I’m sitting, ass glued firmly to the couch cushions, television on for background noise purposes, baby happily babbling in his Exersaucer, and all of a sudden a female voice breaks into my thoughts:

“I have genital herpes” she confesses to me.

The camera pans to her partner, “and I don’t” he confidently informs us.

The commercial goes on to discuss more about these two shmoes goods than I ever cared to know while I sit there completely horrified, jaw gently grazing the cat-hair covered carpet. Why, oh why do I need to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to erase the image of herpatic-vessicle-covered vag-jay-jay’s from my already addled mind?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that we need to pretend like STD’s don’t happen by shushing it up (Lord knows Aunt Becky has seen more STD’s than you have. Because I’m a NURSE, you pervert! Get your mind outta the gutter.) and shaming those who have them into institutions or anything, not at all. Hell, plenty of people have them, live with them, while others have managed to barely dodge that bullet, and I don’t honestly think that it’s something to be all that ashamed about.

I just don’t need my Oprah interrupted by having to hear about and subsequently imagine sores on your flipping meat curtains.

Before you flog me for being insensitive to those who have herpes, let me assure you I also don’t really care to have my day interrupted by ads promising to rid me of that pesky yeasty discharge, freshen up the old curtains with a vinegar douche, or make sure I don’t piss my pants in public anymore. For awhile, I wondered if advertisers had somehow read my mind BECAUSE THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I HAD BEEN SUFFERING FROM! ALL OF IT. AT ONCE!

*ahem*

I kid, I kid.

I’m not going to pretend I haven’t dealt with some delicate conditions of my privates over the years, hell, I’ve even gleefully documented When Monistat Attacks (my husband is a very, very lucky man), went to the hospital after I peed my pants, but none of these things have put me on your television set. Sure, I talk about these delicate conditions on my blog, but you have voluntarily chosen to read (or click away quickly. Whateves. Can’t say that I blame you) and I swear to you on all that is holy, I’ve not been endorsed by a soul, and make not even one cent for writing this. In fact, I’m almost certain there are people who would pay me to NOT blog any longer.

Alas, I digress.

But seriously, could we PLEASE put a ban on having to watch people talk about the state of their junk? Even as someone who frequently asks “When was your last bowel movement?” I don’t want to have to consider the rashes of random stranger’s privates (and believe me when I tell you that I have actually had strangers want to “show me their rash” when I tell them that I am a nurse. It happened once on the subway and I will never, ever forget it, no matter how many cocktails I’ve downed.).

So what bugs YOU when you see it advertised? Is it the Viagra commercials? Or perhaps you hate the commercials about people getting shmaltzy about their cats and it makes you want to break your TV set, because those are annoying, too (and I loves me my animals).

Or maybe your Aunt Becky is just in uber-prude mode (which might be the first time ever I would be accused of being a prude. Ooooh Yeahhhhh.), and shouldn’t be bothered by something as simple as an STD medication and should probably get the hell over herself already (this is likely. Very, very likely). In this case, just tell me something, anything that bugs you today.

Um…Wow, so I guess I got told by the Lovers Of Vincent D’Onofrio, didn’t I? Think of it this way, ladies, I am now less competition. I spent about 20 minutes scratching my head and trying to figure out how these people found me, until the realization that I a) must have spelled his name right b) google is a powerful search engine, smacked me right up the side of my face. I feel like I deserve a cookie or something for spelling something right, eh Manny?

Normally google searches (which is the only reason I have a stat counter installed, because the search terms crack my ass up) just lead people looking for “why does pregnancy suck” and “being pregnant asshole” with the occasional “vodka pregnancy” (and I have to say that confidential to those searchers who found me by typing in “mommy wants some sausage” and “dumbest bitch in bathroom remodel,” you are my new personal heros) to me, and I always wonder if they found what they were looking for.

I certainly hope that I don’t disappoint my random visitors.

(I am completely looking forward to the day that I have a blog troll, you know, the kind of person who hates me so viciously that he/she leaves me nasty comments telling me how much I suck donkey ass. I can’t say that I court controversy here on my blog as an unspoken rule, because I generally don’t talk about religion or politics, because any pathetic amount of keyword tapping on my part wouldn’t do justice to those people who write about these things for real, with evidence and research and smart people stuff. But when I have a troll, I will know that I am doing proper justice to a blog. Does that make me weird?)

