Before I alienate all but the two of my readers I pay to read my drivel, I wanted to assure you all that from now on, I promise not to speak constantly of this pregnancy. I personally am not that interested to read pregnancy only blogs, I don’t much care for tickers or blinkies–just not my style–and I can only imagine that you feel the same way.

I’m going to treat this pregnancy, for however long it lasts, as though I am not pregnant, I’m going to reinsert my head firmly up my ass and stick my fingers in my ears (don’t ask for the logistics here) and say “lalalala” rather than take out my maternity clothes and rub my (fat) belly serenely.

We’re just all going to pretend that I didn’t tell you my news yesterday, okay? If/when something worthwhile bodes mentioning, I’ll tell you all, and if you want to talk about this stuff, click on my email me button and we can chat. I heart emails.

But before we close the door on this chapter, I must say a warm thank you to everyone who has congratulated me on this…stuff. It’s certainly a surprise, and I’m certainly thrilled, and I 100% without a doubt love you all immensely. But you knew that, didn’t you?

————-

So let’s talk about something else again, shall we? In the vein of new beginnings, I am going to personally write a meme. Yes, Aunt Becky is going to write her VERY OWN MEME. Go ahead and play along in the comments.

What is your biggest pet peeve? Shit, I have too many to count, literally, but one of the ones that usually bugs me the most is when people don’t finish things that they start.

Also white carpet in general. Who the fuck thinks that white carpet is a good thing to install? It ought to be outlawed.

Anyone going to see the Sex in the City movie? I’m going on Sunday with two of my girlfriends. Between the vat of popcorn I plan on submerging myself in and the promise of talk of weenies, I’m pumped.

What is your favorite crappy song to jam out to? For me, the genre matters, but anything by Rod Stewart, especially You’re In My Heart. Oh and Mili Vanilli’s Blame it on the Rain.

What makes you gag? Barf. Barf. Barf. I know, I’m a nurse, I should be able to handle it like a Big Girl, but you know what? It makes me run screaming for the hills.

What’s your least favorite thing to do? Hands down, cooking. I hate to cook, I’m not an inspired cook, and pretty much if I could order take out for the rest of my life, I’d be happy. Paradoxically, I am an excellent baker.

What’s your favorite part of blogging? Sappily enough, it’s meeting new people. I’m stuck home alone with the kids, and they’re not exactly always good company. But The Internet reminds me that even if I feel alone, I’ve got a fucking army marching behind me.

AND, I’ve done a pretty awesome chocolate exchange with a friend (okay, I need to get my lazy ass to MAIL her the chocolate) and it was super cool.

Anyone down with some sort of exchange? It’ll be fuuuun!

All right, Party People, here comes the audience participation part of this whole thing. Either play along and answer my uninspired questions in the comments or ask ME a burning question that you’ve always wanted to know (I know, I know, I blank whenever someone tells me to do this. I always end up asking something totally stupid because, seriously, I can never think of a thing).

For the third month in a row, I am pregnant.

I considered waiting and telling everyone in real life who read this and will be annoyed that I hadn’t bothered to tell them in person, but maybe, just maybe this time, I want to receive congratulations before I ask for sympathy and support.

So for now, for RIGHT now, I am pregnant.

Will it stick this time? I don’t know. I have no assurances, I’m not blindly naive, and I’m aware that although the third time is considered a charm, I don’t buy it. Maybe this third time is another doomed little sac, maybe it’s not, but either way, I’m celebrating this pregnancy just as I would any other. No amount of magical thinking is going to make this better or worse or change any outcomes at all.

But for now, in a smoove effort to alienate all of my readers, I need to be true to my feelings and tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’m doubly sorry if I hurt someone here, you know I’m not trying to. Shit, I’ll probably be back soon to tell you that the third time is probably not the charm and possibly gnaw off my arm when this goes down the crapper again.

Today, however, I am pregnant.

And I am happy.

(Can I ask those of you still reading this for a favor, a really simple favor for your Aunt Becky? Can you please send good vibrations this way today? Please?)

