Bob's Not -So-Excellent Adventure

Years and years and years and years of begging Bob to go to the doctors for check-ups and evaluations finally came to an abrupt halt Saturday night when I drove to the emergency room rather than home after another of Candace's unmissable, famous and fun dinner parties. (After all, we do have our priorities.)

Let me say that this story begins 20 years ago (at least). After Bob and I were married, and even before I became a card-carrying hypochondriac, I would make annual visits to the doctor for check ups as well as other visits as necessary. Like a normal person. I would make appointments for Bob and he wouldn't show up for them. It turns out that Bob is so afraid of doctors and hospitals that he would apparently rather die than go to one to hear that he might be sick. Fortunately, he is a pretty sturdy guy but when he hasn't been well, he has weathered some pretty harrowing storms. For years Bob has suffered from indigestion but over this past year, his bouts have been over the top. One night, he actually thought he was dying. But rather than go to the doctor, he sat in a tub. I guess he figured if he was gonna go - he was going to go clean.

Recently Bob was cast in a workshop production of a re-staging of the Nutcracker (as a new musical) over at the LA Theatre Center. Bob was thrilled to be a part of it. But on Thursday he came home concerned that he had been having severe indigestion during the day at rehearsal. Oh yeah, and his pee was bright orange ("it's probably the carrot sticks I had in my lunch today"). I explained that that would have had to have been some kind of nuclear charged carrot and that he HAD to take Friday off to go to the doctor. I was told - adamantly - "No. I have to go to rehearsal." So this continued on Friday and Saturday (because he had a rehearsal Saturday too) and now I am getting extremely worried because he isn't getting better. But all day Saturday Bob is calling and telling me he "thinks" he's getting better. He says we can go to Candace and John's dinner party. And so we do.

Now I must say here that had this been really serious it may have still been worth it. Candace and John give the best intimate dinner parties ever and the food is spectacular. I remarked at the table that if I was given a last meal request I would request that it could be anything so long as Candace made it. We had a lovely time but I digress. Bob didn't look good all evening so when we left, instead of going home, I drove to the hospital. Nothing he could do about it.

We arrived at Los Robles Medical Center Emergency Room at about 11:00 p.m.-ish I am guessing, and began what would be the epic wait to diagnosis - the one in which he got to lay on a cot with two warm blankets and I got to sit on the hard plastic chair and stare at him. For hours. They took his blood and came back with scary results: indication of liver problems. We were told that we would be referred to a liver specialist because the doctor on call was not well versed in liver disease but he indicated some of the problems it could be and I was off to Bob's funeral in a flash. I could see he was worried too and that magnified everything 10 fold. Here is a sampling of what went through my mind:

1. How long would Bob have to wait for a liver transplant?

2. What is the success ratio of a liver transplant?

3. Liver cancer? What is the mortality rate on that?

4. Hepatitis. Isn't that highly contagious? Are we ALL going to die now?

They ordered an ultra-sound and while he was gone for that I prayed like mad. Please, God,please spare him. I will never take him for granted again. I cannot imagine what I would ever do without him. I would certainly never want anyone else. And then my mind went to all the rotten things I have ever done, said or thought about him. My remorse was palpable. I thought of the things he does that drive me completely insane (like entering a room and announcing himself by belting out an ear-splitting single note "Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" as if he were performing at the Hollywood Bowl without a mike) and how much I would miss that. They brought him back to the room and the ultra sound had really been painful - something he hadn't expected. I rubbed his hands, his shoulders, his temples and his bald head. I soooooo love this dear man. This gift. My Bob. What time is it? 3:45 a.m. And then the doctor came back with the "results".

"He has gall stones", he announced. "And all his trouble is directly attributable to that. But I'm going to have to admit him because he will need to have his gall bladder removed." Praise GOD!!!!! He is going to live! I am spinning with relief. Gall bladder. Like tonsils. So non-life-threatening. And by 4:00, I am SO out of there - leaving Bob behind.