—————–

You know the scene, you pull up to a stoplight and the car next to you has their windows down and some insanely ridiculous song is bumping loudly. If you’re a voyeur such as myself, you contort your body into neck-craning positions to determine who is listening to that awful music. And if you’re me, AND you’re lucky, you’ll find that it’s a hilarious study in contradictions: the 70 year old woman listening to NWA, the 18 year old wanna-be thug-a-lug listening to Yanni, the uptight-looking businessman listening to Britney. Then you spend the rest of your day gloating over someone looking dumber than you in a public setting (Yes, I am very, very mature).

This always makes me a bit shy to bump MY music too loudly for fear that someone next to ME at a stoplight will find my my musical selections uproariously funny. Some of the stuff in my disc changer is fairly standard for me: Justin Timberlake, The Ubiquitious Britney CD, Amy Winehouse, along with a rotating variety of far more shameful selections. I will boldly proclaim to you, Internet, two of the songs that I will play at top volume, BUT ONLY IF THE WINDOWS ARE ROLLED UP AND I HAPPEN TO BE (hahahaha!) ALONE IN THE CAR.

1) Elton John’s “The Way You Look Tonight”. It’s one of the all time sweetest love songs that I shamefully adore. The lyrics are adorably sweet and meaningful (so unlike myself), but the corn-ball factor is far too high for me to listen to without some shame. It’s one of those songs that I may have considered for our requisite First Dance but hadn’t made it’s acquaintance at the time in my life when I had to think about such stuff. Instead we danced to “What A Wonderful World,” which was decidedly not “The YMCA” that I had shamelessly petitioned for. Damn The Daver and his emo sensibilities!

(You cannot tell me that wouldn’t have been funny. And yes, thankyouverymuch, I HAVE seen that video of the newlyweds dancing to “Baby Got Back” which was an idea that was stolen from me, and vetoed by my husband. Why YES, I am wearing my Bitter Pants this morning! Do they make my butt look fat?)

2) Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young.” Now, the one arena in my whole life that I am marginally sappy about is my children, I admit it here and I am not ashamed of this. This song makes me feel all gooey inside (but in a good way) when I listen to it, but I am completely and utterly aware of how dumb it is, especially when you know how HIS kids turned out (*ahem, KIM STEWART, ahem*). I rock out to it, for sure, but I do it responsibly and while no one is watching me.

So tell your Aunt Becky what makes you turn up the volume WHILE rolling up the windows and checking to make sure no one who knows you can see you quietly rockin’ out to this lame song (s).

Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,

We’ve had a year together, and it’s been joyous, hasn’t it? I fell for you when the pregnancy hormones made me nearly impossible to deal with, and my husband learned that plugging me into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with him over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my copious toe hair.

I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly chubby actor almost as old as my father. They showed me pictures of you as Sgt. Pyle (which was a terrible name. Did you know that the Brits call hemmorhoids “piles”? You should have negotiated for a better name when you took that role. I’m just saying.) and as the bug from Men In Black, and I let it roll off my back like so many drops of water into the ocean of our love (or something).

As an avid People reader, I was shocked to learn that not only are you married, but your wife is having a baby. YOU ARE HAVING A BABY WITHOUT ME, and I don’t appreciate that one teeny bit, Vincent. Sure, we’ve never actually “met” in the most literal sense of the word, but that shouldn’t have stopped you from pining for some anonymous (but fabulous) midwestern girl (with bonus kicky hair!), AND NOT KNOCKING SOME OTHER LADY UP!

I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend for whom I can pine, someone who is honest about his wife and child but is snarky enough that I can overlook this weeny little detail: Anthony Bourdain.

I can practically hear you laughing through the miles when I say this, because, as you well know, I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook” as I’d imagine you’d say, with my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t touch with someone else’s mouth and stomach. You might even say to me, “Now Becky, you don’t even CARE about food,” and you would be correct, I don’t. But I do care very much that he can work the phrase “Oh, there’s a pube in my drink” into television. I care about that very much.

