The bathroom hates us. It totally, totally hates us. I suppose the same could be said for many home improvement projects, but this time I can’t help but think it’s personal. Maybe it liked the awful decor with the THREE different kinds of wallpaper, maybe the hideous testicle lights were really what made it feel special, perhaps the gigantic medicine cabinet is what it defined itself by; I don’t know.

All that I do know is that we have been thwarted at every turn. The walls are so fragile that when I removed the wallpaper tape, some of the drywall actually got damaged (which actually served to make me feel like somewhat less of a wallpaper-removal failure). Even with the approximately 65 pounds of spackle I carefully put onto each and every crack, the walls still look pretty bad. Which is accentuated nicely by the new light fixture. The medicine cabinet that I recently picked up (on sale!!!) had a crack in it AND was missing the shelves. When going to exchange it, we learned the reason for it’s reduced price: it’s extinct, well aside from the floor model, which we then bought.

The nice pedestal sink? Oh yeah, the damn sink doesn’t sit flush on the base, so it wobbles. When we took it back, it appears that ALL of them wobble. So after all of this we’re going to hire someone to install it.

(and yes, I DO realize that things could be worse. I never operated under the illusion that this job would be simple. Honestly, it’s all the things that I never would imagine would be hard that have proved to cause us the most grief)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to weep into my towel rack.

It’s been a long two years, marked with such exciting events as “Why Becky Is A Sucky Pregnant Woman” and “Wow, We Need To Make Up Our Mind As To Where We Want To Live,” and in that time I’d like to think that I’m starting to learn a bit about this whole Being An Adult thing. And if not, at least I’m learning a bit about homeowning, or as I like to call it Why Lowe’s Is Heaven On Earth.

Over and over again, I sit around googling prices for things, because where I grew up, I never had to worry my addled mind about such things as lawn furniture and light fixtures. In fact, you might even say that I was oblivious to them, because I could not have cared less. Now that I have my own house, I am constantly struck by just how incredibly off my internal pricing is about the crap that you suddenly find yourself obsessing over. Like why shiny brass fixtures were so important to the previous owners. I mean, WHY?!?

Take for example lighting fixtures, which I, for good reason, never ever had chance to explore unless we were high and OOOOOHH!! a pretty light! I had always assumed that they were unbelievably expensive. Prohibitively so. In remodeling the bathroom, I’ve learned that holy hell, they’re actually pretty reasonable. Which makes me wonder why on earth my parents stuck with their pseudo Tiffany style, hanging fruit covered, stained glass monstrosity for so damn long. Illogical, and if you ask me, unforgivable.

Which brings me to nail guns. I’d always assumed that we’d acquire one during the bathroom remodel, because, hey, we’re putting in a chair rail (<-----don't I sound sophisticated!?!) and we have to replace the trim, plus they might be handy to use to threaten Daver with. Then I walked by the selection, and wowzers, they're SUPER expensive!! Who knew?!!? Why is lawn furniture so freaking expensive? The set we'd picked out cost over $2,000, which I wouldn't spend on ANYTHING (unless, of course, you mean bed linens, in which case I would and have), and most other stuff looks like it belongs in the same circle of hell as our old bathroom did, and even THAT is expensive as fcuk. Unreal, simply stated. I guess that I still have a lot to learn about this Adult Stuff, after all.

It’s Daver’s birthday tomorrow, and I’ve been wracking my brains as to what I could say about my darling husband to comemorate the year. He’s older than me, he’s always GOING to be older than me, and you can take that to the bank.

In honor of him turning 29 years YOUNG tomorrow, I am going to list 29 things that I have learned about my husband this year (and only a partial roast):

1. There exists 2 time zones in my house: “Real Time as designated by whoever designates such things” and “Daver Time,” which runs about 1-2 hours behind Real Time.

2. He can sleep through anything, including labor and a screaming baby.

3. While the house may be in complete shambles, The Internet will always function perfectly.

4. He is more apt to quickly celebrate a positive pregnancy test than I will ever be, and never think to exclaim “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

5. Despite what he may say, he hates Chocolate Brown.

6. While strapped for cash, he will drop a significant amount of money on an outfit that makes his pregnant wife “feel better.”

7. Although he’d never admit it, he loves it that I make a hugemongous deal out of holidays.

8. He’s more of a creature of habit than I am, as evidenced by the fact that we have gone to the Hideaway for the past 3 years for his birthday.

9. He’s too sweet to admit that the baby actually said “Daddy” the other day, despite having heard it while I wept into my hands sobbing “Mommy, Alex, SAY MOMMY.”

