I make no bones about the fact that I am married to someone addicted to workahol. Maybe I don’t always love this about my spouse, but overall, I tend to be self sufficient enough to be a-okay with it. I do my own thing most of the time, and should I see Dave, I consider it a bonus.

In this light I have been able to watch the entire season of The Simple Life, which I adore. I’ve managed to respond to emails and phone calls. I have a perfectly functional garden. I have also gone through about 564 double A batteries (read: Big Pink Meets Becky: An E! True Hollywood Story).

Life, as it has this weird tendency to do, has crept up on me, knocking the rug out beneath my feet, and *whoops* there goes gravity; Dave became a manager-type thing. Which is great for him because that’s what he wanted to do.

After the 6th straight night of being deserted shortly after dinner, I informed him that if Work was his first wife, and I was his second, then I needed a Boyfriend. Which was where he came in. I carefully laid out my game plan, highlighting such Good Points as:

1.) Think of how much LESS I’ll whine to you!

and

2.) I’ll stop bugging you to come hang out with me because I’m bored! Just get me a new boyfriend!

My short attention span took charge, and I quickly forgot all about my proposition.

The next morning, I roll into work, preparing for another day of death and people threatening to sue me (I am SO not a nurse!) and about mid-morning, I check my personal email (let’s be honest here. I never get emails. Ever. Like seriously, Ever) to read such interesting subject matters as ‘Sexy Baby Bad Erection’ and ‘Cheeep V1AgrA!’ with ‘Thank you for registering at Match.com.’

Certain that it was a hilarious joke, and frankly quite impressed with Dave. I investigated further, assuming that the email was actually spam. The email was from match.com not jahoirwgbruoqwrqh3io2i838yh@match.net, so another dead end.

So I called Dave at work to tell him that he’d really gotten me good this time. I raved and raved about it. What a great joke! My jubilant greeting was met with dead silence. He told me that he had no idea what I was talking about (as per usual). I explained that I had been registered with Match.com by him. He denied it.

In typical Becky-fashion, I didn’t believe him, and began to press harder which was ALSO met by silence and denials. Maybe he *hadn’t* done it!?!

Then who did?

I had no memory of doing so. Dave denied it. Plus, I don’t live in Evanston or even close to Evanston. My brother does, did he do it? Unlikely. He doesn’t have my email address.

Several days passed and while IMing with Pashmina, she mentioned Match.com and certain people that we might know that use the site. I suddenly remember the online profile we’d set up years before and a lightbulb popped up over my dim head.

Thank you Pashmina, for unintentionally bringing badfish8789 back to the world of online dating.

You ready world? Because I’m BACK IN fake dating ACTION.

Daver and I happened to be sitting out on our back porch one night, mildly discussing our past relationships. Mainly, it was a back and forth game of virtual tennis, but instead of balls (hehe. BALLS!!) we hurled insults. Basically, it was like playing ‘War’ but without the cards:

Actual example:

‘Dude, you dated Sabrina. Why won’t she update her blog? Email her and have her update her blog.’

‘No. Besides you dated Nat.’

‘Right, but Nat didn’t have an entire section of his website devoted to sappy poemes about me. Didja hear the fancy way I said poemes?’

‘But it’s Nat.’

‘Dude, I so win’

‘No, you don’t. Nat trumps Sabrina.’

‘…ad nauseum

During this discussion, Dave made mention of sappy love poetry he’d written, and I was forced to reveal that although I had ‘œwhored around’ I had never had a crappy emo poeme written for me.

Ever.

The Daver saw his opportunity to shine, and went a-running with it. So now, at the tender age if 25 I am in possession of my first ever crappy, sappy and lame emo poeme, reprinted here just as the author had intended it.

Becky’s Crappy Sappy Emo Poeme (I named this bad boy; Dave would probably have named it something emo-like and crappy like ‘Velvet Turbulence’).

‘Burning like tear-trails,
desire unrequited-
with a glance, your flame
flares searingly through
my veins.
Blood boiling,
then cooling,
then freezing my icy heart.’

So I retorted with this beauty:

It Tastes Like Battery Acid, You Bastard!

‘you sweet and sensuous velvet sparkly
caresses my mouth,
i yearn,
i burn,
for more.
i need you,
like i need air,
shamelessly,
without remorse.
i listen not to others,
who complain about your taste.
as they have no more taste-buds.
you taste like angels,
and faeries,
and all that is good with the world.
like the guy at the 7-11 who provides you to me.
daily’

As I handed my prized poeme off to The Daver for inspection, expectantly waiting for the ‘Wow! You’re an amazing poet!’ compliments to start flying my way, I was sorely disappointed. For all of my .56 seconds of effort (most of those .01 seconds were spent trying to figure out how to spell angel and caress) I got a measly:

‘Becky, this poem isn’t about me. It’s about Diet Coke.’

