I’m sorry the comments don’t work. They don’t work for me, either. I can’t even get them to stay on the page long enough to read any that you *have* been able to leave. I’m sorry the RSS doesn’t work.  Please don’t give up. Or, if you must, come back in January when I relaunch at the original thisfish.com. Until then, I will fulfill my end of the contract honorably, and will have new posts up here three times a week.

I couldn’t find my kittens this morning. The Dork Lord says I’m allowed to call them mine just as long as they don’t end up in our apartment. I’d fight him on that but one, the beard is my priority death match and two, he’s working dilligently, researching and learning and making grimacey faces at his laptop to develop an iPhone app for the new blog. An app! For me! How fun, right? I figure, if the blog needs to generate revenue, it doesn’t have to be with ads that get in the way of the actual purpose of the blog. Ahem.

In fact. A couple of important fundamentals for the new site include a strict advertising policy, a business platform based on giving back to the community and increased interactivity. I can’t wait. I hope you’ll join me!

“Good news! It came in a little under what I’d estimated.”

It didn’t seem at all appropriate to hug the woman at the jewelry counter, but even still, I was tempted to see if I could get away with it. C’mere you! Saturday afternoon marked the very first time something wedding related has come in under budget. Those words are so yummy – under budget. Next to, “I thought you were 27*” they might just be my recent favorites.

So, now the Boy has a wedding band – and it’s really pretty perfect. Since he created it from a little of this and a little of that, we never actually saw what it was going to look like. It’s nice. Really nice. And it has some fairly nice heft to it. So, you know, the next time he’s out of line and needs some… gentle reminding, I’m gonna chuck that thing at his forehead. Thunk! The love thunk. In stores now.

Speaking of what’s in store: For those of you who don’t have a) Facebook b) Twitter or c) patience enough to hit reload like eighteen times to make the comments work here, This Fish Needs a Bicycle will be relaunching at thisfish.com in January, followed shortly (I hope!) with an iPhone app and some other cool stuff.

* Someone actually said that to me the other weekend and I was pleased. Until he followed them up with “You look like Barbara Streisand. A younger, better looking Barbara Streisand.”  Uh huh. Just what every girl wants to hear. Let’s go back to the part where you told me I don’t look my age. That was good stuff.

Raise your hand if you miss Christmas vacation. Go on, it’s okay. If your cubemate wonders why you’ve got your hand in the air, you simply say, “I miss Christmas vacation.” Alternatively, you could say, “I miss Winter Break” if you grew up somewhere not predominantly baby-Jesus oriented. Either way, it’s likely that they will join you in your salute to nostalgia and napping.

Aside: I could really use a nap. Those four hours of sleep I got last night were pretty cool and all, but I could use about eleven more. And also maybe being sung to sleep by Neil Patrick Harris. Please.

Anyway, my dad stayed home with us when I was a kid and so my Christmas break memories are mostly made up of tomato soup, my dad’s cocoa (which I made for the Dork Lord the other night, failing to acknowledge when he complimented its tastiness, that the recipe actually comes from the container of Hershey’s cocoa) and defrosting our toes over the heater vents wearing his gigantic tube socks, fresh out of the dryer. Warm socks. Warm food. Add a Law & Order SVU Marathon and right there you basically have the recipe to my happiness. Okay, also maybe add cheese.

The other night, the temperature dropped so sharply that even after adding a layer of the Boys clothes to my own, I decided I still wasn’t warm enough. So I went upstairs, pulled open his unmentionables drawer and dug around for some of those gigantic warm tube socks. And there weren’t any. Not a single pair.

One lovely commenter (you precious thing, you) sweetly pointed out that the Dork Lord and I are going to get divorced in five years and you know what? If we do, it will be because he hasn’t got the right hosiery. All of which I mean to prevent by giving him the gift of tube socks this Christmas. Yeah, I know we said we wouldn’t buy gifts for each other this year to save for the wedding, but I’m doing it for the children. And,  uh, me. But mostly the children.

I apologize for being so scattered, my lovies. Stuff is Going On. For those of you who don’t know, there are going to be some big ole changes around here in the next month. Join us over at Facebook or email me a thisfish at gmail dot com to find out more.

After I finished addressing our Save the Dates, they sat for almost a whole week on our dining room table – because I wasn’t sure I wanted to send them. At all. Ever.

It’s not often that I don’t know what to do. In fact, I’m guessing it’s closer to never. My super power, while physically unimpressive, would be an unbending, hard fast certainty. In every situation, self-assured and possessing clear direction.