I met Jennifer at home and calmed her nerves, got to bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow... only to wake up suddenly 4 hours later with a dream that reminded me that my husband was in the hospital! I jumped up, showered, and drove back to Los Robles to find him in "Observation" with several other observable patients separated by curtains. The hospital was full. There would be no surgery today. Bob would be here until they could find him a room (sometime tomorrow) and he was miserable.

Now let me tell you, sitting with someone in a hospital room is more boring than boring. If you have ever thought you have nothing to say to someone, there is less than nothing to say in a hospital room. The chit chat that fills the silence at home seems completely inappropriate for bedside. And how many times can you ask "how are you feeling?" I brought him a magazine and we took a little walk. The girls came to see him. Our pastor came to see him. A friend from church came to see him. And then I finally crawled up on the little twin sized bed with him, balanced myself precariously on the edge, and both of us fell asleep for 3 and a half hours (just like in "The Notebook" - except nobody died). In the "Observation Ward". Later, the GI specialist came in to tell us that he would need two different procedures - one to remove the gall bladder and another to remove some of the stones that had escaped into a bile duct. And they won't do the procedures on the same day. I came to the realization that the endearing and passionate glow of the "nearly departed" had left him in less than 12 hours and I was already reneging on my bargain with God. Yup, it was clear - I was going to take him for granted again. My thoughts moved from "How can I live without him?" to "How much is this going to cost me?"

They don't do surgery on Sunday so he spent 24 hours in the hospital just for the pleasure of being there. And there is no pleasure in the Observation Ward. Evidently Sunday night was fairly horrible for the bed next to him, and so, very upsetting for Bob. But Monday they told him his first surgery would be at 2:30 and so we all gathered to wish him well and sit it out in the waiting room. This was especially difficult for Bob. The last time he had been in this scenario, he was bedside as they were wheeling Anne into surgery and of course, she never came back. I made certain I was there when he woke up. And when he did open one eye a slit to see me and

give a tiny closed-mouthed smile, I was glad to have reassured him that he was still with us and he was not alone. But let's face it, there is only so long you can sit there and watch someone sleep so I left and came back only when they put him into his new room where I would have a decent chair.

Meanwhile, back at home, our church had kicked in to full gear and food started coming. My church celebrates two things: Jesus and food (in that order). And the "Care Team" springs into action like nobody's business when someone is sick. So this time I was on the receiving end. And I am shamed. Because I am on the care team and when I go to someone's house with a meal, it is nothing as good as what I got. Pasta dishes and salads and chicken and veggies and garlic bread and Hawaiian bread and yummy potato and cheese things and chocolate covered strawberries. And it arrives ready-to-go. A delicious, pull-out-a-plate-and-pull-up-a-chair-and-toss-the-container meal. And I'm wondering how long I can milk this.

When I did arrive back (at about 8:00 p.m.) I learned that he had been placed in the new wing. Evidently, the resort wing. He had a huge, quiet private room with a big picture window. His bed was comfy and adjusted to an assortment of progressively comfortable positions with the touch of a button. Phones and buttons and gizmos galore within easy reach. The speakers of the TV were built into the side-rails of his bed so he had stereo sound. Really nice nurses came in at regular intervals to ask if he "needed anything" and I thought to myself: "Shoot. What do Ihave to break to get into this place?" But at home it was nice that there was no one there to drip dry on the bathroom floor (not the mat!) after a shower or dirty every dish in the house just to heat up a can of soup.

