Flying and Parenting: Both Defy Logic (I Declare That the Theme Of This Post)

I’m all kinds of excited about flying to Blogher in two weeks. Alone. With nothing between me and the ground but 30,000 feet of bad thoughts.

My mom came back from a trip recently and tried to tell me…hold on, I need to laugh some more about this. She tried to convince me that I wouldn’t be afraid to fly if only I “flew first class”. Does everyone have their own eject pod in first class, mom? Yeah, I didn’t think so. A complimentary neck pillow while I lean back in a chair is not going to distract me from the LAW OF GRAVITY. We went back and forth for awhile before I finally told her that the ONLY way I will EVER feel comfortable flying is if they invent a plane that has really really really long legs that extend all the way to the ground with wheels.

That settled that.

Also making me anxious is that I cannot find the cable to my laptop, someone to do my highlights for under $100, or a decent tote bag. Preferably one that fits my computer, a good book, my iPod, and a small parachute.

So, I guess I would be worried about the social stuff at Blogher like other bloggers seem to be, but the whole “fear of death” thing puts the fear of “standing alone against a wall with a handful of free keychains and mousepads” thing into perspective.

I think it’s reverse psychology. In reverse.

***************************************************

On a different note, Savannah is seven now. And while I’m sure there are some lovely things to say about seven, I sort of miss six like crazy. Also, one through five.

I don’t know what it is about seven, but all of the sudden my daughter has become my mother. And not in a cute way like I wrote about before which leaves you chuckling, but in a way that leaves you feeling like you’re getting smacked in the head with a sock full of quarters most days.

Take yesterday for instance. I’m getting my brows* waxed and my friend was introducing me to some other women who are of the same religion, but go to a different congregation. Since Chris and I are not the most “active” in our congregation right now, I immediately feel uneasy when one of the women asks “Oh! Do you know the Festersons?”.

I pretend like I’m thinking. “Uuuuh, no. I don’t believe so”.

“How about the Wobblebottoms?”

I’m scrunching my face up into what I hope is a searching expression when Savannah says loudly and clearly “The only person my mom knows there is my dad.”

And dare I claim that she looked a little self-satisfied? Even smug?

Yeah. So, I’m returning seven. It just isn’t what I expected. I’d like to exchange it for a five and a two. Thankssomuchthat’dbegreat.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, I have already downloaded all of my favorite pictures of Savannah to my phone so that I can stare at them as I hurtle toward Chicago praying that God lets me see eight.

I'm not all that fond of 31 if you want to know the truth.

*Also maybe three other areas of my face. I’m Italian. If I don’t wax my facial hair will all grow together meeting in the middle until I can pull it into a jaunty front ponytail.

It's Like "The Real Housewives of Orange County" Meets "My Life On the D List"

Sweet hotcakes, it's summer.

I wish I could sound like a sane person and claim that the reason I'm excited for summer is because I look forward to Savannah whining at me all day about what we're going to do FOR KIDS. (By the way, this tragically does not include Target, Trader Joe's, the mall, Starbucks, or the gym. It does however include the pool, the park, and looking at puppies that I'm going to be harassed to buy.)

But, that would be lying. The real reason I'm looking forward to summer is because I have a crippling case of social momxiety. I don't know what it is - I have no problems making friends elsewhere. Maybe it's that I'm traumatized from the hell on earth that was kindergarten. Or maybe there's just something about moms at school that makes me a complete moron.

Like last week when I finally got up the nerve to invite another mom for coffee under the guise of planning the class party, but then she misunderstood my email and thought I was referring to the meeting where ALL the 1st grade class moms were getting together to meet about the party. So, I showed up at 7:00 a.m. at school with flat ironed hair and mascara and a pedicure wearing a PEASANT TOP for godssake and she wasn't even there, her husband was.

And then I tried to casually ask him if his wife was coming to school this morning? Because we were supposed to have coffee? Maybe I misunderstood? And then he was like "I have no idea" and he looked at my patent leather sandals a little sympathetically I think? And then he suggested I call her and then I'm like DO YOU HAVE HER NUMBER?

It was just...bad.

That probably would not have stung so much had I not just had to convince someone that I wasn't pregnant.

God, it hurts to even write about it. I'm typing with my eyes closed.

So. It was my daughter's party. Yes, P-A-R-T-Y. Of which I was the host. I was standing at the front door (of the ridiculously overpriced loud petri dish of a bouncy entertainment center which they should just rename You Need a Bath and I Need a Drink) and I had the joy of welcoming everyone's children.

