...should really call you back. I mean, Tydee Dydee diaper service ought to try and reach for those ducats with both hands by returning the calls made to them and offering their fine diapers for the future parents of America. Or maybe they think they have a captive audience and thus have no pressing reason to call back, 'cause at some point, the chicklet is going to need butt warmers. Maybe they're right, too. But the printers....now they really have a reason to call back. There is absolutely no pressing necessity on this earth why I have to use them to print these blasted announcements, for which, the longer they wait to call me with an estimate, the more ideas I come up with for printing them myself (hence the Gutenberg press the other day, although I've since realized that this is unfeasible). It's not a huge job--we don't know five hundred people who MUST KNOW WE'VE PROPAGATED, but we know enough people to make a hundred announcements that are fancier than a black and white Xeroxed printout that says, "Heh, look what we did."
It did cross my mind that this is punishment by the print guy for getting knocked up by someone other than him; my husband seemed to think he had the hots for me, but that's just too stupid for words. Although being pregnant makes pretty damned clear that you're knocking boots with someone else.
Whatever. Just gimme an estimate so I can figure out how to scale it back from a gazillion dollar job to a mere two hundred dollar job. Thanks for your prompt attention in this matter. Yours, the fat lady.