You Know You Work for a Huge Company When...

So Monday I started a new job as an analyst with a Fortune 25 company (aka "The Institution"). It's a bit of a culture shock after spending the last 18 months with a firm that had 5 employees.

You know you work for a huge company (80,000 employees) when:

• IT and HR both have 1-800 numbers
• Your new employee orientation is conducted via webinar by a woman in the United Kingdom
• You have to file a requisition to be able to get access to your e-mail account on your phone
• You don't actually use your name for anything, you use your 9-digit employee ID number (not your SSN, but it sure feels like it!)
• 80% of your meetings are via conference call

On the same token, however, I'm not in charge. I've been holding the weight of companies, market plans and employees on my back for several years, on top of holding the weight of the world at home. I'm exhausted.

Now I get to just think, play with numbers, analyze trends and develop strategies.

Makes having that 9-digit employee number a little more endearing.

Lost & Found

On March 1, for the third time in 3 years (3 years and a week, to be exact), I was laid off.

Seriously.

My resume looks like this in the last three years:

Layoff(though technically, I took a position switch, then quit 3 months later to move to The Frontier - still, I was laid off, THEN offered the position switch that we both knew would be temporary)

Layoff (job that isn't even on my resume, since it lasted all of 6 weeks - not worth the trauma)

Quit (bad, bad job at The Factory, and had I stayed another month, I would have been laid off anyway - upping the stats to 4 layoffs in 3 years

Layoff

Seriously. What once was great job karma (with lousy pay) has now become bad job karma (with decent pay).

I knew 2009 - the first year in the history of Himself and I where we've only had a SINGLE job each - was too good to be true. We're only 125 days into 2010 and already our tax situation is so convoluted I'm already putting out want ads for a good tax accountant.

As a total side note: tax nightmares tend to only hit us in even-numbered years - 2002 Navy mis-declares income (in our favor, but it would take us/them 2 years to discover it); 2004 after re-filing 2002's income, the state of VA sees red flags and audits us; 2008 filed with no W2 and a schizophrenic withholding pattern; 2010 - W2 employee, 1099 employee, temp employee and unemployed employee - a different tax ramification for each month of the year thus far.

And yet, some semblance of the good job karma is still lingering in the rafters.

After two months of trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up (or, more accurately, how to get there, since it doesn't exactly involve a paycheck), 5 job applications, 9 interviews, and a single week of financial panic, I received a job offer. This would be the same week the consulting business got crazy busy, and two days before I got so sick today is the first day I've even ventured to do any consulting work.

I told my sister (prior to being knocked flat on my rear with some unknown virus), "I realize how lucky I am in this economy." LONG PAUSE. Then I said, "No. It's not luck. It's hard work and blessings."

Because really, I've worked my tail off - not only over the 10-year course of my career, but during the entire period of my unemployment. I've done a lot to broaden my experience, stay relevant and skilled in the up-and-coming trends in my field, show leadership and initiative. Since my unemployment, I've networked and networked and networked and, well, you get the point. And while this job offer is the 4th job I've gotten from a job hunting site (4 from job hunting sites, 1 from personal connections out of my 5 most recent jobs - statistically weird) and not a result of networking, it was my networking that has helped us stay financially viable and kept me aware of what was going on in the market.

It's not all bad, but I'm rather glad the roller coaster is coming to a stop. At least for the moment. Until the tax man cometh ..

Round and Round We Go

Okay, so I'm behind. I still am going to blog my week of Thanksgiving, but between an office move, a holiday and an infant who decided that sleeping through the night was for the birds, I've been in a state of "just short of self-combustion" these days.

One of the glories of my job was that it was located a mere 9.25 miles from home - in the opposite direction travelled by anyone else going to work in The Frontier. If you tacked on the short drive to Miss Jan's and back to the office, it brought it up to 10 miles even.

It was a pretty sweet deal, especially after some of the commutes I've had - the longest (mileage-wise) of which involved a bridge-tunnel in the morning, a high-rise bridge in the afternoon and 72 miles of round-trip-stuck-in-traffic-delight. The problem was, the actual office at The Office left a lot to be desired - even for a nonprofit. The rents were high, the cleaning crew was non-existent (we had a "bring-your-vacuum-to-work cleaning party the last week in the office), the landlord unstable and the digs were ... well, balancing on the fine line between modest and terrible.

So, The Office moved to swanky new digs downtown - cheaper rent, cleaner toilets, effusive landlords and space that feels akin to the organizational "feel". It's also only 8.2 miles from my house.

