How do you like me now bitches?

I am better than all of you. From now on, please address me as Dame Pru. For I, Dame Pru of humble BarrenAlbion, earlier stood a mere 3 feet away from the good Queen of England herself. Her helicopter landed on a rugby pitch next to the building where I work, so naturally we took a few minutes to go peer at the old bag. One's motorcade passed within feet of us, with the Queen clearly visible and waving, with the rather dim-witted and demented Phillip drooling beside her. I couldn't get my camera phone to work when she was directly in front of me, so I only have a photo of the car driving toward us. My colleague has a lovely profile shot of the Queen, which is essentially composed of a rather large hat.

I'm no monarchist, in fact I think they are a waste of space. However, this makes my rather terse, nay, nearly non-existent list of famous people that I have seen in person more numerous by one, and could not be more random if I tried. In chronological order (earliest to most recent):

1) Jarvis Cocker, lead singer of one of my favourite bands, Pulp.

2) Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, aka Prisoner Number 93A234, Simon Adebisi from Oz. Easy Lumi, down girl. For those taking notes, he is h-o-t. Yum.

3) The Queen

Now...where can a girl find Bea Arthur...


What can I say about my body that hasn't already been said about Afghanistan?

...It's bombed out and depleted. First person to tell me correctly where that line is from (though slightly modified to suit my own needs) gets a free shot in the ass with the drug of their choice. Keep it legal though, I have to maintain some sense of decorum here.

Week one of Metformin has proven to be largely uneventful, despite the daily presence of nausea. It's bizarre though...rather than a constant block of nausea, it comes in waves. One minute I'm ready to lay flat on the floor at work and allow death to take over, and the next I'm back to my sending-private-emails-from-work, hating-my-colleague's-infernal-crisps-chomping self. I'm not complaining, because I'd much rather it be that way than feeling upchucky all the time. However, Metformin did deprive me of my usual enjoyment of the absolutely divine Chinese food from the restaurant down the street on Friday night. I get so little pleasure out of life at the moment, and Met just could not let me savour my Beef with ginger and spring onions without driving me to the sofa in nausea-induced agony. Cheers.

I've been doing some thinking lately, and yes, my head does hurt. This thinking has lead me to the full acknowledgement that I am indeed royally fucked up in the head. As you well know, I anticipated starting IVF this month prior to Dr WHYBAML's arrival from the heavens on his trusty white steed. Though the first notion of IVF terrified me, I quickly warmed to the idea as much as someone in my position could. Once Dr WHYBAML suggested trying one last thing before moving on to IVF I was...wait for it...a bit disappointed.

There are a couple of reasons for this. Primarily, IVF has a higher success rate than yet another IUI and mama is sick of disappointment. I'm not entirely convinced that IUI is not an utter waste of time, but as I am now on a new medicinal regimen, I'll give Dr WHYBAML the benefit of the doubt. Who knows, maybe this one will work and I'll have to endlessly praise the procedure that is IUI and apologise to it for all the nasty things that I have said about it. There, there IUI...you know I love you.

Here comes the bit that my infertility-wracked brain should not confess to. One of my first instincts about a sans-IVF treatment was that this somehow would affect my street cred. You know, like I haven't really suffered enough without having done IVF. It's likely to all be in my head, but I view the whole situation as an invisible IF strata. At the beginning, there is Clomid. In the middle, there is IUI. At the end, there is IVF. There are stages within each stratum, each carrying their own significance and all one step closer for being, in the words of the Wharvey Gals, bonafide.

When I first started reading blogs, I had just started a cycle for IUI 1. I felt as if I had been through so much already, IF neophyte that I was, and still am. I started reading blogs of women that have had numerous IVFs and realised how little I had to complain about at my relatively early stage of IF treatment. I'm simply flirting with IVF 1 I don't know how those women do it time and time again.

Naturally I'm not saying I want IVF, but what if this IUI works? I will feel like an IF lightweight. I recently read on someone's blog (apologies that I cannot remember whose) that her brother and sister-in-law recently conceived by IUI, though they kept telling people it was IVF. They got their treatments confused, rather than having some sort of need to prove themselves to IF bloggers LIKE SOME PEOPLE (uh, me). Anyway, said blogger was really annoyed at this lack of distinction, and I completely understood. I found it really irritating that people were passing of this momentary, one time cooter catheter experience with the grueling investment that is IVF. So here I am, on the cusp of IUI 4 feeling as if I have something to prove. The human psyche is an odd, odd beast.