It turns out he didn't need the second procedure so we thought he would come home the next day. Uh. No. And this is where the story gets really bad. But before I begin, let me just say that wherever you stand politically, I want to personally thank President Obama for the COBRA Relief Act. The government paid 60% of my $1700 per month COBRA premium while I was unemployed (and will continue to until my new insurance kicks in on May 1st). Had that not been available, we would have been forced to "take our chances". I received maximumunemployment benefits at $1800 per month. You do the math. So the point is we have insurance. So back to the ugly story. We were presented with a bill. This bill did not include doctors, anesthesiologist, lab work, emergency room services or surgery room. This was just room and board. And our portion of the bill was $3100. Yesterday. And he stayed another day. I held this bill in my hand and stared at it - jaw hanging to the floor. And then I looked at him - this man who refused my pleas and waited so long to see a doctor when he started having problems months ago and I wondered what happened to that feeling I had just a scant 72 hours ago - that I couldn't live without him.

But today he came home. And he is a little slow. And tired. And in a little pain. And he is a little bit pitiable. So I love him. But he best give up that habit of entering a room with a ear-splitting note.

PAY DAY!

I received a paycheck today. The first one in 46 weeks. It was an emotional experience.

I took a break from my desk and walked down to the mailbox. There, among a clutter of mortgage re-finance come-on's, Victoria Secret Catalog (to the girls), Ann Taylor coupons (for me) and miscellaneous other junk, was an envelop from my employer - Beckett Media - with those cellophane windows I had forgotten about, and my name.

A pay check.

I just stood there and looked at it for a moment. I knew it was coming but I somehow hadn't expected it. I wasn't in a hurry to open it. I just wanted to stare at the envelop for a moment and be brought back into the "payday groove". And it made me smile. It felt g-o-o-d!

And then I felt thankful. So thankful. I walked back up the driveway and thought of several people I know, still out of work, and how much I wished they were having this experience right now.

Many months ago, I wrote of what I would do when I was employed again. Having experienced the uneasiness of not knowing from week to week what was going to happen I wrote: "Giving. There will be more of that".

Indeed there will be. And we should all be reminded to take nothing for granted.

Dreams of Joan Jetson

With my hair freshly dyed (thank you L'Oreal "Lightest Auburn"), I just blew it out and I clearly need to pull out $75 bucks and go see Lisette again. It has grown to the point where it looks like a 1960's bubble Barbie hairdo - way outside the confines of "retro-chic". I just look like a Jane Jetson wanna-be, not in a good way.

And speaking of the Jetson's, where the heck is my robot maid that presses a button in the kitchen and gets me a beautifully prepared gourmet meal in a flash? To say nothing of the flying car I was supposed to have by now. And weren't the sidewalks supposed to move us? Ah, the future turned out to be such a let down.

So since the last post, I have not eaten anything past 7:00 p.m. And I cannot tell you how incredibly difficult that is! Bad habits die an excruciating death. Visions of Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mints and these amazing "cupcake balls" that I was introduced to yesterday at a baby shower and grilled cheese sandwiches danced like sugar plum fairies in my head. And rather than dance about it - which might have done me some good - I escaped from it and went to bed. At 9:00.

Now one might read this and think to themselves: "sloth". And maybe you'd be right but you know what? Shut up. Just shut up. Because I'm betting that the majority of people who face "get healthy" issues have the same problem. We just feel so overwhelmed with our lack of knowledge about how to do it that we just sit. Because we know it's not an one-size-fits-all kind of game. We know you can exercise - wrong. And we can eat healthy - wrong. And finding the way to what is truly healthy and good for you is not just about eat-less-move-more.

For example, I have planters faciitis as well as bad knees. I can actually do damage by doing some of the simple "no-brainer" kinds of exercises. Like extended walking. So how do you get around that?

Well today I had strawberries and a piece of toast for breakfast. And of course the staple - coffee. For lunch I need to go to the grocery store. But I am going to look online first to see if I can get some ideas.

Gosh, do you think that the fact that I am now working for a food magazine is a pre-destined gift from God? Maybe so. We're going to have a fresh and healthy focus. And delicious - which is critical. Now if I could only find the exercise program that feels like a swedish massage...

Look at Jane. She's loafing. She's being pampered. She is thin. And look at what she's eating!!!

I hate the Jetson's. They were just a big tease.

