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?
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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.
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