The chordae tendineae, or heart strings, are cord-like tendons that connect the papillary muscles to the tricuspid valve and the mitral valve in the heart. Despite how hokey it sounds, it appears as though one can literally have their heart strings pulled.

My father is in the ER today, after experiencing chest pains since Sunday (he too, is a health care professional, and what did I say about them? OH YEAH, they are always the last to seek medical care).

My mother, who for all of her faults, is as non-alarmist as myself, is pretty certain that this is a panic attack.

The doctors in the ER are, of course, alerted to rush anyone who is experiencing “chest pain” or “shortness of breath” (hilariously abreviated SOB), so I am certain he is currently recieving a battery of tests that will provide some concrete evidence either way.

When I was a small child, I lived in perpetual fear of murderers. Convinced that they would want to sneak in to my bedroom late at night and kill me (for what, I don’t know. My banana clip? My awesome Hypercolor tee-shirt? My insanely large set of headbands? Who knows), I would slip to and from the bathroom like I was being chased, throw my bedroom door closed, hurl myself up onto my bed (it’s one of those enormous antique beds), pull up the covers and start chanting my mantra “It’s never been anything before. It’s never been anything before. It will be all right. It will be all right.”

Thankfully, as I’ve grown, I no longer am terrified of being murdered (but my fears are equally absurd), but it appears that old habits do, indeed, die hard. As I sit here and watch my son, who is named after my father, I am softly whispering to myself “It’s never been anything before. It’ll be okay. It’s never been anything before. It’ll be okay.”

And I can only hope that just as it worked when I was a child, it’ll work again today.

It wasn’t until recently (color me stupid, here, or at the very least, not very introspective) that I realized that the innocuously innocent things that people ask you that inadvertently offend you are the ones that most often offer the greatest insight into your own insecurities. Ask an unhappily unmarried person when they’re getting married, you’ll get the same internal reaction as if you ask a unhappily childless couple when they’re having kids.

The moment I popped Alexander out (but interestingly enough, NEVER before), the barrage of the very same question began to appear: would I have another? And before I could say yay or nay, they would express that I should have another, but this time A GIRL. I assured these Eager Beavers that yes, maybe someday we would have another child, but the sex of said child was completely out of my hands. We’d all have a laugh together and we would each separately move on our way.

(as a complete aside here, should we ever decide that having another child is, in fact, a good idea, it had BETTER be a girl, not because I don’t adore having all boys: I do, but because I have no good boys names left. Between my two sons and their 17 names apiece, as a couple we have no names left that we can agree upon. So, our hypothetical (very strong hypothetical these days) third son would be named “Jack Bauer” (my last name), “Vincent D’Onofrio (my last name) or better yet “Hugh Laurie” (my last name). Yes, my kid would be ranked out and beaten by his peers, and it would be COMPLETELY MY FAULT because I had used up all of the decent names already.)

Now, to painfully highlight MY own inner demons, just ask me “What do you do?” and I assure you that my answer will be stammered out, while looking at my feet and getting progressively misty-eyed and upset.

As much as I adore staying home with my children (and I do, I swear), this was probably the last place in the world I’d have expected to be. I’d always equated staying home with my children with dying a slow painful death (and somedays, I am spot on here), and always assumed that I would be much more a Career Person (you know, the kind with 4 inch heels and power suits COMPLETELY DEVOID of spit up. Possibly with a shirt that was ALWAYS BUTTONED UP.). I’d probably even have a House Husband (or two) and I would TOTALLY have a cabana boy.

Well, heh-heh, WELL, things didn’t exactly go as planned(what does, really?). Despite having the best intentions with getting my degree and license, it’s one of those things that I’ve learned that I simply cannot do. The integral flaw in my reasons behind getting this degree was that I didn’t realize that with nursing, you cannot half-ass it. If you want to do, really do this job, you must be willing to put in 150% at all points in time, a devotion that I was unable to muster. I saw it merely as a means to another end: I would do this until such point as I was able to go back to school, once my small children were older, and pursue my true passion.

But (there’s always a but with me, isn’t there. And not even the GOOD kind of butt), now I must just hurry up and wait. Maybe I’m not always the most amazing mother (CHOCOLATE CHIPS IN HIS LUNCH, SWEET JESUS, KILL ME NOW), but I am not willing to half-ass rearing my children either, at least, not at this moment. Eventually, there will too-soon come a time that I will not be quite as needed as I am now by The Sausage Factory.