Back in my senior year in college, I was broke as a joke, but since I had a three year old, it meant a lot more than I couldn’t buy Ramen or another 30-case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, it meant that I could barely afford Christmas gifts for him.

I should have known better than to accept a second hand hamster, but there I was, nodding my head stupidly “YES” to my classmate when she offered me her rejected hamster, citing that she didn’t have time to play with him anymore.

How could I pass this up?

I’d owned various hamsters and assorted small rodents when I was a child, only to watch them meet their untimely demise at the jaws of my cats.It’s a fucking wonder I’m not more twisted than I am.

Where’s Sid? AAAAH! There he is! DEAD! NO! And NOT NANCY TOOOO! NOOOO!!

Sometimes, the hamsters would even eat their babies before I could stop them, only adding to the macabre situation of Rodent Gloom and Doom in my house.

Anyway, I’d remembered loving them before, well, they died and figured that Ben would too. He’d play with them, help clean their cages, and feed them little bits of his dinner just like I used to do!

Problem was, though, that Ben couldn’t have given less of a shit about the hamster, who he’d named Joey. This wasn’t one of my brighter ideas, considering Ben preferred planets to people, but we managed.

Joey lived a peaceful hamster life until one day he chewed free from the plastic house he lived in. I assumed that he would get lost in my parents house, possibly finding all of the skeletons of his contemporaries and didn’t give it much thought beyond feeling sort of sad for a moment.

I’d been down this road before, I knew that looking for him was useless, I mean it wasn’t like I could call him by name and he’d come running for me. And since he was approximately the size of a cotton ball, he could literally be anywhere.

One day a couple of weeks later, I was hastily plugging out a blog post on my father’s laptop when I heard some squeaking. Assuming the radio was tuned to some weird NPR program about ancient Siberian squeaking, I continued blogging. Eventually my bladder tapped me on the shoulder and I got up and headed for the bathroom.

It was there where I saw my two kittens, Finnegan and Atticus playing with something in the corner. Upon further inspection, I realized that it was a puff-ball that looked remarkably like…Joey.

Shit! I thought as I grabbed his little body up. Fuck! They got the hamster!

Now, just because I didn’t go on a Hamster Finding Mission didn’t mean I wanted him to die like that, so I carefully put him back in his cage on a heating pad offering a prayer up to the heavens that I hadn’t just killed another hamster.

I hadn’t.

What I had done is turned this sweet puff-ball of a hamster into a raging asshole. Walk by his cage and he would throw himself at the bars, punching at you. If you stood near his cage for too long, he’d start to fling his poo at you.

Oh yes, the new Joey flung poo.

He’d also bite the shit out of your fingers if you were stupid enough to try and touch him, leaving large puncture wounds where your skin had been mere seconds before. He liked the taste of blood.

Joey the Adorable Puff Ball had turned into Joey the Mean Hamster.

His brain had been re-hardwired to hate.

I dutifully changed his litter, gave him food and water, and frantically googled “dwarf hamster life span.” The relief I felt was palpable when I learned that he was nearing death.But no. Not Joey.

Joey not only got outlived the top end of his expected lifespan, but he doubled it. He graduated college with me, got married with me, followed me through 3 different moves, and he even managed to somehow place a voodoo hex on the two cats that mauled him. Because those kittens? Died before he did.

Joey The Mean Hamster lasted until right after Alex was born, torturing guests at my baby shower by pelting food and poo at anyone who stopped to say “What a cute hamster!” His fur became sort of grayish white, his nails approached Howard Hughes lengh, and he got pretty dilapidated looking.

But he was alive and you weren’t going to forget it for a second.

He died one night shortly after, and you know what? For all of the pounds of my flesh he ate and liked, I was kinda sad. It was like losing your own personal Archenemy. Maybe I wasn’t his friend, but it was really hilarious to have someone hate me so much.

Something that hated me that I had to take care of.

*sighs*

Rest In Peace, Joey The Mean Hamster. Gone, but never forgotten.

No matter how hard I try.

