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.

We have been to Maui before a number of times, but that didn’t stop well-meaning acquaintances from offering all sorts of suggestions. “You should check out the volcano at dawn.” Um, that would mean getting up at 4:00am to take a bus to Haleakela (no doubt an amazing sight). I do not need to do anything that requires that I get up at 4:00am (except pee) when I am on vacation. “Have you driven the road to Hana? You just have to.” Yeah, we tried that once and it didn’t go well. We made it about a third of the way and bailed. I believe harsh words were said and the ride back may or may not have been uncharacteristically quiet.

I am blessed (on many levels) to be married to a man who likes to vacation the way I do. We like to kick back in the sun by a pool and read and listen to music and make each other laugh. And we are really good at it. Mostly we just mock one another, but we are not above observing (or eavesdropping on) our fellow sunbathers particularly if they speak loudly on cell phones.

Our agendas usually differ when naptime comes around. I like to take a post sun snooze. This is usually when Bob can knock off whatever wanderlust he has. This time around it was the beach. I suspect it had as much to do with the occupants of the beach as it did the actual beach, but Bob was mildly obsessed. I like the beach in theory and I did join him for one beautiful sunset on the beach, but I am not a big fan of sand.

Sand is a pretty standard component for a beach and then there is the salt water and the things that live in it and the inferior washroom facilities.

Beautiful yes, but sandy and sticky. Sorry, but compared to a nice clean swimming pool where I can see the bottom complete with adjustable lounge chairs twenty yards away from refrigeration and clean restrooms, well, for me the pool wins every time.

On the subject of naps, I indulged in a nap every single day. I also slept no less than 10 hours each night. Now I know the sun takes a bit out of you, but seriously I slept approximately 12 hours a day, each day, for seven days straight. I was unconscious for half of my vacation. And honestly I was pretty happy about it. So between all the sunning and sleeping there was little time for paddle boarding or surfing, though this truck claimed to be able to teach even me:

And the top of this truck’s display implied it would to teach Goose and me:

After a week of sleeping and relaxing and eating and watching of sunsets (they have one every single night) we returned tanned and rested to…. more 56° weather. It seems that unbeknownst to us spring was canceled this year. I guess we will just have to hold on to our vacation memories until summer arrives.

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).

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.

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.

We recently had a slight reduction to the incoming cash flow and it required that I take a closer look at our budget. And much to my dismay I discovered that if we stay right on track with my current bill paying strategy we will pay off our debt…..ummmm……never. To add insult to injury, any vacations or surprise home maintenance bills will just increase the debt that we are not paying off. And savings? Well, that is just a silly pipe dream. Behold, my friends, delusional accounting. Awesome!

So the belt tightening begins today. Marshalls and I have broken up; Banana Republic, I don’t know you anymore and Ann Taylor, lose my credit card number. That part is relatively easy. Our gym membership is going to be suspended; much more of a sacrifice for Bob since I haven’t even seen the parking lot of that place for a year. And we have reduced our dog walker to two visits a week.

Now to the real sacrifice: Starbucks. I bring my lunch to work and have justified my cappucino habit with the huge savings that not purchasing lunch implied. But now, even my dear Starbucks is on the block. Today I attempted to bring a thermos of coffee to work (still a Starbuck’s product -VIA) but apparently this thermos was last used to transport liquid rubber. Nothing like giving up sweet nectar to be  mocked by a foul tasting coffee colored liquid in its stead.

Don’t get me wrong, I realize that I have it way better than most. I am not in danger of losing my home and both Bob and I are gainfully employed. I am not really even complaining. I am mostly just mad at myself for not having really looked at the “money in” and “money out” columns more closely before. I knew that I was doing a lot of juggling, but I didn’t realize that it was because of a lack of actual money. In my mind it was because the furnace broke or because we went on an impulsive shopping jag at Dick’s Sporting Goods.

There is some relief in knowing the real deal, financially speaking. Our revised budget will take a little getting used to and maybe a new thermos. It doesn’t come as a huge surprise, however, that we were living above our means. That is the American way after all and we are nothing if not patriotic.