I cannot half ass an advanced degree, either (at least for very long. I’d soon get kicked out of the field, and rightly so). When I am ready, I will go balls to the wall with it, kick ass, take names, and occasionally smack a bitch up (well, here and there), and some days this thought is all that keeps me going (especially those days that the baby manages to shit all the way up to his hair. It sounds completely impossible, but I assure you it is not).

Strangers do not want to listen to this. Why? Because it’s fucking boring.

What they’re looking for is a succinct “I am a nurse,” or “I am a doctor,” and possibly even a “I am a telemarketer” (although the last statement might be met with a similar response as I received when I would say “I work for an insurance company. As a nurse.” The responses varied from spitting in my general direction to lobbing nearby objects at me. Not sure that I blame them, especially since they would march away in disgust before I could justify that I never! denied! anyone! EVER! I! EXTENDED! BENEFITS!). Not one soul cares about the justification I have for staying home (my husband works 80+ hours a week! Daycare is damn expensive! I’m breast feeding! I am a leper!), nor do they care IF I stay home at all.

*I* alone am the only one who cares about that sort of thing. And I’m pretty damn certain that I’ve probably freaked out a few strangers with my dissertation. I have since learned to censor myself, give a vague “I’m home with the kids,” and move the hell on with my day.

It has, however, made me FAR more sensitive to what I ask and say to complete strangers. Anyone who knows me well can see right through my idiotic comments to people who I don’t know (somewhere along the lines of “you wear shoes! ME TOO! They’re so good at covering your feet, aren’t they?”), but that, too, is okay with me.

Now that Aunt Becky has aired some of her considerably large pile of dirty laundry, why don’t you tell her what bugs the pants off of you when asked about it? Maybe it’s not just things that highlight insecurities, maybe it’s just how damn PRYING complete strangers can be. Whatever it is, though, I am totally dying to hear it.

Maybe I’m the only person on the planet who will occasionally wonder how other people view me (no, my days are not filled with wondering what people think of me. Most of the time, I could care less. This is why I publicly blog: I don’t much care what people think of me), but somehow I doubt it. I always find it strange when someone has a perception of me varies wildly from who I actually am. Sometimes, it makes me want to correct the misconception, yet other times it tickles me pink to let them think what they want. Life is absolutely filled with more humor that way.

When I got pregnant with my first son, I had a role in my family: The Fuck-Up. Disregarding all of the surrounding circumstances (my mother’s relapse and subsequent torture of me), the blame for all of my actions fell squarely on my shoulders, at least as far as my family was concerned. Although many of my actions were not *ahem* the most mature, my family gave me far less credit than I deserved, especially considering that I was 20 years old.

When my pregnancy was announced, my parents were shockingly supportive of me, well, at least until I found out (much later, of course) that they had asked my brother (who is 10 years my senior) and his future wife if they would adopt my child in the event that I “freaked out.” They had such a low opinion of me that they honestly believed that I wouldn’t assume responsibility for my child (note: I am amazed that the keyboard has not ignited with the fury of a thousand suns as I type this).

As my family (save for me, of course. I get a special CHARGE when I get to confront people who have pissed me off.) is so non-confrontational that one might assume that each member is far meeker than they really are, I rarely heard about what a Fuck-Up I was considered to be. Aside from snide comments here and there about responsibility, everyone was pretty mum.

When I met, and subsequently married The Daver, was the point in which I realized just how poor my family’s opinion of me truly was. You would have thought, by their reactions, that Dave had rescued me literally from the streets, where I was selling crack and dancing badly for spare change (Dance Monkey, DANCE) and somehow turned my life around for me. You would never have guessed that I was at the top of my nursing school class, TA’ing for Organic/BioChem AND tutoring for A & P, while working as a waitress 20 hours a week BEFORE Dave walked into my life.

My brother, who I have a long and sorted history with, decided that if Dave (whom he adored/s) liked me, then I couldn’t be all THAT bad. My parents finally accepted that I had become a more mature and responsible person, although their time line was off by a factor of about a year and a half. In their minds, I only began to turn my life around once I had met my husband.

I do, of course, appreciate that my family loves my husband as one of their own (honestly, if we were to divorce, I have a feeling that holidays would have to be split up into Dave-time and Becky-time, or more likely, just Dave-time. I’d have to find myself a new family to celebrate the holidays), but I just wish that they could see that as wonderful as Dave is, he did nothing to change who I am and what I will do with my life.

It dawned on me, as I prepared my home for hosting Thanksgiving this year, that if asked, my family would probably mention that they were “having dinner at Becky’s house” and something to the effect of “she’s really turned her life around, hasn’t she?” Like I was some sort of street urchin in a Lifetime Original Movie who had some sappy predictable plot line: unmarried, younger girl gives birth to a child out of wedlock, heads down the “wrong path” until she meets “the man of her dreams,” and she miraculously changes her path, learns to cook and clean, and becomes a responsible upstanding citizen with an immaculate home. Who can, and does, crochet platitudes to hang on the wall.

