I was rooting for the fugitive, and I was disappointed when he turned out to be a pathetic schmuck. He started off so well. He was clever and brilliant, disarming two guards and escaping captivity while on his way to the court house to stand trial for robbing banks. He took their clothes and their guns and the car. He hijacked a civilian's car in the parking lot of a grocery store, ditched the car in the next town over and managed to elude the SWAT team that had taken chase. By the time night fell ten hours later, I thought for sure that he was gone. Surely, he'd be halfway to Mexico, or Canada, or even the Jersey shore. Imagine my disappointment when, the next morning, it was reported that he'd hijacked another car no more than five miles away from where he'd taken the first car. And then, even though he'd hijacked the car in a spot right by the highway- I mean, seriously, there was an exit ramp RIGHT THERE- he went ahead and robbed another bank only ten miles away. Another hour or so, and he was apprehended about four or five miles away from the bank. While everyone in the suburbs breathed a collective sigh of relief- the schools and offices were allowed off lockdown, the banks reopened their doors, and women at grocery stores could once again walk to their car with the familiar old carelessness us suburbanites are used to- I felt like I had just watched the worst movie I'd ever seen. He was supposed to foil the cops. He was supposed to escape to another country, to another state, or at least another fucking ten mile radius. Instead, I invested all this time into watching the news reports, reading the online updates, and saying glib things like, "They're wasting their time, he's long gone" when presented with the facts that the same old cops in the same old three or four towns were all on high alert. Instead, the clever villain in my backwards hero tale turned out to be a retarded fucking idiot who, while displaying so much promise in the wee early hours of the game, quickly lost his senses and couldn't even figure out how to leave the state. Despite having guns and cars. Despite being the most average looking white man you'd ever seen, the kind of man you wouldn't look at twice even if you were looking specifially for him. Despite having escaped in the kinds of suburbs that are just riddled with major highways. And back roads and front roads and side roads. What a waste of my time. What a let down.

I'm starting to have a real issue with Facebook. And yet I can't stop logging in, doing status updates, commenting, the whole nine yards. I really want to cut the ties, because I've decided it's unhealthy for me to be constantly snooping on others and, let's face it, comparing other lives to mine. I've also decided that I am not sure I want to be part of this whole "tweeting," limited character communication culture. I'm old school. I like blogs and emails. And yet I am not of strong will. I am weak. I will most likely update my Facebook page to this affect at some point today.

The internet sets you up for failure. The problem is that, upon initiating a search- a query, if you will- nine out of ten of the sites in the search results will be not only completely unhelpful, but, furthermore, written by morons exactly like you, only dumber. The very worst is when you type in a question and get a Yahoo! Answers result. A WikiAnswer might be just as bad. You can't trust other people to answer your questions. You can and should only trust actual articles from actual, accredited associations or publications. The problem is trying to find an actual web page that you can believe in. They are few and far between, unless you are searching for a map to Providence, Rhode Island, a Tetris-style game to pass the time, or an online store when you can buy a Silver Bullet in the peace, quiet, and privacy of your own home.

In "trying" to get pregnant, I have done a lot of "research" on the internet. I put the word "research" in quotation marks, because I've come to the conclusion that I've actually learned very little. I may have even done enough "research" to cause me to actually unlearn a few things. "But what's there to learn?" you, the slightly bored reader, may be asking. "Don't you just do the deed and then, boom, nature takes its course? Don't sixteen year old girls get pregnant all time just by LOOKING at a boy?" Well, that's true to an extent. It's very easy to get pregnant when pregnancy is a completely foreign notion and the very last thing on your to-do list. But when you put forth the effort? When you track ovulation and pay attention to every little hint and clue your somewhat deceptive, almost-thirty year old body puts forth? Forget about it. It ain't going to happen.

