I left something out last night in writing my miserablist post, for good reason. I got in my head that I could be pregnant, so I had the added pressure of the test-or-not-to-test situation. Being cynical old me, despite the physical signs which were to the letter echoed in a post by a newly pregnant blogger, I already anticipated a negative.

Life is never to fail in its disappointment, so when I tested this morning, I was met with a rather forceful "Not pregnant" on the pg test screen. Whose bright idea was it to get something which puts my failure into words for me? As if the lack of a second line isn't enough, I need the cruel truth glaring at me in text form.

The three of you who are still following my blogshite will know that this is the only month that we have been trying as such. Can you imagine the luxury and bold taunting of fate which would be involved in a natural conception within the first month of trying? Haha! Clearly one of the side effects of Celexa is delusions.

My issues with a prospective pregnancy are manifold, but the gist is this - failure is the story of my life right now. Can't get a job? Check. Can't reproduce? Check. Can't manage to get your husband a Visa because you are either a fucktard or don't make enough money or possibly a fucktard who doesn't make enough money? Check. I know it's my hypersensitivity talking, but when things are shit, it seems its opposites slap you in the face everyday. Other people are getting jobs in the fields they want; my absolutely clueless manager maintains her job easily, thus depriving me of a position that may actually get me the jobs I'm trying to get; others' fecundity is suddenly very obvious to me again, just like the old days.

I've posted before about how proud I was to have left Infertile Bitter Old Crone territory, but I've found myself swiftly back in there, after ONE MONTH. I guess my departure from the club was only ever going to be temporary. You think you have it bad having to read all of my moaning - pity The Dude. He has to put up with me moping, crying, and being all woe is me day in and day out. Oy.

I've saved another aspect of my immense daily failures for another post - friendships and consideration for other bloggers. That post will feature tumbleweeds rolling by, as the whole point of the post will be how I totally suck at supporting other people, and a byproduct of this failure is that the smart ones aren't bothered with me anymore anyway.

Jesus - THE MISERY. Is 7.45am too early for a non-drinker to start on the hard stuff? Insert your eyerolls here; I sooooo deserve it.



In my brief blogging absence, I've been pondering what to write about. Some good ideas have occasionally popped up, though the stumbling block seems to arise when it comes to actually writing. It's a step that is difficult to skip in blogging. As soon as Google finds away around that, I am so signing up for the Beta.

I still have those ideas rolling about my head, waiting for me to have an evening in which I sit down with the laptop and want to do more than haunting gossip websites. However, I was forced out of hiding by BlogHer, who threatens to do my kneecaps if I go two weeks without posting. I need that extra $25/year, so here I am.

As those I interact with on Twitter will know, this past weekend sucked ever so slightly. I had to call an ambulance for The Dude on Saturday night, Sunday morning P woke up vomiting, and yesterday the American Embassy bent me over a table like I wasn't even one of their own. FYI - apparently having funds more than 10 times the poverty guidelines is not sufficient a financial basis to start over in the US. Now you know.

Strangely enough, I'm more scarred by the Embassy experience (which I wasn't even present for) than The Dude being carted off to the hospital with chest pains. That right there is at least 8 kinds of fucked up. In case you're wondering, The Dude is fine and was fortunate enough to experience esophageal spasms rather than a heart attack. It's all good in the hood now.

I'd like to recount my discussion with the 999 dispatcher for interested parties, as you couldn't make this shit up:

Her: Could I have your postcode please?

Me: Yes, it's SE4 0YU (not really, but let's pretend it is)

Her: Hmm. No address is coming up. Are you sure this is the postcode?

Me: Quite. ::spells it again using NATO phonetic alphabet::

Her: Yes, that's what I'm typing luv. It's not coming up. Are you sure dear??

Me: Very. ::provides AND spells full address::

Her: It's not here luv, at all. Is it a new-build?

Me: No, it's an old building. Not much around here is a new-build.

Her: Luv, there is absolutely no record of this building on our system. At all. Don't take this the wrong way dear, but - go and get a bill and repeat to me the address listed exactly as it is on the bill. Can you do that dear?

