Hi square one, nice to meet you

Don't you think that 10.15am on a Friday is a fine time to be told you're unemployable? Yes, it has been confirmed - for the first time in my short(ish) working life, I've not gotten a job I've interviewed for. Clearly the University of Where Tricky is From are xenophobic, anti-American bastards. Obviously. It couldn't possibly be that I have failed to represent myself and my current job responsibilities clearly and succintly. The kicker is - I tried to focus the presentation and interview toward the marketing aspects of my current position, as they were all about recruitment, recruitment, recruitment, and they told me in the feedback portion of the "I'm sorry, your suckitude was far too great to offer you the job" phone call that I didn't delve into the actual part of my job which forms my title. Suitably vague so as not to give away what I do, plus a horrendous run-on sentence for good measure.

I could have rambled for ages about that aspect of my position, it's what I DO after all. Silly, silly me overthought it all and believed that by catering it to suit what I thought they wanted I would be successful. To push the dagger into my heart just that little bit more, I was told that had I focused more on this main aspect of my job, I almost certainly would have been offered the position. Ouch.

So here I sit, 6 more hours left to the working day when I just want to lay on my bed and cry like the teenager I am emotionally. Instead, I have to carry on with this work-based monotony, pretending that I didn't actually want this new position anyway. I am that obnoxious breed of person who thinks they are impervious to rejection - who would not give me a job, I'm perfect! I am effortlessly charming motherfuckers! How could they not be swayed by this? I make excellent first impressions, everyone loves me goddammit.

Now the fear sets in that I will never be able to progress, and will be stuck at this level for the rest of my life. The Dude just reminded me that I was shortlisted from 120 applicants for a position in a top ten university, which is just him recycling the shit I feed him when he is in a similar predicament. I don't care what he says to try and make this a better situation, it is different being on the other side of statistics.

I told myself that I wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't get it, after all, I only applied on a whim. However, reality tells a different story, and I don't know how anyone deals well with being told they are not good enough. I'll be here, in this soul-sucking, progression-free job with my evil, cuntish "manager" another day. Fuck.



Ah, how to win no readers and alienate everyone - throw down the "c" bomb one post, and use a casual, joking word for abortion in another. Obviously I'm lacking in the people skeels to be so very offensive during NaCommentWhatsit. This would explain the lack of visitors from there - I'm not surprised a whisper of "cuntish" would scare the punters off. Eh, it is what it is. C'est moi.

I watched a programme on the BBC recently regarding abortion, as recently the 24 week maximum termination period was re-evaluated, so this matter has been topical. The programme focused on 4 women from varying backgrounds, all of whom had at least one abortion. One of the women, well, girls, was 18 and had an abortion last year. It was the right decision for her, but she was still suffering greatly and it killed me having to watch this girl continue to struggle with her decision. She acknowledged that it was not the right time in her life to bring a child into the world, but of course that didn't stop her from wondering if the right choice was made.

I'm solidly pro-choice, always have been. What I've realised lately is that I have felt even more pro-choice, if such a thing is possible, since becoming a mother. It's odd, as one would expect to edge slowly into the anti-abortion camp, or at the very least, sit very nicely on the fence whistling a happy tune. I know some women do move in the opposite direction once they give have to their miracle, blah de blah, now knowing what it's like to carry a child, give birth to it, and raise a tiny person, they can't imagine terminating a pregnancy.

I'm going in my direction because prior to having a child I had absolutely no idea how much work it actually entailed. I know how hard the past two years have been for me, and I wanted a child and all the complicated stuff that comes with it. I cannot fathom entering into that whole pregnancy/childbirth/childraising situation without being fully invested in the idea, or not having the means to support a child financially and/or emotionally. This shit is HARD.

I don't want to discuss abortion and get embroiled in all of the politics involved, as happy little mumsy blogs and abortion make strange bedfellows. I'm just curious if any of you mothers feel this way, or perhaps the complete opposite. For those not yet mothers, what do you think your perspective will be?


