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Ok, so I assume if you’re still reading you are not going to be disgusted, offended, or sport permanent scars from the next few paragraphs where I shall be discussing boobs. Right? Good.

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If you are an adult woman you know at least 3 of the following:

• You can get breast cancer.
• You are never too young to get breast cancer, women in their 20′s have fought it.
• You must have regularly scheduled check-ups and mammograms.
• Do monthly self-examinations and go see a doctor if anything is lumpy or otherwise amiss.
• October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.

Even though I am only 28, I have been careful to have yearly examinations for the last decade and have become very aware of the curvature of my chest. I know my boobs, folks. I know which one sits a little higher, which one has the larger nipple, where those random, errant hairs sprout from (what, don’t act like you don’t have them too), when they change size and what all the moles look like. I know what they feel like and what days they are extra tender. I consider myself and my boobs well acquainted.

In August I woke up one morning with some extreme pain in my right boob, right under my armpit. Initially, as I am a converted back-sleeper, I assumed I had just slept on my side funny and had strained a muscle or something. A few days later it was still there, still painfully tender, and when I starting poking around in my armpit I felt a definite lump, something that felt to be about the size of a ball of cookie dough, to my inexperienced squooshing-of-lumps it felt enormous.

I changed insurance last year when I got my new job and hadn’t been in for a girly appointment since then. So, I clicked around, found a new doctor that had the best coverage under my new policy and called up their office. I was initially told that there was a 3-month wait for new patients, but after a brief explanation of my predicament the receptionist put me on hold for about a minute and then, with what seemed to be a bit of veiled panic in her voice, scheduled me for 7:30 the next morning. I was not going to meet with the woman who would be my regular OB, but it was better to meet with Dr. Fill-In and get this all checked out than to wait for an opening in her schedule.

I tried not to freak out. I tried to keep thinking “This is a routine thing for them, they always have women with possible lumps come in immediately. Just want to check it out. Cover their asses. Total routine, not a big deal. Don’t freak out.“

Honestly, I didn’t do a very good job of not freaking out. I was scared. I was really scared. I called my Dad to let him know what was going on, he is my In Case of Emergency person and if, for whatever reason–surgery, excessive medication, collapse from hyperventilation, death–I wasn’t able to drive myself to work/home in the morning I wanted him to know he’d be receiving a call. He was wonderful to reassure me that this was probably their standard response, he offered to come with me, he promised to be there if I needed him.

I called J-Mo and told him what was going on, he was out of town for work and I didn’t want him to be blind sided by some disastrous news in the morning IF something went horribly awry. I didn’t even know what could go awry. I think I imagined this lump in my chest as some kind of ticking bomb, a land mine that would explode at any moment and blow me to smithereens. See how I suck at not freaking out? I was trying to stay calm, but what ended up coming out of my mouth was halting explanations punctuated by bouts of hyperventilation and regular crying. J-Mo was ready to leave the project he was working on and head back to Salt Lake that minute so he could be there to hold my hand.

I love both of these men, my Dad and J-Mo, for being so supportive when I was so terrified. But ultimately, I decided it would be easier for me if I went alone. I knew my Dad was just 30 minutes away, so if my boob, I don’t know, exploded or something he wouldn’t be far away. I promised to keep him in the loop with any updates as the appointment progressed. It took quite a bit of convincing to keep J-Mo away, I promised if it was anything more interesting than a regular visit he could run back here as quickly as possible and take care of me. But going by myself, just like any other appointment, would make me believe more fully that it was just a routine check-up on something potentially weird going on in my boob. Nothing more.

I still didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning I showed up early, filled out all my forms, and answered umpteen billion questions about myself, my body, and my family history of cancer and, specifically, breast cancer. The very wonderful nurse carefully typed up everything I said into my permanent file. She explained things to me, asked even more questions, took my vitals and performed a few other tests, and did a damn fine job of making sure I didn’t hyperventilate right there in the examination room. She did more to calm my nerves than the lengthy, uphill run and hot bath the night before, and the meditative thoughts I’d been working on for the previous 18 hours.

Dr. Fill-In came in, didn’t introduce himself, didn’t say hello, squeezed my right boob twice and said “Well, you’re too young to have cancer, but go up to the Huntsman Cancer Institute and have some more tests done anyway.” And he walked out.

If I could have, I would have shot him in the back of the head with laser beams, the ones that were primed and ready to go right behind my blood shot eyeballs. On the one hand, I was relieved that he didn’t come in, gravely check his clipboard, and tell me I had 2 months to live. On the other hand, what kind of statement is that!? My insurance was billed almost $400 dollars for that one, doctoral sentence. I was pissed! I wanted more than that! Some reassurance, or some explanation, or some literature on the topic. But no, just “go to the CANCER INSTITUTE, you know, that place where the people who have cancer go, and let them figure it out.”

Not cool, Dr. Fill-In, not cool.

Over the next week or so I had several rounds of tests at the Huntsman Cancer Institute. I still don’t have many answers. What I know is this:

• The lump in my right armpit is still there, I can feel it and it still hurts under pressure.
• It is not a swollen lymph node or gland, as that swelling would have gone down by now.
• An ultrasound will pick up images of fluid filled objects (see: baby in a pregnant, amniotic-fluid filled belly).
• Cancer cells are solid masses of gunk and thereby will not show up on an ultrasound.
• Cysts are fluid filled masses, they will show up in an ultrasound.
• My lump is not a fluid-filled lump, my ultrasound did not pick up anything. It was unremarkable in every way. That sounds great, except for the part where cancer cells DO NOT show up on an ultrasound.

