I was a sickly kid. Had I been born before the invention of antibiotics, I would have bit the bucket before my first birthday, not a doubt in my mind. Modern medicine saved my dimply ass more times than I could ever possibly count, but even still I was out of school more than I was in it. And while it SOUNDS kinda cool when you think about it really, it sucked ass.

When I was 14, I begged my doctor to take out my tonsils after I realized that they now had holes and craters in them where stuff was getting caught that I had to fish out. Which, hi, EW.

The surgery was a nightmare because my tonsils, having been used and abused by so many bugs for so many years had, for lack of a better word, rotted. LET THIS BE A WARNING TO YOU, PARENTS OUT THERE WHOSE PHYSICIANS TELL YOU TO TAKE OUT YOUR KIDS TONSILS: DO IT!

While the surgeon was in there, he niftily removed my adenoids too, because, well, why not?

What he never bothered to tell me, and what I didn’t realize until months later is that now I had no barrier between my mouth and my nose. At the wrong angle, let’s say a drinking fountain, water would simply pour from my mouth and out my nose.

It’s a charming party trick.

Having NO adenoids has made oral sex most irritating to perform, although now that I think of it, I bet there’s an untapped goldmine market for porn out there.

Nose Porn.

HOT.

Some people keep pets to protect themselves and their families from the gamut of intruders, burglars, murderers, and rapists that regularly prey on innocent people. Because they’re always talking about that on the local Fear Segment of the news, so it must be true.

Dogs are a common favorite for this. My brother, for example, trained his German Shepard to attack me whenever I walked into the house. There is no love lost between us, obviously.

My parents have 2 large dogs that alert them when: a) Someone is approaching the house b)Another animal is approaching the house or c) a squirrel farts down the block. It’s actually quite tedious to live with if, you know, you ever want to sleep or study or talk on the phone.

I’ve HEARD of people having cats that do similar things, you know, meowing and hissing whenever someone new comes over. My own cats would NEVER do anything of the sort because they are much more concerned with napping or licking their own assholes. Although Finnegan, my 25 pound cat we call “The Deer Hunter” may attack someone carrying in a cheeseburger or spinach salad, but only so he could eat some of it.

Who am I kidding, he’d eat ALL OF IT.

Apparently, over at Casa de la Sausage, we have inadvertently developed a new hybrid of attack-critters. A nest of wasps decided that our back porch was the perfect spot for a summer home. We cohabitated quite well until this morning, when I was ruthlessly attacked by the mess of wasps.

I guess that wasps are too stupid to train to attack “undesirables,” despite my sorted efforts, which mainly consisted of putting pictures of Pashmina out by the hive and chanting “attack the beast” over and over.

So now, in a haze of insecticide, my porch rests.

Peacefully, even.

Like the 25-year old adult that I have freakishly become, I celebrated college graduation AND passing of the Nursing Boards by committing to a surprisingly adult job. I know. I KNOW.

I must admit that my job hunting, unlike my English Major cohorts, I have been blessed to enter into my chosen (for the VERY short-term) a field that is interested in 3 main criteria:

1. A CPR/ACLS card
2. A License
3. A Warm Body

It’s nice in one sense, as I have my pick of positions at any number of hospitals, kick-ass benefits, and shifts. It is, however, decidedly unflattering, in the way that you don’t actually get picked on merit or awards, more on pulse and respirations. If you’re a warm-ish body, you’re pretty much hired.

This has been one of two weeks of orientation that I have had to undergo and I’m stuck in a room with 40 people who are so toothfully chipper and GO NURSING that it almost makes me ashamed and embarrassed. Not one of them knows that I’m really not looking forward to getting onto the floor and wiping asses and taking shit from people. They’ve all been waiting years for this day and I would rather be applying latex paint to a house with my tongue.

I’m trying to be optimistic about the next week as it will be one of the only times that we get a free lunch and more or less free reign over what we do. I do not scoff at free lunches. The size of my ass should tell you that.

So, for eight hours every day I am forced to sit through lecture upon lecture from EVERY department in the hospital because they’re still dating us right now and trying to woo us and make us take off our panties so that we can go all the way with them. I don’t mind being wooed. I do mind that we’re about to be butt-raped, but that’s neither here nor there.