Music Monday: Jools Holland compendium

Since it's Music Monday and all, I just wanted to recount my run-in with some emo band yesterday. I took the kid to the shop to get a newspaper, and on our way back there were a trio of lost, skinny ass emo American kids. They couldn't find their way back to a local music venue, so I kindly pointed them in the right direction, as I am nice like that and always looking to help fellow Yanks. I came home, googled the venue, and lo and behold, they are apparently some (all?) members of some Maryland (East Coast - reppin!) band called All Time Low. I joked with The Dude that I was going to take P and run away with them, but I don't like weedy little guys whose skinny jeans are too big for them. In addition, emo guys - ick. They'd probably cry after sex, cut themselves or some such shit.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Rather than focusing on one artist, I'm again going to go with a theme. This week it's artists whose performances I have enjoyed recently on Jools Holland. For those not in the know, Jools Holland is a musician who hosts a show (Later with Jools Holland) on BBC2 showcasing 4 or 5 performers each week. Everyone who is anyone has been on there in the past including my hero Johnny Cash.

No doubt in some cases I won't be able to find the actual Jools performances, since the BBC is obsessed with copyright malarky just like everyone else. Say, like these two:

Jimmy Cliff: Many Rivers to Cross

White Lies: Unfinished Business

Bon Iver: Skinny Love

Liam Finn: Second Chance

Lykke Li: Little Bit

DeVotchKa: Clockwork Witness

I will be doing an all-DeVotchKa week at some stage, so much do I love them. In the meantime, YouTube them and enjoy.

Dawn Kinnard: Clear the Way

Black Kids: I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You

Martina Topley-Bird: Carnies

That ought to keep you crazy kids busy for awhile. I will be doing Mel's NaCommentThingie (I've done my part for today - breaking arm, patting oneself on back, etc) this week, but I don't know if I'll post much before Thursday. I have an interview on Wednesday for a job in a far away place and must spend the next couple of days preparing for my PRESENTATION and interview. Oy. This is like, a Big Time Job (BTJ), one which would need me to be moderately professional and unable to call the manager of my office a cunt with my friend/co-worker as I do now. That's a naughty word, I know, but seriously, the cunt totally deserves it.

Anyway, cuntishness aside, wish me luck. I think we all know I'm going to need it.


Jezebel in Nappies

P is a spirited little girl, and apparently a big ol' slut. It seems word has gotten around the nursery that my daughter is on the prowl for any hunk of toddler man meat. Short toddlers, tall toddlers, chubby toddlers, one-eyed toddlers, toddlers with Proteus syndrome, whatever. To be frank, she is a BIG WHORE.

When I dropped P off the other day, she ran straight to her friend Jack, who was having his breakfast of toast. I was relieved that her preoccupation meant that I could escape unnoticed, and clearly I did not realise that she was making a play for this poor, helpless, doe-eyed cherub. She only said, "Hello Jack!", granted, 8 or 9 times in a row, but this behaviour was seen as tantamount to drunkenly groping a male co-worker's junk when drunk at the office Christmas party. The manager of the nursery said, "Oh, she's flirting with one of her many boyfriends again! She's always flirting with the boys!" What a ho! She does sometimes take Jack's toast in exchange for intellectual discourse and deep philosophical musings - should I be concerned?


On an unrelated to toddler whoredom note, Mel has organised a big, month-long mutual comment masturbationathon that I have signed up for, along with about 17.4 million others. I took to heart what some of you said a couple of months ago - I want comments or else I die from being unloved, yet I'm not very good at commenting myself. I've been trying to change this, but by having my name firmly on this list of participants I'm strong-arming my way into this and I will do it!

Bear in mind it's not only for the infertile/ex-infertile amongst us. We all need to branch out eventually and leave our cosy little internet uterus, because who knows what we may find? I need another load of feeds to add to my Bloglines like I need another set of string-of-pearl cysts on my ovaries, but conversely I'm a blog reading addict. Who needs to do a job anyway?


In need of enlightening

A friend of mine needs some helpful advice. I, on my trusty white blogging steed, have come to the rescue because as I told Friend, "The women who read my blog are full of good answers". You are. You're brilliant, and full of wisdom that I am far too drunk, high or stupid to come up with myself.

Friend has a friend who is one of (some) of us - a big old infertile. Unfortunately, this woman is becoming a complete barren nightmare. You know the type - bitter to the point of unsociability, melodramatic, hypersensitive. We've seen it all before, we've maybe even been there ourselves. When I was going through all the IF shit, I tried not to be the stereotypical infertile woman. I have my share of lesser moments in which I glared at pregnant women, climbed atop my large soapbox with polycystic ovaries painted on the sides, but I convinced myself that that anger was fleeting. Though I wanted to vent about the latest drive-by and fume about women for whom pregnancy didn't involve shots, catheters or miscarriages, I didn't want that jealousy and rage to consume me.

