I went to my (soon to be ex) general practitioner. She and the junior doctor she brought to work with her that day examined me cheerily and offered very vague suggestions as to what might be causing my bone tiredness, but nothing concrete or that gave me any confidence. In the end, they decided to take a liter or so of blood. I was hopeful that the blood tests would show some totally treatable thyroid related issue that would explain my exhaustion as well as the small but consistent spare tire (bicycle not truck) that I have aquired.

I waited impatiently for a phone call from the doctor’s office which didn’t come the following day or the next. I thought possibly that, like heart worm for dogs, no news was good news. But that wasn’t making me any less tired, so I phoned my doctor’s office. Her office person told me that there was nothing to worry about and that I would receive my results in the mail. Really? Mail? As in SNAIL? I had so hoped that my doctor might give a rat’s behind and phone me to personally discuss the results of my tests, but apparently that isn’t the way things are done in 1972 where my doctor has her office. I also asked to have the results faxed to me, but I never received them. Fax machines were quite rare in 1972, so of course.

Eventually the results came in the mail and everything pointed towards healthy. I had a slight iron deficiency which my doctor in her notes suggested might a result of heavy periods. She suggested an iron supplement. A totally reasonable suggestion if I still had a UTERUS. My hysterectomy, a small but rather significant detail, rendered her suggestion moot and forced me to phone her office, yet again. It also made my little tired head explode.

I finally had an opportunity to speak directly with my doctor after several phone calls and she was completely unapologetic. She suggested that iron supplements might still help – uterus or no. She also suggested that my anti depressant might be causing the borderline narcolepsy. When I hung up, I felt defeated. Of course I could decrease my anti depressant but that was kind of a last resort. I felt brushed off and abandoned by my doctor, like she was on to the next more solvable case. Then my phone rang and it was my doctor calling to mention that my family history of colorectal cancer and my personal history of polyps might indicate a bleeding polyp which could cause exhaustion. REALLY? This would have been nice to know when we were on your doctor “play date” like three weeks ago. Are you kidding?

I promptly scheduled a colonoscopy and fortunately was deemed clean as the proverbial whistle, which while relieving is a bit beside the point. Who operates like that? Oh, and still tired, did I mention? So ultimately under the supervision of a different doctor I did reduce my anti depressant.

So the good news is that I am now considerably less fatigued. The bad news is that I am now considerably more anxious with a side of neurotic. I also wasn’t able to pin my muffin top on a faulty thyroid. Oh, and now I need a new effing doctor.

The one thing that has remained constant in the mater of men’s drawers is that colored briefs of any sort are a deal breaker. Should one arrive at the pant removing portion of an evening to discover tighties of a different color it is acceptable to throw a flag on the play. Colored or, perish the thought, patterned undies are grounds for disqualification. I know for a fact that this has been the subject of many morning-after, snicker girl talks. Patterned boxers are acceptable but if you are going to wear brief or really even boxer briefs, I am going to have to insist upon white.

So imagine my horror when I came across this while shopping for Bob’s undershirts:

and these:

and then these:

After way more consideration than anyone should really give underpants, I still just don’t know what to say.

I find more often than not that Hallmark has not anticipated the sentiments that I wish to convey to my satisfaction. Not only are most cards on the saccharine side, I find rhyming offensive. I don’t know why, but for some reason a card that rhymes seems less sincere than one that doesn’t. It is, I realize ridiculous, in that I have written neither.

The real problem began for me years ago when shopping for Father’s Day cards. All the standard cards spend a considerable portion of the message thanking the father in question for all sorts of activities that just didn’t apply in my situation. My father and I never, save two months after I was born, lived in the same house. He never helped me with my homework, taught me to ride a bicycle, gave me boyfriend advice or any of the other myriad of Ward-Cleaver-like behaviors that are acknowledged in the typical father’s day card. Which isn’t to say that he was a bad father, he did the best he could under the circumstances. Unfortunately for me Hallmark didn’t make a card to thank a well intended, absentee father.  I spent most of my Father’s day cards shopping expeditions reading cards, getting to a certain point and shaking my head “no” and replacing them in the rack. Ultimately I would usually settle on a card that I could just as easily give a coworker, something from the “Simply Put” category.

