I didn’t get the nickname “Super-Becky Over-Achiever” for nothing. Not only did I love (nearly) every moment in school (even when it was a degree that I could have cared less about), I was constantly in competition with myself to get the best grades possible in each and every subject. At the end of it all (besides having the degree in a field I hate/d), I graduated summa cum laude, which made me prouder of myself than I’d ever thought possible, until I realized that I should have graduated magna. I might have, had it not been for an uncalculated error in judgement on my part.

When I got pregnant with Ben, in order to stay on my parents insurance, I had to remain a full time student. At the not-so-gentle urging of my mother, I signed up for some softer, easier classes that I could glide through, so that I could better focus my time on getting my life in order. I chose four classes: three in literature and the last in something that I foolishly assumed would be a cake-walk: Jewelry.

I suppose somewhere amongst the pregnancy hormones, I assumed that I since I adored jewelry, this would somehow translate to being able to create it. What I neglected to take into consideration is that I do not have a single creative bone in my body (nor was I able to use either diamonds or platinum, which should have been my tip off that I was in the wrong place). The creative genes had solely taken up residence in my brother who earned a degree in both creative writing/poetry and photography (for reference, I switched majors halfway through my degree in Bio/Chem due to the looming possibiltiy of single motherhood and wanting to provide for my child something other than Ramen noodles) and had left me out to dry.

But naively, I figured that by immersing myself into it, the particles of creativity would pass through the room by osmosis. Heck, maybe THIS could be what I did with the rest of my life! I had grand visions of making my own line of fantastic jewelry, so amazing that people would literally line up at my front door clamoring loudly for my wares. I would be like Donatella Versace (but less Muppetty, of course)! Like Picasso (but female!)! Or that guy that does the “Real Men of Genius” Bud Lite commercials! But with jewelry as MY medium of art.

(serious brilliance here).

I am all to sure that an audible pop was heard, the sound of my creative balloon popping as I sat down in front of my first square of metal. I was struck, of course, by absolutely nothing whatsoever. Save, of course, for the desire to run screaming away from this hell of my own creation.

I could, I suppose, blame the teacher, who was for all intents and purposes, a complete sea hag of a woman, frustrated by her own life and inadequecies and determined to take it out on the student that showed the least amount of aptitude for jewelry creation: me. This is not to take the blame out of my court completely, as I did treat her class as a blow-off, and showed absolutely no creativity or interest whatsoever. One might argue that I knew that I was fighting a losing battle and giving in seemed to be the path of least resistance, because, of course, that would be the truth (of course, that would be doing a great disservice to the fact that my life at that point was genuinely a complete shit sandwich and I still wonder how I got through those horrid, dark years). I think, however, it was a combination of both factors, magnified by our differences in personality.

At the end of the semester, each student had a meeting with her in which we showed her our creations. I had a sad, sad, sandwich baggie full of half-finished, stupid looking silver and brass creations that no one in their right minds would have worn. The bracelet weighed conservatively about 3.5 pounds, and would have broken the wrist of the wearer in a short couple of hours. The pendant was so full of sharp corners that I would occasionally draw blood while sanding it down, and may have actually performed open heart surgery if ever worn (true story, while attempting to dispose of it very recently, it punctured a garbage bag, spewing it’s contents all over the kitchen. I guess this was it’s final act of butchery).

This begs the fact that asthetically not even a blind person would could be fooled into wearing them, well, unless said blind person had exquistely bad taste. Adding insult to injury was the fact that I was so allergic to the metals that we were given that I literally had to scrub my arms down after working with it with Phisodex and pop copious amounts of Benedryl just to ward of an anaphylactic reaction.

I approached this meeting with the Sea Hag with both trepidation and resignation. Half of my “creations” were never completed. The other half only half-heartedly constructed. I knew that I had fucked up and was willing to own up to it.

She started off after briefly surveying my pathetic stash with “I should give you a ‘D.’ But I’m going to do you a favor and give you a ‘C.'” If she’d expected me to protest and grovel at her feet (do Sea Hags have feet?), she’d picked the wrong person. I knew that I’d fucked up, but unlike what she’d probably thought, my fatal flaw was to have signed up for her class in the first place.