I'm not trying to be sanctimonious, because of course I understand how easily one can drown in anger and bitterness. I think I only managed to avoid the bulk of it myself because I wasn't a woman with an overwhelming maternal instinct. I wanted a child, but I think it eventually became more about wanting what I might not be able to have rather than specifically wanting to be a mother, fucked up as that may be for an alleged (ex)infertile blogger to say.

Putting aside one's own thoughts and feelings for a moment, what does this attitude do to our family and friends who are trying to help, like Friend? I'm excluding the dumbasses here, so forget about the people who tell you to "just adopt". Friend has a background in medicine and also knows a lot of women who have had trouble conceiving, so she has been particularly sympathetic to this woman's needs. However, this woman has ended up pushing Friend away because she's so high maintenance. Friend has asked me, Patron Saint of Fucked Up Parts, to advise her as to how she should deal with her friend. I suggested the usual - let the friend know you are there for her whenever she needs to talk, refrain from asshattery, don't regale her with endless tales of your children's brilliance, and so on. Friend does all these things, but to no avail. The negativity and melodrama have become too much for her, and Friend just finds herself wanting space, a very big space, between herself and her friend.

Friend tells me that this woman's infertility has been recently diagnosed via that exercise in fallopian torture, the HSG. She and her husband have been trying for a year or so, but have not yet begun treatment. I think this is part of the problem, as getting used to the idea of what all of this means is quite an adjustment. When my doctor first told me that I would probably not have children naturally, I took to my bed for a day and failed to submit a term paper. I think the initial diagnosis yields the highest period of drama because you only see the process in negatives. You may have gone through life up to this point assuming you would have children naturally with no complications along the way. To be told that you have been deluding yourself all this time and that in fact you are facing a very long journey is sometimes too much to face up to rationally. Obviously one's first instinct is to be angry, and sometimes that anger takes years to ebb.

What would you tell Friend to do? Stick it out and just suffer through? Is there any advice or support she should be giving her friend which she may not be doing already? Should Friend practice tough love and tell her friend that in fact, the world does not revolve around her and her uterus? I believe that Friend has pointed the woman to IF blogs and suggested she started her own, which I think is invaluable advice. Can you imagine where we would be today without each other, lovely, lovely ladies? I would no doubt have given up on treatment all together, left The Dude, and lived in a pink house with the ex-boyfriend who had a threesome with some skanks behind my back. You saved me from this path!

In the very clearly enunciated words of P, "Pwees hep".


Music Monday: Americana/Roots

I threatened to do it, and here I am - it's Americana and roots music week! Hurrah! Nerd alert, nerd alert!

Aside from liking this genre of music, I'm doing this in honour of my brother, who leaves to hike a good chunk of the Appalachian Trail this week. He doesn't read this blog, thank god, but this is my nod to him nonetheless. Being the thoughtful sister, I made him a mix in preparation for the trip, cleverly entitled, The Appalachian Trail Mix 08, which, hello - HILARIOUS.

Before moving to the UK, the extent of my knowledge and interest in this genre was what I heard in O Brother Where Art Thou. I liked the music, but could take it or leave it. However, within the past few years I've felt oddly connected to Americana and roots music. Being a transplant sometimes provides you with the most unlikely of outcomes.

Mock me if you like, call me a redneck. I just love the pared-down, simplistic nature of this kind of music. A lot of it goes back to 1920s/30s, a time in history I find endlessly fascinating. Obviously quite a bit goes beyond that - Civil War times, also an interesting period.

I hope that even though you may have preconceived notions of this genre, you give it a listen. You can hate it afterwards, but give roots a chance!

Woody Guthrie: So Long, It's Been Good to Know You

The O Brother element - I'll Fly Away: Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch

The Carter Family: Wildwood Flower

Dock Boggs: Calvary

And because I'm OBSESSED with Tim Eriksen, you must suffer through some of his videos. If you've seen Cold Mountain, you'll recognise his voice. "Haunting" is often used for female voices, but his is the first male voice which comes to mind when I think of that word. Love.

Tim Eriksen: O Death

Am I Born to Die?