There were a few mothers milling about at the entrance signing in their kids when one of the moms leaned into me conspiratorially and whispered "Lena? You're pregnant?".

At first I felt nothing. Kind of like those stories you hear where someone gets their leg bitten off by a shark and they fight the shark off and feel nothing and keep swimming to land and have no idea they lost their leg until they try to stand up? It was kind of like that.

I laughed at first. "Oh, no! It's just the shirt". I patted my stomach for effect. Not very convincingly because THEN SHE NUDGED ME WITH HER ELBOW like "C'mon you can tell me."

She insisted "Yes, you are. It's IN YOUR FACE."

And then? I swear to god, she puffed out her cheeks and POKED THEM. I'm assuming this was in an effort to break me down, me and my tall tales of gaining 20 pounds from wine and Bristol Farms cheese samples instead of, you know, a growing human.

I shook my head again, without a smile this time. "I wish" I said.

In all honesty, she looked a little horrified. I almost felt bad for her. Almost.

I spent the next few days trying to pretend this conversation never happened and to secretly but frequently make fun of her hair.

But, then I saw the pictures from the party. And I saw this:



And, um. Yeah. My bad. So. Thanks H&M for making me look pregnant and then reminding me I'm barren! You rock.

That picture scared me straight and I've been back on the program ever since - eating right, exercising and all that jazz. And you know what? I kind of hate it. But, I've lost 4 pounds and I keep slinking around the house asking Chris if he still recognizes me, so I think it's paying off.

Friday was finally the last day of school putting an end to my social misery. Not only did Savannah get an excellent report card (all O's! Which I think are better that A's. Not sure.), but I caught Are-You-Pregnant mom checking out my new workout pants and then went to lunch with Stood-Me-Up-For-Coffee mom.

I think this means 1st grade was a huge success for me. Savannah is so proud. But, I'm in no hurry for September.

Savannah's Birth Story ...Because She's 100 Now and It's About Time

So. I've been working on Savannah's birth story since, well, eight years ago this October 14 I guess (along with her birth scrapbook album, which managed to cost me $1500 in stickers, but never actually materialized into photos or a birth story and then I ended up selling everything on Ebay last month for $75 so ANYWAY). It finally took Discovery Health's Baby Week to nudge me along into finishing it*. So, voila! Enjoy. Be forewarned, most of this story takes place with my pants off.

*****

I think a small part of me knew when I found out I was pregnant that I would barely make it out alive. After all, I am the girl who was caught in a riptide in the Bahamas and almost drowned while taking a "Getting Comfortable With Snorkeling!" class. The girl who got tangled up in the dog's leash and skidded on my face down the sidewalk. The girl who, unlike the previous 35 people in front of me who walked across the grass and into the gym, managed to step directly into the pile of dog poo and then carried it unknowingly into the spin class on my shoe.

Yeah, I guess you can say I'm just a lucky girl.

But, when I saw those 2 lines, I felt like my luck had finally changed. A baby. A wee one! With my chubby cheeks and Chris' perky nose! (Please God, let her get Chris' perky nose and not my Italian beak I prayed. Also, let her be a physicist. Amen.)

And when we had our first ultrasound, it was official. She did have Chris' nose. She was also completely and miraculously perfect. With all her heart chambers and no loose screws or anything. We were off to a good start.

But, by my 32nd week we knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

It started with The Tired. A fatigue that was so all consuming that even my organs felt tired. All that pumping and inhaling and exhaling and filtering and digesting was about all I could handle. Just laying there felt like a huge energy drain. Now, admittedly I'm not the most energetic person to begin with. Eating potato chips while watching Tivo'd reality shows tends to be my default position. (Although I totally tricked Chris when we were dating by climbing Half Dome. Sucker!) But, this Tired was to the bone.

Anyway, The Tired was quickly followed by The Weepy. And not that usual run of the mill "commercials make me cry" weepy, but more of a "I think the cat insulted me" weepy. I spent the majority of my day bawling.

I even went to visit the doctor at this point because Chris was concerned that I might run out of tears and start crying amniotic fluid. He's so selfish that way.

The doctor - let's name him Dr. Inahurry - and his nurse - let's call her Nurse Annoyedbyyou - dismissed these as "normal pregnancy symptoms" that didn't require further investigation.

Their reaction wasn't entirely unreasonable, except the same thing happened when I called them the following week because a new symptom had joined the party: The Ache.