10. He allowed me to purchase Ben a Playmobil house for his 6th birthday because it was really what Ben wanted, without making a big deal out of it not being particularly manly. He also didn’t rub in the fact that I was overjoyed by said purchase.

11. Even after a hugely long day for him, every time he comes in the door and the children clamor for his attention, he makes sure to not let them see just how exhausted he is.

12. When thwarted by Marriachi music, he went and “camped out” on Ben’s floor because they’d been looking so forward to camping outside.

13. He’s not really a morning person, either.

14. Even after being up most of the night with a newborn baby, he trucked his sorry ass to each and every one of Ben’s soccer games.

15. To save his life, he would STILL be unable to put away his laundry.

16. After listening to me complain about being fat, he doesn’t rub it in if on my next breath, I ask for McDonalds.

17. For many months, he didn’t realize that I was not actually hand washing his special “not dishwasher safe” mug AND ACTUALLY USED IT DIRTY.

18. He fully accepts that I absolutely hate to cook and doesn’t complain about it.

19. Rather than make fun of my addiction to crappy TV, he plops down beside me and watches such shows as “Americal Idol” and “The Girls Next Door.”

20. He allowed me to get myself a pet bunny even though we had a baby coming in about 5 minutes.

21. Although completely justified, he does not often engage in “Why, Becky” conversations with me as much as he could. For example “Why, Becky did you bleach the Kate Spade pillow covers that cost as much as a car?” he just agreed that we needed to buy a couple more.

22. He didn’t rub it in my face that the baby who made me sicker than God looks just like him. Which I totally would have done had the roles been reversed.

23. Despite having the best intentions, he is almost utterly unable to complete a project once started because “oh LOOK, a BLUE car!!!”

24. He was so proud of the 8 week gummy bear ultrasound pictures of Alex that he took them into work to show them off. Even though you couldn’t tell what it was.

25. He never once (okay, ONCE) bitched at me over how sick I was when I was pregnant with Alex, nor did he complain about how me not working affected the finances.

26. Although I can beat him in arm wrestling and rub it in his face for the next 3 (ahem 8) weeks, he never complains when I make him carry the vacuum up and down the stairs for me.

27. He calls me “Shorty The Pimp” instead of “Sweetie.” ‘Nuff said.

28. He admitted last night to having boofed in a sock to me, which is a dangerous, dangerous thing to admit to me.

29. He puts up with me, year round, which should earn him a metal or something.

Happy birthday, Dick For, I love you.

I just turned 27, which for some, seems like I’m a mere babe in the woods, but unluckily for me, I am not “some” people and have wondered often why I am not getting the AARP magazine like I should be, and why those damn kids won’t get off my lawn, consarnit!

Things that I have done most recently that I cannot believe that I ever would admit to in public, but am now telling the Internet at large:

*Subscribe to Martha Stewart Living. I fucking love me some Martha, and in some sick way, am hoping to one day emulate her. Without the cooking of meals, of course, but with lots of baking. I guess I’m hoping that I become more of a decorator by osmosis because I can’t make a paper craft out of a coffee filter if my life depended on it (but thankfully I can use it to make coffee, however badly I may do so).

*Bought, in no particular order: Basic Home Maintence for Dummies, How To Clean Practically Anything, and Gardening for Dummies. Because, you know, I need to plan out my garden for next year and start planning. Who am I and what have I done with myself? Seriously now, this is just sick and wrong.

*Researched how to AND THEN ACTUALLY SUCCESSFULLY cleaned out the pee stains from the carpet. Which I had been trying unsucessfully to clean for 9 months. And no, thankfully the stains are not mine. I am (mostly) housebroken.

*Purchased my big son’s birthday gifts ONE month in advance. AND have bought an actual real live Christmas present. I am so incredibly last minute that I usually begin (and complete) my Christmas shopping at about 10 pm on Christmas Eve at Walgreens. You’re welcome for all of the enema kits and crappy glass tchotchkies.

*Have researched endlessly ways to organize the vast multitude of crap that we have (despite my best measures to eliminate it) and am now totally pining for both a wrapping paper organizer AND clear shoe boxes. My obsession with home organization is nearly rivaling my obsession with bleach.

*Coupons used to be something I scoffed at, miffed on and off by people in line ahead of me (usually when a child/ren are screaming like banshees and all that I want to do is GET OUTTA THERE), and now, now hell may be freezing slowly over as I admit that I use them. Not only do I use them, but I have bought a little coupon organizer thingie (again with the organization!) and carry it around with me. I feel gay, lets just leave it at that, mmmmkay?

I barely recognize myself these days.