I walked out of there full of nothing but relief that it was all over and no one would ever ask me to meld a piece of silver to a piece of brass ever again.

I rarely thought about this class again over the last couple years of my college degree, aside from snicker about how stupid I’d been to sign up for something I knew that I could never do. Until graduation time rolled around, and I realized how closely I’d come to graduating with highest honors. Only THEN did I see the error of my ways.

Guess I should have plead my case, afterall.

After the Great Condo Fiasco of 2005, we have been a bit gun shy about decorating the new house. Although I may not necessarily LIKE the colors that most of the walls are painted, none of them are as horrific as the Houses of the Holy orange of our bedroom in said condo. Most rooms are tolerable, especially now since the main floor bathroom is (mostly) completed.

I’ve inherited (thanks, Dad) a genuine fear of hanging pictures because OHMYGOD IT MIGHT MAKE HOLES THAT I HAVE TO SPACKLE! If there is something beyond the fact that I now do not vomit when I see the 3!!! different prints of wallpaper clashing mightily, I am now not afraid of spackle (I did, afterall, spackle most of all 4 walls. Oh, the damage that the wallpaper inflicted upon those poor walls). Since we are entertaining, I decided to both frame and hang many of the pictures we have been waiting to hang (waiting for what, I’ll never be sure..a bus to come, a train to go, or waiting around for a yes or no, I’m pretty sure that I was waiting for someone else to do this for me, but no one volunteered, sadly enough.).

Unfortunately for anyone who happens to walk into my home, the walls in the hallway now look as though pictures of my family have been vomited all over the walls. It makes us appear to be completely narcissitic and self-absorbed, which may be the case (2 blogs!! Oh, SNAP!!) and all, but yeah, it’s overkill.

I need to remedy this situation post haste, but am unsure how to do so. I don’t have any sort of eye for decorating houses and typically rely on bright and bold paint colors to mask this. Painting is, though, for now out of the question completely, so what to do? I’m dying for my home to be well put together and flow nicely, but have no real way of making this a reality. I love funky stuff, but I have no idea where to get stuff like that (and no, sadly, I was lying about the Miller Lite signs in my living room. They’re actually in my bedroom. Classy, I know). My family is FULL of useful people, so of course I have an interior decorator that I can invite over, but she’s OCD and might explode unless my home is perfectly cleaned.

How do normal people do this sort of thing? Any ideas?

In a glaring moment of either sheer stupidity or amazing brilliance (I’m blaming sleep deprevation here), I have offered to host Thanksgiving Day at my home this year. Brilliance because then I am not required to travel with two children in a car AND bribe someone to come by and take care of our menagerie for several days. Stupidity because I abhor cooking (true story: in kindergarten, my class was required to submit a recipie off of the top of our heads for a class cookbook. You know, “a room full of milk” and other such hilarious units of measure. My contribution was simple: Call China Light, order food, pick up in 20 minutes. To this day, this remains my favorite recipie, bar none) unless it is baking. I adore baking.

Every other year, we’ve diligently travelled up to Wisconsin to visit Dave’s grandmother in the nursing home and eat somewhat frightening turkey and stuffing. She never remembered who actually I was, I’m sure that I was just some blurry young thing to her but she always remembered Ben and looked forward to hearing him sing his Greatest Hits Album (including, but not limited to “Ring of Fire,” “Working Class Hero,” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”). She passed on this summer, which effectively let us off of the hook for Thanksgiving, which meant that Thanksgiving proper was free to be filled with such goodness as ordering junky pizza and drinking a 30 case of Miller High Life by ourselves.

Until I opened my big, fat, trap, and suggested that we could host this holiday. We have a tentative menu, which guarantees that we will waste approximately $60 on a piece of meat that will summarily be ruined by my minstrations. Thankfully, however, I am planning to make several pies that will hopefully overshadow my obvious shortcomings as a chef.

I have begun the process of getting my house back in order (after my recent bout with sleeplessness coupled with my wonky thyroid, I am starting to feel like a reasonable shadow of my former self), which is no small feat. While I am completely aware that the 4-6 people who will come by for Thanksgiving will neither notice nor care that Alex’s teeny clothes are now perfectly folded, organized, and stacked in fancy blue bins, I feel it is necessary, therefore it is (somewhere, Dave is cradling his head in his hands in frustration). It’ll be several weeks (a.k.a. Thanksgiving Day) before this process is completed, so on and on I will plug away.