Until the week before Thanksgiving.

You couldn’t call it a fight, really, because even if you’re being very King Solomon about things, it was horribly one-sided. Something had been plaguing me for months – a new behavior, one that had me wondering who exactly this was I’d decided to marry – and one evening, on our way home from his folks’ house, I got up the courage to talk about it. And all hell broke loose. He was in the wrong and knew it, but his response to my “I’m uncomfortable with…” was unexpected and harsh and personal. He made it clear that it was my fault he wasn’t spending time with me. That I was boring. I said nothing, just turned my face to the car window and closed my eyes for the rest of the 30 mile drive.

That night I spent hiding upstairs in my office, shocked and sad, and for the first time in our relationship, one hundred percent uncertain. What should I do? Take off my ring, pack a bag and stop this thing right in its tracks?

“Do you even like me anymore?” I finally asked the next morning. I was bleary and sick to my stomach and genuinely not sure of what his answer would be.

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

It was all his fault, he said – the one thing I actually already knew for certain. We spent the morning talking it out. But even after he made his most heartfelt apologies, it took me some time to actually accept them. In my head, I couldn’t reconcile what had happened – that he made me doubt everything, and now I just had to let it go. But then, I did. And when I realized I had, that’s when I went home, picked up those blue envelopes, and drove them to the mailbox.

Okay, I thought. I’m in.

Boy, did I miss you guys! I’ve got many things to tell you – like how I spent Thanksgiving in a place called Uncertain, Texas (a bluntly obvious and yet  appropriate metaphor). But first, I wanted to get a little color up on these walls.

of note: I was not involved much (read: at all) in the design aspect of the new page, so please bear that in mind when leaving your two cents in the jar. I believe we’re also collecting two cents on Facebook.

Over the next two weeks, a) iVillage will be migrating the fishblog content from MovableType to Drupal – which means absolutely nothing to you except that after today b) I won’t be able to add any new posts and c) you won’t be able to add any new comments. Well, you *can* but they won’t get transferred to the new! redesigned! blog. I haven’t seen it so it will be a surprise to all of us. Like an early Christmas/Hanukkah/Festivus gift!

In the meantime, have a very happy and filling turkey day and we’ll meet up back here on December 2nd. Oh, and if’n you need anything, you can always reach me at thisfish at gmail dot com.

I miss you already. For serious.

(The RSS Feed should work once the site is live again on December 2nd. If it doesn’t, pretend I didn’t say that.)

Yesterday, I got an email from Dan at SharpShirter, asking if I’d be up for some joint-venturin’ with his best seller, the Cycling Fish t-shirt.

You betcha! One, I dig the shirt (bikes and fishes, you see). Two, the timing couldn’t be better. Three, he signed his email xoxo – a bold choice. And I like bold.

By now you know I don’t often take up causes (my personal credo is pretty simple: be good, say thank you and don’t text while driving). But this particular cause truly touches me, so I thought this might be a good opportunity to raise awareness and make a contribution.

• Enter the promo code “fishtee10″ and get 10% off your purchase

• Get a swell fish-bike t-shirt

• I’ll donate my share of the sale to It Gets Better/ The Trevor Project – a campaign to fund life-saving suicide prevention services and anti-bullying efforts for LGBT youth.

Got too many stylin’ tees as it is? Consider making a donation or submitting your own video story.

“Stephanie Klein is happy.”

“Of course you do.”

From the comments:
 

Disclaimer in the Second: Technically, I am not single. Also technically, I did not go to the dealership by myself. However. The Dork Lord, god love him, deferred to me at all times, sat in the ‘guest’ chair and did not interject except to say, “Those don’t look anything like the numbers she was looking at. Do they?” To which I replied “Not even close!” Scramble went the salesman. Home for first pitch went the Boy. Mostly, he just sat next to me and played with his iPhone. I love this about him, by the way. When it’s my show, he’s very good at taking the supporting actor role. When the salesman erroneously addressed him first (as they will do), he simply nodded in my direction. “She’s in charge.”

1. Decide before you ever set foot in the dealership what you are going to pay. Write it down.

How do you know what to pay? I’m glad you asked. What you can pay will be dictated by your budget (for accurate planning, use an amortization calculator. I found this one useful). But to know what you should pay, go to a neutral source like Kelly Blue Book (kbb.com) or Edmunds (edmunds.com). Enter the year, make, model and trim of the car you’re looking to buy. Add the bells and whistles you expect – if you’re just gaga for a sunroof, add it to the package – we’re looking for a maximum range here. Now, check out the price. Notice there are three dollar numbers. In the example below, I priced out a 2010 Hyundai Santa Fe (they are rather nice to drive, in case you were wondering).

