Two things:

1. First things first. Never use Expedia.com. Ever. Picture it: Chicago, two nights ago. Weary after a day of meetings, I drag myself through the American Airlines check-in queue at O'Hare International Airport. It is the only time in recent memory I am not using an e-ticket, and I have arrived early to check in and eat dinner. Or so I thought. I present my ticket to a lovely agent named Virginia, who informs me that it is not a ticket after all; it is the receipt for a ticket, distinguishable from a ticket only by small type that reads "not valid for transportation." The ticket itself seems to have never been included in the ticket booklet sent to me by Expedia. This fact is verified by Virginia and her supervisors, who also claim that this is a frequent problem from Expedia. We contact their customer service only to reach a harridan who claims that my signing for the FedEx proves the ticket was originally shipped, and that even if it had not been, I am at fault for not catching their error sooner. When I tell her that I was not the one who made the travel arrangements or signed for the FedEx, that it had been the assistant to my client, she implies that the assistant steamed open two sealed envelopes, tore out the ticket and removed any evidence it had been there, closed the envelopes again to eliminate any evidence of tampering, and sent the whole thing along to me as some sort of sick joke. In the end, after over an hour on the phone with the Expedia customer-"service" harpy (most of the time on hold), I get no satisfaction. She gives me a claim number and says that they will look into it. I have to pay American $100 to reissue my ticket, and I make it to the plane with moments to spare.

Never use Expedia.com.

2. In infinitely happier news, yesterday was my birthday. Some who read this (particularly those who gave birth to me) will be surprised at that news, as I was myself. Rob decided that, since I was actually born on 24 December and since, consequently, my birthday celebrations have been traditionally obscured by the whirlwind of activity surrounding some other stupid holiday around that day, we should move the observation to another, less cluttered, time of year.

Happy birthday to me!

To further the surprise, my amazing boyfriend took me to see Hairspray on Broadway, which was a most delightful and entrancing spectacle. We then returned to my apartment for the homemade cake he had baked, and then it was off to dinner at a certain dog-themed restaurant, where a certain good friend of ours served up free drinks and delightful conversation.

I may not (thanks in part to Expedia.com) have two cents to rub together, but I am the luckiest son of a bitch I can think of.