Oh, The Ache. Now, unless you yourself have had organ failure, you won't even begin to understand what I mean when I describe this ache as being an ache in my soul. The Ache was mostly located above my ribs, which at this point in the pregnancy, was just below my hairline. But, it radiated out from there and around my back. It throbbed day and night. It made me want to come out of my skin with anxiety - there was no relief to be had. I tried taking a bath, stretching backwards over an exercise ball, inducing vomiting.

Everyone had their ideas about what was wrong. "It's the baby's foot stuck in your ribs!" "Your pants are too tight!" "Try yoga!" "Did you eat that entire box of Hot Tamales?"

But, I knew. Something wasn't right. There was an internal panic going on inside my body and it was sending S.O.S. signals to my brain.

I was now 34 weeks. It was early Friday morning when I called Dr. Inahurry. Nurse Annoyedbyyou answered the phone.

"I need to see the doctor today. Something is wrong with me."

"What's wrong Mrs. Lotsey?" she sighed.

"I'm just so tired". Of course I started weeping. "And I have a throbbing pain in my upper abdomen."

"Well, the doctor isn't seeing patients today. I'll page him and see what he says."

Dismissed, I waited for his call. ALL DAY.

That evening I called the office again.

"I thought you said you were going to page Dr. Inahurry."

Characteristically annoyed, she responded "I did. He didn't call back. Dr. Inahurry is playing golf today."

"He's playing golf?! That's why he didn't call back? What if I'm dying?"

"You're not dying. I'm sure it can wait until Monday."

It couldn't. Forty-eight hours later I was at death's door.

**********************************************

The next day was mostly a blur. I do recall my mom deciding inexplicably that what I needed was a Barcalounger. She and Chris hauled one into the front room for me to stretch out on, but that did nothing for the throbbing ache. We tried hot compresses, cold compresses, stretches. My overarching memory of that day is pure misery.

Then the nighttime set in. I couldn't sleep. I was in and out of the bath. I was vomiting. I was crying. I was a hot mess.

By the next morning I was stretched out on the couch moaning.

Chris stood there looking at me. "I'm calling your doctor. This can't be normal."

I could hear him on the phone.

"So, Dr. Inahurry is golfing all weekend? Well, who's the on-call doctor? Ok, have her call me back right away."

A few minutes later the on-call doctor called. We'll call her Dr. Angel. Dr. Angel listened to my symptoms and told Chris to get me "straight to the emergency room" adding "don't stop to even pack your bags".

Dr. Angel hadn't yet arrived at the hospital when we checked in. But, she had called ahead and prepared the nurses for the tests she wanted run. A sweet nurse set me up in a room and tittered on about the names we'd chosen, my due date, how great I looked. I was actually feeling a little better - the ache had subsided somewhat - and was starting to wonder if I had overreacted. Maybe her foot had been stuck in my ribs? I did actually eat that whole box of Hot Tamales.

The nurse fluffed the pillows behind my head while the technician prepared me for the ultrasound. We were all chatting and laughing when suddenly our baby's little face filled the screen. Chris and I exclaimed over "our luck" that we got a freebie ultrasound out of this.

But, as we continued to talk and laugh with the nurse, the technician grew somber. She kept rolling the ultrasound wand over my upper abdomen and looking at the screen intently.

"Is everything ok?" I asked, worried.

She turned to me before rushing out of the room. "The baby looks great."

Looking back, I give her points for her clever answer.

The nurse left and when she returned, she was accompanied by two other nurses. One wanted to put a hospital wristband on me. The other needed to take my blood. "It looks like you're going to be staying a bit longer" the nurse said cheerfully without looking at me. I saw in her face that something had shifted.

"Is everything ok?" I asked again.

"The doctor is on her way in and she's going to talk to you."

I turned to Chris and my mom, who had just arrived. "Do you think something is wrong?". They were flipping through the newly printed ultrasound photos and assured me everything was fine.

A short while later Dr. Angel breezed in.

She was about 12 years old. And wore jeans.

"Sorry, I'm late. I was at the mall."

(I can't make this stuff up.)

I started to say something, but she quickly pulled up a chair and took my hand. The look in her eyes stopped me mid-sentence. She meant business.

"You are very sick."

My head started spinning.

She told me I had a severe case of HELLP Syndrome. My liver was dangerously enlarged and bleeding. That was the ache I felt. It could rupture in a matter of hours. My liver was failing. My kidneys were following. My platelet count was extremely low, less than 50,000 and dropping (normal is 150,000 - 300,000 for those of you slept during whatever class it was that I should've learned this in).