Touche, The Daver, touche.

I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am FAR more concerned about my needs.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when The Daver walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidentally microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that The Daver does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until The Daver stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

The Daver and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘the cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

*hahahaha

Picture this scene: you’re out to breakfast with your significant other, having an otherwise unremarkable meal, when a table full of unruly children arrives. You try your best to ignore the increase in noise and finish your meal in peace, when, lo and behold, a child from said table walks over to your table and without prompting, sticks his hand into your open purse. The mother, gently chides the child for touching other people’s purses and you are left sitting, dumbstruck and awed by what just happened.

Having been a waitress as well as a hapless consumer, I am constantly surrounded by children and their parents. Hell, I have my own, whom I pick up and take to a school filled with MORE children. My point, roundabout as it may be is this: I see tons and tons and tons of kids. I genuinely like kids, truth be told, maybe I’m not the most gooshy of parents, but I dig the shorties. They crack me up.

I’ve been waiting awhile, trying to place my finger just on what I’ve been thinking, and on Monday it dawned on me. With the whole PC-bullshit generation of Baby Boomers kids having their own kids, it became highly fashionable to eschew the harsher punishments that were often handed down to us. I mouthed off as a kid? I got smacked. I didn’t listen to my parents? I got smacked. I lied? I got smacked AND grounded, and so on and so on.

Parents today want to subscribe to the whole new-agey parental role of being a guide to your child, a resource for them to use to navigate through the more tricky paths that life can offer. They are expected to reward positive behavior with praise and adoration (NEVER bribes) and overlook the negative behavior so as not to reinforce the attention. Yelling is passe, talking quietly (but don’t be TOO NEGATIVE!!!!) is in.

I think it’s bullshit. Your kids should respect you. They should respect you and they should respect authority.

I shudder to think of the generation of Special Snowflakes that will grow up and be SHOCKED to learn that really? We can’t all be fucking astronauts. Or ballerinas. Hell, we’re not all winners. I love my children and I’m not about to try and stomp on their dreams like tiny bugs, but at the same time, disappointment and failure are both real things. I’ll be there for my child when it happens, because it WILL happen.

And when my kid is wrong, I’ll say so. When he needs a spanking, he’ll get it. And he’ll respect me because I am his mother. Not his friend or his playmate, his mother. Which, at the end of the day, is a kazillion times more important.

I am his mother.

A list of things that just Piss Me Off, in no particular order:

1. People who pull out from the side of the road directly in front of me when there are no cars behind me so that I have to SLOW DOWN. If you know me, you know that I hate most things that impede my ability to drive fast.

2. People who use blogs as a personal forum for complaining about their lives, and then get incensed that people read it and may have an opinion about it. If you don’t want the Internet to know that you hate anal sex, have trichomoniasis, or like to beat off goats, DON’T PUT IT ON THE INTERNET. Plain and simple.

3. The terminology associated with being a wine connoisseur. I have no problem whatsoever with people liking particular or good wine, but listening to them talk about things like “smooth rounded tannic finish” makes me want to give myself a root canal with my fingernails. Maybe I’m embittered because I’ve been to a number of wine classes and never been able to understand or care what is said. Come to think of it, the only reason I went was to get drunk at 9am on a Saturday. No wonder I didn’t listen.

4. Cheerful people who tell me dumb things like, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Seriously, I’ll take those motherfucking lemons and make me an ass-whuppin’.

5. People who have to bring up politics in standard, garden- variety, small talk. The proper forum is key, here. Don’t take the statement “Nice day today” to bring up things like global warming or the oil crisis. If I had wanted to discuss that, I’d have said so.

6. Belly shirts. I hate this poor excuse for fashion trend, as it is never, Ever, EVER utilized by people who should be wearing them. Trust me, sweetcheeks, no one wants to see your (or mine) spare tire. It’s unsightly and nauseating.

7. People who take themselves That Seriously. Anyone I’ve ever met who has taken themselves So Seriously has never really known what Serious is. Take a step back, knock of the pretentiousness and get yourself together, people, it isn’t that hard!

8. I forget what eight was for.

9. Kevin Federwhatshisname. We all hate Britney’s man, but seriously I think he may be the most useless piece of wasted space ever to have graced the limelight. Have you HEARD his new song? Terrible doesn’t BEGIN to describe the bleeding that my ears did when I first heard it. GOD, he makes me ITCH!

10. The “Healthy” Menu at McDonald’s. I had the foresight to check out what would be BEST if I ate at the bestest restaurant in the world, and I was AMAZED at how awful their healthy shit is for you. You’re better off with a cheeseburger.

11. People who feel totally sorry for themselves for all of the Awful, Terrible, Horrible things that have happened in their lives and use that as a Victim Card to excuse their bad behavior.

