I get a lot of mail...like a LOT, a lot. It isn't friendly mail, per se...mainly medical professionals relaying that while I'm still messed up, they did the best they could with what they had to work with and why don't I come back for a follow up because there's a living room set that really caught their eye the other day.

When it isn't one of them, it's some whatnot from my lovely insurance company saying that since the promised first-born is probably a no-go, payback for all of the butt-covering has now become MY SOUL.

Nonetheless, whatever the tone of my mail, it is still greater in volume than Nick's. I am sure this is a point of contention, but believe me when I say that I would rather get Shopper Stoppers! Ads from Charter Communications! Cat calls from Citibank, trying to line my pockets with make believe money!

Junk mail is wonderful because you can open it...

...Or not.

You can gnaw on it disapprovingly while watching Rachael Ray attempt to go low-carb...or use it to pick up that mushy purple goop that paraded around as a yellow onion last May.

You can even use it as a buffer between a singularly unattractive insect and the bottom of your shoe. One should be able to squeeze the life out of a bug without having antennae and legs caught in the tread of the orangest shoes ever. You know what I'm saying?

Junk mail from people who don't know you and have no interest in knowing you?...not so bad! The Grim Reaper HMO looking to collect on its share of the pie?...not so good!

But today was a kick in the teeth, seriously. And for a chick who's got a wisdom tooth extraction scheduled for Friday, it's even more hardcore. I pulled the catalogues from the box and walked slowly back to the house. We're both leafers...we fan through printed materials and after we've looked at the pictures we toss them. Mmm. Pictures. Words ruin the karma.

One catalogue is addressed to me, the other to Nick. With interest I note that Nick is on an Eddie Bauer mailing list...God I love dating a metrosexual! With anticipation, I turn the catalogue addressed to myself. Something from New Balance? The Baker's Catalogue? No, don't be silly. I, the prissy, self-proclaimed princess and the all-out froufrou girly-girl, received the Highland Woodworking catalogue. My father would be so proud. I'm a pair of bib overalls and couple of pig tails shy (and a few teeth too many) of having a "Mae" after my name and several extra syllables stuffed in the middle.

Please, my dear health maintenance organization, anybody, didn't you want my soul today? It's largely unused? Still in its original packing?