So, for maybe the 30th time in a two-year span, I have been invited to a baby shower for a friend. And for the 3,000th time in that same period, another jagged little piece has splintered from my heart, leaving a trail of tears and bitterness in its wake.

I am barren in a boomtime for breeders, one of those increasingly unusual 20- and 30-somethings who is not yet a mother or a mother-to-be. There aren't very many of us left, and that only adds to my heartbreak: one by one, I am losing my friends to parenthood.

The reason why we are childless is because I am literally broken inside, in more than just the psychological sense. I have inherited so many things from my family, and among those "gifts" are bad genetics. The metabolic inconsistency that causes diabetes is also a primary factor behind PCOS.

My ovaries, those two small organs that make me a woman, don't work as they should. They are scarred, damaged, full of cysts, battered from a lifetime of exposure to the wrong sorts of hormones. Too much insulin, too much androgen, not enough estrogen. They don't work.

I spent ten years on the Pill, and I didn't need to. All that money, all that worry, wasted on eggs that will not hatch. I spent two years undergoing infertility treatment that made me crazy, miserable, and suicidal, all for absolutely nothing except an emptied savings account and a view of the brink of divorce.

And in the same week that one of my oldest friends had her first child, I got my period for the first time in almost six months. After two weeks of sore breasts, phantom smells, fatigue, appetite changes, morning nausea, and constant trips to the bathroom. After 14 glorious days of pregnancy symptoms.

Neither of us wanted to talk about it, really, but I think we both thought that this time was It. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, so we just danced around what we both were wishing for, hoping against hope. This weekend, on lucky 07-07-07, we were going to buy The Test and confirm what we both want more than oxygen.

Instead, we sent flowers to the hospital with a card that said: "Congratulations." Except, secretly, neither of us really mean it. Our friends had not even met when we got married. They bought a house before we did. They forced us to share our anniversary. And then they had the baby that logic says should have been ours.

My hand and my heart are both tired of writing "Congratulations" in so many pastel cards covered with ducks. I don't want to do it any more, and I don't really mean it anyway. I kind of never have. It's not fair, and it isn't right. I have followed all the rules my whole life, done everything according to plan, and this is my reward?

It's become a kind of secret password, "Congratulations" has. It doesn't mean to me what it means to them. It doesn't really mean, "I'm so happy that this wonderful thing has happened to you." It's more like, "How could you betray and abandon me like this? How can you take what I don't have?"

And as much as I know that none of this is my fault or their fault or anybody's fault but God's, that cruel heartless bastard, I still feel ashamed of things that I cannot control. I am the Great White Hope, and I am letting so many people down, and I can't fix it, and I am a total failure because I am the One Who Fixes Things.

So I will keep saying "Congratulations," but what I really mean, secretly, deep down inside where everything is hot and cold and sad and very, very angry, is: "Fuck you."

I turned 33 yesterday, and I feel fantastic about it, if a little tired this morning.

There's a sort of liberating awesomeness about having a birthday when you realize that you're not getting any younger and you just don't give a shit. That's the kind of birthday I decided to have this year. It is what it is, and so what? It's probably easy for me to say that this year, when I'm not a "big" number that ends in a "5" or a "0," but I'm hoping to remember this feeling when I do have one of those milestone birthdays. Putting all this in writing to look back on should help.

I woke up at regular time, and G wished me a happy birthday right away with one of those lovely first-thing-in-the-morning kisses that are seriously underrated. That's one of the nicest things about being in a long-term relationship, and also one of the most perpetually surprising: here is a man who's woken up next to me every day for the last 8 years, and he's still always happy to see me when he opens his eyes. (Well, usually, anyway. 90% of the time, I would guess.)

MENTAL NOTE: If you don't have a lifemate who will do this for you -- kiss you very first thing in the morning on your birthday, because they know that's what you love the most in the world -- I recommend you get one as soon as possible. Sweethearts who are still your sweethearts 13½ years later are spectacular, and also few and far between. They're worth looking hard for, and holding onto tightly.

I dressed up for work. I didn't really admit it -- since we're leaving for vacation in just two days, I said I was "wearing what's clean" -- but everybody knew it anyway. Cute top, pretty skirt, great shoes. I even shaved my legs, although I will be the first to admit that was strictly out of vanity. You can't make stubble look hot when it's below the collar, no matter how much you try. My hair cooperated, as did the weather. I looked ready to party, because I was.

My co-workers decorated my cube with balloons and Mountain Dew labels. It was really kind of awesome, and I sucked it all up. I got cards and presents and tons of attention. I loooooove attention. People brought me flowers and candy. I got taken out to lunch, and G joined us. It was nice. We went to Bahama Breeze, which is absolutely the perfect place to go for lunch on your birthday when it's also your last working day before vacation. I got drunk off this faaaaabulous chocolate trés leches cake that was about 180-proof and full good dark rum.

I worked at work, but I didn't do any more than I had to. People were asking me about vacation, and what time the swim-up bar opens, and some things were said about plans to take topless windsurfing lessons that may or may not pan out -- we'll see about that one. (Yes, the first thing I packed was SPF 30, so don't worry.) I told some people I was going to be out next week and they actually helped me get stuff done so it didn't sit. Phenomenal.