While I can never discount Dave’s role in my life, the Lifetime Original Movie would be completely wrong (and not just the part about crocheting platitudes), but because I never, ever open up to my family about this sort of thing (in my family, despite the mental illness, we almost never talk about our feelings, because that would be too corny), it’s what they think of me. It’s incredibly doubtful that I’ll ever change their misconceptions of me, try as I may or may not to show them my true colors (I see your TRUUUUUUEE COOOOOLLLLLORS, and that’s why I LOOOOOOOOOOOVVVVE you.). I’ll chalk trying to explain who I really am to my family as yet another exercise in futility, because, honestly, it’s probably going to be easier to train my cats to unload the dishwasher or teach the coffeemaker to speak Ebonics than it would be to change their opinion of me.

It just sucks that they have to be so off-base with their perceptions, I mean, why can’t I be mistaken for a Fighter Pilot rather than a Fuck-Up (more accurately now: The Becky Formerly Known As Fuck-Up)?

I know that I’m not alone here. I just can’t be.

What do people think about YOU that is completely inaccurate?

For some computer related reason (read: I have no earthy idea, but my darling geek of a Daver did, which is why I married him. My Internet is always in a row.), my blog was down for about a day and a half. This happened to stress me out FAR more than it should, which reaffirms my stance that I NEED to get out more. MUCH more.

Regardless, my blog got moved (again, no idea what this means in actual terms) so some of the comments that got left yesterday are miraculously missing. Everything should be easy-peasy now, so my apologies.

(The blog being down happened to coincide with the winners of NaBloWhatever being announced, and I randomly got selected to win, but since it couldn’t be verified that I did indeed post each day, I didn’t actually win. This is ALWAYS what happens to me when I am in the position to win something.)

(Side story: when I was about 8, I entered a coloring contest for Easter put on by my local grocery store. I colored my heart out, and when I got the call announcing that I had won, I rushed my mother down to the store to claim my overly large Easter basket. When I went to customer service to claim my gift, which of course, thrilled me to no end, the lady at the counter regretfully informed me that although I had been called, it had been in complete error.

I had not actually won the prize.

Oh, the tears. OH the tears. I wept copiously and hard bitter tears at my loss. So much so that one of the cashiers took pity on my sad self and bought me a candy bar. The candy bar was good, but the whole experience has left me a bit shy of anything relating to contests. I don’t win, therefore I don’t bother.)

—————–

The second blood-letting netted me with a fancy new prescription for a brand spankin’ new dosage of my Synthroid.

What this effectively means, is that I have successfully warded off The Crazy, for awhile longer. Yay for not being full of The Crazy.

—————-

Despite my repeated whining about how slowly my weight loss is going, and complaining about a lack of winter coat, I have lost an additional 2 pounds this week. This brings my total up to 14.5, leaving me .5-5.5 to go by Christmas Eve to hit my goal of 15-20 pounds. My goal will be revamped to lose the additional baby weight by Alex’s first birthday, give or take a month or two.

All whining aside, I’m nothing if not realistic about my weight loss goals.

Let’s see if I can do this.

—————–

On a completely non-selfish note, I’d like to talk about giving this holiday season (and no, not to me).

When I was a child, there was always a huge Christmas tree at the mall that you could pull names off of and buy gifts for a needy family. Each and every year, we did this as a family, and I always thought of it as a nice tradition. The holidays must be a terribly hard time for the destitute, especially the children, and it always reminded us that although we may not have had a home with a moat and servants as I wanted, life was pretty damn fine.

But the trees have disappeared, likely because people would pull names and then not follow through with the gifts, which makes me terribly sad. Kids and animals (all kidding aside here) are some of my favorite creatures on Earth, so much so that I literally cannot watch violence towards them fictional or not, and I don’t believe that any of them should go without during the holidays (or any time, really).

Since the trees have gone the way of the condor, I have yet to find anything to donate toward during the holidays, and this makes me sad, as I’d wanted to pass that tradition down to my children.

One of my favorite bloggers, Baggage, aside from being a kick-ass chick, is a foster parent of several young children, which is awesome. I honestly don’t know how she does all that she does, 2 kids are kicking my ass, but I digress.

Today she posted about a site that you can donate to foster children who otherwise will go without this holiday season. I personally have picked out some things today that I will likely purchase tonight (scroll down to the end of the post to see the link).