I feel like I’m caught in a big, twisting circle of unanswered questions and stressful emotions I am incapable of dealing with in a healthy way. I have been told that everything is fine, it’s nothing, and not to worry about it. Which again, sounds great, but I still don’t know what it is.

“You’re too young for cancer.”

“Cancer cells are solid masses, not fluids.”

“It’s not a swollen lymph node or a blocked gland. It’s not a cyst or otherwise exhibiting any kind of fluidity.”

“You’re probably totally fine….”

Blaaaaarrrrgh! Have you checked my blood pressure!? Clearly, I am NOT fine! (The lovely nurse checked it, on each visit, and despite my preconceived notions of sky high numbers, my blood pressure is smack in the middle of normal range.) I don’t want some unidentifiable lump hanging out in my boob without properly identifying itself. I want answers, dammit! I want that thing out of my body and on a cold, metal slab where it can be poked to death, prodded, dissected and explained!

I have some more follow-up appointments next month. The general consensus from my doctors–besides “Oh, it’s nothing”–is that if it didn’t change in the next 6-8 weeks they would do some more investigating, possibly a biopsy, and try and figure out what exactly is hanging out in my chest. Again, I am trying not to freak out; after my initial, literal dizziness from the idea that I could have breast cancer, I’ve have been doing much better. Then October rolled around and little pink ribbons starting popping up on every conceivable thing. Pink ribbons for boobies! Get checked for lumps! You are never too busy for a mammogram! You are never to young to have cancer!

It’s frustrating, you see, because the slogans and messaging from Team Komen, et al seem to completely contradict what Dr. Fill-In told me. I tried! I have legitimate concerns and I need some legitimate answers! With the exception of my car accident a few years ago, I have been remarkably healthy. I don’t have a regular doctor, I don’t need prescription medications, I rarely get sick enough to warrant serious concern. Perhaps I just don’t know how to work the healthcare system to receive the information I need? Perhaps I don’t know how to ask the right questions or be the annoying patient who calls every 10 minutes with a new concern? What would you do in my position? I am just a few weeks away from my appointment with my new OB, what questions should I ask? Other than going over this whole mess with the lump in my breast (AGAIN! I HAVE A LUMP! IN MY BREAST! COMMENCE FREAKOUT!) what else should she know? How do you get needed answers from medical professionals? Honestly, friends, at this point I am grasping at straws here, any advice or help would be greatly appreciated.

Here we are, just over two years later and my once amazing Droid is sluggish and frustrating. My touch screen is slow to respond, has obnoxious glitches, and my once screaming-fast 3G connection now takes several minutes to load a web page. I have deleted most of the apps on my phone, and I have not missed a single one. I don’t watch videos on my phone, I don’t stream anything, I don’t store music or listen to pod casts. I use my phone to text, talk to a handful of people, occasionally make or return other phone calls, keep a running grocery list, set an alarm clock, and look up a few things on the internet like directions or definitions to obscure words. I don’t use the calendar functions, I don’t use Facebook or Twitter on my phone, I rarely use it as a camera because the pictures are always crappy and the light sucks. The short story: other than the ability to find the nearest cupcake establishment or check-in for a flight, I don’t use the “smart” features on a smart phone.

A few weeks ago I casually started looking at new phones, trying to figure out what was my next, best option. I looked a dozen different phones, all super sleek and shiny and speedy…and freaking expensive. The cheapest upgrade from the phone I currently have is a small fortune and I can’t imagine that any of these will last more than two years. They just don’t make them like those indestructible Nokia’s anymore. I realize that many people are totally fine coughing up four hundred plus dollars for a fancy phone. (FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS!) Do you realize that there are entire industry’s that are built on the concept that the hugely inconvenient hassle of switching to their service will save you four hundred dollars per year? (See: Every auto insurance commercial that interrupts my prime time TV viewing.) Four hundred dollars! That is a lot of money! To send texts and make phone calls and look up drivel online! Four. Hundred. Dollars.

Clearly, I am much cheaper than I used to be, the idea of spending four hundred dollars (or, to be honest, $150 dollars) for a phone I’ll have to replace in two years anyway makes me sick to my stomach. Four hundred dollars is ridiculous.

I know many people are tied to their SmartPhones and cannot function without them–and that is just fine, I used to be that girl–but I am not that girl anymore. Frankly, I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I am chained to a computer for 8-9 hours a day, and curled up with my laptop working on homework at night, and have two or three email accounts open all the time. I don’t know why I think I need a four hundred dollar device that will only tie me to my email and other notifications for the remaining hours of the day.

I’m disconnecting. Well, I mean, sort of. I will be upgrading my phone in the next couple of weeks, but I am going to choose one without bells or whistles or a grillion apps to run my life. I want a device that will make and receive phone calls, send and receive texts, save a couple hundred phone numbers I have never bothered to commit to memory (okay, all but about 4 phone numbers), keep track of my grocery list and do it’s best to wake me up in the morning.