So, I told you yesterday about the missing porno flick: Anal Clinic, which has probably offended the delicate sensibilities of half my readers. Many of you wondered where the hell the porno went, but in order for me to tell you, I need to give you some background so it makes sense.

In the last years of my High School Experience (I make it sound like I was there for longer than four years. I DID NOT FAIL HIGH SCHOOL, PEOPLE.) I began dating a guy who I’ve mentioned before: Tim. Tim is the guy who messed around with Molly, which I walked in to see.

But before this happened, he was my boyfriend for a couple of years. Tim was a year younger than me, and his family had money, and I mean some serious money. They ran a tobacco and candy distribution company that was hitting the big time for our area, so they made major bank. I mentioned finding a gold brick while looking for Anal Clinic, and it was the truth: there was always crazy crap like that floating around, hundred dollar bills shoved in random places as if by accident. While I was tempted to steal the gold brick, what the fcuk would I have done with it? I’m pretty sure Starbucks wouldn’t take it.

Anyway.

So this family had a butt load of money, and they built a house in an exclusive neighborhood in my hometown, but they made the ridiculous decision to design it themselves, so it ended up being pretty stupid looking. Just like it would be if MY non-architect self tried to design a house and no one told me it was a bad idea.

(My advice to you: if you’re ever in the position to design a house without a degree in architecture, please don’t do it. It will be completely obvious)

But this was a house that was huge, sprawling and well-used. The kids in that family tended to attract some of the more creative friends who would pretty much move in and make mischief with anyone who would come over. I’d call it a Party House, but it wasn’t, not really. It was more like a mini-mental institution for rich kids.

By the time Tim and I started dating, his house had been well-established as the place to do the wackiest shit imaginable. Just as an example: when Tim and I literally first started dating, we went into the guest bedroom on the main floor to make out, right? In the middle of our make out session, three kids in full army gear snuck in, shimmied across the floor on their stomachs and began to pelt us with frozen grapes.

Why? I don’t know. What I did know was that this was absolute mayhem and I loved every second of it.

We’d frequently order pizzas only to scare the delivery driver. There was an alcove on top of the front door in the foyer that someone would stand perched upon when the driver would pull up. He’d walk to the house with the pizza, ring the doorbell, and someone downstairs would open it, showcasing an empty foyer. THEN, whomever was perched on the alcove would jump down in front of the started kid and pay for the pizza.

Freaked ’em right out.

Another favorite trick was to make slip and slides with garbage bags in the backyard which was on something of a hill. We’d fill up the yard pretty much full of water, turning the grass to mud, and hurl ourselves down it. When we’d get tired of that, we’d make mud people, dress them in Tim’s mom’s dress clothes, naked mud wrestle, then jump into the hot tub and wash off. IN THE HOT TUB.

Nothing was off limits, nothing was sacred, and nothing stopped us. It was freedom and chaos all rolled into one gigantic mud ball.

Another time we found a huge dead fish–from where? Who knows–and on one of the hottest days of the summer, put the rotting body on hood of one of the other kids cars. It actually stripped off some of the paint.

But this is the house I brought Anal Clinic back to watch it. And like several of my driver’s licenses it went missing, probably, I would suspect, by someone intent upon making me do exactly what I had to do: go to a video store and pay for a porno called Anal Clinic. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed by that?

I like to think of those years as the reason I was blessed with two rambunctious boys: I’m obviously well equipped to handle it.

Aunt Becky wants to hear YOUR stories of mischief making. I cannot possibly be the only person who got up to this sort of crazy shit…Am I?

On a boring night during my eighteenth year of life, a couple of my friends and I were driving around looking for something, anything to do. We had the staples: smokes, gas, dinner and coffee and were aimlessly driving around. As we passed a video store that I had recently procured a membership thanks to another friend of mine, I had a brilliant idea. ‘œHey guys,’ I suggested, ‘œHow about we pop in the video store to pick up a gross porno to watch?’

The idea was considered golden, and we headed inside.

