I am sorry, I realize that things have changed over the last twenty years, but it isn’t as if I brought an abacus to math class. There were motor vehicles and televisions when I attended college. And I really don’t think the fundamental premises of business management (my major) have changed that drastically. In that I haven’t lived in a cave and have practiced both business and management during the elapsed time, the major changes that have occurred have affected me as well. I am vaguely familiar with the Internets and those new fangled smart phones. I know about social media. I tweet.

Once I had gotten permission from my original college to take two 300 level management courses at another accredited college or university to complete my degree requirements, I thought the hard part was over. It took the better part of four months, many emails and phone calls to accomplish that. It never really occurred to me that said accredited university wouldn’t happily take my money and let me register for a couple of classes. I could understand the need to see my transcripts to be certain that I had some core knowledge, but that they were “aged” (their term)? I was told that my transcripts wouldn’t even qualify me to transfer into the school. I was, needless to say, disappointed.

But as it usually goes, now I am angry. At what point did my education become obsolete? If I had completed my requirements for a degree would it also be considered to be obsolete? Is there some continuing education program for college degrees that I am aware of? Am I expected to start all over again as a freshman? Seriously, I can’t afford to gain the freshman fifteen.

Now I am back at square one and with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, but not enough to go all Norma Rae on the situation. It is hard enough to get the gumption up to try and fix one of your life’s regrets without having the people who should be helping, shut you down. I remain convinced that I will find a college or university that will accept my antique transcripts and I will just continue to look for it. After all, Bob reminded me about those really old people who get their degrees. And while that is inspirational (in an insulting sort of way) I would prefer not to actually be really old when I accomplish this.

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.

I can’t say that my lack of degree held me back in my career advancement very often. There was one company, twenty years ago, that I distinctly remember wouldn’t talk to me because I didn’t have a degree. I figuratively flipped them off and moved on. I advanced on a schedule that worked for me. I was qualified in other ways. I had licenses and experience to distract interviewers. I spoke quickly and used SAT words. I even managed to talk myself into a job at a firm that was founded by a Yale finance professor.

I figured midway into my thirties that if I hadn’t needed a bachelor’s degree by then, I was probably in Schaefer City. My measly little associate’s degree had gotten my bills paid so far. I apparently miscalculated. Damn!

Now that my securities licenses have expired and my last stint in the corporate world was about ten years ago, no amount of fast talking and shadow puppets seems to be getting me in the door. It doesn’t matter how extensive your vocabulary is if no one hears it. There is literally nothing in my bag of tricks to distract potential employers from the fact that I don’t have a bachelor’s degree. I have been foiled. I foiled myself. Excuse me. Certainly there are positions that don’t require a degree, but there are many more that do and in this despicable excuse for a job market, one can’t afford to have any kind of black mark on one’s resume.

So it is with a twinge of regret that I registered to be a Student-at-Large at a local university. After months, literally months, of waiting my soon to be alma mater decided what hoops they would like me to jump through to complete my course of study. Now I just have to convince the local university that I am qualified to jump through their versions of those hoops. All so I can finish something that I began 28 years ago. I think that might qualify me for the Olympics of Procrastination.

I will be heading back to campus this fall. If I study hard and do all my assignments on time I could finally graduate at 47 and potential employers will have one less reason to reject me. Speaking of rejection, I should probably avoid the urge to shop for the jeans the kids are wearing these day, huh?

Goose does not have that type of identity crisis. He knows he is a dog. The issue is Goose thinks I am a dog as well.

Sometimes this misconception manifests itself in really cute ways. Goose almost always sleeps with his head touching some part of my body. The other morning he curled up around my head and actually rested his little head across my neck and went back to sleep, much like the piling puppies do when they are new.

The problem arises when he tries to engage me in some kind of play as if I were another dog. When he is amped up, and Mike is out of reach, he will paw at me to get my attention. It isn’t a gentle action; it actually leaves marks and hurts. When I don’t react, he begins to whine and make all sorts of noises. If I still don’t engage, then the yelling begins. OK, technically I guess it is barking, but it sounds an awful lot like yelling to me. See for yourself:

I don’t know who is more frustrated in this clip, me because I don’t know what his deal is or Goose because he is being very articulate about his desires….. just in DOG.

Recently Bob entered into a fledgling bro-mance with a guy from the health club. We’ll call him “health club guy”. They struck up a conversation in the locker room (please.. in towels) and made plans to play racquetball. Bob had been wanting to start playing racquetball as part of his midlife-crisis-health-fitness plan in addition to swimming and running. And as luck would have it, health club guy was looking for someone to play with.

One perfunctory trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods for the necessary equipment: glove, goggles and a new racquet (he had two perfectly viable racquets, but claimed they were unacceptable due to their advanced age – new technology in racquets and all) and Bob was off to his play date. Maybe it was the new racquet, but Bob and health club guy were a bit mismatched. Apparently the midlife-crisis-health-fitness program had been such a success that Bob kind of whooped his new buddy’s butt.