Of the more interesting things that I’ve learned is this: If you’re at work and you accidentally run into your co-worker who is carrying a sheet of glass and you cut yourself, and he picks up the pieces of broken glass covered in your blood, he SHOULD NOT stick the bloody glass in his eyes.

I am very glad that they cleared that up for me because I had spent most of the week before that wondering about that exact same scenario. It’s like the hospital is psychic or something.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off too find some glass to break before I have to listen to a scintillating lecture about what Laundry Services does. It’s certain to be a nail biter.

I got my first tattoo almost three years ago for my 22nd birthday. It’s a gecko that takes up most of my right foot, very niftily colored and adorable and he’s there to remind me to always be true to myself which is something that I had to learn the hard way.

Location was key because I needed to be able to hide it. I have enough foresight to know that in 50 years, getting “I HEART KURT COBAIN” on my boob probably wouldn’t be a huge hit at the rest home and might require a little explaining on my wedding day, so the foot it was.

It hurt like a motherfucker. Of course it did. For weeks.

To celebrate becoming Aunt Becky, RN, BSN, I decided to do something special for myself because what I just did–graduate school after completely flipping around my educational dreams and desires and change career paths entirely–that’s a Big Fucking Deal. It needed to be commemorated with something more than a haircut or a purse.

My other foot is now the proud new owner of a throbbing swollen foot covered by a large, pink tattooed seahorse.

It’s the other lesson I want to remember with The Wedding That Ate My Life looming just around the corner: I can always make it on my own.

Always.

My first nickname was given to me by my much older and very cruel creative older brother Aaron.

Stumpy.

Apparently, because I was short* and and stubbly like a small, uh, stump, he decided that this would be my nickname. And it was for the first 23 years of my life, until his wife chewed him out for it.

My parents called me Rebecca because they seem to think Becky is a terrible name which seems awfully stupid to me, because Becky is the logical shortening of that name, but whatever. They’re hippies and hippies wear Patchouli Oil and THAT doesn’t REALLY doesn’t make sense. (also, spell check hates Rebecca but loves Becky. THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE, PEOPLE).

Throughout the years I’ve had other nicknames because really, who doesn’t?

Ben calls me “Mom,” my friends call me “Becks,” “Sherrick” or some variation of the two, and The Daver calls me “Baby” or “Motherfucker.” Both said with equal amounts of love, if you can believe it.

For my first blog, my nickname was Ren, although I usually used my real name because I never could believe that I was important enough that anyone would stalk me and here I absolutely use my real name.

With one addition.

One very IMPORTANT addition.

I am now Your Aunt Becky.

Okay, so I’m obviously not your aunt, because if I were, don’t you think you would have seen me around at some christening or maybe a birthday party somewhere? You’d have certainly gotten some sort of holiday card from me because I’m good like that, and you’d know that I am known for being such a bad cook that no one wants me near the kitchen.

So we’re not related.

But we are.

On the Internet, I am Your Aunt Becky because I am no one’s Aunt Becky in real life.

Admittedly, being The Internet’s Aunt is easier on my Amex because I don’t have to buy you guys frilly hats and booties and spoil you rotten because I don’t know what size you are anyway.

So there we have it.

Nice to meet you, Internet. I am Your Aunt Becky.

*for the record, I am 5 foot 5 inches. I’m hardly a stump.

I’m not a virgin.

No, hold back the gasps of amazement, I know it’s unbelievable. I am 24 years old and I have had sex.

To me, this statement means marvelous little. The lovin’ sessions I have had has always been nice, never earth-shattering, but nice. But to talk about my sexual status is something I’ve always done in the same tone as saying “I like Crest toothpaste, the kind with the sparkles.” It has never meant much of anything to me. It’s not some kind of feat, nor is it some kind of curse on my house. It just sort of is.

Through the years, I have come into contact with people who have not actually had sex. Maybe it was because they didn’t believe in sex before marriage due to their religious beliefs. Or due to a childhood trauma. Maybe the opportunity never presented itself. Or just because. I dunno. Never really mattered much to me either.

I consider it much in the same vein as my statements about having had sex, to be something like, “I like cheese omelets for breakfast” or “purple should be a flavor, dammit!” It’s another nothing statement. I’m full of them.