Back in the restricted adult section, we went to town. Scrupulously we scoured the shelves for something ala Fatties Hump Old Men or Midgets Do Manhattan. Porno after porno was rejected as none was quite up to snuff in comedic value. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, we found our diamond. The movie was called ‘œAnal Clinic’ and it was to be our entertainment for the evening.

We headed back to my ex-boyfriends house to watch our little gem along with a bottle of (stolen) red wine, giggling like schoolchildren on the way home, someone saying ‘œAnal Clinic’ at odd intervals which would be met with peals of laughter throughout the car.

We popped downstairs, after rounding up some of the usual suspects and settled in to watch Anal Clinic. The movie was nothing like we’d thought it would be. It was a European porn, full of men with men having anal sex with various people.

AND IT WAS SUBTITLED. WHO WATCHES SUBTITLED PORN? What are you going to miss, exciting plot twists? It’s a PORN, ergo it HAS NO PLOT.

After about 15 minutes, we decided that the porno was too lame to even be watched, so we formulated a new plan. We decided to go naked hot tubbing, throwing ourselves down in the snow and running back to plop into the hot tub to warm up.

We were brilliant, brilliant people.

As I was getting ready to leave for the evening, I popped back downstairs to the basement to collect my disappointing porno so that I could drop it off on my way home. I checked the VCR, but it was totally empty. Figuring that someone else had decided to watch something less boring, I checked the area immediately around the entertainment center. No go. Thinking that it may have been shoved into the couch, I checked between the cushions. Nothing, save for a gold brick (seriously. My ex-boyfriend was very, VERY rich. But this is a story for another day) and a couple of dollars in change. Pocketing the change, but leaving the brick, I summoned the rest of the kids to help me look for the porno. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

I waited furiously for the next couple of days to see if anything would turn up. Nothing did.

Figuring that the movie was already late, I wanted to circumvent any phone calls to my house, as I could just IMAGINE my parents reaction, ‘œRebecca? The video store called and they need you to return Anal Clinic, ‘ I popped by the video store so that I could pay for my lost stolen porno.

Walking the ultimate walk of shame, I headed into the store. I approached the pimply-faced 16 year old kid working behind the counter and said in the most clear and least shamed voice I could muster given the circumstances, ‘œI need to buy Anal Clinic.’ Turning such a deep red that he looked iridescent purple, the pimples a stark white contrast to his face, he sputtered that I would have to come back when his manager was there. Trying not look ashamed, I walked out, head as high as I could make it go.

Several days later, I headed back to see the manager. By this time I was an old pro at this. I marched right up to him and said the exact same thing, ‘œI need to buy Anal Clinic.’ I didn’t bother to explain WHY I needed the movie, or what had happened, as I was certain that he’d heard it all before. I paid the $36ish dollars, and upon waiting for my receipt, the manager mysteriously disappeared to the back room.

He returned several minutes later with a movie box in hand, the title obscured by his ginormous man-hands. He handed me the box along with my receipt, and I was on my way. After hopping back into my car, I allowed myself to look down at the box in my hands.

The manager had given me the original box for Anal Clinic, complete with cover art and bold blaring title.

Just what I’d always wanted: a $36 box of the most shameful porno in history.

————

All right, lovers, dish to Aunt Becky. What was one of the most shameful things you’ve ever had to do?

(Please pardon my crappy blog skills these days. I’m working on something that seems to be eating up not only my time, but the few remaining brain cells I have left (shut.up.). It’s boring so I’ll spare you the details, but in lieu of any real new content, this is an ancient post from about three years ago.)

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.

Dogs are a common favorite for this. My brother, for example, because he hates me bitterly trained his German Shepard to attack me whenever I walked into the house. My parents have 2 large dogs that alert them when:

a) Someone is approaching the house (i.e. the mailman or yours truly)

b) Another animal is approaching the house (i.e. a stray cat) or

c) a squirrel farts down the block.

It’s actually quite tedious to live with as you can well imagine.