And another thing, while I’m on the topic of phones and their ridiculousness, let’s talk about cell phone plans for a moment. I would like to know why T-Mobile, my cell phone provider for the last decade, has a plan for unlimited everything (phone, data, text) for $49.99 per month IF YOU HAVE TWO LINES, but not if you have one line. One line of the exact same service is nearly double the price. Double! Is this some kind of scam? Some kind of discrimination against single people? Thank you, T-Mobile, for yet another reminder that my single life is, well, single. And apparently twice as expensive as if I had a pet cactus that needed a cell phone plan. Awesome.

I  know there’s another version of the iPhone coming out today. I also know that many of you have been pining for this latest incarnation for weeks or months. To you, mozel tov. Your new life with iPhone5 begins today! Enjoy it! For you other technology-philiacs out there, enjoy your iPhone/Blackberry/Droid/e-Rotary Dial. It’s just no longer for me. Shrug. It’s okay, I’ll probably survive.

Probably.

• Last night I was walking past a bakery and the smell of frosting made me queasy. Frosting! I love frosting!
• My apartment building smells like soup. Not a delicious, homey, fall-ish smell, but the glop served by the hairiest lunch lady in elementary school; it’s like the scent of over-boiled peas with dirty socks.
• During lunch the other day a not-unusual combination of tuna melt, pickle spear and broccoli cheese soup nearly killed me. Seriously, I almost died. And it was my lunch!!
• My office building is having some repainting done, I usually don’t mind the smell of fresh paint because it covers up a wealth of other, muskier scents, but this? Lawsy, I thought my nose was going to be burned off. I swear they mixed that paint with some kind of toxic acid. Thank heavens it isn’t my cube that is getting freshened.
• Part of a routine evening walk led me past a gorgeous old Catholic cathedral, one that I usually don’t associate with any kind of smell at all. But there it was, lingering around the entire block, calla lilies mixed with baby powder. Who makes calla lily-scented baby powder!? If this was right after Sunday morning mass, I could perhaps understand it, what with the stream of old ladies and babies coming in and out of the cathedral. But no, it was almost midnight and the stench was overpowering, it was like walking into a wall of flowered babies.
• The smokers who light up outside my bedroom window–which is left open year ’round because I need the fresh air, a dilemma only slightly complicated by the nicotine-suckers who live next door–have either switched to a higher tar brand, or have started smoking three cigarettes at a time. The smell, which is usually slightly annoying but never long lasting, seems to have permeated by nostrils. It’s second-hand smoke all-the-time in my bedroom and even cleverly angling the industrial-strength fans doesn’t seem to keep the smell out.
• The smell of printer ink nearly made me dry heave. Printer ink! Is nothing sacred!
• The usually wonderful aroma of spring rolls, particularly the Southwest spring rolls from, say, Chili’s, has the overpowering smell of stale sweat and vomit. Is this normal? Why would anyone put that on their menu!? Gah, I nearly lost my lunch.

I am normally not terribly sensitive to smells. But the last few weeks I have been nearly knocked on my arse from the stench emanating towards my virgin nostrils in the above-mentioned scenarios. What about you, what smells make you sick? (Are you pregnant? Has that changed your olfactory sensitivities?) Has anyone else had an intensifying of nasty smells lately? Is this just me? Do my nose and my OB need to have a chat to figure out what is going on?! Please help!

Ha! No. Not really. Well, not in the way that any advertisement, fashion or beauty magazine published in the last 80 years would lead you to believe.

The thing is, do you want to know what scares me more than sharks? (And bobble-head dolls, but that is another post entirely.)

Tan lines.

Sunburns.

My sensitive dermis baking under sweet, sweet, sunshine.

Melanoma.

Skin cancer.

Like many children, I had white-blonde hair as a kid. Unlike most of those children, when I grew up my natural hair color never really darkened and still hovers in the distinctly “platinum” part of the color wheel. My skin is a fair, creamy white and mostly freckle-free. My foundation color is “parchment” for heaven’s sake. I’m a pale person. And unlike many people who share my coloring, I don’t make any efforts to darken my pasty-white skin. I have never been inside a tanning bed. I have never “laid out” or gone sunbathing. I am terrified of the idea of getting “that healthy glow” or even “a little color.” I don’t know if I can properly convey the fear I associate with my own skin being a “healthy”, “sexy” bronze shade, or, frankly, a shade that can be described by any color not resembling printer-paper.

You probably think I am overreacting. I’m not. I’m not being irrational, or even overly fearsome. Allow me to explain:

About 25 years ago the University of Utah–a premier research institution, particularly in genetics–did a massive study to see if there was any genetic linking to skin cancer. (The short version: there is.) For several years they studied hundreds of families, choosing ones who had multiple cases of melanoma. My mom’s family was chosen. My dad’s family was chosen. As a result, all of us kids were tested; I was 3 but I still remember that day. My oldest brother was 13 at the time and the researchers were shocked–SHOCKED–to discover a chunk of skin cancer on his shoulder. He was the youngest person to ever be diagnosed with skin cancer; it was such a big deal that it made the cover of the Wall Street Journal, and his case was the subject of professional medical conference keynote addresses for years. THE COVER OF THE WALL STREET JOURNAL!! It was is a Big. Freaking. Deal. Yes, this was twenty-five years ago and in the years since there have been more cases of skin cancer discovered in younger children (a trend that is disturbing enough on it’s own), but please understand that this very real, tangible fear of inherited skin cancer has been ingrained in me–and for good reason–for the last two and a half decades. I am a carrier of the melanoma gene. I inherited it from both my mother and father. While I have always had regular check-ups with my dermatologist, have gone back to the University of Utah for follow-up studies, and I have been vigilant in sunscreen application; I am still scared.