MSRP: Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail Price. Please make note of the word suggested. In reality, this number doesn’t mean jack squat.

Invoice: The price paid by the car dealership to have that shiny baby on their lot. But only *sort* of. The dealership didn’t actually pay the listed invoice price. There car manufacturer offers incentives and discounts that aren’t factored into that number. Do not be fooled by this number. Above all do not feel sorry for the car salesperson if they make any overtures about not making any money off the car.

Fair Purchase Price: The average price car buyers are paying for this car. On new models, like my 2011, the Fair Purchase Price will read the same as the MSRP due to the lack of data available. Do not be fooled by this number, either. If you’re tenacious and well informed, you can get a better deal.

Your price. The dealer is probably aiming to make a minimum of a thousand dollars (Your Price – Invoice Price = $1,000). Remember what you know about Invoice Price. It ain’t as advertised. But since you don’t know the actual dealer cost, the Invoice Price is a good place to start. The price you negotiate should be “up” from the invoice price of the car and not “down” from the MSRP. For instance, our Santa Fe has an MSRP of $28,690 and a Invoice price of $27,267. In my case, I set my sights on paying no more than $100 over invoice (in Santa Fe terms, that’s $27,367) and got what I wanted.

(You may end up writing two numbers down – one for the ideal car and one for the scaled down version, if you can live without some of those bells and whistles.)

2. Negotiate to get that price you wrote down; do not budge until you’re comfortable.

If you make the first move, put your number on the table and then sit quietly. If the salesperson makes the first move, as he did in my case, look over the initial offer and never, ever be afraid to say, “This is not what I had in mind.” When asked what you do have in mind, SAY IT. You may not be used to haggling, but you can bet the person on the other side of the desk is. Do not worry about sounding cheap, aggressive or even delusional. They have heard it all. The worst they can say is no, but even that answer shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

During all this, your demeanor should be relaxed (so, so important) and friendly but never, ever forget that the salesperson is just that. A salesperson. This is business.

3. Be prepared to walk away.

You’re not desperate for a car. You don’t care what special deals are going on right now, nor that they expire in exactly six minutes. There will be other deals. Other cars. Other dealerships. If you’re truly getting no traction (and right now, that’s pretty unlikely what with the economy being as it is) ask the salesperson to call you when they’re better prepared to negotiate. They aren’t likely to let that happen. See, no matter how it pains them (uh huh) to give you your way, the bottom line is this: the sales manager wants to make money (and his monthly bonus) by selling you a car. They know that’s not going to happen if you leave the showroom.

4. Don’t talk trade-in until you’ve settled on a price for the new car. Period.

Your trade in should not be a factor in the negotiated price of the new car. The dealer will do a bunch of fuzzy math to show you a super swell, lower monthly payment. Ignore him. Negotiate a car price, not a monthly payment. It’s okay to say, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss the trade in after we’ve settled on a price.” You pay less sales tax ({negotiated price – trade in vale} x .0825 = total tax) when you have a trade-in, and the lower, super swell monthly payment will most likely be a result of that, more than anything.

5. Know what your trade in is worth. Write it down.

Again, Kelly Blue Book and Edmunds are great resources. Fill in the year, make, mileage and select the condition your car is in. And once again, you’ll be presented with a few dollar values. I’ve used a 2007 Santa Fe in the following example (and added side-by-side comparison of values).

Trade In Value. What you can expect the dealership to pay, based on the car’s condition. This will be the lowball offer.

Private Party Value. What you can expect to get going the For Sale By Owner route. Or even CarMax. We’ve found them to be quite competitive.

Suggested Retail Value: What the dealership is going to sell your washed, waxed, reconditioned and warrantied baby for.

Drop by a CarMax to get their offer, too. Fix that number in your head. Write it down. And don’t agree to anything that doesn’t match up. If anything, you can always take your car to CarMax, complete that transaction and then come back to the dealership with the cash. Again, though, they won’t want you to walk away – you might not come back.

Keep in mind that you’ll have to be realistic about the condition your car is in. If you’re like me and love your steel baby with all your heart, you might be inclined to think it’s worth more than it is. For some perspective, check out what similar used vehicles (mileage, options, warranty) are going for at dealerships around your area. Obviously, there’s markup involved – used cars are where the money is made – so factor that into your expectations.