I’m asking you guys to do the same. It’s not hard and you can only imagine what this will mean for a child.

Despite having owned many and loved a few, my knowledge of the innerworkings of my cars leaves much to be desired. My answer to “why is the engine making that knocking noise” is a very typical “I don’t know, call the goddamn mechanic.” I’d sooner breastfeed a baby camel in my backyard for fun than learn how to change my own oil. For the 30 minutes it takes to get my oil changed by someone who knows what they’re doing, and is therefore held accountable for their mistakes (the selfsame reason that I will never again ask people to help me paint my house, I cannot yell at my friends, but I CAN yell at people I pay). Color me lazy, but it just seems easier that way.

When I was 6 or 7 months pregnant with Ben, due to an unfortuante error in judgement on my part (which is not the subject of this blog post), I was loaned my recently deceased grandmothers car, which I used to tool back and forth to school.

On my way to my beloved jewelry making class, I rounded a corner, and a most mysterious thing occured. The car was filled with a horrible flappity-flap noise while becoming increasingly difficult to stear. Being the amazingly intelligent person that I am, despite being late to my class, I dilligently pulled the car off of the main road and into a brand new subdivision. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I had blown a tire.

Well, this was slightly before I’d gotten a cell phone, and I was a mile or two away from a pay phone, so I opened the trunk. It took several minutes of staring at the jack and the donut tire incompetently before I realized that I had absolutely no clue how to change a tire. Truth be told, even if I had, my burgeoning belly would have likely impeded me from getting into the required position anyway.

After several minutes, it dawned on me that squatting on the well-manicured easement and shaking my fists at the sky impotently while weeping copiously was going to do absolutely nothing to help my situation (aside from possibly landing me in a straightjacket). So, I looked around at the brand-new pre-fab subdivision, with it’s trees so young that they appeared to be houseplants, and noticed that most people were not yet home from work.

If there ever was a situation in which I need help, this was it, so I set off to find someone to give me a hand. I shuffled along, waddling all the way, looking for some sign that someone was home at ANY of these identical houses. Several houses down from where I had pulled over, I saw some teeny bikes in the lawn, and yay! the front door was open. Figuring that anyone who had small children wasn’t apt to be a serial killer, and would likely take pity on an obviously pregnant woman, I rang the bell.

When the children went to get their father, I feverishly explained my situation, my panic escalating by the moment. Through a strangled voice thisclose to tears, I explained that I needed someone to help me change my tire, could he please help me change my tire, I’m pregnant and I need someone to change my tire, please, please, pleeeasssse help me.

The man rolled his eyes at me.

He ROLLED his EYES at me.

Then he sighed audibly at my shear stupidity, rolled his eyes again, glared at me, and opened the door.

I trailed him like a sad, lost puppy dog, explaining my situation while drawing huge gulping nearly hysterical breaths, apologizing profusely, all of which he ignored. But being who I am, when I get upset, it’s like my internal switch goes from “Talks Paint Off Walls,” to “11” so I continued peppering his minstrations with an irritatingly apologetic monologue.

He said not a word as he changed my tire for me. Not one single word.

After he finished, I began thanking him repeatedly for helping me out, all of which he ignored. After sighing dramatically, giving me one last withering glare, he promptly got up from the curb and began walking angrily back home.

I have no idea how long I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching this man walk home. I was completely dumbfounded, hell I still AM completely dumbfounded. And a touch hurt: I have never, ever asked a complete and total stranger for much of anything, except for maybe the time, and I suppose that my expectations were too high. Anyone else I knew (and know) would drop anything to help someone in such a situation, I’d sure help out if I thought that I would be doing much good by occasionally commenting on the sky while other people did the manual work.

Maybe this is just another one of those things in life that I’ll never understand, up there with the popularity of skinny jeans, and propensity for cats to piss on anything plastic and/or vinyl. Why would someone who very obviously didn’t want to help me, help me? He could have very easily sent me on my (waddling) way, and I would have understood: it’s not his mess to clean up, my flat tire.

While I am completely aware that this was a dumbass move on my part, even now, I wouldn’t change a tire while pregnant, and seriously, what was I supposed to do? Hell, when I’m pregnant, I can barely walk in a straight line, let alone jack a several ton car up on a spindly little jack. It’s likely that I would at the very least attempt to change a tire when I’m not pregnant, but still, I have no freaking idea what I’m doing, so the experience would likely net me a trip to the ER AND SOME VICODIN. Mmmmm, Vicodin.

Am I the only one who gets confused by these interactions? Has this sort of thing happened to other people?