But I have something completely special up my sleeve for this joyous day, something that no one (save for my husband, and now, The Internet) will have seen coming. Something that will be a new holiday tradition at my house: Schweaty Balls (if you are completely confused right now, go down and watch the SNL skit on this page. It’s about a minute long and worth every second. And no, I am not a teenage boy.)

After listening to me tell the baby over and over “It’s a Schweaty family recipie” and laughing completely by my lonesone, my husband suggested that I pull this stunt for the holidays. I am going to make some sort of ball-shaped cookies (no, not THOSE balls, silly), and put a index card with “Shweaty Balls” next to them.

When someone comments on them, Dave will begin the straight man monologue that he is so good at (about the balls feeling good in your mouth, ad infinitum, ad nauseum), which will surely send me into spasms of laughter. Hell, he’ll be lucky to get my ass back to the kitchen, women! after I have made said balls, as I will be too busy laughing at them. Since my family raised me, they will be expecting these sort of antics from me and laugh along side me, but the real treat will be seeing my uber-conservative in-laws react (the more that I think about this, the more I am convinced that marrying me was an elaborate retaliation method designed to drive his parents insane. I got back at my parents by smoking cigarettes (because in my home, everything else was just fine to do, so long as I didn’t smoke pot in the living room. Ah, hippies), and he got back at his by marrying a crude, crass, pre-marital sex-havin’, loud-mouth woman.), not because I don’t like them, but because I think that someday, they are going to have to learn precisely who their son married, Schweaty Balls and all.

I’m fairly certain that I was An Asshole for my first Halloween. I have no sufficient proof of this, but I was one of those annoyingly colicky babies (according to family lore) who spent most of her first year screaming. Similar, no doubt to Ben, who I dressed as a Bumblebee for his first Halloween. Whether it was because he realized just how stupid he looked or because he was just An Asshole, I’ll never be certain, but he screamed so loudly that I began to call him a Grumblebee.

In fact, he screamed while being a Tiger, The Cat In The Hat, and finally settled down when we bought him a respectable minature NASA suit. It may have been due to the exhorbatant cost of said suit (damn you Pottery Barn Kids, and your adorable, yet unaffordable wares!) or because he was dressed as something that finally made sense, but he seemed quite content in it. This suit lasted for 3 years, until this year when he suddenly realized that he had options, and in choosing to exercise his free will, asked to be Darth Vader, much to my dismay. I make no secret that I dislike Star Wars, but if he’d had to be ANYBODY from the movies, I would have hoped that he’d have chosen to be Boba Fett. But 6 does as 6 pleases, so Darth Vader he was. He was (insert applicable adjective here), but I have no proof of this, as he was moving too quickly for us to get a suitable picture. 6, it also appears, has it’s own agenda.

Despite playing Whack-A-Mole (bonus Children Edition!!) prior to heading out Trick-or-Treating, it went smashingly, and the kid got even more candy than he’d gotten last year.

In order to regain my hurt feelings of control (WHY couldn’t he have been Boba Fett? Boba Fett is AWESOME!), I decided to dress my youngest in what can only be described as “additional therapy fodder.”

Introducing…

The Halloweiner!

(and no, those cuts are actually NOT from a bar fight, just a fight with his own fists of fury).

I was once accused of being “socially-uncaring” by Ben’s father, which was especially hilarious considering he did (and still does) work for a company that manufactures parts for a superfluous home appliance. He works as tech-support. At the time of aforementioned accusation, I was in nursing school. When I pointed out the obvious discrepency, the only other poo that he could fling in my direction is that I preferred to listen to something other than NPR while in the car, didn’t pour over the works of Michael Moore, and I disliked sitting around talking about the sad state of the world, because well, I don’t like to be depressed unnecessarily.

(and I wonder why I broke up with him).

(no, no I don’t)

———————-

Growing up, the radio at my house was always tuned to NPR or WFMT. It was like living in a dentist’s office. To this day, I still have a vast appreciation for classical, as I played concert cello for many, many years. I cut my teeth on Pink Floyd’s The Wall, and can still recall watching the film version while I stayed home with chicken pox in the first grade (and that wasn’t the first time I’d seen it). To say that I grew up a bit twisted would be the understatement of the year.

