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I make it no secret that almost no one appreciates my musical tastes, aside from possibly 13 year old girls and aging homosexuals. The last CD I bought was strategically placed into the cart, which was then taken to the checkout aisle, wherein I disappeared into the bathroom leaving my tender husband and 5-year old to pay for it.

Justin Timberlake done BROUGHT Sexyback.

Aunt Becky: ‘I totally need to get into more disco.’

The Daver: ‘Oh NO.’

Aunt Becky: ‘What the hell is wrong with disco? It’s cheerful and doesn’t evoke thoughts of suicide like *someone’s* music.’

(pauses)

Aunt Becky: ‘I mean, come ON! I love that ‘Electric Avenue’ song. You were serenading me with it earlier!’

The Daver: ‘That’s not disco!’

Aunt Becky: ‘Of COURSE it is! What else could it be?’

The Daver: ‘I think it’s reggae.’

Aunt Becky: ‘That can’t be reggae. It’s too ludicrous. (singing) ‘We’re gonna rock down to Electric Avenue”

The Daver: ‘That song is NOT ludicrous. It’s a GREAT song.’

Aunt Becky: ‘No doubt. But it’s INSANE. What the fuck is Electric Avenue?’

The Daver: ‘Don’t you DARE mock that song. It’s amazing!’

Aunt Becky ‘How can I NOT mock it, Dave?’

The Daver: ‘It’s an amazing song.’

Aunt Becky: ‘Are you fucking with me? That song is almost as bad as ‘Disco Duck’ which was in my head all of last week.’

The Daver: ‘I’m no longer speaking to you.’

Aunt Becky: “You no longer have any room to mock my Britney collection.”

The Daver: “I hate you.”

Aunt Becky: “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

Praise Jesus, the rabbit died, Jupiter aligned with Mars, peace will steer the planet and love will steer the stars! Yep, folks, you heard me right, I am once again Pregnant. To those of you who read this and I haven’t had a chance to personally inform, I suck, but I am a recluse and the likelihood of me seeing you BEFORE I got the chance to pop this kid out is slim. To none.

Although I already have one five year old, and have therefore been pregnant before, I never gave credence to the statement ‘œevery pregnancy is different.’ I (in my normal fashion) scoffed, laughed and made snide remarks. See here, Internet, I will claim to you all that although I might not ever be considered ‘œnice’ I am usually considered ‘œbitchy, but in a good way.’

With my first, this is what I felt:
1. HUNGRY (you don’t gain 90 lbs without trying. Period. And PS, it was glorious putting it on)

*and*

2. Tired. I was so bone crushingly tired that I would frequently wake up with rug burn on my face from passing out after trying to tie my shoes.

(To be fair, everything else was a total mess in my life at the time, so don’t be jealous or make snide remarks. Although the pregnancy was not difficult, I often remark that it’s a miracle that I didn’t kill myself during it. This is saying a lot, as I am not often suicidal and I am not kidding for once. Thankfully, this is not *that* kind of blog, so I will spare you the details.)

Life has done what it does best, and has pulled the rug out from under me with an old ‘œone-two’ punch. THIS time around, my symptom list would be more like:

1. Tired. So tired that I cry about it often. I.E. ‘œI’m SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeedddddd!!!!’

2. Nauseous. In this weird way, I am both famished and nauseous at the same time. BUT ONLY FOR CERTAIN FOODS. I can only eat very specific things and if I *try* to eat something else, whatever it is will be returned to me in a slightly wet manner. I have eaten (besides wings, natch) about 4 bites of food (THAT I HAVE KEPT DOWN) since August 2.

3. Fat. No one told me that the second time around you begin showing the minute the test says ‘œPREGNANT!’ It took quite awhile to show with Benner, so I assumed that somewhere around Thanksgiving, I’d have a pooch, but no! EVEN WITH MY WEIGHT LOSS I HAVE A POOCH. AND MY BOOBIES ARE HUGE. AND PENDULOUS.

4. A huge bitch. On top of all of this, I have turned into an even NASTIER person. I happened to be dragged into a Wal-Mart with The Daver a couple of days ago and began to use the phrase ‘œwhite trash’ WITHIN EARSHOT OF THE PEOPLE I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Dave was horrified and tried to put me back in the car, but haha! even pregnant, I am STILL stronger!

Poor Dave is absolutely at his wits end (and who could blame him?). It’s one thing to slip down into madness while being totally unaware, but it’s a total other thing to WATCH yourself slowly going insane. *I* even know that I suck right now.

I think he’s getting ready to take a ‘œbusiness trip’ to ‘œSouth America’ for ‘œ7 months,’ to which I replied, ‘œSend Wings’ and money and ‘œgo ahead’. I mean, the only way he’s gonna knock me up again is if I ‘œgo off the pill’ and ‘œhave an accident’ or if he doesn’t see me going off the rails on the crazy train.

Shit, if I were him, I’d have moved out weeks ago.

The list (by no means exhaustive) of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):

1). Wear half of a fat suit

2). Have the nuptials performed by Elvis

3). Sport black eyes

4). Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’

5). Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’

From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought–or cared much, really–that I’d be married. Like ever.

I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).

Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, to make fun of the dresses. Let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married.

We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second and only other choice was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.

I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed–not exaggerating–at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels, natch!), which she shoved under the door.

Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.

Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.

Several weeks before my wedding, I realized that I had nothing to wear under the dress, and was forced back to the eerily white and un-delightfully tacky world of David’s Bridal. I grabbed the bra thing-y and the big poofy thing (yes, those are VERY clinical terms) that you wear under such dresses and headed to the back, husband to be in tow (don’t feel too sorry for him. The night before, we’d had a long talk about the proletariat vs. the bourgeoisie. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never be the proletariat to his bourgeoisie. It was my convoluted way of complaining about the ever-fucking wedding that I was planning for him).

Realizing that the best way to exact my revenge upon Dave was public humiliation, I decided to show him what I’m *really* like when I’m getting even: embarrassing. I put on my combo of weird undergarments (no, neither nipples nor beaver were showing) and pranced out of the dressing room singing ‘œBuild Me Up Buttercup.’ I really looked choice, have no doubt.

To Dave, who was sitting against the wall looking uncomfortably at the gaggle of fat pimply bridesmaids to his right. I proceeded to sing the whole song (extra made up verses, too) before I darted back into the dressing room. Then I handed Dave the garments to pay for, his face a lovely shade of cranberry.

To this day, that dress remains in a garbage bag in my parents basement, slowly yellowing and molding.

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