The blog in review, v08

I had a post all set to go about my New Year's Resolutions, v09. I figured that's what I blogged about last year, might as well continue on with what works, right? Well, then I realized that I posted my NYRv08 on January 4, so technically I could save that post for tomorrow and still be following a budding tradition. And I'm trying to be a better blogger and post regularly, which means that I need some ideas occasionally... so I did what we all do: I stole an idea.

I have about 30 blogs on my Google Reader, and I noticed that many were doing reviews of their posts. I almost ripped off Calliope, who posted the first sentence of the first post of every month. But then I realized that too many of my posts had sucky first sentences. So that was out (and I promise to work on those opening lines, guys!).

Instead, I five-fingered Dooce, who chose her favorite posts and copy-pasted a quote from each. Only, seeing as how I didn't want to wear the entire lemming suit, I chose 13 posts - November was a pretty fabulous month for this fatty.

In going through a year's worth of postings, I have to, um, apologize to all 12 of you return visitors. Kinda scary that my writing reminded me of Mortified, a collection of teenage angst shared publicly. I mean, seriously, you have put up with a bowlful of shit writing, and I sure am sorry about that! You will be happy to know that I've signed up for a creative writing group that starts next week. Yeah. I promise to get to work on that immediately.

So, without further ado...

Musings of a Fat Chick, 2008 Review:

January
"Hooghly declared war on my uber-white walls. Three years later, they continue to antagonize her. She hisses, she spits, she claws. She stalks the hallways menacingly. She attacks. Brutally."

February
"And yet there he was, this grouchy man who many viewed as egotistical and offensive, who was always dominant and domineering: He was staring at the ground and blushing. Actually blushing."

March
"IF THE COLLEAGUE WAS A MAN: He would have run screaming from my office, and I would have gotten my work done and gotten out of here a little early."

April
"It's the kind of tasty goodness that makes me want to wait until the wind builds to a scream and icicles form in my nose before I make the trek to the land down under Madison Street."

May
"They incessantly wing man me with fat guys, regardless of the guy’s ax-murdering past. In true Fat Chick style, I call them on it, asking, 'Why him? Because we’re both fat, right?'"

June
"At one time, my father-to-be was young and happy and open, and that Sam was so enamored with my mother that he actually wrote home about his love for her."

July
"Back in the days when I worked for ASSHATS, I learned to put up with a lot of unpleasantness. I had to smile and say things I didn't mean, like "Good Morning," to a bunch of WASPy males who thought they ruled the universe, who loved themselves more than they loved their own children, who didn't know how to keep a client to save their lives, who.... Not that I'm bitter or anything."

August
"She trashed me in front of my professional community because she wanted to drive traffic to her blog."

September
"Eating a breakfast with lots of blueberries and bananas will make your poop turn green."

October
"You, my squiggly friend, are on a mission. You must seek out that magnificent egg that Freyja so painstakingly provided, and you must do this with speed and determination."

November I
"I felt a part of a nation that did the right thing, of a country that, in Obama's words, had the audacity to hope. I was, and continue to be, so proud."

November II
"Bingster, you can suck it!"

December
"By 9AM, I was embarrassed, bruised, wounded, bleeding both internally and externally, discouraged and broke."

In which I discuss Chrismukkah, mangers and liquified Smurfs

As I was rocking out to Neil Diamond this morning, it occured to me that I hadn't yet posted about The Christmas Cheer. Now, I want to state for the record that just because I'm a non-believer does not in any way shape or form mean that I shoudn't be given a little visit from the jelly-bellied bearded guy. [SMOKER! DO YOU SEE HE IS A SMOKER?! That means that smoking is now ok, at least during the holidays.]

I mean, ok, it may be a little bit naughty for me to attend Midnight Mass (a tradition at Chez Fat Chick) seeing as how visions of historical inacuracies and barely veiled ritual cannibalism dance through my head... and I have to say this year I wasn't able to stop myself from mentioning that Mary must have been one hell of a bad mother for choosing a feeding troth over co-sleeping, but that is neither here nor there. Fact is, I adore Christmas. I love it in all its wacky, tacky cheerful glory. And the singing. I love the singing, especially because only on Christmas Eve can my off-key caterwauling produce smiles from strangers.