Lately I have come across a new card-shopping obstacle: booze.  Now I don’t begrudge the rest of the population a drink or three nor do I think that the universe should begin to celebrate exclusively with diet ginger ale just because I do, but the percentage of birthday cards for women that mention alcohol is kind of scary. I spent half an hour today looking for a birthday card. I had to bypass the one’s suggesting that my wishes for my friend’s birthday included her getting liquored-up which really limited my choices. Not that I have a problem with her getting liquored up for her birthday if that is what she wants to do, but my wishes for her are a little more big picture. There were cards that referenced wine drinking, others with illustrations of cosmos and even one that casually referenced a blackout.  I was not indignant by any means, but I was a little frustrated.

I eventually found an appropriate if somewhat vanilla card. While it didn’t speak to all my hopes and dreams for my friend, it did ultimately meet my card requirements as it did not reference liquor and it did not rhyme. I thought I was out of the woods until when shopping for a gift, I found this picture frame:

Really?

The big city emergency room was not particularly busy as we arrived at 9:30am on a Saturday and a very nice admitting nurse gave me a wheelchair. She took my vitals and told me it wouldn’t be long before a doc saw me. Surprisingly, she was telling the truth. She couldn’t vouch for the kind of the doctor, I suppose.

The resident sent to examine me, however, was a delightfully dismissive and condescending young lad. He explained that I didn’t present with any symptoms that would indicate a blood clot (other than the unexplained pain in my leg, that is). Note to all: do not mention WebMD when dealing with medical professionals. Dr. DBag, as I will refer to him going forward, completely checked out when that website was mentioned. He proceeded to make me feel utterly ridiculous for having sought treatment at all, at one point asking what exactly made me decide to come to the emergency room. In my mind I replied, “I was just jonesing to waste the better part of a beautiful sunny day in a hospital gown being talked down to by an Ivy League punk like you”, but I think I said something about pain and being scared.

When Bob asked about tests to confirm that there was no clot, he said something about “proper use of resources”. Apparently he had already diagnosed me as some hypochondriacal housewife who was looking to refill her Vicodin prescription. Dr. DBag thought I was a waste of “resources” as well as his time. I felt terrible about not having presented with something exponentially more complicated or life threatening. Damn, if only I could have been a hermaphrodite with ovarian cysts and testicular cancer or at least a fancy gun shot wound.

Dr. DBag is the reason people are reluctant to go to the hospital to have things checked out. Well, that and lack of health insurance coverage. Luckily the attending physician was much more inclined to reassure us, even if he had to use some precious “resources” to do so. He ordered an ultrasound as well as an xray. I actually felt the xray might be sort of unnecessary as I hadn’t injured myself, but I was thankful that he was inclined to rule out whatever an xray might rule out.

When all was said and done. I had no blood clot and nor had I broken my ankle. The latter I knew, the former I was relieved to hear. I was not relieved to hear it from Dr. DBag with his patented condescending delivery. I really had hoped to prove him wrong, without having to be diagnosed with ankle cancer of course. Dr. DBag sent me off with instructions on how to care for a sprained ankle. That I don’t have a sprained ankle apparently was not particularly important to him. And by the time I left the hospital my indignation had healed the pain in my leg and I was able to walk on my own, further reinforcing Dr. DBag’s assumption that I was just hysterical and delusional.

Some people are just not suited to patient care. I know I am not. Based upon my observations, the young doctor should probably move into research. His bedside manner is more suited to lab rats and test tubes. Making someone second guess seeking medical advice is never a good idea. If I had been a frequent flyer to the ER, it might explain (not excuse) his indifference, but I think their fancy computers could tell him that I wasn’t. While I was not willing to drop dead to prove my point, I wonder how smug Dr. DBag would have been had his indifference missed a real diagnoses.

Which brings me to the conspiracy surrounding my attempts to get fit enough to be happy about wearing a regular old cover-your-ass bathing suit now. We are going to Hawaii for our tenth anniversary and I would like to look like I did ten years ago. Since that ship has sailed, I would at least like to feel reasonably sane in a two piece. That doesn’t seem like much to ask, does it?

