I’ve got a bit of a flying problem. Not that I’m scared of flying; I’ll be the last person on the plane white-knuckling the armrest during take off. And it doesn’t make me sick. Except for that time I was winging it to my brother’s wedding cracked out on the vicodin cough medicine the good doc had given me and wouldn’t you know, liquid narcotics and turbulence do. not. mix. And if I thought horking at home was bad, it was nothing compared to the hygienic nightmare of the airplane lavatory. And there was no bathmat to curl up on.

Yesterday morning, I seriously misjudged the amount of time it takes to get from my new digs to the airport. I’m used to a 20 minute door-to-gate commute. And having already checked in online, that’s exactly what I allowed myself. Silly me. As it turns out, my new drive was at least 35 minutes, the security lines were exceptionally long for it being only 7AM, and after stabbing my feet back into my shoes, I went running for the gate. I’d say sprinting but let’s be honest, it wasn’t anywhere near as graceful as the word sprint implies. I was gallumping. It wasn’t pretty. And my laptop smacked against my thigh so many times, I may have discovered a cure for cellulite. By the time I found a seat (Oh, Southwest, you and your wacky no-assigned-seats policy) and made sure my seat belt was securely fastened low and across my hips (me, I follow instructions), the door was shut and the flight attendants were halfway into their safety routines. My heart was racing. Then on went the engines and… I woke up 40 minutes later.

And, therein lies the problem.

Who goes from competing in the Awkward Olympics to comatose in twenty seconds? I do. I had an hour’s worth of work to do on that flight. And an hour’s worth of work to do on the flight back later that evening. And yet, I spent both of those hours working on nothing more than putting deep plastic window cover creases into the side of my face. Twice now I’ve fallen asleep with my boss in the adjacent seat while we were supposed to be going over our meeting agenda. Embarassing? Uh, a little. But it’s like taking the crying baby out for a drive; the moment the vibrations start, I’m catatonic. And once we land and hustle off to our meetings, I’m hardly raring to go. I’m sorry, what did you say? I was busy digging the sleep crusties out of my eyes.

I’ve got to do this all again on Friday. I’m looking into adrenaline injections. 

My boyfriend is a pirate.

After work yesterday, I picked up some groceries for our dinner and then stopped by my apartment to grab a few essentials: the contents of my make-up drawer, a bottle of Grey Goose, and my pillow. Oh, hello old friend. It was pretty warm in the afternoon, so by the time I’d struggled up the three flights of stairs to our apartment with my loot, I had sweaty strands of hair plastered to my face, a trickle running down my back, and red, welted rings on my arms where the grocery bags hung.The very moment I stepped through the front door, StepDog was at my knees, blundering around in his lampshade (he has a licking problem, okay?), cutting just close enough to send me pitching forward, make-up compacts and heads of romaine lettuce flying.

Don’t yell at the dog, I told myself. He doesn’t know.

I set my pillow down, giving it a place of honor on the end table, and took Lampshade out for his afternoon constitutional. Then I started dinner. An hour and a half later, after we’d polished off our plates, I scooted upstairs for a quick shower. If the climb up the stairs hadn’t undone me, a stupidly complicated meal over a hot stove and hotter oven finished the job. When I came down, fresh and clean and ready to finally relax with the DVR and Wednesday night’s episode of LOST, there was my sweet fella, done with kitchen duty, crashed out on the couch watching a basketball game, his noggin resting peacefully…on my pillow. 

Commence meltdown in five, four, three…

Don’t yell at the boyfriend, I told myself. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know that in this entire apartment, one average-in-every-way, polka dotted pillow is about the only thing that is mine. I mean, unless I wanted to curl up with my hair dryer or the wok, that was it. My pillow. Mine.  He also doesn’t know that while he was at the Mavericks game the other night, and I sat at the apartment feeling misplaced and homesick (and silly for it), the only comfort I could think of was that damn pillow. Standing there, on the bottom stair, it took about three and a half seconds to degenerate into toddler mode.I felt like I was watching a sibling play with with one of my toys -and forget that there were heaps and heaps of toys in the toy box (and a bed full of pillows upstairs), Iwanted that one. Because it was mine. But instead of cracking him over the head with a Tonka truck – like I’d have had no problem doing in my actual toddler days – I put some cookies on to bake, and then cuddled up next to him on the sofa.

I won’t lie, I eyed that pillow like, the whole damn time.

But I said nothing. Because on the What’s Really Important Here scale, I chose to rank the Boy over the pillow. The Boy, whom I love, who tries so hard to make me happy (and yes, who would have given me the pillow without hesitation, had I given in to my petty inclinations), and who sleeps so soundly that if he tried that shit at night and crossed the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, there wouldn’t even be a pause his snoring when I yanked that pillow right out from under his pretty little pirate head.

Mine.   

Irony or really, fiercely ugly coincidence? I suppose it’s not unthinkable to be the victim of a crap economy three times in 18 months, so it’s only coincidence that mere days after I post about employment woes, I’m in the middle of ‘em. Again. Details later, but for the moment, I have a job. And for that I am grateful.