But back to The Christmas Cheer. I used to make a [structurally unsound] gingerbread house, but this year I decided to make Chrismukkah cookies. At a friend's house. Because I didn't want the mess in my small chalet in the sky. So each of us pulled together a few recipes, and off we went. The best of the three I chose was the Orange Cardamom Cookies which could be rolled out. I cut out Magen Davids, which for all you non-tribal types means Star of David:


Only... notice how the cookies are a little yellow? And the icing (tasty tasty icing), too was made with lemons and oranges, which meant that it was distinctly yellow. Now, I like yellow as a color. It is a sunny, cheerful color. However, sending yellow stars for Chrismukkah cookies would have been just a teensy bit inappropriate. It would have... sent the wrong message, if you will.

So, we decided to use my SpecialTerrificVeryPotent and oh-so-professional Walton food coloring to dye the icing blue, which is the Official Color of Hanukkah and Jews Everywhere. It got to be a bit of a contest with the food coloring (or colouring, if you are British), to see just how much we could add until the saturation point was reached. The result resembled a Smurf who had had an unfortunate incident with a blender:


Or Papa Smurf's colostomy bag.

Still, the cookies were delicious, I garnered bonus points with the higher ups (take that, layoffs!!!), and people really loved that The Christmas Cheer was a celebration of Chrismukkah.

Meep

May your holidays be filled with happiness and love and the joyful sounds of Beaker:



(Thanks to Boing Boing for this!)

This week in blogland

It's gonna be a little slow, kids. I love my blog, and I love my readers even more, but over the next week I'll be really busy. I've got 2 parties and a dinner to go to, plus I have all these things I'm supposed to be doing, like work and waking up in time for work. So my apologies, and I promise to blog quasi-daily again starting next week.

In the meantime, you might like to know that I'll be changing my blog around a little in the new year. Hopefully I'll be able to pay the highway robbery web designers charge so that I can get my website up and running. I also am going to put up more pictures (now that I finally got my camera from RadioShack). AND.....

I am going to be giving stuff away. FOR FREE!

Yep, that's right. I'm working on gathering up free stuff now, like free stuff people actually want [Note: Although I have nothing against Pez dispensers, I just don't want 50 of them]. See, I get offers for free stuff - like samples and what not - all the time. The idea is that I get to keep the stuff because I blog about it. But that's a little too... commercial... for my tastes. So, I thought I'd offer giveaways, which seem like, you know, fun. Why should free stuff go to waste just because I don't want to blog about it? Seriously, it's not your fault I'm not a complete free stuff whore (I'm just a partial free stuff whore).

For now, I'll be giving stuff away as I get it, but hopefully I can make it a monthly or even weekly thing.

Happy holidays Internet!

Week in review

UPDATES:

LawyerlyCrush? Gay. And I have it on iron-clad authority, too. Damn.

Cycle? Canceled, thank goodness. On to Ovarian Heroin. The biggest disappointment in all of this is that I won't be able to pester Paul, The Sperm Guy with questions.

And here are two things I wanted to say this week, but did not:

To the busker at the Jackson Red Line stop:

Here comes Jesus Christ,
Here comes Jesus Christ,
Right down Christmas Lane...

These are not the correct lyrics. If you would like a tip, and believe me when I say that I enjoy supporting street performers, then kindly sing the correct lyrics.

To L. in the next office, who doesn't read this blog:

It was me - ME! - who filled your stocking with candy and toys! ME! And I will never let you know it was me because you are the heart of this office, and I would rather you think that any of us - or all of us - gave you treats to show our appreciation. I heard you this morning laughing and squealing that it made your day. And Lisa, your joy at recieving some chocolates, a Hello Kitty notebook and a wind-up walking robot made mine! (And sorry I couldn't find a wind-up Tyrannasaurus Rex. I looked, but...)