Going off the path slightly, I shall conclude with a rather light-hearted tidbit of information. Thanks to a comment left by Julie, I had my first search for "slimy slit" the other day. I am pleased to say that I am first on google for that search, and the company which I keep is...well...colourful.


Riiight...where did I put my crossbow?

Though I suspect it is not wise to air in a public forum such as this that I would gain immense joy from inflicting pain on others, I will brush that aside for the moment. Today while browsing one of my favourite blogs, Gawker, I clicked on a link that had Metformin already not made me feel a bit porcelain bowl-happy, would have surely done the trick.

Somewhere in this great wide world, there is a human being who presumably has had their brain sucked out of their head with a straw, thus depriving them of common sense and basic dignity. Who is this person, you say? No, not TomKat (which, let's face it, are now one and the above description does apply)...no, not Bea Arthur. I'm talking about the person that created a blog about Kimora Lee Simmons.

For those that perhaps have lives and do not subsist on a steady diet of IF and gossip blogs as I do, she is the wife of Def Comedy Jam CEO, Russell Simmons. She has started a line of clothing called Baby Phat, and was allegedly a "model", though with her chipmunk face and a man's physique I'm at a loss as to what she could have actually modeled. Anyway, I think she is the single most self-absorbed, arrogant, deluded bitch I've ever had the displeasure of reading about and viewing on television. I would venture to say that she is...prepare yourselves...worse than Paris Hilton, and that's a whole lotta bad.

Anyway, on this blog devoted to the train wreck that is Kimora Lee Simmons, there are some quotes from her that made me want to gouge out her eyes with her own acrylic fingernails. Witness this little excerpt, which is in response to a Vanity Fair article that allegedly cast her in a most unflattering light:

"Do all the kids I'm trying to help, who I open my home up to, do they think I'm selfish? Do the several children I am trying to adopt think I'm selfish?"

I like this one too, which spilled out of the Great Philanthropist's mouth after donating $75K to a GBT high school in NYC...

"I love the cause, because these kids have come up in a way that they weren't really understood. ...These are kids who are naturally fashionable and they just inspire me to do so much,"

Quote 1: Who is she, Angelina Fucking Jolie? Is she assembling a little United Nations of poor, impoverished children to adopt simultaneously to help take up some of that empty space in her 64000 square foot house (no exaggeration there by the way)? Oh, bless her little kind heart for adopting "several" kids and ushering them into a materialistic world devoid of love and affection. She should have been the new Pope.

Quote 2: I like this one...No sweeping generalisations there! You know those gayz, they're always so fashionable! You know, because they're GAY. Homosexuality clearly translates to good fashion sense. How delightfully 80s of her.

Ok, my rant is done now. Now for the fun stuff: odd searches that have led people to my lovely little internet home.

1. Your Mom goes to college: No, she does not, but mad props for the Napoleon reference! My brother and I say this to each other sometimes in Kip's voice, and I regret that I can not share this with him. So sad.

2. Nyquil causing fertility: Shit, does it? Really? I'm the biggest 'quil head in the land and still ain't no babies coming out of this oven! I'm a total Nyquil junkie, so if this were true you'd think something would have happened by now. On a related note, is it ok to knock back the occasional cup 'o' Nyquil whilst on Metformin? Yay or nay? I'm hoping yay because people, I don't drink...I need something to get me through the tough times.

3. My cooter: I get this search all the time. I still can't figure out...are they looking for my cooter or their cooter? Also, do they want pictures, or just descriptive words? Note to these searchers, it's bloody fantastic and no, no pictures. I only provide those to my special friends on Christmas Cards. Merry Christmas from Pru's Cooter.

4. You reproduced: Did I? When? Back in my drinking days I did pass out a couple of times and wake up a bit sore, but unless there was a rapid 9 month gestation in the space of about 12 hours I'm stumped. When do I get to met my child, or is it childREN? Also, how did you know that by typing in "you reproduced" that you would find me via Google and then my statcounter would save the search? I feel like the Ed McMahon of the internets has found me!

Jesus, I am dull as fuck.


Once again, something that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY!

Yesterday we had what I perceived to be our IVF go-ahead appointment. I was looking forward to it, because I've been in treatment limbo since March and I wanted to get things moving again. The consultant we see works within the private system, which will mean nothing to non-UK based people, but basically, it means that whatever I do next ceases to be free as it was on the NHS.