12. Jello. Because really? There’s so often no room for it.

Along with the new-and-improved fat pattern distribution, and the lovely accordion like belly skin, Ben has imparted upon me a more lasting legacy. A more centralized and less forgettable type of bodily change, making me prone to looking as though I have nits.

I didn’t, unfortunately, think about the consequences of pushing out a child dubbed ‘Buckethead.’ Possibly the most horrific thing to happen to a freshly 21 year old mother (besides forceps and 4th degree tearing). A hemorrhoid. Yes, folks, it’s true. The ‘roids are not only for the old and infirm. The young, nubile, swollen, and fat get them too. And ass pillows.

God, the ass pillows.

I’m waiting until I’m done pushing out the crotch parasites and then I’ll get them cut off. Until then, I’ll pretend that I’m buying the economy sized vat of Preparation-H for my mother and laugh uncomfortably whenever anyone comes across my ass pillow.

Oh, who am I kidding.

The second I got my Tucks, I labeled them “Ass Pads” and displayed them on top of our toilet. If you can’t beat ’em, announce it proudly to the world.

(ring, ring)

Aunt Becky (clearly jumping out of her skin with excitement): “Hey Fuckwad, I had a great idea!”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

(typing sounds resume in background)

Aunt Becky: “I want to buy a new house now.”

The Daver (warily) “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I found a new one.”

The Daver: “What?!?”

Aunt Becky (talking faster now): “I mean, I know the market sucks but I just realized my dream house!”

The Daver (tiredly): “Where is this place?

Aunt Becky: “Well, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?'”

The Daver (warily and wearily): “….yes…”

Aunt Becky (triumphantly): “I’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!”

The Daver: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) “Becky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county”

Aunt Becky: “I KNEW you were going to say that! THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing! Give them an offer they can’t refuse!”

The Daver (rests head on desk) “Ohno.”

Aunt Becky (dreamily):“Think about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of the house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco when we got married!”

The Daver: “You know she’s dead, right?”

Aunt Becky: “So she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco. See, I think of EVERYTHING.”

The Daver: “You got me out of a meeting for THIS?”

Aunt Becky: “DUH. This is IMPORTANT.”

The Daver: “Dude. You’d better get this freelancing shit going soon.”

Aunt Becky: “When I am Lady of the House, I won’t have time to write any more. I’ll be too busy trying on my vast tiara collection and ordering the staff to taste my food to make sure it’s not been poisoned.”

The Daver: “I’m going to call some people to see if they’ll hire you.”

Aunt Becky: “Good luck with that.”

The Daver: “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait a minute…”

*click*

What a hell of a year.

I’ve certainly had better years (read: threesomes with prostitutes) but I’ve had worse years too (read: threesomes with DISEASED prostitutes), but to say that it’s been a busy year is a drastic understatement.

*The apex of my thus-far scholastic achievement was met when I graduated college. It somehow felt a little empty, spending so much valuable time and money to earn a piece of paper that I have yet to actually show anyone but the poor saps I have cornered at my house to admire said diploma. Job-type-giving people have just assumed that I am actually degreed SIMPLY BECAUSE I SAID I WAS! I mean, I could’ve fooled the system WITHOUT actually having to exert any real effort.

Kinda like this. “Of COURSE I graduated college Mrs. HR lady!”

*I changed my name, and I must admit, Princess Grace of Monaco is a MUCH cooler sounding name. And to be totally honest, I haven’t really missed my old name, although my new signature is kind of awkward looking. I suppose that in time, it will become second nature.

*In an attempt at frugality (me, yeah right) I opted to purchase some CVS-brand toilet paper. BIG MISTAKE. I have learned, via wiping my ass on what actually appears to be wax paper, that TP is something one should NEVER attempt to skimp on.

*Last January, we bought a condo in scenic Oak Park. And painted it. No longer did the walls look like “cat pee on plasterboard” they looked like brightly colored Easter eggs. Then, being annoyed at living in Oak Park, we bought ANOTHER house in St. Charles. No one said we were, uh, SMART.

*This year was a bad one for my cats. My 2 favorites died suddenly and unexpectedly, causing me an inordinate amount of grief and pain.

*I had an actual honest-to-God birthday party to celebrate my 25th year on the planet and the passing of my nursing boards. It was in the TRASHIEST nightclub in the area, but shit, 25 man!

*Any year without a new case of venereal disease is a year well spent.

*I worked in prison to channel my inner Johnny Cash.

*After channeling my inner Johnny Cash too often around my child, he began to pick up some phrasings that may not be suited to the under 4 set. Also, this may have led to my isolation from the mommy’s in the pick-up lane. WHOOPS.

*The kid fingerpainted in poo. Twice.

*I done got married.

*Being married is SO much better than GETTING married.

I’m hoping for a quieter 2006, but I don’t know who the hell *I’m* kidding.