So what? Big deal. Who cares?

Pashmina informed me that there was this blogging site for virgins over 25 so OF COURSE I had to check it out.

Holy balls, these people are OBSESSED by their virginal status. Totally obsessed. Freakishly obsessed. Like they cannot stop thinking about it ever.

I dunno. If you want to Not Have The Sex, that’s cool, I don’t see The Sex as all that Earth Shattering an event. I’ve never done heroin and I don’t think about how much I wish I could do it all day every day. There are plenty of other things besides The Sex that you can do.

Then again, this is coming from a woman practicing “asstinence.”

Yup.

I’m saving my ass for marriage

It’s hot outside, now, because I live in Chicago where we have 2 seasons: Ass Hot and Ass Cold. And now, to make matters worse, this is my first experience with non-central air. We have several window units in the bedrooms, but the rest of our condo is sticky, muggy, and hot. The window units are pretty pathetic, too, because I think they’re from about 1946 and blow cool air maybe 12% of the time.

I’m just dying to see the electric bill.

I have a sauna in my armpits, they drip and cause my freshly applied deodorant to smell vaguely like cat piss. And my boobs? Well, they’re two life preservers adrift in a sea of salty sweaty juice. My wet hair dries in about 0.45 seconds upon leaving the shower.

But the worst, the ABSOLUTE worst part about living right now, is what the heat turns my vag into. Crotchal hygiene? Out the window. Clean cootch? Gone quicker than you can say “summer curtains” I feel like I’m sitting in pee. If this is what getting old is like, SHOOT ME.

I’m wondering if this is a call for FDS to the rescue but that could be the dehydration talking. I don’t know that I could actually handle buying or using.

Buying ass-pads? No problem. Buying condoms? Again, no biggie. Whatever, it means that I’m getting some ass.

Crotch spray, I don’t know, that just seems kinda, gross. I don’t think I want a lemon-scented vagina because that just seems a little weird to me. Like I’ve just had The Sex with Mr. Clean and he left his calling card as a Thank You for Coming.

Besides, it’s announcing to the entire pharmacy that you have a stinky cooter. Which, yeah, KINDA shameful.

I’d much rather tell the Internet.

When I was 15, I had this soft spot in my heart for boys in bands, specifically, the lead singers. I guess I didn’t really care if they COULD sing, so much as if they DID sing. These boys were “sweet” and “deep,” they could feel pain and express emotion, and do sexxy things like lick the microphone while singing. It was a completely stupid school-grrl fantasy, one in which I frequently indulged and thankfully broke myself of later on.

On the rebound from another boy in a band, I met Ken, who sang in a band called 7 Times Around. The name was super deep, as it meant he had been “through the ringer” with 7 other girls. You know, because at 15 everything is very, very important and relationships happen very quickly.

Well, Your Aunt Becky because dumb ass lucky number 8.

I knew he liked me because he gave me a necklace in the shape of a smiley face with a bullet hole through it’s head. Romantic, eh? That probably should have been my sign to run away, but because I am not only stupid but a masochist too, I stuck around. Not for very long, though, because Ken was a weenie and I knew it. I mainly dated him because, you know, I was trying to get over someone else.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A couple of months later, I’d made my friend Evan pick me up and drive me around in his car, and we were gossiping like a couple of bitches when he’s all, “What happened with you and Ken?”

And I was all, “Dude, I dumped him because he was fucking lame.”

And he was all, “No way.”

I could tell by the way that he said it that he didn’t really believe me.

“Why?” I asked him. “What have you heard?”

“Well,” he said conspiratorially. “You should know that Ken’s been going around telling anyone who will listen that the reason HE dumped YOU is because you wouldn’t put out.”

“Oh?” I said, my eyebrow arched, annoyed. We hadn’t even come close to having The Sex.

“Wait,” he said. “It gets better. You wouldn’t put out, Ken tells us, because you had a yeast infection.”

Internet, I will tell you that I laughed until I cried. Whatever Ken had been smoking, I want some of that.

As the monotony of this past weekend chock full of boring speeches and long lines begins to fade in my mind, and the blisters on my feet from uncomfortable shoes heal, it has finally hit me.

I did it. I fucking graduated from college summa cum laude. No one thought I was going to do it, and I proved them all wrong just like I always do.