Unfreakingbelievably, the bathroom is now completely painted, which ends my current foray into home improvements.

One half of the bathroom is a light blue and the other is chocolate brown, which Dave (btw–go visit that duder, he’s feeling lonesome) is too tactful to actually come out and admit that he hates. I reminded him that no matter WHAT we did to that room, it couldn’t be worse than it already was. The bathroom looked like a runaway from some stuffy old lady’s house who had died in approximately 1974. To give an example, we pulled down the light fixture from there and threw it into the garage where it is currently sitting. I may never part with it, because I imagine that anytime I am feeling sad or mad or whatever, all I will have to do is have a look at it, and I will burst into gales of laughter. Like blogging, it’s cheaper than therapy.

Ashley called it Testicleeeez (say it out loud, for once I intended to mispell something) whereas I happen to think that it looks more like boobs. Sweet Jesus, these people had no taste.

So YAY! bathroom is done. Well, I should clarify that: MY part of the bathroom is completed, and the ball is in Dave’s proverbial court (because we don’t ACTUALLY have a court here, dumbass), where I am sure it will remain for the next several months until I learn how to install a toliet tank and bathroom sink. I don’t know what is scarier, the thought of me installing a toliet by myself or the thought of having to sit on the couch, phone in hand while I dial 9-1 and wait for the screams before I hit the next 1. I’m thinking about having a Housewarming Party in my bathroom, providing I can clean up the blood in time.

To celebrate the possible demise of my husband by toliet, I give you a video:

(I SOOOO want to learn to do the robot.)

My relationship with Ben’s father has improved significantly over the years, which makes my life easier in many ways. No longer do I have to (constantly) bite my tongue while he insults me and my life, and aside from the occasional jab (comment today: “Wow, you still don’t dress to match, do you?”) life has become quite peaceful.

There are some things you just don’t think about when you find yourself unmarried and pregnant. Deep down in there, I think that I always knew that Nat and I would never, ever get married, mainly because he does happen to be a douche bag, but even after the whole “we didn’t get much SLEEPING done, Becky” fiasco, I wanted to give things a chance, if not for me then for my unborn babe. It was a battle royale, for sure, but I gave in and Ben’s last name matched his father’s (but his middle name is my maiden name). So on time marched. I got used to (but always hated) the accidental Mrs. Ben’s Last Name that I would get now and then, but things were all right.

Then school began. Suddenly birthday party invites would arrive at my house bearing Ben’s name with the postmasters scrawl next to it: ‘Here?’ they read. And then I got mad. Stark raving mad. Why is it fair that Ben get HIS last name when *we* were the parents scheduling doctors appointments, dentist appointments, and taking him there? (As an aside, each and every time that Ben has attempted to call Daver “Daddy Dave” Nat has become livid. He wants the glory without the responsibility which infuriates me).

The straw that broke the camel’s back arrived when I informed Nat of when Back to School night is, to which he replied “I’m not going. It was boring last time.” This on the heels of him not showing up to ANY of Ben’s school functions like Open House or Kindergarten Graduation, even after he promised to do so.

Boiling point reached. I called the school and informed them that Ben’s new last name would be a hypenation of His Last Name-My Last Name. As far as the Social Security office would be concerned, nothing had changed, but now, the postmaster will have no more doubts.

Ah, the things I wish I could inform those who get pregnant out of wedlock…see, as a baby none of this matters. It’s only as the years pass that it becomes a “God, I wish I’d not given in.”

And as for me, I am completely aware of the Battle Extrodinaire that will ensue from this, providing Nat ever notices, and for once, I feel perfectly justified.

Alex is on what the experts call a “nursing strike,” and despite my conflicted emotions about breastfeeding in general (I love it most of the time, but sometimes I do hate it) I am literally wracked with guilt.

Ah, guilt, the other primary emotion of motherhood. Guilt, guilt, guilt. What did I do wrong? How is my body failing me? Etc, etc, etc. Maybe it’s not strictly a maternal thing, though, maybe some father’s experience it as well, I’m not sure. I married a man who, God love him, is quick to reassure me that things that happen to or with either of our children cannot be classified as my fault, nor are they his fault. It’s meant to be sweet, of course, and most of the time it is, but sometimes there is a more banal part of myself that wants to scream at him that “YES, *I* did this to our kids! It’s MY fault that I cannot find a Mead ™ brand red plastic covered 3 subject notebook!!!” It’s not rational and it’s not fair, which is why I bite my tongue.