Ten years ago I had two moles taken off my head in a routine check-up, one came back positive for melanoma. I was 19. I hadn’t had a sunburn or even a tan line in at least six years. But there it was. Cancer. On my face. Can you imagine your 19-year-old self? Now imagine her going to the doctor by herself to be scrutinized head to toe and everywhere in-between for questionable moles. Imagine the doctor carefully cutting off a few tiny bits of her face because they looked “a little suspicious.” Now imagine 3 days later–Dec. 23 2002 at 4:30 pm, to be exact–when the doctor calls her to tell her that the moles were malignant and cancerous and “I am having my office staff come in from holiday on Dec. 26, first thing in the morning to cut out some more of your face. We need to make sure we get it all.” Imagine that 19 year old girl sobbing into the phone, thinking she is far too young to have to deal with this kind of news. (I still get choked up when I think about that phone call. The fear was palpable then, and even now it makes me breathe faster and my chest become tight.) I am lucky, my dermatologist caught my case really early and was able to cut out the offending pieces of my face, his plastic surgery skillz left only one small scar near my hairline that is hard to see, even if I point it out. I didn’t have to go through chemo or radiation or spend months of my life in a hospital. Yes, I am lucky; or more accurately, I had been vigilant my entire life, luck really had nothing to do with it. Even so, it was still far too close a call for me to be willy-nilly with the sunbathing and beach time. Like, ever.

I wear sunscreen every single day, even if all I’m doing is walking from my house to my car to go to work. SPF 30. Every day. No matter what. (Except that one time I forgot, I am still kicking myself for that. In fact, just thinking about it gave me a knot in my stomach.) Outdoorsy activities will have me bump up the SPF to 45 or 65, with 85 on my face and shoulders. (I don’t want to hear any arguments about how “oh, anything after SPF 30 doesn’t make a bit of difference.” I. Don’t. Care.) (And who made you an expert on hereditary melanoma anyway? I’d like to see your degree and credentials.) (Also, to all former boyfriends–you know who you are–who cruelly and publicly mocked my beach wear, with full knowledge of my genetic misfortune and medical history, I hope you get testicular cancer and have to go through life as a One-Balled Wonder.) (And to the irritatingly, insipid women who make fun of my summer sleeves and long skirts–especially those claiming to have also had skin cancer but not caring about getting sunburned–you are ridiculously stupid, shallow and naive. And douchebags. Sadly for you, getting a tan won’t eliminate any of those qualities. *smirk* I hope you have gross, permanent sun spots on your face and hands by the time you’re 30.) (/rant.) (Man, it feels good to finally get all that off my chest!) (/parentheticals.)

I have been told by my doctors–ones who are experts on my skin, genetic skin cancer, and my family history–that even if I live in a cave for the rest of my life with absolutely no sun exposure whatsoever and develop those creepy, beady-white, cave-dwelling-eyes, I will still contract melanoma again by the time I’m 40. Cancer. Again. Sometime in the next 10-15 years. No matter what. On the upside, my team of dermatological experts tell me that my lack of tanning will make me have fewer wrinkles and clearer, smoother skin as I get older. So I suppose when I’m 40 and going in for Round Two (or three) of having skin cancer removed from my body the medical staff will think I’m only 29. Hey, at least I have something to look forward to! So, while you and your blessed olive skin can prance around the beach or pool in SPF 4 (now with coconut oil!) and a teensy little bikini without a care in the world, I’ll stick with the SPF>45 and a drop cloth. I am not olive, or brown, or tan, or even  beige. I am pale, the color of parchment, and always will be. And my bikini has never seen the light of day. True story. It has taken itself–and me–out for some night swimming on several occasions. But obviously in a pool and not the open water, because–honestly, don’t you ever watch the Discovery channel?–night time is prime feeding time for large, carnivorous fishy creatures who are drawn to white, glowing, reflective surfaces (see: heidikins’ entire body) and WHAT ABOUT THE SHARKS!?!)

The Awesome:

• Lots of nieces and nephews saying and doing lots of adorable/hilarious things
• Homemade lime rickies, I take mine with extra sugar, extra lime, and a maraschino cherry
• Laying on the grass with my brothers and sisters, laughing and chatting and giggling until parenthood called and it was time for their kiddos to go to bed
• Dutch oven breakfast, with fireworks (yep, I’m just gonna link to that whole post instead of try and recreate with pics and what-have-you)
• Going to movies when it’s too hot to do anything else (Larry Crowne, which I loved, and Super 8, which I will have nightmares about for weeks.)
• Playing on the swings in my childhood backyard – I had to sit on the trapeze because everything else was so low my knees dragged on the grass.  (Better my knees than my ass, right?)
• Showing my sweetheart around my hometown
• Afternoon naps snuggled up with that very charming boy of mine
• Snow cones and sour patch kids
• Playing Monopoly while waiting for the fireworks to start
• Fireworks, lots of them, right above my head

The Not So Awesome:

• The bookcase I bought from IKEA was too skinny, I picked up the wrong one which required a return trip to exchange it
• A chopped a piece out of the left thumb while making salsa (don’t worry, the salsa was phalanges free, pinky promise)
• I misplaced my keys, forgot where I parked, forgot I was driving, and had several “oh crap!” moments when I spied a police officer seconds after I *almost* (maybe) broke a minor traffic law.
• I dropped things, broke things, ran into things (big things, like people and furniture and walls) and generally had one of those days where nothing seems to go quite right
• I forgot how freaked out I get by scary movies, even moderately scary movies, or not-scary movies with moderately scary scenes.  Super 8, I’m looking at you in your zombie-make-up spider-alien face.
• During one little game of Monopoly I was sent to jail no less than 11 times.  The boy?  He maybe went to jail once.  For the record, I also went bankrupt due to his blasted hotel on Park Place. *shakes fist in the general direction of the dark blue properties

The Freaking Annoying:

• I love fireworks.  Last 4th of July I didn’t get to see any big ones up close, so I was particularly excited about seeing some things year.
• The boy and I went to the park pretty early to grab a good parking spot, help stake out a spot on the grassy hill and enjoy the lovely evening. When I say “we went early” I mean we showed up almost 5 hours early. We scored a killer parking spot, brought some snacks, and some games, listened to some live entertainment, took a little nap, more snacks, a hilarious round of Monopoly (see above)… it was lovely.
• A few hours later some friends showed up and we chit-chatted for a little while, sharing picnic munchies and telling stories. Then some of their friends showed up, and then friends of the friends, and more removed “friends”…and by the time the fireworks started at 10:00 pm I knew perhaps 8 of the 30 people suddenly crowded onto too few blankets. More people stopped by, really LOUD people.
• One stepped on my hand, one almost sat on my head, one complete stranger plonked herself right in front of my fireworks view and I admit, I was not oozing charm and friendliness when I asked her to please move to somewhere that was not 3 inches in front of me on the blanket that I wove myself from cotton I grew myself and sewed together by hand using wool thread from sheep I raised myself…ok, that last part is a bit of a stretch. But seriously? I was getting bugged.
• Piles of loud, obnoxious strangers were holding inane conversations at eye-twitch-inducing decibel levels.  ” LIKE, OH. EM. GEE!!1!11 DID U C STACY W/ THAT MANWHORE!? SRSLY, I DUN KNOW WHUT SHE’S DOING W/HIM. AND, LIKE, JUSTIN!? HE COULD DO SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT TIFFANY GIRL, LIKE, I MEAN, REALLY!!1! TIFFANY ISN’T EVEN HAWT! OHMYGOSH, DID YOU, LIKE, WATCH THE BACHELORRETTE? THIS IS JUST LIKE THAT, ONLY REAL LIFE! JUSTIN IS A TOTAL BENTLEY!! HAHAHA! I’M GONNA FACEBOOK THAT! LIKE IT, OKAY?!?!1!”
• I wish I was kidding. Sadly, I am not. And you guys, they were loud.  Really, obnoxiously loud, and right next to my ears, and putting their feet and asses far too close to my face, and stepping on my hand (an accident, I admit, but still freaking annoying). I know that I was in a public space, and I can’t control the environment, and technically they had every right to be there, but this was a little ridiculous. They were loud, and pushy, and rude, and generally obnoxious.
• I’m usually one to roll with the punches life throws, but I was really disappointed in my fireworks show being taken over by this loud, pushy, rude, generally obnoxious ilk. The worst part is they showed up right before the fireworks started, it was already dark, and it was a little impractical for me to try and find a new, less annoyingly populated place to enjoy the fireworks spectacular.

Weekend Recap:

• Little people that are related to me are hilarious
• I get ridiculously excited about food (see multiple mentions above
• My man is awesome (I swear I’ll properly introduce you as soon as this fireworks etiquette rant is out of my system, mmkay?)
• I love fireworks but can’t stand obnoxious people, good thing I have another 12 months to come up with an alternate plan. And/or alternate “friends of friends of friends.”

And then my heart dropped out of my chest.

I didn’t even get to the part about my rent check, because I was staring hundreds and hundreds of fraudulent charges in the cyber-face.  ATM withdrawals in California (I haven’t been to California for at least six weeks, and I have never been to Monterey Park, the location of the crimes against my bank account), there were online purchases from sites I would never in a million years shop, more ATM withdrawals, more online charges.  I stared for a minute, not quite comprehending what was happening.  My debit card was safely in my wallet and I had my credit card locked away for emergency use only.  What the what!?

Instead of freaking out and running around my office waving my arms, I decided to take immediate action.  (Ok, I may have freaked out a teensy little bit first.)  There was a branch of my bank on the same block as my office building, so I shouldered my purse and walked over there.  I found the offending mis-charges at 11:55 and ten minutes later I was sitting down with Tyler: Personal Banker and Nice Guy Extraordinaire and he was on the phone with the bank’s fraud department.

I won’t get into all the nitty-gritty details, but the end result was 90 minutes at the branch, brand new accounts for me, new cards on the way, and a money order to drop off to my landlord (because I am a responsible tenant, even in the face of debit card-hackery).  I guess I’m supposed to feel violated, or hurt, or bothered, or something–but I don’t.  It’s just numbers in the computer to me.  The bank will replace all the funds that were stolen.  I can prove 14 different ways that it wasn’t me making those purchases.  And yes, I realize my identity resides in my computer, and I pinky promise to keep close tabs on all things related to my financials and identity and if there is more to it than a stolen debit card number, I promise to stay on top of it and all that jazz.  But here’s the thing.  I had about 3 minutes to freak out before I was doing everything I could to fix the problem, it eliminated 99% of the drama associated with this type of situation.