Murphy's Law in action

Today at work one of our vendors had a three hour epic show-and-tell. Attendance was expected to be... exclusive... so, in order to encourage participation, the vendor threw in an iPod Touch drawing. And free lunch. Nice incentives, wouldn't you agree?

Me, I had to be there, but was still hopeful that I'd win myself a new black shiny object that I couldn't figure out how to operate. You can never have enough of those. As the meeting dragged on, and lunch was served, one of my coworkers came into the room to say hello. I asked her to stay and grab a bite, as there were tons of extras and I'm sucking up to all and asundry in case they might have a say in layoff survivors.

Coworker: Oh, no, I have a lot of work to do.

FC: Seriously, take a seat and chat a while.

C: Nah, I'm not even a part of the meeting and I don't want to take advantage or anything.

FC: Dude, it's free food! Are you nuts?

C: Well, if you are sure they won't mind....

Guess who won the iPod Touch? I'll give you a hint, a quote from her email:

Thank you! I owe it all to Shannon who invited me into this luncheon ! Drinks or lunch is on me for all of us -- soon !

Lemonade and does anyone have a discount code?

I've been doing a lot of waiting lately. Today I worked at my J-O-B to pass the time; really I spent the day waiting to hear back from the RE's office. My second ultrasound was this morning, and I had been prepared for bad news: They sent me to the room where I couldn't see the ultrasound screen and the technician made little sympathetic whimpering noises while ramming a wand up my hoo hoo. (But it was OK because this time I'd had the forsight to drink my morning coffee.)

So I knew I'd be waiting for a while for the phone to ring. I've learned that Nurse Debbie hates giving bad news, and the worse the news, the later Nurse Debbie calls.

And the news wasn't good, at least for the insurance company: We have finally, categorically and without a shadow of a doubt, proven that my ovaries (and the rest of me!) think Clomid blows chunks. We don't like Clomid, not even a little, and it looks like my insurance company has thrown up its hands in defeat and shouted at the sky, "OK, fine, whatev. Enough with the Clomid, I'll shell out for Fertility Smack."

So the lemonade here is that I've moved from chain smoking to pill popping to shooting up (and who knew that the DARE cops were right after all - there are such things as gateway drugs?!). For those of you who have had the unforgettable experience of watching me gasp and jump up and down and scream and moan at the very sight of a needle, this should tell you how motivated I am: I want to give myself shots everyday for 2 weeks. Seriously, I do.

And Internet, cross your collective fingers for me. I really want to cancel this cycle, because the miserly penny-pincher in me throws herself on the floor in agony at the thought of wasting $530 in sperm (AJ COSTS $530 NOW!) on a cycle that, let's face it, ain't gonna stick. $530! HIGHWAY ROBBERY! $530! That's $%#) in all caps! $530!

9 lives, but shitty memories

All day long yesterday, I counted the hours until I could go home. That's all I wanted to do: Go home, drink a bit too much, and continue reading The Book of Ruth. My day sucked, and I wanted to squirrel myself away so that I could bathe in self pity privately.

Did I mention that my hand and leg were bruised? It had been a bad, bad day.

When I finally got home, the first thing I noticed was that only one cat greeted me. Usually, both Hooghly and Howrah require a thorough pet-down upon my entering Chez Fat Chick. Yesterday, though, Hooghly appeared to see dead people all around her - she had that hunkered down, OMG THEY ARE OUT TO GET ME look, and wouldn't venture past the closet. She wouldn't let me touch her, and Howrah was nowhere to be seen.

But she was heard. As I set my bags down, I called out to my little black one, and heard her frantic replies. This is one of the fun things about Howrah: When I talk to her, she meows back. I followed the meows into my downstairs bathroom. Apparently, she had been locked in the bathroom, with no light or food or water or litter box, all day long. All. Day. Long. She was understandably inconvenienced.

As soon as I opened the door, Howrah came flying at my boobs without any warning. She does that sometimes, when she is disappointed because her plans for world domination have been thwarted, like trapped-in-a-bathroom-all-day thwarted, for example. I squeezed her mighty tight (she likes that), pet her with my cheek (she really likes that, but my allergies don't), and called her my Cuddly Schnookums (because she is), and carried her to the living room. She never left my lap all evening, and slept under the covers with me. Poor traumatized little fluffy muffin.

