“My dog is 12 years old if he had a problem with parasites in his poop I’d know it!”And there was my desperate attempt to maintain some remnant of intelligence, let alone control of my finances and this drastically different phase of my life—as I talked to the vet in North Carolina.

My super responsible, dog loving daughter took Hank the Hounddog for his annual visit. I made it very clear to her that he was not to get the Bordetella vaccine. Nor did he need anything BUT the Senior Wellness Bloodwork for $99 (which includes the “complimentary” $36 heartworm test which is stupid since we pay 100’s of dollars a year for a monthly heartworm preventative medicine) and exam for $41. That should, even in my addled mind, equal $140.The bill was over $200. “Maybe they refilled his medicine,” I told Scott when he saw the VISA statement.Today I found out there was no medicine. Just the vaccine, parasite test and blah blah blah he didn’t need. Look, I love both my dogs and take really good care of them. But if they don’t need a test, they’re not getting it.

Bottom line, the vet will not refund any of our money. I told the lady, among other things, I better hang up because I was ready to cry.

And cry I did. While texting a toxic rant to my husband because we wouldn’t be in this mess if he hadn’t taken this fantastic job and wasn’t so fantastically happy and well basically, because I have no one else to rant to who is as spastic about our current finances and living in two places at once. And because you know, somehow this all has to be his fault.

It might have included something like this: “They refuse to budge. Your daughter can pay for $%@^ vaccine. I’m doing my best to cut costs and run two households and I feel like I keep getting stymied. I’m ready to have this house be a home [as opposed to some jazzed up dorm rooms] — I just want this &^%&^%#%$^&% painting done. [Yes, I’m doing it all myself, including wallpaper stripping, spackling, and decorating] I am NOT going to cancel tomorrow’s hair appointment! I sink further into depression every time I look in the mirror. I want to get this house to the point where I feel at ease sitting at my desk for hours trying to have a job again. I can return the new even though it makes my life worth livingcoffee maker. Might as well call the rug guys [the ones in Charlotte that ruined our family heirloom oriental] while I’m miserable and mad at the world.”

Being the smart man that he is, Hubs replied, “I’m sorry.” Of course I really wanted him to add, “Oh don’t worry about the coffee maker. I know you love your Keurig. It’ll all be okay.”

OOOH lookie! He just texted again, “It’ll all be okay. I’ll call the vet this afternoon.”

Still nothing about my Keurig….