Dr. Angel told me they were going to start giving me phenobarbital, an anti-seizure drug. She said they would have to take the baby. Now. They needed to do a c-section within the next hour or my platelet count wouldn't be high enough to survive surgery.

The word "survive" shot through my body like a bolt of electricity.

The realization hit me.

I asked my first question since she had started talking.

"Am I going to die?"

There was a beat. A flicker of indecision across her face before she said "I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you don't".

My mom hovered behind the doctor, her mouth gaping open, her eyes goggling at this statement. I couldn't look at her. I looked straight ahead. Chris and my mom blurred out of focus.

I felt fear like an enormous wave surge into my heart and rush through my ears, deafening me. All I wanted was to have a baby, I thought in shock. Women do it every day. All I wanted was a baby and now I'm going to die.

I started to pray out loud.

"Please help me. Please keep me calm. Please save me. Please keep my baby safe. Please please please please please. Help me."

I didn't care who heard. I prayed out loud and stared straight ahead. I felt more alone than I had before or since. For all the love they had for me, neither my mom or Chris could save me. My life and my baby's were in this doctor's hands. And I had to have faith.

I felt a feeling of resolve wash over me. I needed to stay calm for the baby. I needed to keep my weak heart from racing through my battered organs.

It must be ok. I can't leave my baby. It must be ok.

Nurses rushed in and prepped me for surgery. My mom and Chris hugged me and each other and cried. We all spoke encouraging words with terrified eyes. Family was summoned quietly.

Chris asked if he could bring a camera; we had planned on recording the birth. No, he was ordered, because we don't know what to expect in there. They didn't want him to record my death.

A whirlwind of surgery prep and then I was laying on the operating table under the bright lights. Two doctors and three nurses attended the birth. Chris sat at my head. The sheet went up.

All was quiet except for the beep of my heart rate.

There was pressure. Tremendous pressure. And then, of course, THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SOUND IN THE WORLD: my daughter's strong cry. My Savannah.

Everyone in the room cheered.

Chris was elated, running back and forth between Savannah and my head, reporting on her fingers and hair and eyes and ears and who knew babies could come this perfect and she scored 9 on her Apgar she's obviously a physicist! Never had there been a prouder daddy.

Meanwhile, I was having chest pains. Strong pains that shot through my chest and down my arm and which, frankly, my anesthesiologist seemed mildly concerned over. Especially with my teaspoon of a bloodcount and whatnot.

An adjustment to the drug seemed to calm that issue down. The doctors sewed me up, someone may have made a comment about me looking as if I were never pregnant (that's really why I call her Dr. Angel), and then a bundled little peanut was laid beside me.

My baby.

My baby was perfect. Five pounds and nine ounces. Not bad for arriving 5 weeks early in a broken down mom.

Once I was back in my room recovering and attempting to nurse (why did it take 2 days for someone to finally show me the football hold?) the nurses started taking my blood every hour.

My blood count continued to drop.

The day after I delivered Savannah, my blood count was 12,000.

After that, the nurses stopped telling us. We tried to focus on this new baby girl and had vistors coming in and out, but every time a nurse would enter the room, my mom and I would look at them with baited breath.

"Still low" they started saying.

On the morning of the 3rd day, the doctor came in and told us we would need to take drastic measures if my platelets didn't start turning around on their own.

It was later that afternoon, that the nurse came in and announced with relief "The numbers are coming back up!".

Chris hung his head and started to cry. It was going to be ok. We were going to get our happy ending.

And we did.

I told you I was a lucky girl.




*By the way, I was not paid by Discovery to write this story. I just think you should know that because...I don't know. I just do.

I'm Like the McRib. Back For a Limited Time. Except Not At All Like That.

So, this one time? Like two years ago? I had to start working because we were about to lose our house. Or was it our job? Our minds? I can't remember - it all runs together after so many months of ENDLESS JOYS. Anyway, if you remember, I started my own business which was fun for about as long as it took to run out of color coordinated post-its. Which is to say, briefly.

I then quickly reverted back to my old ways of womanly manipulation which involved evenings spent rolling around on the floor drunk - and not in a good way - moaning to Chris about how haaaard it was to work and also raise oooone chiiiild and why can't you just go play the Lotto or maybe you belong to an Indian tribe have you checked lately because they get checks for just BEING ALIVE?