Hooghly, on the other hand, couldn't give a rats ass about her traumatized sister. Having heard, but not seen, Howrah all day long, Hooghly seems to have forgotten that Howrah was more than a disembodied voice coming from the toilet. I spent a good fifteen minutes reminding my fluffy gray one that she shared a uterus with Howrah, and that Howrah once notified me that Hoogly was in peril (having become trapped in a big, upside-down bowl). Hooghly, however, now sees Howrah as an interloper, a newcomer unsettling the delicate hooman-feline balance that she has so painstakingly cultivated over the past 6 years. Hooghly would like Howrah to leave. Immediately.

Hooghly has been hissing and spitting and biting and raaAAAAWWWwwwing since Howrah was rescued. I've tried to explain to my little Hooghly-Wooghly that this is her sister, that we love her, and that she hasn't changed in the past 10 hours. She's just a little freaked out is all, and she needs our love. Hooghly gives me a look like *I* am the stoopid one and poofs up her fur, preparing for battle.

Poor Howrah. Her day was worse than mine.

And I didn't cry. Not even once.

On Saturday I baked Chrismukkah cookies (which I will blog about later) with a friend. I initiated said baking marathon partially because all the hormones I'm taking have me sighing wistfully at pretty much everything, and partially because given the economy, one can never suck up to the bosses too much. I figured a little cookie bribery at this time of year would make them reconsider including me in the impending layoffs. Or at least feel guilty if they keep my name in there.

I packed up the cookies and headed out into an arctic freeze at 6AM for a 7AM ultrasound. This was my first date with the dildo cam of this cycle, although it's actually day 12. While other doctors would have had me come in for five or six already, because most women ovulate on day 14, my ovaries not only suck ass, but they do it SLOWLY. The girls usually spit on day 19 (although it is debatable whether or not anything actually happens).

However, this time, THIS TIME, I was hopeful. I'm on buckets of Clomid, and I've had every side effect you can imagine - I'm having a hot flash as I type this. I mean, I wouldn't have to go through all that crap if my ovaries were on vacation, right? The Clomid Crazies just had to mean that something was going on down there, right? I was convinced, I even had a little fantasy: The ultrasound tech would impale me with her mighty probe, then fall over backward, fainting in awe at the sight of MY MAGNIFICENT FOLLICLES IN ALL THEIR GLORY. I was sure of it.

So you can imagine the let down when the ultrasound tech didn't even try to sugar coat. Whereas before she'd say, "Well, there is time for those follicles to grow still, nothing to worry about," this time she huffed and said, "Why won't your follicles grow? They just. Don't. Want. To. Grow." Thanks, ultrasound tech, thanks a lot.

Once proof of my ovarian failure was printed, I dragged myself off the table, wiped off the two gallons of ultrasound goo dripping from my special private no-no place, got dressed from the waist down, grabbed my bag of Chrismukkah Cheer and headed to my favorite morning pasttime: The blood draw. Sometimes Nurse Where'sTheVein does it, but thankfully, this morning I had VampireNaziBastard. He enjoys his job a bit too much, but usually he can get the job done quickly, if not painlessly. This morning VampireNaziBastard was a little overenthusiastic - he went through the vein. Then he cheerfully called over a new nurse to admire the enormous bruise forming on my hand. Hats off to you, VampireNaziBastard guy.

After that five minutes donated to uselessness, I proceeded out the clinic door... Only to fall spectacularly on a patch of ice, skinning my knees and cutting my leg in the process. And demolishing the grocery bag containing the bribery. (Thank God, though, that the cookies made it out unscathed.) Other than my ego, my leg, my knees, my torn skirt and my bag, I was pretty much fine, and decided a cab would be the safest option to work.

Apparently, everyone else agreed with me - it took a half hour to get a cab, and then traffic meant that what should have cost $10 actually cost $22.

