Wrecking Balm, meet wrecking ball

Once a month, the greatest magazine to ever land in our mailbox arrives. The Clipper. Now, for those not familiar with The Clipper, I'll fill you in. The Clipper is a great magazine chock full of coupons to some local restaurants and businesses. Now, I could care less for the $25 off a gutter cleaning but you can bet I'll be running for the scissors when I see a $5 off coupon for my sushi joint, Ocha.

Sometimes The Clipper will have a random advertisement and that is just what I spotted Friday night as I went to town on The Clipper with my scissors planning out our meals for the month. The advertisement was a full page (no expense spared there) ad for Doc Wilson's Wrecking Balm, Tattoo Fade System. Apparently, this is a balm you apply at home (after researching it further it turns out it's a DIY microbrasion kit. YIKES!) to remove your tattoo at a fraction of the cost of laser treatments.

Now, I love my tattoos and I would never remove them despite how my butterfly runs into my asscrack now after losing all that weight and "Please Call Dr. Horder" is now officially half the size it was and reads PleaseCallDr.Horder. But, I was curious about how this could possibly be a safe thing to do at home. I can't even be trusted to use Nair after an application of it left me with a mustache of scabbed over third degree burns.

So, I read the ad.

And read it again.

And again.

And once more to make sure it officially made no fucking sense whatsoever.

Now, of course it makes perfect sense in the literal sense of the word. All the nouns and pronouns are where they should be. It just makes NO logical sense. And it was the ad's inability to make logical sense that compelled me to rip the ad out with a promise that I would send them a letter to tell them they offended my senses. MY SENSES. Someone with FIVE tattoos.

The Ad:

"I'm Tina: It all started when I walked down the aisle. The smirks; the giggles; the regret - the old tattoo from college sprawled across my back. Two years of my life getting ready for this very moment and all I felt was remorse. 'My day' ended up with a fight with my in-laws and then led to an ugly divorce soon after. I knew I should have removed the tattoo years ago, but I didn't know how . . ."

Then it launches into how Tina is going to get married a second time and thanks to Wrecking Balm she's not "making the same mistakes she made in the past."

Okay, other than the obvious (How could it possibly take you TWO YEARS to plan a wedding?) one has to ask themselves, "did this tattoo say something bad?" Like, seriously, unless "the man I am marrying is a fucking idiot and I hate his family" was sprawled across Tina's back, then her tattoo is not to blame for the fight with her in-laws and her marriage ending in an "ugly" divorce. And if you are that self-conscious of your tattoo on your back, why wouldn't you pick a dress that maybe hid it? Honestely, I think the divorce had more to do with the fact that Tina, sipping champagne in the picture and giving the camera bedroom eyes; looks more like she was capable of screwing the bestman in the broom closet at her reception than the fact she had a tattoo on her back. Seriously. Temptress Tina, who you kidding?

The ad made no sense. In fact, it made so little sense that the lack of it offended me. Stretching so unbelievably far as to NOT make logical cause and effect sense offended me. Why not take the approach of, "In college I was crazy and I got a tattoo on my calf. I was young and now I work on Wall Street and I'm afraid to wear skirts because everyone will see it." That's more plausible than the tattoo on your back leading to divorce.

"I'm going to call this 1 800 number and tell them how retarded this ad is," I told The Hubs.

And of course only someone as wonderful as the man I married (with no tattoos on my back) would entertain the lunacy he married and find me something better than some helpless operator to rage at. A couple of days later he emailed me the company's email address and I am going to give them a piece of my mind.

Peppermint Patty has PMS

So, Saturday I had to go to the grocery to get some eggs. I had the woolies for my wasabi deviled eggs (which btw, I still haven't made yet). Of course, while I was there I was overcome with some sort of shopping fever and was compelled to buy more food than we needed. This included a trip to the deli counter to get some cod cuts. I also had my once a year craving for liverwurst. Let's see, wasabi deviled eggs and liverwurst. If I didn't already know my period was 4 days late I might think I managed to become sperminated. But, I have already taken three pregnancy tests (all negative) because I've been itching to take some codeine for my back. So, ruling out pregnancy, I can say for certain that I'm just PMS eating . . . . hopefully.

The Hubs was with me sporting his new red and white Giants Superbowl jersey which completely managed to throw off the deli guy. It started with a simple "Can I help you?" and before I could even get out my request for a half pound of muenster he was all over The Hubs like white on rice. "Where'd you get that jersey?"

Now, I'll pause to explain. They sell this jersey at Bob's and Modell's. However, The Hubs, having the ability to squeeze a quarter until the eagle screams, got it from his friend who does merchandising. The jersey was actually imported from Hong Kong for about $30 less than the $75 they charge at Modell's. Whether or not it's a fake is up for debate although The Hubs will try and point out its authenticity to me constantly. Like I care. I carried around a fake Louis Vitton while my mom sold fake Rolexes to my field hockey coaches for most of high school. So, why The Hubs can't just say, for the sake of explaning, that he got it at Modelle's is beyond me.

Deli Guy, is so enthralled by The Hub's cheapness that he's just standing there with the brick of muenster slung over his shoulder. Hey pal, you wanna slice that or should I just get some bread and make a grilled cheese right here?

After a while, he slices it. All the while talking football with The Hubs while I eye the deli case wondering how long it's going to take me to get three packs of cold cuts. God, don't let my bologna order start a chat about March Madness. Honestly, I was drowning out the conversation. Most conversations regarding sports get absorbed into my brain like math equations.

