Ah, My Foot Tastes Great With Ketchup

Oh, what a liar I am. This was a post I wrote when Alex was a baby and Dave had just told me about this new-fangled thing called Twitter. I promptly mocked it.

Until I signed up for it myself about a year later. And recently, oh recently, my lying ass completed her 1,000 Tweet.

In case you were wondering, my foot does taste delicious with a chianti and some fava beans.

On the way home the other day, Daver mentioned that he’d been posting on his ‘œTwitter,’ which sounded like he had yet another Internet Girlfriend to add to his collection. My knowledge about current stuff -n- things has always been lackluster at best, especially considering I only recently found out about this thing called ‘œMySpace.’ Come to think of it, I was amazed that our house actually had a microwave AND a dishwasher to boot!!

He explained that it was something you can post little bits of things here and there, kind of like a mini-blog. When I stopped laughing long enough to catch my breath, I promptly began laughing again.

Here’s the thing: I’d always found blogs to be incredibly self indulgent (keep in mind I have 2’¦what does that say about me?), useless, and boring, full of ramblings about what the owner thought about kittens and poodles and the like (although to be completely fair, I have found a TON of interesting blogs in the past couple months).

Mushroom Printing (ed note: my old blog) was started as kind of an anti-blog blog, and I found I rather enjoyed it. We only posted when we actually had something either semi-interesting or semi-coherent to say (some may argue that this is actually never), and I’m pretty sure we never discussed at any length what we ate for lunch (unless there was a pube in it or something).

To me, posting about the minutiae of your day sounds stupid and boring, only interesting if you were a teenager or an international man of mystery. If possible, this is MORE self indulgent than a blog. I’ll give you an example by writing what my day was like today, ala Twitter:

*Oh my God, I’m tired. WHY does Alex insist on waking up at 6:30? OHMYGOD did he pee a lot last night. AAAHHH! Why does he wait until I open the diaper to pee on me? Asshole.

*Ooooh. I’m hungry and my nipples hurt. YAY! I can eat a bagel now! I like bagels. I gotta hide these from Ben, or he’ll eat them all. DAMN, he spied my bagel and now he wants one. Guess I should’ve waited.

*Wow, the Internet is boring. WHY isn’t it interesting yet? OH MAN I GOT TO PEEEEEEE!

*That was a GOOOOOD pee. I feel SOOOOO much better now.

*Yum, bagels are gooooooooood. I’ve got to start Weight Watchers today. I wonder how many points are in this delicious bagel’¦OOOHHH I wonder how many are in a Monte Cristo sandwich. I’ve heard those are terrible for you, but ew, they sound nasty. Dave probably likes them.

*Am I really old enough to have a first grader? Damn, I’m old. But HAHAHAHA Dave is older. I should remind him of that.

*Hmmm’¦Dave sounds crabby. I guess he didn’t want to hear from me about how old he is at 8:16 am. I wonder why’¦?

*HOLY CRAP I’M THIRSTY! I need a Diet Coke STAT.

*That’s much better. I freaking love Diet Coke. I wonder if it’s addicting. It must be.

*NOOOO! Alex wants to eat again. The kid breast-feeds at least every hour. I guess it’s time to start the formula.

*OHMYGOD I have to PEE again. JESUS H CHRIST I GOTTA GOOOOOO NOW!

*Aaaahhhh. Better. I peed for like 20 minutes.

*Wow, the Internet is still boring. I wish people did cool stuff. And post on their blogs.

*Oh shit, soccer practice is tonight. So is Parent Night. Hahahaha, Dave has to go to Parent Night. I should remind him of that.

*Wowzers, he sounds cranky. I wonder why he’s cranky now? I didn’t mention how OLD he is, hahahahaha. Maybe it’s arthritis’¦CAUSE OLD PEOPLE HAVE IT!! HAHAHAHAHA. I should ask him if he has arthritis. And hemorrhoids.

*Man, he is UNHAPPY to talk to me again. I wonder if he’s having a bad day.

*The basement smells like pee. It’s probably cat pee. Sometimes, I hate the cats.