So, to recap:

By 9AM, I was embarrassed, bruised, wounded, bleeding both internally and externally, discouraged and broke.

And I hadn't even had my coffee yet.

Week in review

On Sunday I started taking 150 mg of Clomid. Not coincidentally, on Sunday I also began to lose my mind. This is known as the Clomid Crazies. Not to be confused with Chantix Insanity. Whereas Chantix gave me the unprecedented ability to converse with houseplants, Clomid just makes me feel like everything in my life sucks. Did you see that? I'm feeling. And thinking! Like, simultaneously, even. Take THAT, Ms. Know-It-All Therapist-lady.

Fortunately, I only had to pop those little white pills of misery for five days. Five veeeeerrrryyyy loooooonnnnngggg daaaaayyyyyysss. Days in which I stared into a bottle of pills and heard, quite clearly, agonized screaming from the depths of hell. It was like channelling the damned. Every. Freaking. Morning.

But Thursday was the last of the Clomid cocktails, so today I'm feeling somewhat better. Which is another way of saying: I haven't cried today. Yet. Oh, sure, this morning on my commute I got a little weepy, but I didn't actually need a hanky or anything, so that doesn't count. As for the rest of the week.... Well, here's a list of some - only some - of the things that had me bawling this week:

* I saw LawyerlyCrush on the elevator and then later he emailed me about how his ex is FLYING IN FROM FINLAND to spend the holidays with him. Ok, now how the fuck is that an ex? I mean, seriously. There are two facts that if I didn't have a crush I wouldn't care about, but that got me all in a dither this week: 1) If a guy likes you he will NEVER talk about other women, especially when you didn't ask and 2) if an ex FLIES INTO CHICAGO FROM FINLAND then a) she's packing condoms and b) she is most definitely not an ex. But now I'm better because the Clomid has a short half-life, and when I think of it, my only thought is, "At least someone gets to have sex with him." Oh, did I mention that the two of them are "thinking of going somewhere warm, a spur of the moment thing?" And that is a direct quote.

* While filing my nails, I filed one too short. I am not even kidding. I CRIED OVER MY THUMB NAIL. Because now my nails aren't perfectly even. And that was a catastrophe worthy of tears.

* Hooghly drank all my vodka and it was cold and dark and windy outside and alcohol sales have been banned from my neighborhood. I had to walk really far, half freezing to death, and I SWEAR I barely outran a serial murderer. DAMN THAT CAT.

* The main character in The Book of Ruth got married. And her Aunt Sid wasn't happy about it.

* The black skirt I wanted to wear was dirty, and my 7 other black skirts weren't quite up to snuff. I wanted that one.

Not what I needed right now

DAMN THAT ELEVATOR.

That green-eyed monster

Jealousy is new to me. Until very recently, I thought I was physiologically incapable, like maybe if there was a Prozac for covetousness (JESUS WORD!), then I could be a case study. I just never have felt jealous, despite many, many years of sibling rivalry.

I mean, a big house? Why would I want that? Do you know how much dust collects on all those miles of floorboards? I am seriously, painfully allergic to cleaning; I've been known to break out in hives at the very sight of a broom, and GOD HELP ME if I actually have to touch one. So why the hell would I want one of those? Or a car? A big, shiny car that guzzles gas, pollutes the environment, and lets all and asunder know that I spent a gob of money on a transportation option? Nope, I'm trying to limit my support of Mr. Cheney, Saudi trilgabazillionaires and G. Dubya. I've just never been a fancy pants in that way.

I've always had enough, and the few things I really, really wanted - like a 200-in-one when I was 9 and a condo when I was 29 - I worked for. In the case of the 200-in-one, I extolled its many virtues for weeks until my mom bought one just to shut me up. And, in the case of the condo, I, again, used the sheer force of my will - and a real estate agent or two, and a mortgage broker and a closer and an attorney and...

But I digress. I do that sometimes. I get lost in my thoughts because apparently, I'm too busy not feeling. Avoidance can be fun, kids!