Day of Reckoning

If you have been reading this blog you'll notice that one of the constant themes has been my weight. Here a little, there a little. But let me tell you something. There is nothing little about it.

In one of my January posts I mentioned that I had entered a contest at the California Health and Longevity Institute for an grand prize of a 6-month complete health, wellness and fitness program at their state-of-the-art facility valued at $11,000. I had to create a little 5-minute video explaining why I was a good candidate for this program. I was a finalist. And once I got that news, I knew in my heart that I was going to be one of the 8 winners. And guess what?????? I wasn't.

I'm throwing a little pity-party (wanna come?) I will be doing a little licking of wounds. A little bitter resentment dance. A woeful sigh or two. And then? And then...I'm still fat.

And I have freaking had it! I have been significantly overweight for 10 years - since Grace. And my last chance at the fairy dust I was counting on just blew over my head and onto someone else. No paid professional is going to make me do it after all. I am going to have to make myself. So from this day forward, I am going to take matters into my own little hands , fat as they are, and turn my health around. I owe it to myself and my family. And it starts with a big confession:

I am lazy. It's hard. It hurts. And I don't wanna!

There, I said it. I lie on the couch watching "The Biggest Loser" while I munch on crap all night long. And while I'm watching I say to myself: "Valri, for God's sake get off the couch and exercise. Quit grazing through the night." And then I say: "Nah".

I am going to post pictures - gross as they are - to make myself accountable. And I am going to write the details - if not here - then somewhere else. And I am going to be "the fat little engine that could".

I am going to read about nutrition and exercise. I am going to go to the gym. And I am going to walk 10,000 steps a day. I will quit eating after 7:00 - except for carrots or fruit if I need to, and green tea or something like that. I am going to take little breaks during the work day to get up and walk around.

And I am going to start tomorrow. Just kidding. Right now. Who needs the damned contest?

Well, actually I did but it looks like I have to go to "Plan B".

Mirror of Truth

Please. Shoot. Me.

I have been dying my hair since I was in my 20s. And if you dye your hair (and let's face it, who doesn't?) you are very familiar with the fact that a little teasing or a messy part can hide the 1/8" of root growth for a very long time. And then one morning, out of nowhere, your roots went from 1/8" to 1.5" overnight and nothing will hide it. Save a hat.

So you know where I am going. This morning I get up, grab a coffee, go to the office/bedroom, sit down, turn on the computer, make a phone call - and then - I look to my left. Immediately to my left are the mirrored closet doors of this former bedroom and I was only mildly aware of them before - but this morning, with one quick glance, the wind is completely knocked out of me.

"Am I wearing a skunk on top of my head?"

No, that cannot be, and yet there it is - a very skunk-like wide stripe of white running down the crown of my head and even without my glasses, I can clearly see it. So I get up and look and OMG - it is a total silver streak. I mean, I am completely gray! Completely! I tried to imagine what I would look like if I let it go.

Very bad. Very bad.

So I am sitting in the chair and now I see it through my peripheral vision all day long. Not only that - but is that my stomach? Good lord! Is that what it looks like? And I know I'm not sitting on a pillow so that must be my ass. So tell me, how am I supposed to work under these conditions?

One could always cover the mirrors in black sheets - like they used to do in the old days when you were in mourning. And I suppose I am mourning - mourning the death of self deception - a blissful place I have lived for a long time. Evidently. I mean I knew I needed to lose weight. And I knew I had gray. But there is no denying what I now see so clearly. And you spell that G-R-A-N-D-M-A. Except I'm not one.

Do I even remotely resemble the the woman I see in my head? My mother used to throw her head back in every photo taken of her. I always wondered why. I thought it made her look "haughty". Now I know. She was trying to hide a weakening chin. The mirror is a built-in incentive for total renovation.

I am not 30. Who knew.

Change in Life

One thing about working from home - you never stop. I was checking messages and responding to them at 9:00 p.m. last night. I go by the office and think of one more thing that I need to do and I sit down and stay for 30 minutes. And while I used to get up, get Grace up, make her lunch and have a cup of coffee, now I wake her up and walk to my office.

