I’ve had a hunch about this for quite some time, but I’ve spent some time gathering facts and now I’m quite positive that I’m right.

Here goes: J.Crew’s Wedding Coordinator, “ASHLEY,” does not in fact exist.

FACT 1: When I emailed “ASHLEY” to inquire about what dresses they might have at the J.Crew Michigan Avenue store, I received a response from not “ASHLEY” but, instead, a nice gal named Lauren.

(Aside: I find it hilarious that when I just searched for J.Crew in Gmail for the email in question, it said, “1-20 of hundreds”)

FACT 2: When I ordered my wedding dress this past week, I received the following email from “ASHLEY” at 9:43 p.m. Pacific Time:

My name is Ashley.  I am excited that you have chosen to order from our weddings and parties collection.  We have an entire team of dedicated specialists available to assist with all your special occasions needs.

Should you require further assistance with your order, we invite you to contact any one of our dedicated specialists for assistance.  We can be reached at 1-800-205-3877.

Best,

Ashley

FACT 3: I emailed “ASHLEY” last week to inquire about fabric swatches for my bridesmaids dresses. Side note: I’m allowing my bridesmaids to select their own dresses so long as they are black, matte, free of any lace or beading and tea length, but maybe I already told you this. Anyway, I’d like to have a swatch of fabric to show them so that they select accordingly.

Yet again, I receive a response from the wonderful Lauren. I’m really starting to like this Lauren girl and I think it’s sad that Ashley is stealing all of her thunder when she is clearly the one doing all the work. The one email I did receive from “ASHLEY” was clearly transactional and probably written by Lauren.

I’m not giving up on this until I have some real proof. Tell me, what should I ask “ASHLEY” next?

*Yes, this really is all I can come up with right now. The winter sads have set in and quite frankly, I’d rather be in bed watching Style Network.

Saturday night I had this Grand Plan to eat a delicious burger at Stanich’s while drinking PBR and watching the Oregon/Arizona Game. I thought about this burger all day and looked forward to 6 o’clock when I’d be sinking my teeth into it.

Instead, I was forced to accompany the boy and his twin up to our favorite local wine bar for the finals of the super prestigious Yahtzee tournament. They both found themselves in the finals after weeks of qualifying rounds. The boy was in for having the most wins, and his twin was in for having the most losses.

Aside: I was actually very, very scared that they were both in this tournament. These two are 38 years old and yet they bicker like the are 5 year olds. I knew that there was a good chance that one of them would win the entire tournament and then hold it over the other one’s head until next year.

Anyway, assuming that I’d be able to relax while they both played in the tournament, I ordered a glass of bubbly and removed my book from my purse and was ready to experience France with Julia Child. Tournament time came and only 5 of the 6 competitors had arrived I was asked to sit in for the no-show. Eager for a chance to take bragging rights from the boys, I agreed.

There were 2 tables of 3 players. The first player to win 2 games would advance to the second round. I sat at a table with two other women and very quickly noticed that I wasn’t quite welcome at this table. I’m not sure what made me think this, but it might have been the “This bitch is a ringer,” comment or the, “You’re not even supposed to be here,” comment from the bitter girl who apparently takes dice game WAY too seriously.

To make a long story (which is still super long) a teeny bit shorter, I won the round with bitter girl and went on to play in the finals against guess who? No, not the boy. That would have been too rich and too heartbreaking of a loss for him. I went on to play the twin. At this point, I decided I was really quite done with playing Yahtzee and turned my strategy to, “Get this done as soon as possible!” And, I rolled those dice with minimum effort (I needed to save my energy for my champagne) and after 3 games, I was crowned (with no actual crown, HMMPH!) the Yahtzee Champion.

Now, if you know me, you’ll know that I LOVE to win. But, these girls who did not win? They scare me. Seriously, over the next hour that we sat there, I was called a bitch more than 10 times (I was playing nice and pretended I didn’t hear them), they insulted the champagne I was drinking (“We only drink Veuve!” LISTEN HERE OLD MAIDS (what? they were complaining about being in their late 30s and being single) Veuve is NOT THAT GOOD, you just think it sounds fancy because the Kardashians drink it), and just basically made it known to whoever would listen that I did NOT deserve my win. I’m quite scared that I’ll either have the tires of my car slashed or they’ll slip some sort of roofie in my “tacky” champagne next time I run into them.

Actually, if we do run into them again, I hope they do mention it, because I’ve thought of AT LEAST 20 witty/snarky things to say to Sore Loser Girls. The options are endless!

And, that is the story of how I became Champion of a really ridiculous dice game. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like my congratulation dinner to be at Stanich’s.

18 months after a super painful surgery, and 6 months after a pretty freaking horrific course of Lupron treatments, I’m super excited to tell you guys that I am COMPLETELY CYST FREE!

This means, no surgeries for the foreseeable future and also NO MORE LUPRON.

Thank you all for listening to me whine…

xoxoxo

Healthy Uterus Rhi