So then explain why are there troops of cookie pushers at the grocery store when I go. And if I attempt to exercise some discipline by declining their offers of Samoas and Thin Mints,  the mothers of said cookie dealers shoot me evil disparaging looks. Really, I don’t see you buying all little Ashley’s cookies so she and her troop can go to Six Flags. Yeah, don’t look at me that way. You won’t keep this crack in your house either.

And then Starbucks has to turn on me too. They had plenty of snacks that I had already made peace with, but now they introduce candy coated cake on a stick. And like any good drug dealer the first one was free. I need my coffee people, but tiny salted caramel brownies? Little whoopie pies?  That is just unkind.

Lastly, apparently we as a society have developed a need for cupcakes so extreme that they have employed trucks to drive around the city hawking them. Can’t make it to the bakery on your lunch hour, slim? No worries, we will bring the frosted fat pills to you. You will recognize us in our cute pink truck with the line of ladies outside (the guys are all over at the meatball truck).

So far I have dodged most of these bullets, but I am only human. How is a gal supposed to slim down after a long winter of bulking up against the cold when everywhere she looks are sweets that call her name? The good news is there is considerably more fabric involved in any bathing suit that I am likely to wear on our upcoming vacation. And thankfully for anyone who happens to be at the pool where I will be, my sad not-thong-worthy bottom will be completely covered.

I am not a fan of sailing in general so you have pretty much lost me from the start. If I did develop an affinity for sailing, I can guarantee you that pirate infested waters would not be part of my route. Maybe there is the thought that if we don’t go there, the pirates win. I am not pro-pirate, unless we are talking about the patch-wearing parrot carrying Disney version, but I say let ‘em win this one.

This adventure seeking Danish family, who in my mind should be home making wooden shoes or windmills, went so far as to blog that they had “a plan” should they be boarded. Hmmm. And their plan was based on their experiences with which pirates? And the pirates have what to lose? Well sadly as it turned out even the best laid plan didn’t protect them and ….well you know the rest.

My point or rather my question is why would you put your family at risk for a sailing trip? In what mindset do you plan an expedition on which you might run into folks who could potentially cause you and your children harm? What possible reason could there be to need “a plan” should you be boarded? What were these people thinking?

I pray that they come out of this unharmed and that their children are somehow sheltered from what must be a terrifying ordeal. I also pray that their poor choice serves as a warning to other naïve adventure seekers. Climb mountains, hike canyons, go white water rafting, go to Nordstrom during their semi annual shoe sale; there are plenty of adventures that don’t have danger and ransom associated with them (except for maybe the shoe sale at Nordstom).

Several years later at a black tie charity event Bob wandered over to the silent auction table, after a martini or two. There on the table was an autographed Denis Savard Blackhawks jersey that no one had yet bid on. Well, Bob being both a Blackhawks fan and an old friend of Denis’ (really they had met once or twice not gone to summer camp together) put down the minimum bid of $350. It was late in the evening and he was concerned that no one would bid on it. Just to walk you through the logic, he wasn’t concerned that the charity would lose out; he was concerned that Mr. Savard would somehow be aware that no one had bid on his jersey and would have his feelings hurt. This bit of vodka-induced empathy led us to be the proud owners of one Denis Savard autographed Blackhawks jersey. It also led to a heated discussion of silent auctions, alcohol and finances.

Last weekend was the Blackhawks’ Fan Convention. It was requested that Bob attend in a professional capacity. Still a big fan, however, and coming off their recent Stanley Cup win this was not a big sacrifice. In a less than professional capacity, he apparently meandered over to the area in which all things Blackhawks were being sold. Now to be fair, he did not buy a jersey. Nor did he buy anything Denis Savard related. He did, however, buy a pair of hockey gloves. Not just any gloves, but a pair that had been worn in a game by a player this past season who is no longer on the team. I don’t know which player (I might have been more forgiving if they had belonged to Dustin Byfuglien). I do know that they were $150. Again to lead you through the maze that is Bob’s logic: Bob used to play and coach hockey and when our basement flooded a couple of years ago, his hockey gloves were destroyed. These new/used gloves were the same price as a “decent” new pair at Sports Authority (a claim yet to be substantiated) and they had the added bonus of being game-worn memorabilia. And unbeknownst to me, Bob had been planning on adding hockey to his midlife-crisis-health-fitness program. Did I mention this purchase was not in our rather strict budget? Um, did I also perhaps mention that the last time Uncle Bob busted out his skates was more than nine years ago? Most of the time Bob and I are on the same financial page, but last Saturday afternoon my fifty-something year old husband morphed into an eleven year old. His transformation was made complete with the explanation an eleven year old would offer after having made a rogue purchase, albeit a part of last year’s Blackhawk Stanley Cup winning season.

