In which I learn a few things

I had an interesting day at work on Friday, if by "interesting" you mean "kind of shitty." Maybe because it was a full moon AND Friday the 13, not that I put any stock in that superstitious nonsense, except it's all totally true.

Ah, it started out so iffy: Johanna was on the couch, clouds and rain looming, a general feeling of bereavement because another year has gone by and now I have a sophomore and a fourth grader, which is insane and I don't even want to think about, to be honest.

But then it rebounded: Johanna got up off that couch through sheer will and went to school, I practiced yoga and was feeling quite relaxed, I spent a good deal of time reading my new book, and I even got myself a vanilla latte before heading to work.

So six minutes into my four-hour shift, this smallish old dude with a French accent comes into the office, radiating displeasure. Well, that happens quite often, so no biggie. But then he asks for me personally, and, though I didn't think it was a very good idea to actually identify myself, I did.

And he went bat-shit crazy. So much for being a hit with the geriatric crowd.

I had spelled a word wrong in my last feature about windsurfing--I said "baton" instead of "batten"--and he ripped me a new one because that's so high school drop out amateurish. I pointed out that spell check did not flag "baton" as wrong, and that kind of shut him up, but then he was off again, about how he felt like he should have his 75-cents back because this kind of mistake made him SO MAD and if he was the guy I'd written about, he'd be SO UPSET.

Paraphrasing. He used slightly more colorful words.

So, as he's taking a breath, I tell him that actually, the guy I'd written about had been quite complementary about the article and had said he'd gotten a lot of good feedback from it, and old dude's eyes kind of bugged out like he couldn't believe that could possibly be true because I am SO DUMB.

More angry words then, and I was getting kind of tired, so I asked at that point if he wanted to talk to someone higher up, you know, like our publisher or general manager, and of course he didn't. He didn't want to leave his name, either. He left in a huff, shaking his head.

I let out the breath I was holding as I watched him walk to his truck, and burst into tears. Steve had made his way to the front counter when the guy started getting loud, and he was so damn nice, telling me the guy was a jerk and where did he get off because everyone makes mistakes and how everyone still loves me. Then he flagged our general  manager Chelsea over, and she was horrified because she'd been in the back and hadn't been able to help me, and told me I'm too sweet to let that guy ruin my day. And said that my article was beautiful so whatever, old dude.

I had to actually go in the back to compose myself, which was so embarrassing because A) I'm not even a crier and 2) I didn't want to admit this man had hurt me so badly. I got myself together and then darling Esther talks to me about how one time some nurse called and went off on her about some quote she'd put in an article about a cancer patient, and how she knew just how I felt because that lady had made her feel so worthless. And I was like, yes! That's how I feel! I couldn't figure out the name for that, and then I was crying again.

I did finally manage to get my shit together, but I think that's because the shock of being spoken to like that was finally wearing off, plus everyone in the office totally rallied around me. It didn't even matter to them that I was actually wrong (I mean, I did misspell the word, at least syntactically)--they picked me up and dusted me off and polished my ego. I so appreciated that kindness. Just... I don't know, the comraderie of it all. We've all made mistakes, and it's not like we feel great when that happens anyway, but usually the response is in line with the error--i.e., nobody comes unglued just because you misspelled one stinkin' word.

Anyway, I'm not even sure what the moral is of this whole sad tale, except that I so, so love my office. They took it harder than I did, and the support I felt was absolutely as radiant as the hate I'd just experienced. I didn't expect that.

They're the best.

Sometimes DNA is a real jerk

My baby.

Last day of school and Johanna is on the couch. She might miss the whole thing.

And it's all my fault.

Johanna has the family stomach--my stomach--and I have a lot of guilt about that. I mean, it's all genetics or whatever (science is boring), and I can't help what I pass on, but still.

We've been watching her diet so carefully. She's missed so much school this year already, because I am slow and it took me a while to link what she is eating with how she is feeling (irony, since that should have been my first thought). We've tried so many diets: Gluten-free, dairy-free. We eat a very natural, mostly organic, really nothing processed except cereal, I guess, and crackers, so it's not like there's a lot of obvious things to cut out. She's not a big meat eater and she mostly drinks water. She'd rather eat a cucumber than anything else in the world. (Weird kid.) But she still has these issues.

It's very frustrating.

So she's on a new diet. I've basically told her that when she's presented with any sort of food situation all she needs to ask herself is, "Can my mom eat this?" And if I cannot, then she can't, either. She's way too familiar with my diet, so it's a good method for keeping things under control.

"I like the Mom diet way better than the gluten-free diet," she announced at breakfast earlier this week.

Awesome. And yet, heartbreaking.

So what pushed her over the edge this time around? The only thing I can think of is that she had a big scoop of peanut butter last night (Skippy, if you must know, which is in the house for Abby. Jo has been eating my bulk, peanut-only nut-butter in her lunch, but she was in the mood for something else and I let her).

Blerg. One more thing to add to the list.

Anyway, though, it's becoming very clear that Johanna has my high-acidic stomach (fun!), except she hates all pills and potions, so it's kind of hard to get a handle on that. My best friend is omeprazole. I wouldn't be able to function without it. We need to find her something she can take, too.

She needs to function. This is a kid who never sits down. The fact that she's on the couch speaks volumes to me about how bad she feels.

It's also clear that she has an intolerance to artificial preservatives. I had a "salt thing" for most of my life--except for some reason when I turned 30, it kind of all went away, just like Ann had promised it would (fellow sufferer)--and I think, in hindsight, it had to be artificial preservatives, just based on when the reactions would happen (hives aren't as fun as you'd think, and dorm food did not help) and how I would feel (pretty damn crappy).

We came to this conclusion, by the way, on the day after she ate a corn dog and a hot dog (without our knowledge, I'd like to point out) and missed two days of school.

Good times.

So I guess best case scenario is that she starts feeling better in the next hour or so (mornings are the worst) and gets to go (finish cleaning out her desk, meet her teacher for next year, say goodbye to her friends), and worst case scenario is that I go do all those things for her before heading to work. (Hey, Grandmas, what you got going on today?)

I don't know, you guys. I'm so ready for summer, to see if we can get her sorted out, with the knowledge that if she has a bad morning, who cares, she's got no where to go anyway. She's too young to have to live on the couch. She's too young to have to be wary of peanut butter.

DNA sucks.

Tuesday "Art," what I'm doing this morning edition

1. Making Mexican Lasagna filling using our rather overgrown, totally kick ass home grown spinach:

You can only do so much when you're taking photos with your Ipod.
Hey, though, trust me. Recipe here. You're welcome.

2. Admiring the marigolds:

I actually think marigolds are quite stinky (and not in a good way),
but they are pretty.

3. Admiring the view:

Another perfect day. Is it any wonder my blogging has been sporadic lately?

4. Coffee:

This is one of the coffee mugs I won in that gift basket thing, and it's
admittedly kind of funky, but Abby loves the set, so we're using them
until she goes to college and then she can take them with her forever.

5. Looking forward to having time to start this on my Kindle:

Not my photo; found it here.
And here's the book link. I pre-ordered this almost a year ago,
people. It's been a looooong wait.

(And not in that particular order.)

Happy Tuesday, friends!