Tragically, the whining episodes didn't have the same effect on Chris they had in the past. I was mostly left there, tufts of carpet in my hair, staring at the ceiling contemplating how I could quit working while maintaining the fantastical standard of living we had grown accustomed to complete with indoor plumbing and 99 cent Taco Night.

How exactly does one get into organ harvesting, I wondered.

But, alas, it was my plight.

Then when my business started getting busy, one of my clients - okay, my ONLY client - asked me to come work in-house for them. It was more money and seemed like a great excuse to buy some Gap straight leg trousers, so I accepted. And that's when I started spending my days hoping to catch a staple in the eye so I could go home.

Life Lesson Learned: I do not like working. No matter what pants I'm wearing.

It's hard to believe that it's been two years since I started working and yet if you look at my floors, my weight, or my cuticles, it's not hard to believe at all. I'm no multi-tasker that's for sure. But, I have performed well if I do say so myself considering that I reentered the workforce with no real marketable skills other than Wii tennis and picking up things with my toes (like hammers). Also, an uncanny ability to choose the winner of the Bachelor on the first episode. (Leaving that off my resume was painful, because come on. The first episode?)

We may not have a fully funded 401K yet, but I can hardly remember the last time we paid for milk with nickels, so I THINK THAT MEANS I WIN.

So, I'm done now. I think we can afford for me to quit working. Which is good because I quit my job yesterday. And it feels pretty damn sweet.

Now, can we get back to discussing more important stuff around here like why a mom at school asked if I was pregnant and then when I said I wasn't, ARGUED. WITH. ME? Not. Even. Kidding. I'll give you the details later. Right now, I'm going to go celebrate no longer being a contributing member of society. Way overrated.

Have You Seen Me? I'm Missing

I’m stuck here at work when all I want to do is be at home throwing socks for the cats to watch them slide around on the wood floors and boiling chicken to give the illusion that I have some grand plans for dinner and writing super important life stories on my laptop.

Like how the TWENTY pounds I’ve gained is inexplicably all being stored in my knees and my eyelids. Or how I hired a housekeeper who quoted me $85 and then FOUR HOURS LATER informed me breathlessly and with dust bunnies in her hair, that it would actually be $200 because she hadn’t “looked in the corners before”. (Why would you do that?)

Or how someone asked me the other day if my husband would be able to help them “help a friend monetize $500,000,000 from the Bank of China” presumably because Chris works at a bank. And I was all “huh?” and they were like “the bank is giving my friend trouble accessing his funds” and I was like “yeah no” and then after he left my office I realized that I had just experienced a real live Nigerian email scam IN PERSON. Awesome!

Or I could tell you about how we went to yard sales this weekend and that when I asked about the size of a pair of shorts, the lady answered “13/14” and then felt the need to add “BUT THEY’RE STRETCHY”. And instead of crying I mumbled “You’re stretchy” and sulked off with a rice steamer.

But, instead I am here. Alone in my office. Calculating net present value risk standards. Which is not nearly as satisfying as boiling chicken.

Do Over

Last week Chris found out he would get the "opportunity" to "interview" for his current position.

Isn't that awesome? Leaving your office to take the elevator upstairs to interview for the job that you're going to go back downstairs and keep doing for the rest of the day just as you have for the last five years?

That interview was on Monday. Poor Chris stopped 4 times at gas station bathrooms on his way to work that morning, so full he was of nerves. And the previous night's mexican food. Because he self medicates. He was pretty confident he interviewed well, you know, since IT'S ALREADY HIS JOB AND ALL. But, as the days went by he started doubting and becoming quiet. If the last two years of financial angst have taught us anything, it's that nothing is for sure.

That, and that the cats will eat lunchmeat in a pinch.

If Chris were to not get this job, then he would be unemployed by Monday with no prospects on the horizon and no medical insurance for our family.

Last night he dryly joked that maybe on Monday he and I could drive around checking pay phones for change, but I swear I heard a sob catch in his throat.

A year and a half ago when our short sale finally closed and we were down to our last nickel and inexplicably decided to move to The Most Stuck Up City in Southern California, I started practicing The Secret.

I wrote sticky notes to myself like "Bora Bora!", "Pay off credit cards!", "No more dented cans!" and stuck them all over the house. I was so desperate to believe that I just needed to ORDER a better life from the Universe, that I consistently visualized good things coming to me and regularly pushed away understandable thoughts such as "So this is what starving children in Africa are missing? Sticky notes?".