Is there a life lesson here?

Absolutely.

Stop creating drama where it doesn’t need to be.  Hear that, Self?  Stop it.  You know when a situation arises that can potentially rock your world.  So instead of wallowing in it, getting the crocodile jaws of despair clamped down on you and then being rolled around, flailing and drowning and whining and causing a ruckus, all you have to do is shoulder your purse and head out to solve the problem with your stiletto heels clicking on the pavement.  Lesson: learned.

Also, I feel the need to pass along some very wise information a friend shared with me a few years ago. He was the victim of a bank account heist (which sounds so much more intriguing than “someone stole my debit card”) and he said the hardest part was the week or two between the time they found it and the time he got his checkbook/debit cards for his new account.  His financials were basically frozen.  He told me to keep a couple of hundred dollars in a separate bank, one that is not linked to your primary bank, isn’t associated with your credit or debit cards.  So in the case your funds are frozen due to theft or you lost your debit card or a retail store/gas station is “holding your funds” for whatever period of time, you can still put gasoline in your car and take yourself out for a therapeutic cupcake.  This is brilliant.  My primary bank is doing everything they can, but until my new cards come I have a little “rainy day” fund that I can use for a gorgeous emerald green dress that was marked down in crazy kind of ways.  It’s things like that beautiful dress that is currently hanging in my cube that make this whole thing much easier to handle without resorting to dramatic psychosis.

Does it kind of suck?  Sure, but really it’s fine.  It’s inconvenient to call and adjust all my automatic withdrawals (student loan, car insurance, power bill, cell phone bill, etc), but it’s fine. It’s annoying, but it’s fine.

Have you ever had your bank account hacked?  Or heisted?  Any tips on how to deal?  How to clean up the mess?  Am I so oblivious to other, real problems here that I don’t even know I should be worried about them?  Please advise.

When I do get hurt, I usually react like a potato bug/rolly polly/pill bug*.  I curl up inside a hard shell and wait until the danger is gone.  Then I come back out and mosey along on my way.

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Most of the time.

A small, small, percentage of the time when I am poked and prodded long enough and hard enough instead of curling up into a little ball I explode into a puff of thorns and spiky bits.  When I get upset and I lose my cool, I turn into a porcupine.

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No, not like that.  That is an adorably cute baby porcupine with a charming case of bed-head.  When I turn into a porcupine, I am not cute, I am terrible.  I become a pissed off, barreling ball of spikes and anger heading directly towards your jugular.

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It’s not pretty.  In fact, it’s downright terrifying for the person on the other end of my rage.  And the worst part is at that point, after I’ve been provoked long enough to become a porcupine, I rarely feel much remorse about my explosion.  I feel completely justified.  The good news is that in the last 6 years I have only lost it twice.  I have learned to keep my cool and I know when I’m about to turn into the Wicked Witch (Porcupine?) of the West, and I get out of the situation before that can happen.

Calm down, I won’t chomp down on you and chew you into little bits, nor will I spear you through the face.  It takes a hell of a lot of poking to result in my exploding in prickles and biting someone’s head off

This week has been a potato bug kind of week.  I’ve been poked, and prodded, and pushed, and barked at, and accused, and bossed around.  Last night it kind of came to a head and I spent 45 minutes in the shower sobbing I curled up in my ball, snuggled in an oversized hoodie with my ultimate chick flick and a cookie (or three).  I thought that would be it, I’d had my cry cookie and I would be fine.

Nope.  Today my boss made me cry.

No, I did not cry in front of him.  Nor will I tell him that he made me cry.  And no, I do not have a habit of dissolving into tears at work.  In fact, this is the FIRST time I’ve ever shed tears of frustration at work.  I am completely unfamiliar with the alignment of elements in just such a way that I can no longer keep my shyte together while at the workplace, and I don’t like it.  I quickly excused myself to the loo, made myself as small as possible, and had a little cry.  Then I washed off my face, gritted my teeth, and went back to work.

I feel like an emotional disaster.  Not to say everything is bad, not even close.  There are some things that are really great; really really great, exciting, wonderful, you get the idea.  But most things are really sensitive and stressful and must be handled carefully; these are my things and also the things that I handle for other people. And after several days (or weeks) of walking on eggshells and juggling all these balls I inadvertently stepped a little too heavily in my 4-inch heels and the whole thing came down in a pile of goo and shattered shells.

I’ll spare you the run down of all that is not going well.  Frankly, it’s exhausting to think about (again, some more) and if I get into it I can guarantee that the tears will start leaking again. For now I think I’ll just stay curled up in this little ball and wait for the worst of it to pass.  Is this the most adult, responsible, emotionally healthy way to deal with this situation?  No.  It’s not.  But I can feel the porcupine quills flexing and this fight isn’t worth turning into a monster.

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*I seriously don’t know what these are supposed to be called.  When I was a kid we always called them potato bugs, but doing an image search for potato bugs leads one to these nasty, waspy creatures that I certainly hope are not something that would ever infest a potato crop, because they are creepy looking.  I think my nieces and nephews call these critters rolly polly’s, and then the more scientific set refer to them as pill bugs.  Which one is the most prominent?  Most accurate?  Please advise.