Now granted, its only been a week. But I can see this becoming a way of life. Bob, as a realtor, is constantly sitting in front of the TV with me in the evenings, laptop open and on, sending properties to his clients.

BUT...

It's no matter because so far, I am enjoying this new way of life. I feel productive. I begin my day at 7:30 a.m. and end, well, never - but I eat at home, visit my husband, see my children, walk outside, dress for comfort, and I get paid. The only thing that might be better would be to get a better chair for the desk.

AND...

Today, after I had homemade cream of asparagus soup (thank you Prince Bob), I lay down on the bed against the back wall of the office and took... A NAP! Yes I did! Yes I really did!! It was only 20 minutes but it was divine and I woke up ready to go again.

AND...

It's daylight savings time again and at 6:17 p.m. the sun is still shining on what has been the first perfect weather day of the year here at home. The temperature was a warm, comfortable hug.

Have I said that I am grateful?

Helen Braham

Helen Braham died today. I blogged about her ("A Prayer Request", July 24, 2009). I hope you'll read it if you haven't already.

When I got the message I just started to bawl. I am not surprised that I cried but I was surprised by the deep, searing sadness I felt. It felt like one of my family had died - and I guess I feel that way because it is sort of true. Because what is family anyway if not people who have touched your life in such as way as to leave a permanent mark? I doubt Mrs. Braham ever knew the impression she made on me, maybe I didn't know it completely myself. But she is there, in my heart with her kind, round face and funny way of laughing, and her love for the Beatles and Tom Jones and her family, and certainly for God. And while I have seen photos of her in later years, she is still a very young mom in my mind and I am overwhelmed with a sense of loss.

I spoke briefly on the phone with her about 6 years ago (or longer?) when my sister Linda and I, and her daughters - our childhood friends Marge and Kathie - first found each other again. She sounded exactly the same and the minute I heard her voice I choked with emotion. I cannot tell you why - it is a strange thing, but I am connected to the Brahams. Outside of family, they are the people who have been in my life (even if we didn't see one another) longer than anyone else.

The last time I saw Mr and Mrs Braham was nearly 35 years ago when I was baptized. I suppose it is fitting then that the next time I see her will be in heaven.

And she will be as I remember her.

Day Two

My first day on the job was fairly uneventful. Mostly I was still getting organized and I needed to still talk to management for direction and get supplies.

So Tuesday morning I drove to Anaheim to meet everyone and take some meetings with editorial, management and design staff. It was a VERY strange ride as the route took me past the Disney Channel building where I used to work, past the Disney Studios where I used to frequent, past Disneyland which I came to know like the back of my hand. Past my old life. Like God was trying to tell me: "Yes, Disney is still there but you are not. Get over it."

The drive from where I live to Anaheim is usually a nightmare. You have to put your mind on "self control" mode to get through it because it isn't a drive so much as a literal crawl from the 101 past the 405 to the 134 to the 5 past the 10 and the 110 and the 60 and the 710 and the 91 and the 605 (you're getting the picture). But for some reason the freeways opened up and I made it in reasonable time: about an hour, forty-five. I got off the freeway and found the building (I'd been there once before), parked my car and wandered up to the 3rd floor with my computer and 19 competitive magazines held in a Disney Publishing tote (I had nothing else - really!)

Without exception, everyone was so nice and welcoming. No egos that I could sniff out. No attitude. Just nice.

What a relief!

Beckett publishes a ton of magazines - mostly small niche titles that are profitable on newsstand. They have a "Home Group" under which YUM will be housed, but I think that YUM could be a big book. The food category is stuffed (pun originally unintended) but YUM has a different look, a different feel and it speaks to a reader who is in a different state-of-mind; the person who is changing habits and settling into a simpler lifestyle due to a changing economic sensibility, but doesn't want to compromise on quality or experience. And I think I can tell that story. Because, well, I just did.