I opted to ask for the Private Sale Value (at Good Condition), understanding that even at this price, the dealership stood to make at least two thousand dollars from its resale. I had taken excellent care of my car and I did not budge on this.

6. Be prepared to discuss adding options.

The “closer” will try to talk you into added extras. Roadside assistance. Longer warranties. Tires for life. These are not necessarily without value. I opted to raise my monthly payment in order to have a seven year, bumper-to-bumper warranty. I opted out of the Lowjack. Do what feels right. Again, they want your money. But so long as what they’re selling is something you want, everyone’s happy.

Okay. That’s it. Any questions? I kinda hope not, because I’m pretty sure that’s the extent of my vast and amazing car buying knowledge. Best of luck!

I felt a small twinge of panic flutter up in my stomach as I drove off the lot at the dealership last night, leaving my car behind. I still feel a little bad about it. Totally high on new car smell, but still bad.

The funny thing is, and this should not surprise me, I keep thinking of my car, sitting there in that dark parking lot all alone and saying to myself, “Man, I hope they sell her to someone nice.”

Apropos of Nothing

The reality is, what’s in front of us is messy and loaded with decisions and situations that will require a whole lot more than a coin flip or a well plotted Excel spreadsheet. Because that’s what marriage and children do – complicate every itty, bitty thing. Some won’t see it that way; I got what I wanted and now I’m complaining. But frankly, anyone who says otherwise is overdoing it on prescription medication or simply and totally, 100% full of shit. I’m not saying it isn’t wonderful; I’m saying it isn’t simple. One thing I know, though, is that I chose the right person to get messy with. Because at the end of a sleepless night (and there will be many) we somehow always find a way to strip it all down to what’s important: I love you and I don’t care about the rest.

Presented without comment:

From the comments:

You know, whatever the outcome of the name change decision, I will always feel like I belong with him, but never, ever to him.

Seven months. It’s seven months today until the wedding. True, you’d think it was next week with the way I’m huggin’ it out with a few dozen spreadsheets and immersed up to my eyeballs in vendor proposals, but I guess this is just how it is with DIY events. So many details. And naturally, I feel like I have to over plan, over prepare and over scrutinize, because when it comes down to it, the only wedding-ish thing I’m very skilled at is cake eating. I am a friggin’ CHAMP at cake eating, but it turns out, that’s not the actual focus of a wedding. Funny that.

The conversation I had with my dad about why I don’t want to be “given away” was so much easier. Instead of having hurt feelings, the old man was proud to have raised his daughter to “tell the old boys’ club where to stick it.” I suppose I thought the Boy would be proud, too, being with someone who was their own person.

I hate whistling. It’s a pretty well known and well documented loathing. My affection for a person simply cannot overcome this obviously DNA encoded hatred for whistling. Early in our relationship, the Dork Lord broke out the whistle while we were watching an episode of 24. You know the music that introduces each segment and simultaneous indicates that yet again, Kiefer is running out of time and the terrorists are really close to winning? That. That’s what he whistled. And I had to turn to him, and with as much love as it is possible to have for someone, request that he OH MY GOD, never do that again. Pretty please, I love you, thanks.

Someone in the office – I can’t figure out who – is whistling. Right this second. Only, they’re whistling the Nutcracker Suite and they’re kind of doing a really awesome job of it and I’ve stopped craning my neck to see who it is because as far as I’m concerned, this is one of those magical mysteries like the Yeti or baby pigeons or the Chupacabra. It’s so unbelievable, I may have even imagined it.

We’re celebrating the Boy’s birthday tonight with pizza and beer and by not watching a sporting event. I know. That last part almost makes it seem like it’s MY birthday.

The furry one is fine, thank you all for so kindly asking. In fact, I think he is totally maxing out on his week of disability. He sleeps all day anyway, so if you throw in the extra TLC and the expensive canned food that I’ve been using to camouflage his twice-daily antibiotic, he’s really on some sort of all inclusive dog spa vacation. Oh, and today, he gets a new pair of hiking boots from REI. I know. I do not own something so luxe as hiking boots from REI, but that was the Rx from the vet and by golly, we’re filling it.

Did I mention I slept IN the dog bed after the last vet visit? Oh, yeah. He was sufficiently freaked out (see also: mushy) and kept crying and crying, and pacing and so I got a pillow, a comforter and crawled onto his bed and held onto him until he fell asleep. I’m thinking if ANYONE in this scenario deserves some new shoes it’s the HUMAN. Who can write me an Rx for that? Anyone?