*There are too many socks for me to sort. I hate sorting socks. Dave has this weird hang-up about sorted socks. He got that from his mother. SHE is anal about sorted socks. I bet she doesn’t like it that my socks never match. Ever.

*Lunch is good. I like lunch. I had an egg white omelette and an english muffin and an apple. I wonder how many points are in that.

*WOW HOLY CRAP IS MCDONALDS BAD FOR YOU. LOOKIT ALL THOSE POINTS!!! I should tell Dave to not eat McDonalds anymore.

*Hmmm’¦he’s not answering his phone. I guess I should call back.

*Now it sounds like he answered but then the phone hung up. I should call back to make sure that he’s okay.

*Voicemail again. He must be busy. I’ll send him an email.

*HOLY CRAP THE BABY JUST FARTED ON THE CAT!!! HAHAHAHAH! Wow, that smells TERRIBLE. I wonder if he pooed.

*No poo this time. Maybe that’s why he’s so crabby right now. I get crabby when I have to poo.

*OHMYGOD I think I just heard a car pull up! Maybe Dave’s home from work!!! We can talk about being old together BECAUSE HE’S OOOOOLLLLDDD!!!

*No it wasn’t. Now I’m sad. Oh, I guess it’s only 1:30.

*FINE, I’ll go take a walk. I should move my fat butt.

*OH MAN!! I just got LAPPED on my walk by an old guy with orthopaedic shoes! MAYBE IT WAS DAVE!!! HAHAHAHAHA!

*I like my iPod, but I wish it was blue, not pink. I didn’t want the pink iPod, I wanted the green one, but they were out when I got this. Now I’m sad. Maybe I should break this one AND THEN I CAN GET A NEW ONE!!!

*Man, I’m HUNGRY. I wonder how many points are in a sandwich.

*Wow, that was a gross orange. It peeled well, but sheesh, it tasted like sawdust.

*I love our vacuum. Especially because it has a motor. Motor vacuums are awesome. I wish it were pink. I saw a pink one at Target and now I want it. Maybe I should go buy it.

*UHOH I gotta get Ben’s soccer stuff ready for him. I should totally get a skull tattoo on my arm so I don’t look like a soccer mom.

*THE BABY FARTED AND IT WAS HILARIOUS. It totally smelled like rotten eggs. I should tell Dave that.

*WHY is his phone now registering as disconnected? I should call back.

*Hmm, the phone company doesn’t know why his phones are all disconnected. MAYBE HE’S AT MCDONALDS AND HE DOESN’T WANT TO TELL ME. I’m gonna punch him for that. McDonalds is awesome and I love it.

*Holy crap, feeding the baby rice cereal is hard. It’s like peeing into a moving target at 20 feet. WITHOUT A PENIS.

*Man, the baby is soooooo cute. Too bad his butt smells like rotted eggs. He must get that from Dave. His butt smells rotted, too. Gross. Men are gross.

*WOW, I’m glad someone else is taking Ben to soccer. Practice is boring.

*OHMYGOD, I just accidently busted Ben for taking a dump-a-lump. I thought he was playing in his room when he was supposed to be getting ready for bed.

*sighs*

I still can’t believe I have followers on Twitter. My tweets are sadly no better than I’d predicted. Oh, and Dave is a whopping 2 years older than me. I’m not really a trophy wife or something. Sadly.

Okay, Internet, dish. What’s something you’ve done lately that you never thought you’d do.

TP? We Don’t Need No Stinking TP.

Now, as my trolls are quick to point out (squee! I have TROLLS!) and as I myself will happily acknowledge, I’m not a very smart person. Given the opportunity to save a couple of bucks using coupons, I’m quick to forget them at home. When the baby needs to nurse, I can never remember which boob was the last to be subjected to her tiny mouth. Hell, one time I even set my sheets on fire.

But since my husband is addicted to work-a-hol and isn’t home to supervise me ruining Jello (true story!), my stupidity doesn’t factor too much into the fact that I have not only earned the title of Queen of the Sausages, but also Keeper of the House. If it’s a choice between myself and Ben, well, I’m tall enough to work the gas pedals and have valid credit cards. I’ll suppose there’s no contest there.