This doctor sees his clients at his personal practice rather than the hospital, and his practice happens to be based in his house. Attempting to find the house, The Dude and I were wandering down residential streets, clutching the directions we were sent. Looking for a gynaecologist's house amongst tree-lined streets of £500,000+ homes felt a bit shady and I told The Dude that it was like I was going for a clandestine back-room abortion. Yeah, abortion is legal here and how twisted am I that this is what comes to mind when attending an appointment about attempted conception, but hey...I am known for thinking innappropriate things at innappropriate times.

One of the first questions the doctor (who shall henceforth be known as Dr WhereHaveYouBeenAllMyLife --Dr WHYBAML for short because I'm lazy) asked me was, "Aside from infertility, how do think PCOS has affected you?". I snorted and let out out something that could be interpreted as a brief laugh and wondered how I could ever put my extreme hatred and resentment into words rather than gutteral noises and eye rolling. In the end I figured that he did not really want to hear how I have placed the blame for everything wrong in my life solely on PCOS, and said that aside from the ever-so-slight issues of weight gain and excess hair growth, me and PCOS are as close as a girl and her hormonal disorder could possibly be.

After looking at my history, Dr WHYBAML put a rather seductive and dare I say, rather rebellious idea out there. He suggested that rather than jumping into IVF ovaries-first, that perhaps I should try another IUI. Now, before you think that I leapt across the heavy wooden table which separated us to strangle the doc I would later ordain as Dr WHYBAML, worry not, as I remained calm. My eyes may have been bulging and my fists clenched, but I thought I'd let him explain to me why he thought this would be the best course of action after the miserable failures that were IUIs 1, 2 and 3.

Dr WHYBAML proceeded to suggest that he would like me to try Metformin, which I have never taken despite being diagnosed with PCOS for over 7 years. Previous doctors have been content to dismiss my claims that perhaps Metformin would be beneficial, culminating in the ultimate statement by one of them, who I shall call Dr Fuckhead, that "You probably won't have trouble getting pregnant." This statement was followed by a quick glance at my chart and ultrasounds, when Dr Fuckhead said the phrase that will keep her on my "People that need to die slow, agonising deaths whilst being consumed by rabid badgers" list for as long as I live: "Ooops...scratch that. Forget I said it. I didn't realise your case was so bad. Yeah, you will have trouble conceiving and will almost definitely require medical intervention. Sorry!" This was said to me at 20, prior to any concrete plans of conception, and alone in Dr Fuckhead's office after a standard pap smear. This witty anecdote now relayed, I think I could hardly be faulted for not trusting doctors.

In addition to Metformin, Dr WHYBAML mentioned a drug that is commonly used to treat breast cancer, Letrozole. Apparently when it is combined with Metformin, it yields quite great results for women with PCOS. I have yet to google the hell out of this drug, but rest assured I will do so at work to waste some time. I will be on some injectibles as well, but I believe that will only be right before the IUI itself.

Even I am prone to momentary lapses of optimism, and I confess this is one of these times. The lovely Lumi has recently found herself in the family way after starting Metformin just last month, so perhaps this is all it will take. Ok, I'm not really *that* optimistic, but I'm pleased that someone finally had the balls to tell it to me straight without either making me cry at their sheer stupidity, or blatantly recommending IVF so they could get their grubby hands on my hard-earned £4000. I do wonder why no one has recommended this course of treatment up to this point, but then again you encounter more Dr Fuckheads than you do Dr WHYBAMLs. I'm trying not to think that without all this wasted time I could already have a 2 year old named Walter Ulysses Adebisi Napoleon Swearengen, and I'll just try to be hopeful that this IUI will mean that I can instead spend my £4000 on an Ikea nursery and the next box set of 21 Jump Street.


The drugs do work

Before I forget, thank you so much for the thoughtful comments after my last "oh woe is me" post. I love you all dearly and I'm glad you're here. Now onto business...

I have come to the realisation in the past few weeks that I need to be pumped full of medications. The more hormones the better! Bring it on! Since I stopped taking meds for IUI I feel lost, both emotionally and physically. I have had a reemergence of the anxiety that used to rule my life prior to being treated for IF, and my body is so out of whack, once again made to face the symptoms of PCOS with no medicinal intervention. My PCOSness (if it wasn't a word it is now) is rather latent when I'm having treatment, you know, barring the whole polycystic ovaries thing that has a *slight* impact on my infertility. Now the PCOS is all up in my business and between plucking the plenitude of errant hairs that grow in non-hair friendly places and my perceived impending baldness I am getting rather cross.