Then we came home, took a nap, and then went out. We surprised Lulu and Stevie by showing up at Stevie's show at Which Brew in Easton. It was a great time. They were happy to see me, I was happy to start my vacation as soon as possible, the food and drinks were primo, and Stevie sounded as great as ever. He even dedicated a song to "the birthday girl" -- that would be me! And I love Tom Petty, so you could probably see my smile in Phoenix.

MENTAL NOTE: Now that I know I can stalk Stevie electronically via MySpace, I am going to see him as often as I can. If you are in the greater A-B-E Metro Area, or if you are going to be, check out his page and try to catch a show. I am telling you, he is going to be HUGE someday, probably soon, and you're going to want to get in on the ground floor. Trust me on this one. Plus, he puts on a helluva show. Anything you could possibly want to hear, he does.

Then we came home and went to bed and slept like the dead. And now that it's the morning after, everything looks even better in retrospect. I looked really pretty yesterday. The food was really good. The Poisoned Apples I had to drink were really tasty. Stevie and Lulu were really fun. It's a beautiful day, and I am 33, and I feel fantastic about it.

Kurt Vonnegut, author of about a million books including one of my all-time favorites, Slaughterhouse-Five, has died. So it goes.

I wish I could say that I had actually met the man and known him well, but I didn't. However, I did get to dance the hokey-pokey with him once. But we'll get to that. And of course he has inspired and impacted me in ways that he will never know about. Or maybe he does. Who knows?

My first exposure to his work came sometime around the eighth grade, when one of my teachers – Mr. Grier, probably, who was exactly the sort of teacher that I believe Vonnegut would have approved of – gave my English class a pamphlet that Vonnegut had written for International Paper, titled "How To Write With Style."

It's funny that anyone would ever ask Vonnegut about how to write with "style," because while he most definitely had a voice and a perspective all his own, he did not write with the sort of elegance that one associates with greatness. He was aware of this; as he said in that essay, "I myself grew up in Indianapolis, where common speech sounds like a band saw cutting galvanized tin, and employs a vocabulary as unornamental as a monkey wrench." So it goes.

Whether it was his intention or not, in that piece Vonnegut also gave voice to what would turn out to be my Secret of Life. To this day, I have another quote from that pamphlet in my mind at all times, and on the wall of my cube, where I can see it every time I turn around, in case I need a reminder about what is really important:

"I myself find that I trust my own writing most, and others seem to trust it most, too, when I sound most like a person from Indianapolis, which is what I am. What alternatives do I have?"

Shakespeare said "To thine own self be true," and he meant it; so did Vonnegut. He wrote about what he knew and what he saw and what he loved and what he hated, a world and a life filtered through Indianapolis, a World War, the firebombing of Dresden, book bannings and book burnings, depression, two wives, seven children, and 69 years of smoking Pall Malls. So it goes.

All of these helped to create a body of work and a humanist sensibility that have profoundly affected me in ways even I am not fully prepared to deal with. Obviously I loved very much that in Vonnegut I had found someone who was older and more experienced than me, who also agreed with me on matters of some import. He was something of a socialist, and a member of the ACLU. So am I, in part because from reading Vonnegut's books I learned that it was OK, encouraged even, to question authority and trust no one, including yourself.

Vonnegut also gave me some of favorite lines to quote when things get out of control, weird, or downright stupid, including but not limited to "Welcome to the Monkey House." Of course, most of the people that I deal with have no idea what I really mean by that, because they've never read the story, but I strongly suspect that Vonnegut himself had some of the same problems from time to time. So it goes.

And none of this really explains why I'm walking around in a weird kind of funk today, mourning his passing. It's because I keep remembering a moment, from May of 1994, when I was a sophomore in college. Vonnegut was the commencement speaker at Syracuse that year, and I was on some committee, and I ended up at the graduation dinner-dance. Where I joined Vonnegut in doing the hokey-pokey.

If there's a heaven, and Vonnegut believes in it, that's where he is right now, no doubt. Smoking his Pall Malls and being unstuck in time and shooting the shit with Kilgore Trout and laying naked with Montana Wildhack and being his rumpled old Indianapolis self and doing the hokey-pokey.

Hopefully he'll save a spot on his dance card for me, someday. So it goes.

So, it's come to this: today I took a sick day.

Don't get me wrong -- I was actually not feeling well today, as evidenced by the fact that I slept pretty much through until 1:00 this afternoon. I needed the rest, because it was a Very Bad Weekend. I hurt my ankle (and I'm still a bit gimpy), and I didn't have fun at my cousin's birthday party, and the weather was crappy, and I had a headache. When I woke up I knew I was in no shape at all to face the world, so I decided early on that I was going to call out.

And I don't regret it, either. I only get 10 sick days a year, and this was one of mine. I haven't called out yet this year, so I'm pretty far ahead of the curve relative to the rest of my department anyway. But I have to be honest: I didn't just call out sick because I was, you know, sick. I desperately needed a Mental Health Day.