The thing is, I've been all sorts of jealous lately, and its strange to me. I still couldn't care less about who has a bigger car or flashier earrings, but man, when I see a woman with a bump... While I'm not so icky as to think harmful thoughts about strangers, I do find myself comparing the unfortunate mother-to-be to me. Sadly, she's never quite the woman I am. Not by a long shot. And then I wonder why the hell this troll is breeding? And then I get all ashamed of myself for thinking such unkind thoughts about a woman, especially when she needs all the positive vibes she can get. And then I send a little, "Be well!" thought her way, continue on my way, and feel sorry for myself. It is a vicious, vicious cycle.

I guess this is the first time I've ever wanted anything so badly as to become ugly over it.

You never never know

Internet, my liver is exhausted. I can actually hear it squeaking, too overworked to yell in anything more than a hoarse, semi-whisper, to STOP WITH THE PEPPERMINT SCHNAPPS ALREADY. To which I respond: You are hallucinating, dear liver. It was Hooghly who drank half the bottle in 3 days. If you don't believe me, smell her breath. That cat has a hollow leg, let me tell you.

And although I am all about choco-pepperminty-tinis, I have to say that they haven't been doing much for my mood. [Did you hear that, Therapist? FYI, I informed Therapist last week that I would no longer be requiring her services, so to speak, and she replied that I think too much and feel too little. So Therapist, I ask again: Did you hear that?] Oh, Internet, let me tell you, I've been feeling a hell of a lot in the past week: Disappointment, anger, frustration, jealousy (yes, jealousy every time a so very pregnant woman DARES to walk near me), and more than a touch of self-pity. I am bummed. So I haven't been blogging. Because who wants to read a bunch of belly-aching from a fat woman? Seriously, sheesh.

I don't know why this past cycle was so disappointing, so discouraging. It just was. For whatever reason. But you know what? I had a thought today that really helped bring me out of my funk:

If IUI has a success rate of 20-40%, then that would mean that it will take between 3 and 5 times to get pregnant. So the past two months? That was practice.

It's gotta be all the hormone drugs I'm on

Otherwise there is simply no way to explain why I'm so into holiday stuff this year. [I don't mean consumerism. No, malls filled to overflowing with overzealous, homicidal crowds on shopping benders are not my gig. At. All.]

However, I seem to be craving peppermint in everything, I find myself singing as it snows, and I actually bought candy and small items to put (secretively) in my coworkers stocking. (She hung it on her door, I figure what the hell? Might as well brighten her day... now when the hell is she leaving early so I can do the deed?!)

And I just can't stop watching Its a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story - two of my favorite movies. In case you are needing a fix, well, that is what YouTube is for:

Can I have fries with that?

I have not been dating at all in the past few months, mostly because it is really weird to say, "I am trying to get pregnant so I can't sleep with you." And I gave up on Internet dating many, many moons ago. It felt as though I was only dating wierdos who liked to project their Crazy onto me. Like they wouldn't call, and then would get mad because I didn't ask why they didn't call.

[My favorite was the guy who called me a Fucking Ice Queen (Fucking Ice Queen! HA!) because - get this - I didn't wait for his call. We went out twice, then he didn't call for 2 or 3 days. I was all, Well, no great loss, and moved on. So then when he called, and I tried to make small talk, he couldn't understand that no, I wasn't laying in a fetal position on the floor, staring up at the phone in the hopes that my martyrdom would entice it to ring. He translated me having a life into me not caring about him. After two dates. Two dates. Two. As in: One... two. Two. He was a strange one, yes indeed.]

I can't say that I met anyone that knocked my socks off. Or was even very good in bed. But, I did meet a fireman who sent me pictures of his penis (and yes, it was a very nice penis - send a request and I'll be happy to forward it on, along with his phone number), and I also met a man who swore he owned a private jet (I never did get any proof of that one). And, of course, I communicated with, but never met, several men who, when you ask him what he's looking for in a woman, responds with a list of physical traits that he finds arousing.

My friend brought this up recently. She said its like the guy is ordering fast food, and you know what? I have always wondered about that. Is it that all the man is looking for is a [insert adjective + body part here]? Like the woman could have rocks for brains or be Hitler's protege, but hey! her boobs are big and her pus... ok, won't go there. ??? Can anyone enlighten me?