"Researching" on the internet gets you nowhere for the following reason. The women on the internet who are posting little stories and tips from their own adventures in procreation are all neurotic, hateful, bitter hags whose sole goal in life is to spread their own infertility-related misery by convincing the reader that SOMETHING MAJOR IS SERIOUSLY WRONG WITH YOUR BODY and that if you so much as have half a cup of coffee during the 2WW (that's two week wait in conception lingo- more on that later), you will kill whatever little bundle of cells may or may not have already started the division game. That having an occasional smoke or a big glass of wine while TTC (trying to conceive) will render your reproductive parts as useless as that old lawn mower from the mid-80s that your half-retarded uncle gave you as a gesture that said not "Here's a little gift for your new house" as much as "Here. You figure out how to throw this away." These women type away in the dark of night and subversively attempt to convince you that because you get a certain kind of discharge (sorry) on the fifth day of your cycle, your womb should from here on out be referred to the "Infertile Crescent," and that it's best if you resign yourself to the fact that you will have a childless life and a marriage that will most likely end in a resentment fueled murder-suicide.

The women on the internet, they will drive you nuts. You will have a legitimate question about the luteal phase (look it up), and, next thing you know, the women on the internet will have you convinced that, biologically-speaking, you might just be a man.

Then there's the lingo. When you start reading about conception on the internet, you will find that you can't decipher half of the things these dumb ass shrews are saying. Here's a list of acronyms that I have encountered in my "studies."

TTC (trying to conceive)
2WW (two week wait)
DH (dear husband)
BFP (big fat positive)
AF (aunt flo)
DPO (days past ovulation)
CF (cervical fluid)
BD (baby dance, i.e., sex)
GFY (go fuck yourself)

I may have made that last one up.

I suppose the prevalence of these moronic acronyms should have tipped me off that I wasn't getting the best scientific advice that ye olde internet had to offer. Unfortunately, because I've worked myself into several crazed frenzies over the past few months, it didn't occur to me until just recently that maybe I shouldn't be taking baby-making advice from the kind of women who have the same mindset as a teenaged girl texting her BFF Madison about LOL and FML and WTF and TMI. Now, I'm an intelligent woman. In fact, I have a very high opinion of my brain, if you must know. I think it's tops. So, why have I been taking the word of simpleton idiots as GOSPEL?

Because it's been a rough summer. Because I thought it wouldn't take more than a month to do this whole thing. Because I thought, for sure, by now, my show would be on the road, so to speak. But the fact of the matter is that it's not, and it might take six months, or a year, or even longer if I continue to apply such an insane amount of pressure to the task at hand, so to speak. And especially if I continue to Google every twinge, nuance, fear, hope, and question. If I continue to turn into the kind of woman that I normally despise and shun.

So, after a rougher than normal week, I've decided to give up internet "research," cold turkey. I've also decided to put this whole baby-making thing on a different burner, a back burner. Don't get me wrong, I do still hope it happens soon, but I'll be okay if it takes a while. I'm going to concentrate on de-stressing myself and focusing on me, not a tiny ball of cells that may or may be floating around somewhere inside me. I'm not going to let the calendar dictate my life, both my indoors and outdoors life, if you catch my drift. I'm not going to drive my husband insane with a list of evenings that he has to be home for the night. And I'm going to drink my coffee, god dammit, and my wine, until I know for sure there's a reason to stop.

Oh, the internet. It's evil. It can convince you that you're infertile, that your mole is most likely a cancer that has spread to six different organs, that 2012 is going to end the world in a fiery explosion, and that the Check Engine light in your car means it's time to buy a new car. When everyone knows that the Check Engine light usually means that everything thing is mostly okay, and that you shouldn't waste your valuable time or money trying to diagnose what's wrong. No need to panic. The car still runs.

Take one thing from this blog entry: don't trust the hags on the internet. Me included.

This little girl in the Ally commercial, the one who DOESN'T get the real pony, is me when I was a kid. Truly, it is uncanny- especially since she gets the short end of the stick. It's okay, little Jackie. One day you'll have enough money and you can buy your own damn pony. Except you won't buy a pony. Because life is cold and harsh and makes you feel dead inside to the point where not even a real live pony can make you feel okay again.