As you know, Vincent, “pube” and “moist” are two of my favorite unintentionally hilarious words, and to hear him use one of those appropriately made me swoon with love. For him. Not you. Because the best that you can give me is acting like more of a lunatic and forgetting to shave your face, WITHOUT using either of those words, the words that are (partially) the key to my heart (like hotdogs!).

I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.

With Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),

Becky

PS. I hope that your baby cries. A lot.

PPS. A quick internet search has led me to realize that many other people shared my love for you, and they make me feel quite gooshy (in a bad way) inside. They’re creepier than me, right?

PPPS. Hope that you’re not getting any sleep with that new baby.

—————-

So, who is YOUR most shameful crush? C’mon, I know I’m not the only person who has inappropriate crushes on weird celebrities.

Am I?

With the help of The Daver, I have now learned just how easy it is to put pictures up. It’s shamefully simple, and now I am ashamed of my ineptitude at all things electronic.

And I learned it all for YOU, Internet. Just for you. That’s how much your Aunt Becky loves you.

I present to you, without further Becky-Babble: Alex eats an Oreo:

(Does he look female to you? I don’t so much think so, but every single time, and I mean every single time, that we go out, someone always comments on what a (insert applicable adjective here) little girl we have. Doesn’t matter if he’s dressed head to toe in blue, people seem to think he looks feminine. Poor kid’s gonna get a complex. Especially when he learns that I put him in dresses as a baby (no, Daver, don’t worry, I don’t. Much.).)

And here is my hair, sadly without the frumptastical before picture:

But, dear Internet, you have no idea the beast that has been unleashed by my learning how to put pictures up here, no idea at all. Entries will now be peppered with gratuitous shots of such interesting slices ‘o’ life as “Wow, Lookit How Full of Crap Our Garage Is,” “Becky Eats Lunch (With Bonus Silverware!)” and “How Can Three Cats Excrete THAT Much Excrement?”

Ah, I take that all back, have no actual fear, I’m much too lazy to do that.

Mostly.

(cue evil laughter)

Having just been through a slump in my (not-so) fashionable life, one that I like to call Wow, I’m 27 And I Have Two Kids, Therefore I Am Frumptastic, I decided that today was the day to mix things up a bit.

I walked into the Beauty School (yes, I got my hair done at the beauty school. No, sadly no one sang “Beauty School Drop-Out” when I was there.) with long dark hair that went down (probably) past my overly large nursing nipples (have I mentioned how glamorous motherhood is? Because that would be a lie), and walked out a mere two hours later with platinum and cherry red (remarkably the same colors from my wedding, and suprisingly not a tribute to my wedding and/or marriage) hair that brushes my shoulders and only $81 dollars poorer for it.

(I will insert a picture as soon as I am smart enough to upload pictures from the camera to my computer. I am not smart enough to do this without help. Period. Picture me trying to insert the card into the DVD drive for several hours until it is smashed to bits. Then multiply it by about 50. That’s me + technology.).

It’s not quite the full sleeve tattoo or eyebrow ring that would secure my position as Truly Hardcore, but hey, it’s a start. Besides, I’m unsure about sleeves on women. I fluxuate wildly between thinking that they’re awesome and tacky, depending entirely on which sort I’ve seen most recently.

It’s amazing what a ickle bit of pampering will do to bolster your mood. I got caught in the age-old rut of “if I don’t feel good about myself I might as well not do anything whatsoever to enhance my appearance,” and I am taking a personal vow to stop acting like such a damn sissy. Maybe I’m not 100% thrilled about being 20 pounds heavier than I was before I had Alex, but it’s not 200 pounds, and I have GOT to lay the fuck off of it for awhile. I’m doing what I can (which is Weight Watchers online) to make sure I lose this weight by oh, I don’t know, OCTOBER 25 of this year, and I’ll bet that I can do it. Or at least get close enough for government work.

Who is with me here? Who wants to do something nice for themselves AT LEAST once each month, even if we don’t feel like we’re worth it? I’m talking about going tanning, or getting a massage (well, not Aunt Becky who shudders at the thought of someone massaging her. I did it once, when I was about eleventy-hundred months pregnant with Alex to try and convince him to come out. Didn’t work, but hey, I felt like I was DOING something. It seemed safer than the Castor Oil induction I had been considering), getting a haircut, or having some unmentionables waxed.