(as a complete aside, the NPR skit on SNL actually took my breath away, I was laughing so hard. It’s_just_SPOT_ON.)

The older I got, however, I began to realize that one didn’t actually NEED to listen to music that made them either feel badly or required too much thought. Sometimes a song is, afterall, just a song.

——————–

Yesterday, I dragged my poor, sweet husband out to buy Britney’s new CD, because if you’re going to go the absolute opposite direction from NPR, Britney may be it. I genuinely think that this may be the first time in history that I’ve bought a CD on the day it dropped, and I am not disappointed. It’s a quindessential pop album. Her voice is absolutely overprocessed and almost electronic on some tracks, but you know what? I can dance my ass off to it (very, very, very badly, but it’s MY living room. Someday I will fufill my life’s goal of learning The Robot. Sadly, though, it’s not today.), and some days, that may be all that I need.

(besides, between the fact that the baby seems to dig it AND loves Diet Coke, my husband may have just reached new levels of horrification at the whole nature versus nurture debate. And that my friends, is priceless.)

It is with great pleasure to inform The Internet at large (as though anyone but me cares) that despite my wonky-assed thyroid (19.34, n: 0.34-5.6), I have officially lost 10 pounds. This puts me closer than I would have thought to my goal of 15-20 lbs down by Christmas and back at my pre-pregnancy weight by Alex’s first birthday (which is 28 pounds from where I stand today).

While I am cautiously optimistic, I don’t honestly expect that last goal to be met. I find it easier to be proven wrong later in the game if I have braced myself for it (this habit of mine drives The Daver insane). Doesn’t mean for a moment that I won’t do everything in my power to achieve it, but we all know what God does when he hears our plans: he laughs.

I want to do something for myself to commerate this goal being met, but I’m not sure what I should do. I’m going to get a cute haircut and sasstastic highlights (+ upkeep, which I suck at, but am promising The Internet that I will take care of it. I COULD NEVER LIE TO YOU, DEAR INTERNET.) when I hit my goal (that is, if I don’t shave it all off in frustration to thwart the yanking hands of my young son. Which would give me a striking resemblance to pinhead right now, which would effectively ensure I’d never get laid again.).

What should I do (besides what I really want to do, which is sleep for 14-18 hours. Because, hahahahaha. Yeah, RIGHT.)?

(I cannot go tanning, hate people touching my feet, dislike massages in general, and don’t want to go purchase fat clothes BECAUSE THIS WEIGHT IS COMING OFF WHETHER OR NOT IT WANTS TO.)

God, I’m really high maintenance.

Since I already post typically once per day, I have signed up for National Blog Posting Month, wherein I have agreed to post each day. INCLUDING WEEKENDS. I guess I’ll have to clear my busy social schedule (hahahahaha. See, it’s a joke because I don’t have a social calendar any longer.)
(weeps uncontrollably).

Admit it people, you think I’m awesome. And by awesome, I mean completely lame.

Thanks, Niobe for the idea. Let’s see if I can do this thing.

I’ve spent most of my adult life waiting for that other shoe to drop. Similarly, I’d imagine, somewhat to relatives of patients afflicted by Huntington’s Chorea. Whether it is a blessing or curse, a genetic test is available to determine their fate. What horrid knowledge that must be. What a terrible burden to be able to ascertain whether or not they will someday cease to control simple bodily movements, slowly losing their physical identity, and ultimately become an invalid. I wonder if I would be brave enough to undergo that testing.

There is no known test for mental illness, only a bit of evidence that the disease may have a genetic link, much like alcoholism. So those of us with a close genetic relative afflicted (especially with both) must simply watch and wait, fearful that each and every irrational emotion, every outburst, each tear may be the start of something far more terrible and ominous. The end of every bad day is met with relief, a feeling of dodging a nasty bullet once again.

The downside of up here, is that I tend never to overreact or let myself be overcome with any kind of emotion without examining it explicitly and exhaustively. This is something that my husband claims to appreciate, while assuring me that it is a rarity. I’d never thought of it like that.