So when it comes to doing Grown-Up Things, like scheduling carpet cleanings (why does that sound dirtier than it should?), cleaning up after the savages that I share a home with, and occasionally threatening to throw the dog into traffic, it’s all my realm. What is also my realm and my responsibility is making sure that I know what needs to be bought at the store.

Like toilet paper.

Between the scads of people that use my house to take dumps and the frequency with which I pee–damn you squirrel sized bladder!–this is something we often need. After being the one responsible for buying said ass-paper for upwards of 6 years now, you’d think that I’d have it down pat by now.

And you’d be wrong.

Dead wrong.

Because, you see, I cannot seem to properly purchase it. It’s like I have a brain blockage when it comes to buying TP. I suppose it’s because there are just too many choices and I don’t quite understand how each of the packages differs from the other. 1-ply? 2-ply? Quilted? WITH OR WITHOUT CREEPY BEARS?

I just don’t know!

When we first bought a condo out in Oak (no) Park, we went on a Campaign To Save Money. Against my better (read: snobbish) nature, we decided to start buying generic stuff. Imagine my surprise upon purchasing said generic toilet paper that using it was akin to wiping your ass with wax paper!

But since a Campaign To Save Cash also meant that we bought in bulk (despite the fact that aforementioned condo had absolutely nil closet space), we suffered through a seemingly endless supply of TP guaranteed to chap your ass and make it bleed.

Tres awesome.

This was years ago and I thought I had learned to allow my husband to pick out the ass-paper. When in need, The Daver was The Man With A Plan (or, at least, a better idea of how to avoid hemorrhoids).

Until the day before my induction with Amelia when The Daver and I decided to do our last bit of shopping for awhile. And while he perused such exciting aisles as The Kitty Litter Aisle, I noted that there was a most excellent sale on TP! It was my lucky day!

Without so much as consulting my husband before making this purchase, I quickly threw the ginormous pack into my cart and headed off to buy sheets.

I didn’t think about it again until I came home from the hospital with a gigantic episiotomy and a raging case of hemorrhoids and went to gingerly wipe myself. I nearly screamed as I realized that instead of TP, I’d bought SANDPAPER.

Once again, the TP Boner was all mine. And, of course, in bulk.

After enduring the excruciating bathroom! fun! time! for nearly two months (because I am not only stupid, but stubborn too.) I think that we may have finally gotten to the end of the rolls of wax paper cleverly disguised as toilet paper. And if not, the rest of the rolls will be placed squarely in the garbage can where they belong.

I’ve since been banned from even looking down the TP aisle. My ass and my husband both seem to think this is probably for the best.

So, Internet, dish. What is it that you can’t seem to get the hang of no matter how simple other people find it? Before you’re all like “damn, Aunt Becky, I have NOTHING I can’t seem to do!” because you’re too embarrassed to admit that you can’t pump gas or something, remember I just told you about my hemorrhoids. How more shameful can you get?

Queen Of Inappropriateness

Now, Internet, I’m going to let you in on a little secret here because I know I can trust you, baby. It may come as a shock to those of you who have read me since the beginning, so brace yourselves: I am not always very appropriate.

I know. I know. Pick your chins up off the floor and dust that dog hair out of your mouth. It’s true.

Whether it’s calling a vagina “floppy beef curtains,” calling my unborn daughter a “crotch parasite,” or referring to the home in which I live as “The Sausage Factory,” I can be downright, well, CRUDE. I happen to consider this a plus. It wins me some friends, it weeds out people I’d probably consider boring and well, it makes me who I am. Rude and crude.

But even someone as uncouth as I am has boundaries. Specifically, I don’t go around telling complete random strangers about things that they may consider to be a little disturbing, even if I’m really desperate to share how Dave and I did some kinky role playing last night and he was the Easter Bunny and I was a Pineapple and it was effing hot.