As I previously stated, I am working on my New Years Resolution to Stop Being Such a Raging Bitch All of the Time, but I don’t think that I explained myself anymore than was necessary.

Because I was fat and drunk.

See, we’re moving. Without necessarily selling our old house. Money is about to be so tight as to possibly warrant shopping at Aldi and stealing food from my parents fridge without remorse. The remorse part, I mean. Not the stealing of food from my parents, because OBVIOUSLY. Wouldn’t you? Also, ketchup is SO a food group.

So when I was asked this year about what I wanted for Christmas, I was really vague about it, is always a bad idea when it comes to dealing with my spouse. Most of the men I’ve known need EXPLICIT instructions as to what items to buy from what store. It’s even better if you can cross reference it with some other files and use those colored tabs to make it look really official. My list (usually 278 million TIMES longer and better) went something like this:

1. Thin leather gloves. Black. From a department store. I think my glove size is about a 6.5. Ask at counter. Suede okay, too. I got some gloves from Dave pre-Christmas. They were red, fluffy, and waterproof. Purchased from Menards. Make hands look like stuffed sausages, but hell, they are warm. Do not fit and make hands sweat.

2. A ring for my right hand’s middle finger so you can have something to look at when I flip you the bird. Colorful and gaudy than wedding band. NO YELLOW GOLD, IT MAKES ME BARF. Ring size: 6.5, or maybe a 6.0. Big brightly colored stone but not from a gumball machine.

And then I ran out of things that I wanted, which is a scary phenomenon. I ALWAYS want something. I am a needy person who needs things.

The Friday before Christmas Eve, Dave began to hint that he’d gotten me something 1). Totally awesome, 2). that I wanted 3). that HE wanted, too, and I broke out into a cold sweat. Did I JUST get that NEW PRINTER THAT I HADN’T WANTED? Or was it a NEW video card for his computer THAT I HADN’T WANTED? OR could it be the yacht I’d be oogling?

Either way, I figured that the bathrobe that he had gotten from me wasn”t enough and that I had better re-hit the mall on Christmas Eve. I did, and happened to purchase him about 500 things that he’d mentioned that he wanted, none of them geek crap because I don’t buy that shit.

Christmas morning, in the form of a lanky 4 year old arrived, and we went downstairs to check out our stockings. Yes, we still get stockings. My mom is AWESOME. Dave was nearly swooning with excitement by the time actual presents were opened, and he eagerly thrust his gaily wrapped package (no, not THAT one, it was CHRISTMAS!) with gaudy oversized card (inscription: this was the last one at the store. I *guess* it’s sentiment is true) and I opened this magnificent gift!

A Nikon D50.

Made me feel bad because I had bought Dave half a dozen stars and stripes scarf sets with “World’s Greatest Mom” embroidered on the edge as a gag gift. He was shockingly touched and got all misty eyed and had to leave the room to compose himself.

Apparently, I was thoughtful.

What a freak.

This is the only way we were dumb enough to have done what we just did.

Aunt Becky (looking in the mirror, probably inspecting for stray eyebrow hair): Hey Dave, would say I was more hauntingly or more mysteriously beautiful?

The Daver (randomly looking through a pile of mail, deciding it was fruitless, leaving it half-opened in favor of the Xbox): I had a really, really great idea. We should move the fireplace from the living room to the dining room. Can I pencil you in to do that tomorrow?

Aunt Becky (looking in a mirror, trying to look at own ass): I guess so. On a scale of one to ten, how hot is my ass?

The Daver (playing with his balls): A nine. I think we should consider buying a BIGGER TV and another X-box. Then I can play 2 games at once! Doesn’t that sound totally worthful?

Aunt Becky (still in bathroom, admiring newly colored hair from all angles): I can’t believe that you just said worthful. Anyway, I told my stylist, Linda, that I wanted my hair to look JUST LIKE BRITNEY’S, and look, she didn’t dye it enough. Do I look fat with blond hair?

The Daver (eyes have glazed over, but is now staring intently at box of Munchems willing them to come to him so that he doesn’t have to get up): No, honey. Hey, you wanna go out for a beer?

Me (making kissy-faces at self in mirror with new shade of Pussy Pink lipstick): Sure I’d like to order food. Big Girl wants an egg roll.

The radiator clanks so loudly that both jump about 4 feet into the air, completely skewing what the other heard

And that, folks, may be the reason that Dave and I were stoopid enough to CHOOSE to move the week before Christmas. I can’t think of any other sane person deciding that this would be the best course of action:

Sane Guy #1: Hey, it’s a couple weeks before Christmas. Wanna move?

Sane Guy #2: Are you fucking outta your mind? What kind of idiot would move now? Huh?

Sane Guy #1 (chuckles loudly): Juuuuuust kidding. Wanted to see if you were listening to me.

Come to think of it, Guy #1 sounds pretty female.