We rarely attend black tie charity events these days and I don’t think Bob would be tempted by a silent auction if he were exposed. Hockey season is over and the Blackhawks have traded about two thirds of the players that comprised their championship team, so it seems Bob and I may be immune to these Blackhawks related conflicts for the foreseeable future. And everyone knows there is almost no fighting in football.

Then came the second reduction income, really just an adjustment to the first. I began to panic. I admit there were tears and not just about letting the cleaning lady go. But I had a plan. Time to put on my big girl panties and get a full time job that pays actual money. My bonbon-eating life of leisure was coming to an end (’cause two part time jobs is kind of like that). No problem, right? Except for that little recession thingy and those annoying unemployment hoozits. Oh yeah, those things.

While I have had prolonged job searches in the past, this time is different on many levels. This time I am old(er) and it has been some time since I worked in the industry I want to return to. This time I am sending out emails (I said it has been some time, didn’t I?) without contact names with which to follow up. This time I have emailed my resume out a bazillion times for positions that I am confident that I am qualified for and I HAVE NOT RECEIVED ONE RESPONSE. Seriously, not one single response. That sound you hear is my self esteem crashing to the ground and shattering.

So I did what any rational person would do, I checked my spam blocker to see if my settings were too high (the 2010 equivalent of checking to make sure your phone still has a dial tone). They weren’t. I checked my spam folder and found only spam. Then last week I decided to check my home voicemail because, while it is my cell phone number that is listed on my resume, well, I don’t know why actually. Just hoping. And there was a message from a professional sounding person asking me to call him back. I didn’t even listen to the whole message. I sat in traffic, congratulating this person for seeing past my patchy resume and realizing that I was quality people. What a visionary. I began planning the interview in my head; I was overcoming objections and explaining my experience all the way home. When I arrived at home and listened to the message in its entirety, I discovered that I was overdrawn in my checking account.

To add more insult to injury, I busted out all my best interview attire (for the interview that I may get someday) and it appears that I have, in fact, completely let myself go. I fit into none of my suits, the nicest of which still has tags on it. And to be clear I am not a doughnut or two away from fitting into these things, I am a three to six months of Jillian Michaels away. I took the suit with the tags on it to a tailor who politely suggested that I take up running by the lake as there was not enough excess fabric to accommodate my newly enlarged ass. The crunching you hear now is someone in steel toed boots stomping on my shattered self esteem.

I have heard from others, both younger and with better resumes, that this is the most difficult job market they have encountered. I know it is not just me. I also know that my wonky resume isn’t helping and my age may be working against me. But most importantly I know that I will eventually find a job that pays well and that I enjoy. The sound you hear now is me sweeping up the shards of my self esteem in a dust pan. With a patience and faith and a sense of humor, I can put it back together.

I work part time in what I lovingly refer to as “The Mommy Mall” and most of the time that is great. We have mostly delightful customers who have equally delightful children. I especially like the ones in strollers. (And may I take this moment to comment on the evolution of the stroller? Some of these things look like they were engineered by NASA.) I really enjoy the opportunity to chat with the adorable little cherubs, only some of whom look at me as if I were an alien.

Our particular store, however, is filled with sharp objects and more glassware than you can throw a toddler at. Please be forewarned: if you allow your children to treat the cook’s tool area as a toy box, I will have to hover to make sure Violet doesn’t lose a digit. If you permit your child to bang away on a $50 All Clad splatter screen while you chat on your iPhone, I will glare. Please don’t make me wrestle this object away from little Seraphina, because she may wail and interrupt your conversation.

