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.

——————-

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?).

It’s got to be something in the genetics.

While retracting Alex’s foreskin (oh, God the search terms) and bemoaning my fate of a life spent cleaning teeny penises (penii?), I noticed something that I can only attribute to his father’s side of the family.

He laughed.

Laughed.

Kept laughing.

Alex laughed the entire time I was cleaning the schmutz off of his penis.

I’m pretty sure this wasn’t covered in my copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

So the one major drawback to this new diet I’m working on (aside from the suffocating farts, which is either a drawback or a blissful consequence, based on who you’re asking), is that the lack of sugar is making me exceptionally testy. I have never been the sort of person who guzzles sugar, and I’m usually happier eating some Kashi cereal for breakfast over some cinnamon rolls (no, honestly), I don’t care much for chocolate, and don’t liberally dump sugar into my morning (and afternoon) (okay, and evening…God, I have no secrets anymore.) coffee, so it’s been a shock that I am experiencing what I believe are withdrawal symptoms.

My friends who have done Atkins and South Beach have both mentioned this being a side effect during the first couple of weeks on the diet, but since what I’m doing is far less restrictive AND I have never been super into carbs, I had mistakenly thought that I was going to have no problems.

Ha, ha, ha.

I’m not in all out bitchtastic mode (yet), and I haven’t broken a box fan, deliberately stepped on an animal, or kicked a wall, but I’ve noticed that I have a marked propensity toward being snippy and cranky.

I’m sorry, preemptively, for anything I say that offends you. Unless I’m trying to offend you. Then I am not sorry.

With this out of the way, I need help, Internet. I need to know if my reaction to this is normal and how I should proceed.

A month ago, today, I ordered some prints from Etsy.com, which is what you recommended for some artwork, Internet (see, I listen to you!). And you were right. It’s a neat place and I love what I picked out.

According to the seller, she had some sort of glitch in her system, so I waited and waited and got nothing. Then I got something, but it was only part of my order. When I emailed her about it, she claimed that she’d accidentally sent me someone else’s order, but that she’d gotten it straightened out and I could keep my order, plus this other one (it’s a duplicate of what I’d ordered. Not terribly exciting.)

The last email I’d gotten from her was 6 days ago, when she claimed that she was sending my prints. From California. Not Tibet. And yet, in my mail today, aside from some ads, nada. Zip. Zilch.

But because I am testy, I have no idea how to proceed as I normally would. On the one hand, I’m annoyed because seriously, it’s been a month since my order. On the other, it’s not like these pictures are going to be the difference in whether I will live or die.

I know that Etsy (which makes me think of testy, which makes me think of balls, which makes me laugh) is pretty much a word of mouth place, and I don’t want to go and trash her there, but at the same time. Dude, it’s been a month. And I live in Chicago. Not somewhere exactly far from California (unless you are walking. Which pictures don’t do. I don’t think.) .

I’m being needy here, Internet, and I need YOU to help me muddle through what I am supposed to do next. So, if you were in my (bitchy) shoes, what would you do next (if anything)?

Many years ago, I had very few female friends, and with what I would call good reason. Teenage girls are mainly assholes in designer clothing, who would think nothing of stabbing you in the back and blowing your boyfriend in the bathroom between first and second period while smiling sweetly at your face. Once I realized this, life became much easier.

I fell into a group of guys who I still lovingly refer to as The Metal Heads ™, and spent most of my free time with them (Man, I miss free time). My social life then consisted of sneaking off campus to smoke and eat a dozen soft shell tacos, watching terrible slasher movies, and listening to Tool’s ‘Opiate’ on repeat.

The hormones eventually kicked in, and these guys decided to find themselves girlfriends, to alleviate the horniness known only to teenagers. This presented no problem to me in theory (like Communism) until I realized that the addition of women would lead to complications in our friendships. And not on my end.

These girls were either insecure because their parents didn’t love them enough, or because they sensed that I was somehow their competition. Which was not even remotely the case. Because I cannot go back in time to correct their perceptions of me, I am publicly declaring to The Internet At Large that I had no desire to sleep with these guys. I still don’t. And truth be told, had I wanted to do this, I would have. Teenage boys are not known for their discriminatory tastes, instead preferring to stick it in anything (preferably not a couch cushion or sock), so believe me when I tell you that if I had wanted them to stick it in me, they would have. Happily.

Thankfully for my STD count (or really, my Other Count. You know, the People You Have Slept With Count?), however, I did have discriminatory tastes. I also (in a fit of complete clarity that even I cannot believe I exhibited as a teen) realized that sex would, in fact, complicate matters of personal friendships, and in knowing this, made a vow to myself never to allow my horniness to cloud my judgment. I would never, ever sleep with a friend. Even if I were horny enough to think that dry humping a pillow was a good idea. Period.