And let me give a shout-out to Kim, who has been smoke-free for (over?) 4 days now. As Aunt Becky knows well, smoking is both fun and entertaining, but terrible for you and smells bad. Quitting sucks hard, and takes amazing resolve to make it work. But it’s possible to do it, and you will (just look at Kristin!).

When I got pregnant with Alex, I discovered that along with lunchmeat and soft cheeses (seriously, WHO KNEW? Absolutely no one told me a thing about this when I had Ben), I could no longer drink coffee. Not because I was being hyper-good pregnant Aunt Becky, but because it made me vomit. Copiously.

Other women planned to stop and grab a margarita and sushi on the way home from the hospital, but not me, I planned our route home to ensure I could hit up a Dunkin’ Donuts and grab a coffee. A gigantic one. Of course, as fate would have it, (due to some complications) I delivered at a completely seperate hospital from my initial route, so I ended up having Dave run out and grab me one after Alex and I were deposited at home.

It was in short, amazingly amazing.

Since then, Starbucks Corp has been rejoicing at their good fortune to have me as a repeat customer. It’s like I’m making up for lost time, with the way I imbibe coffee with a delicious and alarming frequency. I know, I know, I could make it at home just as easily and save a couple of bucks a week, but somedays it’s (sadly enough) what keeps me going on those really bad days.

There is one nasty side effect of drinking as much coffee as I do, and it’s not the perpetual state of the jitters that gives me the look of a seizuring patient, but as nearly every daytime TV commercial reminds me, it’s my teeth. After not thinking much at all about the color of my teeth, one day I decided to check them out in the mirror.

Holy pajamas, Batman! They were almost grey they were so stained.

Yesterday found me scouring the toothpaste aisle in Target until I found a 2 hour whitening kit that I plan to use to accentuate my brand new kicky haircut.

I’ve always made fun of people who get nervous about haircuts, because aside from taking an insanely long and boring time to accomplish, it’s not a big deal. It’s hair, it grows back eventually, and if you hate it passionately, I try to buy a box of dye and change the color to something alarming to detract from it’s ugliness. This spoken from the woman who hasn’t had a haircut in over a year and is now nervous as hell about tomorrow: Hair Cut + Color Day.

I’d planned to celebrate the return to my pre-Alexander weight by getting a haircut and funky color, but seeing as my metabolism isn’t quite yet done fucking with me, I have no earthly clue when that will be. And with the rate my hair is growing, I’ll be that freaky person with hair down to my ass before I can lose this 20-odd pounds. As it is, it’s long enough to require being tied back at all points in time, because the baby enjoys nothing quite as much as using my hair as handlebars.

Plus, I’m hoping that with the removal of (I’m guessing) 3 pounds of hair, I’ll finally see the scale move again (I’ve been considering removing vestigial organs to accomplish this until it dawned on me that I have no vestigial organs LEFT. No appendix, no tonsils, and no wisdom teeth. I guess I could remove my gall bladder and a couple of feet of intestines too, but I’m not sure it would net much of a weight loss.).

Currently, my hair resembles Katie Holmes’s pre-baby hair, that color, length and curliness, and I’m planning on doing her post-baby haircut (without the funkadelic layering) and some color to remove the grey hair that has sprouted from my head since I was 20 (this is the first time I’ve had my natural hair color in 10 years. It’s so dark brown, it’s nearly black. Who knew?).

Any suggestions on color from The Internet? I’d like to do something a bit funky, and I don’t mind the upkeep on the color as I am bound and determined not to let myself “go” just because I have two kids. I don’t have any idea how to upload pictures here to show you my coloring (I’m a techno-meh) but I’m fairly dark-skinned, am often mistaken for either Mexican or Jewish during the summer months (I tan well), so much as I would like (and I’ve always wanted to do this), I sadly cannot go platinum blonde.

Besides, don’t gentlemen marry brunettes?