Deli Guy hands me the muenster and says TO ME, "Anything else, sir?"

Okay. I know my hair was wet and my coat was bulky. But, I'd like to think despite that, someone can tell I am female.

"Um, a half pound of bologna." I try to catch The Hub's eyes so I can mouth "what the fuck? Sir?" But he's too busy chatting up his new friend.

Deli Guy hands me the bologna. "Anything else, sir?"

I'm starting to think he must just be so focused on The Hubs that I don't exist. I am just a female afterall. And I did almost shriek in horror when he first offered low salt bologna.

"Um, a half pound of liverwurst" I manage not to say the last part which was going to sound something like this, "FOR MY OVARIES WHICH ARE TELLING ME I MUST EAT THIS SHIT BECAUSE I AM A FEMALE AND AS A FEMALE I GET PMS."

"Here you go, sir. Have a nice day" as he hands me the packaged liverwurst.

I walk away staring at The Hubs in shock while telling him that from now on to just tell people he got the jersey at Modell's or Bob's than explain the Bong Kong connection. I'm still baffled.

We walk over to CVS and as the guy at the register is ringing me up he compliments The Hubs on his jersey and asks where he got it. Of course, forgetting what I just told him on the SHORT walk over, he launches into the story about his friend and merchandising and getting this from Hong Kong for a deal.

I was waiting for this guy to become so focused on The Hubs that he's the only one he sees in the room. I start to think he too might start showing signs of pulsating purple hearts rather than pupils. I'm waiting for the "here's your change, sir." But there would be no mistaking me this time. This time I had a basket full of Combos and EPT pregnancy tests. Mistake that, bitch.

Mess with the bull and you get the horns

So, after much agonizing (all of three seocnds) I decided that I could not let Quest Diagnostic Lab get away with further screw ups. I wrote one of my infamous letters. This was was 2 pages long SINGLE SPACED. I'm not sure what pushed me over the edge. It could have been the onslaught of bills from them or the fact that because my blood test results were shared with my primary care doctor she seems to think my health is in peril and now she is sending me to yet another specialist for more bloodwork. Now. I told her that there was a screw up with my blood but nobody seems to know what is accurate and what's not so yay. More blood work.

Anyway, in a fit of rage over the weekend I mailed my letter to EVERY email address I could find on the Quest we site as well as cutting and pasting it into the comments sections of a survey AND sending a hardcopy of the same letter to the headquarters in Bridgeport.

Tuesday I received a call from the Regional Director. Of course I wasn't at home to take it and got the message after 5. She left me her number and when I checked my email, I saw she responded to my email as well. I replied and told her I didn't have much else to add the story. I mean, hello, the letter was TWO pages. I am pretty sure I summed it all up. I called her the following day to just reiterate that.

She apologized profusely for my experience. And then she proceeded to tell me that I can just go to another drawing station the next time and there is a new online appointment maker so you don't have to wait.

Hey, great, but my issue is not with the wait. It's with your employees doing their jobs wrong and FUCKING UP BLOOD RESULTS. BLOOD RESULTS THAT END UP WITH A WRONG DIAGNOSIS.

There's a time to put a positive spin on something and there is a time to keep your mouth shut and just apologize profusely. This was a perfect time to do the latter.

How is Stew Leonard's going to swing that?

So. Last night there was an impromptu moment of McLovin'. The first episode of it since having my IUD removed on Monday. Of course, because I have read way more books than I needed to, I was well aware that there was no LH surge happening in my uterus so there was a minimal risk of getting pregnant. But. Of course, when you're free wheelin' it, mistakes can happen and any time you have McLovin' there is a possibility you can get pregnant.

Afterwards, I drifted off to sleep with that nagging, "oh shit, what did we just do?" thought in my head. So. It was only inevitable that I had the following dream.

I was working in Norwalk and decided (like I usually do) to stop off at Stew Leonard's on my way home to pick up some stuffed salmon and other stuff I can only get there. Of course, I would HAVE to plow my way through the greedy and cheap crowd and dig into the basket of free cookie with both hands like usual. After walking the whole store putting stuff in my basket I stumbled upon a big table next to the cakes with a sign above it that said "Babies $6.99".

Yes. You read that right. Stew's was selling babies. But. They were all laying face down with these light brown very soft fuzzy pajamas on with hoods. You couldn't see their faces. They looked like those really soft plush teddy bears. They were all different sizes. There was one so small it could fit in my palm but it wasn't like a preemie. It was totally pudgy and healthy, just really small. There were rows of them. All dressed alike. All face down. Every other customer walked by without so much as a glance. It was just me and a table full of babies for sale. Dirt freaking cheap too. Like Stew's was growing them on a farm and another truckload would be coming soon.

$6.99, certainly not the International adoption rates of $40,000 and $20,000 that I have been researching. Hey, when you are as old as I am, you explore ALL your options.

The Baby Tag Sale was in full effect on the table. And they were good babies too. They were eerily still except one. It was the weirdest one. The only one face up and crying like there was no tomorrow. This one was average baby size but had the fully developed head and picked over face of a 47 year-old meth addict. It made me wonder if all the babies were like that and that is why they were all face down and only $6.99.

So. I did what any rational person would do. I passed by the baby table and moved onto the cakes.