Hicks' Farewell

Sacred Harp Singers: Idumea (also from Cold Mountain)- yes, the video is completely unrelated, but it's the best audio version I could find!

I'll leave it at that for now. Given the amalgamation of the whole Americana/roots/bluegrass genre, I could spread this out to more than one post easily. This is not even to mention my love of early Mississippi Delta bluesSorry everyone. I'll get back to the hipster stuff next week.


Odds and sods

Various things to recount for no particular reason, and segues be damned.

-If you visit my blog versus reading on Bloglines/Google Reader, you will see that I have a new header, courtesy of the utterly fabulous Cali. I have never had anything but the standard, boring-as-shit Blogger templates and headers, so goooooooooo me! I even changed my Blogger template, such as it is. It's hardly the world's best blogging aesthetic (the template, not Cali's marvellous header OBVIOUSLY), but until I'm gifted $100 to get someone to design a new template (again, the header staying in place as it rocks), here we are. Cali is designing headers for a FET, so go and send some business her way. Preferably lots of it.

The castle is a photo taken by my fine self, and the kid in the photo was made by my fine self, some small-headed sperm as donated by my husband, and a hot as hell Greek embryologist. This castle is local, because this is England, and castles up the wazoo is how we roll.

-I was looking at a Nigerian student's birth certificate the other day, and noticed that much like transcripts and other official documents originating in Africa and the Middle East, the mother is a secondary consideration. Now, I haven't dug out P's birth certificate (I keep wanting to type "gift certificate") to see where my name ranks, but the mother second on a birth certificate? Is it not enough that the mother carried the child for nine months, gave birth to it, and then was likely its primary caregiver? What's a woman gotta do to be first around here?

-I'm on Twitter, and I hate myself for it. I'm still not fully aware of the point, and I'm sorry friends and followers, gmail chat kicks Twitter ass. However, I will stick with it for a week or two until I get lazy/complacent/bored, so if you desperately want to know what Pru is thinking or doing during her work day or early evening, look me up. I've even put the little Twitter nonsense in the sidebar so I can follow you or you can follow me on Twitter because it seems I have the need to avoid working. Seriously though, if you're not down with the Twitter, please message me on gmail sometime. I'm boring as hell in actual conversation, so fried is my brain and my nerves tested when I'm at work. Tempting, eh? I'm also a whore for non-work conversation. Or just a whore in general. Whatever.

-I'm addicted to this new song, "L.E.S. Artistes" by Philly hipster cool chick Santogold. I know it's not Music Monday, but humour me. I listened to this song 8 times in one sitting the other day and it made me all giddy. On reflection, that may have been two parts Santogold, three parts coffee though.

Happy weekend all.


Almost perfect, but not quite

Not too shabby for a 21 month old, eh? It looks like those multiple hours she has spent chained to a cellar wall whilst we scream the numbers at her germanically have done this kid good! Next up, the alphabet, which she denies all knowledge of. Toddlers are such slackers these days.


Music Monday: UK Top 40

Ooo...a theme. Never let it be said that I let Music Mondays get boring through lack of variation.

I thought about doing Top 40, but then in looking at the actual Top 40, I either didn't recognise the songs, or I don't like them. Because MM, and everything, is about me, I couldn't feature songs that I don't like! So, I've chosen some songs from the Top 40, and some others from artists in the Top 40, but songs I like from said artists which aren't necessarily in the Top 40 currently. Post script: it looks like there is only one actual Top 40 song that I like. You didn't really expect me to pick that godawful new Mariah Carey song, did you?

Estelle feat. Kanye West: American Boy (Top 40)

Scouting for Girls: She's So Lovely

Duffy: Rockferry

Adele: Hometown Glory

Kooks: Ooh La

Robyn: With Every Heartbeat

Sugababes: About You Now

Amy Winehouse: You Know I'm No Good

Futureheads: Hounds of Love

I feel like I'm kind of calling it in this week, but they are all songs on my iPod, embarrassing as that may be in some cases. I hope someone at least likes one of these songs. Also, no slagging off the Sugababes. They're good. We all have our weaknesses musically.


Mother truckers

The blog of a former, recovered infertile is probably not the place to see Mother's Day cards, but I'm not your average ex-infertile, nor am I your average mother. Worry not, dear readers, there is no cheese here today.