When ill, like I am right now, I rarely run a fever. A fever for me is a piss poor indicator as to how ill I really am, unless I have one. Then it means that I am extremely sick. So sick, in fact, that I woke up in the middle of the night last night drenched in sweat and blearily made my way downstairs to wake Dave and inform him that I “felt just like a bagel.”

Then, without another word, I trundled back upstairs and went back to sleep.

At least, I think I did.

Ah, the fever she is raging mightily within me, which means that I broke into my Christmas stash of crappy CD’s that I love with all of my heart and listened to sappy stuff like Rod Stewart and Elton John, while I wept copious tears about nothing, really. Then I decided that I needed to clean the house.

Dripping sweat, red faced, yet determined, both the dog and baby watched me warily as I frantically scrubbed the kitchen floor. Then the toliet. Then the highchair. Dave is back at work from his Christmas vacation which effectively means that there is no one to tell me to put down the mop and step away from the bleach (whoo-boy does Aunt Becky love bleach!) when they should.

—————

I cannot begin to properly articulate how I feel after hearing about Britney’s meltdown (but I assure you it doesn’t make me feel like a bagel), but it just makes me so sad. Becoming a parent means opening yourself up to criticism from all possible sides, and that’s without living in the limelight. Hell, I just have this crappy blog and yet I find myself tempering some of the things I say here so as not to evoke the fury of a thousand angry mothers who cannot believe how I solve problems or parent my children (I mean, what’s wrong with chaining my children to a wall in the basement while I throw loud parties ANYWAY?).

As with anything in life, my choices are my own, but I have the blanket of total anonymity to hide behind and no one is the wiser (well, this isn’t completely true. I have bribed some of my friends to read my blog and comment so as to feel like less of a loser. And I’m sure it’d be pretty easy to figure out who I am, but I assume that most people have better things to do with their days than to stalk random Internet People. Shit, I know that I do.), I MEAN, WHAT IF MY NAME REALLY ISN’T “BECKY?” WHAT IF IT’S “SHANNA?” AND WHAT IF I AM ACTUALLY A TEENAGED BOY?

(Have no fear, I’m not even remotely creative enough to come up with a fake life to support a blog. When hard pressed, it took me about 20 minutes to come up with the example of “Shanna” as an alternate to my given name).

But Britney, she doesn’t have anything to hide behind. Every step of the way, someone is finding fault with everything she does. Don’t bother telling me that she “chose” this lifestyle, because what would you have done at 16 (at 16 I probably would’ve gotten “Courtney Love Rocks” tattooed on my ass. It’s a good thing you have to be 21 to get a tattoo here in Illinois, eh?)? I’m pretty positive that it isn’t what you’d choose at 25.

Mental illness is not funny. Not even a little. Emotional breakdowns are also not funny.

Sure, I use the terms “crazy” and “nut house” occasionally, but as someone who has frequently had to pick up her own mother at the ole’ Mental Hospital, I think I’ve earned that right (man, “pick up my mother at the Mental Hospital” is right up there with phrases I hate to use, alongside “my last upper endoscopy” and “fecal-oral route of transmission.” Oh, and “piping hot,” but only because it’s annoying.).

So Britney, as a person you’ll never meet, I wish you the best of everything and I hope that you’re able to pull yourself out of this hole. The world won’t be the same without you in it.

Contrary to my absolute best efforts to make Alex’s first word “fuck head” or “shitballs,” he has defied me yet again and has proven himself both to be his father’s son AND his Aunt Ashley’s Future Husband (well, once she marries and then divorces Uncle Chicken) by his choice of first word.

Kitty-Cat.

Between the constant sleep deprivation and extreme hormonal swings, I have absolutely no idea when he became such a sentient being, and I’m admitting to you that it’s freaking me out a hair. People always annoy new parents (and pregnant women, but EVERYTHING annoys a pregnant woman, so I’m not including them in this statement. Seriously, still air annoyed me while I was pregnant, because it JUST SAT THERE WHILE I WAS GESTATING UNCOMFORTABLY! Is there any wonder why, when I mention having another baby in passing to Dave, he weeps and puts on a chastity belt? I didn’t think so) by saying “They grow up so quickly” while dabbing the tears from their eyes.