I am hoping that the IVF drugs that I am apparently soon to start redress the balance a bit. I am a vain, vain woman with enough self-confidence issues without PCOS deciding that the infertility just ain't enough to darken my days. I used to pursue more holistic treatment, regarding both PCOS and infertility in general, but those days have long passed. Instead, pass the stuff I can inject straight into me please.

On a slightly unrelated note, at the wedding last Saturday I once again trotted out my much loved and successful retort to, "So Pru...do you have any kids?". I know Smug Fertiles consider this quite an innocuous question, and let's face it, a simple "No." is so boring and frankly does not make me feel as if I'm being enough of a bitch in response. So when met with this question Saturday I twice answered, "No, I have a canary." and was satisfied to leave it at that. One person looked at me with a hint of fear, probably envisioning me at home with knotted hair, wild eyes, laughing maniacally whilst setting a place for my canary at dinner. I'm not saying that person is too far from the truth, but hey...infertility can have a strange effect on a girl. The other person thought my comment was funny and proceeded to ask me about my bird. They will not be killed.

Sliding further into the land of non sequitur, I have added some new bloggers to my list over yonder. Please check them out because there are some funny bitches with interesting stories to tell out there that not many people know about. I know, I know...you already subscribe to 80 blogs on bloglines (:::cough:::Mollywogger::::cough::::), but what is the harm of a few more? You know you want to. It will make you feel gooooooooooood...


Public enemy number one

I have been in a particularly fragile state of mind as of late, hence my distinct lack of posts. As I mentioned in my previous entry, I've got my IVF-planning consultation this Saturday, and I am constantly weighed down by the thought that all of this is a big fucking waste of time. I am by no means looking forward to the physical implications of IVF, and I know that I will deal with the emotional aspects as well as I always do when undertaking treatment -- I will cry constantly, be annoyed by the sound of my co-worker chowing down noisily on her daily pack of crisps to the point of sincere homicidal thoughts, and be unable to leave my flat on weekends. What is there not to look forward to?

The most omnipresent thought has been (surprise surprise) the financial side of treatment. We can afford a round or two, but it will quite severely cut into our savings. This is nothing new, I know, but the depressing fact is there is no way for an infertile couple to have a child without surrendering savings or becoming massively in debt. If this cycle is unsuccessful, we plan on pursuing adoption. My naive self thought that would be cheaper than carrying on with IVF, but from what I can tell it's just as expensive if not more so. Brilliant. So really, infertility fucks up your life in the obvious way, and continues to fuck you when you work hard to earn money so that you can afford a child in the first place. It fills me with the warm fuzzies, it really does.

Given this constant theme of infertility-induced depression, I have a confession to make which I hope will not be misinterpreted. It seems as if at this time I am in the depths, others have risen and achieved the perceived impossible. There has been a pronounced spike in positive pregnancy tests, and may I emphasise that I am ecstatically happy for all those wonderful women that have been through so much. I in no way resent their happiness, because as I have told some of them privately, why do we read blogs and encourage others during treatment if we begrudge them for being successful? Isn't that what we're all working toward? Nonetheless, I feel a bit left behind. I am the epitome of a cynic, as the successes do not instill me with hope, but rather make me all the more aware of how very unpregnant I am. I will not stop reading the blogs of the knocked up, because I love them dearly and want to follow their pregnancies, as I hope they will follow mine if that day ever comes. I'm just a miserable bitch that likes to wallow.

Given my recent unstable state of mind, the last thing I needed to be greeted with is the above-mentioned public enemy number one. This nemesis that I speak of came in the form of a gorgeous woman -- well-dressed, 5'10, naturally tan skin, green eyes and about 125 lbs. She is a friend of a friend and I spent quite a lot of time with her at a wedding I attended on Saturday. Not only did I feel like a short, fat troll next to this Amazonian beauty, but an immense reproductive failure as well. BWYCH (Beautiful Woman You Can't Hate) has two children, and is a year older than me at 28.

Normally I console myself when faced with such situations by thinking, "Well, I got an education rather than getting pregnant so young, surely that is good, right?" but of course BWYCH went to university as well and will soon be carrying on with postgraduate studies much like me. BWYCH: 3 (Kids = 2pts, Impossible beauty = 1 pt), Pru: 0. Not satisfied with winning three to nil, BWYCH went for my complete annihilation, as she is seriously the nicest person ever. I don't fool easily, and I can spot a fake person from the first nod where they pretend they care what you're talking about. I tried to find faults in BWYCH, but in the end I lost 4-0.