For the first several months of winter, here in the Midwest, where winter lasts until you blink and oops! it’s summer again (and every year I wonder why we don’t move to a more temperate climate as I chisel ice off the windshield of the car while trying not to cry out when the boogies in my nose freeze), I love it. The first snowfall of year is always a day of magic and wonderment for me, it makes me want to bake Christmas cookies and listen to Christmas music and build snowmen and whitewash The Daver. Well, I guess that MOST things make me want to whitewash Daver, not just the first snow of the year.

Today was the first day that we have gotten any snow, and I got that annoyingly gushy feeling in my heart as I suggested that maybe we could do some Christmas shopping or something festive to commemorate the day.

It was as those words slipped out of my gaping pie-hole that it dawned on me, highly unpleasantly: I don’t have a winter coat this year.

Before you start chastising me for not taking proper care of myself, let me assure you that I do, in fact, own at least 25 winter coats. My hallway closet is filled to the brim, bursting at the seems, even, with the products of being a Midwestern native for my whole life. I collect coats in the way that some women collect shoes (I have plenty of those, too, but it my shoes are not the point here, as they happen to fit just fine thankyouverymuch.).

I could remedy this situation post haste, should I choose. The stores are chock full of sassy winter coats this time of year, and no one would fault me for picking up a new one. Problem is, I’m stubborn and don’t want to buy a coat in a bigger size (think circus tents here) to drape my 26 pounds heavier frame (12.5 down, 26 to go!).

It’s depressing enough that I STILL have to wear my maternity clothes (again with the stubborness), and/or shirts with a V-neck to allow my wee one access without having to pull my shirt completely up in public (I swear, I am NEVER even THINKING about wearing anything v-neck EVER AGAIN after I quit nursing. Those shirts will be burned along with my hideous nursing bras when Alex is weaned), thereby rendering those around me to have to throw up in their soup.

But having to pull out the damn maternity coat is just breaking my ickle heart today. It’s a nice enough coat, for sure, although since it’s a trench coat, it gave me a decidely Grimace-like (or Weeble, think Weebles) appearence when I was 9 months pregnant. Now, thankfully, Alex is no longer residing on my person (although he’d probably like that better. There are days when I’m pretty sure if he could find the entryway, he’d happily climb back inside), so the belly is gone which = no Weeble, but the boobs, HOLY SHIT ARE THEY CRAZY HUGE.

Oh well, I suppose it’s not the end of the world. At least the coat’ll fit.

Today is November the 30th, which marks the end of an era. An era about Poop-Buckets, sleep deprivation, and apparently, how bizare I really am. You watched as I overused the comma frequently (and used parenthesis where I should have started a new sentence), Put Things In Capitol Letters That Should Not Have Been, and generally misspelleed eevenn tha siimplest oof wurds (I SOOO need a spell check for my site).

But you read (at least I’m pretty sure that you did. Without SiteMeter, I can’t be sure. Doesn’t matter anyway, does it?) and you commented, and I love each and every one of you from the bottom of my cold, blackened heart. It shrivelled a little less each time someone gave Aunt Becky a Warm Fuzzy, and was amazed each and every time Aunt Becky did not recieve a Cold Prickly. Aunt Becky knows a lot about Cold Prickly’s, laws yes, she does.

Happy (almost) December, Dear Internet, and may the month be filled of MORE posts about such titilating topics as: My Colonoscopy And What It Means To Me, Why Is The Baby Is Trying To Kill Me, (alternating between) I LOVE The Holidays and/or I HATE The Holidays, in addition to stirring subjects like Why Can’t My Family Change The Toliet Paper Roll?

No, but for serious, if you have some topic you’d like me to talk about, I’d be more than happy to oblige. Always feel free to comment, even if it is to tell me that you hate me with a passion, or that I am a complete idiot (trust me, I’m completely aware).

If you’re too shy to comment, you can always drop me a line at becky@psys.org. I love email, nearly as much as I love Christmas cards. And I loves me my Christmas cards. Anyone want to exchange them? I’ll autograph pictures of myself so you can put them on your fridge and when people ask who the hell that chick is making a corny face, you can say proudly “That is my Aunt Becky.” And then everyone will know that you MUST be awesome to have such a great aunt. (I know, I know, I’m delusional. *sigh* I better go refill my meds.)

For reals, if you want to exchange cards, email me and let me know. I stole that idea from Niobe, who I totally have a girl-crush on. Because she’s awesome.

Alex would like me to tell you that he says, and I quote, “What is UP my bitches?” I have NO IDEA where he learned such motherfucking swear words.