And since I'm on the subject, I found this YouTube hySTERical. But, um, what's with the hamburgers and bike at :04? Subliminal bike and cheeseburger message? What?

:(

And just like that, I am not even possibly, not even a little bit, no way in hell am I pregnant.

Now if you will excuse me, there is a type of hootch that pairs wonderfully with self pity, and I'm going to go drown myself in it.

Caveat emptor

My camera crapped out on me a few months ago. I had the bright idea to take it to the beach to see if I could get a pic or two of Flugtag. I didn't realize that the closest I'd get to the launch zone was a beach down the street (they had videos, and really we were much more comfortable, anyway, rather than being packed like sardines only able to see the 6 foot man in front of us). So, alls I got was a big heaping helping of sand in my camera's gears and a blurry shot of a man falling from the sky. Trust me, though: No tears were shed, because the guy was a trained professional, and also I mostly used my little Olympus point-and-shoot as the object towards which my darkest profanity was hurled. Shutter delay, in a word, sucks.

I decided to wait until the after-Thanksgiving Day sales to buy a new one, thinking I'd get a smokin deal. After gorging on what the Japanese call shichimencho, I methodically sorted the sales sheets into piles of Camera On Sale and No Camera, and eventually came up with what I thought was the best deal: Online. RadioShack was offering their sales prices and freebies online, shipping was free, I had a coupon code (that worked!) from Mr. Rebates (THANKS N!), I was promised it would magically appear in my mailbox on Monday and little birds were singing and chirping all around me. I didn't even have to wake up in the middle of the night! I thought I'd done well. I even bragged a little.

So why is it Wednesday and still my mailbox is empty? And boy did I learn a lesson: When buying online from a traditionally brick-and-mortar store, be sure to check their customer service satisfaction ratings. You'll save yourself a useless thirty minute call to noone. When I finally got someone on the phone, this was the conversation:

FC: I was wondering if my order had shipped.

RadioJerk: Our policy is to ship 2 business days after an order is placed on our website.

FC: The email said my order would arrive on Monday.

RJ: Our policy is to ship 2 business days after an order is placed on our website.

FC: Does my order say that it has been shipped?

RJ: Our policy is to ship 2 business days-

FC: I know this, but on your computer screen, on my order, does it say "shipped" or does it say "processing"?

RJ: It says "processing."

FC: So then it hasn't been shipped yet.

RJ: Yes, it has. We shipped it yesterday, because our policy is to ship 2 business days after an order is placed on our website.

Sheesh! And I thought those Yugoslavian Treasury Bonds were a bad idea...

The X factor

I've often said that yes, puppies are cute. However, they are nothing compared to kittens, and the only thing cuter than kittens are bunnies. And there is nothing cuter than a baby bunny, just nothing. The cuteness ends there, my friends.

So then why does this just not work???
http://www.lolbunnies.com/

Um....

I think one of the main draws of Postsecret is that everyone can relate to at least one secret a year, or that at least one secret per year just kinda disembowels you when you least expect it.

This one represents neither category for me.

There are a couple of well-intentioned nutjobs, AKA anonymous emailers (I delete their comments) who would like to dissuade me from my unholy crusade against the sanctity of Marriage and my hell bent determination to destroy all that is Family. Naturally, it is their (Hi Rebekkah!!! Hi Joe!!!) divinely inspired purpose in life, their mission from God, to point out the evils of my ways. Thanks guys! We can all use a little redirection from time to time.

They sent me the Postsecret link (which sometimes has naughty words on its site, I'd just like to point out), with an impolite note extolling the turmoil, the anguish, THE ABSOLUTE HELL that this poor secret-sender must be feeling.

And you know what?

When I read that secret, that abomination that is, clearly, my child's fate, too, my only thought was, "Yeah, I can dig it."

Oh, and Internet, I didn't post yesterday. So I'm trying, once again, to make it a month with posting every day. And December has 31 days in it!