The problem lies in the fact that The Office, while closer to my house now (by a mile each way) is now 16 miles from Miss Jan's. Drive south 9.5(ish) miles. Drop girls off. Drive north 16 miles. Spend .3 miles in the parking garage. Repeat in reverse eight hours later. It's not so much the distance (reference the 72-mile round-trip commute above) or the traffic (after East Cost traffic, this is nothing) or the extra gas/mileage/upkeep costs (still cheaper, more reliable and faster *sigh* than public transit here). It is two-fold: the fact that I have to go south to go north and drive an extra 35+ miles a day and the fact that I arrive home 40 minutes later than usual, exhausted, hungry and cold - posessing two children who feel the exact same way - only to have to switch hats and face my other life. The life that involves dishes, dinner prep, housekeeping (ha - as if that happens), bedtime and prep for the next day (dinner prep, dishes, housekeeping, setting clothing out, etc).

Once this week, it was too much. I was late picking the girls up, the traffic was in rare form (2 accidents, 1 construction zone = nightmare no matter which way I drove) and I just wanted to yell "Forgetaboutit!" and calculate the horrors of moving into a cardboard box and eating top ramen for the next 10 years.

Instead, I hung my head over the sink and sobbed as I wondered how long I'd have to pay for my sin of overindulgence and foolish financial management in my twenties.

The moment passed and the next day dawned sunny and hopeful - as new days have a tendancy to do (even in The Frontier winters). That night, my boss gave me a letter of appreciation and indicated that I'd be receiving a small bonus in my next check. I remembered that he didn't bat an eye earlier in the week when I announced that Miss Jan's relative had died suddenly and she would be closed for the funeral - he merely agreed that working from home would be fine. My paycheck came. Woodstock proclaimed how much she loved seeing her friends at Miss Jan's. Pebbles slept through the night again. I got more than 4 hours of sleep (only 5 1/2 actually, but that's better than 4). I remembered that I had a good, flexible job with a good paycheck in a crummy economy. I remembered that I had a fantastic, dependable, trustworthy, salt-of-the-earth sitter - who only charges me the rate for one child, even though she watches two.

And I realized that sometimes blessings come in the most unexpected moments. I still dislike my new commute, but there are far worse things in the world - and someday, I'll settle into a routine and laugh at how inefficient and inept I used to be.

The Martyr's Lament

This month's issue of The Atlantic has a "thought-provoking" (stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-pencil-due-to-the-sheer-idiocy-of-the-argument kind of thought-provoking) article on the "outdated institution of marriage." (Side note: why must it always be referred to as an "institution?" - no wonder people are all for its demise. "Institution" sounds like somewhere youd send someone to be strapped to a bed and attended to by men in white lab coats, not something I'd actually wish to participate in.)

It starts by the author confessing to an extramarital affair. It then proceeds to detail her thoughts on how marriage is something best left to the 19th century agrarians where "it was considered to be a kind of trade union for a woman, her protection against the sexually wandering male."

People are entitled to their own opinions, though my brain is still sore from the verbal whiplash I endured as I bounced back and forth between her self-centered diatribe against stability, men in general and that venerable "institution": marriage.

The author, in the end, decides to get divorced, primarily because marriage takes (gasp) work - and while the author spends paragraphs assuring us she knows how to work (and is not afraid of it), alas, "Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance."

Wait a second. So the thing that should be most important above all in your life is being flung by the wayside like a used tissue because you are too tired after being a working mother to rekindle the romantic spark? Clearly she had some time to kindle some kind of romantic spark, given that she's just confessed (to the world, her therapist and her ex-husband) to having a brief extramarital affair.

She then laments: "My domestic evenings have typically revolved around five o’clock mac and cheese under bright lighting and then a slow melt into dishes and SpongeBob … because yet another of my marital failings was that I was never able to commit to a nanny"

I'm confused. So her life would have been better if she had a nanny? (No offense to nannys or those who hire them - I, after all, do my part to keep a sitter employed) But you can't conjure up a better evening than mac-n-cheese and SpongeBob? She goes on to complain about pondering these things in the middle of the night while dodging the elbows of her grade-school-aged girls.

Wait a minute.
She appears to be trying so hard to paint a picture of herself as a martyr that she is inadvertantly painting herself as rather inept at life in general (or so it seems). Not that there is anything wrong with mac-n-cheese (my own kid loves it) or SpongeBob (at least according to Himself) or snuggling with the kiddos, but I see a self-centered woman who overindulges her children because she's too tired (or something) to parent and tosses away her 20-year-marriage over a fling because it's more work than she can cram into her "woe-is-me" working mother schedule.

Here I feel, in some ways, qualified to comment. I'm a working mother. I work 40ish hours a week, in an office. It's hard. It's tiring. It's something I'd rather not do for the rest of my life. But that does NOT absolve me of my responsibilities as a wife, a parent and a citizen of planet Earth. Nor does the sacrifices that being a working mother/wife require earn me martyr status. I am not a single parent, underemployed, working multiple jobs or on public assistance. Neither was the author (until she chose single parenting over the "work" that rebuilding her marriage would take). And her selfish pursuit of excitement, lust and the easy way (over-indulging the children versus having an adult relationship with their father) certainly does not qualify as either sacrifice or martyr status.

I can only imagine the shock and awe that would result from Himself if I waltzed in the house day after day and said, "Oh I can only manage to cook dinner from a box and stick Woodstock in front of the TV, because I can't possibly be expected to do anything more for anyone - I am, after all, a working woman." Never mind the fact that Himself (and the author's husband) are both employed as well.

Which brings me to the next portion of the essay in which the author joins a friend to rail against her friend's spouse (who holds a job, cooks, chauffers the kiddos and generally dazzles all of their friends), because *gasp* he is too "stable."

In one sentance she lauds his goodness: "More accurately, [she is] reheating dinner; the dish is something wonderfully subtle yet complex, like a saffron-infused porcini risotto, that Ian made over the weekend and froze for us, in Tupperware neatly labeled with a Sharpie, because this is the sort of thoughtful thing he does." Several paragraphs later, she gleefully skewers him for his faults, while at the same time absolving her friend's faults because she "She sees herself as a failed mother, and is depressed and chronically overworked at her $120,000-a-year job (which she must cling to for the benefits because Ian freelances). At night, horny and sleepless, she paces the exquisite kitchen, gobbling mini Dove bars. The main breadwinner, Rachel is really the Traditional Dad, but instead of being handed her pipe and slippers at six, she appears to be marooned in a sexless remodeling project with a passive-aggressive Competitive Wife."

As I see it, women have created (by and large) their own monster. We have begged, pleaded, groveled, yelled and demanded to be treated not as mere equals to men but AS MEN. In the process, we emasculate men, demand that they take on everything we can't possibly handle as "poor working mothers," and then whine because they turn into "passive-aggressive Competitive Wi[ves]" - who are probably leaving their partners without intimacy because they are TOO DARN TIRED TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT after a day of working, whipping up healthy meals and shuttling the kids to and from everything. Sure, they should focus on the relationship too, but if we're too busy crying "martyr!" and shoving everything into their laps, we hardly have room to complain.

Now, to be clear, I'm all for equal division of labor ESPECIALLY because I work. I want a partner in parenting, in household tasks and in life - in addition to someone who is also a romantic partner. But I'm not going to get that if I insist on whining about how rough my life is to be the main breadwinner, so therefore I cannot possibly be asked to do anything else. Isn't that the whole 1950s "Man gets home, gets pipe and newspaper ignores family" scenario that we as women have been campaigning against for some 50 years, only with the gender roles reversed?"

I want to know what is wrong with the "stable men" she rails against in her article. What's so wrong with being stable? Stable doesn't have to mean boring, and if it does, maybe she'd best look at herself as she critizes everyone else ... look where it got her ... at least now she can play the "woe is me, SINGLE working mom" card.

The problem is, she seems to confuse Love with Lust - which even a scientist would tell you are two completely different things - from a cellular level right on through your marital vows. That is never more clear than in her last paragraph, in which she states:

Avoid marriage—or you too may suffer the emotional pain, the humiliation, and the logistical difficulty, not to mention the expense, of breaking up a long-term union at midlife for something as demonstrably fleeting as love.

That just leaves me speechless.

Dear UTA - Or Why I Don't Use Mass Transit

Dear UTA,

The other day, the news highlighted a story indicating that - surprise! - UTA ridership is down over last year - particularly among its express train "FrontRunner" service from north of The Frontier down.

Interestingly, the fuel surcharge - implemented when gas was $4.50/gallon last summer, was never dropped and fares hiked beyond that as well this spring.

I read the articles with interest. You should know, I'm a huge public transit fan - huge. I spent my first years in the DC metro area commuting via public transit and, in later years, used it for many non-commuting trips into the city - less hassle, less traffic, no parking issues - and it was convenient. I've seen more of underground New York and Boston due to the Subway and the T than I have seen above ground in those cities. I've even ridden the bus in Las Vegas (not really something I want to replcate, but still - I've been there, done that).

When I first moved to The Frontier, I took the bus (UTA, of course) several times to work. It was wildly inconvenient, the mapping system was wrong and told me my office was in a place that is smack in the middle of a golf course and an interstate, but ... I gave it the benefit of the doubt.

However, I no longer use mass transit here. Why?
*Time
*Money
*Convenience

In my not-terribly-scientific (or important) opinion, public transit must meet at least one of the above criterion in order to be useful - and widely embraced. In a small urban area like The Frontier, it's not likely to be convenience. Parking is generally abundant and inexpensive. Traffic congestion isn't terrible in most places (chronic construction on I-80 and north of The Frontier excepted). And, to be honest, the number of times one has to make transfers to go even a few miles makes the transit here horribly INconvenient.

Never mind that though - what about saving time and/or money? Unfortunately, UTA saves neither. I am participating in this year's Utah Clear The Air Challenge - trying to eliminate 4 car trips or more a week (success last week! I eliminated 4 trips. Thanks to my sitter's vacation this week, I'm telecommuting, thereby reducing a whole lot more trips), because I believe we spend entirely too much time driving solo in our cars. We could walk more. We could run across the valley less. I aim to do both.

But back to public transit ... I've looked into taking the bus to work (at least on the days I don't have to drop Woodstock at the sitter's). Let's compare:
Driving myself

• 19 miles round-trip, door-to-door - 60% of which are interstate, none of which have traffic of any sort.
• 32 mpg commuting, on average - which means a gas cost of $1.56/day (at $2.50/gallon)
• Total time: 15 minutes there, 20 back - total of 35 minutes/day commuting

Taking the Bus

• Same 20 miles round-trip
• Total fare: $4/day
• Total time: 55 minutes to work, if I want to show up to work 1/2 hour early or 1/2 hour late. 80 minutes if I want to show up to work right on time. Return trip would take 48 minutes, meaning a total time of 103 minutes commuting.
• Side note: The bus would take me a total of 48 BLOCKS (roughly 6.5 miles) out of my way v. a direct drive.

Summary: To be fair, I didn't include the cost of owning my car or the per-mile wear-and-tear cost of driving my car - but it roughly equals out in the end to about $4-$5/day - in other words, about the cost of taking the bus. If, however, I were to figure time cost into that commute - I would be spending THREE TIMES as long on the road - and going 6.5 miles out of my way every day to take the bus - and spending the same amount, saving neither time nor money.

We did look into it for Himself's newly-minted 80-mile round-trip daily commute - certainly the new FrontRunner train or express bus would get him there faster or cheaper, correct? Sadly, no. It would take 4 times as long and cost 3 times as much as driving himself - alone - to work every day. I'm big into saving the environment and reducing air pollution (especially on inversion days), but at what cost?

Seems to me there has to be a better solution - I love public transit because it is usually either convenient, cheaper or faster - any one of the three and I'm happy - unfortunately, UTA is neither. It's cheaper, faster and cleaner for me to drive or walk - even on the weekends.

I'll keep hoping.
Signed,
Someone who would really like to use the bus system someday.

Wait, Not Yet

I had an epiphany this week (they do still happen, if only rarely, while pregnant): last year at this same time I was stuck in a job I'd been praying to leave for six months. Everyone told me to quit my job - my friends, my head shrinker, my family. (Himself did not - in self-preservation he tried not to talk about my job at all, as it would inevitably result in some sort of mass hysteria on my end). Normally when everyone is saying "RUN" I run, but this time ... the quietest voice inside said, "Wait. Not just yet."

Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?

Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.

Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.

I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.

Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.

As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.

More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.

Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.

It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.

I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.

I am Woman ...

I consider myself a feminist, in some sense. Not in the radical-going-to-burn-my-bra-maneater sense, in the "just because I'm a woman does not mean I'm incompetent, should be given less respect or fewer opportunities" respect. I view women and men as equals in the sense that both contribute enormously to society. Women aren't better than men. Men aren't better than women. We contribute equally to the good (and bad, sigh) of society - but in different ways. We are not the same, but that doesn't mean the same opportunities shouldn't be afforded us.

Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).

So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.

This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.

It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."

Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.

I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.

And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.

It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.

We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.

Running from Kites

I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.

My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.

I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.

I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.

We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.

Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.

I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.

Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.

Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.

All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other ...

(Identifying details have been changed to protect the guilty, the employed and the semi-innocent)

This morning I read through my weekly press clippings to find this:
ACTUAL MEDIA ARTICLE

XYZ Inc. supports Nonprofit Cause
XYZ Inc. presented $XX0,000 recently to three benefited charities: $XX0,000 went to the Charity A $XX,000 went to Charity B and $XX0,000 went to Charity C.

Sponsoring Nonprofit Sara Works For with its [Name of Event Here] in October, XYZ Inc. was able to raise the funds at the event. [Brief statement about Nonprofit Sara Works For Here].

I scratched my head. Funny how it appears XYZ Inc. presented a very large sum of money to three organizations as a result of our [Name of Event Here] two weeks ago. And funny how it seems they raised all this money at the event.

Curious, I went back to the e-mail/release I sent the reporter. It looks nothing like what was written.
ACTUAL MEDIA RELEASE

[Nonprofit Sara Works For] Raises $XX0,000 for Nonprofit Cause
[An intro paragraph and a quote].
Generous donations from [Name of Event] sponsors like XYZ Inc. and ABC Inc., other corporate and private donations, and donations received that evening from guests of more than $XX,000, were distributed among the event’s three benefited charities. [Nonprofit Sara Works For] was able to present checks Saturday totaling $XX0,000 to Charity A, Charity B and Charity C.

Not even close.

Black Tie

The Office had it's Annual Lifetime Achievement Award Gala on Saturday. It was the first event I've worked on since I left Virginia. I have missed event planning immensely ... it's the adrenaline boost I haven't had in 16 months. I started working at The Office three months ago - at the tail end of planning, but I was able to roll up my sleeves and get involved, which I loved.

John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.

He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.

It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.

It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.

It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.

It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"

Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.

HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!

There But For the Grace of God Go I

There are some days when I truly believe it is only by the Grace of God that I am still functioning. The last 18 months have been a cacophony of static, a rollercoaster ride worthy of inclusion at Cedar Point and a sensory overload that threatens to drive even the sanest person into an asylum.

Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.

Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.

Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.

More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.

Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."

This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).

My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).

That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.

Some of You Might Want to Know This.

Written by Erin, in response to The Great Job Disaster of '08. Pass it on.

--
While the country turns it's attention to the Wall St bailout, it is time for Utah to turn it's attention to the laws that allow these things to happen. With many of Utah's start-up businesses and new companies financed, not by profits, but instead by venture capitalists and loans from outside interests, many companies are suddenly facing going under. Many of these employers will choose to use the Utah code to their advantage and just walk away, never paying their employees. With our current code, employees may never see a dime.

This isn't just about Wall St or bad investments. This is about a bad law that protects employers, while doing nothing to protect employees. Say an employer decides it is in his or her best interest to walk away from the business and go find other employment, leaving the employees without a paycheck or employment. Utah actually protects the employer from having to pay the employee!

According to Utah Admin Code R610-3 Filing, Investigating, and Resolution of Wage Claims, employers who fail to pay their employees are first sent a letter, and then sent another letter, and another, and another. Eventually, after 90 days, (assuming the Wage and Labor Commission moves quickly and efficiently), the claim gets moved to the Attorney General's Office, where, you guessed it, another letter is sent. Eventually, when these busy agencies have time, the case is moved to an arbitration and mediation court. It then takes about 5-8 months to get an appointment with that court. And if and when that magic day ever arrives, it will be determined that yes or no the employer owes the employee. If it is determined that in fact they do owe them wages, a lien is placed against the employer's assets.

How long does it take for that lien to produce anything for the long-suffering employee?

Utah Admin Code R610-3-14-2. The docketing of an Order shall constitute a lien against the real property of the defendant situated in the county for a period of eight years.

Yes, you read that right. An employee may have to wait EIGHT YEARS to get their wages! There is no “golden parachute” to help these employees who are suddenly both without a job and screwed out of their wages.

When we go to work we put our trust in our employers that they will provide for us in exchange for the labors we perform. We put our livelihood in their hands and rely on the fact that as long as we do our best, we will be paid, and in turn be able to provide for our families.

But Utah employers who get tired of running a business, or lose financing, or simply decide that there is more money to be made elsewhere can walk away from the business and the employees that depend on them, with little consequences.

This is not moral and this is not right! Employers should face criminal charges for running faulty businesses and failing to pay their employees. Men and women CEO's who chose to leave their businesses for higher paying salaries with other organization with no thoughts or cares to the employees they screw over in their wake should face public punishments, and not just inconvenient fines.

Utah, take a look closer at home and ask yourself if you will be protected if your employer goes under or walks away from the business. Will you be paid? Will you be prepared to wait eight years before seeing those wages? Will you be able to survive on unemployment at a fraction of your past earnings?

Don't just sit and watch Wall Street. Take action here at home. Let's change these laws that protect employers and not the employees. Let's make it criminal to not pay employees! Ask the state legislature candidates what they plan to do to protect employees. Challenge the law. Stand up and make it clear that we will not allow employees to be taken advantage of!

View from the Board Room

For several years in my Other Life, I had a birds-eye view of the beginning of the financial nightmares addressed last night by President Bush and the major conversation point of all the talking heads.

From my view in the board room in DC - the real estate, financial and regulatory powerhouse good ol' boys club - what I saw didn't make sense. Of course, it was only me, the one who has had no formal economic, financial or business management education (though my longing for an MBA puts me at least in the "firmly interested, read everything" category). That should have given the world reason to pause - if I, the one whose solitary "F" on a test came in financial accounting, saw reason to go "what the...?!" things were already on their way south - and fast.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #1:
Year-over-year property appreciation growth of 17-20%. In Fairfax County, the median price of a single-family home in 2002 was $260k. In 2006 (the absolute peak of market), it was $500k. An increase of 92% in 4 years.

Dummy Logic: Something tells me incomes weren't going up 92%.

Reality '08: If it's too good to be true, and actually IS true, it won't last. And, funny thing, incomes didn't go up 92%.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #2:
I sat in a meeting one day where Countrywide lenders (bidding to be the "preferred" lender on a project) said, "We can get absolutely anyone into a loan."

Dummy Logic: Anyone? Seriously? Aren't there rules about this kind of thing? You are saying this on year 5 of a double-digit upswing, you're talking interest-only, no money down, variable interest loans - do you think "Anyone" will be able to pay that back in 5 years when the market has changed and his $1.5k/month payment has become $3k and his $80k job has become only $85k?

Reality '08: Countrywide. In shambles. Match. Set. Point.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #3:
I sat in a first-time homebuyers informational session (one of my marketing events) and listened to a lender tell a couple, "you think you can afford x condo, but we could get you into y condo ($100k more) for $7k down, interest only, variable apr - you can refinance in 2 years." Guess what the couple did? Went for the "we'll have a second bedroom, but nothing to put in it, ever, because every single dime we make ON BOTH INCOMES is going to be paying our INTEREST ONLY mortage payment. We'll sell it in two years and make a fortune!"

Dummy Logic: I'm not even going there. I nearly choked on my crudite.

Reality '08: Forclosure rates are up 27%.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #4: Companies buying old real estate (rentals) for ridiculous prices, raising the price to an even more ridiculous level (selling as for-sale condos) and then putting them up for sale to "get a piece of the action."

Dummy Logic: Huh? Am I the only one that thought that was a ridiculous way to do business?

Results '08: It didn't even take that long. By '06, pure flip conversions were slashing their prices by $100k. Is it wrong to say "I told you so?"

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #4:Pseudo mortgage companies and developers - suddenly "experts" - enter the game to make a quick buck.

Dummy Logic: We're leaving the handling, sales, development and flow of capital to novices? And greedy ones at that.

Reality '08: Four words and an acronym: Bear Stearns. Lehman Brothers. AIG. The dominioes keep falling.

Given my "aptitude" (or significant lack thereof) for numbers, it makes me wonder if I am clairvoyant. More likely, the contract one must sign to make a 7-figure-or-more salary must certainly read: thou shalt not use common sense, thou shalt wring all the money out of a company as fast as you possibly can, though shalt run the company into the ground if need be to see 20% return on investment, and - oh yes - shareholders, common people, taxpayers and your grandmother living off her pension backed by mortgage securities be damned.

Seriously.

This Is The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of

Thanks to an old friend for bringing this to my attention.

glumbert - Stop Sign Re-Design

Brings back memories of our all-day Thursday work sessions with our ad agency when I worked in Virginia.

Unfortunately, they were often just like this.

You cannot make this stuff up!

I thought my days of embarrassing moments were over. It appears not.

Thursday morning up at Deer Valley, Himself took some of the stuff out to the car for me, since he had to be at his conference at 8 a.m. sharp and I wasn't leaving until 8:15ish. I thought I very clearly indicated to only take my laptop bag out when he took the pack-n-play and Woodstock's bag. Apparently I didn't (likely) or he didn't listen (more likely), because after I finished nursing Woodstock I went to find my shirt.

Himself had taken ALL of our things to the car. Including, as it turns out, my shirt - which was in the bag I had thought I had indicated he should leave.

It took me five minutes to decide whether stealing the lodge's bathrobe was more acceptable than walking down the hall, out the doorway, across the patio, down the stairs and throug the FRONT parking lot half clothed.

Let's just say I didn't steal the bathrobe. And that I'm REALLY glad Woodstock's sleep sack was still on the bed - between her and it an indecency charge would be hard to prove.

----
Today, I left work to attend a meeting with a contract designer. We had to swap horror stories of The Factory (the story actually gets worse, unbelievably!), which meant I was a little longer getting back than I anticipated.

I got back only to discover ... a locked office. Of course, my office keys and my laptop and my lunch were INSIDE the office. I made a to do list. I paced around the building. I went to Whole Foods and bought a vegan cookie (strangely delicious) and some herbal tea (to counteract the calories in the cookie, of course!). I came back and chatted with the neighbor who works in the suite next door. And I imagined being fired for incompetency.

Some time later who should appear but the VP. He was rather awstruck that I was stupid enough to leave my keys in the drawer (hey! I've always worked for huge companies - there is no such thing as getting locked out at 12:30 p.m.) and wondered how long I had been there.

I confessed to half of it. If figure the trip to Whole Foods could count as lunch and the 15 minutes I took to do a to do list counted as work, right?

Good grief. Two humiliating moments in one week. This is ridiculous.

Himself and the Grand Vanishing Trick

Himself went and got a second job when my job went to part-time in June (before I saw the light and quit that job and went and got myself a new real job).

Of course, it took them six weeks to orient him. And now that he's sold his soul to the big box chain in blue, he owes them a certain number of hours in the first 30 days of employment, post-training. You know, just in case LG, Frigidaire, GE, Whirlpool and all the rest come out with all new appliances in the next 30 days and he can't figure out how to sell them. Or something.

This new venture means several things:
1. Renewed complaining about our old-as-dirt and teeny dishwasher. He will again become Mr. Appliance Expert (as he was 3 years ago) and will say things like, "Sigh, if only it had two water thingys inside, it would clean dishes so much more efficiently." (replace "water thingys" with the technical name, and you'll have it right).

2. Renewed drooling over Dysons from me. I just realized the other day that my probably-perfectly-good-vacuum is 7 years old. It's not so much that the vacuum doesn't work (it's an "eh" on the scale of worthless to fabulous), it's the fact that it takes half a day and half a dozen big box stores to find bags for the dumb thing. Apparently, no one uses their old vacuums any more or Eureka stopped making bags in size RR because they are nearly impossible to find. THAT (and envy) is the reaosn I want a Dyson - because if I'm going to have to buy a new vaccum, it will be one that lasts forever and sucks everything out of the carpet, so Baby Girl can't find it and shove it in her mouth.

3. Renewed coveting of some huge TV on Himself's part. If you know him, you know the agony he's been in for three years. Never mind the TV is newer than the vacuum.

4. He won't be home. Ever. This effectively renders me a single parent in a house that is only semi-unpacked and definitely not clean (thanks to Son and Nephew and Baby Girl). Between his real job and this new job and his flight back East to return Son and a 3-day, overnight conference in the mountains ... I expect to see him on the 29th and not before ... just as the out-of-town company arrives for Baby Girl's birthday party.

This means that we're 0 for 3 on camping trips this year, it means that Labor Day weekend will be only the second weekend since June that Himself will be home all weekend. It means that I really will have been able to pack, move and unpack the entire house almost entirely on my own, due to Himself's schedule. And it means another month of sheer exhaustion.

Labor Day will never have so much meaning as it does this year.

Shiny New Life

I am known, for better or worse, to surround myself with drama - typically not of my own creation, though sometimes when it gets really dull, people wonder.

Through the last six months of "head shrinking" - I've realized that I am an adrenaline junkie. I don't know how to function in a mode that is not the physiological equivalent of "fight or flight." I have done a fair amount of reading about the "chronic state of phsyiological stress" lately. In short, something has to change.

In the past several months, I've made strides to begin healing the frenzied anxiety-black velvet curtain of depression nonsense. I've worked at not caring so much about some things. I've tried to assuage the guilt of not saying "yes" every time - or doing everything I should be - because "should" is subjective.

And the drama continues.
* I was forced/chose to change jobs ... it was a good decision, but has come with a month's worth of continued drama, lawyers, legal advice, covering my rear end, analyzing and discovering that much of what I thought wasn't actually true.

* In an attempt to gain control and reduce the anxiety, we moved. The Hobbit Hole was up for sale. I couldn't continue to focus on healing and reducing the almost-daily panic attacks when I was worried about what parts of myself were exposed when people came through the house or how clean it was. But moving in and of itself, even just next door, was enough frenzied nonsense to send me into orbit. Especially since it happened CONCURRENTLY with the job drama (timing was not planned that way).

* Son came for the summer. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a pleasant experience. But he came the day after I quit my job, two weeks before moving day. One can only imagine the insanity.

With the maelstrom of changes, I haven't done so well at focusing on those things I need to be focusing on. There is no routine, no settled contentment. Little things turn into bigger mini-dramas overnight.

We set up the washer/dryer yesterday. The washer was a breeze compared to last year's set-up. The dryer, however, required an unplanned trip to Home Depot, 2 hours and a fair amount of "what the hell were we thinking" conversations between Himself and I - the two people least equipped to be involved in any kind of appliance anything on earth.

This morning, Baby Girl woke up with diarrhea of epic proportion. I could smell the result halfway down the hall, before I even entered her room. It was 5:45 a.m. I finished the batch of laundry I'd started before bed, picked her up (no way even she could sleep through that stench), cleaned her, changed her and dumped her back into bed with Himself. I embarked on another three loads of laundry - because, of course, the soiled pajamas, changing pad and towel were not even close to being able to be washed together.

And ... a batch of jam. JAM?! On a work day? When Baby Girl has caused an additional mess to clean and there is laundry in various stages of "done"?

But I wanted to learn and do new things this summer. Canning was part of it. A perfect storm of house capable of providing off-season storage space for the massive water-bath canner and free fruit provide the opportunity. Still, jam on a work day morning was out of the question - except yesterday's drama prevented me from doing anything with the two boxes of apricots taking up the microscopic amount of floor space in the kitchen ... and the top ones, from the top of the tree, were rapidly ripening beyond the point of no return.

I had no choice.

New job. New house. Annual visit from Son. Baby Girl's first encounter with diarrhea. Canning. Picking. Installing appliance(s). Packing. Unpacking. Waiting a very long time for a paycheck. Full-time work after a three-week hiatus. Five loads of laundry in 12 hours. Preparation for next week's camping trip. And on and on and on.

Even the shiny new life is wearing me out.

Bill Gates and Sara: Two Peas in a Pod

Okay, so only because we're both cleaning out our desks today as we move on to other things.

Today is my last day of work at The Factory, and I have nothing to do but clean my computer, re-organize files and remove my self from the premise.

I want to cry.

I've alternately dreamed of, and loathed, this day for the last four months. Last week, I was relegated to sitting in the kitchen (prior to that, I sat at the front desk ... see the trend?). It's isolated, quiet and I cannot be seen from the main hallway. It also means, I feel as if I've been kicked to the curb already. No one even seems to remember that I'm here today.

I've thought about my last days at other places at which I've worked, and that is what makes me want to cry. When I left the last two companies, there was a week of celebrating, tears and promises to keep in touch - it felt a little like the last week of senior year of high school - without all the appropriate high school drama and the "U R a QT" written in my yearbook. I've spent a minimum of three years at my last companies, so leaving after only a year means the ties aren't as strong.

Leaving because I can no longer tolerate the environment means there are no farewells. I am alternately sad to leave the team and business and clients I've built and worked with and for and joyously happy that 60-hour workweeks are done.

But even under the circumstances, leaving is tough. I hate change as a general rule. I eat the same thing for breakfast 80% of the time. I have the same morning routine. I struggle to make friends, so leaving any tenuous friendships behind is tough.

There are job options. Several. Nothing that strikes me as the greatest job ever, but jobs that are stable and will compensate me reasonably well.

I wonder what Bill Gates is thinking as he clears out his desk today ....?
.

I think this is where I'm supposed to feel something...

After spending from November to April essentially numb, I've enjoyed a rebirth of feeling - mad, happy, excited, angry - doesn't really matter, the prick of feeling is something to be celebrated after a 4-month absence where everything was gray and muted.

But while my numbness had worn off and the thick coat of depressive plodding through life began to dissipate, my anxiety continued to roller coaster. In my armchair psychoanalysis, I would say that the break in weather contributed to the lifting of the mind-funk fog, but did little for my anxiety.

It has cost me so much - this constant furor in my brain - the continual crackle of static electricity in the background of every thought, every conversation, every moment that might be quiet. Head shrinking worked, but not when I couldn't go every week, due to the fact I have the most popular head shrinker on the planet (or so it seems), who is (unfortunately for me) a stay-at-home-mom all but one day and one evening a week.

So ... out came the little blue pills. I railed against them for six months - certain I'd be a slave to them forever. But the job disaster was just too much. I couldn't sacrifice one more thing to this horrible feeling of chronic "fight or flight."

Now? I haven't had any kind of panicky meltdown in a week - I quit my job without freaking out. I go through the day without freaking out about suddenly having 80% of our income vaporize (I keep thinking I should ... but I just can't).

This has been my best week of work in the last 9 months.

And it's not just the "take that" euphoria of quitting. It's that I'm back to being numb. The little blue pills shave off the edges of the anxiety, but also everything else.

I think this is the part where I am supposed to feel something about that, but I can't seem to conjure up the emotional energy to go that far.

Um, yeah ...

I have done some big things this week - things that make me want to run screaming in the other direction.

Things like ...

* Quitting my job - without another one to go to and without a single clue how things are going to get paid for after the first week of July.

* Looking for an attorney. I used to think people were so sophisticated growing up when they would say, "well, I had my attorney review it" or "I have to call my attorney." What it really means is people either are in, or anticipate being in, a whole lot of trouble.

* Trying to figure out how to best pack for our move across the fence. Yes, you read it right - it will be "Adieu, Hobbit Hole!" in 3 weeks. We are moving - to the duplex next door. It is a special kind of move - one that involves a special kind of packing - something I am not sure how to define yet.

* Contemplating killing a rodent. I swear I saw something scramble from one corner of the kitchen to underneath the refrigerator this morning. Himself thinks I am suffering the delusional after effects of seeing a giant (3") bug come waddling out from underneath the fridge Wednesday, upon which I promptly attacked it with the mop before scooping it up in a paper towel to dispose of it. It stung me. I about keeled over in panic (motherhood has done strange things to my sense of vulnerability). Anyway, back to the rodent (?). Himself thinks I am insane. I scrubbed the entire kitchen wearing my bathrobe and flip flops just to make sure I was hallucinating. Nothing shows signs of rodent(s). Said rodent cannot remain under the fridge indefinitely - and there just aren't that many places to hang out in the Hobbit Hole kitchen. But I swear I saw something scurry from the top of the electric radiator on the wall (that we don't use) under the fridge. I. Don't. Do. Rodents. Even pet ones. Snakes, bugs (within reason, preferably small and sans any body hair), bees, flies - even ants. But not rodents.

Oy. Pray for me.