Undiscouraged health club guy invited Bob to play again. Bob agreed. To me Bob waffled: he had a busy week; it wasn’t much of a workout; health club guy wasn’t that good; the chosen day wouldn’t work, blah, blah, blah. He phoned health club guy to bow out and I listened as he almost broke their date. When he got off the phone they still had tentative plans to play again.

“What the hell was that?” I asked “Why didn’t you just cancel?”

“I told him I wasn’t sure if I could make it.” Bob defended

“But you don’t want to play.”

“I know, but he sounded sad” Bob said finally.

First of all – really? A grown man (who Bob barely knows) sounded sad that he might not get his ass kicked at racquetball again?

If I am to accept that, them why would Bob lead the poor guy on? Bob knows this bro-mance isn’t going anywhere and yet he won’t cut him loose? He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. If Bob were honest with him, health club guy would more than likely recover and get back to trolling the locker room for a new less fit racquetball partner. That would be the right thing to do.

I can only hope after all this time that any women Bob almost broke up with when he met me aren’t still waiting for him to call.

It isn’t about the love at all. We love these, our godchildren, with total abandon. They are adorable and sweet and, but for the occasional tantrum, (my nephew is 2 and 1/2 – tantrums are in his job description) really well behaved. For me it is about the patience. I don’t so much have it. I don’t know where my sister-in-law and brother get it. Maybe there was a patience supplement in the prenatal vitamins and she shared them with him. Or maybe there was a particularly compelling chapter or two about patience in one of the many parenting books they’ve read. All I know is I’ve known my brother a long time – like his whole life – and this patience thing he’s got going on is new.

Some people are, however, meant to aunt and uncle. And Bob and I are definitely in that team photo. Bob had a head start on me with his five nieces and nephews, but they were all in their teens by the time I came along. I can only conclude that my highly skilled aunt-ness makes me some kind of prodigy.

Uncle Bop Bop, as he is know by the under three foot crowd, taught our nephew to catch. And not only to catch, but to catch a football! I know, right? It was epic. Bob considers it his responsibility to nurture any athletic tendencies that the little guy displays. My brother is not without athleticsm. He is just from more of a golf, tennis and soccer background, where Bob hails from the football, hockey, baseball neck of the woods. And while my sister-in-law has made it abundantly clear that my nephew will not actually play football, Bob wants to nurture any and all sporty leanings. I think it is because he has seen me run and worries that my spaz gene might somehow infect the kid.

I played my share of monster trucks with my little gear head, though apparently I did it wrong because my version of play was met with “No! Aunt Di Di! Like this!” followed by a demonstration of the correct method (which really didn’t differ significantly from my original version, leading me to believe that monster trucks is a very nuanced game.) I learned what an excavator was and how it is pronounced in toddler-ese. I even found a t-shirt with an excavator on it that was just someone’s size (no, not Bob’s).

My niece, at nine months old, is too young to be indoctrinated into Uncle Bop Bop’s sports program or the delicate ballet of monster trucks so we mostly just bonded over hair: her lack of it and my abundance of it. I think her plan was to pull enough of mine out, one tiny fist full at a time, to fashion her own wig. Or quite possibly she thought all my hair was unsightly and was just trying to tidy me up to look more like her. Either way there was hair pulling. There was also peek-a-booing, giggling and some really good snuggling.

But the thing about these two charming little people is that when they are awake, they are in motion. They are almost always in need of something: a diaper change, a book to be read, a bottle, a game to be played, a sippy cup, a nap, a snack or the removal of a foreign object from their mouth. And it never ends. I was only left alone (and by alone I mean me and Uncle Remote Control) with them for a total of three, maybe four hours tops. I didn’t break them or anything, but I am pretty sure I couldn’t do that full time.

It was a wonderful, relaxing and bonding week. As I do each time I visit with my brother’s family, I was left with such admiration for them as parents and such gratitude for the amazing experience we get to share with them, however briefly. I was also glad to come home where it is totally acceptable for me to put my rambunctious “child” in his crate while I tend to the laundry or take a nap.

But as it turned out – I was actually sort of baseball indifferent last night because the Stanley Cup Champions were at Wrigley and I am afraid any baseball game was a bit of a letdown after seeing the Blackhawks parade around with their shiny new trophy.

The Blackhawks players walked around the field handing the Stanley Cup back and forth; hoisting it over their heads as they carried it. The crowd cheered and took pictures and when they rounded third base, the fans were allowed to touch the trophy as it went by.

The ceremonial first pitch was thrown out by the Blackhawk’s team president, John McDonough (who was coincidentally the team president of the Cubs and more importantly an integral figure in the orchestration of our engagement).

The National Anthem, complete with cheering all the way through the song.

All three teams, Cubs, Blackhawks and White Sox, posed peacefully for a photo.