Ironically - or is it coincidentally - last year was even worse than the one before it.

If only I had known that was only the beginning.

The beginning of our new "normal". A normal that brings with it daily worries about things I once took for granted as easily as the air I breathed. Things like medical insurance and being a stay at home mom. Things like full tanks of gas and a kitchen full of groceries and a husband that doesn't get sent home during the day because "there's just no work".

If only I had known that next we would sell our things. First, it would be because we were "downsizing". Then it would be for "extra money".

Eventually, and secretly, it would be for the mortgage payment.

If only I had known that I would be forced to go back to work. That Savannah would have to go to child care. That Chris would get laid off.

If only I had known that I was about to grow up.

I've pushed my cart through Target many times over the last year marveling in amazement at the thousands I've blown there. All the while aching to buy JUST ONE FRIVOLOUS THING. The nails, tanning, and personal training are all a thing of the distant past. As are the TURKEY DOGS.

We've stayed home weekend after weekend unable sometimes to even afford the gas it would take to drive somewhere. We've started walking to parks, going to the library, and clipping coupons. We've conserved water, energy, and food.

I've watched our accounts - investments, checking, savings - drain away, taking my carefree attitude with it. I've cut back and wised up. I used to dream of Range Rovers and vacation homes. Now, I hope for groceries and rent money and the collection calls to stop.

It wasn't that long ago that I believed we would recover financially without feeling any pain. Now, I realize what a waste that would have been.

Without the last two years I wouldn't have learned to prioritize, to improvise. I wouldn't have learned what I'm made of. I wouldn't have learned that I can rise to the occasion.

I wouldn't have learned how strong Chris and I are together.

Most of all, I wouldn't have learned how to be truly, truly, overwhelmingly appreciative when Chris learned this morning that he got the job.

Thank you, universe. You can stop now. We have learned our lesson. THAT is the secret.

Now. I have some coupons to go clip. And maaaaybe a trip to Target? A small one?

And Don't Even MAKE Me Talk About My Eyebrows

After writing such a stupid poem poking fun at my miserable husband's cough, it was only appropriate that it would turn out to be The Plague. The universe loves golden opportunities like this. Oh, you think coughing is bad? How about not breathing? Yeah, write a poem about THAT at 2:00 in the morning while you're on the phone with the advice nurse. So, yeah. Chris' cough was, um... (small voice) severe asthma. But, we're all better.

Moving right along! *claps*

Seeing as how March 31 is only weeks away, I asked Chris yesterday if he had followed up with his boss about "The Mix". Of course he hadn't because HE HADN'T THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

(And why would he? When we have pleeeeenty of money in the bank for all the black beans a girl and her cat can eat in a week.)

So, at my urging he did follow up and was told "it looks good" or "it's coming together" or something else completely unhelpful. I'm not sure how close exactly they want him to get to his last day before they let him in on the secret that is "The Mix". I'm thinking maybe they'll wait until he gets in his car with his picture frames and action figures and then his boss will pop up from the backseat and be all "psyche". Because, seriously.

So, I interviewed last week with a little bank you may have heard of. I can't tell you the name, but it rhymes with J.P. Smorgan. Everything went well other than that I was wearing a suit that made me look exactly like an airline pilot. And the entire interview was made up of those ridiculous standard interview questions like "If you saw a puppy, would you kick it?".

Ummmm, no?

I tried to sound unique and smart and professional in my answers, but it was a daunting task to try to come up with new ways to describe my CONFLICT RESOLUTION SKILLS and TIME MANAGEMENT STRENGTHS and DID I MENTION I'M A PEOPLE PERSON WITH A FLEXIBLE SCHEDULE WHO SOMETIMES LANDS PLANES ON RIVERS?

And then, and I have NO IDEA WHY, as I shook his hand at the end of the interview I said "I'll hear from you soon". I think I probably meant to say "I HOPE to hear from you soon", but I'm really not sure. All I know is that a strange look flickered across his face like he was deciding whether this was a threat or maybe I was just psychic?

Still, it was like a gut punch when the H.R. woman told me a few days later "they decided to move forward with another candidate". (Obviously a puppy kicker.)

Of course they did. Because it's not like the position paid almost six figures and was 15 minutes from home and would have allowed me to take Savannah out of after school care and provide my family with medical insurance at the exact time when we're going to need it.

Oh, wait.

On the upside I did return the airline pilot suit to TJ Maxx and bought my cats a scratching post, so at least my priorities are still in order.