One upon a time, I made an appointment to meet with a psychic who my friend had told me was “really good.” Whether it was due to nerves or lack of fundage, I cancelled several days before my session. I’ve never been the sort to buy in too much to the whole mystic, new-agey stuff, because I prefer my life to be lived by more concrete rules. Maybe it’s the (now latent) scientist in me, but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around vague mentions of strife, love, or predictions of my future, mainly because I can see both how easy it would be to buy into this sense of greater meaning, and because I suck ass at interpreting these kinds of things. During any given month, I can fit whatever my horoscope is into what has happened, but it doesn’t matter much, because EVERY month is filled with strange happenings here at Casa de la Sausage.

It becomes a self-fufilling prophecy, or complete and utter crap, if you ask me. Even if I COULD see into the future, I’m not sure that I’d want to. If I “knew” that 10 years down the road, my cat would be hit by a car driven by my son, or that I would finally succumb to The Crazy, would I live my day to day life any differently? Would I accept this as an inevitability and not bother to try and change it? Or would I caution my son to watch for animals while driving AND try and prevent him from learning to drive? I can’t be sure, so I don’t want to know.

After Daver and I got married, we made it a weekly tradition to go out to breakfast together on one of the weekend mornings. A favorite haunt, harkening back to my days as a single smoker, was the local Baker’s Square, where we were often waited on by a strange woman who took a decided interest in me.

As a rule, if there is a certified Odd Duck somewhere in my vicinity, chances are they will be drawn to me like a magnet. I, apparently, am a positively charged Weirdo Magnet (but thankfully these are not Completely Crazy Emotional Weirdos, just strange ones. My husband, however, seems to have the Emotional Crazy Magnet implanted in his head). Dave shakes his head and laughs each time that we meet a new one, but I usually find them to be pretty interesting.

I always enjoyed this Odd Duck of a waitress. She was harmless, friendly, and thrilled when we announced our much anticipated pregnancy. She took one look at me, grabbed my palm, and pronounced that this child was a boy, which I immediately denied. Dave and I were certain that it was a girl (what with the vomiting and all. Such a lovely reason to think that I was carrying a girl.), which I tried to explain to her. She maintained that THIS baby was a BOY, just like my first (whom she had never met) and our next (and last) child was a girl and that I would have “you know, the high blood pressure” with her (my blood pressures run insanely low, and always have).

Needless to say, she was correct in guessing the chromosomal makeup of our offspring, and now I am left to wonder: will I have another child someday? Will it REALLY be a girl (meaning, I will no longer live in the Sausage Factory as a lone XX among a sea of XY’s.)?

On my good days with Alex and Ben, I doimagine that someday, I will be foolish enough to get pregnant again (God willing), and on my bad days I wonder what I was thinking in the first place. I adore the chaos that comes along with having two children, but I am sick to death of the sleepless nights, cold meals, and moreover the WORRY that comes along with having an ickle one. At the same time, I don’t want to go through the rest of my life wishing that I’d had another child (Someday, I’m going to want at least ONE of my children to come home for the holidays).

I suppose that I don’t know what to think about her prediction, but I can’t seem to shake it no matter how I attempt to logicate it (yes, I said “logicate,” which I am aware is not a real word. But it’s such a GOOD fake word.)

What do YOU think about that sort of stuff and/or her prediction? Do you buy that someone could really KNOW that kind of thing? Has this kind of thing happened to you before?

(and no, I am not currently pregnant, in case I haven’t made that clear).

The Good: Alex is finally sleeping in his own bedroom, not in his swing, but in his bouncy seat placed in his (awesome) crib.

The Bad: He’s still up one to seven times per night, just for a little love and snacky-poo.

The Ugly: If anyone BUT me tries to help him back to sleep, he shrieks. And shrieks. And then shrieks some more. He’s got a little seperation anxiety goin’ on, methinks, and as flattering as that is (wow, THE BABY LIKES ME, HOLY CRAP!), it adds to my anxiety. And how do you keep a baby asleep when he’s so restless? I HAVE NO IDEA.