In not knowing this about me, though, these girlfriends were overtaken by incredible jealousy, that can only be sprung out of insecurity. It didn’t matter even a little bit if I had a boyfriend of my own, all these girls could focus on is my relationship with their boyfriends. The icy stares, the delibrete snubs, the protective ways they would touch their boyfriends while I was around, it was all the new normal dynamic when they would bring their women around. After awhile I got used to it.

It didn’t seem to matter that although The Metal Heads ™ and I would routinely send each other those school sponsored singing telegrams or carnations, the attached note would read something like “You suck” or “Your vag smells like tuna” with the occasional “To the only guy I know who can fuck a cheerio without breaking it” thrown in for good measure. All they could feel was their own seething jealousy that I might have something with their boyfriend that they did not. And it was true, while they had a physical relationship with them, I had a dynamic that one can only achieve in really great relationships or a friendship.

Thankfully, I am still friends with these guys 10-12 years later (three of them were in my wedding party), and they have moved on to date women who possibly can understand that mockery and insults don’t mean that they are having The Sexin’ with me. Maybe it’s that I’m happily married now, and am obviously posing less of a threat to their relationship. Or maybe it’s because we’ve all grown up a bit, and (most of us) are more secure in ourselves than we had been before.

But man, I really miss free time.

Am I the only one this has happened to? I swear to you on all that is holy that I although I routinely mocked the size of these guys packages, I did it without ever knowing what they really looked like underneath their clothes. For all I knew (and know), they could have Ken Doll underwear for privates or been hermaphrodites. It never came up in conversation, honestly.

C’mon, make your Aunt Becky feel better about herself.

It may come as a shock to you that I have very few real-life mommy friends. The friends that I do have don’t have children, and the very few mommies I know live so far away, that between nap times and travel distances, play dates are more trouble than they’re worth.

The town that we live in is fairly affluent, which effectively means that the women who have children of comparable ages are much older. It’s not a problem for me as age don’t mean shit to me, motherfucker, but it puts a yawning chasm between our experiences. This, coupled with my penchant for being incredibly obnoxious (true story: this weekend I have decided that my favorite insult is “crotch”) has made the acquisition of new mommy friends exceedingly difficult.

A couple of weeks ago, having been suitably underwhelmed by the choices on daytime TV (paternity tests AGAIN on Maury?) and tired of staring at the walls in my house, I packed Alex up and trundled off to the nearby mall. We poked around aimlessly, stopping for lunch at McDonalds (Alex loves his cheeseburgers, which makes him 100% my child). While we sat in the food court, I was approached by a slightly older toddler girl and her father (who was obviously gay). The girl toddled over to me, and I greeted her with a “What’s up, dude?” when it dawned on me that I had the perfect solution smacking me upside the face.

I’ve always gotten along far better with men, in general, until I reached the age where all of my (male) friends got girlfriends who decided that I was very much a threat (I can assure you that I was not. Ever. A. Threat.), which, like it or not, eventually made hanging out a little more awkward. Befriending gay men got to be a better option, as I was clearly not a threat to their lovers (what with the Fish Taco), and being snarky and judgemental is a favorite past-time for me.

So, I thought to myself, who better to befriend than a guy with a kid? I imagined a future of bitchiness, snark, and hilarious discussions of our lovers privates and sexcapades (this would be more of a fanciful recollection for me). We’d have lunch! Dinner! Nap time imposed Happy Hours with fancy (and froofy) martinis! I went so far as to imagine that his name was “Nick” or possibly “Charlie.”

Tactically, however, I made several grave errors in judgment beforehand. First, and less importantly, I called his daughter “dude” or “man,” which was only because I am more accustomed to calling children this (seems more prudent than “princess” or “darling” considering I have two boys, eh?). Strike One. Becky: 0 for 1.

My second error, the one that nailed my coffin tightly shut was the fact that I had not bother to put on real pants when I left the house (I was wearing stained yoga pants. It was sexxy), as I had mistakenly assumed I would only run into mall-walkers on my journey. The final score was Becky: 0 for 2.

I talked to his daughter for awhile, she oogled the baby, and then we parted ways amicably enough (he did, I will tell you here and now, look me up and down disgustedly. I must have been very frumpy that day). As they walked away, like my frumpyness was catchy, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for myself for blowing the one shot I had at making a parental friend that I stood a chance of getting along with.

