I think that possibly the worst thing you can do is the thing that you know better than to do. 

For those of you scratching your head at the above sentence, let me explain. 

I have Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease, or GERD.  I’ve had it for 20 years or better, with my first attack coming my senior year of college.  Over the years I’ve been able to treat it with over-the-counter medications and lots of Tums.  But since I hit that magic age of 40 I’ve had to go for the big guns — prescription meds. 

I am not a good medicine-taker.  I absolutely hate the fact that I have to swallow a pill every day in order for my body to work as it is designed to do.  Oh, I know, boo hoo hoo, you poor dear thing.  You have to take ONE pill.  How do you ever survive it?   And I’m not so stupid as to not realize that there are people out there who have to take fistfuls of pills just to remain vertical and I am just being a big fat baby about this.  It feels a little bit like weakness to me, that I can’t just muscle past it. 

I don’t think I would make a very good addict.  I don’t like being dependent on a substance. 

The next logical step, and one that has already been suggested to me by my doctor, is that I change my diet. 

Which would look like this:   

Folks, that’s pretty much my entire diet.  That’s the stuff I like. 

You do a little research and find that a GERD-friendly diet consists of stuff like grilled skinless chicken breasts and mineral water.  Broccoli, cabbage, peas.  Perhaps I should start marking the days by scratching hashmarks into the wall. 

There is a dynamic in all of this that is easy to overlook, and that’s the brain-gut connection.  Most of us have experienced that stomach-churning feeling that comes with being nervous about something.  It’s the same connection that triggers my reflux — my brain starts spinning wildly over upsetting things and the next thing you know I’ve got heartburn and/or stomach cramps.  And I don’t know about you, but when I’m upset, I eat.  A lot of the wrong things. 

(And yes I understand the connection between all of this and the 17 pounds I have packed on in the past two years.) 

So what do I do about all this?  Hm?  Well, I guess for starters I could just calm down.  And I could probably suck it up and start eating better/less.  And going to the gym more. 

But first there is the small matter of turkey and dressing and pie. 

– Mox

Spawn has been reading to a dog. 

This is not anything new in educational circles, using dogs as reading “teachers.”  It’s something that works with struggling readers because it helps to build their confidence, and from confidence comes competency. 

My best friend Eileen, she of the awesomeness, has such a dog.  A yellow Labrador showed up at her house in the country one day (as dogs are wont to do in the country) and became a member of her wolfpack.  Why people feel the need to dump animals in the country, I will never understand, but that’s another post for another day.  But the dog had an even temperament and a need to snuggle, and if you’ve ever snuggled with a large dog you know how that feels. 

I hit upon the idea of Spawn reading to an animal when I caught the kid reading to one of our cats.  Cats are not so good as therapy animals, at least from the standpoint of sitting still and listening.  I mentioned this to Eileen and she immediately thought of her yellow lab and offered his services to us.  So every Saturday morning Eileen brings the dog to my parents’ house (where there are no cats) and they sit and read together. 

Is it working?  I think so.  Spawn has been positively thrilled to get a little one-on-one fur time, and has been attempting more independent reading as of late.  I encourage this, of course, though I will miss the days where “read me a story” is part of our bedtime routine. 

This is something I would love to pursue further but I don’t know how it’s possible to make any money at it, and at this point I need to make some money. 

– Mox

I got word over the weekend that the girl who took over for me at my last job has decided to quit to be a stay-at-home mom. 

To which I say, “kudos!”  Not many women have that option.  Some (me) don’t want that option. 

And I had a moment of “hey my old job is open” but that moment quickly passed. 

~sigh~ 

If I could have stepped back in and not have had to deal with the one woman who made the entire experience a living hell for me, then I might have approached my old boss about it.  But it would have been like remarrying an ex-husband — whatever it was that caused the problem to start with would have come around again once the honeymoon was over. 

And honeymoons in those circumstances are particularly short-lived. 

Onward.   

As part of the application process to become an instructor at the local technical college, I’ve had to request my college transcripts.  Funny, I remember myself as being a better student than what they indicate.  I mean, I was a solid B student.  Even within my major I was a B student.  I don’t remember trying particularly hard to be anything more than that.  Does that mean the college will pass me over in favor of a higher-achieving student?  Hard to say.  But the positions I am applying for are titled “Remedial Instructor” so I’m hoping a B average will pass muster. 

And so it goes. 

– Mox

After a morning spent unpleasantly being (wo)manhandled and manipulated and squished within an inch of my life, I am once again declared healthy of boob. 

So how come I don’t feel as if my load has been lightened? 

The possibility exists that my blahness is a result of not seeing the sun for the past three days.  Damn I hate winter in this part of the world. 

I tend to sink into a funk about this time every year.  I manage to recognize and participate in the things that bring me happiness, and those things are often as simple as playing a board game and eating warm chocolate chip cookies with Spawn.  While I don’t necessarily walk around with a black cloud hanging over me, I often feel as if I’m leapfrogging from one joyful moment to another, over a black abyss.  But this year it’s different, somehow. 

Even before my latest set of worries happened it felt different.  I can’t explain it other than it’s just “different.”  I feel like something is going to give, will have to give.  Just what, though, I don’t know. 

In the span of time between Monday night and this morning about 10am when I got the all clear, I’ve looked at things hard.  Obviously my job is a big issue, and my next step is a big issue.  Had I been staring down the barrel of physical illness, what would have I done about all of that? 

Don’t even get me started about the whole wife/mother deal.  While my husband is a (mostly) fine father, he would suck big time at being a mother. 

Midlife crisis?  Hard to say. 

– Mox

My father is one of those people who, when he gets an idea into his head, he can’t quit until he’s seen it to completion.  This is great once you get him started on a project, because his mind just goes and goes and goes until he’s worked out all the angles and anticipated all the problems and fixed all the boo-boos.  It’s not so great if you have another project that needs to get done anytime soon. 

This is a trait I get from him, this need to focus intensely on the subject at hand, until all is complete.  I can function, sure, doing other things, but uppermost in my mind is the thing that I am thinking about.  So the other things I do, while I am thinking about The Thing, are things that get done in some sort of somnambulent state. 

My father does not rest until he’s finished with a project.  For a man 74 years old, blind in one eye, he’s very productive out in the workshop.  Imagine my impatience with a husband who begins and abandons projects with alarming regularity. 

Ahem.  Anyway. 

Where my father’s focus tends to be on the physical projects at hand, my brain, true to my female nature, more often than not can obsess about intangibles. 

When I arrived home Monday evening from a particularly soul-sucking day at work, there was a message on our answering machine from the mammogram place, asking me to call them.  No reason why, just call at my earliest convenience.  Since it was after 5pm, that meant my imagination had free rein to run wild all night long.  I called on Tuesday morning and learned that my mammogram showed an “irregularity” and that I would have to come in and have it redone.  The doctor felt it was probably some fibrous tissue but wanted a second look. 

Yeah.  Guess where my brain has been ever since. 

I have not mentioned any of this to my mother or my husband, because at this point there is no reason to alarm anyone besides myself, though I did share this info with my best friend, who (true to her patience-of-Job form) advised me to “breathe.”  Oh, she knows me so well. 

The upside of this is that once I get this second mammogram done, I’ll be able to wait around for the doctor to reexamine it and tell me what he thinks.  Then I’ll know if I’m finished with this project or not. 

– Mox

Do they even offer transcripts of TV shows anymore? 

This is a random thought, I realize, but back in the stone ages, when I had time to actually sit down and watch television, I remember at the end of some programs there would be an offer for transcripts if anyone wanted one.  I don’t know why anyone would want one. 

Anyway, the whole subject of transcripts is due to the fact that I just sent off a request for official transcripts from my university.  The initial reason is, there are some instructor positions at the local technical school that I intend to apply for, and part of the process is to supply a copy of transcripts with the interview.  This is assuming they would want to interview me for any of these positions, but considering the positions are continually open (and have been posted since 2007) and titled “Remedial Instructor” I figure I’d at least get someone to talk to me. 

What?  These jobs pay 28 bucks an hour.  Oh hell yes. 

If nothing comes of this then at least I’ll have official transcripts for my files, in case I need them for something else.  And truthfully, I’ve forgotten what my transcripts say.  I remember my grades were fairly good, though I wasn’t dean’s list material. 

Perhaps I could snag one of these remedial instructorships and determine from there if I want to pursue a master’s degree.  I’m still toying with the idea.  To earn a faculty position I’d have to have at least a master’s degree, anyway. 

I recently sat down and did what I call a “Ben Franklin” on my current job and my last job.  A “Ben Franklin” is where you list all the pros on one side of the paper and all the cons on the other, and judge what you should do by the length and quality of each list.  I don’t know how I came to call it a “Ben Franklin” though I seem to remember someone telling me once that it was a tactic that ol’ Ben himself employed when faced with a decision.  At any rate, that’s what I call it. 

One of the things I listed as a “like” in my last job was talking to tour groups.  I had the knowledge and I was able to impart it, extemporaneously, and with a great deal of enjoyment.  I knew what it was I needed to get accomplished in the span of time alloted to me before the group departed on a historic walking tour.  It’s also something that I’ve listed as a “like” on my current job, that imparting of knowledge for a specific purpose. 

Now, I am not a teacher, and this I know.  But I am pretty good at being bossy.  And I apparently enjoy telling people what I think they need to know.  So hey, a remedial position teaching English or Communications or Literature?  Bring it. 

Nothing may come of it but at least it’s a movement off dead center, no? 

– Mox

I’m a linker.  Ask my best friend, who can attest that on a slow day, I send out oodles and gobs of links for review.  It’s my version of sitting around with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, trading sections and commenting on stories.  We trade links back and forth, asking opinions and sharing ideas, connecting to one another all day long. 

In a world of quick and easy connection, it’s perhaps the least stressful way to keep a tenuous social connection alive. 

Recently, though, I have been inspired to link in a different way.  I’ve joined LinkedIn. 

The main reason for this is, I need a job.  Preferably, a job that pays actual, real money. 

My company, like so many around the country these days, has struggled in the face of recession.  Most anyone in business will tell you, when faced with budget issues, one of the first things that gets cut into is the advertising budget.  From this side of the fence, it’s a little like cutting off your nose to spite your face, for it’s advertising and marketing that drive business.  But advertising is for the most part something of an intangible, and because companies can’t hold it in their hands, it seems immediately expendable.  And when ad budgets get trimmed, agencies feel the pinch. 

I’ve been pinched so much this year I’ve got permanent bruises. 

Too, my boss has been talking retirement for the past couple of years.  He turned 65 this year, and his approaching desire to take it easy, combined with slow sales, has made it hard for us to meet expenses each month.  There have been pay periods that came and went in which I did not take home any pay.  This is not acceptable, but in this economic climate, I’m thankful to at least have a job.  I’ve been casting about for a new gig and there just aren’t any out there. 

I’ve been pondering Act II in my career, what I’ll do when this gig comes to an end, and frankly, I’ve got no idea.  Part of me thinks it would be a good idea to stay in this industry, since for the past 18 years it’s been what I’ve known and done.  Another part of me is tired of the whole thing, and would like to use my skill set in a different way.  Trouble is, in this little podunk market, I’ve no idea how or where to do just that. 

So I figured a good place to start getting feelers out would be LinkedIn, to at least make people I know aware that I’m out there and feeling about. 

And that has been my entire focus on this rainy, gloomy Monday.  We all know how I feel about rain, gloom, cold, and Mondays.  Yippee. 

– Mox

A gratuitous post about boobs. 

I had my annual mammogram yesterday, and as healthcare procedures go, it’s not the most awful thing you can endure, though it’s also not the most enjoyable.  But once one passes the threshold of 40, one must do what one must. 

I went to a new place this time around for the flattening of the mammaries, a very nice place, all feminine and cozy.  The designers wanted to suggest a spa-like atmosphere, and this would have been just fine by me if I were indeed at a spa.  A private changing room, with nice cherry cabinetry in which to store my clothing and purse, a soft, thick cotton robe to cover myself with, a softly quiet waiting area to sit with other berobed ladies, complete with gurgling fountain.  Very nice indeed.  Not at all distracting, however, from the sounds of the machine in the next room, wheeling and whirring into torturous positions. 

The rad tech was very nice, though her hands were cold.  This is not what you want when you have someone handling your boobs.  I’m just saying.  And after what seemed like the longest session of mammography known to (wo)man, I was given permission to get dressed to go. 

The rad tech told me about a new procedure being used to detect cancers on dense breast tissue, sonography.  Having had a sonogram before, I wasn’t too unnerved at the thought, though most insurance won’t pay for it at this point in time.  She mentioned it to me, in case my doctor wanted further information about my dense breast tissue and ordered this test. 

Ok, fine, whatever, can I go now? 

But it occurred to me later that evening — is the term “dense breast tissue” just code for “little boobies”? 

Hm. 

– Mox

I am easily amused today. 

– Mox

I am happy to report that I have at least begun my Christmas shopping. 

Every year my goal is to be finished with Christmas shopping before Thanksgiving, so that I don’t have to fight the snatch-and-grab crowd at the mall, and I don’t have to deal with traffic, or parking, or generalized stupidity.  To this end, I have developed a strategy:  I buy one gift for each person on my list.  Santa brings three gifts to Spawn (we still believe here, so far).  I don’t mail gifts.  I make my husband do the heavy lifting on gifts for his family.  And I have a Christmas club account at the bank, and pay for everything with cash from that account. 

This keeps me from one-upping myself.  So many people get in the trap of being “equal” with their gifts, making sure everyone gets the same number of things to open.  I refuse to do this to myself.  I also set myself a limit per person to spend.  When I run out of cash, I stop. 

If I get down to my pre-imposed wire at Thanksgiving, I shop online.  And on Black Friday, while all the slightly crazy people are all camped out at Walmart’s doorstep at 4am, I am snug in my bed, snoring. 

Fortunately for me, I have a short list to buy for, since I have a small immediate family.  This helps more than you can imagine. 

And if I find myself at the mall at any point after Thanksgiving, I can at least enjoy myself without the specter of gift buying hanging over me. 

There are many forms for sanity to take.  This is mine. 

– Mox