—————–

The Good: I had a doctor’s appointment last with with a new endocrinologist whom I liked very, very much. She listened to me, complimented my breastfeeding abilities, and genuinely appeared concerned about me. There is a lab located directly in the offices, so I do not have to go anywhere else for lab draws (this is a bigger feat than you might believe).

The Bad: Not only did I wait over an hour to be seen, but the doctor was/is currently out of town until the end of the week. This means that I will not be starting any treatment regime until then.

The Ugly: My babysitter cancelled literally as I was walking out the door, so I had to scramble to take Alex along. Somehow I don’t think “Baby’s First Trip To The Endocrinologist” will make it to the baby books. Now that I have all this time in between the doctor and the call back, I have effectively convinced myself that my labs will come back as absolutely normal. The only thing that’s saving my hope, is that my period has been MIA for over two months, so SOMETHING must be wrong with me, right?

————–

The Good: I have lost a total of 10.5 pounds while on Weight Watchers.

The Bad: I’m feeling generally discouraged at the speed at which the weight ISN’T coming off and horrified by how awful I really look.

The Ugly: I have nearly no clothes that fit me, aside from maternity clothes, and this includes a winter coat. For my own pride, I refuse to purchase anything in any sizes bigger than I was, so I’m a bit cold much of the time now. I also was so stressed out by it, that I didn’t weigh myself last week, despite having not strayed from The Plan. I need to suck it up and do so this week.

God, I hate Sundays.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.

–Johnny Cash

This will be a scarily short post, as I am still recovering from the Thanksgiving Extravaganza. All went well, and despite my inability to cook, everyone proclaimed it a success (which by comparision to the usual nursing home food, is made that much better), although the meat was still mooing after it cooked (Ashley, you’d have been in heaven, me, not so into the raw meat thing).

We had a rousing discussion about colonoscopies, followed by a conversation about hypertension, and by the end of it, I was wondering if my eardrums would commit suicide, OR IF IT WAS JUST ME THAT WANTED TO DIE.

I’m just fucking thankful that it’s now over.

Crunchiness is one of those qualities that I admire but almost never display. I have no problem with “attachment parenting” given that those who practice it don’t find fault with me for not practicing it. I buy baby food rather than make it, I use Pampers with (almost) alarming frequency, and the only reason that I make baby wipes is because 1) it’s easy 2) it’s cheaper.

Nature is all well and good, but it often makes me itch, so I’m happiest if it doesn’t come into the house with me. The prospect of camping reminds me to self medicate with a bottle of booze and my shaker set and scout out nearby McDonalds. My idea of roughing it involves staying in a hotel, and only ordering room service once. You’re shuddering right along with me, aren’t you?

I began breastfeeding Alex mainly because I am stubborn, and with my Ben-related anxiety over my abilities to do so, I needed to prove to myself that I could. Unlike with Ben, who I was DETERMINED to nurse, I viewed the prospect as a maybe rather than a certainty, because I happen to have become a realist about the illusion of control and children (no matter what you believe, you’re not in control. Period). Had things been overly difficult with Alex, who for all intents and purposes is such a champion nurser who at delivery knew more in the instinctual part of his brain about it than I ever will, I’m certain I’d have stopped after a couple of months. Similac execs would have rejoiced, and I would have become several hundred dollars poorer each month.

I’ve continued breastfeeding only because I am too lazy to wean him AND I am not quite sure how to stop my sweater kittens from acting as milk bags. It IS easier, after awhile, than bottle feeding, no doubt, but also more annoying to me. I don’t so much like it when Dave wants to cuddle with me for longer than about three minutes (unless it leads to something less *ahem* PG), I rarely hug my best friends (and I assure you that I love them with all of my heart), and I assure you that I am the antonym of touchy-feely (which would make me cold and prickily. Yes, yes I am). I love snuggling my children, but NOT ALL OF THE DAMN TIME, which is what nursing involves, because I am just not that kind of person.