Okay - enough pitch - none of you are going to buy advertising from me. So after initial meet and greets and a conversation about the launch - I was treated to lunch by a great group of new colleagues at a local restaurant called "The Catch" and I had the absolute BEST chopped salad I have ever had in my life. It was called the Verdugo Chopped Salad and it has lots of shrimp in it and this amazing dressing but the service was slow and I was on a schedule so I only got to eat half and brought the rest back to the office for later.

A couple more meetings and introductions and basic trainings and I was ready to go at 4:45. I went to the refrigerator to get my salad for dinner (couldn't wait), gathered up all my stuff plus more that had been given to me (including a yummy "Amish Friendship Bread" starter from a gal in the office) and waddled back down to my car - which now felt like a 10 mile walk away. I knew it was going to be a bad drive home and I had left my CD case in Bob's car (damn!) so I was stuck with an AM news and weather station that is the only one I get without major static on my crummy radio which I won't repair because I refuse to pay $62.00 to replace a wire, but I digress. Anyway, this station repeats the same cycle of news, weather and traffic every 15 minutes - so I heard it 12 times. That's right it took me 3 hours to get home going at an average speed of about 2 miles per hour all the while pinned on all four sides by huge Mac trucks so I couldn't even see the sky and I am really, really glad that I don't travel with a cyanide pill. And I am so eternally grateful that my company is cool with the whole working-from-home thing.

But I had the salad to look forward to and that kept me going. Good thing I didn't realize until I was home that I had left it on the desk back in Anaheim.

Almost worth going back for.

New Job's Eve

I have that fluttery, excited pit in my stomach that you have the day before a big holiday. Tomorrow I start a new job and it is so weird. I am going to start a new job and my commute is from my bedroom to Amanda's old bedroom (now office) about 20 steps from my side of the bed.

I have spent a great deal of the weekend setting it up for business. I still need a few things but I'm functional right now. I got online and downloaded research on my competitors in preparation to begin crafting a pitch. I have a conference call tomorrow with our editors in Anaheim and my VP Sales in Dallas to discuss direction.

And I am wondering if I need to bother getting dressed.

Of course I do. This is a real job and I am a professional and you get dressed to go to work.

But I don't really have to. Nayh, nayh.

Anyway, I am sitting here, in a half room, half office. I'm looking at my beautiful cherry desk and credenza. The new printer/fax machine. The new phone. Calculators, business cards, paper shredder, calendar, pencils, pens, file folders in front of me. Behind me a bed with a stuffed bear on it and Amanda's stuff still hanging on the walls. I'm staring at the lamp on my desk that has Amanda's high school graduation cap tassel hanging from it and thinking about how different everything is from 1994 when we moved into this house. Everything is different from a year ago. It is exciting but it is also unnerving.

More than I want to succeed for myself, I want to succeed for the people who hired me. The people who have chosen to pay me to use my skills of 20+ years. I am very grateful to them.

And like the eve of a big holiday, I doubt I will sleep much tonight.

I Am (no) Smarter Than a 5th Grader.

I am going through the 5th grade for the fifth time. Once, in 1967, I did it myself. (That is actually starting to sound like a really long time ago - even to me. But I digress.) Then I went through it in 1998 with Amanda and 1999 with the twins and now, in 2010, I am going through it with my 4th and final child. You'd think I'd have it nailed.

Nah.

Grace is in the midst of the fifth grade state report. Her state is Washington. I've been there. A bunch of times. My sister lives there. Washington used to be part of my sales territory. I know Seattle, Puget Sound, Bellevue, Tacoma, Vancouver, Olympia. I know Nike, Nintendo, Microsoft and Nordstrom. I know Mount Ranier and Mount St. Helens. I know Seattle Rep and The Space Needle. I know Pike Place Market. I know Starbucks. I know the rainy weather. And I can't think of how to help my daughter.