I hope I didn't bring everyone's spirits crashing to the ground with this rather cheery entry. I debate writing anything when I can't at least attempt to be humorous, because I think I just end up sounding like an angsty 15 year old, albeit an infertile 15 year old. Hopefully a viewing of Anne of Green Gables and a meeting with my old trusty Ben and Jerry's will lift me back up again so I can resume my post as lovable misanthrope instead of miserable cow.


So you reproduced successfully, what do you want, a fucking medal?

It never ceases to amaze me how much people, particularly women, are supposed to care about the abundant fertility of others. Children are flaunted, and we are expected to oooo and ahhhh over these precious bundles of joy, as if basic reproduction is something rare and not achieved by millions of people per year.

Today a guy that works in my university brought his toddler daughter (who I must confess, I thought was a boy, oops! I should really be having kids, huh? Even gender confuses me!) into the office I share with four other women. Unfortunately for this man, he could not have picked a more child-ambivalent environment in which to bring his spawn. There is me, hopelessly infertile but nonetheless vastly unconcerned with the children of others, one woman is a childless-by-choice lesbian in her 50s, another is a child-hating woman in her mid-30s, a third has a stepchild and has no interest in any more, and the fourth is seemingly disinterested in anything aside from trying to project a managerial air.

So here is this clueless smug fertile, parading his androgynous child around a room filled with the women least likely to commend him for his potent sperm and his wife's particularly accomodating uterus and damn fine ovaries. I almost felt bad for him when he shuffled shamefully out of the room, head down with his child clinging to his leg like a leech. Ah, who am I kidding? It was all I could do not to make scary faces at the leech-child as they were leaving.

Naturally this anti-child rant is followed by my own reproductive plans because I am all about the natural segue. The meeting with the consultant to discuss IVF is rapidly approaching it's next Saturday, the 18th. Hopefully it will signal the go ahead to actually start IVF, though this would also mark the beginning of the bread and water diet that The Dude and I will be reduced to. I'm tremendously apprehensive, but I know this is the right path to take. Please remind me of this when I'm pumped full of hormones, my ass is even more dimpled, but this time as the result of needle marks rather than too much Ben and Jerry's. I'll be back to the talk of all matters fertility, even though I'll still have no idea what I'm actually talking about.

I am sure of one thing though - if by some freakish one in a gazillion chance this IVF does get me knocked up, I will not be toting my child around my former office expecting people to commend me for *finally* kicking my asshole ovaries into shape. I will expect all of you to do this, but uh...that's what you're here for, right?


See you next Tuesday

Ok, so admit it. My use of the "c" word scared some of you off. Comments went way down for my last post, so either people have packed their virtual bags in a huff over my obscenity, or else it was just a crap post and no one knew what to say. I stick by my bold use of the "c" word, it contributed to the story I was telling, I had to do it! If my life was filled with people who in a fit of drunken exhilaration shouted, "stupid ninconpoops!" in a crowded restaurant instead, I can tell you that I would find a new group of people to hang out with. Life is a varied and rich experience, colourful language just adds to it sometimes.

That said, I witnessed a near car accident from the window of my second story flat the other day. Both people were at fault, yet the one driver (male) yelled an assortment of vulgarities at the other driver, who was female. She was visibly flustered, yet he kept shouting at her to "Fucking drive properly!" and "Get out of the fucking way!" I stood at the window extremely indignant at this fucking asshole that didn't care that this poor woman, initially apologetic, was getting really upset, hence affecting her ability to get out of his way. She finally composed herself enough to get out of his way, for which she was greeted with "Stupid, fat, fucking see you next Tuesday!"

I was leaning out the window at this point, debating whether to shout something at him, but I was neither bold enough nor witty enough to come up with anything to actually say. Knowing me, had I mustered up the courage I would have shouted some dumbass comment like, "Hey, you can go to hell you...you...dumb minivan guy with a comb-over!" You know, because that would show him. I was just completely shocked that a man said that to a woman, filled with so much venom, AND he threw a nasty comment about her weight in there!

The moral to this story is, though I did say the nasty "c" word in my post, I abhor its use in anger. If a man is shouting it at a woman, I find it particularly reprehensible. I am far too much of a feminist to think it's a word to be used with any regularity. I am however, partial to "fuck", "dweeby nutwad" and "twat". I know frequent swearing is the last bastion of the unimaginative, but then why does it feel so gooooooooooood?


