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.

Anyone who has had to bear the burden of being married or in a long term relationship has inexplicably been stuck in the same predicament year after year. Who gets you for the holidays or any other day of the year that your family may deem IMPERATIVE that you be home.

I have been blessed with both in-laws and a family who do not become angry if I am unable to make a particular holiday. Neither of us gets outright YELLED at or threatened to be written out of a will or two. No, they’re MUCH more subtle than that. I’ve experienced the passive aggressive, sullen and disheartened, “Well, ooooookkkkkay, I GUESS it’s OKAY if you don’t make it. Your BROTHER would have made it.”

The Daver deals with the same stuff.

And I have to be honest, I ADORE the holidays.

It’s the most wonderful motherfucking time of the year, after all. There is nothing more magical than the Christmas season, aside from maybe a freshly shorn nutbag, but I digress. The lights, the smells, the sounds, the bells, I love it all. I love shopping for gifts, I love decorating for the holidays; I love that magical first snow of the year.

And I admit that I even love seeing my family and my in-laws. I adore both sides of our family; and I love seeing them for the holidays.

As usual, there is a catch: both sets of parents EXPECT that they are the most important members of the family,and are therefore entitled to certain unalienable privileges. Most of those being our time WHENEVER THEY WANT US TO for the holidays. It isn’t as though I don’t want to see them; I do.

But I can’t say that I enjoy my holidays spent in the car going from one place to another. Although traveling isn’t a problem for us; we like to get going as much as the next person. But spending 7+ hours a day in a car with a small child for a couple of hours with each set of families is going pretty far beyond what anyone else in the famil(ies) do.

It only compounds matters exponentially that my parents, living about 1 hour from us, see us far more than Dave’s do, living 3+ hours from us (although, by some untapped miracle Dave claims that it only takes an hour and a half. Aside from teleportation, I have no idea how he gets there with such speed), which makes us feel bad. This, in turn makes us try to bend over literally downward facing dog AND the tree trying to appease whatever holiday requests they ask of us.

But no matter how much we break our backs for the families, no one else will meet us halfway. We get no”Well you came out by us last time, now it’s our turn.” If we cannot attend a gathering, there will be no offer to see us or come out to our house at a rescheduled date. Which would explain why I found a couple of little gifts I had picked up for my in-laws LAST YEAR in my vanity. Just SHAMEFUL.

Let’s compound things once again: I have a child whose father is not Dave, and said father wants to see his child on the holidays, too. So Dave, Ben and I are stuck grappling with the seemingly senseless fragments of 3 timetables from 3 families.

We have to make it to cities, W, X, Y and Z in a matter of 1.5 days. These cities are 1-4 hours apart. So we could alternate the cities based on a number of factors (If we leave for W at 6pm after work, get there at 9, stay til 6am drive 4 hours, arrive at 10:30, open gifts, smile, laugh, eat, leave at 1pm if Ben has had nap, drive another hour, drive an hour back, open more presnets, better not nap b/c you’ll look like you’re not having fun, drive 1.5 hours home, utterly exhausted), but it essentially boils down to extra travelling time for us, but not for anyone else.

Here’s my resolution, dear Internet, next year this foolishness will be done, and we won’t exhaust ourselves traveling multiple hours in the car just to appease everyone for the holidays.

Next year, we’re embracing the “N” word.

Something I here don’t do a whole lot is give credit where it is due.

Sure, I tell a lot of gross girl-joke stories, and if you want information about the the current state of my pubic hair, look no further. While that is all well and good, I feel as though I must give a shout-out to the one person who has made this entire blogging experience happen to us, AND to most of you: my husband.

And to be fair last night he actually THREW a crusty greenish yellow booger at me while he was sleeping, but who can blame him? I am still the person who was, according to both of her parents, and I quote, “Born smoking a cigar and barking out orders.”

Yesterday WHILE AWAKE, he did something for me that I couldn’t do myself: he took my bestest cat in the whole wide world in to be put to sleep. He held him while he died. And no amount of crusty boogies thrown at me day or night can minimize that to me. It meant EVERYTHING.

My heart was wearing a less-sad face knowing that Finnigan died with someone who loved him (almost) as much as I do.

This isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination the only thing that Daver has ever done for me. He allowed me to pick out AND BUY the car that I wanted over the car he wanted. He’s even learning to like it! That may have something to do with the fact that I GRILL him about it over and over, but so what? Right?

He doesn’t even talk TOO much about annulments when I use my crappy way of evoking the cheerful daemons when he’s in a nasty, foul, disgusting, flatulent mood. I mean maybe you don’t know this but I SING HIM ROD STEWART! AT TOP VOLUME! Now I of course, ADORE Rod “The Hot-Bod At 708 Years Old” Stewart, but I recognize this as another of my dirty and gross qualities.

Take whatever dislike you likely have for my choice in music and couple that with the fact that my singing physically shears wallpaper from the walls. Really, it does. This is why we have none in our house.

In this vein, I leave you with my favorite quote from my favorite Rod “I Can’ Believe I’m Still Makin’ Baby Batter’ Stewart, and I dedicate it to you, my sweet Daver:

You’re a rhapsody, a comedy,
You’re a symphony, and a play;
You’re every love song ever written,
But honey, what do you see in me?

Rest in peace, Finnigan.

I’ll be missing you.

My heart cracked as loud as a coffee mill.

Today, I learned that my second favorite cat in the world, the first being his deceased brother, has been diagnosed with liver failure. He remains alive, very frail but alive, due to the miracles of modern medicine. My mother shared the news with me over lunch today, but the details of it remain blurred. The only thing that I can recall is the sinking feeling in my gut and my heart breaking audibly over the sounds of the busy restaurant.

After lunch, in which I shoveled in the obligatory two bites tasting nothing but sand and saltwater tears, I saw him. His bones were prominent over his back and legs, and his eyes lethargic but alert and bright. I was filled with a deep sorrow and wept softly into his back, and as I shook he feebly licked my hand as he had so many times before.

The unfairness of this broke my shattered heart into even tinier pieces. How could HE try to comfort ME, especially NOW? I guess the real question now is how can I really mourn someone that isn’t yet dead? Logically, it makes no sense.

I’ve never been much of one for goodbyes, as anyone close to me will know well. I prefer to keep them at a ‘See you when I see you’ kind of level whenever possible to spare myself the very real thought that I will never again see said person/place/thing.

I dislike the permanence of death and goodbyes, the feeling that one ought to say or do anything necessary prior to the visit from the Grim Reaper, because WHAT IF I FORGET SOMETHING IMPORTANT?

I *ALWAYS* forget important stuff.

So now we play the Waiting Game, which happens to be my least favorite of all games. There’s always a possibility that he will pull through, but the likelihood of that happening is very slim. Miracles don’t happen to cats.

At least not to the great ones.