So explain to your Aunt Becky how (mostly) normal people do this. How does someone make new friends with kids? (or without. The kids are not part of the Requirements to Hang. Only being gainfully unemployed during the day is a prerequisite) Apparently, I’ve missed the memo that explained this in graphic detail, and I’m telling you, for my sanity, I NEED to have someone to talk to during the day besides Alex (at 9 months, he’s not much of a conversationalist.) and the UPS guy, who, I fear is learning to dread coming to my house to deliver packages.

It appears as though my era of a lactating female is drawing slowly to an end. Alex has decided that the quicker food dispersal system is not, in fact, garnered by my breast but by regular food stuff. To say that he is underwhelmed by taking a bottle (which would be the easiest way to use up the approximately 2,308 gallons of frozen breast milk I currently am storing in my freezer) is a gross understatement. He hates the bottle with an intense passion, which I cannot blame him for.

Despite my well-documented conflicting feelings on breast feeding in general (it’s more of a scientific oddity to me. You mean they do THAT? WEIRD!), I had assumed that I would feel more saddened by this inevitability than I am. After all, Alex has kicked my ass so thoroughly with his craptastic sleep patterns that I am not sure if I will ever be strong and/or brave (or stupid enough, really) enough to try and have another one, and three kids seems like a ton of kids (not to mention the fact that I would have to buy another car and grow a couple of extra arms). Even if I do have another one, I am not positive if I would breastfeed again (at least for as long as I have with Alex), as I’m underwhelmed by having to be tethered to a child all day, every day.

Please don’t send the Breastfeeding Mafia after me. I have no problems whatsoever with people who breastfeed for years. It’s just not who I am. And you know what? Being a parent is a lot of not being able to be who I am.

Seriously, if I were alone in the house, I can all but assure you that I would not watch either Elmo’s World on repeat OR PBS Kids all day. Nor would I opt to listen to Raffi, have to remove all swear words from my vocabulary, or take 30 second showers while feverishly praying that my children are not eating each other.

Am I bitching about making these personal sacrifices for my children? No, not at all. It comes with the territory of being a parent, and I am accustomed to it, and rarely get on the cross about it. But to me, breastfeeding is just another one of those things that strips me of all of my me-ness, and aside from doing it for the first couple of months, which is a sacrifice I would probably make again for the health benefits, I’m not sure I’d be willing to do it all over again.

Sure, there are health benefits to the mother (apparently) like losing those pesky baby pounds that I was just positive I was going to melt away along with my milk, but oops! psych! not so much. Hell, without eating supplemental junk food, I find it next to impossible to eat all of the extra calories that are required for my metabolism not to shut down.

Some people are overweight because they eat too much, but I am overweight (currently) because I didn’t eat enough. I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE! (That always sends me into gales of laughter when I use this phrase. Maybe I should have shirts made that proclaim this. Then I’d be truly cool).

Until I stop breastfeeding, I have embarked on a new diet, one that doesn’t have me counting Points (but is still Weight Watchers), because I have no idea how many freaking calories I need anymore. It’s essentially a low fat, low sugar, low flour diet, and I’m finding it pretty easy to follow, thankfully. But it, of course, has one side effect that I’d never planned for: extreme flatulence.

That’s right, folks, I have now surpassed my husband, the former reigning King of All Farts, and have rightly claimed the Queen of The Rank Ass as my new title. Now I am the member of the family who can, in a single emission, clear an entire room with my suffocating farts. My new-found power is exhilarating, I am heady in my own strength, drunk on my own force…

Hey, where’d everyone go?

After much hemming and hawing, whining, pissing and moaning (and that’s just on my end) and several phone calls, it was decided.

Ben came home yesterday with his very own (rental) violin. It may not be the cello I was rooting for (because seriously, even after many years of not playing, I could still do it in my sleep), but he is more pleased with himself than I’ve ever seen him.

I suppose it’s fortunate, really, that I have such a background in stringed instruments, because I was able to help him muddle through some of his first assignments, while Daver, the maestro of the violin himself, was able to work somewhere that his eardrums remained intact, and not bleeding into the white carpet.

(Ass.)

Oh, don’t get me wrong, maybe I’m still wearing the Bitter Pants because I lost the battle of What Instrument Ben Plays, but I can’t help but wish he’d chosen something a little less, oh I don’t know HIGH PITCHED. A completely unexpected side effect of the squeaking of the the violin strings (E, A, D, G, for those luckily not in the know) is that the dog, who is normally firmly implanted on the couch (I am often able to forget that we have a dog at all, which was, not terribly shockingly, a qualification I had for getting a dog), sleeping through both day and night, only lumbering languidly off when someone goes into the kitchen to make food, howls relentlessly while it is played.

Without knowing it, he’s echoing my sentiments exactly.

It’s just too bad for the both of us, because like it or not, we’re going to have to get used to it.