Me: ::first checking that The Dude was not yet dead after all this nonsense::
Ma'am, I don't mean to be disrespectful, as I appreciate you're doing your job, but I can assure you that as a literate person residing at this residence for 6 years, I am supremely confident that my address is exactly as I have recounted to you.

Her: Ok then luv. I know you're not trying to be difficult. OH! Here it is! It was in the system wrong! Hur hur! Now, about that ambulance...

How is that for a story to tell the grandkids?

When The Dude rang me from the Embassy to tell me of the fuckery surrounding his Visa, I cried and yelled into the phone. No, really. Bear in mind that his Visa has been approved pending the submission of suitable financial sponsorship, but I have spent hours and hours gathering all of this information for them to look at it for 2 minutes and say it's not sufficient. I was so enraged I couldn't even talk to my Cheese Wife last night, as if just by being American it's her fault the Embassy told me my ass was too broke to sponsor my alien husband. Bastards.

I would like a good rest of the week please - I don't know what that entails, but I'd prefer a lack of ambulances, vomit, and bureaucracy if at all possible.


Small, small world

I must tear myself away from obsessively watching the 12 photo slideshow of my dream house which I discovered on my lunch hour today, so in an effort to divert my attention, I thought I'd talk about small world-ism.

The world is a massive place, stuffed wih billions of people. Yet, in my 31 years I've encountered quite a few small world-isms, and heard some from others which make me feel as if the world's population must be rather overestimated. That, and perhaps the world, like my ass, is flat.

My first run in with small world-ism didn't actually involve me, not directly anyway. My uncle was a cop in downtown D.C., and pulled over a man who made an illegal left turn. Upon inspecting the man's driver's license, my uncle noticed that he was from Harrisburg, PA, hometown of amazing, witty, and charming folk. They got to talking, as it transpires, the illegal turner was our family dentist. Of all the cops in DC, he chose to make a wrong turn in front of my uncle.

The other day, again, on my lunch hour, I had a random look at a work-related email that I would usually delete. A name on a spreadsheet attached to the email caught my eye, as it was a unique one that matched that of a girl with whom I went to high school. I do some grade-A stalker googling, and it turns out, this girl, now presumably a woman, is in fact from my dinky wee high school near the capital of PA. She wandered out of our small town, got her PhD from a university down the road from me here in the UK, and is now registered at my university. It would be weird to meet another Pennsylvanian here, let alone an acquaintance from my own high school.

I've saved the best for last, and as it involves a blogger, you simply must pay attention. Soon after I started blogging, I was waxing unlyrical about my life here in the UK. One of my most very favourite bloggers ever, AmyEsq (Amy or those associated with her, if you read this, please tell me if/where you're blogging now - I've had a brain lapse), commented that she was pretty sure she was familiar with one of my photos, that of a pier. We exchanged some emails on the subject, and as it happens, Amy's husband, a young British guy of surely dazzling intellect, went to university in my UK seaside town. The university I slave for. As a matter of fact, he was a student of my department, with lectures in my building! Tell me, does it get more small world-ish than that?

I'm not trying to increase audience participation, but I would like to know of your small world-isms. That way when I'm at a party and can think of nothing to say, I can label you as "my friend" so that I can recount your tale and others can gasp in astonishment at its wonder.


Music Monday: Running Music II

My brother, kind music-loving soul that he is, recently made me a running CD. It's just as well, as my current one is stale, to say the least. With C's contribution, I'm up to 62 songs.

Ladies, I bring you, "SWD is the WMD". SWD - that's me, that is.

Radiohead: Bodysnatchers

Moby: Extreme Ways (sorry about the shoddy video - all others had been disabled)

Ludacris: Get Back (My current foul-mouthed favourite. Those with sensitive ears and more sensitive sensibilities are best off avoiding this one)

Elbow: Grounds for Divorce

Rage Against the Machine: Guerilla Radio

The Killers: Jenny Was a Friend of Mine

MGMT: Kids

Incubus: Megalomaniac

Lupe Fiasco: Pressure

The Roots: Rising Down

Ben Harper and Relentless 7: Shimmer and Shine

N.E.R.D: Thrasher