I'm a "stream of consciousness" writer I guess, which means I can't write about anything really except what is passing through my brain. Coming and going. Hello and goodbye. I never really was very good at outlines and index cards. I hated making note cards for term papers. Those insufferable 3X5 cards on which you were to write a couple of bullet points that would remind you, when you finally got to the rough draft, of the volumes of data you just absorbed in research. I didn't ever master that. I either crammed what was essentially the entire paper on the front and back of one of those index cards (rendered unreadable due to excessive smudging of #2 lead pencils) or I wrote two or three words I was certain would joggle my memory only to find that "250,000 pl", "woodcrafts", "sm.bld." - meant absolutely nothing when I finally needed it to.

So when Grace came in whining about how she needs help writing her notes - I was mad. Really. Mad. Because I do not want to be in the 5th grade again. And I know that she needs my help but I feel helpless to assist my child and when I am helpless I get mad at whatever is making me feel that way. In this case, my child. Poor Grace. (At least its not as bad as Christine's 5th grade report on Stradivarius - a man on whom virtually nothing at all has ever been written . Don't believe me? Try to find something. He made violins. That's it.)

I get why parents just do the work for their kids. Its so much easier. But I have never been one of those parents who writes the report or builds the model or does the science project - and I'm not going to start now. Which means I have to delve into 5th grade again, and right now, so that I can guide and help and not just take over and do. And I don't want to delve. So I bitch. But I'm a mom and that's what we do. We help our kids. No matter what. And bitch about it.

So tonight, when you are going to the movies or to dinner or watching a good program on HBO or reading something juicy or just going to bed - think of me, will you? Because tonight I will be curled up with a cup of tea and a text book titled: "The State of Washington" by Ima Bore(actually I'm not sure of the author's name) learning all I never needed to know about a state I like to visit but would never want to live in. And tonight, perchance I'll dream about next year in 6th grade when I get to learn all about some country I will probably never see.

For the fifth time.

Did I Just Get A Job?

Huh. I got a job.

Huh.

For the past 13 months, I have been talking about wanting a job. There is relief in this. And some excitement too. I am not certain why I'm not doing cartwheels but I'm not. In fact, while I am not in the full out panic I was went I lost my job last year, I do feel a bit of low-grade panic running through my veins. It feels - well - the slightest bit strange to be employed again.

I am working for a new magazine. An epicurean book called YUM Food and Fun. And I will be the Sr. Account Executive for the magazine - the only one. So my territory is, well, the world - which means some travel (which can be fun). In fact, Kraft Foods which will be a major prospect, is in Chicago and I haven't been to Chicago in years. I have friends there. I could see them. But mostly I will be working from home which is part of what feels so strange to me. I have to get out of the mode that "working from home" means "volunteer for no pay" or "working part time for crappy pay". I guess I have always thought I would go back to a high-rise office building with lots of people and an office with a view and a coffee machine (that works). But the home office is in Anaheim which means that I need to work most days from my home - which means discipline, which in the end, I don't think will be a problem at all because I want to get paid. And I get benefits for the whole family!!!!

I think the other part of what feels strange is that I have learned over time not to get excited about anything. Not to assume that just because the interview went well that I am going to get the call. But this time I got the call. And I woke up this morning thinking: "Am I employed again?" Apparently, yes I am. Huh.

I met with the group and they are all extremely nice. When I walked in I didn't get any "wow, I thought you'd be younger" looks. In fact, there was woman there who is in my age range. No one seemed to notice I wasn't a size 6. What I felt was that I have the opportunity to feel productive and successful again.

And finally, the panic part comes from that feeling you get when you look at a bike and wonder

if you can still ride one. And maybe its because the bike I'm used to riding still says "Disney" on it.

So, odd as it is, wearing "job" again feels like a fit that needs a tiny bit of tailoring. I start on Monday. Perhaps I'll go out and try a cartwheel. On second thought, that seems a bit out of my range. Maybe instead, I'll go ride a bike.