Fan or no, baseball is by nature is a dull sport. After the exuberance of Chicago’s newest sports darlings and their new over-sized shiny beer stein, it was a complete letdown. Add to that what was almost a double no-hitter: snooze fest. I realize that a no-hitter is a big baseball deal, but sadly I am not there yet as a baseball fan. A no-hitter means to me there are no hits and therefore no runs and therefore no score.

I seriously don’t even remember who won.

We celebrated with ice cream.

Bob, his mom and I just returned from a vacation to the happiest place on earth, Disney World. I might beg to differ – my happiest place on earth being the fur-covered sectional in front of the flat screen with my boyz all around – but you know, po-tae-toes – po-tah-toes.

Bob’s mom, Virginia, was unfortunately in a wheel chair due to a recent back injury. She was able to go on some rides, but we had to keep them pretty tame. What a lucky break for the world’s biggest ride weenie! I was spared the humiliation of watching Bob and his 84 year old mom hop on Space and/or Splash Mountain while I waited, holding the purses. (Almost as humiliating as asking a bunch of seven year olds to make way for me to come down the ladder at a water slide – not like that’s ever happened – cough, cough.) We rode It’s A Small World, saw the Country Bear Jamboree and enjoyed an amazing Lion King production. We saw a Finding Nemo play, watched movies about Canada and America and rode the much touted Soarin’. Soarin’ was beautiful, but that was about as much height and movement as I could handle. Did I mention that I am the world’s biggest ride weenie?

Also I met my favorite Disney character ever:

Eyore is the stuffed animal equivalent of George Clooney. I got all shy.

Goofy was a perfect gentleman. He escorted Virg back to her chair and kissed her hand.

We saw Fantasmic which as far as I can tell was a production based on some acid flashback that Mickey had.

The weather, while forecasted to be all sorts of rainy and stormy, was beautiful. We spent a good deal of time enjoying the sun and the pool as well as the hoola-hoop and cannon ball contests, while we didn’t participate in either. Apparently the people at Disney’s Wilderness Lodge Resort are ageist and only allowed children to compete. I would have protested but I was very busy sunning and we adults were clearly outnumbered.

On another note, we decided to participate in Disney’s prepaid meal plan, which sounds like a good idea before you understand it. Well really, it sounds like a good idea before it confuses you so much that you begin to pay cash for things that are probably included on the meal plan because you are too embarrassed to ask the cashier to explain it to you again. This plan, which includes snacks, quick meals and dinners, is the least user friendly system ever.  Everything that isn’t a snack includes a dessert, but appetizers aren’t included at dinner. And dessert could be a brownie or a cup of soup. If it is categorized as a snack then it is considered a dessert in quick meal terms. Yeah, I know, right? So we ended up with a bunch of uneaten desserts in our mini fridge, lest we decline any offer of food we had already paid for. We also undoubtedly left a bunch of money in Mickey’s pocket for meals that we were too confused to consume.

As with any good vacation, when Saturday rolled around and it was time to head to the airport, Bob, Virginia and I were all looking forward to getting home. I had a suntan, Disney treats for our godkids and a sincere desire to return to a non-Disney meal plan and my very own happiest place on earth.

As a Bachelorette, I find Ali to be stiff. Her fake laugh is already irritating me and the coy way she covers her mouth is, well, not all that coy. It is me or is she in a permanent state of shrug? I guess it was cold during last night’s episode because everyone offered her their jacket, but when she wasn’t wearing a man’s suit coat, her shoulders seemed all hunched up. Maybe I will grow to like her more, but so far I really don’t care how this ends up for her. I am watching purely for the eye candy and the drama.

That being said, the first episode of The Bachelorette did not disappoint. I already have two favorites: Roberto, or Robert – O as he said he could be called, and Chris L. Roberto is just hot. And Chris? Well who doesn’t love a landscaper from the Cape who moved home to be with his mom in her last year of life?

The duds, however, they are aplenty. There seems to be a plethora of over exuberance this season as well as some really bad 80′s hair. The weatherman, the back flipper and the jack-in-the-limo were all a little over the top for my tastes. And that nice fellow who made Ali a scrapbook, he can’t possibly make it past next week, right? What does it say about those who didn’t make the cut this week when the scrapbooker got a rose and they didn’t. For at least one of them it said that you are an ambulance chaser who wears his pants way too high and his hair way too long. Yeah, you didn’t “bring it”, but I am not sure you had “it” to bring.

The highlight though – the best of – the panties in the pocket of The Bachelorette series has got to be “Shooter”. Who in their right mind would think that a nickname based on a sexual disfunction would be endearing? “Hey, so this one time in college?” “Did I mention that they also called me “Noodle” and “Stumpy” and that I basically just suck in bed?” And the poor guy was all bummed when he got the axe, really? Really? Oh, and not only did he expose his secret to the Bachelorette but that was on national television – so good luck with that whole dating thing when he gets home. I am sure none of the girls in his home town watched. He’ll be fine.

This season promises to be full of drama with tears, secret girlfriends and an ambulance, if the teasers are to be believed. I’m in. Let’s face it – you had me at Canadian Entertainment Wrestler.

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.