Everybody needs a Mental Health Day once in a while; I wish more companies were like the County of Northampton, where my Dad works. They actually give their employees Mental Health Days -- I think they get three a year, or something like that. Of course, they pay their people absolute shit, so I guess I don't actually wish more companies were like the County, but I think you see what I'm getting at: Mental Health Days are Very Good Things, and more companies should offer them as benefits.

Then again, there is the argument that is made where I work, that there is such a thing as "vacation time," and that when employees need a little R&R, they should feel free to use their vacation allotment for that. Which I don't disagree with, in principle, but I also sort of do take issue with that. My mental health is just as important to me as my physical health; why shouldn't I treat all illnesses the same way?

What all of this is coming down to is that I have come to the realization that I need a vacation. Or, as the one, the only, the Samuel L. Jackson might say: "I need a mutherfuckin' break on a mutherfuckin' plane." The signs have all been there for some time -- the difficulty sleeping, the irritability, the dire desperate need for some goddamned photosynthesis. But what really drove me over the edge? Was last week, when I came so unglued that I was speaking, thinking, and writing in poetry. Oh, yes ... my nervous breakdowns are performed in iambic pentameter. (Don't try this at home. I am a trained professional nutjob.)

So, when I finally woke up today, I had a Hot Pocket and a shower, and then I got on the horn to my travel agent, and sonofabitch, I booked a trip. I'll have to use my "real" vacation time for it, but it will be well worth it, believe me. The countdown has already started, and I'm practically already packed. I'm just waiting for the Lands End shipment to come with my new bathing suit in it. Because that, and clean underpants, and a toothbrush, are all I am planning to take with me.

I don't to give away to much about where we're going, but I will give a few hints. But before I do, here is what I will do on my vacation: Lie in the sun. Drink mojitos. Read. Sleep late. Take pictures of palm trees. Drink mai tais. Chase lizards. Swim in the ocean. Speak another language. Drink daiquiris. Dance. Laugh. Listen to my iPod. Drink Cuba libres. Like myself again.

And what I won't do? Think about work. Use my cellphone. Speak in rhymes. Regret a single second.

Want some clues on where we're going? I already gave you some, and I'm not allowed to go to Havana (boo, sanctions!), but here are three more, as promised: Island in the sun. Béisbol. David Ortiz.

Hasta la vista, baby!

Look, I may not go to church unless someone drags me there kicking and screaming, or unless they trick me into going by telling me that the sacramental wine has been replaced by White Russians, or ... no, let's just call a spade a spade and say it: I don't do church. (Yes, Nana, I know my seat in Hell is already reserved, and I know this because I already work there.) But just because I've turned my back on organized religion, that doesn't mean I don't recognize the Signs of the Apocalypse when I see them. And I'm pretty sure that "my cat getting a blog" is right up there with Pestilence, Famine, and Tom-Brady-being-a-baby-daddy-(TWICE!!) in that regard.

Which isn't to say I'm opposed to blogs, necessarily, as a construct or a cultural phenomenon. Obviously. But I am becoming increasingly disturbed by the overuse and misapplication of them. Blogging is the new black, apparently, and it makes me feel squicky. As my grandfather might say in one of his more lucid moments: "Blogs are like assholes; everybody's got one, and most of 'em stink." Or, in other words, they've become completely filled with information and totally devoid of content.

Because, here's the problem -- it's not them, it's me. I don't think blogs are supposed to be important or earth-shattering or groundbreaking in any way. Call me "old skool" if you must, but I still think blogs should be of the online-personal-diary persuasion: a place for someone to write what they think or what they feel, for their friends or friends of their friends to read and share. A kind of conversation, or a digital journal. Some of the things bloggers talk about can be important -- religion, politics, reality shows -- but they don't have to be. I like the blogs where people post pictures of their new shoes and put up their poetry and vent about things that bother them. Blogs like the ones here, where maybe sometimes people sound like drunks, or dorks, or drunken dorks, or neurotic early-thirtysomethings having the midlife crisis of the week, but for the most part, the people sound like people.

By which I mean: they don't sound like network news shows. What the crap is with all these "blogs" that the network news programs have out now? "Click here to see this clip from last night's telecast that only tells part of one side of the story, plus check out Katie Couric's cute new haircut!" (Not actual links.) What is that? That's not news, to begin with -- that's advertising. And anyway, I want to actually, you know, find out what's going on in the world! It's a sad state of affairs when people are being paid to set up hotlinks to stories that provide you with fewer actual facts than the crawl on the bottom of the screen during any random mess on E!

So ... where was I going here? Oh: I think there should be a different word for what people are doing when they're trying to tell you how to be, or how to think, or what to wear, or who to vote for, or why to bother voting at all, but whatever that word is, it shouldn't be "blog." I want to take that word back, restore it to its original meaning. Protect it and all it stands for. Death to the keyboard monkeys! Anarchy now!

PS -- If you're reading this, you're NOT one of the people who pisses me off. Not this week, anyway. Just so you know. Yeah, I know I get a little batshit sometimes. I know. Sorry. But I kind of value independent reasoning, and I'm fed up with people who mistake literacy for intelligence, and who mistake the ability to click for the ability to think.