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Do you, my darling readers, remember how I was supposed to be free from my retched tonsils next Thursday? I was counting down the days. Honest. I was ready to make myself one of those old school paper chains and everything. To finally be free from getting the plague on a VERY regular basis? Eat nothing but Popsicles and Jamba Juice for a week? Lay on my padres' down-filled couch and watch every BBC miniseries that I could get my hands on? Convince Max and Cole to rub my feets because I'm sick? Bliss. I mean, the whole excruciating pain thing is a minus, but what's a little pain in the grand scheme of keeping my voice? I'm glad to see that you share my perspective on this. Imagine my horror and devastation when I received a phone call last Friday afternoon informing me that I hadn't been on my insurance long enough to have the surgery. It turns out that NORMAL insurance companies require you to be covered for one year prior to any surgery. Reasonable, right? Well, my luck is not so great. Mine requires you to be covered for 18 months, and that won't happen until JUNE. Since it's my parents' insurance, I get kicked off when I turn 26, which happens in MAY.  See the conundrum? This is not my happy face. I made calls. My dad made calls. I begged. He pleaded. To no avail. These vestigial organs are staying firmly and infectiously inside my throat. I had some monies saved up so as to pay for my life while I was languishing on that lovely couch, so yesterday I made a decision. I was going to spend it. Now don't freak, not all of it. But I was mad and when I'm mad one of my favorite things to do is shop. Since I have a huge job interview tomorrow (all prayers are appreciated), new dress pants were definitely in order. I'm pretty sure that the only good thing that has come out of this whole mess are those pants. I won't lie to you; my butt has never looked better.