Nursing Alexander has made it so that he flips if someone else should decide to graciously assume my nightly duties, because well, that’s what The Lady With The Milk Bags does. And as with Ben, everyone has been pigeon-holed into their respective spots in Alex’s overly-large cranium (It’s a satellite, for serious): Ben makes him laugh and tries to share his food with him, Dad changes poopy diapers and plays SuperBaby with him, and Mom (a.k.a. The Milk Factory) comes in when he cries at night.

It’s sweet, really it is, that his face lights up like a Bud Lite sign and he begins to pump his legs as though he’s riding an invisible bicycle when he sees me when I come in at night. Conversely, should Dave try and take over for me, he screams and weeps copiously (and I wonder why Dave doesn’t volunteer more often. No, no I don’t.), his ickle baby starfish-shaped hands pounding his thighs in frustration at the Universe (sounds like me, eh?).

This week, after having to double my dose of Nite Sleep Aid (which is just stronger diphenhydramine, so don’t worry) AND take a shot of the Green Death flavored Nyquil (seriously, they should just call it that. Their marketing team would be speaking the truth) just to fall asleep, I realized that I needed to call in some medical assistance.

The crux of it was that during the night that I had to essentially overdose myself to get over my anxiety about sleeping, THE BABY WAS SLEEPING JUST FINE. Normally, he does not, which leads to the oft mentioned anxiety, but even on the nights when he does sleep for more than an hour at a stretch, I still cannot sleep. It appears as though I am damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.

So begrudgingly I called my OB, whom I adore, but had no interest in bringing into this mess because I was fearful that he would tell me to “try drinking warm milk” or something equally trite, and then I would feel as though I’d been slapped in the face, once I’d finally admitted that I had a problem to someone in the position to help me.

He didn’t suggest warm milk, thankfully, but he did inform me that so long as I continue to breastfeed, I cannot take anything stronger than Benadryl.

Despite my non-crunchiness, and because of my stubborn masochism, it’s likely that I will continue to breastfeed, personal discomfort be damned, BECAUSE I KNOW THAT IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO FOR MY SON.

I just try to comfort myself on all of those long nights, that no matter what he now believes, he will NOT be seeking comfort in my funbags when he’s in Junior High. I have to draw the line somewhere, right?

(Many moons ago, Dave and I insisted that Ben start drinking milk with dinner every night, a move that was fraught with peril. Ben was insistant that he would someday fly to Hawaii where I could not find him to make him drink his milk. He swore that he would take Alex and Dave and move away, somewhere that I could not find them and make them drink their milk.)

This is what came home with Ben yesterday,

Dear Mom and Dave,

Love,
Ben

I nearly laughed out loud when he got to the part about the milk, because that kid was FURIOUS with my insistance upon drinking his equivilant of battery acid, so much so that I had to call in for backup: Nat, to help me out.

If I had to write a letter to give to someone to give thanks, it might look like this. Well, actually, it probably wouldn’t, because I don’t like to write letters.

Dear Internet,

Thank you for not making me travel this Thanksgiving, as I cannot sleep in hotel rooms, BECAUSE I AM A FREAK.

Thank you for Fat-Free Coffee Mate (Vanilla OR Hazelnut), Healthy Life Bread, 150 Calorie Mini-Cakes, and McDonalds.

Thank you for YoBaby yogurt, which has allowed me such freedoms as occasionally letting my nipples go back into their rightful place, UNDER MY SHIRT, NOT FLAPPING IN THE BREEZE. Also, thank you to Pampers, for attempting to contain my son’s toxic ass.

Thank you for building a Target so close to my home, so that I may spend my life savings (hahaha) on frivolous stuff that I never knew that I needed but now cannot live without.

Thank you for finally breaking our nomadic moving patterns, and allowing us to live in the same zip code for over one year (although I’d imagine that U-Haul is not thankful for this, as I have not spent an insane amount of money on boxes lately).

Thank you (in advance!!) to Burberry for making the earmuffs (hahaha, MUFF!) that I will recieve for Christmas, that matches the scarf that I recieved last year.