It’s interesting to note that ANYTHING that I did with/to Ben as a baby was my fault in Nat’s eyes. It was MY fault that Ben didn’t breastfeed (although it was later determined that Ben cannot stand to be touched); Ben was screamy because *I* decided to try solids on him too early, the icecaps are melting because I dared to not listen to NPR on an hourly basis. He was always convinced of my guilt before I even did whatever it was that I was to feel guilty about, although I never once saw him guilty about anything that he did.

Maybe it’s just me, then. Having grown the daughter of a bipolar alcoholic does happen to make a person rather guilt ridden. I’ve been known to feel guilty about things that I have had absolutely no control over. Take September 11, 2001, which was approximately 3 weeks after Ben was born: I FELT GUILTY ABOUT BRINGING BEN INTO THE WORLD DURING SUCH A TIME, as though I’d have been able to predict that would happen while unintentionally getting pregnant. Today, one of the cats pissed in the living room. I felt guilty about that, obviously I wasn’t fit to be the parent to the furbabies. I finished priming the bathroom last night and this morning I noticed that the walls were nowhere as smooth as I’d have liked them to be, especially considering the labor I put into them. This made me feel guilty.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit around prostrate with grief (although if I were prostrate with grief, I doubt I’d be sitting, I’d probably be laying somewhere dramatically) day in and day out. Overall, I’m pretty well-hinged and even tempered (somewhere, Dave is laughing silently, while weeping), but situations like this nursing strike tend to make me feel overly guilty about something outside of my control. He’s teething, the rational part of my mind screams, get over it, he’ll be back on the nip soon enough. Then I google “nursing strike” and Dr. Google reminds me that it’s somehow my fault that he’s not nursing: I’ve been drinking too much coffee, I’ve been eating something he doesn’t like, I’ve been snorting too much blow.

Seriously, 90% of material about pregnancy, breastfeeding and parenting place the blame for most poor behavior, including that of newborn infants squarely on the mother, which is interesting, because last I checked, children have a biological father somewhere, too, even if he’s not in the picture. He is, apparently, never to blame for anything whatsoever. I suppose that reading that kind of shit just reinforces what is inborn to mothers: you are to blame for most everything that goes wrong with your child.

I don’t know about all of this. All that I do know is that I am terribly, ridiculously sad right now.

Monday morning at Target while in the discounted school supply aisle, Ben is playing his DS in the cart, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings while Alex and Dave disappear into another aisle.

Me: “grumble, grumble, freaking impossible to find school supplies, I’ll show THEM next year…”

Ben (while not looking up from his video game): “Mommy, did you put on your bitter pants today?”

Me: “…..”

Me: “…..”

Me: “…..”

Me (suitably chastised): “Um….I guess I should take them off, huh.”

Unlike the previous owner of our old condo, I had no real beefs with the previous owners of our house. Sure, I hate all of their paint choices, and maybe the fake flowers planted (and thoughtfully left) in the backyard were pretty rank, but overall I couldn’t complain. There were no size 20 skirts in the closet and no spoiling milk in the fridge.

Until I started work on this bathroom. In a word, it’s been a nightmare, the likes of which only someone else who has removed wallpaper can appreciate. Let me give you a mini-primer on wallpaper removal should you ever be cursed with such a chore:

Wallpaper is made of 2 pieces of paper: the vinyl outer layer (in this case, 3 separate flower patterns) and the inner layer which is designed to glue to the wall. Removing the outer layer isn’t hard, but the glue bonds itself to everything in it’s path. Including drywall and the old paint from the walls.

After you scrape the bejesus out of the glue/paper and it comes off, you’re left with patches that weren’t able to be removed (so you have to sand it) AND in this case, bits of chipped wall paint. So now you have 2 choices (somewhat like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel, only less awesomely awesome): you can sand off ALL OF THE PAINT from the walls OR you can spackle the living shit out of the patches (because if you don’t, the painted wall will resemble the pockmarked face of a teenager with bad acne).

I chose to spackle, which is somewhat more satisfying but will THEN have to be sanded smooth. Then primed and painted (assuming I haven’t committed myself first)

Here’s hoping that it works, otherwise you may see the only recorded death due to spackling (considering the recent back injury, the tally is now Spackle: 1, Becky: 0).

I am currently in the running for dumbest injuries ever sustained.

1) I sprained my ankle walking down the stairs in my old condo. Walking leisurely, mind you, I was not running quickly nor was I saving any cute and cuddly kittens from a burning building.

2) I scratched my cornea doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.

3) And today I strained my back spackling the wall in the bathroom. SPACKLING a wall. And no, it wasn’t a wall designed to rescue cute and cuddly kittens from being crushed by it.

If this keeps going, I may soon injure my taint while sleeping.