Ben (at age 2) would like me to tell you that he is completely ashamed of having me as his mother. He would prefer someone ELSE, like Io, or maybe Jupiter to be his mother.

But he stubbornly agrees that he’s cheeks are edible.

Ben would like me to inform you that he is NOT wearing a toupee, despite how it may appear, and Alex tells me that he’s much, much fatter now.

And as for me, Dear Internet, I will raise a glass with you tonight. Here’s to December! I just KNOW that it’s going to be a great month.

(clinks glass)

“….oh, Hello Doctor, how are you? No, I haven’t been waiting all day next to the phone willing it to ring, because you know what they say about watched phones, right?

…uh, you never heard that one, did you, Doctor? Well, they never ring. Must’ve missed it during all of those years in medical school. Oh well. But now, either way here you are! Oh HOORAY! HOORAY for YOOOOOOUUUUUU, Dear Doctor!

…what kind of problem are you talking about, Doctor? The only problems I like are the ones that I don’t have to fix, you know.

…oh THAT kind of problem, huh Doctor, one of those pesky buggers that I DO have to fix. I hate those.

…well it can’t be nobody’s fault, you see Doctor, because I promise you although my blood is indeed amazing, it’s never been known to walk away from the lab before, and I PROMISE that I’ve had plenty of blood removed from my body before and none of it went missing. So somewhere this “missing” vial of blood has taken up residence. Probably messing with someone else’s not so fabulous blood. My blood can kick their blood’s ass, you see Doctor.

….I sure do hope that you don’t tell some lifelong Type 1 diabetic who was in for routine labs doesn’t get too comfortable with finding out that OOPS, you’re NOT a diabetic AFTERALL, but hey, your TSH sucks! Heh-heh. That’s SO not funny. But when I’m nervous, Doctor, I laugh. And now, I am full of The Nervous.

…but Doctor, you are aware that it’s taken you a week to “find out that my blood is missing,” and therefore not being properly tested. A week that I’ve been (not so) patiently waiting on bated breath. But I’m sure that doesn’t concern you in the least now, does it, Doctor?

…no, I know that you were on vacation. You see, though, that I was not. And last that I checked, The Doctor doesn’t run the tests on the blood. Some lab assistant in some distant lab does, right?

…I AM calm, Doctor, I AM.

…Why no! It would be NO PROBLEM AT ALL TO BRING MY 8 MONTH OLD TO THE PHLEBOTOMIST YET AGAIN. He LOVES it there, let me tell you. It’s on his list of favorite things to do, along with suppostories up the butt and getting circumsized!

….I’m not taking ANY tone with you, Doctor, I’m not. Well, maybe I am. But I’ve been full of The Nervous all day, crapping my sad little brains out and now you’re telling me that I need to wait even longer. Until Monday. In case you didn’t know this about me, I HATE WAITING.

….No, Doctor, I absolutely did not just mumble the phrase “Self-Medicate With A Martini.” I KNOW that the last thing that I should do when I’m upset is to have a drinky-poo.

…What’s that you hear, you’re asking me? That clinking noise in the background is NOT the sound of me calming my frazzled nerves with vodka. Or whiskey. It’s champagne. And we all know champagne doesn’t make a clinky noise. It makes a fizzy one.

….I did NOT just say “I’ll drink to you tonight, Dear Doctor.” I said “Alex smells like poo tonight, Herr Proctor.” No I am NOT slurring my words. I call the ……cat yeah, the CAT, “Herr Proctor” sometimes. He likes it.

….Yes, Doctor, I am aware that this is a terrible nickname for a cat. But are you REALLY in a position to be all judge-y towards me right now?

…okay, Doctor, I’m off to the lab again. AGAIN. We’ll be in touch. Have no fear, WE WILL BE IN TOUCH, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT. I CAN FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE.”

(click)

*headdesk*

(I suppose that I should just be relieved that it wasn’t the Bucket ‘O’ Poo that got lost, huh? I only wish that cheered me up right now.)

I got tagged for a meme from Sten, which makes me feel far more important than I really am.

Here’s how it’s done:

a. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.

b. Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.

Wow, see now I always thought that my blog is sort of a shrine to my eccentricites, but hey, if the shoe fits, as they say.

1. I have an anti-foot fetish. You know those people that get their rocks off by looking at and/or touching feet? I know that I do, because I came across a library book wherein someone had painstakingly cut out all of the pictures of feet. Creepy? YES (and no, it wasn’t me who did this. I have neither the time nor the patience, and if I were to do this, I’d probably throw up all over the pictures)

Anyway, so I completely HATE having anyone touch my feet and ankles. I don’t even like to look at them. I have no real reason for this, no skeletons in my closet, but I have placed two very lovely tattoos on them (one large one per foot) to distract from their general ugliness.