I look back at pictures from my childhood, and it’s interesting to note that one can actually determine when my mother began her decent into madness. Her youngest child, her only daughter, began to transform in front of my adult eyes from an obviously well-groomed and loved child into someone who it appears is suddenly expected to care for herself and has no earthly idea how to do so.

This visual reminder of her illness has bothered me so tremendously that I had to stop sorting and organizing the pictures. So now they sit in my bedroom in a large Tupperware container waiting patiently for me to face my own demons.

Tickity-tock, tick-tock. Time will tell, it always does.

Let the record show once and for all that I am not a Video Game Person ™. You’d never know this by the vast amount of video game systems that currently reside with us, though, as the two oldest males in my home are obsessed. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me much unless I’m trying to have some sort of conversation with either of them while they are trying to “beat this guy! C’mon Mom/Becky! THIS IS IMPORTANT!!!” With as self-centered as I happen to be, I cannot believe that ANYONE wouldn’t want to hang onto my every word (truthfully, I also cannot believe that video games are EVER “important.” Bring on the hatemail, people.), so this tends to offend me.

Several months ago, we happened upon a Wii, which thrilled and delighted both Dave and Ben. Overall, I think that it’s pretty neat and I even have a game that I occasionally play (go Elebits!), and Dave wouldn’t admit it but I can totally whup him in bowling.

Ben had his best friend over yesterday, and he mentioned that we had a Wii. Bad move, BAD, BAD move, as I am pretty sure that this child is never going to leave my home again. Suddenly, I may have to resort to ninja-like stealth to enter and exit my house so that I don’t have to sit, watch, and mediate golf and bowling and somehow figure out how the hell to work the damn box. Because, Lord knows, a game isn’t nearly as awesome without an adult watching it and cheering vigorously for both children WHILE troubleshooting something I know nothing about.

His friend even suggested offhandedly that the Wii could perhaps come over to HIS house when Ben wasn’t at home. You know, in case it got lonely and needed another 6 year old boy to keep it company. It was with great pleasure that I informed him that Dave might cry without it.

This child’s school lets out a bit before Ben’s does, and man, I tell you, I’m going to have to barricade myself in the basement and turn on some tuneage to block out the doorbell and subsequet weeping and pleading.

10 years ago, if you’d asked me what I’d expected to do with the rest of my life, I’d have probably told you that I’d be backpacking across the Aboriginal jungle or a commentator on E! news. I am quite certain that had I been able at that age, to see a 5 minute snapshot of my life now, as it actually turned out, I would never have believed it. Not for one tiny second.

We went out to lunch today, and by nature of either the restaurant accoustics or the fact that this chick had the most amazingly grating voice known to man, we got to overhear nearly a full conversation of a girl of probably 22 or 23. Really, by conversation, I mean monologe (I actually began too feel sorry for her friend, as this chick spent the whole 35 that we were there talking about herself. I almost told her to go get herself a blog. OH SNAP!). And boy, OH boy was this girl deluded.

She had it all planned out: where she was going to live, when she was going to be married (despite just “dicking around with this guy,” her actual words), the age in which she would have kids. I mean, no words can describe just how sure she was of the way her life was going to turn out. It was sort of cute, but it completely dated her.

The way that I see it, growing up is mainly just letting go to the notion that you have control over a whole lot of anything in life. I’m not trying to factor free will out of the equation here, but over the past couple of weeks, as I’ve watched several good friends of mine get shit on by circumstances completely outside of their control, it’s served to remind me yet again, that most illusions of control are merely that: illusions.

Surely, but surely you can control yourself, can’t you? To some degree, perhaps, but I’m sure that the most jealous person cannot stop themselves from coveting, no matter how hard they try. Even emotions, it seems, are almost impossible to control. You don’t control who you love, nor can you control who you hate, or who loves or hates you. Sure, William Blake claims, “The cut worm forgives the plow,” but he neglects to say when and at what cost.

As we left the restaurant, both slightly bedraggled and sore, I asked Dave if he believed that I had ever been as naive. He looked at me, laughed, and told me that he was sure that I had been even more so. This I can accept, but I cannot imagine that I would have spent the entirity of a lunch with a friend monologing about myself. Even at 17, I’m pretty sure that I knew how boring that must have been for anyone but myself.