Aunt Becky, you might argue, you BLOG about this sort of thing where all the world and Baby Jesus and your parents can even see it, and you’d be right. The difference between blogging here on my own blog to my audience and telling some poor guileless cashier about how the Monistat was REALLY for my SON is that you all can click away quickly if I start talking about something you don’t want to hear about. Then you can quickly delete me from your reader.

While the cashier can technically do so, it would probably be frowned upon by his management, so he’s just stuck there, ringing up the Monistat and tampons and blushing furiously and trying desperately not to think of the gross crotchal region of the woman handing him money.

Moving on with a totally awkward segue into my REAL post…

When I was early on in my college career, after spending many years working as a waitress, I wanted a break from the serving industry. But since I’ve yet to become an heiress, I still needed a jobby-job so I applied and began working for a vet. Being an animal lover since I was probably an embryo, I figured working the front desk for a vet’s office would be pretty flipping sweet, especially since it didn’t involve burning the hell out of my hands with hot plates.

The job itself was fine, but I was made miserable by one of the sea hags that worked there, Melissa. She’d been the target of the office hatred, so when I showed up, she rather quickly began to take out all of her frustrations and hatorade on me. This job, it was not turning out to be grand. So much so that I did quit it to go back to serving within a couple of months, burnt hands be damned!

But while I was there, I got to see how the other half really lives. I mean, of course, the RABID animal people.

While I’d always considered myself an “animal person” even going so far as to think of becoming a vet until I learned that they make surprisingly crappy money for a shit ton of work, I had no. freaking. idea.

Sure, I’d seen those bumper stickers and sweatshirts with kooky cats and stupid sayings on them. I’d seen the specialty shops devoted to dogs and cats and the people who loved them. Hell, we have a doggie bakery here in town, so I know that these people do exist.

But I never, ever could conceive of true the level of craziness.

At our vet’s office, we had attracted a True Crazy (wonder if HER pharmacist knows!). I don’t remember her name, but I’ll call her Janine for this story’s sake. Janine bred dogs, Weimaraners to be specific, easily one of the most gorgeous dogs on the planet. In addition to breeding them, she also showed them in dog shows.

She was a nice enough lady, although I’d been warned that she was nutso by the other staff, I gave her a chance. A chance, of course, to prove the other staff right.

One night at 8:01 PM, coincidentally a minute after we’d closed for the night Janine called up in an absolute panic. One of her dogs, she bellowed into the phone, one of her dogs was running a fever! And she must come in RIGHT NOW and NOT WAIT UNTIL MORNING FOR A REAL APPOINTMENT. She’d be there in 8 minutes!!

Fuck, man, I thought. I just wanted to go home and I had to stay there until she left. Oh well. Whatever. I’ll make an extra 2 bucks sitting around doing jack shit.

Sure enough, about 8 minutes later Janine blows into the place, tears pouring down her face while she carried her 90 pound dog up to the desk.

“My baby!” She screeched in my face. “He’s got a temperature!”

Thankfully for me, as I was about to bust up cackling at her (The dog looked FINE, and perhaps even a little ashamed and most certainly not knocking on death’s door), the vet walked out and lead Janine back to the exam area.

The vet tech promptly came up front to tell me this nugget: the temperature? 0.01 degree higher than absolutely perfect for the breed. It would be like calling your doctor if your “fever” was 98.8 rather than 98.7 degrees. Big fucking whoop, right? Besides, we all wondered why was she taking the dog’s temp ANYWAY if it wasn’t sick? The last place I’d want to be is putting stuff up a dog’s pooper, but not Janine. She must’ve dug it.

Janine comes out of the exam room in a whoosh and heads straight for the front desk without her dog.

“He’s staying overnight,” she said triumphantly. “The doctor tried to tell me that he was fine, but I want to make sure he’s in the best possible hands all night long.”

Um, okay. We’re ALL leaving when you leave, lady, so no one at all will be here. But um, okay.

I just nodded my head silently. She took this as an offer to jibber-jaw my head off. And what I learned next I can never, ever unlearn. No matter how hard I try.