Ben seems to have inherited my hideous feet, Dave’s feet remind me that we all do, indeed, come from monkeys, as his feet appear to be the esteemed Missing Link (I frequently refer to them as “Carney Feet,” and ask him if he is able to swim better with the flippers already attached. I know, I know, I’m a real TREAT to be married to), and Alex’s feet resemble Marshmallow Peeps.

It appears as though the problem is, as per usual, with me.

2. I desperately need to start a compost pile in my backyard, but am completely unsure how to do so. I am, however, getting tired of Ben yelling “Garbage POLLUTES the Earth” at the garbage can in our kitchen. My main fear about the whole thing is that it will attract even more wild animals into our yard (the very real fear is that I will then decide to let them into the house to keep as pets. “But DAVE, LOOKIT HOW CUTE STINKY THE SKUNK IS? WHY WOULD I PUT HER BACK? SHE CAN SLEEP IN BED WITH US!”), as well as a minor fear that our neighbors may bomb my house if the smell is too noxious.

3. I am 100% addicted to Diet Coke, especially what I call “Fatty Ones” (which means the Super Double Biggest Super Size at any given place. Well I am aware that it does bear a striking resemblence in both texture and taste to battery acid, and is likely turning my insides into mush, I am in love with it. Let’s put it this way: if my husband were inside of a burning building, and I had to make a deal with God to save him ONLY if I gave up my daily (hourly) Diet Coke, I’d have to think about it. (Dave is also horrified that Alex also finds it’s delicately charming flavor to be most amazing. Yes, I have given my baby Diet Coke. You can call DCFS now, I’m sure they’ll have my file handy).

4. When we BBQ, which is fairly often during the summer months (Dave’s first thought when he realized that we were going to buy a house was NOT “Hey, I don’t have to park 547 blocks from my car” but was “I can get a grill!”), I insist that my hot dogs be charred. Blackened. Burned. While I find hot dogs to be a true delicacy, I cannot eat them if they do not resemble charcoal briquettes. Hell, if you gave a piece of charcoal to me smothered in ketchup (I am a bad, bad Chicago-ian), I can’t be sure if I could detect the difference. Again, I’m sure that my insides are probably riddled with The Cancer, but hey, you have to live a little.

5. I am likely the least romantic person you’ll ever meet. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that I fought long and hard to elope to Vegas and get married by Elvis, nor was I kidding when I said that I argued to have our first dance be the YMCA. I genuinely wanted to dance myself down the aisle to “Jungle Boogie” or “That’s The Way, Uh-Huh, I Like It.” But Dave (who I referred to during the wedding planning as “My Wife”) would have none of that.

Because of this, Dave proposed to me at Tiffany & Co, rather than take me to some elaborate set-up dinner or something. I think he was afraid that I’d laugh (which I have a nasty habit of doing when I am uncomfortable. I have to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing during funerals WHICH I DO NOT REALLY FIND FUNNY AT ALL.) or start mocking him if he didn’t just do it then and there. The floor could have swallowed me whole, then and there, but we made the day of some college chicks who were oogling the rings.

6. I cannot sleep when it is overly hot in my bedroom OR without some white noise. Well, nowadays I have many more issues relating to my sleep problems, but unless it’s arctic in my room AND it sounds like a wind tunnel, I can’t sleep worth a damn. I’ve been known to turn on the A/C in the winter and/or open up a window to the frigid outdoors JUST TO COOL DOWN.

7. Despite being both a health care provider AND a mother, I refuse to buy into the whole antibacterial craze. I do use Lysol on the occasion that someone has spewed bodily fluid somewhere other than into the toliet bowl, and I wipe down the counters on a semi-regular basis with bleach, BUT THAT IS BECAUSE I LOVE THE WAY BLEACH SMELLS. I AM A DAMN FREAK.

I’ll put my kid in the grimy grocery cart holders, sure, I don’t hand him an open package of bleeding meat to gnaw on, but seriously the kid has to develop an immune system AT SOME POINT. Of course I wash my hands after I use the bathroom, use proper protection when handling raw meat, and shower frequently enough (most weeks), but I don’t need to use Purell every time I walk into a room.

I don’t run a daycare (nor would I. Can you imagine that? Hahaha, I can’t.) in my home, nor do I perform patient care on MRSA or VRE infected patients from my living room. So you know what? I’M NOT NERVOUS ABOUT WHAT THEY GETS INTO.