SCREEEECH!

SLAM-CRUNCH!!

Swear words. (Which, by the way, was the actual term that went through my head.  Not #*$&, or ^(@#, or #!@$&!.)

I glanced in my rear-view mirror to confirm what I already knew: I had been rear-ended.  I turned off my engine and got out to assess the damage and talk to the other driver, who I’ll call The Jerk.   The Jerk was pissed.  Specifically, The Jerk was pissed at me.  He was swearing up a storm that would have probably made a Marine blush.  He accused me of not going through the cussing intersection when I cussing should have/could have, which was the only cussing reason he ran into me and cussity-cuss-cuss.

While my ears were assaulted by every swear word I’ve heard of, and a half-dozen new ones I checked out the damage to my car (minimal) and his (also minimal) and did a quick self-assessment of my body (fine).  A few minutes later he still hadn’t stopped yelling obscenities and when I told him I would like his insurance information he announced that it was MY fault and he wasn’t paying anything (of course, with another dozen curses of me, God, the insurance industry, and the world-at-large).  I told him, politely and calmly, that I was going to call the police and file an official accident report and we’d let the officer make that call.  I pulled out my cell phone and he let off yet another hail of curses.  He told me that if I didn’t put my cussing phone back in my cussing pocket right this cussing minute he was just going to leave.  I continued with my phone call and firmly mentioned that if he did so I would report him for a hit-and-run, and then I repeated his license plate number back to him (something I had memorized when he started with the yelling and cursing and kicking of (his) tires).  He stopped howling for about 20 seconds and looked at me.  There I was, calm and collected but silently fuming at being treated so poorly.  In my skirt and heels I think he had initially thought I was some dumb blonde push-over.  Au contraire, mon ami! I am not about to let some jerk-face #$*&-wad boss me around, not on your life.

I called the police, told them the situation, mentioned that the driver who I believed was at fault was threatening and pushy and had mentioned leaving the scene; three minutes later two cars carrying Salt Lake’s finest arrived and sorted out The Jerk.  No, that doesn’t mean they tased and cuffed him, sadly.  Officer Awesome wrote him a ticket, made sure I was alright after the fender-bender and the verbal assault, and lectured The Jerk about his anger management issues, particularly when he was a) in the wrong and b) in front of a lady.  (Did you hear that?  Officer Awesome called me a lady.  Awww.)

I continued on my way to work, now an hour late, a bit crankier and with the morbid anticipation of a little soreness.

Would you like the good news in all of this?  I mean, besides the fact that I am a lady in the face of a self-possessed jerk-face monster (who, it should be noted, very much resembled a water buffalo).  This morning when I woke up I wasn’t sore.  Not at all.  My neck was fine, my back feels great, my hips and everything have no aches or pains.  If you’ve been around these parts for a while you may remember the really horrible car accident I was in 3-years ago and the resulting mangled car and months and months of intense pain.

This is nothing like that.

A little chocolate, a little Dr. Pepper, and a scheduled massage for this weekend should put me right again.  (And don’t worry, I’ve got an appointment to get checked out JUST IN CASE this afternoon.  I’ve been to this particular rodeo before and I know the ropes, but please accept this pre-emptive “thank you” for your concern on that front.)

Allow me to explain.

On second thought, I should probably summarize.

Not too long ago a friend of mine did and said several things over a couple of months that hurt my feelings.  He was not hurting me on purpose, nothing like that, but his decision to deliberately withhold information built this monster that left me scared, exposed, and drowning in enormous pools of self-doubt.  Ultimately I found my way out and the emotional hurts scabbed over (and I picked the scabs because I’m gross like that) and eventually left the kind of scar you wear as a badge.

Yesterday, unexpectedly and without provocation, this friend sincerely apologized.  I was surprised and caught completely off guard; I didn’t know what to say or how to properly respond.  My scars were instantly raw wounds, leaving me floundering in a tidal wave of painful emotions I couldn’t explain, let alone control.  At first, I was shocked and angry that he knew (at least in part) the consequences of his action/lack of action and their ultimate affect on me.  I was upset to think that he routinely took the easy way out, even if it meant that I would be hurt time and time again.  I was angry at myself for not realizing this pattern earlier on and putting a stop to it.  Soon enough, the anger subsided and was replaced with deep sadness, a sadness so pervading I had to fight back tears for the better part of the evening, without much success.  (Meaning when a few tears escaped while I was in the middle of a room full of people I totally lied and blamed allergies, or a bit of mascara in my eye, or contacts that I don’t wear.  I am slightly embarrassed to admit this happened more than once in the course of the evening.)

Today I can still feel the emotional aftershocks.  I really don’t know why such a simple thing, an apology for bad behavior, has rocked me so hard.  I wish I could explain how these few sentences have dredged up all these insecurities and hurts.  I wish I could explain the myriad of emotions that are duking it out in my head; each fighting for the upper hand and my full attention.