“My dog (referring to the one now unhappily in a kennel in the back) is a show dog and we have a show coming up. I can’t have him be sick for the show….” She prattles on about shows she’s won and lost and just as my brain is starting to liquify and fall out of my eyeballs she changes subjects.

Specifically, she’s now talking about her secret for preparing the dogs for the show a subject that I could not be less interested in if I tried.

But, making the mistake of being polite, I asked her what her secret was. After determining that I wasn’t going to steal her thunder, she leaned forward conspiratorially and told me…

“Well, I take the males right beforehand and I ejaculate them.”

My mouth dropped open.

“I find that it relaxes them and then they perform better!”

My mouth flapped in the breeze.

Thankfully, the vet poked his head back out and beckoned for Janine to come back for some paperwork or something and told me, after seeing the look of horror on my face that I could go home.

A part of me died then and there, and another part of me wondered what the hell the other dog show people would think of someone whacking off their dog in the prep area. Perhaps they all do it. Maybe it’s one gigantic bestiality orgy before a dog show.

I’ll just never know. And THAT, my friends, is JUST FINE with me.

So what’s the most inappropriate thing that someone has randomly said to you? I’m positive I’m not the only one who has this happen to them.

Every Rose Has It’s Thorn, Internet

The first year that The Daver and I celebrated VDay (also hilarious known in my brain as VD-Day–because what ISN’T funny about VD? Answer: nothing, unless it’s your privates. Then it’s really unfunny) was on a Saturday, which means that since it wasn’t TODAY that we first celebrated it, this is our 6th VD-Day. Sounds impressive, no?

3 kids, 2 houses, 2 apartments and a whole mess of pets later, I cannot believe that number is so low.

But we’re not romantical people, Internet. I know, I know, pick your jaw up off the ground, you simply cannot believe that someone who married moi wouldn’t be all about hearts and flowers but it’s the truth. I happen to love this holiday–albeit for very different reasons of which I’ll give you three: pink, red, and sparkly–but Dave could probably do without it. It’s unfair, but I imagine him listening to whiny emo music on VD-Day’s prior to our union, and perhaps crying into something made out of silk.

(It’s a good thing that he won’t read this for weeks or I might be facing the wrath of a dutch oven tonight)

It’s not a likely scenario since I’m fairly certain that he’s never owned anything silk, but it’s my mental picture and I’m sticking to it as dogma. It is my blog, after all, and if my mental picture of my husband includes a bunny suit and a 5-pound jug of sour cream, well, it’s my prerogative.

The only thing that Dave and I have consistently done on VD-Day besides annoy the living shit out of each other by screetching the “It could only be JAAARREEDD” song and ever-increasing decibels is to buy one another roses.

And not just ANY kind of roses: TACKY roses.

No, they’re not real or have ever been grown on anything remotely resembling a plant. I’m talking about the world’s tickiest-tackiest sort of flower. They can’t even just be fake; they have to be fake PLUS.

For example, last year I found a true gem: it cost 39 cents (hello, After VD-Day specials!!), it was covered in fake velvet AND it sang a tinny melody! Even better, the wires that connected the button that needed to be depressed to make the music were fucked up, so the melody–Fur Elise, I think it was–would veer horribly off key at irregular intervals. All it was missing was the heavy, cheap perfume of fake roses past.

With all of the hullabaloo that the last month or so has involved, I was never able to enact my master plan: a rose made of a lacy cheap thong. I’ve seen them before and stupidly never thought to buy them for such an occasion, and now I’m kicking myself for it. Because what else would my husband want for VD-Day but a pair of women’s thong underwear that no woman in her right mind would wear? The level of gross would be too high to put them on my delicate girly bits, even for a laugh. Shit, the material might eat my crotch.

*sighs*

Always next year, right?

Happy VD-Day, Internet! I hope today finds you happy and well and perhaps in possession of a 5 gallon jug of sour cream. Because what isn’t awesome about sour cream? Answer: nothing.

And if you have any ideas for hideous roses for years to come, holler.

The Beginnings Of Casa de la Sausage

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.