*8* Bonus!!! (because I am a certified idiot, I posted this on the wrong damn day, so you, Darling Internet, are reaping the benefits of my error. A BONUS weird fact about me.) When I was younger, I worked as a hostess in a nice classy restaurant. One day, I glanced at the table I had been instructed to take back to their section, and upon seeing a couple of smaller people, I assumed that they were children. So I politely asked if they would like kids menus.

BUT THEY WEREN’T KIDS, THEY WERE MIDGETS! I INADVERTANTLY ASKED MIDGETS IF THEY WOULD LIKE TO COLOR ON KIDS MENUS!

Oopsies. My bad.

Just like the time I asked the guy with the bad toupee if he’d like to leave his hat up front. AND I WASN’T TRYING TO BE FUNNY AT ALL.

That was ALSO my bad.

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I totally had to cut myself off at 8 weird things there, because I am enough of a freak THAT I COULD KEEP GOING FOREVER (I can’t spell indefinitely).

The rules of this meme inform me that I must tag people to do it, but I’m not sure that there is anyone in the free world who has NOT done it yet. So I am tagging EACH OF YOU to delurk (I promise, I won’t bite.) and tell me ONE weird thing about yourself. Or make fun of me BECAUSE I AM A DAMN FREAK. Whatever. I’m not picky. Just looking for a distraction until my doctor calls me and informs me that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hormones, just my head.

Come on, help Poor Nervous Aunt Becky out.

It’s amazing how easily you can trick yourself into believing that there is more under the surface than actually exists, especially if you want it badly enough. Turn any conversational snippet around and around in your head like a cube, examine it, pull it apart, piece it back together and eventually it may start to mean exactly what you want it to mean. Ignore the obvious signs and focus on what lies below and you can fool yourself into a relationship. Sometimes the delusion is far better than the cold hard facts.

It’s been ages since I’ve done this, thankfully, as I have never ever enjoyed playing the games that people play. But I am admitting here and now to you, Darling Internet, that I’ve been there.

I thought that we had something, really I did, because I’d thought that underneath it all, he got me. Really GOT me. My friends didn’t understand what I saw in him, mainly because they are incredibly smart (and good looking to boot!) and they saw what I refused to: he just wasn’t that in to me. Or he was, but only when it was convienent for him. Our friendship was like a festering scab that you cannot stop picking at, no matter how many times your mother reminds you that you should just leave the damn thing alone already.

It lasted for far longer than I’d like to admit, and it took a drunken night of bad sex coupled with his sudden interest in a sort-of friend of mine to bring me to my senses.
He was either an idiot or an asshole, and either way, I didn’t need filth like that in my life.

It’s funny when I think back upon it all, I cannot believe that I was ever so naive and even worse, that I didn’t believe that I was worth more than that. Now, after meeting Dave, I would never even THINK to pick apart his words, if he’s running late, it’s because he’s late, not because he’s really doing something far more sinister or interesting. If he tells me that he likes my shirt, I thank him and move on. It’s a simple statement, nothing more and nothing less.

On the infamous first Non-Date that was actually a date that changed the rest of our lives, we got into a conversation about my next rotation, which was located far closer to his apartment than my home. Sweetly (and stupidly, I reminded him later, after he gave me keys to his house that night. What if I’d been A Crazy and started showing up at his house unannounced? What if I broke in and stole everything he owned, like dirty socks and black jeans? WHAT IF I MOVED IN?), he offered to let me stay at his house on the nights before these early morning clinicals.

Upon realization as to what he had just offered, which sounded awfully presumptious (reader, keep in mind we had not so much as held hands at this juncture), he immediately turned 54 shades of red and stammered, “heh, heh, heh, I guess this means I should get a new futon mattress, heh, heh, heh. BECAUSE MY FUTON IS MY COUCH NOT MY BED, heh, heh, heh.”

My heart warmed about 14 degrees when I realized that this was exactly what I’d been looking for: someone who was honest with me AND HIMSELF about what he wanted. It sounds so simple, when I say this now, but I assure you that this meant more to me than if he’d told me right then and there that his greatest ambition in life was to be a father and husband (which I later found out to be the truth. He’s a rare one, My Daver. He also would give me a pedicure if I could handle anyone touching my feet. He DOES have a brother…..ladies….!).

Of course, as the story goes, I never DID sleep on the futon (bow-chicka-wow-wow), and I have never, ever, taken his honesty for granted (although, occasionally I do wish that he could be a little LESS honest. Like when he told me, oh, I don’t know, several weeks before our wedding that I wasn’t the hottest chick he’d dated. Um, ouch. Snap, Daver, Snap.)

Or is this just me?