I am struggling with an intense sadness mixed with a bit of mourning.  I have these heart wrenching pangs of loss, realizing how different things could have been if he hadn’t acted the way he did.  If I hadn’t allowed his behavior to continue without consequence.  I am relieved to hear from him that he can see room for improvement in his life, that through self-examination he recognized a weakness in himself that must be addressed.  (I cannot stress enough how essential this ability is in men and women; it is only valuable when coupled with the ability to act on these realizations, but that is another post for another day.)  Even with that small bright spot, I still feel like a little piece of me is lost, wandering aimlessly through a dark place.  I hope I’m wrong, but right now I can’t see anything farther than  today.  And right now I’m sad and lonely and have a stinging in my heart that won’t go away.

Yes, this is slightly cryptic and for that I apologize.  I am not in the habit of using/abusing my place on the Internet by calling people out for their mistakes or flaws.  I’ll talk until my fingers are numb about my flaws and mistakes, but not about those of my friends or frenemies; I know better.

On my way to Washington, DC I had a 3-hour layover in Detroit.  I got off the plane, stretched my legs, and because I have never been the kind of girl who can survive on stale pretzels and diet soda, I stopped for lunch at a nice-looking Mediterranean restaurant.  I ordered the waitress-recommended Chicken Caesar Salad Wrap, sauce on the side.  It was quite good, not life-changing, but tasty.  In fact, if I’m trying to be completely unbiased, I think I probably really enjoyed it.  Asiago cheese, romaine, grilled chicken; it was light and healthy and went very well with my “leave me alone with my book” mentality.

An hour or two later I boarded the plane and settled in for the short flight to the east coast.  Tragically, this “short flight” ended up being the most turbulent bit of air travel I have had the misfortune to experience.  From take-off to landing the plane rattled and shook and dipped and dropped all over the place.  I felt horrible.  My stomach was all crawly and my mouth was dry.  I asked the flight attendant for a glass of ginger ale, hoping it would settle my stomach a bit. It did not, I was still queasy.  The woman sitting next to me filled several of the vomit-bags during the hour-and-a-half flight (turns out, she was pregnant, so it is forgivable) and my queasiness turned into full-blown “I’m going to throw up on this plane!” panic!  I tried not to think about it.  Upon notification of our imminent landing, I put in a fresh piece of gum, tightened my seatbelt, and held on for the inevitably bumpy ride.  It was a bounced landing.  Meaning the plane’s wheels hit the runway, bounced, and then landed again.  Had the pilot been anywhere near my seat I would have…well, I don’t know.  But it would have been messy.

Once on the ground, I was collected by my friend Nate and we headed back towards his house with a quick stop at Home Depot to pick up a nail or a screw or a bolt or something.  I was still feeling pretty rotten, so I grabbed a bottle of water from his trunk and sipped my way through the nuts-and-bolts aisle.  Being on solid ground was not making me feel better.  In fact, if I had to guess, I was feeling worse.  And then, un-mistakenly, I felt it; you know that feeling where you know you will be throwing up in short order.  Foolishly, I tried to tell myself that I was not, in fact, going to vomit; I tried forcing my stomach to calm down through sheer argument.

This was a mistake.

By the time I stood up to make a run for a garbage can it was too late.  My lunch came up and all over the floor of Home Depot.  People, I threw up.  In public.  I am not a child, nor am I pregnant.  I have no excuse.  I was mortified, but I knew I wasn’t done.  I vaguely remember saying something to Nate and heading for the door, trying to side-step/leap over the shockingly enormous puddle that completely covered the aisle (and Home Depot has really wide aisle).  Once in the parking lot I threw up two more times in some wood-chip-covered flower bed.  I tried to wash out my mouth as best I could and nearly swallowed an entire (travel-sized!) bottle of Listerine.  Ugh.  Throwing up in the privacy of your own bathroom where you have means to clean up the mess is horrible enough…but in public?  With no shower or toothbrush or anything?  Gaaah, it’s horrendous. Not recommended.

I feel like I need to insert a very belated, but still heart-felt apology to the Home Depot in Arlington, VA.  I didn’t mean to.  I promise!  If there was any way that whole, messy situation could have been avoided I assure you it would have been done.  I see my mistake in waiting when The Feeling came, but I honestly thought it was the bumpy flight, not the diseased lunch.  I am regrettably sorry about The Incident and will always choose Home Depot over Lowe’s to show my utmost appreciation and support for your fine establishment.  Again, a thousand apologies.

If this had been the end of my poisoning problem, it would have been bad.  But, sadly, it was not.  There was no more Throwing Up In Public, but I spent the rest of the night in the bathroom watching partially-digested Chicken Caesar Salad Wrap make it’s way down the pipes of the greater Washington, DC area.  The next day I heard about a recall on romaine lettuce in many eastern states, including Michigan, due to E. Coli.  I wouldn’t doubt that the source of my poisoning came from the sullied lettuce rather than the chicken…but it’s the images/smell of upchucked chicken that haunts me.  In the ensuing weeks I have had lettuce quite frequently, but I haven’t been able to eat or even look at chicken.

What about you, any food-poisoning stories?  Any foods you cannot touch ever again?  Any Public Vomiting episodes?

On the very small chance that an employee of the Arlington, VA Home Depot happens to read this, I really am terribly sorry.  I know it must have been horrible for you, believe me I can commiserate.  It was horrible for me too.  And I solemnly swear over the entire world supply of Chicken, Chicken Caesar Salad, and Chicken Caesar Salad Wraps, it won’t ever happen again, cross my heart and kiss my elbow.