I'm not going to ruminate on the glories of motherhood. I won't speak glowingly of my "miracle" and tell you how much I thought Mother's Day would always be an occasion which would force me to my bed, rendered unstable by its mere mention. I am now a mother, something I secretly revel in every day. I don't need a designated day for this, though please be advised that when P is an obnoxious tween and whines, "Why do you and Dad get a whole day? When is Children's Day?", I will fall into the trap, and I think you know what I'm referring to. That's what Mother's Day is to me - an opportunity for me to become my own mother, throwing myself wholeheartedly down that most slippery slope to "Because I said so" and "Life isn't fair". This time comes to us all.

To celebrate this manufactured occasion, I have some cards for the mothers amongst you, as well as those who want to be, and will be mothers someday. The only place to go for cards of any occasion is www.someecards.com. If you're not going there, you suck. Yes, it is that simple.

The card I received from my brother's girlfriend to mark this occasion. Needless to say, we get along:

For the rest of you, however you choose to mark or completely ignore Sunday, Happy Mother's Day -


The end of an era

A marriage has ended. The crushing blow, the death knell, appeared in my email inbox. An email cheery in tone despite the horrible news which awaited me.

The Dude hasn't left me. If anything, I should leave him - stuck here blogging whilst he watches cage fighting yet again. The dissolution of a marriage is that of our very dearest friends S & G.

I became friends with G our senior year in high school. We were in some nothing class together, a class taught by a man best known for his overt affair with a fellow teacher's wife. I seem to recall the class was called "Science and Social Issues", despite the complete lack of scientific curriculum (thank god) and the "social issues" manifested themselves via the class gossiping for the full class time. At times the teacher would leave for the entire period, the apocryphal tale being that he was sneaking off for a quick shag with the other teacher's wife, or perhaps for a pint at the local dive bar where my brother still sees him on the odd Friday night.

Anyway, G had a baby fathered by her high school boyfriend after we graduated, and married this great guy, S. This baby, M, now 11, is a wonderful little girl. Before P was born, I always said M and her younger brother F were the only kids I liked. On some days, they still are.

When we lived in the States we were constantly with S & G. Given how different The Dude and I are, it was a miraculous event that we managed to find a married couple that we both got on with so flawlessly. Each trip back to the States had more S & G time than it did Mom time, no doubt because S & G never mocked my flat ass. Their kids are my kids, my kid is their kid, and if we could have worked out mass Canadian residency, we would have happily pooled our resources and lived on some sort of mini commune together.

That closeness, that alleged familiarity, has failed me this week as I discovered in this email. It was a group email, sent within our close knit circle of 5 high school friends. I started this recent rash of emails as I have been verklempt and emotional over us all turning 30 within the next few months, not expecting any amazing news, boring, standard middle class folks as we are.

In retrospect, it was like a hidden camera show, me reading this email. It said something along the lines of, "Nothing new going on with me really. I have an AWESOME new apartment here in downtown Fuckabilly and I'm so happy! Yes, I'm single. So is S. We're both content with this situation and will probably no longer be married this time next year." So on, and so on. I kept waiting for the joke to end, for the paragraph to conclude with one of those cutesy wink emoticons, but no dice. It was really over. My heart sank, and I'm not kidding you, I had heart palpatations. This is how much emotion I had invested in this marriage. I had to read it multiple times for the stark reality of this confession to sink in, and even sitting here now I can't believe it.

I phoned G as soon as I got home last night. To twist the knife even further into the gaping wound in my battered heart, G was at her old house! With S! They were chatting and having a right old knees up! Oh, the gaeity of the newly separated life! G was chipper, even telling me that when they broke the news to the kids, they were fine with it. I'm suffering more with the end of this marriage than their own kids? How does this work? I'm a grown up - a hardened, embittered ex-infertile, how can this be?

Turns out, G wanted to tell me the day she moved out. Life got in the way, and all of a sudden so much time had passed that she then didn't know how to tell me. She tried to rope one of our mutual friends into telling me, but our friend quickly, and wisely, washed her hands of that situation. I was relieved that it wasn't me. You see, in high school (yes, I'm going there again) my best friend didn't want to tell me that she was on birth control because she was afraid I would judge her. Apparently, I'm perceived as prudish and Amish-like. Now I have this complex that my friends don't tell me the truth about their lives because I'll get all Judgey McJudgerson on them. I happen to think I'm the least judgmental out of all of us, but maybe that's all in my head. Don't judge me.