Thank you Tiffany & Co for the lovely aniversary jewelry. Can I divorce Dave and marry you? I know that’s a bit forward, but I’ve loved you for a long time, and I know that you feel the same.

And of course, thank you for allowing me to run the Sausage Factory, each of whom makes my cold ickle heart grow larger and more complete each day. I’m looking at you, The Daver, Ben-a-bo, and Bubbly-Tubbles (yes, not only do my children have about a thousand names on their birth certificate, but they also have a plethora of nicknames).

Love,
Becky

(Happy Thanksgiving, bitches, Aunt Becky loves you!)

I’d imagine that most couples had a far more romantic situation when they realized that the person across the table from them would be the person that they spent the rest of their lives with. I’m picturing an intimate candlelit dinner, or a walk in the park when all of the flowers are fragrant and blooming beautifully, maybe lazing around on bearskin rug in front of a cozy fireplace (complete with crackling logs, of course) with strawberries and champagne.

While I picture this to be all well and good for other people, the moment that I knew with absolute certainty that Dave was the man that (like it or not) I would be spending the rest of my days with was absolutely nothing like this. In fact, it was so far removed from romantic that it might be called The Anti-Romance.

You see, I knew that Dave would be my husband for as long as we both could stand each other when he not only allowed me to put my bucket of frozen fecal matter in his freezer, but offered to help me place the sample IN the bucket.

If that ain’t true love, I’ll never know what is.

But let me back up for a moment, to illuminate PRECISELY why I was doing this (and to reassure you that I don’t have some really foul fetish).

It started over the winter, the pain and the constant crapping, but I kept writing it off as stress or something that I’d eaten (I’m telling you here and now that health care professionals are REALLY the last to seek medical care). Eventually it dawned on me that my body was rebelling against me, and that mayhap I should get it checked out.

So I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist in the area, and begrudgingly trooped in, tail between my legs (no, unfortunately I do NOT have a vestigial tail, although that would be completely rad. Imagine the pranks I could pull!). Besides being completely intimidated by me (which is amazing, considering HE was going to be the one looking at MY colon. You’d imagine it’d be reversed here), he very thoroughly ordered a number of blood tests AND some *ahem* OTHER tests.

And these *ahem* OTHER tests were some of the most humiliating known to man. You think that someone looking up your pooper is shameful, wait, JUST wait until someone orders you to poop in a jar. AND THEN TAKE IT SOMEWHERE. Wait, wait, wait, I can make this MORE humiliating, I promise. Have someone inform you that you have to COLLECT all of your feces for 3! days, and THEN take it somewhere, where you are horrifyingly clear that some poor lab tech in the back is cursing you while gagging BECAUSE A COMPLETE STRANGER IS EXAMINING YOUR POO.

Hell, although the rest of my family is intent on disproving this, what with their insistance that when I sit upon the porcelain throne is the absolute perfect time to have a conversation with me and/or sneak a quick scratch behind the ears (I’m looking at YOU here, Daver), I don’t even like someone TALKING to me while I crap, let alone looking at my own personal byproducts. *I* don’t even want to look at them.

Dave insists that Rate-my-Poo dot com is the most hilarious site on the planet, but I won’t even load that into my search engine, because I do not find poo amusing. Poo jokes are golden (much like dick-n-fart jokes. Yes, I am, in fact a teenage boy, NOT a 27-year-old mother of two. Sorry about any confusion), but actually dealing with The Poo on a more intimate basis gives me the heebie-jeebies AND the Pee-Shivers.

So armed with my orders, my “hat,” my latex-free gloves, and my bucket, I decided to “do the deed” over the weekend. Which was the time of the week that I consistantly spent with my then-boyfriend, a time that both of us treasured. I am utterly unable to censor myself, so Dave was well aware of what lay before me, and although I offered to stay home and “complete my orders” he insisted that he didn’t mind. He even offered to clean out his freezer for my “sample” (I don’t think he’s cleaned out a freezer again, ever.).

