hours painstakingly entering information into it, spent a couple of days carrying it around in my purse, occasionally whipping it out so that I could look cool (I’m sure that anyone around me was probably all, “what’s with that chick and her PDA?”), and then promptly lost the power cord.

The PDA promptly crashed, all of my information was lost, and the PDA is still knocking around somewhere in my dressing table.

Flash forward several years, when I see an advertisement for a cool new fancy camera which boasts that anyone can use it. Because we were currently using such a piece of shit camera that all of the pictures (like it or not) came out as though we’d been using a soft focus lens and the subjects either posing for Glamor Shots or starring in soft core porn, I immediately began to petition for it.

For Christmas that year I got the camera (with the fancy camera bag I’d insisted upon. You can see clearly where my priorities lie.). By March, it had been dropped, the lens busted, and for Mother’s Day I got a new lens. I can work the camera, providing one of the many buttons hasn’t been pressed (and thereby changing….something. Not sure what.) and frequently take pictures with it, but I can all but assure you that I’m not using it to it’s full capacity of awesomeness. Period.

Due to my long and sorted history with computers (my own father, who is an amateur computer person would often “reformat his hard drive” without remembering that I had had several school papers saved on it, so I’d have to scramble to rewrite my papers mere hours before they were due. Fun times.), it was with great trepidation and nail biting that I got a new laptop shortly before my wedding in 2005. I had requested a Mac, as they seemed to be the most idiot-proof (read: Becky proof) available, but due to some misfortune on my part it had some things (inborn) wrong with it. I can’t elaborate because I am as techno-savvy as the dog is, but it would crash a lot.

Earlier this year, those problems were fixed (by professionals. Not me. My idea of “fixing it” involved a sledgehammer and my garage floor), and all was well and good in Lappy-Land.

Shortly after these kinks were ironed out, “someone” stepped on my laptop. As was the case with the camera “dropping” I have no idea who really did it (although my suspicions are that I, myself did it (this is pretty much my standard MO). Well, this cracked the screen.

This is not a detail that annoyed me all that much, as I can work around most things, but it drove my husband nuts just thinking about it. He ordered me a new screen from eBay, and promised to take care of it.

Early last week, I knocked my lappy off of it’s perch. In addition to bending the power supply thingy (which I have had to replace a total of 10 times. A combination of sheer stupidity and poor design working against me. Let me be clean that the stupidity is on my part), this further cracked the screen. It looks amazingly trippy, but is now next to impossible to work from. Shamefully, I keep suggesting alternate things that I can now do with it to Dave, like as a fancy paperweight! Add some bling, and it might be quite cute hung on the wall!

Dave sweetly (and amazingly without rubbing it in my face like I was a bad dog who’d dropped a shadoobie on the carpeting, which, ever so maturely I’d probably have done) set me up on one of his many extra lappy’s. This is absolutely fine with me, as my requirements for a computer involve exactly one criteria: Email Machine. And preferably indestructible. I’ll never be able to utilize all that a computer is able to do, and any expectations of this would be as stupid as expecting Alex to potty train himself while I watch “my stories.”

But one of the greatest things about having a geek for a husband is that This. Will. Not. Do. It doesn’t matter that the computer I am using is free (and therefore better to me), he is bound, set, and determined that I need a new computer. Period. I don’t seem to be able to sway this one (again, I need to change my expectations here), and probably won’t rest until I have one.

Once I realized that resistance, in this case, was futile, I explained that although I loved my Mac, I’m okay with a much cheaper computer. I had mistakenly believed that this battle was over until last night, when Dave heard that there was a new “sexy” Mac coming out (a computer is about as sexy to me as a dishwasher), and that “I was going to change my mind about going with a cheaper laptop.”

The logical sequence for me is as follows (and starts with the supposition that I can’t possibly take care of fancy technology): Dave, who just got a new laptop for Christmas, could hand that down to me, and buy himself a nicer lappy. To me, it seems to be a win-win situation: we can get the much fancier Mac Air for Dave, who will take care of it gently and lovingly as if it were an ailing lover, and I can have something already paid for and (slightly) broken in. I can (falsely) claim that any damages that it incurs in my ownership were there before I got it (which will make me feel like less of a failure), and Dave and bask in the newness and awesomeness that is the Mac.

As Dave is one of the sweetest people on the planet (no sarcasm here. Really), I have my doubts that this will play out according to my plan, as I’m sure one day he’ll march happily home with the new Mac and present it to me, amidst my protestations that I don’t deserve nice things. I’m the reason we can’t have nice things! Me!

Eventually I will cave to the awesomeness that is my new Mac, and probably soon after, I will somehow mangle it beyond AppleCare. Rinse, repeat. Second verse, same as the first.

But, if past is an indicator of present, I will probably get a rockin’ case for it first.

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Is there anyone out there able to make me feel better about being such a freaking klutz? Seriously, what I haven’t mentioned here is that I felt incredibly bad about what happened to my laptop. I was nearly in tears (which is rare for cold-hearted Aunt Becky) for quite awhile over it (dramatic much?).