I’ve HEARD of people having cats do similar things, you know, meowing and hissing whenever someone new comes over. My own cats (3 count ’em 3! In training for crazy cat lady lifestyle) would NEVER do anything of the sort. Although 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.

(ed.note: The Deer Hunter, aka Finnegan the Cat died at the age of two from some terrible inborn genetic error. No, three years later I am still not over it. Shut.up.)

Apparently, over at the ole 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 cohabited 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 ‘œundesirables,’ despite my sorted efforts, which mainly consisted of putting pictures of Pashmina–who is deathly afraid of bees– out by the hive and chanting ‘œattack the beast’ over and over.

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

Hey, wanna get an Italian Ic….what the…?

So tell me, how intentional was the making of that sign? Didn’t they realize that it looked like a giant penis?

(I took the picture)

(because penises are funny stuff)

It’s Memorial Day weekend, and I’m thrilled that The Daver will grace the home with his lovable presence. We’ll probably BBQ some hot dogs (low fat–sadly), sit outside and enjoy the weekend. For once this terrible spring, it seems to be warming up slightly. I take this as a positive omen.

We’re not really a celebratory family for this sort of holiday. July 4 goes pretty much unnoticed, we BBQ, we watch the fireworks, and if they were “legal” in this state, we’d light sparklers. We don’t have knock down parties, inviting our friends, we have no real traditions unless you count not having traditions a tradition (I do).

Memorial and Labor Day are the same for us: we enjoy the time off, we try to remember why we have these days off, we might BBQ, we might not. They’re just not holidays I care about that much.

Pretty much any holiday that falls from January to October I don’t care for, and that sadly includes my birthday. Remember when you couldn’t wait for your birthday? You’d shiver with excitement over the mere thought of it being Your Birthday for weeks before it happened, reminding everyone in a 10 mile radius that it was going to be YOUR BIRTHDAY soon. I kind of miss those days.

My birthday is in July, the day after Bastille Day and I’m totally dreading it. Last year was the absolute pits, I had been in a wedding the day before, I had a cold, Alex was up every hour on the hour, and then at 1 AM I ended up with in the ER with a corneal abrasion. I spent my birthday proper hiding like a vampire from the light, which caused me excruciating pain. I also couldn’t see out of one of my eyes, so it was disorienting to try and do, well, anything at all.

Sadly, the Vicodin they gave me in the ER was the highlight of the day.

It was a highly depressing day. When you get older, no one remembers your birthday, and no one makes a big deal out of it. It’s not a landmark unless you turn an age that ends with a ‘0’ and since those come along only about every ten years or so, it’s not something you can really look forward to.

As much as I’ve told The Daver that I don’t want to acknowledge my birthday in any way this year and pretend like it’s just another day to avoid the inevitable disappointment of it all, I know that I’d be sad if he did this. I want the day to be special, but I don’t know how to make it special (unless recreational Vicodin use is involved). I’m truly conflicted by my birthday this year, and I’ve got to think of how to resolve this before my husband sells me to the gypsies or worse, the Republicans (I TOTALLY AM ON THE REPUBLICAN MAILING LIST AND I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I GOT THERE).

*sighs*

I’m SUCH a little bitch! How do I resolve this, y’all?

Have a truly wonderous weekend, all of you, even my super-stealthy lurkers out there. Aunt Becky and her Sausages love you madly, sweet Internet Friends. We’ll catch you on the flip side, where I can only hope heavy drug use is involved.

Tonight Ben graduated from first grade and for some unknown reason the school had a ceremony to commemorate it. Now, I’m not crusty enough to bitch about having another graduation party, honestly I didn’t care, and in fact I was pretty thrilled about it. I’d gotten him a gift (Puma socks, which inexplicably he wanted) and had it all wrapped and ready.

Problem came when he decided to be an asshole today.

He has a nasty habit of turning into a know-it-all about stupid shit. Like today, for instance, he argued with Dave about taking him out to dinner beforehand. He was, for some reason, convinced it was lunch we were taking him to, and snottily informed Dave of this.