But with money being tighter (one hefty freelance gig has already dried up due to budget cuts), and with the fear that it will only become more constricted in the coming weeks, the Dork Lord and I put our moving-in plans into, how do they say, hyper drive. God, I’m so tempted right here to make some sort of nerdy Battlestar Galactica reference, but I’m not sure I have the frackin’ lingo down quite yet. Anyway, on Monday, I closed up shop at my apartment – canceled what was left of the amenities (um, that would be Internet. Cable went away a month before), unplugged the appliances, scooped Hal up into his portable torture chamber (honestly, you’d think so by the way he hollers in that thing) and relocated to the Boy’s apartment. Two months ahead of schedule.

It’s a lot, really. True, we haven’t spent a night apart since the second week we were dating. But for a girl who’s been used to residential autonomy for the last five years, just getting over feeling like a visitor in his our apartment is going to take some work. I worry about stressing him out, moving into too much of the closet all at once. Watching him box up nerd books to make room for my shoes. Saying silent prayers to feline deities that Hal doesn’t turn his black leather sofa into a high end scratching post. It’s like I’m on constantly.

Obviously, it’s not all stress. One of the nicest things about us is how easy we are. Even playing the Yours or Mine game, which I think he’s been letting me win, just to keep me from reaching stress levels ordinarily reserved stockbrokers, air traffic controllers and the cast of Grey’s Anatomy. Your vacuum or mine? Your dishes or mine? Your rules about gigantic dogs on the bed or mine? We’re like The Brady Bunch over here, only instead of little girls in curls we’re melding things like salad spinners and living room sets. And as for stepchildren, mine’s a 75 pound German Shepherd/Lab who doesn’t listen to a word I say except when I’m holding meat. Yeah, I’m the Bacon Lady.  

I’m also one lucky lady. The worry over losing my job in the near future is real. Very real. But being part of a “we” makes it somehow less scary. And adjustment periods or no, I know when he says that whatever happens, we’ll be okay, it’s true. We will.  

Sure, it’d be even better if he were like, 87 years old, a millionaire, and wheezing his last breaths from an oxygen tank. But I’ll take what I can get.

Warning: this post may contain references to the movie, Clueless, which, incidentally, was anything but.

I’ve been getting more than a few emails and comments from readers who have lost their jobs. To those of you in this position, I am so very sorry. I wish I could offer the advice you’re looking for, but even going through this twice in a calendar year has not made me any more of an expert on reemployment. In both cases, I got lucky. Twists of fate.

But here’s what I can do: I can use my popularity for a good cause. After seeing how many people, in every corner of the world stop by here from time to time, I figured well, that right there is a community of folks. Folks who also have other communities of folks and so on and so forth. Surely, you will be able to help each other better than I ever could.

The comment box on this post is dedicated to just that. Have you weathered the unemployment storm before and can offer some tips on how to do it… gracefully? Advise away! Are you recently jobless and need to cry on our collective shoulders? I will bring the tissues. Do you have a website with a link to your resume? Let us have it. 

In the meantime, here are a couple links that I used while job hunting in October:

Solo Gig (temp, consulting, freelance, etc.)
Indeed.com (pulls from tons of other job listing sites)

FYI: For those seeking jobs, some very kind recruiters are leaving their contact info in the comments box. I won’t lie. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

The Dork Lord loves scary movies. And, predictably, really bad Sci-Fi. I once sat through Hell Boy II and came dangerously close to suffering tissue damage from rolling my eyes so far into the back of my head. Really, Selma Blair? REALLY? Rarely do his… tastes in film cause conflicts, though, because we’re both quite happy to meet in the middle, somewhere between Vicky Christina Barcelona and Another Movie Where Cops Behave Badly. Sure, sometimes that middle is Eagle Eye (AKA, I, Robot, Want to Kill the President), but usually it’s something like W and everyone comes out of the experience feeling informed and well pleased.

But the last few times we’ve wandered Blockbuster, and knowing full well my sensitivity to gore and violence, the Boy has asked to take home Quarantine.

No, and um, no.

“Why not? It’s a heartwarming tale about…”

“Don’t bother to read me the back. I see the cover. There’s crazy zombie disease written all over it.”

Sure, there was pleading in his sad, Sci-Fi loving eyes, but I held my ground. Until… well, until I realized yet again that I am a gigantic sucker. On my way home from work yesterday (and even before he called with upcoming root canal news), I decided to surprise him with the last DVD that I would ever watch while still in possession of my faculties. I mean, what says love like setting yourself up for weeks of nightmares? Nothing. Except for maybe a diamond. They’re forever, you know.

Naturally, he was thrilled with his surprise. And eventually, so was I because my god, what a ridiculous farce of a horror film that was. I’ve had subway rides that filled me with more fear. Watching a small child with people rabies gnaw on her mother’s neck not only didn’t scare me, it plastered a big old grin right on my face. Because I had just gotten off so freaking easy.

Far, far easier than he will when I bring home Nights in Rodanthe. Insert evil laugh here.