And now I cannot I say “I’m a student” when people ask me what I do, I can say “I’m a nurse.” And I am. I start work on July 18.

Well, I have decided to give thanks to those who have helped to see me though these long, long years.

*The Daver: with your undying support and your knack for talking me down from a sheer panic, and your willingness to hold my hair back while I barf from stress, you have been my numero uno* support system. You even pretended to listen while I described in vivid detail the green stuff that I had to scrape off of some other dude’s wang during clinical’s without throwing up.

You deserve a medal or something, man.

*The Benner, my son. You are my first reason for becoming a nurse, and the thing I thank God for most each and every day. You have taught me well to stop and look at the world around me and appreciate the smallest bug and the grandest planet. I can now ALWAYS stop and see the forest for the trees.

*BeJeweled. for the low cost of $4.99, I was able to purchase a version for my phone that I spent many a 3 hour lecture playing. You saved me from pulling out my own eyes with my admittedly long fingernails or gnawing off part of my own arm from the complete and total boredom that was my nursing classes.

*SlimFast. You have saved my diet from many a delicious looking donut. Although you may not taste any better than licking my cat’s butthole, but you have consistently provided me with many vitamins and minerals essential to my body’s well-being.

*Sugar-Free Red Bull. The taste of your brew is essentially no different than drinking Drano, but on many an early, early morning after a late, late night, you have enabled me to get to class or clinical without killing anybody, especially myself. Which, really, was the only one who mattered to me.

*Parliament Lights- the fragrant aroma of your smoke, the wonderful taste in my mouth, the nifty filters that make a sun-shape while being smoked, are just some of the many fantastic components to my addiction. Honestly, you were often the only thing that could get me out of bed when the alarm clock reared it’s ugly head.

*Ortho-Evra- although your adhesive turns grayish black and crusty by the end of the week, and sometimes you itch like herpes, you have successfully prevented me from becoming pregnant with any more children before I am damn ready to do so. Thanks for not letting me get inconveniently knocked up again.

If I neglected to thank you, let me be the first to explain that I did so simply because I hate you. I hate you with all of my heart and soul, and wish that I’d never met you.

Obviously.

*That means “number one” in Spanish. I know that because I have a COLLEGE DEGREE now.

I love men. I really do. I make no bones about it. They aren’t catty unless they’re gay, bitchy unless they have their period, sleazy unless, well, they are, or girly unless there’s a large critter in you’re garage that they don’t want to deal with. I love women. But I love the dudes too.

They tell you what they think about you without mincing words most of the time. And after you tell them what YOU think of THEM, they still love you and call you and tell you when you look like you ate a bowl of Ugly-O’s for breakfast. Most guys don’t look down on you if you didn’t breastfeed your kid for 12 months and they probably don’t really care if you wear the same shirt twice in one week.

Rock on.

That said, I had forgotten how much I hate to LIVE with them. Now sure, let’s be honest, it’s nice to have a *ahem*(slightly) bigger person to be there after a scary movie to “protect” you from the evil girl in the closet. Or to pretend that they’re going to take out the trash and lift heavy stuff except when they totally don’t.

Plus, they’ll hook up anything electronic which means that I don’t have to beg someone smarter than me (which is most of the population) to do it.

When I don’t want to deal with an irritating salesperson I can always beg off, citing that I need to “talk to my husband” and let’s face it, it’s the closest to having my own pair of balls that I’m ever going to get.

That said, I’m never sharing a bathroom with dudes again.

Why?

Because I am fucking tired of living with the casual arcs of pee that artfully decorate not only the toilet seat and the floor, but also the wall and bathtub too. While I’m certain that someone might find that to be high art, I’m afraid I just find it irritating and obnoxious because I am the one stuck cleaning it up.

Also, I am the one stuck cleaning up the pube that I found floating in my diet Coke this morning. The pube that was not my own pube. I know that because my own pubes are not 4 inches long and red. If you are forced to have a pube in your drink, it really is preferable that it be your own. But no, it was not.

I suppose the next time–and I know that there will be a next time–I will merely call it dental floss and move the hell on.

Serenity now.

Living in condos with boys. Hm.

I officially live in a Sausage Factory.