They say it because it’s fucking true and against all odds, it makes you sort of sad to see the babyhood go away, even to admitted non-baby people such as myself. We ran into a family with a much smaller baby the other day, and even cold (nearly) heartless Aunt Becky got a wee bit misty looking at his tiny perfection (for some reason this one didn’t look like a garden gnome) and reminiscing about when my children were that small and helpless.

The Bumbo and the Boppy need to be packed away with the breast pump (I cannot even begin to achieve letdown with it anymore) and my Breast Friend pillow thing-y, and soon the Saucer and Jumparoo will join them in storage for the one day that we either decide to spawn another terrible sleeper or give it away to friends. Although we’re not getting rid of all of this stuff, I am all too aware that we’re approaching the end of the Alex Is A Baby Era. While I know in my heart this is a Good Thing, I’m just a touch saddened by this.

Soon, he will be walking and I will be planning a first birthday party for him, and in the wink of the blink, he’s going to be in school, have smelly feet, and think that his mother is annoying as all hell. It will be then that I spring into action and try to be the most irritating mother in the world to him: I’m going to show up to school with my hair in curlers and wearing bunny slippers and a ratty robe, drive a mini-van with the vanity plate “Metal Rules” with a light-up skull license plate holder, and try to pepper my vocabulary with as much popular slang as possible.

Er…no, I haven’t been planning this since my first son was born or anything…okay, yes, yes I have.

I mean, they deserve SOME kind of payback for the stretch marks that have been plastered to my body, breasts that will hang down to my knees like oranges in tube socks (once I stop lactating), and the grey hairs that have begun sprouting from my head with alarming frequency, right?

Right.

Anything else I can do to annoy them? What am I missing here? What annoyed you most about your parents (and don’t tell me “nothing” because I cannot believe that. My parents allowed me to smoke the ganja, drink booze, forge their signatures to write myself out of class if I needed to and have no set curfew, and STILL I was annoyed by them)?

*Updated to reflect the word I was actually going for here, which was “Medal” NOT “Metal”. Thanks, Manny!*

All of the signs were there, I guess, but as I am a complete idiot I failed to notice. Well, until 2 golfballs took up residance under my chin and I woke several nights in a row with my sheets soaked with sweat. The Daver then began complaining of similar symptoms when I realized, that along with a fancy watch, more bath product than I can even store (do I smell bad? Do I look like I need a shower? Wait, don’t answer that.), and a large assortment of toys, someone was kind enough to gift us Haemophilus influenzae. More commonly known as the flu.

I squinched my watery eyes up and began to examine the usual suspects (because I am so very mature, I always look to find someone else to blame. Makes me feel better), and could recall absolutely no one coughing and hacking into their ham. So I turned to the one person I ALWAYS like to blame: Nat. Nat brought us a little Christmas Flu this year.

Asshole.

I’m usually pretty on top of getting my flu vaccine, what with being a nurse and all, and I even go so far as to make my own appointments! I know, I deserve a medal or something for my incredible level of responsibility. Problem is, this year, between the complete lack of sleep and well, the subsequent sleep deprivation, it fell off my list of things to do, just like getting a haircut and shaving the cats.

Now the battle in The Sausage Factory is waging on, in full force. The Battle Of Who Is Sicker.

Dave hates colds, and if I should ever forget this for even a moment, he is quick to remind me of this, oh about every 2 and a half minutes. I’ll take a cold over the stomach flu any day, but this is the real flu, so all bets are off.

I’m imagining that the rest of the week will see battle lines drawn and sides taken, lightbulbs used to warm thermometers (See, MY fever is HIGHER! Dave, you’re not 109 degrees, or you’d be dead.), symptoms grossly exaggerated to illict sympathy from their troops (I’m so sick, I’M SHAKING, so I can’t be trusted to make dinner! I might UNDERCOOK THE CHICKEN and then we’d all get salmonella and DIE!), many hours of throwing ourselves dramatically onto neighboring couches, and likely culminating in one of us grabbing a kitchen knife and making superficial cuts on our body parts (SEE, I’M SO SICK THAT I’M BLEEDING! THE FLU IS MAKING ME BLEED!) nevermind the fact that this isn’t even a symptom of the flu, just histrionic personality disorder.