It’s disgusting, when you think about it (well, all of this is pretty nasty), how one must collect the poo to put it in the (extremely large and reminded me of the buckets of cookie dough or popcorn that you get from the Girl Scouts. But filled with something far less awesome) bucket. You have to complete your “business” in a container that you put into the toliet affectionately called a “hat,” and THEN you must fish through your excriment to seperate the solid from the liquid (God, I have the heebie-jeebies just RECALLING this) and put it in the bucket that you’ve removed from the freezer.

Before you place the bucket back into the freezer, you must “burp” it, as the methane gas pressure can build up so much that the top will be blown off, spattering the insides of your freezer with what is decidedly NOT brownie batter.

I don’t know about you, but the absolute LAST thing that I want to do with my excrement is to touch it OR BURP IT, gloves on or not, so each time that I had to do this, I nearly wept out of shame and disgust. Dave, sensing my plight (well, more like having to listen to me whine and shake each time I had to do this), galantly offered to do it for me. He OFFERED to WILLINGLY handle my poop (I would never, ever offer to handle his, no matter how much he whined.). If that’s not love, I suppose that I’ll never know WHAT love is.

Monday morning came, and off I trucked back home which was about 45 minutes away, with the bucket-o-frozen poo sitting shotgun, strapped merrily in place. As I dropped it off at the lab, I’d wished that I were dead. No, scratch that, I’d wished that I was LESS THAN dead, I wished that I’d never been born at all. I wished that MY PARENTS had never been born. So great was my shame that I fell all over myself apologizing to the receptionist, the lab tech as well as the waiting room full of people who could have cared less. I’m certain that I looked insane.

I was later diagnosed with a mild case of Crohn’s disease, which has thankfully been in remission for several years. As for Daver and I, we’ve been more or less stuck with each other ever since. Every time that I become irritated by his colony of dirty socks that happily live next to our bed, I try my damndest to remind myself that, at one point in time, he selflessly offered to touch my poop.

I am one of the most impatient people that I have ever met. I remember when I was pregnant with either (or both, really) of my children, I had the WORST time waiting to meet them (and worrying, of course, always the worry). Someone told me that you NEED 9 months to prepare yourself for the birth of a child, but I don’t buy that. I need about a week and a half. Weight should come off at a rate of AT LEAST 10 pounds per week, bank accounts should miraculously replenish themselves, and Thai food should take about 2 seconds to prepare and be delivered.

Today is the day I’ve been anxiously awaiting for over a month (which is a terribly long time when you’re feeling like dog poo); I’m finally going to the Endocrinologist. And I’m scared shitless for absolutely no real reasons whatsoever. I’m afraid that my thyroid will be completely WNL and all of the symptoms I’ve been having can neatly be explained away by having finally caught The Crazy. I’m terrified that the doctor won’t take me and my issues seriously enough. And I fear that because this is a holiday week, my lab results will take forever, thereby delaying the treatment that could help me feel more human again.

It’s dumb, because it’s not like worrying and stressing about any of these things will change the outcome in any way. I will get treatment or I will not.

On the up side of down, at the very least, I will not have to collect my poop in a jar again. There is nothing in the world as having to not only collect your own feces BUT THEN having to drop them off at a lab, knowing full well that some poor tech is going to have to go fishing in there. And that, my friends, is a story for another day.

So tell me, what do YOU do when you’re worrying yourself in circles?

(while discussing the possibility of having any of our children returning home for Christmas once they are married)

Me: “I don’t know, I just worry that the boys will get married go to their in-laws for the holidays. The way I figure it, the more kids that we have, the greater likelihood that SOMEONE will come home and spend Christmas with us.”

Dave: “Well…”

Me (fully expecting to be rebuffed): “I mean, except for Ben. It will never dawn on him that he should move out of our house. He’ll be living in our basement playing Everquest for the rest of our lives.”

Dave: “It won’t be Everquest…”

——————-

(While standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I suddenly begin to feel sappily in love with my husband)

Me: (Now back in our bedroom, spooning) “Have I told you lately how happy I am to be married to you?”

Dave (sleepily): “No, not lately.”

Me: “Well, I am…I love you very, very much.” (sniffs air) “DID YOU JUST FART WHILE I WAS SPOONING YOU?”