Like a chubby, unfashionable, big boobed virgin

Saturday night I learned two things about myself - one I already knew which is consistently proven as soon as I walk out the door, and the other I find troubling on the surface but in my head I'm thinking, "Score!".

a) Social events are not for me. Social events which involve 13 drunk people I don't know and a sober self, not me times one thousand. I would actually rather have a meeting with Good Lady Cooter Poker (ahhh...how I miss thee).

b) I seem to be turning into Madonna. No, I'm not wearing conical bras and forcing my whipped husband to put me in movies in which I prove I should not be allowed anywhere near celluloid, but rather this Yank has picked up a certain...hint of an English accent. I used to think Madge was beyond pretentious when I would see her on Letterman, decked out in her checked flat cap and matching cropped pants just looking for a pheasant to shoot, cooing, "Oh Dave, it's simply mahvalous in London dahling." I have crossed over.

On Saturday, I left a message on our answering machine for The Dude when I was at the event mentioned above. I got home before he did and checked messages and was thus greeted with, "It's me. If you get this before I get home, please ring me on my mobile. You have the numbah." The rest of my message was a mix of utterings of "numbah" and how I must get out of "hee-ah". Oh my god. My neutral Mid-Atlantic linguistic stylings have been compromised. I don't do it intentionally, I sweah!

So what is this social event I found such a miserable experience? I was fortunate enough to experience my first "hen night", that of a friend from work. For the uninitiated, this is the UK equivalent to a bachelorette party, though with lots more booze and no cutesy games involving sexual innuendo. My apologies for what is to follow for those of whom I have already discussed my hatred of the terminology "hen night". Men here have "stag" nights or weekends, whereas women have "hen" nights. Yes, we get it. Men are the all powerful, mighty stags. Women, on the other hand, are just twittering, inconsequential chickens. Charming. I refused to use the word "hen" in connection with the event, much to the disdain of my friend having the party. She doesn't find it in any way offensive, and thinks I'm way too sensitive when it comes to issues like these. It's called AWARENESS, not hypersensitivity. I don't expect a woman with a part time job for no apparent reason aside from domestic obligations to understand.

I have severe social anxiety that emerges every time I have to go to a gathering of more than a few people. I'm not agoraphobic in the traditional sense, but I get panicked at the idea of having to be around other people, especially those I don't know because I have such low self-esteem. I worry obsessively over how I look, to the point of sometimes not being able to get dressed to go out in the first place. This happened Saturday night and I had to try really hard to gather up the courage to go because I knew how disappointed my friend would be if I didn't. Once I got there I felt so inadequate, because everyone else looked beautiful and so well-dressed. I felt like a fat slob in my dull top and one of my 6 pairs of black pants. Situations like this are all the more disappointing for me since a mere 8 years ago I was voted "Best Dressed" in my senior class and had a fabulous extensive wardrobe of unique clothes gathered from vintage stores and little independent boutiques. I know it seems so trivial to place so much emphasis on a senior superlative from nearly a decade ago, but it is a constant reminder of how I used to be and how far away I am from that now.

The rest of the night was spent nodding to idle chatter about the other womens' children, pretending to care what they made at Brownies the week before. I was the only attached woman there without children, but I suppose the one good thing to come out of it was that no one said, "When are you going to have kids?" or "Oh, be grateful you don't have kids, they take up so much of your time and energy!". I spent the bulk of the night feeling as if I wasn't even a part of the occasion, that I just watched it all go by in front of me without being actively involved in any part of it.

The only time I was brought into any of the conversation was when my severely inebriated hen friend would shout to the others at the table, as well as the restaurant in general, that I had magnificent boobs and hair, and that she would "totally go gay with me" if it was the only way we could both bang Johnny Depp. So I suppose, in a way, all was not lost. Though I may have had a horrible time, clutching my purse to my stomach the whole night to hid my disgusting rolls, perhaps someone at the restaurant agreed with my friend. Maybe they were checking out my boobs and imagining me in a threesome with Johnny Depp and my drunk friend. Maybe not. Either way, I'm sure I did the other patrons a favour when I asked my friend to stop saying that various people mentioned in conversation were "stupid cunts" in her outdoor voice.

I think I'm finished with the whole going out thing for awhile. For now I think I'll stick to staying in, watching episodes of 21 Jump Street with The Dude, dressed in The Sweatpants and eating blueberry pancakes.