If your child adopts an item that you are unwilling to purchase, may I suggest that you ask for it once and then retrieve said item from your child. Yes, I realize Brooks may cry and, while I am not a big proponent of making children cry, I may become homicidal if I have to listen to you negotiate unsuccessfully for twenty minutes. A retail environment is really not an appropriate place to let your children come to their own conclusions or whatever new age parenting method you are pursuing. On that note, I know that it is beyond thrilling that Asher is beginning to walk, but please steer him away from the Reidel crystal (and out the door) if you don’t mind.

While it may seem harmless to allow your children to play with kitchen tools in your home, it is not appropriate in a store. We are attempting to sell these items. When they have been in your child’s mouth they become decidedly less appealing, especially if your child is teething. I don’t know about you, but the only tooth marks I want on my spatulas are my own. The flour sifter you have at home may have been built to withstand sifting a plastic display lemon, but I can assure you, our floor model was not. Also some of the electronics are actually plugged in, so please, please, please do not let Charlotte press the buttons. We all love to press buttons, but let’s keep it to the ones in elevators, shall we? Unless of course, you want to mop up the double espresso that is shooting all over the floor.

Let me be clear, I love children. I really do. And being childless, I appreciate the opportunity to coo and gurgle at babies and have silly conversations with toddlers. I am simply allergic to unsupervised and overindulged children. And I judge their parents. I just do.

Last year a family of squirrels took up occupancy in our attic. Our attic is essentially a crawl space and because their residence was above the guest room, it took some time before we realized that we had squatters. I actually didn’t believe Bob until he showed me a squirrel head sticking out of the house. It seems they just moved in and began to remodel. They needed to add some additional entrances to their new place to bring it up to squirrel code so they began with a sliding glass door here and some French doors there (without the actual doors of course). The upside was that we hired some hunky young men to humanely evict our deadbeat tenants and relocate them to some subsidized squirrel housing otherwise known as a forest preserve. The downside was that the perimeter of our attic had to be sealed and the whole process cost a hunky arm and a leg.

Squirrels in the city aren’t unusual, you say. No, they aren’t, but how about rabbits? Yes, we have a small community of bunnies living in and around our yard. They don’t live exclusively in our yard, but they spend an inordinate amount of time in our yards given that we have dogs. Dogs, I might add, who are decidedly anti-bunny. If I were a city rabbit, I might chose to spend my time in a dog free zone, but not these rabbits. They not only hop around our yard, they have discovered where in the yard they are safe from, but not out of sight of, the canines. The result is a bark-fest that would make one think the canine world as we know it is coming to an end. Mike begins with a deep menacing repetitive bark and Goose chimes in with a squeak/bark that sounds a bit like he is being stabbed. The only solution is to run outside with my wet hair in a towel turban and chase the bunny off. The rabbits are apparently (and rightfully so) frightened of a crazy, yelling lady in her bathrobe flailing after them, but not barking dogs.

Lastly, there is our field mouse issue. Every year, although there isn’t a field around for miles, we have field mice that come to visit. They must take the train. After the first mouse came years ago we hired an extermination company to come and put out little crawl-thru restaurants that serve canine safe poison. We have also purchased traps that “humanely” execute mice by electrocution when they stop by for some peanut butter. Both methods have worked in the past to rid us of our unwanted house guests. Our dogs are both uninterested and ineffective in this endeavor, by the way. Apparently our current version of Stuart Little is too refined to dine at the crawl-thru restaurants because the tell tale trail he leaves behind is not green which would indicate a shorter life expectancy. And he may have a peanut allergy or at least an aversion because he hasn’t touched our “humane” traps, though he has left a trail around them as well. This mouse (and I need to believe there is just one – so shut up) is starting to get on my last humane nerve, but I have no idea what to do about it.

Squirrels, rabbits and field mice may seem like cute helpless little creatures, but you’ll change your tune when they have moved in, damaged your property and/or disrupted your life. Then you will believe, as I do, that they belong exclusively in the suburbs and Disney movies.