We’ve had three vision care programs at work in the last three years. After being subjected to the “doctors” at the flavor-of-the-year mall-based optometrist-cum-glasswear emporiums, we switched back to the doctor we had been seeing for years. This means we have to take our chance at the craps table that is insurance reimbursement, but at least we’re sure that the diploma on the wall isn’t from Fred and Franny’s School of Optometric Malpractice.

Yesterday’s visit to the eye doctor proved that my eyes are healthy, though aging. There are drops to numb the surface of the eye, drops to dilate my eyes, and drops to speed the undulation. Because these exams only happen every two years, I forget the pain of exiting the office with my pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates, the sun inevitably hammering the pavement. Despite the disposable sunglasses they gave me in the doctor’s office, and two additional pairs of my own, tears were streaming down my face as I drove home. And that was just from thinking about how much the new glasses were going to cost.

My current phone, a Treo 600 that allows me to carry my address book, calendar and phone all in one device, has started to sprout an orange colored blob in the center of the screen that is vaguely in the shape of Spain. Additionally, it's not congifured for my work email so I have to carry a Blackberry as well. In order to transfer my email, so I finally am able to achieve the Holy Grail of one electronic gadget in my purse, I have to get a new Treo 650. So far this has entailed:

1. A visit the Sprint store in the local "Main Street" town center (a bunch of big box stores configured to look like a faux small town). I walk past the Jennifer Convertibles furniture showroom, get to the Beca di Bepo restaurant, and realize that the Sprint store is nowhere to be seen. That empty storefront that looked as if it had been vacated in a big hurry, must have been where they were.

2. I call Sprint to find out where they've hidden the store. They give me a phone number that has been disconnected.

3. I check the Sprint website and find out that the nearest store is now 15 miles away in the second-largest mall in the world, which I only visit once a year. I used up my quota of visits for the year to find Becca a dress for her 8th grade dance, but that's another saga.

4. While visiting Radio Shack (the original geek nirvana - why has there never been a movie about the people who work in this store - sort of a NerdClerks) for an antenna for Becca's phone, I find out that they're a Sprint dealer. They do not have a 650 in stock, but have a couple at their Philadelphia store and can get me one in a few days.

5. A few days goes by (visualize pages flying off a calendar) and the sales guy leaves me a message that they don't exactly have the phones in Philadelphia, or anywhere in Pennsylvania for that matter. I need to come in to the store and put a deposit down on the phone, so that they can get one from Panama or Colombia or wherever these things are obtained.

6. I go into the store and find that the sales guy is not there, cannot be reached and is the only one who can fill out the mysterious paperwork to requisition the phone. All of this is conveyed to me in a whisper, as if no one else in the store is to know that this transaction is going down. It would have been easier, and less expensive, to buy a kilo of cocaine and trade it in some back alley for a 650.