Last week we received an invitation to a one-year-old child’s birthday party, complete with… registry information.

Discuss.

I was supposed to be joining the Dork Lord and his family at the beach house for vacation but… I’m not. First I got sick with a nasty chest cold and then the dog, who was staying with my mom, got a very bleedy toenail injury and had to go to the emergency vet clinic and so now I’m home, alone, cleaning up dog vomit because while I was out running around town looking for nail caps for dogs which NO ONE carries, he was home, tearing apart the garbage, eating rancid turkey bacon which, oh, big surprise, didn’t really agree with him.

If you’ve been reading this here blog for a while now, you’re probably aware the Jillian Michaels hero worship thing I’ve had going on. Yeah, Losing it with Jillian unsettled me, but I only saw one episode so I got over it pretty quickly. But the other night, when I hopped over to godaddy.com to upload my almost sister-in-law’s website, there was Jillian, front and center as the new Go Daddy Girl.

Question from a reader: Not to be argumentative and I agree with you about the ugh factor in the go-daddy ads; but do you have any qualms about using their service?  – Kimmer

Answer from a Fish: Dude, no that’s an awesome question. I wasn’t clear about it, so here it goes. Yes, I absolutely do have qualms about using Go Daddy’s service. But I also don’t use their service. From time to time, I will design a website for a friend or family member and if they’ve paid to register and host their site with godaddy, that’s where I have to go to upload any files I’ve created for them or address any technical issues. However, my site is registered and hosted with Hosting Matters and our wedding website is hosted through ASP.net. I never have paid and never will pay for anything from them. You make anti-woman ads, you don’t get this woman’s dollars.  

The other day, I was asked by a woman (one who often makes vaguely insulting comments with a Cheshire grin plastered to her face) if I was going to start losing weight for the wedding soon.

Ew.

When the Dork Lord and I were discussing wedding registries, we agreed pretty quickly that a honeymoon registry made the most sense. Time away together to share some madcap adventures was something we just wouldn’t be able pull off on our own, and when it came to things – appliances, dishes, linens – we were all set. By the time we met, we were squarely in our thirties and had been running our own households (and ill-advised love affairs with consumerism) for years. The one household thing we would have considered registering for, we agreed, was a vacuum. A good one. A burly, five-year-warrantied mechanical match for our German Shepherd mix who walks around the apartment in a haze of fur, not unlike Pig Pen and his filth. My three-year-old Hoover wasn’t exactly cutting it (insert the obvious vacuum/sucking puns here).

We’re talking about saving our pennies for a Dyson (in the meantime, the Dork Lord will be in charge of cleaning the apartment with a lint brush, a roll of masking tape and a pair of tweezers) because everyone I know who owns one says they are the best and they would do it all over again. But that’s an awful lot of pennies, so if you have have a very compelling experience which has led you to believe that the Dyson is not worth those pennies and that XYZ Brand is, I would love to hear it. Especially if you have a very big dog with lots of crazy coarse hair and a cat who may very well have some feline version of Pica. Because you know. That’s a special kind of hell.

Laura and I went to see Easy A (hi-larious) on Sunday, and -  before I get to the part where we discuss how no one is fooling us with someone so undeniably beautiful and charming playing the role of a high school nobody – one of the previews was for the Christina Aguilera/Cher burlesque flick. All I can say is, Oh dear. Actually, what I said at the time – and what will probably live out as the truth -  was

What actually is shocking is that it’s Thursday and I still haven’t seen Tuesday’s episode of Glee. I know. But I promised my almost-sister-in-law I’d do a “quick” website for her and oh, hey thirty something hours later, that puppy is up but I’m withering away in a wasteland totally devoid of peppy song and dance numbers and teen angst. This must be rectified.

I sat in traffic last night on my way home via Fed Ex, nose-to-tail with a Toyota emitting an exhaust color that told me it had not passed any sort of inspection in years, checking and rechecking the digital clock on my dashboard. All I wanted was to make it home in time to fix dinner for my guy before his first trig test. Trigonometry, three weeks in, has been a beating. Teen Talk Barbie was not kidding when she said math is hard. I punched the Recycle Air button and made for the service road.

The Dork Lord will often go out in the evening after his homework is done and I’m off to bed (one of us gets up at 5AM and the other gets really dirty looks from his fiancee) to hang out with his friends and watch sports or play video games. I know. If men stop being twelve-year-old boys at some point, I am unaware of it.

Don’t tell him they’re in the downstairs tub behind the shower curtain. This is working well for both of us at present.