Dave: “Not just now, no.”

Me: “OHMYGOD, my EYES are burning, you ass!”

Dave: “I’m SORRY, dude!”

Me: “Sorry isn’t going to BEGIN covering it right now! What you need is a DUTCH OVEN!” (pulls comforter over Dave’s head so that he is forced breathe the toxic air) “You like that, do you?”

Dave (gasping for air while laughing): “I surrender, I surrender!”

Me: “Do you think ‘Toxic Ass’ would be covered under ‘fraud’ for an annullment?”

Dave: “Dude, you KNEW about my ass before we got married.”

Me: “Good point.”

Having spent most of the weekend preparing for hosting Thanksgiving, I’ve spent more than a little time wondering why on Earth I agreed to do this. I love entertaining, for sure, but all of the prep involved in this is making me want to rip my hairs out of my head (and with losing most of them already, I am currently considering Rogaine for Women).

I’m fortunate, really, that my family is pretty drama-free overall and I am aware that this is a rarity. Even my in-laws, who may or may not have any idea what on Earth to do with someone like me, keep their opinions about this to themselves.

Now if you’ll excuse this sad excuse for a post (two excuses in one sentence. Score!), I’m off to clean the light socket covers and weep into my bleach wipes.

I’m phoning it in today. It’s grey and gloomy and nasty outside, and apparently, according to this list, someone peed in my Cheerios this morning. Without further adieu, I present to you, darling Internet, my current shit list (but because I am fickle, it’s an ever-changing one).

1. Angelina Jolie. I know, I know, I know, she has done some amazing things for third world countries, but truth be told, I’m still not over the Brad/Jen thing. Mainly, because she made this big stink about never, ever sleeping with a married man because her father had done that to her mother, but then Oopsies, she’s pregnant, and it’s with Brad’s baby. How did that happen? Either she’s clueless about where babies come from, or she didn’t understand what “married” meant. Asshole.

(aside to the reader: cheating is a cardinal sin in my book. I’ve been cheated on before and dished out some black eyes. There’s nothing that makes me feel better than beating the hell out of cheating bastards. Maybe I should hire myself out!)

2. The E! Channel. I used to love, love, love watching E!. It was home to one of my favorite shows The Girls Next Door, and now it has both Kimora and Keeping Up With The Kardashians, both of which make me fear for the world.

3. My uterus, who has not gotten with the program and resumed normal menstruation, despite having a normal period a month and a half ago. While I was perfectly happy being amenorheic r/t breastfeeding, but I would harken a guess that I am now hypothalamic amenorrheic r/t my wonky thyroid. I suppose that I should just take it as a gift from God, but I’m too OCD for that.

a. Pregnancy tests. There’s something that I completely abhor about peeing on a stick and then having to sit and wait and see what the Universe has in store for me. Let me clarify something: I’ve been 100% positive that I was pregnant twice in my life, neither time was I really with child. So my intuition sucks. And sweet LORD are those tests expensive or what?

b. Rh factor. Ah, the reason for my OCD-disorder. I’m Rh-negative, Dave is Rh-positive, therefore any child we have together could be Rh-positive. If I were to become pregnant with another Rh-positive fetus without knowing it, and then miscarry and assume that it was a period, I could develop antibodies towards ANY Rh-positve fetus’s (fetii?) in the future and therefore spontaneously abort them. Rendering me infertile. Unless I get some RhIG in my butt within 72 hours. Sweet, right?

4. People who are late. I’m a freak about time (man, this post is turning into a “”Becky is a Freak because…” list.), I make no bones about it. If you tell me that you will be somewhere at a certain time, I will spend my day waiting/planning/rearranging myself to accommodate said time. So if you do not bother to at least let me know that the aforementioned time has changed, it feels like a smack in the face. Dave used to do this frequently to me, but has learned that in order to tame the beast he doesn’t bother promising me a time. So therefore I cannot obsess.

After rereading this all I can say is, dude, I think I may need therapy.

Who/what peed in YOUR Cheerios today?