Once I made the connection between my symptoms and diagnosis (Dur!), I decided that a trip to Target was necessary to stock up on supplies. This found me all alone in the pharmacy department pouring and repouring over the shelves to look for anything marked “Will Kick The Flu’s Ass.” No such product was available to me, so I grabbed everything I could think of PLUS some gimmicky crap that I would never normally think of spending money on (snakeoil is, afterall, snakeoil). When I’m sick, I have no decision-making capabilities whatsoever. It’s a good damn thing no one tried to sell me crappy Tupperware or Pampered Chef products, because my bank account would be all hurty, BECAUSE I CANNOT SAY NO TO ANYTHING WHEN I’M SICK. Another odd side affect of being very sick is that I am unfailingly nice and sweet. When my immune system is being attacked, my personality becomes remarkably like a doormat, a snivelling and sappy doormat who cries at commercials and the Fear Segment of the news. It’s pathetic, even by my own standards.

So this is where you’ll find me today, sitting on the couch, weeping intermittantly about everything and nothing at all, and blowing my nose into these nifty antiviral tissues I found (see, I TOLD you I can’t resist a gimmick when I’m sick), while trying to suck down some Theraflu that Ashley recommended (it tastes just like ass. Rotten ass.). Any other good suggestions for me (keep in mind I cannot lounge about in bed as much as I’d like to. This is the hardest part about having kids for me: being unable to be remotely selfish even when very ill)?

OOOOHHH! I know what you can do to make me feel better WITHOUT exposing yourself to the Death Flu! You can tell me about new blogs to read! See, if I read you, you’re probably on my Virtual Pimps linkage. If I don’t, you’re probably not there. But, you see, I want you to be there! And I want to read you!

So dish, who is good to read?

As I’m sure you can imagine, I made a terrible bride. I can’t say that I was a Bridezilla obsessing about centerpieces and hair length, but I sure as hell never imagined myself in the fluffy white dress, saying my vows in front of God and my whole family. I’d always thought of weddings as a sort of silly waste of time, effort and money, and you know what? I still do.

However, my saving grace while making our wedding invitations, fancy programs and seating arrangements was my best friend, Ashley. She knew what I was supposed to be doing and helped me choose things that weren’t unbearably tacky (and also put the kibosh on my requests to have the makeup artist give me black eyes on My Special Day) all the while maintaining my sanity. The process was not fun for me, as I’d never thought of myself as the Bridal Type. As a child, I played Army Ranger rather than Wedding with my gaggle of guy friends, preferring camoflouge makeup to a tiara.

I met Ashley when she was dating one of my best friends from high school, Paul, and when she yelled at him for telling me that he was sorry that I was pregnant with Ben when I informed them of my delicate condition. It was then that I knew that I had a friend for life.

It was she and I who had our first Lesbian Valentine’s Day when we weren’t dating worthless scum, and I still heart Big Pink (the vibrator) that she bought me. We’ve been there for each other through two of my children (and dude, I know you’re reading this, so if/when I have Baby #3, you’re in the room with me, whether or not I crap on the table), a string of worthless boyfriends, being single and unhappy, being with someone and unhappy, and now this, marriage.

Because I am so not like that, I don’t have anything poignant to say about marriage that hasn’t been said better by someone else (besides, being deep and meaningful makes me itch in the darnedest of places). Like anything else in life, it has it’s good times and it’s bad ones, but in the end it’s worth every ounce of energy you put into it.

I couldn’t be any happier for her if I tried, and when she told me yesterday, I got a bit misty (which is a complete rarity for Aunt Becky) and verklempt. And it made me wish I had some worthwhile piece of advice to give her about weddings and marriage other than “they bring out the worst in people” and “you’re gonna have to massage broken egos and mend hurt feelings during this whole process” (this sucks donkey ass, but it’s true).

So what would YOU tell someone about marriage? What’s the one piece of advice you’d give to someone who was newly engaged (but after a marriage without the license) about weddings or marriage (something you wish someone had told you)?

And Ashley, Congratulations! Tonight I raise my glass to you.