Here's the real revelation - I'm more torn apart with S & G's separation than I was when my own parents split up. Whatever is going on in this head of mine? When my Mom told me that she and my Dad were separating, there was no sinking feeling. I just felt relieved. No more underlying tension, no more nights with one parent in the master bedroom and the other in the spare bedroom, and most importantly, no more angry whispers between my parents as to whether my Dad had skipped his AA meeting to get drunk.

I'm not usually so naive as to believe any given marriage will work out. I think a lot of marriages are doomed to fail, and I think anyone who isn't realistic about their own marriage is just deluding themselves. Yes, it's immensely cynical, but I don't see the sense in putting blinders on and assuming you will live happily ever after. I once read something, somewhere in this wide old blogosphere, from a blogger who was happily married. According to her, she and her husband would never get divorced. Never. In fact, they wouldn't even entertain the idea that it was even the most remote possibility. This is weird to me. No one knows what the future is to bring. People change. Feelings change. Circumstances change. You can't always control alterations in your life, so why be so ignorant as to say this event will never happen?

I'm very happy in my marriage. Does this mean I will be in two years' time? No. He could become a person I no longer like, I could be that person for him. How are we to know? I then wonder whether this negative mentality is just an unfortunate byproduct of being of my generation, one which experienced the first real wave of divorced parents?

I'm interested to know what you think. Are you a realist, or is this extreme pessimism and I'm insulting realism by categorising it as such? Are you one of the blissful ones with little read hearts in your eyes instead of pupils? I'd love to hear dissenting opinions on this matter. Just make sure you tell me soon after you get separated, mmkay? Don't make me break up with your marriage by an email sent four months after the fact. The Amish can only take so much anguish.


Music Monday: Iron and Wine

As kinda, sorta promised, here is the Music Monday feature after all. I had a good day with my tiny family - we went to the aquarium, P took a 3 hour nap, and we ended the day at Starbuck's, where all good days end. P had part of a chocolate rice krispie cake, which satisfied her need for "chockrit". She kept the employees, dragging after a full bank holiday's servitude, awake with shouts of "MINE!", and "I did it!", said whilst pointing to the crumbs scattered on the floor. We have decided that this honesty precludes her from going to the US, as we regularly, er, stretch the truth in regard to goods brought back to the UK. We can see her now, ratting us out to immigration. They don't like me anyway, so the last thing I need to do is piss them off further.

But anyway, Music Monday. The mind, she wanders. As you can no doubt see, I've chosen Iron and Wine this week. Aside from liking his music, he has the coolest name in folk rock - Sam Beam. God, I love that name. Yes, in name coolitude it even beats Devendra Banhart. Oh, and his beard rocks too. Check this mutha out:

His beard also kick's Devendra's beard's ass. It's a total beardwhipping.

What's this? Where's the music already you say? Sorry. Beards are distracting.

Naked As We Came:

Boy With a Coin:

Southern Anthem:


Woman King:

Cinder and Smoke:

Each Coming Night:

Promising Light:

More info:



Iron and Wine is my way of slowly breaking you in and preparing me for future weeks when I plan on delving into my true musical nerddom - Americana, roots, and folk music. Oy vey.


This is where the Music Monday post should be, but as I'm lacking direction, motivation, and all those other -tion's, I find myself here, blogging about not blogging Music Monday. Yeah, I don't get it either. I'm hoping to get it up (heh) later today, but who knows.

I'd like to apologise to all of you as well, as I'm only gradually clawing my way desperately out of the mire to comment for the first time in over a week. I had no idea some of you posted so much! Life is busy, I am being bled dry thanks to a period which is particularly keen to hang on for, well, who knows how long, but hopefully not a month as it has done before. I am weepy, like some kind of hormonal infertile or some shit. I'm being a bitch to everyone who dares to ask me a question, which makes work an adventure. I am drained and directionless. I have blog post topics running rings around my head, I hope one day that inspiration trickles down to my fingers.

I'm self-concious about writing these posts. I wring my hands, play the part of drama queen, then feel silly in a couple of days because I dragged you all down into my sinking ship. For this, I apologise. Come back in two days. Maybe I'll talk about poop, or even snot. Maybe even vaginas and the female reproductive system. Every day is an adventure with me, ain't it?

At least there is light, there is always light: