The basement floor is scraped!

Now, the perfectionist in me would prefer if it were scraped more, but G convinced me that it is sufficient. She came over to help me in the afternoon, and believe me, it was a VERY good thing that she did. While she was here, G asked to see the adhesive that I had bought for the floor. Oh my, I had bought the wrong kind! Before she left, we popped over to The Home Depot and exchanged it. We also got some patch for the small holes that were in the floor. After she went home, I used the shop vac to super clean the floor and applied the patch.

Tomorrow, I shall try to lay the floor...

I actually made it home today without taking an extra train, with a seat, and only getting knocked on the head once (a hazard of having an outside seat on a crowded train). I also managed to bring home four cut down boxes and a paper box. The work room staff were throwing them out. Little did they know they were like gold to me. Now, I can choose a few things to pack away so that my home might be ever so slightly more attractive to the average buyer!

What shall I pack?

My greatest accomplishment today? I organized the private files of the CEO. They were all in a drawer, quite haphazardly. I studied them, choose five categories (correspondence, financial, insurance, personal, and travel), created section dividers, re-labeled everything, and then put the files back, alphabetizing them in each section. His assistance was in raptures over the result. At least she didn't tell me, "Good girl!" or something like that. She did leave at 2:30, so I had the rest of the afternoon to edit my novel.

It is strange, truly, that

Right now, I am in full regret mode.

I had this bit of sausage in the freezer and thought that I would go ahead and eat it. You see, I was supposed to have an electronic deposit of a whopping $82 today from last week's job. I have been looking forward all week to getting some groceries. When I checked my account on-line, I discovered that the deposit had not been made. The short of the long of it is that they are mailing a check that I should receive on Monday.

So, I peered in the freezer for something different and came across the left over sausage. Images of a breakfast taco popped into my head. I did have some lingering doubts about the meat since it has been there for well over two years. I wondered if meat can go bad in the freezer.

Given the stomach cramps that have already set in, either the meat is bad or else I am having an exceedingly powerful suggestive response. Either way, I am worried about my plans to tackle that concrete floor tomorrow.

I am going in search of some Tums now...

My greatest accomplishment today? These women were working on a huge collating job and asked me to help. Once I started, they both disappeared. When I found myself alone, I put a stack of the tabs on the other end of the table, so that I could gather the contents of the binder in both directions. When the lead person came back, she was upset that I had moved the tabs. That is to say, she was until I silently walked down the table gathering the contents and then gathered a second set as I walked back to where I started, collating them in reverse order. She marveled at my efficiency, making others come and see my brilliance. I garnered no less than four "good girl" comments with that one act. SIGH.

I really am tired from commuting via the metro and working all day, especially when I spent five hours on my feet collating. I did, with the energy I found chatting with W., manage to put the dishes that had been piling up in the sink into the dishwasher.

Each half hour I take for lunch I spend working on editing my novel. I am a bit dismayed to see that after four lunches, I am only at the beginning of chapter 4. I munch on my protein bar as I weigh the words on the page. A part of me is enjoying the task. If only there were not quite so many pages yet to do. It is a bit strange to see Megan at the beginning when I have most recently spent time with her at the end of her journey of faith.

Kashi is not taking the transition of my returning to a work schedule very well. Neither have Fancy and Madison. While I wish for their happiness to return, it is nice to know my "babies" miss me as much as I do them. Seriously, Kashi gives the most wonderful of greetings upon my return, tail wagging furiously, kisses a plenty. Fancy and Madison chirp their joy as well. It is the leaving in the morning that is most difficult. Kashi will sit just before the door, moping heartily. His normally curly tail droops, and his eyes swim with sorrow. Fancy and Madison cling to the side of the cage and protest my departure full throttle.

I wonder how they will take the three day car trip to Appleton when the time comes...at least we will be spending entire days together!

Well, I managed to come home today without taking a single extra train. Monday's commute was extended by three extra trains, which was an improvement on Friday's. However, I welcomed the victory.

I did, however, collapse on the couch. Whoever said taking the metro would be relaxing is crazy. [W was that you?] I have to hoof it the equivalent of three city blocks to get to the train, push my way on board, hope for a seat, push my way off, race through the transfer station to the next train, push my way on board, stand for two stops, push my way off, race up the stairs, and walk six city blocks to my job as an assistant to an assistant. Needless to say, I am tuckered out by the time I get there. There is nothing very stimulating about making copies, filing, making changes to Outlook contacts, so I find that the eight hours and even my lunch time drag by ever so slowly. [I have been passing my down time by editing this past year's annual report by this international organization. It is quite impressive with big photos and convincing numbers, but it is riddled with grammatical errors.] By the time I arrive back home, all I want to do is crawl in the green chair and loaf until bed-time. In my forced time off, I had forgotten how difficult it is for me to go from early morning until early evening.

After taking an hour of couch time, I did manage pluck myself off the lap of comfort and trudge outside to put fertilizer out in the front and back yards. The spreader was not working, so I had to tackle the job the old fashioned way with the "spreader" attached to the end of my arm.

I will admit that I thought I might possibly have spotted the tiniest bit of growth from the seeds that I spread out in November. Of course, if that is the case, the fertilizer will probably kill them. Yet...I think I will hope for the best.

Spending the rest of the evening recovering from my efforts, I realize that I will have to be diligent to use the weekend time to get the blasted basement floor done. I am already quite tired of looking at the pealing grey paint, listening to its cry for me to put it out of its misery. I would rather gaze out upon my lovely yard, now that it has been neatened and trimmed after the long winter.

SIGH

I have had an allergic reaction to the second antibiotic I was taking and have been plagued by an incredible headache for days on end. I stopped everything, but my usual medicines, took two Benedryls and crawled into bed rather early last night. Thankfully, I slept for the first time in three nights.

Today, I woke up at 1:00 finally feeling better. My head still hurts, but it is manageable. After playing with Kashi, I set about working on the yard. I mowed, weed-whacked, edged, raked, and weeded for hours on end. To top it all off, I re-set the rock edging this bed that runs along one side of the yard and curves around the back (over time they settle into the dirt and need to be dug up). The only task I did not get to was putting out some weed-and-feed fertilizer. I tell you, I just revel in yard work. While laboring long and hard, I find that my mind is cleared as the yard becomes my entire focus. This clarity is refreshing to both mind and soul.

I couldn't help but think what the next owner of this house might do with the yard. It was such a total, long neglected mess when I purchased this property. I wonder if the owner will continue my efforts or just allow it all to lay fallow.

One thought that did pop into my mind as I was working was how I was going to move all my rocks. I have quite a few spectacular ones that I have collected over the years, along with an iron statue, a metal birdbath, two bird feeder stations, and a stone bench, dragon, gargoyle, turtle, two birds, and a pair of lions. How does one pack all that into a moving van?

Those bootstraps came in the form of an encouraging call from my brother, so the basement floor is now scraped clean. Next, how to deal with the peeling paint. My brother said that the adhesive would stick to the paint, but that would hold true for the peeling parts. So, what to do?

I had a temp job today, rather humbling. I am an assistant to an assistant. I am not sure it can get much lower than this. However, I worked as hard on rather menial tasks as I would have were I serving as their communications manager. I think it is important to honor God in whatever I do. I just wish my pride were a bit weaker, that it wasn't so hard being Dr. so-and-so and making copies.

I shall be doing so MWF for the foreseeable future. At least the income will make an small dent against the mounting debt.

When I pulled up the floor, I found these patched lines running across the floor. I cannot make rhyme or reason of them. Since pieces were falling off, I decided to use my wonder bar to scrap a whole section to see what was underneath. The answer: concrete. So, why would someone put some kind of tar and paper over it? The patch is scored down the middle all the way to the concrete. Why? If it over fresh concrete, why the patch? Is this concrete somehow porous?

Of course, the greater question is if this was evidence of the floor being dug up, for what purpose? The lines are all straight and meander at right angles. A crack would turn like that. The gas, water, and electricity are all above, so why the channel in the floor?

In any case, in order to lay a new floor, I have to scrape up that tar stuff. I worked on it for several hours late last night and just tried to get back to the job, but only lasted a mere hour. However, my hands ache something fierce, even wearing two sets of gloves. My biceps are sore, as are my hamstring muscles. It takes quite a bit of effort to scrape the stuff off, so I have to keep watching my oxygen sats since it drops with great exertion on my part. Still, I am about half-way through the job.

I am looking for some bootstraps to pull so that I can get back down to the basement...I cannot seem to find them.

Do I really need to get this part done by today?

After the drugs I received at the hospital, I slept until noon today. When I finally awoke, I felt quite a bit better and decided to move on to the demolition project. I am proud to say that is it complete.

I first brought all of the books upstairs and then the bookcase. Next was clearing out the closet, meaning emptying all the "pantry" shelves that stack from the floor. The two lamps and small tables were next. Finally, I brought up three of the dresser drawers so moving it around would be easier.

To begin, I had to pull up all the quarter round molding. I had thought I could keep it and just paint it and put it back, but that idea when out with the first splintered piece. Next, I had to pull out the file cabinet and TV trays out of the utility closet because those were the last boards laid. Getting the boards up around the doors was difficult, but not half as hard as getting them to the curb. The entire process, however, took a mere five hours.

I was surprised at how quickly that lovely laminate floor, the one that took two days to lay, came back up. While working, I was hot and trembling, but I concentrated on small goals: to the first bed, then take those boards out to the curb; the second bed and those boards; the last section and those boards; finish by pulling up the under-laminate layer and stuff it in garbage bags.

It is difficult for me, however, to savor the finished task for I find the sight of the plain concrete floor exceedingly depressing. I feel like I just took a giant leap backward.

The best laid plans of mice and men...and me.

The job today was incredibly tedious. I had 97 emails with addresses that needed to go into an Excel file. Then, I had to design a label file with their logo and address that I could use for a mail merge. I did finally merge the mailing list after six trial runs. That meant everything was ready for assembly. The CD's got stuffed into the mailers, the mailers were taped shut, the postage was applied, and the labels adhered. 97 times. Since they had spent several days with the administrative assistance typing them one by one, they were elated that I got them all done before 2:00. So, they had me type up the handwritten list of the previous mailings (126 names, the same names that she typed twice, once for the first mailing and again for the second mailing) and clean out the server room to boot. All of that for $86 dollars.

The most difficult part was that I was actually patted on the head TWICE! Good Girl was the comment of the day. I AM TURNING 40! Why do I give the impression that I am just a girl?????????

On the way home, at L'Enfant plaza, where I had to change trains, this man began blowing a whistle and telling everyone to stay exactly where they were. Then a train pulled up and there was this mad rush of humanity all determined to board the train and get away from the crazy man. He had his hand in is pocket, and I kept thinking about was getting shot in a rage spree.

The train turned out to be the green line. I needed the yellow line. So, I got off at the next stop and hopped on a green train going in the opposite direction. Then, back to L'Enfant plaza. Nearly all the people were gone, including the crazy man, so I waited for the next yellow train and somehow ended up all they way at the north end of the line. I had to get off the train and wait for one in the opposite direction again. Back to L'Enfant plaza. Two hours...I spent two hours coming home when it should have taken me about 40 minutes.

I did try to keep to my plan and get the Armstrong Tiles from The Home Depot. Choosing the color was a bit agonizing, but I finally made a decision. Then I tried to pick up the first of the six boxes I would need for this project. I had absolutely no idea how heavy they were.

I grew so incredibly frustrated as I struggled to get those boxes into the cart, push them through the store, and then put them in my car. I asked for help. Again, I didn't get any, although there were plenty of men standing around. So, the down side is that I had to go straight from The Home Depot to the ER because of my asthma. Those ER cubicles have to be one of the loneliest places on earth.

On top of this day is the fact that I am taking nine different medicines right now and FIVE of them have side effects of nausea, dizziness, and intense headaches.

Needless to say, I guess I will have to start my project tomorrow and do it a lot more slowly than I thought so that my lungs can recover. Somehow, I will have to figure out how to get the boxes to the basement or take them down a few tiles at a time (way too many trips).

Given this day, I am trying to reflect upon the positive: I rode the train without losing a cell phone. I earned some money. I didn't have to order the tiles.

I have a plan.

Tomorrow is demolition day. I will go to The Home Depot and either buy the Armstrong Tiles or order them. If they are in stock, I will have to have the basement floor done by the 19th for the listing (open house on the 22nd).

I will pull up the boards this weekend, so that they can be ready for a bulk pick-up on Tuesday. That gives me three days to get the demolition done (well, other than the eight hours I will be making labels tomorrow and the two hours of commute).

I was thinking that I could put the things beneath the beds in the tub, along with the bedding. I will have to lug all the books out of the bookcase and get that upstairs. If I take the door off the bathroom, I should be able to get the dresser in there, or perhaps the mattresses. After everything is pushed to the side or moved out, then I start pulling up boards. I find the center of the room. Lay down the first two rows of tiles. Then continue on toward one wall. Move the furniture on the newly laid floor and then lay the other half. Then, either teach myself how to cut quarter round or see if I can hire one of those men who hang out at 7-11 in the mornings. This is doable. I will prevail.

Right?

Right?

I asked G if she would go to the mid-week lent services at the church of the pastor who teaches the bible study we frequent. It was certainly an interesting experience.

His Lutheran church follows the divine service liturgy that is being set, I believe, by the Missouri synod. I found the liturgy to be long and complicated, difficult to chant when I was unsure of the tonal pattern. Yet, I believe whole-heartedly that he approaches the liturgy as his worship. He invites others to join along in praising God, in acknowledging His holiness by reflecting upon the processional, by responding to the readings, by singing the hymns. This participatory service is therefore aimed raising up the Most High. Frankly, I have never met another person who actually worshiped this way. Therefore, the unfamiliar was a blessing.

I found this a strange sort of conjunction with this woman pastor I stumbled across on late-night television. Now, I do not believe in female pastors and the image of TV pastors sort of make me shudder. However, this woman worships as she teaches. She has the three great boards upon which she writes the Greek, the Hebrew, different Latin, and the English translations of the scripture which she is covering. She writes and translates to let others have access to a truer representation rather than what has been distilled over the centuries and language, illuminating shades of meaning that inspire, exhort, admonish.

In the sermon last night, she covered Romans 12:1-2. I wish I could report all that I learned as I watched her translate, teach. I can relate one point that stood out. We renew ourselves by washing ourselves in scripture. Read it. Listen to it. Meditate on it.

Knowing how overwhelmed I am of late, I am trying to do just that. I am reading. I am praying. I am watching and listening to sermons. And I am trying to ignore my feelings and focus on that which is true and lovely and of good repute.

I wish it wasn't so difficult....

I think that I stink at asking for help. At least I hope I do. Or maybe it is that I do not understand what is appropriate or not. I mean, is there a right way and a wrong way to ask for help? If there is I am sure I've got it wrong. Because if I had it right I wouldn't feel as desperate as I do. I wouldn't feel like such an imposition. I wouldn't feel so alone.

I ate this truly horrid old can of soup for lunch/dinner today. It was one of those cans you keep around in case of natural disaster or a ground zero event. I think it has moved with me through my last three moves, possibly four.

As lentil soup goes, this was probably the worst you could have. Especially egregious to the appetite were the stringy green things floating around, looking more like they belonged in a swamp rather than my bowl.

I ate it because I am unemployed. I ate it because I cannot see the sense in charging anything else when this is available. Of course, there was the ever present chicken in the freezer, but I fairly sure that should I come in contact with a flock of hens I could communicate with them so many of their siblings have I consumed. I also think that I should not move those cans of soup yet another time.

At this time, in this moment, I shall not think of the two remaining cans of lentil soup still resting upon the shelf.

Three hundred and ninety-six pages later I finished my novel. At least, I think I did.

It is strange, but as I typed the final words, I did not experience the sense of accomplishment or even release I thought would come. Instead, I was immediately overwhelmed by the thought that this story is truly only a first draft. At the very least, I need to go back to the beginning and plow through a colossal edit job. And...I must admit that I wonder about the ending. Will it work for the reader?

I wonder because I had to fight through the urge to hasten Megan's story. So much of her life bothered me. What she felt was a bit too real a times. And as she worked through things that still hover about my heart I found myself reluctant to rest my fingertips upon the keyboard. However, I have said before and I will say again now that perhaps this story was only ever meant to be for just one person. Me.

In any case, the deed is done.

I had water in the basement this afternoon. An absolute utter disappointment. I mean, how will I sell this house if every once in a long while water seeps up from the floor? And why is it doing so?

I had painted the basement closing door frame in preparation for getting the doors back from my writing student's father only a few hours before. My father called, and while I was talking with him, I walked to the head of the stairs and looked down. Water stared back at me.

I am just so bloody discouraged right now. I do not understand why I cannot seem to find a job, nor can I move forward in putting the house on the market. It is one step forward and two backwards.

A throw rug got wet, so I decided to try to clean it in the tub with a bit of Woolite. Three hours of scrubbing later, the water still ran brown. I gave up and decided to let it dry. Perhaps I can vacuum it clean...oh, wait, remember the vacuum broke.

SIGH!

I find it strange that it is easier to find a reason to commit suicide on the Internet than not. Do a Google search and it is oh so easy to find comprehensive how-to information, blow-by-blow descriptions of the tools of the trade, organized by what type of death a person would like to have.

What type of death do I want to have? What a strange question.

These websites approach suicide in a very systematic manner, providing a review of procedures and outcomes. One can conduct an analysis of the data and determine which way best fits one's circumstances, nature, and desired departure.

If one were searching for reasons not to commit suicide, he/she would be sorely disappointed...perhaps even swayed to the opposite course of action.

Yes, the Internet is a boon to this generation to grant us instant access to information that we might never have known. People can study disciplines without ever having to pay a penny in tuition. News updates abound. The laymen hold others accountable for their actions. Lost loves are found. Lives are shared.

Yet...yet the Internet is also the greatest boon to child pornography this world has ever seen. A boon to a practice that humiliates and destroys innocent lives. And it is a font of how-to information keyed to destroying lives...bombs, anorexia, abuse, suicide.

It is, at times, rather difficult to be an advocate of free speech.

Could someone please, please tell me why 1/2 cup and 1/2 cup does not equal 1 cup?

I think this medicine is killing me. Okay, my demise is probably not around the corner, but my gut thinks so. Between the stomach cramps, the nausea, and headaches, I have almost become distracted from the wracking coughs.

I had been casting about for something to eat when I thought of oatmeal. Its supposed to stick to your ribs, give you a great start to the day right? I thought it might help settle my stomach. Given my present state, I also thought two servings would be better than one, since one of those packets does not seem to go very far.

Now, if you add 1/2 cup milk to one packet, wouldn't that make 1 cup for two packets? I thought so. I thought so and proceeded along that assumption. However, 1/2 cup and 1/2 cup does not equal one cup and it certainly does not equal one large bowel of oatmeal. It does equal a large bowel of gruel. There was no sticking...only slurping.

My stomach still hurts.

This has been a most challenging day.

I was awake most of last night for the fourth night in a row because of my coughing--the reason I broke down and visited the doctor. I thought that once I started taking some medicine, I would get better. I am not.

The antibiotic is making my stomach cramp with sharp pains, that is to say that it cramps when it is not otherwise being nauseous. The pain is quite sharp and quite distinct from the uterine cramps I am having just now as well. And, of course, the stomach cramps and the uterine cramps are quite different from the chest pain I am having from the coughs rattling my bronchial tubes. No, I am not feeling much better.

It did not help that I finally got a call from the temp agency. I knew that when a call did not come by the end of yesterday I did not get the job, so the news today was no surprise. Still, I could not have felt lower. Five different questioning sessions for a clerical job, and I am am found wanting.

A friend called soon there after, while I was writing my own reference letters. Two people had offered to serve as references for me, but when the time came to write, they passed the pen. I have been struggling how to say anything positive about myself and then write in such a way that the recipient of both will not suspect that the applicant was the one who actually wrote them. But, perhaps, a wee bit of sunshine will break through the clouds and both references will decide to edit the letters I sent for their signatures.

Needless to say, when T called I was sniveling as I typed. She was traveling between cities and called to chat as I prefer to do myself, so I tried to stifle my tears and listen to her. I will say this, she gave me a gift of honesty that both assuaged and fomented my fears all at once.

During the course of the phone call, she remarked at how much she hated my family for failing to acknowledge my illness, treating me more as if I had made it all up instead of opening their eyes and ears to see the devastating toll multiple sclerosis has already taken upon me. No, I am not yet in a wheelchair. Yes, I am still independent. The toll of which she lamented, however, was the changes wrought in my mind. As she put it, I am not the person I was back when I was standing before her in the college classroom.

I, myself, descry the changes. And here I have lamented that when I do so, I am mostly belittled by responses such as, "Oh, I forget things, too." My quick, somewhat bitter response these days: "Really, tell me just one time when you did not know your name or when you forgot how to form the letter 'h'?" I feel as if I am screaming and no one is listening...and that by the time anyone listens, there will be no more of me left. Yet, here she was bluntly referring to that which I fear. "You have trouble following conversations; you repeat yourself; you cannot access words. You are not the person you were ten years ago."

She is right. I am no longer the intellectual whiz who never had to prep for any of the college courses she taught because she had hundreds of books and authors and theories and research studies in literacy at the tip of her tongue. I am not that person. That saddens me.

Yet, it is not that I am wallowing in what I have lost. It is that I cannot help, from time to time, to step outside myself and compare the woman I was then to the one I am today. What is even more frightening is comparing who I was just three years ago and who I am now.

That she would mention this in passing thrilled me because in that moment I felt as if I were not completely alone. That she would mention this in passing devastated me because it is a reality that cannot be denied.

When she was speaking, I suddenly remembered the first time I knew that something was wrong. The first time I was confused happened in the last semester of teaching while I was completing my Ph.D. I was late for class and raced from the car, up the stairs, and down the hall hoping that I had beat at least some of my students to the room, all the while lugging about thirty children's books in three bags. When I turned the corner to find that the second corridor was as empty as the one through which I had just passed, my hopes sunk as I realized that I would most likely be the last one to arrive. Imagine my surprise when I realized that I was alone in the room. I stuck my head out in the hall and looked up and down the corridor. No one. After getting all my books set out in the order I would need for my lecture, I ventured out to find out where everyone was. I began thinking that there had been some sort of college holiday that had been declared when I was off campus. I finally tracked down a student, one of my own. I will never forget the look on his face when I asked why he wasn't in class. I had the wrong day.

Oh, you say, I have gotten up for work on a Saturday, dressed and drank the coffee before realizing I could have slept in. I would retort that I certainly took it further that day. Yet, while that was the first time I became lost in my own world, it was not the time I knew that something was happening to my mind.

It was over a year later. My class was being held in the college library. A library with only two floors. When my lecture was over, I walked with some of my students who had lingering questions about what I had covered that day. We all stepped into the elevator and they waited for me to push the button since I was nearest the panel. There were only two buttons. I stared at the panel, knowing I was supposed to do something and yet not understanding which one would take us all up to the main floor. "Push it," someone called, but I remained still, trapped in absolute confusion. Finally, a student reached around me and blithely pushed the one we needed. While I garnered a few quizzical looks, I am fairly confident that not a one of my students realized that that was the day I knew my life had changed forever September 13, 1994.

I was checking out of the neurologist's office when that blasted woman was called to the counter where I stood. One of her staff held out a message for her. She took the slip of paper, scanned it, and then asked for a prescription pad. As she scrawled out something for another patient, she said to me, without taking her eyes from the pad. "I believe I mentioned the possibility of you having multiple sclerosis?"

"No," I replied, somewhat confused.

"Well, you do." With that pronouncement, she turned and walked back to the exam room area. It was not until several years later that I understood the ramifications of her diagnosis. T's comment brought that moment in the elevator flooding back into my mind.

Maybe part of my desire to flee this city to a quieter life such as in Appleton is because I feel the toll of remaining here is too great a cost. Stress exacerbates the symptoms of multiple sclerosis. If I were to find a life I hope is waiting out there for me somewhere, would I gain some time?

It is my hope.

I will finish by writing that I worked on my novel some this evening, after battling over this current chapter for many days. However, I felt like the greatest hypocrite once I read the words that emerged from my finger tips.


“Do you want me to go in with you?”

Megan shook her head. “Go to Alfred’s. I’ll come when I am finished.”

Graham reached out and pried one of Megan’s hands off her purse to take it in his own. “In John, I just read where Jesus told something to his followers that I thought you might like to hear.” At Megan’s look of confusion, he dared continue. “I don’t get half of what he means, talking about his spirit and leaving and preparing things. But I memorized those words because it sounded like he was really speaking to me, even though I do not understand how that could possibly be.” Graham stepped closer and whispered in Megan’s ear, “‘Peace I leave you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives, do I give you. Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.’” Quickly, he kissed the top of her head and turned toward the mercantile, steeling himself to not look back so that his wife could visit the doctor on her own resolve as she had wished. Knowing her fears, knowing her pain, it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life.


Perhaps I wrote of peace because I long for its rest in my own life....

I know that it has been eight years since I last temp-ed, but I do not recall having to interview for work past the initial screening of the agency. Yesterday, I had a phone interview with the vice president of events at an organization for a six weeks temp job. They have someone in place right now, but that person is not rising to the occasion of having 3 multi-million dollar events between now and the end of May. Someone of my supposed caliber should be a gold mine to them, right?

Wrong. Today, I had to go in for an in-person interview that turned out to be three interviews with four different people. During the third interview, I was tag-teamed by two women who left me feeling like a criminal badgered by detectives for hours on end. If I had the merest speck of self-respect I would have left. Question after question, delivered in an accusatory and hostile tone, pried away at whether or not I would just show up to work, twiddle my thumbs when finishing a task instead of asking for another one, play solitaire, be able to answer the phone, be knowledgeable with attendees, ask for help before wasting everyone's precious time...etc. I get that they obviously have been frustrated in attracting and retaining the caliber of help they need, but I was tried and convicted without spending one moment on the job. It was the greatest show of will power in a long time on my part not to fling myself off the top of the high rise office building when it was over. After all of that, the final line of questioning was to determine why I would be even interested in such a mean position in the first place. After all, the job was actually clerical in nature, not even rising to the lofty position of administrative work.

So, exactly what is my Ph.D. worth now?

On the way home, I lost my cell phone. One moment it was in my pocket with the headset and the next the headset was all I had left. This is essentially my main phone. This is the phone that is on all my resumes. I asked for and received a substantial discount from Sprint, but the replacement is still more debt on my credit card.

A few hours later, I was standing in Target trying to decide if it would be okay to fill only two of the three prescriptions I got from the doctor. Yes, I am sick.

I had known that you could have post-nasal drip without really knowing it, but had not thought of that as a cause of my sore throat. I apparently have a sinus infection in my head as I once had many years ago. I have heavy duty antibiotics and what turned out to be a decongestant that has begun to shift was is in my head. She also wrote a prescription for cough medicine with codeine since I have not slept the past three nights.

I lie down and start coughing. I cough and spiral into an asthma attack. Yet the next day, no cough. Just the sore throat. She solved the mystery and hopefully the medicines will move swiftly in their attack. However, I am banking on the fact that within two days or so the antibiotics should kick in and ameliorate source of my coughing problem, saving $20 from the ever growing total on my credit card.

My dear friend W talked me through the evening, light conversation to fill the dark spaces weighing heavily on my mind.

I was stunned to hear from the realtor that her listing price would be 50k below mine, 100k below where it was appraised just over a year ago. The county raised the value of my house over the same period of time nearly 150k. My taxes have more than tripled in not quite five years. Yet, the value is somehow gone?

And with it my dream of fleeing a life where I just don't fit to find a new one in Appleton.

Do I sell, walking away with only 60K, not nearly enough mitigate housing costs in the new town? Or do I stay and continue to bang my head against the brink wall?