Now, I’m fully aware that I happen to be wrong now and again (but not TOO much, of course) and I’m ready to admit it when I am. But the meal that happens roughly between the hours of 5 and 7 PM is generally known as “dinner.” He then argued with us about other stupid piddly stuff, because at 6, he knows FAR more about, well, everything.

This bothers me tremendously because it reminds me of my favorite blog punching bag: Nat. It makes me wish I v-logged so that I could say this phrase to you in the same sneering tone: “Well, ACTUALLY Becky…blah, blah, blah.”

Nat is the world’s biggest know-it-all and it drives me fucking nuts. I’ve fully accepted that he’s my cross to bear (lucky, lucky Aunt Becky) and I don’t generally pay it much mind. My bed has long been made and I tend to sleep pretty damn well in it.

I can accept that he’ll run late every time he says he’s going to be somewhere, not caring a bit about how it affects my day.

I can accept that he’ll complain about the “crappy clothes” I send Ben to his house wearing. (The funniest part of this is that I send Ben in the clothes that Nat buys for him. Why? Because I spend “money” on “clothes” for Ben to “wear” because I’m a fucking “label whore.” Oh yes, yes he did. And I never, ever get the nice clothes back.)

I can accept that he’ll probably never really show up to a school function for Ben, preferring to do whatever it is that Douche Bags do in their spare time (buy vinegar and scents?).

What I cannot accept is listening to Nat not politely disagree with me with that fucking phrase: “Now ACTUALLY Becky.” It sets my teeth on edge, because 99% of the time he uses it to point out an obvious flaw, no matter HOW much I know about a subject and how sure I am of whatever it is, he’s completely wrong with his retort.

I hear people say incorrect shit all the time like it’s a fact and you know what? I never really disagree with them, pointing out that they are wrong. To me, it’s just not worth making someone else feel badly. Nat doesn’t care at all. He probably gets joy from making me feel bad.

Hearing it come out of Ben’s mouth like that just inflames me and I have no idea how to deal with it properly. It pisses the usually mild-mannered Dave off too, so I know I’m not alone in this.

But how the hell do I deal with this without wanting to punch myself in the face? I don’t care if you have kids this age or not, how would YOU handle this?

It might surprise you to know that I hate drama. I’m probably one of the least dramatic people I know, save for begging Ashley that I can wear transvestite make-up in her wedding, and I like it that way. But over the past 2 months, and past 2 miscarriages, I can’t help but feel I’m turning into this disgusting drama queen. Thankfully she seems confined to my head.

I’m also less surprisingly not much of a dweller. Bad shit happens to me and the only thing I can control is how I handle it. If I spend my life mourning my childhood, I’ll never enjoy my adulthood. These past couple months, though, between the loss of my beloved friend Steph and all of these fucking miscarriages has really taken a toll on me. It’s funny, I didn’t realize WHAT was wrong with me for quite awhile.

Most of the day I’m fine, really I am. I function, I care for my two thriving (breathing) children, and I don’t sit around mourning my losses. Somewhere between 3 and 4 PM I lose it and I don’t feel like I can continue being someone else’s answer to everything. I fight off panic attacks and try as best as I can to get through it all and I succeed. I’m breathless in a room full of air these days, and I don’t know how to catch my breath.

By chance (seriously) I was walking through Target (where else?) and I found myself in the maternity section. I fingered some of the billowy shirts and despite my dislike of Target’s maternity wear in general, I wished desperately that I could buy one and need it for something other than my beer gut. I guess it just heightened my feelings of loss, dreadful loss.

I can’t help but really miss those two sad souls, those two sacs of disjointed and deformed chromosomes, the two doomed embryos that my body expelled. I try as best as I can to remind myself of the logic, of the reality, but I can’t help but be saddened. It’s a sadness no sweet and adorable puppy will touch, not even remotely.

I’m not pregnant and I wish like hell that I were. But I don’t want a new baby, I want my old embryos back. I want them back in my body, and I want this whole thing to be a terrible dream. But my dreams tend to involve having The Sex with characters from television, and I know that for now, for right now, this is my new reality.